Fic: Steady As She Goes (84/86), brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: Steady As She Goes (84/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2702 this part; [142,107 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: Sam at home.
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: So yesterday when I said there would 1 or 2 parts left, I meant 2 or 3. I'm 90% sure now that there will only be two more parts. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
You’re a wanker. Always were a wanker. Always be a wanker.
Sam shot up in his bed, forehead beaded with sweat. He sat there in the darkness straining to hear but it was gone now. It was always gone when he tried to listen. He ran his hands down his face before tossing off his comforter and padding across the carpet to his bathroom.
His mum hadn’t wanted him living on his own so soon but he assured her he was going to fine. When he wanted to he could easily lie to his mother. Sam flicked on the light in his bathroom. There it all was. His state of the art shower, glistening sink, toilet that didn’t wobble when he sat down.
So right. So perfect. So unnatural. Sam doused his face with cold water, hoping to remember. That had been Ray’s voice, hadn’t it? Ray Carling. Detective Sergeant. What had he looked like? All Sam could remember was a moustache. He forgot about the light in the bathroom and went back to his bed, switching on the bedside lamp and pulling a well used notebook from his night stand.
He flipped through the pages until he found the one on Ray. According to his earlier notes, Ray was short and stocky. Moustache. Brown hair. Sam closed his eyes and tried to force the image. He could almost hear him snapping his Juicy Fruit, smell his breath as he spat out an insult, that odd mix of gum and smoke.
Sam opened his eyes again and wrote down what he heard, what he thought he heard, Ray say. He stared at the words for a moment before skimming through the rest of the pages. There were notes on everything, on everyone, he could think of. Phyllis, June, Doris and her treacle. Harry Woolfe, Stephen Warren, Pete Bond. Nelson, Ray, Chris. And...
He tried not to think about Annie. He wanted to. He kept as many notes on her as anyone else but it had been a week, no two weeks, when he had heard her voice in the darkness of sleep.
Sam? It’s Annie. Do you remember me, Annie Cartwright?
He had tried calling to her, tried to tell her he was alright, but all she had said was, “Where did you go, Sam?” He had cried the rest of the night. It was too soon to think about Annie again.
Sam shut the notebook and set it back in the drawer. Gene wasn’t in the notebook. No, as was typical, or what Sam remembered as typical, his thoughts on Gene Hunt had required an entire, separate notebook of their own.
He hadn’t heard Gene’s voice in awhile. He wondered what he was doing. He wondered what any of them were doing. Then he remembered they had all been figments of his imagination anyway so they couldn’t possibly be doing anything at all. So Sam turned off all the lights and crawled back into bed, back to sleep, returning to dreams that weren’t even half as exciting as those he once knew.
*
The coffee was perfect. The new machine in the hall made a perfect cup. It also made espresso, cappuccino, and hot chocolate. Sam found himself at the fountain, watering it down.
“Sam?”
“Oh. Hi Maya.” He pulled back his cup and tasted it while she watched him curiously. She’d always been watching him curiously lately, detachedly. He couldn’t bring himself to care. “Was too hot.”
“Oh. Superintendent Grant is looking for you,” she smiled but Sam found it bland, like a copy of a copy. Sam realized he missed cursing at the flimsy carbon they used, used to use, to make copies.
“Right. Thanks.” He sipped from his cup and started towards the lift.
“Sam?”
“Hm?” He turned, the cup still at his lips.
“You will be our DCI again. He just wants to make sure--”
“I know,” Sam responded but didn’t bother to smile. Being DCI again wasn’t what was bothering him. Nothing seemed to be bothering him. That’s what bothered him. No one had tried to hit him recently. That bothered him. It bothered him that it bothered him. It wasn’t normal. Nothing here was normal. Nothing here was right.
By the time he reached his Superintendent’s office the coffee was gone. He thought there used to be a bin right there but it must have been another thing he imagined about 1973. He knocked twice and was met with a cheerful, “Come on in!”
Sam opened the door, entered, and shut it.
“Sit down. Sit down.” Superintendent Grant smiled. Now Sam knew where Maya had copied her smile from. He did as he was told. “How have you been feeling Sam?”
Sam stared at his empty coffee cup, at the gravely grounds coating the bottom. He remembered Annie’s hand pulling him back from the edge, bits of sand from the fire bucket stuck to her palm. “I think I’ve been handling light duties well. I’ve found it quite easy slipping back into--”
Grant waved him off. “I know you have, Sam. Work wise, you’ve been utterly fantastic, as usual.”
“Thank you,” Sam replied tonelessly.
“What I meant was, how are you feeling?” Grant leaned forward, waiting for his answer. Sam continued to stare at his coffee cup. He remembered Gene catching him and pulling him back from the rail, letting him weep in his arms, and not mocking him for it.
Don’t know what to say, Boss. I think you’ll be alright there.
“Chris,” Sam mumbled as he felt a pang of life. It quickly disappeared.
“Sorry?” Grant continued to smile.
“Uhm. I mean. Christ.” Sam found it difficult to lie about how he was feeling when he had no idea what the word meant anymore.
“I know it’s been hard for you Sam. Readjusting to life and all.”
Sam could only nod.
“Here.” Grant handed him a pamphlet. “I want you to check them out. They meet every Wednesday night at St. Christopher’s.”
“This is grief counseling.” Sam read the lines directly from the brochure. “For those who have lost someone,” he quoted. “I don’t think--”
“I think you have lost something Sam.”
Sam nodded again. Of course he would agree with whatever the Super said if it got him his DI badge back. DCI badge back.
*
“Six months of physio. In hospital therapy. Lived at my mom’s for a bit after that. Moved back into my own flat about three weeks ago. Everyone’s said I’ve made a fantastic recovery. Telling me how lucky I am. And I know they’re right. I know I should feel...It’s like there’s something missing. This huge chunk of me that I’ll never be able to get back. Like, trying to breathe without your lungs or...” Sam looked up and saw a dozen depressed faces staring back. Surely he didn’t look as bad as these people.
He didn’t listen as the caring counselor tried to talk Sam through his grief. The words were meaningless to him. At least these people, the persons they had cared about had actually existed. How was he supposed to grieve for the unreal?
Sam picked through an assortment of store bought snacks to go with his overly bitter tea. Everyone was milling about during the break, comforting each other, talking, hugging. He made sure to distance himself from all that feeling. It didn’t apply to him.
“Touching story.” A woman’s neat, Southern accent broke his bubble of solitude.
“Sorry?” He didn’t even bother to look up. Maybe if he didn’t, she’d simply go away. Like the girl from the test card.
This woman, however, would have none of that and sat herself on the edge of the table, right where Sam had been reaching for a stale custard cream. “I said, touching story. That is, if it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?” He sighed, becoming increasingly annoyed over her unwanted presence.
“Well,” she pointed a once well-manicured finger at Sam’s name tag. “If you’re going to lie about your name, what else could you lie about?” She removed her finger and crossed her arms over her chest, one eyebrow raised in anticipation of an honest answer.
Sam looked at his name tag then up at the woman, dressed simply in jeans and a green, long-sleeve tee. “And what makes you think my name’s not Chris?” He countered.
“You could be a Chris, I give you that, but considering last week your name tag read ‘Ray’ I’m guessing Chris isn’t the truth either.”
“Very observant,” Sam clipped. All he wanted was to sit back in the folding chair circle with his snacks.
“Very Fight Club,” she smirked.
“What?” Why was she so intent on getting a rise out of him?
“You know, Ed Norton changes his name at each Whatevers Anonymous meeting he goes to. Haven’t you ever seen it?” She asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. A colleague,” not a friend, never a friend, “brought me a copy when I was in hospital. Guess the idea stuck. Sorry.” He turned, aching to return to his chair but she kept talking.
“Makes sense, though. I mean if these meetings are supposed to be anonymous why the bloody hell do they hand out name tags? Load a shit, you ask me,” she sighed and picked at her fingernails. “So, what do you say we bust out of here and leaves these Moping Mabels to themselves?”
“If you’re looking for--”
“I’m looking for food. What kind of girl you think I am?” She snapped, suddenly offended. “Parents raised me better than that I should think.” She stood up and grabbed her jacket from a nearby chair, clearly planning on leaving whether Sam was or not. He felt the sudden urge to apologize to her, though he had no idea why.
“Sorry. I’m sorry!” He set his paper plate of uneaten biscuits back on the table and grabbed his own coat but she was already out the door. Sam ran after her and found her outside standing on the steps, lighting up a cigarette. “Look. I didn’t mean...” He read her own name tag in the lamp light. “Tanya, I’m sorry. Really.”
“Well,” she sighed, “Since you said it about five times, must be true.”
“If you want to get something to eat...one condition.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?” She asked, ready to consider his offer.
“Since you know why I was there, you have to tell me why you were there.”
She thought about it a moment then held out her hand. “Deal.”
“Deal,” Sam shook it and noticed how warm and gentle it was.
“And I’ll even pay, just to prove I’m not a whore,” she smiled smugly and started to walk away.
*
“This used to be a pub,” Sam sighed, the familiar despair creeping into his chest. “At least, I thought it used to be a pub.”
Sam and the woman stood outside what he thought had been the Railway Arms but was now a fish and chips shop.
“C’mon then. I could murder some chips. Not like we’re dressed for anything posher.” She was in the door before he could protest.
Twenty minutes later they sat at a table, Sam barely touching his food while Tanya devoured hers.
“You know,” she said between mouthfuls of chips. The way she ate, to Sam it was disgusting to watch but he found her unself-conscious attitude somewhat refreshing. “You could almost pass for Edward Norton. Same hair and build.”
“Maybe with the lights off and your eyes closed.”
“Never on a first date. No. I think you could.”
“So me reminding you of him in Fight Club doesn’t disturb you?”
“Long as you don’t have a violent imaginary friend who likes to get into punch-ups for kicks, think we’re alright,” she laughed and Sam’s mouth went dry.
“Yeah. So, our deal. Remember?”
“Absolutely,” she dabbed her mouth on her napkin.”I never forget a deal. Bad for business.”
“Finance?”
“Law. I’m a lawyer.”
“Prosecution or defense?”
“Both. Divorce law. Sorta covers everything sometimes.”
“And you moved here when?”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach. “Big on questions, aren’t you? Must be a police officer, eh Chris?”
“That obvious?”
She shrugged. “I’ve known my fair share of coppers. So, are you going to let me finish or are you going to proceed with the interrogation?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.” Sam tried not to make it obvious he was checking the clock. His body was tired and all he could picture was going home and wrapping himself up warm and tight in his king-size bed and drifting off to sleep, hoping to wake up somewhere else.
“Oi. You in there?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Sorry.”
“Bit spacey, aren’t you? Anyway, as I was saying Officer, I was born here but raised in Surrey. Parents, house, school, the whole bit.”
“Happy childhood?”
“Yeah,” she smiled and it was the first genuine smile Sam remembered seeing since he woke up. “Then, uhm, ‘bout four years ago Mum started losing it. First it was little things, like forgetting where she laid her keys, or what day it was. Then one day I came to visit, didn’t recognize me.”
“Alzheimer’s.”
She nodded and started picking at her napkin. “Broke Dad’s heart, seeing her lose it like that. Every time I saw him, the way he looked at her, like he’d seen it all before.”
“They do think there’s a genetic link.”
“Well that makes me feel better,” she sniffed and Sam could see her fighting back tears. She spoke louder to try and cover up her emotions. “Dad moved her back up here. Thought being home might help. Get back to what she really knew, you know. Really fantastic my dad. Took great care of her.”
“Is he...”
“Massive heart attack about nine months ago. Uhm...” Sam saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and continued. “Mum couldn’t be on her own. So I came up here to look after her. Thought it would only be for a bit but I can’t just leave her, and now my firm’s threatening to chuck me out if I don’t come back soon...” she dropped her head in her hands. “Just a lot of stress and I don’t think I can handle it on my own.”
“Have you thought about placing her in a special care facility?”
“Oh no.” She sat up straight. “Daddy was adamant about that. Absolutely hated hospitals. He’d have a right fit if he knew I’d locked her up like that. Dad was always so strong, always knew exactly what to do. He’d be so disappointed he saw me now, getting all Dorothy.”
Sam dropped his fork. “What did you say?”
“What? Getting all Dorothy? Oh it was just an expression he used sometimes.” Tanya looked at the clock. “Christ! Sorry. I have to go. My aunt’s watching Mum but I promised I’d be home, oh, half an hour ago? It was really nice talking with you, Chris.”
“Sam.” He corrected immediately. “Sam Tyler.”
“Nice to meet you Sam Tyler. And since we’re being honest...” She ripped off her name tag and dropped it in her water glass. “My name’s not Tanya.” She pulled out a business card and scribbled as number on the back. “That’s my number in Manchester. You don’t mind hanging out with a mentally ill septuagenarian and her overstressed daughter, give me a call.” She handed him the card.
His hand began to shake as he read the name. “Wait.”
“Yeah?” She turned and Sam realized she had worn the green shirt to match her eyes.
“Your dad. What did he do? What was his job?” He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible. He’d spent nine months convincing himself it wasn’t possible.
“He was a copper,” she smiled warmly. “A DCI. Up here in the seventies then later down at the Met.” She cursed upon seeing the time. “Bye Sam Tyler.” She cursed again then ran out of the restaurant. Sam still couldn’t tear his eyes from the name on the card.
Gladys Hunt.
Be the strong willed bastard I know you are.
__________
Part 85
Author: dak
Word Count: 2702 this part; [142,107 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: Sam at home.
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: So yesterday when I said there would 1 or 2 parts left, I meant 2 or 3. I'm 90% sure now that there will only be two more parts. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
You’re a wanker. Always were a wanker. Always be a wanker.
Sam shot up in his bed, forehead beaded with sweat. He sat there in the darkness straining to hear but it was gone now. It was always gone when he tried to listen. He ran his hands down his face before tossing off his comforter and padding across the carpet to his bathroom.
His mum hadn’t wanted him living on his own so soon but he assured her he was going to fine. When he wanted to he could easily lie to his mother. Sam flicked on the light in his bathroom. There it all was. His state of the art shower, glistening sink, toilet that didn’t wobble when he sat down.
So right. So perfect. So unnatural. Sam doused his face with cold water, hoping to remember. That had been Ray’s voice, hadn’t it? Ray Carling. Detective Sergeant. What had he looked like? All Sam could remember was a moustache. He forgot about the light in the bathroom and went back to his bed, switching on the bedside lamp and pulling a well used notebook from his night stand.
He flipped through the pages until he found the one on Ray. According to his earlier notes, Ray was short and stocky. Moustache. Brown hair. Sam closed his eyes and tried to force the image. He could almost hear him snapping his Juicy Fruit, smell his breath as he spat out an insult, that odd mix of gum and smoke.
Sam opened his eyes again and wrote down what he heard, what he thought he heard, Ray say. He stared at the words for a moment before skimming through the rest of the pages. There were notes on everything, on everyone, he could think of. Phyllis, June, Doris and her treacle. Harry Woolfe, Stephen Warren, Pete Bond. Nelson, Ray, Chris. And...
He tried not to think about Annie. He wanted to. He kept as many notes on her as anyone else but it had been a week, no two weeks, when he had heard her voice in the darkness of sleep.
Sam? It’s Annie. Do you remember me, Annie Cartwright?
He had tried calling to her, tried to tell her he was alright, but all she had said was, “Where did you go, Sam?” He had cried the rest of the night. It was too soon to think about Annie again.
Sam shut the notebook and set it back in the drawer. Gene wasn’t in the notebook. No, as was typical, or what Sam remembered as typical, his thoughts on Gene Hunt had required an entire, separate notebook of their own.
He hadn’t heard Gene’s voice in awhile. He wondered what he was doing. He wondered what any of them were doing. Then he remembered they had all been figments of his imagination anyway so they couldn’t possibly be doing anything at all. So Sam turned off all the lights and crawled back into bed, back to sleep, returning to dreams that weren’t even half as exciting as those he once knew.
*
The coffee was perfect. The new machine in the hall made a perfect cup. It also made espresso, cappuccino, and hot chocolate. Sam found himself at the fountain, watering it down.
“Sam?”
“Oh. Hi Maya.” He pulled back his cup and tasted it while she watched him curiously. She’d always been watching him curiously lately, detachedly. He couldn’t bring himself to care. “Was too hot.”
“Oh. Superintendent Grant is looking for you,” she smiled but Sam found it bland, like a copy of a copy. Sam realized he missed cursing at the flimsy carbon they used, used to use, to make copies.
“Right. Thanks.” He sipped from his cup and started towards the lift.
“Sam?”
“Hm?” He turned, the cup still at his lips.
“You will be our DCI again. He just wants to make sure--”
“I know,” Sam responded but didn’t bother to smile. Being DCI again wasn’t what was bothering him. Nothing seemed to be bothering him. That’s what bothered him. No one had tried to hit him recently. That bothered him. It bothered him that it bothered him. It wasn’t normal. Nothing here was normal. Nothing here was right.
By the time he reached his Superintendent’s office the coffee was gone. He thought there used to be a bin right there but it must have been another thing he imagined about 1973. He knocked twice and was met with a cheerful, “Come on in!”
Sam opened the door, entered, and shut it.
“Sit down. Sit down.” Superintendent Grant smiled. Now Sam knew where Maya had copied her smile from. He did as he was told. “How have you been feeling Sam?”
Sam stared at his empty coffee cup, at the gravely grounds coating the bottom. He remembered Annie’s hand pulling him back from the edge, bits of sand from the fire bucket stuck to her palm. “I think I’ve been handling light duties well. I’ve found it quite easy slipping back into--”
Grant waved him off. “I know you have, Sam. Work wise, you’ve been utterly fantastic, as usual.”
“Thank you,” Sam replied tonelessly.
“What I meant was, how are you feeling?” Grant leaned forward, waiting for his answer. Sam continued to stare at his coffee cup. He remembered Gene catching him and pulling him back from the rail, letting him weep in his arms, and not mocking him for it.
Don’t know what to say, Boss. I think you’ll be alright there.
“Chris,” Sam mumbled as he felt a pang of life. It quickly disappeared.
“Sorry?” Grant continued to smile.
“Uhm. I mean. Christ.” Sam found it difficult to lie about how he was feeling when he had no idea what the word meant anymore.
“I know it’s been hard for you Sam. Readjusting to life and all.”
Sam could only nod.
“Here.” Grant handed him a pamphlet. “I want you to check them out. They meet every Wednesday night at St. Christopher’s.”
“This is grief counseling.” Sam read the lines directly from the brochure. “For those who have lost someone,” he quoted. “I don’t think--”
“I think you have lost something Sam.”
Sam nodded again. Of course he would agree with whatever the Super said if it got him his DI badge back. DCI badge back.
*
“Six months of physio. In hospital therapy. Lived at my mom’s for a bit after that. Moved back into my own flat about three weeks ago. Everyone’s said I’ve made a fantastic recovery. Telling me how lucky I am. And I know they’re right. I know I should feel...It’s like there’s something missing. This huge chunk of me that I’ll never be able to get back. Like, trying to breathe without your lungs or...” Sam looked up and saw a dozen depressed faces staring back. Surely he didn’t look as bad as these people.
He didn’t listen as the caring counselor tried to talk Sam through his grief. The words were meaningless to him. At least these people, the persons they had cared about had actually existed. How was he supposed to grieve for the unreal?
Sam picked through an assortment of store bought snacks to go with his overly bitter tea. Everyone was milling about during the break, comforting each other, talking, hugging. He made sure to distance himself from all that feeling. It didn’t apply to him.
“Touching story.” A woman’s neat, Southern accent broke his bubble of solitude.
“Sorry?” He didn’t even bother to look up. Maybe if he didn’t, she’d simply go away. Like the girl from the test card.
This woman, however, would have none of that and sat herself on the edge of the table, right where Sam had been reaching for a stale custard cream. “I said, touching story. That is, if it’s true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?” He sighed, becoming increasingly annoyed over her unwanted presence.
“Well,” she pointed a once well-manicured finger at Sam’s name tag. “If you’re going to lie about your name, what else could you lie about?” She removed her finger and crossed her arms over her chest, one eyebrow raised in anticipation of an honest answer.
Sam looked at his name tag then up at the woman, dressed simply in jeans and a green, long-sleeve tee. “And what makes you think my name’s not Chris?” He countered.
“You could be a Chris, I give you that, but considering last week your name tag read ‘Ray’ I’m guessing Chris isn’t the truth either.”
“Very observant,” Sam clipped. All he wanted was to sit back in the folding chair circle with his snacks.
“Very Fight Club,” she smirked.
“What?” Why was she so intent on getting a rise out of him?
“You know, Ed Norton changes his name at each Whatevers Anonymous meeting he goes to. Haven’t you ever seen it?” She asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. A colleague,” not a friend, never a friend, “brought me a copy when I was in hospital. Guess the idea stuck. Sorry.” He turned, aching to return to his chair but she kept talking.
“Makes sense, though. I mean if these meetings are supposed to be anonymous why the bloody hell do they hand out name tags? Load a shit, you ask me,” she sighed and picked at her fingernails. “So, what do you say we bust out of here and leaves these Moping Mabels to themselves?”
“If you’re looking for--”
“I’m looking for food. What kind of girl you think I am?” She snapped, suddenly offended. “Parents raised me better than that I should think.” She stood up and grabbed her jacket from a nearby chair, clearly planning on leaving whether Sam was or not. He felt the sudden urge to apologize to her, though he had no idea why.
“Sorry. I’m sorry!” He set his paper plate of uneaten biscuits back on the table and grabbed his own coat but she was already out the door. Sam ran after her and found her outside standing on the steps, lighting up a cigarette. “Look. I didn’t mean...” He read her own name tag in the lamp light. “Tanya, I’m sorry. Really.”
“Well,” she sighed, “Since you said it about five times, must be true.”
“If you want to get something to eat...one condition.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?” She asked, ready to consider his offer.
“Since you know why I was there, you have to tell me why you were there.”
She thought about it a moment then held out her hand. “Deal.”
“Deal,” Sam shook it and noticed how warm and gentle it was.
“And I’ll even pay, just to prove I’m not a whore,” she smiled smugly and started to walk away.
*
“This used to be a pub,” Sam sighed, the familiar despair creeping into his chest. “At least, I thought it used to be a pub.”
Sam and the woman stood outside what he thought had been the Railway Arms but was now a fish and chips shop.
“C’mon then. I could murder some chips. Not like we’re dressed for anything posher.” She was in the door before he could protest.
Twenty minutes later they sat at a table, Sam barely touching his food while Tanya devoured hers.
“You know,” she said between mouthfuls of chips. The way she ate, to Sam it was disgusting to watch but he found her unself-conscious attitude somewhat refreshing. “You could almost pass for Edward Norton. Same hair and build.”
“Maybe with the lights off and your eyes closed.”
“Never on a first date. No. I think you could.”
“So me reminding you of him in Fight Club doesn’t disturb you?”
“Long as you don’t have a violent imaginary friend who likes to get into punch-ups for kicks, think we’re alright,” she laughed and Sam’s mouth went dry.
“Yeah. So, our deal. Remember?”
“Absolutely,” she dabbed her mouth on her napkin.”I never forget a deal. Bad for business.”
“Finance?”
“Law. I’m a lawyer.”
“Prosecution or defense?”
“Both. Divorce law. Sorta covers everything sometimes.”
“And you moved here when?”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach. “Big on questions, aren’t you? Must be a police officer, eh Chris?”
“That obvious?”
She shrugged. “I’ve known my fair share of coppers. So, are you going to let me finish or are you going to proceed with the interrogation?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.” Sam tried not to make it obvious he was checking the clock. His body was tired and all he could picture was going home and wrapping himself up warm and tight in his king-size bed and drifting off to sleep, hoping to wake up somewhere else.
“Oi. You in there?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Sorry.”
“Bit spacey, aren’t you? Anyway, as I was saying Officer, I was born here but raised in Surrey. Parents, house, school, the whole bit.”
“Happy childhood?”
“Yeah,” she smiled and it was the first genuine smile Sam remembered seeing since he woke up. “Then, uhm, ‘bout four years ago Mum started losing it. First it was little things, like forgetting where she laid her keys, or what day it was. Then one day I came to visit, didn’t recognize me.”
“Alzheimer’s.”
She nodded and started picking at her napkin. “Broke Dad’s heart, seeing her lose it like that. Every time I saw him, the way he looked at her, like he’d seen it all before.”
“They do think there’s a genetic link.”
“Well that makes me feel better,” she sniffed and Sam could see her fighting back tears. She spoke louder to try and cover up her emotions. “Dad moved her back up here. Thought being home might help. Get back to what she really knew, you know. Really fantastic my dad. Took great care of her.”
“Is he...”
“Massive heart attack about nine months ago. Uhm...” Sam saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and continued. “Mum couldn’t be on her own. So I came up here to look after her. Thought it would only be for a bit but I can’t just leave her, and now my firm’s threatening to chuck me out if I don’t come back soon...” she dropped her head in her hands. “Just a lot of stress and I don’t think I can handle it on my own.”
“Have you thought about placing her in a special care facility?”
“Oh no.” She sat up straight. “Daddy was adamant about that. Absolutely hated hospitals. He’d have a right fit if he knew I’d locked her up like that. Dad was always so strong, always knew exactly what to do. He’d be so disappointed he saw me now, getting all Dorothy.”
Sam dropped his fork. “What did you say?”
“What? Getting all Dorothy? Oh it was just an expression he used sometimes.” Tanya looked at the clock. “Christ! Sorry. I have to go. My aunt’s watching Mum but I promised I’d be home, oh, half an hour ago? It was really nice talking with you, Chris.”
“Sam.” He corrected immediately. “Sam Tyler.”
“Nice to meet you Sam Tyler. And since we’re being honest...” She ripped off her name tag and dropped it in her water glass. “My name’s not Tanya.” She pulled out a business card and scribbled as number on the back. “That’s my number in Manchester. You don’t mind hanging out with a mentally ill septuagenarian and her overstressed daughter, give me a call.” She handed him the card.
His hand began to shake as he read the name. “Wait.”
“Yeah?” She turned and Sam realized she had worn the green shirt to match her eyes.
“Your dad. What did he do? What was his job?” He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible. He’d spent nine months convincing himself it wasn’t possible.
“He was a copper,” she smiled warmly. “A DCI. Up here in the seventies then later down at the Met.” She cursed upon seeing the time. “Bye Sam Tyler.” She cursed again then ran out of the restaurant. Sam still couldn’t tear his eyes from the name on the card.
Gladys Hunt.
Be the strong willed bastard I know you are.
__________
Part 85