Fic: Beyond the Pale 3/3
The club was unassuming from the street, with none of the neon that marked straight dance clubs. It had a staid wood facade, the heavy door all brass and mahogany. The only thing to indicate it was anything more than a regular pub was the heavyset bouncer standing in the doorway.
“This it?” Gene said, double-checking with Max. He peered around the corner; the police van and the back-up team were hidden away in a side alley, close by but out of sight. “Doesn't seem poofy enough.”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Max said. They'd allowed him to go home to change and he was freshly showered and shaved, his black trousers and white shirt positively subdued next to Sam's get-up. “I'm sorry if it doesn't live up to your expectations.”
“Piss off,” Gene said, genially enough. “Got your radio?”
“Yes,” Sam said. It was hidden - if you could use the word - in his jacket pocket, heavy and pulling it down on one side. Gene had suggested he stash it down the front of his trousers.
“You give the word, we come in, guns blazing, and start arresting every brown-hatter we lay our hands on.” Gene thumped Sam on the back. “All you need is to get Perry to make you an offer. Or just talk to him and you say he made you an offer later.”
“Right,” Sam said and tried to swallow to wet his throat. “Are you ready?”
Max shrugged. “As much as I'll ever be ready, I suppose.”
And with that, Operation Flaming Copper commenced. It was a relief to follow Max's lead as they approached the club. This assignment had Sam far more unsettled than he'd ever admit, and Max seemed comfortingly sure of himself as he nodded to the bouncer and whisked them both inside. Whether it was because he didn't fully understand the risk he was taking or because he was much braver than Sam had given him credit for, Sam didn't know.
They were immediately confronted with a narrow, twisting staircase that led them abruptly downwards. How could drunks navigate it, Sam wondered; he had to cling to the railing. He'd returned the cane to Gene; his knee still twinged, but it was the size it was supposed to be and a cane would be more trouble than it was worth on a dance floor.
Flyers and posters papered the walls, advertising bands and concerts. Sam could feel the music more than hear it, a bone-rattling bass line he felt under his sternum.
They emerged onto a packed dance floor, so dark that Sam could only get the impression of writhing bodies, flashes coming to him with the strobe lights. He was held transfixed until Max's light touch on his elbow guided him through the crowd. They found one of the few tables pressed against the windowless walls. Sam was already sweating; so many bodies so close together made the heat oppressive.
“Do you see him?” Sam asked.
“What?!” Max shouted back over the music.
“Do! You! See! Him?!” Sam tried again.
Max glanced around the room and shrugged. “Not yet,” he mouthed. He stood and motioned for Sam to stay where he was before slipping back through the crowd. Sam watched the dancers, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to stop himself. Men danced with men, not the hokey dance steps so popular with this decade - no Hustle, no Night Fever, no Bus Stop - but two people completely focused on each other, hips spooned together, pulling each other close, moving in time to the music. When Max returned a few minutes later with drinks, Sam was feeling thirsty indeed. Whatever Max had ordered, it was slightly sweet and extremely alcoholic, which Sam noticed only after he'd downed half his glass and his head spun slightly.
Max took his drink from his hand and set it on the table, so he could pull Sam to his feet and onto the dance floor. Sam didn't resist until Max stopped and turned to him, a hand going to his waist, and Sam realised they were really going to dance, not survey the room or something.
Sam jerked away, but Max was insistent. “Come on, Sam. It's just a dance - your cover!”
Sam wasn't convinced, but it would be a struggle to get back to the table through the crowd. Besides, he had a better vantage point here. He'd left his coat back at the table, he realised as Max's hand found the small of his back, an extra point of heat.
“Like dancing with a haddock,” Max said, leaning in close to shout it in Sam's ear. “Surely you could at least try to look like you're enjoying it.”
That goaded Sam into swaying a bit, half pushed by Max's hands on his waist. He didn't have anything to do with his hands, and he tried resting them on Max's shoulders. That was an improvement. Max's body seemed to mould to his, and Sam let himself relax into it, his knee slipping between Max's as they moved together. He felt rather than heard Max laugh and grin against his ear.
“You're still looking out for Perry?” Sam reminded him, a prickling of guilt, and something else entirely, settling in his stomach.
“He should arrive any minute,” Max said and ran a hand over the curve of Sam's arse.
Someone grabbed Sam's shoulder and pulled hard enough to spin him around. He found himself staring up at Gene fucking Hunt, large as life and angry as hell. Sam staggered and backed into another dancer before he recovered.
“What-” Max began, but Gene cut him off.
“Fuck off,” Gene snapped. “I'm cutting in, sweetheart.” Max exchanged a quick look with Sam, who could manage no reply beyond a dumb look, and then Sam was too busy being seized and forced backwards.
“Ow, my toe!” Sam said.
“Shut up and take it,” Gene said. He settled one hand on Sam's waist and took the other in his own, as though they were going to start waltzing. Being led by Gene was a lot like being beaten by him, all shoving and body-slamming.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sam said, trying to pull his hand free, but Gene had a good hold on him and even if Sam would have been able to get free, it would have taken more of a struggle than he cared to engage in whilst attempting to remain inconspicuous.
“I'm cutting a rug, what does it look like?” Gene said and then leaned in very close so he could say directly into Sam's ear, “I'm pulling you out of this assignment.”
“What?”
“Someone just called in a tip about Perry. I'm not risking more on this cunty bastard than I have to.”
“And that doesn't strike you as suspicious?” They'd stopped swaying and were getting in the way of the other dancers. Sam brought his hand up to Gene's shoulder to try to get him moving again, knowing that if anyone were watching this little exchange it would look highly suspect. “That won't be enough to get a warrant.”
“So we don't get one. Won't be the first time I got what I needed without a bloody piece of paper giving me the say-so!”
“No!” Sam cried, confident the music would cover his words. “Things are changing, Gene. I am not going to watch him walk on a technicality. Besides, I'm already here. I do so hate getting dressed up for nothing.”
Gene twisted Sam's hand up behind his back, sending a sharp pain through his shoulder and still-healing ribs. The move also brought them into even closer physical proximity, his chest pressed to Sam's, his hips checking Sam's as Sam came up onto his toes to relieve the pressure. “Listen here, you little twat, I don't care how much time it took to put your face on or how much you like letting fairies feel you up. When I say get out, you get.”
About mid-way through this speech, Sam had got distracted by a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. He looked past Gene, searching through the crowd, and found a youth watching him. Not with idle or even speculative curiosity, but with cold interest.
“We're being watched - no, don't look!” Sam caught Gene's face with his hand to keep him from craning around and then - the gesture triggering some reflex, completely bypassing the part of his brain that sorted the good ideas from the bad and the bad from the suicidal - he kissed Gene Hunt right on the mouth. “Don't hit me,” he said as he broke the kiss. “I was maintaining our cover.”
The kiss had caught Gene badly off guard, enough so that Sam could free his arm and bring it up and around Gene's neck, his fingers catching in his hair and then tightening sharply.
“I'm not going to let your homophobia or self-loathing or whatever the hell this is stop me from bringing Perry in. So either help, or you get out,” Sam whispered, his lips against Gene's ear, with a vicious tug on his hair.
Gene's reply was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. They stepped apart to find Max. Sam wanted to apologise for leaving him alone, for his unprofessionalism, for just about everything, but Max's expression was all business.
“There,” he said, and nodded to indicate the man on the far side of the room. “That's Oliver Perry.”
Oliver Perry was a slight, unassuming man in a black trench coat. The two men flanking him were considerably more imposing, and from the way they watched the room and the deference they showed Perry, Sam guessed they were bodyguards. The men made their way around the edge of the room, heading for another door on the opposite side.
“Now or never,” Sam said. He didn't wait to see what Gene would do, but started fighting his way through the crowd on a path to intercept Perry. Gene caught up to him just before he caught up to Perry, slinging an arm around Sam's neck. Sam thought Gene meant to stop him, but he kept them moving forward, pulling Sam in close.
“Mr Perry!” Gene called out, the drunken slur to his voice sounding genuine. The bodyguards' hands slipped into their jackets, but a motion from Perry stopped them. He smiled at Gene, his eyes cold and appraising.
“I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr …?” he said, not seeming to raise his voice, though Sam had no trouble hearing him over the music.
“Mr Eastwood, let's call me,” Gene said and winked. “This is my very good friend, Gladys.” He indicated Sam with a squeeze. “And you see, the thing is, Mr Perry, rumour has it that you are the bloke to talk to if one is looking for a little company. And I am in the market for a little company.”
“Gladys looks like very good company to me,” Perry observed mildly.
“He can be, but he prefers to watch.” Gene's leer was practised, and Sam had to force himself not to react as Gene slid a possessive hand down his side to land on his hip. “A little companionship is worth gold and silver, if you'd like to suggest a price.” Gene fumbled for his wallet.
“Why don't we step into my office to discuss business?” Perry suggested with another joyless smile.
Sam began to have second thoughts when the bodyguards took up positions behind them as Perry led the way through the back door, and escape became distinctly more difficult. They found themselves facing another staircase, this one wider and well lit. They walked up several floors, the music growing faint, though Sam could still feel it through the soles of his feet.
They emerged into a hallway and Perry said, “Right through here, gentlemen,” as he opened the door and indicated they should enter first. In retrospect, that was the only warning they got, but Sam didn't get a chance to identify the thrill of fear that ran through him.
The room wasn't an office, but some kind of large supply cupboard, with shelves of paper towels and bottles of toilet cleaner. Sam turned in confusion and registered the butt of a pistol being swung at his head just before blackness fell.
-
Sam woke slowly, the various pains in his body registering themselves one by one according to severity. His headache was the worst, a vision-blurring throb, his ribs were aching again, and his bad knee screamed at him, gone cramped and bloodless from holding the same position for a prolonged period.
“So you're not a vegetable then.”
“Six,” Sam said, his tongue thick and dry. He managed to open first one eye and then the other and Gene swam into view, blood trickled from a cut along his hairline.
“Perhaps I spoke too soon.” They were in the storage cupboard, their hands tied and their ankles bound. Gene was slouched against the back wall.
“I have a concussion. And if my accounting is correct, that makes six concussions in the past two and a half years.” Sam rolled to a seated position, pins and needles running through his limbs. He worked his way over to Gene, panting by the time he got there.
“What are the odds your accounting's correct if you've had six concussions?” Gene asked philosophically.
“They've done studies, you know. On rugby players who've had numerous concussions. Or maybe it was American football players. That's not the point. The point,” he screwed up his eyes in the effort of remembering his point, “is. The point is that it's not good. I may have permanent damage.”
“You'll definitely have permanent damage by the time I'm done with you,” Gene promised. “Pray Perry's goons finish you off before I lay my hands on you, Sam Tyler. Let that be a lesson to me: whatever Sam Tyler says, do the opposite.”
Sam started to argue, considered their predicament, and shut up. “Oh!” he said suddenly, a flash of insight making it through the fog of his headache. “The boy who was watching us - I recognised him from interviewing the prostitutes, but I only just now put it together. That's how Perry knew we were coppers.”
“I don't give a toss why they knew we were coppers. One would only have to glance at me to realise I'm not bent. The whole thing was a setup from start to finish. The question is: why didn't they kill us?”
“I don't know,” Sam said. “My knee hurts.” He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't leave any part of his body pinched and aching.
“Shut up about your sodding knee. It's the least of your problems. Chances are they're just waiting to move us and kill us somewhere more convenient. We'll be floating face-down in the canal tomorrow morning.”
Sam wormed his way a bit closer, and let his head rest on Gene's shoulder. He expected to be shaken off, but Gene was still. Sam closed his eyes.
“Don't go to sleep. You've a concussion.”
“Doesn't matter,” Sam murmured. Gene smelled like sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and Hai Karate. It was not altogether unpleasant.
“It matters to me. You do not get to take the easy way out of this, Tyler.” Gene slapped him lightly on the cheek, his bound hands making the gesture clumsy and mostly ineffective.
“I'm sorry, Guv,” Sam said, and he could hear the thickness in his voice. He was so very tired; even the pain didn't seem so bad right now. His hands and feet had grown cold with the lack of circulation and the rest of him seemed to be following. He shivered a little; Gene was warm under his cheek and that was nice. He really hoped that he died of a brain haemorrhage before they could take him out back and shoot him. As exits went, this really wasn't so bad.
“Don't you apologise to me, you divvy little bastard. Now, open your eyes! That's an order!” The face-patting became more insistent, and Sam was vaguely aware of being shaken.
“Come on, Sam. Come on, Sammy-boy.”
It was a great bother, but he managed to open his eyes. Gene had Sam's face in his hands, his grip uncomfortably tight. Sam grunted a protest and tried to pull away but Gene wouldn't let him go. “There we are.” Gene actually sounded relieved. “Sams, Sammers, Sammy-boy.”
“Please,” Sam said, carefully enunciating. “Stop saying my name.”
“Always full of opinions, that's you.” Gene finally released him. “Now, think of an escape plan.”
“All right,” Sam said. “You distract him, then I'll tackle him.”
“Right. Never mind. You shut up; I'll think of a plan.”
They both sat up straighter as they heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. Perry's goons entered; one already had his gun drawn. Perry followed them, standing in the doorway.
“Welcome to the party, boys,” Gene said heartily. “Into bondage are you?” He indicated his bound hands. “I'm not into the kinky stuff meself.”
“Oh, I doubt that. The coppers always have the most outlandish tastes. More than one sees those tastes indulged here. Bad customers, though. Always expect to get theirs for free.” Perry tsked.
One of his henchmen cut the rope at Sam's ankles and pulled him to his feet. Sam wobbled a bit; he was dizzy and his feet burned as the blood returned. He leaned against the shelves, upsetting a bottle of soap. Gene's bonds were cut as well; he seemed considerably more sure on his feet.
“Get on,” the bigger goon said, jabbing Gene with the muzzle of his gun. He waved Sam on, too, and Sam, seeing no other option, obeyed. They were herded out into the hallway and taken in the opposite direction from where they'd come in.
“You do know who I am,” Gene said, supremely confident.
“DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler,” Perry replied. “Of the CID.”
“So you know that you'll be put away for the rest of your sorry life with some of the most vicious rapists and murders if you're so fucking daft as to kill us.”
“No, I don't think so,” Perry said, unruffled. Then, to his henchmen, “Take them out back.”
The first henchman nodded and took Gene's elbow, the gun in the small of his back. The second goon gave Sam the same treatment, jarring his sore shoulder. They'd almost reached the end of the long hallway when a crashing reverberated down it. Sam twisted around to see the door at the other end swinging open, having bounced off the wall.
Annie, followed quickly by Chris and Ray, spilled into the hallway. They backed up quickly as the goons started firing, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Sam was hustled along down yet another staircase and out into the back alley.
“Hold them,” Perry said and then took off running, leaving the bodyguards, Sam, and Gene staring after him.
“What a rat,” Gene said.
The bodyguards exchanged a look with each other, and the one holding Sam levelled the gun at his head.
The exit swung open.
“You're surrounded by-” Ray's voice called out, only to be silenced as the heavy door swung back closed again.
The bodyguard who'd been about to execute him grabbed Sam instead, pulling him into a headlock, the gun pressed to his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Gene getting the same treatment.
“By armed bastards!” Ray finished, this time propping the door open a few inches, enough to wave his own gun about a bit. The guard holding Gene took a shot at the door. The bullet threw off sparks as it hit the heavy steel.
“Traditionally in a hostage situation,” Sam said, a note of hysteria in his voice, “you would start making demands right about now.”
“Shut up,” the guard replied, then shouted back to Ray, “If you so much as set one foot out that door, I'll blow 'is brains out.”
“Come on, let's get out of 'ere,” the other goon said, and they hauled Sam and Gene down the alley. Sam's bad knee gave out and he stumbled and went to one knee. “Get up.” Sam didn't need to be told, but his limbs were being difficult. “I said, 'Get up'!”
“He's got a bum knee,” Sam heard Gene say. “And you've rather recently scrambled his brains. Come on, Sammy, get up.”
Sam heaved, and with the help of the thug's grip on his shirt, he made it up to his feet. Dirty water had soaked the leg of his trousers, the fabric clinging to his skin.
As they reached the end of the alley, the door swung open again and Sam didn't have to look to know Ray and the others were following.
One of the goons - Sam wasn't sure which - fired a couple of hap-hazard shots over his shoulder. They rounded the corner; Sam was pushed around it first, closely followed by his guard. As he came round the brick of the building, he saw Max and then time slowed to a crawl. Hypersensitivity kicked his senses up, and in less than a heartbeat he became aware of rubbish lining the gutter, the sound of Gene's heavy breathing behind him, the smell of urine and damp pavement, the rust on the crowbar Max had hoisted over his head. That last detail came to the forefront in the order of importance.
Max side-stepped Sam, swinging the crowbar around to connect with the first goon's temple. The thug holding Gene brought his gun to bear on Max, getting off several shots before Gene slammed him into the wall.
Annie and Ray ran into view, quickly disarming and cuffing both thugs, though the one Max had struck was completely inert and the handcuffs were probably superfluous. Annie had a knife out and was cutting Sam's bonds, asking him if he was all right. He nodded numbly and brushed her off, turning to look for Max.
Sam's breath caught as he found him, slumped against the wall, his white shirtfront red with blood. Chris was already leaning over Max, hands on his hips, looking a bit dismayed.
“Max!” Sam cried, pulling away from Annie and shoving Chris aside. “Call an ambulance. Now!” Max's skin had gone white, and he was cool and clammy. Sam pressed his hand to the wound, a well of blood spilling from Max's shoulder. Sam cradled Max's head in the crook of his elbow to keep it from the dirty pavement. Max's eyes fluttered but didn't open. “Hey, hey, Max, stay with me.” He looked up. Gene and the others were standing around, watching Sam uncomfortably. “Do something!”
“There's nothing we can do, Sam,” Gene replied. “The ambulance will be here in a mo'. You just sit tight.”
The waiting passed in a blur, Sam aware of nothing but Max's shallow breaths and how weak his pulse was. It might have taken twenty minutes or two hours. They let Sam ride in the ambulance when it finally arrived. Max was rushed to surgery as soon as they reached the hospital. Sam too received medical attention, the doctor insisting he follow his finger with his eyes, and read from a chart and walk in a straight line.
“I'm keeping you overnight for observation,” the doctor said and took a drag of his cigarette. “That was a nasty knock on the head and they can be quite tricky.”
“Max Ellis, he's another patient here; how is he?”
The doctor shrugged and left him to the nurses, who showed Sam to a room and gave him a gown and a tray of … food. Sam couldn't be more specific. There was a grey mush and a smaller portion of green mush, possibly peas. He ate neither, but did change into the gown. Anything was better than that purple shirt, stained maroon with Max's blood.
Sam didn't think he’d be able to sleep, but he must have drifted off because the nurse woke him up twice during the night to give him medication and make him tell her where he was and who the prime minister was.
The next time he woke, it was morning or close enough. Dirty, grey light was just beginning to seep through the dirty, grey window. He got himself to the toilet, refusing to use the bedpan no matter how convenient it was. He washed his face in the sink, and his own reflection gave him a bad start. The face that stared back at him was haggard, in need of a shave, with dark circles and ashen skin. He ran his fingers through his hair and found a goose egg on the back of his head. He probed it with a wince and tried not to think about what kind of damage it might have done to his mental faculties.
There was no nurse at the desk when he got dressed and limped out, but the chart had been left out. He checked it without even a pang of guilt. That was Gene Hunt's influence and no mistake. Ellis, Maxwell was out of surgery and in Room 203. He paused at the bottom of the stairs up to the second floor, then took a firm grip on the bannister and started up.
Max was hooked up to a respirator and I.V., his shoulder heavily bandaged, but alive. And to Sam's eye, he looked better than Sam himself did. But then, Sam had seen corpses who'd looked better than he did at the moment.
“Hello, Max,” Sam said softly. He pulled up a chair and collapsed into it. Feeling a bit foolish, he took Max's hand. “I don't know if you can hear me - if you're here or in 1943 or something - but I wanted to thank you for saving my life. And the Guv's life, too.” Max's hand was warm, the pulse strong. “He's not so bad, really. Rough around the edges. And the middle. And, all right, he’s rough all the way through. And shockingly prejudiced and uncouth.” Sam sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. “But he's a good cop, really. A good man deep down. He's a good … friend.”
Sam put his feet up on a second chair. It had been six months since he'd come to the '70's permanently and he'd long since given up wondering why he was here or what his purpose was. He was here because he wanted to be.
Max stirred, and Sam sat up straighter, anxious. Max's eyes slowly opened and he gave a little sigh, looking up at Sam.
“Hi,” Sam said.
“Why on Earth would I be in 1943?” Max asked, blinking slowly.
“It was just - never mind. I'll go and get the nurse-”
“Wait,” Max said, his grip on Sam's hand tightening. “She'll want to change my bandage and I'm not up to that just yet.” He smiled weakly. “You understand.”
Sam hesitated, then said, “At least let me get you some water.” He poured a cup from the pitcher on the bed-stand and helped Max take a long drink.
“That was very brave, you know.”
Max's smile was wry and self-deprecating. “That was very foolish, you know. I confess in my youth I was possessed of a rather romantic streak - too many novels, I'm afraid. Thought I'd out-grown it, but apparently a bit of that feckless youth remains.”
“Lucky for me,” Sam said. “And the Guv, too, though I doubt you'll get a thank you from him.”
“What's he want? Special commendation from the queen? Knighthood? If she gave those out to every tosser who brained someone in a fight, half of Manchester would be a Sir.”
Sam turned to glare at Gene, who stood in the doorway, both hands braced on the frame.
“I'm not sure about the rest of Manchester, but I'm certain you would be,” Max said sweetly.
“It wasn't a bad shot for a nancy. We were having something of a brown-trouser moment 'til you stepped in,” Gene allowed, which was possibly the most generous thing Sam had ever heard him say. He might have continued, but the nurse came in, one of those old battle-axes whom even Gene couldn't intimidate.
“Come on then, Sammy,” Gene said, collaring Sam and ushering him out. “Let's get you checked out of this shite-hole.”
“You're in an excessively good mood,” Sam said when Gene had finished encouraging the nurse at the front desk to release Sam without waiting for the doctor's orders. “You caught Perry,” he guessed.
“Got him done up like a kipper,” Gene confirmed. “And we found the book Robbie'd nicked on the premises. It was an account book of all the kids Perry'd had in his stable; half of them were under sixteen.”
“But Max didn't recognise it as such?”
“It was in a code. Not a very good one; we'd've cracked it even if we didn't have Perry's man - the one with his brains intact - singing like a canary.” Gene slid behind the wheel and Sam took his customary place in the passenger's seat. “Perry's going away for the rest of his life. Too bad for him his cellmate's going to be a bit old to be of interest to him. I'm sure the reverse won't be true.”
“Yeah, good,” Sam said.
“Good?! It's bloody brilliant.” Gene twisted around to shoot Sam an irritated look for his lack of excitement.
“Could you drop me off at my flat? I think I'm going to take the day off.”
“You don't want to come in and do the interviews yourself? It's your collar, Tyler. I'm man enough to admit it.”
“I've still got a headache and I'm sure you'll do a very thorough job. Really, Guv, I don't feel well,” he added when Gene didn't look convinced.
“All right, but you've got to come out with the boys this evening. We're having a few celebratory pints.”
“And what exactly makes a pint celebratory?”
“The number consumed.”
“Ah.” Sam nodded once. “I'll be there.”
-
They'd already started drinking when Sam arrived - about three rounds in, he guessed. He accepted the pint Chris pressed into his hand, and they all raised their half-empty glasses to him as he took his customary seat.
“To the man of the hour!” Gene said. “To our very own Samantha!”
They all chorused, “To Samantha!” and Sam forced himself to smile and raise his own glass.
“Thanks, boys. And Annie,” he added with a nod to Annie, who gave him a sympathetic look. Sam tried to think of something more to say, maybe something about all their effort and teamwork, but they seemed satisfied with that, so he sat back and let their good cheer wash over him.
Gene held court as they all recounted how the job had gone, Chris and Ray each jumping in with corrections and additions, acting out the bit with the crow-bar. Chris did a passable impression of surprise and stultification in the role of the brained thug.
They were there until the last call and Nelson chucked them all out.
“I'll give you a lift,” Gene offered.
Sam was going to protest that his flat wasn't far, but it was pissing rain and his knee'd begun to hurt again. “All right. Though it'll be a miracle if you make it there without killing a pedestrian.”
“Don't be daft. No pedestrians are out in this weather,” Gene replied cheerfully. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he seemed, because he drove well enough. He even slowed down 'round the corners.
“Hold up,” he said as he squealed to a stop before Sam's building. “I'll see you up to your flat in a moment, just let me finish me fag. You're unsteady as a new lamb. Can't have you going arse over tit down the stairs.” He produced a flask from his pocket and took a swig, juggling it with his cigarette. “And you've been uncommon quiet over your drink.”
“I'm just knackered,” Sam said with a sigh. “And worried about Max.”
“Don't fret; he's out of the woods now.” Gene cleared his throat, the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “That Ellis is an all-right bloke. Brave for a poofter and a good lad to have in a tight spot. Also when you're in a bit of trouble.”
Gene paused as though the next words came against his will. “Just … don't be bringing him 'round the station or going on all love-sick about him. You can bring him to the Christmas party, but no funny business.” Gene pulled a disgusted face. “No holding hands, no copping a feel after you've been at the sloe gin. And if anyone asks, he's an old football mate.” Sam stared, open-mouthed, until Gene said, “Quit looking at me like that.”
Sam got his mouth closed, but forming words seemed to be beyond him. “I don't think anyone would believe Max was a footballer,” he said finally.
“But do you or do you not fancy the pants off him?”
“I … can't believe I'm having this conversation.” Sam watched rivulets of rain make and then change their paths down the windscreen. “Where have you got the cameras hidden? Or is this a bet, instead? Ray put you up to this?”
“It's not a wind-up. You're a good copper, Sam. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but I know a good copper when I see one, and I don't give a toss what he gets up to in his spare time. There's some officers who'd sack a man for going over all Dorothy, but I'm not one of them. Is what I'm trying to say here.” Gene tugged at the neck of his shirt, his face flushed and sweaty.
“My God, next you'll be attending sensitivity training and holding diversity roundtables.”
“Well, sod this for a game of soldiers!” Gene exploded. “I'm sorry I asked.”
Neither of them moved or said anything for a few minutes, but Sam couldn't quite force himself out of the car.
“Look, Max is … an attractive man. A very attractive man-”
“I don't need to hear this,” Gene said so quickly it became one word.
“But like I told you before: he's not my type. I won't be bringing him 'round to the Christmas party or anything like that.”
“Well then,” Gene said, his relief writ large. “That's good then.” He slid out of the car and into the rain and Sam followed suit. He felt strangely self-conscious and strangely conscious of Gene, too, as the big man followed him up the stairs to his bed-sit. Like he had some kind of mental connexion, and he could just sense where Gene was in space from the tingling of his skin.
Sam unlocked his door and let himself in. Gene was still standing in the hall, almost expectantly.
“Do you want … to come in for a drink?” Sam tried.
“Might as well,” Gene said, buoyantly. “One for the road and then I'm off.” He swanned into Sam's flat, as much as a man his size could be said to 'swan'. He made himself at home, at any rate, inspecting the few possessions Sam had collected. “I'd've expected you to do a better job with the decorating.”
Sam ignored that, instead hunting for a couple of cleanish glasses and pouring a small measure of whiskey into the first. He didn't even have to offer Gene the glass; he was already at Sam's elbow and taking it from his hand. Sam rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass. He turned; Gene hadn't moved away, so now they were nearly chest to chest. Sam shivered a little; he could feet the heat radiating off Gene like a sun-warmed statue.
“It's true then,” Gene said, his voice soft and low, with a strange note Sam had never heard before. “You're queer?”
“I told you I don't fancy Max.”
“Not talking about him,” Gene said, leaning in just a bit.
Their faces were very close together. Sam seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. He felt feverish, light-headed, but for once he was certain it wasn't because of the concussion.
Sam licked his lips. “Guv?”
“Yeah, Tyler?”
“If I kissed you right now, you'd have to hit me, right?”
“Of course I would,” Gene replied.
“Right.”
“I'd have no choice but to belt you one.”
“Thought so.”
“Good.”
And then Gene leaned forward and kissed Sam, right on the mouth. Sam had been expecting fireworks and an orchestral swell, but he felt … nothing. Gene's lips were on his, thin and a bit dry. And he really needed to shave. Sam was disappointed; he'd just jeopardised his job and for this?
But then Gene took Sam's face in his hands, changing the angle, and he licked his way into Sam's mouth and - oh. Oh.
Oh God.
Gene had Sam backed up against the counter of his little kitchen, pressed all down the length of him. Sam brought his hands up to Gene's chest, fighting for a little space, but Gene was having none of it.
“Guv. Gene,” Sam said when he got the chance, and Gene grunted his approval. “Wait.”
“You better have a damned good reason,” Gene growled, and the pit of Sam's stomach did a weird fluttery thing.
“You're drunk.”
“And it's Tuesday.” Gene leaned in for another kiss and Sam's next protest had to wait until he broke it.
“You've got to stop,” Sam said and he tried to say it with authority, but his traitorous hands were smoothing Gene's shirt over his chest and shoulders.
“I've yet to hear a compelling reason why.”
“You're straight.”
Gene made a little mmming noise, but Sam could tell his attention was elsewhere, his eyes on Sam's mouth and his pupils dilated. “So?”
Sam thought about all the things he should be saying. Like how he didn't want Gene to regret this in the morning. Like how he didn't want to regret this in the morning. Perhaps something about self-hating closet cases and the fact that he didn't want to end up loving another one. Or pointing out that fucking the boss was always a bad idea.
But then Gene ran a hand down Sam's back and he noticed Gene's heart hammering under his palm and Gene's erection pressing into his stomach and he found himself saying, “Fair enough,” instead.
-
It was good, better than it had any right to be considering Gene had very little idea what he was doing and didn't take direction particularly well.
“S'not like I got up to this with the Missus,” he grumbled after Sam offered some feedback. “Once children weren't in the offing, we didn't get up to much of anything.”
“Mmm, yes, there, you've got it,” Sam said, distracted. “And please don't talk about your ex in bed.”
They took it slow, owing to Gene's inexperience, Sam's injuries, and the springs in Sam's narrow bed, which had the tendency to shriek when bounced upon. But all in all, it was nice - excellent, even.
Afterward, Gene rose and dressed without turning on the light.
“You could stay, if you liked,” Sam said, and thought he hit that casual, it's no trouble to me either way tone well enough.
“That's not a bed, it's an implement of torture. And it's too small, besides,” Gene said. “I'll see you at work, then?” Sam nodded, busy arranging his pillow. “Good.”
And he was gone.
Sam slept better than he had any right to, sleeping right through his alarm and almost making him late for work. It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth with one hand and shrugging into his coat with the other that the full import of what he'd done hit him. He'd slept with Gene Hunt, notorious homophobe and his superior. Never mind jumping off buildings - that was suicide.
He thought about calling in and saying he still wasn't up to coming in, but that felt like an admission of defeat. So he girded his loins and went in.
The building was overrun with adolescents, lounging on the spare furniture, set up on camp-beds in the hallway.
“You got a light?” one asked Sam as he entered. The boy couldn't have been past fourteen.
“You're too young to be smoking,” Sam said, his brow furrowing, pushing past the boy and trying to make it to his desk. “Go and drink some milk or something.”
“Yeah, fuck you very much,” the boy shouted at him.
A very frazzled-looking Phyllis intercepted him. “I've put them up where I can. Most of them are in the cells but the rest are out here.”
“These are Perry's boys?” he asked.
“The ones we could find; the rest are holed up somewhere. Chris and Ray are out looking for 'em. Annie and I've got our hands full here. This lot kept trying to escape 'til we fed 'em. Now I'm afraid we won't get rid of them. It's cost most of this month's budget just to feed 'em. I've been running about like a blue-arsed fly since they got here.”
“Oi, granny, you got any of them juices left?” a tall lad with hair dyed an aggressive blue-black asked.
“Look for yourself, Andrew,” she snapped. “And I'm not your gran.”
“Thank God,” the youth muttered and slunk off.
“I'm at me wits' end,” she said to Sam. “The Guv won't hand 'em over to protective services 'til he's got 'em all interviewed.”
“Well, you're doing an admirable job,” Sam offered. “We'll get them cleared through as soon as possible. Just a little bit longer. Please. Thank you.” He patted her awkwardly and beat a path to his desk. Annie was breaking up a fight, trying to physically separate the two combatants, who paid her no mind, gamely swinging around her as she tried to squeeze between them.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam said, grabbing the first by the collar and hauling him away. “No fighting! Or I'll beat you to a blood pulp, so help me God.”
“Police brutality!” the brat shouted. “You coppers are all alike.”
“You better believe it,” Sam said, cuffing him lightly.
“Oh, Sam,” Annie breathed in relief. “Take that one back, it's his turn for an interview anyway. And you,” she took a firm grip on the other boy's ear, “you're comin' with me.”
Sam marched his own prisoner back to the interrogation/storage room.
“And stay out of trouble - the next time I see you I won't be in such a good mood!” The door flew open and another teenager, this one blond, stumbled out of it as Gene gave him a final shove.
“Here's the next one, Guv,” Sam said, propelling his ward into the room. The kid, faced with Gene Hunt in all his glory, suddenly put on the brakes and Sam nearly carried him into the room and set him down in the chair.
“Now then,” Gene said, brushing his hands off and turning to the kid. “Let's get started.”
The tape recorder was on the table, though Sam guessed Gene hadn't been using it. He pushed Play and said, “Twenty-eighth of April, 1974. 9:15 am. Present in the room are DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler.”
“What's your name, lad?” Gene said and took the chair next to Sam.
“Go on,” Sam said, keeping his tone gentle. “You're not in trouble.”
“Larry Kinney, Sir.” Larry’s entire face seemed to be eyes, with a small nose and no chin to speak of.
“When were you born, Larry?”
“Third of June, 1959,” Larry said, keeping his eyes on Sam, but stealing an occasional nervous look at Gene. Jesus, he was young.
“And did you work for Mr Perry?”
The boy bit his lip and shifted in his seat.
“He can’t hurt you, lad, not any more,” it was Gene who spoke up, surprising Sam. “He's going away for a very long time. We'll protect you.”
“Yah, I worked for him.” Larry worried at a hangnail on his thumb; his fingernails were all bitten to the quick.
“Did you know Robert Carter?”
Larry nodded. “He'd look out for me sometimes, when the other boys started fights. He hated Mr Perry, said he wasn't nice. That the coppers would finally take 'im away. I didn't believe him, but he promised.”
“How did he know that Mr Perry would be arrested?” Sam asked, exchanging a quick look with Gene.
“Dunno. But he seemed sure. He said he'd be leaving for good; he weren't going to work for Mr Perry, but he was going to make sure Mr Perry weren't going to hurt kids anymore.”
“The book,” Sam said to Gene, who nodded.
“He knew it'd be enough to send Perry away,” Gene said and gave a low whistle. “Smart lad. Brave lad.”
“Larry, what kind of work did you do for Mr Perry?” Sam asked, trying not to let his own anxiety show.
Larry shrugged and tore at the hangnail, which began to bleed. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. “All kinds of things, running goods and such.”
“He had you deliver drugs?” Sam asked, and Larry nodded.
“Sometimes it were drugs, sometimes money. Sometimes it were just notes and things.”
“What else did he have you do?” Sam asked as gently as he could.
Larry shrugged, refusing to look up from his hands.
“You can tell us,” Sam said. “You don't have anything to be ashamed of.”
“Who're you going to tell?” Larry asked in a very small voice. “It'd kill me ma.”
“We're not going to tell anyone,” Gene said.
“Not your name,” Sam added quickly. “We'll use your testimony to make sure he stays in gaol, but no one needs to know it was you.”
“He'd pay me to be nice to his clients.” Larry's voice cracked and he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“How nice?” Gene pressed.
Sam nudged his ankle under the table and mouthed, “Gently.”
“Did they touch you?” Sam asked instead, and Larry nodded, head hanging so low his chin was nearly to his chest. “Larry, it's not your fault. Do you want to wait a little bit before we continue?” Larry nodded again.
Sam glanced at Gene, ready to argue if need be, but Gene nodded.
“Buzz along. Go and see if WPC Dobbs has got any chocolate for you,” Gene said and made a shooing gesture. “And have her send the next one in.” The boy stood and ran, the door slamming behind him.
“They've all been like that,” Gene said.
“God.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't suppose we could get some kind of child psychologist or counsellor in here. I'm not equipped to handle this kind of trauma.” He looked over at Gene, who wearing his I-think-you've-probably-gone-'round-the-bend expression. “No, of course not. What are the odds we're going to traumatise them further anyway?”
“Don't go to pieces on me now, Sammy,” Gene said.
“I'm not,” Sam said. “I'm fine. Peachy keen. Who wouldn't be?”
“Good, because I need you on this case. Ray and Chris're useless with poofter stuff.” Gene pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one before holding it out to Sam, who took it. He didn't smoke, usually, but if a situation ever called for one it was this one. “You're the only one with insight into all … this.”
Sam didn't know what to do with that, so he said, “The irony is that most of these kids aren't even gay, just desperate.”
“Desperate, eh? And I suppose you-” Gene started, his tone queer, but before he could elaborate, their next witness entered: a fourteen-year-old with a bad haircut and a heroin addiction.
-
The rest of the morning was spent in similarly depressing interviews. Boys who'd been beaten down, abused physically, sexually, and emotionally until all that was left were their empty eyes and their anger.
After noon, the people from social services arrived and as the only member of the team with tact - excepting Annie, and she was busy with the boys - Sam was left to negotiate. Some of the boys had loving families they could be returned to, but they were few and far between; most of them had families that they had been desperate to leave or who refused to take them back. Quite a few had no families at all.
“Look, you can't just ship them all off to the next-of-kin sight unseen,” he explained, for the third time. The woman tugged on the cuffs of her dark blue suit, unimpressed.
“We have limited resources and must allocate those resources to the children with greatest need. Those who have families who are able to take them will be returned to them. I understand that you don't think this situation is ideal, and I respect your opinion given your long years of service and extensive knowledge of child safety procedure,” the irony was dripping here, “but I'm afraid that's how it is, DI Tyler.”
“Oh, get stuffed,” Sam said, his patience long since shot. He left her to herd a few more of the boys out and into the van she'd brought with her. A few of the boys were going to remain housed at CID overnight. The cells didn't make the most comfortable accommodations, but Sam was sure they'd slept in worse.
He turned and caught Annie sneaking a flask out of her desk drawer. She started guiltily when she realised he was watching her.
“Sorry, Boss. Long day,” she explained and took a swig anyway.
“Go on, get out of here. It's late,” he said and she grinned ruefully. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it really was late, and as if that wasn’t enough to remind him, his stomach growled.
“I'll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, gathering up her coat. “You won't stay much longer?”
“No,” he said. The light in Gene's office was still on. “I've just got a bit more to finish up.”
He knocked on the Guv's door when she'd gone. For the first time in days CID was quiet and empty. He didn't wait for an answer, but let himself in. Gene sat at his desk, tie loosened and collar undone, a bottle and glass out and on his desk.
“Don't you knock?”
“I did knock.” Sam shut the door behind him and leant against it.
“Don't you wait for an answer?”
“Only at my mum's house. Learned that one the hard way.” Normally that would have earned him a smile, but Gene hadn't even registered the comment, instead going back to staring into the middle distance with a slightly glassy expression. “Guv?”
“Sit down, Tyler.” He poured a finger of whiskey into the glass and pushed it over to Sam, then took a swig straight from the bottle.
“Don't go to pieces on me, Guv,” Sam said.
“All these lads - good lads, mostly - Robbie Carter died trying to save them. And he had to because some cunt-faced bastard thought no one would give a shit if they lived or died. They could just disappear through the cracks and no one would notice. And he was right. Right here,” Gene tapped his desk with an index finger, “In my city. On my watch.”
“But you did notice.”
“You noticed.”
“We noticed. And we got Perry.”
Gene shook his head, dismissing the victory. “Doesn't help all the others.”
“Gene,” Sam said, and he looked up. “You can't save everyone. No matter how hard you try, you won't ever be perfect. There will be people you can't save. Robbie. Your brother.”
Gene swallowed thickly, his eyes shining. “Don't go bringing my brother into this. You never know when to leave well enough alone, Tyler.”
“I'm just going to say this once, since I know you don't have any emotions and wouldn't want to talk about them if you did, but, Guv: it's not your fault. And if it weren't for you Larry and all those boys out there would still be working for that bastard. Manchester is a little safer because you're on watch. So you can sit there and drink and feel sorry for yourself, or …”
“Or what?” Gene prompted, eyes narrowed.
“Or we could go and get a bite and watch a programme on the telly. Or not watch a programme on the telly.”
Gene pursed his lips as he considered, finally saying, “If those are my options, then I suppose I'll be along directly.”
Sam nodded once, not quite smiling. “I'll be waiting.”
“This it?” Gene said, double-checking with Max. He peered around the corner; the police van and the back-up team were hidden away in a side alley, close by but out of sight. “Doesn't seem poofy enough.”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Max said. They'd allowed him to go home to change and he was freshly showered and shaved, his black trousers and white shirt positively subdued next to Sam's get-up. “I'm sorry if it doesn't live up to your expectations.”
“Piss off,” Gene said, genially enough. “Got your radio?”
“Yes,” Sam said. It was hidden - if you could use the word - in his jacket pocket, heavy and pulling it down on one side. Gene had suggested he stash it down the front of his trousers.
“You give the word, we come in, guns blazing, and start arresting every brown-hatter we lay our hands on.” Gene thumped Sam on the back. “All you need is to get Perry to make you an offer. Or just talk to him and you say he made you an offer later.”
“Right,” Sam said and tried to swallow to wet his throat. “Are you ready?”
Max shrugged. “As much as I'll ever be ready, I suppose.”
And with that, Operation Flaming Copper commenced. It was a relief to follow Max's lead as they approached the club. This assignment had Sam far more unsettled than he'd ever admit, and Max seemed comfortingly sure of himself as he nodded to the bouncer and whisked them both inside. Whether it was because he didn't fully understand the risk he was taking or because he was much braver than Sam had given him credit for, Sam didn't know.
They were immediately confronted with a narrow, twisting staircase that led them abruptly downwards. How could drunks navigate it, Sam wondered; he had to cling to the railing. He'd returned the cane to Gene; his knee still twinged, but it was the size it was supposed to be and a cane would be more trouble than it was worth on a dance floor.
Flyers and posters papered the walls, advertising bands and concerts. Sam could feel the music more than hear it, a bone-rattling bass line he felt under his sternum.
They emerged onto a packed dance floor, so dark that Sam could only get the impression of writhing bodies, flashes coming to him with the strobe lights. He was held transfixed until Max's light touch on his elbow guided him through the crowd. They found one of the few tables pressed against the windowless walls. Sam was already sweating; so many bodies so close together made the heat oppressive.
“Do you see him?” Sam asked.
“What?!” Max shouted back over the music.
“Do! You! See! Him?!” Sam tried again.
Max glanced around the room and shrugged. “Not yet,” he mouthed. He stood and motioned for Sam to stay where he was before slipping back through the crowd. Sam watched the dancers, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to stop himself. Men danced with men, not the hokey dance steps so popular with this decade - no Hustle, no Night Fever, no Bus Stop - but two people completely focused on each other, hips spooned together, pulling each other close, moving in time to the music. When Max returned a few minutes later with drinks, Sam was feeling thirsty indeed. Whatever Max had ordered, it was slightly sweet and extremely alcoholic, which Sam noticed only after he'd downed half his glass and his head spun slightly.
Max took his drink from his hand and set it on the table, so he could pull Sam to his feet and onto the dance floor. Sam didn't resist until Max stopped and turned to him, a hand going to his waist, and Sam realised they were really going to dance, not survey the room or something.
Sam jerked away, but Max was insistent. “Come on, Sam. It's just a dance - your cover!”
Sam wasn't convinced, but it would be a struggle to get back to the table through the crowd. Besides, he had a better vantage point here. He'd left his coat back at the table, he realised as Max's hand found the small of his back, an extra point of heat.
“Like dancing with a haddock,” Max said, leaning in close to shout it in Sam's ear. “Surely you could at least try to look like you're enjoying it.”
That goaded Sam into swaying a bit, half pushed by Max's hands on his waist. He didn't have anything to do with his hands, and he tried resting them on Max's shoulders. That was an improvement. Max's body seemed to mould to his, and Sam let himself relax into it, his knee slipping between Max's as they moved together. He felt rather than heard Max laugh and grin against his ear.
“You're still looking out for Perry?” Sam reminded him, a prickling of guilt, and something else entirely, settling in his stomach.
“He should arrive any minute,” Max said and ran a hand over the curve of Sam's arse.
Someone grabbed Sam's shoulder and pulled hard enough to spin him around. He found himself staring up at Gene fucking Hunt, large as life and angry as hell. Sam staggered and backed into another dancer before he recovered.
“What-” Max began, but Gene cut him off.
“Fuck off,” Gene snapped. “I'm cutting in, sweetheart.” Max exchanged a quick look with Sam, who could manage no reply beyond a dumb look, and then Sam was too busy being seized and forced backwards.
“Ow, my toe!” Sam said.
“Shut up and take it,” Gene said. He settled one hand on Sam's waist and took the other in his own, as though they were going to start waltzing. Being led by Gene was a lot like being beaten by him, all shoving and body-slamming.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sam said, trying to pull his hand free, but Gene had a good hold on him and even if Sam would have been able to get free, it would have taken more of a struggle than he cared to engage in whilst attempting to remain inconspicuous.
“I'm cutting a rug, what does it look like?” Gene said and then leaned in very close so he could say directly into Sam's ear, “I'm pulling you out of this assignment.”
“What?”
“Someone just called in a tip about Perry. I'm not risking more on this cunty bastard than I have to.”
“And that doesn't strike you as suspicious?” They'd stopped swaying and were getting in the way of the other dancers. Sam brought his hand up to Gene's shoulder to try to get him moving again, knowing that if anyone were watching this little exchange it would look highly suspect. “That won't be enough to get a warrant.”
“So we don't get one. Won't be the first time I got what I needed without a bloody piece of paper giving me the say-so!”
“No!” Sam cried, confident the music would cover his words. “Things are changing, Gene. I am not going to watch him walk on a technicality. Besides, I'm already here. I do so hate getting dressed up for nothing.”
Gene twisted Sam's hand up behind his back, sending a sharp pain through his shoulder and still-healing ribs. The move also brought them into even closer physical proximity, his chest pressed to Sam's, his hips checking Sam's as Sam came up onto his toes to relieve the pressure. “Listen here, you little twat, I don't care how much time it took to put your face on or how much you like letting fairies feel you up. When I say get out, you get.”
About mid-way through this speech, Sam had got distracted by a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. He looked past Gene, searching through the crowd, and found a youth watching him. Not with idle or even speculative curiosity, but with cold interest.
“We're being watched - no, don't look!” Sam caught Gene's face with his hand to keep him from craning around and then - the gesture triggering some reflex, completely bypassing the part of his brain that sorted the good ideas from the bad and the bad from the suicidal - he kissed Gene Hunt right on the mouth. “Don't hit me,” he said as he broke the kiss. “I was maintaining our cover.”
The kiss had caught Gene badly off guard, enough so that Sam could free his arm and bring it up and around Gene's neck, his fingers catching in his hair and then tightening sharply.
“I'm not going to let your homophobia or self-loathing or whatever the hell this is stop me from bringing Perry in. So either help, or you get out,” Sam whispered, his lips against Gene's ear, with a vicious tug on his hair.
Gene's reply was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. They stepped apart to find Max. Sam wanted to apologise for leaving him alone, for his unprofessionalism, for just about everything, but Max's expression was all business.
“There,” he said, and nodded to indicate the man on the far side of the room. “That's Oliver Perry.”
Oliver Perry was a slight, unassuming man in a black trench coat. The two men flanking him were considerably more imposing, and from the way they watched the room and the deference they showed Perry, Sam guessed they were bodyguards. The men made their way around the edge of the room, heading for another door on the opposite side.
“Now or never,” Sam said. He didn't wait to see what Gene would do, but started fighting his way through the crowd on a path to intercept Perry. Gene caught up to him just before he caught up to Perry, slinging an arm around Sam's neck. Sam thought Gene meant to stop him, but he kept them moving forward, pulling Sam in close.
“Mr Perry!” Gene called out, the drunken slur to his voice sounding genuine. The bodyguards' hands slipped into their jackets, but a motion from Perry stopped them. He smiled at Gene, his eyes cold and appraising.
“I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr …?” he said, not seeming to raise his voice, though Sam had no trouble hearing him over the music.
“Mr Eastwood, let's call me,” Gene said and winked. “This is my very good friend, Gladys.” He indicated Sam with a squeeze. “And you see, the thing is, Mr Perry, rumour has it that you are the bloke to talk to if one is looking for a little company. And I am in the market for a little company.”
“Gladys looks like very good company to me,” Perry observed mildly.
“He can be, but he prefers to watch.” Gene's leer was practised, and Sam had to force himself not to react as Gene slid a possessive hand down his side to land on his hip. “A little companionship is worth gold and silver, if you'd like to suggest a price.” Gene fumbled for his wallet.
“Why don't we step into my office to discuss business?” Perry suggested with another joyless smile.
Sam began to have second thoughts when the bodyguards took up positions behind them as Perry led the way through the back door, and escape became distinctly more difficult. They found themselves facing another staircase, this one wider and well lit. They walked up several floors, the music growing faint, though Sam could still feel it through the soles of his feet.
They emerged into a hallway and Perry said, “Right through here, gentlemen,” as he opened the door and indicated they should enter first. In retrospect, that was the only warning they got, but Sam didn't get a chance to identify the thrill of fear that ran through him.
The room wasn't an office, but some kind of large supply cupboard, with shelves of paper towels and bottles of toilet cleaner. Sam turned in confusion and registered the butt of a pistol being swung at his head just before blackness fell.
-
Sam woke slowly, the various pains in his body registering themselves one by one according to severity. His headache was the worst, a vision-blurring throb, his ribs were aching again, and his bad knee screamed at him, gone cramped and bloodless from holding the same position for a prolonged period.
“So you're not a vegetable then.”
“Six,” Sam said, his tongue thick and dry. He managed to open first one eye and then the other and Gene swam into view, blood trickled from a cut along his hairline.
“Perhaps I spoke too soon.” They were in the storage cupboard, their hands tied and their ankles bound. Gene was slouched against the back wall.
“I have a concussion. And if my accounting is correct, that makes six concussions in the past two and a half years.” Sam rolled to a seated position, pins and needles running through his limbs. He worked his way over to Gene, panting by the time he got there.
“What are the odds your accounting's correct if you've had six concussions?” Gene asked philosophically.
“They've done studies, you know. On rugby players who've had numerous concussions. Or maybe it was American football players. That's not the point. The point,” he screwed up his eyes in the effort of remembering his point, “is. The point is that it's not good. I may have permanent damage.”
“You'll definitely have permanent damage by the time I'm done with you,” Gene promised. “Pray Perry's goons finish you off before I lay my hands on you, Sam Tyler. Let that be a lesson to me: whatever Sam Tyler says, do the opposite.”
Sam started to argue, considered their predicament, and shut up. “Oh!” he said suddenly, a flash of insight making it through the fog of his headache. “The boy who was watching us - I recognised him from interviewing the prostitutes, but I only just now put it together. That's how Perry knew we were coppers.”
“I don't give a toss why they knew we were coppers. One would only have to glance at me to realise I'm not bent. The whole thing was a setup from start to finish. The question is: why didn't they kill us?”
“I don't know,” Sam said. “My knee hurts.” He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't leave any part of his body pinched and aching.
“Shut up about your sodding knee. It's the least of your problems. Chances are they're just waiting to move us and kill us somewhere more convenient. We'll be floating face-down in the canal tomorrow morning.”
Sam wormed his way a bit closer, and let his head rest on Gene's shoulder. He expected to be shaken off, but Gene was still. Sam closed his eyes.
“Don't go to sleep. You've a concussion.”
“Doesn't matter,” Sam murmured. Gene smelled like sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and Hai Karate. It was not altogether unpleasant.
“It matters to me. You do not get to take the easy way out of this, Tyler.” Gene slapped him lightly on the cheek, his bound hands making the gesture clumsy and mostly ineffective.
“I'm sorry, Guv,” Sam said, and he could hear the thickness in his voice. He was so very tired; even the pain didn't seem so bad right now. His hands and feet had grown cold with the lack of circulation and the rest of him seemed to be following. He shivered a little; Gene was warm under his cheek and that was nice. He really hoped that he died of a brain haemorrhage before they could take him out back and shoot him. As exits went, this really wasn't so bad.
“Don't you apologise to me, you divvy little bastard. Now, open your eyes! That's an order!” The face-patting became more insistent, and Sam was vaguely aware of being shaken.
“Come on, Sam. Come on, Sammy-boy.”
It was a great bother, but he managed to open his eyes. Gene had Sam's face in his hands, his grip uncomfortably tight. Sam grunted a protest and tried to pull away but Gene wouldn't let him go. “There we are.” Gene actually sounded relieved. “Sams, Sammers, Sammy-boy.”
“Please,” Sam said, carefully enunciating. “Stop saying my name.”
“Always full of opinions, that's you.” Gene finally released him. “Now, think of an escape plan.”
“All right,” Sam said. “You distract him, then I'll tackle him.”
“Right. Never mind. You shut up; I'll think of a plan.”
They both sat up straighter as they heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. Perry's goons entered; one already had his gun drawn. Perry followed them, standing in the doorway.
“Welcome to the party, boys,” Gene said heartily. “Into bondage are you?” He indicated his bound hands. “I'm not into the kinky stuff meself.”
“Oh, I doubt that. The coppers always have the most outlandish tastes. More than one sees those tastes indulged here. Bad customers, though. Always expect to get theirs for free.” Perry tsked.
One of his henchmen cut the rope at Sam's ankles and pulled him to his feet. Sam wobbled a bit; he was dizzy and his feet burned as the blood returned. He leaned against the shelves, upsetting a bottle of soap. Gene's bonds were cut as well; he seemed considerably more sure on his feet.
“Get on,” the bigger goon said, jabbing Gene with the muzzle of his gun. He waved Sam on, too, and Sam, seeing no other option, obeyed. They were herded out into the hallway and taken in the opposite direction from where they'd come in.
“You do know who I am,” Gene said, supremely confident.
“DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler,” Perry replied. “Of the CID.”
“So you know that you'll be put away for the rest of your sorry life with some of the most vicious rapists and murders if you're so fucking daft as to kill us.”
“No, I don't think so,” Perry said, unruffled. Then, to his henchmen, “Take them out back.”
The first henchman nodded and took Gene's elbow, the gun in the small of his back. The second goon gave Sam the same treatment, jarring his sore shoulder. They'd almost reached the end of the long hallway when a crashing reverberated down it. Sam twisted around to see the door at the other end swinging open, having bounced off the wall.
Annie, followed quickly by Chris and Ray, spilled into the hallway. They backed up quickly as the goons started firing, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Sam was hustled along down yet another staircase and out into the back alley.
“Hold them,” Perry said and then took off running, leaving the bodyguards, Sam, and Gene staring after him.
“What a rat,” Gene said.
The bodyguards exchanged a look with each other, and the one holding Sam levelled the gun at his head.
The exit swung open.
“You're surrounded by-” Ray's voice called out, only to be silenced as the heavy door swung back closed again.
The bodyguard who'd been about to execute him grabbed Sam instead, pulling him into a headlock, the gun pressed to his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Gene getting the same treatment.
“By armed bastards!” Ray finished, this time propping the door open a few inches, enough to wave his own gun about a bit. The guard holding Gene took a shot at the door. The bullet threw off sparks as it hit the heavy steel.
“Traditionally in a hostage situation,” Sam said, a note of hysteria in his voice, “you would start making demands right about now.”
“Shut up,” the guard replied, then shouted back to Ray, “If you so much as set one foot out that door, I'll blow 'is brains out.”
“Come on, let's get out of 'ere,” the other goon said, and they hauled Sam and Gene down the alley. Sam's bad knee gave out and he stumbled and went to one knee. “Get up.” Sam didn't need to be told, but his limbs were being difficult. “I said, 'Get up'!”
“He's got a bum knee,” Sam heard Gene say. “And you've rather recently scrambled his brains. Come on, Sammy, get up.”
Sam heaved, and with the help of the thug's grip on his shirt, he made it up to his feet. Dirty water had soaked the leg of his trousers, the fabric clinging to his skin.
As they reached the end of the alley, the door swung open again and Sam didn't have to look to know Ray and the others were following.
One of the goons - Sam wasn't sure which - fired a couple of hap-hazard shots over his shoulder. They rounded the corner; Sam was pushed around it first, closely followed by his guard. As he came round the brick of the building, he saw Max and then time slowed to a crawl. Hypersensitivity kicked his senses up, and in less than a heartbeat he became aware of rubbish lining the gutter, the sound of Gene's heavy breathing behind him, the smell of urine and damp pavement, the rust on the crowbar Max had hoisted over his head. That last detail came to the forefront in the order of importance.
Max side-stepped Sam, swinging the crowbar around to connect with the first goon's temple. The thug holding Gene brought his gun to bear on Max, getting off several shots before Gene slammed him into the wall.
Annie and Ray ran into view, quickly disarming and cuffing both thugs, though the one Max had struck was completely inert and the handcuffs were probably superfluous. Annie had a knife out and was cutting Sam's bonds, asking him if he was all right. He nodded numbly and brushed her off, turning to look for Max.
Sam's breath caught as he found him, slumped against the wall, his white shirtfront red with blood. Chris was already leaning over Max, hands on his hips, looking a bit dismayed.
“Max!” Sam cried, pulling away from Annie and shoving Chris aside. “Call an ambulance. Now!” Max's skin had gone white, and he was cool and clammy. Sam pressed his hand to the wound, a well of blood spilling from Max's shoulder. Sam cradled Max's head in the crook of his elbow to keep it from the dirty pavement. Max's eyes fluttered but didn't open. “Hey, hey, Max, stay with me.” He looked up. Gene and the others were standing around, watching Sam uncomfortably. “Do something!”
“There's nothing we can do, Sam,” Gene replied. “The ambulance will be here in a mo'. You just sit tight.”
The waiting passed in a blur, Sam aware of nothing but Max's shallow breaths and how weak his pulse was. It might have taken twenty minutes or two hours. They let Sam ride in the ambulance when it finally arrived. Max was rushed to surgery as soon as they reached the hospital. Sam too received medical attention, the doctor insisting he follow his finger with his eyes, and read from a chart and walk in a straight line.
“I'm keeping you overnight for observation,” the doctor said and took a drag of his cigarette. “That was a nasty knock on the head and they can be quite tricky.”
“Max Ellis, he's another patient here; how is he?”
The doctor shrugged and left him to the nurses, who showed Sam to a room and gave him a gown and a tray of … food. Sam couldn't be more specific. There was a grey mush and a smaller portion of green mush, possibly peas. He ate neither, but did change into the gown. Anything was better than that purple shirt, stained maroon with Max's blood.
Sam didn't think he’d be able to sleep, but he must have drifted off because the nurse woke him up twice during the night to give him medication and make him tell her where he was and who the prime minister was.
The next time he woke, it was morning or close enough. Dirty, grey light was just beginning to seep through the dirty, grey window. He got himself to the toilet, refusing to use the bedpan no matter how convenient it was. He washed his face in the sink, and his own reflection gave him a bad start. The face that stared back at him was haggard, in need of a shave, with dark circles and ashen skin. He ran his fingers through his hair and found a goose egg on the back of his head. He probed it with a wince and tried not to think about what kind of damage it might have done to his mental faculties.
There was no nurse at the desk when he got dressed and limped out, but the chart had been left out. He checked it without even a pang of guilt. That was Gene Hunt's influence and no mistake. Ellis, Maxwell was out of surgery and in Room 203. He paused at the bottom of the stairs up to the second floor, then took a firm grip on the bannister and started up.
Max was hooked up to a respirator and I.V., his shoulder heavily bandaged, but alive. And to Sam's eye, he looked better than Sam himself did. But then, Sam had seen corpses who'd looked better than he did at the moment.
“Hello, Max,” Sam said softly. He pulled up a chair and collapsed into it. Feeling a bit foolish, he took Max's hand. “I don't know if you can hear me - if you're here or in 1943 or something - but I wanted to thank you for saving my life. And the Guv's life, too.” Max's hand was warm, the pulse strong. “He's not so bad, really. Rough around the edges. And the middle. And, all right, he’s rough all the way through. And shockingly prejudiced and uncouth.” Sam sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. “But he's a good cop, really. A good man deep down. He's a good … friend.”
Sam put his feet up on a second chair. It had been six months since he'd come to the '70's permanently and he'd long since given up wondering why he was here or what his purpose was. He was here because he wanted to be.
Max stirred, and Sam sat up straighter, anxious. Max's eyes slowly opened and he gave a little sigh, looking up at Sam.
“Hi,” Sam said.
“Why on Earth would I be in 1943?” Max asked, blinking slowly.
“It was just - never mind. I'll go and get the nurse-”
“Wait,” Max said, his grip on Sam's hand tightening. “She'll want to change my bandage and I'm not up to that just yet.” He smiled weakly. “You understand.”
Sam hesitated, then said, “At least let me get you some water.” He poured a cup from the pitcher on the bed-stand and helped Max take a long drink.
“That was very brave, you know.”
Max's smile was wry and self-deprecating. “That was very foolish, you know. I confess in my youth I was possessed of a rather romantic streak - too many novels, I'm afraid. Thought I'd out-grown it, but apparently a bit of that feckless youth remains.”
“Lucky for me,” Sam said. “And the Guv, too, though I doubt you'll get a thank you from him.”
“What's he want? Special commendation from the queen? Knighthood? If she gave those out to every tosser who brained someone in a fight, half of Manchester would be a Sir.”
Sam turned to glare at Gene, who stood in the doorway, both hands braced on the frame.
“I'm not sure about the rest of Manchester, but I'm certain you would be,” Max said sweetly.
“It wasn't a bad shot for a nancy. We were having something of a brown-trouser moment 'til you stepped in,” Gene allowed, which was possibly the most generous thing Sam had ever heard him say. He might have continued, but the nurse came in, one of those old battle-axes whom even Gene couldn't intimidate.
“Come on then, Sammy,” Gene said, collaring Sam and ushering him out. “Let's get you checked out of this shite-hole.”
“You're in an excessively good mood,” Sam said when Gene had finished encouraging the nurse at the front desk to release Sam without waiting for the doctor's orders. “You caught Perry,” he guessed.
“Got him done up like a kipper,” Gene confirmed. “And we found the book Robbie'd nicked on the premises. It was an account book of all the kids Perry'd had in his stable; half of them were under sixteen.”
“But Max didn't recognise it as such?”
“It was in a code. Not a very good one; we'd've cracked it even if we didn't have Perry's man - the one with his brains intact - singing like a canary.” Gene slid behind the wheel and Sam took his customary place in the passenger's seat. “Perry's going away for the rest of his life. Too bad for him his cellmate's going to be a bit old to be of interest to him. I'm sure the reverse won't be true.”
“Yeah, good,” Sam said.
“Good?! It's bloody brilliant.” Gene twisted around to shoot Sam an irritated look for his lack of excitement.
“Could you drop me off at my flat? I think I'm going to take the day off.”
“You don't want to come in and do the interviews yourself? It's your collar, Tyler. I'm man enough to admit it.”
“I've still got a headache and I'm sure you'll do a very thorough job. Really, Guv, I don't feel well,” he added when Gene didn't look convinced.
“All right, but you've got to come out with the boys this evening. We're having a few celebratory pints.”
“And what exactly makes a pint celebratory?”
“The number consumed.”
“Ah.” Sam nodded once. “I'll be there.”
-
They'd already started drinking when Sam arrived - about three rounds in, he guessed. He accepted the pint Chris pressed into his hand, and they all raised their half-empty glasses to him as he took his customary seat.
“To the man of the hour!” Gene said. “To our very own Samantha!”
They all chorused, “To Samantha!” and Sam forced himself to smile and raise his own glass.
“Thanks, boys. And Annie,” he added with a nod to Annie, who gave him a sympathetic look. Sam tried to think of something more to say, maybe something about all their effort and teamwork, but they seemed satisfied with that, so he sat back and let their good cheer wash over him.
Gene held court as they all recounted how the job had gone, Chris and Ray each jumping in with corrections and additions, acting out the bit with the crow-bar. Chris did a passable impression of surprise and stultification in the role of the brained thug.
They were there until the last call and Nelson chucked them all out.
“I'll give you a lift,” Gene offered.
Sam was going to protest that his flat wasn't far, but it was pissing rain and his knee'd begun to hurt again. “All right. Though it'll be a miracle if you make it there without killing a pedestrian.”
“Don't be daft. No pedestrians are out in this weather,” Gene replied cheerfully. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as he seemed, because he drove well enough. He even slowed down 'round the corners.
“Hold up,” he said as he squealed to a stop before Sam's building. “I'll see you up to your flat in a moment, just let me finish me fag. You're unsteady as a new lamb. Can't have you going arse over tit down the stairs.” He produced a flask from his pocket and took a swig, juggling it with his cigarette. “And you've been uncommon quiet over your drink.”
“I'm just knackered,” Sam said with a sigh. “And worried about Max.”
“Don't fret; he's out of the woods now.” Gene cleared his throat, the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “That Ellis is an all-right bloke. Brave for a poofter and a good lad to have in a tight spot. Also when you're in a bit of trouble.”
Gene paused as though the next words came against his will. “Just … don't be bringing him 'round the station or going on all love-sick about him. You can bring him to the Christmas party, but no funny business.” Gene pulled a disgusted face. “No holding hands, no copping a feel after you've been at the sloe gin. And if anyone asks, he's an old football mate.” Sam stared, open-mouthed, until Gene said, “Quit looking at me like that.”
Sam got his mouth closed, but forming words seemed to be beyond him. “I don't think anyone would believe Max was a footballer,” he said finally.
“But do you or do you not fancy the pants off him?”
“I … can't believe I'm having this conversation.” Sam watched rivulets of rain make and then change their paths down the windscreen. “Where have you got the cameras hidden? Or is this a bet, instead? Ray put you up to this?”
“It's not a wind-up. You're a good copper, Sam. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but I know a good copper when I see one, and I don't give a toss what he gets up to in his spare time. There's some officers who'd sack a man for going over all Dorothy, but I'm not one of them. Is what I'm trying to say here.” Gene tugged at the neck of his shirt, his face flushed and sweaty.
“My God, next you'll be attending sensitivity training and holding diversity roundtables.”
“Well, sod this for a game of soldiers!” Gene exploded. “I'm sorry I asked.”
Neither of them moved or said anything for a few minutes, but Sam couldn't quite force himself out of the car.
“Look, Max is … an attractive man. A very attractive man-”
“I don't need to hear this,” Gene said so quickly it became one word.
“But like I told you before: he's not my type. I won't be bringing him 'round to the Christmas party or anything like that.”
“Well then,” Gene said, his relief writ large. “That's good then.” He slid out of the car and into the rain and Sam followed suit. He felt strangely self-conscious and strangely conscious of Gene, too, as the big man followed him up the stairs to his bed-sit. Like he had some kind of mental connexion, and he could just sense where Gene was in space from the tingling of his skin.
Sam unlocked his door and let himself in. Gene was still standing in the hall, almost expectantly.
“Do you want … to come in for a drink?” Sam tried.
“Might as well,” Gene said, buoyantly. “One for the road and then I'm off.” He swanned into Sam's flat, as much as a man his size could be said to 'swan'. He made himself at home, at any rate, inspecting the few possessions Sam had collected. “I'd've expected you to do a better job with the decorating.”
Sam ignored that, instead hunting for a couple of cleanish glasses and pouring a small measure of whiskey into the first. He didn't even have to offer Gene the glass; he was already at Sam's elbow and taking it from his hand. Sam rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass. He turned; Gene hadn't moved away, so now they were nearly chest to chest. Sam shivered a little; he could feet the heat radiating off Gene like a sun-warmed statue.
“It's true then,” Gene said, his voice soft and low, with a strange note Sam had never heard before. “You're queer?”
“I told you I don't fancy Max.”
“Not talking about him,” Gene said, leaning in just a bit.
Their faces were very close together. Sam seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. He felt feverish, light-headed, but for once he was certain it wasn't because of the concussion.
Sam licked his lips. “Guv?”
“Yeah, Tyler?”
“If I kissed you right now, you'd have to hit me, right?”
“Of course I would,” Gene replied.
“Right.”
“I'd have no choice but to belt you one.”
“Thought so.”
“Good.”
And then Gene leaned forward and kissed Sam, right on the mouth. Sam had been expecting fireworks and an orchestral swell, but he felt … nothing. Gene's lips were on his, thin and a bit dry. And he really needed to shave. Sam was disappointed; he'd just jeopardised his job and for this?
But then Gene took Sam's face in his hands, changing the angle, and he licked his way into Sam's mouth and - oh. Oh.
Oh God.
Gene had Sam backed up against the counter of his little kitchen, pressed all down the length of him. Sam brought his hands up to Gene's chest, fighting for a little space, but Gene was having none of it.
“Guv. Gene,” Sam said when he got the chance, and Gene grunted his approval. “Wait.”
“You better have a damned good reason,” Gene growled, and the pit of Sam's stomach did a weird fluttery thing.
“You're drunk.”
“And it's Tuesday.” Gene leaned in for another kiss and Sam's next protest had to wait until he broke it.
“You've got to stop,” Sam said and he tried to say it with authority, but his traitorous hands were smoothing Gene's shirt over his chest and shoulders.
“I've yet to hear a compelling reason why.”
“You're straight.”
Gene made a little mmming noise, but Sam could tell his attention was elsewhere, his eyes on Sam's mouth and his pupils dilated. “So?”
Sam thought about all the things he should be saying. Like how he didn't want Gene to regret this in the morning. Like how he didn't want to regret this in the morning. Perhaps something about self-hating closet cases and the fact that he didn't want to end up loving another one. Or pointing out that fucking the boss was always a bad idea.
But then Gene ran a hand down Sam's back and he noticed Gene's heart hammering under his palm and Gene's erection pressing into his stomach and he found himself saying, “Fair enough,” instead.
-
It was good, better than it had any right to be considering Gene had very little idea what he was doing and didn't take direction particularly well.
“S'not like I got up to this with the Missus,” he grumbled after Sam offered some feedback. “Once children weren't in the offing, we didn't get up to much of anything.”
“Mmm, yes, there, you've got it,” Sam said, distracted. “And please don't talk about your ex in bed.”
They took it slow, owing to Gene's inexperience, Sam's injuries, and the springs in Sam's narrow bed, which had the tendency to shriek when bounced upon. But all in all, it was nice - excellent, even.
Afterward, Gene rose and dressed without turning on the light.
“You could stay, if you liked,” Sam said, and thought he hit that casual, it's no trouble to me either way tone well enough.
“That's not a bed, it's an implement of torture. And it's too small, besides,” Gene said. “I'll see you at work, then?” Sam nodded, busy arranging his pillow. “Good.”
And he was gone.
Sam slept better than he had any right to, sleeping right through his alarm and almost making him late for work. It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth with one hand and shrugging into his coat with the other that the full import of what he'd done hit him. He'd slept with Gene Hunt, notorious homophobe and his superior. Never mind jumping off buildings - that was suicide.
He thought about calling in and saying he still wasn't up to coming in, but that felt like an admission of defeat. So he girded his loins and went in.
The building was overrun with adolescents, lounging on the spare furniture, set up on camp-beds in the hallway.
“You got a light?” one asked Sam as he entered. The boy couldn't have been past fourteen.
“You're too young to be smoking,” Sam said, his brow furrowing, pushing past the boy and trying to make it to his desk. “Go and drink some milk or something.”
“Yeah, fuck you very much,” the boy shouted at him.
A very frazzled-looking Phyllis intercepted him. “I've put them up where I can. Most of them are in the cells but the rest are out here.”
“These are Perry's boys?” he asked.
“The ones we could find; the rest are holed up somewhere. Chris and Ray are out looking for 'em. Annie and I've got our hands full here. This lot kept trying to escape 'til we fed 'em. Now I'm afraid we won't get rid of them. It's cost most of this month's budget just to feed 'em. I've been running about like a blue-arsed fly since they got here.”
“Oi, granny, you got any of them juices left?” a tall lad with hair dyed an aggressive blue-black asked.
“Look for yourself, Andrew,” she snapped. “And I'm not your gran.”
“Thank God,” the youth muttered and slunk off.
“I'm at me wits' end,” she said to Sam. “The Guv won't hand 'em over to protective services 'til he's got 'em all interviewed.”
“Well, you're doing an admirable job,” Sam offered. “We'll get them cleared through as soon as possible. Just a little bit longer. Please. Thank you.” He patted her awkwardly and beat a path to his desk. Annie was breaking up a fight, trying to physically separate the two combatants, who paid her no mind, gamely swinging around her as she tried to squeeze between them.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam said, grabbing the first by the collar and hauling him away. “No fighting! Or I'll beat you to a blood pulp, so help me God.”
“Police brutality!” the brat shouted. “You coppers are all alike.”
“You better believe it,” Sam said, cuffing him lightly.
“Oh, Sam,” Annie breathed in relief. “Take that one back, it's his turn for an interview anyway. And you,” she took a firm grip on the other boy's ear, “you're comin' with me.”
Sam marched his own prisoner back to the interrogation/storage room.
“And stay out of trouble - the next time I see you I won't be in such a good mood!” The door flew open and another teenager, this one blond, stumbled out of it as Gene gave him a final shove.
“Here's the next one, Guv,” Sam said, propelling his ward into the room. The kid, faced with Gene Hunt in all his glory, suddenly put on the brakes and Sam nearly carried him into the room and set him down in the chair.
“Now then,” Gene said, brushing his hands off and turning to the kid. “Let's get started.”
The tape recorder was on the table, though Sam guessed Gene hadn't been using it. He pushed Play and said, “Twenty-eighth of April, 1974. 9:15 am. Present in the room are DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler.”
“What's your name, lad?” Gene said and took the chair next to Sam.
“Go on,” Sam said, keeping his tone gentle. “You're not in trouble.”
“Larry Kinney, Sir.” Larry’s entire face seemed to be eyes, with a small nose and no chin to speak of.
“When were you born, Larry?”
“Third of June, 1959,” Larry said, keeping his eyes on Sam, but stealing an occasional nervous look at Gene. Jesus, he was young.
“And did you work for Mr Perry?”
The boy bit his lip and shifted in his seat.
“He can’t hurt you, lad, not any more,” it was Gene who spoke up, surprising Sam. “He's going away for a very long time. We'll protect you.”
“Yah, I worked for him.” Larry worried at a hangnail on his thumb; his fingernails were all bitten to the quick.
“Did you know Robert Carter?”
Larry nodded. “He'd look out for me sometimes, when the other boys started fights. He hated Mr Perry, said he wasn't nice. That the coppers would finally take 'im away. I didn't believe him, but he promised.”
“How did he know that Mr Perry would be arrested?” Sam asked, exchanging a quick look with Gene.
“Dunno. But he seemed sure. He said he'd be leaving for good; he weren't going to work for Mr Perry, but he was going to make sure Mr Perry weren't going to hurt kids anymore.”
“The book,” Sam said to Gene, who nodded.
“He knew it'd be enough to send Perry away,” Gene said and gave a low whistle. “Smart lad. Brave lad.”
“Larry, what kind of work did you do for Mr Perry?” Sam asked, trying not to let his own anxiety show.
Larry shrugged and tore at the hangnail, which began to bleed. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. “All kinds of things, running goods and such.”
“He had you deliver drugs?” Sam asked, and Larry nodded.
“Sometimes it were drugs, sometimes money. Sometimes it were just notes and things.”
“What else did he have you do?” Sam asked as gently as he could.
Larry shrugged, refusing to look up from his hands.
“You can tell us,” Sam said. “You don't have anything to be ashamed of.”
“Who're you going to tell?” Larry asked in a very small voice. “It'd kill me ma.”
“We're not going to tell anyone,” Gene said.
“Not your name,” Sam added quickly. “We'll use your testimony to make sure he stays in gaol, but no one needs to know it was you.”
“He'd pay me to be nice to his clients.” Larry's voice cracked and he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“How nice?” Gene pressed.
Sam nudged his ankle under the table and mouthed, “Gently.”
“Did they touch you?” Sam asked instead, and Larry nodded, head hanging so low his chin was nearly to his chest. “Larry, it's not your fault. Do you want to wait a little bit before we continue?” Larry nodded again.
Sam glanced at Gene, ready to argue if need be, but Gene nodded.
“Buzz along. Go and see if WPC Dobbs has got any chocolate for you,” Gene said and made a shooing gesture. “And have her send the next one in.” The boy stood and ran, the door slamming behind him.
“They've all been like that,” Gene said.
“God.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't suppose we could get some kind of child psychologist or counsellor in here. I'm not equipped to handle this kind of trauma.” He looked over at Gene, who wearing his I-think-you've-probably-gone-'round-the-bend expression. “No, of course not. What are the odds we're going to traumatise them further anyway?”
“Don't go to pieces on me now, Sammy,” Gene said.
“I'm not,” Sam said. “I'm fine. Peachy keen. Who wouldn't be?”
“Good, because I need you on this case. Ray and Chris're useless with poofter stuff.” Gene pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one before holding it out to Sam, who took it. He didn't smoke, usually, but if a situation ever called for one it was this one. “You're the only one with insight into all … this.”
Sam didn't know what to do with that, so he said, “The irony is that most of these kids aren't even gay, just desperate.”
“Desperate, eh? And I suppose you-” Gene started, his tone queer, but before he could elaborate, their next witness entered: a fourteen-year-old with a bad haircut and a heroin addiction.
-
The rest of the morning was spent in similarly depressing interviews. Boys who'd been beaten down, abused physically, sexually, and emotionally until all that was left were their empty eyes and their anger.
After noon, the people from social services arrived and as the only member of the team with tact - excepting Annie, and she was busy with the boys - Sam was left to negotiate. Some of the boys had loving families they could be returned to, but they were few and far between; most of them had families that they had been desperate to leave or who refused to take them back. Quite a few had no families at all.
“Look, you can't just ship them all off to the next-of-kin sight unseen,” he explained, for the third time. The woman tugged on the cuffs of her dark blue suit, unimpressed.
“We have limited resources and must allocate those resources to the children with greatest need. Those who have families who are able to take them will be returned to them. I understand that you don't think this situation is ideal, and I respect your opinion given your long years of service and extensive knowledge of child safety procedure,” the irony was dripping here, “but I'm afraid that's how it is, DI Tyler.”
“Oh, get stuffed,” Sam said, his patience long since shot. He left her to herd a few more of the boys out and into the van she'd brought with her. A few of the boys were going to remain housed at CID overnight. The cells didn't make the most comfortable accommodations, but Sam was sure they'd slept in worse.
He turned and caught Annie sneaking a flask out of her desk drawer. She started guiltily when she realised he was watching her.
“Sorry, Boss. Long day,” she explained and took a swig anyway.
“Go on, get out of here. It's late,” he said and she grinned ruefully. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it really was late, and as if that wasn’t enough to remind him, his stomach growled.
“I'll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, gathering up her coat. “You won't stay much longer?”
“No,” he said. The light in Gene's office was still on. “I've just got a bit more to finish up.”
He knocked on the Guv's door when she'd gone. For the first time in days CID was quiet and empty. He didn't wait for an answer, but let himself in. Gene sat at his desk, tie loosened and collar undone, a bottle and glass out and on his desk.
“Don't you knock?”
“I did knock.” Sam shut the door behind him and leant against it.
“Don't you wait for an answer?”
“Only at my mum's house. Learned that one the hard way.” Normally that would have earned him a smile, but Gene hadn't even registered the comment, instead going back to staring into the middle distance with a slightly glassy expression. “Guv?”
“Sit down, Tyler.” He poured a finger of whiskey into the glass and pushed it over to Sam, then took a swig straight from the bottle.
“Don't go to pieces on me, Guv,” Sam said.
“All these lads - good lads, mostly - Robbie Carter died trying to save them. And he had to because some cunt-faced bastard thought no one would give a shit if they lived or died. They could just disappear through the cracks and no one would notice. And he was right. Right here,” Gene tapped his desk with an index finger, “In my city. On my watch.”
“But you did notice.”
“You noticed.”
“We noticed. And we got Perry.”
Gene shook his head, dismissing the victory. “Doesn't help all the others.”
“Gene,” Sam said, and he looked up. “You can't save everyone. No matter how hard you try, you won't ever be perfect. There will be people you can't save. Robbie. Your brother.”
Gene swallowed thickly, his eyes shining. “Don't go bringing my brother into this. You never know when to leave well enough alone, Tyler.”
“I'm just going to say this once, since I know you don't have any emotions and wouldn't want to talk about them if you did, but, Guv: it's not your fault. And if it weren't for you Larry and all those boys out there would still be working for that bastard. Manchester is a little safer because you're on watch. So you can sit there and drink and feel sorry for yourself, or …”
“Or what?” Gene prompted, eyes narrowed.
“Or we could go and get a bite and watch a programme on the telly. Or not watch a programme on the telly.”
Gene pursed his lips as he considered, finally saying, “If those are my options, then I suppose I'll be along directly.”
Sam nodded once, not quite smiling. “I'll be waiting.”