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"I bloody hate hospitals." Gene could feel the mulish pout on his own face, could feel the sting of the stitches pulling inside his mouth, the ever present stink of carbolic burning in his nose and the rasp of hospital sheets under his clumsy paws. No more than paws, useless bandaged appendages, couldn't open a hip flask even if he had one. Wanted one. Needed it, despite the dulling haze of painkillers, needed it more than the meager ration of cigarettes that he smoked carefully, holding them in his fingertips until the filter burned.
"I know you do," Sam said soothingly.
"Fuck off."
"Gene." It was said in a parental tone. The warning note was back in Sam's voice, the cock of his head that said Gene had better behave and follow the doctor's orders.
"I need to be out of here, Sam."
"I know you do."
"Would you stop saying that!" Sam's face changed, shifted, withdrew. Gene stubbed the butt out with a brusque motion and turned his face toward the corridor so he wouldn't have to notice the disappointment, read the expectations, the yearning for shared emotions and talk, talk, always talk. The view was desperately monotonous, white walls and grey tile, but he had become used to it. After a few days it felt comfortable, like an old blanket. "You don't know," he muttered.
A hesitant clearing of throat. "I'm here for you, Gene."
So careful. Always waiting. Every bloody day, waiting. Every morning, when Gene woke, hoping it had all been a nightmare, hoping that he had healed enough to go home. And there was Sam. Waiting. Asking the doctors all the questions that Gene didn't want to have to compose in his mind. Things like how long it would take for ribs to mend, whether the eye would be all right, whether the nerves in his wrists were damaged. It was easier to pretend it was all happening to someone else when Sam wasn't around. To take the indignity of bedpans and sponge baths and physical exams.
"I know you are," he sighed at last, when Sam shifted and creaked in his chair. "Say hello to the lads."
"Will do." Sam levered himself out of the chair and leaned over the bed to kiss Gene on the temple. "Say hello to Nurse Margaret."
Gene tried not to flinch away. Funny how he could pretend he was doing fine when Sam wasn't around. "See you tonight, then."
Sam paused, staring at him. "I just want you to be OK, Gene."
Gene shot him a glance, then looked down at his own hands, bandaged and raw. After a moment he began, haltingly, "You--you did for him, right?"
"I--what?"
"Just tell me. Again."
Sam drew a deep breath. Gene looked up, willing himself to meet Sam's eyes, to hold his gaze. "Yes. I shot Reynolds. He went down."
One more burning moment, and he nodded assent. "Good. Off with you."
Sam waved before disappearing through the doorway, and the moment he was gone Gene fisted his hands in the sheets, grinding his teeth, closing his eyes, until he could see flashing lights behind his eyelids. It wasn't fair. He felt hot, sweaty, trapped by the bed and the walls and the corridors. It wasn't fair to resent Sam for being able to walk out of the room. It hurt to be so furious at him. So--yes, helpless. That was it. He was out of that warehouse, no longer tied to a chair, but still helpless, still Carl's prisoner even though the man was dead and buried. It wasn't fair to blame Sam for being able to go to work. And still his heart pounded angrily; he could feel it throb in his fingertips.
Bugger. His chest felt tight, like he couldn't draw a full breath, as if there were ropes around him. He slumped down against the pillow, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Shit," he murmured, and gave a little experimental cough. The familiar stabbing pain carved out a hole near his heart. Bugger. If only he could feel himself again. If only he could fast-forward through the recovery to the time when he'd be striding boldly into his office, coattails swinging, hip flask a comforting weight in his side pocket, Chris and Ray and the lot of them giving him that look, the look that said he was king.
He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table but stopped halfway. It was on the wrong side; he couldn't pick it up with his left hand, not with the splint, and the movement made his shoulder spasm. He coughed again, harder this time, bent into it with the pain and the thickness in his chest, and stared in horrified disbelief at the red spots that had appeared on his sheets. What, again?
"Nurse!" Panic in his voice. Hated panic. Musn't panic.
He breathed heavily, haltingly, eyes fixed on his crabbed hands in the sheets, on the flecks of blood. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity. He heard the voices in his memory, the flashing lights, the siren's wail, Sam's voice, angry and urgent.
"Stay with us, Mr. Hunt."
"Is he breathing?"
"I can't find a vein."
"...punctured a lung?"
"Christ, his hands are swollen."
A moan of pain, distant but disturbing.
"Let's keep him breathing. We can worry about the face later."
"...reconstruction?"
"Mr. Hunt?" A soft touch against his cheek, and he jerked away, eyes snapping up to her face. Margaret, kindly and beautiful and buxom, and he would have been gallant with her, or at least appreciative if he could have done anything except gasp a shuddering breath. "Do you need another injection? Shall I call the doctor?"
He coughed and shook his head. It was easing now.
"'M still--I still have chest pain."
"Doctor Harcourt did say that you would, you know. I brought that mirror you were asking for. Do you want to see it?"
He nodded. She handed him the small mirror, and he stared, transfixed by the grizzled image. Yes, the bruising was spectacular, and his nose would never be the same, but it was the eyes that held him. Why? Yes, the left one was disturbing, with all the swelling and bruising and the white of it all red with broken blood vessels, but that wasn't even it. In some strange kind of way he felt nervous looking into his own eyes.
"Doesn't--doesn't even look like me." He was proud that his voice didn't waver.
"Well, you haven't shaved for a while. Maybe I could help you with that, if you don't think it would hurt too much."
He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything, and it was--acceptable, having her lather his cheeks. She was careful with the razor, gentle over his healing scrapes. Margaret was a good nurse, a kind woman, and he felt a distant, dreary concern over his own complete disinterest in her ample breasts.
There was something missing. Something wrong. And he couldn't talk about it to anyone.
***
The strangest thing was, it didn't feel wrong to be sitting at Gene's desk.
Sam leaned forward over the paper-strewn surface, constantly reminded of Gene's absence by every sensory detail as his nose was assaulted by the permanent reek of stale cigarette smoke with overtones of aftershave and the sweat of years, the creak of the seat beneath his negligible weight and the sight of every familiar, loved object on the shelves. It wasn't his desk but it felt comfortable to be there; it felt like a part of him in the same way that everything about Gene had become a part of him. It was a substitute, a pale hint of the real thing.
Vince, Geoff and Ray sat facing him. The three of them had been out to Strangeways Prison the day before to interview all the survivors of their warehouse raid. Sam couldn't bring himself to feel bad about not being there. He'd made sure that Ray was not in charge, which seemed wisest given his history and his likely response to Gene's injuries--and in fact that had a lot to do with Sam's decision not to go himself. He didn't trust his own self-control, these days, not with Gene's swollen, battered face always in his memory; he'd lose it, he'd go mental if he had to face those men.
"So," he began, adjusting a pad of paper and pen in front of him. "You interviewed all four men?"
"Yes, sir," Vince nodded. "Three-on-one interviews of each of them."
"Great. Did you feel like you got any relevant information? Any leads on their contacts in Manchester?"
"The subordinate blokes are just fodder. They're just along for the ride, didn't know what the plan was. Got the feeling that Reynolds kept it all to himself, doled out bits and pieces of what they had to look forward to."
"What did the Guv say, about Reynolds, I mean?" Ray asked. "In his statement. I know you took his statement, after he was in hospital."
Sam moved his pen closer to the pad of paper. "He... he said there were further plans for more jobs in Manchester. That Reynolds revealed that to him, in the end."
Ray's eyes bored into Sam's face, his jaw chewing furiously. "How much did he know? Any names? Anything we can grill his men about?"
Sam shook his head. Yeah, he'd taken Gene's statement, halting and hesitant through the drugs and the obvious pain of his swollen face, and he'd hated having to do that. He couldn't bring it up again, not when Gene so clearly did not want to talk about any of it. It wasn't going to be possible. "I don't want you to bring it up to him," he growled at Ray.
"Bloody Nora, Boss, it's his bleedin' job! He went undercover to get that information. You're telling me he didn't get anything more than that? I don't believe it!" Ray's gum snapped angrily between his teeth.
"The Guv's not--he's not ready, yet. He told me everything he knew. That's got to be enough."
Vince coughed apologetically. "You're sure, then? He might not think of something he missed the first time through?"
Sam heaved a deep breath and rested his hands flat on the desk. "I talked him through it. He told me every detail he remembered." Stop. Please stop, he thought. Don't make me do that to him. He could feel sweat prickle in his armpits. That dark warehouse swam in his memory, nightmarish; the cold, the rats, the stink. The blood on Gene's face, the way Carl smiled just before Sam's bullet punched him.
"Right, then. We have to get it from Reynolds, not from the Guv."
Geoff nodded slowly. "We did an extra half hour with 'im. Tough bastard. Even flat on his back in prison hospital, he's not giving anything up."
A flood of relief went through Sam like a chill, even as he watched the scorn in Ray's squint, the leashed anger in Vince's abrupt movements. Reynolds, again and again. They couldn't be done with him, but at least Gene wouldn't have to be confronted with him. There had to be a way out of this. "And what's his condition now? Has it changed?"
"Not a bit. Bullet hit his spine. You don't recover from something like that." Ray grimaced with a sort of satisfied sympathy. "Gotta say, Boss, you shoot like a marksman. Happened so fast, I didn't even see you move your gun. Just too bad we didn't find them before--"
Sam clenched his pencil so hard it broke. "We got there as soon as we could," he grated.
Vince took a long drag on his cigarette in the tense silence, then spoke. "No one doubts you, Boss. We just need to find a way into the bastard's head."
***
There were the two of them in the Cortina, Sam driving carefully and heading slowly to Gene's house, although, with Gene sitting there in silence, it felt like he was alone.
Sam heard an exhale of breath. "Christ, why are you driving so bloody slow?" Gene asked.
"What do you mean?" Sam answered casually, glancing at the speedometer then at him.
Gene lifted his head from the headrest. "It's bad enough that I was wheeled out of the ward and down to the car like a bleeding invalid, but now I feel like I'm on the way to me own funeral! I'm not dead!"
That was true, Sam had saved Gene's life, Gene hadn't died, but that didn't stop the guilt from squeezing out of his chest and hurting all the way down to his abdomen. "I'm just …" Sam couldn't find the words and his voice trailed off.
"Let me guess, you're protecting me. Bloody hell, just get me home, eh?"
"Fine, Gene, fine," he said, stepping on the accelerator pedal. "You know best. How fast do you want to go?"
Gene chuckled, sounding like a short bark. Suddenly, he leaned forward and had a coughing fit. He gasped, barely able to get his breath.
"Do you want me to pull over?"
"No," Gene replied, his voice hoarse. "Keep … going. Be okay … in a minute."
Sam watched him as he leaned back on the headrest with a moan. He shifted the gear lever, tightened his hands on the steering wheel and continued to drive.
They turned on to Gene's street and Sam pulled into the parking spot in front of Gene's house. The red-bricked two-story terraced houses were mirror-images with the exception of their doors; Gene's was painted black. Appropriate, Sam thought, considering Gene's mood.
Gene's eyes were closed; he appeared to be asleep. Sam reached out and rested his hand gently on Gene's shoulder, and Gene's eyes opened quickly. He wasn't sleeping. He was wide awake. He went pale and seemed to shrink, breaking out into a sweat. He moved away slightly.
"Talk to me," Sam said.
Gene turned toward Sam, his face twisted in pain. "Don't treat me like some retard who can't deal with ..." He broke off, gritting his teeth.
Sam swallowed. "I'm sorry."
Gene frowned. He sat back and turned away. Sam could sense him closing himself off. "Let's get you inside," he said carefully. "I'll get your belongings from the boot later." Gene didn't respond. Sam took a deep breath and got out of the driving seat. He walked around and opened Gene's door.
Gene hesitated. "Might need a bit of help."
Sam took Gene's elbow, as he slowly eased himself out with a groan. He walked with him into the front door and led him into the house. Gene stared around the spotless living room. Sam had scrubbed the parquet floor until it shone.
"You on your hands and knees ... Just like old times," he said.
Sam smiled, surprised at the joke. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked.
"Not right now."
"Right, maybe you should have an early night."
"I'll tell you when I'm tired," Gene said, his voice grumpy.
"Sit down then. I'll bring your things inside."
Gene grasped the arm of the sofa, lowering himself into it. Sam stepped away from Gene but paused when he heard his voice.
"I don't want you cooking and looking after me. You're not me mother." Gene's hand was shaking as he struggled to light a cigarette.
Fuck. Sam held out his hand to help and Gene swore at him.
"Go home." He blew smoke joylessly from the fag.
Sam wrenched his arm back. "I'm going, but only for your--"
"I mean it. I'll look after meself. Piss off!" Gene interrupted with anger, gesturing violently with his fingers. "And don't come back."
"You want to yell at me, Gene, you do it, but I'm not leaving you."
"I hate being so bloody dependent." He crushed the barely-smoked cigarette into an ashtray.
"I know."
"What would you know about it?" His green eyes flashed.
Sam sighed. "I know you." Suddenly, he could see Carl Reynolds, as he sliced the knife into Gene's flesh. Grinning, as blood ran down Gene's neck. It was a face he recalled in ugly detail. "We should have got there sooner. Reynolds nearly killed you."
Gene gave Sam a look of irritation. "I know what I went through, Sam."
You're not going to make it easy, are you? "I'll be back in a second." Sam walked out, not looking back at Gene, heading for the car. He returned with Gene's belongings and put them down.
Gene chewed his lips into a pout. "Can I have a cup of tea?"
It was a contrite scowl, if that was even possible. Sam thought about saying something about it, but Gene wasn't looking at him. "Of course," he replied quietly. His thoughts were all over the place as he went to the kitchen. He pulled the box of tea from the cupboard and shut the door with a bang. The sound caused the all too-familiar guilt to wash over him, nearly drowning him in its intensity. Sam took a breath. He heard it again in his head. 'Go on, cut his throat.' He could smell blood, sweat. Gene, tied to a chair. Oh, God, too much blood. He leaned against the worktop, gasping, close to tears.
"I'm sorry," he muttered out loud. "I'm really sorry."
"Tonight would be nice!" Gene's voice ended the memory, but the smell of blood clung to Sam like a lingering ache.
"Just--just one more minute!" Sam managed. He made a pot of tea and poured them both a cup.
If Gene was pleased to have the cuppa, he didn't show it. He slowly lifted his bandaged hands, a stubborn expression on his face, his mouth set, and Sam passed it to him. Gene stared at the half-full cup then raised it awkwardly to his lips. He slurped loudly then held it toward Sam, shaking his head. "No more. I need sleep," he admitted.
Sam bent down. He held on to Gene, his hands around his waist, as he stood up. Gene was forced to cling to Sam as they walked slowly upstairs and into Gene's bedroom. "I've no bleeding strength. I hate this!" Gene said. He nearly fell on to the bed.
"It's okay. It's your first day home, that."
Gene was silent but he gave Sam a contentious look. Sam helped him undress until he was sitting naked. Terrible bruises covered his body. He looked up and must have seen Sam's face because he said, "I'm a bit of a mess, eh, Sam?"
That bastard Reynolds. Gene was shivering. "Let's get you to bed," Sam answered, his eyes wet. He reached for Gene's pyjamas. "There's nothing that I wouldn't do for you, Gene. You know that, don't you? If you want to talk to me--"
Gene shook his head. "I didn't ask you to come here, but now that you are, you could let it rest, you Gobshite, and fetch me painkillers. I'm in pain," Gene growled, but sounding more petulant than threatening. He patted his nose gingerly.
Sam knew when he'd lost. He dropped it, as he was sure Gene had hoped he would. He got him into his pyjamas. Gene stretched out on top of the blankets, exhausted. By the time Sam had changed into his own sleepwear, Gene was asleep. He wanted to pull back the bedspread and slide in next to him, but, instead, he looked at him for a long time before kissing his cheek. "Good night. I love you," Sam said softly, and turned out the light.
He walked out and into the spare bedroom just as the phone rang. He picked it up and heard loud noises, pub noises, and then Annie's voice.
"Is he okay?" she asked.
Sam ran his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. "I'm not sure," he replied. "I just put him to bed. For a start, we had a fight. He doesn't want me here."
"Did he tell you that?"
"Yeah."
"The Guv's never been polite exactly," Annie commented.
Sam grinned, then frowned. "I just want to talk to him. He goes deaf when I talk to him, Annie."
"This is all about fear, Sam. He's not ready to confront the memories and the guilt."
"Guilt?"
"He had high hopes of nailing Carl Reynolds and his gang. Instead, he ended up in serious trouble. In hospital, he may even have wished that he hadn't survived. Now, he's afraid that he may not make it back to work."
"What can I do?"
"Be strong. Don't let him give up. It's going to take time."
"Mm-m."
"Are you okay?"
Sam hesitated. "Yes," he muttered into the receiver. He was tired. And it was only the beginning.
There was silence for a moment, then Annie said, "Get some rest, Sam. I'll talk to you soon."
Sam put down the phone. He sat down on the bed and leaned over, his palms on his knees. He thought of Gene in the other bedroom, and, almost at the same moment, he heard a howl, long and drawn out. An animal cry, but unmistakably Gene. Sam was struck with a sick feeling and sweat glistened on his forehead. He tightened his grip on his knees, meaning to launch himself upright, but he couldn’t hear Gene anymore.
He laid back on the pillow. A cool trickle of sweat ran down his back. He'd made a promise to see that Gene would come home, even if it was only to himself. He'd kept that promise, rescued Gene, but if only he'd arrived earlier. What had that cost Gene? The both of them? He waited most of the night for Gene to shout out in his sleep. When he could see the first light of dawn, he closed his eyes.
***
After a few days Gene started going for walks in the morning.
He'd have breakfast with Sam, tea and eggs and sausage, grumbling as usual whenever Sam tried to do anything fancy, even as little as adding some herbs to a scramble. It felt like a normal routine except for all the ways in which it didn't. All the ways in which Sam was busy and Gene was sore like he'd gone ten rounds with a gorilla, easing himself into a chair with a groan while Sam set down a plate and headed out the door to work. There were the ever present physical reminders, and then there were all the ways in which he was training Sam not to bother him. That was all difficult; it went against the grain and required a lot of focus, but the alternative was no more bearable. To have Sam in his bed.
"Fuck!" He kicked a rock into the gutter, took visceral pleasure in the way it bounced off an abandoned beer bottle. So, yeah, there was nothing more he'd like than Sam in his bed, except for the ways in which it just reminded him of every day, every minute they had spent apart. Which reminded him of the eighteen hours he had spent in that warehouse, which reminded him that he was not well yet. And fuck, it wasn't right. It wasn't right that he should flinch when Sam came up behind him, so he snapped at Sam. How different it was from the way it should have been. Everything hurt and the worst pain was in his heart. He couldn't describe it, the way a pall lay over everything that mattered to him.
He stopped by the pond down the street. There were ducks. If he'd had bread he could have fed them but he had nothing and they knew it, giving him a few desultory quacks before swimming away to the far side, pushing through the floating debris. Supposed to be a pretty sight, but it just made him feel trapped. He fumbled in a pocket for his cigarettes, cursed when he dropped the pack. Several had fallen out and the effort to pinch each one between thumb and forefinger brought sweat to his brow. Part of him wanted to just leave them there, grind them under the heel of his shoe and have the satisfaction of destroying something, but he wanted the nicotine rush too badly. Tedious. He forced his stiff fingers to grab the last one, then straightened up with a groan and settled it between his lips. A small pleasure, without a hint of guilt but without any real joy; he struggled with the lighter for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds and then inhaled the first crackle of smoke with eyes half closed.
Sam. The disappointed slump of his shoulders filled Gene's memory with a haze of irritation. Why should he feel so irritated by Sam all the time? And yet he knew he couldn't--or shouldn't--throw Sam out, make him go back to his shitehole flat.
"Can't live with it," he said to the ducks, under his breath. Fuck Reynolds, and his bloody eighteen hours of hell. Fuck undercover work. Fuck the Manchester Constabulary. If he didn't get back to work he might go mad, staring at the walls of his own house for days on end. It wasn't good but at least it would be a change, and only then might there be a hope of redemption. "I thought I would be back to normal," he said out loud, tentatively. The sound of his own voice made him shudder. He was so bloody tired of Sam's sympathy, and that there was no one to punch, to kick, to get some answers from. So it was back to his own house, half prison and half sanctuary, and back to Sam, his savior and conscience.
Short steps, feeling the ache, the burn in his lungs when he stopped to cough. Short steps, because he was in no hurry to get on with his life.
***
Ray was standing in the locker room, lighting a cigarette, when Sam looked in. "Ray, can we have a word?"
Ray took a deep drag on the cigarette, and nodded. He stared at Sam, waiting for him to speak.
"How are you?"
"Me?"
"Yes."
Ray shrugged. "I'm fine ... The Guv getting on all right, is he?"
Sam tried his best to smile. "The usual. Tells me to get stuffed."
"You must be crazy, Tyler." Ray stubbed his cigarette out on the floor.
Sam blinked. "Really? What do you mean?" He stood by the door as Ray moved to the front of the lockers.
Ray opened one noisily, banging back the door purposefully. "This isn't right. We need to get more information, yeah? My gut feeling is that he has to be properly told."
"You think that I haven't thought about that? I've told you, now is not the time."
Ray clanged the door closed, and turned back to Sam. "I know him. You've got blinders on, Boss, if you think that you need to play it carefully with the Guv. Tell him the truth--if you don't, he won't give a shite about the why. I hardly think 'he's not ready' is much of a bloody excuse, do you?"
How would Gene react to Sam's omission that Carl Reynolds was still alive? Would he be insulted? Or worse? Was Sam right, or making a mistake and screwing things up completely?
Sam looked away, at nothing in particular. He didn't want to believe that he was thinking with his dick, but sex with Gene had changed everything. And their relationship hadn't been the same since Gene's abduction. Gene hadn't been the same. Guilt. Blame. Bad memories. There was so much tension between them, and Gene's remoteness was getting to Sam. Gene was disagreeable, simply going through the motions. For the time being, however, Sam had made a choice--a future with Gene, and he would be there to help him.
He could feel a headache starting.
"Don't leave it too late," Ray said. "'Course it makes no difference to me if you're pissing blood for a week."
Sam winced at the truth of the words. Ray wouldn't be happy that he hadn't changed his mind. But he had a plan, an unspoken one. He pictured Reynolds, his blood pouring out on to the cold hospital bed sheets as he sat there and watched him bleed to death.
It was time to confront the killer.
*
Sam made his way inside Strangeways Prison to the hospital wing. He tucked his hand under his armpit, feeling the hardness of his gun beneath his coat. He felt confident, more than he had done for weeks. If nothing else happened, it was worth coming here for that alone.
The room was not as cluttered with machinery as the last time he'd seen it. The man responsible for two murders was lying on his back, propped up against two pillows, his eyes closed. A glass of water with a straw was sitting on his bed table. The chest tube near his armpit had been taken out. Reynolds was recovering from an operation to remove bullet fragments near his spine. He’d had to wait for the surgery, as Sam's bullet had penetrated his chest and punctured his right lung; he first had to regain some strength before the operation could be done. The fragments had been removed, Reynolds was getting stronger every day, but he had lost the use of his lower limbs.
Sam wondered how much the blagger knew about the copper who had shot him, what he knew.
He had no idea what might really happen between him and Carl Reynolds. What would he do, he wondered, fingering the gun in its holster. Confront him, yeah. Intimidate him? Probably. Hurt him? Given that Gene had been tortured by that bastard, hadn't gotten over it, was trying hard to look normal but just looked old, hurting him would give Sam a lot of pleasure. But the man was pale, ill, had no use of his legs.
Shit. Bugger. Damn. Reynolds was scum, but Sam still had a conscience.
Sam tugged his hand away. He sat beside the bed in the plastic chair. He looked straight into Reynolds' face. Reynolds seemed to sense someone in the room because he opened his eyes. He eyed Sam back.
No pressure. Not yet.
Sam showed Reynolds his warrant card. “I'm Detective Inspector Tyler,” he said, his voice calm. Reynolds' grey eyes didn't move from his. They were intelligent, but there was something more in them, something that told Sam you should never upset him. It was no wonder that his mates were too scared to talk. Sam moved the uncomfortable chair a little closer to the bed. “Okay, Reynolds. Why don't we talk about why I'm here?”
Reynolds said nothing. “Tell me about DCI Hunt.”
Reynolds still said nothing. He was wearing that hideous smile that Sam remembered, just before he'd shot him. “Why don't you tell me what it was like finding him, mate?” Reynolds answered finally.
Sam felt his heartbeat accelerate. He started to sweat. “If you think you're going to throw me ...” He leaned forward.
The blagger raised his eyebrows, but then gave Sam a steely look. “You're just a copper--like Henry. You think you're the smarter one.”
Sweat trickled down Sam's back like a tear. He felt chilled. Something in his face must have amused Reynolds because his expression changed and he didn't bother to hide it. “My mouth is dry. Bloody painkillers. I want a drink.”
Reynolds was still grinning. He ran his tongue over his lips. He was waiting for Sam to get the water. “Of course,” Sam said softly, standing up. He held it out and Reynolds sipped, emptying the glass. “Let's get back to DCI Hunt,” Sam reiterated.
“How is he?”
Sam stared down at him. Reynolds had a bloody nerve. “He's fine. Sends his regards.”
“Henry was a mate,” Reynolds answered. “We hit it off. I said jump, he asked how high?”
Sam swallowed. “Stands to reason. He had no choice. He was doing his job.”
“Always the copper first, eh?” Reynolds banged his fist on the table. “I don't fucking think so.”
“Don't,” Sam warned.
“He's bent.”
“Bullshit.”
“If you'd seen him, you'd think differently.”
“Shut up,” Sam said. He could hear Gene groan, the urgent sound of the ambulance siren. He leaned over Reynolds and grabbed him by his hospital gown, the ties at the back becoming constricted around the man's neck. Reynolds grunted. “Feel a little pain? Do you enjoy it? Do you, you piece of shit? Have a sense of how it was for DCI Hunt?”
“Was it something … I said?” Reynolds choked out.
Smug bastard. He wouldn't be so smug with Sam's gun halfway down his throat. All the same, he felt guilty. What if Sam did him some further damage? He was already guilty of crippling Reynolds. Guilty as sin. Sam let go of him reluctantly. At that moment, a nurse came in bringing a lunch tray for Reynolds. Sam sat back down.
Reynolds lifted the cover from the bowl, spooned some soup into his mouth and swallowed. “Fucking shite, this,” he said, but he lifted another spoonful to his mouth.
Sam had been silent long enough. He'd lost control of their conversation, but he was ready to take it back.
“Two names. Maggie Taylor, Tom Taylor.”
Reynolds wiped a dribble of soup from his chin.
“Bloody unbelievable,” Sam said. “Your lackey Brian Matthews coughed. We've got his statement.” Working together with Ray, he'd pressed his arm against Matthews' throat and threatened to hang him by the balls from the Manchester Town Hall Clock Tower. It hadn't done Gene any bloody good. The man still hadn't opened up, hadn't implicated Reynolds in the two murders. The gang had hit Barclays Bank, and Gene had been taken prisoner.
Reynolds shook his head slowly. “No. He didn't,” he said. “He was … what would you say, mate? Loyal.”
Sam laughed. “You mean he was afraid of you.” Reynolds laughed with him. “Gene Hunt,” Sam continued quickly, without a beat.
A shadow fell over Reynolds' face. “Better than most. I trusted him, and I'm not often wrong,” he admitted. “Only he shot Mackie. Unlucky for him. He deserved to die.” He grimaced in pain.
It fell short of a confession, but Sam sensed it was all he was going to get right now.
The nurse came back into the room. “Time for your meds, Mr. Reynolds. These will help.” She turned to Sam. “Out you go. My patient needs rest.”
Sam started to get up.
“Tyler?” Reynolds said.
“Yes?”
He was smiling. “You will say hello to him? Tell him I'm sorry that I couldn't finish the job?”
Bugger you, too, Sam thought.
***
Gene lifted his chin for Sam to tie a half-windsor. It gave him a moment to stare; Sam's face, all intent and inward, looked tired. He'd been working long hours, trying to follow up on Carl's gang and their connections to the Manchester crime scene. Sam's long absences would have been irritating if Gene hadn't been sleeping away half the day, but as it was he was home just long enough for Gene to be desperately grateful for his cooking and care but also frustrated with his fussing.
But the tie, now, he needed help with that. That and his bloody belt buckle, of all things. Having Sam's hands around his groin was usually a pleasure, but lately it was as if he had to throw off a huge weight just to muster energy for a snog, let alone any further rumpy pumpy. Nothing pleased him and nothing helped, not even the ability to shamble around the house and make a fresh pot of tea. Putting on a suit, getting ready to head in to CID ought to have done something. It ought to have made him feel something. But instead here he stood, going through the motions while deep in his belly something stirred, an inkling of fear.
He'd been pleased that Sam hadn't bothered him much about the details of those last few days with Carl, but there was a part of him that had been stirring restlessly. Wondering how Carl had died, what kind of look had been in his eyes, if he had said anything. Part of him wondered why Sam never mentioned that time, and it only made him frustrated and stroppy to think that Sam was protecting him. Part of him knew that he'd have to shoulder those responsibilities sooner or later. He'd have to think about those hours in that dark warehouse. Think back over every conversation, every bit of evidence. It wasn't what he wanted to do or how he wanted to handle those men; he wanted to be across a table from them, leaning forward threateningly, letting go with every investigative impulse he'd had to throttle down over the preceding weeks. Except he hadn't throttled anything down, had he? He'd turned his back on it all; run away.
"There you are." Sam patted the lapels of Gene's jacket and sighed. Gene took a long slug from his hip flask and put the cap back on it with a mild, momentary pride; it was a small gain, but at least he could take a drink without assistance. Still clumsy, though. Still unable to dress himself.
"What? What's wrong now?"
Gene shook his head. He'd been scowling. "Nowt. You ready?"
"Yes." Sam looked like he was holding back other words.
Gene rolled his eyes. "Off we go, then. You're as bad as my mother in law on my wedding night. I'm fine, Sam."
*
"Guv!" Phyllis looked up from the charge desk like she'd been bludgeoned with a cream pie, all shock and then an astounded smile breaking through across her craggy face. "It's a pleasure to see you walking through those doors again. Lord, I was starting to think it'd be Tyler's scrawny arse in charge forever--"
"In charge?"
"Well, someone had to step up. Not that I was taking your place."
"Oi! I should hope not, Dorothy! Your scrawny arse wouldn't come close to filling my chair."
Sam rolled his eyes and Gene bit back the even more bitter retort on the verge of emerging. In charge. He was being unfair again, but it stung.
"There's only one Guv." Phyllis set her work down on the desk and came at him for a hug. It was so unexpected that he almost shoved her off, but then restrained himself enough to clap an arm around her shoulders. Bloody hell, was this what it was going to be like? "Welcome back, Hunt."
Gene closed his eyes once they were in the lift, fighting back the impending wave of weariness. "Before you ask," he growled, "I'm fine, Sam. I just want to have a normal day. Not--hugging. And flowers and shite. Maybe a bottle of single malt, if someone feels they need to make a gesture."
"I can almost guarantee there will be whisky involved."
"Christ. Of course there will. And it won't be a normal day at work, will it?" When there was no answer, Gene pried his eyelids open. Sam stood with his arms crossed, an unhappy frown on his face. "Bugger me, Sam, you look like I killed your auntie."
"I just--" he heaved a huge sigh and cast a look at the ceiling. "I don't want this to be hard for you, Gene. But everyone's going to want to, well, be close to you."
Gene shrugged. "Course they will. Back from the dead, aren't I? But we still have work to do, blaggers to bang up. You told me--"
"Yes. They're all locked up. But we don't know who their contacts were, yet."
"Ray been at 'em?"
"We're doing this by the book, Gene. There's a lot of scrutiny by the press, as well as eyes on us from above. And not just Superintendent Rathbone. When the DCI gets abducted there's a lot of noise."
Gene shot him a glare. "Has Ray questioned them yet?"
Sam pursed his lips. "No. I didn't think it was appropriate. Vince and Geoff did it. You'll be able to read their report." He jutted his chin out.
"Yeah, but Ray wanted to, didn't he?"
"Would you drop it already? This isn't your investigation, not this part, anyway."
Gene's hand shot up and thudded against Sam's chest. "Bite your tongue, Tyler! I bled for this investigation! It bloody well is mine! Christ! The shite I'm having to put up with! Hugs and nursemaiding and--fuck, Sam, I know more about their plans than all of you nancy-boys combined! You were all sitting on your arses, tossing back a pint and playing darts while I was eye to eye with Reynolds!"
Gene knew it wasn't fair even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, more coherent than the morass in his mind, the jumble of resentment and frustration and yearning and--yes, fear, he was goddamn bloody scared of not ever being himself again. It just wasn't fair, he hadn't felt this uncertain since his first month of National Service when he'd been like a colt just finding his feet, and that was when he'd been nowt but a boy, barely knew how to find his own tackle.
He wanted to say he was sorry, breathing hard and watching the light go out of Sam's eyes, the subtle tightening of muscles that said he was hurt and mad and would have punched Gene right back were it not for all the things that had happened over the last month. That was almost the worst thing, that Sam wasn't going to punch him--and then the lift dinged and the door creaked open. Ray was walking down the hall, and he stopped in his tracks for a moment before hurrying forward, a huge grin splitting his face.
"Guv! You're a sight for sore eyes!" He seemed dangerously close to repeating Phyllis' performance with the hug, but settled for punching Gene hard on the shoulder. "Gonna put those blaggers away for good, now you're back in action. Tyler's barely let me touch 'em, the nancy-boy."
"That's over now," Gene growled. "We're gonna get what we need from 'em, right swift like." This too wasn't fair. He'd as much as accused Sam of dragging his feet, and if anything it was Gene who had been dragging his. He hadn't wanted to think about it. It was easier to bluster and blame than to think.
***
Sam heard Gene belch. He turned, and crossed towards the rear entrance of the Railway Arms to Gene's table. He saw that Gene was looking tired. He was popping more of his painkillers and downed them with a glass of beer sitting on the table. Sam couldn't believe his eyes.
He sat across from Gene. “What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? I'll bring you some water.”
Gene looked up and stared at him. “It's celebration time, Bossy Boots. The lads have been buying me pints. Can't say no, can I?”
“When you were put on your pills by the doctor, you were told not to mix them with alcohol.”
“Yes--and?”
“Mixing alcohol with certain medications can cause nausea and vomiting, headaches, drowsiness, fainting or loss of coordination.” Sam reached over to take the pint.
“Been reading up on it, have you? Any road, I've had hangovers worse.”
“I'm concerned about you, Gene. All I want is to make sure you get well.”
Think you know more about it than I do, do you? Do me a favour, and mind your own bleeding business, Sam.” Gene pulled the pint back.
“If we're … together, it is my business.”
Gene gave him the look he reserved for nosey parkers. He stood up.
“Where are you going?” That look again. Being yelled at would have been preferable, Sam thought.
“I need to take a piss.”
Sam studied Gene's face. There was sweat on his forehead.
Gene sighed. “Don't tell me what to do, Sam. Fuck off and leave me alone, eh?” His tone of voice made it clear that the conversation was over, but he waved a fiver and tossed it on to the table. “Here. Buy yourself a pint, some forgiveness, whatever … “
Gene went off, and Sam crushed the note into his hand and walked over to the bar. He wanted nothing more than to sit by himself with a drink, and, as no one was paying any attention to him, it shouldn't be too difficult.
All that he'd received for his trouble had been another earful from Gene. Sam remembered sitting on this same stool weeks earlier. The pub had been full of coppers as usual. It had been warm. There had been the smell of aftershave and sweaty flesh, and a haze of cigarette smoke had hung in the air. Ray had walked toward him, drunk, his whole body wearing an attitude as familiar and comfortable to the sergeant as a worn pair of shoes. They'd had a heated exchange--weren't they always having a few words?--and Ray had picked a fight.
'Don't just sit there like the bastard you are. Stand up.'
'Listen, leave me alone, will you?'
'I'll knock you down, Tyler.'
'Don't touch me.'
He'd nearly got one until Nelson had intervened, waving a red flag. No fights in his pub.
Sam closed his eyes. Behind the bar a radio played Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. Blue Haze. The best cover. Even though the tempo of the song had been stepped-up, the lyrics were still melancholy, and, for a time, as Sam listened, there were no other sounds in the room.
Sam felt as though his energy was slipping slowly away; he hadn't been sleeping well and he could hardly get out of bed some days. With everything that had happened, the battles with Gene, the difficult time at work--it all was taking its toll.
“Tough day?”
Sam glanced up. The barman was leaning over the bar. His voice was both warm and businesslike. It didn't matter; Nelson had helped him many times, and Sam would confide in him again.
“I need a glass of whisky,” Sam answered without hesitation. “No ice.”
Nelson rang up the sale then poured Sam a single measure. He leaned forward again and placed it in front of Sam, studying him closely. Sam noticed that he was wearing a red shirt that clashed with his green velvet trousers.
“I bring out the worst in him,” Sam said.
“Mr. Hunt? Are things really that bad?”
Sam took a sip. He felt it burn and warm his insides. He nodded. “Barely tolerates me, these days.”
The barman stuck out his bottom lip. “He is full of anger.”
Sam shook his head. “The problem is what he doesn't say. Self-defense.”
“What are you going to do about it, Sam?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?” But Nelson's voice wasn't surprised--it was reassuring.
“He lets me get so far then he puts up a barrier. I hadn't counted on how stubborn he is.” Sam gave Nelson an apologetic half-smile. “I'm tired, is all.”
“Don't worry. You just have to try again.”
Sam couldn't help casting a look in Gene's direction. They exchanged glances. Gene rolled his eyes. He wouldn't go back to the station, Sam decided. Let them think what they liked. He needed to run, count every step as his feet hit the ground, feel the cool air tearing at his lungs. And while he ran, he would think.
There was a limit, even for Sam.
He was close to giving up.
***
At half three Gene felt like his brain was going to split in two. He cradled his head in his hands, eyeing the half-inch of whisky in the tumbler and wondering if it would be wise to toss it back. The names and details of the criminals he had spent those weeks living and working with crawled sluggishly through his memory. It was hard to separate the facts from the faces; the list of known activities kept being swamped by Geordie's sickening smile as he sank his fist into Gene's belly. Christ, but he was tired. Made it hard to keep his thoughts in order, hard to come up with any sort of plan.
There had been conversations going on all day, half-heard fragments of sentences, things he should have been hearing. The names of Carl's men, locations, facts. It had all been obscured by his homecoming, by their unending joy at seeing him. Pints at the pub for lunch, and he really ought to have held back but he couldn't say no when every man on his team wanted to stand him one. Sam had given him the nursemaid look and the speech about medications and alcohol and Gene had told him to bloody well fuck off into next week.
"Bollocking hell," he muttered to himself, pushed away from the desk and out into the main room. A lot of the men were out on the streets for one reason or another; it was quiet. Sam's desk was uncharacteristically messy with files and papers. Gene started sorting through the piles, trying to distract himself from the burn of tired muscles in his neck. He slowed to a stop when he came across Geordie Simpson's file. Damn the man. Sudden rage shot through him and he flipped furiously through the case files, scanning each one with burning intensity. At the last one he was swamped by a wave of dizziness, all sounds muffled as the name scorched itself into his memory: Carl Reynolds. He fumbled through the papers. There had to be something. Facts. Time of death. Manner of death. Photos. Something. He flipped through another three sheets and caught his breath.
Papers from Strangeways Prison. Hospitalization. Carl Reynolds. Questioned by Vince Lytts and Geoff Peters. Alive.
Heart pounding in his ears so loud he expected Leo to leap up from his desk in alarm, Gene stumbled toward the door, out and down the hallway, unsteady on his feet like he had been drinking all day. Bleeding hell. Royal buggering hell. His hand shook as he punched the lift button, but he got it on the third try. He didn't register any other sensation until he was in the Cortina, jabbing the key ineffectually against the ignition, and then he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep, shuddering breaths until he was able to hold his hand steady enough to start the car. There was a pistol on the passenger seat. He must have set it there, but he didn't even remember taking it from the building.
Bloody bastard Strangeways Prison, he thought to himself. Here I come. One shot for Carl Reynolds, right in the temple. And then? Sam. Sam knew the entire time. Oh good lord. Bollocking hell.