by Graham, Tom
And her friend is nowhere to be seen
As she walks through a sunken dream
‘You know who you are and where you are,’ Sam told himself, looking his reflection firmly in the eye. ‘You are where you belong. Right here. This is your home.’
His home. Nineteen seventy-three. How strange and alien it had felt when he had first crash-landed here, alone and disoriented like a man from Mars. He had hunted through his pockets for the familiar props of the twenty-first century – the mobile, the BlackBerry, the sheaf of plastic debit cards – and found nothing but ten-pence pieces the size of doubloons and an ID card informing him that he was no longer a DCI but a detective inspector transferred down to Manchester from Hyde. He had tugged at his winged shirt collars and the tops of the Chelsea boots that he found himself wearing, and blundered like a zombie through the once-familiar police station that should have been buzzing with PC terminals and air-conditioning units but was now heavy with the clacking of typewriters and the sparking-up of cigarette lighters.
‘This is my office – here!’ he had bellowed, surrounded by blank, uncomprehending faces. ‘This is my department! What have you done with it?’
The answer had not come from the men staring at him. It had come in the form of a deep, phlegmy rumble, and the sound of heavy feet scraping across the floor. The man had turned, and there, lurking like an ogre in the smoke-filled den of his office, had been his new DCI – Gene Hunt, the guv – the shaven stubble of his neck red and inflamed from the raw alcohol that passed as aftershave, his belly bulging at the buttons of his nylon shirt, his stained fingers forever reaching for the next packet of fags, or the next glass of Scotch, or the next villain’s windpipe. He had introduced Sam to his new department with a breathtaking blow to the stomach – ‘Don’t you ever waltz into my kingdom acting king of the jungle!’ – and oriented him in Time and Space with a little less technical detail than Einstein or Hawking. ‘It’s 1973. Almost dinnertime. I’m ’avin’ hoops.’ And Sam, slowly but surely, had come to realize that he could be happy here. This place had life – hot, stinking, roaring, filthy, balls-to-the-wall life.
It also had Annie.
Sam ran water into the basin and splashed it across his face, thinking of Annie Cartwright. From the very moment he’d first met her, he had felt a connection, a conviction that, of all the strange characters populating his new world, she was the one he could trust the most. And in time she had become the bright heart of his universe around which everything else orbited. It was her as much as anything else in this place that he had missed so bitterly when he had returned to 2006, and it was her face that had been foremost in his mind when he had leapt so joyfully from the rooftop and plunged back into 1973. The future – his future – was with her. No question of that. He had thrown away his own time and his old life to ensure that.
And yet, night after night, the dreams battered away at him, always telling him the same thing: that he had no future, least of all with Annie; that coming back here had been a terrible mistake, far more catastrophic than he could imagine; that what life he had here in 1973 was destined to end in ruin and pain and utter despair.
‘Just dreams,’ he told his reflection. ‘Meaningless.’
But something deep within him seemed to say, Ah, but you know that’s not the case.
‘I have a future.’
You know that’s not true.
‘And it’s with Annie. We’ll be together. And we’ll be happy.’
Sam, Sam, you can’t kid yourself for ever.
‘We’ll make it, me and Annie – no one, and nothing, is going to stop us.’
Bash! Bash! Bash!
A fist pounded massively at the door like gunfire.
‘Who the hell is it?’ Sam shouted.
An all-too-familiar voice bellowed through the keyhole back at him. ‘Sorry to interrupt any intimate encounters you might be enjoying with Madam Palm and her five daughters, Sammy, but I just thought you might find the time to nick a few villains.’
Sam sighed, padded over to the front door and opened it. Filling the doorway loomed a barrel-chested grizzly bear dressed in a camelhair coat and off-white tasselled loafers. The reek of stale Woodbines and Blue Stratos shimmered about him like a heat haze. His black, string-backed driving gloves creaked as his implacable hands flexed and clenched. Peering down at Sam as if unsure whether to ignore him completely or batter him into the ground like a tent peg, this rock-solid, monstrous, nylon-clad Viking narrowed his cold eyes and jutted out his unbreakable chin.
This was him. This was the man. This was the guv. This was DCI Gene Hunt. Up close to him like this, eclipsed by his massive shadow, Sam felt vulnerable and absurd dressed in nothing but a T-shirt and shorts.
‘Fetchin’ little outfit, Sambo,’ Hunt intoned. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’
‘Actually, Guv, I was contemplating a metaphysical dilemma.’
‘I hope you flushed afterwards.’ He swept past Sam and planted himself in the middle of the flat. The room seemed too small to contain him. He glared around him, his brooding glance seeming almost powerful enough to shatter windows. He rolled his shoulders, stuck out his chest and tilted his head, making the vertebrae of his neck give off an audible crack. ‘Excuse the early-morning house call, Tyler, but duty is calling. We got a shout. A to-do. A right bleedin’ incident.’
‘What sort of incident?’ asked Sam, hopping into his trousers.
‘Terrorists.’
‘IRA?’
‘No – disgruntled Avon ladies. Of course it’s the bloody IRA, Sam. Now zip your knickers up and get yourself decent.’
‘Any chance of you giving me a few details about what’s happening, Guv?’ asked Sam, shrugging on his black leather jacket. ‘Or have we got another couple of hours of sarcasm to get through first?’
‘Don’t get shirty, Mildred,’ said Gene, turning on his heel and leading the way out through the door. ‘I’ll fill you in on the way. It’ll take your mind off my driving.’
CHAPTER TWO
A MESSAGE IN RED
Tyres screamed. Grey, urban streets flashed past. Gene floored the gas as Sam floored an imaginary brake pedal.
‘Right, pay attention,’ Gene ordered, flinging the wheel recklessly back and forth as he weaved through the traffic. ‘We got a warning phoned through a little under an hour ago saying there was a pack of high explosives rigged up and ready to go pop in the local council records office.’
‘Was an IRA codeword given?’ asked Sam.
‘No, but we’re not taking any chances,’ said Gene. ‘There’s been a lot of angry Paddies on the move recently. We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, so we’re assuming it’s the real thing.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Sam. ‘But what about Bomb Disposal?’
Gene shrugged.
‘And what does that shrug mean, Guv? We need Bomb Disposal down here. They should be dealing with this.’
‘We’re still waiting for them bone-idle bastards to get ’emselves out of bed,’ growled Gene, flagrantly roaring through a red light.
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘Well, until they deign to show up and start snipping wires, this is our shout.’
‘Guv, we’re not qualified to start messing about with explosives.’
‘And neither are they. You ever met any of them Bomb Disposal ’erberts? Half of ’em can’t even read.’
‘We need to cordon off the records office and keep the area secure until Bomb Disposal and Special Branch show up,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a terrorist incident. That’s their jurisdiction.’
‘Their “jurisdiction”? Nicking villains, Sammy-boy, that’s my jurisdiction, no matter what shape, size, colour or flavour they come in. Bombs and bastards and big blokes with shooters, it’s all the same to me. And I don’t plan sitting around on my pert and perfectly formed arse waiting for Special Branch to saunter over, not when things are kicking off right under my nose. So if you don’t mind, Tyler�
� – the Cortina tilted noisily onto two wheels as Gene belted round a tight corner and Sam gripped the dashboard – ‘just remember which one of us two is the boss. You diddlin’?’
‘Guv, you can’t muck about, not where Special Branch are concer—’
Gene threw the Cortina ferociously around another tight bend, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence.
‘You didn’t answer my question, Tyler. I said are you diddlin’?’
Sam backed down. ‘I’m diddlin’, Guv.’
‘Lovely lad.’
The Cortina howled on, bouncing and veering at breakneck pace, until the drab, grey shape of the council records office appeared up ahead, standing out against the hard Manchester sky. Police cars were skewed across the road. Uniformed coppers were busy stringing up blue police cordons and trying to shepherd the already growing crowd of curious gawpers.
Gene gunned the engine, powering forward recklessly and sending people scattering out of the way like frightened rabbits. When he hit the brakes and brought the car to a lurching stop, Sam found that he had been holding his breath.
Gene shot him a glance. ‘Woken up now, have we?’
‘It still feels like a nightmare to me,’ said Sam, as he clambered out of the car.
Striding with Gene through the uniformed officers and rubbernecking sightseers, Sam spotted DS Ray Carling and DC Chris Skelton. Ray had wrenched his tie loose and flung open the top two buttons of his blue, wing-collared shirt to reveal a masculine flash of blond chest hair. He was in his element, barking orders at the uniformed coppers and snapping at the public to get their ruddy arses back, back, back! Beside him was the youthful Chris, his dark hair flopping anxiously across his left eye, his knitted tank-top already darkening with sweat as he rushed about assisting Ray. He looked overwhelmed and fretful, as if he was expecting the crowd to suddenly rise up and lynch him at any moment, or for the council offices to suddenly go nuclear and blow them all to kingdom come.
For a moment, Sam recalled how Chris and Ray had appeared to him in his nightmare. Their taunts echoed momentarily through his mind:
You’re not in 1973. You’re in hell.
And then he saw Chris struggling to stop a kid on a Chopper bike from getting under the police cordon, and Ray shovelling stick after stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth as he strutted about aggressively jabbing his finger and bellowing orders, and all at once the menace they had possessed in the dream evaporated like morning dew.
Forget those damned dreams, Sam told himself. It’s just Chris and Ray, your old team. And you, Sam, you’re a copper, you’ve got a job to do.
Gene cruised forward, shoulders pushed back, belly sucked in. He back-handed the kid on the Chopper out of the way, ducked under the police tape, and surveyed the records office.
‘Speak to me, Ray. What’s the score? Anyone inside that place?’
‘The building’s evacuated, Guv,’ said Ray. ‘Leastways, it’s meant to be. Chris reckons he saw somebody up at one of the windows.’
‘I can’t swear to it,’ said Chris. ‘I thought I saw a bloke up there moving about, dead calm like.’
‘Could be one of the morning cleaners,’ said Sam.
‘Maybe,’ said Chris, frowning and looking confused. ‘Or it might just have been a reflection … You know, a seagull or summat like that.’
‘A seagull?’ snapped Ray. ‘You never said you thought it was a seagull.’
‘I didn’t think it was a seagull, not at the time.’
‘You said it were definitely a bloke, Chris.’
‘Yeah, I did. It were definitely a bloke – or a seagull.’
‘Can’t you tell the difference?’
‘Normally. But the more I try to remember, the less certain I am.’
‘Well, did it have a mop and bucket or a beak and bloody wings?’
‘I don’t know now, Ray. It’s doing my head in. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’
Sam peered hard at the rows of windows, and then, quite suddenly, he glimpsed something move.
‘You were quite right, Chris,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s a fella up there. Second floor, three windows in from the edge of the building.’
Everybody looked. A man was moving about in a second-floor window, making no attempt to hide himself.
Chris’s expression went from one of screwed-up confusion to self-satisfaction in an instant. ‘See? See? I were right. I said it were a bloke, Guv. I said so. Dead observant, me – eagle-eyed, you know.’
‘Eagles, seagulls,’ muttered Gene. ‘Cancel Bomb Disposal and get Johnny Morris down here, pronto.’
Up on the second floor, a window opened and the figure leant out. It was a man, dressed in black overalls, his face completely hidden beneath a black balaclava. In the eyeholes of the balaclava glinted little circles of light – he was wearing a pair of wire-framed John Lennon glasses.
At the sight of him, Sam felt a cold shiver run up his spine. That was no cleaner, and it was certainly no early-morning council worker going through the files. It was a terrorist.
‘What the hell’s he still doing in the building?’ Sam said.
‘Planting a bomb?’ suggested Chris.
‘Well obviously, Chris – but the IRA prefer blowing up other people rather than themselves.’
‘The dopey Paddy must’ve ballsed it up,’ growled Ray.
‘Maybe he’s new,’ said Chris. ‘Hasn’t quite got the hang of it.’
‘And maybe you lot should shut up and take cover,’ Gene suddenly intoned. ‘Get your heads down!’
The man in the balaclava had suddenly thrust the long muzzle of an assault rifle out of the open window and was peering through the sight directly at them. Sam threw himself to the left; Ray and Chris threw themselves to the right. Gene stood motionless, unblinking, as bullets whined down and smacked into the pavement about his feet. Rounds slammed into the police patrol cars parked across the road; the titchy, mint-coloured police Austin 1300s rocked and shuddered as wing mirrors shattered and tyres blew out.
The crowd of gawpers now screamed and surged back; coppers lost their helmets in the crush; the police cordon was ripped and went trailing away like fallen bunting.
‘Get everybody back!’ yelled Sam, scrambling behind a police car for cover. ‘Gene! For God’s sake, get down!’
Unhurriedly, Gene strode over to the car and crouched behind it; all the time, he kept his eyes fixed on the man with the rifle.
‘Stinking Paddy bastard,’ he said. ‘There’s no bomb in that building. It was just a trap to get us in close so he could take pot shots.’
Already his black-gloved hand had reached beneath the folds of his coat to grasp the solid stock and trigger of his Magnum .45. He straightened up, steadied his aim on the roof of the patrol car, and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. The Magnum roared and kicked. Glass exploded from the open window. The man in the balaclava ducked away.
‘I’m taking control of this situation,’ intoned Gene. ‘Right now.’
Holding aloft the smoking Magnum, he went to rush forward, but Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him back.
‘Guv, wait.’
‘Mitts off the camelhair, Tyler.’
‘We need to keep everything contained and under control,’ Sam urged him. ‘We need to clear the area of civilians, ensure the gunman remains inside the building, set up a cordon and sit tight until Bomb Disposal and armed backup arrive.’
‘Cobblers, you faggot. All we need is this’ – Gene waved the Magnum in Sam’s face – ‘and a little of that ol’ Genie black magic.’
‘Guv, stop behaving like a bloody—’
But Hunt had heard enough. He tore free of Sam and went racing forward, his camelhair coat billowing after him like a huge set of nicotine-stained wings.
‘Gene, don’t be a bloody hero,’ Sam cried after him. ‘Wait for Special Branch. Guv! Guv!’
But even as he called out, he knew that he had no choice, that there was only one thing he could do. Cursi
ng his guv’nor under his breath, he grabbed a state-of-the-art, police-issue radio from Ray. It was bigger than a house brick. Sam wedged the cumbersome contraption into his belt.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered. ‘Be on standby. And keep everybody back.’
And before he could change his mind, he broke cover, sprinting after Gene.
As he ran he saw Gene up ahead, charging like a bull elephant, the Magnum raised and straining for action. The guv slammed into the front doors of the record office and disappeared inside. Sam pounded in after him, drawing his own pistol and tensing for trouble. He darted through the doors and skidded to a halt in the deserted hallway. From outside came the sounds of panic and screaming and bellowing policemen.
Gene gave Sam a sour look. ‘If you think I’m gonna stand here listening to yet more of your Mary, Mungo and Midge about waiting for backup, you’re even dopier than the front of your head suggests, Tyler. I’m going right up them stairs to nail me a Paddy bastard, and that, Samuel, is called law enforcement.’
‘I know I can’t stop you, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘But I can’t let you deal with this alone.’
‘Very neighbourly. But if you’re going to tag along, Sammy-boy, you’re going to have to try keeping your cakehole zipped, you read me?’
‘I read you, Guv.’
‘I don’t want no messing about, Sam,’ hissed Gene, suddenly leaning close. ‘No warnings, no orders to freeze. We find that murdering Bogside bastard, we blag him, we go for a pint. Got it?’
‘We can’t do that,’ Sam said.
‘You told me you’d keep it zipped, so zip it!’
‘We can’t open fire without giving due warning, Guv. That’s procedure.’
‘We’re CID, you milky tit. We’ll do what we have to.’
‘No, Gene – unlike the IRA, we play by the rules. That’s what makes them the bad guys and us the law.’
‘I am the law, Bo Peep, and you’ll damn well play this my way.’
‘But Guv, there’s a bomb in this building, primed to explode.’
Gene puffed out his chest and said, ‘You bet your bollocks there is, and he ain’t in the mood to argue. Now – cover me.’
