by Graham, Tom
At once, there was a new sound, emanating from somewhere far away. It was an incessant whistle – an inhuman, flat, dead tone – like a single sustained note played on a cheap electric organ.
‘Closedown,’ muttered Sam. ‘Is that what you’re saying? The programmes are all over? There’s nothing more?’ He shook his head and stood firm, raising his voice and yelling, ‘It’s not closedown yet, you hear me? There’s plenty more telly left in me. I ain’t switching my set off, not yet I’m not. Sam Tyler’s set is staying on.’
As if in angry response, there came a sudden clattering that made Sam spin round with a start. He saw something that resembled a collapsed deckchair lying in a heap a few yards to his right. Stepping warily towards it, he nudged it with the toe of his boot. It was inert; no apparent booby traps. But who could be sure – who could be really sure – of anything in a dream?
He lifted the thing up. It was a flimsy wooden easel. Attached to it was a small blackboard, upon which a game of noughts-and-crosses had recently been commenced; a grid of nine squares – a single nought, a single cross.
At the sight of it, Sam recalled at once where he had seen that grey and white pattern on the floor before. A blackboard. Noughts and crosses. Grids and lines. Graded squares.
‘I see,’ he said, letting the easel and blackboard fall from his hands. ‘So it’s you, is it? Of course it is.’ He raised his voice. ‘Show yourself, then. Come on. You’ve done your theatrics, now let’s see you face to face.’
Again, silence.
‘You’re wasting your time if you think you’re freaking me out, you little brat! I’ve had it up to here with your bloody mind games. So let’s get on with it. Show yourself. I said show yourself!’
And it was then that she did – popping into existence without a sound.
Despite his bravado, Sam felt a sudden tightening of the throat, an icy tingling of the nerves along his spine at the sight of the whey-faced little girl who now suddenly stood before him. She had been haunting him ever since his accident in 2006. She had insinuated herself into his coma, emerging from some foul and gloomy basement of the psyche, smiling her Mona Lisa smile as she urged Sam, over and over, to give up, to die, to let go of his frail grasp on life and allow death to wash over him. She had made her entrance into his mind via the television screen, emerging like a wraith from the TV test card, the dead signal that broadcast no message but its own emptiness. And, even now, in the depths of his dreams, she wrapped herself in the same blank iconography: the grey and white tiles, the striped diagonals, the easel, the blackboard, the sparse chalk zero and cross.
The props were the same, but now that the coma was over, and Sam was for ever in the world of 1973, the Test Card Girl herself had changed. Gone was the bright-red dress and matching headband. She was dressed all in black now – mourning black – with a big painted teardrop on each cheek. Changed too was the green dolly with a clown’s face she had always clutched. It was now swaddled in filthy, blood-speckled bandages from head to foot, like a hospital patient in a bad sitcom.
‘Something’s wrong with him,’ the girl said, looking down mournfully at her doll. ‘He fell from the shelf and now he’s all broken.’
The girl began to sing a lullaby to her bandaged baby:
Poor little dolly,
Wasn’t very jolly,
So he jumped and he fell
And he ended up in hell
Where he cried and he cried like a silly old molly.
From behind her, a bulbous black shape the size of a human head floated upwards. After a few feet it stopped, bobbing and rocking on the end of the string that tethered it to the girl’s wrist. Sam saw now that it was a jet-black helium balloon, like a novelty prize carried home from death’s fairground.
‘You’ve done it this time, Sam,’ the girl said, raising infinitely sad eyes towards him. ‘You threw it all away. No going back now. All broken. All dead. You poor little dolly. You weren’t very jolly. So you jumped and you fell and you ended up in—’
Sam cut her short by grabbing the wooden easel and blackboard and hurling them hard against the tiled floor. The flimsy wooden limbs of the easel shattered.
‘Always breaking things, aren’t you, Sam?’ the girl said.
‘I want you out of my life,’ Sam said, aiming his finger at her. He squared his shoulders and glared at her.
‘But you don’t have a life, Sam.’
‘Oh yes I do. More than I’ve ever done. And I’m not going to let you waltz into it, playing king of the jungle.’
‘Are you trying to sound tough, Sam? Are you trying to sound like him?’
‘I’m not trying to sound like anyone. This is me talking, you understand? I’m telling you you’ve had your chance with me. You’ve been onto me right from the start, hounding me to give up and die. But I beat you. I beat you.’
‘But you didn’t beat me, Sam. You’re dead. You died.’
‘Open your eyes, you spiteful rat!’ Sam bellowed at her, seeing through the little-girl disguise and perceiving the dark, deadly reality burning within. ‘I’m still here, see? I’m still here! So you can take your blackboard and your toys and your pathetic innuendoes and get back to the filthy subconscious cesspit you crawled out of!’
‘Your poor mother,’ the girl said softly.
‘My mother’s nothing to do with you.’
‘She has to live with what you did.’
‘I did what I had to do.’
‘All the time, she asks herself, “Was there something I could have done? Was there something I could have done?”’
‘I know what you’re doing, you conniving little bitch, and it’s not going to work, you hear me?’
‘She blames herself, Sam. She’ll never stop blaming herself. You broke her poor heart.’
‘I know what you are,’ Sam said, keeping his voice low and controlled. ‘I know what you’re doing. It’s all you can manage, isn’t it – sticking the knife in, twisting it? Guilt. Regret. Fear. That’s all you’ve got to work with. But you see? I’m not listening. I’m not listening!’
‘She didn’t deserve to have her heart broken, Sam. Not your poor old mum.’
‘I told you to scram!’ Sam bellowed, and turned sharply away – and at once was confronted by the Test Card Girl standing directly in front of him. He let out a cry and jumped back.
‘And then there’s poor Maya,’ she said. ‘You think it didn’t affect her too, you killing yourself? You and she had been so close, Sam. How could it not have hurt her, what you did?’
Maya. Maya Roy. It was a name from the past – or, rather, the future. It was Maya he had been with in 2006, the two of them working together and living together, their relationship buckling under the strain of never being apart. Sharing an office, sharing a home, sharing a bed, sharing the tensions and boredoms and frustrations of life in CID had worn their relationship down until there was nothing left but raw nerves and bickering. Sam and Maya had ended up feeling more like cellmates than lovers, cooped up together round the clock, the strain of their work hammering the hell out of whatever bond there was between them.
‘Even if you didn’t think of your mum, you should have thought of poor Maya, Sam,’ the girl said. ‘You should have given her a thought, before you did what you did. Before you jumped.’
‘I was thinking of Maya,’ Sam answered. ‘I was thinking of Maya when that bloody car slammed into me in 2006 and put me here in the first place. I knew it was over between us – or as near as damn it. I didn’t want to face the end. I didn’t want to believe that I was just like all those other coppers I knew, with their wrecked marriages and buggered-up family lives. I wanted to believe the job wouldn’t split us up. I wanted to believe that me and Maya had something stronger than that.’
‘Maybe Maya wanted to believe that too.’
‘No. She knew it was over. At least, later on she did. She left me, when I was in the hospital, when I was unconscious. She came to the bedside, I heard her, s
he told me it was over. She— Wait a bloody minute, you’re eight years old. What the hell do you know about relationships?’
Rocking the sick dolly in the cradle of her arms, the Test Card Girl said very softly, ‘I’m not eight, Sam. I’m very, very old.’
‘Maya and me, it’s finished,’ said Sam defensively. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her or anyone else by coming back here. I just wanted … I just wanted to find …’
‘Annie.’
‘Yes. And other things. But Annie most of all.’
‘Do you want her to be your girlfriend?’
The Test Card Girl sang the word almost mockingly: giiirl-fwend.
‘What’s it to you, you little maggot?’ snapped Sam. ‘You’re just a wretched gremlin running round my head trying to make me give up.’
She was indeed – and she was good at her job. Sam could already feel the seeds of doubt taking root in him. Had he done the right thing coming back here? Was there really any future for him and Annie? If he worked to build a relationship between them – if they became a true couple, if they moved in together and began making commitments – would it all simply turn into a sad replay of his life with Maya? Would the job get between them? Would the same mistakes be made, the same unhappiness befall them? Were the chances of their having a life together doomed from the start?
‘No. No, we’re not doomed,’ Sam said with conviction. ‘Not this time. This time, I’m going to play it right. I came back to 1973 for a reason. I’m not going to throw it all away.’
‘Throw it all away,’ the Test Card Girl echoed. ‘You threw it all away when you jumped, Sam. No going back now. All broken. All dead.’
‘Get out of my head, you little creep. I’m warning you.’
The black balloon bobbed ominously above her head as the girl’s voice went from a singsong tone to a bell-like chime: all broken – all dead – all broken – all dead.
‘Get out and stay out!’
All broken – all dead – all br—
The chiming voice resolved into the incessant ringing of a telephone. Sam found himself crunched up at the foot of his mattress, tangled in a net of damp blankets. He sat for a moment staring into the darkness, the telephone trilling at him harshly. Then he disentangled himself from the blankets, padded across the floor and reached the phone just as it rang off.
‘Shit!’
He lifted the receiver and dialled 1471 – then remembered where he was, that number recall was still many years in the future, that this was still the bloody Dark Ages. He slammed down the phone.
Touching his forehead, he found he was pouring with sweat, so he headed into the little bathroom and freshened himself up. In the mirror, his face stared back at him, pale, hollow-eyed, like a man on his sickbed.
‘I’m through with sickbeds,’ he told his reflection. ‘It’s time to live, now. To really live.’
Dashing cold water on his face, he found himself using thoughts of Annie to blot out the memory of his horrible dream. He wished, deeply, that she were here with him tonight, that he would find her tucked up and sleeping soundly in the bed when returned to it.
Checking the time, he saw that it was barely 3 a.m., way too early to call her.
Unless that was her just now, he thought, trying to call me.
All at once, he felt certain that it had been. With a sudden rush of excitement, he hurried out of the bathroom and over to the phone, dialling Annie’s number and listening hopefully to the ring tone.
‘You knew it was me, didn’t you,’ she said when she picked up. ‘Are you psychic or something?’
‘I don’t need to be psychic,’ said Sam. ‘I can always tell when it’s you who’s calling. The ring tone always sounds prettier.’
‘That’s the greasiest chat-up line I’ve had in years. Have you been taking lessons from Ray?’
‘Let’s not talk about Ray. How are you, Annie? Can’t sleep?’
‘Not for long. Can’t settle. Nightmares.’
‘About what, Annie? Do you remember?’
‘Sort of. Bits and pieces.’
‘Was there a little girl? With a doll and a balloon?’
‘No,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t know. It was just daft stuff, Sam, I can’t remember what happened. I just remember how it made me feel – really sad, like I was lost and far away from home. I know it sounds childish.’
‘It doesn’t sound childish at all,’ said Sam. ‘Believe me.’
‘I didn’t like it,’ Annie went on. ‘I woke up frightened.’ She laughed. ‘I’m in CID, I nick villains for a living, I have Gene Hunt for a guv’nor, and what frightens me the most is some silly dream I can’t even remember. I haven’t been so scared by a dream since I were a kid, Sam. And that’s why I rang you. I just had to hear your voice.’
‘I’m glad you called, Annie. I need to see you. Right now. We need to talk.’
‘Then let’s do it, Sam. Instead of just talking about talking, let’s actually do some talking.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Sam grinned.
‘Stay right there, I’m coming over,’ said Annie.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Sam. ‘I’m coming over to you.’
He couldn’t let her see his place like this – it was a total pigsty.
‘I can’t let you see my place, Sam,’ said Annie. ‘It’s a total pigsty.’
‘Then it sounds like we’re made for each other.’
‘I mean it, Sam. I’d die of shame.’
‘I promise I won’t be shocked. Stay right there, Annie, I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘If you come over now, at three in the morning, does that count as a date? I mean, officially?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Depends what transpires.’
‘Well, I thought we were going to do nothing but talk.’
‘Yes. Yes, we are. Of course we are.’
‘You sound disappointed now,’ said Annie, and he could hear that she was grinning. ‘Were you hoping for something more?’
‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, you know, scary dreams and all that. Makes you want to have somebody close by to cuddle.’
‘It does,’ said Sam. ‘But I can’t talk about this over the phone. Let’s discuss it further round at your place. I mean, we make a good team at CID.’
‘We do.’
‘Maybe we might make a good team in other ways.’
‘A dynamic duo,’ Annie suggested.
‘Batman and Robin,’ Sam added.
‘Laurel and Hardy,’ said Annie.
‘Morecambe and Wise,’ countered Sam.
‘Abbot and Costello.’
‘Little and Large.’
‘Who?’ asked Annie.
Sam laughed and said, ‘Absolutely, Annie! Who indeed?’
From outside came a dull, resonant boom. The flat shuddered. The lampshade hanging from the ceiling slowly rocked, shaking free a small cloud of dust. Sam froze, listening. The sound rolled away like thunder. But it hadn’t been thunder.
‘Did you hear that, Annie?’
‘I heard something. What was it?’
‘Sounded like an explosion.’
Holding the phone, Sam rushed to the window and peered out into the dark night. Far away, he glimpsed a hint of orange light flickering against the starless sky.
‘Something’s kicked off,’ said Sam.
‘IRA?’
‘Or Red Hand Faction, take your pick. God, it looks serious. Call the guv. I’m going straight there to see what’s happened. Tell him I’ll meet him there.’
‘I’ll meet you there, too,’ said Annie.
‘No.’
‘Why not? I thought we were Batman and Robin?’
‘Please, Annie. Stay put. I don’t want you there.’
‘No place for a soppy bird, is that it?’
‘Annie, you know that’s not—’
‘I know, I know, I’d get in the way of you boys.’
‘For G
od’s sake, Annie, I’m not Gene Hunt,’ said Sam, clamping the phone between his jaw and his shoulder as he struggled to get dressed. ‘Please – I’d be much happier knowing you were well out of it.’
Sirens began wailing in the street outside, racing to the scene of the explosion. Sam fought his way into his shirt while still trying to speak into the phone.
‘Will you do this for me, Annie? Will you stay put?’
‘Only if you promise to take care of yourself out there, Sam,’ said Annie.
‘I promise,’ said Sam.
‘Don’t say it like that, Sam. It sounds patronising.’
‘I promise – I promise. Now get onto the guv and tell him we’ve got trouble.’
‘Do be really careful, Sam,’ said Annie, and she put down the receiver.
Sam ran through the dark streets, making for the dull orange glow lighting up the sky ahead. Reaching a main road, he saw flashing blue lights, fire engines, streams of water blasting from hoses, the dark shapes of firemen hurrying to and fro in front of a burning building. Across from the fire, the wrecked skeleton of a parked car was ferociously ablaze, its twisted bonnet thrust upwards, doors flung open from the force of the explosion that had burst from within.
As he drew closer, Sam saw the familiar shape of the Cortina parked defiantly in front of the inferno. Standing beside it was the solid, slablike silhouette of Gene Hunt, his thumbs hooked into his belt, a slim panatella clamped between his teeth, his gaze fixed on the blazing chaos before him.
Panting, Sam raced up to him.
‘Investment bank – what’s left of it,’ Gene intoned, his teeth clenched around the end of his cigar.
‘A blow against the capitalist system?’ suggested Sam. ‘The Red Hand Faction showing some muscle?’
‘IRA, RHF, what’s the bloody difference?’ said Gene. ‘A car bomb blows people’s arms and legs off just the same, no matter which loony hits the trigger.’
‘Casualties?’
‘Amazingly, it doesn’t look like it. Won’t know for sure until the emergency boys sift through this mess. But for now it looks like the place was empty. But just imagine all that lot going off in the rush hour, Sam – or in the middle of Old Trafford, or down the Arndale Centre on a Saturday afternoon.’ He snorted smoke angrily from his nostrils like a bull about to charge. ‘Barbarians,’ he said.
