by Graham, Tom
‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘But, um – next time you want to risk everybody’s lives like that, give us some warning, yes?’ He turned to Michael Deery, who was busy hugging his daughter and said, ‘Well, Mickey, you’ve got your kid back safe and sound as promised, and we’ve got what we came for – Peter Verden. You go your way, spud – you and your buddies up on deck – and let us go ours, and we’ll say no more about it, comprende?’
‘That’ll do for me,’ said Deery.
‘Right, then,’ said Gene. ‘Take your brat, clear off, and teach her how to kill British soldiers, you filthy bastard.’
‘Maybe I’ll teach her something better than that,’ said Deery, hugging Mary even tighter. He looked from Gene to Sam, and for a moment he seemed on the brink of saying thank you. But, suddenly, his jaw dropped.
A shot rang out and Peter Verden’s face exploded, flinging blood and brains up the wall he was slumped against. A second later, Carol Waye stuck the barrel of the gun into her mouth, clicked back the hammer with her thumb, and pulled the trigger. Her head jerked back, and down she went. She had saved her beloved idol from captivity, cheated the sworn enemy of their prize and their vengeance, and then joined him in the glamour of a martyr’s death.
In the ensuing moments of stunned silence, the only sound was Mary’s hysterical crying, muffled as Michael pressed her face into his body to hide her eyes from the scene.
Gene looked from Verden’s corpse to Carol’s, and back again.
‘Bloody hippy student pinko cowards!’ he roared, and stormed out, clattering noisily back up the metal staircase to hurl more racist abuse at the IRA men up on deck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MIND GAMES
Sam and Annie, Chris and Ray, and of course DCI Gene Hunt had convened – where else? – at the Railway Arms. The job was done. The case was closed. All that remained was to get hammered.
From the speakers on the wall, John Lennon sang about ‘Mind Games’.
‘So, Guv,’ said Ray, passing out pints to the boys and a vinegary white wine to Annie. ‘The Jensen. Are you two going steady now?’
‘Ships that pass in the night,’ said Gene. He jangled the keys to the repaired and refitted Cortina, then planted them firmly back in his pocket. ‘We’ll say no more about it.’
‘Pity,’ said Chris. ‘The Interceptor’s a beautiful motor, Guv. Great curves.’
‘You’ll find as you get older that great curves aren’t everything, Chris,’ Gene intoned wisely. And then, to Annie, ‘Not that great curves are anything you need to worry about, Olive.’
‘That’s no way to talk to a lady,’ put in Sam. ‘You’re an ill-mannered sod, Gene, with all the chivalry of a pork scratching.’
‘But the body of a latter-day Adonis, so no one’s complaining,’ announced Gene. With great manliness he lifted his pint, quaffed half of it, and smacked his frothy lips.
Listening to Lennon in the background singing about ‘peace on earth’, Sam found himself thinking of Michael Deery and the three survivors of his IRA team. For a brief, deluded moment, when they were all together on the bloodstained deck of the Capella after the shootout, Sam had believed – really believed – that their fleeting alliance might last. Having fought side by side for a common cause, could these two implacable enemies find some scrap of unity between them? Could they start talking instead of shooting and bombing? Could the course of the bloody, violent, grief-stricken years between now and the future Good Friday Agreement be changed? Could this momentary alliance between IRA and CID be the beginning of the end of the Troubles?
It had been a dream. Michael Deery and his team had vanished, taking their fallen comrade with them. They had also taken the guns and explosives that the RHF had blackmailed them out of.
‘Them bullets,’ Gene had said, watching one of the IRA men loading up crates full of rounds. ‘Got the names of British soldiers on ’em, haven’t they?’
The IRA man had fixed him with a silent look, eyes glinting in the holes of his balaclava. It was beneath him to trade insults with a British copper.
Sam had tried to find a moment to speak to Mary, to tell her how brave she’d been, to wish her well. But the girl had shrunk away from him when he’d approached, howling and hugging her father.
‘She still doesn’t like my accent,’ Sam said.
‘Neither do I,’ Michael Deery had replied. But something about him had changed. Perhaps he’d lost his belly for fighting and bloodshed – God knew, there’d been enough of that aboard the Capella. Perhaps he’d turn away from the armed struggle, and encourage his daughter to do the same. But, if that was the case, he wasn’t about to admit to it, not here, not with his IRA unit looking on.
Now, in the smoky snug of the Railway Arms, Sam clinked glasses with Annie and the boys, and secretly toasted a better future. The world’s troubles were too big for Sam Tyler to sort out, and even too big for Gene Hunt. All they could do was play their part, however small, and hope for the best.
From the loud speakers above the bar, Lennon urged them to keep playing those mind games, to have faith in the future …
‘You said it, John.’
‘What was that, Sammy-boy?’
‘Nothing, Guv.’
Nelson kept the pints coming and the evening got boozier. Gene and Ray got louder. Chris got unsteadier. Annie made her ghastly wine last for hours, and was obviously keen to be with Sam in private. Sam was about to suggest that the two of them sidle over to a quiet corner away from the boys, when he caught sight of something at the window. It was a small, pale face, looking in from the night – a little girl’s face, with a teardrop painted on each cheek. The girl pouted and lifted her hand. She held up a limp length of string, on the end of which dangled the popped remnants of her black balloon.
Sam looked across the pub at her, but this time he felt no fear, no panic, no suffocation. He even smiled.
What’s done is done, he thought. I’ve made my choice, and no one can change that. The future Sam Tyler is asleep in his grave, but that’s not me. I’m here, I’m awake, I’m alive – I’m alive, and I’m going to stay that way for as long as possible.
The girl in the window slowly shook her head as she retreated and vanished into the darkness outside.
I’m free now, Sam thought. That feeling of not belonging, of needing to be somewhere else – somewhere important – has gone. It was the call of the future, trying to drag me into the grave. But I resisted. And I won! I can be me now. I can be at home here. I can live.
He looked at Annie and smiled. She smiled back.
We can live. Together. Me and Annie. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to better than fine. It’s going to be wonderful!
He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did he felt a sudden iciness sweep through him. The sounds in the pub receded, became muffled. Everything was running in slow motion. The light became hazier. Behind the bar, Nelson turned and fixed Sam with a strange and knowing look.
As if moving through treacle, Sam struggled to turn to Annie – but, as he did, he glimpsed something that made his heart freeze in his chest. Annie was sitting right beside him, holding her glass of wine; but now the glass was filled not with wine but with blood. It curdled and began foaming over the edge of the glass, pouring over Annie’s hand and running down her arm. Still smiling, still looking right at him, Annie lifted her glass in slow motion and took a drink. The thick blood gushed down her chin, drenching her blouse. Over her shoulder, a black balloon bobbed at the window.
‘No!’ Sam cried, and he lunged forward.
White wine went flying all over Annie’s blouse. Everybody stopped and stared. Sam froze.
‘What the hell was that?’ Annie cried at him, leaping to her feet. Her drink was dripping off her. Where it had drenched her top the fabric clung to her body, clearly revealing her bra beneath.
‘I can see her bazookas!’ Chris shouted, gawping without shame.
‘If you just can’t wait, boss,
at least take her off to the bogs,’ grinned Ray.
Gene said nothing; his expression was inscrutable.
Annie flashed a furious, confused look at Sam, then grabbed her handbag and made a dash for the ladies’.
His head still spinning from his vision, Sam called after her, ‘Annie! Annie, I love you! I don’t want to lose you! I’m frightened that’s what I was seeing – that I was losing you! I panicked! Don’t go! I love you, Annie!’
The door of the ladies’ banged shut. Sam found himself standing in the middle of a now silent pub, surrounded by staring faces. He turned, very slowly, and faced his work colleagues at the bar. For once, they said nothing – just stared, a row of wordless faces. Silently, Sam stared back.
‘White folks!’ said Nelson, shaking his dreadlocks, and he whacked up some Bob Marley to get everyone back in the drinking mood.
THE END
Gene Hunt will return in
A FISTFUL OF KNUCKLES
About the Author
Tom Graham left school at 14 without qualifications. He is a smoker, and says that writing the Life on Mars novels is the nearest thing he’s had to a regular job since he got banned from driving. He part-owns a greyhound called Arthur and his ambition is to get fruity with Raquel Welch (to be clear about it, that’s Tom’s ambition, not Arthur’s).
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © Kudos Film and Television Limited 2012
Cover image produced by Owen Freeman with the kind permission of John Simm and Philip Glenister.
Tom Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Life On Mars? c.1971 David Bowie
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EPub Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 978 0 00 747257 4
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Tom Graham, author of Life on Mars: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos
