My Evil Schemes etc.

Ahem.

Right. So I am currently unemployed. I find myself in this delightful state 5 months after taking a job as head chef of a small sad place called Naked Lunch (that should have set the warning bells ringing, right?),where I was employed by the lovely Paddy O'Paddy and his wife Kathleen. In truth they did seem nice.
They were youngish and enthusiastic. But pretty soon Paddy's nouveau riche tendencies became obvious. Also the fact that he and Kathleen were in the middle of the deaththroes of their marriage.

I'm being unfair. The hours were good and I did earn a comparitively obscene amount of money for those hours (meaning I still earned nothing but in comparison to what I earned under The Flying Greek-man it was loads of money)
I did get to do basically whatever I wanted to food-wise. And Kathleen was really nice. But then all at once (this isn't a phrase put in for narrative value it really was all at once) she stopped coming to work.
Paddy was taking over everything. (This was dire since Paddy couldn't cook. In fact he wasn't too good at tasting either)
Paddy suffered from that sad disease brought on by too much fast food. He expected every sandwich to be a carbon copy of the other. Since this is almost imposssible unless you have the secret mc donalds recipe. He'd storm in every day to taste various things and complain that there was a little less salt than yesterday or the bread wasn't the exact same shape. He'd have one bite of everything then throw it out. (Honestly no wonder he went out of business)
He'd expect the guy behind the counter to remember everyone's name and would yell at him if he didn't (for instance if they never told him there name in the first place.) For Christ's sake it was a sandwich shop.
He insisted everyone smile all the time. I realise I have a problem with smiling and being happy in general but honestly! If you aren't smiling all the time it's alright. It's normal.
He'd say it was bothering the others. (Even though really he was the only one complaining everyone else got on well enough with me)
And when he asked you how you were you had to answer "GREAT!"
You couldn't just say ok. For me ok is pretty good. I rarely say great.
And he was just so phony. That phoniness Americans are always being accused of.
I know I shouldn't be so mean but I can't help myself. It turns out Kathleen is a raging alcoholic. I should feel bad. I really should. They have 2 young children but I just don't feel bad for them. My grandfather was an alcoholic. It's sad. But the O'Paddys also have loads of money. Paddy cheats people left right and center. My friend Satu (Lumi's mother) worked for him for 11 years and didn't earn more than 1400 euros net. She ran the whole pub. And did everything from payrole to fixing toilets. When she left they didn't even give her a parting gift. I don't think Kathleen should get more pity than the next person. And yes, I know. I'm going to hell.

The other thing I just can't get over and need to talk about: Irishness.

I don't want to sound like a complete racist.

But some of the stereotypes are just true.

Many of them do drink and lose their key, phones, coats like every week. They fall asleep standing and fall down the stairs and crack there heads open.
They only eat potatoes and meat. Vegetables are things of the devil.

And they are rather a closeknit bunch.

This sounded a lot cooler in my head.

I'm not really complaining that there are Irish people. More that they get so much credit for being Irish. And just that. I mean they pick up girls just based on the fact that they come from Ireland and their accent is so cute! (I used to be a girl like that but seriously. The honeymoon is over)
I like guys who can hold their booze, no Irish for me thanks.


PS:
I'm really sorry if this sounded evil and racist. I'm over it now.

I think this chapter burned my brain. Now I'm really really really stuck. But will soon tell you all about these exciting things:

Marvel Civil War. My Irish Adventure(or how I learned to love the bomb)-kidding, 30 days of night. Oh and you get to see if Gene and ALex kiss or not.

Chapter 8


Four and a half:

By now Alex has seen her world shatter and reform so many times that she isn’t even surprised anymore when this one falls to pieces. She has stopped wondering when she will hit rock bottom. Alex has decided this is the abyss. And there is no bottom. There is no bottom, only this: the abyss, to be falling, descending without cease.

The new world is bright red and blazing. Everything is impossibly loud. From across the room she can hear Gene breathing; she can hear the slight smoker’s rasp. She can hear Chris shuffle his feet, the rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. She can hear the dam break deep within Evan, one second before he starts to cry. He pulls her to the ground and she kneels there with him, his head against her collar bone. She puts her hands on his head and runs her fingers through his hair. It has grown so long. She wishes everything were normal again and she can give it a trim for him. She remembers this. She remembers what Evan meant to her before the bomb, before Gene Hunt. She remembers a time when it was just the three of them. Alex, Evan and Molly. Their little family. She strokes his fine hair and bends slightly to press her cheek to the top of his head. Evan sobs into her shoulder.

That sharp sound like paper tearing in her left ear is the sound of Gene’s disdain.
“Pull yourself together man!” Hunt barks, shoving them apart and manipulating Evan into a chair.

“Tell us exactly what happened.”

Evan struggles. “She was at school. They haven’t seen her since yesterday noon. The Headmaster said there’s a possibility that she just ran away, I mean after…after the bomb. But, I mean after what happened with Kirsty. I just know something’s wrong.”
His words trip over themselves, they dip up and down, now louder, now softer, now ear splitting.

“The Headmaster is a bleeding idiot.” Ray mutters.

Alex says nothing. There is something building up inside of her, seething, surging to the surface. This thing is pulling her in one direction; her feelings for Evan are pulling her in another.

“Well yes, you’ve been to the school. So have you been to the Price residence?” Gene asks.

Evan shakes his head in the negative.

Gene grabs hold of Evan’s tie and pulls him forward sharply. The legs of the chair making contact with the floor produce a screech that echoes on in Alex’s head, ghastly and nerve- rattling.

“Well that’s the first place you should have looked isn’t it?” He shouts. “She’s frightened, she’ll want familiar surroundings. But mind you if she’s there curled up under her bed then I’ll break your arse for wasting precious police time.”

The look on Evan’s face as he nods in agreement breaks her heart.

Chris and Shaz stay behind with Todd, going over his old case notes. Everyone else files into the Quattro for the drive to the Price house. Alex squeezes Evan’s hand, trying to keep the swirling, churning emotions under control.

She holds on to her knees in the Quattro, her knuckles turning white. Evan is beside her staring straight ahead, his eyes blank and feverish. Sweat stands prominent on his brow.

She wants to say something reassuring, something positive but the words catch in her throat.

There is something horrible at work within her. She’s only now realised what this means. There will be no going back if Alex Price dies.
There will be no Molly.
There will be no DI Drake.
There will be no world with Alex in it.

She chews on her fingernails absently.

“Stop that.” Evan says. Pulling her hand away from her mouth. “It took me years to break you of that habit.”

Alex gives him an alarmed look.

“I meant to say to break Alex of the habit. I’m sorry. I can’t think straight.”

Alex breathes easier. She puts her hands in her lap and looks down at them. Willing this to be all over.

The house is exactly the same as it always was. Alex isn’t sure why she expected it to be different. She was only here four days ago. Perhaps it is because Alex herself has changed. Irrevocably so. The Alex who had stormed in here 4 days ago and planted a packet of cocaine was a different woman altogether. A foolish woman. Someone who held her optimism close as a lover and nurtured it until she truly believed she had the power to change things.

The Alex who stands here now is less cocky. Now she can only hope she will manage to piece things together in time.

A few things are missing from the usual places. Things Evan has taken: things the child Alex might need, things Caroline had packed, thinking she was going away on a trip with her little girl. The smell is new. An acrid smell the whole house is filled with. Like moths burning in a lamp. Alex runs her hand over banister, arms of chairs, and stacks of books. As she had done before in this house. Trying to soak up the memories these inanimate objects hold. Everywhere are reminders of what she has lost. Here a photograph of her mother, there her father’s slippers. A teddy bear she had received from a family friend and promptly forgot about until this moment. The stair she tripped and split her knee open on. Memories crowd her mind, colourful and jewel bright as the stained glass in the hall.

How different things might have been, Alex can’t help but think. Her parent’s death was like a scratch in the LP, the needle was stuck in the groove and could go no further. Their death was the poison that tainted everything. If not for this, she might have had a real family. A real life. Not this makeshift one with Evan as a father, partner and saviour. Molly her sole line to the world, constantly reeling her back in away from her career. Constantly holding her back. Forgive me Molly.
Her whole life dedicated to what had been. A world built upon grief. A world no more real than the multitude of worlds she had seen come and go in the past 4 days.
In her own room again. Somehow it feels wrong. The room is dead, the air is stale, like no one lives here now or ever will again. But still part of her wants to curl up beneath the pink coverlet. To press the button on the cassette player and hear ‘Green Door’. She thinks if she can just get back in to bed and shut her eyes everything will be alright, all a dream.

“Did you check under the bed Bolls?” Gene asks startling her out of her reverie.

She finds herself standing in front of the mantle, her hands pressed to the sides of her face. She pulls the diary from its hiding place. It’s light in her palm, such a small thing. What’s behind the white leatherette? What else does it contain? What will it reveal? She can remember writing in it. She can remember the feelings and hopes and wishes. They rise up in her now, clamouring to be heard. But she remembers nothing of being kidnapped. Why is this happening? Or is it something completely different? Alex strains to remember the days after the bomb, the real days after the bomb, the first time around. But nothing comes.

Hunt makes a clicking sound that signifies his impatience. He is behind her, hand outstretched.

It feels so intimate handing the book to Gene. Far more intimate than being wrapped in his arms, naked. More intimate than the furious crush of his embrace but a few hours earlier. The diary is smaller than she remembers it being; in Gene’s hands its size is laughable, dwarfed, insignificant.

Gene scans the pages avidly, holding the book as though it is a precious thing that might crumble at any moment. Alex recalls receiving the book for her birthday. She recalls her father’s gentle smile as he handed it to her. She shudders now at the memory.

He closes it and gives it back to her.

“It doesn’t look good Bolly.” His voice is gentle, hushed. It sounds awkward on him.

She opens the book and reads the later entries so fast the lines seem to blur before her eyes.

In her own childish hand are words she can’t remember ever writing. Entry upon entry about feeding rabbits and visiting an enchanted rose garden with her new friend.
What new friend?

Her eye catches on the word troll. That gift had been from the kidnapper? That ugly doll she couldn’t be without as a little girl?

Alex exhales painfully. If she fails all is lost. Everything will be over. She struggles to hear her own thoughts above the din of the ordinary world. Downstairs the erratic beating of Evan’s heart. Ray thumping around aimlessly. Her own footsteps on the stairs sound like bombs going off. If she fails she’ll never see Molly again. Because there will be no Molly.

Gene drives them to Evan’s office. No one speaks. Something is playing on the radio, soft and cheerful. It irritates Alex, the mindlessness of its catchy tune and nonsense lyrics. It gives fuel to the anger brewing in the pit of her stomach.

She walks Evan to the door, concentrating on every step. One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. Now say goodbye and return to CID she wills herself. But then she sees the miserable look on Evan’s face. It’s like salt in a wound.

“What were you thinking leaving her at school?” Alex demands, no longer able to keep the question in.

Evan takes a step back, shoulders hunched in despair.

“There was so much to sort out after Caroline… after they died. The school was practical, I was in no shape...I mean they were more than happy to keep her there. I never thought…” He breaks off wistfully.

“That’s right! You never think!” Alex snaps. She advances towards him shivering with rage. The affair with Caroline, his failure to stop the bomb, this negligence which may cause her death, all the fruit of his thoughtlessness.

She feels Gene’s hand on her shoulder.

“Softly now Bolly.” He murmurs.

She twitches in annoyance. Now he touches her. To rein her in. To protect Evan. She wants to push him away but doesn’t in the end. She is so close to Evan now she can hear his skin singing with fear. She can smell it. It turns her stomach.

“What about her state of mind? The girl just lost her parents.” She practically spits the words at him.

Gene’s grasp on her shoulder changes slightly.

Evan blinks at her. He leans forward, holding out his hands. He still doesn’t have the sense to get away from her. He still doesn’t realise the storm is coming. The hole inside her is so large by now she feels like a shell of herself. Just one more word from Evan and she will crack into a million pieces. One look and she will scatter to the winds.

“Alex, I don’t understand why you are shouting at me. We should all be working together.” Evan beseeches. “You yourself left your child alone. Why isn’t she here with you? You must understand.”

Too many words. Alex cracks into a million pieces.

“How dare you?” She shouts, tensing all her muscles in one last attempt to keep herself under control. To no avail. She scatters to the winds.

With one furious motion she tears free from Gene.

Alex flies at her godfather, fists balled. She can’t feel the ground beneath her feet. At the first impact with Evan’s face, power surges through her. One taste of that power is enough to hook her. She hits him again. Pleasure runs through her like a current. And again. A triumphant scream bursts forth from her. In her head all she can hear are the blows. Jarring as cymbals, beautiful. She can’t hear Gene or Ray above the noise in her head. She barely acknowledges their presence. Evan is on the floor, arms raised to his face not even attempting to defend himself properly. His shouts are soundless.
And again. She tears at him with her fingernails. There is no grace in what Alex does. No rhythm. It isn’t the dance Gene led with Burnham. These are the frenzied convulsions of a woman under electricity. There is blood. The sight of it spurs her on even further. She kicks him squarely in the ribs and crows with joy at the sight of him twisting in pain. The world is blurred. Bright red as her rage. And again. She wraps her arms around his neck, squeezing the breath from him. Her teeth are clenched so hard she can taste the chalky grit on her tongue.

Finally Gene manages to pry her free from Evan. She falls to her hands and knees, scraping her palms raw. Hunt covers her body with his own, as if he is protecting her from a blast. She struggles against him futilely like a specimen in a butterfly collection, pinned in place. Hunt is whispering in her ear. Something soft and soothing, something you’d say to a crying child. With growing desperation Alex pushes her way up, almost succeeding in catching him off guard this time. It’s the adrenalin. Under normal circumstances she’d have no chance against Hunt. Under normal circumstances she could never hurt Evan. Gene pulls her upright keeping her arms pinned to her sides.

“Down girl.” He commands.

Ray lets out a yelp of laughter before he is silenced by a glare from the Guv. He hurries to Evan’s side and helps the injured man up, brushing off the front of his suit.
Gene has his arm around Alex. He holds her with a lover’s posture but his grip is like iron.

“Let me go!” She hisses hoarsely.

He pulls her along grimly.

“Let me go.” She repeats.

“No, love.” Gene says quietly but firmly.

Alex lets herself go and follows him silently, placid as a calf being led to the slaughter. Inside she rages against the prison of her own flesh and bones. She longs to be free to finish what she started. She has no concept of time as she follows him. She only knows that when they reach Luigi’s she can no longer hold it in.
Alex cries.

Her sobs are real and ugly. There is nothing feminine, nothing remotely attractive about these tears. Hunt tries to drag her up the stairs before Luigi can stop them, before the guests can comment. His arm catches her beneath the breast, crushing her ribs. She lets him take her half way up the steps before she falls, her dead weight pulling them both down.

“Not now Bolly, please.” He mutters.

But Alex can’t help herself. She’s reached the point where she couldn’t stop crying even if she wanted to. Snot flows freely from her nose. Gene takes her keys and fumbles with the lock, drops them and pulls her down to the ground to look for them with him. He curses.

On the ground Alex catches hold of the front of his shirt and sobs into it.
“Watch my tie sweetheart.” He tries a light tone and a small chuckle but it’s strained.

They burst into her flat and stumble to the couch. If Alex had her wits about her she’d recognise this scene. She’d marvel at the repetition. Instead she covers her eyes with swollen hands and lets Gene take her jacket off. Alex whimpers as he takes her boots off. She lets him open the collar of her soiled blouse. Then he stops.

He lets her cry a good long while, awkwardly patting her back. Then when the tears start to die out he peels the salty hair from her face.

“Do you need some time?” He asks.

Alex stares at him dumbly.

“This is still about the Prices isn’t it? Well it wasn’t that soppy lawyer’s fault. You didn’t have to kick the stuffing out of him.”

The tears begin afresh.

“Come now Bolly it’s not all that bad. We still have time to solve this. Every able policeman in London is looking for that girl now.”

“But it is bad.” Alex sobs. “I don’t do things like that. You, Ray, maybe Chris but not me.”

Gene lets out a loud laugh. “That’s what this is about?”

Alex hides her face in the pillow.

“You’re a tiger my girl. Don’t think about it. It happens to everyone.”

Alex sits up abruptly. “To you maybe.” She mutters.

Gene stands up and goes to the kitchen. He brings back a tea towel and a bowl of warm water.

“You go to sleep. And tomorrow it won’t be quite as bad.” He wipes her face with the towel. It feels warm and comforting. He brushes back her hair with a jerky motion.

“But…” She begins.

“The first time is always a shock. But you’ll see. Sleep will do you the world of good.”

He starts on her hands. They are bright red and puffy. Covered in cuts and bruises. The palms are scuffed and bleeding. He washes them. Chiding her gently when she winces. Alex looks down at his hands. The elegant fingers, the soft flesh of his palms. His hands are beautiful. They seem to have nothing to do with the rest of him. Nothing to do with the thin determined lips, the puffiness of middle age which has settled around his stomach, the pock marks on his face. His hands are things of poetry. He gives her a look that speaks of the conflict within him.

“I’ll never get to sleep.” She whispers.

“You’ll see. It’ll seem hard but once you get there you’ll sleep like a baby.”

Her cheek is damp on the striped cushion.

“I’ll try if you want me to. But I won’t sleep.” She says.

Gene’s hand is heavy on her back, solid and comforting.

“Go on then try. If I’m wrong you can drive the Quattro all day tomorrow.” He says in that fake light and reassuring tone she already recognises.

I won’t be able to. Alex thinks. But then she does. She does after all. Four days after the bomb, with Gene’s hand warm on her back, Alex sleeps.

Wonder if anyone is reading this. Anyhow thanks to Kimi for correcting it.

Chapter 7:


Four:

Gene just stands there in the doorway looking into her flat. He leans against the doorframe and Alex can’t decide if it is because he’s trying to seem nonchalant as he decides what to do next or if it is because he had had too much to drink.
Alex looks around quickly, frantically, but there is no sign of Molly.

She pulls on Gene’s hand and leads him in to the room. Her heartbeat is impossibly loud in her own ears and she steals a glance at him in case he can hear it as well.
She stares at his fingers and her own. He isn’t holding her hand but he isn’t letting go either.

Alex can feel the electricity crackle where their skin is touching. And he can feel it too she realises because in that moment he drops her hand as if scalded. The expression on his face is wary and a bit curious. He rocks from his heels to his toes for a second as if testing the floor; as if he is uncertain it won’t crack under his weight and send him plummeting.

Now that she has made her decision, Alex is unsure where to begin. Should she try to explain things to him? Throw herself into his arms? Should she kiss him? So many possibilities. How did she proceed in the past? The past is a blank sheet. Why is every time like the first time?

She figures she must look like a lunatic in her robe, her feet bare, yesterdays make up smudged and caked; her eyes feverish and that stupid grin on her face.
Wasn’t this what you wanted? She wants to scream, her impatience getting the better of her.

Gene is watching her intently. She can almost see him struggling with his thoughts, trying to assess her state of mind.

“Shall I make you some tea?” He asks at last, his expression concerned.

The question seems so absurdly out of character that Alex laughs out loud. Gene blinks. Then his features rearrange themselves into a scowl and he stomps into the kitchen.

“Yeah, ok.” She calls after him and sits down on the sofa.

He has absolutely no idea where I’m going with this Alex realises suddenly. It’s almost comic. All that agonising over whether or not to give in to her emotions, on whether or not to give in to him. Now it seems he has changed his mind. If she had even been interpreting his signals properly to begin with.

Despite years of study Alex has never really understood the opposite sex. She supposes that is why she was so shocked to discover Evan’s affair with her mother. She still saw men in archetypes. Evan was the hero, the white knight. Apt pun. Gene was the trickster. The real world didn’t work that way though. If Gene was a fool, a jester, why had she ever taken his advances seriously? All that talk of her bra size and her peachy arse. Alex can’t be sure she didn’t imagine the whole thing; that she had been flattering herself all these months thinking he was pining for her.
They sip their tea in silence. Gene seems huge sitting beside her on that ridiculous striped sofa. Huge and unwieldy. Alex pauses for a second.

It always comes down to this with her. She sets a scene in motion only to find events have taken matters into their own hands. She wants something, someone, only to realise, the object or person she spent all her time struggling to obtain, has nothing in common with the image she had created in her head. And then without alcohol or similar to spur her on, she usually draws back, at this point she is usually deterred by the reality of the situation. By the human, three dimensional qualities of the person she was perusing. Not this time though. This time the fact that she can no longer place him, no longer write him off as an archetype or construct, the fact that he is unfathomable, serves to make him all the more attractive.

She wants this man. This man sitting beside her, tangible and frighteningly real. There are two choices: either she waits to see if he will initiate something or she has to be the one to do it.

Why don’t you tell me why you’ve been watching over me? Alex thinks. The thought is so deafening in her head that she can’t be sure she hasn’t spoken it out loud.

“I’ve been thinking.” She says. “We’ve lost perspective on this case.”

“Yeah, could be.” He replies.

Why don’t you tell me why you are still doing here with me at three in the morning instead of making your excuses and fleeing to the safety of your own bed? She wants to ask.

“I’ve been meaning to ask the others what they think. Maybe we should go over the case with them point by point in the morning, get a fresh view.” She continues.
Hunt nods slowly.

Why don’t you touch me now? She wonders. Why don’t you kiss me now?

Hunt leans forward. This is it now. Now.

He sets his mug down on the floor.

“Right, I’ll take the couch, we’d better try to get some sleep.” There is an edge in his voice that Alex recognises. It’s the same tone she uses on Molly on school nights.
She stares at him.

“That is what you had in mind wasn’t it Alex?”

She waits for the leer for a good five seconds. But it doesn’t come. He means these words, this isn’t a test, he isn’t flirting. He really believes she just wants him here for protection.

In the end it is the way he said her name that decides her.
She leads him to the bedroom and takes off her robe. Beneath it she’s wearing her pyjama top but her legs are bare and cold. He stares at them for a minute before flicking his eyes away. Alex lies down on the left side of the bed. He falters. She thinks he might change his mind and run the other way. Instead he takes his trousers off, folds them carefully and drapes them on the chair, leaving his shirt on.
When he gets in beside her she stops breathing.

“Night Bolly.” He says.

As Alex lies there beside him, wide awake, she can feel every nerve in her body tingling. She hears his breathing slow down until she’s sure he’s asleep. Too late now she thinks. She should have acted sooner.

A wave of relief and a wave of disappointment wash over her simultaneously.
She leans towards him, comforted, perhaps because it is Gene lying beside her or perhaps because it has been so long since anyone has really shared her bed. She realises that she has been so lonely and not only since she arrived here in 1981. She has been so lonely.

In the dark corner of the room she can see the outline of Molly. Molly is laughing softly. It isn’t the laugh she remembers, the sweet vital laugh of her daughter. It is menacing, a hiss, soft but deliberate. The figure takes a step closer. Alex feels her insides freeze. Beside her Gene murmurs in his sleep and pulls the red coverlet closer. She turns on her side and closes her eyes, wrapping the sleeping man in a loose embrace. She presses her face into his back. The black shirt smells of washing powder and cigarettes and Gene. It isn’t the smell of his aftershave, it’s a scent uniquely his, his ‘man stink’ if you will. But it isn’t unpleasant. The laughter dies out.

Alex holds on tighter and is surprised when she feels him absently stroke her arm with one hand. His breathing is even, still asleep. The outline of his body against hers is dizzying. She traces a soft pattern on his shoulder. It’s getting easier. She’s more daring by the second. Alex lets her hand skim along the long length of his body, down his thigh and then up again, up the inside of his thigh. His breathing quickens. Alex’s heart leaps to her throat. He turns to face her abruptly, flipping her onto her back and pulling her into his arms, the coverlet tenting them. He is holding her so tightly, so roughly that Alex can hear her bones groan in protest. Then just as quickly he releases her. In the dark she can see the spark of anger blaze in his eyes.

“What are you playing at?” He demands switching on the light, fully awake.

She lays there in shock her thoughts flying in every direction like startled birds. He tears the red coverlet off and sits up. He swings his legs to the floor and gets up grabbing his trousers and exiting the room. The bathroom door slams.

“Gene.” She says from the other side of the door. “Gene, I’m sorry.”
She rests her head against the lacquer of the door. The water is running, she can hear him moving around in there.

“Gene?”

The water stops and the door opens.

He gives her a look she can’t interpret. “It’s ok. I have to go.”

Alex can smell her lavender hand soap on him, it’s disconcerting.

She stares down at the floor. The world is spinning. This strangely sweet world, four days after the bomb, is revolving at a dizzying speed. If she looks at him now she may lose her balance. “Yeah.” She says.

He strides through the flat to the front door. “It’s alright Bolls. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gene shuts the door gently.

Alex sits down on hard the floor. Her mind is blank, her stomach churning. For a horrible minute she thinks she may cry. Instead, back at square one, the world a new and peculiar place, she starts to laugh. She laughs so hard that tears come after all. She laughs so hard her chest aches with it.

She enters CID that morning dressed to the nines. She figures she may as well go all the way since she has already humiliated herself beyond all hope. She wears red so that everyone, not just Gene, will recognise her Scarlet Woman status. The reactions are perfect, just what she wanted. She smiles and laughs a bit under her breath. Chris looks like his eyes might fall out of his head. Ray can barely contain the mix of lust and smugness, his expression seems to read ‘I told you so’.

Shaz looks sad. For a minute that makes Alex feel cold and shabby. Then she remembers how funny everything is. This world doesn’t exist either she reminds herself. It’s a joke. A sick joke. And Alex is tired of frustration and grief. She wants to laugh.

“Good morning!” She sings out gaily. “Today we’re going to solve this case!”

There is a collected chorus of grumbles. Then the glass door swings open and Gene appears.

“Christ.” He sighs. She can see it then, the sentence on the tip of his tongue. He has some lovely, mocking remark he is longing to deliver but then he sits down, rolls his eyes at her and gestures.

“Proceed o Bollinger Knickers.” He says instead. She is standing beside his chair and for a second their arms brush. She feels the reaction at once and suppresses it violently. He humiliated her; she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how he was affecting her.

“Right. Let’s sum this up:

Kirsty Andrews is missing. Found three days later, dead. On the corpse: Rose petals. Strawberry scent. She was probably bathed after her death. In her room: A jumper with rabbit hair. Tina Burnham died 20 years ago. From what we managed to figure out she was missing approximately three days but this wasn’t unusual. She was found dead in the rose bushes, throat crushed, petals in her pockets. And a toy panda bear. Her throat wrapped in a scarf. The pattern of the lace was Limerick. The corpse was washed, strawberry scent again. In both cases it wasn’t the father.”

She looks into all their faces respectively. Nothing. Blank stares all around.

“That was a mouthful Drake.” Gene says.

“Who would have thought we had all that info!” Chris chips in. “What’s this strawberry bath stuff then?”

“Yeah!" You want us to search all the houses in the area if someone likes fruit scented soap?” Ray snorts.

“No, silly!” Alex laughs. It’s fun. Like a game. Like playing at policemen. Like she played at policeman and murderer with Kirsty as a child.

“And the lace? What’s that about? Some old biddy murdering kiddies?” Ray goes on.

“I don’t know. Maybe start with the roses. That’s a good one. The same roses as the ones in school I assume.” She says thoughtfully speaking very slowly, like a schoolteacher. This can’t be anything but a joke. Look at what she has to work with? Who she has to work with.

Chris makes an odd choking sound. “No they can’t be.”

“And why is that DC Skelton?” Alex asks.

“Well.” Chris’ face is bright red with embarrassment. “Well it’s cause the colour is wrong see?”

They don’t see.

“Those ones by the school are a different colour. These ones are darkish red. So are the Tina Burnham ones. Well from what you can tell in the photos. And the school ones are brighter like.”

“Look exactly the same to me.” Gene says dismissively.

Alex is thinking the same thing but doesn’t dare admit it. She is still standing to close to Hunt, afraid that if she moves away someone will notice her strange behaviour. Also she is still unsure of the rules of this world. She has already learned, four days after the bomb, just because everything feels and looks normal doesn’t mean the world won’t turn on her unexpectedly.

“No they’re different see!” Chris insists. Ray is making funny faces at him.

This triggers a playful fight, Shaz giggling and throwing in comments from the side. Alex joins in the laughter feeling like one of the team at last. Perhaps the big secret is just to let go. To fit in. Maybe all she has to do is just stop taking everything so seriously.

The sound of a throat clearing silences everyone. A man has entered the room on silent soles.

“My name is Todd, Benjamin Todd.” He says.

Alex fails to stifle a giggle.

“Formerly DI Benjamin Todd.” He continues shooting her a look of distaste. “I heard you were looking into the Burnham case.”

“Look here Mr. Todd…” Gene begins.

Todd is an average sized man well over sixty. His hair is steel grey and a little too long; it sweeps against the brown of his collar. His hands shake slightly. His eyes are bright blue and have an unnatural gleam to them; one Alex is all too familiar with. Andrews, Burnham, Tim Price.

“There were others you know.”

The silence after that is so sharp Alex can feel it sting her.
Beside her Hunt twitches nervously.

“No of course you don’t.” He has a quiet voice, a calming voice. It settles the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her.

“Two others. Lucy Ashworth, aged 11 in Manchester in 1946, Emma Gainey aged 9 in 1936 in Limerick. It was the same man. It took me years, I must have read hundreds of cases but I’m sure those two were killed by the same man who murdered Tina Burnham.”

“How…” Ray starts.

“Well the lace, on a hunch I stumbled upon the Limerick case. And of course the rose petals. The toys.” Todd seems to take note of the looks on their faces.

“You didn’t notice the toys?” He smiles briefly. “Well to be fair Tina Burham’s panda, Lucy Ashworth’s doll and Emma’s rosary. The rosary isn’t strictly a toy.”

Alex coughs. “How were they killed?” She asks.

“Lucy was strangled. Emma was bludgeoned with a heavy object. Both of them had been missing three days prior to their deaths. But despite the information I managed to gather I never really found a suspect. It must have been someone they trusted. Someone they saw everyday. But due to the huge gaps of time between the crimes it was impossible to find reliable witnesses.”

“Didn’t you question the people at the school?” Shaz pipes up.

“The school was largely uncooperative. Both schools were. The one in Manchester and Ash Street here in London. The girl in Limerick wasn’t a student.”

“What else can you say about the victims?” Alex asks.

“They were all lonely girls. Neglected by their parents. Tina’s mother had affairs; her father was a known sexual offender. Lucy had no mother and her father worked long hours. Emma. Little is know about her. She died in the thirties. So aside from the case file found largely by luck, nothing…and the Irish are a sloppy bunch.”

Alex hisses her aversion to his last comment. Her mind is working at a furious rate. Building connections where there were none. Connections upon connections like a spider web.

“Kirsty Andrews was also neglected, she spent all her time at school or at my…at friend’s houses. And the toy… the troll, she had a troll.” She says, still fretting at the implications of this discovery.

“Hang on now!” Gene bursts out. “One in Manchester? With rose petals? Thirteen years ago when we questioned that fancy French flower fellow...”

“The fleur de mort.” Chris interrupts him.

“Shut up Christopher!” Gene snaps. “Anyhow Terence Finn, he said an old murder case had given him the idea of leaving flowers on the body.”

Alex shifts her weight from one foot to the other. A darkness is spreading through her. Everything is relevant she thinks. Everything is connected. She was right. Only a few more steps till she frees herself from this labyrinth, this spider’s web. She can get out of here, back to Molly. Away from Gene and that whole awkward situation. This should make her happy. Instead she feels frightened and sad.

“I need to speak to her!” Some one is calling from the hall. “Alex! Alex!”

It’s Evan. Dishevelled and hysterical. Alex reaches for his hands unconsciously. They are ice cold. She has never seen him like this. Not even after the bomb. Today, four days after the bomb, she is witnessing the ultimate ruin of a human being.
“What is it Evan?” She demands. “What has happened?”

“It’s Alex, Alex Price. She’s gone. She’s missing.”

And more.. I have other things to tell as well. and I'll get around to it soone as I drink some tea. and warm up.


Chapter 6


Three and a half:

Energy rushes through Alex at last. For the first time since the bomb she experiences that familiar tingle of anticipation. The restlessness she only feels while working. She’s bubbling over with ideas and plans.

Archives coughs up the case file with surprising speed. Ray hands it to her, looking down in modesty but when Gene and Chris glance his way, he remembers to bluster on about a favour they owed him in Archives. Alex isn’t even really listening anymore when he embroiders on his story adding little flourishes about strip poker, what sort of knickers the girls in Archives wear and all night whiskey binges.
She moves towards her desk unconsciously and passing gives his shoulder a brush. “Keep it simple next time Ray.” She smiles.

She devours the file put together by a DI Benjamin Todd.
The girl’s name was Tina Burnham. She was 12 years old. A mature 12 years. She would be 22 now. The details are all there, the rose petals, the crushed larynx, rabbit fur on the sleeves of her jacket.

Alex runs a finger over the photograph, matte and yellow with age.
The girl looks back at Alex insolently. Her hair is dark brown and long, her lips full, her eyelashes sooty with mascara. She wears a challenging sort of expression as if she is daring the photographer to take her picture. There is something so adult, so terrifying about that expression that Alex almost forgets her new found vigour. For a second she can feel the old, familiar chill in the pit of her stomach, threatening this new bright world. She squashes it before it can spread.

Alex is back. She is whole again. Three days after the bomb she has rebuilt her world inside of a few hours. She forces herself to plough through the autopsy report.
Contents of the stomach:
Chocolate biscuits, a carrot.
The girl had not been sexually abused. There were marks on the side of her mouth. From a gag? Rope burns on her wrists. Three days old. The crushed throat. Alex closes her eyes. The body had been washed. That had struck the investigating officer as odd; he had noted a strawberry scent in the girl’s hair. Her clothes were new; whoever killed her had likely dressed her in new ones. Her stockings were on backwards. Her throat had been wrapped with a piece of lace. Delicate floral pattern. To hide the wound? A picture of the scarf was provided. A note had been printed on the back by the helpful DI Todd. Limerick lace pattern.

Aside from the bright red rose petals they found a small panda bear toy and the stub of a pencil in the pockets of her school jacket.

Alex shuts the file. Strawberries, Limerick lace, Panda.

At the morgue with Kirsty again she feels the familiar calm settle about her. This girl in front of her is no longer Kirsty. The inhuman panic is gone. She pulls the sheet from the corpse quickly, not allowing herself to ease back into to the job like a swimmer first wetting his ankles before taking the dive. Alex dives straight in.
She isn’t shocked at Kirsty’s slight form, at the ghostly whiteness of her limbs. She turns, suddenly desperately afraid she’ll see Molly behind her. Only the pathologist and Chris.

She stares at the Y- incision, the cleanness of the corpse. A quick glance at the report; no dirt or substances were found on her naked body, no wounds, no marks. Alex leans in close to the corpse and takes a lock of Kirsty’s hair between her fingertips. There it is. Still there despite the scent of formaldehyde pervading the air. Strawberries. Strawberry bubble bath.

“What are you doing ma’am?” Chris asks his voice panicked and high pitched.

Alex ignores him.
Perhaps Kirsty wasn’t murdered, simply suffocated, the result of an asthmatic attack but there is a connection, she knows it. Kirsty Andrews and Tina Burnham have something in common. And apparently Gene and Ray think so as well because upon arriving at CID, Viv informs her they are on their way to interrogate Tina’s father, one Robert Burnham. The school had convinced the police and parents to keep the case quiet, fearful of their reputation. A mistake? 20 years later had the killer struck again?

Mr. Burnham still lives in the same house he and his wife once shared with Tina. The wife is gone, left him after Tina’s death.

Alex feels Molly fall in beside her, together they study paintings Tina had made at school, still hanging on the wall and family photographs, dusty but still in their place on the sideboard. Alex does her best to ignore Molly, who shuffles her feet and pops her bright red bubble gum. In the new world she has made, this Molly figure doesn’t frighten her. She’s in control at last.

The whole house smells of urine and alcohol. For one terrible minute Alex imagines she is still standing in Mr. Andrews dingy flat. That the past day as all been in her mind. But then she reminds herself that she is back. There are no more mind games.
Mr. Burnham is flanked by Gene and Ray; both are thug-like in posture. Gene is already barking questions at Burnham.

Alex takes the time to wonder if they have followed procedure. But viewing the scene, her curiosity gets the better of her and all thoughts of warrants and legalities melt away.

She trains her eyes on Burnham. A tall man. Tall, but thin and he rattles slightly as if something inside him is broken. His eyes are familiar, Mr. Andrews again. Things are repeating themselves, conversations, people, and situations. Like a bad detective series that has run out of plot.

Hunt seems to think he has his killer. He sums it up for the rest of the room.
Tina was mature for her age. Burnham couldn’t help himself, the girl struggled, and he tied her up, gagged her and finally, killed her.

“No proof of sexual abuse.” Alex points out.

“There are ways.” Gene says darkly.

The facts whirl around in her head. White lace. Limerick lace. What does that mean?
Alex can see Hunt weaving around the witness. Moving in for the next jab. Alex knows she should stop him but she can’t. She’s frozen to the spot; Molly is holding her hand in an iron grip, like a vice. It hurts. She tries to pull away, tries to remain in control of the scene; she holds the world together as best she can, refusing to fall apart again.

Burnham is hysterical by now. His eyes burn unnaturally, his face is deeply lined, the skin paper thin. He whimpers like a beaten dog. This of course is wrong Alex realises. Gene needs an innocent man to protest. He takes this for a confession. She sees him lean forward, his whole body is in it now like a dance. The dance is beautiful but wrong, so wrong, two steps off beat.

“I’ve got your record right here, bastard!” Hunt continues. “You like ‘em young.”

Alex winces.

“Boys!” the man pleads. “Young boys, that’s what I like. Not my daughter. I loved her. She was all I had!” He has a dangerous snivelling sort of expression on his face, the kind that gets Gene’s blood boiling.

Suddenly Alex feels compelled to restrain him; she reaches for his arm a second too late. He’s raining blows down on the older man. He draws back a second to regain his footing and inspect the damage. A second is all it takes. Burnham has the speed of a man whose sanity has snapped and the grace of a boxer. He floors Gene with a single clout to the nose. Gene is roaring his words garbled in rage. Blood is streaming down his face and all over his shirt. Ray is restraining him. Alex doesn’t know what she is saying. Words flow out. She doesn’t even recognise her own voice. She uses words she has never used before. In this second she isn’t even sure she’s speaking English. Beside her Molly claps and cheers and laughs.

She moves towards Gene her hands are all over him, over his hands inspecting the damage, on his face, blood is everywhere. All over her new blouse, all over her jeans. It feels intimate.

In the Quattro: Ray is driving; Alex and Gene are in the back. Gene is slumped over in the seat, too upset to even look her in the eye. She is trying to clean him up enough to see how bad his nose is.

Very softly, very calmly, like speaking to a frightened horse, she explains to him why it couldn’t have been Burnham. What of the lace? What of the petals? These weren’t random clues. There had to be a connection.

“You were the one who connected the cases.” Gene flares up.

“Yes, and they are connected.” Alex insists. “It’s just not Burnham.”

“Look Bolly; this was all your idea. The roses could be a coincidence. Kirsty Andrews wasn’t murdered!”

Alex fumbles with a handkerchief, trying to wipe some of the blood off of his face. He twists away from her violently, his words distorted, like white noise.
She reaches for him again, closing the gap between them. He gives her a look that goes from angry to confused and back again.

“I felt sorry for you.” She can just about understand those words. The world is closing in on her again. Molly is in the seat beside Ray, chatting with him companionably as if he can hear her.

Alex draws away from Gene and listens as his words fade to grey. The secret of this world. When they are close she can understand him. When they are touching. She marvels at the simplicity of this.

He grabs hold of her wrist with no warning, like a snake attacking its prey.

“I thought a case would snap you right out of it. I let you back on because I thought that’s what you needed. I was wrong. You’ve lost it Drake.”

Alex bites back her words. She wants to tell him that he’s lying, that he needed her, that he’s always needed her or Sam to solve the case but something stops her. The ache in her chest when she looks at his bloody face stops her.

She was wrong. This world hasn’t changed. It’s the same one she woke up to. The same shattered world, three days after the bomb.

The team eats in relative silence that night. Gene has his nose patched up and now reminds her of Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, he barely touches his food. Ray is hovering over him like a mother hen. Alex is so tired she can barely lift her fork. She has no more energy to argue with Gene. His anger is weighing her down; she’s like a drowning woman, clothes saturated with icy water, the more she struggles, the faster she sinks. He leaves first, throwing money down on the table and nodding farewell to Ray, Chris and Shaz.

Finally Alex gets up and goes upstairs. She sits for hours in silence going over the day in her head. It’s become obvious to her that giving up isn’t an option. The only way to break through his anger is to solve this case. She lets out a thin sound between a sob and a laugh.

Three days after the bomb she is struggling for Hunt’s approval. An old school policeman, a relic. She is struggling for Hunt’s affection. She doesn’t even feel ashamed about this anymore. She’s too far gone. There is nothing left but to pursue him.

“What about me?” Molly asks. It is Molly. Every inflection of her voice. The slight shrill twist at the end of the question.

“You aren’t coming back to me are you Mummy?”

Alex tries to turn away but Molly pulls her back with a shockingly cold hand.

“You choose this man over me?”

“No Molls, I love you. I’m trying…”

“Ha, pull the other one it’s got bells on.” Molly’s words are scathing. They are bitter as stomach acids. Her voice is a black hole; Alex needs both hands to pull herself out of it. She grips onto the world, the broken world, her broken sanity.

“You wanted me dead from the start, I held you back! You wished I’d never been born!”

“No Molly!”

Molly is shrieking, the sound is ripping her apart. There is no backing away from it this time. And so Alex does the only thing she can think of. She tears open the front door and runs down the stairs barefoot. It’s three in the morning. She finds Hunt by the bar just as she knew she would. By himself, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, the bottle half empty. He looks subdued in his fresh black shirt, open at the collar and his wounds scrubbed and dressed. She catches his eye, the surprised expression, the parting of lips as he struggles to think of an excuse. She’s caught him. She understands now. He came back to stand watch. Just as he has every night since the bomb.

“Please come up with me.” Alex begs. Her pride finally stripped away. “I can’t be alone tonight.”

I keep updating on Fanfiction.net and not here. But guess I should keep going just in case.




Chapter 5

Three:


Noon has come and gone. Alex is still lying in bed, flat on her back, fully clothed on top of the sheets. She isn’t sleeping. Three days after the bomb, sleep remains elusive. She longs for it with a passion. As if it were an absent lover in whose arms she is desperate to be enfolded. Sleep has become her holy grail. The miracle cure to all of her ailments. At this point she is half convinced she will wake up in her own bed in her own flat in 2008 if she can only fall asleep.

Hours bleed into hours. Minutes are stretched like chewing gum. In this new world time has no meaning. The numbers on her alarm clock have no meaning. Just random lines of glaring red light like space age runes.

She doesn’t call in sick; she doesn’t react to her grumbling of her stomach, she doesn’t even get up when she feels her bladder protesting. The same three thoughts run through her head on a loop. One: I need to sleep. Two: I need to remember. Three: Gene Hunt.

The third is shameful and makes her stomach flip uncomfortably; it makes her feel strangely defensive. It is the same feeling she used to get whenever she found herself wondering if things with Molly’s father would have worked out had she made more of an effort. It is a feeling akin to the one that might come over you after realising you have just eaten an entire bar of chocolate. Or more appropriately the feeling you have the morning after a great night on the town when you are on your knees in front of the toilet, hung-over. But it is also that fragile excited sensation she recognises from her first experiences with romance. She has no will-power to keep these thoughts from her head and so she just lies there motionless.

Hunt has infected her like a virus. The acute desire to speak to Evan overcomes her like a fever. To take the situation apart systematically with him. To analyse it. She usually depends on Evan to talk her out of inappropriate attractions. The one time she hadn’t been able to talk to him about a romantic entanglement had been while she was in Virginia with Molly’s father. And that had ended disastrously. Guilt blossoms in her chest. Disastrous except for Molly of course.

Evan isn’t here though, not the Evan she knew and loved. The Evan White of this decade is an entirely different creature. Or else the Evan she had loved had never existed. Just as the parents she had pined for had been constructs. How is it in this world that the constructs are more real than the real people? How can she entertain emotions of this sort for a man who has sprung from her subconscious like Athena from Zeus?

There is an explanation for these emotions: The transferral of the hero worship she had felt for Evan onto Gene in the aftermath of the bomb. The loss of two father figures and thus the desire for a strong male individual in her life, someone to turn to when she is confused or hurt.

But that isn’t really it. This feeling can’t be shoved into a mould. It is soft and fine as a rosebud, but she can’t crush it, can’t drive it from her mind by force.
Submission would be so easy. But the stubborn part of her refuses to submit.
Just as, even though she lies here alone in her flat instead of trying to solve the case with her colleagues, her mind refuses to let it go. Alex turns on her side and rubs her arms against the cold through the sleeves of her leather jacket.

It doesn’t strike her all at once. She has secretly been expecting the memory to just appear in her mind as if by magic. It comes slowly in dribs and drabs. It comes painfully, almost anti climatic. When Alex remembers she doesn’t understand how she could have ever forgotten.

She remembers Kirsty. Kirsty always wanted to go home with her. She was amazed by her room and when ever she came to visit, she never ceased opening drawers and picking things up. Examining them, commenting on them, trying on clothing and roller-skates and wanting to listen to the radio. She loved the wallpaper, she loved the coverlet on the bed, she loved how nice Mr. Price always was. Alex feels her heart shrivel behind her ribcage at that thought.

It was Kirsty who first told her the story. Though she later managed to get others to tell her what they knew. And this is how it went:

A girl had been found dead at their school. Many, many years ago, so long ago they weren’t even born yet. They had found her in the rose bushes. Just lying there as if that was where she was supposed to be. She hadn’t even really been missing. At least no one had reported her missing. That bit was crucial because it was a really big surprise when they had found her, her throat crushed, in the roses. In her pockets they found handfuls of rose petals. No one knew why this was important but it was. They never found her murderer, no one, no grown up, ever talked about it. The story among the students was that every few years a girl was chosen and if you weren’t careful you might be that girl. The main way to avoid being chosen was to never tell the story to someone else. To take it to your grave.

Kirsty had told her the story using her scary grownup voice. She had stolen sidelong glances at Alex to see how she was reacting. Alex kept her face straight, she practiced that face playing cards with Evan. But even as she pretended not to be impressed, a sharp blade of terror had twisted in her gut.

They had obsessed over the story. Over the girl. What had her name been? What had she looked like? Who had killed her and why? They had turned it in to a game. They had taken turns lying in the bushes holding their breath. Why do children do such things? Years later Alex can’t understand and the analytical part of her is too exhausted to do its job.

She had tired of the game eventually or else had been so frightened she finally had to tell Kirsty she wouldn’t be her friend anymore. It had spilt her in two. Alex now remembers. A tiny drama that had ended her first meaningful friendship. At the age of seven. A year later. Now. Kirsty was dead. As a child Alex had never acknowledged the death of her erstwhile friend. She had let it go, dressed it up as a move to another country or the death of a relative or the divorce of her parents. Now Alex wonders if some part of her had known all along.

There is no relief afterwards. No release. Three days after the bomb she can feel her world desperately trying to regenerate and failing. The edges of the wound are jagged and cannot mesh. The world lies broken as a porcelain teapot. Here and there are pieces she can recognise. Here a tea spout, there a handle but most of it is fine dust and jagged edges.

She lies there motionless not daring to even change her position. The chill makes her limbs heavy and her fingers stiff. It’s October and she hasn’t even begun to think about heating. Her toes are cold in her boots. She isn’t surprised when she hears the door swing open she is only shocked to see Shaz’s slight form instead of Hunt’s bulky one.

Shaz enters the bedroom looking clearly upset.
“Aren’t you cold ma’am? The window is open.”
Alex doesn’t answer, she doesn’t trust herself to.
“Why don’t you put something on ma’am?”
Alex looks down at her jacket, jeans and boots. What else should she put on?
“You’ve got to come back to work.” Shaz blurts out. “The Guv needs you there.”
Alex looks at her friend. Her favourite. Judas.
“Does he know you’re here? Did he send you?”
Shaz shakes her head ‘no’. “What’s wrong with you ma’am?” She moves closer to Alex, to the edge of the bed.
“I’m ill.” Alex slurs. She can’t even put words together anymore.
Shaz surprises her. “I can see that!” She says a hint of rebellion in her voice.
“I know things are hard, but he needs you there. He can’t solve this without you. He can’t solve it when he’s worried about you.”

“He managed for years without me.” Alex can feel the situation slipping quickly out of her grasp. She wants to run past Shaz and down the stairs, she wants to never stop running. Alex jumps to her feet; the carpeting scratching her bare soles. She pushes Shaz to one side. “Get out of my way.” She growls.

“Come off it!” Shaz cries. “I know you care. And you know how he feels about…”

“NO.”

Alex starts at the sound of her own voice. It is inhuman. An animal shriek.
The doors of her mind slam shut. It is one thing to know her own feelings but quite another to know his. He’s still two dimensional to her. A cut-out of a human. He has no thoughts or feelings.

She tumbles backwards onto the bed. The door rattles on its hinges again. And Alex blacks out.

I must stop doing this she thinks. It’s so cold where she is, her fingers are stuck together with ice, but she can no longer feel it. And the air feels so heavy she can almost see it, a line very nearly touching her skin like the blue streak of horizon in a child’s drawing.

This place is calm. She wants to stay. She knows she’s stopped breathing but that’s ok. She doesn’t need to breathe here.

Someone pulls her upright so abruptly her head snaps backward. Her lungs protest as if she has just inhaled acid. Hands on her bare skin, hands in leather gloves. She isn’t wearing anything. She never was. She’d just imagined her clothing.

Arms draw her closer. Her head rests at an uncomfortable angle against his chest; the fabric of his shirt clings to it, damp with sweat. She sees the white of the cotton and the grey silk of his tie. She can smell his aftershave.

A hand cups her chin and pulls it upward. Hunt’s blue eyes hold her. Then he crushes her face into his shoulder. He holds her crudely, like a man who has never held a woman before. In her memory his touch was gentle, his hands on her skin like a healing balm. But it was never like that. That was a Gene she had created to make herself feel better. That Gene can’t hold a candle to the real Gene Genie.

“You stupid tart, you weren’t bloody breathing. Again. Scared the living daylights out of me!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. Stop doing it then.”
He doesn’t release her and she doesn’t try to escape.

They stay that way in silence with Shaz looking away in embarrassment. Until finally Alex looks down at her breasts and blushes. She tries to cover her chest with her bare arms. He gives a short bark of a laugh but doesn’t loosen his embrace.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen a woman starkers before is it Bolly?”
She manages a small smile.
“You were outside the door weren’t you? You sent Shaz in to talk to me.”
He gives her a characteristic grin but his lips are still pale with fright.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

She takes her time getting dressed and explains to Shaz about the previous murder, dressing it up as a case she’d heard about.

“But Kirsty wasn’t murdered.” Shaz protests.
Alex can still manipulate Shaz. She gives her a knowledgeable look.
“Trust me.”

It’s harder to convince Gene but talking fast usually does the trick. That coupled with the fact that she was just in his arms, naked.

Plans are made to search the archives and contact the school. Ray and Gene will bully the Headmaster into disclosing the details.

It is well into the afternoon by the time they leave her flat, Gene first and Alex following. Shaz catches hold of Alex hand as they step out of the door.

“I’m sorry about your…about the Prices ma’am. I know what they meant to you.”
That line of condolence should sound comforting instead the words have a warning quality to them. Alex’s stomach does a flip. How much did she tell Shaz in hospital? Could she have remembered anything? Shaz gives her hand a squeeze.
“Come on ladies!” Gene’s voice booms out from downstairs as though nothing has changed.

It's on fanfiction.net too. But just in case:


The new world is smaller, darker and blurred. Everything is sepia like an old photograph. As they walk through the doors at Ash Street, Alex sees Chris and Ray as dark outlines drawn by a child’s hand. She sees Gene outlined in light. She sees everyone in the halls as figures in grey with faces without features, just a smooth, flat expanse of yellowish skin. In this world, as in the previous one, sound is distorted. In one ear everything seems louder. Children screaming, car motors revving, leaves rustling, heels clicking. In the other ear she hears the strange muted tones of being underwater. It’s like hearing music with one earphone broken. And there is no system to it. In a second the world may change and a sentence may become deafeningly loud and all the background noise be stripped away.

It’s hard to move in this new world. Alex feels like she can no longer trust her balance. One step in front of the other is an awfully big adventure.

They gather in Kirsty’s room, waiting for the coroner. Everything is exactly as they left it except the flowers have started to droop. It smells like decomposing roses and something else Alex can’t quite place but knows she should recognise.
The girl on the bed is so still Alex wants to cry. It could be Molly in that bed. She swallows the tears down hard.

It is Molly. Her small face peaceful and pale. Alex reaches to touch her but catches herself just in time. It isn’t really Molly, it’s Kirsty and she isn’t supposed to touch the corpse. And if she touches Molly she might never let go.
Alex follows them out into the hall, the gurney and the body covered by the sheet and Chris and Ray and Gene and the coroner. Here and there are little groups of students whispering and holding hands. Molly is standing in one group wearing a red school jacket, her lips are blue, and her face is lead white, as white as a clown.

Alex averts her eyes and trains them on the heels of Gene’s boots, they slant slightly, proof of the fact that he practically lives in them. He strides forward purposefully, as if seeming to know what he is doing will make up for the fact that they have failed.
The gurney hits a crack in the stonework of the floor, causing Kirsty’s hand to fly out from under the sheet, small, white and seeming to reach out. Molly skips forward and takes it as they continue towards the entrance. She smiles at her mother, her little mouth a black gaping hole, her eyes glittering ferociously. She parts her lips to speak but no sound comes out. Alex is tired of this world. She’s tired of the volume being turned up and down. She’s tired of her emotions stirring inside, tipping this way and that until she feels sea-sick. She turns a sharp corner into a secluded nook and falls to her knees convulsed with dry heaving. It doesn’t matter if they see, it doesn’t matter what they say; she can’t hear it anyway.

“Genie.” A small voice says. Alex gets up abruptly. It’s her voice. There behind the gurney, standing next to Gene is her eight year old self. She’s reaching for Gene’s hand. Alex doesn’t dare move any closer.
Hunt gives the little hand a gentle press. The expression on his face startles her, such tenderness, such concern; a dart of irrational jealousy pierces her heart.

“Everything’s fine. Just run along now with your mates, go on now.”

From her hidden corner Alex can’t be sure if she heard Gene speak or just remembered his words. She recalls a desire to reach out and embrace this man but it’s impossible for her to tell if it is a memory or just what she wants to do right now. She doesn’t understand what the child is doing here two days after the bomb. Did Evan send her back to school already? To witness this?

Alex catches up with Gene; he gives her a quick look. He’s visibly shaken.
The light outside is yellow and dingy and bathes each of the people standing on the street in a ghostly halo.
By the van, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews are holding each other up. Mrs. Andrews is weeping openly, the tears making tracks through her painstakingly applied make up. Mr. Andrews is staring straight at Alex, so she stares back; she’s expecting anger, expecting rage that she wasn’t capable of saving his child.
There is nothing there in his face except grief and hopelessness.
From the doorway, 8 year old Alex waves to the father of her friend with no result then rests her eyes on her Gene Genie.
Alex wonders at her new budding feelings. Perhaps they are just the results of a childish crush. Nothing to be concerned about, banished the next time little Alex catches a glimpse of a cute pop star on television. It seems like such a trivial thing to be thinking of now. But Alex turns the thoughts over and over in her mind anyway.
Behind her Ray is making a sound of disgust.

“Neither parent was concerned. She needed medicine for her asthma. A nebulisiser. That’s probably how she died, that’s what the coroner said.”
“Nebuliser.” Alex corrects unconsciously.
“That’s what I said.” Ray says rolling his eyes. “But neither parent was too concerned with the investigation because they both thought the other one had her and the medicine. So she suffocated, probably.”

Alex feels the liquid filling up her passages. If she doesn’t scream soon she’s going to drown.
They weren’t too concerned.
Layton almost shot her child and she had sent her off with Evan within the hour so that she could paperwork? Not too concerned. Molly gives her another grin.
There is something so horrible welling up inside her, Alex doesn’t even have a name for it. She feels her legs buckle beneath her as if they are separate from her body. Gene wrenches her up.
“Don’t you dare.” He rasps in her ear.
Alex feels her intestines freeze.
She pulls away from him in smooth motion so quickly that he has no time to react.

Bright red. She’s missing something again. Something she should know. Bright red and freshly cut grass.
She crosses back through the front hall and then straight through to the garden. Past the crooked rows where students have planted flowers and vegetables, past the trees she had played under as a child. Straight to the wall at the back of the garden.
She doesn’t know exactly what she is looking for, she isn’t even sure if she is looking for a real tangible thing or a memory. All she knows is that it is bright red. Red as freshly fallen blood.

The balloon again? Where was the clown if that was where her subconscious wanted to take her? She hadn’t seen the clown since the bomb exploded.
Bright red. Red as the forbidden flowers in Kirsty’s room. Not the balloon. Not the balloon after all. Along the far edge of the wall were rose bushes with blooms that precise shade of red.

That’s what she recalls. That’s what she keeps seeing.
There is something about these roses she should remember, something other than the fact that they had been the sole spot of colour in Kirsty’s Spartan room.
The scent is overpowering, cloying, like perfume gone off. Like a corpse too long exposed to the elements.
Someone is singing nearby, a child, singing slowly and carelessly as only children at play do. She used to sing that song.

Ring around a rosy.

She’s twirling with Kirsty. Mum is watching them, smiling.

A pocket full of roses.

Except it’s posy. Isn’t it? She’s always sung roses, she taught it to Molly that way.

Ashes, ashes we all fall down.

Thankfully it’s Chris, not Gene, who finds her, on her knees, arms bleeding from the shallow cuts where the thorns got her.
He helps her up and averts his eyes, steering her gently out of the garden.
“The Guv’ll be worried about you.” He’s saying. Alex feels her cheeks grow warm.
“He’ll have my head. We weren’t supposed to tell you anything important. He wanted you safe in the office, where it’s you know, safe.” He continues.

As soon as they reach Luigi’s, Alex ascends the steps to her flat leaving the others to their joyless drinking. Gene follows her to the foot of the staircase; she can tell he wants to say something. From his expression it is unclear whether he wants to berate her or invite her to join him for a drink. She doesn’t stay to find out.

Alex doesn’t even pause to turn the light in the bathroom on; she strips off her grimy and damp clothes and sits in the bathtub naked. Then she cleans her wounds under the tap as best she can. Even after a bath she feels no cleaner and no warmer, the chill is in her bones. She’d like to concentrate on cracking this case. On finding an explanation for Kirsty’s disappearance and reappearance. On finding a profile to fit her kidnapper. On finding the rest of that memory she dredged up in front of the rose bushes. But she can’t control her thoughts for long enough. Half of her wants to run down the stairs in her nightshirt and make Gene buy her a drink or ten. The other half wants to tell him she doesn’t want to work with him anymore. Both sides of Alex can’t keep the image of Gene Hunt’s face out of her head. It’s fixed there, larger than life with all its imperfections. At last she gives in. She lets him stay there just behind her eyelids until he is replaced by a far more disturbing image.
Molly.
She’s sitting on top of the television set, swinging her legs and singing in a steady, toneless fashion. She’s wearing a white ruffled nightdress and pink socks. Her eyes are dead and cold. The sight of those eyes terrifies Alex beyond all sense. Molly is more horrible than the clown ever had been.
Alex tries to cover her ears to block out the singing. Ring around a rosy. A pocket full of roses. A pocket full of roses! Why roses? Why did she misunderstand those lyrics as a child? Just because of those roses at school? Or was there another reason? An elusive reason so dreadful her psyche has banished it.
The song grows louder and louder until it reverberates off the walls of Alex’ mind. She feels like the echo will never go away; she’ll be hearing those words till the day she dies.
A knock on the door, sharp as a gunshot silences Molly at last.
Alex glances at her wristwatch. 4.30, already. It takes all her strength to walk to the door and open it. But all she sees when she does is the last dark flicker of what might be a billowing coat at the bottom of the stairs.

The continuation of this story.

Two:

In the end it is the ticking sound that forces Alex out of bed where she has lain sleepless for the past five hours. The ticking from the bomb that isn’t there. The bomb she had never even heard. It’s the ticking and the thought that Kirsty might be dead already. Four days on with no note and no suspects. It occurs to her there might be more to this case then she is aware of at this point. She has never felt so disconnected. For all she knows the others have already solved it. No, they couldn’t. This is her case, her ticket out of here.

One of the perks of insomnia is all the extra time she has to get ready for work in the morning.
On bad days in 2008 she was lucky if she had enough time in the morning to roll out of bed, stopping only to knock on Molly’s door on the way to the toilet. A quick shower and a few half-hearted strokes through her sleep-mussed hair with a comb had to suffice. Make up? Don’t be silly. Molly had asked her why she didn’t have more fun colours like her friend Janet’s mum. She couldn’t remember what she had answered but it had been very clever, something about creating a mask of false security. The truth was it took hours to get make up and hair just right and the woman she had been in 2008 wasn’t willing to sacrifice any of that time.

She applies another layer of mascara. Sam Tyler never had to worry about things like this. He could just splash water on his face put of his leather jacket and be on his way. She blots her lipstick and scrutinises her reflection in the mirror. Molly would laugh. She’d say something like ‘is that my mum in there underneath all that clown paint?’
At the thought of clowns, Alex feels her stomach contract in fear. She leaves the bathroom quickly without looking in the mirror certain he’ll be there staring back at her. Even after downing a cup of tea she still feels cold and shaky.

Today, I will solve this case. She repeats over and over to herself like a mantra as she fixes her curls with hairspray. She practices looking perky as she walks down the stairs. Today, Gene will notice how alive she is, he won’t believe this pretty happy woman is the same misery guts he sat across from last night.

Gene is still sitting where she left him last night. In fact his hand is still wrapped around his empty glass. He doesn’t move when she says his name, he’s sound asleep.
She prods him with one finger then puts her whole hand to his shoulder and shakes him. Still no reaction. Alex leans over, her face a few inches away from Gene’s, her hands on his upper arms. “Wake up Guv.” She says.
Hunt awakens with a start.

“I must be dreaming.” He mutters under his breath, if she weren’t so close she might have missed it. They stay that way for a few seconds. Alex is surprised by the thought that creeps unbidden into her head. He’s going to kiss me. This time he’s really going to do it. She feels calm with prickles of excitement just starting to run through her. She’s ready for it. She even tilts her face even closer and can feel him grip her wrist, his thumb running over her palm. She swallows; her throat is so dry she can barely breathe. He’s opening his mouth to do it, or to say something. Alex wonders if she should just kiss him herself. Not necessarily because she really wants to, more because it feels inevitable and all this delay is excruciating. He finally breaks the moment by letting out a long string of expletives and pushing her to one side.
Alex is so surprised she doesn’t even think to turn around. But when she does she sees Luigi standing at the doorway. She wants to sink into the ground.

There is an exchange between the embarrassed DCI Hunt and the cheerful Italian but Alex doesn’t hear it. She’s back at square one.
She can feel the heat in her face. She nearly let Gene Hunt kiss her. She almost kissed him herself. A man she wouldn’t have looked at twice in 2008. A man she would have laughed at and mocked with Molly.
“Go ahead and freshen up if you want to Gene.” She says not daring to look him in the eye. He takes her key and turns to go. The touch of his fingers sends a thrill through her. No, she thinks. Not this. She can’t do this now. It’s just her loneliness and confusion creating false emotions. She has just lost her parents for the second time. And it’s so much worse now. Two days after the bomb she doesn’t even recognise her own thoughts. What would Molly say to all this?

She leaves the restaurant and walks briskly, trying to clear her head. The sky is grey and light is that harsh unforgiving light of early morning. Before she knows it she’s running. Her shirt is damp with sweat, that hair she spent hours blowing dry and spraying is plastered to her face. This is her street. In 27 years time this is where she will live. Molly will live here. Molly. She has to pull herself together; she has to get back to this street in 2008.

Back at CID things are buzzing. Shaz greets her with a smile and explains that some information on Kirsty Andrews turned up. They found rabbit hair on her school jumper. Shaz casts a nervous glance in Chris’ direction. Chris shakes his head in warning.
“What’s going on here?” Alex demands. “I deserve to know, I’m your DI!”
“The Guv said not to say anything.” Chris and Shaz say simultaneously.
It’s Shaz who breaks first, who tells her Mr. and Mrs. Andrews are getting a divorce. Mrs. Andrews called in, in tears, positive her husband had Kirsty. Gene had just stepped out a few minutes ago to confront Mr. Andrews and hopefully bring Kirsty home.

He told them not to tell her about it because he was worried it might upset her after the Price case. Thought whirled in Alex’ head. Kirsty’s father may have taken his daughter. Gene was trying to protect her. Enough. Enough. Enough thinking.
Once again Alex found herself sprinting. She caught the Quattro just as Gene was pulling away from the curb and jumped into the backseat.
Judging from Ray’s reaction Gene had just said something screamingly funny.
“I don’t care if I can’t hear you Gene, if you’re going to solve this case I’m going to be there.”

Alex leaned back and straightened her jacket. Things were looking up. With any luck she’d be home this time tomorrow and this little inconvenient emotion she felt for Gene Hunt would be nothing but a strange dream.

She was expecting a villa. She was expecting a fountain. She was expecting a slick man with a monocle and a thin moustache. The funny thing was she remembered Mr. Andrews, she had seen him before as a little girl. He was a big man who had recently lost a great deal of weight. His hair was a dirty blond, thinning at the temples. But it was his eyes she remembered; they were so tired, so old, so sad she had never again seen eyes like his. The eyes of a man who had lost everything.

“Right.” Gene says. The rest of his words are lost in a flurry of memory. The white sheet moving into the light. The hand beneath the sheet. Mr. Andrews’ eyes. Mrs. Andrews’ perfume. Red, bright red. Someone taking her eight year old hand as if leading her to a dance. The bomb again? Gene holding her hand? Bright red and the smell of freshly cut grass.
Alex snaps back into focus.

Ray does the bit where he has a warrant to search the premises. Gene is questioning Mr. Andrews about his divorce. Alex steps back. Gene wanted her kept in the dark about this. He didn’t think she could deal with it. She looks about the flat. It smells of stale food and alcohol. She can’t imagine Mr. Andrews would let his daughter see this place let alone keep her here. Ray finds one, two, three, four bottles of scotch in the kitchen. And two under the bathroom sink behind the towels.
“How long have you been drinking Mr Andrews?” She interrupts Gene in mid sentence.
“That’s the reason your wife left you isn’t it?”
Mr. Andrews lets out great sigh. “She was ashamed of me. She said she’d never let me see Kirsty again.”
“So you think she took Kirsty?” Alex asks.
Without turning she can tell Gene is angry but it doesn’t matter, she knew from the start there was something suspicious about Mrs. Andrews.

Gene is pulling her away. His hand on her elbow, he is saying something about a word DI Drake. She tries to control the colour flying to her cheeks, the memory of the moment this morning when she wanted him to kiss her. It dawns on her just why he wants it to be Mr. Andrews.

“You don’t want it to be Mrs. Andrews, you fancy her!” She accuses.
“I do not!” She hears that loud and clear.
“You fancy her, you fancy her, you fancy her.” She hisses
“You know what Bolly Knickers? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were jealous.”
Alex pushes him out of the way her head reeling.
“Nothing here Guv.” Ray says. “No girl, nothing.”

Alex knows it’s because Mrs. Andrews has her.

When the call comes, the world ends. The new world she had pieced together, two days after the bomb, is broken. They found Kirsty Andrews lying on her bed in school pale and cold, blue in the face. Dead.

In the Quattro with her head against the window, Alex tries to organise her thoughts. She said she was fine, she wanted to solve this case; now all that was left to do was solve it. How easy that sounded in her head back at CID. Here, out in the open she feels naked, like a knight without armour. Instead of claiming shot-gun as she usually does, Alex leaves the seat beside Gene to Ray, who gets in eagerly without question. She takes the seat behind the driver, where the dizziness overwhelms her almost at once. The last time she was car-sick had been when she was pregnant with Molly. She leans her forehead against the seat in front of her, praying for the nausea to end. She can feel his motions as he switches gears and shifts his weight this way and that. Does he have to drive with his whole body? Why can he never just be still? He is always moving or drinking, smoking or doodling and even when he is just sitting there at Luigi’s he is waving his arms and flicking or twitching his fingers, playing with his lighter or plucking at the tablecloth. How can someone she made up in her head be so alive when she feels so lifeless?

Ash Street looks different, considering she had been here only yesterday. It looks subdued. The Technicolor of the eighties, her initial impression that she had landed over the rainbow, is gone, Ash Street is grey in grey.

In school, everything is smaller and shabbier and Alex feels clumsy and huge next to the tittering schoolgirls. She cranes her neck in hope of seeing her younger self but then remembers that she would be at Evan’s house. Eating ice cream and watching television, the reality of her altered life not yet sunk in.

As the afternoon wears on she realises time is different too, not just sound and colour, everything is slow and dolorous. They question more students and teachers, a cook, the gardener and a handful of others whose faces all blend into one.
Gene leaves to speak to the Headmaster about the press release and a possible public appeal. Only a day ago she would have gone with him. Apparently things have changed.
Instead he lets her question Mrs. Andrews, probably because they already have a statement from her taken by the first police man on the scene.

She can’t remember ever meeting Kirsty’s mother. She doesn’t expect this tall, attractive woman whose long face, reminiscent of her daughter’s, was dignified rather than horsy. Her clothes are expensive, a shade too fashionable to be formal. She smells familiar. A spasm in her chest jogs her memory. Mrs Andrews is wearing Caroline’s perfume, it’s Michelle by Balenciaga. Tim gave it to her for her birthday. Alex remembers spraying some on in order to test it and smelling like her Mum all day long.

Mrs. Andrews seems composed. Too composed? There may be shadows hiding beneath that perfect foundation but Alex can’t detect them with her naked eye.

“I don’t know why you needed to talk to me again. I gave a statement this morning. I only came back to speak with the Headmaster.”

She sounds like she practiced these words. Alex waits for the tremor in her voice, the strain, there is none. Is this a woman whose child has been missing for almost three days? Is this how she would act were Molly missing?
Alex casts a look about the room Kirsty shares with her roommate. Her side is meticulously tidy, unnaturally so. There is almost a visible line between her side of the room and that of the other girl. Mrs. Andrews assures her all is as it should be, Kirsty is a very conscientious little girl. Alex can’t remember that about her friend.
She thinks of Molly’s room at home in 2008. CD’s without covers and clothes on the floor, her dresser a jumble of glittery necklaces and bracelets, lip glosses, nail polish, magazines and candy wrappers. No amount of nagging could ever make her clean it regularly.

The girl Kirsty shares with, Angela, seems tidy enough. Her side is neat but a jumper is slung over the back of a chair, her hairbrush has a few stray strands of dark hair between the prongs, her bed is perfunctorily made. Her mirror is decorated with stickers. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Mrs. Andrews stands at Kirsty’s desk, her hands clasped. There isn’t a stray scrap of paper on it, not a speck of dust, no keepsakes. No wait. By the lamp she spies a flash of bright pink, synthetic, soft. One of those trolls. Are they following her?

“That’s not Kirsty’s.” Mrs. Andrews says. “We don’t let her have toys like that. Only educational ones.”

At Kirsty’s window there is a vase of red roses, petals just starting to fall.

“And those flowers, she isn’t allowed, she’s allergic.”

“Only educational toys, no flowers but you let her pierce her ears at the age of six.” Alex shakes her head in disbelief.

“How did you…?” Mrs. Andrews starts. She isn’t so attractive with her mouth gaping open like a codfish. “That was her father, he dotes on her so.” She swallows those last words.

If she were the old Alex, the Alex she was yesterday, she would be making connections, she’d be noticing discrepancies. Not today. She thinks back a similar scene from her childhood. One that involved Caroline refusing to buy her earrings, Tim had been willing but Caroline had won of course.
Tim. Was that her father’s name?
Her fingertips feel numb.

“Guv says we’re finished here.” Chris words swim out towards her. She can’t shake the numbness spreading through her, freezing her voice in her throat. She nods instead.
Mrs. Andrews is giving her a strange concerned look. Yeah, Alex thinks, I get that a lot.
On her way out of the room she notices a grey heap at the foot of the bed. A school jumper. Mrs. Andrews makes a clicking with her tongue. “That’s so unlike her.” She says reaching to pick it up.
“Better take that Chris.” She warns.

Another drive in the Quattro, another hour or so at CID recording her findings. Gene passes her on the way out, shrugging on his coat. She stares at him from under her eyelashes and he doesn’t even glance her way.

By the time she makes it Luigi’s almost everyone has left. Ray, walking out the front door, claps her on the shoulder. It is a surprising, uncharacteristic action that confuses her even more.

There is a feeling of relief so delicious it hurts when she sees him sitting in his usual seat. The numbness is melting away.
She half expects him to leave when he sees her but he pauses in mid-draft looking at her as if weighing his options and then motions her to sit.
Only last night things were normal. Only last night he was drinking with her, laughing as if nothing had happened. As if there had been no betrayal, no visit from Lord Scarman, no bomb.
Alex can’t grasp what has changed. This is a world she can’t fathom. A world within a world within a world. Like nesting boxes.

She sits across from him without moving, without speaking. Alex struggles with her thoughts, trying to think of something to say, trying to piece together sentences out of blank puzzle pieces. One day after the bomb they are silent at last. No more banter, no more crude jokes. She doesn’t touch the wine in front of her, she drinks in the sight of Gene, a man, she realises she doesn’t know at all. Tonight feels like the real goodbye. No silly talk of watching videos and missing him, no patronising smiles. Now she knows how foolish she sounded that night. She thought she could shrug Gene off like an unfashionable frock. But in light of the events after the bomb she realises he was always there, under her skin.

Hi to all.
I'm sorry I haven't written. I just had a look at Jezebel's blog and felt the guilt sinking in. I mean she hasn't written in ages but at least she updates fairly often.
As the title implys I have vacation. It was sort of forced on me by my boss, Paddy, who wanted us all to get it out of the way. Not that I'm really complaining about vacation just wish I'd done something constructive or at least gotten a tan (not that I really like tans) And anyway I got a new tattoo, sort of a goodbye action with Rena. Since she has moved to Newcastle. Grumble.
(see picture in case you are wondering what I got)


I also finally got around to watching Life on Mars and have developed a serious obsession. Oh dear. And just when I thought I was too old. ;o)
So I tried my hand at some fanfiction (see the previous entry) And it's fun. Having a good time. Yes I'm still going to finish the Messiah Story. (If Giselle ever reads it and comments)
Oh, and Jezebel: I can't post pictures cause my camera isn't working. I'm still working on my black scarf and I have 7 balls of Debbie Bliss pure cotton ( 82m/50g) any idea what I can do with that?? Purchased to make some top I don't even like anymore.
It's soooo soft.
The next post will be fanfiction again so be warned.

Hey people,

SPOILER!

If you haven't watched Life on Mars or Ashes to Ashes please don't read this. If you are stubborn, like Giselle, don't come crying to me when you learn something you didn't want to know ;o)

None of this belongs to me. I'm a poor chef. Just borrowing. Thanks to Kimi-87 for beta-ing!


FIVE- An Ashes to Ashes Fanfiction


One:


There is no sound after the bomb, as if her eardrums have been damaged beyond repair by the blast. They haven’t though, she has been examined. She lacks nothing. A little sleep perhaps, would do her a world of good. She hasn’t slept in months, not properly, not without the aid of alcohol. She didn’t drink in 2008, in fact she often said she couldn’t drink, just one glass made her tired, she didn’t like the feeling that she wasn’t in control. She had Molly to think of. Here in 1981 she didn’t like the feeling of control. She wanted to float aimlessly. Drift.

One day after the bomb she longs for that control again. Too late, she admits she was mistaken. There is nothing safe or comforting about drifting. She can’t function at all. She forgets things, how to walk, how to dress herself, how to chew and swallow. She can no longer remember Molly’s favourite colour, her favourite song, what she likes for breakfast. Only last night she lay awake trying to remember if Wednesday came after Thursday or not, what apples tasted like. Just now she forgot to breathe, though that may have had more to do with the sight of Gene Hunt sweeping into the office, his face like a thundercloud.

Lately she didn’t know herself around Hunt. Everything he said had the volume turned down to her. She could see his lips moving but no sound issued from them. It was as though she wouldn’t or couldn’t deal with everything Gene stood for, her mind had created a cushioning bubble around him, like a blister. He slammed a hand full of photographs and a manila envelope onto her desk. She never had been good at reading lips so she just stared at his mouth, marvelling at the shape of the words, marvelling at the fact that they meant nothing at all to her. No wait, this one word she knew.

“Bolls.”

He was saying her name. Her heart skipped a beat. But that wasn’t her name was it? She had another. A real one not just his silly pet name. Alex. She was Alex. But she wasn’t. Even in her head she thought of herself as Bolly. She was losing herself. It occurred to her she might be something he constructed and not the other way around.
To escape his scrutinising glare she flicked her eyes down to the photographs on her desk. A little girl in a school uniform. She knew that uniform because she had worn one just like it. The girl looked vaguely familiar. Thin, horsy sort of face, a gap between her teeth, dark blond hair pushed away from her eyes with a pink ribbon, tiny earrings in the lobes of her ears, Kirsty something. She’d known her at school. No amount of pleading could make Caroline Price take her to get her ears pierced. She remembered the seething jealousy and the admiration. Whatever happened to her? Whatever happened to Kirsty Andrews? She couldn’t remember that part. Had she moved? Switched schools? Why couldn’t she remember?

“Missing, since Saturday afternoon, school thought she’d gone home, parents thought she’d stayed at school, no ransom note yet.” Shaz said.

Shaz? Back already? She feels Shaz move closer to her from the left side. She can feel her soft fingers on her arm. Shaz’ voice is clear as a bell in her ear. The only voice that sounds clear in this underwater world. She points out the witnesses statements in the manila folder.

“Is this even our jurisdiction?” Alex wonders aloud.
Though why she bothers, she doesn’t know. It isn’t as if there is a system in this world of hers. These days she wouldn’t be surprised if King Kong came striding through the doors of CID one morning and demanded an interview with DCI Hunt.

“They asked for us, they asked for you by name ma’am.” Shaz explains.

There is a burning feeling in Alex’s throat. She should know this. She should remember. A white hand peering out from beneath the sheet, Evan’s voice telling her, “Kirsty’s just gone to visit her grandparents, darling. I’m sure she’ll be back in no time.” That had sounded funny even to sad little Alex Price still reeling from her parent’s death. Something was being wheeled away. Alex saw a small hand it was reaching for her. They were wheeling something away, out into the light, into a vehicle.

Was that what had become of her friend? The world is fuzzy again, everyone’s voice knotted together in a chorus. The swirling darkness closes in on her, blocking out the sheet, the hand and the photograph of Kirsty Andrews. Her head lands on her desk with a thud. There’s a blessed pause before the world comes rushing back and Alex is half expecting to be lying on the damp ground in an alley, Layton towering over her with a gun. That vision is shattered by the feeling of someone pressing a glass of cold water into her hand and the sound of someone speaking.

“Christ on a bike! I can’t handle this now. Someone take her home.” His voice crackles like an old LP. It sounds like he’s so far away, she isn’t at all sure he actually spoke. Perhaps her mind just produced a response typical of Gene. He seems somehow bigger from where she is sitting, over-dimensional, like a picture of an adult from a child’s point of view. He starts to turn away, to walk back towards his office.

“No.” She whispers.

At least she thinks she does. Her hand shoots out of its own accord and fastens itself onto his sleeve. He looks down at it with an expression she can’t analyse, all her years at university a waste. She thinks it may be disgust. The sudden acute hotness behind her eyes frightens her and so she doesn’t cry after all.

“No Guv, let me stay. I can help, see?” She pauses to brush her hair into place with one hand and smile. “All better.”

She doesn’t hear what he answers to that. Probably for the best as it produces a round of laughter from the others. To her, the laughter is deep and slow, distorted like the sound of wild beasts growling in a child’s nightmare. Her head might explode with the sound of it.

But she doesn’t let it show on her face. She can’t go home now. She can’t sit up there alone. She has to go with them, back to school. To the last place Kirsty was seen. This might be the only way to get back to Molly she realises. Yes, that’s it. If she can save this little girl all will be well again.

She stands up abruptly and dons her jacket and then strides purposefully towards the door, photos and folder in hand. It feels strange to be wearing heels, unnatural, she wavers slightly as she passes Chris, Ray and Gene. A strong hand closes on her upper arm, it will leave a bruise but she knows it’s the only thing holding her up, again. Gene mutters something; from his body language she can tell it’s a warning. He releases her arm slowly, the pressure abating until it seems to her like he is caressing it.

She looks around desperately to see if anyone else noticed but they are all laughing, chewing gum and shuffling out of the door.

My new job is fun. Thanks to Lumi's mother I have sprung free from Novelli's clutches. Lumi's mother needs a name. I have to think about it. What's "Really cool, beautiful person" in Finnish?
My bosses are youngish, totally NORMAL and Irish. They are slightly flaky and enjoy good food. ;o)
My new place of work is a little shop called Naked Lunch that serves sandwiches, salads, wraps and fruit salad, obscenely good brownies and muffins.
I'm supposed to be the new creative influence and so I can do WHATEVER I want. I can order whatever I want.

It's exactly like when I was little and was fooling around in the kitchen cooking whatever I feel like.
I make two soups a day and a new salad and a sweet thing. Currently I love cupcakes. Cupcakes are fun.

Anyway to be continued. Anyone who wants to suggest new desserts or soups etc. Let me know.

So here I am again, my head barely above water but still swimming. I finally decided to quit my job at Novelli where my life has basically been working and sleeping only taking the ocassional break to see Constantine, who remains like his name implies a constant in my life.
So I have about a month until I switch jobs. I have a pretty interesting offer from Lumi that excites and terrifies me at the same time. My father hates all of my decisions and thinks I should just ask for more money or at least transfer to another similarly depressing slave job. That's the work situation.

I spoke to Giselle for hours last night and have been trying to write the first chapter of hour story. It's slow work but actually quite fun. I'd forgotten that.
I'm trying to read more than I have been. Just finished The Black Magician Trilogy and I'm not getting over a certain death. His death has thrown me into despair I haven't felt since Diar died in Fionavar. So since I have no chance of getting together with a dead magician from a fantasy novel I will adress myself to chocolate cake, instant with Betty Crocker frosting.
Long live chocolate!

no, not cause of my Grey's Anatomy obsession. James was always a former med student. so there.

1. Wolf

Most days I dream of grassy fields. The dew between my toes, my claws sinking into the soft ground. I can smell my prey and feel the blood pumping in my head. I feel myself reach to fasten my jaws upon it's warm body. I never catch it, it slips from my grasp.

Not my dreams.

Most nights, before, I'd dream of surgery. Time would seem to pass in excruciating slowness. I'd see every detail but enhanced as if I had x- ray vision. I had the power to heal and ruptured organs became whole beneath my touch. Flesh knitted together, blood seeped back into the body, stitches were invisible.

I wonder if that is what he dreams now.


just a snippet

No hot drinks and no hot food may be prepared in your rooms for safety and hygiene reasons.

That's it. Today in a fit of depression and frustration I bought a hot plate and a spaghetti pot. The hot plate because it was on sale and I figure it was killing two birds with one stone to get it instead of the cheaper and smaller water cooker. This way I can make soup and noodles and maybe a scrambled egg. I can warm milk and drink that yummy belgian hot chocolate Constantine sent me in his latest "cheer up, your ex still thinks of you packet". (As if all the pretty comics weren't enough!)
The spaghetti pot because it was the only one I could find.
If I had known I was going to be a rebel I would have bought those cute enamel pans I saw at Spar last time in pale blue and mint and eggshell.

I'm settling down now to eat my instant chinese noodle soup and watch The Fabulous Baker Boys on that mini dvd player Giselle gave me for my birthday (I love you Darling!) and curl up with Izzie my new fuzzy toy. She's a plush rabbit. I asked Constantine about it. He figures Stig (the red Ikea toy of indeterminate species) won't mind. Fuzzy creatures are an understanding bunch.
Yay! Viva la revolution!

Not the best writing I've done. I'll see what I can do with a bit more energy tomorrow.

So, I did my best I really did. I was full of hopes etc. I wanted to give everyone a chance. Here I am over two months into my sentence and slowly losing my mind. (sorry about not blogging but I only just got internet. My wonderful brother organized it for me.)
It isn't really snowing. Brown patches glare through the ice. Laundry cost 2 euros and you need to beg for the key to use the one working machine. The roommate was ok. Well. except for dragging an 18 year old colleague into our room (where we lived bed to bed) at 4 in the morning and proceeding to... And then she was sick. Chronic intestine infection. hmm. Maybe all that drinking, hardly sleeping, smoking, hardly eating wasn't good for her! she went home early and now I 'm alone. Is it mean of me to be pleased? I'm used to having free space. Lots of it.

Oberlech itself is minuscule. And chock full of hotels with loud ice bars. Lech is a village containing two supermarkets, one church, about 6 restaurants and several embarrassing discos. The one I occasionally visit is called Archiv. It's full of young people. I think the oldest person I met in there was 24. And they all get this scary look in their eyes as if they are scanning you terminator style to determine whether or not you would be a good fuck. (All of them are desperate for it so that they can go back home and tell everyone they got laid during their holiday)

Now to the title of this blog. My colleagues!
1: Michi. In charge of appetizers. Ok really. 22. Not attractive. Not used to being a boss.

2: Andi. The guy my roommate had a thing with. He's ok I guess. But I swear his brain must be fried from all the pot. He talks really slowly and doesn't have an opinion on anything.

3: Lissi. Oh my god! Where to start? 23. Scary. Very stern and teacher-like. One of those girls who uses her sex as an advantage. She calls everyone sweetheart and flirts with all the guys. But she has a boyfriend. She also is obsessed with her ass. She thinks it's too big and mentions it at least five times a day.

4: Reini. 23. Huge, fat, tattooed. bald. He looks like he's a tough guy but he drinks strawberry daiquiris and is desperate for a girl. He's also a backside chef. He likes to make comments on everything! Even to the way I hold a broom while sweeping.

5: Berni. 20. The meanest man in the world. Really. Not exaggerating. he's rude and violent (proudly tells everyone about people he picked fights with) When the storm hit Germany he was as excited as a kid in a candy shop. His eyes were glowing: "isn't it great? People may die!"
He wants to go out with the hairdresser but she doesn't want him. Still. Not sorry for him. Serves him right. He only talks to people he thinks can offer him something and he said so himself.

6: George. 21. Quiet. Spineless.

7: Christian. 19. Ok. Nice on some days.

8: Basti. 17. The apprentice. Hmm. Spineless.

9: Petra. Sous chef. hmm. one of those women who needs to be mean to get respect. i just don't like her.

I'll write about the boss another time. I did like him but now I'm annoyed at him as well so I think I better leave it.

All of the above people are desperate to show they sre the best and constantly oppress others in order to prove how clever they are.

I've never been so lonely before. Self esteem is rock bottom. I've never felt so unattractive. My skin is completely dried up. I'm at least 10 kilos heavier than most girls here. (except Petra who looks like a box.)

And I'm tired. No matter how long I sleep. I'm tired and throwing up and head achey almost every day.

Sorry to complain so much. There are positive things here just can't think of any tonight.

Whoever is reading this I miss you. I'm sorry for being distant.

Beware, spoilers live here.

I'm Bond fan. Have been since I first watched Dr. No at the age of seven. I love his style and cleverness, his car and his procession of beautiful girls, his cruel streak. He remains a part of my picture of the ideal man (no matter how ridiculous this seems, I'm determined to be truthful)I remember coloring my finger in gold paint and declaring that I was Goldfinger, twining pinkies with Giselle and announcing that we were bound by the strongest bond in the world: James Bond.

Like many other long standing Bond fans I had been prophesying doom ever since I heard that Daniel Craig had been cast as the infamous British agent. The man was unknown, short, stocky and...blond. Never mind that Roger Moore was decades too old to play in an action-packed spy movie, Pierce Brosnan was too pretty and too slick, Timothy Dalton: what a wimp, Sean Connery (nevertheless my favourite)initially too bald and playing a caricature of Bond rather than a real man, need I even mention the hapless George Lazenby?? I was convinced Craig would fail miserably and so as I ticked off the days till the new film surfaced I prepared myself for a good long smirk.

Charlotte dragged me to the cinema a few days ago and we settled in for a good chat (one of our very rude habits reserved for bad films). We talked through the previews and well into the opening sequence pausing only to marvel at the few minutes of black and white teaser, which she pronounced:'very film noir' and then all at once it hit us. Slow, like a good crush always must: starting at the toes and hitting the brain with an 'AHHH!' This Bond was sexy. Animal sexy. Bond was finally a man.
After that we were lost. The steel blue eyes, the strong arms and legs, well defined but not exaggerated muscles...aarrrgghhh. But that wasn't all. This Bond had true charm and wit, the ability to banter that went beyond heavy handed chauvinistic quips (Pussy Galore...I hope Christmas comes twice this year...)see the train scene with Vesper Lynd. Finally aspects of Bond's past were revealed: he is an orphan (parents were killed in a climbing accident), he was well educated but dependent on the charity of another (his aunt Charmain according to Bondpedia) Craig manages to pull off a Bond who didn't come from money: suave but just down to earth enough. Seemingly unimpressed by wealth and glamour but really actively seeking it out (rich men's wives, rich men's cars, tailored dinner jackets)You can see through his nonchalant mask when he dresses for the casino or sees the car M sent him. He plays a Bond who walks a fine line. He is not yet the experience hardened agent who takes and dispenses of partners and women without batting an eye but that doesn't mean he is weak and sniveling. Casino Royale contains some of the most brutal killing scenes in Bond history.
Craig as Bond still possesses and displays compassion, something 007 of the future cannot afford to do. In one of the most romantic scenes in the movie James climbs into the shower with Vesper Lynd, who having witnessed her first killing sits beneath the running water, hysterical. Bond is understanding and doesn't take advantage of the situation sexually, except to suck on Vesper's white fingers which are 'still covered in blood' as she claims. They retire to separate beds, something that would never have happened in earlier films.
He can be tender and romantic admitting his love for Vesper, silly in their later bed scene and passionate in his attempted rescue of her. But Craig never loses touch with original character. Casino Royale is a prequel and certain aspects of Bond are hinted at, explored but not completely revealed. His self irony, sarcasm, impatience, masking emotion with humor to name a few.

To sum things up: I was expecting the worst and now I have to admit I think Casino Royale may be the best Bond yet. Craig is Bond personified. He slips with ease from action to casino scenes, is at ease fighting hand to hand or with a gun, is brilliant in an extremely risque, full naked, torture scene where his privates are placed in a painful situation. Eva Green as Vesper Lynd is beautiful, intelligent and sometimes vulnerable yet perfectly capable of taking matters into her own hands. She is finally a match for James and I certainly understand why he was willing to resign for her. Hell, I would. Mads Mikkelsen as Le Chiffre is the quintessential Bond villain from his slick dialogue to his physical defect, an eye that weeps blood. Need I rhapsodize about Dame Judi Dench as M? She combines a tough as nails demeanor with genuine concern for her wayward secret agent and remains the best M to appear on screen yet.
It was a delight to see a Bond film without too many gadgets and identity switching surgery, the focus was on Bond and the fighting scenes beautifully choreographed. For once they spared a thought on the cinematography and managed to make a visually valuable film. Wow!

I used to long for upcoming films the way you would long for a lover. I'd pine. Collecting every scrap of media about them to the point of buying an entire newspaper for the sake of a screen still the size of a thumbnail. When the preview would arrive I would jump every time I saw it on television, flipping through channels in case it was shown again. Then the night itself would arrive. I'd sit there breathless, heart full to the bursting, like the consummation of a romantic interest. Afterward depending on whether or not the film was good or not I would relieve every scene, every quote and wonder how long I could go without seeing it again.

As I got older I slowly dropped this habit. Because I was now more mature? Because the films weren't worth it anymore? I think more likely because internet allows me to get a daily fix without stalking.
Aside from the mandatory pre-Harry obsession, Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette was the closest I'd come to the pining of the old days. It seemed worthy. I'd loved Lost in Translation, I adore Kirsten Dunst (it's a chemical thing, I just can't help having this gigantic crush), 18th century clothes, my favourite (there is nothing more masculine to me then men dressed in lace and frock coats. The courage to dress like a fop makes them all the more manly), cool contrasting modern music...
It had all the required features. What it was lacking?
Hmmm.
Basically it tells the story (Book by Antonia Fraser) of the young Austrian princess Marie Antoinette sent to marry the Dauphin of France. She's young and unprepared (though schooled in deportment etc.) and more interested in her dog (Mops!) then anything else. She quickly learns how dreary her life at court is to be. (being waited on and dressed by two football teams-worth of ladies in hoops, endless masses in a drafty chapel,stiff breakfasts with Louis, the gossip and intrigue) Not only that, her royal (impotent?) husband seems more interested in hunting and making keys (next time I make fun of playing blind chess or Mafia I'll think of that) than consummating their royal marriage. Like all smart women being denied intercourse Antoinette turns to chocolates, cakes, shoes and fans and becomes known as the most decadent, wasteful queen in history until circumstance and an angry mob end it all.
This recipe doesn't spell disaster per se. But action was missing, spirit was missing. Too many silent scenes and not enough dialogue meant a certain distance form the main character. It was too paced, perhaps on purpose. It seemed to stretch somehow and give the impression of going on for days. The other possibility is that my numbed state is just coloring my view of the film. I'll have to see what others think.
I wasn't exactly disappointed in it,I was just seduced by it's snappy preview and music. In the end the preview said it all, the film was just the preview in slow motion. Oh well. The clothes were nice.

That wasn't so hard really.