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It comes out of nowhere, while they're on traffic patrol: the job you get busted down to when your partner's gone from crack copper to soft lad AI. One second, they're having a semi-lucid conversation about tunnels and bridges. It's just like old times, before the shooting, and the augmentation, and the whole I was sleeping with your wife while you were dead thing, that great whacking elephant in the car.
The next, Major says something weird. Well: weirder than usual.
"Say no more, mate," he says, wrapping an LFC scarf round his neck. "Brick up the Mersey tunnels, let's be done with it."
"What the fuck?" says Carver.
"Listen," he starts, in the great white elephant of Parfit's lab, "I know you think you're being clever, taking out the Yank and loading him up with, like, Scouse for Beginners—"
"Uh, I am clever?" Parfit says. She pushes her glasses back up her nose. "What's Scouse again..?"
"You wanted me to monitor him for abnormal behaviour. Trust me: this qualifies. He just asked if I wanted to hit the offie for a bevvy after work... Whatever you’ve done, you need to undo it."
"I can't undo what I didn't do."
"So do a thing to undo the thing you didn't do."
"I don't do things that do things that undo things I didn't do."
"Then do— Shit. I give up." He scratches his head. "I thought you were smart."
"Smarter than you," says Parfit smugly. "The human brain is amazingly adaptive, okay? Look at me: driving on the left like a pro."
He entertains himself with a brief vision of hotwiring her car and disabling the autodrive. It's a crime and all that, but he's got a mate at the DVLA who'd talk him through it. "Thank fuck for that. So how do we fix it? Can't we, like, shock him out of it?"
"No, you may not."
"I wasn't talking actual zapping." He considers it. "But now you mention it—"
"Or maybe it's just the opposite," Parfit says, a finger to her chin in thought. "Major's brain has experienced a crazy amount of trauma. You follow me?"
"Perfectly," Carver says, "since I'm not your completely shit AI."
She huffs. "As it rewires itself, around the artificial intelligence modules, it clings to the things it knows. And maybe the biggest of those is you." She grabs her tablet, draws something quick, flips it back around.
Carver cranes his head. "Is that—a swan?"
"It's a duck, numbnuts."
"Finally," he says, "something else you're crap at."
"Major just came back to life. He's super smart—okay, he will be super smart—but right now he's also a baby duckling, waddling around, imprinting on the first thing it sees. When I updated the update, I guess the language centres of his brain got even more confused than I thought..."
Carver hears nothing past imprinting. "Jesus. He thinks I'm his mother?"
"It'll wear off." She pauses. "Probably."
"Duck me," Carver says.
Step one in the aversion process: invite Major round for tea.
"What's this?" he says, squinting at the plate Carver places in front of him.
"Auntie Doris's scouse. She flies it down by drone. Still hot when it gets here."
"It's baltic," says Major.
"This is last week's. Been here ten years and she's still worried I'll go native...eat too many of them jellied eels..."
"You don't even like Haribo, you div." His fork hovers dubiously over a congealed chunk of potato. "Are carrots supposed to be this fluffy, Roy..?"
"I've got some nice red cabbage here if you want some," Carver says. "Really hits the spot."
Major brings the fork to his mouth. "Well this is nice and cosy, like. You even lit candles."
"Forget to pay me leccy bill." He writhes like a suspect under Major's gaze. "All right, so I had it turned off. Not spent much time here lately."
"Can't imagine why," Major says, looking around. "Proper antwacky."
"Oi. This is a bloody amazing bachelor pad, this."
"One-bed opulence out in Zone 26?"
Is that that special Londoner brand of snobbery Carver's hearing? "What's wrong with that?" he says, hopefully.
"Nah, I get it," Major says. "It's fucking dear down here, lad. Not even got a Sayers."
Carver sighs. He thinks about saying something mildly disparaging about Southerners: bit of shock therapy. Nothing that isn't true. Nothing he hasn't said in his head a thousand times. Miserable bastards, that sort of thing. Parfit warned him to go gentle. But Major's always made him feel that bit small and stupid, even when he wasn't new and unimproved, even when he's not not-judging his flat—so instead he goes for the jugular.
"Go on. Get that down you, and I'll put the match on."
"With no power?"
"There's these little things called extension leads," Carver says.
Major inserts the fork. He chews slowly. Suspiciously. Carver gives him the thumbs up.
Major's face brightens. He starts shovelling down mouldy scouse, mumbling stuff like, "this is sound" and "whoops, dropped it on me kecks" and "d'you think your Doris might send me a care package, now I'm alive again..?"
Carver buries his head in his hands.
"I mean, football's never been the same since they started hiring holograms as managers," Carver says. He hands Major a beer and flops down next to him.
"Klopp-Shankly's getting results and that, but he's not, like..."
"Human?" Major says.
"Eh, come on. You know I didn't mean it like that." He swigs his beer, eyes flicking to his phone. He should maybe delete all his messages from Kelly, now Major's back. Pictures too, to be safe. But he doesn't want to. And it's not like Major's at the hacking phones stage. Christ, the man can barely find his balls to scratch them.
"I don't know. He's not local, I guess." He shrugs, all faux casual, spying an opening. "It's important. Having a bit of pride in where you come from..."
Liverpool choose that moment to score. Major leaps up and screams in ear-busting ecstasy. Carver follows two seconds later, since his reaction times are that bit slower, and fuck is he sore about that. They jump around, yelling at the top of their lungs. Then they hug. Major's a cuddler now, turns out. He sighs happily. Carver wriggles out of reach, in case he starts quacking.
"Fucking hell," he says, "what was that about?"
"We scored," says Major, looking at him as if he's particularly dense.
"Jesus wept, I've got eyes, John, I can see that..."
Major opens his mouth.
"If the next words out of there are calm down," Carver warns, "you better jump out that window, 'cos I am going to shoot you. Again."
Major clamps his mouth shut. He looks more confused than normal. He says, "So you're not happy we scored?"
"Who's we?" Carver splutters.
"Don't get a cob on. You look devoed."
"Oh Jesus..."
Major shakes his head, looking mournful. "I can't believe so much changed while I was dead."
"Don't be daft," Carver says uneasily. "Nothing changed."
"You did."
"Did not."
"You're my bezzie mate," Major says. "Go 'ed. Tell me. I won't judge you."
You bloody well will, he thinks.
"I mean, it's a bit unusual...the sort of thing that gets you chased down Scottie Road with a pitchfork...your arl fella might stop talking to you for six or seven years...probably forever..."
"Hang on a second. What are you jabbering on about?"
"The fact you're now a Blue?"
"Listen," Carver says hotly, "cut me open and I bleed Red, all right?"
Major swings an arm round his shoulders. "You'll never walk alone," he promises, eyes solemn.
"A.L.," Carver says, a desperate plan forming, "switch the accents on the commentary track. I want something Cockney. Tell you what, make it Ray Winstone."
"I don't have the rights to Ray Winstone," A.L. says brightly. "He sold them to Disney."
"Fucking hell. Fine. Danny Dyer'll do."
He settles back down on the sofa. Major plops beside him, legs outstretched. Carver doesn't go to the pub that often, anymore, even on match days. It's kind of nice, to be watching it with another Kopite. His partner. His bezzie mate. His suddenly ex-girlfriend's back-from-the-dead husband. What a tangled fucking web.
At least the football cheers him up. Liverpool win three-nil. Major cheers every goal, even louder than Carver.
His neighbours start complaining. Then they pull the plug. Major threatens to call the bizzies, remembers he is one, and threatens to kick their heads in.
He needs another plan.
"I need another plan," he whisper-shouts at Parfit. Major could hear through chipboard even if he was still 100% human and not 90% human, 10% shit.
She leans closer to the screen. "Are you in the bathroom?"
"Sitting on the bog. Not on on it," he adds hastily. "Just—you know. On it."
"Neat." She thinks. "Uh, well, you could try turning him off and on again."
"What, I can reboot him? You never mentioned that."
"Sure you can. There's a tiny socket inside his right ear. If you straighten out a paperclip, and push it in, reallllly slowly—"
"What the fuck?" Carver squawks. "I can't start sticking bits of metal down his ears."
"It won't hurt him. Well," she considers, "there might be some blood. Okay, a lot of blood. Some clear-looking fluid. Don't touch it unless you want a new set of fingerprints. Oh, and you'll probably perforate his ear drum. No worries. I'll grow him a new one."
"Jesus Christ. Anything else?"
"He's programmed for survival. There's a really high chance he'll punch you."
"I'll duck."
Parfit snorts. He rolls his eyes.
"It's a hard reset, so he'll lose the new update. Also every memory he's acquired since he was brought back..."
She's still wearing her lab coat, he notices. Probably sleeps in it.
"Also every acquired cognitive function."
"So we'd be starting again, at square one? Erasing the bit where he got high on coke and pushed me off a car park? Sawed the leg off a corpse?"
"Robbing him of his ability to process and learn from those experiences."
"He's sitting on my floor licking a plug," Carver says. "He’ll catch up."
"Okay, but just know, if you go ahead with this, you'll be responsible for losing weeks of research." She sniffs. "Millions of taxpayer dollars."
"Pounds," Carver corrects automatically. It's like someone programmed him, by now. He rubs his head. "Jesus fucking Christ, Parfit... Listen, we just had an hour-long debate about Merseyrail vs the Tube, all right? He was sobbing into his scarf by the end. I was arguing for the Tube...it comes quicker and that...ah fuck, I need a shower. Except I turned the water off too. Can't even flush the bastard toilet."
Parfit wrinkles her nose.
"I can take him calling me buddy, freund, leiblich, whatever. This? This is wrecking my head. I've had it up to here."
"I'm going to recommend a different sort of diagnostic," Parfit says. "Something I never normally would. Keep it on the down-low, okay? If this gets out, it could destroy my reputation in the tech sector."
"To be honest," Carver says, "I think you've done a bang-up job of that already."
"Talk to Major. Just talk. Find out what's going on in his head." She shudders. "Like I said. Reputation shattered."
"What, ask him about his feelings? 'Cos that went so well last time..."
"You're extremely judgemental, do you know that?"
"You resurrected my partner and turned him into a lobotomised gobshite," Carver says, "how do you expect me to be?"
"Grateful?" says Parfit, as she severs the link.
When he gingerly treads his way back in, being pitch black and that, Major's sitting cross-legged on the rug. He's humming something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like Ferry Cross the Mersey.
Carver tosses him another beer. He's expecting Major's arm to go up and catch it, even in the candlelight. It doesn't, of course. It hits him on the bonce, which is surprisingly fucking satisfying. The fact Parfit's going to kill him when she sees the bruise, not so much.
"Rooooy!" Major wails.
"Sorry, mate. Thought you could see in the dark, like."
Major bites off the cap with his teeth. Carver finds himself wondering if he's got teeth like Jaws now, all steel-reinforced, bit like his taste buds. Or if he's really that stupid.
Yeah. It's probably the second one.
"We need to have a little chat," he says, lowering himself to the floor, nearly doing his back in. It reminds him of that time they nicked a living statue done up as a Buddha. Fuck, they were a good team. Major got a gong. Carver spent weeks scrubbing silver paint from under his nails.
"I already know, Roy," Major says.
"How much of a knob you are?"
"I get that you needed someone. I mean, not gonna lie, it stings a bit, that I was so easily replaced—"
"Um," says Carver.
"You and Nixon? He was looking for a new partner, back when I got shot—"
"Oh, that." He laughs, high-pitched and nervous, like his balls are in a vice. "No, I never. Not with Nixon. Not with anyone. I mean, they tried, but I was having none of it. Dug me heels in. I said, 'listen, I work with John Major or no one, right? And now he's gone, so I'm all on my tod, and I'm staying that way...'"
He hangs his head. He doesn't like to remember what happened, after Major got shot. He was sad, like. Had a bit of counselling. Maybe didn't put as much graft in as he should have, except on his murder board. Dennett and her Major-tinted goggles might have had a point there.
But mostly because it means remembering Kelly.
"What happened to Nixon?"
"Pissed off to Manchester."
"Poor sod."
"Best not think about it, mate. Shouldn't be too hard." He nods at the scarf, still wound around Major's neck. "Speaking of not thinking, you know that's not your team, don't you?"
"Oh fuck," Major says, "it's not Man City, is it?"
"Worse, it's United."
"Oh shit."
"Jesus Christ. I'm having you on. That's not your scarf, either. You pick it up in lost property?"
"It was in the box of my stuff Kelly brought round. Thought it was weird..."
"Thought it was in the shed," Carver mutters sourly.
"What, my stuff was in the shed?"
"Er, yeah. While she was having the, um, building work done. The extension. Did a boss job. She said." He shuffles. "She didn't happen to give you this dead nice t-shirt that says Scouse Not English, did she..?"
"Least she didn't give it to the charity shop," Major says, oblivious.
"That's where your wedding suit went."
Major looks like he's about to start crying again. Carver's got no bog roll left. He clears his throat.
"I must have left it at yours. By complete accident. Months and months ago. You know... Back then."
"When you came round and we watched the match?"
"We normally watched Ice Road Truckers at yours," Carver says. "You're too much of a tightarse to shell out for Sky Sports."
Major looks dreamy. "We had some good times, didn't we, mate? Well, I think we did. Honestly, I'm just assuming here. I don't remember most of them."
He'd be lying if he said that didn't make him breathe a sigh of relief. What would Kelly's counselling textbooks say about that? That he doesn't want Major to remember that night at his place, because it'd mean the end of their friendship. That, deep down, he values Major over her. Which is a load of psychobabble bullshit. Kelly's the love of his life. Major's a pain in the arse who keeps screwing up and dropping him in it. He's the reason he can't be with her.
But that doesn't mean he preferred him six feet under. Or wants him switched off. However shit he is.
"I'm made up you're back, mate..." Yeah, he decides, he is. It's not even the ale talking. "No, honest. I am."
"Don't worry, mate," Major says, "I'll soon improve your arrest rate, now I'm back."
Carver swiftly retracts the sentiment. He knew he should have stuck to Coke.
"Boss reckons it's been a bit shit without me."
"Boss put us on fly-tipping. Bloody traffic. Because of you."
"I quite enjoyed counting the red cars," Major says. He points knowingly at Carver. "You picked the blue ones, fella."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Carver snaps. "If you don't stop this shit, I'll burst ya... Stop fucking copying me." He reaches for some of that Buddhist calm. No point shouting at the big baby robot he's somehow found himself babysitting. "You're confused. I get it. You don't even realise you're doing it."
"Actually," Major admits, "I might have, you know, read a couple of websites. Maybe forty-six? Downloaded this dictionary. It's called Scouse for Beginners—"
"You what?"
"Well they censor all the porn, Roy. I was bored. I just wanted us to get on," Major says. His mouth turns down, like a sad clown. He's an arrogant arsehole, but he’s trying to make a connection. Not wireless or USB: a real one.
Carver feels a bit sorry for him. Must be going soft. But then, he's only human.
"We did. We do."
"Not like before, though, is it?"
"Nothing's like before. Not exactly. You can't expect it to be. It's going to take time. Christ, John, you ambushed me at your own bloody bird bath... I thought it was your spirit come back to haunt me, like the ghost of Christmas Past..."
"Thought I died in April," Major says, counting back on his fingers.
"You and me, we've been rebooted too. We've got to settle back into things, you know? The new normal. Teamwork for beginners. I'm not going to like you more if you suddenly start talking all funny, you daft sod."
"So you admit you talk funny?"
"Hey, they don't even recognise me when I go home and open me mouth..."
"For the benefit of the tape," Major says, "DI Carver is admitting guilt on the subject of talking funny."
"Fuck off."
"You're the best, Roy." His eyes flick around, like it doesn't compute. "Nah, scratch that. I am."
"Shooting you again is still an option," says Carver.
Another day, another traffic patrol. Carver's made peace with it by now. He's tired of mourning for the things he can't have: Kelly, the old Major, what's left of his career. He downloaded Flowers for Algernon especially, in case he got bored. He told Parfit it was an awesome fun read. She only looked a bit suspicious.
He guesses he should be grateful Dennett didn't follow through on her threat to give them lollipops. There's only so much damage Major can do in a car, and he's committed most of it already. It keeps him out the way, at least, while Parfit gets ready for the Ethics Committee. Last thing he needs is her installing more crackpot ideas in his head.
Though, to be honest, there's a fuckton of space.
"I'll do the silver cars," Major says. "You do the black ones."
"One, two, three... I'm going to walk this. You remember there's such a thing as black cabs, yeah?"
"Course," Major says. "Born and bred, aren't I?" He grins stupidly. "Look, Roy. A pink one."
Carver shrinks down in his seat. "Can I have my scarf back now, please?"
"Oh let me keep it, Roy. I'll buy you a better one. Once they finish taking Kelly's payout out of my wages."
"Ninety-nine years' time, then."
"I really like it."
"I really like it," Carver protests feebly.
"It smells nice," Major says. "Makes me feel all warm and homey."
Carver softens. Fuck, he misses Kelly. He finds himself leaning over, shoulder to shoulder with Major, to catch a whiff of her perfume—
He whips out his phone. Parfit answers in a nanosecond.
"I'm a little busy?" she says.
"Project Mersey Tunnel is still a go," he whispers. "Major likes the smell of my aftershave. I repeat, Major likes the smell of my aftershave—"
"Well, it's not totally unpleasant. I estimate 73% sandalwood, 10% lavender, top notes of musk—"
"Seriously? Do you pay that much attention to— Wait. Did you stick sensors inside his nose?" He risks a glance at Major. "What if he picks it?"
"Quack, quack, quack," says Parfit. She chortles away at her own joke.
He's increasingly getting the impression she's more used to her computers than actual human beings. Major really is shit out of luck. "Hang on a second while I turn on Google Translate. Oh what a surprise. It says you're talking crap."
"I already told you what you have to do."
"And I told you: I can't do that..."
He eyes the dashboard. There's a report on traffic flow sitting on it, pages attached by paperclip. "I do this, Parfit, I can never go home again. It's inhuman. To do this to a man—you might as well stick a knife in his heart. It goes against everything I was raised believing—"
"Your call, Carver. Great talk. Check in later. See ya."
Carver groans. He puts down his phone and takes hold of the report, knuckles going white round the edges. Next to him, Major shouts, "There's number nine! Beat THAT you black cabbie bastards!"
He leans over. Slowly, like, psyching himself up. One tap of his fingerprint and the window rolls smoothly down. Traffic noise roars in. There are people walking past. Cameras on every building. Christ: this is going to hurt. But maybe he deserves it, for what he and Kel did to John. This is his punishment: not fly-tipping, not traffic, not even Major being a really shit British knockoff of the Six Million Dollar Man.
He levers himself out of the window, half-sitting, half-standing. He can do this, he thinks. For Major, he can do this.
Also, Parfit bet him fifty quid that he wouldn't, and it is fucking dear down here.
He crosses his fingers and yells at the top of his lungs, "UP THE ORIENT!"
"What the fuck?" says Major.
Carver registers the click of a phone camera. Some tosser in a Hammers shirt laughing their head off. He can never darken Anfield's door again, with this sort of stain on his soul. He's going straight to hell. He's lost Kelly, his favourite t-shirt, and his scarf: he's already bloody there.
He smiles to himself.
To get his boy back, he reckons—it might just be worth it.