Chapter Text
All things considered, Alex has a lot to be grateful for. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to work that much out.
She’s heard several hundred times now- first from her surgeon, then from Evan, and subsequently everyone she knows- how they’d been preparing for the worst. How the hospital had practically cleared a space for her in the mortuary, when a last-ditch effort had brought her back from the brink.
Against all odds, the inflammation in her brain had started to recede, replaced instead by a flurry of neurological activity that by all accounts shouldn’t have been possible so soon after such a traumatic injury. With her organs too stumbling back to life, the entire hospital had watched in disbelief as one by one the machines keeping her alive became obsolete. Even after all these months Evan still gets emotional recalling the day they’d moved her from a ventilator to an oxygen machine.
Coincidentally, that had been exactly two weeks to the day before Alex had opened her eyes.
Another eight weeks later and she’d left the hospital. Championed by an entire entourage of beaming nurses, paramedics, and doctors, but most importantly with Molly by her side.
That’s the greatest blessing, even if it’s the part most people forget when recounting the tale of her recovery to her. Amongst all the talk of physiotherapy, neurology and magic medical bullets, there’s only one thing Alex cares about, and that’s having her baby back. Strange as it may sound to any non-parents, every day the pair had spent separated had been its own eternal agony, as deeply tangible as the physical wound in her head. During the worst, loneliest times, that desperate primal pain had been the only thing moving Alex forward. Every day her arms ached to hold her daughter again had been another day worth fighting through, no matter what.
Prior to her shooting, Alex was never exactly a spiritual person. But after everything she’s been through she makes a point to silently thank whatever unseen forces of the universe have given her back Molly. When she thinks about how close she’d come to never seeing her again… it’s so incomprehensibly awful that she can’t contemplate it for more than a moment.
Nevertheless... The bleak reality of it all is that Alex could be dead. By all medical accounts, she should be. Right now she could be dwelling in whatever it is that lies beyond, or worse, resigned to spending eternity shepherding other lost souls. Discounting Molly, she’s acutely aware that there’s plenty to be thankful for. She’s the lucky one after all.
Besides, the noughties aren’t all bad. Of course, 2008 can’t hold a candle to the flash and flair of the early eighties, but in Alex’s opinion, very few decades can. That, and 2008 is far from the superfluous, post-modern grey hellscape it had been in her memory. There’s socio-political stagnation yes, but there’s also innovation, possibility. Even here, people still smile and the world continues to spin, and the mundanity of everyday life holds a surprisingly warm comfort. Being here, at this exact point in human history, is a blessing, nigh, a privilege.
So with that in mind, it’s time to start living. Time to get back out there. That’s what her therapist says. Carpe Diem. It’s good just to simply be alive.
Having been blessed with a second chance at life, Alex wishes more than anything that it was that easy. Sadly, after all is said and done, after all the myriad of reasons she has to be happy… No matter how hard she consciously tries, she can’t seem to let her old life go.
It’s not how it had been before. There are no disembodied cries for help or surprise cameos in the DVD section of HMV. Most of the time it’s in her dreams: Ray, Chris and Shaz, acting as the most casually unremarkable versions of themselves, smiling, making tea, but rarely doing anything more. They don’t say anything profound, or greet her as they would were it really them. No, they’re there like anyone else she encounters in her sleep. With the frequent flippancy in which they appear, they might as well still be Alex’s day to day colleagues.
This, she tells herself, is normal with grief.
As is the way she sees them everywhere. In every stonewashed denim jacket or poorly advised perm, or black beret. No matter how many times her heart gives an excited jolt when faced with blonde highlights and brown leather, she knows logically it isn’t them. Nor is it some greater sign from the universe. No, that would be silly. These sightings are part of the grieving process, nothing more.
Or they would be, if only it weren’t for Gene.
Alex had assumed that after uncovering the truth, the spectre of the man’s younger self would disappear. After all, what else is there left for him to do? He’d surely only haunted her as a means of pushing her towards the body on Faringfield Green. Now that’s done there’s no reason for him to still be here. But sure enough, the ghost of the bobby remains, just as it had been before. Existing permanently in her peripheral vision, or occasionally hovering silently in empty doorways.
And unlike the echoes of Shaz, Ray and Chris- which feel more like memories- this figure radiates a sense of tension. An ineffable urgency, evident even though he only appears in her dreams. There’s something else too, Alex can’t quite put her finger on it but he feels almost lost. Like he’s reaching out to her for direction.
Perhaps there’s something more he needs. Gene’s younger self had appeared to her as a cry for help, so maybe that’s what this is. How and why he’s able to reach out to her now, in 2008, is beyond Alex, but she’s just as confused now as she had been then.
If only he would speak to her. Time and time again in her dreams she’s asked him what it is she can do. Why he’s still here. But each time he simply fades away back into the darkness.
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August 1981
In Alex’s defence, it was either the Thames or the fire.
Having set the entire building alight with Ray, Chris, Alex and Gene inside, the drug lord they’ve been trailing for days had left too quickly to ensure all the exits were thoroughly sealed. Either that or he hadn’t counted on the bathroom window being just barely large enough for a full-grown adult to squeeze through. Or maybe he simply hadn’t thought anyone would be mad enough to try jumping from that height.
To be fair, it hadn’t been easy. Alex and Chris had wriggled through just fine, but Ray had struggled, and Gene had only barely fallen through before the entire building had collapsed. Engulfing the floor they’d been standing on mere seconds earlier in flames and rubble. From there it had been a thirty five foot drop straight into the icy brown waters of the Thames.
“Oh my god,” Shaz springs up from her chair, wide-eyed. She’s not the only one staring; clearly no one in CID had expected them to return empty handed, let alone absolutely soaking wet. “Are you alright ma’am?”
“We’re all fine, thanks for asking Shaz.” Gruffs Gene. Losing his quarry had been one thing, but the indignity of having to crawl up the banks of the Thames has put in him an utterly foul mood. Granted, he’s probably a lot happier than he’d be if he’d just burned to death, but that hasn’t stopped him bemoaning the damage to his crocodile boots. “Tea, seven sugars. And pop that on the radiator while you’re at it,” He throws his wet coat at the WPC before turning his glare on Alex, “DI Drake, my office.”
Alex rolls her eyes, hobbling obediently after him. It’s not easy to move fast with just one heel, but she’d hardly been able to dive to the bottom of the river bed to retrieve the other. It’s a shame really. She’d been quite fond of these shoes.
Closing the door behind her as she enters, Alex folds her arms. “You know, a ‘thanks for saving my life’ wouldn’t go amiss.”
Gene quirks at an eyebrow at her. He’s already taken his tie off and is currently wringing it out over the carpet. “Thank you DI Drake for an unexpected dip in the Thames. If I get cholera I’m blaming you.” There’s a pause. Broken only by the steady dripping from his tie. His entire shirt is soaked through, sticking to his chest in a somewhat rugged, but simultaneously chauvinistic, wouldn’t-be-Alex’s-type-in-a-million-years sort of way.
Then Gene looks down, almost abashedly, “It was quick thinking though,” He murmurs “I’ll give you that.”
Even though she’s wet through to her knickers, Alex can’t help but smile. It’s as close as he’s going to come to paying her a compliment.
“Tell you what, you can thank me by buying me a drink at Luigi’s” She says.
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It’s an unsuspecting Thursday night.
Cosied up with Molly on the sofa, Alex drums her fingers idly on her knee. They’re waiting for some film to start on BBC One, but in the meantime, she should really find something for dinner. Cooking is one of the few things she’s mostly able to do independently, but she has good days and bad days. Tonight unfortunately seems to be falling into the latter, with even the thought of getting up to pop something in the microwave making her cringe.
She forces herself to sit up a little. “How about a takeaway Mols? We haven’t done that in a while have we?”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to do takeaways during the week?” Molly’s teasing, but she’s grinning excitedly.
Alex beams back at her, “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.” Being a parent has its moments, but there are quiet sweet moments like this where it’s a simple joy. “What do you think? Chinese? Or we could have pizza? Do you know I once had a steak and chips pizza? Absolutely awful...”
She trails off, talking more to herself than to Molly, who bounces up to fetch the stack of restaurant leaflets Evan had left for them. There had been one there about a Korean place… Maybe they should have that…
Unable to keep herself upright any longer, Alex sinks back against the sofa, letting her eyes slip closed. Frustrating as it is, she’ll certainly be asleep before the end of the film, possibly even before the food arrives. Today has been long enough in itself, but the cocktail of drugs the hospital have her on means fatigue is a near constant companion no matter what she does. All she’s aiming to do right now is rest her eyes, but already the world is taking on a hazy quality, and the sofa is soft and warm and inviting...
“-Update on the body recovered from Farringfield Green”
In a second she’s bolt awake, her heart beating in her throat as her gaze snaps towards the television. It’s still the news at six, so she’d probably only nodded off for a minute or two, but they’re now following a welly-clad reporter stumbling his way across a very familiar plot of land.
“...The remains are likely that of a police officer,” He says, enunciating carefully, gesturing at nothing in particular. “Investigators have however struggled to identify the body, which they say was likely stripped of all valuables, including its epaulette number, before being buried on this patch of farmland. A warrant card was also uncovered, but it is currently too damaged to be of any assistance in the investigation”
Enraptured, Alex finds herself blearily nodding along. Of course. A warrant card dug up in 1983 would still be fairly readable. But Gene’s body has now been in the ground for over fifty years. No wonder they can’t read it…
The reporter continues, “-Bolton police are asking anyone with any possible information to come forward. This is Michael Peabody, reporting for BBC news.”
Then the camera pans away, the news switching seamlessly into the next story of the night. Alex however remains glued to the screen, helpless. A thousand thoughts are whirling in rapid succession through her brain, so fast she feels almost dizzy with the effort. The epaulette number. The warrant card. They don’t know it’s him. God, that’s Gene’s body and they don’t know who it is. They need someone to identify it, they-
“Mum?” Stood in the doorway, leaflets in hand, Molly’s face is white as a sheet. It’s remarkable how despite having never met her grandmother, she’s doing a fantastic impression of Caroline Price. There’s that same anxious concern Alex’s mother had shown her back in 1981. But where that had been on a middle aged woman, it’s no expression for a twelve year old child.
This is what pulls Alex back to the present. “God, I’m sorry Mols,” Despite the obvious tremor in her voice, she forces herself to smile, “Got distracted. So, takeaway?”
The next morning, she forces herself to wait until Molly has left for school before she picks up the phone.
If Gene’s ghost wasn’t proof enough, then the report is a solid confirmation. Some sort of sign from the universe. It has to be. Whatever unfinished business there is to address, it must involve Gene’s body, somehow. Perhaps the other members of CID too.
The phone rings once. She holds her breath, heart pounding so hard she feels like she might be sick. It rings again. And again. And then-
“Hello?” Her voice catches in her throat, “Yes, this is DI Alex Drake. I think… I think I might have some information about the, the body. Yes, the one on Farringfield Green.”
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July 1982
“Manchester?” Elbows on the table, cigarette in hand, Ray looks utterly incredulous. “You’re getting married and you’re going on honeymoon to Manchester?”
Chris frowns, “What’s wrong with Manchester?” He sounds at once both deeply hurt and confused “I thought you-”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Ray waves a hand, shaking his head “I love that city like it was my own relative, but it’s no honeymoon destination is it?” He wrinkles his nose, “It’s not exactly a week in the Lake District.”
“Oi!” Across the table, Shaz links a careful, if somewhat possessive, arm around her fiancé. “If it’s good enough for Chris then it’s good enough for me.”
The couple look dotingly at one another, all warmth and smiles as they lean in to share a chaste kiss, oblivious to Ray, who’s still rolling his eyes and muttering something under his breath about muggings and Northern heroin dens.
Although tactful enough not to say it out loud, Alex is somewhat inclined to agree with him. It’s sweet that Shaz is so enthusiastic to visit Chris’ home city, but even on their budget they could afford somewhere a little more up-market. Maybe a bed and breakfast on the Yorkshire Moors, or a small hotel room on the coast.
Sighing to herself, Alex runs a finger absentmindedly around the edge of her wineglass. What she wouldn’t give for even just a glimpse of the sea. Comatose or not, being a DI doesn’t leave much room for holidays. Neither does a slow painful recovery from severe cranial trauma, which is undoubtedly what’s waiting for her if- when -she finally makes it back home.
Hmm… All things considered, perhaps a trip to Manchester wouldn’t be so bad after all. Anything to get away from the smoky confines of the office, where the invasive fluorescent strips are the closest any of them ever gets to seeing the sun.
Alex takes a sip of wine, her gaze coming to rest on Gene. Like her, he’s been watching the conversation unfold with only mild interest. Not contributing, just allowing the trios back and forth to wash over him.
Sparked by a sudden curiosity, Alex sits up a little, “Where did you go on your honeymoon?” She asks.
It takes the Guv a moment to realise she’s talking to him. There’s a pause as he takes a sip of whisky, “Cornwall.”
“Cornwall?” Alex can’t help but raise an eyebrow. If there’s anyone she wouldn’t be surprised to learn honeymooned in a Northern city it’d be him. Somehow she can’t quite imagine the Manc lion strolling across the cliff tops in socks and sandals, or pottering around the tea shops in Truro.
Gene straightens up in his chair, affronted. “Well it was good enough in 1966. What about you Bols? Bet it was somewhere posh and naff,” He has another drink, “Like Paris, or Venice or-“
“New Zealand actually.” Warm with the memory, Alex smiles, “God, do you know, I’d give anything to go again. I’ve lost about thirteen stone of uselessness since I was last there.” She chuckles, quietening when the joke doesn’t prompt a laugh. That’s another reason she misses 2008; no one here enjoys her divorce jokes. To be fair, no one in CID has met Pete (nor will they ever) but that’s beside the point.
Chris frowns, “Must’ve been expensive. Australia’s a long way to go.”
Alex opens her mouth to correct him, before thinking better of it and instead opting to drain the rest of her wine. It’s been a long day. Long enough that it doesn’t matter if Chris can’t correctly point to all the different parts of Oceania on a map.
Beside him, Shaz frowns too, “Don’t remember the last time I went on holiday.”
“Tell you where I’d love to go,” Grins Ray, just as he always does before saying something sordid “The Bahamas. Everyone knows they’re full of proper filthy birds.”
Gene snorts “The Bahamas? On your salary? Dream on Raymundo.” He takes another generous, weary slug of whisky. “Maybe if all five of us put our wages together we might be able to afford a ticket there. Course whoever we sent would have to swim back.”
“Imagine the five of us on holiday together. It’d be like the worst family trip in history” Alex laughs (more to herself than to anyone else) Overcome with visions of missed taxis, mistranslations, and arguments over who can or can’t map read. “You know, we’d probably be banned from flying before we’d even set one foot in the airport.”
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“Why don’t we get away?”
“Hm?” Evan turns to Alex, midway through a mouthful of coffee. After a night spent on their sofa bed, he’s at his most bleary. Barely a person until he’s had at least two cups of his customary morning caffeine fix.
This is also, coincidentally, when he’s at his most pliable.
“You, me and Mols.” Presses Alex, “Let’s have a weekend somewhere. You two can go on an adventure and I’ll… Book myself into a day spa.” She pokes a fork into her uneaten scrambled eggs, trying to exude a casual, nonchalant air. As if a holiday would just be a nice, small thing. Nothing out of the ordinary.
There’s a pause. Evan swallows, nodding slowly as he taps his fingers against the edge of his mug. “That would be nice...” Then his face drops into a frown, “Are you sure you’re up for it though?”
“Absolutely” Alex nods insistently, “I think it’d do me good to get out of London for a while.”
She sits back a little, making a show of slowly, innocently reaching for her cup of tea. Even from here she can practically see the cogs turning in his brain. There’s an obvious conflict between his desire to keep both her and Molly happy, no matter what, versus how desperately overprotective he’s been ever since Alex was discharged.
It reminds her of how he’d been in the immediate aftermath of her parents’ death. Suddenly finding himself in charge of a traumatised child he’d been unable to deny her anything. Perhaps that’s what he sees when he looks at her now, that same damaged little girl.
The silence stretches on. In Alex’s peripheral vision, a bloodied young copper fades in and out of existence.
“Well…” Evan looks her up and down, and it’s clear from the look in his eye that no matter how bizarre what Alex is about to say might be, he’s already caved. “Where were you thinking?”
Alex takes another sip of tea. “Manchester?”
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It’s exactly two hundred and eight miles from central London to Manchester. Further than Alex has been in some time, and certainly the furthest she’s been since the shooting, by quite a considerable margin.
Understandably, it’s not exactly a journey anyone’s wild about letting her take.
Only after lengthy negotiations does her physiotherapist cave. The case manager meanwhile remains adamant, advising against it right to the end, and Evan has spent the better part of the last fortnight not so subtly passing her leaflets for hotels in London.
None of it matters though. Much as Alex feels guilty for the stress she’s putting on those around her, she knows this is the only way. Manchester is her best lead. If that means a little discomfort in the interim then it’ll be worth it.
This is what she reminds herself later that afternoon when she’s reduced to napping between carefully monitored doses of paracetamol in her hotel room. It’ll be worth it. It has to be.
The next morning she waves Molly and Evan goodbye from the hotel foyer. Ignoring their obvious reluctance to leave her on her own, she cheerfully chivvies them out. Enthusing perhaps a little too much about how she can’t wait to try the spa seaweed scrub.
She waits just long enough to be sure they’ve gone… Then immediately ducks into a taxi and heads straight for the University Library.
Walking stick in one hand, and police badge in the other, Alex enters the newspaper archives. With a name and a rough date of death, it’s not difficult to find clippings about the young plod killed in the ‘75 Valentine’s Day blag. The brutality of it had evidently rocked Manchester to its core, so there’s article after article recounting the entire affair in all its gory detail.
There’s the coroner's report, the police plea for information, and most strikingly the calls for retribution.
Bring back death penalty for hooligan cop killers
They’re headlines Gene would’ve been proud of.
Alongside the cuttings, there’s also the odd photograph. Most are of the perpetrators, but one or two hold a familiar face. Despite everything, Alex can’t help but smile. She’d know that lopsided grin anywhere, even if seeing it frozen beside the grizzly details of its owner's death makes her feel slightly sick.
But then she finds it. Nestled between the cries for justice sits a small article about how the young constable was eventually laid to rest in Middleton Parish Church graveyard, a twenty minute drive away.
So it is that on a drizzling afternoon Alex finds herself wading through swathes of mud at the edge of a deserted Mancunian Churchyard. There are graves all the way up to the front gate and its surrounding walls, but it seems someone decided to bury him in the furthest, most inconvenient corner. It wouldn’t be so much of an issue if Alex’s walking stick didn’t keep catching on loose stones and sprawling roots. Getting there had been enough of a pain in the arse (her salary is good, but she’d still winced at the taxi fare), and it’s not any easier traversing on foot.
If only her physiotherapist could see her now. The poor woman would likely have a fit, and not without good reason. However, no matter how many times she needs to stop and catch her breath, no matter how awful tonight will almost certainly be, Alex is determined to persist. Driven forwards by an almost certainly irrational desire to just simply see it. To complete her pilgrimage, and leave this part of her past to rest.
Although not entirely neglected, the grave has certainly seen better days. There’s a single wilting bouquet, and the marble headstone is weather worn. Nevertheless, the inscription still stands proud-
Constable Christopher Daniel Skelton
1955 - 1975
Beloved Son and Brother
Gone But Never Forgotten
Alex clutches at her walking stick as all the breath is sucked from her lungs.
This is it. It’s real. She’s found him. Only…For however determinedly she’d made her way here, she hadn’t entirely prepared herself for the reality of it. True enough, these are Chris’ bones she’s standing on.
Chris. The loyal, if occasionally dim, son figure, whose wedding Alex had once hoped to attend. Not only had he been a real, living breathing man, but he’s now unmistakably dead. Lying oblivious in the cold damp earth. Rotting away beneath her.
“Hello Chris,” Alex forces herself to choke down the sudden lump in her throat. Addressing a headstone may seem silly, but she can’t help herself. This is all she has left of him. “It’s good to see you again. I can’t tell you how much-“
There’s more Alex wants to say, but the tears come on so thick and fast that she never gets any further.
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March 1983
There’s a body behind the former Fenchurch factory estate. Strung up on a wilting bit of fence, mutilated almost beyond recognition, and with a mouth stuffed full of grass, likely to make a point about those who go snitching to the police. It’s only been there a day, but it’s already become a complete administrative headache. They’ll be filling out paperwork for this for weeks.
There’s also a supposedly urgent lead waiting for them back at the station. A witness who might make a statement, but only if she can talk to the current acting female DI.
And since an extra pair of hands never hurt, Alex is returning to Fenchurch East with Chris in tow, leaving Ray, Gene and Shaz with the body, which lies about half a mile away on a patch of wasteland. They’d parked as close as they could, but that’s not saying much. The Quattro lies in a sidestreet in front of the long derelict textile mill, accompanied by nothing more than a few overturned wheelie bins, and a vehicle that’s been stationary ever since they’d first arrived at the scene.
Alex isn’t sure what draws her attention to the latter, as she and Chris prepare to pass it for the umpteenth time that day. Perhaps it’s something in the way it’s been sitting there, completely unassuming. Innocent. Blending perfectly with the site’s general air of post-industrial rot. Perhaps too perfectly...
Whatever the reason, for the first time she takes in the vehicle. It’s a decrepit looking car. Barely more than scrap metal. Only… The wheels are in fairly good condition, enough that someone could’ve easily driven it here. And given the tire marks on the surrounding road, they clearly did, and recently too. It’s not the vehicle that transported the body, they’d found that one street over. So why is this here? It can’t be mere coincidence, surely?
Barely fifteen feet from the offending car, Alex’s footsteps falter. The pieces they’ve so far struggled to fit together gradually gathering in her mind.
Despite being a former gang member with a clear axe to grind against the MET, their main suspect so far has a watertight case. Excluding the as yet unidentified witness, it seems his old accomplices might be the only key to a watertight conviction. One, a retired conman, reportedly died in Alsace, France several years ago. The other had been serving ten years for arson but had disappeared on a routine trip to the local hospital a few months prior.
In a single sickening second everything jolts into place.
Alex has barely a moment to react. “Chris!”
She reaches out instinctively to grab his arm, and that’s the last thing she’s able to do before the entire vehicle goes up in flames.
First is the agonising, all encompassing noise. Having not had time to so much as brace, the roaring of the explosion rips through her brain, shredding her eardrums as it echoes through the street. There’s a flash of white hot air too, but the wave of heat passes over her so quickly that Alex barely has time to register it. One moment there’s a pleasant warm stillness, and the next she’s gaping at billowing clouds of smoke. As for the car, all that remains is a burnt out shell, still smouldering in the haze of the early afternoon sun.
Alex’s breath catches in her throat.
It’s just a car. Nowhere near the same colour or shape.
She can’t help it though. So acutely aware that they’d escaped being blown to kingdom come by a mere hair's breadth. All five of them had walked past it at some point or another. It could have been any one of them. It would have been her and Chris, had they been just a minute earlier in leaving the crime scene. Had they been even a few metres closer.
She tries to take a breath, only for it to be forced straight back out of her lungs. So she inhales again, and then again, but it’s already too late. Try as she might, she can’t stifle the rising sense of panic. It’s already strangling her.
Consumed, she buries her face in her hands, helpless as the feeling of terror washes over her. It’s all too close, too much. As the world falls away around her she’s overwhelmed by visions of blackened bones scattered amidst debris. Of the memory of raining ash, the sight of a red balloon floating away over the green, and a clown with her father’s face. She can’t breathe. She can’t do anything. All she can do is watch helplessly as her mother disappears in a flash of red and black smoke over and over again.
“Ma’am? DI Drake?”
The voice is remote, fuzzy even. Barely audible over the residual ringing in Alex’s ears, and the mechanical wheezing of her own manic breaths. Whoever it is, she can’t reply. There’s a blue ford escort in flames beside her, and she’s just as petrified and small as she had been back then. She doesn’t want to speak to anyone, she just wants her mum.
“Ma’am? It’s alright Ma’am” Gradually breaching through the waves of panic, the voice comes into clearer focus. “We’re um... We’re alright. It’s alright.”
Then, amidst the chaos, there’s a gentle touch. It’s tentative at first, but once it’s found its mark on her shoulder it stays solidly in place. Simple and reassuring. Alone it isn’t much, but coupled with the voice it’s a lifeline.
Gradually, the illusion of 1981 starts to relinquish its grip on her. She’s not a frightened child. She’s Detective Inspector Alex Drake. There aren’t any fragments of skeletal ash or evil entities. There isn’t even Evan. Although there is someone else. Northern. Younger than her, and, despite the hesitancy in his voice, keeping a steady stoic tone as he utters reassurances. Nevertheless, despite its grounding influence, it’s still a good ten minutes before Alex finally feels even somewhat composed enough to raise her head up from her hands.
Although pale and obviously shaken, Chris appears thankfully unhurt. When exactly Alex had sunk to the floor, she doesn’t remember, but he’s knelt beside her on the pavement, hand still perched somewhat cautiously on her shoulder.
“Thank you.” When she finally finds her voice, it’s barely more than a raw whisper. Made all the rougher by the soft encouraging (if hesitant) smile Chris is giving her, which, while sweet, only contributes to her deeply wounded sense of tearful embarrassment. Self-conscious, she tries with a trembling hand to wipe the tear tracks off her face, wincing when her fingers come away smudged with mascara. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She murmurs. It’s the only thing she feels like she can say.
Chris nods, patting her somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t be. It’s alright, it’s an…” He frowns thoughtfully for a moment, “... An involuntary response to a traumatic experience, like.” There’s a pause as he nods again, slightly more sure of himself, “Can’t be helped.”
For a second, the ineffable whirl of shame and fear that still has Alex reeling is replaced by a flash of surprise. Disturbed as she might be, his words catch her thoroughly off guard.
The curiosity must be evident on her face; Chris averts his gaze for a moment, almost sheepishly.
“Sorry,” He says “I learnt that from you. Sort of. You talked about it, after all that business with Nina, in 81. Then, after you and the Guv… Well after that I thought it’d be good to know, for work. Seeing as we deal with a lot of trauma-” Chris breaks off, frowning again, “Traumaticised… Traumat…” He struggles for another moment, then gives up, “People who’ve had traumatic experiences.”
Deeply sincere, he leans closer. “Would you like to talk about it?”
Despite being a mere millimetre away from bursting into tears, Alex can’t help the tiniest hint of a smile that’s pulling at the edges of her mouth. She’s too emotionally fraught to feel happy, but he’s helping. Not that she’d be laughing at him per say, however, there is something heart-warmingly comical about his unwavering commitment to the research he’s apparently done into trauma survivors. It’s a very by the book approach, which is equal parts funny and endearing.
Alex opens her mouth to reply when she’s interrupted by a distant shout. Thirty seconds or so later, and around the corner comes Gene, barrelling forwards, gun drawn, and eyes alight with a panicked horror. As his gaze sweeps from the car to the miraculously unscathed Quattro, and finally to Alex and Chris, the desperate relief on his face is unmistakable.
“Bloody ‘ellfire,” He murmurs. Which, given the scene he’s just stumbled onto, seems appropriate.
Back at the station, total and utter chaos reigns. It’s not every day a homicide evolves into a possible terror threat over the course of a single afternoon, and the utter carnage erupting throughout Fenchurch East is indicative of that. Matters must truly be dire, as Special Branch have descended without so much as a single hostile snark in their general direction from Gene.
Amidst the excitement, Alex, meanwhile, has been somewhat forgotten. With Luigi’s identified as a possible target, she can’t go home until the restaurant has been thoroughly swept for explosives. So, naturally, CID have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and sat her in the quietest corner. Away from the action, and (more importantly) her colleagues. Only Gene has ever seen her this vulnerable, and he’s currently busy bellowing orders to anyone who comes within a mile radius. Everyone else… Well, there’s an understandable discomfort that comes with seeing your superior officer in such a fragile state, but it would be nice if they could be a little more subtle about just how adamantly they’re all avoiding her.
Everyone, that is, except Chris.
Between his interviews with Special Branch (As the currently only coherent witness) and all the paperwork Jim is currently throwing at him, he still finds the time to make his way over to Alex.
Gently, he places a steaming mug of tea and a full plate of biscuits beside her. “One sugar. Bourbons. If you need anything else boss, uh, Ma’am…”
Alex nods, her smile completely genuine. “Thank you, Chris. Really.” She hopes he understands it’s not just for the afternoon tea, but everything.
As she watches him go- Giving Shaz a smile on the way past her desk- Alex feels something else bloom inside her. Something other than the unsteady exhaustion that follows a flashback.
While Chris will never be on Mastermind, it really is remarkable just how far the dim witted Detective Constable Sam Tyler once knew has come. There had always been a charming sincerity to him, only now it’s coupled with a newfound emotional sensitivity, made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s wholly learned. It’s one thing to be gifted with emotional intelligence, and another entirely to put in the effort to become better of one’s own accord.
Although far too old to be her son, Chris is, Alex realises, as close as anyone is ever likely to get. As such, what she feels reflecting on his growth is a deep glowing sense of pride. Parental almost, in its warmth.
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The trip back down to London the next day is a solemn one.
While Molly and Evan admire their purchases Alex stares listlessly out the window. At once both absolutely drained and restless. Finding Chris hasn’t given her the solace she’d thought it might. Rather, it’s ignited an uneasy sense of desperation. As though whatever it is she’s doing (and she herself isn’t entirely sure what exactly she’s doing), this is only the beginning.
Ray, Shaz… Gene. They’re all still out there somewhere. She just has to find them. To what end, she has absolutely no idea. But it’s an aching compulsion that she knows she won’t be free from until she’s done it.
Agitated, and with no immediate relief, she pulls her phone out of her pocket to look at the photographs she’d taken that morning. Unable to help herself, she’d snuck back to Chris’ grave several hours earlier, leaving behind a bouquet of daffodils on the headstones.
Coupled with the photocopies of the newspaper cuttings she’s got in her bag, the pictures have the beginnings of a scrapbook. Granted it’s a little morbid to fill a book with the deaths of her friends, but right now this is all she has of CID. She’ll stick the picture of the grave next to the photographs from the articles, and underneath it all she’ll write “Boss, uh, ma’am” Just so she’ll never forget that he used to say it.