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Ray corners him late into the evening. They’re all pissed, Sam seemingly off somewhere holding Chris’s hair back for his, what, fourth (?) vomit of the night – or whatever it is that girls do. Still, you have to respect the stamina of Chris’s well-past-third-wind.
In a word, it’s only the real die-hards left, and even Gene’s feeling it a bit by now. Less than the others, of course – he’s a DCI, can drink every last one of them under the table, it’s practically in the job description, but – it’s late. So late it’s almost early, after a long, weird day.
Ray’s been hovering for hours now, trying to pin Gene down for a one-to-one, get whatever it is off his chest; Gene’s avoided him pretty successfully the rest of the night, but sooner or later your luck always runs out. Not in a bad way, of course. Ray’s a good bloke, good copper, but Gene knows the look of it well enough, a man who’s taken maudlin on the booze, and he doesn’t want Ray’s misery weighing him down. Not tonight.
Not every day your name gets cleared for double homicide, is it? This is a celebration, and Ray and his hang-dog look can piss off til the morning, til toast and tea-with-four-sugars and the grind of real life returning. Not that there’s anything wrong with real life – it does get a certain sheen when you’ve been thinking you’re about to go to jail, and all – but he had enough on his to do list before losing half a week to this mess with Haslam.
Anyway, suddenly Gene’s by himself, out of road, with Ray slumping down into the seat across the desk from him. God, they’re all still at work, be back here in a few hours; doesn’t bear thinking about.
‘Guv,’ says Ray, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. He looks miserable.
But Gene is on top of the world tonight. He’s the heavyweight champion, the victor, the sheriff. Nothing and nobody is going to drag him down. ‘Raymondo,’ he says, light and cheery, like maybe he can snap Ray out of it. Well, it’ll take some snapping, that’s for sure.
Ray leans forward, conspiratorial. ‘Knew you never did it,’ he says. ‘Knew you’d never, Guv.’
Gene smiles. Unswerving loyalty – that’s what he’s always asked for from the men in his charge, what he’s always expected. With Ray at least, that’s what he’s always got. He feels a spike of guilt deep in his belly. What’s he been avoiding Ray for? Good bloke, Ray. Always got his back. ‘Cheers,’ he says.
There’s a commotion on the other side of the room. Sam and Chris are back from wherever they’ve been, Chris trying to dance and Sam laughing, drunk and easy and abandoned like Gene’s almost never seen him. Funny. Looks wrong somehow. Not bad, just – wrong. ‘Leave him, leave him,’ somebody’s shouting at somebody else trying to stop Chris’s pinwheel arms.
‘Him, though,’ Ray says darkly.
Gene looks back at him. ‘What?’
Ray shrugs, evasive suddenly, schoolboy in trouble. Then he comes out with it, voice low and rushed and thick with too many fags, late night, too much whisky. ‘Tyler didn’t believe you, not like I did.’
Sam. Of course. Well, no love lost there – been obvious ever since Tyler arrived. Not that Gene can really blame Ray; he’d wanted that job, felt he was ready, owed it even, and it’s hard, that kind of knockback. He’s still not ready, though. Even now. Gene would rather not have to tell him that, but Ray would take it from him, wouldn’t he, if he had to? Good copper. Good bloke. Despite – mishaps.
Gene glances over at Sam again. Had he really thought Gene was guilty? Well, obviously, says the little voice in his head, gut instinct or – something – sixth sense – whatever it is. Yes, of course Sam had. All that evidence. Gene’s gun, Gene’s prints, blood everywhere, blood on his shirt. The look on Sam’s face that morning. The way he waited, though, the whole time.
Yes, for a while there, Sam had believed it – but at least he hadn’t wanted to. Gene’s innocence had mattered to him. Truth be told, Gene had been a little surprised how much it mattered, how much Sam cared what kind of man Gene was, what he'd done. That he’d stuck to his word, stopped all the mess of backhanders and greased palms. Well God help him, he had. Because he’d promised. Because he’d promised Sam. He must be getting soft in his advancing years.
Ray’s talking again. ‘He said – evidence. He wasn’t doing anything to get it settled. He was gonna let you rot, Guv.’
‘Oh well,’ Gene interrupts, clapping Ray on the shoulder again in a way that he hopes communicates both a deep respect and affection, and how much he would like this conversation to be over. ‘Just doing his job.’
‘Yeah but why him?’
Gene blinks. ‘Why what?’
‘When you were on the run, you could’ve come to any of us. Any one of us. So why him? He didn’t even believe you, not like I did.’
‘Ray…’
‘No, no, it doesn’t matter,’ Ray slurs, backpedalling. He’s clearly said more than he meant to – but this is the crux, Gene can tell, of the melancholy that crashed into Ray six whiskies deep, that’s made him slink around the edges of this party for hours on end. This is what he sat down here to say. Why not me?
‘Look,’ Gene tries again, but Ray’s still talking.
‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter – sure you had your reasons, but I just – I wanted to say that you could always--’
‘Guv?’
Gene looks up. It’s Sam. His eyes are bright and dark, jacket gone somewhere, shirt pulled to the side like somebody’s yanked him out of the way. For a moment, Gene thinks about tugging it back into place, the way you’d right a schoolboy’s uniform. Sam’s so squared-away, it just looks wrong, that’s all. Then the thought is gone.
Gene turns on his best smile. 'All right, Tyler?'
Sam nods. 'Something's come up. Can I borrow you?'
Gene tries not to wonder what the hell can have come up at this time of night. 'Course,’ he says. ‘Give us a minute, Ray.'
Ray nods but Gene barely notices. Escape. Freedom. Ache in the legs as he pulls himself to standing; getting too old for all this running up stairwells, sleeping on floors, but oh well. He follows Sam out into the corridor, round a corner and into one of the interview rooms. Through the haze of smoke and dust in here, Gene glimpses the threat of daylight. Not quite getting light yet, but it's not far off. Christ.
Sam shuts the door behind him, and he’s…laughing?
‘What’s up?’ says Gene. ‘What’s going on?’
'Sorry,' Sam says quickly. 'Maybe it was fine, but you looked like you needed rescuing back there, and I just...'
They look at each other. Gene feels dazed, tongue thick in his mouth. Maybe it's hitting him harder than he'd realised, all that whisky, but it suddenly seems important that Sam has come out with some of the weirdest, most insane shit Gene's ever heard – but he also sometimes seems like he can actually, literally read minds.
Gene starts laughing too. It breaks the weird thrill of tension in his body, and he sinks into one of the chairs. 'That obvious?' he says, trying for lightness.
Sam sits down with him. He still looks scruffy, a little off. Rare to see him this drunk, loose. Not that it matters. Why is Gene thinking about this? He lights up for something to do with his hands. 'Second time today you've saved my bacon,’ he says.
Sam shrugs, modest. ‘What’s up with Ray, then?’
Well, Gene’s not going to tell him, no way. ‘Just pissed. Boring on. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Sure,’ says Sam, which could mean sure, of course and could mean sure, don’t tell me, fine. He holds his hand out without saying anything. Gene blinks at it for a moment, mystified. Then he twigs.
'Didn't think you smoked, Sammy-boy. Squeaky clean, you are.'
'Fuck off,' Sam says cheerfully. Gene passes his lit cigarette and watches Sam draw on it. The tension in his throat, the way his shoulders drop as he exhales, say ex-smoker. Right. Good to know that not even the great Sam Tyler is immune to all vices.
He holds the cigarette back out, but Gene waves a hand. ‘You go ahead,’ he says. Funny catch in his voice. But he’d lit it on impulse, hadn't really wanted it anyway. He’d rather Sam had it.
Sam shrugs. ‘I'll regret this in the morning,’ he mutters, smoke thick in his voice already.
‘Can't always be thinking about tomorrow, Sammy-boy.’
Sam raises his eyebrows at that, but says nothing.
Gene hadn’t thought about it until Ray asked. Why did he go to Sam? Tell the truth, it had never occurred to him to do anything else.
Sam's a pain in the arse, obviously. But he's also – Gene excepted – the best. Right away Gene had known that if anyone could get him off, it would be Sam. Not like Ray, not the way he would've done it, if he'd done it – threats and speed and cover-ups, so that for years afterwards people would have marvelled at Gene having “got away with it”, looked at him and wondered how. And he'd wanted better than that. Wanted his name cleared, really cleared. Obviously, that meant Sam.
But there had been something else too. Sat in that cell, waiting bail; sat in his house with a guard on the door; pacing the floors, knowing how bad it looked, how picky Sam was, his infuriating inability to take anything, ever, on trust… He had had to sit there and know that somewhere out there, Sam Tyler was walking around thinking he’d done it. Killed someone. It had not been a pleasant thought.
Tell the truth, it had been shit. A needling feeling in his guts, almost as bad (worse?) than the thought of actually going to prison. He’d needed to get back out there and make Sam start believing in him again, needed it the way people need air or food or a drink at the end of a long, bad day.
There was a time Gene had thought he wanted Ray’s loyalty, the blind faith of the subordinate, but somehow, these days, it isn't enough. He wants Sam’s real, hard-won, irritating fucking respect. He wants –
‘Gene?’ Sam’s laughing. ‘You still with us?’
Should tick him off for that, the first name, but somehow Gene can’t bring himself to do it. He’s too drunk. Time to go home. He stands, chair screeching on the parquet floor. ‘That’s me,’ he says.
Sam stands too, stubbing his fag out. ‘Not driving, are you?’
Funny the way he comes out with these things, intimate, like a wife. Like somehow he doesn’t know how it looks, or doesn’t care. Standing so close that Gene could just –
And then he lifts a hand –
Sam’s dark eyes wide, watching him, not moving a muscle as –
Gene grabs hold of the hem of Sam's shirt and tugs it back into place. 'There.'
Sam doesn’t move. Just lets him. Watching him with that fucking face he wears sometimes at crime scenes, half-patient, like he’s waiting for Gene to work something out. He doesn't say a word.
Gene goes out of the room and leaves him standing there.