The Torments of Memory
Disclaimer: Main characters belong to BBC/Kudos/Monastic, as does the wonderful world of Fenchurch East. Just taking them around the block for the second time.
'The past is not dead. It's not even past.'
(Requiem for a Nun– William Faulkner)
Chapter 1
As usual DCI Gene Hunt had paperwork to complete. There were transfer records to be signed and reports on DI Ray Carling, DC Chris Skelton and DC Sharon Granger to be deposited in the Personnel archive.
The last file was the difficult one – DI Alex Drake – an impossible, assertive, beautiful, maddening and confusing woman. Great tits and arse; and not a bad copper either, he reflected wistfully. Gene had never met anyone remotely like Alex during his long tenure at Fenchurch East, and decided as he closed the file that she demanded a memorial of some kind. Thinking about her might be exquisitely painful but, after all, only he knew that she had been the one thing standing between his world and utter catastrophe.
Dreading that he was about to give way to emotion and cursing himself under his breath for acting like a 'soft Southerner', Gene Hunt drew his office blinds and pinned badge number 6220 to the notice board. Pouring a generous measure of whisky, he sat down and toasted the badge. "See you around, Bolly-kecks."
Why the 'eck did I do that? I should be concentrating on something important like a new motor.
Reassured that life was returning to normal, the DCI began reading the Mercedes brochure on his desk and his thoughts were soon fixed on acceleration rates and potential cornering control. Choosing a new car was a serious matter, and to be disturbed by raised voices in the outer office was less than amusing.
As Gene rose from his chair he could hear the newcomer bleating about 'his office' and something called an 'iPhone'. Oh great – a techno-twerp. 'Ere we go again. It's time to say 'ello.
Opening the door he rasped, "A word in your shell-like, pal?", and made a gesture apparently inviting the young man into his office.
"Okay, let's get it over with. Who are you and why are you shoutin' the odds and givin' me brain-ache?
"I'm DI Brian Mercer, as I've been trying to explain to these idiots. I want my office and my iPhone returned now. The joke's gone far enough. Who are you, and whose nightmare is this?"
Weeks later Mercer would still recall the introduction with a shudder. The body-language was unmistakeable; a slow raising of the head accompanied by an intimidatory stare from piercing blue eyes and a voice of command issuing very clear instructions.
"A little piece of advice: next time read the name on the door. D.C.I. Hunt. You're trespassing on my patch and these are my 'idiots'. I'm the one who does the shoutin' around here."
"Fenchurch East needs experienced reliable officers, and you, God 'elp us, asked for a transfer. I was 'oping for someone with a bit of class, so at the moment I'm rather disappointed. Done any real police work lately?"
The 'Manc Lion' was just getting into his stride as he raised his voice, "Terry! Poirot! Give our new boy the official guided tour. He seems a bit slow on the uptake, so remind him that in this station we never forget that policing is about people; except when we're draggin' scum off the streets and into our nice warm cells."
As Gene finished with a flicker of a smile Brian seemed frozen to the marrow. That's 'im sorted.
"By the way – you're not another bloody profiler I 'ope? They can be a right pain in the arse."
Just a short chapter to start things where we left off. Reading and reviewing would be greatly appreciated.