Hey, I'm joining the legions of fans who loved the episode, loved the ending but REALLY wanted Gene and Alex to be together. I knew it was coming but still, wow, I was sobbing and incoherent for the rest of the evening. And Gene being all alone, not even his Quattro. So this is technically canon, as it doesn't alter the ending, but it's a little tag to make sure they all find peace
For him, it ends not in gunfire, as it did back in 1953, but in solitude, peace, a weary life of ferrying souls and the weight of forbidden memories bearing down upon him until the dam breaks and the stars wash him away.
It is 2008 and one of many days Alex Drake is comatose. He saw it on the news, the initial reports of the DI's shooting, and it stirs a feeling he hasn't known in a long, long time, and is not sure he ever really figured out. There is regret there too, though the twist of his gut is irrational- he knows this world is not that world, the real world, it seems only to mirror events, contorting them to fit, like one of them bendy mirrors at the fairground.
The photo which accompanies the report surprises him, she looks older than in the 80s, the carefree look, the colours are washed out. She looks tired, her hair hanging straight and long, a grey suit slammed down onto her thin frame. The news presenter tells him, in short sharp tones, that she has a daughter and to report anything suspicious, and then swiftly moves on. At that he recalls the moment she realised she could never go back, and before that, the moment he doubted the young girl's existence, the fury burning in her eyes as she slapped him, the desperation as she fell from his bullet wound, vivid red blood dying the white paving stones beneath her. Things have changed, too much, he thinks. This world makes everything in it dispassionate, cold. The hospital room grows too bright for his tiring eyes, the tiled walls echo the beep of the heart monitor. It seems unnaturally clean and he stands to leave as the television on the wall whispers stale memories.
He leaves quickly, as he always does, when the clock ticks dangerously close to 9:06. He doesn't want to be there for... that. The thought makes his head spin and his gnarled knuckles twist to fetch the familiar flask which still resides in his coat pocket after all these years, the dent of an old bullet showing it's loyalty to the owner. The top is now impossible for him to unscrew but he keeps it as a reminder of the people, friends, he has lost. The years have seemed to chase him, gaining speed while he slows to stagger with an old man's creaking knees and, after many insults thrown at his doctor, a cane his last team bought for him. The figure of a lion's head rests proudly upon the top.
The 70s, 80s, his glory days are over. The Mac Lion's mane has long since faded to grey. He only accepts defeat and retires when the arthritis no longer allows him to use a gun. Over the years coppers lives have changed, stricter rules being enforced, all instinct and intuition being pushed aside in favour of cold, hard evidence. Paperwork detailing DNA and mass spectronomo-whatsit results forced him to practically hibernate in his office for the last few years of his job. He can tell this is no longer his world anymore as the new, younger Superintendents furiously try to tame his thoughts and his loose fists. Never mind that he is, more often than not, right.
He never forgets what happened in '83, making sure not to repeat his previous mistake with Sam. He writes it all down in a book, a faded old journal in which he keeps both warrant cards, from '53 and up until '99 and reads it every night, no matter what. Once he had tried to photocopy it, but that failed, terribly and he ended up getting kicked out of the public library after he released a string of expletives from his mouth. He has no purpose in this world anymore but for the life of him he can't hear the bold, heavy accent of Nelson anymore and the Railway Arms is just an empty, dusty old pub when he visits Manchester again. More than often he wonders if he is doomed to stay in purgatory forever. If it is his punishment, a man not terrible or tempted enough for hell nor so bloody angelic to be sent off to heaven. Mistakes, he thinks wearily. So many bloody mistakes.
He collapses on a stained, faded, well-beyond-its-prime zebra print sofa. He didn't think it right to take it but Luigi had forced it upon him, with a sad, knowing smile. Bloody Italians, always knowing more than they ever say. He had basically her entire 80s life boxed up and shoved in his attic, along with some of Ray, Chris and Shaz's stuff too. Sam and Annie's had been collecting dust for almost thirty years now. A couple of ceiling tiles he'd nicked when they'd redecorated CID rested against a cupboard in his kitchen. The young man, the one who believed he was a hero of High Noon, Gary Cooper in a copper's clothes, would have scoffed. Called him a sentimentalist, a poof. Laughed at the man he'd become. But that boy was stupid, arrogant, nothing short of a child in a man's uniform.
It is December 15th 2008 when he finds anything of note on the news again. There is some bullshit main story about a war, some politics. He has long grown bored of the world he knows he will not be a part of for much longer. The fourth story, or maybe the fifth, is that of the death of DI Alex Drake (held at gunpoint by Arthur Layton two months ago, shot in the head, has since been in a comatose, but stable, condition. Condition deteriorated rapidly a couple of hours ago. Leaves behind a daughter.) He looks at his watch. 10:32. Maybe by now Keats is introducing himself to her, or she is with him in the Quattro, blaring out Eye of the Tiger as they blaze through the streets of London. Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly with psychiatry bollocks, warrant cards and a bloody amazing car. Nevertheless, she is now dead in this world, he knew it was coming, but it hurts none the less.
The next story is barely mentioned but the familiar location surprises him. Lancashire. An even more derelict building now, the wind still turning the weathervane in the breeze. He can imagine the creaking noise it makes and the memory makes him flinch. The news reporter on scene states the details of a recently uncovered body in monotone "discovered by hikers in the area. A forensic anthropologist on scene has discovered the skeletal remains are approximately fifty years old, of a twenty year old male. Cause of death has not yet been confirmed."
A shallow grave.
You didn't deserve it.
The shooting pain down his left side tells him all he needs to know. He falls unconscious into the still soft caress of the zebra print cushions. By the time the fire in the grate goes out, the old man's body is stone cold and the skeletal remains lay bare for the rest of the world to dismiss in favour of a juicier story.
"What'll you have, mon brave?"
In his prime again, a younger man swaggers into the Railway Arms. He smiles wryly but genuinely at the familiar bartender.
"Usual, Nelson. If you remem'er, that is."
"Ne'er forget anything, do I, Gene." It is not a question, more of a statement. The bartender winks at him and his eyes fix on the opposite side of the pub for a second, before turning quickly back to the beer pumps which never run dry.
Gene turns to look where Nelson's eyes briefly flick to, and the sight takes his breath away. The back wall is gone, thousands of stars spiral in circles, hundreds of galaxies, planets.
If he knew better, he might say the entire universe.
His eyes go wide. Nelson's gaze scrutinises him, mildly amused at the great Manc Lion being so lost for words. Eventually he turns back to face him.
"This is it, isn't it?" The bartender simply nods and smiles as he dries glasses. Gene turns back to stare at the magnificent backdrop, its subtle glow warming him to his bones. It's almost humbling. He turns back to Nelson for reassurance.
"Well, what do I do?"
"Be patient, mon brave. Just wait it out." A smile lingers in his voice and Gene resists the urge to stamp his foot and demand it- whatever it is- now. But he doesn't. He sighs a long breath, closes his eyes, and thinks only of his best team, his lost friends. For him, the wait isn't hard, he's grown used to it. His final chapter approaches.
Time in any dimension apart from reality is altered, stretched, changed to fit that place's needs. In the end, all time is, is an imposed structure, created to allow discipline and order.
Heaven, for want of a better word, has none of this, does not need discipline or order. It's hard to describe really. As an alternative, Hell - again, for want of a better word - has fury, galloping time, such strict rules and disciplines and punishments. So Gene stands there, for any number of seconds or minutes or hours. The stars entrance him, he traces the galaxies with blue eyes until he finds he can no longer feel the solid wooden floor under his feet.
He turns, to find no Nelson. He is simply surrounded by stars, floating. Slowly, one by one, all of their faces come into focus just beyond his reach, Sam, Annie, Shaz, Chris, Ray.
Alex.
He smiles back as the figures approach him, slowly, steadily. There is no urgency, not when they have forever. He takes her hand and takes it all in. It is home to him, to all of them, more so than any house filled with silence, alcohol, of fighting and anger and loneliness. Of frustration, sadness, regret, broken families. A soft hum of happiness and wonder fills his heart as he stands there, surrounded by all the people he has ever loved, everything he has ever needed.
He tentatively wraps his arm around her waist and finds peace to the soft strains of Spandau Ballet, watching the turning galaxies reflected in her eyes. Smiles and stars illuminate everything around them, and his team is whole once more.
He thinks, he could stay here, in this moment, forever.
And he does.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed Review?