Piece Of The Past
During her last few precious moments on this Earth, unable to tear her eyes away from the shadowy outline of the gun about to end her life, Detective Inspector Alex Drake could think of only one thing. To her shame it wasn't her daughter, who had faced a similar fate not so long ago and at the same man's hand. It wasn't even fear that filled her mind, though she was anything but fearless and she most certainly did not want to die. No, the only thoughts ricocheting through her soon to be blown out brains concerned her parents and the day they had died, something that she hadn't really thought about for years. Now it was stuck in her head, placed there by a dishevelled and deranged stranger who couldn't possibly know anything about the circumstances surrounding theirs deaths: why had they died that horrible day in 1981? She'd been there, had almost died in the car with them, but her memories of the event were a blur at best; flashes of red, her Godfather hurtling towards her, a large comforting hand enclosing her own, and a tall intimidating building were the best she could do in that respect. Most of the details had been willingly suppressed - it was a tragedy that she had interest in reliving - but the emotional turmoil had been more enduring; she could clearly recall how scared, and how alone, she had felt that day. But she'd never understood why they'd died.
As a child she'd looked to Evan, the man who had stepped into the role of Godfather that her parents had bestowed upon him with outstanding devotion ever since she'd been orphaned, for an explanation but he hadn't been able to provide a name or a face or even a reason for what had happened to her Mum and Dad. Even back then she'd been astute enough to realise that the death of her parents seemed to hurt Evan as much as, if not more than, herself so she'd stopped asking why and had instead conjured up the archetypal 'bad man' in which to lay the blame, to focus her anger and frustration upon - something that she was sure had fuelled her desire to join the Police Force. Content in the security and love, if not the answers, that Evan could provide, she'd been able to move on with her life, so much so that later, when she'd fulfilled that childhood dream of becoming a police officer, the thought of looking into the past - her past - via the official police files and records had barely crossed her mind. There'd always been something else to occupy her time and energy; an impulsive Peter Drake, a stormy marriage, a beautiful daughter, an even stormier divorce, a couple of promotions and, most recently, a book offer. And it had been easier not to remember that day, not to think about that part of her past.
The gun finally sounded, signalling her end, and regret - for her past, for her parents, for her daughter - flooded her veins. She was so wrapped up in that remorse that it took her a few seconds to realise that she was still sitting on a dirty mattress in the depths of a barge that had seen better days and that a different man was standing in place of Arthur Layton. Her eyes dropped quickly to the floor to find her captor laying in a crumpled heap in front of her; even in the dark she could see enough to confirm that he was dead and though she felt instant relief at the sight she was also a little confused.
Slowly, she raised her eyes upwards to focus on the other man; this one was taller, broader and, thanks to the light spilling down into the boat behind him, sporting a halo - the latter in stark contrast to both the weapon he was bearing and the dead man that lay between them. As he let his arm, and consequently his gun, fall slowly to his side she remembered to breathe, the accompanying noise to that recollection sounding more like a gasp, but her brain welcomed the influx of oxygen. Her thoughts, so keen and focussed in those few moments before her impending death, felt as scattered as her captor's brains.
"You killed him," she whispered - quite unnecessarily, she would have realised if she'd been thinking straight - surprise and accusation and gratitude filling her voice as she stared down once more at the bloody mess that had once been Arthur Layton. A small shaky breath escaped her and she increased the hold her arms had around her knees as one thought suddenly struck her cold: that had very nearly been her lying dead on the floor.
In response the stranger simply moved towards her, carefully stepping over the body of the man whose head he'd just blasted a bullet into and her gaze rose sharply, warily eyeing his advance as apprehension crept over her; she had no idea if this man really was her saviour or something else entirely and she backed away ever so slightly, as much as she could given her current position. She wasn't sure if her legs would support her, never mind an escape attempt, but she'd be ready just in case - even if the confines of the boat gave him all of the advantage.
"It's okay, DI Drake," he said gently, keeping the distance between them and slowly putting away his gun. "I'm a copper as well," he added on, bringing out an ID card with his now free hand as he spoke and holding it out towards her as proof. "DCI Hunt."
In the dim light it was difficult to make out whether he was brandishing a warrant card or not though it was also hard to see his face clearly so it was a moot point really but he did seem to know who she was and he had identified himself. On the other hand, Arthur Layton had known who she was too and that had only made him want to hurt her. Before that doubt could settle in any deeper a flash of silver bounced off his proffered ID and as insufficient as that was in terms of proof, she took it. For some reason, every instinct she had was urging her to trust him.
Letting herself relax just a little, her thoughts finally began to clear and logic took over. After all the trouble with Layton earlier in the morning it made sense to think that some concern had been raised when she'd failed to show at the station. Maybe her superiors had put out an alert for her or her car. Or maybe someone had seen Layton in the car with her as she'd driven off. There were a number of reasons for the other officer's presence.
"He was going to..." she began, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to explain the situation to him or to herself, once more and just for clarity. Either way, as her gaze dropped to the floor once more, she was unable - or more truthfully, unwilling - to finish the sentence. Not that, once again, she really needed to; it must have been obvious to her rescuer, to anyone in fact, what had been about to happen - she was the only one who'd struggled to accept such an outcome. When Layton had snared her in the car, gun pointing in her direction, she had thought that she'd be able to talk her way out of the situation; when he'd dragged her at gunpoint on to the barge, transferring her from one cage to another - albeit a stronger - one, she'd remained optimistic; when the conversation Layton had conducted on his mobile phone had sounded as if it had not gone at all to plan, she'd still felt relatively confident in her own abilities - she helped people like Arthur all the time; it was only when he'd aimed his gun at her head, her words falling on increasingly deaf ears, that she'd realised it was all over. And even though she'd escaped such an outcome it had still left its mark on her.
"I know," he offered, his tone as reassuring as the small, careful steps he took towards her though she barely registered the reply.
She blinked a couple of times, trying to put all of her thoughts into some kind of order as he approached her. Less concerned with her immediate safety her thoughts had turned back towards her parents, to the mystery surrounding their deaths and Layton's sudden appearance. If Layton had some relevant information regarding her parents, as he had claimed, then why hadn't he told her? The answer to that question might just lay with whoever was on the other end of that phone call because the recipient seemed to know the truth too and if Layton's phone was currently as accessible as his gun she might have been tempted to make a grab for it. But there were many other questions that she doubted would be answered so easily. "Why would he want to hurt me? I... I don't even know him. And what has the death of my parents got to do with him?" The questions weren't directed at DCI Hunt; he couldn't possibly know the answers. But it was part of her process - though usually she'd only have a dictaphone for company - to talk out loud to herself, to ask the pertinent questions that she didn't know the answer to, when she was working her way through a problem.
DCI Hunt stowed his warrant card back inside his jacket and came to a measured stop in front of her before she'd even realised he was so close, breaking those thoughts and causing her to lean her head back slightly so she could try and meet his gaze. "I don't know," he said softly, holding out a hand towards her.
Alex tried to scrutinise his features, wondering if he was simply being courteous or if there was something else behind his reply. The shadows still made such a task difficult and she dismissed the quandary, dropping her eyes from his face and towards his hand instead. She probably sounded like a fruitcake, talking away to herself as if he didn't exist, and he was more than likely only being polite. She loosened one of the arms that had remained tightly wrapped around her legs since that gunshot had rung out and reached out towards him, slipping her hand into his, his skin warm against her cool fingers, and allowing him to pull her to her feet. To her surprise her legs held up better than expected and she stood tall in front of her rescuer, finding his greater stature as reassuring as his calm, warm voice.
Even this close up her view of him was still somewhat hampered but she could smell him; above the rank odour of the boat that suggested Layton must have been living on it for quite some time she could distinguish the scent of cigarettes and one of those aftershaves that had been popular back in the day and had recently made a comeback. In the back of her mind something - quite unexpectedly - almost clicked into place in response to the stimuli but before she could work out exactly what that was, his hand slipped out of her own and so did the thought.
"C'mon. Let's get out of here," DCI Hunt said, and in a tone that warned there was no space for argument, as he moved to one side in order for her to pass.
Obeying his command without a murmur of protest - in truth, she was just glad to be getting off the boat - she set off ahead of him, wrapping her arms around her torso as she moved towards the light that was spilling down the stairway and into the barge. The sun finally hit her a few steps up and she had to squint against the brightness as it cheerily welcomed her back into the real world. Back to life. She took in a large lungful of air and slowly let it escape through her mouth.
It hit her again just how close she'd come to losing her life and she half walked, half stumbled towards the edge of the barge in response, her legs feeling shaky. When she finally reached the side she had to release one hand to steady herself against the boat for fear of falling to a heap on the deck. The murky water of the Thames lapped against the hull beneath her, none the prettier - or aromatic - for the sunny day but it worked its peculiar magic on her nevertheless: she couldn't remember feeling as alive as she did right then. There'd been moments - Molly's birth, her wedding day, her promotion to Detective Inspector - that had come close to such a high but most of the time she felt as if her life amounted to nothing more than a face in the crowd that watched quietly as the world passed by. She was aware that it was only through coming so close to death that she felt so alive but such reasoning failed to detract from her euphoria.
She continued to hold on to the boat as she lowered herself down onto the edge, positioning her back to the water. A faint breeze blew against her face and though it wasn't cold by any measure, she had to tuck her free arm around herself again. Despite the heat of the sun she had started to shiver slightly; her mind might have recovered from recent events but her body wasn't so resilient - the shock was settling deep into her bones.
From below, her knight in shining armour slowly emerged, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs. For a few seconds she thought that he was going to leave her there as his eyes moved towards the gangway leading off the boat and beyond, a yearning she couldn't miss or understand written across his face. But instead, some internal battle seemingly won, he walked towards her, removing his jacket along the way.
"Here," he said softly as he offered her the garment, giving her little opportunity to refuse him by placing it over her shoulders before she could even open her mouth.
Grateful for the extra layer, she tugged the jacket closer and his scent, having only teased her senses earlier, now enveloped her; she had little tolerance for smokers and heaven knew mens' toiletries had expanded rapidly in these days of the 'metrosexual male' but she found the combination strangely comforting. The thought that had almost struck her earlier threatened to surface again but whilst she struggled to remember the exact details, she knew exactly how his smell - how he himself, it seemed - made her feel and she could sum it up in one word: safe - though she couldn't really understand why.
"Thank you," she said as he sat down next to her, her voice almost a whisper as she took the opportunity to study him closely. His blond hair shone in the sunlight, as did the stubble that covered his jaw, and his eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she'd ever seen, framed by eyelashes so long they almost rested upon his cheeks. She felt no shame in her scrutiny because he seemed to be studying her just as closely. She wondered if she looked as tired, as weary, as he did because she was suddenly feeling that way.
Breaking the connection between them, he unscrewed the flask that he had retrieved from his jacket before giving it to her. He offered her the flask in much the same manner as he had offered her the garment and though she wasn't a big drinker - there was simply no room for it in her working, single parent lifestyle - she took it without much thought. With just as little thought, she took a long swig from the flask and the whiskey that was inside burned its way down her throat, warming her from the inside out. And all the while she was aware that he was drinking in the sight of her.
"Better?" he enquired once she'd swallowed a good third of the contents.
"A little," she replied, and with honesty, as she turned her gaze back to him. He nodded once, which she took as a sign of approval, and continued to stare at her. It made her feel just a little uncomfortable but not in a self conscious kind of way. She got the impression that he knew her - and more than just her name and rank - but, for the life of her, she could not place him. He seemed vaguely familiar to her but not in appearance - and she wanted to believe that she wasn't so blinded by responsibility not to have remembered tall, blonde and handsome - or by name. On the other hand, after everything she'd been through this morning, she could have just mis-read his attentiveness. There was one thing she was certain about though: he was here alone. There were no uniformed officers in sight, no sirens wailing, no flashing lights, no helicopter whirring above to indicate that back up had arrived - or was even on its way. It probably should have had her doubting his identity once more - she'd never seen his ID clearly, after all - but she was curious more than anything else, "How on Earth did you find me?"
"I was needed and I was there."
The answer, and his matter of fact tone, didn't surprise her as much as she supposed it should. It seemed a rather fitting explanation given the way he'd saved her life but she'd been hoping for something more; not only had she faced death at the hands of a stranger but she'd been saved by one too - it almost felt as though something bigger, something she knew nothing about, was playing out and she'd been caught in the middle of it all. "I suppose it'd be too much of a coincidence for you to know anything about the man who was going to… The man who took me hostage?"
He stared at her for a beat, long enough for her to think that he just might know all about Arthur Layton before extinguishing all hope. "It's best you forget about him, Alex. It's not worth it, trust me," he advised. The odd choice of pronoun didn't go unnoticed by Alex but before she could question him about it he had already veered off in a direction that she hadn't expected or could have ever anticipated. "Go home instead. Tell your daughter how much you love her and help her blow out the candles on her birthday cake."
All thoughts of Arthur Layton drained away and Alex let her gaze slowly drop away towards the deck, a little ashamed of herself. Today was her daughter's birthday and all she'd been interested in was digging up the past. Her daughter should have been her priority - just as her last thoughts when facing death, and her first thoughts after surviving such a battle, should have also been of Molly. Words couldn't describe how terrified she'd been when Layton had taken Molly hostage, had pointed his gun at her darling daughter's head. Despite that, she'd palmed Molly off on her Godfather when she should have been the one taking her child home, when she should have been the one comforting her daughter despite Molly's protestations that she was too old to be babied. Worse than that, being abandoned so casually could easily have been the last - and the most prominent - memory Molly had of her mother. She'd carried a similar memory from her own childhood for decades and she didn't want that - the uncertainty of a mother's love - for her own daughter.
Not for the first time, the thought that she didn't spend enough time with her daughter, that she wasn't the mother that Molly deserved, whipped unkindly through her head, and her heart, but this time, fresh from her brush with death, she silently resolved to do something about it. This was a second chance for her and she was going to take it. She was so taken with the thought of Molly and the cake that was sitting on the kitchen table at home, and ensuring that she turned out a little less like her own mother, that it didn't immediately strike her as unusual that this man, who she'd never met before, seemed to know all about her and her daughter. By the time it did he had already stood up, as if he was about to leave, and she found herself pursuing a different line of enquiry. "Wait! Where are you going?"
"To the pub," he replied casually, apparently unconcerned about how early in the morning it was.
"You can't just leave," she protested. Whilst it was true that there was procedure to follow in such circumstances, his leaving the scene of a crime wasn't what really bothered her. The thought of being left alone here, with a dead man below her feet, sent a shiver down her spine, negating some of the good work the alcohol had achieved. She wanted him, and perhaps needed him but she was loathe to admit as much, to stay a bit longer. It wasn't just for the sense of safety he provided either; she was still curious as to how he seemed to know so much about her.
He smiled in response and it lit up his face, erasing some of the weariness and making him look years younger, but his words only disappointed her. "I think I finally can. Besides, I said I'd meet Bolls in the pub and I'm very, very late - though she might just forgive me when she hears why," he said, his smile faltering a little at the end. "Bye, little lady," he added on before turning his back to her and walking away.
She should have been annoyed by the term he'd just used - it deserved to be consigned to the history books - but it rattled around her brain for entirely different reasons; she was sure she'd heard those exact same three words before though she couldn't remember when or where, or why she had the distinct impression that she hadn't felt indignant that day either. He was halfway down the gangplank when she gave up trying to tease out the rest of that memory and though she thought she ought to at least attempt a pursuit she didn't think she'd be able to catch him up - her own legs still felt uncooperative and his were so long he'd be out of sight by the time she made it back to land.
His sudden departure was annoying - and no less mysterious than his initial appearance and subsequent conversation - but she consoled herself with the fact that his jacket was still draped across her shoulders. He had to come back for it at some point; she knew that his warrant card - at the very least - was still inside the pocket. When he did return she would thank him properly and not just for saving her life because he had done so much more than that; he'd also given her the opportunity to live the life she'd perhaps been guilty of neglecting at times and he'd saved her daughter from the pain of losing a parent. As he finally disappeared from view she wondered if a lifetime could ever be long enough to thank him for all he'd done today.