Sunshine

Lola D

Rewritten from something I first put on paper in August 2004. It probably makes even less sense now.

As per usual on this site, I do not own the source material. Pity.

Once upon a time, though not as long ago as you might think, there was a young woman with long, golden hair. Her friends and lovers called her Sister Sunshine for the light she brought into their lives. But the woman was not sunshine, only flesh and blood. She delighted in touch of all kinds, especially when it sent her spiraling into the stars.

Almost all kinds. Black curls and a rough beard gave way to fear, and pain, and blood between her thighs, but the wrong kind.

Sunshine went away on a January morning, cold and cloudy. Her belly had just begun to swell, despite the gallons of parsley and pennyroyal tea she'd drunk. She sheltered at a convent long enough to give birth; two weeks later, she left again, without her daughter. The sisters called the girl Amelia and gave her to two of their benefactors.

Blood will out, as always; sweet though this girl was, she couldn't be the socialite her mother wanted, and she had too much empathy with ordinary people to go into business law. Sunshine's golden daughter took her A-levels, went to university, and joined the Metropolitan Police.

Then the past turned up to haunt her, in the middle of a cold case. Someone was bound to recognise her, sooner or later, someone who had known her mother back in the day.

That someone cocked his pistol and shoved it behind her ear. "Hands up, little miss, and come with me."

Mel Silver had not acknowledged any family in years. Her adoptive parents hadn't suited her very well, for all their trying. Of her birth mother, only a newspaper article remained, the story of an addict killed by a mad bomber twenty years back. No pictures. No idea who had taken the case; the file wasn't in the archives. Apparently the detective had kept it, and nobody wanted to risk his wrath.

So here she was, tied to a support column on the top floor of a warehouse, facing her self-styled birth father down the barrel of a gun.

"What do you want from me?" Mel twisted her hands against the ropes. Damn, but that would burn later. "I'll do a DNA test. We can find out the truth."

"Nice thought, but that ain't it," he said. "Daughter or no, you have other uses." He paced in front of her, stopping only to dash his fist against the column. "Tell me, Detective Sergeant," with a sneer, "how long d'you think it'll be before someone misses you?"

That was... actually a good question. Mel couldn't be sure of the answer. She lived alone, no pets, and she wasn't home often enough to make friends with the neighbours. Boyd had ordered her to take the next three days off, pressured no doubt by Grace, who always meant well. None of the team would think to run by and check on her, and they were her only friends. She didn't have a boyfriend.

Why had she not got a cat?

"Someone ought to notice you ain't there, oh, any minute now," he said; she wasn't going to correct that false assumption. "They'll send out the cavalry and you can go free. Except you won't be free." He crouched beside her and held out a collar. "Do you know what this is?"

She swallowed hard. "I've never seen one before," she lied, "but I'm certain you'll tell me."

"This, my dear, is a bomb." He fastened it around her neck. "When I push this little red button on my belt, the clock will start counting down from five minutes. I can blow you sky high on a whim."

"How do I get it off?"

"You don't." He smiled; ah, yes, NHS dentistry at its finest. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of rot on his breath. "You go out there and you die. Not right off; they'll take you for questioning and all that shit. Then you die, Amelia, surrounded by your friends. Ain't that a comfort!" He winked and nudged her chin with one dirty fist. "You won't be alone when you go. Better than most of us get."

"I think," she said, then clamped her mouth shut.

"What?"

"I think I'm going to be sick." She closed her eyes and swallowed back the bile. "Please."

He cut the ropes and shoved her towards the wall. "No point in keeping you tied, now I've got you where I want you."

She threw up enough to empty her stomach and leave her aching all over. She couldn't stop shaking; what if she was found, and they didn't get the collar off in time? Who else would she take down? -- Would she have time to care?

Then you die, Amelia. Then you die.

Her captor (she refused to call him "Dad") glanced out the windows every few minutes. His pacing screamed impatience, but the air stayed still and silent. No sirens.

No family to save her. Just as well; she wanted to spare them that failure if she could. The squad had become her family, more so than any of her parents. Spence, her unlikely big brother, always competing with her for rank -- Frankie, girlier than she seemed, someone to laugh with on break -- Grace, brilliant in almost every way; Mel would have liked to take her shopping, just once, but it didn't matter. Who really noticed in a sea of white coveralls?

And Boyd. Not a father figure; God save him from parenting again. Not a brother, either. He had seen a little too much of life for that. Maybe just a friend, but a good one. He was still brisk under his temper, but sweet in his own peculiar way. He cared, though he'd probably fought it inch by inch, kicking and screaming the whole way. She'd miss all of him, not just the nice parts.

She'd miss them all.

Sometimes she fancied she could hear them coming.

She'd taken to standing at a window herself, watching the road for signs of help. Don't come, she prayed. Leave me to die, let this man kill me here, but don't come to my aid.

She wasn't sure what God did to accidental killers, and she didn't want to find out.

The skies told her it had been about a day and a half. In that time, she'd eaten twice and thrown it all up. He wasn't always there, but he'd left a bucket of water and a ladle; it gave her enough energy to move. No hope of calling out, alas; her cell phone had d-- had run out of power sometime during the first twelve hours, before he had cut the ropes.

Suicide looked better by the hour. She was doomed anyway; why not die on her own terms? She'd run through all of the scenarios in her head. Each time, he only had to push the button to win. Pity he'd have five minutes to escape.

Well, shit. If she couldn't take him with her, she could wait and hope. Maybe they would find her while he was out. Maybe they'd come quietly, take him out with a sniper. She could steal the belt, the bomb squad would remove the collar --

Then you die.

A constant echo. He had not spoken since yesterday, but determination like that didn't fade easily. She knew he would be there at the first stirrings of hope in her heart. He could feel goodness well enough to snuff it out. Good God, he probably had the warehouse bugged.

Which will it be? she asked herself. Let him decide, or take matters into your own hands?

The high road would kill her, no matter what else happened; if she waited for someone to save her, he would probably end up killing everyone.

One life for many. Her life. In the abstract, the solution was clear. Faced with the situation, she could not bring herself to make the decision. So she waited for someone to take it out of her hands, even though the waiting was agony.

A day and a half down. A day and a half to go.

When Mel didn't come back from leave, Boyd didn't notice, but Frankie did.

"Don't you think she would have called?" she asked, following Boyd down the corridor to the building canteen.

"Two coffees, one black, one with cream and two sugars. No, Frankie." Boyd steadied her by the shoulders. "She's overslept, that's all." He took their coffees from the young man at the canteen window. "If you're that worried, you can check on her. Go on, ring her."

They sat down at the table nearest the door, and Frankie pulled out her phone. "I'll try her at home first," she said, dialing the number. Boyd watched her, staring over the top of his glasses.

"Nothing," Frankie finally said. "Either she's so deeply asleep she can't hear the phone, or she isn't there."

"Then she's skiving off, and I want a word with her," Boyd said. "I'll try her mobile." But there wasn't an answer there, either. "You don't think..."

"I hope not."

Later that morning, the team piled into Boyd's Lexus for a little field trip.

"She's there!" Boyd pointed to Mel's car, still parked in front of the apartment building. "I knew it. See, nothing to worry about."

"I'll feel better once I hear it from her," Spence said. "You can stay behind, but I'm going up. Anyone else coming?"

"I am," Frankie said. "Grace, you'd best remain behind with Boyd."

"Yeah, there's really no telling what's up there," Spence added.

"Nonsense," protested Grace. "She's my friend as much as yours. If something's happened, I should be there." She glared at Boyd. "We all should."

"Grace!" cried Boyd. "Not you too."

Grace folded her arms over her chest and waited.

"Sodding hell. All right. Everybody out." Boyd shut the car off and yanked the key from the ignition. "You are all buying me lunch if she's there."

"In what capacity?" mumbled Frankie. "You can still be at home if... well." She shook her head. "Let's not think about that."

The man had lost his patience by the third morning. By the fourth, he'd got himself into a snit of epic proportions. He was worse than Boyd, stalking around the top floor, hand straying to his waist now and then.

"I went away once!" he shouted. "I'll not go away again, not for his sake, not for yours!"

If Mel didn't get out of there soon, she'd go just as insane as her keeper. Over three days of nothing but concrete walls and morbid thoughts, no more food, no working toilet -- as if her humiliation wasn't complete! Damn the bomb; she'd worked Christmas just to save up some holiday time! And Boyd had made her take it, the holiday from hell. Hotel Hostage: three days of captivity at the hands of a murdering bastard who might or might not be her long-lost father? Bugger that!

"Just bloody do something!" she screamed, and the noise felt wonderful. "I'm hungry. I'm cold. If you send me to blow something up, I'll pass out before I get there." She felt the grey encroaching on her vision, but did not regret the effort. It was breath well spent. "Nobody's going to know where I am. You've done too good a job of hiding me."

He only smirked at her. "We're both getting desperate. Goodness me. Have you made up your mind?"

She couldn't look him in the eye. "Yes. No! I don't... I don't know." Sliding down the wall, she wrapped her arms around her body. She had not wanted to decide, but if she waited much longer, she'd lose the chance. This had not been her first near-blackout. At least if she acted, she could still choose how many died by this man's hand.

"My diary's in my purse," she said. "In the back, there's a list of numbers. They're the only one's who'll care."

Forgive me, she begged silently, hiding her face in her arms. Whoever's listening, forgive me.

Mel's apartment had turned into a crime scene in the space of an hour.

"No trace," Boyd repeated to himself. "No trace at all." She'd got up that morning, made the bed, and left. Since her keys were still on the peg in her kitchen, she'd gone by bus. Her plants had begun to brown for want of water. The milk had gone off, and by the smell of things, so had the food on the unwashed dishes. He'd personally asked the landlord a few questions, and just as personally threatened to toss him down the back stairs.

"So much for anger management," Grace said to Frankie, who stopped dusting for prints long enough to agree.

Spence had tried her parents, strangers until then -- strangers still, estranged from their daughter since university. Everyone else she knew was working the case.

The boy two doors down had just begun to sweat when Boyd's phone rang. "Don't think I'm done with you," he barked. "Boyd!"

"Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd?" A smoke-roughened voice crooned the question into his ear. "I have something you want." So calm, only vaguely tinged with frustration. Where had he heard that voice before?

"Where are you?" Boyd signaled to the team on his way out. "Is she safe?"

"First things first," said the man. "I want your word you ain't bringing sharpshooters."

"Done," Boyd said, without stopping to question why. "Directions!"

The sirens broke through her haze. At first, she thought they were a hallucination; she had already imagined uniforms storming the warehouse. Hauling herself up by the windowsill, she pressed her face to the glass.

"No," she whispered at the sight of a familiar salt-and-pepper head. "It's too soon."

"Too soon to die?" her captor asked. "You've had four days to get used to the fact." He detached the detonator from his belt. "Time to go, Amelia. I won't push this until I see you standing next to him."

She did not move.

"I can wait here all day." He moved in close, forcing her to look him right in the eye. "And if they come for you, I'll hit this little red button. You can get it over with now, or you can wait and you'll die with me. Which will it be, my dear? Would you like to die without saying goodbye to the ones you love?"

Footsteps on the pavement below grew louder and louder. She heard Boyd screaming at Frankie and Grace to stay back. Spence knocked on the door, calling, "Police! Open up!"

"I'll go," Mel said, quiet but firm. "Activate the bomb before I change my mind."

She did not see his finger move, but the ticking came from right below her ear. That was no dream.

"It's been a pleasure knowing you." He kissed her on the cheek and tugged on a lock of her hair. "Now go meet your friends, there's a dear. Can't keep them waiting; wouldn't that be rude?"

Two minutes after the police arrived on the scene, the hostage was released. Mel took the stairs two at a time, wanting to be outside when she drew her final breath. "Boyd," she called to her boss, who was evidently very upset that Frankie had decided not to stay put. "It's all right. Stop yelling. You're hurting my ears."

"Mel?" he asked, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Is that..."

"It's me," she said. "But not for very long."

She submitted to being hugged and kissed soundly for one precious minute. Time was running short; she could not be in that alley when the bomb went off.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"I can't do this," she cried. "Grace, take care of everyone. They'll need you soon. I love you all, do you understand?"

"Mel, what's wrong?" asked Frankie. "Come on, you're safe."

"No, she's not." Boyd put it together, just as she'd hoped he would. "The collar's a bomb." Still he stayed, looking for the release, holding her by the waist. "Who did this to you?"

"You don't have time," she hissed, struggling to free herself. "Run!"

Spence ran -- in the wrong direction, going for the warehouse. She howled her despair to the clouds.

"It'll be all right," said Boyd. "Try to stay calm."

Coming from him, that was rich. "I love you," she said. "Don't grieve."

"Mel!"

"It's no use. I tried." She drew a sharp breath as adrenaline flooded her veins. "I'm sorry." She kicked him in the shin, and he dropped her; she ran, too, as far as she could, as the tick-tick-tick ticked down to the end

and the clock stopped.

"Get down!" Boyd dragged Frankie to the ground. He did not watch the bomb detonate; the screams coming from the other witnesses would haunt him enough. That isn't Mel, he thought, listening to Frankie's shuddering breaths. She was out of there as soon as the bomb went off. She never felt any pain.

"Is it over?" His pathologist shivered beneath him. "Mel?"

"It's over." He backed off, letting her sit up. "She did what she thought was right. She saved us all."

Some distance away, Spence knelt and threw up. Grace sat beside him, holding his tie away from the mess and stroking his brow. Boyd would not look back. He had seen so much death in his lifetime; he would not have this to remember, only her wide eyes, the way she'd trembled under his touch, the last few words she'd spoken.

He would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Boyd carried Frankie past the body, towards the mouth of the alley. "Take her to casualty," he ordered. "I want her looked at. That goes for Dr Foley and Detective Sergeant Jordan, once they get here."

"What about you?" someone asked, someone who was much too young to have witnessed something so gruesome.

Boyd's face hardened into a mask of rage. "I'm going after the man who did this."

He did not see anything but what was directly in front of him as he ran back down the alley. Nothing else mattered any longer, only finding and killing the man who had sent Mel out to die. The bastard would die slowly, Boyd would make certain of that, and hang police brutality. Later, he would be well able to imagine what it was that Mel had gone through before her release. Later, but not now; he could not afford to break down now.

There had been movement on the top floor. The bastard would still be there, Boyd guessed, watching what he had wrought.

Except, of course, Boyd was wrong.

"I've been waiting for you."

The man wasn't exactly threatening in appearance. He was short, with tangled grey curls and a messy beard. Only his eyes bespoke a violent personality; they were fixed on Boyd, as surely as the gun in his hand.

"Why'd you do it?" Boyd asked, drawing his own gun. "You didn't have to kill her."

"You're right," the man said nonchalantly. "I didn't."

"Then why bother?" Boyd released the safety catch.

"She looked so much like her mother," the man sighed. "Where was her mother in all this? What kind of woman lets her child toddle off without wondering where she went?" He caressed the barrel of his pistol. "Amelia looked so like her mother."

"No, she didn't. Mrs Silver's a redhead."

"Did she never tell you? Amelia was adopted." Out came a detonator with a yellow switch. "Sunshine was worthless. Nobody wanted to pay for her, not even the people who took her baby. Such a pity." He rolled down the neck of his sweater. "Look what I've got."

Another collar. The pieces fell into place. "You." Boyd's hand shook. "All we found twenty years ago was a bit of leather. Were you waiting for this technology?"

"Waiting for my chance," said the madman. "Sheer dumb luck she turned out to be Sunshine's daughter." His funny little grin widened. "My daughter. Mine to use however I wanted, and wasn't she handy? Why don't you put down that weapon?"

"Oh, I'll put it down," said Boyd. "Right -- down -- your -- throat!"

He lunged, but the man was too nimble; the bastard flipped the switch. "I so wanted that ransom, but I suppose your death will have to do. Can't spend any ransom if I'm gone, now, can I?"

Boyd rolled away, flinging himself down the stairs.

Precisely thirty seconds later, the top floor of the warehouse disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire.

The funerals were both on the following Sunday, three days after the incident. One was very well-attended. Nobody went to the other. You may guess which was which at your leisure.

Life went on, as it usually did. Frankie took a month off and checked herself into a Swiss mountain resort; upon returning to England, she entered therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. A week later, as she was leaving the psychiatrist's office with a prescription for sleeping pills, she ran into Boyd in the waiting area.

We are not all made of stone.

She smiled at him and said she would see him at work on Monday morning.

Spence went on to have a very long and successful career with the bomb squad. When he was sixty, his superiors decided it was time he took up training -- old men have no place in the field, eh? So he taught new coppers to defuse bombs until his retirement. Every class heard the story of the young Detective Sergeant who was abducted and held hostage using a collar bomb. Nobody achieved a passing mark unless he could defuse one.

Mel's death was the last straw for Grace. She left the Cold Case Unit, preferring to work with troubled teenagers out in the country. One of her young patients was a free-spirited girl with waist-length blonde hair and a child-swollen belly. When the child was born, Grace was there.

The baby's name was Amelia.