The title of my first chapter refers to the Tragedy, 'Oedipus Rex' by the 5th Century B.C. Greek playwright, Sophocles. It is of course a complex play, but my title is motivated by the scene where Oedipus kills his Father after a struggle.
I struggled a bit too… with this Chapter and spent some time on it. I'm not sure if it's exactly what I wanted but it is the best I could achieve. So please, any comments or advice will be most welcome. It is based on what I thought was one of the most moving scenes from 'Life on Mars'. Please enjoy!
Chapter 1: Enter Oedipus
A sudden explosion; a sudden peace. All the shouting, all the anger from within him - from around all him - had stopped. But best of all, the conflicting, confusing thoughts careering around in Gene's head, had ceased.
Now all he felt was a calm; A numbness at least – except for the slight ringing. But even that sound seemed distant; everything seemed distant. Gene was alone in a calm world.
Something jogged him into a dim awareness. His hand. It was his hand. It was hot. Gene mechanically looked down to see. It was holding a gun. The gun was smoking; pointing toward the floor. Someone had pulled the trigger. It had been Gene - apparently.
As he lifted his head, his eyes picked out something in slight shadow, crumpled - down, against the wall. An eye shining with fear; a long glob of red on an awkwardly outstretched leg. A pathetic pile.
It was the Chief Superintendent of Manchester C.I.D., Harry Woolf. He had been Gene's DCI. The man Gene still called 'Guv'. Gene was taking in this sight; this knowledge – waiting to understand. He had shot Harry. He had shot his mentor. His Teacher. His one-time Father Figure. Gene had shot his Hero.
He looked up, straight at Harry and then watched, as his Deputy D.I. Sam Tyler had dashed out urgently from behind him and had knelt down to check on Harry's condition. Gene stayed where he was. He calmly stared back down at the gun for a while.
Practicality kicked in and Gene suddenly shoved his pistol into his breast-holster. He was in control again. As usual. He took a stride toward Harry. He looked him in the eye; unrepentant – but not harsh. "I'll get an Ambulance." He then added a "Guv" in a softened, almost deferential tone. Gene disregarded Tyler and DC Glen Fletcher as they tried to comprehend the situation and he headed to his office to phone. A man on auto-pilot.
The Ambulance now called, Gene remained at his desk. Frozen there – in shock; in disbelief. Now he'd stopped, he'd lost the moment of control. So what now? How could he go back out there? He sat staring at the space ahead.
After some time, Gene's eyes flicked toward where a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker stood, hiding, half-heartedly behind the folders on his filing cabinet. An empty glass stood by the side of the bottle. Waiting.
But to Gene's surprise, he wasn't tempted. Just the thought of alcohol nauseated him. Besides – he'd been slapped more sober than sober by what he'd just done. Too sober for mere alcohol to take hold.
Gene's face went warm and he bowed his head into his hands. At each side of his head, his fingers pressed tightly, slowly, up through his hair. He felt like bursting, but wouldn't. He couldn't. He could only let out a sharp gasp. Pained and slow.
And they were waiting. Out there. All waiting on him for the next move. Just for once, Gene wished he was not the one in charge. The one to whom everyone looked.
But he wasn't going to let Harry down. He wasn't going to let himself down. He had to face his deed again – eventually. "Get it done!" He sucked in his fear, ready to return.
The sudden wheeze of the pneumatic restraints atop the door to his office, startled Gene from his silent world. Sam had pushed through the swing doors and was holding one open.
"Guv. They're here." Gene looked emptily at Sam. "The Ambulance. They're here", Sam repeated.
Gene nodded, looking about him. "Right…" he said firmly. He stood up, his hands on the desk. "Right!" Gene looked down. He didn't move.
"Gene…are you… alright?" asked Sam as he stepped inside and walked toward Gene. He didn't answer; didn't look at Sam as he forged forward for his greatcoat.
Sam looked perplexed. "What is Gene doing?" he thought. It was a warm day in late Spring – not coat weather.
But subconsciously for Gene, it was an automatic, mundane ritual – something to focus on to get him up and out the door. To focus on what he was heading off to, may have kept him frozen at his desk.
Gene's foot caught the side of his chair as he barged forward, intent on the coat rack. But it didn't slow him down. He didn't seem to notice as it dragged along with him for a bit, screeching and grating across the floor.
Sam noticed. And shivered. The noise seemed to grate endlessly, ripping across his brain. It was the sound of a man not quite in control. The sound of a man trying to stay in control but stumbling blindly.
Sam's gorge rose. Suddenly he felt as he did that first day he'd entered Manchester C.I.D….in 1973. Alone, alienated, afraid. All unfamiliar. But this time it was because of a crack he'd seen in Gene's armour.
In his time, Sam had seen enough tough coppers crack under the strain – if only for a short while. It was endemic to the job. But what scared Sam now was to see that this time it could be Gene Hunt who was cracking.
Cracking because Gene had finally come to see that Harry Woolf, the man that he'd most admired in the world was a criminal, a cheat, a murderer. Harry confirmed that fact today when he pulled a gun on Gene. He'd felt trapped, because Gene had refused to agree hide Woolf's crimes. Someone had to shoot Woolf down. And Gene knew that it had to be him and it had gone hard against the grain.
Even so, "Gene Hunt just doesn't crack!" Sam was convincing himself. Anyway, Sam felt the Guv was managing to hold it together, for now…just!
But just that glimpse of Gene with fear and pain exposed had frightened Sam. Suddenly he saw it so clearly! What Manchester C.I.D. could be without Gene in control - in control of his wits.
It would be more democratic, transparent, auditable. There would no longer be villains and victims. In their place, there would be, arrest rates and statistics. Statistics that could balance the books perfectly and Manchester C.I.D. would be a beacon of procedural propriety praised at Police balls throughout the Kingdom!
And it would be soul-less, pointless. The staff uninvolved, uncaring, uninspired. And so they would be ineffective where it counted most – on the streets; out in the community – the community they were there to protect. It would be…..2006! Gene's team would be lost and left flailing. They needed an invincible leader to look up to; a leader to love. A leader who expected flesh and blood results. Not statistics. That is how Gene had made them.
And who would be there to fill Gene's shoes? Or to be there to back up a failing leader? It couldn't be Sam. Even if the team accepted him, he was going home…one day…soon…of course! But still, Sam didn't want to see the ship go down. He knew he must help Gene hold on.
But Sam wanted to hold on too, to Gene. Seeing him falter, he realised with a jolt just how much he had needed Gene's strength; Gene's brash confidence, if Sam himself was to survive in this foreign world.
Now it made Sam sick with fear to glimpse his life here without Gene's strength. If Sam could survive here without him, it would only be because of the trust Gene had come to place in him. Gene showed his trust in the most extreme way – by throwing Sam out there into the streets without the aid of his precious procedures. And it would work! To Sam's surprise. But Gene had known it would.
Gene had shown Sam the importance of trusting his instincts. He had shown him that his 'gut feelings' were good. "You're a Copper," Gene had said to him on one occasion. "You clocked something was wrong."
It shocked Sam to realise that he now actually looked up to Gene, as the others did. Well okay at least he found himself respecting Gene and willing to concede that his ways of Policing could work sometimes.
There were even moments when he'd admired – for God's sake even liked – this Neanderthal, Antediluvian, great Lummox of a Cop! It annoyed Sam to feel this way. It challenged his pride. He was almost a peer to Gene and, in 2006 at least, was a man of a similarly high personal standing. Gene should have almost been the enemy, someone to compete against.
No Sam had to face it. It was true. He had started to feel safe, strong – while he needed to stay, anyway. And he hadn't realised how much Gene was a part of those feelings until now, seeing Gene at his most vulnerable. My God! Had Gene become his Mentor, his Teacher, his…..?
Suddenly it happened. Sam had just put his hand on the door of Gene's office – waiting while the Guv roughly shucked himself into his coat. Then he heard it. The whistling. That jolly, familiar tune. It meant something to Sam but he couldn't catch just what it was.
Still, it made Sam smile – but soon the tune took on a jagged halting tone and it stopped. Cut off. Sam's stomach turned with fear, inexplicably, and all ambient sound was morphed into one continuous hum – the sea in a seashell, a swarm of maddening cicadas, a radio channel just off the station. Sam slapped his ears; shook his head.
Suddenly he was hot and sweating and breathing heavily. But it was the sobbing, gasping breath of a boy. Sobbing with the effort of catching his breath; Sobbing with sadness; sobbing with confusion.
Sam felt dizzy and he looked down. He saw and felt the boy running, swaying his way forward. Fast – in a Wood, tangling and barging his way through branches and bracken. The boy was in Sam's old party shoes. The shoes he'd had when he was 11.
The boy knew he was running after someone or something he needed; longed for. He just didn't know who or what. It was just the heart-achingly compelling urge to find something he'd lost. The boy knew he had to find it again; hold on to it – this time. It was that and the whistling, that drove him on.
He came to a clearing. There was no one. Only the blue sky, swirling high and wide above a small child. The boy stopped - still sobbing in gasping breaths. He looked up at the Blue. It appeared as the only way of escape. Escape from his torment; his fear of being left. Left alone. The clouds started to move, dreamily, but back and forth. They blurred; they multiplied. They parted and the sun blinded white in the boy's eyes. And then he fell. Oblivious.
A shove in the shoulder bought Sam back to C.I.D. Gene had barged through him on his way out, not seeing. Sam clutched at the swinging door & turned still wide-eyed. His mouth was open and dry. Thin sweat layered his face.
Gene was barrelling toward the outer door – head down, leaning forward, long strides, arms pistoning him along. His long coat swirled madly about him as he punched his way through the doors, back to Harry, back to his deed. Back to a gathering of clouds.
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