It's late.
He sits in his office, a glass of whiskey on the desk, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. Waiting, but he doesn't know why. Alone, but maybe he's always been that way. He can't remember the last time anyone walked through those doors but now he can hear the footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming for him.
He drinks his whisky, smokes his cigarette, watches as the man approaches.
"DCI Hunt."
"Sir."
The Commisioner. He knows he should get to his feet, but he's tired. Far too fucking tired.
"You know why I'm here?"
It's time, but even now he rebels, not wanting to give in without a fight. This is all he's ever known. All he's ever loved. He doesn't want to go.
"Still got things to learn, adventures to have," he argues. One last little bit of boyish defiance. Someone said that to him once. He has the feeling that he didn't like them very much.
"There's no one left Gene. They're gone. Look."
And he does. He sees a blood red sky. An empty city. No people. No life. It doesn't seem possible. When did this happen? He stubs out his cigarette, drains his glass, and then pauses.
"What about you sir?"
It's a stupid question but the commissioner smiles in that way he has and answers,
"We'll do what we always do, Gene… start again."
He nods.
"Right… better get to the boozer then."
He puts on his coat and walks out of the door, through the empty corridors, out onto the empty street. There's a car waiting for him outside. A red Audi Quattro. He takes a moment to admire the sleek lines. Instinctively he knows that this car will drive like a dream. And he's right. A thing of beauty, she screams through the silent streets. The city around him has been abandoned for a long time. The parks are overgrown, the buildings in a state of disrepair. He picks a road out of London, turning towards the north.
There's no need of course, but he wants to convince himself that this really is the end. And he needs to go home, just for a little while. Manchester is calling. These streets are more familiar that those in London could ever be. He grew up here. Ran along these roads with his mates. Kicked his football against the wall. Had his first kiss on the street corner. He recalls his childhood with more clarity than his adult years but he's learnt not to dwell on the missing memories. Sometimes it's better to forget.
By the time he reaches the pub the stars have come out. He gets out of the car and looks up into the eternal depths. Around him the world is crumbling, buildings falling silently into dust. He walks towards the light, towards the door. The last thing he expects to find behind it is an empty room. He nods to the man behind the bar, who stops polishing glasses and pulls him a pint.
"I was just about to call time," Nelson says and hands over the drink.
It's the best beer he's ever tasted… direct from the heart of Manchester… there's nothing better.
"I'm the last?" he asks.
"Not quite."
He turns and sees her, sitting by herself in the corner. There's a glass of white wine before her, and somehow he knows that it's from the South Island of New Zealand. Then the memory hits him like a punch in the gob.
"Bols."
"Guv."
In those moments Gene Hunt knows two things, one that he must shag her brains out and two that he might finally get the chance.
/\/\/\/\
Outside in the wasteland something moves. At one time it was known as Frank Morgan, another time James Keats… a whole string of names, lost now. It flings itself up against the door, its cry of anguish lost in the thin air.
The door is locked and will not yield.