And then one morning, it suddenly dawned on her. The realisation that she had begun to belong. Here. There. 1981.
Because, before - and this had always galled her, seeing as her location was born of her imagination, thank you very much - she hadn't ever felt accepted. As part of or by Hunt's team. Oh yes, she'd been tolerated well enough ... but only as The Spare Wheel, The New Girl. She'd never been able to train her mind to conjure up Acceptance, in this fantasy, this dream world. Or Friendship.
Until all of a sudden - or maybe not 'all of a sudden', maybe more 'all of a slow gradual process' ... Shaz had picked her up an eye shadow in that peacock shade they thought Rimmel had discontinued. Chris had taken it upon himself to educate her about football, in particular Man City's performance this season. Beaming with pride as she wittily bantered with Viv about last week's controversial signing. And Ray! Well, he'd been heard bollocking the new duty sergeant for using Alex's mug.
But Hunt. What of Hunt? It had become apparent that no one else dared sit next to him if she was around. The rest of the team knew sitting between the two of them – during briefing, in the pub, down at Luigi's - would only result in their raucous arguments being held across the whole table. Vociferously either disagreeing or agreeing with each other - it didn't do to get between them.
Alex struggled to stay ambiguous as she reflected upon this turn of events. She lay, tangled up in the warm crimson sheets of her bed, basking in the early morning rays that were filtering through the cheap cotton curtains. The alarm had just gone off for the third time. She'd welcomed Woolworths finally stocking the "new" alarm clocks with a snooze button feature. About bloody time, she'd thought as she queued up to make her purchase. Although scanning the back of the box, she'd seen that the earlier models had set the trend for peculiarly timed delays - the 7 minute snooze offended her mild OCD sensibilities.
Slapping the alarm as it began once more to belt out its Casio keyboard inspired 'jaunty' alert, she pushed herself up and out of bed. Padding into the shower cubicle, she shook her head. The plain facts were that she HAD a life and a FAMILY ... just so, so, so far away. So far away in fact, she hadn't the slightest clue how to return to it, to them. And oh, how she'd TRIED. Analysing the slightest, most unlikely clue. Acting upon the vaguest, most oblique instinct. And yet ... nothing. Every night, she went to sleep in Luigi's eighties Italiano inspired decor ... and every morning, she'd wake up in exactly the same place. Oh sure, there was the odd glimpse of her beloved, missed, longed for Molly, lingering almost tangibly in her peripheral vision. There were even tantalising snippets of 2008 that loomed out of the gloom of 1981, making her gasp, her head spin, leaving her dizzily grasping for something solid, something dependable.
Something. Someone.
"Dodgy ground, Alex" she admonished, "seriously dodgy ground."
But other than that ... nothing. The obvious solutions to her release and return had turned out not to be so obvious in the end. In fact, she smiled grimly, so far removed from obvious, they were fucking OBSTRUCTIVE, debilitating, crushing - Alex involuntarily relived the briefest glimpse of the explosion that had killed her parents for the second time, before vigorously scrubbing shampoo into her hair, attempting to physically dislodge the images and sounds that had seared and scorched her mind...
... Much later on that day, Alex gathered up her coffee and pad from her desk, ready for CID's late afternoon briefing. She squeezed past Chris, who was battling with the Daily Star's crossword ...
"Four down, seven across - 'visitor'" she murmured to him as she eased behind his chair to her own.
"Oh right. Cheers ma'am, thanks. Wait, no - that doesn't go at all with seven down ..."
"Yeah. Your seven down's wrong. 'A creature from outer space'? 'Alien'. Not 'women'".
Leaving Chris to scrub his mistakes out with a grubby rubber at the end of an inch of pencil, Alex slid into her seat next to Hunt, who was sneering at a mound of paperwork, no doubt hoping it would physically combust under the sheer force of his icy glare.
"Afternoon Bolly. Still persisting with that perfume, I see?" He neglected to mention that the perfume did queer things to his stomach. Alex snorted. She knew the scanty dusting of scent she'd given herself all those hours ago was hardly worth mentioning. "Afternoon Guv. Yes, still working with the perfume. Trying to balance out your Eau du Heavy Night" she ricocheted. Neglecting to mention that she invariably found herself leaning into him during these meetings, specifically to breath in his 'man stink', a heady mix of aftershave, clean laundry and smoke.
As the briefing commenced, she entertained herself with what had become an almost ritualistic dance of epic proportions. In her mind, that is. (But hey - wasn't ALL this in her mind?) She inhaled deeply as she casually shifted in her seat, inching her nylon clad thigh closer to his leg. He leant forward, vigorously emphasising the point he was making ... and ... yes, there it was. The vague pressure that seemed to accompany almost all of their meetings these days. His long thigh stretching out down the length of hers. This ... touching was never mentioned - although certainly utilised; a swift nudge to show suspicion at a 'client's' protestations, increased pressure indicating support during a set to with the Super. Complete withdrawal when the ever simmering difference of opinion erupted. But that never lasted for long. Sooner or later, a shift and a shimmy would bring them back into contact with each other.
A nudge of said long, muscular thigh brought her into the 'real' world. "DI Drake? Drake? Bloody hell. Will you wake up woman?"
Alex stirred, smiling sweetly as he glared at her and enthusiastically weighed into the discussion ... a discussion they'd had many times before: most around the table had agreed long ago that someone needed to go undercover and infiltrate Jordan's escort operation. Someone female. Someone who understood the situation and could look after themselves... someone like Alex ...
"No. For the last time, absolutely not. Ray, you nonce, Jordan's M.O. never varies – he beats his women before making it up to them with liberal gifts of brown. Then he prostitutes them when they can't pay for what they need. How can you seriously suggest that DI Drake be dropped into that pressure cooker?"
"Um ..."Ray scratched under his moustache "... because she IS our DI? And a woman ... so it's like ..." he searched for the expression "two for the price of one!" he smiled triumphantly.
"Shut up. Crap idea. No, what we'll do, right, is ..."
"Er, hang on Guv ..." Alex interrupted.
"What now?" Hunt ground out, through his teeth.
"Well, it's NOT a bad idea at all. Fit me up with a wire and I could at least go and chat to his girls as one of them - get my face seen, start building up some trust. I could start this evening, be out there in a couple of hours ..."
As they argued and bickered, the rest of the team stared blankly at them. Heads moving back and forth, watching this latest game of verbal tennis. Alex's infiltration was their only idea yet and it was a good one too plus fairly likely to bring in some useful info. It was just a case of waiting 'til the boss realised ... finally, the sniping lulled and Hunt stared back at his colleagues, glared back. He knew when he was beaten.
"Oh for God's sake. Chris, get the wire. Shaz, pull out what we know about who's on the streets for Jordan. Ray - put the listening gear through its paces. And pack the bloody batteries this time. Drake - with me."
Hunt reared up from the table and stalked off, his lip curling at the ridiculous plan, his bloody team, that stupid woman who was clattering behind him now on those stupid heels that made her stupid legs look a million stupid miles long ...
He strode into the Lost and Confiscated Property storeroom, Alex on his heels, where he began sifting through the various items of clothing that had piled up over the years. She joined him but soon realised that the clothes he was pulling out were ludicrously conservative for the part she was preparing to play.
"Guv, wait" she held up some tan slacks he'd put to one side - "I'm supposed to blend in, not look like some Christian Aid effort - less of this" waggling the offensive slacks, "and more of this" waving an emerald green PVC mini dress she'd found.
He eyed the dress and his DI with withering disdain and grunted, "Bloody 'ell Bolls, might've known you'd enjoy the opportunity to play the tart" and with that, the quarrelling began again, banter they volleyed back and forth as together they amassed a small pile of possibles for Alex to wear.
"Right, I'll just try some of this on then, see what we've got ..." her voice trailed off as she waited for him to leave.
"Well, hurry up then woman. Contrary to popular belief, we don't have all day" and with that he settled back against the wall, arms crossed, face expectant. She stared at him, waiting. He stared back. She stared a bit more, eyebrows rising slightly. He met her gaze straight on, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his lips, of a challenge in his eyes.
Alex looked away and bit the inside of her lip. She would never admit that Hunt's aggressive, hot and cold, take-no-prisoners style of flirtation was proving to be ridiculously, ludicrously, LAUGHABLY effective. The infuriating man had begun to feature regularly in her daydreams, daydreams that started with her delivering the perfect put down or rehashing arguments with clever, cutting comebacks - only to end with the Gene Genie pulling her towards him ... she blinked, mentally shaking herself. So he wanted to watch? Right. She breathed deep (was she REALLY going to do this?), stood tall and reached to the side, slowly unzipping her dress. The fabric slithered to the floor, leaving her standing in her underwear, stockings and high heels. The atmosphere thickened perceptibly. Coolly ignoring the immobile presence leaning against the wall, she smoothly kicked the dress away from her ankles, turned and began assembling two or three outfits to try on.
Hunt breathed deeply through his nose; exerting every ounce of effort he had on making sure his face remained impassive. Bloody hell. Bloody HELL. He'd tried it on (well, you had to, rude not to) but he didn't think she'd call his bluff. And what a bluff! His eyes travelled slowly up and down his half naked DI. And then up and down a few more times, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
Suddenly the door slammed open and Ray's silhouette was framed by the light from the corridor "Guv? It's ..." his voice trailed off as he took in the scene. Jaw dropping, moustache twitching. His gulping was audible in the awkward silence. In one move, Hunt swiped up a large handful of trailing clothes and thrust them in front of Alex's be-bra-ed chest. At the same time he turned towards the hapless Ray and bellowed "Perving at a senior officer, Carling? Turn around now!"
Ray stuttered "Sorry Guv ... ma'am ... I just ..."
"TURN AROUND, MAN."
"Sorry, sorry ..."
"YOU'RE. STILL. LOOKING!"
Hunt's face began to take on a ruddy hue as Ray sought to coordinate his limbs and face the wall. Alex squirmed behind Hunt's makeshift curtain, slipping the first dress she could find over her head as quickly as she could (naturally, the first dress to hand was the green PVC, requiring some undignified wriggling before she was decent). She stepped forward, pushing Hunt's arm aside and fluffing her hair self consciously.
"Right, what have you got Ray?" she questioned, pleased to hear the crisp, business like quality of her voice, relieved that her embarrassment wasn't evident. Stripping in front of Hunt like a two bit Tom, what HAD got in to her? She blew her cheeks out and put her brazen act down to method acting.
Ray cleared his throat and began to fill his superiors in. His mind was spinning, wait 'til he told Chris and Shaz about this latest development.
The next two hours were a whirl of frenzied activity. Alex was given specific details about some of the girls on Jordan's patch - girls she could chat to, get in with. She devised a cover story with Shaz who proceeded to quiz her and quiz her again on the specifics. There was lengthy testing of the mic and a couple of costume alterations (swapping her sheer stockings for the ubiquitous fish nets. As she smoothed them on and up, she deliberately didn't look at Hunt who was bustling away busily at his desk. Or at Ray, who was openly ogling).
They had decided that she would be dropped off by uniform in a Panda. Constable Murphy would drive; he'd done a lot of work in that area and his shock of red hair would be instantly recognisable to Jordan's girls, giving Alex credibility before she even opened her mouth.
Hunt, hawk-like in his office, watched proceedings from under a black cloud that manifested itself as a dark scowl. Hunt didn't like this. Not one bit. He watched Drake frown over the notes Shaz had given her. Watched her slap on suitably prozzy-like make up. Heard the others wish her luck (Ray patted her back. Hunt's scowl deepened) as they prepared themselves for some long hours in the van. Finally watched as she walked out to meet Murphy, where they would make a bit of a scene in the holding area, for the benefit of interested parties.
Damn it. He abruptly rose to his feet and followed her out of the office. Drake hadn't got far (well, she wouldn't have, not in those shoes) and he easily caught up with her. She turned to him and he stood close, before shifting and standing closer still. The stripper heels lifted her up to his height but not quite. "Guv?" she questioned. He looked up the empty corridor. Then down it. Then, finally at her. His eyes drilled into hers, and he finally muttered "Look, just ... be careful. You know we won't be far away. If you get the slightest suspicion that something's not right ... that it's not as it seems ... well, bloody well hit your panic button and I – we'll come for you, less than a minute it'll take us". Alex frowned as she took in his concern.
"I'll be fine Guv. I know what I'm doing ..."
"Yeah. Course you do ..."
"... And we've set the code word, plus I've got the silent alarm ..."
"Yep"
"So, just listen out ..."
"... not that you'll need either of 'em ..."
"Exactly. So, y'know – don't worry"
"Oh, I'm not worried. No. I'll just ..." he paused, "... see you later."
And with that, she set off down the corridor again, feeling him watch her, feeling an unfamiliar glow in her insides.
Sometime later, Alex was heartily wishing she'd plumped for the fauz fur nylon extravaganza that had been the leopard print coat in the store room. Good GOD, she was cold. She stamped her feet a little as she huddled on the periphery of Toms who were nattering quietly. The girls had naturally been suspicious of her to start with, but her cover story had held tight under questioning – absent husband, four kids, no money – and she was being tolerated. She had no doubt that her presence would get back to Jordan before the night was out and she had to fight the impulse to pushily ingratiate herself with these women. She reminded herself that this was the start of a long operation. Jordan wasn't an amateur and neither were these women. They'd smell subterfuge and infiltration quickly and wouldn't hesitate to act upon it, violently. No. Best to linger, become a familiar face, ease her way slowly into the background.
The night wore on. Cars approached. Girls got in. Then tottered their way back to the huddle a few minutes, an hour, a couple of hours later. Alex inwardly cringed and surreptitiously sidled towards the back of the group every time she heard the squeal of tyres approaching. She was waiting for one car in particular, one familiar blood red Audi Quattro, but until then she had no desire to turn tricks for real. She had thought her actions had gone unnoticed; after all there were plenty of girls pushing and shoving, vying for each punter's attention. But then one of the Toms turned to her. Smiling ruefully, an expression that sat awkwardly with her vermillion hair, harsh black eye liner and peachy orange lipstick. "Look love. I've been where you are. I know the first time's the hardest. But if you don't get one under your belt tonight, you won't wanna come back tomorrow. And then what the fuck are you going to do? You've gotta think about your kiddies, love. There are worse ways than this to make a few quid. And it might not feel like that when you're letting some limp dicked businessman paw you, but when you're home and clean and counting out the notes – you'll feel alright." A few of the other girls around her nodded sagely. Shit, thought Alex, trying to look appropriately buoyed up by these words of wisdom. Just don't ... she silently urged before her 'saviour' shouted out "Right, you lot – we've had a busy night and we've all done alright. Let Alex here have the next one. We've all been where she is, I think it's right that she get something out of this God awful night" ... do that, Alex finished. Shitshitshit.
'Helpful' hands pushed her towards the kerb. Gaynor, the flame haired lovely who was determined to get Alex's career as Sex Worker off to a flying start, primped her hair for her, smiling encouragingly. Shitshitshit went Alex's brain, uselessly. And then SHITSHITSHIT as a car loomed out of the darkness, headlights blaring, obscuring the make, shape and colour of the vehicle. It pulled alongside the girls, who had helpfully peeled back, leaving Alex striking her best hooker pose like some sort of sexy sacrificial lamb under the orange burn of the street lamp. She walked, grossly exaggerating the swing of her hips, over to the car. The window slid down a crack – and Alex let out the breath she'd been holding. She bent over slowly, leaning her arms on the window sill, pushing her chest up and out, as she'd watched the other girls do.
"Yes, love?" she purred.
"Just get in the car, Bollykecks" Hunt responded gruffly.
Forcing a giggle and wiggle, she teetered round to the passenger door, giving Gaynor and the girls an apprehensive smile as she went. Sliding into the passenger seat, she kept the grimace glued to her face and spoke through clamped teeth "I have never been so glad to see you or this bloody car"
"Bloody car? You can bloody walk with that attitude" Hunt responded, fighting the urge to look at her and grin, because thank fuck she was ok.
Debriefing was an ordeal in the back of a transit van loaded with listening equipment that Sam Tyler had specially requisitioned for this purpose. Nicknamed Ears, it was drafty and smelled. Hugging a thermos lid of liberally laced hot tea to her chest, Alex contributed to the team's discussion where she could. They had been listening in on her interactions with Jordan's girls and she did her best to fill in the blanks. Through chattering teeth, she gave her own take on Gaynor's insistence that "when you're home and clean and counting out the notes – you'll feel alright" – "She thinks I'm a good prospect for Jordan, she doesn't want to put me off by telling me more than ¾ of all the cash goes straight to him. She's selling it as an attractive money making scheme for someone in my position. Ergo she's got a concern in the business, ipso facto, she's not just your regular Tom. Especially when you consider how readily the other girls listened to her. No, she's got some influence – I wonder what she is to Jordan ...?" She smiled at Shaz who had shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over her shoulders, and at Chris who refilled the lid.
"But she didn't TELL YOU any of that, that did she? No. Ipso facto (Hunt sneered) all this supposition is just more of your psychic CRAP. And, last time I checked and do correct me if I'm wrong – psychic CRAP does not count as real policing, and certainly does not count as real evidence. Which means we are no further to nailing this bastard than we were this afternoon. Jesus, what a MONUMENTAL waste of time. Raymondo? Drinks are on you for coming up with the shit idea in the first place. We need to think of something better than this ..."
"Hang on a sec – this was only ever an initial sortie! Nothing concrete was going to come of tonight alone; I need to go back again and again. Build up some trust, really infiltrate Jordan's grubby little empire." Alex was outraged at the Guv's staggering lack of fore sight.
Hunt snarled, "Go back again and again? I don't think so Drake. Those slags were itching to break your prozzer cherry – they were this close to shoving you in the first car that slowed down for a gear change. What if I hadn't come along when I did? What if it had been some twat with the horn after a quickie in the back of his Escort? You'd have climbed in to the next car that had come along because you've got no BLOODY sense, we'd have lost you and then ... No. This hare brained idea ends tonight. I'm shutting it down."
And with that, Hunt folded his arms and leant decisively back in his seat, looking particularly glacial. A minute of oppressive silence later and Ray clambered over onto the front seat, settling down to drive the team back to the station. After another split second of sitting in the explosive atmosphere that threatened to detonate imminently, Shaz then Chris followed him. The three of them squashed up on the front bench, leaving Alex and Hunt glaring at each other in the back.
Insulting, Neolithic RUIN of a policeman Alex ranted internally. Kicking over the warm feelings that were threatening to blossom in the aftermath of their argument. He cares, he cares! A little voice squealed. Oh, shut up. No one's interested in what you think she responded savagely, turning away from The Ruin to glare more effectively out of the back window.
Hunt narrowed his eyes at his DI. Sat opposite him, looking like a fully paid up member of The Prozzer Squad. All ... curves and legs ... and boobs, don't forget the boobs ... she was brave, you had to give her that he idled before stopping himself with Don't have to give her anything. She's bloody crazy. A liability. The way she'd approached the Quattro, not knowing it was him but with a swagger and a sway that had forced him to rearrange his trousers ...
Suddenly, the van swerved viciously to the right. Ray had been lighting a fag and neglected to see the sharp bend in the road. Alex flew forward off her seat, her head connecting with the corner of the industrial sized reel-to-reel tape recorder before being deposited, unceremoniously, on top of Hunt.
"Bloody HELL Raymondo, are you blind or just a REALLY SHIT DRIVER?" he bellowed automatically as his brain belatedly realised he had his hands full of a PVC clad Bolly. A swearing Bolly who was clutching onto his overcoat as the vehicle reluctantly steadied and Ray carried on driving. Hunt and Alex began untangling themselves. Slowly. Alex realised that the reason she hadn't tumbled from Hunt to the floor was because the Guv was manfully holding her in an iron grip. Holding her bottom and stocking topped thigh, actually. Her hands were planted either side of his head leaving her face inches from his. Their eyes were as entangled as their limbs, there were whole seconds-that-could-have-been-lifetimes of just ... gazing. His eyes were impenetrable though (Windows to the soul, my arse) and as she was fairly sure hers weren't (KISSMEKISSMEKISSME) she blinked and looked away.
Hunt's thumb was on her thigh. Her NAKED thigh. Would it be bad form to circle the lucky digit around the satin soft, silky skin a few times before letting her go? And as for the other hand – her ARSE was just sitting in it. Tightly covered by green PVC, it was warm and delicious and there to be squeezed ... shit. He was getting hard again. What WAS this woman doing to him; he was like a randy teenager. He shifted before she'd have reason to do him for sexual battery with an offensive weapon, and she automatically pulled back, began clambering off him.
"Wait a sec, you silly cow – are you bleeding?" He slid his hands up to her waist, keeping her right where she was (whilst simultaneously sitting straighter, moving his stiffening dick away from her squirming thighs – God knows, in that dress, it wouldn't take much to put his bun in her oven).
"What?" Flustered, "oh ... yes, I walloped my head on the damn tape player – is it bad?" She angled her head towards him, where he could see a slight gash bleeding for all it was worth, as head wounds are prone to do.
"You'll live. Here," and he let go of her for a second as he reached into his coat for a handkerchief. Sliding his left arm easily round her back, keeping her steadily pressed tight against him, he dabbed it gently against the wound. She watched him from under her eyelashes. His forehead was creased and his expression serious. He glanced at her, Atlantic Ocean eyes dropping from her gaze and dipping briefly to lips that were slightly open, before looking back up. She heard him breath in, saw him swallow hard ...
Just then Ray pulled solicitously into the car parking space outside the station. "All back in one piece! Sorry about that Guv, Ma'am ..." and he turned round, just in time to see the Ma'am scrambling away from where it LOOKED like she'd been sat on the Guv's knee – Ray shook his head like a cat with a flea, it had been a bloody strange night and now he was seeing things. Definitely time for that pint.
Alex stumbled out of the van, the chill night air cooling her hot cheeks. She cautiously held onto the open door for a second. Was that ... could it possibly havebeen a Moment? Between her and the Guv? DCI Hunt? ... Gene? As she blinked and caught her breath, the subject of her thoughts leapt easily from the van and strode past her without a glance, muttering darkly about needing a drink. Oh. Not a Moment then. Not even a moment. Alex squared her jaw, straightened up and pulled her dress down again before shaking her curls out. God, I need to get a LIFE...
Poor Luigi, Alex thought, as she tottered with the others over the cobbles to the trattoria. It was past midnight yet in a minute his peace would be disturbed by insistent knocking and calls for beer, wine and scotch. He would let them in, grumbling Mediterranean-ly, before bumbling back to bed; leaving the team to serve themselves, pay the honesty box and lock up when they were ready. She felt a vicious punch of envy in her stomach, envy at his safe, secure, solid existence – events like tonight's left her reeling like the contents of a snow globe. She was irretrievably lost in 1981. Isolated, beyond the reach of her darling daughter ...
... And her heart was only now slowing to its normal pace after the briefest brush of nothing with the Gene Genie himself.
The Gene Genie? She chided herself crossly. How could she possibly think of Hunt that way, in these impossible circumstances?
Alex became aware of Ray leaning against the trattoria's door, keeping it open for her as the others clattered down the steps, turning dim lights on and loudly demanding the sleepy Luigi switch on the heating.
"Thanks, Ray", she hurried past him out of the wind.
"You're alright Ma'am. Ma'am ...?"
Alex turned and waited, raising her eyebrows. Ray cleared his throat a little, before saying gruffly
"You were good tonight. What with those girls egging you on like that, to pull a trick. Honestly. You weren't phased at all, it were like you were one of 'em, with how you kept the story going ... we were right impressed. All of us."
"Wow! Well. Wow. Thank you Ray, that really means a lot, coming from you" and Alex reached out to squeeze his arm. They grinned at each other companionably for a second before carrying on down the stairs; Alex basking in the compliment that had made her face glow, Ray feeling like one of those New Men who pretend women are as good as blokes to get them into bed. Not that he wanted to bed DI Drake. (Not much anyway. This afternoon's show had certainly given him something to think about). The problem with Drake was that she spoke FAR too much, had an opinion on absolutely EVERYTHING and wasn't afraid to share it. He didn't know how the Guv put up with her, he really didn't ... Speaking of the Guv. Bollocks. What was THAT face for?
Hunt knew he was close to literally baring his teeth, he could feel the snarl on his face. Seeing his DI cosy up to Ray Carling had sent a shot of bile straight into his mouth. He walked abruptly towards the bar, leant right over it and stretched forward to liberate the nearly full bottle of Islay malt whiskey from its dusty optic. With his free hand he gathered up a clutch of shot glasses from the draining board. He knew he was acting like a right fucking prick at the moment, blowing hot and cold with the team – getting them drunk on decent whiskey would go some way towards reinforcing their loyalty to him. He refused to dwell on what was making him act like a prick, refused to even look at what was making him like a prick. If she wanted Ray – well, he hoped they'd be happy together.
No, you don't – you want them to make each other miserable, you want her to come running to you, to touch your arm and then some, to look at you like she's just looked at Ray ...
And by the way. You're still acting like a prick.
He lined the glasses up on the counter and grimly sloshed the viscous amber liquid into them. Tonight had been shit. Apart from the bottom holding. And the thigh touching. And that bit when he had so very nearly kissed her into next week. Apart from that, it had been shit, not to mention confusing. Time to get right royally pissed in order to block out ALL thoughts; his head would be clearer for it in the morning.
Half an hour later, the events of the day had well and truly caught up with Alex. She could barely draw breath without unleashing a jaw cracking yawn. And with tomorrow likely to follow the familiar pattern of conflict, tension, conflict with Hunt, she wanted to enter the ring feeling fresh and ready for Round Two. Round Two? More like 22. 222. Ding ding. Besides, she was uncomfortably aware that she was still dressed like a Tom and the more Chris and Ray drank, the greater the effort they had to make to address her face rather than her trussed up tits.
She stretched to her feet and started issuing good nights.
Easing around Chris, Ray and Shaz who had begun to enjoy a stimulating round of Fuzzy Duck.
Finally standing opposite Hunt, who had declined to join them at the table, preferring to brood at the bar instead.
"Right, well. Night Guv."
"Yeah. Night Bols."
So she was Bols again was she? Well, at least that was something. She never slept well when their arguments spilled over into the next day. She smiled wanly and left.
He turned his head, watching her walk away from him. Hating himself for thinking poofy, nancy boy thoughts about metaphors and missed opportunities. That infuriating woman had climbed well and truly into his head; even his thoughts were beginning to sound like her and that just wasn't right. He tossed back the remaining centimetre of Islay and half heartedly sloshed another measure into his glass.
"Duzzy Duck. No, wait! Hang on, hang on (shouting triumphantly) FUZZY FUCK!" The rest of Chris' hapless efforts to get his tongue round the game title were lost under shouts of "Down it, down it, DOWN IT!" from his gleeful colleagues.
Hunt watched; eyes narrowed against the curl of smoke from his cigarette. A sudden sense of restlessness sent him reaching for his overcoat. He needed some air. Unnoticed, he threw £20 onto the bar and prowled from the room, wincing as Shaz shrieked hysterically over Ray's mangling of the tongue twister.
The cold air slapped him hard in the face, like a vengeful ex. He breathed as deep as he could, drawing the chill right down inside him. It refreshed him, waking him up. The plan to get blitzed hadn't happened. Luigi's best malt had tasted cloying; he'd felt it leech away at the little energy he had left. He turned to scowl at the steps that lead up to his DI's flat. What was the hold this mouthy, dozy tart had over him? He could honestly say he'd never felt this unsettling mix of utter frustration and compelling desire before. Hunt had a brutish confidence, which, in addition to the undiluted masculinity that emanated from him like a particularly appealing aftershave – was an equation that had added up to plenty of success with women. This nagging feeling that was currently the theme tune to his every day, this scratch that itched and itched – was entirely new to him.
So why hadn't he just made his move on Drake during any one of the innumerable occasions they'd worked late alone together, or after one of the many nights in Luigi's when they'd turned away from the rest of the team, content to talk, discuss, argue, just the two of them and a bottle of house rubbish. A quick shag so he could finally have some bloody peace and quiet ...
Because she was bound to go all needy on him, he reminded himself (they always did), want flowers, want to hold his hand, want to know what he was thinking – want ALL of him, when he was only prepared to give a tiny fraction of a percentage. And she was his DI; they worked so closely together, and ok, he'd admit it; she was an important member of the team, in her own way. He knew that disrupting the balance of their relationship in the way he wanted to would have repercussions on them all. And he couldn't let that happen, not just for a quickie. Because really, he reminded himself forcefully, sternly, that was all he wanted her for ... to scratch that itch, just once ... honest (Guv).
Hunt took one last glance up at the stairs and the door it led to before walking off decisively, squashing the barely shaped, half formed idea that kept popping up, urging him to take the steps two at a time and hammer on the door ...
A funny thing happened as he reached his car. Drake, and Tyler before her, poked fun at what he called his instinct, his gut feeling – but it had been right more often than it had been wrong over the years, and he'd learned to trust it. So when it gave him a nudge, he paused, one hand on the Quattro's roof, one on its car door. Inclined his head, as though to hear it better. And then realised it was a noise his instinct was alerting him to. A soft, soft scrape and a s-l-o-w crunch. Then nothing. Silence for a second, before another scrape ... crunch. Hunt feigned nonchalance and glanced indifferently over to where the noise was coming from. Was that a ... yes, a dark shape moving slowly along the wall at the bottom of the steps that lead to Drake's flat. Well, this was interesting. In Hunt's experience, people who crept and crunched were rarely up to any good. The shape stopped dead still. Waiting? For what ...? Of course – Hunt was clearly visible to anyone who cared to look. Dark deeds didn't take place when big men illuminated by street lamps were in a position to see. Hunt made an ostentatious show of patting his pockets, cursing loudly under his breath before heading back to the trattoria – a man with no greater care in the world than having left his car keys on top of the bar.
He walked purposefully down the stairs and forcefully pushed the restaurant door open, letting light and laughter spill out into the night sky before letting it slam again in his face. Through the door, he heard Chris berate the wind and winter in general before hearing the decisive sound of a lock falling into place.
Quietly now, in fact as close to silent as he could manage, Hunt stealthily crept back up a couple of steps until his eyes were at street level. Standing flat against the wall, his black overcoat helping him blend seamlessly into the brickwork. He could see the dark shape; saw that there were in fact two dark shapes, huddled together. Holding his breath, he could even hear muttered snatches of a muffled conversation.
"... he's gone ..."
"... you sure about this?"
"I'd recognise that pair of legs anywhere, she's not a Tom ..."
"... filthy pig. Jordan ..."
"Let's go ... bring the van, be back by the morning ... like to catch her in bed ..."
And with that and a crude snicker, the two dark shapes slid off up to the High Street.
Hunt exhaled slowly, his breath mingling with the fog that was slowly descending. He forced his breathing into a pattern, a rhythm, forced his hands to relax from the fists they'd unconsciously formed. Although she would never know, mainly because he would never tell her, Hunt had actually learnt a couple of things from his DI. And one of those things was that despite how much, how FUCKING much, he wanted to tear after those shit filled scrotum sacks who planned to hurt his Bolly, despite how much he wanted to catch them and beat the living crap out of them ... he wouldn't. They'd seriously crossed the line; they wanted to hurt what was his (His? He'd save that for thinking about later). And for that, they would pay doubly – first, because he WOULD catch them and make sure they were jailed for every scrap of wrong doing they'd ever committed in their miserable little lives (and maybe even some they hadn't – he hadn't changed that much). And second? He knew that there would time and occasion and willing helpers aplenty to physically and mentally d-e-s-t-r-o-y them. Times when their fear would be all the greater because they'd know they were imprisoned on his turf where he was Sherriff, Lord and Master and therefore no one would be interested in hearing their cries and screams. These thoughts worked their calming magic until his breathing was naturally slow and his face safely tucked away behind its usual impassive mask. Only his eyes – frozen shards of ice, hinted at his immense rage.
He rapped smartly on the trattoria's door, quickly becoming irritated at the sounds of bafflement and confusion coming from CID's finest who were still inside drinking poor Luigi dry. The door eased open, and Hunt caught a glimpse of Ray's bemused face before he pushed past, shutting the door behind him. Hands in his pockets, he surveyed the carnage before him. Bollocks. CID's finest were in a bad way. They'd moved from Fuzzy Duck to Ibble Dibble and all three wore burnt cork smudges all over their faces. Unsurprisingly, Chris had come off worse. Right ...
"Listen 'ere you horrible lot. You've got just over three hours to get some rest and sober the hell up. Tonight's bloody fool escapade did not go unnoticed by that nut job Jordan and the safety of our DI is in the balance. At 5am this morning, you will be back here, showered, dressed and looking sharp. Heaven help you if this is not the case" Hunt eyeballed Ray furiously, who was weaving, his face scrunching in concentration as he absorbed the Guv's words.
As Hunt filled them in on the early morning plan, he became aware of a repetitive tugging at his coat sleeve. He slowly turned his head to look down at his WPC. He raised an eyebrow. Christ, she looked like she was about to puke. He added Woman Who Can't Hold Their Drink to the LONG list of things wrong with this day.
"S'cuse me Guv, sir. Shall I go and sit with Ma'am, sir? She might want a bit company, sir. Y'know. Before Jordan's men come an' try to nab her. Prob'ly sat there crapping herself. What with being bait an' all. Sir. Sorry sir."
"Shaz. An idea not without its merits but with one massive drawback. You are so CLATTERED you can barely walk straight. What do you suppose will happen if you toddle upstairs to sit with DI Drake? In her nice, warm, cosy flat? Hm? Hm?"
"Um. I'd prob'ly fall asleep, sir, Guv, sir."
"Too right you would. AFTER you'd puked in her porcelain, Granger! You look green, woman. Go home, drink some coffee, be back for 5am. If there's any sitting to be done with DI Drake, I shall be doing it."
He reacted furiously to the winks and nudges his crack team of cops were giving each other, drunkenly believing themselves to be considerably more subtle than they were.
"And that is because I am the only sober one here! NOW PISS OFF HOME!"
And with that, Chris, Ray and Shaz fled. As fast as they could, given their inebriated states. Getting stuck in the door as they all tried to make their exit at the same time. Hunt closed his eyes and shook his head. Crack team? Cracked team, more like.
He waited as his team's clattering and chattering faded away into the cold night. He stood still, alone in the silence of the restaurant. Pursing his lips, thinking. Wondering how best to handle the situation. A novel feeling for him; contemplating his actions, planning what to say. Making up his mind, he strode decisively through the door and locked it tight behind him, pocketing the key before taking the stairs, two at a time.
The insistent knocking at the door rudely, roughly dragged Alex from sleep and pulled her up to the surface of awake; she emerged, gasping for breath, eyes wide as she bolted upright from the depths of her duvet. Fumbling for the light, stumbling from the bed – taking a second to rub her face vigorously; knocking of this magnitude could only herald the arrival of bad news, she wanted to be awake for it.
She reached the door to her flat in six long strides, flinging it open just as a fresh round of knocking began. Hunt. One hand in his over coat pocket, the other raised mid knock. Face wearing its customary scowl.
"You took your time Bolls. Not disturbing anyone, am I?" He didn't wait for a response, just walked audaciously past Alex straight into her small flat; she stood with her hand still on the open door, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Stunned and silent.
Undeterred by her lack of hostess skills, Hunt was shrugging off his coat and looking with interest round his DI's home, seeming to duck his head into her bedroom as though to check that she had been alone. Bloody cheek. He threw his coat onto the armchair before turning to face her, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, top shirt button undone, tie pulled loose. He dominated the small room, his presence filling the flat to bursting, making her attempts at a muted minimalist style lose its cool edge; it became drab and lack lustre when forced to accommodate Hunt's vitality.
"What's happened? Guv, what's the problem?" Alex finally found her voice, stumbling over her words. There seemed to be no real emergency, no disaster that needed her presence right away, right now - in which case, her nightshirt felt somewhat scanty and she wished she'd paused for a second before opening the door to pull on her dressing gown (unfortunately a black slinky satin affair that matched the nightshirt, but still - it would have been another layer to hide behind, screening her from Hunt's x-ray eyes).
"The game's up. They're onto you, Bolls. Jordan's men. They've got you pegged as a pig, they've figured out where you live and are coming for you this morning."
"What? Not possible Guv, there was nothing to hint at that, no one clocked me - my cover was sound!" Her tone was indignant in response to the underlying smug she detected in Hunt's voice that was clearly broadcasting "This was a crap idea and I told you so".
"Listen Drake, your cover's been seriously compromised - in fact, you have no cover left. Jordan's goons are rustling up a van for you as we speak"
"Right. Right. Ok ..." They knew where she lived? Shit. That had serious implications.
Hunt watched his DI, saw her square her jaw and firmly push away the shadow of vulnerability that had swirled briefly, fleetingly across her face. Pride fluttered within him although his inner caveman wouldn't have minded if she'd blanched and swooned a little so he could have caught her, held her and muttered manly platitudes and promises about looking after her and things being alright because he was here.
"Ok. Ok, this is a terrible fuck up and I'll need to figure out how it's happened, but we can still salvage something. And I'm guessing you're already thinking along the same lines Guv ..."
And with that, Alex outlined the plan already in place, the plan that Hunt had sketched out for Chris, Ray and Shaz not fifteen minutes ago. She would sit tight and wait to be caught. Instantly understanding that she would be bait. Once enough evidence had been gathered by the small mics that Hunt probably had in his pocket ready to scatter around the flat, the team would swoop in to the rescue. With enough evidence to convict Jordan's 'Head of Security' along with whichever goon he'd brought along with him. It wouldn't be Jordan's head on a plate but it would be a clear signal to him that he had been noticed, that there was a noose made to fit his brawny neck, and it was just beginning to tighten.
Hunt nodded as she finished summing up. Business like, matching her tone, he clarified a few of the finer details and omitted a couple too, like the state the team had been in when he'd dispatched them home – Bolly was facing the challenge with typical poise and calm cool, he didn't want to jeopardise that by reminding her that at this very moment, the rest of their team were meant to be sleeping off some serious excess.
"Right. Righto. Well, I might sit up then. Watch some telly – no point being taken completely by surprise when they turn up." She pushed her hair back from her face. Unwittingly revealing two ... three more inches of thigh as she stretched and rubbed her eyes, before putting her hands on her hips, looking at Hunt.
Hunt, oh so casual, "Well, I might as well stay. No point heading off now, it'll all kick off in a few hours. Look, go back to bed Bolls. It's going to get tasty, you'll need to have your wits about you."
"No, no, I couldn't possibly sleep now. My mind's racing. I've got a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge ... fancy a glass?"
"Chardonnay? If that's the best you've got. I'll see if there's owt on the box ..."
And Hunt wandered back into the living room. Not before he'd watched her reach for the wine glasses though, which were situated on the top shelf of the cupboard. His gaze lingering on her smooth bare legs, that arse ... Bloody HELL. Is that what she wears in bed? Wonder if she's wearing knickers ... Turning quickly before she caught him.
She turned quickly, convinced she'd catch him. Looking at her arse. But he'd gone, was flicking through the telly channels. Shaking her head to refocus her mind (WHY wasn't he looking at her arse? What was wrong with it? What was wrong with him? What was wrong with HER ...?) she made up a tray of wine and snacks.
Hunt settled back on the sofa comfortably, contentedly, boots resting on the coffee table. Now this wasn't turning out too badly at all. In a few hours, he was about to have the opportunity to nail some serious scum who thought they could get one over the Gene Genie. In the mean time, he was going to watch The Magnificent Seven. Whilst his DI served him wine and crisps. And wore what amounted to very little (they'd agreed she shouldn't change. Realism etc.).
As the film got going, the flat grew chilly. Alex pulled the throw off the back of the sofa. And in order for both of them to snatch some warmth from the green and purple thickly crocheted monstrosity – well. They had to squeeze in a little. The room was illuminated by the comforting flicker of the telly and they sat in the middle of the couch, his legs stretched onto the coffee table, her bare knees curled up and falling onto his thighs. Arms companionably squashed up. Somewhat uncomfortably actually, each lift of the glass to their lips meant jiggling about, repositioning. Until it felt natural - unnatural not to – after Hunt had leant forward to refill their glasses, to lean back and hold up his arm. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, waiting for her to duck under before pulling the throw back up around them both. She instinctively angled her body to curve into his. His arm bent around her, hand closing firmly on the round of her shoulder. Her head resting against his warm solid chest. Cheek against his shirt, shifting slightly to avoid the buttons. Losing her grip on the film's plot as she breathed his smell in deep. Her hand lay against his stomach. Palm flat, fingers outstretched. His chin dropped. Her curls brushed soft against his lips, he inhaled deeply – cherries? He bent his head closer still to smell again, didn't move back.
The film ended. Their stillness became more pronounced, almost forced.
She itched to run her hand up from his stomach to his chest, to lift her face up to his. Look into his eyes, see what he was thinking.
All he could think about was moving his free hand to her chin where he would pull her face up to his, look into her eyes, see what she was thinking.
His hand moved at the same as her head lifted. She drew breath to speak but the pointless words she'd planned to say crumbled on her lips when she saw the look in his eyes, the expression on his face. After the briefest second, she leant forwards into him, as his hands slid over the black satin to circle her waist. He moved forwards too, just a fraction but all that was needed to close what was left of the gap. His warm lips pressing against her soft mouth, eyes closing as they finally (FINALLY!) kissed. And kissed, and kissed, slow and thorough ... his hands swept up to pull her closer, holding her tight, tighter against him. Her hands slid up to his face, her fingers tangling his hair ...
The phone rang. Theintrusive ring stumbling clumsily through the small flat like an unwanted guest.
Even then, they didn't pull away at once, didn't spring apart. His hands kept her close, lips lingered over hers, stealing one last touch before she stretched over him to pick up the phone that was on the corner table. As she answered, Hunt allowed his hands to glide over the black satin of her night shirt that was pulled taut by the way her body lay across his chest, reaching across to the other side of the sofa. Watched her face as she responded to whoever it was on the other end. God, he felt as though he'd been kissed into another world, a world where she was safe and he was on a promise.
He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of Alex's voice toughening up. "Yep ... I'll let him know ... thanks Sarge ..." She replaced the receiver and slid off his lap in one smooth move.
They looked at each other. She was a little out of breath. The air seemed to shift, settling around the new shape of their changing, changed relationship.
"Well?"
"They're on the move. Half an hour away"
"They're early ...
"... and there's more of them. Four."
"Right"
In a sudden frenzy of activity, microphones were hidden, wine glasses swilled out and left to dry, the throw carelessly tossed back over the sofa ... all evidence of their kiss, kisses, washed away, tidied up.
Finally, Hunt grabbed his coat and turned. Facing her, relieved to see she had changed after all, into some sturdier items of nightwear - pyjamas in fact. They looked like flannel. Good choice - warm. Bloody hell, she still gave him the horn though ...
"Right, Bolls. I'm going to be downstairs. You know I can get back up here in less than a minute if necessary. And we'll be listening, watching carefully. No one's taking you anywhere" his voice was low, with slivers of menace threading their way through.
"Yeah, no, sure. Absolutely. I'll be fine" She followed him to the door, her stomach twisting and twining itself into knots. And mostly because of the impending ordeal, mostly because there were four bad bastards on their way to try and do her harm ... mostly. And maybe just the tiniest fraction of a percent ... down to him. And her. Them. Them?
Hunt looked down at her, a split second longer than necessary. Drew breath to speak and then thought better of it. With one last nod, he left, clicking the door decisively behind him.
Half an hour later, four bad bastards burst into her flat. Even though she was sat on the edge of the bed, fingers kneading the duvet, waiting for them - the crash of the door, the raucous shouting and the deliberate smash of something cheap and cheerful made her heart plummet and the bile rise.
The next ¼ of an hour tested her nerve, her skill like nothing before. Jordan's heavies thought they'd have some fun with her before hauling her off to their boss. And whilst they were mindful not to go too far, whilst they were careful not to leave obvious marks ... it took every minute scrap of control Alex had NOT to fucking well fight back, cuff the bastards, rip their nasty little tongues out of their poisonous vicious mouths. It was agonising, letting them push against her, the crude comments they threw at her ... the grabbing, the touching. She bit her tongue through it all, held back and hoped against all hope the team were picking up the references to Jordan and his plans for her; "Oh, you are going to go down VERY well with Mr. Jordan, oh yes, and his friends – ALL his friends ..."
At 5 to six, the thug who seemed to be in charge, the one who'd been doing most of the talking, who had laughed the loudest at her discomfort and trepidation – seemed to step his not-inconsiderable-efforts up a gear. Maybe he didn't like the fact that her disgust for these men, her loathing, was blazing out clearly from her eyes despite her fear, maybe he didn't like the fact that she'd forced out a snort at his threat that Jordan would "do her, and do her good". He stared at her, hard and cold, "Oh, you're just not getting it yet, are you sweetheart?" He moved purposefully towards her, pulled her close, too close, by the lapels of her pyjama jacket and walked her slowly backwards until he met resistance from the living room wall. His fake leather jacket creaked as he closed in, pressed tight. His hands slithered over her, crudely, painfully, squeezing hard at her chest. He jammed his knee up between her legs, ignoring the mutterings of his associates, "Steady on Rick, Jordan don't like second hand merchandise". The trepidation that Alex had been feeling swelled to a bloom of dirty, breathless panic. Keeping her trapped by his bulk, Rick moved his hands down to her pyjama bottoms, running his thumbs inside them before attempting to jerk them down. SHITSHITSHIT (why, WHY did her brain never volunteer anything useful during moments of extreme danger?) she clamped her legs together as tight as they would go and decided that enough was bloody well enough, it was time to be rescued. "GET OFF ME, GET THE FUCK OFF ... GET OFF!" she roared, with as much effort as she had left to spare, trying to lash out as hard as she could. Rick didn't hesitate before backhanding her into next week. Her head whip cracked backwards, bouncing off the wall. She slumped, dazed, her body relaxing for just a second, which was all Rick needed to begin the fumble with his zip and her pants. She struggled to push him off but it was like fighting the tide, he seemed to gain an inch with every movement. The mutterings of the others turned into jeering, catcalling ... Christ, this was bad, this was very, very bad ...
Pain tore through Alex as she scratched and fought, the pounding in her head growing louder before thankfully, finally manifesting itself in the shape of a team of coppers lead by Hunt. They came flooding, like a tsunami, through the door, punching and cuffing each man in the flat, before punching them again. Hunt wasn't distracted by the others though, the second he stepped over the threshold he was scanning for Alex and when he found her, when his grey stony gaze took in the scene, he bulldozed his way to her, nutting Rick to the ground before dragging him up and flooring him again with blow after blow.
Alex leaned against the wall for a minute, momentarily detached from the action - head back, eyes closed as she breathed deeply through the carnage that reigned around her. Forcing her eyes open, she belatedly realised that Hunt was still beating seven shades of shit out of Rick, who looked as though he'd lost consciousness some time ago. "Guv ...Guv!" his punches still flew fast and furious. "GUV!" this time, grabbing his shoulders and attempting to haul him off but with no effect. "GENE!" she hollered. Something in her tone filtered through Hunt's blind rage, he finally pulled back from the bloody mess in front of him and turned to stand in front of Alex. Sweeping his hair back and flexing his bruised hand, licking blood from a split lip. He looked his DI up and down. "Did he hurt you? Did this scum, this piece of SHIT, fucking hurt you?" his meaning was crystal clear and Alex was quick to shake her head. "No, no – I'm ok, you got here in time. Did you get enough to nail these bastards?"
"Yeah, yeah. And that one looks ready to spill his guts, we may get something on Jordan after all."
Hunt looked down at Alex. Lifted his hand and brushed the curls away from her forehead ...
"Right Guv, want us to load these up?"
Ray's voice startled them, Hunt moved away and began organising his troops. Shaz hurried over, full of compassion and concern. With barely half a mind on the WPC's ministrations, Alex's eyes kept straying back to the Guv. She waited and waited for him to look, to come back ... oh, you are in trouble now you stupid cow. Big bloody trouble ...