MAD RUSSIAN
The rusty sign above the stairs said, simply, 'Underground'. Certainly, this basement club was living up to its name, the air cloudy with smoke, the cramped space within crowded with broken wooden chairs and splintered press board tables. It had more of the trappings of a subterranean storage facility than a club. The place was damp, filthy and contained next to no light save a few bare bulbs in the ceiling and a brave, cobweb smeared window just above the stage that allowed in a flickering of afternoon light. The place had a desperate quality, Sam noted, a sad, hopeless ambiance that was evident in the patrons, their hair long and greasy, and wearing equally grimy attire. No, the Underground was clearly not a hippie hang-out, nor a place for positive vibes—this was the land of the nihilists, the repressed avant garderageaholics. If there were any doubt as to the validity of this assumption, it would be quashed by the scrawny figure on stage who was torturing his guitar, his lyrics a series of out of tune expletives. The air inside the club was hot and close, and it tasted like army fatigues and stale beer on Sam's skin. All the lovely flavours of disillusionment.
"Happy place, this," Gene said, and sniffed. "Club is it, like the rusty sign upstairs says? For who, Sam—The Society Of The Terminally Brooding?"
Sam bristled at Gene's assessment, and made his usual, futile attempt to educate. "It's about going beyond the boundaries in one's artistic expression, in not going along with the maudlin pap the radio insists on playing. This is political, angry, a real grasp of human frustration..."
"Yeah, well, enough about your sex life, Alice, we've got some answers to dig out and not get buried in Woodstock's yang." Gene headed directly for the bar where a large, bald man with a Scottish coat of arms tattooed on the back of his neck kept tabs. "Oi! Rob Roy! Give us a couple of pints and a reason to live!"
The barman raised a bushy red eyebrow, a dirty tea towel thrown over one shoulder. "I should think they's be one and the same," he said.
Gene let out a chortle and took the two greasy pints he'd been handed. "A right palace of philosophers, this. Tell me, Sam, when did you and Nietzsche become bosom pals?"
"More of a Sartre man myself," Sam replied. He reached into his wallet to pay the tab, but the barman waved him off.
"Nivver you mind," the Scotsman said. "On the house." He continued wiping glasses dry with the filthy tea towel. "I'll consider it a bit of extra insurance."
Sam took a tentative sip of his pint, the barman's blithe acceptance of police extortion leaving the brew too bitter for his liking. Gene, of course, had no trouble draining his glass and with a loud thud he slammed it on the surface of a nearby table and shouted out to the barman. "A fish has to drink! Give us another!" He planted himself in a broken wooden chair, the wood splintering against the strain of his weight. He crossed his arms and glared at Sam. "Looks like the fellow on stage has finally done himself in and hung himself with that guitar string. My ears are in silent ecstasy. So, while we have this moment of delightful quiet, perhaps you can remind me again what the hell we are doing here, in a drughole dump, looking for junkies to hold hands with."
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair, his pint crooked on the uneven table. "Our informant told us the bad strain was purchased here exclusively. There's a good chance the dealer is still selling here, or at least his whereabouts can be traced. Worst case scenario, we get the word out that there's a deadly strain of heroin on the streets and the body count stops at the three we've got laying in the morgue."
Gene was handed a fresh pint and he immediately drained it by half. "If self-destruction is a high art, I'm not going to waste my time cleaning up their masterpiece of a mess."
"Oh, come on," Sam said to Gene, who was now on his third pint. "Don't give me that survival of the fittest crap."
"Nothing of the sort," Gene replied. "This whole trek of yours is rubbish. If some moron wants to fill his veins with noxious chemicals instead of a healthy, iron rich Guinness, that's his choice and he can pay for it." Gene snapped his fingers at the large barman, whose woolly red eyebrows were furrowed in dismay. "Here, Mac MacDonald, give us another round!"
Sam sat fuming across from Gene, a state that had become all familiar. Gene drained his pint with arrogant ease, his mind unperturbed with thoughts of drug smugglers or curious teenagers or damaged people searching for a cure to what hurt them. The utter ignorance of him, Sam thought. The unevolved, unthinking short reach of Gene's brain was a disability that would never find a cure. "You can't just pick and choose who you are going to protect," Sam said to him. "Our duty is to the citizens of this community, and unfortunately, addicts are part of that milieu. An addict is just someone searching for an escape, and that in itself becomes the torture. Addiction is an illness.
Then again, let's see another angle on this that your boxed in mind might comprehend—What if it's not some hard core user next time but a kid, experimenting with drugs? How easy will it be to say to his or her parents, 'Sorry, but the laws of Darwin came into effect and your beloved son or daughter got lost in the evolutionary shuffle'?"
"So if they off themselves by throwing their bodies under a lorry I should arrest the driver? Look, Sam, let's get this straight: Much as I appreciate the expansion of your moral, God-like reach, last I looked my job was to put criminals out of the way of upstanding citizens, and since drugs is a crime, drug addicts are criminals, and I'm not about to make a cup of tea and hold a druggie's hands and start asking how their day went and how they bloody well feel about the state of the world. I'll leave that nancy shit up to brain shrinks, priests and you, shall I?" He took a deep swallow of his pint. "Come on, drink up. They're setting up for another strangled crow versus tortured cat rehearsal and I don't think my sensitive, understanding ears can take much more."
Sam groaned, and took a bitter sip of his drink. Gene sat bored beside him, arms crossed and his expression equally so. He had that look he wore when he was itching to 'pound a few heads', and if anyone so much as sneezed in their general direction at present, the depressed mood in the club would no doubt erupt into violence.
Odd, that, Sam suddenly thought. The place was quiet, eerily so. The few bands and performance artists who had shown up for an afternoon rehearsal had melted into the background, smoke and dust swallowing their figures and leaving shadows behind. Sam took another swallow of his drink, remaining tense and expectant in his seat.
To break this feeling of unease, he waved the monolithic Scotsman over, who already had a fresh pint for Gene in his hand. "Tell me something," Sam said to him. "How well does news travel in this area through here?"
The barman shrugged. "Depends on the news."
"Here's a scoop for you: There's a bad batch of heroin making its rounds and it already killed three people. I don't want to be counting more corpses."
"I'll get the word out," the barman said. "But you're a fool if you think that's going to stop someone taking their hit."
"It's an effort," Sam said.
"A wasted one," the barman replied.
Sam sighed in resignation and watched the barman as he trundled back to his counter, a mixture of tolerance and indifference that would no doubt prove deadly to a dozen or so more of his club's patrons. A new performer was on stage, and Sam decided he would take his time with his pint and force Gene to endure just a little more ear-splitting chaos if only to assuage his own disappointment.
But if he was to get any sadistic satisfaction, it was surely not going to be this afternoon. Unexpected, jarring his senses, a strangely symphonic echo of strings wound their way gracefully within the smoky gloom of the Underground, cleansing the dirt and grime, restructuring the landscape with long, mournful notes. Sam's eyes found the stage, where he was surprised to see a slim woman with a long mane of red hair draped like silk over the neck of a cello, her hands moving over it in loving caresses, pulling despair from its stern, round body.
"This certainly is a place of surprises," Sam said into his pint. He took another bitter sip and decided he'd had enough. There were enough sludged fingerprints on the glass to contain all manner viruses and he wasn't keen on showing up puking with flu the next morning. "I guess we've accomplished all that's going to be done here. We'll head back to the station, check over the notes and see if we can pinpoint exactly where the stuff might have come from. If we can locate the original dealer, we can press him for the bigger guns, for his suppliers." Sam nodded at his partner. "Gov?"
Gene remained rigid in his seat, an unhealthy silence emanating from him that left Sam both bewildered and concerned. He narrowed his eyes at him, shocked by Gene's sudden immobility. Gene's gaze was transfixed on the stage, his jaw clenched in determination. Notes from the cello became shorter, then longer, an alchemical mixture of sadness and hope riding the crest of smoke that obscured the air of the Underground into shadows. The performer's hair was wild about her shoulders, a blood red hue that spilled around her pale, sharp features, messily framing a delicate but strong profile. Her fingers worked over the cello in ever ascending levels of complexity, notes swallowed by the darkness that took them in. The hush that had fallen over the club had been well deserved. This was no punk dabbler, no beginning artist with some obscure grind to prove. This was a master of her craft. This was utter genius. Witchcraft.
"Gene?" Sam whispered this time, and Gene held up his hand. Silence. Stop.
His DCI was in a trance, held in by the siren call of a masterfully played cello, a supernatural rapture overtaking him. Sam frowned, wondering what this new piece of the Gene puzzle might mean, a grain of his soul he'd normally kept hidden now exposed. A sickening feeling hit Sam deep in the gut, an understanding that was akin to regret. He'd misjudged the man—Gene Hunt could be taught after all.
The performance drew to a close, the cellist sighing against the dying notes of her instrument like a lover, her mouth half open in an uneasy smile. The final note faded slowly, the silence of the club respecting its demise.
Her red lips parted in a sultry whisper, her voice thick with an accent Sam immediately recognized as Russian. "Thank you," she hoarsely whispered, "Thank you for your patience and your time."
A respectful silence remained in the wake of her words, the weight of them melting into the walls, changing the very character of the building. She was so out of place here, so much like a hallucination that Sam wondered if he'd imagined the entire scene. She was a metaphor for his own situation, that had to be the answer—She was a misplaced jewel in the muck. In this dream within a dream he had to actually be asleep at his dingy metal desk at the station and any second now Gene Hunt was going to slam his fist on the desk's surface and shock Sam into what he currently understood as wakefulness. Which is exactly what Gene did, in a sense...
A sudden cacophony of whoops and stomps erupted through the silence in the club, smoke dispelled to make way for the bellow, somber shadows retreating far back from this red-faced, impassioned, hollering, stomping, clapping Godzilla who whistled loudly through his teeth, punctuating his joy with such succinct phrases as: "Bloody well angelic, that's what that is you useless drugged out bastards!" His index fingers went deep into both cheeks and a piercing whistle cleansed the gloom from the air. "That's how it's done, you miserable punters!"
"Wow," Sam said, uncomfortable beneath the glaring looks Gene's spectacle created. "I never took you to be so cultured."
"Oh, I'm full of surprises, me," Gene said. He stood up unevenly and began waving like a madman at the stage. "Hey! Hey!"
Sam grabbed him by the shoulder. "All right, enough, we're out of here."
"No!" Gene shouted at the stage. "Don't pack it in yet! Encore, love, ENCORE!"
With some help from the barman and a considerable struggle, Gene was wrestled out of the confines of the dark basement and was tossed unceremoniously out into the glaring light of a sunny afternoon. Gene blinked into it as though a spell had been broken, and Sam remained cautious beside him, waiting for Gene's explosive temper to find its mark.
Gene was quiet. He took a few deep breaths of heavily polluted Manchester air and looked over his shoulder quizzically at the rusty sign that said, simply: 'Underground'.
"Who is she?" Gene asked, the question clearly for himself alone.
/
The station was in complete chaos when Gene and Sam returned, a very frazzled Chris meeting Sam at the door to the desk office. "I caught him up the backside of that junkie hang out you put in your notes," Chris said, breathless with eager excitement. "He's a dealer."
Sam gave Gene a knowing glance, and Gene leveled his glare down at Chris. "Where's he at?"
"Cell two. Ray's with him."
"Great work, Chris. Did you send a sample off to forensics for analysis?" Sam replied.
Chris gave Sam a blank, smiling stare in return. He glanced from Sam to Gene and then back again, clearly searching for an impossible clue. "Um...Send them what, gov?"
It was Sam's turn to be confused. "The heroin, Chris. You said he's a dealer."
"Weren't no drugs on him, boss," Chris said, shrugging. "He just sort of matched the description you had writ down for us."
Sam felt a sick feeling well in the pit of his stomach. The wave of nausea crept outwards and along his spine, invading a space where his head met his neck. He rubbed at it, and frowned at Chris. "He 'sort of' matched the description, and he has no drugs on him. So, what did you charge him with?"
Chris stumbled over his words as he spoke. "Um...Suspicion?"
"Of what?"
"Um...Drugs and...stuff."
Sam's face wearily fell into his hands as he tried to rub the feeling of nausea out of his system. "Cut him loose, Chris."
"But..."
"You don't even know for sure if he's a dealer."
"Hold on, don't go running off to the races yet," Gene said. "You wanted to talk to the locals about their crop, now's your opportunity to chat over the almanac. Get that punter into the interview room—If we're going to waste our time we ought to do it properly, am I right DI Tyler?"
Sam groaned in defeat, and gave Chris a resigned wave. "Go on, bring him in."
"Dunno if I can, boss," Chris said. "He can't walk too well."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked.
His answer came with Ray, who had a painfully thin young man in his grip and was dragging him towards Sam. "Hey! Were you lot looking for this?"
The young man was doubled over, his arms hugging his abdomen, an expression of intense pain overtaking every inch of his body. "Damn you, Ray," Sam said, "If you did this..."
"I didn't touch him," Ray said, smacking his gum. "He was like that when we found him." He gave the suspected drug dealer a push forward, and grinned when the movement caused him pain. "They call him Picky Nicky," Ray said.
"She...she..." Picky Nicky began.
"Who?" Sam asked.
"The slag," Picky Nicky said, in a broken Glasgow accent. "Bloody commie red cello player. Kicked me in the crotch. Oh..damn, it hurts..."
Gene's interest was suddenly piqued. "Cello player...Like the bird what plays at the Underground?"
Picky Nicky had lost the ability to speak. He could only give Gene a strained nod.
"I see. So, you're not just an opportunistic junk dealer selling poison to your fellow man, you're also a punter who likes hassling helpless women. That must have been one heck of a kick, you look like she shattered your balls. Kind of makes me wonder, just what did you do to warrant it?"
"Bloody commie red bitch..." Picky Nicky replied.
Gene punched him across the face, the smack echoing down the corridor. Sam inwardly groaned. There went any hope of obtaining information about the heroin supplier.
"That's for my appreciation of the arts," Gene said.
/
"I simply wish to know why I am here."
Sam's arms were crossed, the missed opportunity to tighten the net against the bad heroin supplier still grating against his nerves. He rubbed the back of his neck, a dull ache still within it. He felt sick about the whole thing, and all he really wanted to do was just crawl into bed, any bed, and hope to god he could get rid of this damned headache.
"I've been wondering the same thing myself," Sam said.
The woman who had so captivated Gene's attention stood at the entrance to Gene's office. Droplets of blood had dried near the door, residual evidence of the punch he'd landed on Picky Nicky earlier in the day. She glanced at the droplets, and shook her mane of red hair away from her face and past her shoulders where it haphazardly clung to her back. Her sharp eyes seemed to soak everything of her surroundings into them, from the cheap cut of Sam's leather jacket to the piles of strewn papers to the Gary Cooper poster that adorned the corner of Gene's office wall. She's at ease here, Sam thought. She's familiar with this routine, with interrogations.
"Never mind the boy wonder," Gene said, shoving Sam aside. "Clearly, they don't have a proper appreciation for good manners where he comes from. Go on Sam, get the lady a chair and bring it into my office." Gene leaned towards Sam, and Sam caught a whiff of hastily applied Old Spice. As he guided her into his office, Gene's hand hovered at the small of their 'witness's back, as though he were afraid to touch the lightweight silk she wore. As Sam got her a chair and clumsily made his way into Gene's office after her, he couldn't help but appreciate that the dark red and black hues of her outfit contrasted sharply with the spectral pallor of her skin. She was like a ghost. Perhaps Gene's apprehension was due to the fear his hand would pass straight through her, and whatever fantasy she represented to him might dissipate like smoke.
"An altercation of that sort is always a frightening thing for a civilian," Gene said, shoulders back, posture straight as he moved behind his desk to his chair. A jar of Old Spice was in plain sight on the corner of his desk. His tie was neater, Sam noted with some interest. His shirt was less rumpled, his hair was neatly combed. Gene bid his guest to sit down on the chair offered to her, and only followed suit afterwards.
Impossible as it was to believe, Gene Hunt was acting the part of the perfect gentleman.
Their guest rested her elbow on the edge of Gene's desk, and Gene's fingertips dared to brush against the skin of her arm only to draw away slightly from the tease of the touch. "I understand the event was traumatic for you," he said, his voice on a level of calm that made Sam wonder if Gene's body had been overtaken by some alien Lothario, "but as a victim of a crime, it's very important that we get all the facts. Now, why don't we start with your name?"
"Moira," she said, smiling wryly. "And the facts are, there has been no crime."
"It's perfectly natural to be afraid," Gene said, and he left his chair to saunter to the edge of his desk, where he sat directly in front of her. His voice had a dreamy, calm quality to it that bespoke of whispered endearments, of hearts that beat too fast and a world too slow to catch up to them. "A woman shouldn't have to endure such predicaments, it's up to us coppers to keep you safe." He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
Sam bent towards him, and whispered hoarsely into Gene's ear. "I'll go get some candles and a bottle of wine."
Gene's posture instantly stiffened.
"...bastard..." he said grittily through his teeth.
"I beg your pardon?" Moira said.
"Nothing, my dear, nothing. Just talking to my juniour officer, Sam Tyler. He's fresh on the force, out of training yesterday, a right rookie he is. Practically in nappies..." Gene gave her an ingenuine grin. "Doesn't have a clue about proper procedures..."
Moira gave Gene a small smile and withdrew her hand from his grip. "He has no need to know, because I am not pressing any charges. I am sorry, but you are wasting your time Mr...?"
"Hunt. DCI Gene Hunt. Such a pleasure to meet you Moorra."
"Moira."
"Mwa-rah."
"That's slightly better," she replied, unconvinced.
"Your accent, it's Russian," Sam interrupted. He gained an angry glare from Gene in return. "Where were you born?"
"Psikushka," she replied, and gave Sam a warm smile.
"Nosy Parker," Gene muttered.
"Your juniour officer has a very efficient personality." She narrowed her eyes, "I'm not so sure I like that."
Sensing an uneasy edge overtaking the mood that he hadn't wanted to germinate, Gene eagerly grabbed Moira's hand in his again to bring his own concerns to light. His tiny office was charged with his testosterone libido. "I know what's on your mind. You want to ask me if we've met before."
"I wasn't going to ask you," she said, and struggled a little to pull her hand out of his.
"I met you at the Underground. You were playing the cello and..."
"Oh yes," Moira replied, uneasily. "I do remember you."
"You really know your craft," Gene said, genuine in his praise. "You got great form, top notch."
"Thank you."
"Better than bloody Mario Lanza. Can't hold a candle to him."
"Mario Lanza is an opera singer," Sam said.
"I know that, Sam," Gene said, again gritty, again through his teeth.
"Opera, cello—both classical mediums and very different in application, enough to not be comparable. Such as, say, a DCI compared to a Naval Captain—Kind of sort of the same thing, only one of them knows how to swim."
"Don't you have some hot chocolate to make?" Gene growled.
"Coffee, Gene."
"I would adore some," their esteemed guest said.
"Hear that, Juniour? Go and percolate."
"Gov," Sam said through his own strained smile. "A word."
"There, you see, can't even make a cuppa on his own. Like I said—Nappies."
He let Moira's hand drop and he calmly left his office, with Sam in the lead. He closed the door behind him gently, as though Moira was sleeping and he didn't want to disturb her dreams.
Once outside, he grabbed Sam by the lapels of his leather jacket and slammed him against the far wall. Broken blinds bit into the back of Sam's skull, making his headache spike into an eruption of sharp pain. Gene loomed over him, a dab of shouted spit landing on Sam's brow.
"What the hell are you doing to me in there?"
Sam shook him off. "I'm trying to prevent you from making a total ass of yourself. Clearly, a futile exercise."
"She's a material witness. A victim of assault, a citizen whom a crime has been committed against, and therefore someone of interest to me."
"Those last few words sound about right, but I'm not too sure about the rest."
"I'm warning you," Gene glowered at Sam. "Stay out of my way."
Sam raised his hands in mock arrest. "Fine. Dig your own grave. Only I'm not going to be party to you using your position as an impromptu dating service."
Gene stormed back into his office, only to halt in mid stride to make his appearance a little less threatening and considerably more restrained gentleman. He sat down in his chair across from Moira, and gave her his most charming smile. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"
"I am leaving," Moira announced. She stood up, much to Gene's dismay.
"I can understand you don't want to press charges," Gene said, in his last ditch effort to be her chivalrous knight in shining armour. "Girl like you, on your own, being your own creative boss. Like I said, it's all right to be afraid of repercussions..."
"I'm not afraid," Moira said.
"I'm just saying," Gene said, pressing his point. "A beautiful woman like you, talented, refined—You're not from around here, you don't know your way around this city like I do, you don't get its dangers. Manchester can be a right cesspit if you don't have anyone to look out for you, and if you need a friend, say...A smattering of kindness..."
"Kindness?" Moira said, suddenly cold. "I have no need of such things."
She walked to where he was sitting and in one, graceful, fluid movement brought a dangerously stiletto foot to rest on his inner thigh. Her black silk skirt had risen above her knee, revealing pale, white legs devoid of stockings. The heel of her black stiletto pressed down, and Gene visibly reddened, though it was unclear if it was due to the nearness of her body to his, or the inference that she could so easily inflict pain.
"These are the shoes I was wearing when I took care of my little problem. You tell me, DCI, Mr. Gene Hunt—Do these shoes betray a sense of 'kindness' to you?"
"N-Not really," Gene said, in a voice too small to really be his.
Moira giggled into her palm. She took her stiletto out of Gene's lap and gracefully stood confident with both feet firmly on the ground. Her icy demeanor had melted as easily as it had arrived.
"Your face is so red," she said to Gene, her hand coyly hiding her mirth. "He is blushing. How very cute."