Gene was rudely awoken at six in the morning by a whirlwind of Skelton and mismatched pyjamas jumping on his bed, shaking him until he swiped the younger boy's hands off his arms; Christopher was whimpering, eyes glistening as Gene sat up, glaring tired daggers at him as the younger boy shifted and accidentally bent Gene's knee backwards.
"Ow! What?"
"Brian wouldn't wake up, told me ter piss off… can you 'elp me?"
"What with?"
Christopher's bottom lip trembled; Gene looked round at the bed by the window, realisation dawning as he saw the dark yellowy stain that spread across the sheets and the wet pair of pyjama bottoms next to it. Oh.
"Yer wet the bed?"
"Promise not ter laugh?"
The tears were flowing freely down Christopher's face now, dripping onto Gene's duvet. Try as he might, Gene couldn't find it in himself to tease him, opting instead for sliding out of bed and tugging Christopher after him as he went to survey the damage. The duvet seemed to be dry enough, but the bedsheet was soaked through from edge to edge, a faint smell of urine beginning to waft into the room as Gene wrinkled his nose.
"What were yer dreamin' of, a flood?"
"You promised not ter laugh!"
"Do I look like I'm bloody laughin'? You get the duvet off, an' the pillows. I'll strip the sheets."
Nodding jerkily, Christopher seized the duvet in both arms, wiping his teary face on the edge; Gene tried not to breathe in as he leaned over the bed, sparing a snoring Brian one irritated glance as he yanked the sheets off and rumpled them into a ball at the foot of the bed, praising a God he didn't quite believe in that it hadn't seeped onto the mattress. Christopher watched him silently, arms still full of duvet and pillow.
"Put them down. The airin' cupboard'll be along 'ere somewhere."
Christopher nodded miserably, depositing the bedclothes on the floor as Gene quietly unlocked the door, beckoning to the younger boy to follow him as he slipped out.
His bare feet padded comfortably on the thick oatmeal carpet as he headed down the corridor, checking the doors as he went, Christopher trailing behind him with his thumb firmly in his mouth whenever Gene wasn't looking; the hotel was almost silent in the early-morning tranquillity, only the odd snore of rustle of bedclothes pervading the still cool air. The voice of their teacher rang out as they tiptoed past her room, making them both jump; for a horrible moment Gene thought they had been rumbled, but then the teacher muttered something about a workbench and a pair of underpants and the panic was replaced by hurriedly-stifled giggles. Slipping past, Gene's questing fingers finally found the airing cupboard, dumping Christopher's damp sheets on the floor in a pile and selecting a fresh set.
"They'll fit yer bed."
Christopher nodded, chin wobbling as Gene pulled the sheets down from the shelf and shoved the damp ones in a bag of dirty linen on the floor.
A door banged somewhere behind them, making both boys jump; a handle squeaked, and then the sound of whistling travelled down the corridor towards them, footsteps thudding on the thick carpet and
getting steadily louder as a portly shadow appeared on the wall just round the corner from the two children now stood stock still, staring as the shadow slowly grew.
"She'll find us!" Christopher whimpered, clinging to Gene, one hand grabbing a fistful of Gene's T-shirt; Gene carefully disentangled himself, dumping the fresh sheets in Christopher's arms and closing the airing cupboard door.
"So what if she does?"
"She'll find out!"
"Say you spilt yer drink. Works every time."
This was familiar territory to him, late-night trips to find fresh sheets with a small boy clinging to him; the only difference was that it was a little brown-haired boy this time, rather than one with a head of wild blond curls, and Christopher was whimpering rather than talking as Stu always did, whispering a description of his nightmare to Gene as his older brother listened patiently, changing the sheets on his bed as Stu sat on the cold floor shivering and cuddled his teddy hard. When their mother came in in the morning and found the wet sheets in the corner, she would know every single time, and save Stu the embarrassment by silently accepting Gene's explanation, even though the boys never took drinks up to their bedroom.
The whistling came nearer, loud and surprisingly tuneful; Gene took Christopher's elbow to lead them back to their room, eager to avoid confrontation and potential trouble, but the little boy was glued to the spot with fear, his eyes fixed on the shadow before him, the gradually expanding silhouette of a large woman carrying a pile of towels, approaching the corner, turning it, stopping dead as she saw the two little boys in the corridor, one holding a pile of bedlinen as the other tugged on his elbow and hissed for him to move.
"You alright?" she asked softly, bending with some difficulty to Christopher's height with a kindly smile; Gene nodded, giving up on tugging Christopher's elbow and standing up straight, contemplating dragging the little bugger back to their room and confiscating his Beano as Christopher just about managed a smile, his cheeks beetroot red.
"Spilt my drink," he said in a small voice, holding the clean sheets up. The woman beamed indulgently, ruffling the scruffy brown hair just showing above the bedclothes.
"Oh dear! Never mind. Maybe your friend can help you put the new sheets on?"
Gene gritted his teeth, aching to tell the woman that Christopher wasn't his friend, but just then she took two huge lollipops out of her pocket and the thought vanished completely.
"A little treat for you," she told them with a wink, handing Gene a red one as Christopher all but seized the orange one. "Don't go telling your friends, or they'll all want one!"
"Thanks," Gene mumbled, tugging fruitlessly on Christopher's arm once again. "Come on, Christopher, we need ter get back ter bed." Better they were out of the way before she discovered the wet sheets; she might seem kindly, but Gene had long since learnt that adults could turn at the slightest thing, and that there was always a belt or a cane hiding somewhere, ready for them to whip out and start beating him with. His T-shirt didn't quite cover the bruises on his chest; if she saw them, she'd guess what a bad boy he was, and might give him a beating just for that. His father did that all the time.
"Thank you!" Christopher squealed as he allowed Gene to pull him away, heading back towards their room with a huge grin on his face. Gene rolled his eyes, quietly unlocking their door and ushering Christopher in in front of him, pulling a face at the sight of Brian still blissfully unconscious on his bunk, snoring the house down.
"Bastard," he muttered, standing Christopher in the middle of the room as he began making his bed, draping the duvet and pillows over it and standing back with his hands on his hips, nodding to himself.
"There. Now go back ter sleep, it's only ten past six."
"Thank you, Gene," Christopher said tremulously, beaming at the older boy; Gene snorted, turning to climb up into his own bed.
"Only did it 'cos I didn't want yer whinin' an' stoppin' me sleepin'."
"But you still 'elped me," Christopher said, the smile still in place even as his chin wobbled. "The other boys just steal my things or tease me."
"Yeah, well. They're stupid." Gene quickly faked a yawn, careful not to appear too soft in case Christopher quoted him somewhere. "Get some sleep."
"Thank you," Christopher repeated, hurrying forwards to wrap his arms round Gene's waist as the older boy attempted to climb back onto his bunk; Gene jumped, his foot slipping off the ladder, with the result that the pair of them landed on Brian's bunk, a loud 'oof!' coming from Brian as Gene's elbow winded him.
"What?" he hissed, rubbing his tummy and sitting up, staring blearily at Gene; Gene clambered awkwardly off him, hoping he'd just go back to sleep, but just then Brian's eyes focused on something in Gene's hand, widening greedily.
"Hey- where'd yer get the lolly from…?"
Gene grinned, pushing Christopher towards his bed and scurrying up the ladder, pulling the duvet up over himself.
"Fer us ter know an' you not ter find out. Right, Christopher!"
"Right!" Christopher chirruped, waving his own lolly in the air. Gene rolled his eyes, snuggling into the thick pillows and carefully stowing his own lolly underneath them.
He didn't stay awake long enough to see Christopher fall asleep, the massive grin still on his face.
Caroline Price sat sipping her morning tea at the breakfast table, the news on the small television beside the refridgerator and her husband attempting the crossword in his newspaper. The sips were few and far between, and Tim hadn't managed more than five of the crossword clues, because both were busy staring at their daughter as she eagerly got ready for school, stuffing cornflakes in as though she'd been fasting for a fortnight.
Normally, Alex would be whining and whinging, saying she felt ill, she had a tummy ache or a headache, nibbling at her breakfast to slow them down; often she didn't even eat the whole amount before Caroline had to drag her out of the front door because they were going to be late. But today… today Alex seemed as though she wanted to go to school.
Caroline had no doubt what this was about. Alex had spent the whole of last night yapping on about Gene Hunt, her new friend from Manchester, telling her how Gene lived in a tiny house with only five rooms and only ate a Sunday roast at Easter, how he played with his friends in the ruins of a bombed house and threw bricks through the windows of factories when their owners treated the workers badly. She had gone into detail on their joint project, the policing of London, and her plans to talk to a nearby DCI and set up their own crime scene somewhere, planning it with fridge magnets and an enthusiasm Caroline doubted she'd ever seen in her little daughter.
She had yet to be convinced that Gene would be a good influence on Alex, but something seemed to be working.
Alex pushed the empty bowl of cereal aside, dragging Caroline back to the present, and leaped off her chair, grabbing her schoolbag and running towards the door, hopping on one foot as she squealed for her mother to get the car keys.
Caroline picked them up in silence, draping her bag over her shoulder as she headed towards the door, more to stop Alex having some kind of accident than anything else.
Tim could only stare wordlessly, his newspaper hanging forgotten from one hand as Alex begged her mother to get her to school ten minutes early.
After a small breakfast of porridge and jam- Gene was half convinced the landlady was trying to starve them- and a hectic roll call outside while he tried to trip William Jamieson up without the teachers noticing as John Carter did his best to grab him and throw him in the scrubby bush by the door, the coachful of Mancunian children drew up outside St George's, stalling with a clatter and a putter as Mrs Hingston stalked out from the front, flanked by the other children working on the project. Not wishing for a repeat of the day before, Gene hid behind Brian, doing his best to look well-behaved; his cunning plan was promptly undone when Brian headed off to join his partner, deserting his companion right in the line of fire. Gene made a mental note to accidentally on purpose spill a drink on Brian's sheets that night.
"Gene?"
Little Alex's voice whispered from beside Mrs Hingston, the girl herself standing next to her headmistress, plump cheeks flushed with excitement; Mrs Hingston fixed him with a hawk's gaze, her nose pinched in her haughty, derisory way, pulling something out of her pocket and handing it to him as Alex squirmed beside her.
"This, Eugene, is a roll of police-issue tape. You may have seen it on television. Alex informs me that your project is on policing- I have given this to you with the assurance that I will get it back, minus only what you have used for your project. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that tape of that quality is expensive, and the school budget is limited. Any playing, or messing around, or wasting of that tape, and you will be on the train to Manchester so fast you won't know what's happening. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Eugene?"
"Yes, Miss," Gene muttered, eyes fixed on the tape as he turned it over in his fingers. Snooty old witch. Wish we were in Manchester so I could set my mates on you. They'd 'ave all yer windows smashed in seconds.
Mrs Hingston jerked her head down, patted Alex's shoulder and walked away, her sensible shoes clopping on the tarmac. Gene whinnied under his breath, making Alex giggle.
"She's not that bad really. She's just really strict."
"Sure. Where're we startin', then?"
"Are you any good at acting?"
Gene frowned, tilting his head up. Acting didn't tend to come up all that often on the syllabus at his school, and would probably have been a disaster anyway, with the students using the 'pretend' punches they'd slip into their classes to cause a huge fight. But he liked to think he wasn't bad, and when they were in private he would put on little shows for Stu, pretending to be famous actors or cowboys or sheriffs as Stu eagerly played along, telling him what to act out next, be that a massive gunfight or a punch-up or being shot. Once Gene had hidden a balloon filled with crimson dye and water under his pyjamas, popping it and pretending to die in horrific pain as Stu screamed for their mother; he hadn't done that again, as seeing him lying on the floor covered in gooey crimson had almost given Mrs Hunt a heart attack. It did pay tribute to his acting skills, though.
"I'm good at pretendin' ter be dead."
"Good!" Alex clapped her hands together, jumping up and down on the spot; Gene had an absurd urge to put her in a brightly-painted box and wind her up. "I asked for the tape because I thought we could make crime scenes where people have been killed, and one of us could be the person, and we could put clues in the pictures and label them, because that's what police do. Do you want to do that?"
Gene considered, grinning. Nobody else is goin' ter be doin' anythin' this excitin'. Brian had informed him, gloomily, that his project with his partner Saul was on London Poets; Christopher's was the Underground. Christopher's involvement stretched to colouring in the names of the tube stations and drawing trains on the poster his partner Micky was making.
"Yeah. Sounds great."
"Brilliant!" Alex's voice was at least an octave higher than usual with excitement; Gene winced. Christ, any 'igher an' she'll do me eardrums in.
Their conversation soon turned into an argument on where to do the murders, and what they would do; Gene was all for doing one with himself hanging off the roof, but his teacher told him very firmly that they wouldn't let him up on the roof, and if he tried to climb the school like he had in Year One he'd be sent straight back to Manchester. Alex wanted to do one of drowning, but since the only water nearby was in a cooler they had to admit defeat on that one. So they were reduced to the school hall, the pavement outside, and a couple of possible forays into the city around them for crime scenes.
"Perhaps someone tipped their chair too far back and broke their neck?" Alex suggested, grabbing a chair. Gene shook his head.
"It 'as ter be a murder. Maybe yer could 'ave the upturned chair an' stuff, but the person's been stabbed ter death with- with a fountain pen."
He knew from experience how sharp fountain pens were; Brian's had left a scar an inch long on his forearm when he'd tripped and fallen on it. Alex's eyes widened, her jaw dropping.
"A fountain pen can kill you?"
"Yup." Gene picked hers up, testing the tip. "If yer cover this in fake blood…"
The art department was reluctant, but Gene, using his cute-little-boy charms, eventually wangled some red paint and a few pots of water to wash it off afterwards; the other children in the hall watched curiously as Alex lay down next to the upturned chair and Gene covered her chest in red paint, dipping the fountain pen in it and putting it down next to her as Alex did her best to assimilate having fallen.
"Quit squirmin'!" Gene groaned as Alex moved for the umpteenth time and managed to tip most of the paint on her front onto the floor. Alex glanced down at her chest, a grin on her face.
"It really looks like I've been stabbed."
"If yer don't stop movin' around yer will be stabbed," Gene muttered, sticking his tongue out as he lathered more red onto Alex's front. He looked so innocent and boyish in that one second that Alex almost giggled at him, but hurriedly suppressed the urge and pretended to be dead as Gene stepped away and picked up the camera entrusted to Alex by Mrs Hingston.
"Don't bother sayin' cheese."
The bright light made everything go red for a second, and then Gene was hauling her up, wiping her front with a towel and grimacing at the paint on her top.
"Sorry."
"That's alright. Mummy can clean it."
Gene gathered their things up, clutching the camera and red paint in one hand as the other held the tape and a pot of water.
"Where next?"
Gene hit on the idea of someone being pushed off the top of the monkey bars, the clue being a single discarded glove Alex found in Lost and Found; he was all for painting himself in blood, but Mrs Pankhurst advised him that he wouldn't be bleeding and he settled for simply playing possum as his teacher taught Alex how to use the camera and took a picture. Alex wanted to move straight on to the next scene, immediately pulling Gene up to debate what to do next, but the lunch bell interrupted their musings and the two were dragged into the hall squirming and protesting to eat.
"I reckon we should do a shootin' next. Can't be that 'ard ter get 'old of a fake gun," Gene mumbled through his sausage, sitting opposite to Alex in the hall with Brian slumped morosely next to him, spearing a forkful of green beans. Brian's partner Saul had spent the entire day trying to impose on Brian the importance of Christina Rossetti's poetry; Brian, who had grown up letting the air out of people's car tyres if they offended his friends, was failing miserably to grasp the concept, and was contemplating using Gene's project on policing as an excuse to murder Saul. Alex considered Gene's suggestion, delicately scooping a chicken nugget up on her fork and letting it fall onto her carrots.
"Or a hit-and-run? I don't know what one of those is, but you said it."
"Hit-an'-run. 'S when someone 'its yer with their car and drives off, doesn't get 'elp. Leaves yer ter die."
"Really? But who would do that? That's horrible!"
The scandalised look on little Alex's face was almost comical; Gene looked down, unable to help a little twinge of jealousy for Alex's innocent, carefree world, the knowledge that her daddy loved her and would never do anything to harm her. Brian giggled under his breath, wincing when Gene trod on his foot under the table.
"Ow! Yer turnin' inter Ray bloody Carling, 'e always does that," Brian whinged, jerking his thumb towards a brown-haired boy on the other side of the hall, currently prodding someone with his fork to get their sausage. Gene rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, but Ray Carling doesn't do it in style like I do." His gaze found the doors, and his eyes widened as Mrs Hingston marched into the hall, wielding a register like a weapon in one hand as the other grasped her handbag, her hawk-like eyes darting round to check where all the Mancunian children were. Gene had half a mind to nick it just to show her he could.
"She's going to make an announcement," Alex whispered as Mrs Hingston climbed the steps to the stage, shoes clacking purposefully on the wooden flooring. The sharp, loud sounds drew the attention of the entire hall, even making Ray Carling stop poking his partner with his knife; within ten seconds, the room was silent.
Mrs Hingston cleared her throat, the sound echoing slightly through the hall. Gene hurriedly suppressed the urge to laugh.
"Good afternoon, children."
The London children hurriedly gave a reply of "good afternoon, Mrs Hingston"; Gene and Brian exchanged glances, mumbling along under their hair. Alex kicked Gene gently under the table.
"Thank you. Now, I have made the decision that this afternoon will be devoted, instead of to your projects, to team-building exercises. These exercises will test your ability to work as part of a team and as an individual, and hopefully you will have some fun and learn something in the process. You will remain with your partners for the majority of the time-" Brian stifled a groan- "but will join up with other children as well. The children of this school will be familiar with these exercises, but the Manchester children probably will not." Her nose pinched haughtily again; Gene wondered if he could achieve the same effect by smelling his father's discarded socks.
"When you have finished your lunch, please push your table to the side of the room and chat with your friends until the teachers come back in to organise you. I expect exemplary behaviour from you all."
With a final glare Gene's way, she left, swishing through the doors, her horsy face contorted with the effort of having Northerners in her school. Brian nudged Gene, his eyebrows pursed together.
"What's team-buildin'?"
"Team-buildin'? Probably somethin' so borin' yer'll want ter poke yer eyes out with sticks," Gene snorted through a mouthful of mashed potato, expression sceptical beyond the bulging cheeks. Alex toyed with her broccoli, the massive grin her face had sported earlier abruptly gone.
"Team-building means…"
Well, she knew all too well what team-building meant for her. The last time the school had done team-building, Alex had gone home in floods of tears after an entire afternoon of non-stop bullying and taunting from Amelia Forester and her cronies. Sniffing back tears, she glanced over at Amelia's table, hurriedly looking away again; Gene's eyes followed her glance, his eyebrows drew together as he clocked her pale face, reaching out to gently punch her shoulder.
"They won't get yer. I won't let them get yer."
Alex's eyes, swimming with tears of fright, found his, the raw honesty shining out of them, an almost primal protective instinct shining in his bright blue irises.
Suddenly, she felt like she could take on the world and his missus.
A/N: Hope you liked it- please remember to review! I love hearing your thoughts on my writing. Jazzola :D