Gillian lay in her bed that night wide awake. It was so late that soon the sun would be rising; she could hear the hum of a milk float making its way up the road outside. Once again, she was exhausted but sleep wouldn't come. Only one face kept flashing through her mind: JIM. Why would he be so annoyed at her that he wouldn't so much as say goodbye to her? They'd been chatting all night, his body language telling her he found her interesting. He wasn't THAT big an enigma, she thought. Sure, he was self-obsessed and clearly lacked empathy, but he was a man. Well, he certainly looked like one, anyway, and he'd charmed her all evening. However, a thought crept slowly over Gillian as she realised that the real conundrum above all others was why she cared so much.
To be sure, her life back in 2010 Manhattan was nothing to write home about. Since she'd fled Manchester a few years ago, the whole 'staying under the radar' BS was not the look. She'd nearly had to confront Keats back then as she'd been the subject of a D&C investigation. She'd been brought in by Head Office to do some profiling work for Gene under the alias of DI Annie Harris when it looked like some higher-ranking coppers were taking backhanders from a prostitution ring. Her job was solely to profile the officers in question so that Gene and Co. could plot their next move. However, Gillian had never been one to play by the rules. She began doing some digging on her own-planting surveillance bugs in their offices, stealing files from archives, staking out their places of residence. Ultimately, she got caught; and D&C in London was naturally alerted to her presence. Hunt knew it would be curtains for her, and he certainly didn't want her facing Keats. So, he made her disappear with the understanding that they'd never see each other again. With a heavy heart, Gillian trashed her flat, making it look like an abduction, grabbed only the essentials and took off. By the time she departed on a private jet she'd chartered, she'd cut off all her hair, dyed it red, and changed her clothing. She now was a civilian.
Her life was one of solitude, sometimes welcomed and sometimes loathed. The entrapments of her past job, and now her anonymous status didn't lend themselves to meaningful interpersonal relationships. Gillian would spend her nights in the bar of her posh apartment building with a few glasses of house white to keep her company while she perused criminal justice journals. The bouncers knew to keep unsuspecting gentlemen well clear of her. Although she was attractive, she was tired. It was almost as if her mind refused to go there. Her apathy for her life was palpable; she couldn't be pinned down in domesticity forever.
Then, finally, Gillian got the call to bring Keats down for good. More specifically, she was here to make sure that back in 2010 the Guv was free to retire without fear that his old adversary was still in the picture. She had to do this by any means necessary; and when that term was put to Gillian Macmanus, you could bet on your life that she would.
Gillian arrived early for her shift at Romeo & Juliet's that afternoon. Swinging open the door and striding confidently inside, her gait faltered and she ripped the Ray-Bans from her eyes. Jim Keats was already seated at the far corner of the bar; there were hardly any other patrons around. Gillian hung back as she leaned against the wall, watching him. This time he'd disposed of his trenchcoat; it was folded it neatly onto the chair next to him. A cigarette dangled from his slender fingers as he drew the tobacco in deeply, exhaling out to the side. He looked akin to a character out of 'Mad Men' or a film noir. A slow smile of genuine admiration spread across her lips as she took him in. She then began to walk towards him slowly, then purposefully. Sweeping behind the bar, Gillian looked at Jim pointedly, saying, "Well! You're certainly here early." Jim looked up at her nonchalantly. "Yes. Thought it would be a good idea to case the establishment whilst daylight was still among us. It's much harder for crime to take place when it's not shrouded in darkness. Besides, with you behind the bar, it will be easy for me to observe the cash flow during the evening." Gillian smiled gamely. "In that case, then, your bourbon's on the house tonight. My treat." He smiled back, once again holding her gaze far longer than was appropriate.
That particular night, a Joy Division cover band took the stage. Gillian was well chuffed-she'd been a rabid fan most of her life, and although she'd been too late to catch the real deal, this would do quite well. Knowing this, one of her shiftmates came over to relieve her so she could watch the band for a few moments. Gillian whooped, punching her fist in the air. Jim looked genuinely amused at this; as she rounded the corner of the bar towards the stage, he grabbed her arm softly. "I take it they're one of your favorites?" he intoned, a curious smile on his face. "Oh, GOD. You don't even know. I mean, this is a cover band, but still. I never got to see Joy Division the first time around, so this is the closest I'm gonna get," she replied excitedly. And with that, she moved out to the dance floor. She'd purposefully worn a t-shirt she found in a shop with Ian Curtis' silhouette on a black background, along with a frayed denim mini, fuschia tights, black ankle boots, and a cropped military-style jacket. The band struck up 'Digital', and Gillian nearly went mental. Within moments, she'd insinuated herself into the crushing mass of people, jumping in unison with the crowd which eventually turned into a sweaty mosh pit. Jim couldn't take his eyes off of her: Here was a woman who could hold her own against National Front neo-Nazis and mohawked throwbacks from the end of punk, he thought, chuckling inside.
Something alien was stirring within him; it was something he could not identify, nor was it something he could ignore. Gillian then walked back towards the bar as the song ended. She'd taken off her jacket and tied it round her waist; her cheeks were flushed and her skin was slightly moist. As she smiled at him, Jim suddenly wondered how it would feel underneath his touch. And then, a stab of anger ran through him as he remembered her caring for Hunt's young DI the night before. Had she smiled at him that way? Worse yet, had he touched her? Had he traced every line, every curve in her face? Jim's expression darkened considerably as he stared at Gillian going back to her business of cashing out patrons and pouring shots for still more. Feeling his eyes on her, Gillian turned to face him. Upon seeing him like this, she countered, "Yeah...I think you need another drink." She laughed as she poured bourbon into his glass, dismissing him. However, Jim couldn't dismiss what was occurring in the deepest confines of his brain.
Gillian's shift finally over, she drove along Manchester's back streets, routes she'd learned from the Guv all those years ago. She smiled as she recalled sliding around in the back of the A4, holding on for dear life as Gene drove like a maniac en route to one blag or another. Ahhh, she sighed, the good old days. With that thought, a car screeched around the corner. Gillian caught sight of it in her wing mirror; the thing was practically on two frickin' wheels! There's only one person who drives like that, she concluded. She pulled over onto the kerb as anyone with an ounce of common sense would do whilst sharing the road with Gene Hunt. To her surprise, he pulled up behind her and got out of the car, marching with purpose towards her passenger side door. Without waiting for an invitation, he let himself in.
"DCI Hunt, to what do I owe the honour?" Gillian turned to face him. "I'm 'ere to do you a favour, Daisy. Now, whilst I think you should have let me carry on teaching that great big pain in my arse Michael Pilkinton a lesson last night, AND, whilst your nation cannot play an honest game of football without the whole team getting dressed up like Michelin men..." Gene paused before finishing his sentence. "I like you. You seem to be a nice lass." She bit her lip and smiled graciously. Any sarcastic comment that may have been dying to burst out of her mouth at that point would no doubt have been ill-received. "Do yourself a favour, luv, and stay away from that slimy, pencil-necked bastard Keats. Whatever he says, no matter how charming he is or how much he tugs on your knicker elastic; do NOT trust him." Gene sat back in the seat, his lips pursed in his trademark pout. Gillian's head tilted and she sighed. "I appreciate your concern," her voice was sincere if a little weary, "but you don't have to worry about me. I'm trained to deal with people like him; even dismantle them limb-from-limb." With that last syllable, she cringed. She couldn't help herself.
Gene, sharp as a tack as always, was on her case straight away. "Oh, yes, Mrs Woman? They teach you that at barmaid school, do they? Is that between Flirting With The Punters 101 and How To Make A Really Good Lager Top Class 202?" He folded his arms triumphantly. Gillian had no answer for him; she could have easily bulls***ted anyone else, but not her own Guv. "So, why don't you start by telling me who you really are, because I'm not stepping one foot out of this car until you do. You do NOT want to know what I will do to you if I am seen sat in a Datsun bloody Sunny, so make it quick! I 'av had about enough of you yanking my ruddy chain!"
Gillian took a deep breath as if to compose herself, staring straight ahead. "Obviously, you've guessed I'm not a barmaid. Well, not by profession, anyway." "Oh, you don't say?" Gene scolded. "But I'm here to help, Gene, you have to believe me." She turned her head in his direction, eyes pleading with him to understand the impossible. "Oh, I've 'eard that one before, luv; that was Keats' opening line when they sent him to pissing spy on me!" Gene's voice boomed, his pale skin slowly becoming flushed with irritation. Gillian's eyes were intense, willing him to trust her. "Butwho spies on Keats, Gene?" She leaned in closer, and with that there was silence, a knowing silence. "Are you saying...?" Gene seemed taken aback, stammering, "Why would they send a bird? " "I trained at Quantico before coming over to England. Whether one likes my tactics or not, one can't deny that I'm the best woman for the job." "Tell me, does Quantico have a machine churning out annoying, posh, mouthy tarts? Believe me, you're not the first one I've met!" Gene rolled his eyes in disbelief. Gillian laughed, "Really? I find that very hard to believe." "Yer, my DI before Michael, 'er name was Alex. Head full of brains she had, and a bloody answer for everything." She noticed Gene's voice was sad, and his eyes seemed in a faraway place. "I knew an Alex Price while I was there?"she offered. "Nah, can't be the same one...our Bolly was a Drake, not a Price," he concluded in a casual tone. "Bolly?" she gave him a half smile, knowing there must be a story behind it. "Bolly as in Bollinger, the champagne. Bollinger Knickers, to give 'er her Sunday name." Gene sniffed, trying to look unmoved by the memory but not quite managing it.
"Help me nail Keats." Gillian dropped this proposition out of nowhere, surprising even herself. Gene ran his hand over his face as if he were about to do something he may live to regret. "What do you need?" "I need to get in to his office; there must be something, anything-I need to dig up some dirt. I'd only need a few minutes, half an hour tops." Gillian bartered as Gene looked pensive. "All right, meet me tomorrow night at the station. I'll say you're helping us as a material witness to investigate that s***hole club you work in." With that, he let himself out of the car; but before walking back to his own vehicle, he turned back and knocked on her window. "Don't underestimate him, Daisy, he might not look much but he's ruthless, our Jimbo. You'll need eyes in the back of your 'ed with that one." Gillian stared as Gene got into his car. As he drove into the darkness, she wondered if he'd been exaggerating a bit in his dire warnings. Shrugging, she shook her head as if to snap herself out of it and, starting her car, drove the rest of the way back to her flat.