FLICKS—chapter four

A sporadic skeleton crew was all that remained of personnel in the station, a fact that made the isolation of the morgue more eerie than usual. Echoes from footsteps a few floors up crept into the cold, damp examining room, the white and blue tiles reflecting a further glow of death upon the room as the light above the gurney swayed back and forth.

"Fan's broken," Annie said, shivering. She rubbed her arms, trying to force some semblance of warmth through the thin cotton of her shirt. "Can't properly turn it off, and the wind from it keeps pushing the light fixture."

Her voice echoed across the mostly empty space, sending a further chill into the place that had little to do with temperature. Sam steeled himself as he pulled the gurney with the plastic bag on its surface towards him. He tossed a set of thick rubber gloves to Annie and grabbed another pair for himself. He pulled the dark blue rubber gloves over his hands, and then stood poised beside the gurney, his hands held high as though he were about to perform a serious surgical operation.

"Are we ready?" he asked Annie.

"I can't believe we're doing this."

Sam sighed, his blue gloved hands hesitating over the remains of the dog hidden within the black plastic bag. Perhaps she was right, and everything he was doing right now was based on an irrational, unfounded sense of fear. But fear had to have a source, he rationalized, it had to have some starting point from which to grow. Even if what was obvious to him wasn't the real cause.

"Look, Annie—The boy I saw in the seat in front of me, his head was knocked in with something similar to what killed this dog."

"I told you before, Sam, there was no little boy. That seat was empty."

"He turned and looked at me, Annie. He told me to 'shush'."

They stood on opposite sides of the gurney, the fan moving too fast, the light above them swinging back and forth, casting horrible shapes onto the blue and white tiled walls surrounding them. Sam took a long, shaky breath in, feeling he could never be understood.

"Sam...Maybe what you saw was a ghost."

Light and dark hurled themselves back and forth across her features, her eyes hooded in shadows. Her mouth was upturned in a small smile, but it was uncertain, as though what she'd said could be a true, possible explanation. There was no reason it couldn't be, Sam pondered. After all, he could be a ghost here himself, a fact that could explain away his apparent time travel, the multi-layered puzzle that was Dierdre Hunt's house, Dierdre herself, and always, hovering somewhere in the back of his consciousness, that incessant 'blip-blip-blip' that counted off each breath he took in some far distant shore known as the year 2006.

"If that's the case Annie, then this is worse than we thought. We're too late, the killer has already struck before."

The light fixture swung into an elliptical pattern, finally bringing Annie's eyes out of shadows and into calm, blue relief. "Oh, come on. You don't believe in all that rubbish do you? Ghosties and spooks." She let out a small laugh, its mirth absorbed into the depressing cold of the concrete floor at their feet, all joy siphoned from it. She frowned as she glanced up at Sam over the still wrapped corpse of the dog, shadows and light shrouding him in turns.

The Ace of Spades, all fifty-two staring up at him, like curled locks of torn, black hair, the sound of bones breaking, so horrible and real it had made him physically sick—A metaphor, maybe, for the ghost that was himself, the boy's beaten body showing how he really appeared, how he continued to only partially live. He was broken, fallen apart. He was beyond repair. That's what it could mean, that he had been beaten and nothing more could be done.

"I don't know," Sam replied.

He glanced up at her, and was surprised to see Annie was not paying attention to him, but was wide-eyed as she looked over his shoulder, her rubber gloved hand pointing nervously in the vicinity of the autopsy room entrance behind him. He gripped the side of the gurney, blue rubber grinding against his palm.

"What is it?"

"There's...There's someone there..."

Sam turned to face the intruder, his mouth dry, acrid. No, this was no hallucination, Annie was right. A tall, dark figure was advancing on them, his body sheathed in darkness, no figure distinguishable in the gloom.

"Hey..." it began.

Annie let out a weak scream, her hand covering her mouth, too terrified to let this thing that had wandered into the room with them to be offended by her terror.

"...Boss?" the voice finished.

The light swung onto the dark figure, and a bright image of Chris appeared before Sam and Annie, his face contorted into an expression of utter confusion.

"Oh, you bastard!" Annie exclaimed. She ran from her place on the opposite side of the gurney and took off her rubber gloves, which she used to violently thrash Chris with. "You rotter! What do you think you're doing, sneaking about like that!"

"I'm not sneaking!" Chris insisted as he tried and failed to deflect Annie's blows. "I've come round to help with the investigation." Annie stormed back to her spot at the opposite end of the gurney, rubber gloves getting snapped on in far too violent force. "Hey, boss," Chris repeated nervously to Sam. "So, how's it going?"

A rather familiar headache was creeping into Sam's consciousness, and he tried to keep it at bay by rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. The light flicking back and forth had done little to help him in his plight, and now with the added hindrance of Chris it was unlikely anything was going to get accomplished. He had to say it, regardless of how cruel the words sounded as they spewed forth.

"Chris, you could barely keep yourself together when you found the dog, how in the hell are you going to help us?"

Chris smarted from this, as though physically hurt. "I was just shocked, is all," he said. "I can help."

"It's off the clock," Sam impatiently reminded him. "And I've got Annie here, so..."

Chris ignored him, and rolled up his sleeves. He snapped on a pair of blue rubber gloves with ease and approached the gurney with unexpected confidence. Without asking, he tore the garbage bag exactly in half, and looked on the gory mess within with a studied, practiced air. He fished through the remains until he found a specific piece of bone, which he then brushed blood and tissue off of with his thumb before holding it towards the swaying light fixture above them.

"The jaw bone," he explained. "Can tell you a lot about a dog. In this case, he's a border collie cross of some sort, you can tell by the shape. Not too old either, but not a puppy, he's got all of his adult teeth and they're in pretty good condition, not too much tartar for one. This dog was, I'd say, about three or four years old."

Chris placed the jaw bone aside on the slab and began to investigate the remains further, only to pause as he realized both Sam and Annie were staring at him, mute, puzzled frowns marring their features.

"Wh-What?" Chris asked. He was worried now. Was he supposed to be writing this stuff down? Did he royally gaff by not bringing in the tape recorder? He could feel beads of sweat already forming on his forehead, and his confident stance began to wilt.

Sam crossed his arms, blue rubber gloves peaking from beneath the black leather arms of his jacket. "Chris, much as we appreciate your help, just how do you know all this? Was there a David Attenborough special on the telly?"

"Who? No," Chris protested. "I got it off me Dad." He half shrugged and gave Sam and Annie a crooked smile. "He was an animal doctor. You know, All Creatures Great And Small, like that."

Sam was stunned. "Your dad was a veterinarian," Sam said, trying to fit this puzzlement of Chris together.

"You must know a lot about animals, then," Annie said, clearly impressed.

"Yeah. He used to get me to help him sometimes and I learned a few things here and there. Loved it, really. We always had dogs, cats, hedgehogs puttering about the house." Chris's shy smile faltered. "Can't really have that in the city, though. I miss it, having dogs about. Better than people, animals are, for the most part."

Sam felt a genuine pang of regret at his earlier judgment in regards to Chris, a fact that was becoming far too familiar. An explanation of why the dog's demise had affected him so severely was simply laying in wait and all he had to do was care enough to ask. 'How little I know him, and that's all my fault,' Sam thought.

Sam gave Chris a jovial punch on the shoulder. "Good to have you. You're a real asset," Sam said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Chris's confidence was boosted thanks to this approval, and he brought his attention back to the remains of the dog before him. "Doesn't have much by way of fleas or even flea dirt, so I'd say this one was well cared for. No mites in the ears, either. Nice, clean, well groomed dog. It is odd, though."

"How's that?" Sam asked.

"This here's a border collie," Chris said. "You never see them in the city, they're a working dog. Country-like, you know, herding the sheep."

"Whoever we're looking for, they used to live in the country," Annie concluded. "That narrows it down some. And if it wasn't a stray and as well cared for as you say, Chris, then it's possible it belongs to someone in the area it was found, or at least someone has seen it taken for walks."

Sam hovered over the remains, his eyes searching over the broken bones and the mess of blood and hair that was already beginning to decompose in the cool confines of the room. A piece of yellow caught his eye, and he stayed the swinging fixture above him with his hand, shining it purposely on the sliver that had grabbed his attention. He dared to point at it with a blue finger. "Chris, what's that?"

Chris pushed away a layer of black haired tissue, revealing a small, but significantly out of place shard. He picked it up gingerly, and held it out for Sam to get a better look. It was about an inch in length, mostly a golden yellow hue, but with a small band of red paint at the thicker end.

"It's a splinter of wood," Sam said. He narrowed his eyes and took it from Chris's steady grip. "Annie, get me an evidence bag."

"Do you think it's from the murder weapon, Boss?" Chris asked.

"I don't think so, Chris," Sam said, and nodded grimly. "I know so." He began to wrap the dog's remains back up in the plastic bag, and when finished he snapped off his blue rubber gloves, and tossed into a nearby sink to disinfect later. "I want another look at that cinema first thing tomorrow morning. We may have missed further evidence at the scene."

"But..Sir," Annie said. "I don't think the Guv will be too keen on that. You know, 'wasted manpower' and all."

"I need another look inside that theatre," Sam said, leaving little room for question or the future ire of his DCI. "Chris, ask around the neighbourhood tomorrow, see if anyone saw a border collie or if they know who owns one. Annie, I'll need you to come into the cinema with me. It was dark and crowded, maybe something was missed and don't worry about the Guv. Last I saw, cruelty to animals was still a punishable crime in this era so let's bring who did this in and read him the letter of the law before he gets the urge to kill again."

"That's great, Boss, but...The Guv's not going to be pleased about this."

"Now Chris," Sam said, smiling back at him. "Since when have I ever made it a point to make DCI Hunt happy?"

/

"I'm not happy," DCI Hunt said to Sam.

Early morning had brought with it a serious problem at the entrance to the cinema where The Exorcist had been shown the day before. An angry crowd had gathered and were picketing with placards in front of the cinema, the signs mostly signaling some apocalyptic devil worshipping fear that the film was going to doom all of Manchester to the fiery pits of hell. A rather prim middle-aged man was standing on a small crate, a blow horn in his hand as he condemned the film and its goers with such succinct phrases as 'Repent of the devil's workshop!' and 'The filth of mankind's idolatry!'. Beside him, a rather grizzled compatriot looked on with boredom, his eyes so bloodshot he could have been hung over. Sam was handed a pamphlet by an impossibly blue-eyed girl whose blond hair peeked out beneath a woolly red winter hat. He scanned the title quickly, gleaning 'The Festival of Light' and 'there are dangers to opening yourself to the forces of darkness' from its surface.

"I thought this is what you wanted to happen," Sam reminded him. "I believe you said something to the effect of 'They ought to shut that place down for showing such filth.'"

"I can't stand it. I've had enough of the tinsel, the reindeers, the bloody out of tune carols. If I have to hear one more word of the spirit of the season shite I'll be hunting down and hanging St. Nicholas meself. I say Rudolph would make a fine lamp for above my desk, Bambi be damned!"

A crowd of reporters and journalists had gathered around the protesters, and the discussion of demon possession and the corrupting influence of The Exorcist upon the souls of children became a fact instead of opinion. One lone priest stood in the midst of the fray, an elderly man with a calm intelligent demeanor who had earned a considerable amount of boos from the crowd for loudly proclaiming the film was an excellent treatise on the Catholic faith.

"Of course, he's got them all riled up now," Gene complained. "Damn priest. What does he know about religion?"

"Gene," Sam said, "Just where the hell are you on this issue? First you say you think the movie should be banned, and now that people want it to be you've changed your mind..."

"My mind doesn't change," Gene said, which was probably the truest statement of his life. "Nah, I'm saying it was shite, as in Harold And Maude was shite as in Woody Allen movies are shite. I can't scrape me shoes for being so knee deep in shite. I didn't say ban it because it causes the devil to go round popping people's heads around and making them spew their chips and egg, I say ban it because it's utter shite."

"So, in other words, if you don't like the movie it should be banned," Sam clarified. "So, by your reasoning, all we'll be allowed to see are mob movies and westerns. Pulp Fiction might barely squeeze past your artistically critical eye, but Lost In Translation will be banned on the outset. Odd, that, how it doesn't seem a bad thing when put quite that way."

Gene checked his watch impatiently. "Much as I'd love to hear you babble on about nothing that makes sense, these bastards have already wasted three hours of precious police time. I say it's time to rest these merry gentlemen and get them to toddle off the hell home. Oi! You! Touch that poster and I'm knocking your brains out against the glass!" Gene rubbed his hands together in glee. "That's it, then, about time we got some action and pounded in a martyr or two."

"We're not supposed to be inciting a riot," Sam reminded him.

"Bugger off. If they sing Good Christian Men Rejoice one more damned time I'll be begging for Satan to possess me."

Leaving Gene to contemplate the artistic freedoms of film-making and religious zealotry alike, Sam made his way to Annie, who stood to one side of the crowd, a bored expression on her face as the man with the megaphone began a new, rather simplistic, sermon. She shook her head as Sam stood beside her, a sad understanding in her eyes. "People only see what they want to," she said. "I thought the film was very moving. The priest sacrificed himself for the soul of that little girl, he did the right thing."

"I don't think half the people here have even seen the trailers let alone the whole movie," Sam said. "Makes it a lot easier to judge when you remain ignorant." He nodded towards the entrance of the cinema. "Come on, we might as well go in—We can say we have to check for any possible vandals who might be on the premises."

"You're looking for your ghost again," Annie said, barely hiding her amused smile. "Are you armed with holy water?"

Sam laughed. "Just fact finding, like I said last night. I'm not ready to send anyone to hell just yet."

/

Though well lit, the theatre had a damp, abandoned quality to it that was eerily similar to the morgue, the air cold and close, the rows upon rows of empty seats sending an unexpected message that here, in this place where nearly a hundred could gather, Sam Tyler was mostly alone.

"I honestly don't know what this is supposed to accomplish," Annie said.

"I just want to be sure. Maybe what I saw had some real meaning, like the murder had already happened, or it's going to happen."

"How is that possible, Sam? Are you not only from the future, but are you now saying you're the next Uri Geller?"

"More like Derek Acorah," Sam mumbled.

"Who?"

"Nothing." He scanned the rows until he came to the one he was sure he and Annie had been sitting in. "Down here. About seven seats in. There's that wad of gum I just about stepped on." He approached it and kicked it with the toe of his black shoe. He steadied his hand on the seat in front of him, only to instinctively pull his grip away. "This is it. This is where I was sitting, and he was in front of me here, right here."

He gingerly put both of his hands on the back of the seat, half expecting blood to seep wetly between his fingers. He was almost disappointed to find it perfectly dry. He crouched down in the confined space between the seats and carefully inspected the metal backing for any droplets of blood, his thumb teasing out a corner of red tweed fabric, searching the tiny amount of released fluffy white cotton beneath. No stains, no evidence of spilled blood, recently or otherwise. Sam sighed in frustration.

"If I had luminol this job would be a lot easier," he said.

Annie shrugged. "How would cleaner help?"

"It's not for cleaning, it's a special chemical solution that reacts with blood. Even old stains can be picked up using a black light..."

"Black light..." Annie repeated, a brow raised in disbelief.

"It's a special kind of..." Sam trailed off, knowing this conversation would go nowhere except further convince Annie he was mad. "In any event, it doesn't matter. I can't find any evidence of a murder here."

"You see, I told you. You got upset over nothing."

The door to the theatre suddenly slammed open, startling them both. Annie's hand was on her heart, her eyes wide and guilty in her treason from her post with Sam. Gene Hunt stood above them, a cigarette fiercely gripped between his lips.

"What are you lot doing in here? The action's all outside!" He dug his hands into the pockets of his camel coat and surveyed his surroundings, his angry mood quickly dissipating. "Hmph. Nice and quiet in here."

"We were checking for possible vandals," Annie said, her quick-save excuse coming in handy. But Sam didn't corroborate her story, in fact he remained quiet, his knees quaking as he stared at the seat in front of him.

Sitting in the chair, his small head level with the back of the seat, a small boy with black hair turned to look at him. His index finger met his tiny, innocent lips.

"Shhh."

Crack! Crrr. Crrr. Crack!

Bile crept its way back into Sam's throat, and he struggled to swallow it back.

"Sam?"

"Give over, don't tell me he's going to upchuck again! Bloody hell, I'm surprised you don't have a placard of your own, one what reads: Hello My Name Is Sam Tyler And Scary Movies Make Me Cry And Spew."

"He's right there," Sam hoarsely whispered to Annie.

"There's no one, Sam," she said, her hand grazing the bloodied pieces of the child's skull as she moved her touch close to his.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them fiercely with the heels of his hands. He blinked them open, but it was no use, the corpse remained, blood dripping onto the floor of the theatre, bone shards floating like bits of chalk within the black puddle. He could see the broken limbs, the white splinters that jutted out through the child's jeans, through the cotton of his t-shirt.

He tore his eyes away to try and garner some semblance of understanding from Annie, but there was nothing, only a calm, almost patronizing sympathy that made her take his arm and guide him away from the seat. He wanted to be angry with her, to wrench himself away and force her, somehow, to see this thing that only he had privy to. But he couldn't, not when her touch was all that remained against this rift in his sanity.

"Break time's over!" Gene boomed down at them as he turned to leave. "The esteemed Reverend Blowhorn has started a lecture on the sinful ills of boozing and smoking—Which has reminded me I'm thirsty and I'm running out of fags. Come on, come on, let's make sure the saints go marching home and break it up out there."

A loud click gave Gene pause at the top of the stairs. Annie, who was just behind Sam, stopped in mid step. She took a sharp intake of breath as she turned around, and even Gene pursed his lips in thought.

A single seat had fallen open.

"Must be a broken spring," Gene said, shrugging as he left the theatre.

"I'm not seeing things, Annie," Sam insisted behind her, his breath uneven, caught in the grip of fear.

"He's still there."