The very next morning Gillian stood in the shower, listening to some local radio station that seemed to be obsessed with 'chilling out and winding down.' Rubbing her hands over her sore, nylon-burnt wrists, she let her mind go blank. She'd received death threats before, it came with the job; but when Jim had threatened to take her life, it was different. It was so measured, so honest, she would have been a fool not to believe him. The real head f**k was this: when did that become a turn on? Since when was she so needy that she needed a man to covet her above all others so intensely that he'd rather see her dead than with another man? She was interrupted from her lament by the radio losing its station.
"Oh Gilly, what is happening to you?" It was Amy's voice; she sounded tired and worried. "Your temperature is increasing...why won't you respond to the treatment?" Gillian turned off the shower and walked over to the radio; holding it in damp hands, she could barely speak. "You're sick Gilly, and you're weak. If you can hear me, proceed with caution; this is not a good sign." Amy's voice was staunch and factual, but she could sense her concern.
Once again, Gillian made her way to the club; she was growing rather fond of the place, truth be told. The customers were friendly, and the work was hard but simple enough that she could let her mind wander. But, her real love of the place stemmed from the fact that it gave her an opportunity to observe Gene and his gang, who seemed to have made the place their new watering hole. At first, of course, it was to keep an eye on the place; but now she wasn't so sure. She suspected that they all began to begrudgingly like it despite complaining about the beer and the music constantly.
First to the bar was Michael. Gillian scolded herself for looking around to see if Jim was lurking in the shadows somewhere. "What can I get you?" she smiled in greeting. "I will have a pint of Carling, please and whatever you're having. I'm celebrating!" Michael beamed, his lip still swollen from Gene's wrath a few days ago but the altercation now seemed all but forgotten."Oh yeah? What's the good news?" She looked up from pulling his pint. "I have been offered a promotion...well, sort of, more of a move sideways. But the best part is, I don't have to work with Fred Flintstone anymore!" He tapped his fingers on the bar as if to give himself a drum roll. "Sideways?" she repeated with a raised eyebrow, trying to fathom what he meant.
"Yep- same job, different gaffer. DCI Keats has asked me to be his DI. Said after the other night, he could tell me n' Hunt couldn't work together-says he'll give me more responsibility and freedom, and I thought, 'why not'? Think this could be key, Gillian, this could be what I need to get home!" Michael clapped his hands together jubilantly. Gillian's heart was in her throat. "Great." Her voice was weak and hollow. "When do you start?" She reached out a hand to take his payment. "Tomorrow, I think; Jim's going to tell Gene tonight so don't be too surprised if it kicks off again in here later."
With that, the doors flung open and Keats strode in as if he owned the place. His eyes settled on Michael leaning on the bar, inches from Gillian. The look on his face was smug but incredibly sinister. "Gillian, get me my usual and whatever my new DI here is drinking." His voice was detached, but it was clear he wasn't going to spare Gene any consideration; he'd just poached his DI and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. Lighting his cigarette, Gillian could sense his eyes burning into her every move. She then busied herself for as long as she possibly could until she had no choice but to stand by the bar and wait for Jim to come and make conversation.
"I see you were busy getting to know my new DI, Gillian." His voice was calm but dripping with sarcasm. "Was he telling you all about his exciting new promotion?" Jim seemed far too amused for her liking. She couldn't resist; she had to bite. "What in the hell are you up to, Jim?" She spat viciously, her voice hushed. Jim merely looked back at her, his eyes mocking her. "Well, I needed a DI, and I really couldn't think of anyone better but dear, old Michael over there; so brave, so trusting..." Gillian's jaw dropped slightly at what he was alluding to. "But, it's a dangerous job; he'll be in the front lines, never far from harm's way. Anything could happen." Keats chuckled a cold and false laugh. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her outrage; she ground her teeth and shook her head. "Oh, your face, Gillian; it's a picture." Jim threw his head back, laughing hysterically.
That night she would do something that she never thought she would; but the phrase "by any means necessary" couldn't escape her. These were just about as exceptional as circumstances could get. The night well underway, the crowd crushing to the beat, Gillian stood by the stage door and handed a wad of rolled up notes to a stranger. "And you're sure you can get it." She spoke definitively, trying to sound like she'd done this many times before. "I can get anything you want, darlin'; what you do with it is up to you." And with that, the stranger was away into the dark, rainy evening.
Her sleep was restless again that evening. Gillian looked longingly at the television set in the corner of her living room. "Got anything for me, Amz? What's the news? Amz...Amy! Anybody...?" But no one answered. She found her thoughts drifting to the one place they shouldn't. She thought it a massive cliché that she wasn't lonely before she had met Jim. She'd relished her freedom, finding comfort in living alone; and now, she felt as though he had awoken something within her that she'd never be able to ignore.
Gillian was occupied the next day at Romeo and Juliet's, making sure the till from the night before had been cashed out, then zeroing out the balance on the register so it was ready for today's business. Suddenly, Gene battered through the doors, seemingly not content to leave it on its hinges. "Oi, Daisy! Get me a drink; a real drink not any of that piss water that you try and pass off as lager. Get me a whiskey!", he bellowed, taking his place on the bar stool in front of her. "Seriously? It's 11.30 in the morning!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "I know, got some catching up to do, 'aven't I? I'm normally on me second by now!" Gillian knew not to argue with him when he was in this mood. It's not like she could warn that it would kill him; she knew he was still going strong, well into his 60s back in 2010. She poured him a large whiskey and set it before him. Not asking for payment, she looked at him with understanding eyes. "What's up?" she dared. "Nothin', " he grumbled, raising the glass to pursed lips. "Ummm...right. Sure doesn't look like 'nothing'." Gillian observed him as she pretended to polish a few glasses.
"That bloody Judas, Michael; I knew he was a whinging, whining, Southern dickhead but I never had him pinned for this!" Gene's voice was rough; he was clearly livid.
"What's he done?" Gillian decided that pleading ignorance was the best policy; no need to rub salt in the wound by telling him Jim had been in the previous evening announcing it to all and sundry.
"He's only gone to work with that pencil-necked, four-eyed bastard Keats, can you believe it? He'll be lucky to see any real police work again, the sniveling little sod. Keats will have him sharpening his pencils and alphabetising his copies of potholing bloody monthly! How I stopped myself from kicking him down those bleedin' stairs I will never know!" Without drawing a breath, Gene downed the whiskey in one shot.
"Wait-why were they going downstairs?" Gillian placed her hand on the bar in front of Gene as if to emphasise her point. "Keats' office is on your floor; why would he be going downstairs?" Suddenly, she felt deeply nervous, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"I dunno-who do I look like, Doris bloody Stokes?" Gene seemed disgruntled; he had hoped for a sympathetic ear. "Where are you going, woman? Why are you running about like a sodding whirling dervish?" He looked on, confused as Gillian raced around behind the bar collecting her bag and car keys. She fled by Gene towards the door. "Whoa whoa whoa!" He managed to catch her arm as she attempted to whiz past him. "I'll explain on the way; come on, we don't have much time! Let's use your car, it's faster!" Gillian rattled the words out as fast as her tongue would allow. This in turn pulled Gene to his feet; he followed her as she fled out the door. "OI! DAISY! Hold up right there, missus! Oh we'll take my car, will we? Well, fine-but you're not driving. I've seen you drive that Datsun of yours, you're like Stirling Moss in a wonder bra!" For a moment she paused, staring at him indignantly despite her great hurry. "Well, I supposed I learned from the best then, didn't I?" Gillian threw him a grin that told him she knew something he didn't know. No sooner had she slammed the car door than they were hurtling once again through the back streets of Manchester, this time in the direction of Manchester CID.