A/N I'm sorry for the long wait for an update; I lost someone wonderful last month and writing this chapter slipped to the bottom of the (suddenly very long) list of things I needed to do.
Door To The River
Chapter Seven ~ Gone Dark
Instead of following through on his desire, and leaning in to kiss Alex, Gene pulled back slightly; just the sound of Keats' voice was enough to put him off his stride. It was a power the other DCI had wielded from the moment he'd stepped into Gene's office and had threatened to tear down his empire; he used to think it was because Keats had somehow worked out his - slightly illegal - part in Sam Tyler's 'death' and would, after a suitable amount of time spent toying with him, eventually expose his indiscretion and ensure that the axe that had teetered over his head for far too long would finally fall. But it seemed now that Keats had been more perceptive than that. The bastard must have known what had really happened at Farringfield Green right from the start and that using this particular piece of his past against him would be far more effective - and more devastating - than simply stripping him of his rank. This way had the capacity to strip him of absolutely everything.
To the rest of the team he was simply the 'Guv'; someone who commanded loyalty and respect, neither of which could really be demanded by some daft kid who'd managed to get himself killed before he'd even had the chance to scuff his boots. Thanks to the sympathetic ear that DCI Keats had extended to each of them - coupled with his own behaviour during these last few months - he wouldn't blame any of them for turning their backs on him once they found out the truth. And Keats would no doubt take great pleasure in telling them, if he hadn't already done so. They were probably half way out of the door by now, just like Sam Tyler - whose strange behaviour just before his departure made more sense now. Gene had considered the younger man to be the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had but it hurt to realise that even he hadn't wanted to stick around once he'd discovered the secret that lay buried at Farringfield Green. But Keats had ultimately failed because Gene still had Alex; she was prepared to look beyond the blood that was, most likely, beneath the layers of dust and time, still staining the floor of this very kitchen - and she was willing to see past the young man who'd spilt it.
Behind him, the dying light of what was turning out to be the darkest day of his - admittedly counterfeit - life squeezed its way through crooked gaps, that had been created by haphazardly nailed planks of wood on the window outside, and into the kitchen, navigating their way round his body to fall gently on Alex, highlighting every beautiful inch of her face. The uncertain smile that had nestled on her mouth as she'd made her confession was still present and he wished he'd taken the chance to kiss it away, just as he had done - almost a lifetime ago, now - in her bed at the start of the day. He didn't want her to think that her words had meant nothing to him because they'd meant the world; maybe even this world. Still wary of the intruder who'd denied him the intimacy he'd needed, he offered Alex a small smile which drew her lips into a straighter, more assured, line but as Keats - who had the most annoying habit of interrupting at the worst possible moments though, to be fair, any moment that had Keats in it was immediately ruined - spoke up again, directing his words at Alex once more, her smile dissolved into a frown.
"Is this what you really want, Alex?" Keats demanded harshly from the gloomy end of the kitchen where he was still loitering. Both of his hands were tucked deeply into the pockets of his long grey raincoat and anger was etched almost as deeply onto his face as his question went unanswered, and he continued to be ignored, by the other occupants of the room. "Don't you see what he's done? He's kept you here all this time, Alex. You and Chris and Ray and Shaz. Dragged you all into his little fantasy, bullied you into accepting that this world was real and all so he didn't have to face up to the truth about himself."
Gene wanted to deny the accusation but couldn't. Until just a few minutes ago he'd been certain that this world was real and that he was very much alive but that had all been turned on its head; for all he knew, he could be guilty of all the charges Keats had just levelled at him. But Alex would know anyway. She'd always known; his crazy fruitcake of a DI, with all her talk of the future and constructs and reality, wasn't as nutty as he'd always thought she was. Or maybe she was crazy for still wanting to be with him after some of the things he'd done to her. Most of the time he'd just ignored her strange comments or dismissed them with a scathing shake of the head but other times he'd teased her, mocked her even, and had come up with a succession of names for her. And although most of that went part and parcel with working in CID there were other, more regrettable, instances that should have made her want nothing to do with him at all; he realised now that she'd told him the truth that day in his office, just before Operation Rose had went down, and all he'd done was shout at her, reject her, suspend her and then shoot her.
"Alex..." he started slowly, not sure if he should apologise to her for the things he'd said and done, thank her for never giving up on him, or ask her what the hell was going on - and, for once, it was the latter that scared him the most; he'd say sorry a thousand times and spend the rest of his time here singing her praises if it meant avoiding the truth for just a little bit longer. The fact that she still had feelings for him - hopefully - meant that he hadn't somehow unwittingly conspired against her or the others but even if that was the case he couldn't see a happy ending on the horizon; either Alex, and the others, were still alive and could leave this world - and consequently him - or they were all like him and dead in the ground. His gut was telling him, maybe because of that connection he'd always felt with her, that Alex was dead. And that she just didn't know it.
"I know," Alex soothed as he struggled for more words, but it didn't have as much of an impact as she'd hoped. When she'd told Gene that she loved him he'd stood that little bit taller and she'd seen the most amazing spark in his eyes; they were usually so guarded but there'd been fight and hope - and perhaps reciprocation - stirring violently and desperately in those captivating eyes of his. It had been a beautiful sight that had unfortunately died away as soon as Keats had made his presence known and now, thanks to the weighty accusation that Keats had just slung their way, Gene's shoulders had sagged once more and that brief flicker of a smile had been vanquished. He looked as broken and beaten as when she'd first entered the kitchen and it was all Keats' fault. She longed to reach out to Gene, to reassure him further, but she was reluctant to do so in front of their no doubt, though she had no desire to look that way and confirm as much, grinning audience. She had the feeling that he was just waiting to pounce on any sign of weakness.
It was a two-pronged attack by DCI Keats; he wanted to get at Gene, to kick him whilst he was already down, and he wanted her to start questioning everything Gene had - and hadn't - done, to start doubting him once again. And she wasn't going to let either of those things happen. She couldn't speak for the others - though she realised now exactly what that elusive thought back at the station had pertained to - but she knew, admittedly deep in her heart which might just be a little biased, that Gene had not deliberately kept her here. Yes, he had believed that this world was real and had therefore demanded the same of her; sometimes that approach had hampered her attempts to pursue leads that she'd been sure would get her home but it hadn't been done knowingly - and those 'leads' had never materialised into much anyway. And even if she could find it in her to blame him for doing something unintentionally, he'd treat Sam Tyler in the exact same manner and Sam had still managed to find his way - albeit briefly - home. Gene Hunt had no more power over this world than she or Sam or any of them. "It wasn't like that at all. You just forgot," she added on, hoping the words would be enough.
"I'm sure Sam Tyler found some comfort in that ignorance when he realised his Guv was nothing but a skinny kid who hadn't lasted a week in uniform," Keats interjected, still choosing to skulk about in the shadows. "He couldn't wait to get away from you could he, Gene? Once he'd found out the truth. It must have killed him all over again to realise exactly what he'd thrown his life away for. Did you know Tyler committed suicide to get back here because he thought this was all real? You might as well have pushed him off the roof with your own two hands, Hunt."
A look of pain and utter despair swept over Gene's face before his eyes dropped from hers to stare quietly at his muddy boots. Alex hated Keats in that moment. Granted, she'd never been particularly keen on the other DCI but her anger towards him was swiftly reaching new heights; it flooded through her as she slowly stepped to one side, placing herself between Gene and the man who seemed hell bent on destroying him, and then pooled in her hands, forcing her fingers, which were already curled together in an effort to find warmth, further into her palm - it wasn't enough to break the skin but sufficient to leave a row of small arches on her hand. Keats stared back at her; thanks to the gloom she couldn't quite make out his face but she could feel his eyes on her, could almost feel the vicious smirk on his lips.
"It was Sam's choice to come back here," she said, loudly enough for Gene to hear, too though she wondered if he would even understand. From a conversation she'd had with Ray right back at the beginning of her journey in this world she knew that as far as Gene and the others were concerned, Sam hadn't left this world until his 'accident' just a few years ago. This would all be so confusing for him. If Keats hadn't turned up she could have taken the time to try and explain everything to Gene, now that he knew this world wasn't what it seemed, and it might have went a lot more smoothly than the last time she'd tried to tell him the truth. However, DI Tyler would have still been a tricky chapter of the story. She wasn't sure how much Sam had understood before he'd jumped from the roof of his station; in all of the tapes he'd sent her, he'd never once mentioned that he thought Gene or any of the people he'd met, and had described so vividly, had once existed nor was there anything to suggest that he believed this world was anything other than a coma induced fantasy. And she was completely in the dark as to why he'd wanted to leave when he'd discovered that he'd been wrong on all counts - and as to exactly where he had then disappeared to.
"And what about you, Alex?" Keats asked, finally stepping out of the dark and towards her. "What choice will you make? It's too late for the others but I can still help you get home. That's what you really want, isn't it? To go back to your daughter, back to Molly. I can help you. You just need to trust me."
To her shame, a small part of her wanted to believe him. Oh, she knew that he wasn't to be trusted, that every sixth word that came out of the man's mouth was either a twisted lie or an attempt at misdirection, but he was right about one thing - she wanted to be with her daughter. She shook her head, slowly and steadily, in defiance and in an attempt to oust the little piece of desperate hope that was in danger of leading her down the wrong path. "There's only one man I trust and it's not you."
"Such a shame," Keats tutted, shaking his own head - rather exaggeratedly - as he took another step towards her. "I had great plans for you, Alex," he confided as the room darkened noticeably, the sun outside on the last leg of its descent.
Gene suddenly stirred into life at the implied threat, the faint shadows dancing on the floor in front of her betraying his movements as much as the noise he was making - which sounded suspiciously like the cutlery that had lain abandoned, Mary Celeste style, next to the sink behind him being disturbed. As he stepped into line beside her she unclenched one hand and held it out, catching his forearm and silently persuading him not to proceed any further. She was relieved to see his fighting spirit resurfacing but she feared that Keats would have Gene hauled up on charges if he went over there and attacked the other man. If that kind of thing actually mattered now; there was certainly more to Keats than Discipline and Complaints and than he'd ever let on - she just wasn't sure what that was. "No, you didn't. You never had any intention of helping me. You were just using me to get at Gene and I'm done with listening to all of your lies."
The top lip of Keats' mouth curled briefly into an ugly sneer. "You think you've got it all worked out, don't you?" he asked but didn't pause for breath to give her an opportunity to answer the question. "But you've got no idea what this place is, what's really going on here, or even why you're here, have you? You still can't see it. Oh, this is too much," he smirked, an action that was more threatening than his sneer. "You're dead, Alex."
"No," she refuted quickly, accompanying it with a small shake of her head, but the defence of her own mortality was markedly less vehement than her defence of Gene had been. She'd always been able to deny the possibility that she might be dead; there'd been signs from the real world, clues to follow and a reason to keep fighting - but most importantly there'd been no one else to make her doubt herself. All of this was in her head and she was the master of her own destiny. But she knew now that this wasn't in her head and that she had very little control over her destiny - either in this world or the real one.
"You're as deluded as he is, Alex," Keats crowed as he took one more step towards her, putting himself just outside of reaching distance. "Maybe I should just leave you here believing that you can still go home. It'd almost be a Hell in itself. And poor Molly would still be all alone. No one to love her. Abandoned by her mother and-"
Cut off mid sentence, Keats clearly hadn't anticipated her taking a step forward and punching him; and if he'd seen her left hook coming, he couldn't have expected the force behind it either as the blow sent him staggering backwards. In truth, she'd surprised herself just as much as him. Physical violence wasn't her style at all - she must have been hanging around with Gene for far too long - but, even as her knuckles began to pulse with a sharp pain that saw fit to travel furiously up the back of her hand and through her forearm, she could suddenly see the attraction; it certainly felt good, satisfying even. And it felt so very real, a tangible piece of evidence for her to cling hopelessly on to because in her heart she knew that one of the more troubling features of this world was its authenticity.
She flexed her hand in an attempt to disperse some of the pain - and her doubts - as Keats caressed his jaw with his own hand, now standing straight once more. His eyes seemed to almost glow with anger as he stared at her though she was sure that it was simply a trick of the light, merely Keats' - thanks to her fist - askew spectacles flirting with the weak sunshine. Next to her, Gene shifted on his feet once more, a lion readying himself in anticipation of the retaliation that was sure to come, but she couldn't move. Her feet remained glued to the floor, frozen there by the insidious thought that Keats was right. Since she'd woken from her coma-within-a-coma there'd been no visions of her darling daughter to comfort her; there'd been no communication from the real world, no words of encouragement or reassuring echoes of hospital machinery; in fact, the last time she'd had any sort of 'otherworldly' experience had been the day she'd half dreamt, half imagined that she was being buried alive.
A small shiver hurried down her spine; far colder than the dank and dusty room around her, or the bitter winter's day outside, it spread throughout her body, settling in her bones. If she'd been able to move she would have taken a step backwards, away from the horrific thought that was swirling around her head and the man who had instigated it but she remained helplessly inert. In front of her, Keats' hand slipped from his jaw to his glasses, readjusting them on his face and disturbing memories of another day - the day she'd reluctantly spent some time on a dingy barge with a cold, calculating madman. Images of that morning flooded through her mind; Arthur Layton replacing his sunglasses before smirking at her as if he knew something she didn't; her - almost desperate - plea for an explanation as Layton aimed his gun in her direction; the unexpected explosion, because she'd really thought - and had desperately hoped - that she could talk her way out of it, as he'd pulled the trigger; and finally that bullet, spinning fatefully - and she now realised, fatally - towards her head.
The ache in her hand faded along with the memories, numbed by the cold and the chilling acceptance of the one fact she had always tried to deny. The one truth that had been in front of her from the start, in black letters on a white board and written by her own hand: DEAD. There'd never been a way home for her; she'd been lucky to make it as far as the hospital but that was probably only through sheer bloody mindedness - something that, after nearly three years of heavy usage, she was all out of. The realisation hit her almost as hard as the cast iron pan in Gene's hand struck the side of Keats' head, sending her tormentor to the floor in a crumpled heap; she'd been so distracted that she'd not noticed that either man had moved until then.
Satisfied that the other man was out for the count, Gene threw the blackened frying pan to the floor, making sure it bounced off Keats' prone body on the way down; the pan had been the nearest and solidest thing to hand when he'd stirred from his own morose thoughts and realised that Alex was under attack, that Keats was going to reveal the truth to her. He should have knocked the bastard out there and then but Alex had wanted to stand her own ground and he'd relented, a part of him relieved that he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her. He really wasn't that great at that sort of thing but as he turned his attention back to Alex he realised, even before she whispered his name so hauntingly, that she still wanted - still needed - him regardless.
"Come here," he ordered gently, but he was the one who moved and quickly at that, managing to catch her before she collapsed. She literally fell into his arms, and him, his sense of timing thankfully still intact. He held her close, tighter than he had the previous night, his heart breaking more for her than it had for his own demise. In the grand scheme of things, he'd lost very little - discounting his life, of course - but, and as Keats had so unkindly pointed out, Alex had a child, a daughter that Gene had once accused her of neglecting, and he couldn't even begin to imagine how painful that loss must feel. Nor did he know what to say, if any words could actually offer her comfort in this moment, as she cried for her daughter; he just held her quietly instead.
And outside, the sun finally fell for the moon, leaving them surrounded only by the night and each other.
