Chapter Twenty Eight

"Hi there, and welcome to the show."

Bob Ross's soft voice and warm smile soothed Robin and Simon's emotions as they let The Learning Channel play away in the background. Neither was in the mood for breakfast. With little sleep and much to worry about cornflakes were not a high priority.

Bob Ross was a pleasant distraction. Robin remembered studying his techniques during his short-lived phase of wanting to become an artist, a plan scuppered when a freak art-supply incident left him with a phobia of paintbrushes and a very sore ear.

"We're just going to run all the colours you need for today's painting across the bottom of the screen," Bob told them, "and I thought today we'd just do a lovely, beautiful sunrise."

As he began smothering the sky with tones of pink and yellow from his two-inch brush Robin sipped his coffee and asked Simon,

"How's your wrist?"

Simon flexed it a little.

"A bit tender," he said, "It's Terry I feel sorry for. He's going to have a Gene Hunt-sized bruise this morning." He sighed. "I'm more annoyed about my watch."

"Get Hunt to buy you a new one as compensation," Robin suggested.

Simon have a gentle laugh.

"It was hard enough getting a drink out of him," he commented, "the only watch he's likely to give me is one he got free out last year's Christmas Cracker."

Bob Ross got out his fan brush and began working on his clouds. Loading his brush with tones of purple and grey he began putting colour over colour.

"And we're just going to go right in here with our fan brush," he said, "just push up along here like this. Wherever you like. Just… wherever…" He finished his first cloud, then turned to the camera and smiled. "Let's give him a little friend."

They saw him start work on the second cloud and watched in silence for a few moments before Simon spoke again.

"We have to tell Alex and Hunt about Keats," he said, "they need to know."

Robin nodded slowly.

"I've just got this awful feeling about today," he said quietly, "this feeling of dread."

"About Keats?"

"I don't know. But there's something. Something in the air."

"You're starting to sound like an episode of The X Files," Simon commented.

Robin opened his mouth to reply but hesitated. Something in Simon's words seemed to stir something deep within his memory but he wasn't sure what it was. He felt like it was right on the edge of remembering but couldn't quite reel in the thought. He must have developed a strange expression because Simon eventually had to ask him what was wrong. Robin shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he said quietly, "something almost came to me."

"What about?"

"It's… I don't know," Robin sighed, "it sounds stupid, it was when you said I sounded like I was in the X Files."

"Don't go shaving your head and calling yourself Skinner," Simon advised, giving up ion the cornflakes and getting up to take his bowl to the sink.

Robin sighed and stood up too.

"Probably lack of sleep messing with my head," he commented.

Back on the screen, Bob Ross put the finishing touches to his dramatic sky; vibrant purple clouds against an iridescent yellow and pink sky.

"It's all up to you," he said gently, "it's your canvas. You can make it look any way you want. Any way at all. It's your decision."

Simon called an end to his artistic advice, switching the TV set off and pulling on his jacket.

"Are you coming to CID or do you have to report to your soon-to-be-ex-Sergeant first?" he asked.

Robin sighed.

"I wouldn't be in this stupid, ancient uniform if I didn't have to go there first," he said "Gene said I've got to report to that Sergeant first, then he's going to come down and officially square the transfer," He paused. "I'm not exactly sure what that's going to entail but going by the way he got me for the Nailer stake-out yesterday there might be items being shoved up noses involved."

Simon decided not to ask.

"You ready?" he asked.

Robin nodded.

"Ready," he said.

They left the flat together, relieved to find no strange packages this time, and set off for work but immediately they found their eyes drawn upwards.

Around them, the most beautiful sunrise stole their breath and their attention. Up in the sky, tones of yellow and pink stretched out beyond trees and buildings while bold purple clouds, so perfect they could almost have been placed there by an artist, stretched across the morning canvas. The dramatic tones and colours stopped them in their tracks, a mirror-image of the painting they'd just switched off inside.

"Oh my god," Simon breathed, taking in the bizarre sight. It wasn't just a coincidence or a similar sky, it was the same down to the smallest detail.

Robin shivered.

"We paint our own canvas," he whispered.

Simon reached out and took his hand. He squeezed it with real determination and said,

"Today is the day we're going to wake up."

Robin gave his reply as a slow nod, anxious for Simon's statement to be true. If they truly could create the painting of their life in any way they wanted then this day was going to see the end of their time in 1995.

~xXx~

Over the breakfast table Gene observed Alex pushing a soggy weetabix around the bowl, clutching her midsection every now and then.

"You alright, Drakey?" he asked, a little nervously.

"Fine," Alex said quietly.

"What is it this time? Poisoned weetabix?" He watched her ignoring him and stepped it up a gear to get a reaction, "impaled yerself on the bog roll holder? Can't be time of the month because you'd have bitten me head off by now."

"Gene!"

"Then why are you holding your gut like you're auditioning for a diarrhoea advert?"

"I'm not," Alex mumbled. As she thought about the pain she kept feeling she began to realise where it was located. Slipping her fingers inside her blouse she felt a familiar scar just in front of the area. "What the… huh." she frowned.

Gene spotted the location of her hand and momentarily lost himself in thoughts that it might be about to head south but unfortunately Alex had no such plans and withdrew it looking thoughtful and a little anxious.

"Now what?" he asked.

Alex went back to her weetabix.

"It's nothing," she insisted, but her mind began to race. She rarely thought about the scar on her stomach, the place Gene's bullet had penetrated. It didn't bother her, it had become less noticeable and while chasing crooks day in and day out she didn't exactly get the tome for lapping up the sun in a bikini. The only time her attention ever came back to it was every now and then in the bedroom when Gene would have an attack of guilt while they were enjoying theselves and try to cover it up to take away the reminder of his rogue shot.

Her mind ran over the possibilities. Why would it be hurting out of the blue? Why now? She remembered the deeper layer her coma entered with his shot, believing she was back home. She recalled her dream from the night before and the words she heard while in her slumber. An anxious thought surfaced that she could be going one of two ways - deeper or out. Both possibilities scared her beyond words.

She glanced at Gene, unaware his tie had dangled in his fried egg and staring at her with concern. She decided to change the subject.

"What did you dream about, Gene?"

Gene looked a little shocked by her question.

"What are you waffling about, Bols?"

"Last night," Alex picked up her spoon again, "what did you dream about?"

"I told you before, Gene Hunt doesn't do dreams."

"Must have been pretty bad to wake you up."

"It did not wake me up!"

"Ahh, so you admit there was a dream," Alex smirked. She watched Gene fishing his tie out of the yolk and swearing profusely. "I know you've dreamed before," she said, "I've heard you talking in your sleep."

"Well I never get a bloody word in edgeways during the day with you, woman," Gene said, wiping his tie on the table, "it's the only chance I get to talk!"

"You sang three verses of The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore last week," Alex smiled.

Gene looked at her, wondering if she was winding him up or whether he'd really done such a thing but couldn't tell whether she was innocent or not.

"Well," he began, "since I'm not planning to join the Fenchurch East Male Voice Choir any time soon I'm glad my musical talent hasn't gone to waste."

Alex watched him polish off the last of his egg and discard the plate in the sink without the good grace of rinsing it off first.

"You can tell me, you know," she said, "your dream. If you want to."

"I'll tell you post-coitally in the back of the Fiat," said Gene.

Alex gave a half-hearted retort but her mind wasn't really on their usual banter. Her anxieties about her own dream, Gene's unspoken nightmare and their musical torment courtesy of Keats were weighing her down. She was in no mood for interrogating Nailer later either but had little choice.

Trying to ignore the various body parts that were giving her trouble she got to her feet and deserted the half-eaten weetabix. They cleared a few pieces of crockery away then scooted out of the door in near silence, barely registering the hazy blue sky above them or the glorious, intact rainbow stretching over them like a handle on the world.

Time to face the music, Alex thought. Possibly literally.

~xXx~

"We need to decide what to do," Malcolm said quietly.

Susannah nodded, totally uninterested in her toast.

"I've been thinking this through," she said, "and I think we've got four options."

Malcolm was glad to hear that. Thinking wasn't his strong point.

"Go on."

"First option: we talk to the Guv," Susannah began, "tell him we know something is going on. Tell him we know Keats is back. Demand to know what the truth of the matter is."

Malcolm shuddered.

"Don't much like the thought of confronting him," he said.

"Option two, do nothing," said Susannah, "go to work, pretend nothing's happened, Forget what we heard. Go on about our work and put the whole thing down to temporary insanity."

Malcolm shook his head slowly.

"I don't think I could do that" he said quietly.

"Neither do I," Susannah agreed, "OK, option three - we find Keats."

"Already hating this option," said Malcolm.

"We track him down through the number Kim called, confront him and find out why he's back and what he's doing."

"Hated that one more as it went on."

"Alright" sighed Susannah, "final option. Talk to Kim. Tell her we overheard her yesterday, tell her about Keats's history and demand some answers."

Malcolm hesitated.

"What if she tells Hunt we were in his office?"

"She doesn't have to know that," said Susannah, "we don't have to tell her where we were listening in from. Besides, she's the one who's been consorting with Jim Keats. She can hardly dob us in."

"Dob us in? How old are you, twelve?"

Susannah gave a tiny smile.

"What do you thinking?"

Malcolm stood up.

"I think," he began, "that we have a plan."

Susannah nodded.

"I agree," she said.

Malcolm set his face in a grim but determined expression.

"Ready to find the truth?" he asked

"As I'll ever be," said Susannah.

That was the last word either of them spoke as they set about their final preparations for work. Their dreams fro the night before were still playing through their minds and all that they'd discovered the previous day was fresh and raw. They knew that whatever lay ahead for them might bring answers they didn't really want to know, but they also knew they couldn't go on in blissful ignorance.

A grey sky greeted them as they left home, clouds masking any sign of the sun. It echoed their emotions and stole the thoughts right out of their minds. It was time to find out for sure who - or what - they truly were, and that thought terrified them more than facing 1,000 clones of Jim Keats.

~xXx~

Paying tribute in this chapter to my personal hero, Bob Ross, a great inspiration to me in my art. I spent much of late 1995 watching reruns of The Joy of Painting on TLC on good ol' Nynex cable TV. I would like to think that if there is a Gene Hunt of the artist world then Bob Ross is the one to oversee the world of troubled artists.