A/N: The second of tonight's double dose x

Chapter Twenty Five: 1995

With great trepidation, Simon entered Keats's flat with the help of a helpful shoulder shove in the direction of the door from Gene. He looked around with such deep nervousness that he felt himself tremble conspicuously from head to toe. He felt grateful for Gene's company and support - just knowing that he was there gave him strength and encouragement. They'd barely taken a few steps inside when Gene spotted something he really didn't wish to see.

"Oh shit, there it is," he mumbled.

Simon glanced back at Gene and then followed his gaze to a framed photograph on the wall which sent him scurrying around behind Gene with a cry of;

"Shit!"

Gene froze and frowned. Then he looked behind him.

"Shoebury," he began questioningly, "Am I right in thinking that you are hiding behind me?"

He heard Simon gulp.

"Uh, yes…" he squeaked.

Gene sighed.

"Fine," he said, "fine, if you're that scared of one little autograph then you stay right there and let the Gene Genie protect you." He paused and licked his lips. "Of course, standing there you'll be in prime position to experience the physical effects of being in close proximity of the Ridgeley autograph…"

"Shit," Simon cursed, scurrying out from behind him.

"Exactly," Gene said smugly.

Simon rubbed his head and looked on in horror.

"Gene, I thought you said you'd destroyed this a few weeks ago!" he cried.

"Shot the one in his other house," Gene informed him.

Simon sighed and shook his head slowly.

"No man should have two Ridgeley autographs," he said.

"We already established Keats is not a man," Gene reminded him.

Simon nodded slowly.

"Look, can we go and check one of the other rooms first?" he asked, "I can't face that thing staring at me. Not yet. My stomach's already churning"

"You want to go and check his bog?" asked Gene.

"No," sighed Simon, "We'll go through there to –" his finger rose to point to the bedroom door but halfway there he froze. Almost like a scene in a movie a terrible, vivid flashback played through his mind. It came upon him in an instant, out of nowhere; burst through his mind like fire and sent pain through his chest. He flinched horribly and his eyes shut tightly. "Oh God," he whispered, "oh my God."

Gene looked at him curiously.

"Either you've just found religion or you've spotted another autograph," he said, a little fearfully.

Simon's eyes opened and fixed upon Gene. His lip waivered as he spoke.

"I've been here before," he whispered.

Gene frowned.

"When Susannah –"

"No, I've been in here before," Simon pointed his finger to the ground, indicating he meant the flat, "I've been in this place. But not in this time."

Gene felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand on end.

"What do you mean, Shoebury?" he asked

"Back home," Simon's voice was quiet and shaken, "two thousand and ten. He was still living here then. He must have stayed in the same place ever since he woke from his coma." He turned away for a moment. He couldn't face looking Gene in the eye. A feeling of shame and horror washed over him as he began quietly, "they showed us this place… after he died. They asked if we wanted to see it, and we said yes. I-I can't remember why…" he swallowed, "we thought it might help us to come to terms with it. Put it behind us." He turned slowly to the wall behind him and walked over to it. His hand rose up and gently touched the bright white paintwork. "There were photographs," his voice was strained, "of me. Floor to ceiling. He'd followed me, and Robin too, for weeks. There were hundreds." He slowly withdrew his hand and turned his head downwards to the floor. "They found all sorts in there, Gene," her whispered, "hundreds of files, drugs, pictures – it was worse than you could ever imagine."

He found he was unable to speak any more. He fell silent, shaking and scared, fearing he might begin to cry. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He concentrated hard on keeping his emotions in check, taking a deep breath top quell the sob that threatened to emerge. He found a surprising hand of support on his shoulder and glanced around.

"You want to find the man," he said quietly, "don't let the monster spoil that for you. Pull yerself together and get in that room, find what you're looking for and prove me wrong."

Simon looked Gene in the eye at last. He saw something in his expression he hadn't seen before. It was faith; trust. Slowly he nodded, then he set his jaw firmly and began to walk to the doorway of Keats's bedroom.

He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. The bedroom was almost immaculate. Unlived-in. He realised that Keats had left that room more or less alone and based himself on the couch.

"Just like at home," Simon said quietly, remembering the flat he'd seen in 2010.

"So tell me, Shoebury-Thomas," Gene began, for once remembering to use Simon's new name, "what exactly are we looking for here? Garlic? Kryptonite?"

"I don't know what we're looking for," Simon sighed, "try looking over there in his bedside drawers."

Gene frowned at him.

"I never thought I'd be rooting around in Jimbo's drawers for anything," he mumbled.

"I'll try over here," Simon told him, pulling out a few filing boxes from beneath a small desk.

Gene rummaged through a drawer cautiously, never too sure of what he was going to find.

"Few too many pencils in here for my liking," he said, "anything interesting over there?"

Simon pulled a handful of papers out of the first box and sighed.

"Not yet," he said, "these all seem to belong to the younger him. The one that's in the coma." He glanced at Gene. "Can't we just go and switch off his life support system or something?"

"You want to spend eternity in prison as a cop killer?" Gene asked.

Simon turned away and looked back at the files in his hands.

"It was only a suggestion," he mumbled. He put down the paperwork he'd been looking at and pulled out another sheet of paper instead. "Hmm, Keats' original letter of acceptance into –" he froze as he held the paper in his hand. There was something strange; a sensation. A feeling that settled upon him. A warmth that ran through his fingers as he gripped the sheet. It was the strangest thing but he could swear that he felt the warmth of a hand below his own. A strange feeling of affection and tenderness soared through his body. He couldn't explain it – couldn't even begin to. It made him gasp a little and close his eyes.

"Shoebury?"

Gene's tone of concern pushed his eyes open again and he turned around, a little shaken.

"I feel weird," he breathed; the tingling, warm sensation still adorning his fingers.

"That'll be the autograph," Gene told him gruffly, "you want to go and take some of those tablets."

"No," Simon sighed, "my hand…" as he spoke the sensation began to fade. He closed his eyes for just a moment, trying to hold onto the feeling. "It was strange. I felt warm. It was like…" He paused. There was no way he could explain it to Gene without being accused of either a) losing his marbles, b) having jumpers for brains or c) watching one episode of the X Files too many. He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he whispered, "must have been warm air from the radiator." Still feeling shaken he pushed the papers back into the box and put it away under the desk. "I don't think we're going to find anything in here, Gene, this is all his younger self's stuff. We're going to have to try the lounge."

"Ridgeley City," Gene said grimly. He nodded and sighed. "Let's fire up the Diocalm."

It was with some reluctance that they trailed back into the lounge, purposefully turning a cold shoulder to one particular photograph.

"I can still feel it staring at me," Simon shuddered.

"What's this, a new X Files plot?" Gene asked, "Deadly autograph, stares at you from the wall and swoops when yer back's turned?"

"Yeeee-arggh!" Simon spun around quickly to check that was not the case. "Phew," the autograph seemed to be motionless and silent on the wall. It still turned his stomach though.

"Can we get on with this?" Gene asked crossly, "It's just I'd rather not sit around in Jimbo's lounge, soaking up the atmosphere. I can almost feel horns and a tail sprouting."

"Alright," Simon sat down on the couch and pulled a bundle of papers that were stacked on the floor behind it onto his lap, "I'll check these, you go and look through those folders on the table." He sank back into the sofa and adjusted his position a little. It was soft and cosy, a far cry from the hard seat in the Fiat he'd been suffering all night. He gave a deep sigh of contentment as he leaned back and began to read.

"Why are you making sex noises on Jimbo's couch?" Gene demanded.

Simon sat bolt-upright, knocking papers to the floor.

"I was not!" he cried crossly, "it was soft and comfy, that's all!"

"Yer brain's soft and comfy," Gene told him, grabbing some folders and starting to check through. With the very first one, he struck gold. "Oh, hang on. Looks like Jimbo's found himself a little side line."

"What do you mean?" frowned Simon.

"Looks like Fenchurch West CID isn't paying enough for him," Gene continued, "he's found himself a way to make a bit of pocket money." He took the folder across to Simon and handed him a sheet of paper.

"What's this?" he asked. He scanned the details for a moment, then his mouth dropped open. "Nailer?"

"That's right," said Gene, "his drug-dealing lodger seems to have struck up a little partnership with our friend Jim."

"But Nailer's still locked up," frowned Simon, "he's awaiting trial isn't he?"

"And look who's helping him with some of 'is business dealings while he's inside," said Gene. He continued to look through some of the other papers from the folder. "Looks like those two have struck up a heart-warming friendship."

"What's he doing?" frowned Simon, "is he actually handling the narcotics?"

Gene shook his head slowly.

"Jimbo's too smart for that," he said, "literally keeping his nose clean there." He put some of the papers down and sank beside Simon on the couch. "This 'ere says…" his face developed a curious expression. "Bloody hell, this really is comfortable!"

"Told you," muttered Simon, taking some of the papers from Gene.

"There's a list of names here," Gene took one sheet from the pile, "I know a few of these. Some kind of figures by their side."

Simon peered at it.

"Payment? Amounts? Pick up dates?"

"This must be Nailer's equivalent of a payroll," Gene commented. He flicked through some more sheets. "Got Jimbo doing the accountant's job – hey-ho, what's this?"

Simon looked at him incredulously.

"Hey-ho?" he repeated.

"I'm experimenting with language," Gene mumbled. He let all his papers go to the floor but one now. It was a hand-written sheet in Nailer's handwriting with amendments from Keats in various places.

"Well, what is it then?" asked Simon.

"Something a bit less official than his payroll," Gene mumbled, "Sweep up. What does he mean 'sweep up'?" He pointed to the words at the top of the page.

"Clean-up operation?" Simon shrugged, "covering his tracks?"

Gene shook his head slowly.

"Don't think so," he said quietly, "more names on here."

"Covering the tracks of his supply line? Or people dealing for him?"

"Maybe clearing up as much evidence as possible to help him when he's standing in the dock," Gene wondered then shook his head. "No…. don't see how that could fit" A frown appeared on his face right then and his expression darkened. "Bloody hell."

"What?" Simon asked.

"That's a blast from the past," said Gene, "literally."

"What? Who?" Simon frowned and tried to see what had shaken Gene. He followed his finger to a name on the page. "Layton?" Simon knew that name, but it was for different reasons to Gene. He looked up, his mouth hanging wide open and stared Gene right in the eye. "But…. That can't be Arthur Layton?"

"Unless Layton is a popular name amongst dealing piss-artists then I think it's a safe bet to assume he's the same one."

Simon bit his lip.

"Layton shot Alex," he said quietly, "in two thousand and eight. I read all about it in her file." He took a deep breath. "He was never caught."

"He's good at disappearing," Gene muttered, "nice guy that one. Good with explosives too."

Something sparked in Simon's head. His eyes opened wide and he scrambled off the Extremely Comfortable Couch.

"Fuck!" he cried, "Gene, the bomb! The bomb in Nailer's computer. The one that destroyed half the station.

A terrible realisation dawned over Gene. It started at his shoulders like a ten ton weight and filtered through every inch of his body.

"No," he whispered, "couldn't be."

Simon looked at him seriously.

"You said yourself at the time Nailer had no history of using explosives," he reminded him, "that's why no one thought to check for boobytraps."

"Nailer never laid blame on anyone else," Gene reminded him.

"Maybe he owed Layton," Simon suggested, "or Layton owed him. Both involved in dealing."

"Layton's not quite the big fish that Nailer claims to be," said Gene.

"We don't know what could have happened in the past," Simon shrugged, "Maybe Layton worked for Nailer at some point? Maybe the other way around? Maybe Nailer knew about Layton's past and asked for a favour in exchange for not handing him in?" He exhaled and closed his eyes. "Sweep up…" he said quietly, trying to work out what it meant, "Maybe… maybe trying to clear the path linking him with Layton?"

"Doesn't make sense," sighed Gene, "if Layton built the bomb then wouldn't Nailer have been itching to drop him in it? Save him a few years off his sentence at least?"

"Yeah, but if Layton spilled that Nailer commissioned him to build the bomb that'll put those years right back on," Simon reminded him, "Nailer's not pinned blame on anyone but not claimed he built it either. He's been playing the 'what bomb?' game. I think at one point he blamed the explosion on the sprouts they served in the canteen."

Gene gave a frustrated sigh, partly in confusion about the connection between Nailer, Keats and Layton and partly because Simon had reminded him how close they were to Christmas and that an abundance of sprouts in the canteen was looming.

"So what's Layton's name doing on a list under Keats's care?" he asked quietly.

Simon looked at him. His heart was sinking a little.

"Both of Alex's would-be killers," he said quietly, "connected, right here. Right there," he pointed to the sheet of paper. "Layton and Keats both almost killed her with their bullets. She survived them both. And now they're linked." He shook his head slowly. "What the hell is Keats doing messing with Nailer and Layton?"

"Not sure who's messing with who in that tangle," said Gene. He shuddered as he looked around. He could almost feel the evilness oozing out of the walls. "Don't fancy sticking around for much longer," he said, "maybe it's that Ridgeley picture but my guts aren't feeling right."

"I know what you mean," sighed Simon, "OK, take that file and we'll go through it back at the office. I'll just finish looking through this pile and then we'll leave. I don't think he's got much here. We need to look for something going back further than this. Could we get hold of any of his stuff from when he was here before?" he opened a folder, "I mean, when he was…. Uh…" he trailed off as he read the sheet on the top. He gulped. His skin turned a beautiful shade of green.

"Shoebury, you're looking seasick," Gene pointed out.

Simon gasped and drew his hand to his mouth in horror.

"Oh God, Gene," he whispered, "It's awful."

Gene felt his pulse rocketing.

"What?" he steeled himself for the worst as Simon gulped back bile and read out loud;

"Dear Jim, thank you for your continued interest in my career, your 1,354th letter and your many complimentary words about Club Tropicana. I enclose yet another autograph for your collection. Unfortunately after much thought I have decided I would prefer not to record a cover version of 'That Ol' Devil Called Love' with you. I do not feel your coat and specs are compatible with my image. Also, can you please stop following me home after concerts? I know it's you, I can smell your cigarette smoke and you've dropped little D&C business cards all over my driveway."

He couldn't bring himself to read any further and allowed the sheet of paper to float aimlessly to the ground.

Gene turned pale.

"You still got those tablets?" he asked.

Simon was really starting to regret his decision to raid Keats's flat.

"I think we should take some of this stuff and get out while we still have control over our bowels," he said.

"You were the one dead set on storming his castle," Gene pointed out.

"But the kind of stuff I wanted to find doesn't seem to be here," Simon said with disappointment, "there's his stuff from before his coma and his stuff since he came back to ninety five but nothing from when he was here bfeore. I need stuff from when he went back the first time when you met him in eighty three." He paused. "Where was he living then?"

"What makes you think I'd have a clue?" cried Gene, "I never went round for a sleepover with Uncle Jim!"

Simon sighed.

"Alright," he tried, "what about when he turned up at Fenchurch East. He had an office there, right? In the basement?" he hesitated as Gene gave a reluctant nod. "That's where I got shot," he continued quietly, "where Alex saved me. Sent me back." Suddenly he began to feel a little choked. His first time in Gene' world and Alex's actions that sent him home felt like something of a dream; distant and removed from his thoughts. He remembered how easily Keats had manipulated him back then. He hadn't realised how deeply his sense of guilt still ran for what he did to Gene at the time.

"Yes," Gene said gruffly, "he's always enjoyed the delights of the lower levels."

"What happened to all his stuff, Gene?"

Gene exhaled loudly and rubbed his forehead.

"Basement was locked up the day he died," he said quietly, "No one's been down there since."

Simon bit his lip.

"Are all his files still down there?" he asked, "all his papers? His tapes and stuff?"

"Simon, that room has not been touched in a decade," Gene said quietly.

Simon nodded slowly, an idea forming in his head.

"So my next question –" he began but Gene cut him off.

"You already died in that room once," he interrupted, "I'm not all that happy about the idea of you going back for an encore."

"Nothing's going to kill me down there!" Simon protested.

"Might suck out your soul though," Gene said quietly.

Simon looked down. He folded his hands in his lap.

"I'm not mad keen on the idea of spending time in a room where I died," he said bitterly, "but if it stops him doing the same thing to others… the same thing he's done already to far too many people… I'm willing to do it."

Gene stared at him. He was torn between his frustration at the stupidity Simon was displaying – the thought of anyone willingly venturing into Keats's history bewildered him – and his admiration for his persistence and guts. Simon had a courage far beyond that of which Gene had expected. He swallowed as he tried to compose his thoughts.

"Bit stuffy down there," he said

Simon nodded slowly.

"I'll take a fan," he said.

"Might be a few moths down there," Gene told him

"Like when you get out your wallet to buy a round?" Simon joked.

Gene wasn't laughing

"We locked that room for a reason," he said firmly, "whatever is down there.. whatever he left… I don't want it hurting you."

Simon breathed deeply

"We came this far," he said quietly.

Gene closed his eyes. It was clear that Simon wasn't going to be talked round. He was every bit as bloody stubborn as Gene was himself. It was a bit like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. Finally, Gene decided to move, just this once.

"We'll go back to the station," he said grimly, "I'll give you the key. And I'll send Vickery down every fifteen minutes to check you haven't been Wham!ed to death."

Simon tried to smile but his expression was strained and anxious. It was, however, also grateful and appreciative.

"Whatever made him this way," he said, "I'll find it"

Gene swallowed again. He felt chills travelling through his veins.

"We should leave before he comes back looking for 'is packed lunch," he said quietly.

Simon nodded.

"Take those files," he said, "and I'll take that case." He pointed to a briefcase under the table.

"Why? What's in it?" asked Gene.

Simon shrugged.

"No idea," he said, "I just think it will really piss him off."

Gene looked at Simon with one eyebrow raised, then nodded. He liked that way of thinking.

"Time to make a quick exit," he decided, "I can feel a case of the Ridgeleys coming on."

He clutched his stomach as the autograph began to overwhelm him and together they gathered up what they needed to take, then left the flat. They could almost feel the energy lifting and clearing around them as they passed through the doors and escaped back into the world beyond.

It wasn't until they made their way back down the fire escape that Gene came to realise how close he'd felt to Alex – his Alex - all the time they'd been there. It struck him as strange. It felt almost as though they were breathing the same air. He shrugged the thought away, trying to focus instead on how to get her back. He didn't like the idea of Simon surrounding himself in Jimbo's old haunt but he couldn't deny that the truth was probably locked up there, below stairs.

He felt a sense of foreboding about the situation and knew that whatever Simon found could have far reaching consequences for them all. He knew that what lay down in the basement could never be good. He just hoped that there was something down there to bring his Alex back – and maybe even to get the devil off their backs for good.