A/N: The second of today's short chapters
Chapter 26: 1996
Gene was shocked by the haunted appearance of Simon as he returned an hour or so after he left.
"Bloody hell, Shoebury, forget being Scrooge, you look like one of his bloody ghosts."
Simon walked slowly to the sofa and sank down onto it, oblivious both to the festive bollocks that Gene was definitely not watching on TV and the apron that Gene was definitely not wearing. He stared at the table for a few moments before he took a deep breath and began.
"This is shit. This –" he indicated the world around him, "this is so bloody hard to deal with."
Gene inched the bridge of his nose and rubbed it as he tried to work out exactly which part of the world was bothering Simon this time.
"How's Eddie?" he asked eventually.
"How do you think he is?" Simon said quietly, "he's just found out that his best friend's death was caused by someone else all along. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't change it. And now he's leant a truth he was better off not knowing."
Gene gave a hefty sigh.
"He's not the first, Simon," he said, "You come here and you learn things from yer past. Bolly did. Stringer did. Selection of twats and weirdos you never met. They all found out things they would rather have kept their heads in the sand about. But they were things that they needed to know."
Simon didn't even look up.
"And it's not as though it's even going to do him any good, because he's never going home, is he?" He paused, waiting for Gene to speak but he didn't respond. "He didn't make it, did he?" He finally looked up and saw a darkness fall over Gene's expression.
"They don't always," he said quietly.
Simon closed his eyes and let out his breath in a half sigh, half sob.
"Shit."
He'd really hoped that he was wrong. He hoped that he still wasn't used to telling that kind of thing yet and Eddie was still fighting on out there, but it wasn't so. He knew Eddie had still been alive as he'd arrived in Gene's world. Somewhere between then and now, he'd lost his fight.
"I wish they could all make it, Shoebury," Gene's tone was different. It wasn't how Simon was used to hearing it. It was gentler, sadder. "But they can't. Some of them are strong enough to keep fighting. Some of them just can't make it."
Simon looked at Gene, desperately hoping for words of wisdom to take away the overwhelming sadness that he felt for Eddie.
"So how do we cope," he began, "when we know they've lost their battle, and all they keep asking is when they're going home?"
"How do we cope?" Gene repeated. He got to his feet and walked away which caused Simon to frown. Was he running out on him? Didn't he have an answer? There were a couple of clinking noises from the kitchen before Gene returned and pressed a large glass of scotch into Simon's hand. "That's how we cope."
Simon looked at him questioningly.
"What -?"
"Not healthy. Not advisable. Not clever. I know that. I know all those things." He sank down beside him with his own glass clasped between his hands, "but it's served me well for years."
Simon stared at him, expecting it to be a joke but Gene was deadly serious. Slowly, Simon nodded. He could see that. He knew he had little choice but to follow Gene's advice so he took a gulp of the strong liquid and felt it burn its way down his throat. He closed his eyes for a few seconds.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Gene hesitated. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to offer any additional advice, because beyond the scotch all he had to offer were other alcohol related suggestions. Finally he asked,
"So where's stapler boy now?"
"He's gone back to his house," Simon said with a sigh, "I didn't think that was a good idea, being on his own after all that he's found out especially not at Christmas, but he really wanted time by himself."
"He'll be fine," Gene told him.
"How do you know?"
Gene sighed.
"Because," he began, "they always are." He hesitated for long enough for his words to sink in before he stood up with a slight sigh. "Anyway, as much as I would love to continue this joyful conversation this fine Christmas I need to get back to me turkey."
"How's that going, by the way?" Simon asked.
Gene hesitated.
"So far so good," he said, neglecting to mention that so far he hadn't done a bloody thing with the bird. He scarpered quickly and hoped that Simon wasn't going to follow him through to watch the head chef at work. He tried hanging around the cupboard where the tins of tuna were kept in the hope that whatever had possessed him the weekend before might come forth once again and give him the cookery skills of a master, but alas only his fishy biscuit-preparing skills remained. "Bollocks," he mumbled.
He stared at the turkey; the big raw mound of flesh sitting on a baking tray on the table. There were only two things he knew about turkeys; one was that they needed stuffing and the other was that Bernard Matthews claimed they were 'bootiful'. Or was that Bernard Manning? He was always getting those two mixed up.
"Right, you featherless festive failure," Gene addressed the turkey, "listen up: I'm going to shove something up yer backside and you're going to get a bloody good tan in the oven."
Hmm. The stuffing. That was the point where Gene realised he was stuffed. He had a vague notion that he needed Paxo but he sure as hell hadn't remembered to buy any. He tried to picture Alex preparing the turkey in years gone by. What had she used? There was something round…. He had a memory of it sitting on the worktop beside the turkey. What was it? An onion? An orange? No, that was just stupid.
"Something round… something round…" he muttered to himself, scouting around the kitchen. Finally his eyes came to rest upon the fruit bowl from which he selected an apple, polished it against his apron and jammed it whole up the turkey's backside.
"Perfect," Gene lied to himself, "This is definitely, definitely the best way to stuff a turkey." He paused and hung his head. "If you've got all the cooking prowess of the woman with the fat arse from the canteen, anyway."
Still, it was too late now. He just had to go with it and hope for the best.
Oven on, bird inside, Gene stepped back and nodded to himself. The Christmas lunch was in full swing now – and even the twinkling of starlight on the ceiling couldn't distract him from the thought of the mouth-watering meal ahead.
