Chapter Twenty Six: 1995

Keats listened to the radio as he drove along the dark, winter roads on his way to collect Alex. He'd been listening to the same station since they promised a big Christmas hit was coming up in a few minutes and he was clinging on to the hope that Last Christmas would soon come blaring from the speakers.

The thought of collecting Alex was sending a thrill around his body. He thought idly about her new haircut – well, her old haircut, and the familiar look that he had started to help her to create. A smug smile graced his lips as he leaned back and cruised down the road. It was going to be another great day. He listened to the song finish on the radio and a DJ promise a wonderful Christmas hit coming up next. Of course it had to be Last Christmas. How could anything else fit the bill?

"…and that was Mike Flowers Pops!" the DJ told him, "now, coming up next we have a hot Christmas hit from yesteryear, and don't forget to call in when you hear the next Alison Moyet track for our big giveaway! But first, it's time to get festive…"

He waited for those familiar notes to hit his ears, but to his horror Jingle Bell Rock played instead. He gave a sudden cry of frustration and shut off the radio in disgust. How could any radio station play a Christmas song that was not performed by Wham? It seemed ridiculous.

No matter – he had more important things to think about, namely Alex. He smiled again as he pictured her from the day before; her body right there for the taking, her mind wrapped up in his spell and her need for him written on every inch of her face. For just a second he felt his eyes close as he recalled the moment, but almost immediately the picture in his mind faded and a different image lay across it of Alex in another time, another room, a little younger and a little slimmer, the heat rising from the walls and her head in a daze.

The image shook him for a moment. It came from nowhere and shocked him so deeply that he had to wrestle with the steering wheel to keep control of his car. He was surprised by how fast his heart was racing and it took several deep breaths to calm himself down.

Focus, Jim, focus. Alex is a beautiful woman. Yesterday was heaven. Today, maybe you'll get an encore.

But in the next heartbeat, the voice in his head said;

'But that's not the Alex you want!'

A tree loomed large as his course deviated from the road and he swerved to avoid it. With a cross sigh and a gasp he stamped on the brakes and pulled up at the side of the road, breathing heavily. He couldn't shake that thought. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned forward slightly, gripping the steering wheel to keep him grounded. He breathed deeply and waited until his heart rate began to drop to an acceptable level once again and finally felt he had regained enough composure to drive away.

He restarted the car and pulled back onto the road. Keeping his mind on driving this time he focused on the little things; the car ahead, the next turning, the tree by the side of the road. Anything except Alex and her beautiful face, her body, her allure, her captivating eyes and the gentle sound of her voice as her soothing tone travelled through the air...

This wasn't helping. He was thinking about her again. He reached out to switch the radio back on - maybe that would distract him. That god-awful festive tripe had to be finished by now. As he turned it on the DJ was in the middle of a long spiel about the upcoming show.

"…and after the news we're into the last hour of the breakfast show with our daily cereal guessing game" he hooted, "But first of all… could this be the track you've been listening out for?"

The radio went to a cheesy ident followed by the open bars of a song Keats didn't really know. However, as soon as the vocals began he realised it was most likely the Alison Moyet track he'd been warned to listen out for. He considered calling up for all of two seconds before he realised three things – 1) he didn't know the phone number, 2) he didn't have a phone and 3) he didn't actually like Alison Moyet. He sighed as the song continued and let the words wash over him as he drove.

# …When she said that you were through

I thought that there was nothing that I could do

Just because she ran right here

Doesn't mean I interfered

Now I'm wondering if we can feel the same… #

He began to think about Alex again. He thought about the day before, that glorious afternoon in the basement, the fire and the heat. He almost closed his eyes as he thought about it, a strong yearning for a repeat performance building up inside of him. He could see her there still, laying there before him, needing him so badly.

'The gas and air was a step too far.'

An angry voice in his head broke through the thoughts and images that surrounded him. He gave a sharp intake of breath, unsure where those words had come from, and tried to fight them away. He hated the way this voice had interrupted his pleasurable, fiery thoughts. It had no business being there. He accelerated slightly, as though he could outrun it while the chorus of the song played through the car.

# …Cause she keeps whispering your name

She keeps on whispering your name

Like she's just waiting… #

"She was hot for me!" he declared triumphantly, laughing a little at his own pun, but an angry voice stirred inside his head again.

'Why did you drug her then?'

This time it caused him to feel suddenly nauseous and anxious; a lump seemed to form in his throat that wouldn't go anywhere. He swallowed and gulped but it sat there inside him, growing bigger and heavier with every passing moment. He saw her again in his mind's eye. Saw her draped over the desk, her eyes closed, her head lolling.

Then he saw her the night before that, looking at him through the red wine and the flowers. That was the look in her eye. That one, right there. That was the one he'd wanted to see. She was his – she'd already fallen for him, so why… why had he…

He shook his head angrily and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Time to wipe that thought from his mind. Concentrate. Move. Go forward.

# …She once told me how she felt

Didn't just want me to hear it from someone else

There were unknowns she couldn't know

But she hoped you two would grow

And when you didn't she was brought to me in pain… #

But there is was again, the image of her laying back, her head swimming, her mind numb and out of place. There was no look of love in those eyes. No look of lust even. There was nothing; just a dizzy, intoxicated haze that she might not even recall in the cold light of day.

As quick as a flash that image was replaced by her as she was again; the younger Alex, the Alex he'd known so long ago. And in those early days he'd tried… he could have stood a chance… there was a connection between them, and if he'd only…

He growled and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned as white as the flakes of snow that had started to fall around him outside. He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand why that image was haunting him. That Alex was from a long time ago.

Concentrate on the present, Jim. On Alex. This Alex. YOUR Alex. She wants you. And she needs you.

'Just like you wanted 'HER' to.'

There was that voice again. It burst through his thoughts with the image of the Alex he knew in 1983. For years he'd tried to push back the memories of her. For so long he'd tried to keep them at bay; tried to forget and bury how he'd felt.

How he'd felt, when he could feel.

How he'd felt, before.

"…Before what?" he whispered out loud. He didn't even know. There were things on the edge of his memory, elements of the past and a truth that wouldn't quite come forth. His heart was racing and his palms grew sweaty as they clung to the wheel.

# …And she keeps whispering your name

She keeps on whispering your name

Like she's just waiting… #

Something had unleashed a memory within him now though. As hard as he fought there were little moments and snippets coming back to him. He recalled the first time he'd ever seen her. He'd read about her in so many files, learned all about her, but he had no idea how beautiful she was. Not until he went to visit her in the hospital after Hunt's bullet sent her out cold.

"It's not fair…"

He could hear his own words echoing through his head as he recalled the stillness, the peace on her face as she lay there.

"You're the best of them, Alex…"

And she was. By far the best. She was still the best of them. The best in every way.

# …If it's just a little fling a simple thing

I'll try not to pretend

If it's just for jealousy she's using me

That might be hard to mend… #

He thought about the Alex he'd picked up from the floor outside of Fenchurch East just two days earlier. That was not the Alex he knew from back then. This was a strange, a sarcastic, a weak and a slightly mentally unhinged Alex. This was a woman who truly thought she was stuck in her own mind, This wasn't the woman who had grown to live and breathe the world. This world. Gene's world.

He spat as he thought about it. Hunt's fucking world? Ha! He had an over-inflated sense of self-importance.

"It's not your world any more, Hunt," he hissed, "and she's not your Alex any more!"

'No, she's not… and she's not the Alex you want, either.'

Keats screamed aloud as the voice interrupted his thoughts once again. Why the hell wouldn't it go away?

"Fuck off!" he cried.

He tried to focus. Look at what you've got. Concentrate on what's solid. Look at yesterday… see what you took for yourself? Alex. She's all yours. Laying there, gasping, panting, begging…

But she wasn't, was she? She wasn't begging. She could hardly move. Hardly understand. Hardly knew what was happening. Was that it? Was that what he really wanted?

Was that even who he wanted?

The hair. The make-up, even the clothes. He'd dressed her up as a mannequin of her former self, but inside that head… inside that mind, it was not the Alex that his heart pounded in his chest for, way back then.

Whoompf – the image was there in his mind again. Alex, 1983 – as she was when they first met. He recalled her down in the basement. He could see her there, smiling… she was smiling, wasn't she?

Wasn't she?

But she did want to be there, right?

There was a glass, and some drink, and of course the air was heavy and laden -

# …Oh what else can I do

But try to give her more than she got from you… #

His eyes closed for a split second as he pictured her in 1983, up against the wall, his need for her so strong. He took it, took what he wanted. He had her; had her right there and then, just the way he wanted, just the way he needed. And she wanted him too. She did. She wanted him. Didn't she?

She… did… want him, didn't she?

# …And when she wakes up suddenly

and she says you name to me

I'll just hope its force of habit

and not need… #

'Whose name did she say, Jim?'

The voice sounded spiteful now. Angry. Bitter.

'Whose name DID she say?'

He tried to block it out. He didn't want to think about it any more. The memories that had surfaced should have been left where they were. They were intact and perfect, snippets of his life that couldn't be touched or tainted. Moments where he took what he wanted and got it all his own way.

Like Alex. Beautiful, perfect Alex.

Her beautiful face, her perfect figure, her body pressed up against him and the breathy tone of her voice as she gasped; as she surrendered. As she whispered his name –

As she whispered – whose name?

"- Gene…"

# …Cause she keeps whispering your name

She keeps on whispering your name

Like she's just waiting… #

"No!" he screamed, "fuck!"

In his anger his hands rose in the air and thumped down hard on the steering wheel. He lost control instantly and careered into the grass verge at the side of the back road.

"FUCK!"

Up on the verge, he hit a tree, putting a fetching dent in the front of his car and giving his airbag a bit of an outing. He continued to swear as he tried to fight his way out from behind it but the radio was not so hampered and continued to the end of the song; every last torturous word reminding him. Reminding him of her. Reminding him of the only other woman he'd ever –

- He didn't even allow himself to complete that thought, screaming loudly to drown out his own mental processes.

There was no room for this.

No room in his life.

But the song would not be silenced as easily as his mind.

# …Oh tell me what is fair

When nothing's wrong

And she just stares

Like she's just waiting… #

Finally he scrambled out of the car. He kicked the door, broke a toe, yowled in agony and hopped like a lunatic for several minutes until he realised that he needed to calm the hell down and work out a way to get out of this damn side road and collect Alex. That was, after all, the way to obliterate those thoughts. Those memories. Create new ones. Cover them up with a new picture, a new image to keep in his mind.

"Because," he whispered through the pain and through the mental anguish, "that's what I do best. Cover it up, Wipe it clean. Start again."

As he limped towards the main road to hitch a lift his mind was already blocking out the last few minutes, just as it had with so very many 'moments' before. It was the only way to function. It was the only way to keep going with a back catalogue of horrific actions and darkness that he had amassed.

By the time he reached the main road, the only reminder of the song and thecrash was a the pain in his toe.

And physical pain was never a problem.

~xXx~

The sound of the beeping horn woke Alex was she lay draped over the kitchen table. Surrounded by paper, the room was littered with notes such as "Layton – shot me 2008; where is Layton in 1995?", "Jim = representing my self-image?" and "Heat + Keats = manifestation of sexual frustration?". Underneath the mass of notes made from a selection of coloured markers was an empty pizza box and a crushed coke can, along with two crusts and a half-finished dip. Her stomach felt bloated and heavy and she could smell the garlic oozing from her pores after the free garlic bread she'd received with her pizza found its way down her neck.

She looked out of the window in alarm and saw a taxi waiting at the far end of the path. Keats was standing beside it, his face darker than she had seen it before. A wave of panic shot through her body.

"Shit!" she hissed. The fastest clean-up operation in history was about to occur. She gathered up the papers quickly into a stack, then put them in the empty pizza box which she closed quickly and hurried into the lounge. She looked around for a suitable hiding place. Getting to her knees, she slipped it under the couch, checked to make sure it was hidden and climbed back to her feet again. She ran back to the kitchen and threw the coke can in the rubbish bin.

"Forgive me, Mother Nature," she whispered, "I'll recycle twice as hard when I get home."

A glance out of the window saw Keats walking slowly and a little awkwardly towards the house. She glanced at her distorted reflection in the glass of the clock face, and despite the distortion could tell she looked a state. She raced to the bathroom, closed the door and prepared for the world's second biggest clean-up operation – herself. A fast and urgent teeth-brushing and heavy-duty mouth-wash moment followed. She could still smell the garlic.

"The bloody garlic bread!" she cursed, "why did I have to eat the garlic bread!"

With no time to wash or shower she doused herself liberally in body spray just as she heard the sound of the back door opening.

"Shit! Shit!" she mumbled, as she stared at herself in the mirror. The clip was still there in her hair, her quiff flopping and crushed to one side. She pulled it out and began to run a brush through her new haircut as fast as she could.

"Alex?"

Alex flinched. Somehow she didn't feel like she wanted to hear that voice.

"I'm just in the bathroom, Jim," she called out a little nervously, "I'll be right there."

She smoothed down her top a little and struggled to pull up the open zip on her skirt. Letting it all hang free seemed like good idea after consuming a large pizza the night before. Trying to get it all back in again wasn't looking quite so appealing the following morning.

"Oh, come on," she growled, yanking it up crossly. The material dug into her flesh and didn't sit well following her gluttony of the night before. Was she working her way through the seven sins, she wondered?

A last glance in the mirror – she would have to do. Fixing a smile upon her face, she left the bathroom. Just keep smiling, Alex, she told herself, whatever else happens, keep that smile firmly fixed upon your face.

"Jim," she whispered.

Keats stood in the kitchen, leaning heavily to one side with his opposite foot raised slightly in the air.

"You weren't ready," he said. There was a smile on his face but it wasn't warm or friendly. It was ironic. Frustrated. About to give way at any moment. "You know I like people to be punctual."

"I'm sorry, Jim," Alex tried to keep her expression the same, "I was so tired after yesterday, I overslept."

Keats ran his fingers across the bare wooden table until they reached a fallen piece of peperoni. He lifted it slowly between his fingers and stared at it, then shifted his gaze to Alex. He watched her squirm as his eyes fell upon her. Her smile was still there but it was wavering now.

"I don't remember leaving you a pizza, Alex," he said quietly.

Alex felt a terrible sense of dread and guilt fall upon her shoulders. Her tongue ran nervously around her lips as she looked at him.

"I'd hardly eaten all day," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady, "I was feeling unwell and faint. I needed something more substantial."

Keats began to move slowly toward her. She glanced again at his foot as he moved awkwardly and she couldn't help wondering what was the matter with it.

"I thought we agreed yesterday that you needed to make the best of yourself," he said quietly.

Alex felt herself gulp so hard that she could even hear it, like a comedy sound effect in a cartoon. Her thoughts had branched in so many directions as she brainstormed through the night, but most of them led her far away from the magnificent thoughts she'd had of Jim as a knight in shining armour.

"Yes," she said quietly, "and I know, my body isn't –"

"Only you can change it, Alex," he rested a hand on her shoulder, "I can help you and guide you but only you can put in the hard work. Am I wasting my time with you? Am I wasting my trust and my energy?"

Alex felt her eyes turning downward. She felt as though she'd been sent to the headmasters' office.

"No, Jim," she whispered, "of course not. I'm sorry… I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

"I only want to help you," Keats told her. His tone was a little softer now, but the disappointment still shone in his eyes. "I want to help you get back to your peak. And we're making big steps, but you've got to work with me."

Alex bit her lip.

"Of course," she whispered, "I'm sorry." She paused. "I didn't even enjoy it. Not really," she lied. She'd savoured every last damn mouthful and practically orgasmed over the sensation of the melted cheese as it hit her tongue on the first bite.

"That's because you know it's no good for you," Keats told her, "now, come on – we have a full day ahead today. You managed a disappointingly limited amount of work yesterday. You have much to make up for today."

Alex hung her head again.

"Yes, Jim," she whispered.

As she followed him out of the door she thought about his words. Yes - she had realised something was no good for her, but it wasn't the pizza. She walked in silence and gave a half-hearted smile as he opened the door for her to let her in the taxi.

Keep smiling, Alex. Just keep on smiling. You can crumble as hard as you need to inside but just keep that smile right where it sits.

"Fenchurch West Police Station," Keats told the driver as he joined her in the back.

Alex bit her lip nervously as the driver pulled out of the driveway.

"Why did you get a taxi?" she asked.

Keats looked a little uncomfortable.

"Car trouble," he said quietly.

The driver reached out and switched on his radio.

"How about some music for your journey?" he asked.

# …Cause she keeps whispering your name

She keeps on whispering your name

Like she's just waiting… #

"For fuck's sake, change the fucking station!" Keats cried, reaching between the front seats to jab at the driver's radio.

"Oi! My car, my radio!" the driver told him crossly.

"My money, my tip," hissed Keats, "change the fucking radio station!"

"Alright, alright! Keep your specs on!" the driver cried. He reached out and changed the station. "Jesus, you really must hate Alison Moyet!"

That was the last thing said on the journey. The driver drove, Keats scowled, and Alex… she just kept on smiling. That was all she could do. Once she was alone in her office the mask would slip and she could begin to seek some answers. What happened the day before changed her view of the man she'd thought she wanted. Thought she was drawn to. Thought she felt so safe with. Today would see her finding out whether her initial impressions were right – or whether the power of a rotten spell was beginning to slip away.

~xXx~

Gene sighed as he opened the drawer and reached in to pull out a petty cash tin. He sat the tin on his desk, pulled his keyring from his pocket and found the right key to open the lock. He felt strangely sick as he lifted the lid. He hadn't even touched that tin in years.

On the top layer of the box were a few coins. Most of them weren't legal tender anymore. Many of them hadn't been for years. He slipped the top tray out and pulled a key from underneath. Swallowing at the sight of it, he looked up at Simon and held it out.

"Here," he said grimly, "The key to Jimbo's lair."

Simon stared at the metal object in Gene's hand. It seemed strange to think one small item could hold so much promise and yet so much fear.

"Thank you," he said quietly. He reached out to take it and a strange energy seemed to grow as the key changed hands. It was like a buzz; a spark, a flash of power. Neither could explain it but they both acknowledged it.

Gene looked at him seriously.

"Anything weird, you leave that room. Feel strange, you leave that room. Any sign of Jimbo, you leave that room." He paused. "And take that bloody jumper off. You'll boil alive."

Simon smiled a little nervously.

"Yes, Gene," he said quietly.

Gene nodded towards to door.

"Good luck, Shoebury," he said.

Simon nodded again and turned on the spot. The door opened behind him and he left feeling nervous but the anticipation and promise overrode it. Whatever the truth was about Keats and the origin of the evil that took him over, Simon was sure it had to be down there. It had to be buried in that room. It had lain dormant for so long – too long. With the truth set free maybe they could find a way to bring back whoever he used to be and chase the demons away. That, he felt sure, was the best chance they had of getting through him to Alex and helping her home.

"And if we discover the man in the process," he said quietly, "then all the better. Because we've seen enough of the monster to last us a lifetime."

~xXx~

Author's Note: And so the song of the title actually appears! Just to be totally pathetically self-indulgent for a moment, I named this story after that song because it reminded me of summer 1997, I'd been trying to get hold of that song for a couple of years and one lucky day I found it for mere pence in a bargain bin! That summer I listened to it on repeat, night after night, while I wrote compulsively, eating toast and drinking red wine. It was the best summer of my life – and because I finally had back that same love for writing I had back then, that's why I chose this song for the title :-)

Plus, it fits with the story! :D

And also, never say I'm not dedicated – today I went to London to retrace Layton's footsteps in the name of research! And I have now driven everyone within a 10 mile radius mad by singing "…I'm happy, hope you're happy too…" all night!