11 October 1990

She hated going to Barton Street. The rivalry between that station and Sun Hill was legendary, even though no-one would be able to provide a coherent explanation as to why it existed in the first place if they were asked. It just did. Of course, there had been the incident when Sergeant Penny had blown the whistle on the treatment of prisoners there when Sun Hill had been using Barton Street's cells during the station refurbishment, but it went deeper than that. The mere mention of the name caused curled lips and sneers and now, here she was, going cap in hand to them.

It was the third time in as many weeks. The first time it had happened, she had unashamedly gone to Frank and asked for his help, knowing that he had some clout over Barton Street. He had pulled every stroke he could, and it had worked. The second time, he had done the same, albeit more grudgingly. This time, she hadn't even told him, knowing full well what his response would likely be and embarrassed at the prospect of having to explain, once more, what had happened.

As Christina opened the door to the front office, she saw it was PC Colin Hamilton on the front desk. He wasn't the best, but he wasn't the worst either and she could only hope that it would all pass off without too much unpleasantness.

"Back again," he greeted her cheerfully as she stepped up towards him.

"Unfortunately."

"I'll ring through for you, but I don't know what decision's been made. Apparently, there was some damage done this time."

She felt her heart sink into the floor. Each time had got progressively worse, and she knew that, if there had been damage caused, then the likelihood of no further action being taken was slim. "Thanks," she said, moving over to sit down on one of the hard, uncomfortable chairs that dotted the small space.

"Hello, skip? Yeah, it's Hamilton at the front desk. Yeah. WDC Lewis is in again. Yeah. I just wondered what you wanted me to tell her. Uh huh…" he raised his eyebrows at her, and she wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. "What, still? Blimey. All right, I'll tell her. Yeah, no she seems fine. All right skip, cheers." He put the phone down and looked at her. "He'll be released without charge once he's sobered up."

Relief flooded through her, and she let out a long, shaky breath. When the call had come through to the CID office, she had experienced a whole gambit of emotions; anger, frustration, self-pity, hurt, shame…she could only imagine what they were saying about her in the cells. Word travelled quickly in the Met, and it was a smaller world than one might imagine. No doubt by the time she got back to Sun Hill, Frank would already know that Stewart had found himself, once more, banged up for being drunk and disorderly.

"Did they say when?"

"Well, he's still pretty out of it by all accounts," Colin replied. "You might want to head on back to work and I could give you a ring later when he's walking and talking."

"Yeah," she got to her feet. "I suppose that might be best. He's definitely not going to be charged?"

"Well, not unless he kicks off when he wakes up. He's been lucky – again."

She felt embarrassment flood through her, and she averted her gaze to the floor. "Yeah, well thanks. I'll talk to you later." Before he could reply, she hurried back out of the front office into the chilly afternoon air and back to her car. Once inside, she sat for a long moment, staring into space, almost unable to believe what had happened of late.

When he had attended his latest Occupational Health appointment, Stewart had been told that the residual pain, discomfort and slight immobility that remained from his being shot, meant that he would never be able to be fully cleared for front line operational work again. Given that, and the fact that it meant he could never return to the Drugs Squad, he had been offered an administrative post at Hoxton, still at DS level, but station bound. His reaction to it had been somewhat predictable. He had railed against it, shouted, called them all every name under the sun and then resumed his new hobby of finding the bottom of a can or bottle as quickly as he could. He had lasted two days at Hoxton before going off on sick leave and the atmosphere in their home was almost unbearable at times. His attitude towards her left a lot to be desired, clearly bitter and resentful of the fact that nothing for her had changed when everything for him had. They had barely spoken civilly to each other for weeks and she couldn't remember the last time he had touched her with anything even vaguely resembling affection.

Her own work had suffered. She hadn't been able to concentrate, worried not only about her husband's physical health, but his mental health too, and although everyone at Sun Hill had been sympathetic, she knew she was still expected to get on with her own job. Then the arrests had started, and she had found herself sinking further and further into a mire of shame. Three times now at Barton Street, twice at Bishop's Lane, once at Pole Street…she was just waiting for the day that a call came from the Sun Hill cells to say that Stewart was there. So far, he had been released every time without charge, but she knew that couldn't last.

Worrying about him, what he was doing and who he was doing it with, had led her to seriously screw up an investigation only the previous month. David Yarrow, a familiar face at Sun Hill, had been accused of a particularly nasty car theft where a pregnant woman had been knocked to the ground, resulting in a premature birth. A combination of fatigue, stress and the obvious upset displayed by all the witnesses had led to statements the quality of which had left a lot to be desired. Yarrow had walked all over them in interview, and several of the witnesses had then recanted. With no clear statements to use as evidence, the case had buckled, and CPS had been none too pleased. Frank hadn't been overly thrilled either, though he had tempered his anger and frustration more than she had expected him to. For that, at least, she had been grateful.

When she walked back into the office, there was a frisson of tension in the air. Mike, Tosh and Jim looked at her, then looked away, as though they weren't quite sure what to say to her. Viv rose from her chair to greet her, steering her back out of the room and into the ladies' toilet. "How did you get on?"

"Released without charge, or rather he will be once he's sobered up."

"Christ…he's got nine lives, your husband."

"I suppose you could say that." She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing every line and imaginary grey hair and feeling far older than her thirty years. "Maybe if he did actually get charged, it would make a difference. Maybe it would be a wake-up call for him." Even as she said the words, however, she wasn't sure that she believed them.

It was obvious that Viv didn't believe them either. "But would you want him charged?"

"I don't know," she replied, shaking her head and feeling her throat thicken with emotion that she didn't want to let loose at work. "I don't know what to do for the best." She paused. "Does the DI know?"

Viv nodded, "He's in with Wray. Someone called him and then he spoke to Burnside about it."

"So, they're talking about me right now?" she felt another wave of shame wash over her.

"I don't know, but I'm guessing they will want to talk to you, to be supportive if nothing else. You should have seen the DI's face."

"How do you mean?"

"He looked furious."

"What, with me?" A cold sensation gripped her at the thought that the one person she could truly consider an ally might turn against her.

"No, with Stewart of course," Viv replied. "Why would he be furious with you? None of this is your fault. You can't control what your husband does."

Christina turned back to the mirror and eyed herself critically wondering, not for the first time, if there hadn't been some way to prevent it all. "Sometimes I wonder."

XXXX

"So, what exactly do you propose we do?"

"You mean short of sticking Stewart Church through a window?"

Gordon leaned back in his chair, "I was thinking more along the lines of support for Christina rather than committing violence against her husband."

Frank paced the room in front of him, trying to push down his own vindictive feelings on the subject. He knew that the other man was right and that it was all about providing support, but he couldn't help wishing that he could have just five minutes alone with her arsehole of a husband. Then her problem would be sorted. In truth, he was also angry at her for not telling him the moment she heard the news.

"I don't think you should castigate her for not telling you either." He stopped and turned to the other man, aware that he had clearly read his mind. "I'm sure she had her reasons."

"I'm sure she did, but that doesn't change the fact that if she had told me, I could have done something about it like the other times, rather than her having to go down there all by herself! She knows I can pull strings at Barton Street."

"Maybe that's why she didn't tell you," Gordon opined. "Maybe she didn't want your help."

"Why wouldn't she? What's the point in having clout if you don't use it?"

"Maybe she was embarrassed."

"She's got nothing to be embarrassed about, not in front of me." He paused as Gordon raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath to moderate himself. "She's a good officer and a good person. She does not deserve this from him."

"No-one ever does. But, to return to my original question, what do you propose we do? She can't go on like this. Like it or not, her problems at home are having a detrimental effect on her work."

"Nothing that can't be helped. We rally round at this nick, that's what we do."

"Perhaps some time off?"

"What, so she can go out and about with him, try and stop him drinking? Or sit at home watching whilst he gets bladdered?" He shook his head. "She's better off here." Where I can keep an eye on her he wanted to add but didn't. The thought of casting her off and telling her to 'go home' indefinitely caused an uneasy feeling in his gut. Despite what she had told him the day after her own drunken binge, he still wasn't fully convinced that Stewart Church wouldn't be capable of something.

"External support then. Counselling for those with family members affected by alcohol."

"It's an idea, I suppose, if she wants to attend, but given that she didn't go to counselling after the incident last year at Rod Patterson's club, I doubt she'll want to go now."

"Perhaps you can encourage her."

"Well, I can ask her."

"Or perhaps we have to make it a condition of her continuing to work here," Gordon sat forwards. "I realise how that sounds…"

"Do you?" Frank rounded on him, "Do you really? So now we're going to tell her that unless she goes and sit in some room with a bunch of other equally misfortunate creatures, she can't come to work? What sort of message is that we're sending? This place is the only stable thing she's got right now!"

"I take your point, but we can't ignore the things that have happened in the last few weeks. The CPS dropping the Yarrow case for one on the basis that the statements were completely unusable and the witnesses had all changed their minds."

"That was hardly her fault!"

"She was in charge of the case!" Gordon sat back and sighed. "I appreciate you know her best, Frank, but I'd be no manager at all if I said I wasn't concerned. I have to think about the department as a whole."

Yeah, and yourself, he thought uncharitably. "At least let me talk to her. See what I can do."

Gordon nodded, "All right Frank. I'll leave it to you just now, but if we end up in that situation again, then I'm going to have to take stronger action, whether you like it or not."

"Yes sir, thank you." He turned and left before the conversation could go any further, gratified to find Christina back behind her desk. "You got a minute?" he asked, gesturing to his own office. She paused and then nodded, rising to follow him and closing the door behind her. "I'm guessing you're just back from Barton Street."

"Yes," she replied. "Stewart's going to be released without charge."

"What, again? Don't they have enough to nick him this time?" Immediately, he regretted his word as she looked away. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you're right," she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. "Maybe it would be better if they had nicked him…I don't know…" she ran a hand over her face. "He was still out of it when I went down there so they said they'd call back once he was conscious."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, sitting down opposite her. "I was only downstairs when the call must have come in. I didn't appreciate hearing it from the DCI. Made me look like a right mug."

"I'm sorry. I suppose I thought…well, this was the third time and I felt I couldn't ask you to intervene again."

"Why not?"

"Well…" she trailed off and shook her head. "It just didn't feel right."

"That's supposed to be what I'm here for."

"Really? I thought you were here to give us all a hard time." A small smile crept across her face, and he couldn't help but return it. "I'm all right, Guv, honestly. It's just something that I have to deal with right now, that's all. All part and parcel of the rich tapestry of marriage."

He bit his tongue, poised to tell her that, in fact, dealing with the kind of behaviour Stewart was displaying was not part and parcel of anything and would, in fact, be adequate grounds for her to end her marriage, but savvy enough to realise that it probably wouldn't be what she wanted to hear at that moment. "The DCI's concerned," he settled upon.

"Well, it's good of him but…"

"Not about your welfare," he interrupted. "Or rather, not solely about that. He's concerned about the effect on your work, particularly in light of what happened with David Yarrow. Now, I know that wasn't your fault, but he's got to look at the bigger picture, as it were."

She blinked, "So, what does that mean? Am I getting the old heave-ho?"

"Don't be stupid, of course not. But he does think you might either benefit from some time off…"

"No."

"…or counselling." She said nothing, simply looking down at her hands. "What do you think?"

"About counselling?" He nodded. "What would I talk about; the fact that my husband seems to be a borderline alcoholic and I can't do anything about it? How is that going to help anything? It's not going to stop him drinking, is it? It's not going to stop him getting arrested."

"I know."

"Do you think I should go for counselling?" she looked at him pointedly.

"It's not my decision, Chris, it's yours. I do think you need an outlet though, don't you? If not counselling, then friends or family…" he trailed off as she laughed bitterly. "I know you don't speak to your dad…"

"But you think I should call him up now, in light of all of this? He's a criminal, Frank, who do you think he's going to side with?"

"Well, you're his daughter…"

"Yeah, and I'm a pig, remember?"

"Well, June or Viv…"

"June's too wrapped up in whatever's going on with the DCI and Viv…she means well, but she doesn't understand. Nobody does, not really." She let out a long breath and closed her eyes and he found himself, once more, desperate to physically comfort her.

"Me then."

Her eyes opened slowly, and she looked at him carefully, "You?"

"Why not? I'm a man of the world, I know a few things…you can tell me all your problems and I'll tell you what to do about them. No, seriously," he said, "we never did have that drink just the two of us, did we?"

"No, we didn't."

"Maybe we should. I know what that lot out there can be like, all fussing around and sympathetic, but deep down thanking their lucky stars it's not them in your position."

"What, and you don't think that?"

He paused, wondering momentarily how he could possibly get across to her that he wished he were in Stewart's position, to a certain extent, but then thought better of it. "I'm here if you want to talk, without judgement. That's all I'm saying."

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she ducked her head quickly before getting to her feet. "Thanks Guv, I appreciate it. I'll…maybe take you up on that at some point."

"Yeah," he said softly, as she opened the door. "You do that."

XXXX

"Bastards, bloody bastards!" Stewart banged the front door noisily and made his way towards the kitchen. "They got a bloody kick out of it, I know they did!" Christina followed him slowly, despair creeping through her as he began searching the cupboards, his hand falling quickly upon a half-drunk bottle of scotch and twisting the top. "Who the hell do they think they are anyway? That bloody custody sergeant, treating me like I was some sort of dosser!" He found a glass and quickly poured himself a generous measure. "Dickheads!" He drained the glass and let out a satisfied sigh. "That's better." Turning to her, his gaze raked over her. "What's wrong with you?"

"What do you think?"

"I wasn't charged, was I?"

"No, you were lucky – again." She stepped towards him, feeling that a conciliatory tone might be best. "Stewart…you need to look at what you're doing. I know that it's been really difficult for you the last few weeks but…"

"Difficult?" he snorted contemptuously. "You call being chucked out of the job I gave my life to, difficult?"

"You weren't chucked out…"

"Yes, I was! Administration? At Hoxton? Don't make me laugh!"

"You didn't give it a proper chance. You were only there for two days…"

"Yeah, and they were all laughing at me," he said, pouring himself some more scotch. "Looking down on me, at what I've become. Some cripple who can't do his job anymore. The squad was my life, Chris. I don't expect you to understand that."

"I do understand," she said, moving towards him again. "I understand how much being on the squad meant to you, really I do, but you're acting as though you've been thrown out of the Met completely and that isn't the case. The role at Hoxton is equally as important as what you did in the squad, just in a different way."

"Oh, so you'd be happy with that then, would you? If you got invalided out of Sun Hill and told to sit at a desk all day pushing papers? No, you bloody wouldn't!" She took a breath, well aware that it was a familiar diatribe of self-pity that he simply needed to work through before calmness might descend again, even briefly. "You've got no idea how it feels to be me, none at all. You with your precious job in CID and your precious Frank Burnside…" he shook his head. "You don't know you're born."

"My job isn't easy, you know."

"Of course it is! You do what he says and then get a pat on the head for it! Not that I don't think for a minute that he wouldn't like to stick it in you as well! That's all he knows when it comes to women."

She fought down the urge to defend Frank, knowing it would only fuel Stewart's temper and instead, opened the fridge to make a guess as to what she might make for dinner that evening. Stewart wandered away into the living room and, moments later, the sound of the television blared through. Mechanically, she prepared the meal, set the table and then walked through to call him to eat, only to see that he had found some cans he had previously left by the side of the couch and was already finishing off what looked to be the second. "Dinner's ready."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something, Stewart. You haven't had anything all day."

"I said, I'm not hungry."

"Fine," she turned on her heel and headed back into the kitchen. He might not be hungry, but she felt ravenous. Every mouthful stuck in her throat, however, and she knew it was because she was fighting hard against the urge to cry. It would do no good though. Stewart didn't respond well to tears, he never had, and she wasn't even sure who she was crying them for, him or herself. So far she had dealt with the events of the last few weeks by saying little, preferring not to start an argument with him, but it was growing harder every day. Her gaze fell upon the phone on the wall, and she suddenly had a desperate urge to take Frank up on his offer of a friendly ear not to mention, to her shame, anything else he might offer. By the time she had finished eating, and was elbow deep in the washing up, Stewart had come shuffling back into the kitchen.

"Is there any left?"

"Yes, I'll get you some." Peeling off the rubber gloves, she opened the oven door and pulled out a plate she had left warming for him, well aware that hunger would eventually strike. She continued clearing up as he ate silently behind her before finally rising and opening the cupboard again for a fresh bottle. "Please don't," she heard herself say. "Can't we…I don't know, talk or something?"

"If you want to talk, talk," he replied, unscrewing the cap. "Doesn't mean I can't have a drink while you do so."

"It's your drinking I want to talk about."

"What's wrong with my drinking?"

She took a breath, knowing that she would need to follow through. "You're doing too much of it, that's what. This is not you, Stewart. You always liked a drink, yes, but not like this, not to the detriment of everything else, including your own freedom."

"I was nicked for no good reason," he pointed at her. "That's why they let me go. You know that and I know that."

"No, they nicked you because you were drunk!"

"Cobblers!"

"It's not cobblers!" she heard her voice rise as she trailed him back into the living room. "It's reality! You've been nicked six times in the last few weeks, and you've been lucky so far not to be charged with something! Do you know how it makes me feel when I get a call to say that you're in the cells?"

"This isn't about you!" he said, flopping back down on the couch. "This is about me."

"But you're making it about me! Everyone used to know that I had a husband who worked on the Drugs Squad, a husband who got medals of commendation for his bravery, and now they all know I have a husband who likes to get pissed and get himself arrested!"

"Oh, well I'm very sorry if I'm embarrassing you, darling!"

"If you carry on like this, you are going to end up getting charged and then that'll be your job gone for good, can't you see that?!"

"What job?" he muttered.

She felt an undeniable sense of helplessness wash over her and, this time, she couldn't stop the tears. "Why are you being like this?!"

He looked up at her and, for a moment she thought he might comfort her, but his expression quickly turned sour, "Don't fucking cry, Christina!"

"Well maybe I can't help it! Maybe I'm sick of seeing you behave this way! Maybe I'm tired of having to live with you like this!" she turned on her heel again and made for the stairs, only for rough hands to grab her from behind and pull her back round.

"What the fuck does that mean?!" Stewart asked, his face inches from hers, his breath sour with alcohol. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

She swallowed hard against the lump of panic that had risen in her throat. In all their time together, fourteen years, he had never so much as put a heavy hand on her. Yet now, his fingers were squeezing the flesh on her arms to the point of pain. "You're hurting me," she said as calmly as she could.

"I said, what the fuck does that mean?!" he repeated, his eyes raking over her. "You're my wife, all right? For better or worse…"

"Let go of me."

"You don't get to be tired of fucking living with me, Christina, that's your job as my wife!" his voice rose, spitting out each word. "Now where the fuck do you think you're going?!"

"Bed," she said, her voice shaking slightly over the word, "I'm tired and I want to go to bed."

"Bed…" he murmured, his grip on her loosening. "Yeah, you go on up to bed. Maybe I'll join you later." Before she could react, he pulled her roughly to him, his mouth pressing hard against her own, his tongue forcing its way inside, the bitter taste of scotch swirling between them. She wanted to pull back, was desperate to, and yet something within told her that it was best simply to endure it in that moment. Finally, he broke free from him and released her. "I'm going to have another drink."

As he walked away from her, back towards the kitchen, she felt her breath leave her body in one long burst and she gripped hold of the banister for support. She could hear him opening and closing cupboards, muttering to himself at the lack of what he craved the most and her eyes shifted to the front door. She could go, leave, ask Viv if she could crash on her couch for the night, or even book into a hotel if she had to. But then that would only surely make things worse, make an even bigger deal of a situation she was trying so desperately to contain,

Instead, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed, the phone on the nightstand almost calling to her. If she dialled his number, if she spoke to him, she knew exactly what he would say and what action he would take.

And she wasn't ready for that.