"What's next?"
Wednesday 8th June 1983. Election day-eve. Maggie was expected to win by a landslide. Fenchurch was restless, unsettled. Like there was an undercurrent of something intangible brewing just below the surface. Both felt it. That's why they were punching their nerves out at 6:30 a.m. like they did every day. Nearly a month now and they hadn't missed a session. Alex was undoubtedly stronger, steadier, more confident.
"One, two, three," Ray told her. "Here hold this, I'll show you." He indicated to a punching bag hanging from the wall. "This is where it starts to get fun. When you shift your weight to your right hand, that'll naturally set your left hook up." He demonstrated, only at ten percent, barely touching the bag. "The left hook's gonna come in after your right cross so you can put some massive hurt in. You got options, see, aim it high at his jaw or low at his body." He marked it through, twice, demonstrating the difference, completely focused like a sniper on his target, just before the kill. "Either way, your left hook's dangerous regardless of where your right hook lands- what?" Shit, the way she was looking at him.
"You're alive," she said, very softly.
"You what?" That creeping feeling in the back of his neck again, the way she'd started to hold his gaze so intensely. It thrilled and petrified him in equal measure.
"When you box, you're so- you love it. The way you talk about it, live it, breathe it-"
"Steady on, Drake!" he cut in. He needed to shut her up, focus, get his mojo back. "It's just boxing!"
"Is it though?"
Suddenly he felt very hot. "Way too deep and meaningful before seven, mate." There. Neutral territory. He needed to get out of here, fast. "Come on- got polling stations to check out before tomorrow. Gotta make sure it's watertight otherwise Keats'll be all over us like the clap."
"Yeah." Ray noticed Alex's hands grip the bag tighter, just for a second. Her knuckles got lighter, like you could almost expose the bones inside. "He's persistent, I'll give him that."
"We've got nothing to hide, Alex," he reassured her. "He won't pin anything on us."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Trust me, I know. I'd know if anyone was hiding something." But deep down, he wasn't so certain.
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"Ray, RAY!" He could hear her desperate voice somewhere calling after him, but it was like she wasn't there, somewhere underwater. A huge part of him was still trying to prove himself to her, to them all really. Absolve all the guilt from over the year that had racked up and racked up and racked up until- now. Bang. The pressure was too high, and it had all- imploded. Exploded even. He wasn't sure… His dad, Manchester, Sam, Mac, it was back. He looked down at his hands and he could still almost see the blood, her blood there again. Why hadn't he listened? Why wasn't he listening now? Jab-cross-jab. The taste of her sweat and her tears on his lips. The salt on his tongue. Her. In his brain. Her in the sunrise. Every morning. Without fail. Fuck, what was he doing? He couldn't see, his eyes burning from the smoke, literally, his lungs- can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe… her. The salt. The smell of her coconut shampoo, her hairspray. Her bitten nails. The tiny bit on her nose. She was going to kill him, drown him, he was sure of it. He'd inhale her in, and he'd choke on her, she'd rip out his heart, she'd-
and suddenly, a strong pair of arms around him, rescuing him, dragging him out of the flames, the soot, the black, acrid, plastic-y smoke- and he was on the ground, gasping, drowning, and she was there- of course she was. Submerging him. Her hand cupping his face, tenderly. No-
"I'm okay," he wheezed, lungs burning. He really wasn't, but he was trying to act tough, brave. A mask, an act. The way a DI should, a hero, a leader.
"No, you're not."
Then the fire chief was over him. Ray's eyes were burning so hard he could barely see him, his helmet impossibly yellow and shimmery against the night sky. "You should get checked out mate, make sure you haven't burned your lungs or something."
"Come on, I'll drive you."
"No!" He needed to get away. "I'm fine, Drake, leave it, will you?"
Her voice was smooth and cool. Emotionless. "Ray- I am your commanding officer. I'm driving you to hospital, end of."
He knew he wasn't going to win; he never did. "Fine- if it'll shut you up."
A flash of Alex's warrant card at A & E meant they were seen instantly. Ray was embarrassed by the fact he was given oxygen and whisked away for a chest x-ray, attached to a pulse oximeter and given blood tests. Apparently, Alex was asking to see him but when the nurses came to see if this was okay, he refused. He didn't want her to see him so weak, think of him as helpless. He needed time, time and space to think. What was this? He was in knots.
When he was given the all-clear, save for a slightly low potassium count (the disinterested A & E doctor had told him to eat more bananas) he was surprised to find Alex waiting for him in the uncomfortable chairs. It was nearly morning and Casualty was basically deserted. She looked exhausted, cold and tired and he felt a tidal wave of guilt. Drained himself, he eased his weakened body into the chair beside her.
"I'm fit as a flea," he told her, bravely. "See Drake, no need to spend the night here after all."
She turned to him, and he knew he was in trouble. His heart dropped into his stomach. Her eyes were so angry. "What were you thinking?" she hissed. She'd clearly been stewing this over for hours. "You could have been killed, then what would have happened?" She dropped her head back into her hands.
It didn't bear thinking about. He was too exhausted to lie. "I just wanted to impress you."
"What?"
"Prove myself, you know- prove myself worthy of being your DI."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I'm sorry, okay?" He wanted to show himself the hero once again. Prove he wasn't the waste of space his dad, his mum, his brothers, maybe now Alex thought he was. "Let me drive you home. You look knackered, love." He was worried he said too much, he probably had. He was drowning, drowning, falling again. He wasn't sure he cared… and he was so, so lost…
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She found him, of course she did. More persistent than a springer spaniel on the hunt for crack. How on earth had she known he was up here on the roof? His mind was swirling. A hurricane with her right at the centre. His thoughts of her, of Andy, of smoke, of blood- so much blood, her blood.
The wind was surprisingly cold for June, almost icy, cutting. He noticed her shivering. Again, again, the blood…
"Thought you weren't talking to me." She hadn't said a word on the drive home last night, not even 'goodnight' when he'd dropped her home. She'd slammed the car door so hard its whole body had reverberated. Then she hadn't shown up at the club this morning for the first time. It had almost been like a knife in his stomach- almost.
Alex just shrugged and shivered again. She hooked a heel of her boot over the metal railings and turned to face him.
"Jesus Christ, Drake, don't you own any proper clothes?" He shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She didn't protest but she didn't thank him either. She was silent then, studying his face. He could see her mind tick, tick, ticking over. "What?"
"Whatever you're holding onto…" her voice was quieter than usual, softer. "You have to let it go, Ray."
How did she do that? How did she know? Was she psychic? He didn't know how to react, how to respond so he said nothing.
"Yesterday," she carried on. Great. She was probably going to go off on one of her long, nonsensical rants again. "For a second- I thought I'd lost you." A deep, long, shaky exhale. "And we can't afford to lose any more of our team, okay, Ray?"
"Yeah…" he couldn't look at her. "Understood boss."
"Okay. Done." The smallest of smiles, of forgiveness.
"Drake?"
"Yeah?"
"Your eyes- that shadow stuff- looks like an electric eel." It was a stupid statement really. Her eyeliner was glowing neon-violet in the light. He didn't even know why he'd said it. A silly observation. He just liked it when she smiled. When they were close like this, he could smell her toothpaste. She leant her forehead against his shoulder just for a nanosecond, just briefly.
Then she unhooked her heel and silently walked away, climbing nimbly and swiftly down the fire escape, without looking back. Maybe she really was getting stronger. Maybe she wouldn't or didn't need their sessions any more together. Maybe she didn't need him anymore. But she was still wearing his jacket. He hoped no-one noticed.
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Psychology. These were the tactics he needed to employ now. Think, Ray, think. The house stunk of petrol, it made him sick to his stomach. What would Alex do, what would Alex say? She'd fake him out, tell him what he wanted to hear, make him trust her. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at Chris, couldn't look at Shaz. They were in it deep, and he was their only hope of getting out. Otherwise, if Andy Smith sparked that lighter, they'd all be goners. What scared him most? Dying? Not seeing his niece and nephew again? Or something else, something worse. Not knowing if the guv was alive or dead? Sam? Annie? It was true: his life was flashing before his eyes. But he seized the opportunity, the momentum, the initiative. That crap pink poof lighter Chris has got hold of. Perfect decoy. Yep, he knew exactly what to say. Slowly, slowly… Andy handed him the lighter, the flag of the Union Jack almost mockingly staring back at him. Two choices, two ways to throw, who did he trust more?
"Boss." Straight into Alex's hands. She caught it, of course she caught it. Then it was a flurry of protocol and procedure. Taking Andy out to one of the uniform cars, making sure his wife was okay, securing the scene for evidence. Chris and Shaz had travelled back to the station in a second panda car, their shifts for the day nearly over. And it was just him and her again.
He found her leaning against the car, breathing hard and fast.
"Drake?" Shit. She flew at him, all fists against his chest. He gently caught her hands in his. She was hissing like a cat.
"What the fuck?" It was like she was too angry to cry. "Twice in two days!"
"Hey." His hands were still holding hers. "I wasn't going to bloody do it, was I?"
"Well, I thought you were!"
"You think I'd sent up a house in flames with you in it?" Anger began to fire in the pit of his stomach. He'd said too much.
Her eyes smarted, it looked like she wanted to cry but thought better of it. He knew what she was thinking: first Gene, then him, who next? She looked weak again, near exhaustion. What was he doing to her, hell, what were they doing to each other? And he said what he said next so quietly she barely heard him, "I'd never hurt you, Alex." He thought then she'd collapse in his arms, but he stopped her. "I'm covered in petrol. Gonna have to bin these clothes as it is." God, he knew he'd regret his next move, it would cross the line. But he leant across and kissed her just once, closed mouth on the lips. It lasted a nanosecond but it left a tiny smudge in her lipstick nevertheless, just the tiniest mark, the tiniest hint something had changed between them irrevocably…
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It was late, so late. After midnight. He couldn't sleep. Purple eyes. A tiny speck of red he'd found on his lips when he looked in the mirror of his bathroom later. Blood. So much blood. Where had it come from? Keats' voice in his head. Jab-cross-left hook, jab-cross-left hook…
He picked up the phone receiver from beside his bed and dialled, without thinking. He felt groggy, drowning in quicksand. She answered in three rings. "Gene?"
Shit. "No, it's me."
"What time is it?"
"I don't know, it's late." His words were jumbled up, all coming too quickly. "Can I come over?"
He heard her inhale sharply, nervous. Almost like it pained her.
"Not like that!" he added quickly. Was that what she thought of him? "I just- I need to talk."
One second, two seconds, three seconds. "Okay." She hung up without saying goodbye.
He knew this was crossing a line. What was he doing? What was he thinking? This was mad, he just- he needed to see her, tell her. Have her make everything better, right. His feet were out of the door, propelling him forward before he could weasel out. His flat wasn't far from hers and he felt like he made it there in record time.
"Ray?" Luigi's voice. He was there in his dressing gown, putting out the bins. "What's going on? It very late. Is it Signorina Drake? She okay?" Despite himself, it helped him to know that Luigi was looking out for Alex.
"Yes, she's fine, Luigi, complicated case is all."
"Okay, I'll leave you- don't keep her up too late- she still healing. How you say..? fragile. She need her rest."
Ray nodded, feeling a stab of guilt. "I get it. Night Luigi."
"Buona notte."
A little deflated, he still took the steps to her flat two at a time, his feet loud on the metal. She opened the door before he had chance to knock, she'd clearly been waiting for him. The dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. She had no make up on, her hair was unbrushed. I could get used to this. No, no, no. the blood… She stood aside, silently to let him in. Only one lamp was on. He sat awkwardly on her sofa at one end. She sat at the other. Neither of them spoke…
until suddenly something impossibly black, impossibly furry and impossibly huge jumped up between them. Ray nearly upturned the sofa in his haste to get away, he was sure he was going to have a heart attack. What the fuck was that? A bear or a wolf or… a cat? A cat was giving him a disdainful stare as it nonchalantly leapt into Alex's lap and settled itself there.
"What the fuck is that?" he said, his heart pounding in his chest.
Alex scooped up the feline, who was now purring almost mockingly, crossed her legs and settled it in her lap. "Ricardo."
"What?"
"He's Luigi's cat, best mouser in all of Fenchurch."
"Yeah, but why's it in your flat?" Ray was eying it nervously as he perched on the arm of the sofa, as far away as he could get from tomcat.
"I don't know," she said. "He sort of moved in a year ago."
"Sort of?"
"He comes and goes." Alex's hands continued to smooth over the cat's fur. After about five minutes of silence, she said, "It's quarter past one, Ray. I'm shattered, I-"
"Keats offered me DCI," he blurted, as if all his words ran into one. "At D & C."
She didn't say anything. She was possibly too exhausted to. Her hands stilled. She closed her eyes. "I'm not going to ask you to stay-"
"Alex-"
"Just… don't go, okay? Don't leave me." She stood and the cat jumped from her lap. Without a word, she made her way back to her bedroom and closed the door softly behind her, a plain signal he shouldn't follow. His mind spun, spun, spun. He was dog-tired too. So, so, tired. He was just tired of it all. His eyes closed…
He jolted awake at 4:30 a.m. as usual. So much blood… his arm had gone to sleep where he'd been resting his head against his palm. Quiet as a mouse, he gently opened Alex's bedroom door, just a tiny crack, barely breathing. Seeing she was sleeping soundly, he silently let himself out of her flat and took himself home. No. he wouldn't go, he couldn't go, he'd fallen too far now.