Chapter Eight

A month after the raid on Kramer's house, Gene finds himself lying on the upstairs landing for the first time since the day of Tyler's accident, once more staring the sky, stars looking clearer now, probably because he hasn't had a drink in days; to do so would seem too much like admitting how hopeless he feels.

Is Tyler somewhere out there? Up there? Where is Tyler right now?

He's run too many times through his litany of missed moments, of the almost-nearly, of the nearly-almost. There are only so many times he can see the scenes – the driving course, the odd corridor passing, the times he saw Tyler in a room and purposely didn't enter, all the times he avoided contact – before they fade with handling, changing to fit old prejudices and new wishes together, or worse still becoming fantasies of what might have been.

He's even run it all the way back to Carruthers now, to the 90s and his own demotion. If that hadn't happened, he'd still be DCI and Tyler – what of Tyler? Tyler might be his DI, Tyler might be working with him, no accidents, no arguments, no stolen jobs.

What would they be like, together?

What the fuck will he do, if Tyler doesn't wake up?

It's like a pain in the centre of his chest, pinioning him down, this feeling.

When his mobile rings he sits up, twisting rapidly to reach his jacket, and suddenly realises it's no poetic simile but a real pain, lancing through him sharp and burning, making him want to double up.

His own discomfort, however, doesn't merit any of his attention; the mobile is displaying the St James' Hospital number, Hyde Ward extension.

"Hello?" he almost barks into the phone.

Annie Cartwright's voice answers him. "Gene Hunt? Would you be able to come to the hospital as soon as possible? I've been asked to contact you by a Mrs Tyler."

"Why? What's fucking happening?"

"I can't tell you over the phone I'm afraid, sir, but if you'll just come down we can tell you. I'd recommend you don't drive if you're feeling agitated, sir."

Gene hangs up, already grabbing his car keys, fear pushing the still-screaming pain to the back of his mind as he runs down the stairs.

"She wanted you to come and be here," Annie is saying, leading him through the swing doors with a brisk step. "Mrs Tyler, I mean. He's had a surgery today and they think he might..."

The pain in Gene's stomach rises, acid in his craw and a foul taste, the most foul he's ever known.

"We need to hurry," she's saying, turning impatient as he stops, light-headed, unable to feel his feet.

Then he's aware, only just aware of her cry for help as he coughs and – to his amazement, though it feels distant, fuzzy somehow – blood spills out of his mouth, all over him right there as lies – when did he fall? – as he lies on the wipe-clean floor, under the lights, and finally there are tears in his eyes but he can still see it, the unreachable other end of the corridor, the door of Tyler's room.

Agony rips through his chest and everything goes black.

Uncertain time, uncertain where he is.

There's a mess of lights and voices, people in green scrubs shouting at each other.

Sharp needles. An awful taste in his mouth. He calls for a drink but no one brings anything, tries to lash out and get free and they push him down, a hundred gentle, firm hands.

He's on a trolley, something hard anyway, something with wheels. It's cold, he feels much too cold.

More needles, they're sticking something into his mouth, choking him; he bites down, fights back and there's another scratch, waves of pain, and then he's asleep.

"You had a bleeding ulcer," the tall, thin doctor is explaining rather didactically from the end of the bed, running his finger down a page in a folder of notes. "Were you getting heartburn at all previous to this?"

It was a fucking cinder, mate, Gene wants to say, but just nods, pushing his head back on the cool pillow, aware of the cannulas in both arms, the transfusion bracelets on his wrists showing just how much they had to pour back into him to keep him alive. He feels half-sick, floating.

"You were very lucky actually," the doctor continues. "Half an inch to the side and it would have been on a far more major vessel." He pauses to let his words sink in. "We did an endoscopy and were able to give the ulcers an adrenaline injection to stop the bleeding, but there are also more widespread changes down there called oesophagitis, which will need some long term medications to get rid of. And we need to talk about your drinking patterns – your liver tests aren't all they might be."

Gene holds up a hand. "I know, give me the leaflet, I'll sort it out – look, would you be able to find out for me..." He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to hear it being real, but he has to know. "Look, could you tell if this patient who was on the neurosurgical unit – Hyde Ward – a man called Sam Tyler – can you tell me how he died?"

The doctor raises an eyebrow. "Are you a relation?"

"No."

"I'll have to speak to a relative of the patient involved to see if I can disclose information, but if they're OK I don't see why not. I'll get back to you."

It's several long, horrible, strangely numb hours before he does come back, new sheaves of paper in his hands; he's scribbling on one of them but digs through the pile for another, much-folded, as he approaches Gene.

"Sam Tyler was the name you were interested in? I've spoken to his mother and she's given me full permission to speak to you. I have to tell you, I don't know how you got that message but it's not what you think. Sam Tyler's alive. He woke up from his coma two days ago, the day you came in, in fact."

For a moment, Gene can barely breathe. For a hideous moment he thinks he might pass out again.

"Well then, when can I go and see him?" he hears himself say, before he's even processed the news. "Can they wheel me up?"

The doctor frowns. "We prefer GI bleeds not to leave the ward, but in any case he was actually discharged yesterday. As will you be, if you get through another twenty-four hours with a stable haemoglobin." With a wag of his finger, the doctor turns to leave, and Gene looks for something to throw at him.

As promised, they do discharge Gene the next day.

He gets a taxi home and finds himself standing in the hallway just staring at the pile of pizza flyers that have accumulated during his inpatient stay, and then around at the rest of his house, as if he's never seen it before.

Since they cracked the Raimes case the place hasn't been strewn with files, so he ought to be used to it, but for some reason the clear surfaces look emptier now. To have something to do, he washes the few used plates in the sink, slots the packages of pills the hospital gave him into one of the kitchen cupboards, and then drowns a teabag in boiling water before he realises the milk is off. He goes to slump on the sofa, clicking on the TV out of habit.

What were you fucking expecting, you pillock? Were you expecting him to thank you?

He feels like he's the one that's woken up to face the day, the one's that come crashing into reality, and he remembers what his reality was, really.

It occurs to him in a roundabout way – he hadn't meant to let his thoughts take that path – that he still has no idea where Tyler lives, even if he had any idea what he might say to him.

After a week of sick leave and his own company, Gene's desperate to be back at work, but when he does return he finds that it passes him by in the same meaningless grey daze as everything else.

He's back on the standard Traffic duties for now - although his Super has said some meaningful things about 'excellent work' and 'future role' – and every now and again he finds himself, stuck in the middle of routine cautions and tickets, suddenly uncertain. One day he has to go to St James' Casualty to see a victim in a Road Traffic Collision and take a statement, and just walking through the car park makes him feel strangely like he's stepped into one of his own dreams.

One evening his phone rings and he feels something shakily unpleasant that he's ashamed to think afterwards is probably hope, but it's Rachel, who's heard about him from someone, probably a neighbour, concerned and for once able to have a chat without bringing up the past. He talks to her for as long as she seems to want, but can hear himself barely saying anything, just encouraging her words with the odd grunt of acquiescence.

He's heard that Tyler's also back at the job – has been for a while. The old jokes have rolled out about Tyler's workaholic tendencies, a lot of relieved affection behind them. To Gene it seems far too soon, but then what the fuck does he know about recovering from a coma?

Tyler's based in a different part of the building and Gene isn't sure if – when he absolutely has to go over to it – he's walking so slowly because he's afraid to bump into him or eager to.

One day he's almost sure they pass in the corridor, Tyler looking the other way, texting, but almost certainly him, and by the time Gene's past the surprise of seeing him actually walking the moment is lost.

He's not a bloody fourteen year-old girl and this sort of behaviour is utterly ridiculous, he tells himself quite firmly, but on the other hand he knows that for a while, for a long while, ill-advised or otherwise, his life became Sam Tyler.

And now Sam Tyler is back, and Sam Tyler has gone, and Gene knows some good ways and a few bad ones to stop feeling how he does, but he's through with trying to numb away his life.

If Tyler wanted to meet him, he'd make contact, Gene thinks, and hears Tyler's mother's voice echoing in his head. He misses seeing her too, he finds, more than he would have expected; the sympathetic tilt of her head when he spoke about his work, the way she scolded him about his diet, the simple kindness about her that she'd shone onto him with easy grace.

It's about three weeks after Gene's return to work that he gets a call from Maya Roy.

"They're not playing the old scene contamination card again are they?" he asks at once, ready to start filling in yet another report.

"No, I've spoken to the CPS and they're happy with the case." Maya's voice is anxious under her professional tone. "Listen Gene, it's Sam. I'm worried about him."

Gene leans forward, pressing the phone to his ear, coldness in his stomach and yet a kind of thrill too, to have a legitimate reason to talk about this.

"In what way?"

"He won't talk about the accident or the coma at all, not to anyone. I mean... goodness knows I gave up any right to... I've not spoken to his Mum but I've heard him on the phone with her – I really get the impression he's not dealt with it at all. I don't think he's got all his memory back properly either – sometimes things are coming out... backwards, he said something about his Dad that was just odd."

Gene closes his eyes; no way to convince himself he doesn't care, but can he do this to himself again?

"They'll have stuck him through the post-traumatic Psychologists though, won't they?"

"He's doing some kind of report for someone, but I just don't know, Gene. Like I've said, he simply won't talk about it. I mean we know what happened that day, we know that now thanks to you, so I thought he ought to be able to talk to you if to anyone."

Gene's mouth goes dry. "He wants to talk to me?"

There's a slight pause from the other end of the line, long enough to let him know those hopes weren't worth raising. "Not as such," Maya says slowly. "He won't talk about the accident, like I said. I haven't even been able to bring up that you were involved, not the investigation, none of it. But maybe what he needs right now isn't sensitivity."

"Maya, I don't know if I'm the right one to..."

She interrupts him: "Hold on a second." Then with a click on the line she's back: "Look, I have to take another call, let me know how it goes with him, OK?"

Gene can't stop himself asking. "So, then, are you two...?"

"No," she says softly. "It wasn't right, Gene, I told you that. Maybe even less so now – he's just gone, I don't understand it. It's like he came back but not all of him, somehow, I don't..." She tails off, then clears her throat. "I really have to go. Call me."

And Gene's left staring at the phone, half-way between relief and despair.

Simply tracking Tyler down is harder than he's expecting, the next day at work when he sets aside an hour to do so. He tries Tyler's office over in the main building on the CID floor, near to Maya, but there's no one in her cubicle or Tyler's. He notices that Tyler has no photos in his, no silly executive toys, no free calendars; you'd barely even realise it was usually occupied.

Going back to the main corridor, Gene runs into a smartly-dressed woman with an ID badge identifying her as a CID secretary, who smiles brightly in response to his enquiries.

"DCI Tyler? Oh, he's just gone up to a meeting on the eighth floor, dear. Listen, if you're going past the internal mail docket on your way out, could you be an angel and stick this envelope in please? I really need to get to that phone."

She dashes away at an incredible speed on her high heels and Gene looks down at the object now in his hand, one of the standard internal mail envelopes with multiple destination boxes, the last address crossed off each time by the recipient before being forwarded on with whatever new contents.

On this envelope, the last address scored through was to DCI Sam Tyler.

Before he has time to think that maybe he ought not to, he's ripping it open, shaking out onto his palm a small dictaphone tape, partly run through. Nothing else, no letter or explanation.

Wandering back to the cubicles, he picks up the nearest dictaphone and rewinds the tape with what seems agonising slowness and then, holding it up to his ear in the almost deserted room, starts listening.

'My name," says the voice he'd waited so long, so eagerly, to hear, "is Sam Tyler. I had an accident... in... 1973..."