Chapter 16

Since you've been gone
I shut my eyes and I fantasise
That you're here with me
Will you ever return?
I won't be satisified
'Til you're by my side
Don't wait any longer

Come back

Why don't you come back?
Please hurry
Why don't you come back?
Please hurry

Gene sat in the corner that he had long since claimed as his, watching nothing other than the glasses that lay on the table in front of him. Only three, but he knew that he'd drunk at least double that; someone must have been refilling them as the night progressed. He was good for a few more; he'd only just begun to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges and in a slightly better humour than when they'd walked in a couple of hours before.

Being on the cusp wasn't enough. Tonight he intended to get absolutely leathered.

He kept the urges to drink himself into oblivion in check on the whole. Some days he'd start on the scotch not all that long after he dragged himself out of bed; definitely before he got into the office. Most of the time he kept himself in line, bringing out the spectre of his excuse of a father and scaring himself shitless with the thought that history could repeat itself so easily if he let himself be caught unawares.

Most days passed covered in dark clouds rather than an alcohol-induced fog that covered his brain and he could handle it. Losing so much put you naturally in the shadows with very few glimpses of sunshine. But there were days when he was pushed too far to the edge, and it became a necessity rather than a desire. He always recovered, never let himself slide without a way-out. I am not an alcoholic. I am not him.

Breaking the limit every once in a while was fine, so long as he didn't lose sight of things.

The last few days more than warranted a release. The case they were dealing with involved the worst kind of scum, the type that made him want to unleash the darkest side of himself to be assured that they would suffer as much as they had made others, not that it was a great consolation. Parker was being an irritating shit, which wasn't out of the ordinary but he had decided to dial it up recently.

The next drink didn't even touch the sides; it felt like some kind of record, if he could be bothered to pay attention.

The voice that told him to stop was fading into the distance, getting harder to hear with each hour that passed. The pain was becoming too much to bear, the burden too great to shoulder, and so his need for self-preservation was kicking in. It'll be easier if you forget her. Her face was still the first thing that he saw when he closed his eyes but it wasn't as clear as it used to be, her features altering and shifting like a mirage. If he reached out to touch he would only meet with disappointment, the ache of it gnawing through his bones.

At the same time, the thought of her was the only thing that was stopping him from losing all control.

She was holding everything together and she wasn't even bloody here anymore.

With everything else going on he was staying vigilant, keeping his investigations hidden. It's bleedin' near-on impossible to work on a missing person case when said missing person is years in the soddin' future. He drove the Quattro in circles for hours at night, half-believing that he'd come across something or else have an almighty brainwave that would lead him in the right direction. If only he could remember any of the psycho-bollocks she spouted rather than staring down the dip of her blouse then he might actually have a starting point.

Some nights he parked up opposite White's house, being careful to stay out of the glare of the lone street-lamp; the last thing he needed was the Quattro to be illuminated like a beacon, giving himself away. It was all fruitless; he might have been a poncey lawyer from a completely different plane of existence but there was nothing to say that he was part of anything dodgy. He cared for Alex, was the only person she had. Even if he did have something going on, Gene doubted whether he could bring himself to do anything to take White away from the little girl that depended upon him.

His heart ached as he contemplated, more than once, knocking on the door and asking to see her. He pulled himself up short, aware that it would only twist things further. The circumstances were weird enough; he didn't want to risk changing the course of time. If that can even happen. Never mind psycho-bollocks, this is another bloody level entirely.

"Guv!"

It took him a minute or so to know where the voice was coming from, things becoming clear when he saw Ray's grin at the other end of the table.

"Hmmm?" he replied, not having the faintest idea of which way the conversation had turned, his head being too full of other things which he wanted to temporarily blot out.

"You've got a plus one to the weddin'," Chris supplied, a near-full pint in his hand which Gene was deeply envious of. "We were tryin' to decide who you might bring."

He should have just played stupid and ignored them completely.

"It's not compulsory, is it?" he answered.

"Well, I s'pose not, but..."

"Good. There's your answer." He fumbled for one of the glasses that looked deceptively close within his reach. "Is it my round?"

"We've not long got one in, Guv," Viv said, and looking round he could see that everyone else had a drink in their hands or close by. "But you did sink yours pretty quickly."

"And this is a matter of importance," Ray intoned, his attention directed firmly towards Gene. "When was the last time you got your end away?"

"That is none of your beeswax, Carling."

He was heading for a smack if he didn't shut up soon, Gene flexing his fist under the table in preparation.

Instead, he scoffed. "I'm just sayin', it explains a lot."

He couldn't be bothered with the hassle, not really giving a stuff if they all thought he'd turned into a monk. Vague memories rifled through his head, soft skin and dark hair, red satin on a bed and draping across generous curves.

"Not sayin' that you need help, Guv – "

Ray interrupted Chris quickly. "He bloody does."

" – but Shaz has got a couple of aunties, and one of them hasn't got a date for the weddin' either. And she's decent, you know. Nice lookin', though don't tell Shaz I said so."

"Oh ey, gettin' in with the family," Ray laughed dirtily, nudging Poirot's elbow.

"But she's nice to talk to, as well. She got divorced a couple of years ago, so you'll 'ave loads in common."

"Look, the Guv doesn't want some cast-off bird who's gettin' on. What 'e's after requires a younger model," Ray murmured, the leer evident in his voice.

He didn't want anyone else, a one-night stand or otherwise. He didn't care if he never got his rocks off again. If it wasn't going to be with Bolly, he didn't care. He wanted to be left alone with the fragments of the moments he could remember, as well as a crate-load of booze, but they wouldn't leave him alone.

"Will the both of you give it a rest?" he barked, taking himself a little by surprise. "Chris, tell Shaz's auntie whatever. If she's that hard-up then I'll be 'er date. Just for the night, mind, nothin' more."

It shut them up and got them off his case, for long enough that he could wallow in the pain of loneliness, a feeling that he should have become well-accustomed to by now.

The night moved on, and he slipped further, as he was happy to do. Bolly's voice fading quicker, until there were no boundaries that he cared enough to keep to.

Before he left Ray pressed a piece of paper into his open hand. Gene blinked at it, thinking that the address seemed familiar.

"If you change your mind and need somethin' else to pick you up, or warm you up," Ray said with a smirk stretching upon his face. "It's been a while since I went, but the door's always open, figuratively speakin'. And you would 'ave your pick, I'm tellin' you."

"Go home, Ray," Gene responded, reaching for the glass that was nearly drained.

Ray clapped him on the back. "Good night, Guv. Don't let things keep you up."

He held the piece of paper in his palm for a few seconds before scrunching it into a ball, returning to his sin of choice despite the disapproving looks of the Italian behind the bar.

He was more at home with greed than lust these days.

The shock dissipated further, leaving confusion lingering in its wake, the feeling one that shifted into something else that she didn't have a name for as it took root. The doctor and nurses kept a vigilant watch on her, even the mysterious Mr Gerrard taking time out of his busy schedule to pay her a visit. He didn't look quite how she expected him to, but it was the least of her concerns. She was doing well, they all told her; it was really quite miraculous that she hadn't been more seriously affected physically.

That doesn't explain what has happened to my mind.

She had seen sight of herself in a mirror, no longer denying what was quite clearly true. Her fingers traced the fine lines upon her face and the crow's feet branching from the corners of her eyes. Her hair greyer than it was dark, though the transformation had a few more years until it was complete, probably. Initially it came as a surprise, not to see herself as she was used to in the same dimension – or to recognise herself in her '80s incarnation – but she acclimatised quickly.

Her appearance was not the thing she was concerned with. The visual did not provide her with the information she was so desperate to know.

The fundamentals that would tell her exactly who she was.

She felt awful relying on Molly so much but it appeared that there was nobody else, with Evan gone and Gene unconscious. Her daughter was incredibly patient, answering the endless questions she asked of her and calling time before she became too overwhelmed. She did find herself exhausted by all of the details she absorbed, the history of her life that she was learning as though she was a student, and slept for longer hours than she was ever used to. In her dreams she tried to bring the pictures to her mind, fabricating what had been real.

Everything that she couldn't remember.

Her father committed suicide when she was nine, a result of undiagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder. Shellshock, as it was known back then. It had been a motivation for her future career, to understand more about the complexities of the human mind. To help people heal, where she could. She was still an orphan, her mother dying of a brain tumour not long after she had turned seventeen. A physical rather than a mental cause, but the location seemed to be too much of a coincidence. Her grandmother – also called Molly – was her guardian until her death four years later.

She did have a sister, Carolynne. There was only eighteen months between them. The photographs that Molly brought from home sent chills coursing through her. The resemblance could not be considered to be especially strong but she glimpsed similarities of her mother. Or rather, Caroline Price. A woman who could not have existed, at least not the way that Alex knew her.

She had been close to her sister, which made her happy. She had always yearned for a sibling growing up - or Alex Price had. Another blow came when she was told that Carolynne had been killed in a road accident in 1972, two years after Alex had joined the police force. She was engaged to be married the year later but hadn't been certain about going through with it, unsure that she had taken the right path. It seemed that fate had wished to intervene. Molly told her that her sister had been in love with Evan from afar since they had been at university together, and it had been reciprocated, but neither had the courage to act on their feelings. So it followed that Evan became something of a surrogate brother to Alex, keeping the flame of his love for Carolynne alive through their bond.

Similarly, Evan was the only person Alex had in her life in the absence of any blood relations that she knew. There were relationships but none of them got off the ground; she was far more focused on her career, making the rank of DI at an unprecedented rate. Alexandra Drake was quite the pioneer.

Her maiden name had been Drake. No relation to Pete, as far as she could determine from everything Molly had told her. A strange coincidence but far stranger things had happened.

She had been committed to her work, with successful stints at three divisions in the Met. In 1981 she transferred from Southwark to Fenchurch East, and the rest was history, so to speak.

It was all very well if this was the way her life had always been, but she remembered being someone else. That little girl who watched her parents being forever lost in an inferno of flame and smoke, the image one that was forever burned onto her brain. She had been Alexandra Price. If she tried to explain it someone, even to Molly, she had the certain feeling that she would never see the light of day again.

So she stayed quiet.

If Summers hadn't got to her it must have been someone else. She only hoped that the ending had been swift and painless. Even in her most desperate of moments in her '80s existence she had not believed in the existence of heaven, but she hoped that it would be real for Alexandra. Herself, but not.

She still could not fathom how it had come to be, but it seemed as though the axes of her two worlds had wanted to meet in some manner.

She asked the nurses for information on Gene's condition. No change, they told her, but failed to use the word stable. She chanced her arm on more than one occasion, enquiring to the young doctor whether she could be taken to the intensive care unit to see him. Her husband.

Rather predictably, she was met with a negative response. An explanation that it would likely cause more damage to her brain if she were to witness Gene in his current state. She believed the opposite to be true – no matter how extensive his injuries were or how unrecognisable he was, surely the memories would return to her if she could see him. The years arriving back again, fully formed.

At least let my daughter see her father.

She reached out to her bedside and the shoebox that sat upon it, which Molly had brought in on her last visit. It was filled with mementos and perfectly ordinary objects. More photographs in an envelope, which she wasn't yet emotionally ready to go through. An old iPod that belonged to Molly, seemingly full of music from the '80s and '90s.

One object from inside caught her eye as she settled the cardboard box into her lap, its silver chain glinting in the artificial light of the room. She fished out the heart-shaped pendant, holding it close to her own heart, knowing that it must have been significant in some way.

Because everything is. That's what I've built my belief system upon.

But when she didn't really know who she was, aside from second-hand stories that had been told to her, did having one matter?

The answer failed her, as did every other, and so she closed her eyes, the pendant eventually falling from her grasp.

As weddings went, it was one of the better ones. Shaz made a beautiful bride, a smile pinned to her face for the entire day. Chris managed to get through all the important bits without mucking up, even if he did look like a supremely soppy sod. They were both kids in his eyes so part of him felt like he was watching something that was for pretend, like those 'weddings' that happened in playgrounds between giddy schoolgirls and lads that had been dragged unwillingly away from playing footie. Yet anyone could look at the pair of them, exchanging smiles and glances as well as rings, and be witness to the love that existed between them. Love like that wasn't a guarantee to everyone.

He thought of Sam and Annie, sitting in the front pew of the church like a numpty as he watched them getting hitched. Sam had to ask him for the ring and there was a moment where he genuinely thought he'd forgotten, left it behind on one of the many stops on the stag do. The grin on Tyler's face when he passed it over had filled him temporarily with the same infectious feeling, swiftly replaced by relief that he'd escaped Cartwright's left hook. The lass could throw punches to rival any bloke.

He often wondered what had happened to her. He assumed that she was still in Manchester, feeling like a bastard that he hadn't bothered to check, being too consumed by his own grief to check. Poor cow had taken it bad, resigned from her post and cut herself off from the world, like she wanted to will herself to stop living as well.

He'd felt pain at losing Sam, obviously, but it wasn't until now that he really understood Annie's plight. It was like he was only one half of a whole, sitting there and being seen but fundamentally incomplete.

The music was blaring; almost everybody was dancing and if they weren't then they were raising their glasses to the happy couple. His had long since been emptied and he hadn't the inclination to go to the bar and get another, not being sure of whether he could restrict himself. He was supposed to be on his best behaviour and he'd been trying damn hard.

She remained next to him, Shaz's auntie who he'd been reluctantly set up with, and he knew she stayed only out of courtesy. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She was good-looking, could hold a conversation for longer than two minutes and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, even if he was talking a load of crap. If the circumstances were different then there might have even been a few dates in it.

He looked at her as she spoke, trying to listen. For the life of him he couldn't remember what her name was, other than that he thought it began with a T. Tina, or maybe it was Tanya. Or was it even Tracey? She'd been nothing but polite so he wasn't going to embarrass them both by asking for a reminder.

"Look, love," he shifted in his seat, "I think I'm gunna head off...not that it hasn't been nice, and you've been great."

She flashed him a white smile, an almost mutual understanding in her eyes. "You mean, 'It's not you, it's me'?"

"Yeah... 'm sorry. It's just...been a while, you know."

"There's no need to apologise, Gene. You're a lovely bloke, but I think we both know that there isn't a spark there."

He managed a smile in recognition and relief, though the feeling wasn't so great as to overcome his general sense of deflation.

"Sharon was probably trying to be helpful, as she always is. I'll just say that we had some differing opinions, and trust you to stick to the same story."

"Can do," he tipped her a half-hearted wink. "Never been called 'lovely' before."

Her smile deepened. "I don't think I believe that. Get back safely, and thank you for today. I could have had it a lot worse."

"Same 'ere." At least he felt he'd done something by saving her the fate of being felt up by a very drunk and randy Ray. "Take care of yerself."

He noticed that she was up dancing before he'd even left, casting a glance back at the party before he slipped out unnoticed, leaving the noise and laughter behind him. It was only right that he went; he stuck out like a sore thumb, a picture of misery amongst all the happy souls, lives that were brimming while he felt like less than a ghost.

He wanted nothing more than to stop thinking about her but she was a permanent presence in his mind. The only source of light, which was ironic given that it was having her there which made him feel so bloody wretched.

It's her fault that I feel like this. She should be 'ere, to see the mess that she's caused.

He was pissed off with her for making him feel this way. He hated the thought of her joining in the party, looking drop dead gorgeous in some tight-fitting dress, laughing and dancing with the rest of them. If she did turn up, by some miracle, then he should be the only one allowed to see her. He'd pull her from her feet before she could take another step in her red heels, carry her off with her arms wrapped about his neck and the look of annoyance on her pretty face swiftly replaced with one of desire.

It's been too long, Bolly.

She filled his head to the point where each step he took down the street was an ordeal, his chest tight and his breathing difficult. He rifled in his pockets for the cigarette packet but found it lacking. What was worse was the craving for nicotine wasn't the only one he had. Feeling horny was a combination of thinking of Bolly non-stop and being in female company for most of the day. Predominantly the former.

Not in the least bit proud – incredibly ashamed and feeling like he was no better than if he had crawled out of the gutter – he hailed a passing cab and gave instructions to the driver. He had enough sense not to ask for the exact street but somewhere that was within short walking distance.

At least it was dark enough and quiet enough for him not to be noticed as he made his way to the establishment, Ray's instructions memorised in his head. He'd stopped fooling himself that he hadn't been considering it ever since he was handed that scrap of paper. The only reason he'd put it off was through a weird kind of guilt that he'd be being unfaithful, which was bloody ridiculous. Nothing was going to bring her back to a place where she didn't belong, and he needed to get on with his life and stop acting as though he worked in a mortuary or otherwise a monastery.

He made sure not to knock too loudly on the door of the house that looked like any other on the street. A woman in her late sixties opened it and he hesitated, hoping that she wasn't representative.

"Step inside, darling," she rasped in a nicotine-coated voice, and he bundled himself in the door sideways, still wary of being spotted in the pitch-black of the night outside.

The place was covered in strings of fairy lights and he followed the old doll through a long corridor to the back room where to the relief of his libido a number of younger women were assembled in frilly garments, varying in their states of dress.

"We're quiet tonight, so you've got your pick of the bunch," the madam informed him, a neatly manicured hand placed on his shoulder.

He worked to quiet the voice in the back of his head that told him that he was way past all of this, the seediness and secrecy. One of the girls looked no older than twenty; he should have been rounding them up and bringing out his warrant card to shut the place down.

Instead he ignored his better judgment, putting his mind elsewhere. He paid little attention to the line up pushing out their chests and fluttering their eyelashes and stepped towards the one second from the end, brunette curls sitting upon her shoulders and red lipstick slathered on her plump mouth.

The resemblance was only something he'd think about later, wrapping himself in covers to quell the shame.

"Let me lead the way," she said in a sultry tone, slightly put-on. He linked his hand with hers, following her up the staircase, the sound of her stilettos sharp upon the uncarpeted wood.

His heart was in his throat when she locked the door of the bedroom behind them, removing his tie so that he could actually attempt to get some air into his lungs.

"Make yourself comfortable," she uttered, sounding more relaxed now that they were alone. He blinked at her as he sat on the end of the bed that was squeezed into the small room. She had legs that went on forever, black lace peeking out from underneath the negligee she was wearing. "I'll do the same."

She took off her flimsy robe and sidled up to where he was sitting, wearing a seductive smile as she slipped the straps of the negligee down, giving him a first-class view of her cleavage. He felt strangely out of his depth, even though he'd been in a similar position before. Without thinking he leant forward, aiming his lips at hers.

"Not allowed to do that," she reminded him, pulling back though there still wasn't a great deal of space between their bodies, "though I wish I could make an exception for you."

She looked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze, the strong perfume that she was doused in invading his senses as she leant even closer to him.

"You've got gorgeous eyes," she said, tracing her fingers from his throat down his torso, undoing the buttons on his shirt as she went, "and nice arms...I bet everything about you is just as impressive."

He got rid of his shirt and vest, watching eagerly as she slipped out of the negligee and unclipped her bra. She sat back down on the bed, her hand diving straight to his belt and fly.

He didn't mind that there wasn't a lot of build-up. He just wanted to get it over with, feel the heady rush of release. It would have been better if he could kiss her – he felt disconnected from the situation at the moment – but he couldn't really complain too much.

"Oh yeah," she purred in his ear as her hand went into his boxers, "very impressive, indeed."

Well, he was glad that she thought so, considering he wasn't hard yet. Not even a semi. It was awkward, considering there was a sexy nearly-naked bird right next to him and he wanted to shag her. At least, he thought he did. He wouldn't have come here in the first place if it was an urge he thought he could take care of himself. Come to think of it, he couldn't recall the last time he'd tossed off aside from it being a necessity.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting himself on the bed, her hand still down the front of his trousers. "It doesn't usually take this long."

"It's alright," she said with a smile, her eyes glinting, "I don't mind revving you up a bit longer."

Her fingers continued to stroke him, moving deftly and doing everything that should have had him raring to go and more besides, but still there was no change. The embarrassment he felt surged up to flush his face with colour and after a few more embarrassingly long minutes he pulled back, causing her to release her grip. He didn't want to cause the poor girl an injury and his pride couldn't take much more of a battering.

"I'll pay you double," he offered by way of apology, reaching for the wallet in his discarded jacket. "'ow much was it, a hundred?"

"No, it's fine," she said, covering herself up with her robe as he hastily put the clothes he had shed back in place.

"It's no trouble. It's the least I can do," he said, taking the notes that added to two hundred out and handing them over.

She smiled weakly. "I haven't been doing this very long. You're my second."

A fresh wave of guilt washed over him, accompanied by rage that she should have to resort to giving sad middle-aged men their kicks.

"It's all on me, love. Don't go blaming yourself." He wanted to tell her to get out as well as tell the old bat where to shove it. "I'm sure it would 'ave been great."

Her face brightened as she put the payment into a faded silver box. "Stay for a bit."

Make it look realistic and not an embarrassment for us both, was what she really meant.

He left after forty minutes or so; what felt like the longest forty minutes of his life. He found himself thinking about the prossies he'd gone to before and what a selfish bastard he'd been in the past, not to mention tight. Another cab hailed – thankfully with a different driver to the one who had dropped him off – and he was back at his house before midnight struck. He forewent the temptation of the kitchen, realising that he'd drunk everything that was in anyway and so it would have only been a bitter disappointment.

He definitely didn't need more of that tonight.

Choosing the bed instead of the sofa, he managed to stay upright for long enough to strip off his clothes. Once that was done he buried his face into the pillow, sinking his body down and praying for sleep to claim him quickly. He'd had enough of being awake for what felt like the last two weeks straight.

He turned onto his side when he felt a hand brushing against his arm. He thought he was fooling himself into thinking that the persistent touch felt familiar, the soft scrape of fingernails on his skin causing goosepimples to rise.

"Gene," she whispered and his heart contracted so much that he thought he was in the early stages of a heart attack. He couldn't mistake that perfectly plummy voice.

He opened his eyes and sure enough there she was, lying next to him, hair in waves and wearing a black silk nightie.

"Bols," he uttered, unable to stop his gaze from roaming her. "Alex. Is this a dream?"

"Yes," she replied, and though he knew it was the logical explanation his heart plummeted to hear her confirm it. "Do I look different?"

"You look bloody delectable. God, I miss you."

"I miss you too," she said, moving her body even closer to his. He felt the contrast of cool silk and heat from beneath, barely containing the growl from leaving his throat. "You can touch me, you know. I'm not going to disappear."

"I don't know that, do I? Woke up one day and you'd gone." His hand travelled from the top of her thigh up her side. "Never even got the chance to say goodbye. Didn't think I pissed you off that much."

She smiled, pushing into his touch as his hand traced the curve of her breast.

"We'll be together again. I promise. You just need to be patient."

"Not me strongest suit," he huffed, "anyway, I'm gunna be seventy-odd when I make it to 2008. Old enough to be your bloody dad, Bolly, if not yer granddad."

Her laughter was sweet, the feel of her even sweeter. Her nipple swelled underneath the silk and he couldn't stop his fingers from circling it, his pride reaffirmed when he registered the gasp leaving her lips.

"Oh, Gene," she uttered breathily, her hand caressing the nape of his neck, "I need you."

The blood rushed and roared through his veins at her touch upon his skin, heading south quickly.

"Not as much as I need you, Bols..."

A single press of her mouth to his and it was as if he had been reborn, the sorrow that had plagued him washed away with every touch and caress she bestowed upon him. He groaned in disappointment when she broke their kisses, but his protests were quickly stopped when her hands dipped down his body, stroking the rigidity between his legs. He let out an unrestrained moan at the feel of her nimble fingers upon him, doubting he'd been as hard as this in his entire life.

"Shit, Alex...don't stop," he pleaded, the way she was caressing him better than anything he'd ever known.

Her beautiful eyes glanced up at him as she slid further down the bed. "I have no intention of that, Gene."

He shivered as she laid kisses on his stomach and then almost lost control completely when she took him into her mouth, her tongue flicking against the head of his cock. A string of incoherence was the best he could manage between heavy groans and murmurs of her name, his hand tangling into her silky hair as she took him deeper.

Before he could come she released him, and all he could do was look at her in awe as she rose like a goddess above him, feeling unworthy to even touch her though she welcomed his hands gladly as they covered her breasts.

"I need you inside me," she murmured, and he muttered his agreement with a "God, yeah," before she sunk down, his hands on her waist guiding her to take all of him in one swift stroke.

Their bodies moved together in harmony, his grunts complimenting her breathy moans. He sat up, cupping her face and pulling her lips to his, making the most of every second of her body pressed to his, of being buried in her when he never thought he'd have the chance again.

They rode their pleasure together, lips and tongues desperately caressing as they got closer.

"Come back to me, Gene," she breathed, her body arching into his, the look of bliss making itself known in her eyes as her hands stroked his face tenderly.

"You've got to come back to me, Bols," he said, gripping onto her hips tighter, feeling his release edge ever closer as he lost himself completely in her. "Oh, Christ...!"

He felt the uncomfortable stickiness surrounding him when he woke, satisfied in one sense of the word but otherwise bereft, knowing he'd be suffering even more now that Bolly had visited him so vividly in his dreams. It wasn't just her body he craved; it was her, Alex Drake with all of her complexities and complications that drove him mad and utterly captivated him, mind, body and soul. He'd suspected it for a long time but the events of the night had proved it.

He dozed for a little bit and when he dragged himself out of bed and headed for the shower there was only one thing on his mind, bringing him the deepest pleasure and the sweetest pain.

She'd been scrolling through the iPod for what could have been the entire afternoon, letting it play out for a while then taking out the headphones when her ears started to hurt, reverberation from the blast. Each time the dull pain hadn't subsided completely before she resumed, leaning her head back upon the pillow while the largely electronic melodies filled her head.

Some of the songs were more familiar than others although she recollected them all, to some degree. The synapses in her brain couldn't quite make the logical connections; she associated each with a point in her childhood and early adolescence, instead of her adult life. So much was broken and she worried that it was beyond any repair, yet she was the only one who could perform it.

One track faded into another, with its steady pulsating rhythm – she felt as though the music was humming in her veins, not against her ears – and building harmonies, before the singing properly kicked in, the male voice a little jarring.

The water shines
A pebble skips across the face
A dozen times
Then disappears, not a trace
Left behind
The thrower turns and walks away
A change of mind
Another start, a brand new day

She switched it off hastily when Molly came into the room again, flushing with embarrassment, as if she was a teenager being caught looking at something she shouldn't. Her daughter smiled at her, heading immediately to the seat by her bedside.

"You taught me everything I know," she said, warmth resonating from her voice, "music now doesn't even begin to compare. What were you on?"

Alex handed the compact rectangle of metal into Molly's palm.

"Ah, The Human League. They're one of my faves. Along with Eurythmics and Roxy Music."

She felt a pang of recognition, picturing herself sitting on a sofa, an empty cassette case in one hand and glass of wine in the other. Perhaps it was something she had seen on TV and she was just putting herself into the frame.

She watched Molly's thumb rotating the dial with a speed she hadn't been capable of, the smile on her face growing.

"Friday nights," her daughter began, cheeks glowing, "we used to put all of these songs on after dinner and dance around the sitting room, singing our hearts out. Every week without fail and we'd never get bored."

Alex smiled listening to Molly's recollections, brush strokes on a blank canvas. She imagined that she would have danced with her daughter, could think of little else that would have made her so full of joy.

"Did Gene...your dad join in as well?"

The grin on Molly's face contradicted the answer she gave. "He'd complain about how crap the music was, saying we should listen to something decent instead. But he never turned it off. He'd sit there with his arms crossed, pretending to be grumpy when really he loved to watch us. Sometimes he'd tap his foot along, that was a victory."

How much trauma can a mind take before it all becomes too much? It was a question she had grappled with before, specifically when it came to Sam Tyler. He had suffered and bottled things up, persisted with a number of situations he hadn't been happy in. His fantasies and delusions had been the product of pain and anguish that no outsider – herself included - could begin to comprehend. They were his way of coping. Who had she been to judge?

Her life – this version of it – had been horrific. One disaster after another, though she'd apparently had a clear run for a good length of time, at least until Evan had passed. The bomb had been the trigger, the point of no return. Now everything was in fragments, smaller than the eye could detect, but perhaps it was for the good of her mind and her heart, as bruised it was. It was so fragile that it could not take being broken again, else it would shatter completely.

Molly had told her of the happiness they'd had, a life not exactly idyllic but compared to what she had been used to it had been like heaven. She thought of Gene how she remembered him and how they had been on the cusp of something. That's where they were always meant to be, it seemed; on the edge. If she imagined anything more it was too painful. A betrayal.

He was fighting for his life, and remembering what they'd had would only be agony, especially if the worst came to pass.

But Molly was talking, the smile upon her face brilliant and her eyes shining, and Alex couldn't have told her to stop, even if it would have been better for them all.

She was speaking about being fourteen or fifteen, the first time that she had experienced 'heartbreak' after being dumped by a boy. She'd moped around for days, refusing to speak for more than a few words at a time until the floodgates broke. Apparently she'd wept in Alex's arms for a good hour, staying there until her laments about how her life was over and that she'd never be happy quieted to silence.

"I asked what I needed to do, to find the person that I'd fall in love with. I asked what you did with Dad. And I remembered that you smiled and hugged me tight, and said that you didn't know. That you and Dad were from completely different worlds and so you never could have expected to fall in love with him."

Molly's face filled with the glow of memory, Alex's words meaning more to her given that she was the one who was able to recall them.

"But you said maybe that was the reason why. That being from different places meant that you completed one another." Her daughter's voice trembled a little, stopping for a few seconds to gather herself. "You said that even if things were difficult before that Dad changed everything for you, and that was all that mattered. That certain things are meant to be, bad or good, but the very best things can never be broken. And when you're with the person you love, it's stronger than anything else in the world."

The tears had streamed down Alex's face without her being aware, but once she had registered them they were all she knew, hot against her cheeks.

"Oh, Mum," Molly gasped, her hand going to Alex's face, her thumb attempting to wipe the flood away, "please don't cry. I didn't mean..."

Alex shook her head at her daughter's unnecessary apology, pressing her mouth against Molly's palm.

There's so much I don't know, was all she could think, too aware of the emptiness in her chest. How do I begin to put it all back together?

Gene was the starting point. She needed to know how their relationship had progressed, from being on the edge to something far deeper. She remembered something of the feeling, of knowing that there was something about Gene Hunt which made him different from everyone else.

He had to keep fighting, but not only for her selfish needs.

Even now, with so much that she had lost and mislaid, she couldn't imagine a world without Gene in it.

Molly pulled away slowly, retrieving the iPod that she had dropped upon the bed. She scrolled again for a while, Alex watching as her tears subsided. Once she had found what she had been looking for she passed the device back into Alex's hand, closing her fingers around it.

"Dad only dances to one song," she said with a smile as Alex looked at her with wide and curious eyes. "I sat on the stairs once while you were dancing to it in the sitting room. You told me that it was your wedding song, though you only danced to it when you were alone. Dad wouldn't do it in front of everyone."

"Well, that sounds typical," Alex replied with the smallest of laughs.

"I think it's romantic," Molly answered, brimming with pride. "Don't listen to it when you're upset, but later on. I think it'll help."

Alex nodded to say that she would, making a cross sign over the left side of her chest. Molly smiled, leaning over again to kiss her temple. Such a strange role reversal but one that she could live with for now.

The room was too quiet without Molly in it and left alone with her thoughts, but she managed to sleep for a couple of hours. Enough time for the sorrow to fade, even though it was always lingering.

On waking she reached for the television remote, turning over from the news bulletin past the game shows, settling on a nature documentary. She watched for a while, unable to concentrate for too long, as seemed to be the norm for her now. The iPod glinted from the bedside and she curbed her eagerness to pick it up, keeping her movements slow and trying to guess what it could have possibly been, the soundtrack to one of the pivotal moments of her life.

She smiled when her curiosity was answered, even if it hadn't been amongst her choices. She couldn't remember being particularly enamoured by Spandau Ballet, and she was fairly sure that Gene wouldn't have had a secret penchant. It was probably because it had been popular at the time, she reasoned.

It took her a few days to get the courage to listen, and when she did it all seemed to make sense. She hadn't expected to have such a reaction to what was a nice, perhaps even overly slick love song. It felt as though she had been hit in the chest, the ache echoing through her body.

The lyrics spoke for them then and how she seemed to feel for Gene now, even as she was situated in the ruins.

So true, funny how it seems
Always in time, but never in line for dreams
Head over heels when toe to toe
This is the sound of my soul

This is the sound

He was the first in the station, which was getting to be a common occurrence. The night skipper wasn't surprised to see him turning up at not long gone six o'clock, cheerily thanking him when he relieved him from duty an hour early. He thought to himself that it wasn't a bad job, at least not if you were on your own without a wife or family. Anyone trying to break in that time of day would probably be a piss artist and he could easily deal with them.

Takes one to know one, and all that.

Something stopped him from heading straight to his office, and so he found himself lingering in the main room of CID. He wandered about for a bit, restless, and then when that started to become boring leant against one of the desks – Ray's, from what he could identify lying on top – looking around at his empty kingdom.

This was all he had to show for his life. Not a great deal.

He fixed his gaze on one desk in particular, the sorrow sinking in his chest. The explicit dream that had woken him in quite a state clear in his mind. He couldn't get past the simple fact that it wasn't hers anymore. That someone else had marched in and claimed the space as their own, not that it was Parker's fault that Bolly was no longer here. Yet he still resented the newest member of the team for taking her place.

Well, that was wrong. She's irreplaceable.

He was drawn over like a man possessed, imagining her sitting in the chair. Trying not to imagine her sprawled over the top, long legs crossed seductively. Nothing of her remained, if it was even there in the first place. He wasn't doolally; never mind what everyone else maintained, he knew that she had been here. She had existed here, even if he didn't have the foggiest how it could have been possible.

Parker's stuff was laid out upon the desk instead, the nameplate clearly marking out the territory. Notepads, some files from the case they had been working on. A poofy-looking organiser. His trenchcoat draped upon the back of the chair. He'd told Parker that thing made him look like a bloody flasher and tried to get him wearing something else, but to no avail.

As he gazed at the stupid garment he noticed something sticking out of one of the pockets. He told himself to ignore it, but the command didn't seem to work.

I'm not a snooper. Don't give two shits about what Dozy is hidin'.

Quickly looking round to be sure that nobody else was in the vicinity he dipped his hand, retrieving the torn piece of paper. It took him a while to decipher what was written; Parker had worse handwriting than a doctor.

The more he looked at it, the clearer the scrawl became.

Docklands. 19/6/83.

20/7/08.

Arthur Layton.

DI Alex Drake...

His heart in his throat, he replicated the note before stuffing the original back into Parker's pocket.

That lying little toerag would get what was coming to him, but right now it was the least of his concerns.

He'd been searching for what felt like forever, and now he had a lead.

A way back to Bolly.

A/N: Come Back And Stay sung by Paul Young and written by Jack Lee.

Mirror Man sung and written by The Human League.

True sung by Spandau Ballet and written by Gary Kemp.

These two really hurt my heart...