Chapter 21

Gene rakes one hand through his hair while the other is planted firmly on his desk, files upon files strewn in front of him, though their words have long ceased to be distinguishable. The aching at the back of his head is getting worse, no amount of scotch doing the trick in quelling it. He has the urge to throw it all to the floor, stomp the soles of his boots over Layton's mugshot. If he was playing by his own rules he would have done exactly that the first time they'd collared the slimy little toerag.

Instead he pours himself another glass – only half-watching where he's aiming the neck of the bottle – and sinks down into the waiting seat with a sigh. He can feel the chair protest under his arse, as if to say go easy on me, you lardy bastard.

He doesn't care anymore. He stopped caring months ago, when the transition from day to night disappeared from his consciousness and the colour was drained from the world, both of those things not mattering without Bolly.

But it was for her that he had to nail the scum that was Layton. And, oh, he would – make no mistake about it. He wasn't sure that what he was doing in the broken snatches of sleep he was managing to get each night was dreaming, exactly, but in each one he could clearly picture Layton's pathetic expression as he languished behind the heavy bars that would keep him locked up for the rest of his sorry life, unable to cause any more harm or wreck any more innocent lives.

His eyes were half-closed and his head slumped back when a tapping on the door interrupted his blank reverie. He groused at the sound, pulling himself up on the seat and shaking away the drowsiness, at least as much as he could be bothered to shift.

"I've told you, Parker, I'm in the middle of some important bloody business 'ere – "

"Excuse me, Guv. I can come back later, if you'd prefer."

That clipped voice, almost posher than Queen Liz herself, sent his pulse rocketing to a dangerous level. He rubbed his hands over his face, not believing what he was seeing standing in the doorway.

Those eyes, smouldering towards him. Those lips coated in the colour of the Quattro. That stupid jacket that didn't keep her warm enough. Those legs in those ridiculously but bloody fantastically tight jeans.

He blinked several times, convinced that he'd collapsed with a coronary and he'd hallucinated the image of her whilst being on the edge of life.

At this point in time he'd take it over all the other possibilities.

She smiled towards him, her chin tipped down and pink flushing her cheeks. He felt a warmth spreading through his chest, making him stand taller where he'd got to his feet.

If he was more alert he would have already been upon her, one hand gripping her waist and the other covering a tit – left or right, he didn't have a particular preference – while he pinned her up against the closed door, hearing her squeak against his mouth as his tongue sought entrance between her lips.

Or maybe it was that she deserved to be treated better than that. It wasn't lust that had overtaken his body – at least, not all parts of it. It was something else entirely.

Lo –

No. Pull yourself together, Genie boy.

"And where in Franny Lee's name 'ave you been? Was on the verge of sendin' out a search-party."

"Only on the verge?" she retorted.

"Well, I've 'ad a lot on me plate. As you'd well know if you 'adn't vanished into thin air."

"And what would said search party have been tasked with looking for?" She sauntered her way into the office, stopping short from perching that delectable arse of hers on the edge of his desk. "A missing pair of Bolly Knickers?"

She smirked up at him in a way that would normally thoroughly piss him off, thinking that she'd got the better of him. Instead he felt the lump in his throat only grow larger as her eyes bore into him, staring into the soul that he wanted to keep well and truly shielded from her, so she wouldn't know that life had been as good as hell without her.

He couldn't look away from her though, feasting on the sight of those elegant and far-too-pretty features like a man who'd been starved and deprived of the most simple of pleasures, never mind anything as exquisite as she was.

"I'm serious, Alex. You 'ad me thinking that I'd lost it entirely."

She broke gaze with him, looking down guiltily at the floor. He felt like a proper bastard for berating her, definitely going soft in his old age.

"The least you could 'ave done was left a bloody note."

Her head tipped up again, her eyes looking back into his. He could read the anguish on her face, the genuine regret.

"I'm sorry," she parted her perfect lips to say, gaze pleading forgiveness, "there was something I needed to see to. But it's taken care of now."

Something to do with Molly, her daughter, he supposed. He wished that she would confide in him, give him the chance to try and understand.

Maybe they had a little further to go along the road first.

"There's somethin' I need to see to an' all," he couldn't stop himself from making the bawdy insinuation, feeling that it stood him on firmer ground while he afforded himself an ogle at the neckline of her shiny blouse. "But I s'pose it'll 'ave to wait."

She arched an eyebrow in agreement as he huffed out a sigh.

"You're back now. And that's the main thing."

Her face softened in a smile. "Back where I belong."

Just then it all faded away; the sleepless nights, the permanent pain in his head and centre of his chest that reminded him every second of every thankless day of everything he'd lost and all of the things he'd been too much of a coward to say.

That smile of hers warmed his cold heart through, but it was not the time to get sentimental.

"Too bloody right," he uttered gruffly, too much scotch having burned his throat, "there's a case that needs that ridiculously big brainbox of yours on it."

She smirked at the compliment he offered her, her gaze directed to the mess of paperwork and photographs snapped from surveillance outings. She leant both hands where there was space upon the desk, red nails picking their way through the mounds of evidence.

Gene rocked back on his boots, watching her absorb herself and finding himself in awe. Only for a few seconds out of several minutes did he break off to glance at her arse, pulling his head back and shoving his hands deep in his pockets when she just happened to look over her shoulder and catch him in the act.

She simply smiled, straightening her frame to hand over a grey file which he had thought long lost, blaming the cleaner several times over in his head for getting rid of it with the rubbish.

"Now I'm not sure, but this looks like it could be important."

"Bingo, Bollykecks. I could bleedin' kiss yer." His mouth twisted as her eyes lit in expectation. "Well, I could do a lot more than that…"

She leaned in closer to him, that fruity perfume of hers wafting right up his nostrils, scrambling his brain even further. His trousers suddenly felt ten times too tight, and if she moved just an inch nearer then she'd be in absolutely no doubt of the investigation he wanted to carry out.

Never mind want. It was a need that he'd pushed away for too long, losing all interest in filthy fantasies when she wasn't around to turn them into reality.

"Focus, Guv," she wrenched away from him at the last, painfully frustrating second. The growl that escaped his throat couldn't be stopped. "Let's get business done first. Then, I promise,"

He watched intently as she reached out a hand towards him, fingers inching up the path of his tie.

"There'll be lots of time for pleasure."

It was a bloody miracle that he didn't keel over and slump to the floor that very second.

Together they set to work, holed up in his office. It was everything he'd dreamt of, when he was afforded the luxury of doing so. He might ask her where exactly she went over one bottle of good stuff and several bottles of house rubbish at Luigi's. It was more than likely that she'd say it without him having to bother, wittering on and spouting a load of psycho-babble nonsense that he couldn't begin to decipher given a million years. He'd listen to every word, nodding along where he thought he needed to, until the important stuff came out.

I've missed you.

Jesus Christ, how I've missed you.

He'd lost all track of time, the ashtray that was beginning to overflow one of the testaments. There was a slight fog in the room, but she was close enough for him to take notice of her crumpling expression.

"Bols," he uttered as she winced, wriggling on the chair, "you need a slash? Sorry…I mean, to spend a penny."

She let out a weak stutter of a laugh, shaking her head lightly. She was very pale, he noticed, the colour sucked from her cheeks.

"No, it's just…"

He watched her as she got to her feet unsteadily, all the while thinking that he should be telling her to park her arse back down, and took her hands away from where they were clutching the leather jacket to her abdomen.

The white of the leather had turned crimson red, her hands covered in blood too as she revealed the gaping wound that punctured her stomach for two seconds.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered in a horrified whisper, completely perplexed as to where it had come from, "Bolly."

He couldn't get to her fast enough, rushing round to catch her as her knees buckled. Her hands had gone back to pressing down upon it, in an attempt to stem the blood flow and relieve the pain, but he had been able to detect that it was a gunshot wound. His mind raced with thoughts that collided, the foremost that he would wring the neck of whoever had shot her. As she looked up at him with desperate, flickering eyes, his priorities quickly shifted.

"Gene," she rasped, her voice already barely audible.

"Stay with me, Alex," he reassured her, trying his best to stay calm as he could feel her turning colder and shivering underneath his hands. "You 'ear me? Stay. Stay right 'ere."

She was getting paler by the second, but she managed a smile towards him as she lay in his arms.

"That's all…" Her voice was wavering, he strained to hear her, although he felt he knew what she wanted to say. "That's all I wanted…"

Oh God. Oh Christ, no.

She couldn't leave him now, not after all this time.

Not like this.

"Oh, dear me. You really ought to get that seen to, DI Drake."

Keats had materialised apparently out of nowhere, a sliver of a smirk on his face as he came nearer, almost as though he was gliding across the room rather than walking.

"I can take care of things from here…"

As the other man crouched down, looming over her prone body, Gene pushed himself forward, determined to protect his Bolly and to keep that pencil-necked brown-noser away.

"Don't you dare!"

He was paralysed, limbs turning to lead where Keats was swift, gathering Alex into his arms and pulling her across the floor. Gene was on his hands and knees, trying to scramble towards them, reaching a hand towards one of her high-heeled boots.

"There there, I've got you."

Keats' voice droned, and Gene could hear the menace beneath the illusion of comfort he was offering, Alex turning swiftly limp as the seconds passed. Gene's blood was turning thick and icy in his veins; he couldn't bear it as it was, but for her to spend her last moments in his arms, to be the last thing she knew…it would destroy him.

And yet he was physically unable to move. It was as if Keats had cast a spell on him.

"It's alright, Alex," he heard Keats whisper with his head bowed; a dagger to his heart, "it's over now. You can be at peace."

He leaned down; for a sickening moment it seemed like he was going to kiss her, and Gene was ready to bellow his lungs out, in the absence of being able to do anything physical.

Instead he angled his mouth to Bolly's ear, whispering something that Gene was unable to hear. Whatever it was, he knew in his soul that it was far from delivering peace. He saw her hand clutch onto Keats' arm in a fit of fear, and Keats hold onto her tighter, even when her body stopped moving.

Dark eyes framed behind glass stared at him, bereft. The bastard was sick enough to smile at him as his world had been torn to shreds.

"I'm sorry, Gene. Truly I am. At least take consolation from the fact that she's in a better place now."

Bastard. Bloody, fucking bastard.

He tossed her onto the floor and then moved towards him.

"As for you…"

I don't give a fuck what happens to me anymore.

He woke with a start, head and shoulders juddering. He hadn't even had the satisfaction of punching that knobhead Keats squarely in the face.

The office was in shadow. Rearing up slowly from where he had been laying on the desk, he put one hand to his neck and fumbled around with the other for his watch. With narrowed eyes he read that it had just gone seven AM.

He didn't bother going home anymore. There wasn't any point in staring at the telly and the four walls when there was work to be done. Any road, kipping here did the job, and it meant that he didn't need to waste any time. In two hours time the place would come to life once more. Parker would knock on his door, mumbling to ask whether he was alright and saying again that he shouldn't have been there all night. Again, he'd tell him to mind his own business, sometimes in not so many words or particularly polite ones.

He was fine, usually. The lack of sleep was sharpening his focus, he was fairly sure of it.

It'd take him longer to shake it off today, the nightmare coming as a shock to his numbed senses.

The image of Bolly burned into his brain.

Light on, scotch in glass. Time to wake up properly, and a few slaps to his face aided that. He gave his desk a quick tidy, it being in a similar state to that which confronted him in his dream, and pulled out a couple of files from the most recent interviews to peruse again.

Chris's lead had come good – a surprise to him and DS Skelton himself, but not everyone else apparently. It had taken a few weeks but one associate had led to another, until a domino effect had been produced within Layton's underground network. Enough of them had been persuaded to come forward, with the promise of immunity when the outcome that they were increasingly hopeful for occurred. There was the bonus that enough dots emerged to be joined, with more than one giving the same details of Layton's masterplan.

A triple hit of bombings, scheduled to take place in just over a week's time – if the scumbag Layton hadn't got wind of his cronies going behind his back and decided to alter proceedings. So far, so good.

There was one more interview to conduct before then, and it was a big one. One of Layton's most trusted right-hand men and suppliers, who'd been harbouring resentment that his part in the previous hit on Brokeborough's had been severely downplayed. If he let them in on the juicy details then nabbing Layton for good was a foregone conclusion.

He wouldn't break out the cigars just yet, but he had a good feeling about what was to come – and good feelings these days were as rare as City winning a match by two clear goals. Arthur Layton banged up and Keats off the team and back lurking in his basement; both things couldn't come quickly enough as far as he was concerned.

Still, he couldn't get too far ahead of himself. Things had a nasty habit of going tits-up round here of late, which meant he had to be at his best.

Well, in so far as that was possible.

Having worked his way through his glass, he poured out another measure, hesitating for a moment or two before getting a second glass from out of the drawer. He set his mind on focusing on the better times – the days out on the streets in the Quattro, the evenings draining Luigi dry of his stock, the nights pressed against her body and the sheets of her bed, all silky satin and softness.

He raised both glasses in his hands before taking a sip, not caring that he looked like a numpty – there was nobody around to see him, anyway.

Bottoms up, Bolly. This one's for you.

He woke up at not long gone five the morning of the operation, an unsettling feeling settled deep within his gut. Anyone else would take it as a sign. Anyone with a firm grip on their senses and a shred of hope. A dangerous combination, he told himself, pretending that he wasn't shitting himself at the mere thought that everything would fall through.

If it did then it would be the end of the road for him, that was for sure.

Eleven fifteen on the dot; that's when the first raid would take place. All three locations had been verified by several of those who had snitched on Layton, helping them to dig his grave. A bank, a second jewellers', and a safe deposit store filled with God only knows how much. Hundreds of thousands, if not a million.

They were to split into teams to head up the counter-raids. If it was possible, Gene would have been at all three sites, just to have the satisfaction of knowing that Layton was well and truly snookered. He didn't expect the toerag to be there in person; he was too much of a coward for that, getting others to do his dirty work for him while he reaped the rewards from afar.

Well, not this time around, if all went according to plan.

Ray, Chris, Poirot and Bammo would take the bank, Romeo and the B team taking the jewellers'.

With the bond they'd just begun to form, he wanted Parker with him – it was only right, all things considered. Terry was a safe pair of hands, steady as a rock in a crisis.

He couldn't care less about Keats; it wasn't like he was going to be much use anyway, unless he pulled off the biggest surprise of the whole thing by actually doing something worthwhile instead of standing in the background. Still, might as well have him where he could be seen. Who knows, he might actually learn a thing or two.

By half ten he'd made his way through one and a half packs of cigs. For some unknown reason he hadn't touched a drop of scotch. He kept himself in his office, blinds shut, until the very last moment. Mulling things over, going through every step in the sequence in his brain. Picturing the colour seeping from Layton's face and the thrill coursing through his veins at the thought of the cuffs snapping upon Layton's scrawny wrists.

Such things were overshadowed quickly as the matter at hand loomed above everything else.

His hands on the wheel of the Quattro, following the route to the deposit store, his mind began to wander. I really need a piss, should have gone before heading off.

Keats was sitting directly behind him, breathing through pursed lips. The sound irritated him like nothing else. He tried to catch Terry's eyes in the rear view mirror, get him to have a quiet word.

Jesus, I wish this was over and done with.

He threw a glance to his left, noticing the grave look on Parker's face. He seemed pained, sombre, but also intently focused, full of determination. A hell of a lot was at stake for the matter of minutes, seconds even, that it would take to intercept Layton's master plans.

Lives hanging in the balance.

He has the urge to take the car in a different direction entirely, thinking of the nearest comparison in both time and scale. Bolly had been so convinced about King Douglas Lane whereas he'd had his doubts. New ones emerged now, gnawing away at him. What if Layton's cronies had been bluffing? He kept his eyes on the road but his head was all over the place.

Best to stick to the plan. It was the adrenaline fooling him, he was sure. Almost.

His heart was going a hundred to the dozen when he got out, the others following him close behind. Now would not be the time for it to pack in. He showed his card and the warrant to the guard at the front of the building, half expecting to be denied. The guard stepped to the side to let them in and they streamed through, one after the other behind him.

They were inside for less than five minutes, just about getting to the hold that had been pinpointed as the one where Layton had planted the bomb, when Chris sent a message through on the radio that they'd got the one at the bank and it had been safely diffused. It gave them around eleven minutes, possibly less. The second guard was some years older than the one that had been waiting at the exterior door and Gene found himself getting increasingly impatient, wanting to get his hands on the locks himself.

When they were in the hold they got to work immediately, Terry taking the lead with Parker close at his back. While Terry worked on cracking the safe that they knew contained the bomb, the call from Romeo came in. Gene barked out some words of praise, his gaze fixed firm in front of him. There was barely any air in here, but he supposed, somewhere distant in his mind, that that was the point.

More images flashed up; Bolly in her underwear, hair damp and sticking to her face, eyes wide and petrified as she looked at him.

The click wasn't loud as Terry got the safe open, passing the box inside to Parker. Gene heard himself telling Parker to be careful. God knows what Keats was doing, or whether he'd even followed them inside.

He walked forward, stepping part way in front of Parker as he got the box open, working on instinct. No matter who they were, he'd always protect his own.

"Nothing," Parker said, his voice full of disbelief. "We couldn't have got it wrong."

Gene seconded that, not after all of the hours they'd spent. He stared down, half expecting an explosive to magically appear from thin air and prove all their hard work right.

"It's got to be in one of 'em."

"But Guv, we haven't got the time."

He chose to ignore Parker's protestation, though he did acknowledge the DI with a look.

"Terry, keep trying the code on the others." He fumbled with his gloves, getting ready to get to work himself. "Parker, you take the left side."

The DI knew better not to argue and between them they raced against the clock, opening safe after safe, searching the contents inside. There was ticking sounding inside his head, almost throwing him completely. There had to be something, Layton wouldn't let this opportunity pass him by.

Time both trudged and taunted them, taking forever until Parker shouted "Guv!"

Gene remained baffled as Parker handed the letter that was addressed to him over, seeing for himself that there was nothing else in the box. He split the envelope, almost dropping the note in his haste to know of the contents.

DCI Hunt –

How many years have you been doing this? And still you haven't learnt the fundamentals. Let me give you a reminder.

1. Don't believe everything you hear.

2. Lying is remarkably easy.

3. Trust your instincts.

It really is that Black and White.

His eyes lingered on the last word, pure fear surging through his veins.

"Shit."

He moved without thinking, breaking into a run, Parker's calls of 'Guv' dulling so much that they could have been whispers. As soon as the engine kicked in he could have sped off, not thinking about whether they'd caught up to him.

Did he know the address, the street as the starting point? He just had to drive and trust that it'd come to him as he went. All he could see in his mind was her, walking, walking and then turning around slowly, to show a bloodied, almost unrecognisable face, the sight making his heart seize.

Mossgrove Road. Sod it, he was taking the chance.

He didn't have another option.

He flew out the door of the Quattro towards the row of town houses, picking out the black door, almost a hundred per cent certain that he'd seen it before. Both of his fists were on it in an instant, accompanying his yells of "Police! Open up!"

He was getting ready to take a run, foot first, when White wrenched the door open, his eyes going wide.

"Hunt? What the hell are you – "

"No time for chit-chat," he said, barging past the startled solicitor and heading straight for the stairs.

"You can't just…Hunt! Hunt!"

He surveyed the doors at the top of the stairs, stumbling for a second before deciding on the one on the right.

She was there, cross-legged on the floor, big eyes turning towards him in the doorway, mousy hair in plaited pigtails.

"Hello, little lady. I 'ope you don't mind, but somethin' told me that you and your godfather might need my help."

She kept looking at him, her expression blank before she broke into a smile. It took some work to reconcile it with everything else that was going on in his head, but he had to focus on the here and now. The version of Alex that was before his eyes, definitely and undeniable real. Exactly where she should be in time.

"What's that you've got there?"

He crouched down, eyes still trained upon her as she shyly offered her hand towards him, showing him the cassette tape that she was holding.

"Duran Duran? They're a load of sh- rubbish. You tell Evan from me to get you something decent to listen to."

She didn't say anything but let out a small giggle.

His head told him that he should be tearing the room apart, looking for what had to be there, somewhere. He wasn't sure how much time there was left, losing all concept of it.

"Evan didn't get it for me," she said after a few moments had passed. "One of the men he looks after did."

This was the chatty Alex he was after, he thought through the haze and the chaos.

"Good girl," he said, keeping his gaze held with hers, not wanting to scare her.

"They got that for me as well."

He followed the pointing of her finger to the bright pink boom box, which looked out of place with everything else in the pristine room, all washed-out pastel colours.

He got up slowly, walking hardly any distance at all to examine the item. He could sense little Alex's eyes upon him, holding his breath as he ran his gloved fingers over the buttons, feeling a small but discernible detonator on the eject button.

"Is it alright if I bring some of my friends to 'ave a look?"

Little Alex nodded.

"And is it alright if I bring you downstairs to see Evan?"

She nodded again, getting to her feet. Gene put the boom box down with great care and minute precision, heart in his mouth in case the bloody thing went off with the slightest movement. Alex held her hand out towards him and he smiled down at her as he took it. The staircase wasn't wide enough for them to go down it in the same way so he picked her up instead, chest clenching when she wrapped her arms about his shoulders with far less hesitance than he'd expect, given that he'd only ever met her once before.

At the station, once the bomb had been diffused and disposed of, Evan sat in one of the interview rooms, staring at the wall in silence. It was only when Shaz entered alongside Gene, going in front to ask if Evan wanted a cup of tea, that the solicitor broke down. Once he started it took him a long time to stop, and all Gene could do was watch the man fall apart in front of his eyes. He couldn't find any words of comfort; they weren't exactly his forte.

"She could have…in an instant. That's all it would have taken." He looked a state, eyes streaming and expression both haunted and wildly alert. "And I didn't even know. I couldn't have even…"

He didn't finish before he started crying again. Gene couldn't say that he had a lot of empathy for the other man. All he could think about was how there was no way on earth that Evan White remain Alex's guardian. By all rights he should be able to arrest the bloke on multiple charges, neglect being one of the lesser.

Yet he couldn't do it, wouldn't even contemplate leaving her alone in the world. He supposed that she could go to one or other set of grandparents, if they were still living that was. It would be another upheaval in her young life, and selfishly, he couldn't risk being the source of future resentment for her, being the one responsible for putting her remaining parental figure behind bars, alongside the maniac who tried to kill her twice before she had even turned ten.

If he ever crossed paths with her again.

He'd left her with Chris and Ray while White pulled himself together, unable to face her after giving her a final pat on the head once they'd arrived at the station. It was too much for him to comprehend when his mind was still full of her in another guise, somewhere else in time. If he hadn't been played for a fool for the last two years.

As he retreated to the safety of his office, thinking about how he wasn't much better than White when it came to protecting her – it was Parker who came across Layton's note, and he couldn't fool himself otherwise – he cracked open a new bottle of scotch, wanting to drown the day that was far from being over, pretending that he couldn't see the spectacled figure with his hands in his pockets, staring at him through the open blinds.

He finished off the glass, pouring out another measure before moving towards the window. He took one last look at Keats before yanking the blinds firmly closed, sending the room into darkness.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, and the first thing she was aware of was the faint, low sound of music. A song that she was vaguely familiar with but which she couldn't properly follow, not the tune nor the words. She felt like she was spinning slightly, tilting from side to side. The room was very warm, almost uncomfortably so, and it felt like she was shrouded.

When her eyes were open properly she was confronted with stark, white-blue light, the intensity of which made her head hurt. The music was getting louder, and accompanying it was the sound of someone humming along, quiet at first but becoming steadily louder and more emphatically confident.

She wanted to lift her head to see where – who it was coming from, but she was physically unable.

Something told her that it wasn't Gene, and yet the spark of hope in her heart yearned to defy logic.

She murmured rather than spoke, not sure that she would make much sense if she dared. A shadow loomed large on the ceiling above her, the silhouette unmistakably masculine.

"Ah, you're awake. That took less time to wear off than I expected it would, but then you are something of a medical marvel, so I shouldn't be entirely surprised."

The voice was unknown, and yet somehow familiar to her; she couldn't place where from, another sharp surging of pain going through her head when she tried to narrow her thoughts.

She was having trouble doing that, so she decided to try for the physical aspect instead. Her body felt numb, limbs like dead weights, and though she was sure she felt herself moving fluidly her blood seemed static in her veins, and the strange sensation sent her into a spiral of fear.

"Now now, let's not struggle," the voice was closer now, with a pair of hands clamping down upon her arms, almost hurting her with the tightness of their grip, "you'll regain your motor skills soon enough. I can assure you that you're perfectly safe and no harm has come to you at all, so there's no need to panic."

Alex looked up at the ceiling, not entirely convinced. Her breath felt tight in her throat and she fought back tears, counting in her head to calm herself down. Thinking of Molly, safe and sound, sleeping at home. Thinking of Gene, not out of the woods but still fighting, as was his natural state of being.

She was staring at the same spot when the lingering shadow made way for a face, with jet black hair and half-rimmed glasses over his eyes. He stared down at her, a smile shifting the previously serious expression that had been fixed in place.

"How do you do, Alex? No, it's okay, you don't need to answer that. Silly of me, really, but I've been so anxious to meet you. We didn't get the chance before you came back, which made me rather sad as I knew you were special. Oh, now I'm rambling – this is a terrible first impression, I apologise."

His smile widened as he brought his face closer down to where she was lying prone.

"I'm DCI James Keats. Jim, for short." He scoffed a laugh; she could feel his breath hot upon her face. "Definitely not Jimbo."

There was a certain quality to the way he laughed which made her distinctly more uneasy than she already was. Not to mention how a police officer had been permitted without any other supervision into her room, and had apparently injected her with something that caused significant paralysis.

"I'm here to help you," he said before she could even move her mouth, "let there be no question about that. It has always been my intention."

He peered down at her from behind his glasses, an intense stare which did nothing to assuage her doubts.

"I know you've heard that before, from less than reliable sources. I can understand your distrust. I'd feel exactly the same way in your situation. But believe me, Alex, I'm on your side."

Those four words sliced through her chest; she almost gasped with the pain but pursed her lips instead, aware of Jim Keats' eyes still pinned upon her.

"The last few weeks have been confusing. You ask questions – you can't help it, it's written into your DNA – but nobody will answer you. They think you're fragile, in need of a gentle recovery. Slow and steady, that's what will do the trick. But I know differently. You're a tough cookie if there ever was one. You can handle the hard truth. You need it; it's like medicine to you."

He lowered his face to her again, inspecting her with a keen gaze.

"I can certainly see where Molly gets her tenacity from."

"Molly," she uttered her daughter's name on instinct, claiming her back from this stranger.

"Is perfectly fine," he replied, "you have nothing to worry about with her. Takes after her mother. Strong, a spine of steel."

She didn't want him talking about Molly, even if a wave of relief washed over her to know that she was safe.

"Gene," she said, his face enlarging in her mind, "how is he?"

Jim Keats did not answer her, staring cold and hard instead, his expression showing something akin to contempt.

"Gene," she repeated, hoping the impossible that he would burst through the door, fully recovered, and take her away from Jim Keats and his unnerving eyes, the bright light and bleach-like smell of the hospital walls.

She heard him tutting in the back of his throat, the tap tap tap of his soles upon the polished floor. The fact he wasn't giving her a straight answer, after what he'd just relayed about the truth, made her anxious.

"And therein lies the problem at the root of it all," he finally said, his voice moving from closeness to distance as he paced back and forth, "the disease resistant to every cure."

The tapping of his shoes stopped, his face above her again.

"Until now."

A sickening smile stretched his mouth and a light surged in his eyes. She despised both, revulsed at the sight of him.

"I won't sugar-coat it. At the end of the day we all want you better, back to the Alex Drake that is revered amongst her peers and superiors alike. A shining beacon in the police force and thoroughly respected for her astute insights in the realm of psychological profiling."

It was impossible not to pick up on the use of the name. Drake, not Hunt.

"Anyone in that very same realm would understand completely why you did it. Really, it wasn't even a conscious decision. I'd refer to it as a cushion, to ease the way back." His tone shifted from being soft to authoritative and clinical, faster than she'd ever known anyone else to demonstrate it. "You're aware yourself, Alex, deep down. You created an illusion. An almost-perfect existence whereby you were married to him and Molly was his child. A world where everything looks the same, but if you hold on for long enough you'd feel it disintegrating in your hands."

"No," she spoke, "that can't…"

It was real, she was certain that it was. Of course, it was strange at first, but once she had started to peel back the layers she knew that it felt right. That she was back home.

"You know that it wouldn't have been like that if you had stayed in the '80s? Somewhere where you didn't fit. At least not that version of yourself." He smiled down at her. "You are home, Alex. Well, I'd say you're ninety five per cent there. As soon as you let go of the one thing that's holding you back, the chain around your neck, then you'll be home completely. Your road to recovery can truly begin."

His pause was not long enough to allow all that he had said thus far to sink in.

"It's a nasty thing, though. Incredibly stubborn and unbearably possessive. I can see how the others were lured in. Even Sam Tyler. That was a terrible shame, he had such promise ahead of him. My colleague in Manchester simply didn't try hard enough. I swore to myself that I would not let the same thing happen to you. You have too much talent, too much to give to the world. A child, the greatest gift there is." He stopped to take a breath. "He has nothing. Nobody. That's why he always has to take what isn't his to keep. A senior police officer, making his life from stealing. Well, not any more. I'm going to stop him for good. That's why you're so special, Alex. Because you're the one who's going to put an end to him, by living your life. Taking back what is yours."

There was so much rushing around within her; pain, anguish, confusion, anger. Absolute heartbreak at the thought of being parted from Gene for good. At the unthinkable idea that he would no longer exist, in whatever realm he belonged to.

"Let me see him, please. You have to let me see him. Just once more."

She couldn't take much more of the things he was saying, though she had little choice in the matter.

"Oh, I'm feeling rather nostalgic now. Not that the '80s were the greatest of times, you're definitely far better off coming back to the Noughties. But they did have some merits."

The music that had been playing faintly switched to something she recognised instantly, the volume being turned up, almost so much that it made her eardrums throb. She wondered whether he was doing it purposely to drown out her pleading.

Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

"Great song. It's no Club Tropicana, mind. But it does have something about it."

As the song played on, Jim Keats continued to hum and sing along, peering over her bed at intervals.

"Don't fancy a sing-along, Alex? I think it would really cheer you up."

"I just want to see Gene."

A couple of beats passed before he said, lowly, "well, we can't always get what we want."

She attempted to wiggle her toes, make the smallest and most apparently fruitless of movements if it meant that she could get out of the bed and see what was going on for herself.

Since you've gone I've been lost without a trace
I dream at night, I can only see your face
I look around but it's you I can't replace
I feel so cold and I long for your embrace

She turned her head to look towards the door, helpless as Jim Keats moved across the floor in side-strides, mimicking dancing with an invisible partner. He threw his head back as he sang the next line of the song with particular gusto:

I keep crying, "Baby, baby, please"

She shook her head, screwed her eyes shut to stop the tears from escaping. He was laughing, she could hear it bouncing from the walls.

"It never would have worked. He's too set in his ways. You might have thought you'd be happy and that you'd be the one to change him. It would have all ended in tears. Him getting a bit on the side, even several, and you, trapped somewhere you shouldn't even have been in the first place. I'm doing you a favour, Alex. You'll thank me for it later down the line."

The image of Gene was still in her mind; she saw him standing on his own in the street at nighttime, overcoat cloaking his shoulders. He looked desolate, desperate, and she longed to reach out her hand towards him.

"Honestly, a month will go by, not even that long, and you'll have forgotten that Gene Hunt ever existed."

Never, she thought.

He stopped gloating long enough for her to gain some peace of mind, though it was of little consolation when she was so ineffectual. If this was her illusion, then surely she had some semblance of control? If she focused hard enough then she would be able to cast him out, away from her and away from Gene too, regardless of whether he was real or only existing in her memory.

If anything, his presence only seemed to solidify.

"I had best be going soon," he said, "it's been a pleasure, Alex. I wish we could have got to know each other better, but I'm glad that it's worked out for the best for you. Or that it will, soon enough."

He raised his hand above her bed so that she could see the syringe he wielded.

"A lethal dose. The consolation for you is that it'll be quick. If I had my way then he'd suffer for longer, but I don't want to be accused of being completely heartless."

She felt her eyes going wide, repulsed by another of his taunting smiles, but heartsick most of all.

"Nothing to say? No final words? That's not like you. Oh well, never mind. I can say some for you instead. Oh, what's that song by those girls – how does it go? Ah, that's right. 'Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye.'"

He continued to sing the refrain, even as she called out, hoping to appeal to some merciful part of Jim Keats.

"No! Please, no, don't do this. Please."

A door swung shut, leaving silence and the almost blinding light extinguished.

He wasn't one to bother with trials. Once his side of things was done and dusted he'd done his job, as far as he was concerned, not to mention that most of those occupying the next stage were stuck-up, overbearing know-it-alls who thought that they had all the power in the world just because they handed out a few sentences here and there.

It was a different matter with Layton, however. He wanted to be there to witness every moment of the scumbag's downfall, make sure that he got everything that was coming to him and then some. He sat in the gallery, alongside Parker who was there for a couple of days – Gene didn't want his DI to go through the unnecessary pain of seeing the whole thing.

Evan White was there as well, in a different place from that he was used to. Every now and then Gene would glance over at him, and see that he was living up to his name, his face drained of colour as he stared out his former client. As well as the other charges that had been brought against him, that of the manslaughter of Caroline Price was reinstated.

The cheers were saved for outside the courtroom when Layton was found guilty of every charge. That same night there was an almighty piss-up in Luigi's, most of the drinks being bought by Parker, who was spending money like it was going to go out of fashion before the end of the week. The team had earned the celebration, having spent a countless number of hours on the case. While Gene took part, half of him craving the emotional release that pint after pint served up brought, the other half had long had his fill. The best reward for him would come in the form of several hours spent in a warm bed, even if it would be empty.

At the back of his mind Layton's face remained, burned into his brain. He probably wouldn't be able to get to sleep again because of the image, but it was a small price to pay.

He was at the station, wanting to escape the festivities but not being able to face going home just yet. He sat in the dark for a while; it didn't really matter when his eyes were closed anyway.

Bolly would no doubt have some fancy, unpronounceable name for what he was doing. Whatever that was, he wasn't sure if it was even going to work.

"Thought you'd want to soak up every drop of the victory."

Jesus Christ. Even now he couldn't get rid of him. Maybe he waited in the shadows for these moments precisely.

"Well they don't want me hangin' about, keepin' an eye on them. They deserve to let their 'air down without any restrictions for one night."

"And you're not entitled to that either?"

His chin dropped down to his chest; he was not in the mood to start a verbal sparring match with Jimbo. When a shrug of the shoulders didn't suffice he followed it up with a remark which he hoped would get the other man off his back.

"I'll save it for me own time."

Admittedly it wasn't the best he could come up with, leaving the floodgates wide open rather than barricading them. For some reason Keats decided not to pursue the topic, taking the seat a couple of desks away from him.

"It is a remarkable feat. One for the history books of Fenchurch East."

Gene bobbed his head in an acknowledgement of thanks, he supposed, exhaling from the cigarette he'd sparked up the minute before Keats had waltzed in, undetectable.

"It's just a shame that it won't actually count for anything."

"You what?"

A shaft of light fell upon one side of Keats' face, reflecting from the pointed rim of his glasses down to the slight upward curve of his mouth.

There was an echo of silence coming from the walls, so much so that Gene suspected he might have gone deaf. Either way he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Ah, probably should have said something about that before," Keats began, sounding too loud. He leaned back in the chair, eyes towards the ceiling.

Too much of a coward to look me in the eye.

"Time. It's a funny, complex thing. You can't play around with it too much, else you risk all sorts of terrible things happening. Little changes aren't that bad, like wearing a red tie instead of a grey one. Hardly anyone would notice that, after all."

He got to his feet; Gene tracked the movement as he went, despite himself.

"Layton," Keats sighed, a little exaggeratedly, "well, he was always going to land himself in it, one way or another. Don't think that I'm underestimating your efforts; having seen them at such close quarters I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing."

At that moment he did dare to lock gaze with Gene, with a sickly smile on his face. There was nothing to stop him from punching it clean off, except Keats himself and whatever voodoo he was employing.

"But that's also to say that it doesn't matter that you arrested him and landed him with a sentence. Things, I am so very sorry to say, will happen as they were meant to regardless. DI Parker's sister will still have her life cut short, in a bus crash rather than by a bomb put together by Layton's hands."

"No," Gene uttered simply, almost a whisper.

Keats came closer, his head lowered. He was putting on a show of sympathy, Gene could tell that much; it made the blood sizzle in his veins.

"Twenty five years? Arthur won't do even half of that. You know what he's like, a bit of a suck-up by all accounts. All that shoe-shining, doing little favours…I reckon he'll be back out by the time 1995 rolls around. Maybe even before then."

Gene shook his head, chin pointed towards the ground. Bastard.

He wasn't sure whether he was talking about Layton, Keats or himself.

A hand landed upon his chest, and he may as well have been catapulted across the room.

"And…Alex," Keats simpered.

Gene wanted to shrug him off, every urge in his body and soul compelling him to do so, but whatever power Keats was employing was too strong to renounce.

"Tell me she doesn't die."

Keats remained silent, lowering his head again.

"Jim," Gene said, keeping his eyes firm upon the other man, "tell me."

Fucking bastard. You made me believe that I could save her.

"I don't know what else to say," he returned after a long, excruciating silence. "You did a sterling job. Really magnificent. She'd be honoured, I'm sure."

He moved his hand upwards, bracing Gene upon the shoulder.

"It's been a pleasure. I'll make sure that the slate gets wiped clean, your previous misdemeanours overlooked. I think it's only fair, all things considered."

He gave another smile before pushing hard, Gene almost falling backwards.

The same things going round on repeat in his head.

I tried. We all did.

I'm so bloody sorry.

I hope you can forgive me, Alex.

The pleasure of seeing Keats walk out of his station – his kingdom – for the last time was tainted by the heavy fog of despair that had descended, the disbelief both dizzying and weighing down like a noose of steel around his neck.

"Oh, one last thing," he turned in the doorway, the light still in that same place upon him, "and I hope you won't mind me saying it, but I've been very impressed by what I've seen. I had thought you didn't give two hoots about what went on round here, but I was plainly mistaken. All you needed was a little kick up the arse."

As he smiled towards him, Gene felt his blood run cold. Right then he knew the weight of his actions and that he'd never again be free.

"I'll be watching you, DCI Hunt. Of that you can be certain."

A/N: Every Breath You Take written by Sting, performed by The Police. I couldn't put any other song with Keats as it completely typifies how creepy he is.

Sorry this chapter is quite dark, things will move on a bit further soon.