Chapter 26

Came in from a rainy Thursday on the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly
I turned on the lights, the TV and the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you

What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is the life that I recognise?
Gone away

A mug of tea sat a reasonable distance away from the laptop, from which she sipped intermittently. It was always tea now instead of coffee. More relaxing, she was told (primarily by Evan), better for you. That was part of the reason, though at times she felt like she sorely needed the energy boost that a considerable dose of caffeine provided. It was more that she had a predilection towards it. And it wasn't just a couple a day; she was in constant supply, spending what seemed like half of her waking hours boiling the kettle.

She steered clear of the five sugars, though.

The days were long. Sometimes interminably. Try as she might she couldn't sleep past six a.m. and there were several nights in any week where sleep was fragmented. She'd done enough of it when she was in the coma, she supposed; now was about making up for lost time. Which was strange, given that she felt like she was losing more of it minute by minute.

I can't be ungrateful. I'm lucky to be alive.

Her recovery was called miraculous. Evan had grinned at the proclamation when Mr Gerrard made it, whereas it washed over her hazily, not feeling tangible enough to hold onto. She'd stayed in the hospital for six weeks, which was the shortest time for any severe trauma patient after regaining full consciousness, not that she was aiming for any kind of record. Always been an over-achiever, Evan remarked, laughing somewhat stiltedly. There had been sessions of physiotherapy, rehabilitation, hourly checks in the first couple of weeks. Nothing severe other than a few gaps in her memory which she was reassured would come back naturally, likely once she was settled back in her own surroundings.

There had been the psychotherapy, too. Couldn't leave that out. She had twice-weekly sessions in the hospital which reduced to once a week once she had been discharged. At first she was resistant – perhaps because she didn't like to think that anyone else was better-equipped to deal with the workings of her own mind, even though she conceded that was arrogant. There were things she was afraid of coming to light, and others that she was fiercely protective over. Some questions she stayed silent over, feigning confusion and being met with gentle apologies. It's okay if you're not quite ready for that, Alex, you've been through a lot. She smiled in thankfulness, compensating in other areas.

I understand now, Sam. I'm sorry that I pushed you so much.

I'm sorry that I didn't believe you.

There were promises that she had made, and it didn't matter in the least that they had been uttered in another world.

It became better, easier to relinquish control and let someone else in, to most degrees. It was probably the most therapeutic thing she'd ever done in her thirty five years. There was a certain thrill she got from being at the hospital for an hour each week, a peacefulness that was elusive when she was at home. She didn't voice the feeling to Evan but she sensed that he knew when he drove them back, glancing over at her every minute or so. He had been insistent about moving himself into the spare room, to be on hand, in case you need anything or Molly's being difficult, it'll give me peace of mind. She supposed it was better than getting calls and messages every hour of the day. Frequently she felt as if she'd reverted back to childhood with his popping his head around the door, checking in.

Like going back in time again, though not quite as much fun.

Molly was the least difficult thing about her life as it was now. She truly lived for her little girl, who was getting more grown-up and streetwise every day, a fact that she lamented in the quiet of the night as she stared at the ceiling. She missed her immensely on schooldays, feeling the hours physically stretching out. She was there to offer unhindered help with homework and for evenings in front of the television, watching programmes that were really quite terrible and letting her stay up longer than she should have done. She simply didn't want to take a single second for granted, knowing how close she had come to losing them all for good. She was careful not to monopolise her daughter's free time but they did spend at least one full day of a weekend, usually Sundays, together, and had started to venture out into the city for lunch or a spot of shopping, usually with Evan tailing them at a short distance.

She had bought a couple of brightly-coloured blouses to liven up her monochrome wardrobe, along with some chunky earrings and even a pair of tight-fitting jeans, which had raised eyebrows with both Molly and Evan. A pair of red suede ankle boots had caught her eye on their last trip, and Molly had voiced her approval with a wide smile. Next time she might be brave enough to make the purchase.

There wasn't much call for her to wear anything other than her pyjamas if she so wished, but she made the effort, not wanting to fall victim to the slippery slope of inertia. Working life was suspended; she had been put on a minimum six-month leave of absence with full pay and assured that she could return as flexibly as she pleased once the time was up. She had thought many times about appealing, so used to dedicating herself to work, certain that far from regaining stability that she would fall further without it. Strict desk duty was as good as she could expect, but it was better than watching the world slip by from her window, feeling herself increasingly isolated from it. She adapted, and some days she wondered why she hadn't taken a proper break sooner.

Too much going on, too many scumbags to catch.

The only time she had been into the station in the last two months was to give her statement, accompanied by Evan (otherwise known as her second shadow). Arthur Layton had been arrested, detained and was in custody awaiting trial for attempted murder. DCI Burrows, her superior, assured her that the same route would have been followed regardless but that her evidence meant that there was absolutely no chance of him slipping through the net. It made her sleep a little easier to know that he was not at large but it didn't stop the nightmares; the surreal feeling that she was back there, being marched along by the man who'd placed a target on her head since she escaped being blown to kingdom come as a child. Half of her dreaded the trial, as strange as it sounded. What if it wasn't the end of it? What if I have to live the rest of my life confined to these four walls? She knew that she'd never be truly safe as long as Layton was free, and what's to say that he didn't have willing associates ready to finish the job?

So long as I'm breathin', you'll be safe.

But he was only in her head, in a world that she had left behind.

There were dreams amongst the darker scenes, splashes of vivid colours and sonic sound. For brief snatches of time she was back there, sitting in the passenger seat of the Audi Quattro, looking up to the chequerboard ceiling of Fenchurch East CID, nestled into a corner table at Luigi's, making eyes at Gene Hunt over a glass that kept being refilled. Nine times out of ten she woke up before they made it up the stairs to the flat above, which was a blessing as much as it frustrated her. Every time she woke up with tears in her eyes and aches in her chest and the pit of her stomach, blinking away the mirage in the shadows of her room, a bed that was empty aside from her body.

Occasionally she dreamt of the other life, brought on by powerful anesthetic. Being married to Gene and having him as Molly's father. Her subconscious had clung on so tightly, evidently; created such a deep attachment that was so unlike anything she had experienced in reality. Unlike anything she ever would, she was certain.

Molly could sense that she was hiding something – well, not hiding, precisely, but not being completely truthful. Her daughter had inherited her intelligence and inquisitive nature, otherwise known as poking yer nose in. It wasn't like that, however; there were no secrets between them, and so, after an Italian dinner (entirely coincidental) one evening she revealed all (almost) about her second existence in the '80s and Gene Hunt's world.

"You mean, the same Gene Hunt as in Sam Tyler's file?"

"One and the same."

"That's weird. But kind of cool. And the others were there too?"

"Yes. Ray and Chris…there were some new people as well. A skipper called Viv and a WPC called Shaz. She was Chris's girlfriend, but so much more than that, of course. You would have really liked her."

"Did you invent them, do you think?"

"I thought I did, but as time went on I wasn't sure…I suppose I must have done, though."

"Hmmm. It must have been really boring."

"Hardly!"

"Well, I suppose not if you were solving crimes. But otherwise, no internet, no Blackberry…sounds like a snooze-fest."

"There were other things happening then, you know. Some of the most important cultural events of recent times."

"You sound excited when you talk about it, so I guess that it must have been."

"There was only one thing missing."

"The internet?"

"You."

"And Evan."

"Well, yes. Although, I did meet him. The younger version."

"And Dad?"

"The least said about him the better…he did have a cat which was very cute. Probably the best thing about him…sorry, Molls."

"It's alright. I suppose you were too interested in Gene to care."

"Your dad was a teenager, so that would have been illegal. But even so, yes, I was rather taken with Gene. Even if he did address me as Bollykecks every five minutes. It became endearing after a while."

"I'm not even going to ask."

"Best that you don't."

"He sounds cool. Much better than how Sam Tyler made him sound. I wish I could meet him."

"I wish so, too. But you'll have to make do with my stories, as mad as they make me seem. As mad as a bag of bees."

"You're not mad, Mum. You used it as a coping mechanism, to keep yourself alive."

"I'm so glad to be alive. To be with you. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course."

"I just want to be sure that you know. However much I liked it there, it doesn't compare to being with you."

She felt guilty for not telling Evan, although it was a revised version of events, once again, when she did confide in him. Despite Molly's reassurance he did look at her as if she'd gone a little bit mad, but otherwise seemed to take it in his stride. It was a weight off her mind; perhaps now the dreams would fade away, though she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted them to. One day she asked him whether he knew a DCI Gene Hunt. Not that I can remember. It was a long time ago and I did meet a lot of police officers. I always thought that's where you got it from.

She supposed that it didn't matter. After all if Gene really was living, in the slim chance that he was, then he would have been in his seventies. He would have lived a full life, be full of stories. Maybe she was looking for some reassurance that she hadn't lost her mind. Spending her days with her head full of dreams about Gene wasn't helpful; still they offered her something she couldn't replace.

Exhilaration. Adventure. Curiosity.

Companionship. Connection.

Love.

But I won't cry for yesterday
There's an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

With so much time on her hands she had intended to go back to the book. It was typical, really, that she couldn't concentrate or write so much as a single sentence, either by hand or when she opened up the laptop. Evan told her that she needed a hobby, something like cross-stitching or painting with watercolours, that'll work the creative muscles. As much as she appreciated the advice she suspected that it would make little difference. She was closer than she had ever intended to be to her subject matter and it was blocking her ability to think theoretically. She thought about getting rid of everything she had worked on so far, tearing all of the research notes to pieces. Someone else would have to take the task up, it was too painful for her to think about.

On other days she was easier on herself. Perhaps she could come back to it once a year or two had passed. By that time she would have had the time to process her own experiences, meaning that she could write with more insight. She had vowed not to make any explicit references, though, and she had already decided to omit the chapter about Sam.

On certain nights she took out the case files, armed with a bottle of wine. She studied them as though she was revising for an exam exclusively about Sam Tyler and his version of 1973. His world came to life vividly while she read and sipped from her glass, which didn't have the decent courtesy to refill itself unaided. She found herself getting stuck on one particular set of notes, rubbing her hands over her face, willing the voices that started up in her head to not be so loud.

Brash, boorish, larger than life.

Told yer I was bigger in every department.

Completely maverick. Didn't so much rip up the rule book as set it on fire and dispose of the ashes.

My kingdom, my rules.

Once you get under the surface, there's something completely different. I've never known someone so dedicated. Lives for the job, it's more than that to him. Genuinely cares about making a difference. Underneath the spiky exterior lies a heart of gold.

Bloody 'ell. Never 'eard such a load of sissy, nancy, fairy, bender load of bollocks…

She'd put Sam and Gene back in their boxes, as well as the wine – as tempting as it was to start on it early. The mug at her side was still warm, and she kept one hand curled around it while she stared at the screen. Unsurprisingly her dreams the previous night had been influenced by poring through the files again and she'd woken not only with a pounding headache (soothed by co-codamol) but a pining more fervent than ever. She'd kept from breaking down until Molly and Evan had left, then calmed herself down with a piping hot shower, some toast and an hour's worth of awful daytime television, before deciding to brew the kettle and at least trying to be productive.

The search engine in front of her eyes beckoned to her with the force of a siren's call. She'd thought about looking before, not long after she'd first come home. It'll only make you feel worse. She'd been sensible, knowing that she needed to prioritise self-care, but she had never been able to completely silence the voices that urged her on.

To hell with it.

She started with a name that didn't have much resonance for her, even though he had burrowed himself into her brain. The search for Martin Summers took less than a second to return results, finding that he was involved in a car collision in November 2007, almost precisely a year ago. There was also a death notice from July this year. She saw pictures of him and was shocked to discover he was identical in appearance to the man who she had found intruding in her flat in 1982, as well as seeing a younger version in a slightly out-of-focus photograph from the day of Princess Diana's funeral.

The discovery drove her on and she typed in names one after the other. Sharon Grainger, stabbed on a call-out to a suspected break-in on April 19th 2008. Christopher Skelton, caught in crossfire between two rival gangs on February 14th 2006. Raymond Carling, involved in a case of mistaken identity in the shooting of a suspect with his division and facing a tribunal, completed suicide on September 15th 2005.

She wiped away tears with her sleeve, steeling herself for the next search she needed to make. You should stop. What good would it really do?

She had to do it.

It took a few moments to sink in, to feel real. It was almost as though she was back in that strange half-existence, suspended from herself and lost. Her heartbeat was so loud, reverberating against her temples. She forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth as if she was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. There was a sharp, almost paralysing twist of pain in the centre of her forehead that went as quickly as it came.

She looked at the images for a long time. It was more important to her to know that he was real, not a figment of her complex and fragmented imagination. She did pinch herself in several different places, to be sure. His eyes staring out at her from the screen, the expression that seemed immovable and was evidently timeless.

She moved on to the information, having to sift through the more sensationalist headlines which were typical tabloid fodder but became all the more hurtful in the circumstances.

DCI Gene Hunt of Fenchurch East…shot at close range…initial indications suggest that the incident was random and unprovoked…severe head trauma, prognosis unknown

It was only later that she recognised the date of the first report as April 13th 2005, the day before her birthday.

The following weeks shifted the focus, suggestions that the attack on DCI Hunt may have been targeted, and moved from Gene to the identity of his assailant, the only mention of his condition was that it remained unchanged. She wasn't entirely sure why the name James Keats should seem familiar to her but she recognised the face.

Keats absconded from a secure psychiatric unit…history of delusions, primarily that he is 'a messenger for the Devil'…though he has since been detained and returned to the unit, charges against Keats are likely to prove difficult due to a lack of evidence and the severity of his mental state

Weeks progressed to months, and then years, and the last mention of Gene came in a report about his acting replacement, who had taken Fenchurch East to 'unparalleled heights'. Gene was a mere footnote, DCI Hunt remains in a deep prolonged coma in the high dependency unit at St Thomas' Hospital, where he was transferred to in 2006

Knowing that they were in the same hospital, and likely that Gene was still there, sent a surge through her, explained the feeling she experienced when she went back for her psychotherapy sessions. Already she was determining a way to continue on and argue against being discharged fully, even if she couldn't make it back to the HDU.

She continued to trawl as hours passed, though internet searches only got her so far – she needed to go further – and found that 2005 was not the first time that Gene had been at the centre of a serious incident. There was another shooting in 1998, of which he was not the only officer involved, and a bombing in Manchester on July 29th 1981.

Perhaps this isn't the career path you should have taken, was her first thought, which was swiftly answered in her head by his voice, telling her to mind yer bloody beeswax, Bols.

"You're very quiet," Evan had remarked that evening at the dinner table, Molly glancing up from her plate to look at her.

"Am I? Caught up, I suppose…I started writing again today."

"Really? That's fantastic. All of a sudden?"

Alex nodded while she chewed and digested her mouthful of food, washing it down with a long slug of wine. "I can't explain it. As with a lot of things, it seems."

His expression softened as he reached for the bottle to top up his glass. "Well, the 'how' and 'why' doesn't matter too much."

"Quite. I'm going to carry on in a bit, take advantage while I can."

"Can I read it?" Molly piped up, her mouth still a little full, "once the new bit is finished."

"You're my number one proofreader, of course."

"Hey, I thought that was my job," Evan interjected, only sounding slightly wounded.

"You'll both get your chance. There's some stuff I'm going to have to check," her eyes were on Evan as he carried on with the last of what was on his plate, her glass held in her hand as a crutch, "I'll need to go into the office."

His expression shifted slowly as he caught up with what she was saying.

"I'll call ahead and let them know I'm coming in. It'll be perfectly fine, I'm sure."

"Can't you put it on hold? Focus on another bit? Sorry, I don't want to sound overbearing…it's just, well, you know how I worry."

Yes, I do.

"I don't want to interrupt the flow. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. They could probably arrange an escort, if that would put your mind at rest."

"If that's not too much…while the trial date hasn't been set, I think it would be safer. If I can make it work, then I'll come with you. I'm sure it would be useful."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, taking another sip of wine and looking at Molly instead, who she knew felt her frustration without having to put it into words.

She used the window of time taking the approved and official means to find out as much about Gene's time in the force as she could: where he was stationed and for how long, the major cases that he had worked on, the names of officers on his respective teams. She made notes to work off from home, knowing that it might take a couple of weeks at the very least to build a rapport with anyone who could lead her directly to Gene's bedside. Somehow, she doubted that whoever they were they would believe her if she told the truth of where she knew him from.

As it went her investigations left her at a loss. Numbers she called were disconnected, unanswered, and when they were answered belonged to someone other than the person she had expected. It was baffling, to say the least, and disheartening most of all. She couldn't get past the feeling that she was letting him down by getting nowhere, leaving him alone. In her desperation she thought about just going ahead and breaking into his room the next time she was at the hospital, consequences be damned.

She was on the last couple of names when she found her breakthrough. She rather liked that it was the only female on the list who was the one to come through for her. DS Maggie Hopcroft from Greater Manchester Police, Major Incident Team. Maggie had since moved out of the force into an advisory role, and Alex had only needed to talk to her for ten minutes to feel that she trusted her, as well as admired her. Moreover she sounded genuinely concerned about Gene, saying that she had followed the story but had assumed the worst when things went cold. Then again, she said in her distinctive Mancunian accent, I suppose I might have 'eard somethin'. Someone like Gene Hunt doesn't go down without one hell of a fight.

Alex explained that she was unlikely to make it down to Manchester any time soon but that she would very much like to talk to Maggie in person on the matter of Gene Hunt, an officer whom she had some passing professional dealings with and who she felt had been unfairly neglected on all sides. Maggie informed her that she would be coming down to London to visit family the next week and would be more than happy to meet. She couldn't quite believe her luck, which had never been a concept she'd ever given much credit to.

Things had changed in the last few months.

She told Evan that she was meeting a friend in the city and would be back in time for them both to pick Molly up from school. Despite his misgivings – of which there were many – she managed to persuade him that it was a good thing for her to venture out on her own; it wasn't very far, it wasn't rush hour and she wouldn't be gone for very long. She did feel like telling him that as a thirty-five year old woman she could do anything that she pleased, though she made sure to pay attention to the clock. She was confident that she could get to the place she wanted in the matter of two hours, perhaps a bit less.

She was nervous walking into the airy café in Trafalgar Square, taking a seat by the window. She hadn't been there longer than five minutes when a woman she knew was Maggie came through the door; little over average height with short chestnut-brown hair, kind eyes and a smile that put her immediately at ease. Maggie greeted her as though she was a friend whom she had known for years, they ordered teas and a slice of cake each and settled quickly into the subject in question. Alex barely had to ask; Maggie was forthcoming with everything that she had wanted to know, open and honest. In comparison she felt like something of a fraud.

"Gene and I joined up at the same time. He was a couple of years younger than me but that's how it was then; as a woman they thought you 'ad to wait, for some reason, perhaps thinkin' that you'd change your mind and want to become a professional housewife instead. Not that there's anythin' wrong with that; my mam was one, God rest her soul. Of course, with me, mam and dad were tryin' to put me off as well, but I was set. They weren't best pleased, not with what had 'appened with Annie."

"Annie?" Alex asked.

"My sister. She was a WPC, loved every minute of it. Said it was her callin'." She took a sip from her cup, broke off a bit of her slice of cake with her fork before settling it back onto the plate. "She was murdered in 1973. 26 years old. Her life had barely begun."

"I'm so sorry."

She did wonder; it was more than likely the case that Hopcroft was Maggie's married name, although there were no longer any rings on her finger. Maggie Cartwright. It sounded right, somehow. Alex refrained from asking, not needing to know the specifics.

"I was 14 when she died. Swore that as soon as I was able I'd join up and do the things that she never got to. She was my idol, all I ever wanted to do was to make her proud."

"I'm sure she would have been very proud of you."

"I wish that I could turn back time sometimes, as daft as that sounds. Just so I could 'ave the chance to save her if I could…my god, what do I sound like?"

"It's okay," Alex replied with a smile, "I know the feeling."

"Anyway, Gene. We joined up in '79, the both of us. I was 20, he was 18. Right skinny thing he was back then. My mam always said "He needs fattenin' up, he does, he's like a beanpole." Nobody believed he'd stick it as a copper, but if there's one thing that he's always been it's determined. Stubborn as a mule, some would say. And he was dedicated. Our boss said he was a pain in the arse, but a pain in the arse who wanted to do the best he could by the badge. We used to get paired up most times, said that the others could learn a few things from us."

"I suspect that it took a bit of getting used to for him."

"Being paired with a bird, you mean? Never batted an eyelid about it. The others, they 'ad plenty to say, not much of it complimentary. Gene would shut them up sharpish. Said I could throw a better punch than most blokes, which made me a decent partner in his books."

Alex found herself impressed by that; the real Gene wasn't as much of a dinosaur as the one from her coma-world, plainly, or perhaps he was a product of a slightly more modern time.

"And you never…?" Alex enquired in a lower tone, looking down into her cup, half-dreading the response.

It was ridiculous, considering that Maggie was perfectly lovely, and that also she didn't actually know Gene, so she had absolutely zero claim to be jealous in any capacity.

"With Gene? Oh, bloody hell, no. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was a looker. Those eyes and eyelashes, I've never seen anythin' like them. We were always like brother and sister, if anythin'. Romance was never on the cards. I don't reckon I would 'ave got a look-in even if I'd wanted to, not with the amount of girls that were hangin' around."

"Ah," was all Alex could say without giving herself away completely, although she suspected that Maggie already had more than a clue.

"And then there was the bombin', which turned everythin' on its head."

She gave a detailed account of the events of July 29th 1981, the pair of them young police constables not long installed in the division. They were meant to be working on the same case but the whole of Manchester's criminals came out to play that day, evidently not interested in staying at home like most of the nation to watch the royal wedding with plates of cheese and pickle sandwiches, and resources were scattered. While Maggie was sent on a chase to collar a gang of robbers who took advantage of the happy occasion to break into the houses of elderly ladies invited to street parties, Gene was paired with their DCI to stop a notorious underground gang successfully carrying out a mammoth transfer of drugs from an abandoned warehouse in Levenshulme to the south west of the country.

As it later transpired DCI Jobson was as bent as they came, heavily involved in the very same operation he was meant to be busting, which explained why he did a runner and left Gene on his own, locked in before the bomb that wasn't even well-disguised went off, blowing the place to bits.

Alex could see from her shadowed expression and overall demeanour that Maggie continued to carry the weight of regret, intuition that their boss wasn't all he was cracked up to be. I should have insisted. We were a team.

"He had luck on his side, that's what the doctors said. Not that it felt that way for a long time. When that bomb went off it wiped his head clean. Anythin' from before the 29th of July 1981 was a blank, it seemed like a miracle that he knew his own name. I've always tried to see the bright side of things, so I thought, well, at least he'd forgotten all the hell his old man put the family through. But that was the only thing that came back with any clarity, like it was too indelible to be got rid of. He was frustrated and angry, and I could understand why, at least on the surface. Despite everythin' he never lost the fire, the need for justice and standin' up for those who couldn't do it for themselves. I still wonder though, if he would 'ave gone about things differently if that bomb had never been there."

Alex found herself wondering too, although she barely knew and was somewhat scared to ask further. While she knew in her bones that he wouldn't be corrupt – especially not after what had happened with his first DCI – the story that was unfolding suggested to her that the Gene she knew was actually a tamer version of the real Gene. Even so she found that she couldn't blame him either if he'd veered dangerously close to the edge multiple times in his career. It can take a whole lifetime for a person to put themselves back together after such a traumatic event; pieces get lost along the way, some never to return. She'd lost herself after October 10th 1981 amidst the wreckage of an explosion, mere months after a young police constable from a couple of hundred miles north had experienced something similar. The dots felt too important to ignore or put down to a matter of coincidence.

It was not the last of Gene's traumas, as it had also not been the only one for her. He transferred to another division in the mid-'80s, and then out of Manchester and into the Met in 1995 after a largely amicable but nonetheless emotionally distressing divorce. Maggie had heard that Sandra Hunt (nee Greenhalgh) had passed away not three years after the divorce had been finalised, leaving her ex-husband without any immediate living family. She shared her image of Gene as The Lone Ranger with no Tonto to stand by his side. She sent Christmas cards to an address she wasn't sure was his until she received one back one year, with the suggestion to go for a pint if she was ever in London. It seemed as though the scars he bore from Manchester were still too raw to be revisited.

"I should 'ave done more. Back before he went to London. I'm not saying that it would 'ave made any difference…I'm glad that you called. I'm glad that he has someone that cares."

She was warm beneath the glow of Maggie's smile, once again feeling lucky that she was the one who had picked up.

"I don't know if they'll agree to it, but considering that he has no next-of-kin…I feel like between us we'll have some influence. Of course I don't expect you to…it's asking a lot, you'll be busy with your own life, I'm sure. Especially with Christmas coming up."

Maggie reached her arm across the table to touch her fingers to Alex's hand, which made her jolt a little.

"Not since the kids have grown up and moved out. They'll be with their Dad this year, which leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. We can only try, eh?"

A lump lodged itself in her throat, she felt goosepimples prickling on her skin underneath her layers of clothing and the new wool coat, another subconscious reminder of Gene.

"Thank you," she told Maggie sincerely, fighting the urge to break down into tears.

Maggie had taken hold of her hand, and gave it a little bounce.

"Let's face it," she replied, the Mancunian twang sounding even stronger for a moment, "it's the least I can do. And anyway, he still owes me that drink."

Maggie said she would be back in a couple of weeks after they said their farewells that day, with the promise to keep in touch; she also said that she would be the one to enquire with the hospital, which Alex was relieved about. It did mean that she couldn't put off telling Evan about her discoveries any longer, though; he'd need as long as possible to get accustomed to the idea, if he wasn't going to put an outright stop to it.

He might be her godparent, but she wasn't a little girl any longer.

"This is…insane."

"That's a wonderful assessment to make about a patient who's recovered from severe head trauma."

She really didn't want to look at him at that moment, seeing plain in his eyes that not only did he not comprehend when it came to Gene, but also that he was doubting her own sanity. At that moment she had never felt so alone, wanted nothing more to pack a bag for her and Molly and board the first train to Manchester.

"I'm sorry, but there's no other word for it. As for recovery…right now, I'm not so sure about that." He raised a hand to his head and paced across the sitting room. "It's been a few months, you need security and stability. I just want you to get better."

"I am better!" She was already starting to lose her patience, feeling the pressure pressing against the centre of her forehead. "Part of recovery is about widening horizons. You know that I've appreciated your support, but it's time to take the safety reins off. I can't live my life independently with you following my every move."

A look of hurt flashed upon his face, which she was sorry for.

"And this is 'living independently', is it? Concocting some ridiculous rescue mission for a stranger you know nothing about, except for a few hallucinations?"

"I'm not purporting to save him."

You don't understand, you didn't feel what it was like. She wanted to scream at him right then, confront him with everything she had discovered about the things he had kept hidden from her, the lies and deceit he had fostered. He was there for me more than you were, he protected me.

She held back, took a couple of deep breaths. He wouldn't have needed much in the way of ammunition to get her sectioned, if that's what he thought was in the best interests of her and her daughter.

"Alex," he spoke her name in a gentler tone, as if he thought it might appease her, "you don't know this man. You might think you do, somehow. Whatever was in that drip, it was some strong stuff."

Now is not the time to attempt to be funny, Evan.

"I mean, it seems strange that none of his colleagues have come forward to try and help. Doesn't that tell you all you need to know?"

"Perhaps they're afraid of the repercussions. He was shot point blank, after all."

"With the main suspect in a secure psychiatric unit," Evan was quick to counter. "From everything this Maggie woman has said, it sounds like he may well have invited trouble."

"Anyone could say the same about Arthur Layton having a vendetta against me." She had to work increasingly hard to keep her rage from spilling over.

"That's completely different."

"Because there was a clear motive?"

He went silent, the discussions they'd had not long after she had been discharged still fresh in their minds. She went into the kitchen on the pretence of needing something to drink – water, tea, wine; it didn't particularly matter. Her hands pressed against the cool solidity of the counter, thinking perhaps she should have stayed quiet. No matter how old she got, it seemed as though she always needed his approval.

She placed the bottle and glasses onto the table, seeing that he'd moved to sitting on the sofa, hands held to the back of his head.

"This isn't about me, you know," she said as she took a seat on the other end. "It's not like I'm unhappy or anything. I'm not looking for a distraction or something to fill the time."

He looked at her intently, attempting to fathom whether her words were true or not.

"I have Molly, I have you. I'm lucky. He's alone."

Since she'd learnt the truth of his existence she'd had dreams every night, sometimes in the '80s, sometimes in the present day. One was particularly disturbing; she was in a field, looking up at a weathervane on an old, abandoned house twisting this way and that. She ended up on her knees, digging earth with her hands beneath a scarecrow that guided the spot.

"I should know by now, once you get an idea into your head…" He sighed, dropping his head. "If nothing can be done, then you'll leave it alone, I hope."

"Talk about being optimistic."

"I think of it as being realistic. If he's been in a coma for over three years, then you know the odds aren't good."

"I know," she replied. In her heart, she was more hopeful. "What was it you used to say to me? 'If you never try…'"

" 'You never know.' That was in quite different circumstances."

"I think I'm being realistic too."

It was only now that things were beginning to feel real, in the truest sense of the word.

"Well, perhaps some of your luck will transfer." He gathered up a glass, his gaze fixed firmly away from her as he poured.

She still had some way to go to convince him that she was doing the right thing, and that she wasn't going mad, but it was a start.

Later that night she crept into Molly's room, not best pleased that she was sitting up, Blackberry glued to her hand.

"You do know what time it is?"

She looked a touch guilty, shrinking down against the headboard. "I was just texting Keisha about tomorrow. Once she replies I'll turn it off."

"You know, I think it would have been better if you'd had a crumble instead."

"That joke is so lame, Mum."

"But entirely allowed." She smiled as she sat down on the bed, adjusting the covers. "I'm glad you're awake though, because I've got something to tell you."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I'm really tired." She feigned a yawn which, despite everything, made Alex laugh inwardly.

"You could have fooled me, staring into that screen as if the mysteries of the world lay within."

Molly shrugged her shoulders before relenting. "Okay then. But you can't tell me off if I fall asleep."

She swore that she'd got much cheekier in the space of a few weeks, or perhaps it was the influence of Pete's long-distance calls, which were few and far-between. Too busy trying to impress Judy than pay attention to his own daughter.

"I don't think there's much chance of that."

She went on to tell the whole story, with surprisingly few interruptions, and only having the fact that it was getting on towards half-past eleven somewhere in the middle-ground of her mind. Rather than settling down, like they'd gone back a few years and she was being lulled with a fairytale, Molly was sitting bolt upright, shoulders hunched.

"So, do you think I'm stark-raving mad? Evan does."

"No, Mum. It's really cool."

She always thought if she heard her daughter say that word one more time, she was going to scream. This time it left her with a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"He's actually a real person," Molly continued. "Sam Tyler wasn't round the bend, after all."

"Oi, you can't get away with that," she answered, gently reprimanding. "I'm not entirely sure of the link there. If Gene had been stationed in Manchester at the time then it would make more sense. But, well, I suppose none of it makes that much sense. I'll think about that later."

She'd been thinking about Sam, too. If only he had known. It wasn't all in your head, the after-world or the space inbetween. Perhaps he wouldn't have made the decision to jump, or perhaps everything would have stayed the same. She liked to think that he was with Annie, somehow, especially after everything she'd learnt from Maggie.

All those logical, reasoned theories and arguments she'd dedicated her life to, all completely overthrown.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"I don't know, Molls. I hope so, but I don't know. We'll have to wait and see what the prognosis is."

She was trying not to think about the outlook being bleak, while also steeling herself for the very real possibility. Whatever happened she knew that she wanted to be with him until the end, as improbable as that might have sounded. If he is okay, and he improves…I can't possibly make those assumptions. We might end up hating each other.

Well, it didn't turn out so badly before.

"I feel like it'll be okay, Mum. There must have been a reason you ended up with Gene in your coma world. Maybe he needs you, like you needed him."

She could feel her cheeks burning, having to break gaze with her daughter.

"I…well…I don't know why Gene was there, but I can try and do something in the here and now. That's the important thing."

"Mum."

"What?"

"Did you and Gene have something going on?"

"No!" She spluttered the answer out too quickly, knowing she was about the same shade as the Quattro. "I never…I was only concerned about getting back to you."

Molly narrowed her eyes, and she wanted to tell her daughter to behave.

"You fancied him, though."

"Molly," she warned, getting up from the bed. "It wasn't like that at all."

"He fancied you, I bet. He'd have to be mad not to."

"This is all besides the point."

"Whatever."

Alex shook her head and poked out her tongue. Molly laughed in response and stuck her tongue out too before burrowing beneath her duvet.

That was all she needed, to be quizzed about her love life – actually, not even her real life – by her twelve year-old daughter.

"See you in the morning," she said, inching halfway out of the door.

"Night, Mum," Molly replied, and then before she closed it completely, added "you're the best, you know. And what you're going to do is really important. You're going to make a difference, like you always do."

She couldn't help but smile on hearing that.

"I really hope so, Molls. Sweet dreams, don't let the bed-bugs bite."

"Ow!" Molly shrieked, stifling her laughter.

"Too late."

She pushed through the double doors to find CID completely empty, not a soul in sight. Her eyes cast upwards, taking in that chequerboard ceiling. Everything was the same, just as she'd never left. Or disappeared. She took in a deep breath and looked straight in front of her.

The blinds in his office were half-shut, but through them she could see that the light was on.

The red high-heeled boots fixed to her feet clicked loudly against the tiles, echoing in the silent room. On the desks were traces of those that belonged there, or had done. Shaz's Walkman and a couple of cassette tapes. Chris's mug with a Marathon bar balanced against it. A packet of fags and Ray's leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. A wistful smile came to her face to see them all.

Her hand stilled against the door; instinctively she went to knock, but something made her think twice.

He stood with his back to her for a few seconds after she entered, not fully closing the door behind her. She didn't expect to be so affected by him, not when she knew this wasn't real. It felt it though, if the hammering of her heart was anything to go by.

Typical Gene stance, shoulders back, hands buried in his pockets. Eyes leisurely appraising her, showing only the slightest hint of disappointment that she wasn't wearing a scandalously short skirt or low-cut top, or both. She watched him all the while as he plucked a second glass from a drawer, masterfully pouring a generous measure from the bottle. He came round from behind his desk with long strides, gave her another look up from the floor before passing the scotch into her waiting hand.

His voice echoed in her head before he spoke, a fragment of a memory from another time.

'Now then Bollinger Knickers, you gunna kiss me or punch me?'

She admitted the disappointment she felt at the lack of the former, until she remembered that it wasn't entirely appropriate, considering.

"Took your time, Bols."

He backed away from her, leaning against the desk.

She couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping from the back of her throat. "I was somewhat preoccupied. Not the easiest thing to get back on your feet, quite literally."

He scoffed loudly. "Don't 'ave to tell me. At least you've got a head start."

The sadness struck her again; this place was convincing enough to allow her to slip for moments at a time.

"I'm so sorry, Gene. You didn't deserve it. Any of it."

He stared at her in silent acknowledgement, lips balanced on the glass before he took a slug. She followed his lead, barely wincing at the burn of the amber liquid against her throat.

"No time to get soppy, Bolly. Yer know about it all now. Makes a nice change, you comin' to my rescue for once. Bet that floats your equal-rights, feminist boat."

"I hadn't thought about it like that, but now that you mention it."

She thought she saw a hint of a smile, swiftly broken as he took another slug of scotch.

"You always came to at the most inconvenient of times. Like you knew and wanted to spoil my fun on purpose."

"You got more than a fair reward in the end."

"Correction. I'm still waitin' for that, Bols."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting."

"Well that won't do. I won't keep yer."

He came forward, snatching the glass from her hand. It was a surprise to her that the floor didn't fall away from underneath her feet.

"Not yet," she heard herself say, "let me stay a little while longer. It's been so long, Gene."

His eyes locked themselves with hers before he dropped them down.

"All in time. Good things come to those who wait. God knows I've been countin' on that all me bloody life."

"I'm sorry that it took both of us getting a bullet through our brains."

"Needs must, Bols." His gaze found hers again as his hand steadied him at the edge of the desk, fighting to keep his distance from her. "Somethin' to tell the grandkids, anyway."

"Gene," she warned him, her voice threatening to break.

"What? You don't believe me? Thought we got past all that, once you right-hooked me."

"It's a different world, Gene. We don't..."

She thought she felt something, his hand in hers. Looking down she could see that he wasn't touching her at all.

"You trust me?"

Her head nodded instinctively.

"Need to 'ear you say it, Alex."

"I trust you."

His lips formed a pout and he gave a sharp nod of his head.

"Haven't I always said so? You and me. A team. In any bloody time, place or dimension."

A smile broke across her face as she stayed where she was, arrested by his eyes, barely aware that the office walls were disappearing.

All she was aware of was him.

"Unbreakable," she uttered.

"Better believe it, Bolly." He gifted her with a smile, something she never took for granted. "Now, go. And no bloody arguin'."

"Yes, Guv."

"See you around, Bollykecks. Sooner than you think."

It was a promise, a souvenir to take with her.

She woke in the morning with a smile on her face, his voice in her head and a certainty in her heart which hadn't been entirely there before.

A/N: Ordinary World performed by Duran Duran, and written by Simon Le Bon, John Taylor, Nick Rhodes and Warren Cuccurullo.