Notes: Some of the content here formed part of the episode shown on 2/10/03. The larger part of the story is original and is meant to fill the gaps before, after and during the show. I really can't do justice to Chris Simmons performance here, particularly in the first scene (with Smithy) and the last (with Jack) of the episode. Really excellently done by the actor and there's just no way I can emulate that.


One of Our Own II:

Secret

By NorthernStar

Jack's mobile phone rang just as he was leaving his office. Digging it out, he answered and heard his best DC's voice echo on what sounded like a very bad line.

"Guv, its Mickey." Webb said, "Delaney bought…ticket for….7:43…Watford Junction."

"Well done, Mickey." There was the sound of static blotting out the rush of traffic. "Mickey? You're breaking up."

"Ay?"

Jack struggled to hear him. "You've got about an hour so stay put," he told him. "And I'll get some plainclothes come and give you a hand."

"List…, guv, the signal…gy. I c….properly."

His phone bleeped, announcing the loss of connection. Jack closed his phone and put it in his pocket.

This was it. They were going to get Delaney.


Now that it was nearly seven in the evening, Sun Hill's main road system wasn't so choked of cars, and Jack got to Larkmead station in good time. He saw Mickey's car, but had to park further up the road and walk back. He expected to see the blonde haired detective waiting there for him.

Sighing, Jack got out his mobile and called. After several rings, it almost sounded like someone had answered, but it clicked over to the answer phone a second later.

"Mickey, its Jack." He said as soon as he heard the beep. "Where are you? I'm at Larkmead station. I'm near your car. When you get this message, call me."

Hanging up, he admitted to himself he was little worried. Mickey had a tendency to jump right in at times, and he'd been intensely focused on catching this man.

And, Jack could admit, he had something to do with that.

But with Mickey there or not, they had a man to catch so Jack returned to the train station and began co-ordinating the watch. He had a number of plainclothes officers milling about the platform and another two who'd got on the Watford train at the last station, just in case they missed Delaney or he managed to give them the slip as the train was leaving.

The old train chugged into the station at 7:39, and left on the dot of 7:43, something of a small miracle these days, and Jack had to admit defeat.

No Delaney.

At they left the station, Jack pulled out his mobile. The signal bars were strong, just…no call from Mickey. He couldn't help thinking that Mickey's disappearance, and Delaney's, were connected. Passing anxiety racked up another notch to all out worry.

"I don't like this." He told Sergeant Smith. "No sign of Delaney or Mickey."

"Maybe he got a lead, guv."

"Then why didn't he call it in?"

Smithy shrugged. "Outta range, maybe?"

"Maybe." Jack put his mobile back into his pocket. "Right, I want everyone here, out there, looking for Mickey. And if you can find Delaney while you're at it, I'd be grateful. I'm going back to the nick. Keep me informed."

"Sir."


It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping rapidly when Smithy made his way through the industrial estate. He shone his torch down several alleyways and called out.

"Mickey!"

The only thing he'd come across in the last hour and an half was a old wino who thought the sergeant was looking for the Disney character and felt the need to tell him how much he hated mice. Smithy gave him directions to the nearest shelter for the homeless, but even as he walked away, he knew the old man wouldn't go.

Ducking down yet another overgrown alley, Smithy called out again. "Mickey!"

He walked further down, swinging his torch through the shadows. He reached for his radio.

"Sierra Oscar from five-four?" He spoke into it.

"Go ahead, five-four."

"No sign of DC Webb so far."

"Received, five-four."

Smithy walked slowly passed the door to the warehouse. That was when he heard a clank. He focused the torch beam into the dark warehouse and flicked out his ASP. There were a hell of lot of drug gangs in this part of Sun Hill. He started cautiously forward. The torch beam fell on white rope hanging down, stuck in a vice, the end tied into a loop.

There was a noise a little way to the side, a shuffle/clank. He turned, moving the beam around, and through the dirty blinds saw a vague shape. The torch light caught on the huddled figure's blonde hair.

"Mickey?"

"Get out!" The voice was harsh, almost rasping, but still unmistakably Mickey's.

He squinted at the man sitting, knees pressed up to his chest. A sick note crept through his gut as he saw his clothes were loose, undone, revealing a strip of bare flesh.

"Are you OK?"

"Just get outside!" Mickey's voice cracked. "M'okay. Wait outside."

Smithy swallowed, but lowered the torch and went outside. Stomach churning as the copper in him was slowly putting two and two together. He put his head back against the shingle walls of the warehouse and let out a breath.

What he'd seen…

But he couldn't be sure…


Mickey had tried to keep quiet, keep still. But he was shaking so hard now that it was impossible. As he had sat there, listening to Smithy calling his name in the alley outside, he all but prayed that the sergeant would just walk on and not look inside. He didn't want anyone to see this.

See what had happened.

He'd been able to stop Smithy from coming too far in. Now he just had to move.

Stiffly he buckled his jeans then braced himself, both mentally and with his hands on the floor, to stand up. Pain flared in the torn tissue of his anus and he was pretty sure he was still bleeding back there.

He wobbled the moment he was standing, cold and shock clumsying his limbs in equal measure. Walking was every bit as unpleasant as he'd thought and he felt wetness pool in his underwear. He moaned softly.

Stumbling outside, gasping air as he walked, he found Smithy waiting for him just outside the door.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." The word came out on a breath.

"You were supposed to meet the DCI at the station."

"Yeah…Yeah…" He was shaking so badly he could barely get the words out. "Delaney showed up here early."

Smithy frowned. "Are you hurt?"

Mickey continued to shake. "I f-fink he's…I fink 'e's hit me over the 'ead with something. I dunno…" He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to ease the ache and the confusion. "I d-dunno what's 'appened…"


Smithy grew even more concerned. His worry spiked when Mickey touched his own head, revealing a mess of scraps and bruises around his wrists. Smithy immediately reached out to examine the damage. "Did he tie you up?"

Mickey flinched back, snatching his hands away. "Nah-no…"

The out right lie and the worry that Mickey might have more injuries spurred Smithy to a decision. "I'm gonna call you an ambulance."

Mickey's shivering increased. "No...No…M'fine. M'fine, okay?"

Smithy didn't believe him. Why hide if there was nothing wrong? "Why didn't you call for back-up?"

"He-he smashed my mobile."

"I fink you need to get checked out, mate."

"Listen, he's just smacked me about a bit. M'all right, okay?" His voice, still trembling, turned a little desperate. "You give me a lift home, yeah?" He leaned in a little, "and don't say anything about this, all right?"

Friendship won out over the copper in him. "I need to let CAD know that you're all right."

"Okay…" Mickey nodded. "Okay…just don't make a big fing about this."

Smithy looked at the sweating, shivering man in front of him and nodded. "Yeah…all right."

He hoped he saw some of the tension ease on Mickey's face. At least he'd done that much to help his friend.

"Okay…"

Then the DC began walking back down the alley, movements stiff, almost stumbling. Mickey kept one hand against the fence, steadying himself.

Smithy watched him for a moment then reached for his radio.

"Sierra Oscar from five-four?"

"Go ahead, five-four."

"I've located DC Webb." He said, and knew he should report Mickey's condition, but found himself lying. "He's okay, over."

"Received. We'll inform the DCI."

"I'm gonna take him home."

"Understood."

Smithy sighed, regretting his words already. He knew he should insist on the ambulance. Mickey was clearly in shock.

But he only had vague suspicions, and he trusted Mickey to be a good enough copper to know if he needed help. Besides which, Smithy knew what it was like to find yourself out of your depth with a suspect, the embarrassment of not being able to handle it. If Delaney had roughed him up a bit more than Mickey was proud to admit, then Smithy could understand that.

But there had been ropes…

And Mickey was…

Shaking the thought away, Smithy began to follow Mickey out of the industrial estate. Catching up with the DC was depressingly easy. Mickey was still shivering, his face tense with discomfort, movements awkward and pained. Smithy wanted to offer him a hand, but he knew it wouldn't be welcome, so he just stayed at his friend's side, ready to catch him if he fell.

Fortunately the panda wasn't too far away and they got there without incident. Smithy opened the passenger door for Mickey and the young man slumped into seat with an audible moan.

Smithy frowned, kneeling down to Mickey's level. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah…yeah…just need to take some painkillers."

"I could drive you down to St Hughes right now. Only take a couple of minutes."

"I said no, all right?" He rubbed his forehead. "M'okay…"

"Don't look it, mate."

Mickey let his head fall back against the seat. "Just give it a rest, yeah?"

Smithy stayed silent for a moment.

Mickey opened his eyes and lifted his head. "You takin' me home, or what?"

Sighing, Smithy stood up and closed the passenger door. He walked around and got into the driving seat.

"I'm just worried about ya."

Mickey settled back again, eyes closed. "Yeah, well don't be, all right? I'm okay."

Smithy put the car in gear and pulled out onto the road. As he drove, he was aware of the man still trembling beside him, even though the car was quite warm. Concerned, Smithy cranked the heating up to full blast. Hot air began blasting out the vents, turning the panda into a small furnace. It wasn't long before Smithy was sweating in his uniform and flax jacket, but it was worth it to see the dreadful shuddering in his friends body ease up.

He risked a glance over at him at the traffic lights and saw Mickey wipe most of the sweat and grim from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Between that and the warmth in the car, Mickey now looked a little less shocked and cold.


Jack was getting seriously worried. He'd tried Mickey's mobile several times in the last couple of hours, but with no success. Unable to sit in his office and read through reports, he'd finally got up and started asking about the nick, but no one had seen Mickey.

After yet another "not seen 'im, guv" he knew the frustration he felt was evident. Gary Best had said "he looks how I feel" after he'd asked him.

Then one of the CAD officers said he'd been found.

He tried not to be bothered by the amount of relief he felt.


The car ride was mostly silent, something which Mickey was grateful for. He really didn't have the energy left to talk and he couldn't face questions. He just hunched in the chair, surrounded by the heat, trying not to let out a moan at discomfort. Every bump in the road jarred his bruises and sitting was painful. He could feel the damp trickle of blood and god knew what else in his underwear. The sensation was disturbing and sickening but with a strangely cold logic, he found he was glad he'd worn black jeans today. Like a girlfriend had once confided, it made leaks a lot less noticeable.

When the pulled up outside Mickey's flat, Smithy insisted on walking him right to the door. Once inside, he headed straight for the bathroom cabinet and pulled out the strongest painkillers he had. He swallowed two down and then took the first aid kit out.

He knew he should go to hospital; he'd taken enough male rape victims into casualty himself to know how important it was to get medical attention. But he couldn't face that. And he was pretty sure the bleeding had stopped.

He removed his jeans and began cleaning the area, applying antiseptic as tears of pain rolled down his cheeks. When he'd finished, he removed the rest of his soiled clothes and ran himself a bath.

Getting in, he sat and washed until the water was cold, then emptied and refilled the bath with more water and began the process again. He scrubbed until his skin hurt, stopping only because he ran out of shower gel. He pulled the plug again, watching as more forensic evidence disappeared down the drain. Then he stood up, pulled up the knob on the taps and took a shower. It was mostly cold water, but he didn't care.

When he couldn't stand the chill anymore, he finally got out and wrapped himself in a towel. He sat on the loo and shivered for a while before getting up and drying himself off. When he was finished, he tugged on clean underwear and a shirt and set about bleaching the bath. He cleaned it as desperately as he'd cleaned himself; distantly aware of the futility of what he was doing - kneeling on the bathroom floor, rubber gloves on, scrubbing toilet bleach into an already clean bath.

When he finished, he threw his dirty towels in the bin and went to chuck his dirty clothes in after it.

His hand stopped.

Evidence.

No matter what, the ingrained, virtually in-bred, copper in him wanted to preserve the evidence. So he went into the kitchen, grabbed a black bag from under the sink and scooped his clothes into it. He tied the top, threw the bag into a cupboard and went to wash his hands.

It was nearly half past two in the morning when he finally got to bed. Laying there, the light still on, tremors occasionally chasing up and down his frame, Mickey stared up at the ceiling. With nothing to do now but think, his mind began to race, surrounding him with the ghost smell of Delaney's body, flashing on the rape, playing it over and over until finally…finally, the tears came and he was sobbing softly to himself.

He didn't sleep.


Jack went straight to Mickey's desk when he got to the nick that morning. He was surprised to see the chair empty and the computer screen off. The coat stand by the door had a couple of jackets on it, but none was recognisable as one of the skinny jean jackets Mickey always wore.

Jack frowned, annoyance at the DC slacking over riding the thread of concern left over from last night. He knew it really wasn't like Mickey to be late. He tended to get into work early at the best of times, particularly in the middle of a case, but even more so in the last few weeks; since his mother had been killed.

Grief could do that to you.

He looked over when the door opened, but saw it was Danny Glaze arriving, not Mickey.

"Have you seen Mickey?"

Danny shrugged out of his jacket. "Not since yesterday, guv."

"Well, if you see him before I do, tell him I want a word."


Smithy had slept badly that night, tossing and turning in his bed, troubled by what he'd seen and the immediate suspicions that had sprung up. How his stomach turned to see Mickey like that and the wrench of horror inside as his mind began to make sense of the fragments of information.

And yet Mickey swore nothing had happened beyond a beating. He knew he should believe his friend, for Mickey's sake. Because that was the way he wanted it. He owed it to his mate to do that. But Smithy found his mind kept coming back to his initial gut reaction.

Mickey, who taken more than his fair share of thumpings over the years that never seemed to affect him, shocked and shaking and half dressed, yelling at him to get out, desperate to keep what had happened a secret.

And then there was Delaney. A thief and a violent man, but this… That wasn't in his MO. He finally fell asleep, resolving to talk about what happened with Mickey at some point during the day.

Despite that, he found he was unprepared to field questions on Mickey's behalf. The DCI caught him just as he was entering the nick.

"Smithy!"

He stopped and turned.

Jack Meadows frowned. "What happened to Mickey last night?"

Smithy's stomach clenched. "Erm…I picked 'im up at that warehouse on the industrial estate."

"And Delaney?"

"Yeah…er…Mickey chased 'im but he got away. It's-it's like a warren round there."

"Is Mickey all right?" Meadows voice was a little concerned. "'cause he hadn't turned up this morning."

Smithy keyed his security number into the nick door so he wouldn't have to look Jack in the eyes when he lied. "Yeah…he's fine. I took 'im home meself."

"So why didn't he radio in?" On that reassurance, he was all procedure now. "I mean, half the nick were looking for him last night."

"His mobile broke."

"Well get someone to call him. Tell him to drag himself in and finish the job he started last night."

"Sir."

Smithy went into the station. While he had hated lying to Meadows, Smithy knew he do it again in an instant. He always stuck by his mates. That was part of being a copper.

He called Mickey's flat himself, trying not to worry, but he got only the answer phone. The confident voice on the recording sounded odd to him now. As he hung up, he told himself that Mickey was probably on his way in, maybe stuck in traffic.

Or maybe…maybe he'd gone to the hospital.

A stab of fear sliced him.

Maybe Mickey had too.


Mickey got up as soon as it was light. He spent over an hour in the bath, using the squirty liquid kitchen soap to wash with since he'd run out of everything else, trying to scrub away the smell and taint on his skin, stumbling out only when he couldn't stand the cold water anymore. Shivering, he sat on the toilet and applied more antiseptic to his anus, wincing when his nail reopened a tear. When he pulled his hand away, he saw spots of blood and mucus colouring his fingers and had to fight to keep from vomiting.

The whole process was filthy, and degrading, and painful.

But necessary.

He washed his hands thoroughly before going back into his bedroom to dress. Mickey grabbed the first clothes to hand, battered blue jeans and a white T. He buckled the trousers tightly around his waist but found the top uncomfortably thin. He pulled out a green zip-up and shrugged that on too, zipping it all the way up. The cuffs fell down far enough to cover his marked wrists and the high collar felt better.

Then Mickey went into the kitchen and made coffee, spooning in far more sugar than he could stand tasting. He forced himself to drink it all, needing the kick of caffeine and sucrose. The shivery buzz of last night had faded and now he just felt raw and tired. Bone weary but unable to stay still.

He swallowed more painkillers and switched on the telly. GMTV twittered in the background and when it finished, he knew he was going to be late for work. He turned over and watched Kilroy and then flicked through the hoard of digital channels he paid for but rarely used. It was only when the paracetamol he'd taken had begun to work that he went into the loo and checked the bleed he'd started. There were more spots of blood staining his clean underwear and knew he should go to hospital. But he pushed the thought from his mind, grit his teeth as he applied more cream and changed his pants.

Then he did what he always did.

Mickey went to work.

Just like it never happened.


Mickey spoke to no one on his way through the nick. Any greetings sent his way went ignored as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Talking was suddenly difficult; the world had taken on an almost unreal quality against the clamour inside his head. The bustle and noise of the nick pressing in on him but he kept moving mechanically forward.

"Hey, Mickey!" Smithy's voice called after him. "The DCI was looking for you, mate."

Mickey stopped, looked back. He really didn't want to talk to Smithy right now. Smithy had seen. He didn't think he could ever look him in the eye again.

"Yeah, fanks." He replied, head lowered and went to continue down the corridor.

Smithy's voice stopped him. "Oh, did you go to the 'ospital?"

"No." The answer came before he could stop it. "Er…yeah…well, I got some painkillers." He came back, stopped next to Smithy. He glanced about and made sure no one else was in the corridor. "Listen, you didn't tell anyone about last night, did you?"

"Look, I shouldn't worry about it. I mean, we've all had a suspect get the better-"

Mickey shook his head. That wasn't what he'd asked and he just couldn't deal with conversation right now. "I-Is that a yes or is that a no?"

"So 'e gave you a clump…" Smithy said, "I mean-"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what?" Smithy leaned a little forward. When he spoke his voice was gentle. "Just tell me, Mickey."

Seeing the concern, the suspicions, on Smithy's face made him feel sick. The truth screamed at him inside his head. No… "I've got get some air."

Turning, Mickey hurried out. He'd handled that badly, but he just couldn't think beyond the fear gripping him. He couldn't let anyone find out. Didn't want anyone to know. Couldn't face the thought of anyone knowing what Delaney had done to him – what he hadn't been man enough to stop.

The yard wasn't empty, several of the uniforms were talking by a panda, and the sight of them brought him to a halt. He hadn't known where he was going, but he still felt a jolt at having to stop. Panicked, lost, he made himself sit on the small wall there.

Reg came passed a little while later and tried to drag him into a conversation. Mickey was half a second away from yelling at the man for the constant stream of questions and pointless yap when Des came out the nick and took him away.


Smithy gave Mickey a good fifteen minutes before heading outside to find him. He used the time to start a report and sort through a file, doing his best not to worry too much about the desperation and distress he'd seen in Mickey's face.

He found Mickey sitting on a wall out the back of the nick, staring into space.

"You all right?" He asked as he walked down the ramp towards the detective constable.

Mickey looked up as he approached. Smithy sat down beside him.

Mickey shot to his feet, away from Smithy, coming to stand in front of him, his eyes darting away. "Yeah…er…Yeah, sorry about earlier. I just…felt a bit sick, that was all."

"Don't worry about it." Smithy looked at him. "This Delaney seems to have really got to ya."

Mickey's eyes still weren't meeting his. He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders in a good imitation of carelessness. "No more than anyone else."

Smithy frowned, seeing the imitation for what it was and put his concern into words. "Well no, you seem all on edge."

"I ain't slept." That he could believe. Smithy could see the truth in those words written in Mickey's tired, shadowed eyes. "You know how it is."

"Well try and get your head down for a couple of hours." He said and clapped his friend on his arm.

Mickey flinched back, stepping away. Then his head came up and he looked Smithy in the eye, something unreadable on his face, not quite challenging.

Smithy frowned, shocked by the reaction. "What?"

"Nothing." Mickey broke the eye contact, looking away. "Er…yeah…I'd better get on. See you later."

Smithy watched as he hurried away, the churning of suspicion in his belly solidifying into certainty.

Mickey had been raped.


Mickey hurried up to CID, taking the long way to avoid people. Once up there, he pulled out Rachel's file, switched on his computer and did his best to look like he was working. He read whole pages he had to read again when he got to the bottom because he hadn't made sense of anything. Tiredness burned behind his eyes, but he didn't dare close them to rub the ache behind them away. He'd learned last night while huddled under the duvet, trying to get to sleep, that the images of his rape lurked in the darkness behind his eyelids.

When he finally gave in to the desire to rub his eyes, he was back there, in the warehouse, face down on the table with Delaney grunting over him. He shot out the chair, jumping to his feet as if ice water had been chucked in his face. The whole of CID fell silent and turned to gawp at him.

Phil Hunter frowned. "You all right?" He asked, as a few of the others chuckled at Mickey's strange behaviour.

Mickey lowered his head, avoiding the stares. He didn't want them looking at him, suddenly certain they could see the truth he was denying written on his face. "Yeah," he muttered and hurried out, down the corridor to the toilet. He went into a cubical, put the loo seat down and pressed himself onto the small space, wrapping his arms around his knees. Then he quietly waited out the tremors shaking his body.

Going back in had taken bottle, but as it was no one even looked in his direction, to busy with their own work to worry about him. He sat back at his desk and began to read again.

It didn't make sense the hundredth time either.


Jack walked into CID, looking for Mickey, which he was beginning to feel, was now his full time occupation. June had told him she'd seen Mickey not ten minutes ago, proving he was in the nick somewhere even if he'd neglected to come and check in with the DCI. And sure enough, when Jack walked through the doors, there was the skinny detective sitting at his desk.

"Mickey, what happened to you yesterday?"

Mickey looked up as the DCI approached, startled. His face was pale and Jack saw shadows around his eyes. Well, at least that meant he was working. For a while there, Jack had worried Mickey wasn't giving the case his full attention because it involved Rachel. Of course, now there was another victim.

"One minute you were looking for Delaney, the next minute you'd disappeared."

"I lost 'im." Mickey said, words clipped and short.

"And?"

"And I'm sorry."

He didn't like the young man's attitude. "So what are you doing to find him?"

"Uniform are on the look out for his car and -."

"And that's it, is it?" Jack snapped. "Delaney's on the loose, he's beaten the living daylights outta two woman and that's all you can give me?"

Mickey hunched up, avoiding Jack's anger. "Well I'll get on to it, all right?"

The pallid complexion bothered Jack. He frowned. "Have you been drinking?"


"What?" Mickey shook his head, barely believing that Jack had asked that. "No of course I haven't."

"You look terrible." Jack said. "You wanna sort yourself out. I want an update in an hour."

He watched Jack walk away, knotting inside from the encounter, Jack's attitude hurting, and heard someone speak beside him.

He turned back. "What?"

"Is he all right?" The man at the desk next to his asked.

"Yeah…" Mickey muttered, just to get the man to shut up. He picked up his pen and began filling out a report.

"Just giving you a hard time." He sounded a little sympathetic. "See usually the DI's are like that." The man was yapping. Mickey remembered DS Hunter throwing the man's name at him when he'd arrived this morning, but didn't recall what it was. New DS? Or he used to be?

The man's eyes roved around CID. "So much talent. So little time." He lamented. "And I'm not talking about the detective skills, if you know what I mean?"

Mickey stomach turned sickly at the insinuation of sex, lashing against already raw nerves. "No, I don't know what you mean."

The guy obviously thought he had Mickey sussed. "Course you do, man. Check it – this nick is like the twilight zone of totty." He leered at Mickey. "The only problem is, where do I start? Got any tips?"

The innuendo snapped the last of his restraint. "Do me a favour, yeah?" He snapped, getting up and grabbing a file from his desk. "Why don't you stick that in your mouth 'til the end of the shift and maybe we'll get some work done, yeah?" And he chucked the file at him before stalking out.

As he walked he felt the same ugliness in his belly that had lead to him running out before. He heard Phil say something and tensed as he passed Smithy, realising the sarge had heard him lose it. He found his feet took him into the toilet again, almost like an animal run to ground.

This time he didn't hide in the stall but filled the basin with water. He watched his hands – his useless, ineffectual, bruised hands – put in the plug and turn the taps. He looked up and his eyes caught on their reflection in the mirror. A pale tired skinny boned man stared back.

Was that him? Was this what Jack had seen? No wonder he had no respect for him anymore. And what nameless copper had seen – equal player, sexual hunter. Yeah they might've been friends in another life. Only now Mickey was prey – empty shell. Smithy had seen this face too – beaten, done over…raped? Had he guessed that yet? Mickey didn't like the pity he saw in Smithy's face, couldn't handle him knowing.

And what Delaney had seen – prey, meat, an arse to be used…

The door opened.

Mickey looked over to see Smithy coming into the loo.

"What?" Mickey said harshly, challenging. "What d'you want, ay?"

The sergeant shut the door behind himself. Mickey felt an equal wash of fear and anger run though him. He didn't want to have this conversation. He couldn't live with this conversation.

Smithy came closer. He almost looked nervous. "Last night at the warehouse…" he began, softly, formally. "I got the impression that something else had 'appened with Delaney."

Mickey turned back to the sink and splashed water on his face. "Well it didn't, all right?" Funny how the words almost felt like truth.

"You told me to wait outside. Your clothes were undone."

"And he beat me up."

"Something more than that."

Water dripped coldly down Mickey's skin and he remained bent over the sink. "What do you mean?" Please no…

"I know what I saw." Smithy stated simply.

"Well it was nuffing."

"When I was in the army a mate of mine got beat up by a couple of other squaddies." Smithy told him. There was that gentleness again and it hurt to hear it. "Now he said everything was all right then a couple of months later he had a breakdown and no one could work out why. Then it all came out."

Mickey waited, feeling cold, feeling numb.

"He'd been raped."


Silence greeted his words. For a moment there, Smithy had hoped Mickey would just laugh at the idea and he'd know he'd been wrong. But the quiet was all the confirmation Smithy needed.

"Are you going to report this?"

Mickey straightened up. "There's nothing to report, OK?" He grabbed a tissue and dried his face before coming back to Smithy.

"You can't pretend this hasn't happened."

"Well it didn't, all right?" Mickey insisted. "I don't care wot you fink."

"People are gonna support ya."

"People aren't gonna know anything, OK?" He came up close. "And I don't want any rumours being spread about me! Now do I have your word on that?" His voice dropped harshly. "Do I have your word on that?"

The desperation he heard in Mickey's words got to him. "Yeah…" He agreed finally.

"I don't want a single person in this nick talking about me. You understand?"

Smithy met his gaze, knowing he should go to the DCI straight away. And that he should drag Mickey down to the FME, down to the hospital if he hadn't already gone.

He knew he should help his friend.

"So we're clear?" Mickey demanded.

So he did help, the only way he could.

Smithy nodded his agreement.

Mickey relaxed and walked out the toilet. Smithy watched him go.

There were procedures, recommended courses of action in a situation like this. As a copper he'd followed those recommendations a hundred times with numerous victims. It had kept him focused on the job when emotions might otherwise have got in the way.

But none of those victims were friends and this situation wasn't in the courses. This wasn't supposed to happen to one of their own.

He was handling it badly, but he just didn't know what to do.


Smithy found it hard to concentrate on his work after that. He hadn't thought of Ray for several years, but he still remembered the young man's descent into depression and alcoholism as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. His own feelings of helplessness, completely in the dark about what Ray had suffered. Even now, he couldn't believe he'd missed all the signs. If only he'd known…

Well now he did.

Mickey had been the victim of perhaps the most brutal, abhorrent and personal of assaults. He shouldn't be dealing with it alone. Shit, if Ray had proved anything, it was that you couldn't deal with this alone.

But how do you go about helping a man who won't admit there's a reason for that help? Who was trying to get on with everything as if nothing had happened?

He just didn't know.

Smithy finally gave up on his work and went to the canteen. He picked at his lunch, too absorbed by his thoughts to concentrate on even eating.

Gossip buzzed around him – a typical day at the nick - a former DI from Sun Hill snooping around asking questions about the Sun Hill fire and Des and Danny's involvement in Jeff Simpson's confession. He half listened to the back and forth of the relief while he pushed a glob of mashed potato around his plate, his ears pricking up and mind snapping too when he heard the dulcet tones of DS de Costa join the conversation.

He turned in his chair, looked over at the officer's talking around the table behind him. He watched Ramani sit down with them, adding her impressions of the day's events while she ate a lasagne.

He felt suddenly calmer and stood up, abandoning his meal. He chucked his own food away and went back to work.

At least now he had an idea what he was going to do.


Mickey skipped his own refs, as much because he couldn't face going in the busy canteen as lack of hunger. His stomach felt vaguely empty, but the bruising to his bowel probably meant his intestines wouldn't be requesting food anytime soon and anything else wasn't noticeable against the churning of his other emotions. He wandered around, going over files, photo-copying this, typing up that, unable to concentrate on any one for very long. In its own way, it was therapeutic. He'd done much the same when his mum died, going through the motions of normality until it felt a little like normal again.

Keep going, keep doing, keep from thinking about it… It would fade in time.

And who'd've thought, just a few weeks ago, when a wedge had been driven between him and his DCI, when he laid his mum to rest and it felt like his life had hit rock bottom that something else would come along and prove him wrong. That losing a parent, and seeing a relationship he was proud of being ruined was merely the appetiser for the true nadir. Just to make the pain more exquisite.

Or give himself something else to think about, take your pick.

Mickey could have done with his mum right now.

Thank god she hadn't lived to see this. The woman would have died of shame.

Ramani caught him at one point, asking about a family on the Larkmead that Mickey was familiar with. Ordinarily he would have stopped, told her what he knew, but he just couldn't talk about anything right now, especially with her, a SOIT trained officer.

He wanted to be left alone.

An hour or so later, he saw Smithy come upstairs to CID. He looked up from the photocopier, watched him walk past. The jump in his heart rate slowed when he realised Smithy wasn't coming to talk to him. He followed the sarge anyway; fearful he might be heading straight for the DCI. Mickey stopped at the doors and looked through. His insides turned to ice as he watched Smithy walk over to DS de Costa, the sexual offences expert of the CSU and leant over. Mickey watched his lips move, but couldn't read them.

The pair spoke a moment then Ramani led Smithy into the small interview room.

Mickey's head shook in a minute 'no' motion. His eyes were moist.


Smithy dealt with his paper work and settled a small personnel problem in the relief while he silently made up his mind. He didn't want to go behind Mickey's back, and he certainly didn't want to add to the DC's distress, but he was out of his depth here and he needed some expert advice. And like it or not, that was Ramani.

In the end he decided, if he didn't name names, then his enforced promise would still hold.

He still had to fight guilt every step of the way up to CID. As he walked through the corridor, he knew Mickey's eyes were on him, but there was no reason for him to be suspicious. Smithy conferred with CID all the time.

"Er…Ramani?" He asked, "could I have a quick word?"

The Asian woman led him into the little cosy interview room they put victims and witnesses in. Once inside, he found the words failing.

"Umm…I think a friend of mine has been sexually assaulted and I don't know what to do about it."

De Costa was too much the professional to let her surprise slip. "Sit down." She said and took a seat directly opposite. "Did you ask them what happened?"

"They says they was beaten up." Smithy told her, "nothing more."

"But you don't believe them?"

"No." He admitted. It felt better just to say it out loud. "I just don't fink 'e wants to face it."

Ramani frowned. "He?" She touched her mouth. "Did he go to the hospital?"

"Well, he says he has."

"Are you telling me this as a copper or as a friend?"

"This is just off the record for now."

"OK," she nodded. "Well in that case, you know the score. Its always best if the victim comes forward. I'd direct your efforts towards persuading him to do that as…bottling this kind of thing up is always very damaging. I've seen the consequences."

Smithy took a deep breath, let it out. He was silent for quite a while.

"I'm not sure how to do that." Smithy admitted eventually. "'e just jumps down my throat every time I mention it."

"Anger is very natural." Ramani said. "So is denial." She looked frankly at him. "The best advice I can give is to keep coming back. And try not to let his anger get to you. When he's ready to talk, he'll need a friend."

"At the moment, 'e won't even admit it." He said eventually.

"He's probably feeling very ashamed right now."

"Ashamed?" Smithy frowned. "'e ain't got anything to be ashamed of."

"I agree." Ramani nodded. "If he comes forward, there's any number of organisation that can help him deal with this."


"Mickey, how's it going?"

Mickey jumped at the sudden approach. He pulled his eyes away from the interview room where he'd seen Smithy and Ramani go, and turned to the DCI. Update, he thought absently. He'd forgotten.

"I got a few things I need to check up on." He lied. His stomach hurt, vague hunger giving way to hungry.

"That's it?" Jack said tersely, "that's your update?"

"I've been busy, guv."

"So's Delaney. We lost our best lead yesterday. I want another chance at this."

"Yes, sir."

"Guv?" Phil Hunter called Jack over and Mickey spared him a look of thanks behind the guv'nor's back. The up-tilt at the corner of Phil's mouth confirmed that he was giving Mickey a break and getting Meadows off his back. He didn't waste it, scooting over to the phone to call Delaney's probation officer. As he dialled the number, he felt the familiar kick of adrenaline in his veins.

Back at the job. It felt good.

It lasted until the line picked up and a secretary informed him to call back later. Suddenly deprived of the rush, and hating himself for the sting of relief at not having to discuss anything to do with Delaney, he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

He was so tired. The sick/ache feeling in his stomach was getting worse and it wasn't time to take any more tablets, wouldn't be for another couple of hours. Not that it mattered. The bowel cramps he'd suffered after the rape had finally subsided under a ton of ibruprophen but even that couldn't change the fact that he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday.

Getting up, Mickey walked over to the water cooler and filled a cup. Swallowing it down, and then another, the emptiness in the stomach eased. Five minutes later, his bladder protested at the extra liquid and he went to the loo. Peeing hurt a little, but at least he wasn't having trouble going.

On his way back, he saw Smithy disappearing down the corridor and then down the stairs. He sat back down at his desk and moved papers about, until the edginess inside him demanded he move. Still hungry, he returned to the water cooler and took another plastic cup. He went to fill up again.

As Mickey lent over the cooler, someone touched his back.

"All right, Mickey?"

He straightened, flinching back as his heart leap. Ramani smiled at him. "Oh the usual, you know." He sipped at the water. "Sorry if I snapped at you earlier on."

"Oh no, that's all right." She looked concerned at him. "Gosh you look tired."

"This place wears you out, dunnit?"

"I heard you had a bit of a run in yesterday, are you all right?"

The blood froze in his veins. "How d'you mean?"

"You were out of radio contact for-"

"So what's Smithy been saying then, ay?" He demanded.

"Smithy?"

"Yeah. I see you talking to him earlier on." Anger and humiliation flared inside him. "What's 'e said?"

Not waiting for an answer, he dumped the cup down and hurried out.

Ramani stared after him. Her face hardened as she put two and two together.


Mickey flew through the nick, scanning the offices and corridors for Smithy. A couple of the uniforms gave him a questioning look, but he just barged past them. He finally found Smithy outside his office. "You gave me your word!" He yelled.

Smithy frowned, confused. "Er, what was that about?"

Finally let loose, Mickey couldn't stop the torrent of rage inside him. "Couldn't leave it alone, couldya?"

"I dunno what you're talking-"

"You told Ramani about me!"

"No I didn't." He insisted.

"Don't lie to me!"

"Mickey, I'm telling you I didn't."

The lies ignited the betrayal and Mickey's anger lashed out. He flew at Smithy, grabbing him by the throat, pushing him back. While Smithy was both taller and broader than Mickey, the DC had the element of surprise on his side and he got in a few good blows before Smithy had him up against the wall.

Jack Meadows chose that moment to come through the doors.


Jack's average frustration filled day took a turn for the worse as he turned the corner and saw one of his sergeants forcing one of his detective's against the wall. He reacted. "Oi!" he cried out and rushed over, pushing an arm between them, forcing them apart. "Break it up!"

Separated, the pair breathed harshly, Smithy was looking at Mickey but the young DC was looking away. He was shaking ever so slightly.

"What the hell is going on here?" Jack demanded.

"Just a misunderstanding, sir." Smithy said crisply.

Jack wasn't about to let that pass. This was a nick not a playground. "And this is how you deal with misunderstandings, is it?"

"I'm sorry, guv." Mickey's voice was harsh. "It won't 'appen again."

"Too right it won't." Jack snapped. "If there's something going on between you two, you leave it outside." He looked at Smithy. "Sergeant Smith, my office. Now."

Smithy looked at Mickey then followed the DCI.

Mickey bit his lip as anger raged inside him. He leaned back, holding it in, holding everything in, thudding his head back against the wall. If Smithy had broken his word and told De Costa, it wouldn't take much for him to spill it to Jack too. The thought of them talking about him, knowing about him…

He felt tears threaten, anger fading to hurt at the betrayal. His stomach clenched. Jack's opinion of him was pretty low right now. What would he think of Mickey if he knew what Delaney had done to him?


"Would you like to tell me what just happened out there?" Jack demanded the moment the door was closed. The relief knew he didn't stand for any dissension among the ranks, and the fact that it had been Smithy and Mickey, two of his best officers, brawling like a couple of yobs in the middle of the nick galled him.

Smithy stood rod straight. "Like I said, it was just a misunderstanding."

"You mind telling me what this misunderstanding was?"

He could see that Smithy didn't. "It was personal, sir."

"It stopped being personal the moment you started a punch-up in this nick." Jack told him. "Now tell me what happened."

Smithy looked nervous and his feet shuffled.

Jack frowned and levelled a hard look at the young man. "And you can consider that an order, sergeant."


Smithy swallowed. "Sir." He acknowledged. Then he took a breath. At least, with the DCI ordering this, he could justify breaking his word.

"Well, I'm waiting."

"It was about last night." Smithy watched the DCI's face change from anger to worry; the words coming out of his mouth easier to say than he'd thought. "When Mickey was out of radio contact."

Jack frowned. "He was chasing Delaney."

Smithy took a deep breath. The next sentence coming out on the exhalation. "He was raped."


Jack felt a crushing weight fall on his chest. "Raped?" He repeated. He didn't look at his officer as the words sank in. He remembered how Mickey had looked earlier… the young man had been a wreak. Why hadn't he questioned that? He looked back at Smithy. "Are you saying Delaney raped Mickey?"

Smithy's face was grave. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

Confusion filled him. "But I asked you what happened this morning." There was a measure of disbelief in his voice. "You lied?"

"Mickey asked me not to say anything."

"What's going through your brain, eh? You're a sergeant, he's a victim! Your job was to look after him not fight him."

"Look, I didn't start it. I was trying to help him."

"You've got a funny way of showing it!" Jack cried. "And why the hell didn't you call me from the scene last night?" He demanded. He was the DCI. He took care of his relief. He took care of Mickey. "And I presume you made sure he went straight to hospital?"

Shamefaced, Smithy looked away. "No sir…" He looked up. "But I fink he went this morning."

"I don't believe this." Jack stated. "You have a duty of care. You couldn't have dealt with this more ineptly and what galls me is you're an experienced officer! Not only have you let me down but you've let a colleague down when he needed you most!"

"If it means anything, I know that." His words were grave.

The shame on Smithy's face dissolved most of Jack's anger. "So who else knows?"

"Well I spoke to DS De Costa but I didn't mention any names."

"Well that's her area of expertise so…we might be able to use her." He paused. "Anybody else?"

"No, sir."

"Right…We keep this to ourselves. Need to know only." He took a breath, seeking stability from professionalism. "Get the Borough Forensic Manager to call me. Tell her it's confidential and I want her to handle it personally."

"Sir."

Jack stared into space, aware of the door closing behind Smithy. Sighing, he sat down and covered his face with his hands. Mickey hadn't long lost his mother, and it had hurt to watch the young man arrive for work every morning, determined not to let his loss take over. Jack knew how much he was grieving, had tried to be there for him, but there had been all that business between them over Rachel and Laura. Mickey hadn't confided in him, but he'd always been there, waiting – just assuming Mickey would come in him eventually.

But he hadn't. And now this…

THIS

His insides ached. Had things got so bad between them that Mickey had felt he couldn't come to him for help? Mickey should have felt he could come to Jack, as his both his DCI and his friend. If this had happened last year, when things were better between them, Mickey would have come to him.

How had he failed at his responsibility so badly?

Jack was fond of Mickey, more so than any of the CID's officers he'd known over the years. The pair of them worked well together. Jack admired the young man's ambition and obvious talent for his work. Mickey put things together quicker than almost anyone he had worked with, and he was a hell of good undercover man too.

And more than that, he enjoyed his company. One of the reasons he'd lost it with Mickey over Rachel was because Mickey's opinion mattered. He could make Jack feel, and he didn't dare feel anything, not with Laura or the kids, not if he wanted to be happy.

And he deserved to be happy didn't he?

The immediate answer was no, not if blinded him to his work, his responsibility. He'd been so angry after the assault on Rachel. He'd wanted the man caught and in that desperation, he'd underestimated Delaney. Even though he'd seen the bastard's violence accelerate from simple fraud and stealing to a beating to a violent stabbing…

Even though he knew Delaney was starting to take an unhealthy interest in Mickey…

He had still sent Mickey in after him.

He should have seen this coming. He should have been there to stop it.

And he should have been there to pick up the pieces…


When Mickey got in the car he really didn't have any where in mind to go. He just knew he needed to leave. He only really realised where he was going, instinctively, until he took the turning off at the familiar yellow painted pub and onto the narrow road that linked with the A12. He was going toward Colchester…where his mother lived.

Had lived…

He stamped on the brake, receiving several honks from the cars behind him. He sat there for quite a time, cars whooshing past, rocking his vehicle gently. He really didn't think he could miss his mother any more than he did already, but at that moment, he knew what true loss was. There wasn't going to be any tea and biscuits with his mum; there wasn't going to be kind words and simple comforts; there wasn't going to be any more visits here.

There wasn't going to be much of anything any more.

His mum was dead.

He started the car and swung it round 180 degrees and revved back up the road. More angry motorists sounded their horns at his recklessness, but he didn't care, pushing everything he was feeling into handling his car. This time he knew where he was going. This time he was going to visit his mother.

Where she really was - where she'd be forever – six foot under in the one of London's more up market cemeteries. Only the best for his mum.

Mickey stopped to buy flowers at a petrol station. As he paid, he saw a patrol car pull up. He felt a shudder run through him at the sight, but didn't understand why.

He got into his car, laying the flowers carefully on the passenger seat and drove the rest of the way. He parked a short distance from the gates and wandered up the rows of graves slowly feeling the warmth of the late September sunshine and the immediate bite of early autumn cold every time he passed into shadow.

He stopped when he got to the freshly dug mound of earth and the simple cross marking her grave and gently laid the bunch of flowers on top. The headstone had yet to be erected. He'd purchased a simple yet elegant black stone he knew his mother would have approved of, which along with the funeral expenses had eaten up his savings and left him with more than a small amount of dept.

Yeah, only the best…

Mickey sat down, legs crossed.

The peace of the quiet graveyard brought him little comfort.


Ramani knew what the summons to the DCI's office was about two seconds after she entered. There was Smithy, arms crossed, face grim standing by the window and Jack Meadows sitting behind his desk, looking even grimmer.

She looked at Smithy, who nodded in reply to the unasked question.

"Ramani, take a seat." Jack said.

She looked from one to the other. "I take it this concerns Mickey Webb?"

Jack looked up at Smithy, obviously surprised that she knew what this would be about.

"As I said, sir, I did talk to Ramani." Smithy said, and frowned slightly at her. "But I never mentioned Mickey."

"After you came to see me, I bumped into Mickey." Ramani explained. "When I mentioned last night…" She sighed. "It became obvious who you meant."

Jack leant forward in his chair. "How do you mean?"

"He was very defensive. I think he thought Smithy had told me about the incident."

"That's why he went off on one." Smithy realised.

Jack settled back into his seat. "I called you in here because I need to know how to handle this." He told her. "I've dealt with assaults on officers many times but never of this magnitude. And since this is your area…"

"I think Mickey has a responsibility as a police officer to report this." Ramani said. "It's awful what's happened – absolutely awful – but I think it's important that we think about what message will be sent out if we-"

"I don't care what sort of message we send out." Smithy yelled. "We owe it to Mickey as his mates to look out for him."

"What's his state of mind likely to be?"

"Oh, he'll be ashamed – humiliated. All the power he has as a police officer will have been stripped from him and I'll tell you this – there is nothing in his life that will have prepared him for what he's feeling right now."

"I still can't believe it's happened."

"If he comes forward we can get him some proper help. I can get a counsellor from occupational health-"

"Are you serious?" Smithy snapped. "I know exactly what state of mind Mickey's in. I got the bruises to show it! And slinging someone from occupational health in front of him isn't going to sort this out!"

"Then what's your solution?" Ramani turned in her chair. "Because a couple of pints in the pub with mates is not going to make this go away."

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying he needs his friends round him-!"

"He needs trained help!"

"-not a load of old psycho-babble!"

"All right, all right!" Jack stood up. "First things first. I need to talk to him."

Ramani and Smithy exchanged looks as the DCI immediately left the room.


Jack barrelled into CID, catching Danny as he was about to leave.

"Have you seen Mickey?"

"No, guv, I think he's out on an enquiry."

He reached for his phone and punched up Mickey's name and pressed call. The DC chirpy voicemail message greeted him. "Mickey." He began after the tone. "It's the DCI. I want you back here ASAP. And when you get this message, call me."

The worry must have been evident in his voice because Danny frowned. "Everything all right, guv?"

"I need to find Mickey."

But it was beginning to look like the DC had gone AWOL.


The young man in question scraped a silent tear off his cheek with the back of his hand and began to shiver.


A couple of tense hours passed. Jack got on with his work, but he really couldn't concentrate. He needed to find Mickey and the inactivity made him edgy. He wanted to talk to the young man, offer him some comfort…and he could admit it, to allay his own guilt…

He wanted to make it better.

He wanted to make sure Mickey didn't do anything stupid.

Finally giving in to the itch inside him, Jack checked in on Smithy. "Anything?"

The sergeant looked up from his computer screen. "No. Not a word."

"If you were Mickey, where would you go?"

"Go to the pub and get smashed?"

That really wasn't like Mickey so Jack suggested, "friends?"

"I wouldn't know where to start." Smithy looked up. "What about family?"

Family… Jack straightened up, the realisation hitting him. The answer had been staring him in the face all along.

He should have known…


The relief were calling it a day when Jack left the nick. He got in his car and drove through the early evening traffic to the large cemetery, hoping all the while that his gut feeling was right.

He parked inside the gates and got out. There was a chill in the air now, as dusk approached and a very light drizzle fell, dampening his jacket. Jack walked slowly through the neatly kept graves, finally catching sight of the familiar skinny figure huddled by a mound of earth.

He'd been right.

This was where Mickey had come. His own rightness provided him with no satisfaction.

He walked towards the young man, who didn't seem to react to his approach. Mickey looked cold and lonely and distressed. He moved a little, not really looking up, when Jack stopped beside him.

"Just paying my mum a visit that's all." Mickey said softly.

Jack indicated the grass beside him. "Can I?"

"Yeah."

He sat down. The earth was damp beneath him. He wondered how long the young man had been sitting here.

"How did you know I was here?"

Jack half smiled. "Good guess."

"So what do you know?" Mickey's voice was rough, husky.

"Smithy came to see me…"

"I told Smithy to keep his mouth shut, didn't I?"

"Well he was worried about you."

Mickey turned his head, almost looking at Jack. Almost… "So you know?"

Jack looked at the broken man beside him. There was gentleness on his face. "Talk to me."

Mickey turned his head away, hiding his face as the horror welled up inside him. He bit his lip. "I can't." The words came out strangled.

Jack laid a hand against his back, watched the man beside him fight back tears. Then he moved his touch away, unsure of what to do.

Mickey held out his wrists as he swallowed and blinked, forcing himself to be calm. They were bruised and scuffed, red and raw. Jack looked away, sickened as his mind all too easily conjured the images.

The young man sniffed back tears. "Thought I could handle him." Mickey began, voice harsh and rough from holding in his emotions. "He tied me up. Laughed at me, told me what he was gonna do to me." His face contorted, body shaking, trying, trying, trying to hold it back. "I tried…" His chest hitched, words forced out. "I tried so hard to get away." His head bent, loosing the battle. "I can still smell the…" And the sob finally came out. "Bastard."

Jack immediately pulled him into his arms. "You're all right." He told him gently.

Mickey pressed his face against Jack's chest and he couldn't deny it any longer. "Then he raped me." He sobbed. "Then he raped me."

Then he broke down, clutching at the older man and all Jack could do was hold him.


Mickey couldn't stop the sobs if he wanted to, hurting his chest with their violence. He let the tears come, curling into the comfort offered him. Jack shushed him a few times, probably overwhelmed by the depth of despair he was witnessing. Mickey knew he'd hate himself for that later on. But right now it didn't matter. Because now, Jack knew. And that was a thousand times worse.


Jack rocked him gently after a while, cheek against the top of Mickey's head, knowing the comfort it had brought his children. It felt like the only thing he could do. His shirt grew wet and the fingers gripping his clothes pulled uncomfortably at his collar, but he didn't try to pull away, only held the crying young man more tightly, feeling the lad's thin body shake as he choked on his sobs.

There really wasn't much else he could do, certainly nothing he could say.

After a while, the sobs died away, replaced by harsh breathing and the occasional sniff. Jack relaxed his grip but didn't let go. He felt the young man respond in kind, letting his hands fall away from the DCI's shirt but remaining against his chest.

Jack let his eyes fall on the grave.

"Glad she's not around to see this." The bitter words surprised him, as much by their content as the suddenness with which they were spoken.

"She would have wanted to be." Jack told him.

"Don't fink it matters." Mickey detached himself from the DCI, sitting back. His face was a mess of tears and mucus.

Jack felt the instant bite of cold on his damp shirt, cooling the warm patch where Mickey had been.

Jack looked at him. "Have you been to the hospital?"

Mickey hid his face.

"It's important, Mickey. You know that."

"…Yeah…" He murmured.

Jack frowned, unsure if the affirmation was for his question or not. "Mickey…?"

His head snapped up. "No I ain't, all right?"

Pleased to see a spark in the sullen face, Jack stood up. "Then that's where we're going now."

"No."

He regarded him with sympathy. "I'll make sure it stays confidential-"

Mickey looked down, bending into himself. "I said no, OK?"

Jack looked down at the hunched figure. "I'll go with you." He said softly.

Mickey's head rose, looked up at his DCI.

Jack waited.

Then the young man quietly got to his feet. He winced a little at the pain and Jack immediately put out his hand to steady him. Mickey flinched and didn't meet the DCI's gaze.

A million things occurred to him to say, but Jack found the only words to come out of his mouth was a soft "come on."


The drive over to St Hughes was mainly silent. Mickey turned the radio onto Kiss FM and up as loud as he dared to minimise the likelihood of conversation. Jack merely glanced over at him, with nothing but gentleness on his face. Mickey hated seeing it and looked away every time Jack turned to check on him.

Mickey knew Jack liked and respected him, as both a friend and as a colleague and he valued that. But right now, he couldn't cope with the almost paternal concern Jack was sending in his direction.

At the hospital, Jack walked him in and dealt with the questions from the staff while Mickey stood silently at his side. At the rape suite, Jack offered to stay during the examination if that's what Mickey wanted. He couldn't look at Jack as he turned the offer down.

The cold, clinical, but not unsympathetic examination was humiliating, more so knowing Jack was just outside the door, probably listening to every groan of discomfort he couldn't hold back.

It hurt almost as much as the rape. Fingers probed him, feeling inside, touching his prostate. He thought he might be sick. And then the fingers withdrew, gloves changed and returned to handle his genitals to check for bruising.

The doctor put a couple of dissolving stitches in, telling him the importance of keeping them clean. He explained how much it would hurt to use the toilet, while Mickey sat listening, feeling numb. The doctor then said he'd prescribe something to make it easier and some antibiotics just in case. Then he drew blood samples, to check for STD's and HIV and gave him a bottle and told him to pee into it.

Mickey stared at the clear plastic tube the doctor held out and the whole thing just felt so utterly pathetic. He got up, took the bottle and went to the loo. When he got out, Jack was gone. He handed over the bottle to the nurse and the doctor told him he could go. Mickey tugged his jacket back on as he sat down in the corridor to wait for Jack. The DCI came back a little while later with a small white bag, saying he'd had Mickey's prescriptions filled out for him.

He took the medications, surprised at the heaviness of the little paper bag and then followed Jack as he led Mickey out of the hospital. It had grown dark while they were inside and the drizzle had turned to pelting rain. They hurried back to Jack's car, but only the DCI got in.

Jack leaned across the seat and Mickey opened the passenger door to talk to him. "I'll just call a taxi, guv."

Jack shook his head. "You're coming home with me." He told him.

"Fink I'd prefer to be alone."

"I don't think that's a good idea right now, do you?"

Mickey raised his head. "I need a shower, all right?" The heat faded in his words, leaving only gruff apology.

Jack's face softened even more. "There's a bathroom at my place."

"Guv…"

"I'll make it an order if I have to." He said. "Get in."

Reluctantly, Mickey sank into the seat and closed the door. Jack gave him a half smile and started the car. Mickey stared out the window, oddly calm. Jack glanced worriedly in his direction, noting Mickey's distress every time he did so. The constant shush/squeak of the windscreen wipers providing a strange background to their silence.

Jack stepped up the speed as much as he legally and safely could and it wasn't long before the car pulled up outside of Jack's home.

As they got out of his car, Jack could see just how uncomfortable Mickey was with the idea of coming here, but it felt right. He didn't want Mickey to be alone right now. That the young DC had spent hours sitting beside his mother's grave, in the drizzle and the cold autumn wind, proved that deep down, Mickey really needed company.

"You want a cup of tea?" Jack asked as soon as they were in the house.

"Nah…" The bent head lifted just a little. "Just need that bath…"

Jack was silent a moment. "I'll get you some towels."


Jack raided the freezer while Mickey bathed, pulling out a couple of frozen Tikka Masala's and sticking them in the microwave. Ten minutes later, he was laying the table and peeling back the meal trays, pouring the contents onto the plates.

He waited a while, then decided to eat his before it got cold. Jack had finished and washed up his plate by the time he heard Mickey emerging from the bathroom. He popped Mickey's plate back into the microwave and warmed his dinner over. The machine dinged just as Mickey came in, hair damp, eyes red and puffy, and sat down at the table.

Jack got Mickey's plate out of the microwave and put it in front of the young man.

"I'm not that hungry, guv."

"You still need to eat." Jack told him. "You're not exactly an advert for Weight Watchers."

Mickey picked up the fork and toyed with the lumps of chicken, putting a piece into his mouth reluctantly. He chewed and swallowed, but didn't try anymore.

Jack was completely out of his depth, unable to think of anything to say. He cleared Mickey's plate away and put it in the sink.

"Sorry." Mickey said when Jack came back.

"You've got nothing to apologise for."

Mickey got up and went to sit down on the sofa. "Shoulda stopped him."

Jack followed him. "He had you tied up, Mickey."

"If I'd…" He bit down on his lip. "If I'd tried…"

Jack knelt in front of him. "He might've killed you."

He half laughed, half choked. "Wish 'e had…" He clenched his jaw tight, shaking.

"Don't." Jack told him softly.

Mickey bent his head. "It hurt so much…"

Jack gazed helplessly at the trembling young man. "It's OK." He told him. "You're all right."

It wasn't any truer than it had been at the graveyard.

A strangled choke was the only answer and Mickey began to shake with the force of his sobs. Jack immediately put his arms around him, moving to sit next to Mickey on the sofa. The young man bent over, forehead on his knees as he cried. Jack simply sat at his side, squeezing his arms occasionally and murmuring small reassurances.

Mickey's tears faded away and he pulled away from Jack, clearly embarrassed by what he'd just done. Jack thought of a million things he ought to say, but found no way to actually say them. Instead, he got up and went to the airing cupboard. He brought back a blanket and told the young man to get some sleep before going to bed himself.

When he woke at two am, he went to check on Mickey but the young man was gone.


To be continued…