A/N: Sorry about the long wait for this one. Inspiration was slow, and access to a computer was limited. Also, I've just realised that Quiller has a story called 'Late Night Blues'. I apologise, as I didn't realise there were any titles so similar to 'Midnight Blues' around. If I'd known, I would have thought of something else, but as it was, I thought I was being clever. Oh well, never mind.
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit.
Chapter 4
"Oh George! How could you leave me? For her! My own sister! My own flesh and blood!"
"I'm sorry, my darling, but I couldn't stand living the double life any more. It was breaking me in two. Goodbye. . ."
"George, no! Please! Think about the child!"
"Child? What child?"
"We're going to have a baby, George. . ."
Shamelessly, Grandma Tracy sucked the middle out of a praline chocolate, staring intently at the large television screen on which the most recent episode of her favourite soap played. Without her eyes leaving the howling blonde and the dashingly hansom young man, who looked very much like Scott, her wrinkled fingers found the next chocolate in the large box, but as she lifted it to her lips, the episode flashed for a moment, and then a newsroom flicked on to the screen, a serious looking presenter frowning over some papers. She clucked her tongue, making Onaha look up from where she was slicing vegetables in the kitchen area. How dare they interrupt the show? Just as it was getting to the best bit, too.
"Hey there folks, we interrupt this week's broadcast of Down By The River to bring you the latest tragic events. . ."
"The only tragic event around here is you interrupting my program!" hissed Grandma. Despite this, her fingers found the next chocolate – a very dark one, with a hazelnut in the middle. She began to nibble off the chocolate around the edge, never having liked this particular nut.
". . .Over to Lisa Lowe. Lisa, what can you tell us?"
The screen flashed again, replacing the spotless room with a sight of devastation, somewhere very cold and snowy – it looked from this angle as though they must have been high up in the mountains. A building burnt, and the hulking shape of the great green beauty that was Thunderbird two was just visible in the background. Grandma smiled the smug, toothy smile of an old woman who treats her grandchildren's achievements as her own, and sucked on a truffle.
"Onaha! Onaha dear, come and watch. My boys are on."
Obediently, the plump woman walked through and sat down beside Grandma, a glass of wine in her hand. Grandma eyed it disapprovingly. Although wine in itself was a good thing, it was only good when she was holding the glass. Huffing slightly, she looked up at the screen again.
"As you can see, there's utter devastation here, but the Thunderbirds have managed to pull sixty-three people to safety with their fantastic machines. . ."
"My boys. Such good boys," Grandma muttered, glowing with pleasure. It was a pity Jeff was missing this, locked up in the lab with Brains. Just like him, she reflected, to be all busy and locked up when something important was going on.
"One of the Thunderbirds has just emerged from the building, bringing what looks like a lady and three children with him. Two more are currently inside the building, whilst the fourth of their operatives is out here organising everyone present in to. . . Oh! Oh my goodness!"
The camera jiggled violently, and screams of panic blasted through the large speakers. Unable to make out the picture, her eyes not working like they used to, Grandma sat up straight, the caramel centre of her latest chocolate oozing over her hand as she suddenly gripped it tightly, cold shudders of foreboding washing over her like a tidal wave.
Over the booms, like a true journalist, Lisa Lowe carried on her running commentary as the camera man desperately endeavoured to set his camera still, keeping Lisa the right way up on screens across the world.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the burning hotel has crashed to the ground, burying doctors, ambulances and firemen who have only just arrived on the scene. . ." suddenly, a strange look passed over her face, and she whipped her head around, as if looking for something vitally important. Turning back to the camera, she gripped her microphone so tightly that her knuckles were white. "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems as though . . . impossible as it seems . . . two of the Thunderbirds were in the building when it collapsed. All that is left is rubble and smouldering foundations. The two Thunderbirds I can see seem to be at a loss for . . . no, ladies and gentlemen, they're springing in to action. The show must go on! This is amazing, just amazing. Those boys must be absolutely driven. One of them is talking to . . . no, wait, he's giving out commands to a fire team. Now they're both running towards the rubble. So quickly jumping in to action! The professionalism of those fabulous Thunderbird boys is outstanding! Even when two of their own seem to have died . . . it hardly seems possible anyone could have survived an explosion like that. . ."
Grandma jumped as Onaha touched her arm, fear filling her eyes. The box of chocolates fell to the floor, scattering everywhere, the box knocking over Onaha's glass of wine, making the violently red liquid seep in to the pale carpet. Grandma clutched at her heart, gasping for breath.
"My boys," she whispered, "My poor boys."
"Mrs Tracy?"
"Jeff!" She leapt to her feet and, in a hobbling run – her knees were not what they once were, and her hip gave her difficulty when she even wanted to walk, let alone run, whatever she said to Jeff and the boys – she scurried down a corridor. "Jeff!" she called, "Jeff! Jeff!"
A door banged open, and two worried looking faces poked out in to the corridor behind her.
"Ma, what's wrong? What's going on?"
"On the news!" she panted, tears springing in to her eyes, spilling over. "She said . . . she said . . . oh, Jeff!"
Bursting in to tears, the frail old woman collapsed to the floor, unable to shake the awful thought that, at the very least, her precious boys would be with their mother again now.
Ever since their return to the island, more than half dead, Grandma had never once let them leave her sight. She had sat with them on a twenty four hour guard until Virgil had opened his eyes, mumbling something incoherent, and then when Gordon had opened his eyes shortly after, and when he had burst in to tears at the sight of herself, and then at the sight of Virgil, and then at the sight of Alan, and then at the sight of . . . the poor dear. He'd been so very confused, wanting to know where his ma was. That had broken Jeff's heart, to see Gordon tearfully demanding to see Lucy. Grandma hadn't taken it too well herself.
It had broken her own heart, too, to see the usually tough Gordon shying away from everyone, wincing every time Virgil spoke, never, ever smiling. Her heart had leapt when she had seen him sneaking in to the kitchen to steal cookie dough whilst Scott distracted Onaha. Not that he did very well in distracting her, of course, but Onaha had seen the look in Grandma's eyes, and had happily played along.
Grandma smiled to herself now, as the sound of the piano filtered through from where Virgil was sitting in the lounge, perfecting a new tune. Of course, in her eyes, whatever he played was perfect, but she was willing to admit a certain amount of bias in the matter. He was her grandson, after all, and bias was only to be expected.
Her smile faltered, however, when she saw Tin-tin lying asleep on the sofa. The poor girl must have been up all night again, waiting for Alan. The silly boy, she thought to herself. It would be so much easier for him if he would just talk, instead of upsetting everyone around him, too. He never learned from his mistakes, she considered, that was his problem. Always kept things bottled up. Virgil and Scott talked to each other, John confided everything in his father, and usually Gordon and Alan would share everything, too, but somehow something seemed to have gone wrong in the cycle, somewhere. She pursed her lips, watching a small blonde figure appear from the trees. He'd have to talk to somebody sooner or later, or else he would burst. She would have to do something about it.
"Alan!"
She called a couple of times, before the boy looked around, trying to see where the voice had come from. She waved a wrinkled hand in the air, and he trudged towards her.
"Hi, Grandma."
"Hello, dear."
There was a small silence between them as Alan slumped down beside her with a sigh. Grandma thought carefully about the words to use before she opened her mouth. What was needed here, she thought to herself, was some tact. Tact was something distinctly lacking in the Tracy psyche. Of course, it must have come from her husband's side, not her own. If there was anything Grandma Tracy took pride in, beside her boys, it was her tact.
"You've been hurting Tin-tin, you know. You think I don't hear the poor girl crying away to herself whenever you stalk off somewhere?"
Alan winced, but quickly reassembled the expressionless mask which seemed to adorn his face all the time, these days.
"If you don't go and talk to her, I'll make sure Jeff or Scott gives you a tanning. Failing that, I'll give you one myself. Don't you go thinking I'm too old to catch you."
Instead of the shocked reaction she had hoped for, Alan's only reply was a small shrug. Again, Grandma pursed her lips. The music filtered through from the lounge, taking on a dismal note.
"Well, everyone just seems to be so happy at the moment, don't you think?" She took a toffee from her cardigan pocket – she always insisted on the cardigan, however hot the sun was – and began to suck on it noisily. Alan stared at the ground. "It seems to me," she said thoughtfully, "that you're having a bit of trouble getting over your shock."
Her grandson continued to stare at the ground, just as she had expected him to do. "Now, it's understandable at first, but I think you're being a little childish over matters." The sucking noise continued for a moment as Grandma let her words sink in.
"Childish is hardly fair, Grandma. Virgil and Gordon. . ."
"Nearly died. If you listen carefully, though, I think you'll hear somebody playing the piano, and if you go down to Thunderbird four, I think you'll find a certain somebody covered in grease or oil or whatever else it is that gets you boys so filthy before meal times."
"That's not the . . ."
"Point? Of course it's the point, dear. Now, if you'll just think back a couple of years – although I know you can't remember it – you may remember a certain event in which a couple of people actually died. My husband, for one, and your mother, for another." She held up a hand to stop Alan from angrily interrupting, inwardly pleased with herself for managing to get through the icy blockade that the boy had built up around himself. One day, she would pass on the secret to Tin-tin. All men were easy to manipulate, if you could just find the lever. "Now then, your father had just made his first million, and most men would have blown it all away and drowned themselves in misery. He carried on working, and look where you are now, because of that. Saving the world on a daily basis. The saviours of thousands, heroes of millions, all as a result of two deaths. My life didn't stop either, when my man died. It went on just as normal. I'd promised to be at a bake sale the next week, raising money for the homeless, and as much as your father disapproved, I went right along anyway, and made more money than the rest of the girls put together. Now, Alan, if you think two nearly-deaths are worse than two real-deaths, you carry on with your childish sulking, and you go and hide among your trees, and don't go and talk to Tin-tin. Right now, that girl needs a hug, and I'm not the one to give it to her."
Again, the mournful melody of the piano could be heard, and Grandma recognised a snippet she'd heard earlier. She didn't understand the piano, and had only ever been interested in it when one of her boys was playing, however badly they plonked the notes as small children being dragged screaming to lessons or, later on, Virgil playing in school concerts, or just using it as an emotional outlet, as he was doing now, but she understood the effect tunes had on moods, and she was grateful for Virgil's timing. A jazzy piece would have ruined the mood, and Alan would have been impossible to talk to. She smiled smugly as he frowned, lips moving silently, as if trying to work out a particularly difficult problem.
Suddenly, he looked up and gasped, then gave Grandma Tracy a bear hug, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Leaping away, he disappeared in to the lounge to shake Tin-tin awake, and Grandma smiled to herself, content with a good days work, and picked the toffee remains out of her teeth.
