Something, shorter, drabble-y as part of my re-watch. (Just finished season 2.) I got to thinking what if Alex hadn't been able to move PC Summers' body on her own in 2.07? What if there was only one person she could think of to call? One shot (kind of) as part of this exploratory avenue I've kind of got going on for series 2…
And with that, Martin Summers, the older one anyway, disappeared into the night like a puff of smoke, a magician. She was alone, all alone, knee-deep in mud and God knows what else. There was a body. And an open trough of rapidly setting cement. She had to act fast.
Clutching her shoulder, the one she'd injured when she'd fallen awkwardly in Donna Martin's kitchen last week, she bent down towards Summers' body. Try as she might, he just wouldn't budge. White hot pain flashed across her shoulder, her collarbone, rising nausea from her stomach. She tried: one, two, three, four, five, six times before she realised it was useless. The pain was getting more and more intense. The tendon was separating, she was almost sure of it. Alex's mind whirred, tick, tick, ticking over. What choices did she have? Disposing of the gun was easy, she could just throw that into the concrete. It was the body that was going to pose a problem. What would Gene say. Oh, God, Gene. His DI implicated for murder. There was no way it could be pinned on Summers from the future because Summers from the future didn't exist here, like she shouldn't.
Alex sat back on her heels. She needed to think. It was nearly midnight. The cement was reacting, hardening. The paste was binding, crystals forming, with every second that passed the less and less likely it was the body would sink, the less and less likely it was her horrible secret wouldn't be discovered. Alex was sure she'd seen a phone near the construction cabin she could call… she checked her inside coat pocket, thankful when her address book was still there as it always was. Yes, she could call him, and he would be here, and he would help her fix it. A strong constant, a strong construct in this world. He could make everything okay…
Half an hour later, car headlights appeared, two ribbons of light across the makeshift car park. She could have cried in relief. He was here. Shovel, plastic bags. He was going to make everything okay. They didn't talk. She could barely look at him as she silently led him to the body, tears stinging her cheeks as the icy November wind blew around them. Shit. It must be -4 degrees. His face was stoic though, strangely sober, prepared. He'd had the foresight to bring plastic gloves, like it wasn't his first rodeo. She'd thrown the gun in before he arrived, and she watched as he quickly and quietly strung the chain around Summers' ankles and rolled his body into the concrete. It must have taken him less than three minutes. The body disappeared quickly below the surface, and now her secret, their secret was buried forever. It was only then he came to her, taking her freezing hands in his.
And she was in his car, safe. He had a plan. He told her he was going to drive her home and then he, they were going to take care of it. When they were back in her flat, in the dark it was the first time he spoke for what felt like hours.
"Take off your clothes." His voice was detached, almost menacing in its indifference. Except for when she went to remove her bra he said, "No. Don't think anything would have got in there." She stood before him in her underwear, shivering from both fright and the cold. "Alex," her head snapped up at the use of her real name, she could have counted the times on one hand she remembered him saying it. "Listen to me. Get in the shower, hot as you can stand it. Scrub everything off your skin. I'll… I'll take care of this love," He gestured to her leggings and jumper he had in his hands. "it's going to be okay, trust me."
It was only when she was under the scalding water she began to sob. How could she drag him into this? He was a decent copper, a decent guy and tonight she'd involved him in the cover up of a murder. God, would he ever be able to look at her in the same way again? Would he ever respect her again? Forty minutes later, when the water had turned ice-cold, her skin was red raw where she'd scrubbed every inch of skin with a nail brush of all things, and she was cold, so cold and so, so tired. Opening the bathroom window to let out the steam, she saw him then, burning her clothes in an old oil drum. God, if he got caught, if they got caught, they'd both go to prison for a long time. It would be her fault: she'd ruin his career; his life and she'd never get home to Molly…
The kitchen clock read nearly 4.00 a.m. when she emerged, her hair dry, the black silk nightshirt barely covering her thighs. But he'd stayed. He'd let himself wordlessly into her flat and he looked like an alien on her couch, it was almost laughable. He was cradling his head in his hands, like he couldn't believe what he'd done.
"Just… just don't tell Gene, okay?"
Her voice startled him. His DI's voice startled him, and Ray's eyes met hers, icy cool. "You think I want the Guv to know I got mixed up with you tonight?" And there it was, the anger, contempt that had been threatening for hours. "Go to bed, Alex. It's late. I'll cover for you at work."
And with that, he was gone into the night…
