I clutch the files I was sent to get from the collator's den to my chest as I lean beside the entrance to CID. The dark wooden doors are ominous, unbendin', unmovin' in their splendour. This part of the station 'asn't been updated since the early 70s so it's all wooden beams and 'eavy doors with mint green walls which smell of decades-old smoke. The lights hang from the ceiling and without them the corridor would be in darkness, it's so badly-lit. The clock hanging over the staircase ticks quietly, I count the seconds as I wait for the man who greeted me at the door to say I can come in - there's been a new lead on one of their cases and it's chaos apparently. All I 'ave to do is wait.
My mind wanders to Annie. I've tried to block 'er out of my head the entire day but left to my own devices I can't 'elp it. She was amazin', stronger than I ever could be. She commanded the room and radiated confidence, though I could tell that she 'adn't always been like that by the masked, forgotten vulnerabilities deep inside 'er eyes. The 'eavy sense of grief was thick around 'er 'ouse, I only saw a little of it though as I woke up whilst she was still on the phone. I wonder who this "Guv" person is, Chris mentioned 'im as well.
"WPC Granger?" The door opens and DS Harris sticks 'is 'ead round the 'eavy doors with a lock of auburn hair in 'is eyes. "It's died down a bit, you can come in now." He flashes me a quick smile.
I nod and tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. 'e's a lot taller than me, at least 6'5", with freckles covering 'is face and waxy pale skin. 'e olds the door open for me and I force my eyes to the floor before stepping through.
The inside of the incident room is much the same as the corridor outside. Brown wooden beams accentuate this-time light blue walls and the tiles are an off-colour white with blue specks in them and a few brown splodges here and there of who-knows-what. The room is bustling, with unfamiliar plainclothes officers storming about the about the place like it could depend on life or death. It smells overwhelmingly of a mixture of Old Spice, a hint of lynx and fags. I wrinkle my nose and try to stop myself from gagging.
DS Harris pushes past me and I freeze up, realising that I don't know where to go whatsoever and that I'm completely out of my comfort zone. I clutch the files tighter to my chest as DS Harris collapsing at a desk which I assume is 'is. It's one of the messiest ones I've ever seen with files stacked haphazardly, so tall that I expect them to fall off any minute.
"Sir?" I ask just as 'e sits down and picks up a packet of ciggies from next to his desk lamp.
"Yes?" He answers, exasperated as he puts one in his mouth and lets it hang.
I shift uncomfortably, my uniform suddenly too big for me. If this is 'ow I'm goin' to feel every time I step into CID then I'm not sure I want to be transferred up 'ere. Not to mention that this is the first time I've properly been in 'ere, every time they need somethin' it's normally only a select number of WPCs who get sent up.
"Where can I find DCI Jones?" I ask quietly as he lights the thing and takes a puff.
"Past the desks, office on the right." He tells me and picks the top file off the stack.
I internally brace myself for an avalanche that doesn't come.
"Who's in the other two offices?" I ask, curious, after the pile 'asn't slipped.
"DI Young and DI Summers." He replies.
I nod and step forward up the aisle, passing a cluster of desks with DCs on big white computers that they can afford up here but not downstairs. The desk with the word processor on is empty and by the bowler hat sitting behind the machine, I suspect that that's Alex's desk. On the file cabinet postcards are stuck using drawing pins to a felt side, along with a couple of photos pinned next to.
One is aged and by the clothing being worn looks to be from around the time I was born, showing a woman with Farah Fawcett waves holding a child of around 6 months standing next to a taller man with large glasses who holds the baby's hand. Behind them is a rose bush which must have been pink and deep green at the time the photo was taken but has now aged to orange and brown tints, much like my own baby photos from around that time.
The other is more recent, a few months at most, showing Alex in a white dress visibly pregnant and with her arm linked around a man in a black suit. Neither of them look particularly happy and the man looks absolutely bloody furious with the world. Alex comparatively is calm and serene, though you can see in her eyes that she doesn't want to be there.
I tear my eyes away and face the offices in front of me. They don't look much bigger than a box room and the names on the doors are written in tiny print. I walk up to the door that reads "DI Jones" and knock 3 times. 'e opens the door after a couple of seconds have passed, a tall man with a grey moustache that gives an air of calm and like he's assumed a role of a father figure for the room behind me.
"Yes, constable?" He asks quietly, his voice deep but not booming, calmer and more collected.
"You asked for these files." I hold them out to him sheepishly.
'e takes them from my arms and flicks through them for a moment before giving me a warm smile that makes me want to smile too.
"Perfect. Thank you." He tells me. "You're WPC Granger aren't you?"
"Yes, sir." I reply. 'e gives me another, more welcomin' smile.
"I look forward to having you in my team come September." 'e says before 'e shuts the door.
I stand there for a second, a tad shocked. I wasn't expecting anyone in CID apart from Alex to be that kind, what with it being a male dominated area, but if they're as nice as 'e was then I might actually like it. I suspect that the other DCs won't be the same, though.
I turn and begin to walk back down between the desks. Alex has returned, a fresh mug of tea beside her as she scowls at her word processor. I pause by 'er desk and she looks up with a look that I've never seen before on anyone on 'er face.
"Hello." She mutters and begins thumping the keys of the machine so hard I 'alf expect them to break.
"Hello." I reply and pause a moment to see if the tension in the conversation dissipates.
"I haven't found anything, if that's what you're wondering."
She meets my eyes and looks back to her word processor almost immediately, like she's a little afraid of me.
"You'll keep tryin', though?" I ask innocently.
The waves of annoyance and pure, spirited anger that were bein' suppressed just beneath 'er skin break violently and crash straight into 'er brain and fingers. She throws 'er 'ead up and 'er eyes flash red for a moment.
"I've got more to think about then you and your silly little fantasies." She growls. "A baby, for instance. And a husband. Apparently."
She drags out a file from the bottom of a stack next to her with a stony expression.
"This is as far as I've got. I'm not going any further." I take it from 'er with trembling 'ands. "You're on your own now, WPC Granger."
She pushes her chair back and storms off to the kitchenette, leaving me in shock and with tears falling down my cheeks. I look down at the file and open it with my hands shaking so hard I fear I'm going to drop it. There's only one flyaway piece of paper inside, dotted with Ray and Chris' names, random dates that don't make any sense and one ominous word in the centre, written in the blackest ink I've ever seen.
Death.
I crumple the piece of paper and throw it in the wastepaper basket next to the door on my way out.
"Hello, darlin'. 'ow's London?"
The sky is pitch black outside, only lit by the odd streetlamp and torch. The stars appear to call out to me this evening, dots of light stretching the width of the night. It's such a shame I can't make it to Grandma's 80th celebrations but she lives all the way up in Yorkshire with Uncle Ivo and it would be a lot of 'assle and money I don't 'ave spare to get up there. Mum, Dad and James are there though and that's the next best thing.
"Fine. Still the same as ever!" I laugh.
"And 'ow are you?" She asks kindly. I know that her beautiful, creased smile is on the other end of the phone.
"I'm alright." I tell 'er. "'ow are you?"
She's more Essex than I am, growin' up workin' class in Southend-on-Sea. Both of 'er older brothers died in the first world war and her younger brother died in the second, leavin' 'er and 'er sisters the only ones remainin' after 'er parents died. I'm 'er only Granddaughter, Uncle Ivo only 'as 2 boys who are much younger than me.
"I'm fine, dearie. I'm just glad you're alright." She breathes. "You need to ring more often."
"I know." I groan. "I'm very busy at the moment."
"Your mother told me that you're goin' to be moved to CID when your probation comes to an end in September." She mentions. "I'm so proud of you. Your grandfather would be as well."
In comparison to 'is wife, the life and soul of the family, my grandad was as steady as a rock. Quiet, reserved, never said more than what needed to be said. 'e used to be a teacher at the local grammar school, a job I could never see 'im doin' because when I knew 'im 'e never moved from the armchair next to the fire, reading from the stack of books next to 'im. It was 'im who gave me stories 'e used to read to Dad and Uncle Ivo, who read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to Dad when 'e was a boy who in turn read it to me. I devoured the rest of the series at their house the summer I was 11.
"Thank you." I whisper as a burst of laughter comes from the other end of the line.
"What was that?" She asks. "I didn't 'ear you."
"Nothin', Grandma." I tell her. "I 'ope you 'ad a good day."
"I most certainly did!" She exclaims. "Oh, sorry dear. Your mother wants to speak to you."
There is a muffled crunch as the phone changes 'ands.
"Hello, sweet'eart. 'ow are you doin'?"
I've never felt so relieved to hear my mother's voice in my life.
"I'm alright, Mumma. Are you okay?" I ask hurriedly, using the pet name I've 'ad for 'er since I was small by a slip of the tongue.
"I'm fine, sweetie. You sleepin' okay now?" She remarks with a touch of concern in 'er voice.
I feel the colour drain from my cheeks. I can't tell 'er. Not when I know 'ow much she'll worry.
"Sleepin' fine, Mum. It was just one night." I lie. I feel better, knowin' that she won't spend 'alf 'er day worryin'.
"Well, I'm glad you feel better." She says. "See you soon, Friday as usual?"
"Of course." I tell her and smile softly to myself.
"See you then." She says and a couple of seconds later I hear the phone go dead in my hands.
I slam it back down and flop back onto my bed, eyes watching and counting the stars twinkling above me on the ceiling like they're drawing me towards them.
In the middle of the night I wake. The moon shines brightly outside, the wind in the trees clear to hear in the deathly silence. Everything is beautiful, everything is vibrant, everything is alive. I can hear the faint sounds of someone's music a few streets away, the cars on the main road, the people talking.
I sit up and let my feet brush the red carpet beneath my feet as I run a hand slowly over my face. The room around me is out of focus, sliding back and forth to one side and to the other. I lean over my bed and fumble for the light switch, missing it a couple of times due to the way my head feels like it's floating on water. The white of the light blinds me and I scrunch my eyes shut, waiting a couple of seconds for my head to calm down before I move any further.
I stand up gingerly and let the walls guide me towards the kitchen. I don't dare turn the lights on, just place my hands either side of the sink and look at my watery reflection in the window in front of me. With the light behind me I look like some kind of ghost, a corporal being out of place in the world. The world fades in and out of focus, far away from my mind, I shake my head and try and get my head in gear.
I grab a plain glass from the shelf and run it under the cold tap. My mind wanders for a moment and it overfills, freezing water spreading over my 'and. I wipe it on my tartan pyjamas and raise the glass to my lips, downing the life-giving liquid in a couple of gulps. I take a deep breath in as a wave of pain overtakes my head, setting alight like fireworks. I grip the glass like it's a talisman, the thing grounding me to this earth as I grit my teeth while the wave reaches its peak.
Crash.
It's like slow-motion, the moment I hear the material snapping. My eyes glance up and I can see the glass dissolving into crystals before my eyes, catching the light from my open bedroom door as they fall to the granite surface. The tops of some are tinged red, like a snow-covered mountain. They arrange themselves in light-scattering patterns on the grey, a window into a deep dark world. Spots of deep red liquid join the display, making it look almost like the night sky above.
I slowly turn my hand over, more blood sliding down the creases of my hand, dripping onto the speckled granite. Harsh shards of gleaming crystal are embedded deep inside my palm, too many to count. In my shock I follow a river of blood running down my pale skin like heavy rain on a road. I internally brace myself for the explosion of pain to smash into my brain but there is nothing, just a faint drip as the blood hits the stone and runs onto the tiled floor.
I look around the pitch-black room for the phone, realising that I need to ring 999 as soon as I possibly can. Fear flows through me, could the lack of pain mean an important nerve has been severed? My feet stumble frantically in a panic, one jerkily in front of the other as I attempt to move towards the endtable where the old cream rotary phone is like a beacon to my eyes. I've only moved around 5 inches when it happens.
My body jerks backwards forcing me back to the exact spot I was in before I started moving towards the phone. I glance down at my injured hand and see that the glass is being leached from the wounds, the blood running down the rest of the palm sucking back into my flesh. The blood from the floor rises into the air in a reverse drip, joining its counterparts in re-joining my flesh. My hand reaches out to the surface and I watch in pure horror as the glass reforms in perfect condition against my palm.
It takes a couple of minutes before I work up the courage to examine the glass and myself. My eyes scan the carved crystal but it's flawless, not even a scratch, let alone being shattered into a million pieces and lodged in my palm. I place it down and examine my hand, turning it over and over again. Nothing but unblemished skin. No sign that it ever 'appened. It's like the world reversed in front of my eyes.
The lights flicker above my 'ead, white and black, dark and light. I slowly raise my head, fearful, watching the colour changing. It's slow at first, 2 seconds gap at most, but it speeds up every second until it's so fast that when I next look down at my palms and turn them over it looks like stop-motion animation. I raise my head to the ceiling again with my eyes wide, palm still outstretched as it flickers so fast and furious that I can't discern between the white and black anymore.
There's a loud bang, my body freezes up before the glass of the light shatters, raining glass down on my head as I feel the ground open to a deep, dark hole. The glass creates rainbows on the floor as I feel myself falling, stepping off a cliff into the great unknown as the white grows to the brightest thing I've ever seen. I try and throw my arms in front of my face but to no avail, it's like they aren't there anymore.
The world crashes to a black crescendo, ever reaching, everlasting until my brain slows down and I feel myself slipping away into a beautiful nothing.
When I next come to my senses, I'm not alone.