Chapter 5

The spell might not have been broken but it started to lose its power the second Simon opened up to Robin. That night was the turning point. No longer did he have the burden of a secret weighing him down. The following morning when they sat down for breakfast and a vision came back to haunt him all Simon needed to do was cry; "There's a Keats in my cereal!" and Robin came to the rescue with a bottle of milk to drown the bastard.

Simon began to walk down the street without fear again. The panic attacks that had been creeping into his life ceased. He grew closer to Robin than ever and even started listening to his 80s music again.

Almost exactly two weeks to the day of his confession to Robin he plugged his iPhone in to recharge overnight and laid his suit out for the morning.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Robin asked him.

"I'm starting to go crazy being at home all the time," Simon told him, "I need to get back out there."

"Going back to work," Robin sighed, "it's a big step."

"It's only two half-days this week," said Simon, "to see how I go. Then I've got the psych evaluation to see if I can stay on or whether I need to spend more time with my friends and family." he pulled a face.

"You sound like a politician," said Robin, "besides, you'll be fine. You're doing so much better. You haven't even had any nightmares lately."

Simon nodded. That was true enough. He actually felt more concerned about not having them than he felt when they were coming to him night after night. There was a part of him that worried he had failed to help Alex and she couldn't ask him for help any more. He tried to push that out of his mind.

"I'm telling you, if they send me to that batty woman again…"

"They won't," Robin chuckled, "they'll give you a police psychologist, won't they?"

"You'd think so," said Simon, "but remember, this is me. I'm the guy that got a server in the head. I'm just lucky enough to get that woman again."

Robin shook his head, smiling.

"Get to bed, you," he said, "and get some sleep. Otherwise you'll be arriving in your pyjamas in the morning, an hour late!"

Simon smiled and climbed in beside him. The next day was a terrifying prospect but he knew he had to face it sooner or later. At least this time when he got to his office he would find it more or less as he'd left and not as it was two and a half decades previously.

Simon's footsteps echoed as he walked down the corridor. He felt a chill run down his spine. This, he decided, felt very strange indeed. The place seemed very quiet, too quiet even. Where was everyone?

He turned the handle of the door and stepped into his office. Twenty people lined the sides of the room, beaming from ear to ear and spontaneously bursting into applause at his entrance. Simon felt a little daunted as he scanned the faces. Seeing his colleagues so happy to see him, giving him a standing ovation was a bizarre feeling.

"What's going on?" he asked nervously.

His DI stepped forward and shook his hand.

"Sir," she smiled, "we didn't think we would ever see you in these walls again. Welcome back."

"Sally," Simon smiled, "oh my goodness, it's so good to see you!"

"We got you some things," she said, stepping back to let someone else step forward.

"Flowers," said a smiley WPC.

"A crash helmet," a man in a pale grey suit teased.

"And a feathery nest for your iPhone," someone else popped up.

"Where is your iPhone?" Sally asked, "I was expecting you to arrive with it superglued to you like usual!"

Simon opened his mouth to reply but an image caught him unawares in his mind of Keats playing back his messages. He flinched for a second. This wasn't a place he wanted to go.

"It's, um," he stumbled a little, "I left it charging at home."

"Simon? Are you OK?" Sally asked, "you look a bit… dizzy."

"I just feel a bit tired," Simon said. He knew it was a feeble excuse, but just wanted to change the subject and it seemed a quick enough reason. "So… what's been going on in my absence?"

"DCI Huston took charge of the unit," Sally explained, "he's in court today with the new Super."

"Who?" frowned Simon.

"Didn't you hear about Superintendent Marshall?" asked Sally.

"N-no," Simon felt sure bad news was about to come and wasn't certain he was ready to hear it.

"I'm… I'm so sorry to have to break the news to you like this," Sally said sadly, "he had an accident about three months ago and lost his life."

Simon slapped his hand over his mouth in shock.

"Oh my God," he whispered, "what happened?"

"Golfing range, wild animal, golf clubs… everywhere…" Sally shook her head, "a tragic, tragic accident."

"And one so easily preventable with more bear traps on the golf course," someone else added.

Simon frowned and thought for a second.

"What were wild animals doing on a golf course anyway?" he asked.

"You know what it's like," Sally began, "night on the town, couple of drinks, let's break into a zoo and let a couple of animals out…"

Simon went cold.

"I don't think I want to hear about this," he sighed. He couldn't help shaking his head a little. "I just can't believe it. I didn't even hear…"

"I'm so sorry no one thought to tell you," Sally said quietly.

Simon gave a sad sigh. He couldn't believe his first day back had taken such a morbid turn. He glanced around and saw his desk. Something familiar to come back to.

"Well," he began quietly, "I… I suppose I need to start getting some work done. I've not come back to make the office look geekier, you know."

His friends smiled and laughed, even though they thought his joke was stupid. They were glad to have him back, iPhone or no iPhone.

He watched and smiled politely as one colleague after another left, patting him on the back or shaking his hand as they went. It all felt rather surreal.

"Hello again, desk," he said quietly. He felt stupid for talking to the furniture but it was better than hallucinating Keats on it at the very least. He pulled out his chair and sank into it. It was like greeting an old friend. He looked around and couldn't help mentally picturing the place back in 1985. He could almost visualise Malcolm in one spot and Susannah in another. He could almost smell the whiskey that Gene Hunt kept in his filing cabinet. How could a fake 1985 still be so real to him?

He looked at the pictures on his desk, the ones he'd told Keats and Alex about to demonstrate that he had a life in 2010. A picture of his family at his sister's wedding, one of himself and Robin at a smart, black-tie dinner and one of his late mother. He also had a signed photo of the entire cast of Howard's Way but he wasn't quite sure where that came from.

Tiredly he picked up one of the files on his desk and leafed through it, trying to bring himself up to speed, but he kept finding himself distracted. As much as he tried to pay attention to the file on Flint and the millions of pounds he'd stolen electronically he kept thinking about warehouses filled with 80s goodies like Ataris and such. He thought about the computer he'd borrowed from the raid and how he never quite got to play it.

Idly he switched on his computer and started browsing on Ebay for a second-hand one when the phone on his desk rang. He reached out to answer it, starting to feel like he'd never been away.

"Hello?"

"Hey you."

Simon gave a smile.

"Robin," he said quietly, "what are you doing on my work line?"

"You left your iPhone plugged in at home," Robin told him, "dummy!"

"I'm out of the work routine," Simon protested, "anyway, it's still nice to hear your voice."

"How's it going?" Robin asked.

"Fine," said Simon, "well, fine if your day usually involves the death of a colleague and wasting time on Ebay."

"Oh Si," Robin said sadly, "who died?"

"I'll tell you when you get home tonight," Simon told him, "I think I'd better get off the line and try to get some actual work done."

"I'll see you later then," said Robin, "and look after yourself."

"I always do," said Simon.

"Apart from your visit to the IT room…" Robin reminded him.

"Yeah, thanks for that," sighed Simon.

Robin laughed gently.

"See you tonight."

"Bye, Rob." Simon hung up the phone, giving a smile and finally feeling like he was getting back to normal but no sooner had he replaced the receiver than it rang again. He frowned and lifted the receiver. "Robin? What did you forget?"

There was a crackle, a flurry of static and then a voice.

"Simon!"

Simon froze.

"Who is this?"

"Simon, you have to help me!" the voice wept, "Find me… save me."

"Alex?" Simon's heart stopped dead in his chest for a second then thumped like a big bass drum.

"I know you won't let me down."

"Alex, tell me what to do!" Simon urged, "how can I help if you… are you still there?" the line cut to silence, then a long tone. "Alex? ALEX!"

In a state of shock and panic Simon could do little but stare at the receiver and shake. As he regained a little power of thought he dialled 1471 and waited.

"You were called today at nine-o-six a.m.… The caller withheld their number."

"Bollocks!" Simon slammed the phone down and panted, quite out of breath. He got to his feet and began to call for Malcolm to help him find her, then realised neither Malcolm nor Alex were anywhere he could reach out and touch. The eighties came crashing around him, all over again. He swore he could smell Webber's aftershave and feel the plaster cast around his foot. He felt as close to the experience as he had when he was living it.

He stared at various spots around the office. Why wasn't Susannah sitting there? Why wasn't Malcolm standing in his usual spot? Why wasn't Gene calling him Shoe-boy? Why didn't the office smell of smoke?

He carried on staring. The people he met weren't there now, but were they ever there?

That one idle pondering was all it took. He couldn't believe the thought had never struck him before. Just because they did not exist in his office in 2010 it didn't mean they had never existed. Could he have truly travelled to the past? Was he living amongst ghosts?

Shakily he turned to his computer, clicked Ebay off the screen and accessed the personnel database instead. He licked his lips, his heartbeat echoing through his head. Who should he look for first? Which one should he search out? The obvious choice was Alex, but he didn't feel he could go there. She'd been his one real ally in 1985 and he couldn't stand the thought of knowing for sure she was dead.

Webber? Well, he would have searched for Webber but he couldn't remember his first name. He had the opposite problem with Malcolm Whats-his-name. He took a deep breath. Susannah. Susannah Kite. He knew her full name; she'd be the easiest one to look for.

With a nod, his fingers flittered over the keys and started to type her name into the search box. He'd got as far as Susannah Ki- when he froze. A deep, dark feeling of dread fell over him. He didn't know where it came from but it was strong, insistent and enough to paralyse his fingers. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse.

This was it, he thought.

The moment he would find out for absolutely sure, undeniably, whether 1985 was real or a dream.

The moment he finished typing her name and pressed return he would either see the face of his recent acquaintance and know that he had entered another world, or the screen would say 'No match found' and he would know every moment of the experience had been conjured up by his own mind.

A pain began to develop in his head. He thought about the implications of discovering that the people he met were real. Were they all in comas too? Or were they dead? That would make 1985 some kind of afterlife or he had bent the rules of time.

Then he thought about the implications of discovering that they had never existed. The whole experience had been a product of his own mind. He'd made up the whole thing, and now he was being haunted by people from his own head.

Which outcome did he want to be the real one? Which one would make him feel happiest? Which would scare him the most?

He tried to work out how he felt about it, but he came back again and again to one, simple answer.

He didn't know.

He just didn't know.

He rubbed his head desperately, the pain surging as he thought about it. There was no good answer to this question. No good could come from knowing one way or the other.

With a scream of frustration he closed the window, flicked off his monitor and threw a stapler across the room. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and desperately tried to cool the emotions raging through his veins before he kicked the desk and ended up with three broken toes again.

"I hate this," he whispered to himself, "I hate the way this is making me feel."

Keats may have stopped lurking in his food and on the TV but 1985 was still raging in his veins.