Chapter 17

"This guy spent four years in a coma," Simon breathed as he read through Keats' rough history, "a result of injuries sustained when he was in uniform. A raid gone wrong. There's an investigation on file into his superiors for their misjudged actions and failure to follow official protocols." he swallowed, "no wonder the Keats I met in eighty five was so hung up over complaints and following the book to the letter - even when that involved setting someone up first."

"Four years?" Robin repeated, "how did he ever recover from that?"

"There's a lot of detail I can't access here," Simon grumbled, "classified files, but it looks like he was in an ongoing program of rehabilitation for half a decade. Learning to walk and talk again… he eventually went back to work. Not on the beat… desk jobs. Worked his way up."

"Or sideways," Robin nodded at the screen, "look at the number of posts he's been in. Not all of them have been a step up the ladder either."

"All these transfers," Simon shook his head, "how can one man work so may jobs over such a short period of time?"

"It's like they couldn't find the right job for him," commented Robin.

"You're not kidding," said Simon, "look… look at these codes here," he pointed to the screen, "these are disciplinary cases brought against him leading to his 'transfer' from some of these jobs…"

"Disciplinary? " Robin repeated, "can we get access?"

Simon tried.

"Nope," he sighed, "looks like these are only available to some pretty high ranking personnel."

Robin stood up and left the kitchen, mumbling

"We'll see about that."

Simon frowned.

"Where are you going?" he called.

Almost as quickly as he left, Robin returned with his own laptop.

"I'm going to see what Detective Inspector Google has to say about it," he explained as he opened the lid.

Simon scratched his drying hair roughly, feeling it slipping into the lose curls he'd spent his life trying to hide. It was probably time for a haircut, he decided. It had taken a while to grow back at all after the accident - now he was feeling positively overgrown.

"This file is nuts," he shook his head, "this has got to be a mistake."

"What has?" asked Robin as his laptop sprung into life.

"Keats has been in his current post for just a few weeks but before that he was in the same job for three years," Simon's voice trembled just a little, "it's the longest amount of time he's spent in one place.

"What was he doing?" asked Robin, "and what's he doing now?"

"Now? He's recently transferred to Fenchurch East on his own request," Simon's tongue ran across his lips nervously, "to localise his previous post."

"What do you mean?"

"Until a few weeks ago," Simon could hardly talk, "Keats was the guy who signed off every psychological assessment of any member of the Police force across the UK."

Robin practically choked on thin air.

"He what?"

"Any time someone was sent for a professional or personal psychological assessment," Simon continued shakily, "the report from their session was sent to Keats."

"Keats is charge of mentally assessing every officer?"

"Only signing the papers," Simon corrected, "the professionals make the assessments and the recommendations, then Keats makes their decision official. He receives copies of notes from assessments, therapy, counselling…" he trailed off and locked his gaze on Robin's. "Shit, Rob, that counsellor - the one you made me see…"

Robin felt a wave of nausea rise inside of him.

"She wouldn't…. she couldn't…" he faltered, "what about patient confidentiality?"

"This is a professional step in the rehabilitation of patients who have been on long term sick leave, too," Simon cried, "look - it's all down here. Keats has been receiving reports about the mental health of every officer in the UK - and now, mysteriously, he's decided to locate his efforts at Fenchurch to oversee the mental health of the station."

Robin chewed nervously on the fingernails of his left hand as he hit a few keys on his laptop with the right.

"Fuck, Si," he breathed, "this insane. How did this even happen?" he hesitated. "Double-E or E-A?"

"Sorry?"

"Keats…. Is it double E or E-A?"

"E-A," said Simon, "Why?"

"And his first name's James?"

"Well, calls himself Jim, but… yeah. Why? What have you found?"

Robin turned his screen very slightly and read aloud;

"One charge of GBH, three charges of phone tapping, Two charges of perverting the course of justice, one charge of entrapment…" he hesitated, "and one charge of manslaughter. All dropped."

"What the…?"

"These are all over the course of a few years," Robin scratched wildly at his head as though it could soothe some of the anxiety building inside of him, "nothing ever gets to court. You were right - he is damn slippery."

Simon couldn't handle the latest revelation.

"Manslaughter? GBH? What…. I mean, how…?"

"The manslaughter charge… nothing was proven, but the allegations were that he pushed someone off of a building."

Simon's eyes opened as wide as saucers.

"And the count of GBH?"

Robin clicked a couple of links on his laptop.

"A fight with another member of CID," he began, "each alleged that the other started the fight. In the end the other guy dropped the charges because…" his face fell and his complexion took on a dull, grey tinge. "Oh, Si…"

Simon bristled.

"What?" he whispered, "what is it?"

Robin tried to swallow but there was a lump in his throat the size of an ostrich egg.

"He dropped the charges," he continued, "because Keats had 'evidence' that the detective was having some… problems adjusting… after a serious accident left him in a coma for six weeks."

In that moment, the world stopped turning for Simon.

"Shit," he said again. He seemed to be using that one word more than any other, but it was the only one that seemed to give his emotions any kind of a voice. He looked at Robin with wide eyes. "You found all this out through Googling him?"

"It's all there in the public domain," Robin rubbed his temples, "it's all been in the news."

Simon threw his head into his hands and stared blankly at his own screen.

"The man is insane," he whispered, "he's insane, and he's after me."

Before Robin could make an attempt to come up with a soothing or reassuring comment the atmosphere was broken by the theme tune to The Littlest Hobo emerging from Robin's pocket, causing a frown from Simon and a blush from Robin.

"Sorry," Robin apologised as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Simon only half listened as he tried to process everything they had discovered. It was hard enough to see Keats as a flesh-and-blood person but now he'd read about his past he barely sounded human. Simon rubbed his forehead, a combination of the news and the events of the night before causing his head to thump. As he considered looking for some paracetamol he looked at Robin who was finishing his call.

"Who was that?" he asked quietly.

Robin slowly got to his feet and shuffled slightly.

"That was the lab," he said, "they've got some results back."

"Already?" Simon asked weakly.

"They want to tell me in person," Robin slipped his phone back into his pocket, "I'd… I'd better go and find out what the tests have shown up so far." he hesitated, "are you going to be OK here on your own?"

Simon shrugged.

"I'll be fine," he whispered.

Robin bit his lip again. It was a nervous habit. He hoped the whole thing would be over soon, otherwise he would probably end up with no lip left.

"I'm not happy about leaving you", he admitted, "not after what we've just found."

Simon shook his head slightly.

"Keats has already had his 'fun' with me," he said quietly, "I'm starting to think I've gotten off lightly."

Robin shuffled a little more and finally edged to the door.

"I've got my phone," he said, "if anything…. anything happens at all…. Call me. Any sign of Keats, anything strange, a phone call, a text…"

"I get the point," Simon cut him off. He sighed a little. "I'll be fine, Rob," he said, "really."

Robin hesitated but knew there was little he could do. He needed to see what the lab had found and Simon was better off staying put.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised and quickly left the flat.

As the sound of the door closing let Simon know he was truly on his own he began to feel more nervous. He felt sure that Keats had already taken everything that he wanted to from Simon - his job, his relationship, his dignity - he didn't have much left to lose. But even so, there was still a pang of nervousness.

He stood up and started closing the lid of his laptop, but at the last moment he stopped and opened it back up. He stared at the database open in front of him with all of Keats' personal information. A little box popped up warning of his inactivity and asking if he wanted to remain connected. He was about to let the box time out and the database disconnect but something rose up inside him and took him over. Before he knew what he was doing he clicked 'Yes' and placed the curser into the search box.

Swallowing hard, he took his courage in both hands and let his fingers slowly type another name, a name that he'd been too afraid to search for until that moment. He was terrified of finding her in some ways - her friendship in 1985 had been the one bright light in a very dark and surreal experience. He didn't want to lose another friend. He didn't want to lay flowers on her grave. He didn't want to know what happened to her and how her life came to an end.

But h didn't want to live his life never knowing.

And so he typed;

Surname: DRAKE Initial: A

Search.

Click.

A few moments later a page of information appeared with a photograph of the face that Simon could remember so clearly. He gave a sad smile and reached forward to touch the screen. As he ran his finger around the outline of the photograph something strange caught his eye. Although her date of birth was displayed on the page, there was no date of death alongside it. He frowned. He knew that was standard on the Fenchurch database when someone had lost their life. He'd seen it plenty of times before.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes scanned the page. It had to be a mistake - he remembered Alex telling him that she hadn't won her battle and had died. She was serious - he knew that much. She believed whole heartedly that she had died, but the screen was telling him something completely different.

He found his arms trembling as he scrolled down further. He reached the bottom of the screen and took a deep breath.

"Two years… in a coma…" he whispered as he took in the information, "in the…" he froze. "Shit!" his favourite word came forth again, "but that's the same hospital that I… I…"

He stumbled to his feet, his heart racing. Suddenly things began to make a little more sense to him - the strange pull he'd felt to a room close to the one he'd been in during his coma, meeting a teen who looked so familiar in the hospital canteen, the dreams and the voices.

"She's alive…" he ran his fingers through his hair. Now dry and fairly frizzy, it provided him with a focus while he tried to take on board what he'd discovered about Alex. "Fuck, she's alive!" His expression hovered between joy and anxiety as he tried to work out what to do. He paced up and down the room, trying to work through his thoughts but his heart was fighting with his logic.

Finally he made his decision. He needed to see her. He had to see Alex for himself, to believe that she was really there, living and breathing despite her present state.

He grabbed his keys and went to leave the room but something held him back. He looked around and spotted an item that had once been so familiar to him, but that Keats and 1985 had distanced him from. With a deep breath, he grasped his iPhone and slipped it into his pocket.

"I'm taking it back. Keats," he said out loud, "I'm taking it all back. You can't hurt me now."

With that, he left the flat feeling reinvigorated and determined. Just maybe a few more pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Maybe he could find a way out of this nightmare after all.