Gene is slow to awaken the next morning, burying his head in the warm sofa cushions his DI has left behind as she bustles around in the kitchen, making just enough noise to make sure any further sleep is impossible. His stomach aches dully, but the stitches seem to be working, however loathe he is to admit that Alex's first aid isn't that bad; his back, on the other hand, is keen to tell him exactly how much it didn't appreciate the night on the sofa. He's almost tempted to ask Alex for some painkillers, but after firmly telling himself that the Gene Genie isn't a pansy and doesn't need poncy painkillers opts instead to take a healthy swig from his hip-flask to dull the ache.
"So you are awake. Gene, your stomach's completely unlined, you start drinking now and you'll be incapable by about eight. And that'd be a record even for you."
A cup of tea appears at the end of his nose, a bacon sandwich behind it on the coffee table; he eases himself up, watching Alex's arse as she heads back into the kitchen to get her own breakfast. The baggy pyjamas can't quite disguise her nicely-rounded buttocks enough to put him off. He suspects idly that Alex knows this, rubbing his aching back as he picks up the sandwich.
"Eat up. I've gone to the trouble of making it for you, haven't I? I've got some painkillers if you want them too."
Bugger. She can see through him like a piece of glass.
"Nah," he mumbles, stuffing bacon sandwich into his mouth to disguise his pink-tinged cheeks. From the tiny smirk on Alex's face as she spoons muesli into her mouth, he suspects he hasn't succeeded.
"I can tell the Super you're taking today off if you want, Gene."
"Like 'ell yer will. A stomach ache isn't goin' ter stop me goin' in."
"Your stomach's had two rounds of stitches, not to mention you snapped the last… Gene?"
Alex looks up from her muesli, her mouth falling open in annoyance as she finds she's talking to an empty lounge.
"Oh, for goodness' sake. Why do I even bother?"
"Ready for school, Katie?"
"Can I take my drawing, Mummy, for Show and Tell?"
"Of course, darling. Aren't you such a talented girl? Let me find a plastic sleeve for it."
Unfortunately, the child killer Keats did have in mind has decided that he's going to pick today to nearly overdose on heroin and is currently snoring in the middle of his lounge floor, very much incapable of killing so much as a snail. Keats is so annoyed he shoots the bastard there and then, squeezing the life out of him as his blood pours over the filthy bile-green carpet. Hopefully nobody'll bother to check his flat until Keats is long gone- and he doesn't intend on hanging around. No, as soon as Hunt's disposed of, and hopefully Drake along with him, he's off. The department will break apart like splintered ice without Hunt at the helm.
So who, then? He'll have to let one of the blaggers out of the cells without attracting suspicion. He hates getting his own hands dirty, but then again, waving the idiot off as he heads on his way, totally under Keats' control, trotting off to kill a little girl right under the noses of CID… that'll bring a certain satisfaction. A smile crawls over his face as he imagines it, standing above the dead druggie's head smoking a panatela.
Flicking ash over the lifeless face at his feet, Keats drops the cigar, grinding it into the floor with the heel of his shoe. Best get a move on then, if he's to organise all this. Maybe he can have some fun with Gene into the deal… that would make his day. Yes, he's determined to make this a bad day for Gene Hunt.
"I'm drivin', fer God's sake. You don't know which one's the accelerator, from the way you drive."
"Gene, don't be ridiculous, you're walking wounded. Just give me the bloody keys."
"You don't 'alf love 'arpin' on about that, do yer? It's a bloody cut. I don't use my stomach ter drive, an' last time I looked I was wearin' shoes that actually allowed me ter drive rather than those towers yer insist on wearin', so shut yer lipstick an' get in the car like a good girl."
"You misogynistic, stubborn, bloody irritating-"
"Bolls, shh."
A little taken aback by the sudden change from growl to whisper, Alex halts in the middle of the road, staring at Gene as he eases forwards, unlocking the Quattro from a few feet away.
"Gene, what-"
He shakes his head, reaching out to carefully, oh so slowly, open the driver's door, and then in a blur of Crombie coat yank something off the wheel and dart backwards, as though awaiting a bomb blast. Alex rushes over to him.
"Gene?"
"Couple of cars in Manchester got blown up like that… was just bein' cautious."
He holds the note out to her, his eyebrows tightly pursed; Alex takes it gingerly, her fingers leaving moist imprints on the paper as her eyes flick over the words.
If you get a call to the west of the station, DO NOT go out under the bridge of the station. If you do, you are putting yourself at considerable risk. Loop round the other side instead and join the west road at the junction.
A friend.
"A friend," Alex repeats abstractly, lifting the note into the air, as though the weak London sun will reveal some hidden meaning on the paper. Gene rolls his eyes, plumping down in the driver's seat and taking another healthy swig of whisky. Lined stomach this time, she can't complain.
"Oh, for goodness' sake… Driving drunk kills, Gene."
There's just no pleasin' you, is there, Lady Bolls?
"Good thing I'm such a good driver then, eh, Bolly? Now get yer delectable arse inter this car an' we can finally 'ead off ter the station."
"Have you checked the car, Gene? If someone left this note, they could have left something else."
"I've checked the driver's seat."
"You've sat in the driver's seat."
"Exactly."
"You should do a full sweep of it just in case there is something."
"An' 'as anythin' gone bang? Nope. Which suggests there is no bomb in this car, or anythin' remotely 'armful, apart from possibly a bit o' left-over vindaloo in one o' the footwells. The note is addressed from 'a friend', an' the last time I checked, friends don't as a general rule try ter off yer by puttin' a bomb in yer car, so get in before we make ourselves late."
Alex, an expression on her face that wouldn't look out of place on a Medusa, flounces to the passenger seat, yanking the door open and throwing herself in, promptly defeating her own case by banging her head on the roof as she gets in.
"When yer've finished, Madam Princess, we've got bloody work ter do!"
"Should yer be back, Guv?"
"Bugger off, Carling. Do somethin' useful fer once instead o' standin' around lookin' like Barbara Cartland's fanny with a face."
Ray, a deeply hurt look on his face, retreats to his desk, stroking his moustache as though to comfort it; Shaz hides a smirk behind her hand, hurriedly wiping it off at the exasperated look on Alex's face.
"You alright, ma'am?"
"He's a nightmare… come on, Shaz, let's hide in the kitchenette, the menfolk can do without our stabilising influence for five minutes."
Grinning once again, Shaz abandons her half-typed letter and follows Alex to the kitchenette, winking at her superior officer as she reveals a Galaxy bar, hidden with the skill of a true detective behind the Garibaldis in the top cupboard. Alex all but collapses into one of the chairs, beaming proudly at Shaz as the WPC proffers the chocolate with a smile.
"Galaxy, ma'am?"
"Shaz, you are an absolute angel. Sod DC, you should be a DI," Alex sighs, taking her half of the chocolate bar and gulping down half of it at once. "Oh… sometimes you just need chocolate, you know the feeling, Shaz?"
"I 'ave it most days when I get 'ome from 'ere," Shaz laughs, sitting down opposite her superior officer. "Is the Guv OK? You bandaged 'im up?"
"The Guv's walking wounded, but I'm sure he'll be fine given time, tea and Garibaldis, Shaz. No whisky, though, so don't take him any even if he asks. I've hidden his."
"That's brave, ma'am."
The two look evenly at each other and giggle, enjoying their little moment of female conspiracy.
Gene, meanwhile, has found the bottle of Scotch hidden not-so-ingeniously in his filing cabinet; it is logical, he supposes as he tips another measure into his tumbler, fiddling reflectively with the glass as he watches Ray delving into Page Three and one of the DCs spilling his pen-pot all over the floor; the filing cabinet is the only thing in his office he doesn't use.
The note from the Quattro sits on the desk in front of him, crumpled at the edges, scribbled in blue ballpoint; he doesn't recognise the writing, nor can he guess who the 'friend' might be. Sighing, he slips it under a file balanced precariously on the edge of his desk, idly toying with the little toy Quattro beside his computer, driving it first under a ridge of paper from his in-tray and then across the keyboard of the Spectrum, the plastic wheels rattling over the keys.
Take the stranger's advice and risk them not being so friendly? Or take it and possibly avoid being placed at great risk?
With luck, he thinks as he takes a healthy gulp of whisky and rolls it round his mouth, he won't get any calls to the west. With luck.
Quarter past three. Katie Howard looks longingly at the clock in her classroom, eager to go home and tell her parents all about her day, the gold star she'd got in her spelling test and the new friend she's made, blissfully oblivious to the man waiting silently by the school gates, a gun-shaped bulge in his jacket pocket.
Twenty past three and the phone in Gene's office shrills, cutting through his whisky-induced fantasy of Alex naked on the beach with a bottle of coconut oil; one long finger curls round the receiver, lifting it to the scruffy blond hair covering his ear, stroking the back of it as he imagines it's Alex's smooth thigh beneath his fingers. Sometimes a man just needs a nice daydream to take his mind off his aches and pains. Literally, in Gene's case.
"Hunt. This better be good."
"DCI Hunt? I'd like to report a theft at my school, we were outside at the time and we heard gunshots. All the children are safe, but we're worried someone might be injured. I'm calling from St George's Cathedral Catholic Primary School."
To the west. St George's is to the west.
"Erm… OK. On our way."
Gunshots. Primary school. Every copper's worst nightmare.
And to the west…
"Bolly! Chris! Ray! Shaz! With me!"
Normally Gene would take off as soon as everyone was in the Quattro, flooring it before Alex had even had a chance to belt up; today, though, he starts the car and then rests his elbows on the dashboard either side of the wheel, eyes flicking between the bridge to the west and the road to the east, the busy junction, one road leading over to the west.
"Guv?" Shaz asks from the back, already confused as to why she is being brought along; it isn't good for the nerves when Gene is like this, unpredictable and quiet, nobody ever knows quite what's going on. Gene strokes his chin softly, twisting round to check the east entrance to the station, sighing heavily to himself. Sod it. The east it is.
Turning the Quattro round, Gene squeals away, barrelling round the corner and towards the junction without a second thought.
On the bridge to the west, Keats stares at the red car joining the traffic on the west road, his jaw all but hanging loose in utter shock.
"Who tipped you off, Hunt, you bastard?"
A surprisingly short time later and they are drawing up to the primary school, the Quattro swerving to avoid several parked cars; everything appears to be going as normal, certainly no teachers biting their nails, or white-faced children checking all their classmates are there. In fact, there is nothing to suggest that there has been any sort of problem at all at St. George's Primary School, not even a dented railing.
"If someone's been tuggin' my todger on this one, I'll be tuggin' theirs bloody off," Gene grumbles, yanking his door open and sliding out, pout firmly in place on his face. Alex surveys the school, eyes narrowed; no phone boxes nearby, nowhere in sight where a prank call could be made… so is this organised? There was the note, as well…
Gene suddenly stands stock-still, honing in, a lion marking its prey.
His gaze is fixed on the short man standing beside the school gates, face all but hidden by the collar of his thick dark coat, a thick L-shaped bulge in his pocket.
Before anyone can say anything, his own gun is out, making a nearby mother scream and clutch her little girl to her body, sheltering behind an old Ford.
The man in the dark coat turns.
Gene fires straight into the man's leg.
"HOLY SHIT!"
If the people around the school were the epitome of calm before, they certainly aren't now; mothers, fathers and children alike run for cover, some hiding behind each other, all eyes flicking between Gene and the man now holding his gun aloft, clutching his leg as blood spills onto the pavement, blazing crimson in the weak London sun.
"Put the gun down, Cunt, or I'll shoot!"
"What, at kids? 'Ow small must your dick be that yer'd sink ter shootin' innocent kiddies ter try an' make yerself feel better? Daddy never love yer, did 'e?"
"I could shoot each and every one of them right now, Cunt!"
As if to emphasise his point, the man waves his gun at the nearest child, eliciting a shriek of terror from his parents; Gene steps forwards, expression stony, his finger clenching on the trigger a second time.
The two guns fire at the same time, one bullet thudding into the tarmac at Gene's feet, the other nearly splitting the dark-coated man's firearm in two as Gene's carefully-aimed shot flies home.
"Gotcha," Gene says triumphantly, holstering his own gun and moving forwards to cuff the gunman by the school gates, hoisting him up to a round of applause from his audience. Alex rolls her eyes.
"As if his head isn't big enough as it is…"
The man now clutched firmly in Gene's grip lifts his head and glares at the excitedly-applauding Katie Howard, narrowing his eyes as her parents pull her into a huge hug, hiding her face in their chests. Alex can't stop the shiver of loathing that snakes down her back, even as she radioes for an ambulance to pick the man up.
Nobody but Gene notices the figure quickly crossing the road along from the school, heading towards a Rover parked on the corner, sliding in before Gene can yell for him to turn round.
His gut instinct tells him that was his 'friend'.
A/N: I am so, so sorry for not updating this one- writer's block decided it would just about eat my muse, along with exams and college work aplenty. Hope you enjoyed, and please, please remember to review, even though I've been so bad! Jazzola :D