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The Snooker Table

Alex, though she was still alive, was wishing that she was dead. Because she had tried to escape so soon into her incarceration, she didn't know if this was how they were always going to treat her or if this was some kind of punishment.

She was fed infrequently, she knew that. Sometimes she'd be writhing on the floor in hunger, sometimes she could still taste the last meal if she licked the inner wall of her cheek. They never brought enough, Alex knew that. Cold soup, stale bread, she devoured it all. She tried to count the meals but gave up when she realised there was no pattern and varying gaps of time between the meals. They had taken all the pins out of her hair and placed a guard outside her door. There was no point in escaping.

Alex's sleep, when she could get any over the rumblings of her stomach, was always disturbed, always in childish, petty ways. The guard outside would randomly bang on her door or play loud music. Most of the time she was left alone. She wondered at what point she would go mad with loneliness.

Regardless of whether she was awake or asleep, she dreamed about Gene Hunt. Ever since the gallery, she had been able to feel his lips on hers every time she closed her eyes. She remembered the crushing disappointment she felt when he had admitted that it was just part of the cover. She wondered if his lips were still tingling too. She doubted it.

During one of these dreams, Dexter himself entered her room. Alex was lying on the ground, weak with hunger and disappointed to see that he hadn't brought her food.

He ordered her to get up and she struggled to her feet, all the while a gun stayed pointed at her. Alex was made to walk out of her room and down the corridor into another, much larger room.

A snooker table dominated it. Standing around the edges of the room were Farrant, the woman and all her captors from before, including Hargreaves.

Farrant stepped forward and lifted Alex onto the snooker table. She knew it was hopeless to resist, even if she was strong enough. Dexter always had the gun pointed at her and he was perfectly capable of using her body in a bargain if not her life.

Bargain. Wait.

Alex watched in horror as Hargreaves and some of the others tied her up again (except for her right arm) and held her to the table for good measure. The woman stepped forward and gave Farrant a sharp kitchen knife.

"It's Monday, Alex," Farrant said. "Post travels so much faster during the week."

This made no sense to Alex. "What?"

"We'll return you to them, Alex, first your hand, then the other one, then your feet. If you're lucky, they'll call off the investigation before we decapitate you too much. We could have done this before but surely Hunt would want your flesh to be as fresh as possible."

He grasped her free arm and held the knife against her wrist.

The door burst open. Gene, Ray and Chris took in the scene and Ray was the first to react, punching Dexter in the face. Dexter fell over, his gun spinning away from him. Chris leapt over him to pick up the gun and Ray took out his radio and spoke into it, all the while holding Dexter against the floor.

Gene walked over to the snooker table, to where Alex was being held down by five or so men, a woman and a drug lord with a knife about to cut off her right hand but fortunately surprised into inaction.

"Any chance you could cut off 'er left hand instead? She gave me such a left hook once, my face is still in pain. If Ray here had a hook like that, your arty mate here wouldn't be able to paint daffodils for a month. Ruin your business, wouldn't it?"

"Gene Hunt, I presume," breathed Farrant. His eyes flicked back to Alex, "The knight in shining armour."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Gene grabbed Farrant by the shoulders and slammed his head into the snooker table, keeping an eye on the knife all the time. As Farrant groaned and loss consciousness, Ray and Chris started on the others and were joined by Fenchurch West.

Gene, Ray and Chris cuffed all criminals they could find, Gene scanning around the room for Alex who he had lost in the sudden crowd of officers. He didn't find her until he was shoving what he thought was the last of the gang through the door that he saw her in the corridor outside, leaning against the wall, her eyes closed. He waited until there was no one around then approached her and she opened her eyes as he gently touched her elbow.

"Bolls, look at me. Are you hurt?"

"No," said Alex and Gene was shocked at how weak her voice was, "I'm tired and hungry but not hurt. I'm OK."

"Bolly," Gene dropped his voice to a whisper, "We found your dress. Did they…?"

"No, nothing like that, I promise."

"Oh, good, good," said Gene with relief and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. As he stepped backwards, he felt an arm around his chest and a knife against his throat.

Stupid, stupid! He hadn't taken the knife away from the unconscious Farrant, meaning he would still be armed when he came round. He must have regained consciousness straight away and rolled somewhere out of sight, thus evading arrest.

Opposite him, Alex's eyes widened in fear for a split second before she resumed a more professional expression.

"Michael."

Gene closed his eyes briefly. He knew what she was trying to do, how many times had he watched her?

"It won't help you, killing this officer." she said, calmly.

Gene felt the blade shake against his skin and he was suddenly away of his artery pulsating beneath the blade.

"You think you're very clever, Alex," Farrant snarled, his breath hot against Gene's neck, "You talked your way out of your own death, you think that'll work again?"

"You made the right choice when you didn't kill me," Alex said quietly, "Do the right thing again."

The knife stopped shaking and then Gene acted, elbowing the body behind him. He heard Farrant say, "Oof," and at that moment, he wrenched the arm holding the knife as far away from his body as possible. Somewhere Alex was shouting for back-up but Gene was too busy watching the point of the knife come rushing back towards him.