"Gene, are we going to be murdered?"
Gene had always had fantasies about being a hero. The Wild West films he snuck into cinemas to watch thrilled him, the powerful sheriff heroically saving the damsel in distress from the hordes of enemies; he'd be in a daze for hours afterwards, imagination running wild as he pictured himself galloping in on a handsome chestnut stallion and sweeping whichever beautiful bird had dominated the big screen this time into his arms, thundering away into the sunset to live happily ever after. One day, he was always certain, he'd get the chance to save someone like that, and he'd be hailed as the hero, showered with praise and rewards and placed on a pedastal before the people of the world, cheered through the streets, because in his eight-year-old mind being a hero really was as simple as the cinema made it out to be.
But here, stuck in a small cellar, his head aching and Alex's whimpers the only thing to break the suffocating silence, he realised that being a hero was harder than he'd assumed it to be. And, although he would never admit it to a living soul, he was terrified.
He no longer wanted to be a hero. He just wanted to be cuddled up in his mother's arms, safe in their dark little living room, with Stu playing noisily on the floor in front of them and the television flickering in the corner. But he had to reassure Alex.
"No. We're not goin' ter be murdered."
He had no clue whether they would be or not. The cold concrete floor under his body was making him shiver, the darkness stifling, only the occasional thump overhead to tell where their captors were. Gene shuddered, clamping his arms round his stomach, gritting his teeth to try and ignore the ache in his temple where it had struck the ground.
"Someone'll come an' find us. You'll see. Or we'll find a way out."
Stay 'opeful, Gene. Don't lose faith.
His mother always told him not to lose faith, that everything would turn out alright in the end. Clenching his fists, Gene murmured it under his breath, refusing to let his voice break or quaver, convincing himself of it as he began feeling his way round the cell, small fingers combing the walls and floor and eventually finding Alex, who immediately latched onto him, tears streaming down her face and glinting in the dim light from the one small window.
"Gene, I'm scared…"
"I know. I know."
The tremble in her voice made his heart ache, but he couldn't afford to let emotion get in the way of being rescued.
"Alex- Alex. Feel round. There might be some way out o' 'ere, an' we might be able ter find it an' escape before they come back. Come on- gerroff my leg! I'm not goin' anywhere."
Rolling his eyes in the gloom, Gene gently disentangled Alex from his legs, scooting away before she could grab at him again; Alex wailed with the loss, clamping her hand over her mouth as someone yelled overhead and footsteps stomped down towards the cellar.
"Alex!" he hissed, anger overtaking fright for a second; Alex swiped at him, glaring even as the tears slid down her cheeks.
"I couldn't feel where you were!"
"It's not like I'm bloody goin' anywhere, is it?" he hissed as the footsteps grew louder, a light snapping on somewhere beyond the doorway. "Yer couldn't stay bloody quiet!"
"Gene, stop it!"
He swerved to yell at her, fury roiling in his stomach, but the moment his eyes found hers and the utter despair and terror in them the anger dissolved. He slowly reached out to grasp her by the wrist, choosing not to protest when she slid her hand up to rest in his.
"We'll try an' run," he whispered, pulling her closer and feeling his way to the door; Alex nodded, clutching his arm, pressing her lips hard together to stop herself making a sound as the clumping stopped outside the door and Gene readied himself, jaw clenched in determination.
The handle squeaked.
A thin beam of light slid into the room.
"Where are you? You better not be hiding. I won't be nice if you've been hiding."
The door opened fully, the figure of the man stood in silhouette in the over-bright doorway, arms crossed sternly.
Gene ran for it, his hand tugging hard on Alex's to make her move as her body froze with fear, only for him to be grabbed by the collar and hoisted up, choking and gasping as the man held him up to his face and smacked him with a hefty paw, throwing him away to the other side of the cellar.
"Little bastard!"
Gene, dazed, lay still, eyes closed; Alex whimpered with fright, rooted to the spot by terror. The man glanced round at her, a wolfish smile on his face, half in shadow from the dim light of the doorway.
"You want a go, girlie?"
Alex hastily shook her head, biting her lip as Gene slowly raised his head, massaging his neck. Someone else slid into the doorway as the man hulked forwards, seizing Gene's arm in a vice-like grip and shoving his face in the boy's, eyes hard and angry.
"You better have a bloody good reason for that little stunt, sonny."
"Let us bloody go, we didn't do anythin' ter you," Gene hissed, his voice raw with anger and strangulation. Alex nodded wordlessly, the tear tracks on her cheeks glinting.
"Let you go so you can tell the police exactly who we are? No chance, sonny. We need to make sure you won't say anything. And there are plenty of ways in which we could ensure that."
Alex gasped, clamping her hand over her mouth a second too late. Gene's eyes flicked towards her, one hand still massaging his neck, small fingers not quite managing to cover the bruise developing there.
"We didn't do anythin' ter you. The police'll be lookin' fer yer. Yer won't get away with this, you'll see!"
Gene's voice held a bravery he didn't quite feel as he struggled, yanking his sore arm away from the man and scrabbling backwards into the corner of the room, his eyes darting between the three people in front of him. The man in the doorway chuckled darkly.
"I wouldn't bet on being rescued, sonny. The cops round here are useless, we should know, we've been doing this for years…"
Alex swallowed back a fresh round of sobs, curling her arms round herself miserably; Gene gritted his jaw, scrambling to his feet and finding himself pressed against the wall, something jabbing into his back. His eyes flicked to Alex in desperation.
What was it he said? I'll watch your back, and you watch mine…
"He's right- they'll come and find us, and my mummy will send you to prison for a long, long time!"
Alex had no idea where she found the bravery to say it, but say it she did, tearful eyes glinting with hatred in the dim light; the two men roared with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes, but Gene remained quiet, instead catching her eye and sending her a grateful smile.
"My mummy will send you to prison for a long, long time!" the man standing in the doorway mimicked in a high-pitched voice, bent over with mirth; Alex stuck her chin in the air defiantly, keeping it there even as tears trickled off it and onto her shirt.
"What about your mummy, sonny? Will she send us to prison too?" the other man mocked, drawing himself back up and moving closer to Gene, penning him into the corner. "She won't ever get the chance, see, because she'll be too busy burying what's left of you, if you were ever to squeal."
Gene, his skinny body pressed against the wall, gritted his teeth, defiance shining in his eyes as he stared the man down, hands curling into fists as he stepped forwards, hands either side of Gene's chest, mouth curved into a cruel grin as he trapped the boy…
One fist swung upwards.
"OHHHHOOOOWWW!"
Alex watched in astonishment as the man dropped like a stone, both hands clutching his groin, revealing a very smug Gene brushing his hands off in front of him, looking down his nose at the man in a supercilious way that Alex could imagine him using very often.
"Christ on a bike…"
"Bloody 'ell, brought down by an eight-year-old," Gene mocked, swinging his fist in the air. "Even a ruddy spastic would stand a better chance than you against the police."
He wasn't laughing ten seconds later, when the light was flipped on and he found the barrel of a gun an inch from his left eye.
Two children are believed to have been abducted during a jewellery shop robbery near London's Fenchurch area. Alex Price is six years old, with long brown hair and a crescent-shaped birthmark on her right middle finger, and Gene Hunt is eight years old with blond hair and a noticeable scar above his left eyebrow. The robbers were believed to be two men in their early forties or late thirties, both with South London accents. They were seen driving away in a white Ford Econoline towards Charing Cross. Anyone with any information as to their whereabouts or the identity of their abductors is urged to contact the Metropolitan Police immediately.
Mrs Baker wiped her eyes with the corner of her cardigan sleeve, ignoring the mascara seeping into the pale blue fabric, perched shakily in Mrs Hingston's leather swivel chair as the woman herself consulted quietly with police outside and several children stood around listening, some excited, others sombre. One of the girls was sniffling, her bottom lip wobbling as she listened silently to the police officers; Amelia Forester stood facing the police car parked outside, a strange expression on her face as though she couldn't decide what to think about Gene and Alex's disappearance.
Gene and Alex.
Oh God, what she wouldn't give now to be holding Gene in her arms, his skinny body wriggling to be free as she scolded him gently or whispered encouragement in his ear; or little Alex, with her long dusky hair and beguiling hazel-flecked eyes, the way her front tooth worried at her bottom lip and the way she looked at Gene as though he were some kind of hero, her very own knight in shining armour.
I was holdin' him- I was so close I could feel him breathin'… I 'ad her little fingers in mine… I failed them.
Maybe they were together. Maybe he was comforting her, because she knew a boy like Gene Hunt would never admit that he wanted comfort or even so much as a cuddle, would never let anyone see the cracks in his iron-clad armour. Maybe they had come up with a plan together, some way to escape from wherever they were being held.
Maybe they were dead, murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, their young blood soaking into the concrete of some God-forsaken alleyway, bodies dumped like rubbish. God, no. Please no. She clamped her hand over her mouth to stuff the sobs back in.
They had to be alive. She couldn't think, let herself believe, that anything else was possible.
Stu Hunt had never met anyone from the police before. Well, he'd been on the receiving end of the odd "oi!" and one had visited his school once dressed as the squirrel in the Public Information films Mammy made him watch- Tufty, they called it- but he'd never before had a police officer in his house. The closest dealings they'd had with the police had been two Christmases ago, when their father had broken Gene's arm and they'd had to make up a story about playing a game and falling down the stairs.
These ones weren't like them, sitting round Gene's hospital bed and asking them both questions, scribbling on notepads and watching with narrowed eyes as Gene fiddled with his plaster cast and tried to sneak one of their radios when they weren't looking. These ones didn't ask questions. Mammy asked the questions, in a tearful, trembling voice, and they either answered or glanced at each other and tried to change the subject.
There was one in the kitchen serving tea; everyone called her Annie. She seemed nice, big hazel eyes and a soft, placid face, giving him his cup filled with orange squash before she made the adults' tea because he'd asked her nicely, just like Mammy told him to. There had been a strange expression on her face, a mixture of sympathy and sorrow, and Stu hadn't thought much of it then, but he was beginning to wonder why they weren't talking to him too. They'd told him to go and play in the garden when they'd arrived, so he hadn't heard what they'd said to Mammy to make her cry.
Annie was coming over to him, her brown skirt swishing round her calves as she sat down next to him on Gene's tyre swing. Stu wanted to tell her not to, but Mammy had told him that he and Gene did have to share their tyre swings whenever someone came round and so he let her, watching from under his fringe as she swung back and forth a little, smiling softly at him.
"You alright?"
"Yeah. What's everyone talking to Mammy about?"
For a second, he thought Annie wouldn't answer him, would tell him to go and play like the others; but when he looked into her face, his curious eyes scrutinising him, she met his eyes, fingers twiddling with a loose thread on the swing as she sighed.
"Your brother. Gene. You know 'e went down ter London?"
Stu did know. He'd been jealous, trying to cadge a place on the trip as well, but his teacher had told him he was too young to go. It hadn't been the case for sissy little Christopher Skelton, not quite five and a half, but it hadn't been up for debate and Stu had had to give up, simply making Gene promise to bring back something for him. He wondered if Gene had been sent back to Manchester, and that's why everyone was here, and Mammy was crying. But if so, was Gene up in his room, or where?
"Yeah."
"Well… somebody robbed a shop there, two nasty men armed with guns. An' your brother saw it. We think they might 'ave taken your brother as well, an' a little girl 'oo was with 'im."
Now this was more exciting. Stu sat up on his swing, turning to face Annie rather than his feet.
"So everyone in the country's lookin' fer Gene? Can I come? Can I come look fer Gene?"
A shadow of an expression passed over Annie's face before she shook her head.
"No, sorry, Stu. I'm sure yer'd be very useful, but we can't take yer down ter London, not with these dangerous people runnin' about. Besides, if Gene's away, someone needs ter keep yer mammy company, don't they?"
Stu was about to protest that he had a father, but promptly decided that he wasn't really the 'keeping-the-wife-company' kind and simply closed his mouth again, nodding. He'd have to be the big boy while Gene was away. He found he was rather looking forward to it.
"I 'ave ter be a big boy while Gene's away."
Annie nodded, dropping her head. Stu thought he saw a tear in one of her eyes, but she blinked it away so quickly he couldn't be sure that it wasn't just the light.
"See, the thing is, Stu, Gene might- Gene might not come back. We really 'ope 'e will, but… if these nasty people 'urt 'im, Gene might not be comin' back. So yer goin' ter 'ave ter be a very big boy fer yer mammy, because if that 'appens, she'll be very sad, an' miss Gene lots an' lots, an' she'll need a big boy ter 'elp 'er get better again."
Stu frowned. Why wouldn't Gene be coming back? He'd come back when Dad had broken his arm, and he'd come back when he'd cut his hand on broken glass at the old factory. Gene always came back at some point.
"Why might Gene not be comin' back?"
Annie turned fully to face him, picking nervously at her fingernails in her lap. The nails made little clicking sounds in the silence of the garden.
"Why?"
"Yeah."
A louder click, and a snap. Annie dropped her eyes, staring at her broken fingernail, speaking in a soft, sorrowful voice that made the hairs on the back of Stu's neck stand on end.
"Because… because the nasty men might kill Gene, Stu. And if they kill him, then he won't ever come back, because he'll be dead."
Dead.
Grandma had died, ages ago, and after they'd gone to the church and listened to Grandma's favourite hymn, she'd never come back either. He'd kept expecting her to come through the door and ruffle his hair, but she never had, and Mammy had cried in secret, but then she'd been better again.
But if Gene was dead… they'd only seen Grandma once every few months. Gene lived with them. Gene was his brother. Mammy would miss Gene a lot more than she'd missed Grandma. She'd be sad for much longer. And so would he. He'd have no-one to play with, or take him to school, or sneak into the cinema with. There'd be a Gene-sized hole in his life.
A world without Gene was not a world that Stu really wanted to live in.
His face crumpled.
"MAMMY!"
He was off the tyre swing before Annie could say anything more, hurtling through to the lounge and onto Mammy's lap with tears pouring down his cheeks, and Mammy let out a fresh wail and buried her face in his curls, sobbing and sobbing, harder than he'd ever seen Mammy cry before. Her arms were so tight round him he thought she'd never let him go as they cried together, the little gold bangle Gene had bought Mammy for her birthday a month ago brushing against his neck, reminding them both that there was supposed to be a third person in that cuddle, a very important third person, and that they might never get the chance to cuddle him again.
It may just have been a trick of the light, or a muscle spasm.
But for a split second, Alex was certain that she saw Gene's bottom lip quiver, as the gun stared into his eye and his eye stared back.
"You try that again, sonny, and I'll fill you with so much lead you'll be used to make church roofs," the man snarled, seizing Gene's shoulder and throwing him back into the corner, kicking him in the stomach. Gene gasped, winded, wrapping his arms round his tummy as Alex squeaked on the other side of the room, eyes so wide he could see the whites all round her green irises.
"You understand?"
"Piss off," Gene hissed, only to receive another boot in the stomach, this one crashing into his bottom rib. He couldn't stop a yelp of pain as he felt the skin splitting, blood soaking into his new shirt. Mam's goin' ter kill me. But he knew, as he looked up into the cold face of the man above him, that it wasn't his mother he had to worry about killing him right now.
"Watch your tongue, kid. Or we'll hurt you, plenty more, and then we'll kill your little friend here, and make you watch as she bleeds to death, nice and slowly, in lots of pain. We'll cut her arms off with knives and throw them in your face, and then we'll slice off each and every little toe and force them into your mouth. And then we'll chop that pretty little head off when she's dead, and hang it from the ceiling above you, so the blood from her pretty little neck drips down onto your head and dries in your hair. And then- then- we'll cut her open and tie you up with her entrails, and smother you with her flesh. You want that?"
"No," Gene whispered, his eyes flicking between Alex's and their captor's, hurriedly disguised fear staining the bright blue irises. Alex swayed on the spot, eyes unfocused, her legs threatening to collapse beneath her as one man leaned forwards, running the muzzle of his gun down her neck before stepping away and spitting at her.
"I hate kids," he snarled, jerking at his partner's arm. "Come on, we've got better things to do than beat eight-year-olds up. Even if they've deserved it with their bloody cheek." He emphasised his point by kicking Gene in the shin, grinning mirthlessly as Gene hissed with pain, cradling his leg. "We'll be counting up our hoard. Have fun, kids."
With a wave and a quick burst of smug laughter, the door closed behind the two men, leaving Gene nursing his aching chest and Alex trembling from head to toe in the opposite corner, mouth hanging open in a silent scream, as though her shriek had choked on her complete and utter terror.
For the first time in his life, Gene thought seriously about death.
His Grandma had died, a few days after his seventh birthday. He'd not been allowed to talk about it in front of Stu because it might upset him, and Mammy didn't want to talk about it, becoming teary every time he so much as mentioned Grandma. It had been the first death he'd ever really experienced, but Grandma had talked to him about it once when she was alive, sitting with him out in the garden as Stu drove his toy truck all over the lavender.
"When yer die, yer go ter 'eaven, Genie," she'd told him, her frail veiny hands clasped on her flower-patterned lap as he lay on his stomach in front of her, fiddling with a blade of grass. "An' yer at peace. Everythin's 'appy, an' yer can watch yer family from up in the clouds an' wave down at them, even though they won't be able ter see yer wavin'. An' everyone yer ever loved 'oo's died will be there with yer. Yer won't feel pain, or sadness, because yer at peace, utterly an' completely. Yer've 'ad yer life, an' now yer in 'eaven."
"Why doesn't everyone just die, if 'eaven's that good?" he'd asked, splitting the grass in two. Grandma had given a bark of laughter, her brittle, deep chuckles making Stu jump in the middle of driving his truck down a lavender stem.
"Yer 'ave ter live a life though, don't yer, Genie? Otherwise, 'eaven won't be peaceful, because yer won't know what peace is. An' besides, sometimes, Earth is better than 'eaven. Because yer get ter 'ave all yer adventures 'ere, an' then when yer go ter 'eaven, yer at peace, yer've 'ad all yer adventures."
He'd thought it was silly, having all your life and then just going to sit around all day in heaven. He'd much rather be doing something, meeting other people and having fun. And if you were watching people you'd left behind all the time, watching them crying, wouldn't you feel sad too? Wouldn't you want to cry too, because they were sad? It always made Gene feel bad when his mammy cried; if you couldn't do anything about it, if they were crying because of you, it would be unbearable. But Grandma hadn't said anything else, instead asking him how he'd got that bruise on his cheek, and he'd had to make something up on the spot, thus ending the conversation about death.
But now, curled around Alex as she shuddered with sobs in his arms, Gene wondered what it would be like to die. Not so much the part about heaven- that could wait. Actually dying.
It would be painful, he guessed. If they shot him, it would hurt, a lot. Much more than when Stu 'shot' him with his slingshot, and that was horrible, bad enough that when he caught up with Stu he normally socked him one for it. Bullets were bigger than pebbles, and guns were more powerful than slingshots. But even if they shot him, would they shoot Alex too? Maybe if he told them to shoot him instead of her, or stood in front of her so they could only shoot him… he could take it, he had to be strong. He had to be strong for Alex.
She was clever, had her whole life ahead of her. Gene was just a fleabitten Northerner, whose father probably wouldn't even notice he was gone and whose life would probably consist of trying and failing to become a policeman before something managed to kill him. She would become something great, and Gene… Gene wouldn't. He just had to protect her.
And for that reason, he was willing to sacrifice himself for her. The world would be better off minus a Gene than minus an Alex. Alex trusted him to protect her… and protect her he would.
But even this brave, selfless resolve didn't stop his heart thudding or tears springing to his eyes as footsteps approached the door once again.
A/N: Blame AS Eng Lit for the angst. It wasn't me. Honest, guv'nor. Now an ad break:
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