The stale bread one of the men had thrown into the cellar sat untouched on the other side of the room, flung there in disgust by Gene. He doubted Alex had even noticed its presence, burying her head in his chest the second the door opened and shuddering with sobs, her tears seeping into his shirt. It hurt his sore stomach, having her there, but Gene wasn't about to throw her off; she needed him, and he wasn't going to let her down.

It was nighttime, he could tell by the cooling air in the cellar; thank bloody God it was nearly summer, and the house above provided enough warmth to keep them safe if they huddled together. Which he knew they would be doing. The one time he'd tried to disentangle Alex's fingers from his jumper, she'd yelped at him to stop it and clung even tighter, thus eradicating his chances of escaping any time soon from her clutches. Not that he really minded that much. Better than being on his own.

She'd fallen asleep, her head resting on his chest, head rising and dipping in time with his breathing. Her dusky brown hair tickled his nose, and he brushed it away, resting his head back against the wall of the cellar and stretching his gangly legs out, exhaling in a long, soft sigh. God, he'd been almost happy just this morning, and now here he was, staring Death in the face with a little girl utterly dependant on him curled round his skinny, aching body. As he looked down at her, her petite face and long eyelashes, the air in the cellar seemed to thin, as though they were in a locked vault and the air supply was running out.

Gene closed his eyes, drew his legs back up towards him, and fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed of a bright red car screaming through the streets of London, and driving past them over and over, high up there in the street, always slowing down just as it reached the front door, and each time he'd catch a flash of black leather driving gloves and snakeskin boot before the car roared away again. And somehow, it reassured him.

Alex lay wrapped around Gene, slipping in and out of consciousness, squeezing Gene's hand each time he fidgeted or whimpered in his sleep.

She dreamed of a small, claustrophobic room, the only light coming from a silver cigarette lighter lying on the floor, the air slowly running out. At first she was scared, but then Gene was there, holding his arm out for her to snuggle into, his fingers rough and reassuring on her back as she told him they couldn't die, she couldn't die, she had to get back. Back where, she didn't know, and didn't need to know, because all she cared about was that they would get back.

Some old biddy rung- she's seen the van.

The van! Where, where did she see it?

Parked outside an empty house in Charing Cross. Says a Rodney Jackson goes there a lot, and his mate's been lodging there, Steven Chorley. Reckons the description fits them. Rodney's got form, couple of blags in '72 and '75. The Guv reckons they're responsible for others, but they couldn't pin it on them.

How soon can we get someone to Charing Cross?

The Guv's on his way now. Told me to get you off your idle arse and take a squad car.

Nice of him to think of me. Come on then, Skip'll have the keys to something.

We'll have to hurry. If those kids are still alive, they won't be hanging on 'til we get there- and if they're not, they're unlikely to still have the bodies.

Shit, don't say that. I've got a lad Eugene's age. Our Quinnie… even looks a bit like him.

I'll do you a deal, then. If we find Eugene's body, I'll read the coroner's report, and you can do Alexandra's. Now shift!

Under normal circumstances, Ray Carling didn't do sadness.

He wasn't like Chris, who would keep going through anything with the enthusiasm of a collie puppy; nor was he quite like Gene, who always hid his emotions under a façade of surly disinterest. He just muddled along, one of the lads, messing around at school in the day and half-inching whisky from the larder at night to down with the other boys behind the community centre, always the first to start laughing at the poor sod who got drunk the quickest. He didn't have much to be sad about, and a reasonable amount to feel content about.

But, as he glanced at the empty seats in the classroom where Gene and Alex should have been sat, it was there, sadness for his missing comrades and sadness for what might be their eventual fates.

Was it really just a few hours ago that he'd towed Gene on the toboggan in the hotel, pulling him out of the wreckage only to be caught by Mrs Baker? He glanced down at his hand, the memory of Gene's rough, warm fingers in it making his skin tingle. Gene was just like him, a poor kid with a father who expected more than he could give, looked down on by people like Mrs Hingston; he felt selfish and idle, sitting here when there was someone in trouble, someone he wanted to help.

Brian beside him was restless, picking at his fingernails and scratching his neck, his head jerking up whenever the phone rang; each time Mrs Pankhurst would pick it up, turn away, and turn back with an expression of disappointment on her face, and an icicle would slide down Ray's chest to join the iceberg in his chest. If anything else, Gene was almost his friend. He should be doing something for him, some tiny thing at the very least…

Sod this. He wasn't sitting in some draughty classroom while Gene and Alex were in danger. He was off.

"Oi, Davis?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's get out of 'ere."

The sentiment was unspoken, but rang in every syllable of the simple exchange: let's go an' find Gene an' Alex.

Brian nodded, his eyes flicking between Mrs Pankhurst and the door, silently planning their escape as the teacher surveyed the room, tapping her fingers on the telephone; the moment she had her back turned to deal with a snivelling little girl on the other side of the room, Brian bolted out of the door and towards the fire exit at the front of the school, Ray close on his heels.

The corridor was eerily silent, the crackle of a police radio making both boys jump as they approached the fire escape doors; Ray peered round the corner, disguising himself with someone's PE bag, and shook his head back at Brian, disappointment etched on his face.

"There's a copper there. We won't get past 'im. 'Ave ter use the bogs, go through one o' the windows."

Brian winced. "OK." It was well-known in Manchester schools that this was only used as a last resort for getting away; everyone knew someone who'd tried it only to find out that the toilet lid wasn't strong enough to support them and ended up with wet trousers or worse. Following Ray into the toilets, he murmured a quiet prayer that London had discovered the delight of strong toilet seats.

The first cubicle had no seat on the toilet, and only a small window; the second had no window at all. The third boasted a full-size window, a proper toilet seat and Christopher Skelton, currently in the middle of a wee, squealing in surprise and yanking his shirt down as the faces of the two older boys appeared over the top of the cubicle door.

"Hey! I'm in 'ere!"

"We would never 'ave guessed," Ray sighed, rolling his eyes. "Hurry up, we need ter go through the window."

"Why're yer goin' through the window?"

"We're goin' ter go an' look fer Gene an' Alex."

And there it was, the enthusiasm. Christopher's eyes lit up as though he'd been offered Christmas on a plate, fumbling with his trousers as he pulled them up into place.

"Can I come?"

Ray and Brian exchanged glances, shrugging.

"Fine. Long as yer don't mess everythin' up. Yer 'ave ter do everythin' we say, understood? An' if we find 'em, it was our idea."

"OK," Christopher grinned, flipping the toilet lid down and clambering on top of it, pushing the window open. Ray groaned.

"Christopher, if yer would open the ruddy door so we can get in…"

"Where the bloody 'ell are we?"

"London?" Christopher tried, turning full circle to look for a road sign and so managing to avoid the scathing looks he promptly received from Ray and Brian. There were no road signs in sight, not even a street name; the two posts where it should have been were standing empty at the end of the road, boasting only two metal struts running between them. After twenty minutes of walking, the three boys were hopelessly lost.

"What about when we 'ave ter get back?" Brian moaned, kicking a clump of grass on someone's drive. Ray rolled his eyes.

"We're not goin' back. Not 'til we've found Gene an' Alex. Grow some, Brian, yer poof."

"What did you say?"

Swinging round, Brian squared his shoulders, advancing threateningly on Ray; Ray, deciding this was as good a time for a brawl as any, cracked his knuckles, drawing himself up to his full height and baring his teeth as Brian glared straight into Ray's eyes…

"There! There!"

Christopher's high-pitched voice broke through the fight brewing between the two boys, Ray swerving round to see him; Christopher was pointing to a white van parked fifty yards away, the curtains of the house behind it drawn. Ray raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

"That's the van!" Christopher drew a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, holding it up to Ray. "They said what the numberplate was on the news, and it's the same, look!"

Clasped between Christopher's nail-bitten fingers, the scrap of paper read HRT 903M. Exactly the same as the white Ford Econoline sitting innocently across the road from them, parked outside the ghost house.

Ray yelped.

"We've found 'em! Christopher, you beauty!"

He seized Christopher, pulling him off his feet and squeezing all the air out of him in a bear hug; Brian ignored the younger boy's spluttering and gasping, his eyes fixed on the house, eyebrows pursed in thought.

"So what now?"

Ray's expression rapidly changing from jubilation to thought was enough to tell Brian that his comrade hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Um… call the cops. They can break the door down." He didn't want to admit it, but he didn't really fancy barging in if Gene and Alex's captors had guns. Better to leave that to people who really knew what they were doing. His father had told him once that rash actions put not only the rescuer's life in danger, but also the captives'; he had no intentions of acting like a div and causing either Gene or Alex to be shot.

"There's a phone box back 'ere!" Christopher started running back the way they'd come, beckoning frantically to the other boys. "Come on!"

None of the boys, as they took off, noticed the curtains of the house twitching, nor the face that disappeared into the darkness as the fabric swung back into place, a cruel smile twisting its mouth.

Guv! Phone call from a little boy in Bath Terrace- he says he's spotted the van in that street. Says he took the numberplate down from the news article.

Bath Terrace? Bloody hell… they must've doubled back. Bastards, we've been crawling all over Charing Cross! All this time they've been ten minutes from the school!

Yeah, never mind the rant- shall we get on our way? We can have a rant later… after the kids are safe.

"My head aches."

"Never mind."

"Gene, my head really aches."

"What d'you expect me ter do about it? I didn't come prepared with painkillers, did I?"

Gene hadn't meant to snap, but his emotions and fatigue had caught up with him, fogging his judgement enough to make him want to lash out at her; the moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them, feeling for Alex in the darkness only to hear her sniff hard and move away from him. He sighed under his breath, curling into himself instead, burying his face in his knees as he gathered them up into his arms.

"I know you didn't. But you're clever, you might have known something."

"I'm not clever."

"Yes you are. You had all the ideas for our project. And you knew how to spell 'because' when I didn't. You are clever."

Gene snorted.

"Who you tryin' ter kid? Yer the kid 'oo's parents dote on 'em. Bet they read ter yer every night, an' 'elp yer with yer 'omework, an' go ter parents' evenin'."

"Don't yours?"

"My dad comes 'ome from the pub an' beats the lot of us senseless. My mam would 'elp me if she knew anythin' about the stuff I was doin', but she 'asn't got a clue, especially with science an' stuff. She sometimes reads ter me, but she's no good at it, gets the words mixed up an' can't pronounce 'em right. Parents' evenin'? She went once, an' someone tried ter get nosy an' asked why she 'ad a black eye. Never been back since."

Gene lapsed into silence, brooding in the gloom; Alex rested her head back against the wall, her eyes on the glimmer of blond hair just about visible in the darkness of the cellar, stunned by this sudden insight into the Hunt family. Poor Gene. Her daddy had never raised a hand to her, and the last time her mummy had smacked her, she'd been too young to remember it properly; her daddy read to her every night when he was there, even though often her mummy stayed downstairs with Evan and let her read to herself when he wasn't. She couldn't imagine Mummy not knowing the answer to something, or not being able to read properly, or not going to Parents' Evening and beaming at how clever Alex was and the latest thing she'd had Blu-tacked onto the wall of the classroom. Her mummy always took an interest in her education. It wasn't right that Gene's mummy didn't… and his daddy shouldn't hit him. Or get drunk every night. Mummies and daddies shouldn't get drunk, they had to look after their children.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was quiet, almost meek; Gene frowned, turning his head towards where he imagined her to be.

"What for?"

"For what I asked you when we met. It was nasty. If I'd known, I wouldn't have said it."

"You didn't know, so don't beat yerself up. I don't blame yer. Yer nosy, it's natural." Gene yawned, curling his legs up further beneath himself. "I don't ever tell people, anyway. Don't need pity, or sympathy. I'm tough. I can deal with it."

"Why did you tell me?"

"Got nothin' ter lose. They'll kill me. I don't think they'll kill you."

"I won't let them kill you."

Gene gave a soft, tired laugh, closing his eyes against the suffocating darkness. In that second, he sounded so much older than eight; it made Alex shudder, how defeated and weary he sounded, as though worn out already, sick of life and its pains before ever really knowing what it was about.

"Think about it, Alex. You've got a future, 'aven't yer? Yer smart, yer'll go ter university, get a great job, 'ave clever kids with a brilliant husband. I'll be married off far too young, ter a girl I don't really love, workin' at the docks like my dad, nothin' ter keep goin' for. If they kill one of us, it 'as ter be me, 'cos yer got much more ter live for than me."

He thought Alex was still, digesting what he'd said; the soft hand on his arm proved him wrong, pulling at his elbow until he surrendered and let her fling her arms round him, resting her head against his warm, skinny chest, closing her eyes to savour the steady rise and fall of his ribs on her chest. Gene rested his chin on her crown, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes staring into the nothingness behind her, one thumb rubbing circles on her back, just like his mother did for him when he was scared or hurt and she was comforting him.

"We're not going to die," Alex whispered to him, tilting her head up, staring at him. "Are we?"

Gene braced himself, looking down into her hazel-flecked eyes, and instantly felt his chest start to hurt.

"Come 'ere," he murmured, pressing her back into his chest, holding her securely against himself as he felt her start to cry, warm tears soaking into his jumper and through onto his chest. Alex clung desperately to him, muffling her sobs in the comfort of his jumper, and Gene shushed her, eyes darting round over her head, hoping desperately that she couldn't feel the hammering in his chest through his clothing.

A door banged somewhere above.

"Shit!"

"GENE!" Alex yelped, grabbing at him in terror, sheltering herself in his arms; Gene pushed her behind him, backing away from the door as footsteps echoed down the stairs and the door flew open, the silhouette in the doorway brandishing a gun.

"We've been spotted," the man growled, pointing the gun at Gene; the boy gritted his jaw, ignoring the feel of Alex trembling behind him. "So you're going to be good kiddies and come with us now, aren't you? You remember what I said we'd do?"

"If someone's spotted yer, yer wouldn't 'ave time ter do all that before the police arrived." Gene pushed against Alex's side, trying to steer her round to behind him, out of the way of the gun; she refused to move, sliding out from behind him, unwrapping her arms from his torso to stand bravely beside him, chin thrust out in defiance. Gene could have hit her.

"I wouldn't bet on that, sonny. You going to be a good boy and come with us, or are we going to have to hurt you?"

"Yer goin' ter 'ave ter shoot me ter get ter 'er," Gene growled, moving once again to stand in front of Alex; she hissed his name, trying to shove him out of the way, but Gene refused to budge, clenching his fists as the man laughed, beckoning his friend into the cellar beside him.

"Look at this. The boy's trying to defend his little friend. Is she your girlfriend, sonny? You fancy her, do you?"

He laughed, a cruel, mirthless sound; his friend joined in after a second, hefting his own gun to catch the light seeping in from the doorway. Gene just caught the screech of tyres somewhere outside.

"Well? You going to take a bullet for her? Really?"

The man stepped forwards, his arm extending to press the gun against Gene's forehead; Gene swallowed hard, suddenly tasting bile at the back of his throat, desperately hoping that the shaking of his hands wasn't visible in the darkness.

"You know what it's like being shot, sonny? It's painful, and bloody, and it's a slow death, if the shooter aims it in the right place. Like here, for instance…"

The gun trailed down Gene's cheek, over his jaw, and onto his chest, coming to rest over his rib cage, prodding into his skin. Alex whimpered next to him.

"It punctures your lung, and you eventually drown in your own blood. Did you know that, sonny? You're bleeding, in so much pain that you can't think of anything else, and then you can't breathe, you're gasping, coughing up blood, and it's so warm, trickling down your chin and onto your neck, staining your lips red, coating your mouth so you can't taste anything but blood, and all the time you're getting weaker and weaker, and the weaker you get the more desperate you are to breathe, but you can never breathe enough to satisfy your needs… you want that?"

Gene looked down at the gun, pressing into the knitted fibres of his jumper, the jumper his Mammy had knitted him. In the gloom, all he could see was the barrel of the gun.

He reached up and seized the barrel with one hand.

"If yer want ter kill me… kill me. But don't kill 'er. She didn't do anythin'. Please… she's only little."

"So are you, Gene," Alex whispered, her hand grasping his spare one. "You're only little too."

Gene turned to look at her, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, the ghost of a reassuring smile on her face as her fingers squeezed his.

"I'm not. I told yer, I'm tough… like a lion. Yeah, I'm like a lion. I can fight back."

And suddenly the gun was on the other side of the room and Gene's knee was in the man's crotch, and Alex screamed as Gene yanked her towards the doorway, barging into the silhouette standing there with all the force he could muster and managing to knock him to one side-

Gene was fighting the hand clamped round his arm, screaming obscenities, pushing Alex up the stairs as the other man struggled to his feet and whipped round searching for his gun-

Alex was lunging for the man's arm, scratching at his face, trying to pull him off Gene, swerving round as something banged into the front door and the crunch of splintering wood reached the cellar-

One hand found the gun-

Gene twisted round as voices yelled from upstairs-

BANG.

And then everything was confusion, and Alex was seized by someone as someone else clattered down to the cellar, two more gunshots echoing round the cellar and screams from the men as someone hoisted Alex up into their arms and she fought to get back to Gene.

"Gene- Gene, where- GENE!"

Her heart nearly stopped.

Gene lay in the doorway, a police officer kneeling by his side. Blood pouring from his arm.

"No, Gene, Gene, no!"

Alex kicked at the officer, forcing them to drop her, scrambling to Gene's side as he weakly lifted his head at the sound of her voice, his spare hand pressed to the freely-bleeding wound in his bicep, the bright scarlet blood staining his ghostly white skin. Someone called for a stretcher, but Alex barely heard them, her ears filled with Gene's struggling panting, pain laced through every breath.

"Gene- someone help-"

"I'm OK," Gene whispered, his eyes flickering up to hers, his bloodied hand reaching for hers. "Don't worry 'bout me…"

"You will be OK," Alex whispered, refusing to look away, gripping his hand as his own fingers grew weaker. "I won't let you not be OK."

The very corner of his lip twitched. Alex opened her mouth to stay something else, but as she took a breath in Gene's eyes slipped closed, his hand becoming lazy in hers as his head fell back against the wall.

"Gene… GENE!"

A/N: Goodness me, I am mean… so will Gene make it? You'll have to stay tuned to find out! Please remember to review, Save the Fanfics implores you to remember this important detail. And for those of you who haven't seen it, may I recommend Tales of Television Centre, in which we see a rather cute picture of a nine-year-old Phil Glenister? It was my inspiration for this chapter. (Although not the whole shooting him business. That would have been a bit weird if I'd seen a picture of little Phil and gone "Must shoot him…" I'm a nice person really.)