A/N: huge thanks to those of you following this and for your words of encouragement. And to Handy, of course - sorry about the pokey stick !
"Hmm, I think we should get out of the bath now maybe," Alex smiled in Gene's ear. She took hold of his hand and lifted it out of the water, inspecting his crinkled fingertips. The candle of the nearest edge of the bath had guttered and died and the only light in the room now came from a solitary flickering flame at the other end of the bath. It soon too would die.
"Mmmm…" Gene turned his face to Alex's and kissed her mouth before he manoeuvred himself to his feet and grabbed a towel from the rail. Wrapping it around his waist, he turned and offered his hand to Alex, pulling her gently to her feet and then close to him. He handed her a towel and kissed her nose.
"I love you." He said quietly. His face was deadly serious.
Alex said nothing, but she felt her heart swell. Her throat constricted with the temporary rise of joy, panic and sadness that washed over her. She wished for all the world she could return that love without complication.
"Come on," she said, stepping out of the bath. She walked past him and through to the kitchen where she set about pouring two glasses of whisky. "A nightcap," she smiled, nodding her head towards the bedroom.
They made fragile, beautiful love that night, each secretly knowing it would be for the last time.
Alex awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. She quickly glanced at the digital clock by the bedside – it had just gone 5 am. A panic rose in her - she knew phone calls at that early hour rarely heralded good news. Slipping from the bedcovers, she stepped through to the living room, wondering briefly how on Earth Gene had managed to sleep through the piercing ring. Shivering, she lifted the receiver to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Good mornin' Alex Price," a familiar menacing voice said.
Alex felt her blood pounding in her ears. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to the floor feeling sick to her stomach.
"How did you get this number?" she swallowed hard, vomit rising to the back of her throat.
"I don't fink we need to concern ourselves with details now, do we?"
"What do you want?"
"A little bird told me you was lookin' for me Alex. Well, 'ere I am."
Alex summoned up all her strength, although she certainly wasn't feeling very brave. "I need to talk to you," she croaked.
"My boat, one hour. I fink you can manage that."
"OK."
"Oh and Alex…" Layton paused. "You won't need to bring your guardian angel."
The other end of the line clicked dead. Alex sat in silence for a moment before she raced to the bathroom to throw up. When her stomach was empty, she leaned on the wash-hand basin, staring at the pale, drawn face opposite her in the mirror. In the bottom corner of the glass, she could just make out Molly's face: this time, her silent expression was one of worry. "I'm coming home baby. Today," Alex whispered.
Alex walked back through to the bedroom. She looked at Gene's sleeping form, his back to her, safe in the blissful ignorance of slumber. "How can I say goodbye to you?" she said quietly to herself. Moving around the room quickly and silently, she pulled on her clothes and boots. She gazed at her surroundings for the last time: Luigi's flat, her safe haven in 1981. She had grown to love its 80s décor, the flitting lights through the blinds and the sounds of the restaurant below. Alex paced the floor, fighting the fear in the pit of her stomach.
Making her way over to the chest of drawers, she gently opened the top one, rifling amongst the underwear there to find her gun. Her hands shaking, she opened the barrel, counted the bullets inside and then quietly pressed it closed – the cold metal burned her fingertips. This was her mission – to kill Layton. He was the cause of this - merely arresting him for his drug offences had failed to prevent him murdering her parents and shooting her in 2008. This was the only way. It was a huge risk; she knew that. If killing him didn't end this nightmare, it would only end up in a murder charge here in 1981 and a prison sentence. She wondered if her subconscious could imagine such a thing.
A silent tear crept down Alex's face, as she kneeled down beside the bed. She put her face close to Gene's, not wanting to wake him, but needing to feel his warmth and breathe the scent of him for the last time. She needed his strength now: in some ways she realised she always had, from the moment she'd arrived. Very gently, she kissed his head, holding her lips to his hair. She couldn't speak, but she hoped upon hope that somehow her love for him would find its way wordlessly into his consciousness.
She stood up and, tucking the gun neatly into the back of her jeans, wandered through the flat, stepping carelessly through the pile of papers and notes on the floor: none of it mattered anymore. Her heels clicked quietly on the stairs as she made her way out into the dewy chill air of the morning. Across the street, the green Triumph was parked outside the station: she slipped inside and started the engine. Pausing for a moment, she rested her head on the steering wheel before sneaking a final glance up at her window, knowing her lover slept on: not yet missing her.
"I'm coming Molly," she said, as she sped determinedly off in the direction of the docklands.
London was a city just waking up as Layton stumbled, swearing and shivering through the winding factory streets of Southwark. Hunger gnawed at his insides. Being forced to spend months on the run from the law had taken its toll on him and now his reason was gone, desperate revenge coursed through him. He cursed the little girl for chasing the balloon out of the car. She was meant to die. I'll fix this, he thought, I'll fix her… nothing will stop me. He patted the gun concealed under his coat and slunk further on his way to where his boat was moored.
Spires and steeples ripped holes in the pendulous grey clouds blanketing the city. Slow pale sunlight was beginning to creep through and burn away the dewy mist. Alex stopped the car and looked over to where The Lady Di was tied up. Blue and white cordon tape closed off the end of the gangway and it looked like the police had given the barge a thorough search: the deck was devoid of any furniture or decoration. The boat looked abandoned and sad.
"Were are you, you pathetic worm?" Alex muttered to herself. She had her gun drawn and was walking cautiously towards the barge. She looked around her, expecting to see Layton any minute, but she was alone. Carefully, she slipped under the tape and moved down the gangway, the dark water below reflecting back the sound of her heels on the metal. When she got to the boat, she stepped slowly inside and disappeared from view. Layton watched her from the bank, his mouth twisted in grim determination. Taking a pair of sunglasses from his coat pocket, he put them on and silently followed the DI.
Alex felt sick with fear. The motion of the boat on the swelling river wasn't helping: she swayed a little unsteadily, her mind besieged by flashbacks of the day she was shot: Layton's time-ravaged face loomed enormous, turning into her father the clown, creeping and silent. Breathe, she told herself. Just keep breathing. She raised her gun in her right hand, and with her left gently turned the handle of the main cabin door – she pushed it open and went in, almost gagging on the dank and foetid air inside. Tables were upturned, ashtrays had spilled their contents on the carpet and empty bottles littered every available surface. The floor underfoot was sticky and the rotted remains of a party buffet played host to small clouds of flies that rose and hummed as Alex disturbed them. She held her nose and continued through to the berths: the bedclothes were in disarray and stained with spilled champagne and bodily fluids. Another wave of nausea rose in Alex's throat as she remembered the ogling city boys, grabbing at her and waving their filthy lucre in her face after she had woken in 1981.
Suddenly, her eye caught a shadow moving across a mirror in the corner of the berth. She whipped her head round just in time to see a figure move past the small window near the roof. Gripping her gun, she made her way back out to the side of The Lady Di and, pressing her body out of sight, she slunk round to the main deck at the back of the boat. Her heart thumped against her ribcage as Layton came into view, his outline stark against the white sky. She raised the barrel of the gun in his direction, noticing with horror that her hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Layton heard the click of the safety catch and spun round; immediately his own gun flew into position. He eyed Alex down the barrel as she took small steps towards him.
"You won't pull that trigger Alex," he sneered. "I know too much."
"You know nothing!" Alex spat.
"If you believed that, you would have shot me a long time ago." Layton noticed her hand trembling. She was scared and she had nowhere to go. He pressed his advantage, tilting his head to one side and leering at her. "You was a pretty little girl, Alex. You turned into such a loose woman too… I understand your DCI would agree." He gave a hollow laugh. "You've been so busy fucking 'im you forgot why you're 'ere."
Alex glared at him, her eyes narrow, hurt by the bright sun behind him. His image swam before her, the features on his face changing. He was young and old at the same time; the Layton she knew in the future appeared and then gave way to the more youthful version now standing there. She felt dizzy and struggled to keep a grip on her gun. Her finger twitched over the trigger.
"I'm going to kill you Arthur. What do you think about that?" Alex fought to regain control. She smiled sarcastically. "I am going to kill you and go home."
Layton smirked again. "Oh, is that 'ow you fink this works, DI Drake?" He took a step towards her, gun still pointed at her. "You run away from that car bomb, and then years later come back here to ruin me? You turn my life into a living hell, destroy my empire and everything I've worked for and then I just let you go? I don't fink so…"
Alex looked at her reflection in Layton's sunglasses: her two selves, her gun pointed at her own face. Her heart jumped as she took in the outline of the Millennium Dome, rising like a bloodless spectre behind her. She frantically tried to calm her breathing before she spoke slowly and deliberately, "You murdered my parents and then you tried to murder me. I can't save them, but I'm not going to let you leave my daughter an orphan as well."
"Your father killed himself… and your mother," Layton sneered. "I was just the hired hand. Why didn't you ask your loving godfather what really happened eh? Never wonder?"
"Shut up!" Alex yelled. Her hand was now steady, her mind focussed. "I'm getting out of here, you pathetic bastard. You lost. How does it feel?"
The brown water of the Thames flowed under the boat with alarming speed; the slap of each choppy wave against the hull was the only sound apart from the rumble of distant traffic in the city. Seagulls eyed the scene from the roof of a nearby warehouse.
Layton narrowed his eyes and cocked his gun. Alex did the same and the two stood there, weapons pointed squarely at one another, fingers preparing to squeeze triggers.
"I'm putting a stop to this once and for all," they said in unison.
Gunshot rang out, clear and cold across the dock: the sound ricocheted in the warehouse, scaring the gulls into flight. They rose up into the air and flew across the river, their yells of displeasure fading as they disappeared from view.