A/N: Warning – this chapter is very dark in places

Chapter 18

Robin stared blankly out of the window as Keats drove along. He felt empty, defeated and desperate. He'd tried to fight back and get away, he'd given it all he had but his energy was sapped by the lack of food and water and he'd used the last of his strength to pull Keats away from Kim. Since Keats had finally managed to tie his second hand behind his back he had little chance of fighting or escaping and eventually stopped struggling once he'd been loaded into the back seat of his own car. There wasn't much he could do there. It was best, he decided, to save his strength for trying to fight when they were out of the car.

"Hope you've put some clean sheets on," Keats commented as he drove along.

Robin's heart was racing with fear. Keats had left him in no doubt what he was planning to do. It was his ultimate revenge, really. The downward spiral that Keats had taken over time as he became less and less humanised and more demonic was disturbing. He'd gone from trying to use hypnotic persuasion to lure people to his bed to faking an assault to drugging and now, it seemed, he was actually going to carry out the most terrible, violent action.

"It's all the same to you, isn't it?" he spat from the back seat, staring at the reflection of a man who was metamorphosing between two faces at various intervals in the rear view mirror, "man, woman, goat – you don't care."

"On the contrary, I usually stay away from farmyard animals," Keats told him.

Robin genuinely didn't believe that somehow. He could quite see Keats getting banned from the petting zoo for taking the petting a little too far.

"Carry on the way you're going, you'll sprout a pair of horns and be mistaken for a goat," he snapped but his fury only earned him a mocking laugh from Keats.

"Yack, yack, yack," he sighed, "what's that line about sticks and stones?"

Robin ignored him and carried on staring out of the window. Despite the horror he faced imminently his mind kept going back to Kim and the kiss on the barge. He couldn't stop thinking about it, replaying the moment in an attempt to understand what happened. He couldn't quite comprehend it. Their talk had been deeply intense and full of terrifying revelations to contemplate and the atmosphere was thick and dark but even so he couldn't work out what brought her to make such an unexpected move.

Quite absently he closed his eyes and ran his tongue around his lips, He swore he could still taste her there. He shook his head just a little, so confused by the kiss. He replayed over and over those last few moments before it happened, the strange way she was looking at him, the intensity in her eyes as though she couldn't tear them away from his. He couldn't understand it for a second, Kim was happily married and most certainly only interested in women. Unless… was that actually how she saw him? Keats's comment about his hair might have just been a spiteful remark but did she think of him as being somewhat feminine? Maybe he was overdoing it with the home made food? Had she caught him wearing an apron at some point? A sudden thought struck him that he found a little hard to work out or to process, but he realised that, in a way, he thought of Kim as more like a boy than a woman. He wasn't sure that was a comment she'd be very pleased about but it was true. God, is that why things were getting all mixed up?

He caught a glimpse of Keats's eyes staring at him in the mirror and scowled.

You see, Robin thought to himself, You think I'm sitting here thinking about you and what you're trying to do, but I'm not. I'm thinking about Kim, not you and your malicious ways. So, actually, I win this round. Hah!

"I can hear what you're thinking," Keats told him.

For a second Robin almost panicked, then realised it was just another bullshit tactic to try to freak him out. Keats could no more hear Robin's thoughts than he could juggle crocodiles.

"Oh yeah?" Robin scowled, "what am I thinking now?"

Keats eyed him.

"Language, Mister Thomas," Keats scolded.

"Pah," Robin mocked, "you haven't got it." He'd been thinking about an ostrich.

He closed his eyes for a moment and wasted time wishing himself out of the situation. Surely there was a way. Maybe Keats would crash the car, or someone would recognise the number plate and he'd get stopped. Perhaps they'd get there to find his flat swarming with cops. But as Keats pulled up outside, the flat was dark and the car park practically empty.

"Well well, looks like no one's at home," Keats smiled. "I see you got on that door fairly fast. I left it open, if I remember rightly."

Robin had forgotten about the new door. He hadn't even seen it yet.

"Yeah, well," he hissed, "maybe you should try using the key this time."

"A very good idea," Keats commented as he opened the door, climbed out of the car, went round to the back and climbed in beside Robin to hunt through his pockets. He found the key that Robin had been handed earlier and held it aloft. "ahh, so bright and shiny. Almost worth the new door, hmm?"

"Was it worth the new face?" Robin snapped childishly. Once again, it seemed to have the desired effect on Keats. The more immature the comment, the more it seemed to rile him up. Although under the circumstances riling him up was probably not the wisest move it was certainly satisfying.

"Out," Keats barked before realising that, as Robin's legs were still tied, he'd have to drag him out himself. With a sigh, as though the dragging of Robin was a household chore, he pulled him from the car and began to lug him towards the flats. Robin tried crying out for help but Keats saw to that with a kick to the crotch that sent Robin howling in pain. "Any more screaming from you and you'll be needing corrective surgery to remove Little Robin from your zip," he warned.

He dragged Robin, step by step, up to the flat where he found a rather horrible door.

"Oh ugh," Robin couldn't stop himself declaring, "green? Who the fuck thought green was a good colour for a door?"

"Shakin' Stevens," said Keats as he unlocked the new door and shoved Robin inside. He switched on the light and closed the door behind them before turning to Robin with an anger and a fury that Robin had never seen before. "Now," he began, "finally we're alone and in civilisation. What shall we do first? Cup of tea and a cake?" He gripped Robin under the arms and began to drag him through to the bedroom. Despite using all his energy to struggle and writhe Robin couldn't get free of Keats's grip or of his binds.

"Get the fuck off me!" he screamed.

"Quiet, you don't want the neighbours complaining about the noise," Keats sighed as though talking to a child. He finally threw Robin to the bed and pulled his legs up onto it. Robin immediately rolled over and crashed to the ground where he howled in pain, causing Keats to cry, "You stupid fool, what do you think you're doing? Hmm?" he kicked Robin squarely in the guts and marched out of the room which confused Robin no end. He tried to slither along the floor, all tied up, but aside from looking like he was doing a one-man interpretation of The Human Centipede he only got as far as the door before he found himself in front of Keats's feet. His line of sight travelled upwards where he found Keats brandishing a breadknife from the kitchen,

"Left mine on the barge," he explained, "I thought this one might tackle the ropes better."

"Thought you wanted some bondage," Robin hissed, the fear starting to set in now.

"Time and a place for that" Keats hissed, his features morphing back and forth. He grasped Robin and dragged him back to the bed then opened his bedside drawers one at a time and started indiscriminately tossing items aside until he found a pair of handcuffs, then he grabbed the knife, climbed onto the bed, turned Robin over and started to saw through the ropes.

"Fuck off," Robin cried. He knew his protests were useless but he wasn't going to just sit back and take it.

"Almost done," Keats told him as he freed one hand and quickly secured it to the headboard to stop him trying any more Robin Centipede escape tactics, "now, for the legs."

He finished removing the ropes from Robin's legs and his other arm before standing back to watch Robin recoiling to the top of the bed, almost trying to compact himself into as small a space as possible by the pillows, his legs drawn up underneath him. He swallowed as his eyes widened with fear. There was a smile on Keats's hybrid features, a smile that shook Robin to the core. He felt himself trembling now and he felt as though he'd suddenly lost the ability to speak or move. All he could do was to watch and wait in fear. Now that the moment had arrived, the terror was too great to react.

"A man in uniform," Keats commented as he walked closer, "no wonder Kimberley turned. Hard to resist. Shame your uniform is looking so grubby."

"Hours in a filthy barge will do that to you," Robin finally managed to croak out.

"Let's get rid of that shall we?" Keats sneered as he grasped at the collar and tugged the material hard. The shirt came apart down the middle, several of the buttons coming away from their button holes whole one or two popped clean off the material. Robin couldn't move, he couldn't react. The feeling of the cold air against his chest barely registered as a numbness overtook him from head to toe. His mind worked at trying to zone out, to block out what was going on. Anything to stop this. Anything to block out the knowledge of what was about to happen.

As Keats ripped back the shirt he froze suddenly and stared at Robin's shoulder. After a moment he grabbed it and wrenched it closer to get a better look, leaving Robin to cry out in pain.

"What's this?" Keats spat, "inking up your arm?" he looked at Robin with absolute, genuine shock on his face as Robin tried to shrug his hands away from his skin.

"Get away from me," he hissed.

Keats looked at him with a sneer of contempt, his face mere inches away from Robin's. He almost shook as he realised how far Robin had come on his own, out of Simon's shadow. What happened to that suicidal weakling about to get himself a one-way ticket to Fenchurch West?

"Any more surprises for me, Robin?" he hissed, "got nothing pierced, have you?"

"I'll pierce your head in a minute," Robin tried to sound menacing but his trembles took away the power of his words.

"Look at that insignia," Keats sneered as he ripped away at the sleeve of Robin's shirt, "who gave you a promotion? Suck your way to the top, did you?"

"Funny how that's the first thing you think of," Robin hissed, "now suddenly your meteoric rise to the top all becomes clear."

"I haven't needed to stoop that low," Keats spat.

"No, no one would let you," Robin hissed, earning him a slap from Keats whose anger was growing.

"Sometimes they don't get a say in the matter."

Keats's sentence was the single most chilling, twisted thing he had ever said. Robin's stomach turned as he saw the manic look in his eyes and reached angrily for Robin's belt. Despite lashing out with his legs and trying to kick Keats with all the force he could manage it didn't stop Keats from undoing the buckle and yanking it from the belt loops. For a terrible moment Robin thought he was about to receive a pounding with it but Keats threw it to the ground and grabbed for Robin's fly instead. Robin's cover of bravado vanished right there and then as he screamed, begged and pleaded for Keats to stop but with every terrified cry Keats's grin only increased and his hunger grew stronger.

"Thought you'd be gagging for it by now, Robin," he spat, "how long has it been? Six months? Seven?" As he ripped away at Robin's trousers the sight of a photograph on his bedside table made him smirk. "Aw, look," he mocked, "Simon's watching us. How sweet, been gone for months and yet you still keep him by your bedside." He turned his attention to the photograph on the other side of the bed. It was a slightly faded photograph of a woman. "And who's that? Simon in drag? Did he have some kind of secret alternative persona?"

"That's my mother, fuckbrain," Robin spat. Even he didn't know where 'fuckbrain' came from but it seemed to suit him. Keats seemed immune to the insult, instead abandoning Robin's half-removed trousers to take a better look at Mrs Thomas. He climbed off of Robin and reached out for the photo.

"You made her proud, have you?" he sneered, "is she proud of her son, going round fiddling with dogs?" he looked at Robin but his retorts had vanished now. Instead he stared coldly at Keats, desperately wishing for his torment to stop. He couldn't handle this. Now the teasing had turned to the mother he lost so tragically he just wanted to cry his eyes out and sink away into the pillow, to disappear and hide. "Nice floral blouse," Keats mocked, "maybe you can borrow it. Make Kimberley think you're even more of a woman. You might yet get lucky."

"Fuck off," Robin hissed.

"Touchy," Keats raised an eyebrow.

"Put the picture down." Robin hissed.

"Excuse me?" Keats glared at him, "I'm the one with the knife and you're the one chained to the bed. Who's going to give the orders around here?"

"Put it down!" Robin screamed.

Keats turned to him with angry eyes.

"With pleasure," he spat, throwing the frame to the floor where it landed glass-side down with a horrible shattering sound. The back of the frame bounced out of place as one of the corners came away and a folded section of the photograph within was exposed. The hidden portion of the picture caught Keats's eye and a momentary glance was followed quickly by a double take. As the image filtered through to his mind, Keats froze. He looked as though someone had paused him, almost like they'd nipped to the toilet in the middle of a favourite TV show and left the action frozen until they returned. For a moment Robin felt confused and anxious, he didn't seem to be moving at all. Then, slowly, Keats reached forward and lifted the folded photograph from the shards of glass. His hands were trembling as he held it towards Robin and hissed, "Tell me who this is."

Robin stared at him, confused and aghast.

"That's my mother," he told him again.

"Not her, the man," Keats literally spat, his manic eyes widening as he thrust the other side of the picture closer to Robin.

Robin swallowed as he stared at the image. A deep sense of nausea swallowed up inside of him as he whispered,

"My father."

"What?"

"That's my fucking father," Robin cried, his bile and anger growing with ever second that he was forced to look at the man. The photo had been folded for so many years that he had completely forgotten what lurked on the other side of the frame. It was one of the few photos of his mother that he had been given, which was why it was the one he'd had framed many years ago. The fact that the half of his genes that he wished he could lose somewhere along the line was in the other half of the photo was easily remedied by folding it over. He should have just cut him out but there was a part of him that wondered if, one day, he would regret having nothing of his father left. It hadn't happened so far, but it was always a chance. In the years since, the other photos he had seemed to have disappeared and that one framed picture meant the world to Robin. His eyes moved from the photograph to Keats who had turned a whiter shade of pale.

"That is not," he began, "your father. Tell me that is not your fucking father!"

"I wish he wasn't!" Robin screamed, his heart racing through a mixture of terror, confusion and the sight of the man he never wanted to see again.

Keats was frozen to the spot. He trembled as he stared at the picture in his hand, then back at Robin' his eyes darted from one to the other, again and again, a terrible burning sensation rising in his chest. Robin watched as his adam's apple rose and fell. From Layton's crusty features, where his own had been forcing their way through they now found themselves pushing away every trace of the man who had been Keats's host. Layton's face disappeared and, as he shook with rage and anguish, every feature became unmistakably his. The crusty skin, gone. The bloodshot eyes, gone. The sagging features, gone. And in their place was Keats. Completely, unmistakably Keats.

The transformation was shocking, but not as shocking as the sudden burst of venom and anger that Keats let forth with a terrifying, wall-shaking scream, the likes of which Robin had never heard before. It was almost inhuman. He pressed himself as far against the wall behind him as he could as though to back away from the monster before him, wanting to hide like a frightened child.

Keats's eyes focused on Robin, full of a kind of hatred and revulsion that he'd never felt before in his life. He felt sick, gut-wrenchingly sick and he gagged as he stared at Robin's half-naked torso, all his plans now put out of his head. He thrust the photograph into his pocket, causing a cry of anguish from Robin.

"No, please," he cried, "that's the only photo I have of her."

But Keats wasn't listening. He listened only to his rage, to the emotions that were overtaking him. They burst forth in a moment of violent action that broke through whole new levels of fear that Robin never thought possible. His arms lashed out and struck anything that lurked nearby; a pile of loose DVDs beside the TV flew through the room like shuriken, boxes and knick-knacks arranged neatly on a shelf flew in all directions and pictures hanging on the wall found themselves removed and smashed without a second thought for their value, financial or sentimental.

Robin tried to shout 'no' but his voice just failed him and he found himself struck dumb, watching in silence as clothes and books were thrown all around him.

Finally, like a toy running out of battery power, Keats's burst of rage began to calm and die and he found himself frozen, half-bent over, about to grab something from the floor to throw against the wall. He was panting, his eyes were wild and he looked as though he had realised that no matter how much rage he displayed it wasn't making him feel any better. His eyes turned back to Robin and the sight of him brought a terrible sense of nausea raging through his guts. Without warning he turned and gagged, then vomited onto the rug with a loud retching sound. When he finally stopped his eyes turned upwards to where Robin sat, terrified and bewildered, and began to pace forward.

"What fucking use are you to me now?" he spat, "Hmm?"

Robin swallowed and shook. He had no idea what was happening or what Keats was going to do next. He could hardly bring himself to watch as the man – the monster – before him strode to the wardrobe, threw open the doors and pulled out two of his police shirts. He shuddered as Keats turned his back to him and let his own shirt fall to the floor, then slipped the crisp, clean uniform on and fastened the buttons.

"W-what are you doing?" Robin finally managed to whisper.

Keats turned around, his shirt already done up halfway, and threw the second shirt at Robin.

"Can't be seen out in that tatty thing," he sneered, "anyone would think you'd just spent the day tied up on a shitty old boat."

"What?" Robin shook his head in disbelief, "how the hell am I supposed to put that on when I'm still cuffed to the bed?"

"Shit," Keats cursed, marching back to the other side of the bed, "where are the keys"

Robin swallowed.

"In the same drawer," he whispered.

Keats opened up the drawer again and rummaged around until he found them. He unfastened the part that had been chained to the bed and yanked the rest of the torn shirt from Robin's body before stuffing his arms through the clean shirt like a child dressing a stuffed animal. Despite his best attempts to struggle free of Keats's grasp or to aim a fist or a foot in his direction Robin failed to make an escape and found himself buttoned up and smartly dressed once again. Keats quickly slapped the second side of the handcuffs to his own wrist and glared at Robin.

"Little insurance policy," he hissed.

Robin stared at him, his worry growing by the moment.

"Why?" he whispered, "what the hell are you doing now?"

"We are going to go and pay a sick friend a little visit," hissed Keats, pulling Robin to his feet, "do your bloody trousers up, you'll get arrested for indecent exposure."

Robin scowled and did his best to fasten his trousers with his cuffed hand.

"What do you mean, pay a sick friend a visit?" he demanded.

"Well," Keats sighed, "I've seen you, I've seen Kimberley – it would be rude not to see Alex while I was here."

Robin froze.

"You stay the fuck away from her," he hissed.

"How much do you value your life, Robin?" asked Keats, "how much do you value your soul?"

Robin swallowed but tried to stare him in the eye.

"Keep your 'give me her and I'll spare you'," he hissed, "I'm not trading my safety for hers."

"You don't have to, Robin," Keats sneered, "I just want to see her."

Robin slowly shook his head.

"You're a liar," he said, "a fucking liar. I don't know what you are planning but I know it's not worth it. I'd rather give my own life than risk hers."

"Stupid bloody martyr talk," Keats grabbed Robin by the neck and pulled him closer. He heard a terrified gasp emerge from his lips as he stared him right in the eye. "Second insurance policy is already in place, 'Rob'. My friend Layton left a few of his memories laying around for me to enjoy. I put together a little surprise for Kimberley and the brat. Want to know what I left them?"

Robin tried to swallow but the hand around his neck stopped him.

"if it's anything like the surprise you left in my toilet yesterday then I don't think they'll be very impressed," he hissed.

Keats ignored him.

"There's a bomb set to explode two hours from now, Robin," he spat, "the barge is going to go sky high with its measly crew upon it. Now, either you get me in to see Alex and I let you off scot-free to run to the boat, save the ladies and be the big hero, or you try to stop me, I slit your throat and there's no one to stop the barge from blowing sky high."

Robin swallowed.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered, "you love Kim. You wouldn't hurt her."

"Have you never heard the phrase 'we always hurt the ones we love'?" Keats sneered.

Robin stared at him.

"So you admit you love her?" he hissed.

Keats froze. Robin's words had caught him off-guard and another bout of rage began to grow inside of him. He seemed to shake a little and an inhuman growl came from deep within his chest which ended with a grunt of fury as he pushed Robin away by the throat. Robin coughed and spluttered, rubbing his neck and staggering from side to side until Keats pulled him closer by the handcuffs like reeling in an unruly dog on the end of a lead. Robin looked at him, his heart rate soaring with anxiety as he hissed,

"Why do I have to get you in to see Alex anyway?"

"With my 'host' on the loose they're bound to up her security, aren't they?" Keats pointed out, "you're going to get me through."

"What do you need me for?" Robin scowled, "you've stolen my bloody uniform. Why can't you go on our own?"

"You're her buddy-buddy pal, aren't you?" Keats sneered, "I've heard all about it on the news. Detective Inspector Alex Drake and Police Inspector Robin Thomas tracked the wanted Arthur Layton. Oh, what circles you move in, Robin." He pulled him towards the door, put the key in his pocket and picked up the bread knife. "Now, what do you think? Grapes or flowers?" he paused. "I think grapes. How about you?"

Robin stayed silent as Keats dragged him from the flat and down to the car. The events of the last few minutes had bewildered him beyond compare and he couldn't make any sense of them but before he could even try to work out what was going on he needed to work out how to stop Keats in his tracks. Grapes or otherwise, he could just imagine the reason for Keats to pay a visit to Alex in the hospital. It was going to be for one of two things and neither was going to happen if Robin had anything to do with it.

He had to bide his time. He couldn't be silly about this He didn't know whether the bomb was real or a figment of Keats's overactive imagination but he couldn't take that risk. He needed to stop Keats and save his own neck to get back to the barge before anything happened.

As Keats pushed him into the car and took his position in the driver's seat Robin took a deep breath and drew his courage together. This was it, he realised. It was his turn now. This was his reason for still being there. He did have his own Keats to kill – and failure was not an option.