Hi! I'm back again-thank you so much to all those who read, reviewed etc etc...I really really appreciate it, I have chapters 1-4 written now, but I'm back at school so updates will probably be rather infrequent unfortunately, never the less, here's the next installment xxx
She could still remember that last day. Clung on to the minuscule memories she has. A taste, a smell, a colour. It was the toilets she'd miss the most; they'd become her sanctuary these past few weeks. Immune to the eye-watering smells and the odd spider, there was where she did her planning, her thinking, her crying. There was where she sometimes just sat and dreamed. Imagining what would be happening if things were different. In 2008 what would they be doing right now? If he hadn't abandoned her, what would they be talking about? Would they be planning? Buying? She tried her hardest not to go in too deep; each time it got harder and harder to swim free. To snap back, reapply the armour.
Other times she just walked around, the clack of a heel on the cool tiles oddly soothing. She clacked away, creating complex rhythms with her feet. To an outsider it probably sounded foolish, childlike even. To her it was an escape; she could lose herself in the beat and for five minutes she was floating again. She was free.
She took the test in cubicle three. The lock slightly stiffer, the chain slightly harder to pull. She sat for those three minutes looking at the patterns on the doors, finding a six, an eye, a thumb print in the grooves of the woodwork. Her nails dug into her skin. The cheap ring she'd bought from the charity shop in an attempt to look respectable when buying the damn thing was cool against her skin. She still had it now. It glared mockingly in her sock draw. The one she'd cleared for him. It glinted against the light, tacky, far too big, but better than nothing.
Two thin blue lines told her all she needed to know. Why she was late. Where she had contracted that "stomach bug" from. Why all she wanted on her sandwiches was marmite. She allowed herself a small smile at the time. Soon to be slapped away but, for that one moment, in that tiny cubicle, with its graffiti and its smell and its lack of toilet paper, Alex Drake was happy.
The kitchenette, she reasoned, was probably her second favourite. No one but Shaz ever went in there. Shaz. She was one who never looked at her. They all believed it. The rumour. Rumours. Who gave a shit? It didn't matter now. Which was worse? The disgusted looks, or no looks at all? For a while it bothered her. Plagued her. She couldn't stand to be in that room for more than thirty minutes. With their looks and their tuts and their whispers. So she bunked off to the kitchenette, always there in her times of need. Sometimes, she tended to the ever-growing washing pile of mugs, littered with cigarette butts and heaven knew what else. Other times she treated herself; an endless supply of biscuits and brews. Small pleasures. Only one tear was ever shed in that room. A black stripe in the paint work, a vertical slash to a wall. Evidence of her torture.
Once, a long time ago, too long ago, she thought that when she got out of this world, she'd look back on her memories of the evidence room and smile fondly, just remembering. Then was a time when she hated him. A time when she was fighting. A time when she was strong. That was just a distant dream now.
She'd like to think she hated him now, but she was only kidding herself. She couldn't. Shouldn't? That was doubtful; she'd tried. Oh God had she tried, to go back. To unlock, unbolt, unscrew, untie, unravel the hatred she'd had for him when he grabbed her in that room.
But that wasn't him. Him. Back to square one. He wasn't really like that. He was kind, generous, beautiful, loving caring...careless, stupid, angry, scary and a grade A twat.
She contemplated once, in the ladies, what would have happened if she had kissed him that day. Would he have kissed her back? What would she feel? Fireworks? Alarm bells? What if she'd punched him? She knew she could do some damage. She wished she could punch him now. Hard. Punch his stupid fucking smug bastard face in. Ha. As if that would earn her his respect
It was funny; respect could pop faster than a balloon if you were given the right pin.
The last thing she looked at before she left was the office. His office. The blinds were closed, except the door. DCI Gene Hunt stamped across it. Stamped everywhere she went really. His shirt lay dumped under her bed. She didn't have the guts to throw it away, not the heart. Her heart belonged to him. Still. Always. Even after all this.
She remembered his look. His menacing look. Sea blue eyes that once held so much hope, so much wonder; screwed, bolted, sealed, sharply tucked away. The office. With its whiskey-tobacco smell; the stacks of incomplete paperwork. The computer which served just two purposes- pong and an armrest. The Guv's den.
For a while it had been the Guv and Bolly's den. Just a short while. A mere string on the piano of its lifetime. There were many laughs, the odd tear, many drinks and a few stardust kisses. But it was over now.
She took a deep breath and swallowed, collected her things and left. No one said a word. No one accompanied her. The start of her loneliness. She walked for what seemed like an age to get away from what was once a paradise, but now a gaping black hole of...of...empty.
She passed Viv on her way out. Viv. She liked Viv, with his gentlemanly ways and perfect uniform. Even he said nothing. Even he, Viv, was embarrassed and ashamed to have once called her a friend. A simple, undetected nod might have given her some hope. Restored a twinkle, a spark, something - anything to hang on to, to treasure. But no; he just stared like the rest of them.