A/N: Sorry updates on this fic are sporadic; basically I seem to only be able to write this one when I'm in pain and highly medicated! But in a way that means sporadic updates are a good thing!? Anyway, we have also just moved so I am trying to get back into the swing of things. My next priority is to update my main fic, 'Things Can Only Get Better'! Thank you for reading, please let me know if you enjoy this chapter x
~xXx~
Chapter 3
How had it come to this?
That was all that Alex could ask herself time and again as she stood like a fool in the middle of the shop while Keats treated her like some sort of personal dress-up doll.
"You'll soon see the difference, Alex," he told her with a smile. Or was it a smirk? There was a very fine line between the two and Keats had an extraordinary ability to flit back and forth between the two with ease like someone pressing a button to change the channel on the TV. In fact, he walked a very fine line between being charming or cruel and Alex was having difficulty decoding which side of the line his intentions truly lay. He'd always been on that border but she had always trusted him. Always given him the benefit of the doubt. He had always seemed to have her best interests at heart after all. And once again, here he was; coming to her rescue when she had no one to turn to.
And so far he had been true to his word. He had done everything he'd promised. He'd got the charges against her dropped, he'd taken her for a slap-up lunch and now he was preparing to take her to her new job, whatever and wherever that was. The new clothes he'd promised came as part of that deal.
"There," he said as he pulled out her arms, leaving her looking as stiff and awkward as the scarecrow that had stood guard over Gene's body for all of those years, "I think you will find this… somewhat more professional than your usual wardrobe."
Alex bristled as he slipped a smart navy jacket over her arms and turned her to see herself on the mirror.
"I look like Margaret Thatcher," she said crossly but soon regretted her tone as Keats's angry stare turned to her, searing her soul with a furious glare.
"That's gratitude," he snapped, "I'm funding a whole new wardrobe for you to help you reach your potential. I'm not doing this because I've got money to burn, Alex. I'm doing this because if our arrangement is going to work…" Alex shuddered at that line, not quite certain yet what her side of the 'arrangement' was supposed to be, "…then you'll have to learn that I know what's best for you."
Alex bit her lip to stop herself from asking if he thought he was her mother or something. One thing she was learning fast was that the moment he'd signed away and released her from custody he'd also apparently signed his name on the Alex Drake adoption papers because suddenly he needed to be in control of everything - where she went, what she wore, even what she had to eat and drink.
She couldn't deny the slap-up lunch had been delicious but it had come at a price, and she wasn't talking about the hefty cheque he handed over at the end of the meal. He had taken great delight in completely ignoring her questions to the waiter about the specials and instead ordered for her the largest, most expensive dish on the menu. Then he had spent their entire wait for food telling her how much she was going to have to owe him for the pleasure. He spelt out repeatedly what else he could have used the money for and reminded her of her own lack of finances, how she would have to rely on him whole-heartedly until her first month's wages came in. As she sat there feeling her stomach growling and picking mud from the clothes she was stuck wearing she realised that it was far more than her food and clothes he had the monopoly over. It was her freedom was well.
For that matter she might just as well have gone to prison after all.
She stood there and let him fuss around her, straightening the jacket and holding out blouses as though he was auditioning for some twentieth century makeover programme. She took a deep breath and tried to keep her cool. She was starting to become angry with his behaviour now.
He'd been almost unbearable when the food had arrived. After spending the wait describing how much he was spending on the feast he then spent the meal describing to her how calorie-laden every mouthful was. If she was honest she had mostly zoned it out, so hungry she was from not eating in a good couple of days that all she could think about was getting the food from the plate to her mouth but as soon as he realised how little it was bothering her he started making threats about taking the rest of the food away before she piled on the pounds which merely made her gobble up the rest of her lunch as fast as possible, leaving her with atrocious case of indigestion.
She stifled a burp as he swapped the light blue blouse in his hand for a grey one.
"Much better Alex," he smiled, "now you look the part. You actually look like a detective inspector instead of someone auditioning for Minipops."
It seemed that Keats was frustrated by her lack of response to his jibes about her lunch and weight so he had swapped to ones about another aspect of her appearance instead; her fashion sense. She knew that she didn't dress as a detective inspector traditionally would. She never had. In the early days that was simply because she had to beg, steal or borrow clothing and had to make do with whatever she could get. Wearing the cast offs of murder victims had grown tired fast and she had started to invest in some clothes of her own, experimenting with her appearance. What was the point of being back in time if she couldn't experiment a little after all?
But it was true that her appearance wasn't traditional for her post. She let her mind wander back to the clothes she used to wear on the job back in her old life, in 2008. If she was honest part of the outfit Keats had picked out for her wasn't dissimilar to something she would have worn, albeit with bigger shoulder pads. She knew that in the clean and clinical world of 2008 that she had little choice but back in the 80s there was so much colour and excitement that to wear what appeared to be the PM's cast-offs made her feel drab and dreary.
"You'll soon see the difference," he told her, flicking a little imaginary lint from the sleeve of her jacket, "wait until you find how differently people treat you when you look the part. There will be no more talking to your chest; people will be talking right to your face, looking you in the eye and listening to every last word you say."
But even as he spoke Alex couldn't help but notice that his own eyes were firmly fixed on the location he had spoken out against. It made her shudder and she pulled her arms in to her chest, pulling the jacket closed around her. She was disturbed by his slightly mocking laugh and could do nothing but stars angrily as he took a step away and turned his back to her.
"Take it off. We'll buy this for now and you can pay me back when you get your first month's wages. Speaking of which, you won't be getting any pay at all unless you get to work."
Alex felt her insides turn cold as he spoke. She had someone managed to block that part out.
"You've mentioned this before, Jim, she said quietly, "but you haven't told me where I'm going to be working. She hesitated as she shrugged her arms out of the jacket. "not D and C?"
Keats merely laughed as he ran a hand through his dark locks.
"No, Alex, I have something far more stimulating in mind for you," Keats told her. For a horrible moment Alex thought that he had lined her up a career as an erotic masseuse or something along those lines but as he turned and took the garment from her hands he explained further. "Times have changed now. I've moved on. Got myself a new post. You see, Fenchurch West was looking for someone of my seniority. They needed a firm hand to run their CID. New broom and all that. The dead wood has gone and I've got empty desks that I need to fill. There's a space for a detectve inspector with your name right on the desk."
Alex felt a chill running through her body. Her blood ran a little cold.
"Fenchurch West?" she repeated. She'd never had the best of experiences with their rival station. Any time she had encountered them it seemed that the rot had taken hold and corruption was rife.
"Come on, Alex," Keats looked her in the eye, "don't try giving me a misplaced sense of loyalty to Fenchurch East. Look what they did to you. They wrote you off as dead, shovelled Gene out the door and slapped handcuffs on your wrists. Do you really owe them anything? Anything at all?"
The memory of the previous night and all that she had discovered as she returned made her stomach churn and for a moment she thought she was about to say goodbye to that rich, heavy lunch Keats had spent what he claimed was a small fortune on. But before she had a chance to dwell on it for too long one of Keats's comments played again through her head.
"Gene," she whispered.
Keats's expression darkened
"What about him?" he demanded.
"You told me… I thought he'd left of his own accord," she whispered, "now you say he was pushed out?"
"Left, pushed, what's the difference?" Keats watched her face start to grow angry and knew he had overstepped the mark. He took a deep breath and quickly tried to regroup. Despite the hold he exerted over her now that he was the only lifeline she had he didn't want to push her too far. He wanted her to stay subdued and under his thumb rather than fighting him all of the way. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder and looked her in the eye with all the sincerity he could muster. "Look, Alex, I understand. You and Hunt had something. I understand that. But he let you down, just as he was always going to because he's not good enough for you."
"Gene was -"
"You and Gene are in different leagues. And while you might have mistaken a… a close working relationship for some kind of… personal bond it's over now. You need to look to the future, not to the past."
Alex bit down hard on her lip as his words triggered tears unexpectedly.
"It's a little hard not to think about the past when you're trapped in it for an eternity," she whispered.
"Time for a new life, Alex," Keats told her, "today is just the first step. In time you'll forget him. You'll forget all of this, All you'll remember is how you make a big difference to Fenchurch with a team of officers and detectives that listen to your every word." he held his hand towards her, "Come on, DI Drake. This is just the first step. Big things are coming." He smiled. "I promise you."
Alex swallowed as she stared back at him., Deep down she knew those were all lies. She couldn't pretend she felt anything different. Although she was stuck with no alternative the fact that she had to trust Keats and follow his orders was killing her inside. But it was that or take to the streets and the mess from the night before proved that she couldn't cope with that.
She would have to go along with it. She would have to listen to Keats and follow his orders, just for now. But this was a temporary state of affairs. As lost and troubled as she was she knew inside that she wasn't going to live this way forever. For now she would do as he said, she would eat what he put on the table before her, wear the clothes that he picked out and sit at the desk on which he'd place her name. But as time went by she would build up her finances, her strength and her identity again until the day came to break free.
With hesitation she took his hand and allowed him to pull her towards the counter to pay. She wasn't giving in, she was just taking on a role, almost as though she was undercover. And as time went by she would rebuild her life. Alex Drake was too strong to bend to the will of another.
It was a shame that Keats didn't think the same way. He laughed internally as he placed the clothes onto the counter and flashed his cash. He'd seen it now, that defiant streak, the part of Alex that was refusing to give in. But just because he'd seen a glimpse of it didn't mean there were not ways to extinguish it The flame would soon falter and die as the embers of her soul burned out and cooled. That trace of Alex Drake that ran beneath her broken shell would fade away as quickly as the flurry of starlight across the sky.
