Chapter Fifteen

1997

It had been a long time since Gene had ventured to those parts.

For all of Keats's bothering of Fenchurch East Gene hadn't been to the wild West since the rooftop confrontation that led eventually to 'his' Alex's return. Back then Keats had been so full of himself; he finally had his own station, his own CID, his own version of Gene's life – even, briefly, his own Alex. He couldn't have been a more smug specimen of evil if he tried. Gene remembered every moment of that confrontation so well. He learned the truth about Keats – that it was his own strong passion for the job that brought about the negative energy to balance it out, which Keats absorbed eagerly and used to become the 'anti-Gene'.

So Gene was the one 'doing it wrong'.

"Tough shit, Jimbo, I haven't stopped caring yet," he mumbled as he stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.

It was strange to be back. On the outside the station still resembled Fenchurch East after Keats took the liberty of 'remodelling' but inside he knew it couldn't be more different to its counterpart. The air felt so dark that he almost went back to the car for a torch to help him through. Just staring at the building made him shudder.

He thought about Keats and all the times he'd invited himself into Fenchurch East. Security didn't seem to be able to do a thing. Why was that? Did he vanish and rematerialize somewhere in the depths of CID? Going by past evidence Gene wouldn't have been surprised. But he suspected it was more simple than that – it was a case of being… what was the technical term for it? Oh yes, an arrogant cocky bastard.

"And I was the original arrogant, cocky bastard," Gene said to himself, striding towards the building. Nothing was going to stop him from getting the tape. Whatever he might have thought of the message, Alex was very insistent. He barely hesitated as he reached the doors and stepped into the building; the place that held the mirror image and yet polar opposite of the station he knew like the back of his hand. Casually flashing his warrant to the young officer on reception, he managed to gloss over the part about being Keats's sworn enemy and said simply,

"Come to liaise on the Nailer search, love. Any idea where I can find CID?"

The officer didn't even think to question him. She merely gave him instructions that he didn't even need and watched him smile politely and head off in the direction she'd told him before doubling back when he was sure no one was looking and following his instincts. Something was guiding him. He wasn't sure what it was, only that his feet seemed to know where to go. Sure enough, almost before he knew it there he was - at the top of a staircase with a sign marked Archiving.

"Great. I'm just in the mood for some video nasties," Gene mumbled to himself before taking a deep breath and making his way down the staircase. He was ready for whatever the room below held. Answers were almost at his fingertips now.

~xXx~

2012

Alex couldn't help it. She had to know what was going on. She found herself trotting down the corridor after Layton's ailing body until a doctor blocked her way.

"Excuse me, madam, you can't come through here," he told her.

"I'm DCI Alex Drake," she began, hesitating and rolling her eyes as she realised she had to issue a 'correction'. Damn time-travel demotion. "DI Alex Drake," she said, "I couldn't help but over hear that you brought in Arthur Layton…"

The doctor hesitated, a moment away from telling her everything she never wanted to know about patient confidently. The woman before him looked familiar and after a few moments wracking his brains he realised why.

"Oh my goodness… It's you, isn't it?" he found himself smiling with a slight look of awe across his face, "you were here. You were comatose for –"

"A long time, I know," Alex said through gritted teeth. This was proving to be a trip down memory lane that she could very well do without.

"It's wonderful to see you looking so good," he told her, "up and around, getting back on track, I can think of so many doctors who'll be thrilled to hear how well you're doing."

"I'll be doing even better if you can tell me what's going on with Arthur Layton," Alex said.

The doctor hesitated with a nervous laugh. He scratched his head looking awkward and apologetic.

"Listen," he began, "you know I can't give that information out to members of the public. Especially not to ones who…" he paused, "well, Mister Layton… he was the one who cased your initial injury, wasn't he?"

Alex took a deep breath.

"Doctor –" she scanned for a nametag, "- Doctor Gamble, I'm not asking as a member of the public, nor as a victim, I'm asking as a detective. He was supposed to be in prison."

"And he was," the doctor explained.

"But I thought someone said suspected overdose…"

The doctor closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn't' sure whether he should be talking to Alex about this or not. Yes, he knew she was a detective but he wasn't sure where the boundaries lay in that particular moment. Eventually he sighed and nodded.

"Yes," he said, "Mister Layton's cellmate raised the alarm when he heard choking. Evidence of drug use was found beside him." He shook his head sadly, "even with the highest security every now and then something sneaks past the watching eyes and into the cells. Arthur must have managed to get his hands on some."

"Suicide attempt?" Alex asked.

The doctor shrugged.

"Right now it's hard to know", he said, "it's certainly possible. Remember though that he was a pervious heavy user who has been, we presume, off the narcotics for some time. Taking a hit after a long spell away, he may have misjudged his dose"

"It could have been an accidental overdose?" Alex asked.

"It's just impossible to know right now," the doctor said starting to step back, "look, you'll have to excuse me, I'll be needed in a moment. Good to see you again though."

Alex watched him rushing away to attend to Layton. Her emotions began to churn inside of her, a strong mix of anxiety, anger and anticipation. What was his condition? Was he going to survive? If he died through deliberate or accidental means then how could she see him brought to justice? She needed him to face trial. She needed to see him put away - not put in a box, six feet under.

She knew that all she could do for now was to wait for news. Whatever the outcome she was going to be following it closely. It seemed that fate agreed with her – Arthur Layton held the key to her safe return to Gene and the nineties, and suddenly there he was, in a gift-wrapped, half-dead package.

~xXx~

1997

The telephone made Victoria jump out of her skin. She was chewing ferociously on her fingernails already and her nerves were not on her side. She glanced at Nailer who was happily enjoying his second coffee while her anxiety had tied her stomach into so many knots that she had made no progress with her first. She looked to him for guidance.

"Leave that," he recommended.

"It could be work," Victoria said nervously.

"All the more reason to leave it then," Nailer smiled amiably.

Victoria hesitated. She felt so far out of her depth that she wanted to just run and hide. The phone was still ringing, the constant noise pricking her annoyance like a pin cushion. Eventually despite Nailer's advice she jumped to her feet and snatched up the receiver.

"What?" she barked, her voice shaking a little. As the voice of a colleague came on the line she closed her eyes, fear building up to a crescendo in her chest. She took a deep breath and tried to think on her feet. "Yes… yes, I'm sorry… no I didn't realise it was that late." She glanced at the clock and her jaw almost dropped. She knew that she should have been at work by now but how had that much time passed? She felt a little disturbed that – until the ringing of the phone – she'd actually started to feel relaxed in Nick Nailer's company. She shook her head slightly and tried to ignore those feelings. "I'm really sorry, I've got food poisoning. Yeah. I-I think I'm over the worst, I'll…" she swallowed and breathed in deeply, "I'll take a shower and I'll be there as soon as I can."

Nailer looked at her with great disappointment as she hung up from her call. He lifted his mug and shook his head slightly.

"You said you wanted out of that place," he reminded her.

Victoria felt her heart racing inside her chest.

"Yes," she hissed, "I did. And I still do. But I panicked."

"Keep cool, Victoria," Nailer told her, "just remember I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Unlike that so called DCI of yours."

"You're a big time drug baron and an escapee," Victoria cried, "how am I supposed to keep cool? Why should I trust you?"

Nailer genuinely looked a little sad. He knew she had no reason to trust him, other than his word.

"Maybe because we have a common enemy," he reminded her.

Victoria swallowed. She knew that he was right about that. It didn't explain the strange draw she felt to him though; a wave of familiarity as thought they'd known each other in some other life. She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and rushed to the doorway.

"I have to get dressed and go," she said.

"And what about me?"

"Do what you like!" Victoria cried, "clean my sink. Make me dinner. Polish the floor. Can I remind you that you were the one who broke out of prison and into my house? I owe you nothing, Mister Nailer, and if I don't go to work can you imagine how that will look?"

"There's nothing to connect you pulling a sicky to my exit from the cells," Nailer told her.

"Except the little matter of visiting you in the aforementioned cells yesterday," said Victoria, "if that gets out –"

"Vicky, you need to trust me."

"I need to get dressed," Victoria said through gritted teeth, angry with the way that he was affecting her. She marched form the room and prepared to get ready for work, her thoughts churning around and around in her mind the whole time. She eventually threw on some clothes, pulled a brush through her hair and fastened it back in a harsh ponytail. She looked at herself in the mirror - her skin looked pale and haunted. God, she'd actually pass for having food poisoning looking that way too.

Nailer was still sitting at the kitchen table when she re-emerged, scrambling for her handbag.

"I'm telling you to rethink this," he urged her, "go back to that place and you're putting yourself back in the firing line. I don't trust that ratty DCI."

"I can take care of myself."

"You shouldn't have to," Nailer reminded her, "not against your boss."

Victoria threw her bag over her shoulder.

"I'm going now," she said.

"You really shouldn't," Nailer had a dark feeling about this. He couldn't explain it. He just had a bad feeling in his gut. But there was nothing he could do to stop the redhead as she turned and left the flat, only too aware that she'd left an escaped drug baron in her kitchen. She knew this situation was ridiculous. It made no sense. And yet inside she felt trusting Nailer made more sense than anything that had happened since she started work at Fenchurch West.

Tiny memories began to stab her in the back of her mind. Needles. Distorted voices. Strange sensations. But they were there for a moment and then they'd gone.

Just like the memories she quickly disappeared from the premises and began the drive to work. It was going to be a dark and difficult day, she knew that much for sure.

~xXx~

2012

Kim had to admit that if it was a choice between following greasy Arthur Layton or going to sit by Robin's bedside then there was only ever going to be one winner and it wasn't going to be the ratty-haired one. She felt just as shaken by his urgent hospital arrival as Alex did but her priority was Robin so she left the curious questions to her friend and slipped away to Robin's room as soon as she was able to. There were a few extra monitors there now after his earlier 'cardiac event' but other than that it didn't seem as though anything had changed.

Inside she knew differently. He was fighting to get back. He was close, too.

"Hey Rob," she said quietly as she sat carefully in the hard, plastic chair beside his bed. It didn't do much for her aching bones. She would have given anything to crawl into bed beside him, wrap her arm around his chest and bury her face against his warm shoulder but she had to settle for holding his hand instead. The ring was still there on his finger and the sight of it made her smile. "Well, haven't you had a busy night?" she said quietly, "first you almost wake up, lazy arse. Then you almost give up the ghost. And out there –" she pointed to the door, "it's all gone crazy with our friend mister Layton. Overindulged, apparently. Chaos, Rob. Utter chaos."

She stared at him, so still and silent, trying to imagine his eyes open and alert. There was still a long way to go but she knew he was getting there, slowly.

"You should see the state of me," she whispered with a tiny laugh, "my hair looks like a bloody hedgehog, I just got in a taxi and came right in. And I've borrowed your shirt and forgot to roll up the sleeves; I was running along the corridor like I had an elephant trunk on each arm." She sighed and shook her head. "At least it covers up the top of my trousers so no one sees the button hanging open. Oh yeah, a tip for you, Rob; if you're trying to get pregnant don't lend someone all your maternity clothes because when you start to show a bit it helps to have something that still fits." She sighed again. "See, you need to come home now and start making fun of me for getting fat and hogging the toilet. It's only fair, after I picked on you all that time… all your bloody symptoms… and besides, it's not natural, no one making fun of me, I've got no bloody banter. Tried it with Alex… but she's use to sparing with Gene, being accused of being an alcoholic car obsessive with a cowboy complex didn't sit well; with me. And none of her rebuttals involve arses. Those are my favourite ones, too."

She looked around for a moment before she moved a little closer. She ran her fingers through the front of his hair as she whispered,

"Something's going on here, Rob. I mean, right here, right now. They just wheeled Layton in. Overdose." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I've been having nightmares about that scummy twat all night. About when he shot me. Or, tried to shoot you. They… they were different." She took a deep breath. "Then I got the call to come to the hospital. You woke up… just for a moment… then your bloody heart stopped, didn't it? So you need to try the waking up part again and just forget about the heart attack bit next time, OK? Because things are definitely moving on, Rob. You need to get back here… you almost did… I'm just going to be waiting. Because I know you're going to make it."

She squeezed his hand and watched his face. Although it didn't flicker she could picture his eyes opening so clearly that she was sure it would be a reality before too long.

~xXx~

1997

The key slipped into the lock. A perfect fit. Gene had been harbouring a fear that Simon had given him the wrong key and given him the one to his cupboard of Red Dwarf merchandise by accident but his fears were unfounded. The door slowly opened and he felt around for a light switch to shed some light on the dark expanse beyond. As the lights pinged on one at a time with a shuddering metallic noise the contents of the room revealed themselves to Gene; filing cabinets, lockers and cupboards, one after another, with videos filling most of the available space. It was the first time Gene had seen it for himself.

"He's got his own branch of Blockbusters here," he mumbled, where the bleeding hell am I even supposed to start?"

Glancing behind him at the stairs as though worried someone was going to appear at any moment he tried doing eenie meenie minie mo to help him decide where to begin but got side tracked by inventing more and more gory versions of the rhyme which involved catching Keats by the bollocks rather than a tiger by its toe. In the end he decided just to go about it by scanning the shelves and hoping that Alex's name would stand out.

A couple of the lockers needed keys but Gene soon saw to that with determination, brute force and a handy metal bar he found in the corner of the room. He soon started to go video blind; scanning rows and rows of tapes, each one bearing a different name. Soon all he could see before his eyes were dancing videos, almost like they were mocking him, doing a song and dance routine in the air.

"Either I've sampled one of Layton's goodies or I need a break," he muttered. How the hell was he ever going to find it? There were hundreds of videos, there was no way he was ever going to spot the right one. How the hell did Simon do it when he went looking for tapes? Did he have come kind of sixth sense or something? Too many years recoding sci-fi programmes maybe, giving him an affinity with video tapes. He sank to the floor and reached for his flask before realising it was still empty.

"Bugger," he mumbled. He tried unscrewing the cap and tipping it up into his mouth anyway, getting all of three drops. Better than nothing, he supposed. He put the flask away and looked around the room with a sigh. There were a few random spiders making their homes down there but it certainly wasn't the most welcoming place. Even Gene was getting the creeps.

He focused on the TV and video at one end of the room, the same TV where Simon had watched Robin's tape less than a year ago. He recalled Simon telling him about the strange addition to the end of the tape; the 'coming soon' part. It was clear now what Simon had seen – somehow ahead of time he'd seen Robin's arrival to the world in Manchester. Until then Gene didn't think it was possible to see future arrivals in the depths of Keats's video dungeon. Between that and Alex's message he could see that things were changing.

"Bloody technology," he mumbled, "even Jimbo's snuff movie collection is evolving."

Something caught his eye. He didn't even know why it took his curiosity so much. Under the stand on which the television was placed there seemed to be one box; one cassette all by itself. He felt a shiver running down his spine. A memory forced its way back into his head; a different Alex, the wrong Alex in the wrong body, down in Keats's basement, finding her own video. When his own Alex returned she had very few memories of the things the 'other' her had done in her absence but she did remember viewing her own tape.

"I wonder…" Gene muttered. He slid across the floor and slipped his fingers beneath the stand. The tape was wedged in quite securely but with a little manoeuvring, and then lifting the cabinet an inch or so with a cry of "why didn't I bloody do that in the first place?" suddenly the tape was in his hands and the name on the side displayed proudly for him to see.

Alex

It was what he'd been looking for. What he needed to discover. The thing that Alex herself had told him to find. It was the whole purpose of his visit and the one thing he could to help Alex home. And yet, as he stared at the tape and saw how much his hands were shaking, he realised he wasn't ready for this. Not at all. He could have spent a year building up to it but still nothing would prepare him for knowing that he held in his hands the answer; would Alex get home or not? It was a lot to try to comprehend.

He knew he had no choice. He just had to suck it up, take the tape and learn to deal with whatever he saw. This was it, the moment he'd been waiting for. The moment Alex had told him to make happen.

He got to his feet and slipped the tape inside his jacket before he began to make his way back up the stairs. The wild west had provided the tape he required - yet somehow the hard part was still to come.

~xXx~

What the hell is wrong with me?

Keats stopped pacing finally and leaned over his desk, breathing and panting like a pregnant woman in labour. There were shockwaves evil, of anger, of bitterness surging through his body. While he was used to that he had never felt them with such gusto before. The strength of the violent, evil urges he was getting surprised and shocked him. This was so different… this was almost scaring him.

He gripped the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles turned white. Another wave of dark energy pulsed through him, an energy he just couldn't find a way to control. What the hell was happening to him? For a year and a half he'd been back in that world, drinking from the energy created to balance out the good that people like Gene and Alex did for those they looked after. The slowing down of energy when Alex awoke and Gene's heart as no longer in the job had been gradual and Keats's slow decline of strength had been almost imperceptible. By the time he noticed any difference months had passed by and his nefarious drives were limited to taunting Simon with evidence of his mother's infidelity rather than the usual mix of violence, sexual assault and soul-stealing that his daily routine entailed.

He made a groaning noise and his face creased up with strain as he tried to control the sensation that filled him; the need to let the increased energy loose, to cause so much pain and suffering that the cries of the victims would be heard for miles around. What the fuck was different? Yes, Gene's fire was coming back and there was one more source of energy to feed off of but –

Robin. That had to be it. With a noise of angry revulsion Keats closed his eyes and considered the genetic connection. Was that why the energy was so overwhelming? Was it a bit like accepting a kidney from a close relative? That the energy was more likely to take because there was shared blood between them?

"Fucking Robin," he hissed through gritted teeth, grasping the pot of pens on his desk and slamming it across the room where it struck the wall, sending a shower of stationery in every direction. As though he didn't have enough hatred for the man already. What was the point of taking on all this extra malevolence if he couldn't control it well enough to use it?

There were voices outside. One voice in particular. A female voice. He turned to the doorway and peered out. Victoria's desk was no longer empty; his DI had arrived looking somewhat haunted. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and tried to count to ten to cool his temper before he opened it but the counting trick had little effect – it merely gave him another ten seconds of dark energy to lap up.

He turned the handle slowly and stepped outside. He saw her eyes flicker upwards. She'd seen him. Good. Let her live in fear of every footstep.

He couldn't remember ever walking at such a slow pace before. He took the very slowest of walks through CID; one foot after another, slowly pacing it out. He could see her shake a little more with every inch he moved towards her. She knew she was in trouble. She had yet to find out how much.

"DI Stone."

Even his voice had changed. It was darker and deeper; sharper, every word spilling over with anger. Slowly her eyes rose to his level. He watched her tremble and that made him want to smirk but he had to keep his expression grim and full of fury.

"I'm sorry I'm so late sir," she said quietly, "I must have had some bad prawns for dinner. I was throwing up all night."

"Of course you were," Keats took one last step towards her. He was so close now that not only could she catch the scent of his aftershave but she could smell his anger too.

"I'm sorry, I should have called you to let you know I'd be in late," Victoria said quickly.

Keats saw the fear in her eyes and lapped it up like the tastiest treat he'd ever known. It was beautiful. He wondered how much more fear he could extract from her.

"Between your tardiness and your attitude lately I am feeling a disciplinary coming on," he told her.

Her expression tuned from fear to shock.

"What?" she hissed.

"Something needs to be done about your attitude and your efficiency," Keats hissed, "perhaps detective inspector was a step too far. Perhaps you need to look at setting your sights a bit lower."

Victoria blinked and swallowed. She tried to keep her voice level. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing it wobble.

"Are you saying you're going to demote me?" she demanded, quietly adding, "sir?" on the end.

"That depends on whether you can start to pull your weight around here," Keats told her, "or at least give the boys something to look at." He reached forward and roughly pulled the band from her hair. She gave a pained gasp, partly from the sharp motion pulling her hair and partly because the action made her feel violated. She drew back and moved her chair slightly further away from him but Keats didn't appreciate that and took a step toward her before he grasped her shoulder and pulled her out of the chair.

"Is that how you show your DCI respect?" he hissed.

"Is that how you show your DI respect?" Victoria countered. There was still a strong sense of fear in her veins but her bite was starting to come to the fore.

"You think a few bad prawns is enough reason to stay away from work?" Keats began, almost spitting wildly, "nothing compared to a pair of black eyes."

"Sir!" one of Keats's DCs got to his feet, his mouth hanging open in shock. He'd seen the way Keats treated Victoria – they all had – but no one had been bold enough to stand up for her or to put themselves in the middle of the situation before. Then again, Keats had never threatened physical violence before.

"Shut up and sit down, Dillion," Keats barked over his shoulder, saliva flying with every word like a rabid dog barking at a passer-by.

"That's enough!" Dillion yelled.

"What's the matter with you?" A female DS cried. She had been just as guilty of staying out of the matter for all that time, afraid of the consequences if she tried to interfere, but everyone could see the change in Keats now. This was going far too far.

"You can all keep your sticky beaks out," Keats sneered, "you think I need a bunch of snivelling failures trying to teach me about chivalry? Let me tell you something – you failed, every last one of you."

"What do you mean, we 'failed?" another DC piped up from behind his desk nervously.

"What do you think you're here for?" Keats cried, his fury slowly turning into wild, manic laughter, "not because you shine at your chosen profession, that's for certain! You need me and you need your job more than you realise – no one else would touch any of you with a forty-foot pole. So sit the fuck down and stay out of my –" the end of his sentence was cut off by a fist ploughing into his cheekbone.

Victoria's knuckles stung and throbbed. She'd thrown so much power behind the punch, almost too much – all that pent-up anger, frustration and resentment from a year and a half of abuse had finally boiled over and she couldn't hold back. The punch had been enough to knock Keats's grasp from her shoulder and now free from his grip she ran; her legs took her at speed from the office where she'd taken insult after insult, put down after put down, for all that time. He'd made her feel worthless. He'd even told her that she was. After all that time under Keats's remit she felt two inches high. But something had changed inside of her. Someone had given her back a little of her fight. Someone unexpected who had faith and belief in her. Someone who might have been on the other side of the law but had more scruples in one finger than Keats had in his whole body

It wasn't something Victoria had ever expected to find herself thinking, but she really wished she'd listened to Nick Nailer.

She could hear footsteps now, pounding after her down the corridor. Her heart started to race with fear and she found herself starting to sob silently. She begged and pleaded in her mind to get out of the building; to escape before he caught up to her. She had to get out, she had to be safe, she needed to escape from a man who had truly passed to the other side of sanity. Keats was insane. Insane and dangerous. More than ever before.

The hand that grasped the back of her clothes and dragged her to the ground was rough and forceful and she screamed the moment it made contact with the fabric. Her knees stung as they struck the floor and her hands picked up carpet burns as the man behind the action tried to drag her backwards.

"What do you think you're doing, detective inspector?" he hissed, "going somewhere without permission? You're already got two hours to make up for."

"No!" she screamed, "someone, help me –"

"No one's going to run to your rescue, red," Keats hissed. He turned her over and grasped her thick red waves in his fingers, pinning her head to the ground as he did so, "this is my station. And this is my world. They'll all turn their back on you because when it comes down to it I'm the only one who matters here. It's just me, Victoria. I am this station. I'm everything you see around you. No one's going to run to your rescue."

"Get off me," she cried as she thrashed from side to side, trying desperately to escape his grip but with her body pinned to the ground she couldn't fight back this time. It mattered not how loud she cried or how much she begged. Almost as though the station adhered to Keats's request, the corridor was empty. It was as though the station really was Keats; a part of his psyche. It moulded itself to his desire, cleared the way for him to finally take out a violent revenge on Victoria for every tiny thing that she'd done. Any time she'd dared to defy him, any time she'd failed to take his behaviour like a good little girl. Now as he took her wrists and pinned them over her head she closed her eyes and braced herself for the worst. Which way was his going to go; sex or violence? Or both? All she could do was wait for it to be over. She knew this had been a long tine coming. She'd been on borrowed time. Now every drop of his venom was going to be unleashed.

~xXx~

He was already halfway up the stairs when he heard the screaming. Glancing behind him back into the basement Gene commented;

"I thought the screams of torture were supposed to come from under the ground."

When another scream rang out followed by the sound of an angry Keats threatening someone Gene realised that this wasn't some obscure otherworldly cry of doom; someone was facing the wrath of the most evil and twisted man Gene had ever met.

"Bloody hell, sounds like someone's had his Weetabix," he mumbled as he began to run up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the top and pushed back the door. He couldn't see anyone but he could still hear the screaming. In fact, that was strange by itself. He couldn't see anyone. No one at all. Where the hell were the rest of the staff?

Another scream stopped him from wondering about that as he tried to work out what direction it was coming from. He glanced to his left and started to run down the corridor, the voice coming closer with every step. What the hell was going on? Gene almost didn't want to know.

As he turned the corner and came out upon a landing he found Keats's back to him as he sat over a woman Gene vaguely recognised, He'd seen her once or twice. She screamed and struggled but the more she fought the tighter Keats's hold on her became.

"What, you like it rough?" he heard Keats hiss, "is that it?"

Gene had rarely felt so much contempt for one person. His anger boiled up inside of him. He lunged for the crazed man, grasped him by the back of his jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet.

"I thought you'd hit the last of the lows," he cried as he turned Keats around and swiftly aimed a fist at his jaw, "and then you somehow manage to stoop to a whole new level, don't you?" It took Keats a few seconds to work out what was going on and make sense of the punch. He didn't even realise at first that Gene was the one who'd offered up a fist to his throbbing jaw. Even when he did, he couldn't make sense of it. What the hell was Gene doing on the premises anyway?

"Don't tell me, you're looking for a job?" Keats sneered, a crooked smirk appearing as he regarded Gene, "sorry, no openings here for aging, lardy DCIs who smell like a cross between Oddbins and the fragrance counter of a nineteen seventies chemist shop."

"The only openings I'm interested in are the ones I can shove a tent pole up," Gene threatened. He took hold of Keats by the collar and pushed him against the wall as Victoria managed to scramble to her feet and flee the scene, her feet almost on fire from the speed of her escape. For a moment Gene wondered if he should go after her to see if she was alright but he had a stronger need to confront Keats about his actions instead. Hell, it had been a long time coming.

"Get off my fucking suit," Keats hissed as he tried to prise Gene's hands from his collar.

"With pleasure," Gene hissed and he grasped him by the neck instead. As he gagged and spluttered, Keats began to feel somewhat regretful of taking so much pride in the appearance of his suit.

"Security will be here any moment," he choked, just hoping he was right. There was no one nearby. That was of his doing. Now he had no one to blame but himself.

"Oh really?" hissed Gene, "then I'd better make this quick, hadn't I?" he pressed his face right up against Keats's until their noses literally touched and his burning hot breath almost seared Keats's skin away from his skull as he continued, "Attacking a woman – a female DI under yer own care no less – in the middle of a police station. You've got a big bloody witness here, Jimbo, and one who's more than happy to give a full description of everything he's seen. Let you get away with this shit one time too many, Keats. I'll make this one stick if I have to jam a tube of superglue three feet up yer rectum."

"You seem a little too fascinated with sticking things up my – urgh - Oof," Keats found his smug words cut off by a knee to the groin and a fist to the stomach. As he slid to the ground he caught sight of Gene's expression. He wasn't bluffing.

"How many people do you need to target, eh Keats? How many people do you need to hurt? Alex. Stringer. Simon. Now your red-haired escapee – let's hope she keeps on running because she's stuck it out with your flame-grilled hell for far too long." He stood over Keats and watched him clutching his stomach as the aftershock oh the punch caused ripples of pain through his abdomen. "Oh dear, did I 'urt you?" Gene asked, "We'll say that one's for Stringer and work our way up shall we? Who next? Simon or Bols?"

"You're crazy," Keats hissed as he tried to get to his feet.

"I'm crazy?" cried Gene, "that's praise indeed coming from someone whose Christmas list is made up of a straightjacket and a few rolls of rubber wallpaper." The sound of footsteps made Gene curse. It sounded as though security had caught up with Keats's desire for assistance at last. Damnit, he was just starting to enjoy himself. "Trust me, Jimbo, this is far from over," he warned, "but next time it'll be handcuffs instead of fists. This is it. Over." He stepped back. Patting his jacket to make sure the tape was still securely tucked away inside. "Now if you don't mind I'm off to watch a film."

He took one last look at the crumpled Keats on the ground before he made his escape. There was something different about him, more dangerous than ever before. Gene didn't like that. Neither was he going to stand for it. This was the beginning of the end for Keats. Gene was one hundred percent sure of that. But he had one other, more important piece of business to deal with first because when Keats went down he wanted Alex standing right by his side.

~xXx~

The sound of her heels hitting the tarmac as she fled through the car park was almost deafening. It reverberated around the space and around her head as well. She concentrated on the sounds, knowing every step she heard took her one step away from Keats and one step away from danger. She reached her car, scrambling in her pockets for her keys when suddenly the passenger door opened right before her.

"What the fuck-?" she panted, not even sure that it was really happening. Was she hallucinating? Was this all in her head? The sight of Nailer sitting in the driver's seat brought both anxiety and relief. Her mouth dropped open as she fell desperately into the car and cried, "what the hell are you doing here, and how the fuck did you get into my car?"

"You learn a few tricks in my line of work," Nailer told her amiably.

"And my first question?" Victoria demanded.

Nailer shook his head.

"I told you I didn't trust your DCI," he said, a note of sadness in his voice as he saw the state of her.

"Well you were right," Victoria said shakily, "he's crazy… he's crazy and I've known that for a long time but never… never had the strength to get out." She looked at Nailer. She knew what he was. She knew what he'd done. But there was an honesty about him despite his work that was a hundred times more appealing that Keats's classy, shiny layers of deception. "Just take me with you," she begged, "I'll help you with Layton, I'll do anything, just get me away from, this place."

Nailer nodded seriously. That was all he wanted to do.

"In that case I'll need your keys," he said.

"I thought your line of work taught you a few tricks?" Victoria cried, scrambling in her pockets once more.

"Yeah, a few…" Nailer repeated, "just… not that one." He couldn't help but smile as the key found its way into his hand. "I think," he said, "this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

"Bollocks, just drive," Victoria demanded.

Nailer was happy to.

Even the bad guys deserve to get the girl now and then.

~xXx~

2012

Needles plunged into his sunken skin. Hands worked against his bony chest. Men and women in uniform flocked around him as body lay on the trolley, trying to pump the life back into him. Was there anything left inside the crumbling shell or had he just given up? Was there any Arthur Layton left who wanted to fight on or had he chosen the easy way out?

There was a breath.

A heartbeat.

Then another.

A pulse, a splutter, a return to life for the body that had been without it just moments ago.

"Very, very good work everybody," one doctor said loudly, "that was a difficult one. He's back."

Like it or not, there was life – such as it was – in that ailing body yet. Arthur Layton was not finished yet.

~xXx~

#...Life is hard

And so am I

You better give me something

So I don't die

Novocaine for the soul

Before I sputter out

Life is white

And I am black

Jesus and his lawyer

Are coming back

Oh my darling, will you be here

Before I sputter out

Guess whose living here

With the great undead

This paint by numbers life

Is fucking with my head once again

Life is good

And I feel great

'cause mother says I was

A great mistake

Novocaine for the soul

You'd better give me something

To fill the hole

Before I sputter out… #

Novocaine For The Soul - Eels