satyricon au go go

Life on Mars

It had all started with a phone call in the early hours of the morning.

Gene had been barely awake as he crouched by the body that had been found just under the bridge by the canal, ghostly white in the pale blue pre-dawn light.  Getting a call out on a homicide was never enjoyable, and at this hour of the morning, even less so, but this was something else again.  Gene was suddenly glad he'd not had time for breakfast, as his stomach kicked up.  This was nasty.

"Where's Tyler?" he growled, lighting a fag in the near darkness.

"Dunno, Guv," Chris answered. "Couldn't raise him."

"Well go and fetch him, he only lives just up over there," he nodded to the row of run down and town on their luck Victorian townhouses that now endured as bedsits  at the top of the hill.

"You might want to see this first, Guv," Ray interjected, quite serious, which caught Gene's full attention instantly.

"Found it, in her pocket," he nodded to the pile of discarded clothing nearby as he handed across the bloodied slip of paper, already bagged and labelled. 

It was Sam's address, and it gut punched Gene. He swung back to the body, and saw for the first time, clearly, the belt, still looped tight around her neck. Sam's belt. He knew it. He'd had that same buckle slide through his own hands just hours ago.

"Right." He stood, tossing his fag to the ground and grinding it in.  "Seal off this area, get some tape or sheets whatever you have to and sealed it off. Nobody gets near this body without my say so. Take photographs of everything, absolutely everything. And get the science boys down here. Tell them I want everything tested."

"Where are you going, Sir?"

"To see Sam," Gene answered, resigned.  "You stay here. I'll take a couple of uniforms."

Sam was asleep, lying face down and sprawled untidily across his bed, clumsily half dressed and oblivious to the pounding knocks on his door.

Finally the door was kicked in by DCI Hunt, followed by a couple of uniformed officers.

"Sam. Sam!" Gene barked in his ear and Sam stirred at last, bleary eyed and stinking of gin and vodka.

There were deep scratches on his face, including three long ones across his cheek, and his clothes were awry and covered in blood. There were long strands of bleached blonde hair on his shirt, and ejaculate staining his y-fronts. 

Gene had been given no choice in the matter. None at all.

"Get your trousers on, Sam. We have to go."

"Where? Now?" Sam asked, still half asleep, rubbing his eyes and fumbling for his belt, then forgetting it and pulling up his pants, zipping his fly.  He couldn't remember what had happened. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten home.

"Gene?" he asked, but Gene couldn't look him in the eye.

Gene bit down bitterly on what he had to do. 

"Sam Tyler, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder."

A PC pulled Sam roughly to his feet. Sam hissed, and Gene quickly snatched the cuffs off the uniform. Unable to do anything but go through the motions, Gene turned Sam around, doing it as gently as possible, holding Sam's arms behind him and cuffing him, trying to get as much give out of the cuffs as he could.

"I'm sorry, I have no choice," Gene whispered into Sam's ear, and then he straightened.

Sam said nothing in the car, nor as he was photographed and then fingerprinted by Chris, so very carefully, and given a tissue to wipe his hands with afterwards. Nobody said anything. They were all reeling in shock and only the demands procedure kept them in motion.

"My hands," Sam suggested quietly. "You should take a photograph of my hands."

Chris glanced at the Guv, who nodded.

Sam held his hands out over the table, front and back, and Chris took a photo of each.

"My face, too," he prodded.

Chris took another close of Sam's face. Sam blinked away painfully from the flash.

"Right, that's enough," Gene stepped in.

"No. We do this right. You have to take my clothes. All of them."

"Right. Chris, go get back to his flat, get him some clean kit."

While Chris scurried off, Gene backed Sam into a corner.

"What are you trying to do?' he growled.

"Everything has to be by the book."

"Sam, you're stitching yourself up."

"Or it could be my only chance. Some stray hair of fibre that proves someone else was there. Gene, you have to help me. I know how these cases work."

"So do I, and you're not helping matters. You can't remember anything?"

"Not a thing."

Gene sniffed at him again. "I'm not surprised. I should sell you to the funny buggers on suspicion of being a Russian spy. You reek of vodka."

"I know. You have to do a blood test now. Establish the amount of alcohol in my blood. It's important. Do a tox screen."

"A what?"

"Test for drugs. All of them. Anything. I feel, I feel like I've been drugged, and there's a metallic taste in my mouth that isn't just blood. I didn't do this, Gene. On my life, I swear to you, I've been set up."

"So you say.  I wish you'd bloody stayed."

"You can't imagine how much I regret that."

"Why did you leave?"

Sam shrugged.

"Sam, do you have a brief?"

"Yes," Sam answered dully, then remembered. "No."

"I'll get you one. You're going to need one. This doesn't look good."

"But I didn't do it. You believe me, don't you? Gene?" he pleaded.

Gene kept his distance, all business. "It's not what I believe. It's what the evidence tells me. And right now, it's telling me I have to lock you up for your own safety as much as anyone else's. I'm sorry Sam. I've got no bloody choice in the matter."

Sam was led quietly to the farthest cell, uncuffed and the door slammed shut on him.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Wake up now, please, he pleaded. No. He couldn't be that lucky. Nothing happened. He was still stuck in the cell.

Gene didn't say another word as he walked back alone, and no one dared speak to him. It was unspeakable. No one could believe Sam could be accused of such a thing, something so violent, so horrible. And yet, they all remembered the odd behaviour, the times when he'd seemed out of his mind or at least acting very strangely. Perhaps he'd just snapped. And so the whispers began.

*

Annie handed Sam a clean set of clothes and a couple of crinkly plastic bags to put his old clothes into, and stepped back into as far a corner of the cell as she could stand from him.

"You've seen me naked before," Sam tried to fill in the awful silence.

"I know." She didn't budge.

"I won't hurt you."

"You're charged with murder, Sir."

"I didn't do it."

She nodded to his clothes, soaked in blood.

He could see it in her eyes. She'd put it together, this murder, his craziness. She thought he'd done it.  She didn't want to, but she did. Just standing there, Annie landed him the hardest blow of all.

Unable to speak, he quietly unbuttoned and unzipped his clothes, folding them neatly into the plastic bags. The concrete floor was ice cold under his bare feet, the damp air pricked at his bare skin before he pulled the clean clothes someone had fetched from his flat. He should have been stripped and searched straight away, but at least they were learning and doing it now. Procedure kept him in motion and he bagged his own evidence neatly and handed it over.

Annie had to step forward briefly to take the bundles from him, and then she was out of his cell like a scalded cat. 

Sam leant against the cell door, then thumped his head against it harder, angry with himself, with everything. This couldn't be happening. Please, somebody, get him out of here. Make it stop now. He'd had enough. He wanted to go home.

Annie almost threw the bags down on the Guv's desk.

"No trouble then?" he asked.

"No," she sulked, hating every minute of this.  "He's being a model prisoner, so far."

 She walked out, but turned back at the last minute by the door, needing to say it, knowing she'd be sorry if she didn't.

"Guv, you need to get somebody to look at him, a doctor. He was covered in bruises, with marks all down his back." She hadn't wanted to look, not at Sam, not then, not ever, but she'd seen the red marks and blotches, slowly deepening into bruises.  She hated him, for doing that, for getting so obviously out of control, and she'd hated herself for saying nothing until it was too late.

The Guv just nodded, and she could see his thoughts weren't that far off hers, that they should have done something about Sam, before now.

*

Gene pulled out the chair with a scrap, sat down and pressed down the record buttons on the tape deck.

"Right. Interview commenced at," he glanced at his watch. "6.45am. Present are DCI Hunt, and the suspect, DI Sam Tyler. I am now showing the suspect photographs of the murder weapon, one large kitchen knife, found in his kitchen drawer, still covered in blood, very uncharacteristically grubby of him, I must say, not washing up after himself, his belt, found wrapped around the neck of the victim, a note, found in the victim's pocket containing his name and address,  his clothes, covered in the victim's blood, and the victim's own clothing, or what's left of it, with traces of the suspect's own blood on it, to wit, one bloody handprint. I am also showing the suspect photographs of the crime scene."

He laid them out carefully like a hand of face cards, and Sam groaned and twisted away, not wanting to look.

Gene pressed on, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "I am now going to ask the suspect if he can account for his whereabouts between 11 pm and five am."

"I can't," Sam answered miserably, still staring at all the evidence on the table in numb horror, rubbing the knuckles of one hand in the other unconsciously.

"Right. Interview suspended at 6.50 am." He thumped the tape recorder off.

Sam glanced at Gene nervously, suddenly dreading being on the wrong side of the desk. He'd seen what Gene could do, and he was slowly, too slowly, realising that Gene wasn't about to, and couldn't do him any favours.

Gene eyed him, cold and angry.

"You're not helping yourself by staying schtum, Sam."

"I'm sorry," was all Sam could offer.

The tape recorder was pressed on again. Gene leant close over the little trestle table, over the horrible photographs, and spoke very low and soft.

"What happened, Sam? Did you get hungry on the way home?"

Sam rocked back as if struck.

"What are you saying? Do you think?" He spluttered.

Gene folded his arms, leaning back again.

"I don't know what to think. I've got one of the most horrible murders I've ever seen, and one of my detectives charged with it. You keep telling me you don't know what happened, but look at you, sitting there, with those scratches running down your face.  She put up a fight, yeah? I bet we find that's your blood type under her nails, and your spunk up her wotsit. This is bloody serious, Sam."

Sam looked at him aghast. "You think I don't know that? I told you I can't remember what happened."

"I think you don't want to remember. Look at these photos, Sam. That's your belt. She'd been in your flat. We found hairs all over the bed, and it's not the first time you've taken a prozzer home, is it?"

Sam reeled back again.

"That was different."

"Was it? I seem to recall she ended up dead too. Or is that just coincidence?"

"No!"

"Not coincidence?"

"Gene, please, this is me, Sam." He was begging now.

"I know," Gene answered quietly. That's what made this all so horrible.

"I didn't do it."

"You don't know what you did. You keep telling me you don't remember.  That's not exactly a declaration of innocence, is it? I can smell why you can't remember. You're practically sweating gin. What, did you crawl into a bottle or three after, or before and during as well?"

"Gene!"

Gene thumped the table. Hard.

"No. I'm conducting this investigation and this interview. I ask the questions. And I expect answers. Where were you last night?"

Sam shook his head. "I can't," he offered weakly, glancing at the tape.

Gene smacked the recorder off.

"Tell me."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't.  You have to say something Sam."

"It's 1973. I still have a right to remain silent."

Gene fumed. "Don't you dare start playing silly buggers with me," he warned.

Sam glanced around the room wildly. Why not? This was all a joke. Some horrible, nasty joke. He started to weep, openly now, tears sliding uncontrollably  down his face. Please, he could he wake up now?

"Right." Gene gathered up all the evidence back into his file, making notes. "This is serious, Sam. You are being charged with murder. If you won't help me, there's nothing I can do."

"Gene, please," Sam begged quietly. "You've got to help me. You know me, you know I could never…"

Gene leant close again.

"I do know you, Sam. And that's the problem, isn't it?" He leant real close. "I think you're bloody dangerous."

As Sam sat there gaping, Gene elaborated in a low, tightly controlled voice.

"You've got me compromised. I shouldn't even be handling this investigation but there's no one else. And I've seen you lose it, and I did nothing. This is my fault. I'm to blame. If I've done something, maybe none of this would have happened and we wouldn't be sitting here. It's my mess. I've got to clean it up."

Sam just sat there, unable to speak.

"That's your statement then? Nothing to stay? Right." 

Gene stood up, knocked on the door, and handed Sam over to the uniform who was waiting outside, listening for the tell tale thumps, letting the uniform pull Sam up by the collar and lead him back down to his cell. Gene had no stomach for doing it himself. He saw, as Sam went, that he was bleeding, down the back of his shirt, but he wasn't surprised, the dead prozzer had nails on her like talons.

Gene shut the door and leant back against it in the now quiet near darkness. He suddenly covered his face with his hands and doubled over as one terrible sob escaped him, then he recovered himself, wiping his eyes and just breathing in the darkness.  Then he thumped the table in a sudden flash of fury.

Damn you, Sam. What had you done now?

*

Sam leant back against the wall, trying to remember the night before, but all he had were wisps of memory that flitted beyond his reach. A flash of Gene trowing him up against the wall, pinning his wrists. He remembered grinning, telling Gene to bring it on, and the hard hungry kisses that had followed.  He remembered rolling in sheets naked, Gene beneath him. He remembered kissing Gene all over his shoulders, throat and cheeks before he plunged into his mouth again. He remembered drawing back and catching Gene's eyes for a moment. He remembered those eyes, he remembered knowing, absolutely, in that moment, that Gene had given himself to him, totally and completely, and he'd been heady with knowing that, grazing kisses over Gene's skin, knowing Gene was his, and his alone.

"Did you come?" he asked, snapping back to the present.

"Did I what?" Gene asked, startled and offside by such a question.

"Last night. I can't remember much but I think I remember you coming hard, like you were going to blow your brains out your ears."

Gene snorted. "You're not that good, Sunshine." Though in truth, he couldn't remember a more powerful moment. It had shaken him to his core and left him high on a cloud, and he would have stayed on that cloud if he hadn't had that damn phone call. Bloody Sam, he couldn't leave him alone for a minute.

Sam was trying to remember again, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, throat exposed. God, he was so lovely like that, so damn inviting. Gene's prick twitched in anticipation, but he ignored it. Not here, and not now, no matter how provocative Sam was being.

It stopped Gene hard with a slap, knowing, again, that he had to do everything in his power to get Sam out of here. If Sam went into the general prison population, he'd end up damaged or dead, and if by some miracle he did survive it, he wouldn't be Sam any more.

"I wish you'd stayed the night," Gene complained again. Letting Sam walk out that door was proving to be one of the worst mistakes of his life. "I could have been your alibi."

"No," spoke Sam, but with great love and respect. To admit to such a thing would destroy them both, and he wasn't about to take Gene down with him. "No," he repeated, just in case Gene was harbouring any residual ideas of making a heroic sacrifice.

Sam couldn't remember anything of that night after he'd left Gene's house.  He remembered walking down the street, he remembered it being cold and there being no taxis about.  After that, nothing. He couldn't remember getting back to his flat. He couldn't remember anything except waking up to find Gene standing grimly over him.  He tried, but he couldn't even get flashes or even the tiniest strand of memory.

He knew he'd been beaten up because there was a nasty, swollen cut on the back of his head. He was covered in bruises and scratches, especially along his arms and across his face, both defensive and offensive injuries. From the state of his hands, his grazed knuckles, he'd tried to fight back, whatever had happened to him.  And there was blood. His own blood, and the blood all over his clothes. Someone else's  blood. Her blood.

So much blood they'd finally taken his clothes away to forensics and Gene been forced to send someone back to his flat to fetch new clothes. Sam had seen the way Annie had looked at him, him dressing, bare and naked in the cell. She thought he was guilty. She didn't want to, but the doubt, it was there.

He wished and pleaded with himself to remember what had happened, but he couldn't.

"Why did you go home? Why did you leave?" Gene finally gave voice to the questions that had been eating away at him since last night.

"I was happy," Sam answered simply, and Gene looked at him as if he were daft. Sam summoned up what reserves he had to try and explain, the effort showing a little on his face.

"It was perfect, just perfect. I didn't want to ruin it by staying too long, or getting into a fight. So I left. I just wanted to keep it perfect, in my head. I just wanted to remember what it felt like, the moment I knew I loved you, without having anything else happen to ruin it. I just wanted to walk home on a high, and remember that perfect moment."

Gene looked like he was about to weep.

"Don't," Sam warned. "It's all right. I still have that moment. It's the only thing I remember. Until you woke me up and arrested me."

That was the second punch and this time Gene had to get up and walk away, leaning on the cold concrete wall, covering his face and taking several deep breaths.

Sam said nothing. He kept sitting there, watching Gene in silence. The moment was long since gone, but not entirely forgotten, but he had nothing left to offer to Gene, not right now.  He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He had nothing left.

Several long minutes passed, marked only by the too loud ticking of Gene's watch in the cell.

"I've been set up," Sam finally announced dully to Gene, who was now sitting beside him patiently, waiting for the smallest clue or change in Sam's story.

"No shit, Sherlock," Gene agreed bitterly, with more bravura than he felt.  Deep in his heart, he knew Sam couldn't do it, but that didn't stop the doubts, the evidence and Sam's odd behaviour.  Sam was a different kind of crazy, Gene told himself, trying to make himself believe it.

 "Somebody has stitched you up good and proper, and the line of people you've pissed off enough to do it would stretch out of the station."

"Why?" Sam had to ask, but Gene couldn't answer. Why this, and not a bullet? Somebody really wanted to cause Sam pain, which narrowed it a little.

*

Gene leant against the door, gazing at the far corner of his office, remembering last week. Christ, had it only been a few days ago? It felt like decades.

Sam had been fast asleep on the ratty old sofa in the corner, the folder he'd been reading still clutched on his chest. Poor bugger, he must have been knackered.  Gene hated to wake him, but he couldn't have him sleeping there all night.

Gene moved in to shake him awake, but at the last moment thought of something better and crouched down by Sam, gently kissing him on the lips.

Sam stirred, waking into the kiss, then three seconds later his brain kicked in and he remembered where he was and he sat bolt upright scattering his papers onto the floor.

"Steady now, Sam" Gene teased softly in the dim and darkened and near empty CID.  Nobody could see them, he was pretty sure.

"Here," he handed Sam both his papers and his coat while Sam blearily rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'll drive you home. No arguments, you're asleep on your feet."

He stood back and offered Sam his hand and drew him up beside him, helping him on with his coat.

"You're not having trouble sleeping again, are you?" he asked, concerned.

"No," Sam lied, a little too brittle. "No, I'm fine. Long day, that's all." He brushed Gene off and led the way out of the office.

Gene watched the ghostly memory of Sam walk past him. He'd been having trouble sleeping.  It made Gene's skin prickle. Sam had seemed on an even keel, he'd kept the silliness to a minimum. He'd been a bit tired and distracted, but they all were. Gene had enjoyed the luxury of thinking everything had settled down. But what if it hadn't? What if Sam had just been keeping it from him, and inside Sam's head, things had been a strange as ever.  What if he had snapped? What if those voices he heard had told him to do this?

Well, he'd have an insanity defence in the bag, that was certain, but not entirely helpful. Gene didn't want to believe Sam had done this. He wanted to believe Sam was innocent, but on the evidence, it wasn't looking good for Sam, not at all.

Six hours. Six fucking hours. Nobody had seen Sam since he'd left Gene's house, not that Gene had disclosed that particular morsel of information,  Sam's last known whereabouts being officially listed as The Railway Arms, two hours earlier, until he'd been arrested in his flat. Nobody could account for his movements, least of all Sam.  There were no witnesses, no alibi.

It was highly suspicious, because normally people did see Sam, down at his local shops for a pint of milk and the paper first thing, at least, but not this weekend. Sam had just vanished.

*

Gene glanced in, checking on Sam, who was curled up in one corner, asleep by all appearances. Gene didn't like it. In his experience, only the guilty slept like innocent babes in the cells.

"He's been sick twice," Phyllis elaborated with distaste, but she'd made sure it was cleaned up anyway.

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a word. I thought he'd be screaming to be let out. It's not like Sam, to take something like this lying down."

No, it wasn't.

The key rattled hollowly in he lock and the heavy door scrapped back as Gene let himself in. Sam didn't stir, not even a flutter.

Worried, Gene checked for a pulse. It was there, as steady as the tick on his watch, but Sam's skin was cold, nearly ice cold to the touch.

"Sam, Sam. Wake up, Sam," he tried rousing him, dragging Sam up until he was leaning against the cold concrete wall, trying to rub some warmth into Sam's hands and arms. Gene brushed Sam's cheek tenderly.

"You're cold," Gene answered Sam's bleary blinking. "You should have a blanket."

"Not allowed. They've put me on suicide watch," Sam sulked dully, knowing it must have been Gene who had so ordered it.

Gene ignored the taunt, rubbing Sam's hands between his own. Gene stared hard at Sam, noticing the way he seemed to have trouble focusing, the way he occasionally slurred a word. Mind you, he smelt like he'd drowned in a vat of vodka, so it was hardly surprising.  There was also the shock of being arrested, the shame, the psychological torture of being shoved in a dank little cell. It affected all sorts of people in all sorts of ways. His eyes were large and dark and he was far less lucid than before. There was dried blood on his collar and dried patches dribbled down his neck. Gene tilted Sam's head slightly and found the swollen bruise, poking it.

Sam swore sharply and wrenched away, but at least he'd reacted.

"Somebody's given you a thumping."

"Don't remember." Sam sulked.

"I'll see if I can get you something," he offered and left.

Gene came back with a thick sheepskin coat. Thick enough, he hoped, to make it at least difficult for Sam to tie into knots.

Sam sat quietly while Gene put it on him and buttoned it up carefully. It was like dressing a small child. But then, there was something very subdued and childlike about Sam right now, as though he'd sunk deep into himself. Sam's unsettling silence worried Gene greatly. Prisoners this quiet usually only meant one of two things: they were as guilty as sin or they were going to be dead by morning.

"Hold tight, Sam. I'll get you out of here," Gene promised.

Sam tilted his face up to him at last.

"I know you'll try. Any word on the bloods yet?"

"Yes, they're a match."

Sam nodded. They knew it would.

"Some bastard has dropped you right in it, Sammy boy. I'd ask if you had any enemies, but the boys have been out half the night rounding up the usual suspects. You've made waves, Sam, and waves come back on you."

"I know. Can't be Warren, he's banged up."

"My first port of call tomorrow. Sam, think-"

"I can't. Not in here."

"All right," Gene acknowledged, though he couldn't see much else for Sam to do but think.

Gene straightened up, buttoning his own coat.

"Right then, I'll be off now, but I'll check back in a couple of hours."

‘You should get some sleep," Sam advised, concerned.

"You must be joking," Gene fobbed him off.

"Gene," Sam called as he turned to leave.  "Why do you think I could kill myself, but not commit murder?"

"Because I know you, Sam," Gene spoke softly, and stooped to impulsively brush Sam's pale lips with a kiss.

Sam grabbed him, clung to him, but Gene pulled free. Not in here, not now. One of them had to be thinking like a policeman.

"I'll get who did this, Sam. I promise."

Sam nodded, and Gene closed the heavy iron door on him with a horrible, heavy clunk.

"Keep an eye on him," he asked of the WPC hovering outside. "I'm really worried about him. "

"Did he do it, Sir?' Annie had to ask.

Gene snorted. "Of course not. Psychotic our Sam is at times, but never homicidal."

*

Gene shook him awake as gently as he could, but Sam still woke with a shock, shaking, ready to fight.

"It's only me," Gene soothed as Sam woke properly and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I've brought you tea." He held out the tray to Sam.

"Not hungry," Sam sulked.

"It'll help," Gene persuaded, and Sam took the tray off him reluctantly. He lifted the metal lid to find a pie beached on a sea of brownish mushy peas which he poked at, not really interested.

"This isn't what the other prisoners got, is it?"

"No. I went out and got it for you especially."

Sam sank back, folding his arms.

"I'm not supposed to be getting any special treatment."

"Well, you are. You're one of us, and it's going to be special treatment the whole way whether you like it or not. You're not an ordinary prisoner, you'll be a cop, in prison, and that's very special, and you're my DI. The papers are going to have a field day for a start, never mind the rumblings from upstairs."

Sam blanched at that. "The papers? Do they know?"

Gene shook his head.

"Nothing in the early edition."

Sam looked up at Gene wearily.

"You've got to go to the press with this. They're be all over it by the next edition. In cases like this, you need to get out in front of it first, make a statement, show them you've got nothing to hide."

"Sam, you'll be torn apart out there."

"I don't care. It's over for me. I'm thinking of you. Don't cover up. Be transparent. Show them you're not afraid to investigate your own. No favours, Gene. Promise me."

"I don't need your bloody sacrifice," Gene muttered, bitter and upset.

"It's too late for me. You know it. I know it. Save yourself. Please. Go to the press first. Make a statement. Give them the facts. They can't speculate or whip up wild rumours if you're out there and honest."

"Sam, if I could…"

"I know. Just go. Please. Before the late morning editions hit the streets."

"I'll tell our side of the story."

Sam shook his head. "They won't believe you. The evidence all points to me and I've got no alibi."

"You should have stayed the night."

"That would have hardly have helped matters. As it is, you should distance yourself. You're too involved."

"No chance. This case is mine."

"You're not thinking clearly. You shouldn't even be in here with me. Not like this."

Gene was genuinely offended.

"Don't get like that with me, Sam. Remember who you're speaking to.  I'm your mate and I'm your DCI. I am not going to let you swing for this. You don't need a lawyer around me, I'm not trying to trick you. I'm trying to get you out of here. Now tell me again what happened."

"I don't remember!"

Sam sank back, annoyed and exhausted.

*

Sam was right about the press, though, which was why Gene was now outside the offices of the Manchester Gazette, as promised, sharing a cigarette with Jackie Queen while she wrote down everything he told her.

At first she'd thought this was a wind up, him calling her at that hour, making her come down here, into the car park, in person, when a simple phone call could have done it. Now she saw why Gene Hunt had wanted to handle this personally, why he was only speaking to her, why he was begging her not to do a hatchet job on Sam.

"He's a good copper. You know he is. This is a fit up, a bit of tit for tat as a result of another ongoing investigation."

"Sam was getting close?"

"Too close."

"On what?"

"I'd rather not say." To be honest, Gene had yet to narrow down the list of suspects with a grudge against Sam to a single page.

"He didn't do it, Jackie."

"How do you know? You just told me all the evidence looks like he did do it. Are you sure you aren't letting your emotions cloud your judgement?"

He gave her a sharp look.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

She changed tack. "How well do you know Sam. I mean, really? He's new, isn't he? New to the division, not really fitting in, causing a bit of friction.  You don't really trust him."

"Yes, I do."

"Do you? Really? I've seen you second guess him. And I've heard things about Sam. I've heard the talk."

"Yeah, well, he might be a bit strange but he's not a killer."

"He's a police man. You're all trained to kill. What's his record like? Has he killed in the line of duty before?"

"That's different."

"A life is a life, Chief Inspector.  I'm just warning you, this story might not end the way you want it to."

Gene said nothing, chewing on her words.

"Just tell ‘em he's helping us with our enquiries. No lurid details. I don't want a complete circus confusing the issue."

"Alright, Gene. Just this once. But you owe me, and I'll want a direct line to you for any follow up I need to do, and I want to be the first to know about any new developments."

"On my word, Jackie," he promised.

She wanted to snort and throw his promise back at him, but he was being sincere. He needed her help to try and keep a lid on it, and she wondered if she was selling out, by agreeing to such a deal. Would having a direct line to the DCI be worth letting him control what she was told? Well, if he stiffed her, he'd be sorry, and it would all come out.  All of it.

She threw her cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with the tip of her shoe.

"See you, Gene. I've got a deadline to make. You have got my number?"

He patted his coat pocket.

And that was it. The deal was done. At least Gene hoped it was. He wanted to keep Sam's name out of the papers as much as possible, but Jackie had asked some hard questions about Sam, and he didn't like thinking about the answers. Not one bit.

*

Gene's next interview wasn't any better.  In fact, things went from bad to worse.

Warren sat back and beamed at him across the desk, the cheeky bastard.

"DCI Hunt, what a pleasure. Anything I can help you with? Not having trouble with any of your lads are you? Your golden boy?"

He'd heard. Of course he had. He'd probably known before Gene had. In fact, Gene was sure of it. Smug bastard.

Gene tried to school his features into rock hard indifference, but it was impossible, his feelings for Sam were there to anyone with eyes. Sam was the one chink in Gene's armour that could be breached and broken open.

Warren had seen that tell, he'd seen it before, and he slipped the knife in again.

"Dreadful business," Warren was shaking his head. "What will you do?" He cocked Gene a look. "You don't think I had anything to do with it?"

"Did you?" asked Gene flatly, too tired to play this game.

"Why should I? Why would I waste time teaching a snivelling little shit of a DI to respect his elders and betters when I'll be getting out of here any day now. That conviction won't stick, my brief is appealing."

"Good luck with that." Gene dismissed, ready to leave. If Warren had done it, he'd be bragging about it quite happily now. He had always been one to sign his work, just so you knew who had shafted you. Nor did Gene doubt that Warren might be out shortly, he'd be naive to think Warren's influence stretched only as far as a bent DCI.

He leant forward suddenly, leaning in real close, his voice real low.

"If it wasn't you, then somebody's on your patch, calling the shots and passing themselves off as you. This had your fingerprints all over it and I'd be happy to fit you up for it, just for old time's sake. Somebody is being very cheeky, if you're not spinning me a line of bull about it having nothing to do with you. I'd look into that if I were you, unless you want to go back to pushing a barrow when you get out."

This time it was Warren who dropped the act, just for a second, and Gene knew he'd struck home. One of Warren's lieutenants must have been getting uppity, throwing his weight about, and would be needing a short sharp lesson in the chain of command.

Then Gene's brief victory fell to ashes. He'd let his anger get the better of him, played his hand too soon. If Warren cleaned house, Gene would never find who did this to Sam, it'd just be another body fished out of the canal.

Warren was smiling at him again. He knew it, too. He could still stick it to Gene, and that was like savouring his best brandy.

'So glad you dropped by, Chief Inspector," he taunted.

Gene shot him off a snarl of a look, but there was nothing he could say or do. He'd done enough. Aside from alerting Warren to problem in his organisation, Gene had once again demonstrated to anyone who mattered that he could be got at through Sam. It was a fine morning's piece of work.

*

Gene walked straight past the front desk on the way to the cells, despite Phyllis trying to hold him up.

"He's not there," she called after him.

That stopped Gene in his tracks. Slowly, he turned.

"Where," he demanded, with menace.

Phyllis backed up a bit, knowing full well the Guv was likely to kill the messenger, in the mood he was in.

"Hospital. They had to take him to hospital. It wasn't anyone's fault. He asked for a cup of tea, he seemed fine. Annie only turned her back on him for a minute or so."

"How long?"

"Ten minutes at the most. He smashed the cup. Why on earth would he do that?"

"Why wasn't I called?"

"We didn't want to broadcast it."

Gene pulled open the cell door and was stopped short by the dark, sticky puddle of slowly congealing blood. Sam's blood. It had been walked in, slipped in and skidded through by several sets of boot prints: the ambulance men, for two, and Chris, who'd been the one to find Sam. If Chris hadn't popped in on the spur of the moment to check on Sam, Sam might very well have died, having precisely timed his suicide attempt between welfare checks. The calculating little bastard. Even now, Gene saw the sheepskin coat, neatly folded on the bunk. Sam hadn't wanted to get bloodstains all over it.

The stupid bastard. That he should care more about that than…Gene couldn't finish that thought. He tried not to think about Sam, just the facts of the case. He tried not to think about whose blood it was pooled at his feet, but he couldn't help himself. It must have been cold, leaning against that concrete wall, feeling the blood drain out of him, drop by drop. In fact it had been too cold. It had been the one thing Sam hadn't factored in, that it was damn cold in the cells, and it had screwed up his chances of  bleeding to death before  anybody found him.

Thank god for Chris. He'd taken charge, gotten the ambulance in and told Phyllis not to advertise it over the radio. Gene was out working the case, and there was no point telling him until they had news to tell. Gene had wanted to throttle Chris, but it's what he would have done.

"Guv?"

It was Phyllis, standing behind him, unsure of what he was up to, unable to judge his mood.

"Get somebody to clean that bloody cell out," he growled at her as he stalked past her, not wanting to talk to any one.

That at least saved Phyllis from a bollocking.

By the time he got to the hospital he was told Sam had been moved to his own room,  and there he found the room crowded with a doctor, a nurse, and that bloody plonk.

"Outside, now," he growled, and they all started to leave. "Not you." He held the doctor back, trapping him against the wall as though interrogating a suspect.

"Well?"

"He had a go at slashing his wrists. Fortunately the cuts aren't very deep, so there's no real damage, but he did loose a lot of blood. A lot of people get it wrong and cut across the wrist, but he knew what he was doing, well, as much as person attempting suicide can be said to know what they were doing.  I understand this man was in custody?"

"We had him on suicide watch but I just can't get good help these days."

The doctor glared coldly at Gene.

"Should I report you?"

"For what?" Gene asked dully, feeling knocked from pillar to post.

"Police brutality. I don't know what you did to him but you damn nearly killed him."

"Eh?" Gene was confused.

"Didn't you beat him up as well?"

 "Nobody laid a finger on him," Gene protested.  "No, that happened before we got our hands on him. He can't tell us what happened."

"I'm not surprised. He's taken a very bad blow to the head, causing a serious concussion. That's what I'm really worried about. He should have had medical attention before now."

"He was walking and talking under his own steam," Gene disagreed. "He could have done this to himself."

"Could he?" The doctor unfurled the x-rays and held them up to the light in an extravagant gesture.

"He did this all to himself: the broken ribs, the internal injuries and a concussion?"

"He what?" Gene just looked blank.

"You really should have had him seen to by a doctor when you'd arrested him. They could have told you about the scratches and bruises, both offensive and defensive wounds. He'd been battered and restrained, there were marks on his wrists and ankles from being bound with some small ply cord, it had cut deep into the skin. I know he'd had sex recently, so I can't tell you whether it was consensual or not, and believe me, I've seen some things in my time, but given his more serious injuries, that someone really gave him a hiding, and that they'd been very careful to land body blows where it wouldn't show as much, around the torso, I'd have to say that this man was tortured against his will. I could have told you all of this if you'd brought him in here first.  You tell me he's a murder suspect? I'd say he was the second victim, and that you're lucky you're not looking at a double homicide."

Gene said nothing, doing his best impersonation of a brick wall.

"Looks like he fought back, he even broke his fingers, though that might have been done for him, it's hard to tell."

The doctor held the x-rays up to the ceiling light again so Gene could see, as if the abstract shapes meant a thing to Gene, who was a bit squeamish about the whole thing to start with, to be honest.

"Then there are  the two broken ribs, here, and here. Your man took quite a beating. It looks like they gave him a really good kicking, even when he was down."  He pulled down the sheet and lifted up Sam's hospital gown with clinical brutality so Gene could see the bruises, now stormy dark on the pale skin.

Fuck. Gene had to look away.

"There's a lot of soft tissue damage. We're worried about internal injuries, especially to the kidneys. There was some blood in his urine, so we're keeping a close watch on him."

Gene was shocked. 

"That's serious, isn't it?"

The doctor gave him a withering look, reserved for idiots and policemen.  "He could have died."

Gene had stepped back, defeated a little, and the doctor could clearly see now that the DCI at least wasn't the cause of the man's injuries, first impressions to the contrary.

"He never said, he never said a word. When we had him in the cells, not a word. Stubborn bastard."

"He might not have been fully sensible to all his injuries. He would have felt it, but he probably doesn't remember it. That blow to the head would have been disorientating, and his blood tests came back with a dangerously high reading for alcohol and heroin."

That shocked Gene.  "He's not a user, or a heavy drinker."

 "I know. His liver would be shot if he was, and there's only one puncture mark, and it's at an awkward angle. I'd say, if the blow to the head and the defensive wounds happened first, there's no way he'd have been able to inject himself. Not there."

The doctor carefully laid out Sam's hand on his own.

"See the knuckles. He went down fighting. They knocked him down and then drugged him to keep him down. It wasn't a fair fight . He would have been in shock, and they dosed him to the eyeballs, though whether they were trying to kill him or just make him manageable, I couldn't say. By all accounts he should have passed out in the middle of all of it – a small mercy."

"How can you be sure that's what happened?"

"He wouldn't have been able to put up such a fight with that much junk inside him.  There were also some marks on his wrists, from restraints, handcuffs, most likely, and this bruise here." He turned Sam's forearm slightly outwards. "That almost looks like a handprint, as though somebody grabbed him really hard, probably forcing his arm behind his back. He's lucky they didn't break it. I thought it must have happened when he was arrested. Now, help me roll him a little."

Gene did as he was told, numb.

"As you can see, he's been beaten quite severely. This was quite deliberate, as if someone wanted to make a point of it."  There were bruises and welts cross hatched all the way down Sam's back.

"But that isn't the worst of it."

Gene blanched. There was worse?

The doctor gently rolled Sam back again.

"There evidence of sexual abuse. We found semen, and a lot of soft tissue damage."

Gene just looked stony and said nothing. The doctor assumed Gene was shocked or repulsed. He didn't know the half of it.

Gene wished bitterly he'd used a rubber. He'd always feared discovery, it was a deep dread that hovered over him like a cloud, but he'd never expected it to be so clinical. He'd never expected that what had been a romantic moment, wanting nothing, absolutely nothing between him and Sam could be now used against him.  Harder still was the kick inside that made him realise that he must have actually have hurt Sam, though he'd never meant to. Sam had wanted hard and fast and Gene had given it to him.

Ruminating on his foolishness, he was caught entirely unprepared for what the doctor said next. 

"From the injuries there's also evidence he was sodomised, quite brutally, not only by a person or persons unknown, but by a blunt object as well, something like a broom handle, or one of those truncheons you carry around?"

Gene shook his head, focusing on the detail.  "He doesn't carry a truncheon, he's a DI, but I know he keeps one, back at his flat, it's a rough neighbourhood."

"He's a police officer? Then what was he doing in the cells? I thought he was a murder suspect.  He isn't the one…"

"He didn't do it. But somebody's done him over, good and proper." 

"Some might argue that he liked it a bit rough and paid for it, all of this, but with that blow to the head and the rest of it, it's too much, it goes too far, I doubt very much it was in any way consensual."

"But the lab found evidence, semen on his clothes."

"It can happen, an erection, even when being tortured. Of course, it could have started out as good clean fun. Her pimp could have shown up."

"No, it wasn't like that. Sam's not like that."

"No? I read something about another prostitute who ended up with her throat cut."

"Where did you read that?" growled Gene.

The doctor shrugged. "It was in one of the papers. They're calling him The Ripper."

Bastards. Somebody had been speaking out of turn. Gene would have their guts for garters when he found out who. If it was Jackie, he'd have her tits and that was just for starters.

Gene turned away from the doctor, from the x-rays he'd been holding up to the light, from Sam, still unconscious in the bed. He was still reeling inside. He just hadn't thought, he hadn't wanted to think. He'd seen some of the bruises, the marks on Sam's wrists, but he hadn't wanted to say anything. He'd thought they were his, his marks on Sam. He had thought he had been the one who had done those things to Sam, in the heat of the moment.

Worse, in the back of his mind had been the thought that Sam had picked someone up on his way home, a cheap fuck in a park or a laneway, just to cap off the night. It had been such a great night, just the two of them, alone in his house together, no one to see or hear them. They'd been free, and it had been powerful. He couldn't understand why Sam had left. He couldn't understand how Sam could have wanted more.

Sam hadn't. Someone had done this to him. All of it.

"I'm sorry," he spoke at last.

The doctor regarded him sympathetically. "I can write it all up for you in a report, especially the bit about him being restrained. It could be useful. It's hard to commit murder when your hands are tied behind your back."

"You do that," Gene agreed, the process of collecting evidence tiding him over. "Nobody but you, or that nurse or that plonk come in here, alright? He's under protective police custody."

"I thought they only did that for Mafia witnesses."

"And police officers who piss off the wrong people."

The doctor finally left him alone with Sam, and Gene sat down heavily in the chair beside the bed, still warm from a policewoman's nice round buttocks.

"Jesus wept, Sam," was all he could say. 

Sam was asleep, sedated heavily, no doubt, and probably a good thing, too. His wrists were bandaged thickly and he was hooked up to bags of blood and whatnot. He looked so pale, and Gene could really see the bruises now. Maybe it was the hospital lights, or Sam losing a couple of pints,  or the bruises just finally starting to really show, but he hadn't really seen it before. He knew Sam had taken a beating, but Sam had been walking and talking, and he'd never said a word, not one word.  Stupid, stoic bastard. Like that stupid Spartan kid who'd rather have his guts eaten out than let loose with so much as a whimper.

"How is he?" Annie asked, not waiting to be told she could come back in.

Slowly Gene rose to his full height, allowing her to see the full measure of his displeasure.

"I told you to watch him."

"He waited until my back was turned. He asked for a cup of tea,, as nice as you please. The next thing I know he's on the floor of a cell in a pool of his own blood. I can't take it any more, Sir, I can't. You're going to have to do something about him."

Gene disagreed.

"They say he has concussion. I'm thinking it's not the second or even third time our Sam has been hit on the head. That doesn't excuse what he did but you know what it does to people, being locked up like that, and Sam is such a sensitive boy. I thought that's why you liked him."

"I did, I do, but he's messed up. He needs help."

"He needs our help, to get him out of this."

"You think he's innocent?"

"I know it."

"But the evidence…he was there.  He's clearly not well. He could have done it."

Gene turned away from her, back to Sam.

"No. Somebody did this to him."

*

Gene sat brooding in the corner of the pub with the forlorn air of a miserable high Victorian painting.  One of the ones with the starving shoeless orphan kiddies. He'd started off with a beer, but now he was nursing a scotch and a full ashtray. No one came near him, no one even dared glance in his direction. Sam's taint had rubbed off on Gene by close association and Gene could well imagine the talk, even if he wasn't the one to hear it any more.  A small part pf him had warned him this could happen, but it was sensibly staying quiet and avoiding any shrill ‘I told you so's'.

Gene's quick acceptance of Sam and his strange ways had engendered a fair degree of resentment, especially from certain quarters, and Gene had been a little too free with his affections.

He couldn't help it. There was no way he could have helped it. Suddenly there was a bright boy with bright ideas that actually worked and got good, brass pleasing results. A bright boy who was a cheeky little bastard and gave as good as he got. No tugging the forelock with that one. No fear and no false modesty, either.  Sam demanded truth and integrity, he'd bullied Gene into being a better man, a better cop.  And he'd become his friend, his lover.

Gene had been smitten. He'd never had anyone stand up to him before. Not like that. Not right up close in his face. It had been intoxicating.

He ground out another stub of a cigarette into the ash tray that was becoming as crowded as a peak hour carriage on the Tube.

Now he was paying the price, and he damn bloody deserved to. He'd been stupid, he'd let his guard down. He'd shown weakness and the wolves were trailing him, smelling the blood. There was talk, about Sam, about why Gene was protecting him. He'd told them it was because Sam was one of them, the old thin blue line. But it was because Sam was his, and not everyone was buying the brothers in arms line.

Slowly, he unfolded the doctor's type written report and scanned the blocky text again, no longer really seeing the words, the lines of text just slightly out of kilter with the lines ruled heavily on the form as a guide. As horrible as it was, at least now Gene had something more than hope, or possibly denial, to guide him. Here was the first proof that Sam had not acted alone. That the events could not have unfolded as all the previous evidence had suggested. Here was the first crack in that wall that would bring everything tumbling down.

Gene just hoped he wasn't standing under it when it fell.

*

Look at the mess you've gotten me into now, Sam, Gene scolded silently, stroking Sam's hair softly, brushing it back from Sam's forehead a little, as though trying to tidy him up.

He heard a scuff and shot back as if scalded, but it was only the plonk, bearing watery machine made coffee.

Her coffee, but she offered it to the Guv anyway, needing to fill in the awkward silence, unsure if she walked in on a surprisingly tender moment, or if the Guv had just been plucking a few stray hairs from Sam for forensics to match.  It was hard to tell. The Guv looked exhausted.

"You should get some sleep," she advised, almost sternly.

He shook his head, not even offering an argument.

 "Why am I here, Guv?" she had to ask.

"Because he's a murder suspect."

"I know that, but why can't one of the other uniforms stay here?"

"Sorry, Love. You should have been relieved hours ago. I'll go phone Phyllis. She's probably forget. It's a madhouse back at the station. "

"It's all right, I don't mind watching him, I'm was just worried I'd fall asleep on the job. I just wondered why you were only sending WPCS? Surely the regular officers would be better, in case somebody has another go at Sam?"

Gene glanced up and down the corridor, then at the floor again. He shook out another fag out of his packet and lit it.

"Because I want you here, if he wakes up. Or one of the other women."

"Why?"

"Because if he starts talking, if he needs to talk, you're trained in that sort of thing."

She couldn't imagine what sort of thing the Guv was talking about, then her eyes widened. Annie stared at him in shock.

"Let's just say the bastards who beat up Sam didn't pull any punches. They wanted him to get a very definite message. He can't remember anything right now, but if he does, I wanted one of you girls on hand."

"He won't talk to me, not about that."

"Probably not, but you know what to do, so I'll leave it to you."

"Guv."

He glanced up, his face haggard and bloodshot.

"What are you going to do?"

"Get the bastards. They better be miles away by now because I'll bloody kill them if I get my hands on them. So help me, I will."

It had been a good exit line, but the plonk wasn't about to let him go with that.

"Why are you doing this, Guv? All of this? You don't even like him." It slipped out, confused and annoyed.

"You'd be surprised," Gene replied, off the cuff. He didn't have time for this.

"But how do you know he didn't do it. The things they said in the paper – " Her face echoed her horror. "You know he's not right, Guv. Not right in the head. He could have done it. I've read about the sort of men who do this sort of thing. They've got all sorts of sexual hang-ups."

Gene barely repressed slapping her, his hand crunching the plastic coffee cup dangerously, squeezing the lukewarm brown liquid over his fingers.

"He's not repressed and I don't want you going around whispering that he can't get it up.  Just because he hasn't been fumbling around inside your bra doesn't mean he hasn't been elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" She stamped on the word furiously.

"There ain't nothing wrong with Sam's equipment so I don't want you telling anyone there is.  Healthy appetite, our Sam."

"How would you know?' she demanded.

Gene fixed her with a searing look and leant in close, too close.

"I've wiped his cum off my hands more times than you've had hot dinners."

Annie reeled back in shock as Gene's words smacked into her. She just stood there, mouth hanging open, like one of those blow up dolls they'd fetched up from that porn dealer.

Gene himself felt punch drunk. He'd never meant to say it, not out loud, but all her twittering about, her insistence that she knew Sam and all his secrets better than Gene did, it had finally broken open all the seething jealousy and territorial anger Gene had been sitting on for months. Sam was his and his alone and he didn't need some bint sniffing around like a bitch in heat, even with a murder charge hanging over Sam's head, holding Sam's hand, stroking his brow, whispering all the sweet nothings Gene could never say. He certainly didn't need her muddying the waters by gossiping over the fact that Sam hadn't made a move inside her panties and that he probably couldn't get it up without any dangerously kinky shit involved.

"One word," Gene warned, pulling rank to cover his admission. "And you'll never see the outside of the toilet block for want of cleaning them.'

Annie was still open mouthed in shock, though it was slowly morphing into outrage. She couldn't, she didn't want to see it, but all the pieces were falling into place: Sam's mixed signals, his reluctance to put the hard word on her, which at first she'd found charming, then frustrating. She now understood Gene's hostility towards her. He wasn't just a misogynistic bastard, he was jealous.

"Sam was with me, the night in question," Gene admitted. Now he'd made a proper mess of things there was no point in muddying the waters any further. As much as he could see his career spiralling into the ground in tearing flames, and his beloved city dragged along with it, their was some relief in the act of saying it out loud. Of telling someone of the horror he had been going through. Even if it was her. Especially if it was her.

"Not the whole night," he elaborated, twisting the knife, just a little. "I wish to God he'd stayed, but he didn't. He decided to walk home. He was happy when he left, I can tell you that. I don't know what happened, but I do know that whatever happened, it weren't Sam who did it. He's been set up, so you can stop thinking that he did and just keep a proper eye on him like I asked you to."

That last rebuke stung, and it was meant to. She should have been watching Sam. She'd been told the sort of state he was in.

"You should say something, Sir, about where Sam was," she pushed back, angry with him, angry with both of them. She hadn't asked for this. She hadn't asked to be appointed Sam Tyler's minder and keeper and nursemaid.

"There's no point. I can't alibi him so what's the use? It'll only make things worse. "

"You shouldn't be working the case. You're too emotional…"

"Bloody hell I'm emotional. But I can't trust anyone else to do it right. I need Sam on this, but he'd rather play silly buggers with crockery so it's just me."

"Not just you," Annie reminded quietly.

Gene swung an intense look at her, as though really seeing her for the first time. She looked as worn as he felt.

"Just stay with him. Don't talk to anyone else. Don't let anyone else near him."

Her eyes widened. "Do you think, do you think it could be one of us?"

Gene didn't know, and that's what made his stomach turn. If anything, he could line up several suspects in the station well before he bothered rounding up scum off the street.

"If he wakes up, just, just try and get him to talk. It's in there, somewhere, in that strange little head of his. I know it is."

"What if he can't remember?"

"He has to."  And that was all Gene had to say on the matter.

She just stood there, staring at him. Everything had changed. The whole world had tipped over in an instant.

At first she'd thought the Guv had been all in a tizzy because it was one of them, one of his own men, but now she could see it was because it was Sam. Even now, she found it hard to believe. She just couldn't see them as…she choked on the words. How could it be, when they were always fighting, the Guv slamming Sam bodily up against walls in the station, screaming at him, and Sam, breathing hard, his eyes bright…oh. It hadn't been fighting. It had been foreplay. 

Even so, she couldn't think of it as anything more than fucking, and yet. There was something about the Guv, something broken inside. Sam had gotten under his skin, too. She could see it now.

"He'll be alright," she offered.

"No he won't," the Guv insisted quietly.  He drank the rest of the coffee with a grimace and handed her back the plastic cup.

*

Gene slipped the key in the lock and turned it, pushing the door open. He'd had the lock repaired, though he didn't really know why he'd bothered, since Sam had nothing worth nicking. They'd broken the last lock, bursting open the door to arrest Sam. Gene had a key, but he hadn't wanted to use it, his instinct already telling him that Sam was in deep shit and Gene was better off distancing himself.

Only he hadn't kept his distance. It had all been for show, pretending not to have a key, pretending his heart wasn't breaking. There was no way he was going to lose Sam, not like this.  Not now the doctor had convinced him that Sam was the victim in all of this.

Gene let the door close behind him, and stood, alone, inside Sam's little flat. It was nothing more than a crime scene now, and Gene tried instead to remember better times, the last time he'd let himself in with the key Sam had given him. He'd found Sam just fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a quizzical half smile and the towel he was using to rub his ruffled hair dry.

Sam had dropped the towel as Gene, never one to waste an opportunity, had scooped him up into his arms and damn near ravished him with heavy kisses, his hand cupping and squeezing bare buttocks and stroking and teasing until Sam was almost panting in his arms and then flat on his back on his bed, throat arching, arms reaching upward to grab and scrabble at plywood as Gene gave him a thorough seeing to.

Gene smiled at the memory of watching his beautiful boy come in his arms. Sam had just laughed, coming down to earth, realising they hadn't even spoken, just gotten straight to it without even asking why Gene was there or saying hello.

Gene crouched by that bed now and then pulled it up with a clatter.  There, still lying, where it had rolled underneath, was Sam's truncheon. Damn it. He'd been so intent on having the lab boys work over scene down by the canal he'd not made sure they'd paid equal attention to Sam's flat. Maybe he'd been afraid they'd find something incriminating. He could have kicked himself. Instead, they'd missed all the evidence that pointed to Sam being innocent. 

He let the bed fall back down on it, never wanting to see it again. Why bring that back here? Why, other than just to taunt him? Was that what this was? A message? From who? Warren?

Gene glanced around the flat, realising that everything here could have been gone through, and arranged just so. He also knew he'd better have a thorough look himself, before he called he lab boys in, just in case there was anything else left to find that would not help Sam's case at all. It wasn't evidence tampering if the whole bloody thing was being stage managed.

He stood up wearily, feeling every ache, and went to the kitchen where Sam kept his supply of rubber gloves under the sink. Sam was rather, in Gene's opinion, disturbingly obsessed with pulling on rubber gloves at crime scenes and preserving evidence, screaming if anyone dared touch anything he considered important. Down the line, he kept saying. Might be useful one day if they preserved all the evidence as best they could. Then Sam would mutter something about databases and registers and Gene would just let him be.  Gene was never quite sure if Sam was onto something, completely barmy or taking the piss.  Sometimes it could be all three, at once.

Nevertheless, Gene pulled on the gloves, ready to give the place a good going over.  Starting with the kitchen. He picked up the small glass jar labelled "Basil", unscrewed the lid and gave it a sniff.

Hello. He sniffed again, read the label again, then re-screwed the lid back on and slipped it into his coat pocket. That wasn't basil, and he was pretty sure it hadn't been planted by any person or persons unknown, either, as the label was written in Sam's own hand, before he'd had his fingers broken. No, Gene would be having a word with Sam about his magic kitchen herbs later.

Right now, he wanted this place gone over, top to bottom. Dusted for prints, the lot. He picked up the phone, carefully, with a tissue, and gave Chris a call. He needed help, and Chris at least knew how Sam worked, was unlikely to be too surprised by anything they might find, and he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Chris could keep an eye on the labs boys, and this time make sure they did a proper job. Meanwhile, Gene had other fish to fry, still chewing on the idea that Warren had protested his innocence too much.

*

Jimmy Patterson rocked back in his chair, almost falling off it. Spitting flecks of blood onto the floor, he righted himself, and glared venomously at Gene.

Gene, shirtsleeves rolled up, just smacked him hard across the face again for his insolence. Gene could keep this up all day, and they both knew it.  Patterson had only been on the bottom rungs of Warren's organisation, and therefore hardly important, but it was enough to send back some small token of Gene's displeasure, without upping the ante too much. Gene it was sure it was Warren. The whole set up just reeked of the little games he liked playing, and if Patterson coughed, even to just some half heard rumour, it'd be enough.

Right now Gene didn't really care. He just wanted an excuse to smack the smug son of a bitch. He raised his fist again.

Patterson barred his teeth at him furiously, then, as the hand came down with a mighty smack, fearfully.

"You can't do this!"

"What? Try and help you back into your chair? It's hardly my fault you're so clumsy, Jimmy," Gene taunted as he savagely kicked Patterson out of the chair and sent him sprawling across the floor, then righted the chair with one hand and hauled Patterson up and dumped him back in the chair with a thud with his free hand.

"You can't smack me around without asking any questions," Patterson complained.

Gene leant in real low and close.

"Just making sure I have your undivided attention. So tell me, what have you heard about Tyler?"

"Which Tyler?" Patterson panicked as the fist came up again. "The one in the papers? I've heard nowt, Mister Hunter, honest. Whoever done it, I don't know ‘em. I haven't heard nothing, Mister Hunt."

Gene leant in closer, his voice a growl.

"You've heard enough, or you'd be saying Sam did it."

"I heard some copper's been set up. Teach him a lesson, they said."

"Who said?" Gene grabbed the man by the lapels and he nearly shrieked as he was yanked upwards.

"Nobody, Mister Hunt," he pleaded. "It's just talk. Pub talk. Nobody knows anything."

"Liar!" Gene dropped the man with equal force.

"I don't know anything, Mister Hunt. Please. It wasn't Mister Warren. I'd tell you if it was."

"It'd be the last thing you said. Well then, if it wasn't Warren, who was it? Who's been bragging about setting up one of my CID officers? Tell me, you little toerag." He picked Jimmy up and shook him until he teeth rattled.

"No, nobody," Patterson pleaded, sobbing now, really afraid that he'd never get out of the Lost and Found room alive. He'd never seen Hunt so wild.

"Tell me," Gene screamed at him, giving him another smack. Patterson rocked back, hard.

*

Gene sat quietly, hunched over in the plastic hospital chair, studying the bruises on Sam's face, seemingly even more luridly purple under the harsh fluorescent lights. They'd really come up now, and Gene could see exactly the sort of beating Sam had taken. No wonder he'd been punch drunk in the cells.

It was unforgivable, what someone had done to Sam. It was even more disturbing that Gene had first blamed himself for those marks on Sam. His hands shifted unconsciously, like Lady Macbeth's, tracing his bruised knuckles, as he waited out his vigil.

He'd never pulled his punches with Sam.  Well, he had. If he'd ever really meant business with Sam, he could have been him down onto the ground. Gene was, after all, a hard man in a hard city. But he'd never meant to hurt Sam, he'd only meant to try and kick some of the snotty out of him, wipe a bit of that superior smugness off him, and remind him, most importantly, who was boss around the station. It had been corrective discipline, no more than the sort of smack around the ears you got at school, though Gene could tell from the shocked way Sam would glower at him, that getting six of the best wasn't something Sam was used to.

Lately, Sam had shown less resentment towards the rough and tumble, particularly in bed, but too rough handling could still spark off that temper of his, and Gene never knew whether Sam would blow hot or cold. Mind you, if Sam kept that smart mouth of his in better check, Gene wouldn't have to deliver the odd clip just to keep in him line.

Like the last time.

Fed up with him mouthing off, Gene had just grabbed Sam by the collar and swung him into the nearest brick wall. Only he'd been a bit caught up in the moment and had really slammed Sam into the brickwork, so that when Sam staggered back he was bleeding. And he'd shot Gene such a vicious look as he'd wiped away the blood trickling down from his brow that Gene knew, in no uncertain terms, that he would be keeping company with his own hand for at least a week.

Sam just couldn't see that Gene had to do it, he had to keep Sam in line, and Sam just wasn't up for listening most days.  A good smack now and then should do it, but Sam was such a broody little bastard. He took these things to heart, when Gene meant it no more than a punctuation mark to his request that Sam pull his head in.

It had never really meant anything, all that push and shove, but Gene couldn't help thinking of the blood trickling down Sam's face as he watched him now.

He should have known he could have never have caused all the terrible injuries Sam had, but when he'd first seen the bruises, when they'd been new and only just starting to show, then yes, he'd thought they were his. He never meant to bruise, but it was all a bit hands on when they were together, and sometimes he didn't hold back. He was evenly matched in Sam, it was what had made it so exciting. They'd roll with each other, grappling hard. Even now he felt a thudding pulse rip through him.

Sam's belligerence was what had made his prick twitch in the first place, the way Sam stood up to him,  eye to eye, toe to toe, the way he refused to be pushed around. Sam could take it and dish it out and Gene had never thought twice about it, until now.  He'd not said anything about the bruises because he'd thought they were his. It would be a while before he forgot that.

Gene glanced up from his persecutions to find himself being watched.

"How long?" Sam managed to croak.

"You've been here?"

"No," Sam tried a wan smile. "You."

"Longer than I should have. Wasting time I don't have. I just had to see you. I was worried about you," Gene admitted, which, coming from a man like Gene, made it a surprisingly tender admission.

"I'll live," Sam reassured, somewhat ruefully.

"You should have said something in the cells," Gene admonished quietly. "What were you trying to do? Prove how hard you are?"

Sam tried to shake his head and winced.

"I must have been out of it. I didn't really feel it. At least, not at first. I thought you might have noticed the bruises."

"I did, but." Gene couldn't finish that thought, so Sam finished it for him.

"You thought the bruises were from…from you. That's why you said nothing?" Sam exhaled softly. "You've never hurt me that badly. I wouldn't let you. I know things can get a bit intense, but trust me, it wasn't you. You didn't do this. None of it."

"I thought – shit, Sam, I'm so sorry. I should have said something."

"You were preoccupied. It's not everyday you arrest your boyfriend for murder," Sam absolved him.

"No, I suppose not." Gene agreed. "Shouldn't want to make a habit of it."

"Gene." Sam tried to sit up, pushing himself up on the pillows, suddenly serious.

"I know it wasn't you," Gene answered him quietly.

Sam looked surprised.

"You weren't sure before?"

"Well, the evidence was pretty convincing."

"Planted evidence," Sam reminded.

"And you've got to admit, you couldn't remember. Even you weren't completely sure."

No, he hadn't been. He'd spent a long horrible night in the cells staring at the blood on his hands, unable to remember what had happened, or how he had gotten home. He'd never been so scared in his life, not even with everything that had happened to him.

They sat quietly, not talking about that night, their own private fears, or what had driven Sam to slash his own wrists. Gene could well imagine, and Sam didn't have to.

Sam's replies to the psychologist they sicked onto him had been thin lipped and monosyllabic at best. Still, the shrink hardly had to reach for reasons as to why Sam had harmed himself. The fact that Sam had been beaten, raped and charged with murder pretty much covered it. He'd made a few notes on Sam's chart and left it at that.

After several long moments Gene stood, pulling his coat on.

"Better get back to it. No rest for the wicked"

"I suppose not."

They paused, slightly awkward.

"Gene-"

"I'll fix this, Sam," he promised.

"You shouldn't be working this case. You're too involved."

"Of course I'm bloody involved. Are you telling me you'd rather take your chances on Carling clearing this up? He'd like as not just lock you up and throw away the key."

Sam looked slapped. He'd never thought about that. Now was a perfect time for Ray to get his own back, while Sam was down and vulnerable. Gene was probably the only thing standing between him and a life sentence.

"No. Sorry. And thanks."

"For what?"

"Protecting me. They must be lining up to have a go out there."

"You'd be surprised."

"No, I wouldn't. I know I've made enemies."

"Yes, you would," Gene continued, exasperated. "You've made more friends here than you think, Sam.  Even if they think you're a little shit personally, they have to admit you've come up with the goods. You've proven that much. It's about time you realised you're one of us, Sam, and we won't let you fall. There are a lot of good people out there working your case. I've got some of the lab boys working double shifts, just for you, and the girls are keeping the tea on all night."

"Really?" Sam was genuinely surprised, and touched nearly to the point of tears. He couldn't quite imagine invoking the same sort of response at the station he knew.

*

Gene was sitting at his chair, solid and unmoving, as though petrified. The case, too, had slowed from a trickle to a stagnant stop. Nothing new had come back from the lab, no new witnesses had been found and anyone who might have known something had clammed up or crawled back under their respective rocks.  Known and notorious drinking holes could safely withstand cannon fire, so deserted were they when Gene's men showed up: seats empty, pint glasses drained and cigarettes still smoking in the ashtrays, like a villain's version of the Marie Celeste.

There was no more evidence proving Sam's innocence, and more than enough to take to the vultures and get Sam charged good and proper. Gene had been stonewalling, trying to drive the case the way he wanted it to go, and this heavy handling had not gone unnoticed by either those above or below. In fact, he suspected both factions had now cut him out of the loop, for why else would his lord and master deign to pay him a visit on his own turf, if not for another friendly chat about cooperation and expediency?

"I'm not taking any case upstairs that isn't watertight. So far we've only got the most circumstantial of evidence and no witnesses. I won't risk any case falling apart for lack of evidence."

"This has become a hot potato, Gene. If the people are afraid of the police…"

"They should be."

"We need to be seen to be policing our own. Didn't you once argue that, Gene?" Rathbone smiled, callously throwing Sam's own words straight back in Gene's face, his smile widening as he saw he'd hit a bullseye.

Gene glared at him, his eyes saying what his mouth dare not.

"I will not sacrifice Tyler to expediency.  He deserves better than that. I want to have enough evidence to prove his guilt or innocence one way or the other, beyond reasonable doubt, before I hand it over."

"Isn't that for the courts to decide?" Rathbone suggested, all mild concern, like a vicar making delicate barbs at a garden party.

Gene drew back to say something, but thought better of it at the very last moment and swallowed it, leaning on his desk instead and feigning deep concentration on the reports he'd been staring at without seeing before..

Rathbone took the momentary pause as an opportunity to turn over some of the loose pages of notes on Gene's desk, regarding them with both distaste and disinterest.

Gene, for his part, kept his attention wholly on the report he had in front of him, not even glancing up for a second. If he was going to be bollocked, well, Rathbone could just get on with it and go. Gene was busy.

Rathbone coughed discretely, and when that failed to bring him Gene's attention, he merely coughed and announced: "Jimmy Patterson's brief has been complaining loudly and unhappily. He says you roughed up his client."

"Jimmy Patterson is a lying scumbag who's so slippery he can't stay on a seat without sliding off. I'm surprised you pay any attention to anything that came out of the gob of that lying little shite."

"So the allegations of police brutality are untrue. I'm so glad to hear it."

Gene's eyes lifted from his notes and held Rathbone's steadily, daring him to make an issue of it and call him a liar.

Rathbone's mouth sneered, as though he'd just finished sucking on a particularly tart lemon.

"Don't push your luck, Gene," he warned. "You're on very thin ice around here. Your DI is up for murder and dirt sticks. A lot of people would be very happy to see you go down with him."

Gene just nodded, as though taking the advice on board. "Yes, Sir. I'll remember that." He was all schoolboy obedience, but there was a definite and dangerous undercurrent flowing just below.

*

Sam was surrounded by hospital noises, voices dully discussing him, almost too muffled to hear them distinctly, yet he heard his name spoken, clear enough. As he woke slowly the sound of the voices sharpened, a doctor and a nurse, discussing his case, some mention of him being a police officer. He opened his eyes slowly and the voices trailed off for a moment, to be replaced by a question, directed at him: how was he feeling?

How was he feeling? Irritation snapped him wide awake and he was instantly aware of how he was feeling. Either the NHS was really on a slide or he was still stuck in 1973, surrounded by medieval equipment and people he regarded as little better than the butcher surgeons and quacks of old. They were poking and prodding him with what looked like Victorian equipment in his eyes and it bloody hurt.

"How do I feel? Like I've been hit by a car and shagged by a porcupine," he answered sourly as they extracted another syringe of what must be a rapidly diminishing supply of blood from his veins.

The nurse made a note on his chart and shared at sharp glance with the doctor, who barely raised a shrug.

Sam kept his next witticism to himself, lest they sick the shrink onto him again. Sam was actually very afraid of condemning himself from his own mouth, letting slip something in a moment of weakness that would prove, without doubt, that he was a madman and quite possibly capable of what he was accused of.

He held fast to the idea that he couldn't, he wouldn't, that he was a good man, a good cop, but those self truths had taken a beating of late. He'd done things, here, that he would have never have done in 2006. He'd done things he wasn't proud of. He'd done things he wished he could take back.

Worse, his father was a cold blooded killer, so he knew he had it in him. What if he had done these things, and only guilt stopped him remembering. Gene had thought so, and that had been the deepest cut, to see himself reflected in Gene's eyes like that.

So Sam said nothing. Nothing about the pain, nothing about his terror and nothing about wanting to wake up now, please, even if it was to a half life as a cripple. How long had he been trapped here now? Months, or minutes? It wasn't, it couldn't be real, but it felt real. He was in agony, or maybe he was feeling the broken bones from his other life at last, bleeding through into this one. His head hurt and he closed his eyes again. Wake up, he demanded of himself.

Failing that, he cried silently for Gene, knowing that only Gene could save him now. He remembered the shadows in Gene's face the last time he'd been here, and even that hope was slipping away. If Gene couldn't save him, he was...lost.

*

Gene fell into the plastic chair with a thump.

"I need you, Sam," he declared, leaning forward earnestly.

Somewhat taken aback, Sam glanced down at himself, indicating the sate he was in, clearly not up to anything Gene might have in mind.

Gene looked flummoxed for a moment, then carried on, regardless.

"No, not like that, you daft bugger. Well, yes, but not now. I need that brain of yours."

"Well, they do say the brain is the biggest sex organ," mused Sam, equally keen not to be ruffled.

"In Hyde, maybe," taunted Gene. "It's Hyde I want to talk to you about."

Sam regarded him with wide eyes, suddenly in no mood to be outed as an impostor, not now, not after all this time.

Gene leant close, ready to confide.

"Truth is, Sam, I'm stuck. This case is going nowhere, at least, nowhere I want it to go. I need your help, that famous insight. Tell me, if you were me, how would you have done it in Hyde?"

Sam drew a deep, painful breath. Knowing Gene must be desperate, he pushed all thoughts of what Gene's lack of progress must mean for both of them, and he grabbed at procedure he had once known backwards, but now found slipping through his hands like sand.

"We'd use CCTV to establish the victim's movements and corroborate the time of death, and we'd run DNA evidence through the database, but you've got none of that."

"Piles of shit I've got, Sam, something useful I have not."

"I'm sorry. You've done everything I can think of: witness interviews, crime scene photos, all evidence bagged and examined. Lines of enquiry: known associates, known habits. Did she have a pimp or a dealer, someone likely to get violent? How many jobs had she had that night? Maybe I wasn't the last. Maybe she ran into someone else."

"You don't deny being with her then? Because before,  you were."

"I've no memory of it, but the evidence says yes. It doesn't mean it was consensual, Gene. I was drugged. I was set up. When's Warren's appeal date?"

"He swears he knows nothing."

Sam snorted, and regretted the action instantly.

"If he didn't order it, then he knows who did. Lean on him."

"You're starting to sound like me, Sammy Boy."

"There's no other way," Sam realised. 

There would be no eleventh hour eyelash to save him, or any reasonable doubt once he'd endured a trial by media. If Gene couldn't kick a confession out of someone, he was done for.

"Gene," he asked, reaching out as Gene stood to leave. "Don't throw yourself on my funeral pyre. If you can't see a way out, let me go."

"I can't."

"You must."

Gene leant in close, usually his most intimidating stance, but this time surprisingly intimate.

"You mean the world to me, Sam. I won't give up on you that easily. Now sit tight and mend those bones of yours. I'll sort it, I promise.'

And he turned away before Sam had a chance to see his bravado crack and fall away. Sam was already lost to him. He was just clinging onto pieces now.

*

The flat yellow envelope appeared out of nowhere on the top of Gene's in tray with the all the other documents and files he'd barely touched, consumed with his one case.  He'd ignored it for a day and a half but now, as he sat there, tired and thinking, it was staring back at him, and he figured he might as well open it and either file it back in the tray or in the bin.  Unthinking, he just tore it open, and a small sheaf of black and white photos tumbled out, scattering across his desk. Photos which he very quickly gathered up again, and checked under and around the desk to make sure he'd caught them all.

His pulse racing now, he quickly went through them, one by one. They were photos of him, and Sam, together. Surveillance photos, a proper PI job, mostly taken while there were on duty, and thus hardly incriminating, but there were a handful that weren't, and they were very incriminating indeed.  There was one where he was brushing Sam's cheek, another where he was holding his arm, holding Sam just a little too close, and there were three, taken in a series, that had caught them, albeit shadowy and indistinct, in Gene's own house while the Missus was away. His own house. The bloody bastard must have been hiding in the bushes like a pervert.

There was one where they were standing close, and the next one they were embracing very warmly indeed. Gene remembered that night. It had been a warm Summer night and Sam was doing the washing up, lest he leave the tell tale second cup behind. What had amused Gene at the time was that Sam had been washing up naked, and Gene just couldn't let him alone, distracting him, teasing him.  He remembered he'd scooped suds out of the sink and fashioned two little horns and two small but perfectly form breasts on Sam out of foam, and Sam had laughed as the foam had melted, small streams of  soapy water running down his face and chest. He'd been so bright eyed, his hair all wet and spiky, and Gene had bent to blow the last of the bubbles away, chasing them softly over Sam's chest, and Sam had giggled, leaning back and twisting slightly in Gene's arms as Gene tried to hold him still. Holding had led to kissing, and kissing had led to, well, before long Sam was bracing himself against the sink, rocking back and forth with Gene inside him. Gene remembered now, he couldn't see outside.

It had been late evening and dark, and he could only see their reflections in the window glass, his, and Sam's, beautiful, long lashes on his cheeks as he eyes closed, the look of intense concentration, followed by a sensual softening of his features as he went with the flow, moving as one with Gene, until finally, that small look of pain as he came, as though that one moment of release had to be wrenched from him. And then Sam would start breathing again, smiling a lazy smile as his heart pulsed and his skin tingled.

Even now Gene's skin flushed and prickled at the memory. Until he turned to the last photograph. It was the both of them, caught somewhat fuzzily but unmistakably mid-act in Gene's kitchen. Across the photo had been scrawled the word "poofter!" in black felt pen, all capitals, just in case Gene missed the point.  Gene wanted to tear it up. He wanted to burn it, but he stayed his hand. It was evidence, evidence that someone knew, someone was watching. But who? He glanced around at the CID room outside his office.  The thought made him squirm.

He put the photos away carefully in his breast pocket, and they hung there, like lead, all day.

*

Jackie Queen quickly thumbed through the photographs, pausing at the last few, but saying nothing. She glanced up at Gene's glowering face. He was expecting her to confess. She shoved the photos back at him.

"It wasn't me. I don't do that sort of thing, and don't you go saying different or this meeting is over. Even if I had arranged for them to be taken, which I didn't, why would I send them to you instead of splashing them all over the evening edition. Unless you think I've got a nice sideline in blackmail going, no don't answer that. Is it? Is it blackmail?"

Gene shook his head. "No note, no phone calls. Just these. Not even a post mark."

Jackie took the envelope from him and turned it over, before handing it back.  He was right. It must have been dropped off by hand.

"I don't suppose you've bothered to ask anyone else, though I don't suppose you could. You've really dropped yourself in it, but you know that, don't you. Whoever did this, they know, and they have the negatives, and probably more than just these.  Who have you pissed off Gene, or is it still a case of the queue forming to the left?"

Gene just scowled at her.

"You didn't seem surprised," he spoke at last.

"At this? No.  I knew. I saw you both, remember.  I heard you. That WPC might try holding his hand but Sam's been yours since he got here, hasn't he. I could see it. Somebody else has seen it, too. You've been very careless, Gene. How unlike you," she scolded softly, then she saw his face.

She couldn't work out why Gene had been so reckless, or even why he had bothered to come here, to what? Accuse her of spying on him? Ask for her help? She couldn't work it out at all until she saw it in his face.

"Oh my god, no. It can't be. It is. You poor, stupid, bastard. You've never been in love before, have you? Not being crazy do anything, any where crazy, mad love, shag in all the wrong places, if you don't shag you'll die kind, anyway, have you? No wonder you're arse backwards and coming to me for help, the last person on earth you'd ever ask. He's got you turned all upside down and up until now you've been loving every minute of it.  I bet he cut your legs rights out from under you the moment you saw him. How long did it take before you were drunk enough to kiss him?"

Gene wasn't about to dignify that with an answer, but she could read his face well enough to know she was right. The poor, pitiful bastard. Tyler had him upside down and inside out and he just couldn't think straight.

She smiled at the poor joke. She'd always imagined Gene to be as straight as an arrow, but it turns out he'd just been waiting for Sam Tyler to walk into his life. Too bad it was turning out to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Up until now, she bet it had been the best thing. Poor Gene. To fall like this, at his age. It must be so damned embarrassing.

She tried not to let her amusement at his predicament show. It was cruel, and also unfair. Whoever was pulling the strings on this little fitup was a vicious bastard, and not even smug little Sam Tyler deserved to be taken down quite that hard.

"The only thing you had going for you was that I would have never have thought that Tyler was your type."

"Enough," Gene pleaded, stripped bare. She could always do that to him, strip him right back to the bone.

"Don't go all sulky on me. I won't tell, I promise. Not this. There's nothing to be gained by it. Not by me, at least."

That was only part of the reason why Gene looked ready to thump something.

Gene was miserable, knowing she'd come to the heart of his problem. He'd fancied birds alright, even married one. He liked his wife, but that's all it was, just a pale imitation. Before Sam, he'd never known what a real connection was, he'd never pined every moment they were apart, he'd never shone with joy as they joked and made connections. Everything else was just milk, and Sam was cream. He'd been crazy, and he'd been caught out.

She held out her hand for the photos again, and gave them one last shuffle.  Most of them were just shots of the two of them at work, but there were the occasional shots at play,  caught being just a little too close, just a little too affectionate, or even arguing too violently with each other for mere colleagues.  They were taken all over the places, at different times of day.

"You've had a tail, and you never spotted him," she tsked. "Any idea when these were taken?"

"Over the last month or so. "

"Do you have idea why they were sent to you? Why now?"

"I was thinking about that. I've got a horrible feeling this whole thing might be about Sam being a pillow biter, not who he's put away. In fact, I know it."

It almost bemused Jackie to hear Gene use such derogatory terms. Still putting on an act, though it wasn't really an act, Gene probably still didn't know which way to swing.

"These look like surveillance photos," she reminded, handing them back.

Gene knew it. He just wanted a second opinion. Paranoia had him jumping at shadows, but she was right: whoever had done this was very close to home. This attack had been personal, with none of the random violence usually associated with poofter bashing.

Gene's first suspect was Ray, but he was just as quickly dismissed. Ray made no secret of his loathing for Sam, nor did he keep the lid on comments about Sam being a cocksucker and whose cock he was sucking, but Ray intended such comments as slander rather than a complaint about an inappropriate workplace relationship. If he knew how close to the mark his sneers had hit, it'd blow his mind. No, Ray might have motive, but he lacked the imagination to have done this. Spitballs and gossiping like a fishwife were more his speed.

That left the field wide open. Jackie could see it written clearly in his face.

"Poor Gene," she genuinely sympathised, the strength of her sincerity surprised her. She really felt for him. She'd seen many a fine career detonate from an illicit affair, but this was a particularly nasty way for it to end. Gene could have used a good humbling, but not this. That it was someone who probably smiled at him and made him cups of tea, that made it so much worse.

"You still think he's innocent?"

"Yes."  He handed her a folded up piece of foolscap.

"What's this?" Jackie asked, suspicious.

"Doctor's report. There's no way Sam could have done all that to himself.  And there's more. This came with the photos.," Gene was holding one last photograph close to his chest. "It's not like the other ones. I didn't want to show it to you."

"Until I'd denied all involvement."

Of course.

Jackie quickly flicked through the report Gene had given her, eyes widening as she'd read the highlights, as it were.

"They restrained him with his own handcuffs? And assaulted him with his own truncheon?" She looked up from the pages, trying to gauge Gene's mood, knowing damn well she was walking in a minefield. One misstep and boom.  "It's sounds like somebody wanted to get at Sam because he's police."

"And a poof?" Gene supplied bluntly, feeling no need to be political, as Sam called it.

Gene handed over the last photo, the one he'd kept back. In truth, he'd missed it, too. It had been stuck to the  back of the other one, the ink still sticky when it had been bundled up and posted. This one also called Sam a poof, but in this one he was tied up on a bed, bleeding, a girl astride him, his face twisted away, pleading to be set free.

"Is this the girl?"

Gene nodded, taking the photo back.

"You might have thought he was a kinky bugger, and he is, but there blood there, and bruises, and his hands are tied behind him."

"Whoever sent these…"

"Were there on the night it happened.  They're the bastards who did this."

"Sam's made himself a dangerous enemy, Gene. They've been following for weeks before they finally snatched him off the streets. It's horrible." Suddenly she could see it, not the too strange detective finally snapping, but Sam being bundled into a car, tortured and then dumped. "I'll ask around, but you'd know better than I would."

"You might hear things I won't. Things about Sam. Things about me. But be discrete."

"Look whose talking,' she snorted, but she understood him. More of those photos could turn up anywhere, at any time. Asking the wrong sort of questions in the wrong place could only make matters worse. She'd hate to be Gene right now. She might wish a dose of crabs on him now and then, but he didn't deserve this.

"Gene," she offered one last piece of advice before stubbing out her cigarette and going back to her desk. "Burn them."

Gene wanted to burn them, but he couldn't. He'd burnt the other scribbled over ones, but the rest, they were the only photos he had of Sam, and they might be all he had as a reminder. He just couldn't bear to destroy them. No matter the motive, these were pictures of Sam smiling, of happier times. He carefully tucked them deep inside a copy of "A Christmas Carol" and put it back on the bookshelf in his house, daring anyone to investigate the carefully bound classics that were there just for show.

Before he'd handed her the envelope, or even thought about handing her the envelope, Gene had removed the most incriminating photos, the ones where he and Sam had actually been caught in flagrante. The dozen or so he'd left were, to Gene's eyes, quite innocent. Certainly, he remembered them as innocent: helping Sam on with his coat, picking twigs out of Sam's hair after chasing a fleet footed bastard over and through several hedges, pulling Sam down under cover after a shot had damn nearly clipped him, the stupid bugger, and a couple of them just sitting in the car or milling about on a crime scene. Nothing to see, as far as Gene was concerned.

But to Jackie Queen there was everything to see, and they spoke volumes: the closeness, the shared smiles, the way Sam accepted half a sandwich from Gene without even looking. To the trained observer, it was entirely obvious, and it would have been, to Gene, as well, had he been on the outside looking in. She could see now why Gene was so worried, and she knew there must have been other photos in the set, photos that would prove without a doubt that Gene and Sam were lovers. Gene's clamped down expression said as much.

So why had he come to her with these? That much was also obvious. He thought she'd done it. He knew better now.

"You stupid, stupid bastard," she admonished again, but drew him close for a hug, feeling for him. He was like a kid, making stupid mistakes in a grown up world. The Gene she knew would have never have let this happen, but the Gene she knew had never lost his head to his heart before. Not like this.

Suddenly she gasped.

"Still not wearing any knickers to the file room, then, Jackie," Gene murmured smokily in her ear, being on intimate acquaintance.

She pushed him back a little. Still the same Gene, then, smiling at her like the big bad wolf, half leer, half invitation. She wanted to smack him and kiss him, and she could see why Sam fought with him so much. Gene could be such a bastard, but he always got away with it. There was a raw, animal cunning in there that made him irresistible, and he knew it.

Later, as she stood reapplying her lipstick in the mirror, she wondered again why he had brought the photos. He must have been desperate. He wanted her to at least rule out that the press had anything to do with it and he wanted to make sure the attack on Sam wasn't just to get at him. He wanted to hear someone say it. Poor Gene. If she thought somebody had hurt her man, just to get at her, well, she'd kill them. She was sure of it.

She unrolled the hospital report Gene had given her and read through it, more carefully this time. It wasn't for publication, but she could hint at the contents. Gene wanted people to know Sam could not have done what he was accused of. Not with those injuries. It just simply could not be possible.

Her stomach tightened as she scanned down it, then she grew sick, covering her mouth. No wonder Gene was in such a state. Now she understood. Now she was frightened. If she wasn't part of the conspiracy, then she was part of the problem. She could be in danger. If they could do that to Sam, then no one was safe, and Gene wanted her to know it. He wanted her to know the price of association.

He also knew her very well, and he knew that something like this was never going to make her back off. It was going to make her even more determined to get at the truth. That's why Gene had come to her. If he couldn't save Sam, if they stopped him, then she was his only hope.  If Sam was to be tried in the media, then there was some faint hope that he could be found innocent. But they both knew how unlikely that would be.

*

Gene scowled at his reflection in his shaving mirror, propped up on his desk, the sure sign of a man who'd not slept in his own bed for several nights.

Who knew his dark, dirty little secret? It wasn't Jackie, it wasn't her style, and that plonk had nearly choked on the spot. He'd gone to great pains to try and keep up appearances at the station, but there was that time at The Railways Arms. It had been past closing time, dark and quiet but they'd been glued to the counter in a lock-in, working their way through the dregs of a particularly fine pure malt. They'd leant in close, touched lips and kissed, it had been the most natural thing in the world, like breathing, and they only really realised what they were doing when Nelson had clattered back in through the back door. Even then they'd barely drawn apart, still gazing at each other with warm bedroom eyes, Gene's hand still resting on top of Sam's.

Nelson hadn't said anything and Gene hadn't asked, but he didn't think Nelson was up for a bit of blackmail. A few dodgy deals under the counter, yes, but something this spiteful, no, not his style either.

He turned his thoughts to CID, but dismissed them easily. Some of them hated Sam enough, but precious few of them had the imagination or drive to manage this sort of obbo job, nor could any of them use the bloody camera.

Which just left, what? Everyone Sam had ever pissed off? He was back to his conga line of suspects. Damn Sam for getting up so many noses. Whoever it was, Gene was going to come down on them like a ton of bricks, so nobody ever thought of doing anything like this again.

*

Gene's  current suspect sat unmoving and silent under the constant barrage of questions.  Where had he been? Had anyone seen him? Why did he have no alibi? Couldn't he see how suspicious it must look?  Even the most plodding plonk could easily finger his collar for this one.

Sam regarded Gene miserably. He'd been through all this. He had nothing left to say.

"Sam, for fuck's sake. You have to remember something. Anything. I can't do anything if you won't tell me what happened."

"I can't!" Sam screamed back at him, suddenly erupting into red faced anger.

"Guv!" Annie pushed him back, wedging herself between them. "Leave him alone. It's not his fault. He took a nasty crack on the head and they're keeping him all doped up in here. "

"If he doesn't remember I can't help him," Gene warned.

Gene leant forward.

"Sam, come on, can you remember anything from that night?"

Sam frowned, straining to pull at the memories but there was nothing, just flashes, nothing he could grab hold of or understand. He rubbed his eyes, tired.

"Sam, we need this."

"I know." Sam beat his head against his pillow in frustration and winced.

"Guv," Annie piped up, unable to watch the interrogation any further.

"There's something we could try." She stood nervously, wringing her hands.  "Okay, listen," she summoned up the courage to finish speaking her mind. "I know a way, it might work, but you have to trust me."

"I'm all ears," Gene sneered at her, arms folded.

"We could hypnotise him."

"What? Like in a pub? Make him cluck like a chicken or bark like a dog. Well, he's already barking, I'll give you that."

Sam shot him a shrewish look.

"No," Annie ignored them. "A friend of mine was studying it at university, for use in therapy. We could try it. It might help him remember. What could it hurt?"

"It's not admissible in court," dismissed Sam.

Annie turned to him. "It might work, though. It's worth a try. Sam?"

Gene had thought he'd heard just about every crackpot theory until now, but he could see Sam was considering it.

"It's up to you, Gladys."

Sam half shrugged. "You know me. I'll try anything once."

"Right then. Who's your friend?"

Annie was staring at the ground.

"Neil," she admitted.

"What?" Gene exploded. "That bastard, the one who tried to get Sam to take a short walk off the top of the building for a laugh? The bastard that's going to be wearing my shoeprints if I ever see him?!"

Annie swung away from Gene's tirade to Sam.

"I told him," Sam admitted sheepishly.  It had been during one of their quieter, confiding moments. Sam had been trying to explain how lost he'd felt, and had let slip about trying to jump. Gene hadn't been happy the first time he'd heard the story, either.

Gene was still scowling, arms folded. "I am not letting that freak near Sam. Not when he's vulnerable."

"Guv. Gene!" Sam got his attention. "It's all right. I'll do it. I have to."

"Sam."

"Please."

Gene nodded. "I'll be here. If that bastard so much as blinks funny…"

Sam half smiled. He could do this, if Gene was there, watching over him.

*

"Sam? Sam? Can you hear me?" Neil kept his voice neutral. "What is your name?"

"Sam Tyler."

"And where do you live?"

Sam gave his address, but it wasn't right. It was the old factory. Gene shook his head, but Neil pressed on.

"What year is it?"

"2006."

"No, Sam, it's 1973.  Tell me what happened in 1973. Tell me what happened on that night. You said you were walking. Where  to?"

"Home. I'm walking home."

"Why?"

"Because I want to. I need time to think."

"Why?"

"I'm happy. I'm very happy and I'm feeling confused, as if I'm betraying myself. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be happy."

Gene made a ‘get on with it' motion with the flick of his hand, not wanting to dwell on Sam's inner life, not wanting Sam to say something he shouldn't.

"What happens next?" Neil pressed, taking his cue from Gene.

"There's a cab. I can't believe my luck. There's a cab, out here, at this time of night."

"Can you see the bastard's number?" Gene asked hunching forward.

Neil scowled at him, but Sam could and recited it, and Gene noted it down.

"The cab's stopping," Sam continued. "He's stopping. He's letting someone else in."

"Who?"

"It's…it's…" Sam frowned acutely. "No!"

His eyes snapped open wide, and he was instantly blinded. He drew a staggering breath, but couldn't breathe. He opened and closed his eyes again, twisting away from the light. Muffled voices assaulted him, pounding on his ears like waves.

"Sam? Sam? Can you hear me? Are you awake? There you go."

The lights dimmed and he could breathe a little easier. His mouth tasted like metal, everything sounded like he was underwater, and he couldn't see properly, just shapes. Slowly a shape focused into a nurse peering over him.

"Hello Sam. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand as hard as you can if you can hear me."

He tried but his arm felt like day old spaghetti. 

"Come on, try. Good, Sam. Good. Do you know where you are?"

He squeezed again.

"Do you know what happened?"

Yes. He gazed around the room, eyes still watering. He felt so tired, so very tired.

"No, Sam, don't go back to sleep. You can't go back to sleep. Sam, stay with me, please, try and stay with me…"

His eyes fluttered open again.

"Sam? He's awake."

Annie's face swam into focus.

"You really gave us a scare, Sam,. We nearly lost you. You had some sort of seizure and stopped breathing. They said it was from the head injury. They had to crack you open like an egg."

"He'll be as right as rain in a few weeks, won't you, Sam." Gene was leaning close. Sam could smell the overpowering stench of nicotine, surrounding Gene like a fog. When he saw the worry in Gene's eyes, he knew why. He must have scared them, as much as he'd scared himself.

"Can you remember who got in the cab?" Gene pressed.

"Guv!" Annie damn near slapped him.

"It's important," Gene shot back at her, then returned to leaning over Sam.

"Well, can you?"

Sam closed his eyes and frowned. It was gone, whatever it had been.

Gene straightened. "Right. Probably leaked out with the rest of yer brains.  Bad enough I'm still scrubbing up the mess you made of my cells. You're a pain in the arse, Sam, make no mistake."

"I love you too," Sam shot back, still more than half asleep, but conscious enough to have regained the use of his acid tongue, and conscious enough to realise he'd just said something he shouldn't have. At least not out loud. And in public. If there had been a piano player in the corner, he would have stopped dead mid note.

Annie glanced nervously at Gene, and then flicked away. Chris, bringing up the rear, ready to record anything Sam might say, suddenly found deep meaning in the blank page of his notebook.

Gene snorted. "Oh, shut it, Tyler. Just how much of yer brains did they scoop out, anyway?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and quickly realised he shouldn't do that. In fact, moving at all, even slightly, was bad. He was numb, but not that numb.

Gene was still waiting, but there'd be nothing of any use coming out of Sam that day.

"Right.  You stay here, with him. Don't let him near the cutlery, and don't let him tell fortunes. He might look like some mad gypsy, but he ain't one. I've got some proper policing to do. We brought in your cab driver and Ray should have softened him up about now."

Gene expected some wince on Sam's part, some retort about police brutality, but there was none. Sam had finally suffered enough for whatever sins he felt he had. Now he wanted to fight back.

"We'll get this sorted," Gene promised. "Nothing is going to stop me getting the bastard who did this to you."

He swept out, Chris trailing in his wake, which just left Sam and Annie.

"Don't," she warned. "I mean it, Sam. Don't scratch at your bandages or I'll get the nurse."

He really did look a sight, propped up in bed, swathed in bandages, more like The Mummy than any fortune teller.

"How bad is it?" Sam had to ask, and winced at Annie's pained expression. It wasn't good. Gingerly he traced the outline of the bandages. Jesus. He'd forgotten it was 1973. No keyhole surgery. They really had sliced him open like a melon.

"It might not be so bad. You could grow your hair out," she suggested helpfully.

Sam demanded a mirror like a character in a Noir horror flick.

Annie pursed her lips, but seeing he was determined, she relented and fished out a compact, popping it open for him.

Sam held it up and was shocked. He had been butchered. Instead of a small square pad of a bandage like he'd been expecting, he found his entire head swaddled in crepe bandages. He looked like a refugee from the Crimea War, or, indeed, like Gene had taunted, Madame Zelda. All that was missing was a peacock feather.

Sam returned the compact and slumped back into his pillows, suddenly feeling very much the worse for wear. It was rather like that time he'd been stabbed, it hadn't hurt half so much until he'd seen the blood. Then it had hurt like buggery. 

Well, not quite, he amended. Worse. Buggery itself he was actually developing quite a taste for, and this was nowhere near as much fun. He wondered idly if he'd have to modify his language now that he was, and still to his mild astonishment, actually gay, or would he be like Gene and still call a fairy a bloody poofter.  He was still rolling through such thoughts and wondering if he was over medicated or brain damaged since the thoughts wouldn't stop tumbling through his head when the doctor appeared at his bed, sizing him up the very same way Sam would size up a suspect.

"He's awake now," Annie reported to the doctor. "He's lucid and he's being snotty."

The doctor grinned. "On the mend, then." He bent close, very close, to flick his penlight in and out of Sam's eyes.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Sam. Sam I am," Sam joked. "I think, therefore I am."

"Good enough," grinned the doctor.  "You're a very lucky young man, even though I know you don't feel very lucky. If you hadn't already been in hospital you'd be dead right now. Do you know what happened?'

"No," Sam offered verbally, because shaking his head was too painful, as he unhappily discovered.

"That second blow on the back of your head caused some bleeding in your brain. It didn't show up on the x-rays. Can you squeeze my hands? Good. Can you count to twenty?"

Sam did so. He stumbled over the general knowledge questions about the current prime minister and the like, because the first answer he thought of wasn't the right one. He passed the touching his own nose test with flying colours, though.

"Good," the doctor agreed. "You should be alright."

Sam was relieved to hear that. It wasn't until he'd been run through all these tests that he realised how serious it had been.

‘What about the amnesia?" Annie butted in. "That's not normal."

"In head injuries like these, it can be. The memories might return, or they might not."

The doctor jotted down some notes, and then cheerfully delivered his second blow for the evening, the one that rocked Sam's world.

"Right. I think we'll keep you in for a couple more day's observation, then arrange for your transfer to the prison hospital."

Annie saw Sam's face and she held his hand tight. He was scared, really scared, and it was only probably only just starting to hit him how serious everything was. He'd been concussed before, but now he was stone cold sober.

Feeling for him, she drew up the chair beside him.

"So are you feeling better then?" she asked clumsily.

"Aside from feeling like I had a fridge land on top of me and being banged up for murder, just peachy, thanks."

"You must be feeling better, you weren't moaning about it before. I'll know for next time."

"Next time what?" Sam demanded to know, horrified at the thought of going through anything like this again.

Annie just grinned at him and decided to change the subject.

"Do you love him, the Guv?"

"What?" Sam looked at her like she was the one who was mad.

"I heard you. I was standing right here when you said it."

"I was being sarcastic," Sam informed her, with an even more stinging riff of sarcasm.

"Mmm," she dismissed him. "But do you love him though, really? Don't go denying it. I've never seen the Guv in such a state. He turned himself into a human chimney while they had you on the table. Chain-smoked for four hours straight. They said you were lucky it happened here and not the cells, because you'd be dead right now."

"Cheers," Sam thanked her for painting a gruesome picture.

"You said you loved him," she pressed.

"Annie, don't be daft, I was winding him up."

He was so sincere, and she wanted to believe him, but he was lying. She knew he was lying. All along, she thought he might be, the way he was always giving off mixed signals, but she'd never expected this.

"I know, Sam," she told him firmly, leaning close. "The Guv told me."

"No." Sam didn't believe her. "He would never, you must have misheard him. The Guv would never say anything like that."

"Yeah, he did. He didn't mean to, but he was really, really upset.  He thought I wasn't looking after you properly because I thought you did it, so he told me you weren't like that, then he told me he could have been your alibi."

"Not the whole night," Sam admitted, quietly, and sadly.

"I don't understand," she turned on him, suddenly bitter and betrayed. "How could it happen?"

"It just did."

"It's not right."

"Do you think I don't know what this could do to Gene? You can't tell anyone, Annie."

And there it was. Not the Guv, but Gene. My Gene. My lover. My best friend. Mine.

"Do you love him?" she asked again, somewhat redundantly, but needing to know, needing to hear him say it, just so she could remember it the next time he smiled at her.

"Do you think they'll let me read the papers in here?" he asked, trying to divert her.

Annie wasn't having it.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Next time I have to interrogate anyone I'm calling you."

"Sam."

Thoughts of Gene suddenly filled his head, unbidden, and he felt a rush like a drug.

She saw it in his eyes before he answered her.

"Yes, he admitted quietly. "I think I do."

"And you a good Catholic boy," she mocked him. "Isn't there something about adultery?"

"That's coveting your neighbour's wife, not their husband."

"You should have been a lawyer, splitting hairs like that," she taunted him.

He could tell that she really wasn't happy about it, nor did she approve, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

"Why?" she had to ask.

"I was lonely. You wanted to be just friends. Gene couldn't care less if we were friends or not."

"Don't you go putting this on me."

"I'm not. You asked me how it happened. It just happened," he reacted to her look of disbelief. "I thought he was going to thump me, but he kissed me instead."

"And what did you do?"

"I kissed him back."

There was nothing she could really say to that, especially to the way he'd told her, just now. She could see it clearly reflected in his eyes that he'd do it again, that he wouldn't change a thing.

"He's married, you know," she reminded sharply, thinking Sam might have missed the point.

Sam nodded cu