OOM: LoM, 1x04: Plus ça change

[the_gene_genie]

 

‘It’s too late pal, you took the cigar. Now get the drinks in an’ grow up.’

Sam doesn’t approve of the arrangement with Steven Warren, that much is clear. He doesn’t approve of the money he’s just found in his pocket. But why can’t he understand? It’s just the way things are.

Steven Warren is a businessman that keeps his part of the city scrupulously clean. No sex crimes, no robberies and he always lets them know if any new scum move into the area. And in return? He enjoys...cordial relationships with the police. Like tonight. A visit to his club to make Tyler apologise for arresting his right-hand man had turned into a tip off about some hippies fencing stolen gear out of their flat. So, it was a good night, wasn’t it? A conversation, a cigar, a pretty girl in the Cortina for half an hour and three more bad guys off the street. Not to mention the roll of tenners in his pocket, more than enough to keep him in beer money for the next couple of weeks.

But Tyler doesn’t like it. He wouldn’t.

The problem is, Gene doesn’t like it either.

~ ~ ~

(‘I’m the Sheriff, Warren. Don’ you ever forge’ it.’

‘No. No, you’re a bent Sheriff, Mr. Hunt. Don’t you ever forget that.’)

 

He’s not sure why he’s so drunk; he only remembers having a few at the Railway Arms. But the fact is, he’s plastered. And stumbling through his front door when it opens faster than he expected, onto a dark and empty hallway.

‘Barb?’

It’s Tuesday. Bridge night. He’d forgotten. So he sways on into the kitchen and finds his dinner in the oven, covered by another plate. He doesn’t take it out, just stares at it for a moment and then turns to the bottle instead. The fire’s still burning in the living room; he slumps in his armchair and stares at it blearily, Scotch in one hand and an ever-present cigarette in the other.

It was Harry Outhwaite who started all this.  Harry Outhwaite, the medal-winning hero who’d fought on the beaches of Normandy. The legend, brought down by one nineteen year old flatfoot, a month into the job.

There’d been a gangster with a load of coppers and politicians in his pocket, a man made rich by the war. Harry took backhanders to look the other way and he’d seen it, been appalled by it. He’d been brand new and squeaky clean, wanted nothing more than to be a lawman, the shining example of what it was to be a copper. So he’d shopped him and Harry had been outed as the bent copper he was. He’d come into work the next day, expecting claps on the back and people thanking him for having helped clean up the force.

That idea went out the window as soon as he walked in and no one would speak to him. After work, a couple of older PC’s had cornered him in the bogs and broken his nose, blackened his eyes. They’d hated him and he didn’t know why. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to do? See criminal activity and put a stop to it?

The gangster carried on like normal, it didn’t change a single thing. Some other sod stepped into Harry’s place and took the money. But the man himself, he couldn’t take it. The legend that was Harry Outhwaite, stand-up copper, breath that could strip a badger, war hero, everyone’s mate in the pub after work...he was found hanging off his banister, his own belt around his neck. He couldn’t stand the shame and killed himself when his wife went off to look after her mum for the morning.

Gene stares into the fire now and remembers how it’d felt when he was told the news. How they’d hated him even more and he hadn’t let it bother him because he thought he’d done the right thing. How the shame hadn’t kicked in until a month later, when he’d been on the job a little bit longer, when he saw how things really worked. Because everyone did it. There wasn’t a man in the station who didn’t get slipped the odd tenner here and there, who didn’t accept a fine cut of meat from the butcher because he appreciated the work you did, who didn’t, sometimes, look the other way when they shouldn’t have. It greased the cogs between the police and the community; alright, it might allow certain crimes to go on but it stopped other crimes and when all’s said and done, scum’s scum. As long are the cells are full, everyone’s happy.

He’d watched them glaring at him at Harry’s funeral, as though he had no right to be there. Maybe he didn’t. But he didn’t feel responsible for the man’s death, not really. No one had told him to put that belt around his neck, just like no one had told him to accept money from criminal scum.

...Christ, he really had been wet behind the ears.
 

No, the shame didn’t kick in until a month later. Because that’s all it took, another month of seeing that ‘everyone did it’ and it wasn’t such a big deal and ‘g’on son, ‘ave a drink on me...’; yeah, one more month and he’d found money in his pocket and he hadn’t given it back. That’s when it hit. That’s when he realised he was just like Harry and if he’d just kept his gob shut a bit longer, he would have realised that the old bastard was just working the system, same as the rest of ‘em. Keeping the machine running, just like he was now, nineteen years old with twenty quid crumpled in his hand for doing nothing more than failing to report an assault. Twenty quid was enough to buy food for two months in 1950, it was one-fifth of a second-hand car, it was...money.

Harry needn’t have been shamed, needn’t have died. But that’s not the real cause of the problem; wasn’t then, isn’t now. It’s that it never stopped. Twenty quid became fifty, became a hundred, became two hundred. And now Steven Warren is pointing a finger in his face,

(‘...you’re a bent Sheriff.’)

and telling him what to do. Steven Warren - a criminal, a fairy - is humiliating his DI, going to blackmail him with that honey-trap called Joanie, and standing there, pointing out that he can do whatever he wants because Gene’s bent and how’s he going to stop him?

And that’s it, isn’t it. Gene Hunt is bent. He’s a bent copper. And now, being a bent copper, he can’t stop a criminal being a criminal, because the bastard’s got one over on him. If he acts, Warren might try and take him down. If he doesn’t...well, the man’s already pointed out that he can do what he likes. How far from that, to him just taking over the city? Where does it stop?

It’s not too much for him to imagine, in his drunken state, where this could go. If he were sober he wouldn’t let himself think about it but he’s not, and it’s easy, all too easy. Warren asking him to look the other way while he expands his territory. Warren’s crimes getting more and more blatant. Him wanting to stop it and not being able to, for fear of the man bringing him down. He doesn’t want to be outed like he outed Harry Outhwaite. He doesn’t want everyone looking at him and knowing he’s crooked.

All he ever wanted was to be the Sheriff, wear the badge, be the law. That’s all. And now it’s all gone wrong; he’s sitting here afraid, afraid of rocking the boat in case a scumbag named Steven Warren decides to bring him down. And Gene had promised himself, years ago, the first time he stood up to his old man and hit back, that he'd never be afraid of anyone ever ever again.

~ ~ ~
 

It’s a day later when the decision’s made for him. A day that seemed normal; he’d shaken off the hangover and put it all to the back of his mind,

(‘How did it make you feel?’

‘Like shit.’)

even cheered when Red Rum won him the office sweepstake on the National, took the piss out of Sam for letting that bird get the better of him. And then it’s evening and he took the call at home and Barbara’s rolling her eyes and sighing at him pulling his coat on, grabbing his car keys off the table in the hallway.

He can’t help it. The girl’s dead. Fished out of the canal with her throat wide open and it’s because Sam didn’t play the game, yes, maybe, but no. Sam shouldn’t have to play the game, just like he shouldn’t. Coppers should be able to say no to a backhander and not have to think that someone’s going to end up dead because of it.

(‘How does it make you feel now?’

‘I try not to think about it.’)

It’s too far.

He’s gone too far.

(‘But when you do think about it, how does it make you feel?’

‘Like there’s an animal eatin’ away at me insides.’)

 

Gene’s been a copper a long time but he can’t remember the last time he walked into the pub at the end of the day and accepted a round of applause with as much satisfaction as this. Steven Warren, sitting in a cell, charged with murder. Like he says to Sam, every copper will be walking a bit taller tomorrow, because of what Sam did.

But it’s not what he means, not really. What he means is that he’s going to be walking taller tomorrow, waking up for the first time in more than twenty years without that animal gnawing at him; knowing that, for once, he’s been the lawman he always set out to be.