the_gene_genie | OOM: Driving Lessons

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OOM: Driving Lessons

Gene holds the door open for her with a small smile. The view outside is of a street, red brick houses and a car parked on the corner. There's a high-rise behind the houses; it's all typically 70s. If Kate looks back behind them when the door's closed, she'll see a regular looking pub with a sign hanging near the door, declaring it to be The Railway Arms.

She'll also see Gene standing stock still, glaring at her like she's standing right in his way. Which she is, as far as he's concerned. She might also note that there is not a single spark of recognition on his face.

'You gonna shift yer arse, luv, or am I goin' to 'ave t'do it for ya?'

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The scene unfolding before her is enough to tell her one thing for certain.

She likes Sam.

Smirking, she crosses her arms over her chest, and leans against the doorjamb.

'So she was there?'

The glare fixed on his DI is still highly suspicious. He really doesn't remember a thing about it.

'You sure, Gladys? This ain' some elaborate wind-up so you can get your grubby paws on me motor?'

He absolutely wouldn't put it past him. It's the sort of sneaky, underhanded tactics this boy would employ.

"If I came up with an elaborate wind-up, Guv, it wouldn't be this obvious."

Sam raises his eyebrows, then actually moves to stand up.

"And it wouldn't have led to you breaking down my door, either."

"Gladys?"

Kate chortles, bite still in her eyes from Mr. Hunt's Wild Ride.

"You two wanna be alone?"

Oh, she gets a death glare for that one. And he takes a step back as Sam stands up, to put decent distance between them so she doesn't get any funny ideas.

'Less of tha' darlin', or I won' let you touch me gearstick.'

Punishment indeed.

His look back at Sam is vaguely triumphant. It seems to gloat about the differing ways they're going to spend their Saturdays - him with a sleek young lady (and Kate's very pretty too) - and Sam in a dingy flat with wallpaper that could make Ghandi declare war on the faithful.

'Right then. We'll get off an' leave you to it then.'

Heh.

'No doubt you'll be wantin' to spend the weekend with your paperwork.'

Sam manages not to roll his eyes.

"Considering I keep up with all the necessary forms, I'm actually not behind like some people."

Gene.

"It's very odd how that works. I'll send you the bill for the door, shall I?"

'Nah, stick it on expenses. An' I think you'll find I ain't behind on mine either. I've done as much as I normally do.'

Which is to say, none.

He sticks a fag in his mouth and lights it, looking over at Kate in the doorway.

'Right then, swee'heart. Shall we?'

He holds a hand out to gesture her through the door, then looks back at Sam with a lascivious expression.

'Maybe a result.'

Sweetheart?

She fixes a brief but intense look on Sam; if she has to tie Gene's hands to the steering wheel later, she'll need him to take her home.

"...Thanks for your hospitality."

Sam's smile for Kate is quick and mostly genuine. (He'll wait until they're gone to let the 'gobsmacked' part of his morning register.)

"Think nothing of it, ma'am."

And with a dry yet pointed look toward the broken door --

"I was in need of something to do with my afternoon."

Now she knows where he'll be today.

But if there was ever a time to miss his mobile -- in amongst all those other times -- now would be it.

If Gene knew what a mobile was - and how much Sam misses his - there would be many many unsavoury jokes about the nature of his relationship with the device. As it is, he just waggles his eyebrows at Sam - he's planning on enjoying his afternoon - and barrels out of the door at high speed.

'C'mon then luv, the ride of your life awaits.'

He's probably talking about the car.

Kate wouldn't dream of anything else.

"D'you do everything this speedily?" she asks, heels click-clacking after him.

'Yeah. Ain't no use sitting on yer arse, is there?'

Except when he is sitting on his arse. But he only does that when there's nothing else to do.

The car door is opened once more and left ajar for her but there's no danger of him letting her behind the wheel just yet.

'Righ' then,' he says, once he's behind the wheel. 'I'm no' lettin' a Yankee bird loose on my streets withou' knowin' some basics first.'

He points at the steering wheel.

'Tha's the steering wheel. Now 'old on.'

He fires it up and hits the accelerator again, screeching off to find somewhere less populated to do this.

"Jesus Christ, Gene!"

Her tone is scolding, but it's followed up by a chirruping laugh.

There will be little half moon marks left in his passenger side door.

"Thought y'said you was a safe driver?"

'You see me runnin' anyone over?'

Ergo, he's safe.

She'll have to put up with it for ten minutes or so, while he drives to a flat piece of wasteground between a couple of abandoned mills. If she has the nerve to keep her eyes open, she'll see that 1970s Manchester is a fairly bleak place. It's an industrial city, all red brick and soot stains from the factories; some cobbled streets and ancient old cars on them. But there are green spaces too and kids are out playing on the street (until they see the Cortina bearing down on them, obviously), the sun's out and there's not a hint of modern technology in sight.

'Wha' else did I tell you then? Seein' as you know so much abou' me an' I don' even know your las' name.'

If she has the nerve? For as long as she's been walking she's been riding horses, taking them out to the big open stretches of dry desert outside Heyser and letting them go. She was infatuated with the sensation: the wind in her hair; the pound of hooves echoing in her chest; arms outstretched, she was flying.

Her only complaint now is she can barely see a damn thing as the Cortina goes whizzing by streets and buildings and businesses; a few things stand out, things she saw in a 21st century France like street lights and telephone poles, but eyes and mouth stay round and open, taking in what unremarkable sights Gene may see like she's looking at the Sistine Chapel.

She turns to him, once they've stopped outside the abandoned mills.

"Barlow. Kate Barlow."

'Well, nice t'meet ya.'

He kills the engine and leaves the keys in the ignition. There's a flat expanse of fairly even ground in front of them where a factory once stood; quite a few have been demolished recently. It's clear land though, running for about two hundred yards until piles of stones and scrub form hills that'll stop her going any further. On the other side, building work is underway for a motorway and the factories either side cast long shadows over the rows of houses on the other side of the road.

He takes a deep breath. He doesn't even let Ray or Sam drive this car, he honestly can't believe he's about to do this.

'Righ' then.'

Breathe. Breathebreathebreathe.

'Your turn.'

He pushes the door open before he changes his mind and strides around the car to take her seat on the passanger side.

Edited 2010-09-27 00:35 (UTC)

She can't help but find a little amusement in watching him. He's puzzling her, through and through.

"Really?"

She gets out of the car, and leans against the door.

"'Nice t'meet ya, now go around an' do what I jus' did'?" she chuckles. "Y'look like you're about to pass out."

He tuts and rolls his eyes, as though she's being ridiculous.

'Well, I am goin' t'tell you what t'do, obviously. I'm no' having you drivin' like a girl an' getting me paintwork scratched.'

Though for all he knows, she could be the girliest girl that ever girled and not even be able to pull the wheel 'round. This car is a bit of a beast.

'An' I am not abou' t'pass out. An' you're no' goin' to learn anythin' by standin' there flutterin' yer eyelashes at me either. So mush.'

He'd be pleased to hear he's puzzling her. He'd say it adds to his devestatingly attractive air of mystery (and mean it).

She rolls her eyes long-sufferingly, and brushes past him. She'd really like to know what he means by not having her drive like a girl, since that's what she is, but leaves it alone. Knowing Gene, she probably doesn't want to know.

She swings herself down into the drivers seat, taking care to keep her knees together. Maybe wearing a dress wasn't such a great idea.

"Not sure how I feel, bein' on this side of the teaching experience," she mumbles offhandedly, searching for a seatbelt where they'd be in modern vehicles -- beside the seat, behind the door.

'Don' touch that!' he snaps immediately.

'I am the DCI of this district an' if anyone sees me with someone wearin' a seatbelt, I'll never 'ear the end of it. Anyway, wha' are you? A vicar?'

Gene hates seatbelts. They're poncey.

'OK.'

Another deep breath and he points.

'Tha's the handbrake. Don' take it off until you wan' t'move. Them three pedals - left one's the clutch, middle one's the brake, right one's the accelerator. With me so far?'

Of course, he has no idea that she has rarely sat in a car before. He assumes that she probably knows these things already but he's being cautious. This Cortina really is his baby.

Kate raises her hands, palms out, and lets him rant. His car, his territory. He told her he'd get her back for laughing during his horseback riding lessons, but the real irony is this is just the way he is, memories of the event or no.

Small smirk on her face, she follows where he indicates with her eyes. Brake, clutch, brake again, and the accelerator. Well, the last one is easy enough to figure out.

"There are two brakes?"

She braces herself for his reply.

The first pedal's not a brake. It's the clutch. It doesn't occur to him that she might know it as something else though, so this is going to get interesting.

'Yeah. Handbrake an' footbrake.'

He points again to make sure she knows - the lever between the seats? Handbrake. Pedal on the right, footbrake. He wants her to be really clear on how to stop, preferably without driving his car into some rubble.

'An' that there is the gearstick. You always start in first. So...' He pulls the lever into neutral. Not everyone leaves a car in gear when they stop, though he does.

'...when you can wiggle the gearstick like this,' he demonstrates, 'it's in neutral. Press the clutch down, push the stick to the left an' up, you're in first. Try it now before you start.'

He may actually have gone slightly pale. This is more nervewracking than facing down a gang of twats with shotguns.

(And yes, he's always like this. He's just naturally bolshy. We apologise.)

She's not exactly clear on why there are two brakes, or what exactly the clutch is, or what he means by 'first'...

Yeah, interesting.

But she pays attention, and does her best to follow instructions. She steps on the clutch, pressing it to the floor, and then moves the stick until she feels it click-click into first.

'OK then. When the car's runnin', you release the clutch pedal once you're in gear, until you 'ave to change it again.

This is hard. He's never had to teach someone to drive before and he's been doing it so long himself he can hardly remember what it was like to be clueless.

'Alright take 'er out of gear - do what you just did, only backwards. An' then...start 'er up.'

He'll go so far as to pray, if that'll keep his baby in one piece. Not out loud. But yeah, he's obviously nervous.

She nods, reversing the steps he'd just walked her through until the car is back in neutral again.

Nervous? Why are you nervous, Gene?

"An' I twist this thingymabobber here to start it?"

She means the key.

Which she does, in fact, twist. At least the engine is still hot enough that she doesn't need to pump the gas to keep it from stalling, but having her foot on the clutch would probably be a good idea.

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