OOM: If you gave me all the things I'd never ask of you...

[the_gene_genie]

 

It’s the Christmas trees that do it. Two weeks into his exile and they start appearing in windows. He sees them as he walks back from the pub every night, shining their lights out into the freezing dark, reminding him of home. He tells himself not be soft, but only once and then he drops the pretence. Who‘s there to hear him cover? And anyway, he’s never taken home for granted. Always been perfectly open about how much he loves what he does. Not being able to do it any more leaves him drifting, purposeless.

Those trees sparkle at him, taunting him. It’s less than a year since he took her to Manchester and now look where they are. There’ll be no Christmas Eve trip to the Railway Arms this year, no Alex at his side. It’ll be the first year since 1959 that he won’t sit down at his mother’s table for Christmas dinner. No homemade sausage rolls and beer in front of the telly. No office party. No kisses under the mistletoe.

He tries not to think about it. But it’s hard, with those lights flickering at him and notices going up about carol concerts and parties, decorations in the pub. It’s just like it is every year, all over the country, only this time he’s out in the cold looking in. All he has is an empty room every night and those damn tapes that he can’t bring himself to listen to, no matter how much he’d like to hear her voice.

The trees push him over the edge. Why is he subjecting himself to this? It’s bloody cold and dark and miserable, too close to what’s familiar. If he’s got to be on the run, why not do it somewhere that doesn’t remind him of everything he’s missing? This is torture.

The only difficulty is working out the best way to escape. There’s Bembridge airport, a tiny thing that would probably provide a lift to Europe. Only trouble is his picture will be up there and it’s too small a place for them not to make the connection, especially as he’ll have to use his passport. But the only other way out is by going back to the mainland and that means getting into Portsmouth and back out again undetected.

He has to try. This place is driving him insane.

~ ~ ~

 

The security at one of England’s main ports is, he decides, shocking. He’s not in any position to complain about it but once he gets home, he bloody will. For now though, he’ll lose himself on this ferry and stay away from the crew as much as possible.

He’d automatically thought of the Costa del Sol, even got as far as asking for a ticket to Torremolinos. Then he’d stopped himself. The Costa del Sol is notorious for being a place where British criminals go and hide. The last thing he needs is to run into someone he banged up, once.

It’s when he’s walking away towards the train to Lloret de Mar, on the Costa Brava, that the irony strikes him. Plenty back home are thinking the Costa del Sol would be exactly where he belongs. He tells himself to stop thinking of himself as a copper and something inside rebels so strongly, he thinks he might actually chuck up.

It’s not exactly warm when he arrives but it’s not the sub-zero nights of the Isle of Wight either. He takes a long-term room in an average sort of building, not far from the sea. There’s a communal pool, which he wouldn’t use even if it were warm enough to do so, and a good selection of bars nearby. He chooses the English pub and makes himself a home there.

‘The usual, Nigel?’

‘Thanks, Gloria.’

The days start to bleed into each other. He has nothing to do. There is nothing to do. So he goes to the pub and starts integrating with the patrons a bit more, all English people like him. He tells them his name is Nigel Perkins and they believe him.

‘So, what do you do back home?’

‘Building contractor. Nowt doin’ f’the winter so I came out here f’r a bit.’

He plays on his accent more when people start asking questions. And they seem to accept him easily enough. They’re mostly folk on holiday for a couple of weeks, looking to get some winter sun in. When he’s not in earshot of the barmaid, he tells them that he’s only here for a few weeks too. He’ll be leaving a few days after they will. It’s only the staff that know he’s a permanent fixture.

‘You going home to see the family for Christmas, Nigel?’

‘Nosy mare, aren’ ya?’

‘’scuse me for breathing.’

She gives him a smile anyway as she refills his glass. He doesn’t smile back and concentrates on the English news on the radio.  Man. City seem to be going through another shit patch.

~ ~ ~

 

On Christmas Day, he doesn’t get out of bed until noon and feels like crap when he does, the hangover from last night giving his head a good kicking. He sinks some paracetemol and tells himself not to dwell on the hangover this time last year, lessened by the fry-up Drake had done him in the middle of the night and the beer in the fridge that provided a convenient hair of the dog. He actually has something to do today so he thinks of that instead.

He’d hired a car three days ago, before everything shut up for the holiday. He drives, breakfasting on a chocolate bar and can of Coke, heading south down the coast towards Barcelona. He knows what he’s doing might be stupid but he doesn’t second-guess himself. He’s doing it and that’s final.

He finds a phone box in the centre of town, someplace that would be busy if it weren’t Christmas. There are three rings before his call is answered.

‘Mam.’

‘Gene.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

Her snort is less than delicate.

‘Oh yeah pet, I’m sure we’re all havin’ a ball. Where are ya? No, no, don’ tell me. I don’ want to know. Are you alrigh’? I’m goin’ spare here, luv.’

‘I’m sorry. An’ yeah, I’m alrigh’.’

They both know it’s a lie but he’s not going to go into details and she knows it would be pointless to ask.

‘Good. Eat somethin’, lad. Liquid diet’s no good for ya.’

‘Yeah, mam. Look...’

He hesitates and she breaks into the silence, sounding like she’s choking up a bit.

‘Don’t, Gene. You don’ have to. I know it’s rubbish, what they’re sayin’.’

‘I shot her, mam.’

‘But you didn’ mean to.’

‘No, I didn’ mean to.’

‘Never doubted it. The way you an’ her were last year, I know you never would. Same for any of ‘em but her most of all.’

It amazes him how she can insinuate things even with about six hundred miles, and two countries, between them.

‘You heard anythin’? How she’s doin’?’

‘No, luv. But I’ll phone the hospital if you like. I’d like to know meself and I have met her so it won’ look suspicious.’

‘You been watchin’ Miss. Marple on th’ box again?’

Her silence is stony.

‘...yeah, please.’

‘Phone me back in ten minutes then.’

He walks around outside, smoking furiously, trying not to get his hopes up. But Christmas is a time of miracles, isn’t it?

...not for him, it would seem.

‘She’s still in her coma.’

He closes his eyes and leans on the side of the phone box.

‘...Gene? You there?’

‘Yeah. Look, I’m goin’ t’have to go. Can you keep checking on her, please? I’ll phone back when I can.’

‘’course , luv.’ Her voice is getting rough again. ‘You look after yourself, you hear me, Gene Hunt? You bloody promise me you will. I’m not losing you an’ all.’

She must be really worried, he thinks, to tell him that. She’s not the most emotional of women, his mother. An open plea means she’s scared.

‘Don’ worry, mam. I’ve got no intention of lettin’ them win. I’ll be back an’ I’ll make up for missin’ Christmas, OK?’

‘Bloody right you will. I’m goin’ t’be eatin’ this turkey until March withou’ you here t’polish most of it off.’

But she can always make him smile, even when he feels like a turd for leaving her on her own.

~ ~ ~

 

Back in his room, he celebrates the day with a motorway sandwich and a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Spanish TV is crap and he has to turn it off after a while. In the drunken silence, his mind always wanders to Alex and today is no different. What is different is that for the first time since he got to Spain, he feels like one of those tapes wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe he’s just lonely. Either way, Christmas night sees him sitting alone in the dark, listening to her voice.

 

So the bloke was stalking her. He wonders if she realises how she sounds on these tapes. He wonders whether it could be more obvious that this man, whoever he was, was manipulating her. She said herself that she told him everything he needed to know – obviously the prick twisted it and used it against her, tried to corrupt her and turn her against her colleagues.

The relief that she didn’t break down is palpable and for the first time, he lets himself hope that things could one day get back to the way they were. Providing she doesn’t die, of course. But she’s still talking about the future like she means it. She’s talking to her daughter like she really believes the lass is in the future. How can that be? Drake’s always been a bit of a loose cannon but he didn’t know she was this cracked.

He tries to piece it all together. He can’t work out where the young PC came into it, or who this other man might actually be. He can’t work out why she couldn’t just explain that she witnessed a murder and trust him to help her work it out. That bit twists most of all. Chris couldn’t come to him with the Operation Rose stuff and Drake can’t come to him and tell him she’s got a killer after her. What’s he doing wrong?

He wonders if her daughter’s dead and it sent her a bit mad, making her think she was still alive. And dismisses it, because it doesn’t explain the future stuff. He wonders whether being stalked by a mental case has warped her to the degree that she can’t see how much bollocks this all is. That seems more likely. But her voice sounds so sure.

He listens to it again, and again.

And again.

 

There has to be some truth in there somewhere.