OOM: If you'd walk beside me all the long way home

[the_gene_genie]

 

He looks down at his plate. Even after a month of these, every day, it’s still the best Full English he’s ever had. It’s not what he expected the best thing about Spain to be but he’ll take it.

He’d woken up on Boxing Day with almost no memory of Christmas after getting back from speaking to his mother. On New Year’s Eve, he’d sat in his room until half eleven, then swore and grabbed his coat and left.  He’d woken up, fully dressed, in his bed three days later and still isn’t sure what happened, though the knuckles on his right hand were ripped to shreds and the ribs on his left side were black and blue.

It’s a week until the end of January. He knows the date but has to take a moment to search for the day, and then wonders why he bothers. They’re all the same anyway.

‘Put an extra rasher on for you, Nigel.’

‘Ta, Pauline.’

They’re all bloody English here. Its part of the reason he moved in. There’s a limit to how foreign he’s prepared to go; being on the soil and occasionally going native with the drink is about it. He did accidentally let himself get served paella once but won’t be making that mistake again.

He also knows it’s probably risky, choosing a place so full of ex-pats. He reasons with himself that he wouldn’t exactly blend in with the locals anyway, so a place full of tourists and retired Brits is probably the safest bet. And while there might be gossip about the other regulars in the English pub, he has yet to run into any career criminals who’ve made their escape to the sun so that can only be a good thing. And the sun’s actually out today. That’s a good thing too.

He takes his breakfast around midday, after the initial agony of the hangover has been beaten to a pulp by a handful of painkillers taken with a stiff double. By the time the grease hits his system, he’s generally feeling human again and today is no exception. In fact, today is...today is better than he remembers most of the last days being. He walks to the pub and muses on it, smoking a fag and looking out over the sea. For a moment, he worries that he’s getting used to this life but no, that’s not it. The ache of being away is still there. The constant uncertainty over Alex and how she is and what’s going to happen, that’s still there too. The need to get home is as overarching as ever. It’s just that, today, for some reason, it all feels a bit less hopeless.

‘Usual, Gloria.’

‘Well, o’course, Nigel. If you walked in past one and ordered anythin’ different, I think my knickers would probably fall down in surprise.’

He raises his eyebrows as he parks his bum on his usual wooden barstool.

‘You mean they don’t anyway, when you think of me comin’?’

The pun was unintentional and as soon as he’s said it, he wishes he hadn’t. She’s not stupid, this barmaid. She won’t miss it. Indeed, she hasn’t. But no, not stupid, and the look on his face tells her that it was a remark that came out wrong. So she just smiles tightly and pours his pint.

‘Of course, dear. Sixty pence.’

‘Should be banged up, charging that for a pint,’ he grumps, as he hands it over.

‘Pay in pesetas then, like everyone else. I’ve got t’get this exchanged.’

He just pulls a face at her and watches her totter over to the till. Not a bad sort, Gloria. Cockney, of course, and a pain in the arse but she doesn’t tend to pry too much and runs an efficient English pub. A bit too blond and brassy for his liking but she watches him drink himself unsteady every day and doesn’t nag, so he keeps the insults to a minimum.

An hour later, she’s refilling his glass again but he knows she’s watching him at the same time.

‘What’s happened?’

‘What’re you on abou’?’

‘You look different.’

‘Changed me aftershave.’

‘Thank God. Miserable Old Bastard was gettin’ boring.’

‘You mind who you’re callin’ old, you daft wench.’

As far as he can tell, he’s been exactly the same as he always is. But he does feel different. Maybe not him. But something.

* * *

 

It’s two days later, and midnight, and all getting a bit rowdy. Some lads – none of them more than twenty - have turned up looking for a good time. Their idea of a good time seems to be drinking a skinful (something Gene can agree with), looking for a fight (which he can’t, at the moment. He can’t be bothered.)  and looking for girls. Normal behaviour but everyone in this bar seems to wish they’d go and do it elsewhere. Gene’s pissed but not obliterated and in no mood to listen to the laughing. The strange something that started a few days ago hasn’t gone away and it’s really starting to annoy him. Not as much as these lads are, at present, so he stands up and looks for a quid to leave Gloria as a tip.

‘You sit your arse back on that stool, Nigel Perkins.’

‘...what?’

She bustles up, all leopard-print top that shows off the age at her throat and stilettos that could take someone’s eye out. She looks flustered.

‘It’s goin’ to kick off in ‘ere and you, Sonny Jim, are goin’ to stay and sort it out when it does. I’m not havin’ my arse groped by teenagers without someone standin’ by to kick ‘em out when the fists start flying.’

He stands there, looking at her stupidly. Yes, she’s had a rough night and yes, it bothers him. But she’s never spoken to him like this before and it feels like...something clicking into place.

‘What’re you on...’

Her sigh is exasperated and takes no prisoners. She doesn’t let him finish his question.

‘Enough. Nigel.’

‘Gloria...’

‘No. Enough.’

He stares. She stares back. And then he sits down.  She’s already leaning over the bar so no one else will hear, even if they could over the racket from the nearby tables.

‘I’m fifty-one years old and ran an East End pub for twenty-five of ‘em. You think I don’ know a copper as soon as I set eyes on one?’

Ah.

Well, the thought had crossed his mind, of course. But she never said anything and he wasn’t going to ask leading questions.

‘So?’

‘So, you’re not at retirement age but you don’ seem in any hurry to get back to work. So I thought you’d left, or been kicked out. Weren’t none of my business so I didn’ ask. But you’ve been sat on that stool, drinkin’ yourself unconscious for more than two months now. I’ve been expectin’ trouble any day.’

‘An’ I ask again, so? If you wanted me t’leave, you only had to ask.’

She snorts, an indelicate sound.

‘With what you put away? You’re payin’ my rent single-handed, Sunshine. But you spend so much time here, I thought you were interested in...well, more than the drink.’

For a moment, he thinks she means her. Then something clicks and he berates himself for losing his touch, even as he shakes his head.

‘Your backroom sidelines don’ interest me, luv.’

‘Exactly.’

‘...what?’

‘You’re not investigatin’ anything. You’re sittin’ there and drinkin’ and so wrapped up in yourself, it’s obvious you’re in trouble. So I made a few phone calls back home. You got pissed at New Year and talked about London, right before you got in that scrap and nearly got brained by that lad from Hyde.’

This is all news to him. He continues to stare at her, bewildered, until the sound of smashing glasses breaks into his stupor. Gloria jabs a finger at him, her red nail polish almost getting him in the eye.

‘I’m not havin’ my bar broke to bits by a bunch of scrotes who can’t take their drink. So - you go over there and sort ‘em out, there’s a bottle in it for you. I hear you like the Scotch, DCI Hunt.’

He forces his tone to stay mild.

‘Bribin’ a copper, Gloria? Tha’s breakin’ the law, that is.’

Her glare could melt steel.

‘You reckon you're a copper?’ The polished fingernail jabs at the kids this time.

‘Act like one.’

*  *  *
 

He staggers into his room an hour later. He’s woozy because one of the bastards got a lucky shot in and he thinks one of them might have sicked up on his leg after he put him in a chokehold a bit too long. But the point was made, he’s sure of it, and the place hadn’t been wrecked and he did his job and at least one of those youngsters had run away just because he’d glared at him.

Just like home, just like home, jus’ like home...

He yanks his shirt open but stops there because something hurts, so he goes for the bottle and the tape recorder. He does that. Every night, a tape, one of hers, and there’s only one left and if you caught him on a bad night, he might admit he was saving it but he doesn’t have to now because his blood is singing and he aches and it was brilliant. He’d tell her about it, if she were here. Or he wouldn’t have to. If she were here, she’d have been at the bar with him and tutting and telling him off for getting involved. He smiles and drinks from the bottle and hits play.

*  *  *
 

He doesn’t know if he’s passed out or if this is sleep. The room seems to melt away, lulled by her voice and he hears words and then forgets them and then remembers them and his eyes are closed, and then open and the room is spinning. He dreams of stars, sees his breath hang in freezing air even though a bead of sweat is running down his temple. It feels dark, though the light is on and he’s staring at the ceiling, staring at the night sky, drifting and aimless and there are only her words, words that makes no sense and mean everything.

I'm supposed to be there, not here.

He’s supposed to be there, not here.  She’s supposed to be there too, not where she is. He knows it like it’s the last piece of the jigsaw and he’s only just now able to make it fit. It's the truth of everything. There's a place he has to be now and it isn't Spain.

You make me feel like I'm supposed to be here.

And she is. And she’s coming back. He may be drifting and aimless but he hears that and it’s like the light at the end of the tunnel, a tunnel a thousand miles long but moving steadily, inexorable. It will end and she’s coming back. He feels the pull of it and stares at nothing and knows, drunk or not, passed out or sleeping, awake or mad, that he has to go home. She’s coming back.

*    *    *

 

He wakes up the next morning and his first thought is, I’m a copper. The second is what happened after the pub? but it's gone, a blank.

He takes inventory. His head hurts, whether from the booze or the scrap, he doesn’t know. His right shoulder aches where he had to bang a few heads and he took a jab in the ribs that makes him wince a bit when he goes to stand up. His knuckles are cut again and his clothes stink of beer and possibly vomit; his shirt has blood on it that isn’t his.

Just like being at work then.

He lies there and smokes a fag and that something has transmuted into knowledge overnight. With a surety that he hasn’t known in three months, he knows this; this little jaunt is over. It’s time to go home.

Alex’s tape recorder has switched itself off. He notices it when he comes back from the shower and frowns. Something on it...he’d listened to it. It had been...good. He remembers. He thinks. He remembers the feeling and is about to rewind so he can listen again but then there’s a knock on the door.

‘Promised you a bottle, didn’ I?’

He lets her in and lets her look him over. He’s glad he got dressed in the bathroom but the split knuckles are impossible to hide.

‘Smells like the back alley of the pub in here.’

‘There’s a reason for that.’

Beat.

‘An’ before you get the wrong idea, it wasn’ me that puked.’

She rolls her eyes.

‘As if it matters. But yeah, I know. I saw.’

A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red is put down on the dresser and she turns to face him, hands on hips. She’s fifty-one and looks it; mini-skirt and tight top and stilettos do nothing to hide her age. It occurs to him that she’s not really trying to hide it.

‘I don’ think you’re stayin’, Gene.’

‘No, I’m not. Question is, am I going because I have to?’

She purses her lips, perhaps an unconscious mirror of his own.

‘Like I said, if you remember. I ran an East End pub for twenty-five years. I’m no grass.’

‘Plenty of your ol’ clientele would like to see me go down.’

‘Yeah.’ She looks away, out of the window. Maybe thinking of people who would be pleased with her if she called him in. There’s bound to be more than a few. ‘But see...I know they reckon you shot a woman. On purpose. Attempted murder, the word is.’

His gaze is unflinching.

‘And what I know is...you’ve been parked in my bar for months, twistin’ yourself into knots about it. But you still helped me when I asked. So you’re no killer, ‘specially not of a woman.’

She walks towards him and puts a hand in the middle of his chest.

‘If it were any other reason, I’d be tellin’ you t’get into bed about now. But I don’ think there’s any point tryin’, is there?’

That makes him look down, almost apologetic as he shakes his head once. She laughs quietly, taps him once and lets her hand drop.

‘Think it’s time you wen’ home, Chief Inspector.’

* * *

 

He lingers one more day, just to get everything in order. And because it feels like the right thing to do, like if he left now he might be too soon. Also, because he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. He knows quite well what’s going to happen but also, somehow, he knows it’ll be alright. Because over his dead body are they taking his job away and anyway, Alex will back him up.

There’s about an hour in the afternoon when he tries to remind himself that he might well go home and be banged up before she opens her eyes. But he stops trying to pretend eventually. She’s coming to him. It’ll be alright. As for D&C – well, it’ll be a mess. He’s not as sure as he’d like to be that they won’t try and demote him or something but he’s got to take the chance. Once Alex tells them the truth, there won’t be a lot they can do but it’s definitely going to be hairy for a bit. And he doesn’t care.

There are no backward glances to the room he’s stayed in for almost three months now, virtually no packing to be done because he hasn’t collected anything except empty bottles since he’s been here. A taxi is waiting downstairs to take him to the airport, his bills are paid and the time is right. The future is uncertain and possibly bleak but Gene Hunt doesn’t run any more.

And anyway, she’s coming home. He has to be there when she gets back.