OOM: 3x01. This department needs me, Keats...

[the_gene_genie]

 

He’d expected a few things, once they’d walked through the door of the station. One; was that everyone would be surprised. Two; that his team would be glad to see him. And three; that it would all feel alright again.

He got one out of three. Maybe one and a half. The team don’t look upset that he’s back, it’s just that Ray is somehow, unbelievably, a DI now and had moved all his stuff into his office, and Chris virtually admitted that they were forced into hanging him out to dry at the enquiry. It’s all a bit awkward, but that’s alright. He can get past that by ignoring it.

He can’t get past the fact that it doesn’t all feel alright again. It feels better, but not how it used to. And he tells himself that it’s just because he’s got to settle back in, and let the underworld know the boss is back; he tells himself that it’s the first day and everyone’s still surprised; he tells himself that Bolly is still knocked for six from her little sleep, and it’ll all be fine once she’s firing on all cylinders.

He tells himself, over and over, that it is nothing to do with Jim Keats.

It isn’t the matey-matey way the bloke has, once they get into Luigi’s with a coffee in front of them. It isn’t the sly dig about the ‘chemistry’ between him and Drake, nor the blimey O’Riley, with the hand over his heart, as though that would add Olde Worlde authenticity to such an outmoded way of speaking. Maybe it’s the way he seems to believe almost immediately that he wasn’t trying to kill Alex back there in the gardens. Because isn’t that why he’s here? To discover whether he, Gene Hunt, deliberately tried to kill his DI in cold blood? Apparently not. Apparently now he’s the focus of Operation Countryman, the investigation into corruption in the Met. As though it weren’t completely obvious that he bloody hates corruption, and will go to any lengths to stamp it out. Wasn’t SuperMac enough? He has to watch every corrupt copper die in his arms before they’ll believe that he’s one of the good guys? Keats seems to believe him though. Keats seems to believe him right off the bat, and it’s too easy, like when a salesman offers you a knockdown price the second after you ask how much it is. Just because it’s you. Special Offer. One Time Only Deal.

But it’s not that either. Jim Keats seems to be going to great pains to show him that he’s on his side, that he’s fine with his way of policing, and that sits wrong. Because the bloke isn’t a street copper. He’s a pencil-pusher. If anyone should hate the way Gene operates, it’s him. And yet there he is, all buddy-buddy, and simpering smile, and trying to be friends. Drake seems to eat it up, and maybe he should too – a D&C fella who seems to want to help him. He should be thankful, shouldn’t he?

But it isn’t that. It’s not even his guts. His famed, always-trusted, never-ignored guts, that scream at him that something is very off about all this. Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t got back into his stride yet, or maybe it’s just an amalgamation of all of these things.

It isn’t that.

It’s that when the bloke called him back, and offered him his hand to shake, it felt...familiar. It felt like the start of something, and something he’s been through before, but he can’t for the life of him remember what that might be. It felt like the first serve in a tennis match, or the first clang of the bell by the side of a boxing ring, that calls the fighters out of their corners. Round One.

~ ~ ~

Keats told him to go home. On leave, full pay. Not on suspension. Just while he ‘convinces a few people’ that he’s innocent, and not a corrupt bastard, and whatever else they’re cooking up over at Rubber Heeler Central to make him innocent of. And he does, because there isn’t a lot else he can do. What can he say? No, I’m going back to my office because you’re doing a good impression of a decent bloke, who might just get me out of this mess? Churlish, even by his standards. And he can’t explain why he doesn’t believe a word Keats says. He just doesn’t.

So he goes home, and wanders around his house for about fifteen minutes before giving up, and going to the pub. At least there he’s welcomed back with open arms but, he tells himself later, when it’s just him sitting at the end of the bar, it’s probably because he forgot to pay his tab before he went on ‘holiday’. They did a better job of convincing him they were pleased to see him than his own team though, and told him the darts team would be chuffed he’s back, and bought him a few Scotch’s. So all in all, it’s not a bad afternoon. It’s just the evening that gets him, when he’s sitting there knowing he should be at Luigi’s, putting the team back together, with Bolly sitting opposite. It’s hard not to think about how it was last year, when they were tight, all of them. When they were working to bring down Mac, and trusted each other without question. Before Chris. Before Alex. She told him something, and he can’t remember what it was exactly, but he knows he was furious, and he knows she hit him and after that, he remembers everything. Suspending her, hating her, the hurt, the sound of his gun as it ripped her guts apart. Oh yeah, he couldn’t forget that, could he? Oh no. That’d be too kind. Thanks a lot, subconscious.

He wakes up late, with a headache. It still only takes five minutes before he says bugger this, and gets up and goes to work. He didn’t come back from Spain to rattle around his house and be useless. He needs to get back at the helm, and he needs the scumbags out there to bloody well know he’s back at the helm. And anyway, there’s a case that needs solving, and Raymondo...well, he’s probably trying. But they do want to get this girl back in one piece, so he gets back to where he belongs, and bugger all their protestations about how he shouldn’t be there. Where the hell else is he supposed to be? If there’s one thing this last three months has taught him, it’s that there’s something wrong with the world when he’s not at the wheel of the good ship Fenchurch.

‘Will you just stop trying to prove a point to everybody, please. This isn’t a game.’

‘D’you know, I missed you. But now you’re back, I’m gettin’ all annoyed again!’

The day she stops being a pain in the arse is the day one of them hangs up their spurs for good, he reckons.

~ ~ ~

So, the matter in hand. Which is Dorothy Blond, the little girl, and very definitely not Jim Keats. Father obviously adores her, stepmother seems to as well; all they know is that some scumbags snatched her on her way to school, and now they want fifty grand to hand her back. Bolly and Ray are all for a sting, to nab the kidnappers at the handover and OK, that’s fine with him. Exactly the sort of thing he’d suggest himself, if Keats wasn’t already going to shit a brick to find him back at work despite orders. So Ray can handle it, and maybe it’ll do him good to set something like this up himself. Isn’t Drake always harping on about giving them more responsibility? And Raymondo looks chuffed to bits, so that’s him back on-side, as long as he doesn’t stuff it up.

Of course, there has to be an added dimension, something they missed. The stepmother used to be married to Gary Soaper, a well-known scrote with form for kidnapping, who now appears to be an extra-crispy vegetable in hospital after mucking up his prison escape. And it’s good. It’s starting to feel more like it should. But then Keats shows up.

‘You asked about handcuffs, I could use them on you right now.’

‘Try it, Jim.’

Keats slows to a halt. He can feel Bolly at his shoulder. She feels nervous. He feels...steadfast. This bloke is not going to push him out of his rightful place.

‘Look, the Guv really wanted to be here. This case is important to him.’

‘This department needs me, Keats. In fact, I am this department.’

‘What’s really important to you Gene; the girl, or your career?’

‘Oh, sod the mind games. Your move, officer.’

He doesn’t move. He knows the man’ll blink. No desk jockey is going to ruin this for him, and Keats doesn’t have what it takes.

‘I have to set up an investigation in CID. I’ll need my own office, I can’t avoid that.’

There it is. Job done. He begins to walk, leaving Alex behind, leaving Keats to yell uselessly at his back. Pathetic excuse for a copper.

‘I do not want to see you on the streets. And you are one hundred thousand per cent banned from using a firearm...’

Mind games. That’s all the bloke is. Well, Gene Hunt doesn’t play mind games. He plays down the line, straight as a die. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

~ ~ ~

The sting goes belly up, largely because Ray went too early. He stuffed it up, no question, but they move on. He’s not going to beat the bloke around the head with it, and anyway, everyone messes up at least once in this life. All you can hope for it that no one dies as a result, and little Dorothy’s still kicking. They’ve got one more chance to get her back, and there can be no mistakes this time.

He’s sure Soaper’s got something to do with it. It’s just too convenient – a con who’d attempted kidnap before and who, it now transpires, became matey with another bloke inside, who was serving time for...you guessed it. It’s not fitting together yet, but he can feel the pieces all sitting there, waiting to make a full picture. This is more like it. This is policing. No fannying about with paperwork, or D&C arseholes, or sitting in bars ruminating on shit that’ll never get you anywhere. This is on-the-street investigation, and he will save that little girl.

He tells them to shake down Soaper’s old cronies. She decides it’s bollocks, and has a go at him in front of the whole office, so he has to bite back, and it doesn’t feel like the good sort of argument that they used to have. It feels like a small version of that one in his office, that last day. And Chris is just as annoying as ever, only shouting at him isn’t the same. It’s like he doesn’t take it the same way he used to. And for his part, he feels like he means it. He always used to shout insults at Chris and it was fine, expected, all part of the day. Now it’s just a pain in the arse.

None of this feels right. He’d been so sure. He’d walk back in, and they’d cheer, and it would all be how it used to be. So sure. So sure.

~ ~ ~

He was right about Soaper. The bloke wasn’t in hospital at all, that was some tramp, or something. He nicked the girl because he needed money, and also wanted the kid’s stepmother back. The stepmother did it because she still loved him, blah blah blah. Important thing is, Dorothy Blond is back safe and sound with her dad. And he and Drake solved it together; he pushed for Soaper’s investigation, she guessed where the bastard was keeping the kid. Job done. He even got the plonk Granger in on it with some surveillance, which should keep the female contingent of the office happy for a while. Plus, she did a good job. Result.

‘Ray. It was a tough call this morning. I know it didn’ pan out, but you could’ve dithered, an’ you didn’. As Mrs. Lady Woman over there is keen t’remind me, you made a snap decision an’ you acted on it. Sometimes that’s all we can do, so well done, Inspector.’

‘Cheers, Guv.’

It’s a nice evening. They did the job, they’re having a few drinks. There’s music on the radio, and he and Alex are level enough. And then Keats shows up.

‘Look, I’m just going to say it. You proved me wrong today. All of you; DCI Hunt most of all. This is a station of mavericks...’

The way he says it. Like it’s something for him to be proud of. Like he’s had anything to do with this place, and the way they police. He watches from the seat behind his desk, listening to the man prattle on on the other side of the glass.

‘..that means that officially, we’re going to assess your suitability. No no no, but...it’s a big ‘but’. I’m in charge of assessing you, and oh, Heaven help me, I’ve got a soft spot for the old ways.’

He’s not listening to this crap anymore. So he sticks his head out into the main room, and puts a general call out for someone to go fetch his filing cabinet, which Ray put into storage. He needs that filing cabinet, damnit. He bloody hopes no one looked in it while he was away. There’s stuff in there that he doesn’t want any bugger to get a look at.

And then Keats is there. In his office, closing the door. For a minute, they just stand and look at each other, over the desk, shrouded half in shadow. He doesn’t know what the bloke wants, but he does know that this is not going to be another matey speech. For the first time since he got here, Keats looks like he might actually be capable of being a copper. The stupid, weedy smile is gone, the demeanour of uselessness. This is the real game, and while he’s surprised in this instant, it only lasts a second or two. And then it’s just...what he expected, really. From the beginning. Because he bloody knew there was more to it than he was letting on.

 

 

‘I hate you.’

He moves to the side cupboard to get them a drink. This is more like it.

‘I can’t help it. I hate what you stand for...the laziness. The brutality, the hypocrisy, and as for your team...some of them could’ve made good coppers. But you’ve...eroded them too much.’

He says nothing. Keats moves to the door, has a silent, jokey exchange with Chris. Mimes shooting him through the glass.

‘Idiots. Third-raters. Slackers. They’ll still be getting pissed when I dismantle this station around them.’

‘What, an’ you think you’re up to that, do ya? Jim?’

‘Ah, it’s not about them. Not really.’

He pulls the blind down. And for the first time. Gene feels a knot forming in the base of his stomach.

‘It’s about you, Hunt. About what you’ve done in the past. See, maybe Alex Drake was an accident. Maybe. She thinks it was. But you do have a nasty temper, my friend, and not everyone’s walked away from that.’

He’s smiling. Like he knows him. Like he knows anything.

...for a second, just a second, he’s not sure he doesn’t.

‘And a good dart-throwin’ arm. Don’ forget my one hundred and eighty.’

‘You think you’re so clever. So special, so needed, so damn right. You’ve fooled everyone into believing in you, but I have the horrible, unpopular job of showing the world what you really are. The things you’ve done...ohhh, they won’t want to believe it. Because they love you, and they think that they know you, and they’ll hate me for it. But in the end, they will see.’

He hasn’t moved through all of this, and he’s not moving now.

Keats is laughing again. Just a little.

‘As sad as that will be for them; They. Will. See.

 

...I know what you did. Three years ago. I know.’

His head comes up a little. He knows his face is solid, that nothing can be seen there. He also knows that the bottom is dropping out of his stomach now, and he can’t deny the nerves.

How could Keats know that?

‘So you’re goin’ t’bring me down? Why’re you telling me that?’

‘You see, that’s what’s ironic. You can’t leave here no matter what happens; this place defines you. Which means, you’re going to have to sit here and watch me close your little kingdom forever. And you, on the scrapheap.’

Another laugh, and he still doesn’t move. At least he knows the outline of the contest now.

‘I just hope I can help Alex, before it’s too late.’

And yet, still doesn’t move, but there’s a protective flash inside, and he knows, knows, that Keats’ll get his hands on her over his rotten corpse.

It’s an opportune moment for Ray to burst in. ‘C’mon, Guv! Booze time a-wastin’!’

‘Good idea, Ray,’ says Keats, everyone’s new best friend. ‘Let’s have a drink, eh?’

He lights a cigarette, casual as you please. But he has no problem bringing his eyes up to meet the smarmy bastard’s.

‘Why not?’

 

 

He watches Keats walk out, and make a beeline straight for Alex. He stands there, and watches him lay on the charm, say all the right things about her hospital stay, hold out a drink. And she looks up at him, and then takes the cup...and then looks at him, and he can’t hold her eyes.

He retreats back into his office instead, and looks out of the rain-streaked window, seeing nothing, but hearing those words, over and over.

(...I know what you did. Three years ago. I know.)

He can handle the threats about closing this place down. He’s faced them before. He can listen all day to someone telling him they’re going to take his kingdom away, and he’ll just stand there and take it, and then laugh in their face.

(I know what you did.)

He can’t deny he’s rattled. No one has ever said it quite this way to him before. No one has ever claimed they...knew.

 

 

It’s not that Keats has a smile so greasy you could fry your breakfast on it, nor that he thinks he’s got the balls to take on Gene Hunt, and win. It’s just that he said...

(I know...)

...three years ago.

 

Three years ago.

 

 

What did he do?