the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #4

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OOM: Room 6620, #4

He hadn't dozed for long yesterday. And it had been another restless night, although not as bad as before - he still gave up in the end though, and slipped out of bed before Alex woke up. He thought she'd be awake by the time he got out of the shower, but no.

He went downstairs for a pint. Ridiculous really, at that time of morning, but he always recommended the pub after long operations that finished in the morning, so why should now be any different?

Of course, he got a bit more than he bargained for.

Which is why he's not trying to be quiet when he comes back into the room. If she wakes up, good. She needs to hear this.

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She doesn't like where this is leading, and steps right up into his personal space, resting one hand at his waist, her gaze focused somewhere in the middle of his chest.

'Yes, but that doesn't mean it has to stay that way. Looks like we're not the only ones that get a second chance.'

He looks at her steadily, implacable.

'It's just a car, Bols. An' you never liked it that much anyway. Leave it.'

'You're wrong about that.'

She looks up into his face, just as steady.

'I may have resented the attention you paid it, but I never said I didn't like it. It represented a kind of freedom you had, that I didn't.'

His eyebrows lift. She's getting poetic about the motor now?

'Well, now neither of us have a car. You should be happy.'

There's no bite in that, or meanness, or resentment. It's just a statement that points out their equilibrium, as she's just defined it.

'Well, I'm not,' she says, pouting as she smooths his lapels. She was jealous of more than the freedom it represented. She still wishes he would look at her with that much affection.

'I don't like the idea of you without a car. Something with a big, growly motor to run down the scum of Fenchurch East. There's something deeply wrong about the idea of you having to use a pool car every day.'

'I don't. There'll be a Merc waiting the morning after.'

He doesn't look at her with the same affection because she's not an inanimate object, and his feelings towards real people are quite a lot more complicated than towards a car. Blind adulation is not something that'll ever be written on his face, but that doesn't mean feeling doesn't run deep.

'Good,' she says, and her tone tells him she'll let it drop. For now.

Hell, maybe she'll go try and fix it up for him. On a lark.

The doors open up and she leads the way this time, heading for the back door. She cracks it just enough to check the weather, and then looks over her shoulder at him, gesturing with her chin for him to join her.

It's still cloudy, but there are patches of blue breaking through. The worst of the rain seems to have passed, and the path is only a bit muddy.

'Do you know what colour yet?'

'Nah. Probably black.'

Mercs in lurid colours just look stupid. And maybe he's grown up a bit.

He'll definitely throw a teenage strop if she goes anywhere near his Quattro though. And then some. He'd warn her off, only he doesn't think she'd get her fingernails dirty with engine oil for a million quid. So he just walks next to her instead, hands in his pockets and looking at nothing in particular.

'You have a motor? Where you're from?'

'I do. A Volvo S80. Silver. 3.2 liter sedan. It had a six speed automatic with traction control. I wanted the one with the sunroof, but they didn't have any in stock the day I went to the dealer.'

She falls into step beside him, hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

'Safety was the biggest consideration, considering Mols might be driving it when she got older.'

'A Volvo? Christ.'

Youch. He pulls a face.

'How long were you plannin' on keeping it? Still five years before she'd learn to drive.'

She squints at him, and shakes her head, trying not to grin.

'They last for years, Gene. And if you give a teenager a brand new vehicle, the insurance rates are staggering. I may be well off enough to live in the city, but I'm not -- I mean I wasn't made of money. And besides, I only drove it to and from the office.'

'Thought your parents would have seen to you. Do you still have their house?'

He reckons that would've probably been worth a bit. Of course, he doesn't know just how much London house prices will have risen to by the 21st century.

Ugh, Volvos. Practical. Safe. Beloved of bespectacled academics everywhere. No fun whatsoever.

'They did. Of course, it wasn't my house until I was eighteen. Evan and I lived there until I went off to university, and when I was accepted to Hendon, he took over the property. After I got back from six months in America, rather than move back in, Molly & I found a place close by, one less bedroom and a bigger garden.'

She feels like she's rambling again.

'I guess we're doing all right, by most people's standards.'

Molly will be well taken care of, for the rest of her life. She knows Evan will make sure of that, just like he did for her.

This translates to Gene, basically, as 'trust-fund baby', though he knows it's only the morbid equivalent. No one would want to come into money that way, and at least her parents had the foresight to provide.

'So your daughter will be all right. That's somethin'.'

She nods, her gaze fixed on the ground.

'She'll be fine. I was.'

It's repeated more as a mantra to still her own mind, more than as an observation of fact.

'And anyway, a Volvo is not a bad car. It's practical. The only people I know of in my time who drive like you are in the movies.' Her shoulder bumps his as she walks, a quiet touch of affection.

'Practical's boring.'

He lights another cigarette.

'And yeah. Me too.'

More or less how he learnt to drive, watching movies. He never seems to crash, anyway.

She laughs, shaking her head. 'Never a dull moment with you behind the wheel, that's for sure.'

The path turns, and they're out of sight of the bar, the lake still in the distance, a broad meadow spreading out in front of them. She can see the stables in the distance, and the shooting range. There's something of a garden over there too, but she takes the path that leads up into the trees.

'You know, I never heard much about where you went after school. I know you were in the service for awhile.'

He looks a bit taken aback.

'Didn't go anywhere. Left school at fifteen, worked in the mill, did National Service, became a copper.'

And she knows what happened after that.

His life prior to...what it became; well, he's starting to realise what it is about the whole thing that made him so furious. Or maybe he's just starting to remember, very much against his will. But he lays the basics out for her there in the hope that'll be enough to settle the question. It's all the truth, and there's very little practical information to add.

'You worked in the mill?' That's a new bit of information. She won't touch his formal education with a ten foot pole, because as far as she's concerned, he's a DCI. She's never doubted his qualifications in that regard. 'What -- kind of mill?'

She really has no clue.

'Well, I had to do something. Can't join the force until you're nineteen, an' National Service wasn't 'til eighteen.'

He looks out towards the lake.

'It was a cotton mill. I spent most of the time cursing the Jerrys for not dropping a bomb on it.'

He had a Saturday job in a garage as well, but he's not mentioning that in case she brings up the Quattro again.

'A cotton mill.' Hmm. She'll no doubt be researching that when she gets a chance. Maybe they have a library here? Surely, they must.

'And in the Army? Did you serve overseas?'

She's genuinely interested in hearing about his life, now that they can talk like this.

'Yeah. Far East.'

He'd enjoyed the Army, until they left the UK.

'Food were shit.'

Her eyebrows shoot up.

'Really. I've always wanted to see Asia. Never got the chance.'

She imagines her version of traveling and his are vastly different, but it'd still be fun to see the Great Wall with him, or take tea in a tea house in the Japanese countryside.

Hmm, on second thought, maybe not.

'I'm beginning to wish we'd filled out those dating forms a bit more thoroughly, now,' she says, her tone telling him she's teasing. 'Were you infantry? Or something else?' She has no clue what his military career would have looked like.

'Mmm, infantry. Manchester Regiment. And if your idea of fun is dragging your way through a jungle, bein' eaten alive by every insect you can imagine an' plenty you can't - then I'm sure you'd love it.'

He had not loved it.

'Germany were alright. Apart from bein' full of Germans, straight after a war with the bastards.'

'Mmm, no, no that doesn't sound like fun at all.'

She cuts a glance at him as they cross the treeline.

'I imagine you found a fraulein or two who weren't so bad.'

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