by Tom Graham
Sam turned away from looking at the stars and glanced down instead.
‘Guv?’
But it wasn’t the Guv anymore. It was just a blackened piece of meat bundled up in a ruined coat. Before the last threads of his life had slipped from his grasp, Gene Hunt had managed to pull from his pocket the pack of pornographic playing cards he had picked up at Pat Walsh’s bungalow. Blindly, and for reasons he could now never divulge, he had fumbled three from the deck. Charred at the edges, they were still intact enough to be legible. Three queens – clubs, diamonds, hearts. The posturing, bare-chested girls depicted on the cards had been the only witnesses to the Guv’s passing. Perhaps they had escorted his spirit on its journey; Gene would certainly not have objected to such a trinity of chaperones.
Gene was gone. Sam looked at him in silence, the flames from the burning farmhouse throwing wild shadows all around.
‘Be lucky, Guv,’ Sam said.
At the very end of his strength, and sick to his heart, Sam fell upon the grass next to the body of his fallen captain. He lay on his back and looked up at the night sky. What planets and constellations rolled silently by up there? That clear, bright stab of light directly overhead – was it Mars? And those diamond lights sparkling about it, were those the lonely Pleiades?
God knows. I’m just a copper.
Sam lay motionless. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids and closed them. The last thing he saw before consciousness slipped away was a bird wheeling overhead. It cried out mournfully, again and again, until it became one black dot against the verge of dawn. Moments later, its wailing died away.
She was right, Sam thought to himself, in the last moments before sleep overtook him. The Test Card Girl was right. To forget ... to throw oneself into total oblivion … it’s the only way to stop the pain.
He dreamt, but only briefly. In the dream, he saw the gold-plated watch crushed beneath burning debris, its mechanism smashed, the Roman numerals on the white-faced dial being eaten away by fire, as if Time itself was being destroyed. Then the darkness swept over Sam again, and the dream faded rapidly to black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: LIFE ON MARS?
‘What’s that you’re doing?’’ the man asked.
‘Dreaming,’ said Sam.
‘Oh aye? What about?’
‘Something I once had. A watch. With a chain. I thought it was important once.’
‘But you don’t think that now?’
Sam shook his head. He found that he had a pint in front of him. He must be in a pub. And since he had no recollection of how or why he was there, he supposed he must still be dreaming. He sipped his pint.
‘So this watch of yours,’ the man said, sipping his own pint. (Sam realised at this point that the two of them were standing side by side at the bar.) ‘What happened to it? Lose it, did you?’
‘Yes. No. Sort of. I destroyed it.’
‘Did you, now? And why’s that?’
‘Somebody told me to. A man I knew.’
‘And who might that have been?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him,’ said Sam. ‘He was a copper. He’s dead now, anyway.’
‘I was a copper,’ the man said. ‘What was his name, this fella? I might have come across him.’
Sam turned, and for the first time he looked properly at the man in his dream. He was tall and thin with a kind, honest face – the sort of face you’d most want to see on a copper, especially if you were in dire need. Instantly, Sam liked the man, and regretted that he was nothing but a wisp of smoke in a dream that would soon be broken and forgotten.
‘His name was Hunt,’ said Sam.
‘Gene Hunt,’ replied the man. ‘DCI Gene Hunt.’
‘You knew him?’
‘A very clever fella,’ the man said, nodding seriously. He raised his pint as if in silent toast of Gene’s memory, drank deep, and said, ‘He did the right thing, telling you to chuck that watch.’
‘Why?’
The man smiled and shrugged: ‘You’ll see. Inspiration, that’s what your old DCI had. It was inspiration to throw that fob watch into the fire.’
‘Hang on, I never told you I threw it into a fire,’ said Sam. ‘And I never said it was a fob watch, just a … Oh well. You’re not real. You’re in my head, so …’
‘Not real?’
Sam smiled. ‘Much to my regret, you’re just a figment of my imagination. I meet a lot of those, but I don’t normally get on as well with them as I do with you, Mr, um … Mr ...?’
‘Cartwright. Tony Cartwright. Didn’t you recognise me, Sam?’
Sam looked him over, wide-eyed, amazed at himself for having missed it.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Cartwright,’ he said, ‘things have been quite … quite fraught recently.’
‘But all’s well that ends well, eh, Sam?’
Sam thought for a moment and said, ‘Maybe. But not all that ends well ends entirely well.’
Tony shrugged and drained his pint to the dregs, then slammed the empty glass down on the bar.
‘Nectar of the gods!’ he declared. ‘Well, time for me to hit the road.’ He turned and gave Sam an intense look. ‘Thank you, Sam,’ he said very seriously. ‘You know what for.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ said Sam in a quiet voice.
‘Be good to her.’
‘I will.’
Tony held his look for a moment, nodded as if to himself, and then made his way towards the door. He casually began whistling as he walked. The theme tune to Dixon of Dock Green.
At the door, he paused, and over his shoulder called across: ‘’Night, Nelson.’
‘You have yourself one big ol’ prince of an evening, Mr Cartwright, sir!’ Nelson grinned back warmly from behind the bar, and all at once Sam suddenly realised where he was. Or rather, where his dream had put him. ‘And when you see her, give my regards to that bee-ootiful missus of yours!’
‘I will do, Nelson. I will do.’
Tony Cartwright disappeared, out into the night, a contented man.
‘And how are you farin’ tonight, mm, Sam?’ Nelson asked, drifting over, his manner casual, but a certain perceptive gleam in his eye. ‘Beer to your likin’?’
‘I’m dreaming,’ said Sam.
‘Oh? Really?’
‘I think so.’
‘Maybe I’m dreamin’ you,’ smiled Nelson. ‘Coz I feel real to me, you know? So you must be the fella in my head!’
‘No, no, I’m the one who feels real.’
Nelson laughed. ‘Getting’ complicated! But I know de solution. What say this, Sam? What so you ain’t dreamin’, and I ain’t dreamin’, mmm? What if this is real?’
‘It can’t be real,’ said Sam. ‘If it’s real, how did I get here? You see, I’m not in the Railway Arms. Right now, at this moment, I’m lying on the grass outside the burning remains of a farmhouse – my guv’nor lying dead beside me – Chris and Ray lying dead in the ruin.’
‘Oh?’ said Nelson, raising his eyebrows mockingly. ‘And did you not listen to what mah very good friend Mistah Cartwright just told you? All’s well dat ends well. And Ah tink it all ended veeeerry well.’
‘You’ve really turned your accent up this evening, Nelson.’
‘Forget de accent, mahn. Listen to de words.’
Sam frowned. The pint in his hand felt solid. The beer in his mouth felt solid. The wooden bar on which he was leaning felt sticky and splintery. The air in his nostrils smelt of fag smoke. It was all as real, as immediate, as solid as ever. It was the Railway Arms.
‘We saved Annie,’ Sam said slowly, as if working it out for himself. ‘We sent Gould back where he belonged, empty-handed. But we paid a price. We lost Chris. We lost Ray. And we lost the Guv.’
‘Ahhh,’ said Nelson, ‘but you played your get out of jail free card, Sam. You played your joker. Just the one – you won’t get another – but then, you don’t need no more.’
‘Played my joker?’
Nelson grinned, and his rich Jamaican accent s
tarted to swell. ‘Dat Mr McClintock, he clutched it tight, right when he died – bought it wit him, he did, all de way from dat life to dis. Not much comes troo dat way, but little trinkets make it from time to time. Always very important dey are, Sam. Always a reason they come troo. I tink – I ain’t sure – but I certainly tink dat dere’s somebody lettin’ dem tings come troo here … if folks deserve it, ya know? Special folks. Good folks.’
At that moment, there was a sound from outside – the roar of a car engine, the howl of tyres slewing across tarmac. Sam knew that engine, and those tyres. It was the Cortina!
‘The watch …’ he said. And he patted himself, realising that he was real, he was solid, that this wasn’t a dream at all, that it was really happening. ‘The little gold watch …’
The talisman that Mr McClintock had brought with him at the moment of his death – Sam had been sure it was a relic from Life. It was … but more than that, it was a relic from Time – from when Time was different than it was here in this strange, otherworldly simulacrum of 1973. And as it had burned away in the flaming ruins of Trencher’s Farm, something else had burned away with it …
‘Time,’ Sam said. ‘I destroyed Time.’
‘Not all of it,’ grinned Nelson, as the doors to the pub flew open with a crash. ‘Just the right part …’
Gene swept in, his coat billowing, and hot on his heels came Ray and Chris.
‘Well cock-a-ruddy-doodle-bloody-great-do!’ Gene declared, clapping eyes on Sam. ‘Detective Inspector Tyler, as I live and breathe, poncing about in his leather jacket before he slopes off for an evening’s vigorous cottaging. But before you go, I do believe the Milky Bars are on you. A pint of Courage for yourself truly, much obliged. And same goes for you gentlemen, I take it?’
‘Won’t weep no tears at a Courage,’ nodded Ray, sparking up a fag and planting himself firmly at the bar.
Chris pretended to think deeply: ‘Well … I was going to have my usual Campari and soda, with a twist of lemon, ice and a dinky little olive bobbing about in it like that floater I still can’t shift from me khazi … but on second thoughts, aye, a Courage will do me grand.’
Gene opened his mouth to say something crude, something cutting, smart-arsed – but he didn’t get the chance. Sam was suddenly on him, crushing him in a bear hug.
‘Oh, Guv!’ he cried, tears threatening to spring to his eyes. ‘Oh, Guv, Guv, Guv, Guv, Guv!’
‘You’ll notice, fellows, that I’m not returning this display of affection,’ Gene intoned, holding his arms away from Sam. ‘Tyler, you have exactly one second to sling your nancy-boy hook.’
But Sam was already hugging Chris, crushing him.
‘Why is it the lasses never want to do this?’ Chris mused over Sam’s shoulder.
And then Sam turned to throw his arms around Ray. But what he faced was a man poised to defend himself, his fists raised, his stance that of a ready boxer.
‘Don’t you even think about it, Tyler …’
‘All of you!’ Sam laughed. ‘All of you! You’re all here! Even the bloody Cortina’s here! Nelson – beer! Beer for my team! Beer for everyone!’
Gene shoved a cigarette into his gob, fired it up, and said, ‘Tyler, I will forgive you your revolting display of poofery on the grounds that you were over-excited. You have evidently got wind of my recent change of heart.’
‘Change of heart, Guv?’
‘Over your soppy tart, WPC Leg-hair. I’ve reinstated her. She’s back on the team.’
Sam paused, thought, and then said carefully, ‘Yes, Guv. That’s right. That’s what I heard. That’s what got me excited.’
‘I’m still not happy about her glassin’ my esteemed colleague DS Carling, and I have a funny feeling my esteemed colleague DS Carling ain’t too happy about it neither …’
Ray grumbled something and made a face.
‘… but tempers run high in CID, and none higher than when a bird’s involved. And after her little coup of late, well, credit where credit’s due.’
‘Annie’s what? Her “little coup”, did you say?’ Sam asked, nonplussed.
Gene tapped at Sam’s head with his knuckles. ‘Hello? Are you reading me? This is Earth calling Tyler, come in Tyler!’
‘The case, Boss,’ Chris put in, looking at Sam like he was senile. ‘The cold case she found dug up in the files. The thing with Clive Gould.’
‘Finding out he weren’t really dead?’ Ray prompted heavily. ‘Trackin’ ’im down? Nickin’ ’im? Christ, boss, where you been of late?’
‘Where have I been?’ asked Sam. ‘I’ve been …’ He laughed. ‘I’ve been out of the loop, it seems. Out of this loop, anyway. And I like this loop more than the other one.’
‘You on the wacky, Tyler? Gene asked.
‘No, Guv. I’m all right. I’m just … I’m fine.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Gene said. ‘Communications have been restored. Tyler is reading us again, loud and clear. We have made contact. There is life on Mars.’
But then the pints arrived, and everyone was distracted by the serious business of beer.
More people began piling into the pub, and the place became rowdy. There was banter, there was laughter, there was raging bullshit – but Sam felt detached from it all, too elated to join the company. He couldn’t believe that the clock had been set back, that time had healed hurts he thought irreparable, that the gold watch had turned out to be not a secret weapon after all but a secret defence. He even pinched himself, just to make sure.
‘I saw you do that,’ said Nelson knowingly, speaking quietly despite the noise and the laugher. He gave Sam a look. ‘It ain’t no dream, Sam. But it is over.’
‘Over?’
Nelson nodded slowly: ‘I told you. You were here to do a job. And you’ve done it. You’ve done it grand. Time to move on now.’
Sam looked around at Ray, who was guzzling beer; at Chris, who was showing off by failing to juggle three packets of pork scratchings, and at Gene, who was waving a pound note at the bar for more drinks.
‘Your place ain’t with these boys anymore,’ Nelson said, and his voice was so low it was almost a murmur. The sounds of the pub had receded. All Sam could hear was Nelson’s voice. ‘Go on, Sam. Follow Tony Cartwright, the way he went out of here. Go to your rest. Annie will see you there one day soon. But for now – go and get your reward. You’ve earned it.’
Nelson smiled, and with a nod of the head indicated towards the door.
Sam looked right at him.
‘Can’t I … stay for a bit?’ he asked.
Still smiling, Nelson shook his head: ‘Rules. Rules is rules.’
Slowly, Sam put down his pint glass. And all at once, the riotous clamour of the pub returned, deafeningly loud. Stiffly, he turned from the bar, and headed towards the door.
‘Aye up, Sammy!’ It was Gene, blocking his way. ‘What’s the matter, just realised you’ve left the iron on?’
‘I just need some air, Guv,’ Sam said, feeling suddenly like a little boy heading off on his very first day of school. He had to swallow down the lump in his throat. ‘I’m just going to pop outside. I’ll be … back in a moment.’
Gene narrowed his eyes, scrutinized him for a moment, then shrugged.
‘Sometimes, Tyler,’ he said, ‘I think you’re like them one of them weirdos. Other times I think you’re like a twat. Or a nancy. And half the bloody time I think you’re a prime candidate to be shunted back to Hyde where you came from and out of my hair forever. But you know what, Tyler? There’s something about you, something that stays my hand when I go to knock your dopey block off, something I think I need for my department … and do you know what it is? Shall I tell you?’
Sam smiled: ‘Tell me when I come back in, Guv.’
He patted Gene’s arm, and then worked his way through the crowd to the door. Refusing to look back, but aware of Nelson's eyes on him, Sam went out into the night.
It was cold and crisp, with a full moon and as many star
s as you could hope for from a Manchester night. Sam stood, looking up, a racket of men’s voices pouring out of the Railway Arms behind him.
‘Right then …’ Sam sighed. ‘That’s that.’
He turned to the left. Far away, at the end of the street, he saw the Test Card Girl. She looked forlorn. In her hand she clutched a limp piece of string, attached to the burst remains of a black balloon on the ground at her feet. The street lamp above her flickered, and when it steadied again, the Girl was gone.
And then Sam looked to his right. He could see two men laughing and chatting together, sharing cigarettes, waiting for him. It was Tony Cartwright, and with him was James McClintock. They grinned at Sam, waved, beckoned him over. A taxi was waiting.
One more minute here, Sam thought, savouring those last moments of 1973. Thirty seconds …
‘Been stood up?’
Annie appeared, wrapped up snugly in her fake-fur coat.
Sam hesitated, then said: ‘No. I haven’t.’
He turned to where Cartwright and McClintock were waiting for him, and waved at them to go on without him. Then he put his arm around Annie and kissed her.
‘Who were you waving at?’ she asked, peering back along the street. All she could see was a taxi pulling away.
‘Oh, just some fellas I know,’ said Sam. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘You’re only saying that because I got a result. Clive Gould. The Mr Big of yesteryear. And I nailed him!’
‘Clive Gould …’ said Sam. He looked at her very carefully, reading her face, reading the thoughts behind her face. ‘What does that name mean to you?’
‘Mean?’ She laughed. ‘It means I’ve got me bloody job back, Sam, that’s what it means!’
‘No more than that?’
‘What do you mean? What more could I ask for?’
‘So, the slate’s been wiped clean,’ said Sam. ‘Back to normal. Business as usual. What a strange old world this is … but I wouldn’t have it any other way.’