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The door creaks open and, by the look the barman gives him, he knows whoever's just come in is here for him. And he even knows why.
Soft steps approach him. He sighs. "Cartwright," he says and, lowering the glass of Scotch, he turns slowly around.
She looks at him as if she's just been caught shop-lifting, then she lowers her eyes. Her hands are clasped, fingers entwined and twisting. She raises her head and regards him, her face betraying no emotion. "I just heard," she says.
He shrugs. "So did I," he replies, then he glances at the half empty glass of Scotch. It must be the third. Or the fourth. "Well, a couple hours ago," he concedes.
"Sir-" she starts, then she stops and takes a deep breath. "Gene," she begins again, "I'm sorry, I-"
"Why?" he interrupts her.
She frowns, confused, for a moment. "I don't- I don't know, Sir," she replies. "Nobody knows why he'd do something like-"
"No, Cartwright," he interrupts her again. "I don't care what the bloody git did," he snarls. "What I want to know is what are you apologizing for. What makes you think I give- gave a shit about the bastard?"
She says nothing, but he's seen her eyes darting to the glass by his elbow.
*
One week earlier.
*
He balances the empty glass on his knee, the ice inside it clinking softly with the movement, but he hardly hears it as it's drowned by the sound of the nightlife around him. Even if it's not a central and crowded area, it's still far from quiet.
He takes a drag of the cigarette and looks at the door of the pub. The once-green paint is peeling.
He's feeling strangely calm, as if he's come to peace with what he's sure is going to happen. Everything he believed in, worked for, bled for. All gone. There haven't been any official reports yet, of course, just rumours, but he's no bleeding idiot.
Gene Hunt's era, his legacy, has come to an end.
He'd toast to it if he had any Scotch left.
Two boots attached to a pair of legs stop right in front of him. He knows to whom they belong, but he certainly doesn't have to make this easier. He rolls his eyes and flicks away the fag.
"And this used to be such a nice neighbourhood," he snorts, getting up from the pavement and heading towards his car.
"Gene…" the boots, and the person wearing them, follow him. "Gene."
"Go away," he says, meaning for it to be final, and unlocks his car.
There's a hand on his arm and he tries to dislodge it, even as he's opening the door. The grip doesn't loosen, though.
He turns around and glares at the bastard. "Keep your hands off me," he hisses.
The bloody bastard has the guts to look taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, but it's not like he has any rights. Gene knows what's he been thinking all this time, as he waits for the axe to fall. He's seen him walking around with his air of self-importance and superiority.
'Feel all high and mighty, now, don't you?' he wants to tell him. And then he wants to punch him.
He doesn't, though.
Face to face with the most annoying twat in the universe, and he doesn't introduce him to his knuckles – with a considerable effort, mind you, but still that has to count for something, right?
"Gene-" he repeats, and he doesn't remember ever giving him the permission to call him by his first name. Or at all.
He slams the car door shut. "Get lost, Tyler!" he shouts right into his face. Tyler flinches slightly, but doesn't back away.
"Seems like you're hard of hearin', then," he says, leaning back against the car.
In front of him Tyler crosses his arms over his chest and shoots him a determined look. "Gene," he repeats, like a broken record. "We have to talk."
At that he barks a laugh, but it's far from pleasant; dozens of criminals in Manchester cringe – and, in one memorable occasion, squeak – at the sound. Tyler doesn't as much as flinch. "What's there to say?" he snorts. "You've already taken me down," he says, and strangely enough, Tyler winces at that. "You gonna dance on my grave, now?"
Tyler narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about?" he says, lowly. "I've never- I didn't do this."
"Oh, but it is you, Tyler," he replies. "You and your perfect little coppers."
Tyler is still silent, now looking at him with something in his eyes he can't quite make out. He doesn't care, though, and he continues. "Everything by the book, everything by the rules, you're just like bloody robots!" he's on the shouting side of loud, he knows, and passers-by are giving them weird looks. When he glares at them, though, they lower their eyes and hurry on their way.
He turns his attention back to Tyler. "Policing isn't sitting at a bleedin' desk waiting for a goddamn warrant!" he says, stating his point by stabbing at Tyler's chest with his index finger. "Policing is standing between scum and people! To protect them!"
Tyler shakes his head. "I know, Gene," he says. "I just-" then his face scrunches up and he throws his arms wide. "This is too bloody hard!"
He snorts. "Oh, I'm sorry little princess. If this is a bit too much for you…"
"It's not that," Tyler rubs his forehead, then he takes a deep sigh and looks at him once again. "There's an alternative, you know," he says. "If you could just…"
"Sure, Tyler. I've heard all about your 'alternatives'," he snorts. "And forget it, I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life behind a desk."
"Gene," Tyler says, and if he didn't know better he'd think he was begging him. "You've been accused of corruption and tampering with evidence! This is serious!"
"Living and working side by side with scum everyday will get you dirty, eventually," he says, and Tyler doesn't reply to that.
*
Four days earlier.
*
He's seen how he's trying to approach everybody in his team. Well, not everybody. Tyler gives Ray a wide berth, the two of them glaring at each other like they're going to jump at each other's throat at any moment.
He was the first Tyler tried talking to, but he'd sooner go a month without alcohol than listen to what the smug bastard has to say. Tyler seems to have understood that, so he's shifted his attention to Chris and Annie.
He still hasn't quite figured out why he's trying to charm his team away from him, and that doesn't sit quite well with him, one might say that he's annoyed by it. And everybody knows that with an annoyed Gene Hunt everything's gonna end in tears. Or at least somebody is.
He glares at them from across the room, but they don't notice him. They're deeply engaged in some sort of conversation he can't hear. Tyler seems serious, and he'll bet anything that he's speaking in his 'listen-to-me-I'm-being-reasonable' voice. Cartwright is looking warily at him, but he's sure she's going to cave sooner or later.
Unless he intervenes.
"Here," Tyler says, handing her something bright coloured. A Kit-Kat, he realizes after a moment.
"What's the meaning of this?" she asks, confused.
"You probably deserve it, anyway," Tyler says and smiles mysteriously. Right.
This has gone too far.
"Tyler," he grinds out, grabbing his forearm and dragging him away before he can do any more damage. "A word."
Cartwright is looking at them as they disappear beyond the door in the corridor, the Kit-Kat bar still clutched in her hands. It's a chunky one, he notices. Oh Tyler, the utter, utter bastard.
He drags Tyler all the way to the gents'. He scares the young PC off with a glare and a snarl and locks the door behind them.
"All right!" he exclaims, turning around.
Tyler is looking at him with a disapproving frown, his arms crossed over his chest, it's probably his standard pose.
"What're you lookin' at, Tyler?" he growls.
Tyler sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm eagerly waiting for you to get to the point of this little scene," he says.
He narrows his eyes at him, taking a few steps and invading his personal space, menacingly. "You," he says, very slowly, "stay away from my team."
Tyler squints up at him. "Give me a good reason why I should."
"Oh, give up," he snorts. "I know all about your little scheme."
Tyler gives him a long look. "Oh, really?" he says. "Then why don't you tell me all about my 'little scheme', since it seems I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Oh, you know perfectly well," he says. "You're sniffing around my officers!"
"They're my friends!"
"Oh, give over!" he snorts. "You've never given a shit about them!"
"That's not true!" Tyler protests, and he sounds so genuine Gene has to admit that he's a good actor.
"What I want to know is why," he continues. "You've already got what you want, what more do you wish to accomplish?"
"You lot are bloody unbelievable!" Tyler exclaims suddenly, taking him by surprise.
He frowns. "Whatever do you mean?" he asks against his better judgement.
"Whenever I try talking to you people, it's like hitting my head against a wall," Tyler says, then he snorts. "And believe me when I say I'm quite experienced in hitting my head against walls."
"Well, that could certainly explain the fact the you seem to have misplaced half of yer brain," he replies. "What happened, hit yer head too hard last time and it dribbled down yer nose?"
Tyler blinks at him for a second, then he smiles slowly, and this time he really is taken aback. Here he is, moments away from giving the man a good kicking, and Tyler smiles like a bloody thirteen year old girl with a crush.
"What?" he barks out.
Tyler shakes his head. "Nothing, just…" he sighs and rubs his eyes. "Nothing."
"Right," he snorts. "Nothing, my arse."
"I knew this was gonna be hard, but…" Tyler mutters under his breath, and if he wasn't standing this close to him he probably wouldn't have heard. Then finally, Tyler raises his head and meets his eyes. "I am not your enemy, Gene," he says. "You have to understand that."
"Yeah, and next I'll start pulling pink, fluffy bunnies out of my arse."
Tyler grimaces. "That's an image I really didn't need, thank you very much."
"I told you a couple of days ago, Tyler," he says. "And I don't care about your bloody alternatives."
"So what? You're gonna lay down and give up?" Tyler exclaims. "You? Gene Hunt?"
He shakes his head. "There's giving up, and there's knowing when you can't win."
"Oh, and you know all about that, don't you?" Tyler snorts.
He narrows his eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, now you want to talk," Tyler says, raising his eyebrows. "I know what this is all about."
"Why don't you tell me, then."
Tyler frowns, as if he isn't quite sure what to say. "When you started, your partner…" Tyler hesitates, and he has a really bad feeling about this. "Harry Althway," he finishes, as if it were a question more than a statement, looking at him as if waiting for some sort of confirmation.
He snarls and his hands shoot out to grab at Tyler's collar, tugging him forward and shouting in his face. "Who told you about that?" he growls.
"Nobody," Tyler replies, his voice low.
He snorts. "Sure, and how come you know this? Been nosing around in my past, have you?"
"It's hard to explain," Tyler shakes his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Oh, I don't know," he replies, tightening his grip and giving the bastard a right good shake. It usually works, even if with Tyler there's the risk of scrambling his poor excuse of brain even more. Oh, well, he'll take his chances. "Tell me."
"I told you," Tyler repeats. "You won't believe me."
"And I repeat, slightly louder," he says, shaking him again. "Tell me!"
And suddenly Tyler punches him, making him lose his grip on him. He stumbles back and before he realizes what's going on, he's replied with his own fist.
When he looks up again, Tyler is standing a few feet away from him, his bottom lip split and bleeding, his eyes wide and wild. There's no surprise in them, though, they're sparkling and alive, and it's the first time he's seen that grin on Tyler's face.
"Come on!" Tyler yells at him, bringing up his fists, and he's laughing. "Come on!"
He can feel his own eyes widening in surprise at the show Tyler's putting on. There's something that's most definitely not right with the miserable bugger. He slowly lowers his arms, unclenching his fists, and he takes a step back.
Tyler blinks at him, and then his face clears as if he's just realized something. "You're…afraid of me. You're-" he gives a sound much like a moan and hides his face into his hands. "This is all wrong," he whispers, then, the words coming out muffled against the palms of his hands. "I want- I want to-" he snorts, letting his hands fall, and leaning his head back. "I just want to go home," he says to the ceiling. "Please," he adds, choking back a sob.
He stares at him for a moment, then he turns around and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
*
Ten days earlier.
*
A voice calls him, and he grimaces when he realizes who is it. There are quick steps and then he's reached his side.
Great, it's not like his day isn't already shitty, anyway.
"If you go on like that…" Tyler starts.
He glares at him, then deliberately takes a long drag from the fag. "What?" he says, raising his eyebrows.
Tyler sighs and hangs his head, wearily. "It's just… not healthy, you know?"
He snorts, and looks away from Tyler, to the tall police station building in front of them. He leans more comfortably against the car. "Who are you? Me mother?" he rolls his eyes. "And since when did you care about my well-being, DCI Tyler?"
Tyler visibly winces at that, and he shakes his head. "Don't call me that, please."
"What should I call you then?" he asks. "Since it seems that I won't be able to get rid of you that easily."
In fact, it's the fourth time in two days Tyler's pestered him.
Tyler snorts. "Gladys?" he suggests, and he turns to frown at him, because even with all the rubbish Tyler's been spewing at him, that certainly takes first prize.
Tyler takes a deep breath and continues. "As for looking after your health…" he shrugs. "Let's just say it's been a while. Almost feels like decades," he chuckles as if he's just told a really funny joke.
"Oh, is that it?" he snorts. "Who are you, my fairy godmother?"
Tyler snorts and rolls his eyes. "Sure, Gu- Gene."
"That's DCI Hunt to you," he says, pointing a finger at him. "Gladys."
Tyler blinks at him, then his face clears and smiles brightly. He just gives him a confused look, before turning away. If he needed any more confirmation that Tyler's gone completely cuckoo, this would be it.
Gladys. Bloody hell, what will he come up with next? Knitting Circles?
The silence stretches long and awkward, and he hopes Tyler will take the hint and leave, but if he knows something about the bloody bugger it's that he's a huge pain in the arse.
"Something troubling you?" Tyler asks, softly. As if he were a bloody shrink. Or a friend.
"Yes," he replies. "You."
Tyler doesn't take the bait, though. "That little animal in your gut, perhaps?" he asks, nodding at him.
That little- He narrows his eyes at him. "Is there something in particular you'd like to discuss?" he asks him. "Otherwise, piss off," he frowns then, thinking about it for a moment. "On second thoughts, piss off anyway."
Tyler doesn't piss off, though, he just stares ahead in front of him, frowning as if he were seeing something that nobody else could see. Not that it wouldn't be possible. The daft bugger is on the barking mad side of a nuthouse.
That doesn't explain why he seems to be obsessed with talking to him, though.
Finally, after a minute, Tyler sighs deeply and turns around to face him. "There's no easy way to say this, but…" he squints up at him, and he doesn't know if it's the sun, or if he's specifically looking for something. "Look, I know you've been taking backhanders, and-"
So, that's why he's obsessed with him. He should have known.
He shoots up, the car suspensions creaking at the sudden absence of weight, and he flicks the fag away with an angry gesture. "If you think I'd be stupid enough as to say anything while you're wired…" he snarls, advancing on him.
Tyler leans back, frowning. "Wi-" he starts, then his face clears and he smiles briefly, bitterly. "I'm not- You're not under surveillance."
He shakes his head. "Sure I ain't," he snorts, then he notices that Tyler is smiling again. "What?"
Tyler chuckles softly. "If you only knew the irony…"
He just gives him a long look. "Piss off, Tyler," he says, finally, enunciating each word carefully, so their meaning won't be lost on the idiot.
"No Gene, you listen to me," Tyler starts. "You've got to stop. They're building a case against you, and you've got to stop!"
He's silent for a long time, Tyler looking expectantly at him. It's unnerving, and slightly disturbing as well. "I know they're bloody building a case against me!" he exclaims at last. "You think I'm an idiot?" he growls. "And you've been smirking like the git you are ever since you caught wind of it, so don't stand there pretending to give a bloody damn about this!"
"I'm trying to help!"
"How?"
By now Tyler's face has assumed a peculiar shade of purple. "By telling you to put a stop to the backhanders!"
He snorts. "It's not that easy, princess."
Tyler throws his arms wide. "Actually, it is!" he exclaims, drawing a few curious looks from the passers-by. "You just have to stop," he continued with a calmer tone of voice. "You see yourself as the Sheriff, don't you? Well, don't you think it's time to live up to the image you have of yourself and cut all the crap?"
"So what if I stop?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "You think everything will magically go back into place and we'll ride off into the sunset, with birds singing and a bloody rainbow to complete the picture?" he snorts at Tyler's expression, a mixture of hopeful and disappointed. It shouldn't be logically possible, but somehow Tyler manages to pull it off. "You're really touched in the head if you actually think reality could ever work that way, Tyler."
Every action has a consequence, no matter how insignificant or worthless it may seem at the time. Nothing comes from nothing, Gene has learnt, and you can never go back.
"But you could at least try," Tyler whines.
"Why?" he asks, but Tyler stays silent. "Welcome to the real world, Tyler."
And surprise, surprise things rarely go the way you want them.
He shrugs and leaves, feeling Tyler's eyes on his back as he goes up the stairs to the station.
*
Ten minutes earlier.
*
"Hey," the soft voice calls and he raises his eyes.
"Tyler," he greets him with a nod.
Tyler nods back at him, shuffling his feet, his eyes darting all over the place. He frowns when he sees his hand. "You're bleeding."
Tyler blinks at him, then at the cut on his finger as if he's just noticed it. He seems to suddenly calm down, his shoulders ease up, and he stands still, looking straight at him. "It's all right," he shrugs. "Doesn't hurt," he says, then falls silent.
After a long moment of staring at each other, he nods again and turns to leave.
"I've never-" Tyler starts, and then stops.
He turns around to face him again.
Tyler gives a little smile. "I've never had a chance to tell you this," he says. "You're a good man, Gene Hunt, and a good copper."
He blinks at him. "You take a nasty blow to yer noggin, Tyler?" he asks.
Tyler shakes his head. "I'm gonna go, now," he seems to hesitate for a second. "Goodbye."
He looks at Tyler as he leaves in the direction of the stairs. "Where are you goin'?"
"To fulfil a promise," Tyler replies, but that doesn't explain anything, except that he fancies himself as an enigmatic bastard. But he knew that already.
He nods, though, as if he's understood the answer, and sets off in the direction of his office. After a couple of steps, he stops and turns around. "You comin' down the pub, later?" he asks.
Tyler's stopped too, and he's now looking back at him. "Sure. Buy you a pint," he smiles. "Guv."
"Now, I like the sound of that."
Tyler raises his eyebrows. "What, the pint or the 'Guv'?"
"Both."
Tyler chuckles quietly, shaking his head. "All right."
"See you later, then," he says, but it comes out more as a question.
Tyler's smile falls off, his face carefully blank. "Earlier, I hope," he mutters, certainly not doing much of a job in dashing away his ideas about Tyler's mental health. Or lack thereof. "Much earlier."
"What?"
Tyler shakes his head. "Just a private joke," he says. "Bye."
He watches as Tyler disappears through the door, and now he wishes he asked why is he taking the stairs.
Daft bastard. It's not like he can't go everywhere he wants to in the building just by taking the lift.
Except the roof, of course.
*
Two days later.
*
The slip of paper with the address crumpled in his left hand, he stares at the door for a good five minutes, not really knowing what the hell is he doing here.
He watches with no little amount of fascination as his right hand rises and forms a fist. The knocking of his knuckles against the wood almost takes him by surprise.
A woman in her sixties, dressed soberly, but elegantly, opens the door. Despite her tidy appearance, her eyes are heavy, and circled in red. "Yes?" she asks, politely.
He averts his eyes, apparently he never thought this far. "I- Uh," he clears his throat. "Sorry, Mrs. Tyler, I'm DCI Hunt, and-"
Her face clears at that, and she smiles softly at him. "Of course!" she exclaims. "Sam talked a lot about you. Come in, please."
She takes a step backwards, letting him in. They stand for a moment in the entrance, looking at each other, and he still doesn't know why he's here.
"Would you like some tea?" she asks, finally, and he nods.
It's not like they've managed to break the ice though, because ten minutes later the scene is the same, only they now have a tray with tea and biscuits separating them.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Tyler," he says, after a moment.
She nods. "Thank you, Mr. Hunt."
And once again uncomfortable silence falls.
After a few minutes she clears her throat. "I- If there's something of Sam's you might like to- keep. To remember him," she stutters over the words, but it doesn't sound like it's the first time she's said this. "All of his friends are gathering at his flat, next Saturday."
He shakes his head. "I'm not- We weren't really mates, Mrs. Tyler."
She blinks at him. "Oh," she says softly, lowering her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just…the way he spoke, I assumed…"
"No, it's- no," he replies.
And after that neither of them speaks. He drinks the tea even if he can't really taste it, but he only manages half of it, leaving the rest to cool as he holds the cup.
It's the most awkward conversation he's ever had – or not-had in this case. He observes Mrs. Tyler carefully, no ring on her finger, and the photos scattered all over the living room show only a child here, a teenager there, an adult in the one next to the pot of flowers. The same person in every picture, peering out from the glossy paper in different snapshots of a life. One son. Sam Tyler.
His grip on the cup tightens as he wonders why that tosser Tyler did something so idiotic. How long was he in the coma? It was surely months. It must have been hard on his mum. And now this… And why, anyway?
Cartwright said something about post-traumatic stress, but that's all a mighty pile of dog shit. He's been through a lot of stress, but he isn't jumping off buildings, is he?
He gives a little cough. "Why did he-"
"I don't know!" she exclaims, cutting him off, and he recoils back at her vehemence. "Everybody keeps asking me that, but I don't know!"
"Mrs. Tyler-" he starts softly.
She shakes her head and looks away. "I'm sorry."
"No, I shouldn't have asked."
She takes a deep breath, then. "He just looked so… sad," she says, then she shakes her head. "No, that's not it," she says, frowning as if looking for the right word. "He looked… empty," she concludes. "I thought it was just temporary, like the doctors said, and that he'd eventually go back to normal, to being my Sammy. But…" she trails off, and her eyes are brighter, her lips trembling slightly. "My boy, he had such a beautiful smile."
He nods. He's seen it, once or twice.
*
Two weeks earlier.
*
"G-Gene?" the voice stutters softly and he raises his eyes from the newspaper.
"Yeah?" he asks, frowning.
Tyler blinks down at him as if he were stupid, or as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Gene likes to think it's the first.
"Gene Hunt?" Tyler repeats. "Gene?"
"That's me name, yes," he grunts. "Congratulations, you can say it. Now piss off."
He goes back to reading the sports section, but he still sneaks glances at Tyler every now and then. Partly because the bloke's still blinking at him as if he's just seen a ghost, but mostly because he can't quite figure out why the miserable git is here, in his pub, sitting down at his table, talking to him.
Tyler doesn't say much else, though, nothing at all actually. He just stares.
It's just starting to get annoying – well, more annoying – when finally Ray and Chris show up.
"Hey, Boss," Ray greets him, and at that Tyler seems to shake out of his daydream, as he turns and boggles at his Inspector. Ray sneers down at him. "Tyler? Thought you didn't mix with us lot."
Tyler is staring again, the only difference is that Gene isn't the object of his scrutiny any more. "Ray?" he says, his voice disbelieving. "Chris?"
"You know all of our names. That's good," Gene snorts. "Why don't you try full sentences now, wonder boy?"
Apparently, Tyler takes him at his word, because he turns once again to him. "Annie here, too?" he asks.
"You mean Cartwright?"
"Y-yes…" he nods, his eyes still wide as saucers.
In the silence that follows Ray snaps his gum and Gene cringes at the sound. He turns to glare at him, but Ray isn't looking at him, busy as he is in sneering down at Tyler. He keeps glaring at him for a few moments more, just for good measure, his hands itching with the urge to smack him one. He wishes his Inspector hadn't quit smoking.
"She's parking the car," Ray replies, sharing a snort with Chris, then he looks back at Tyler. "Why do you care, Sir?"
"You let her drive?" Tyler exclaims.
"Of course, Tyler," Gene snorts. "What do you think this is, the Dark Ages? This is the bloody 21st Century, wake up and smell the coffee!"
Tyler's head snaps up at that, and he looks like he's going to be sick. He shoots up from his chair, and in his haste to leave he almost falls from the chair, trips twice, and smacks right into Cartwright who's just entering the pub.
"Was it something I said?" Gene snorts and shakes his head.
Ray twirls a finger next to his temple. "Always said it," he says. "He's a complete nutter."
Cartwright arrives at their table. "Sir," she greets him. "Ray, Chris."
"Ah, Cartwright," he smirks up at her. "Just what I need, something pretty to look at."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replies, grabbing a chair and sitting down.
He frowns at her. "Intended as one."
"Tell that to all the other female officers who've worked with you and filed a complaint."
"Bunch of sissies," he snorts into his glass.
She laughs lightly at that, then she turns to look in the direction of the door. "Wasn't that DCI Tyler?" she frowns.
"Yeah," Chris replies.
"What was he doing here, Sir?"
He shrugs. "Beats me. Didn't make much sense, though, the bloody git."
"I heard he's just come out of the hospital," Cartwright says.
"Yeah, maybe he should've stayed," Ray mutters.
"I doubt they could've helped him more," he says, snorting. "After all, they still haven't found the cure for gitness, have they?"
"No, Sir," they all chorus at once.
"All right, then," he nods curtly. "First round. Whose turn is it?"
Nobody answers, though, they're all looking at a point over his right shoulder.
"What?" he barks out, turning to see what's so interesting.
And there's Tyler, looking at them from outside, through the window. His eyes are fixed on them, and they have a look... haunted is the first thing that comes to his mind.
"Really, now," he says.
"He looks almost scared," Cartwright whispers. "Must be PTSD."
He snorts. "Don't be daft, love," he says. "He wasn't in the war."
She frowns. "No, Sir, but with the coma-"
"I don't know," Ray shrugs. "Looks a bit dodgy to me."
And he really can't argue with that, but when he turns round to look at Tyler again, he's gone.
*
Eight days later.
*
On Saturday he's standing in front of another door, another slip of paper held in his hand. And once again he isn't quite sure of the reason for his presence here.
He rings the bell, anyway.
"Mr. Hunt!" Mrs. Tyler exclaims, greeting him, but she doesn't look that surprised to see him here. "Please, come in."
Inside, the flat is tidy, cold, impersonal. He knows that Tyler was in a coma for quite a few weeks, but he has a feeling that the state of things was never that different when he was… alive.
Tyler was a rather boring bloke, he remembers, even when he wasn't being a bastard – and those were rare occasions – and that's reason enough for him to be somewhere else, possibly with a pint of bitter in his hand, and a whiskey chaser soon to follow.
But Tyler had come back from the coma, and he wanted to talk with him, spend time with him. And he was nothing like the Tyler before the coma, he had small smiles, and enigmatic words and didn't make much sense at all. Actually, come to think of it, he still was a mad bastard.
Not boring, though.
Mrs. Tyler leaves his side to go and talk with some people he knows from the Station but doesn't really know the names. On the other side of the room he catches sight of Roy, looking at him with a confused frown on her face.
He carefully explores the rest of the flat, but it's as sterile as the living room is. It looks like a display at IKEA. Except for the bedroom.
There are photos on the night table, some of Mrs. Tyler, another of a child wearing a police helmet. There's a Manchester United banner hanging from the wardrobe.
He snorts in the silence of the room. "A bloody Red. Should have known."
Some CD cases are piled next to the hi-fi. Bowie, T. Rex, Sweet.
His fingers slide soundlessly over the plastic, something prickles at the back of his mind, something Tyler told him about two weeks ago, when they almost engaged in a fight in the gents'. He carefully ignores it, though, because it can't be, Tyler didn't-
Next to the CDs there's a line of tapes, all carefully labelled. Except for one.
He takes it and pockets it, without thinking.
He stands up then, and gets out, out of the bedroom, out of the flat, leaving behind people he's never known, sharing the life and the memories of somebody he never knew, and never will, now.
Ten minutes later he's in the car, the voice of Tyler coming out of the speakers as if he were a spirit in a séance in those crappy American horrors. In his opinion, Yanks should stick to Westerns.
"This is for me," Tyler says. "To remember, to-" he snorts. "As if I could forget." Silence, a long sigh. "I had an accident, and I woke up in 1973, and-"
He stops the tape, rolls down the window and chucks it out.
He guns the engine and, with the sound of screeching tyres, he's definitely out of there.
*
Four days earlier.
*
"I know you want to go straight," Tyler says, softly, and evidently their confrontation in the gents' only a couple of hours ago wasn't enough for him.
He says nothing, just raises his eyebrows at him. "Harry Althway," he says, then. "Who told you about that?"
"I already told you-" Tyler starts, but he interrupts him.
"I won't believe you, yeah," he says. "Just try me."
Tyler gives him a log look, then he takes a deep breath. "You did."
He frowns at him. "Who the hell are you?"
Tyler barks out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Sam Tyler," he says. "Your DI in 1973."