Two Stories
by elfin
PG
This was Andy's second favourite way of spending a Sunday lunchtime -
in the Black Bull, roast dinner, pint of real ale and the Sunday papers.
Now and again, Peter indulged him; dragged himself out of bed and
joined him. He enjoyed it really, liked reading the various
supplements in relative peace and quiet. The smoke he was used to
and the beer was good.
So with their dirty plates stacked together at the edge of the table
and the papers open, Andy puffed away on the one cigarette he allowed
himself while Peter supped his beer and tried to do the crossword.
"This bloke," Andy piped up randomly a couple of minutes into
five-down, nine letters, "the one in the coma."
Peter glanced up, glass half-way to his lips. "Oh, the accident
in Manchester? That was frightenin'."
"Aye, could 'appen to anyone who stands next to their bloody great 4x4
in the middle of a slip road off a busy flyover." Peter rolled
his eyes. Looking for sympathy? Try somewhere else!
"I once knew a bloke, a DCI in Manchester; Gene Hunt. He'd been
on the force years, bit of a troglodyte..."
"...big word!"
One large eye nailed him. "Watch it, you."
Peter couldn't suppress his grin. "Sorry."
"Like I was sayin', bit of a hooligan - better? - but a good
copper. Used to be ahead of his time, doing stuff like taping
interviews and conducting hostage negotiations at a time my superiors
were still going in guns blazing and getting everybody killed."
"Is there relevance here...?"
"Oy!" Peter schooled his expression just the right side of
cheeky; when it came to Andy he could get away with everything up to
and possibly even including murder.
"Do go on."
"Thank you. This bloke had a DI by the name of Sam Tyler.
Good lad by all accounts, a bit bonkers but Hunt was very fond of him -
and remember this is back in the old days when senior coppers didn't
sleep with their inspectors."
Peter met the knowing smile with a grin. "Where's the fun
there?" He could have sworn Andy was blushing when he turned back
to his pint. He savoured the beer for a few long seconds before
carrying on.
"From what people said, there were a couple of bizarre bits of
circumstance surrounding Tyler - for a start he had a car accident on
the way from his old patch and when he walked into the nick he started
accusing everyone of not being real."
Peter shrugged. "Concussion. What's bizarre about that?"
Andy ignored him. "Then there was the murderer he allowed to
escape - a man with the same surname as him and a four-year old son
called Sam."
"Coincidence."
"Mebbe. But most bizarre of all was his disappearance."
"He disappeared?"
"One morning, Hunt went to pick him up from his flat - or that was his
story and he were sticking to it - and Tyler's not there. After a
couple of hours, they start searching, but he's gone. No sign of
him. Hunt blamed a local corrupt businessman - Stephen Warren -
who he and Tyler had banged up a couple of months before. But no
one knew anything and there was no evidence. Hunt went through
Manchester like diarrhoea, arrested anyone who got in his way, banged
up countless criminals and even took a few bent coppers out for good
measure. But he never found Tyler. He retired fifteen years
ago; went a bit bonkers himself at the end, some say, used to get drunk
and talk about Tyler having come from outer space or sommat."
"It's touching, Andy," and it was, oddly, "but I don't see...."
Andy lifted the newspaper and Peter looked at the photograph of the DCI
who was now lying in a coma in a hospital in Manchester.
"That is DI Sam Tyler."
"They've got the same name, you mean?"
"And the same face. The photo went out to every station at the
time of his disappearance. That's Hunt's missing DI."
Peter thought to himself that it may not just be the Hunt and Tyler who
were a little bit insane. "Bollocks. Andy, that's not
possible!"
"I'm serious, Pete. Senior coppers might not have slept with
their DIs back then but it didn't stop the thought crossing their
minds. I spent a night in a hotel bar with Gene Hunt, ten years
after Sam Tyler vanished off the face of this earth, and he still
carried a photograph of the man, and he still asked me if I recognised
him, if I remembered seeing 'im. I'll never forget listening to
him, watch him drink a bottle of single malt and bite back the tears
when he talked about Sam. Didn't understand it - not until I met
you."
He was serious. Peter was lost for words.
"When I read about Hunt retiring I thought what would I do if you went
missing. And I think I'd go bonkers too."
Reaching for his beer, Peter shook his head, "I think you've already
lost it, Andy."
~
In a run down flat in a suburb of Manchester, the same Sunday news was
spread across a stained, aging breakfast table.
A wrinkled hand with yellowing fingernails rested reverently across the
photograph of Sam Tyler while tears leaked from still-sharp eyes to the
black print beneath.
"I'm sorry, Sam." But Gene Hunt knew that the words were coming
much, much too late.
fin
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