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[oom] 3x02 - Tape Recorded Notes
I shouldn't be surprised anymore by what happens here, but this time it's different. There are no sirens, or hospital sounds. It's as if I've been cut adrift from that world, the life behind me that I still think of as the 'real' world. But these images, these sensations, are more visceral. They have a sense of urgency attached to them, still. Like someone, or something, is trying to get my attention. Trying to make me see.
I can't help but think that whatever it is, it's desperately important. And it has something to do with this file. With Sam Tyler. I can't shake the feeling that whatever happened to him, well -- It's happening to me.
Strange things. This time, the very fabric of this place seems to be wearing thin. Every day seems more solid and more dreamlike, at the same time. I can't explain it. I can only observe, and try to put the pieces together. Perhaps now, after so long, I've learned to set aside my expectations, and in doing so, I've opened myself up to all the secrets of this place. In some ways it's worse than before. As if someone's dropped LSD in my tea. And all I can do is cling to reality the only way I know how -- through logic and reason and careful observation.
[ long pause ]
The stars are the most disconcerting hallucination I've had to date.
No, that's not right. They're more like -- waking dreams than hallucinations. As if I'm walking around in a deep alpha state, and the world doesn't feel obliged to follow any of the laws of physics. One moment, I'm following Shaz down an alley. The next, my foot is hanging in open space. And not like the edge of a cliff. I mean <i>space</i>. The raw firmament of the heavens wheeling all around me, terrifying and beautiful. As if I can touch every corner of the universe at once. And in the next breath? It's gone. As if it had never existed. Literally, in the blink of an eye, I'm standing back on the cobbles, assaulted with the stench of the bins and the River.
I keep imagining shadows, out of the corner of my eye. There's a silhouette of a man, hunched over, carrying an impossible load on his back. But it's not a man, it's the image of a man. Like a weathervane casting its shadow on the ground. And I have the feeling I've seen it somewhere before. I feel like I should know what I'm looking at, but the memory is just out of reach.
It's ludicrous, really. Once you start trying to read the omens, they're everywhere. Is there a message in the way the smoke curls up from the end of Gene's cigarette? Is there a message in the coffee grounds Ray spilt on the canteen counter? Is there something in Chris's god awful patterned shirts, or in the way Shaz arranges the biscuits on a plate? Bloody hell, one of the construction crew in for the renovation carved a date or something on the surface of my desk. Does it mean something? 6-6-20? It seems too specific, too blatant to ignore. Like I should know <i>where</i> I know that number from. It's significant, and -- it's probably nothing. But I can't tell. It's all noise, but I'm looking so hard for a signal, I'm seeing things.
Ghosts. [ sigh ]
I'm still seeing the young copper with that horrific wound in the side of his head. He never speaks to me, but I feel this pull, so strong it makes my chest ache. Is it Sam, trying to tell me something? Is he trying to communicate from beyond the grave?
Bollocks. You see where my mind goes when I've had an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have been staring at this file [ rustling papers ] for too long, I'm starting to see things there as well.
Murder. Murder. Jim said it happened before. That I was back for a reason. And this file is all I have to go on, sparse as it is. I've requested more information from Manchester, but every time I try to bring it up with him, he shuts down.
I'm afraid we've forgotten how to talk to one another. And I <i>need</i> to talk to him about this. I need to know what happened to Sam.
I wish I could tell him, just <i>tell</i> him -- all of it. Everything. About the ghost. About my parents. About Layton, and Molly, and --
[ long pause ]
It's not helping. This isn't helping. Stay focused, Alex. Work the case. Work the <i>facts</i>. Getting emotional now isn't going to serve the team, and it isn't going to serve your own needs. Think of what you told Shaz.
At the end of the day, we all want the same thing. To see that justice is done. Whether it's for some heart-broken divorcee or for Kevin Hales or for Sam Tyler or or or for little Dorothy Blonde. Or for that copper. So young. So -- <i>lost</i>.
He deserves to see justice done. Him, and Sam, and all of them.
I have to remember that, even when it seems to make no sense at all. Even when I'm seeing faces in the dark. There is a truth to be discovered. And <i>that</i> is what I must focus on.
I can't help but think that whatever it is, it's desperately important. And it has something to do with this file. With Sam Tyler. I can't shake the feeling that whatever happened to him, well -- It's happening to me.
Strange things. This time, the very fabric of this place seems to be wearing thin. Every day seems more solid and more dreamlike, at the same time. I can't explain it. I can only observe, and try to put the pieces together. Perhaps now, after so long, I've learned to set aside my expectations, and in doing so, I've opened myself up to all the secrets of this place. In some ways it's worse than before. As if someone's dropped LSD in my tea. And all I can do is cling to reality the only way I know how -- through logic and reason and careful observation.
[ long pause ]
The stars are the most disconcerting hallucination I've had to date.
No, that's not right. They're more like -- waking dreams than hallucinations. As if I'm walking around in a deep alpha state, and the world doesn't feel obliged to follow any of the laws of physics. One moment, I'm following Shaz down an alley. The next, my foot is hanging in open space. And not like the edge of a cliff. I mean <i>space</i>. The raw firmament of the heavens wheeling all around me, terrifying and beautiful. As if I can touch every corner of the universe at once. And in the next breath? It's gone. As if it had never existed. Literally, in the blink of an eye, I'm standing back on the cobbles, assaulted with the stench of the bins and the River.
I keep imagining shadows, out of the corner of my eye. There's a silhouette of a man, hunched over, carrying an impossible load on his back. But it's not a man, it's the image of a man. Like a weathervane casting its shadow on the ground. And I have the feeling I've seen it somewhere before. I feel like I should know what I'm looking at, but the memory is just out of reach.
It's ludicrous, really. Once you start trying to read the omens, they're everywhere. Is there a message in the way the smoke curls up from the end of Gene's cigarette? Is there a message in the coffee grounds Ray spilt on the canteen counter? Is there something in Chris's god awful patterned shirts, or in the way Shaz arranges the biscuits on a plate? Bloody hell, one of the construction crew in for the renovation carved a date or something on the surface of my desk. Does it mean something? 6-6-20? It seems too specific, too blatant to ignore. Like I should know <i>where</i> I know that number from. It's significant, and -- it's probably nothing. But I can't tell. It's all noise, but I'm looking so hard for a signal, I'm seeing things.
Ghosts. [ sigh ]
I'm still seeing the young copper with that horrific wound in the side of his head. He never speaks to me, but I feel this pull, so strong it makes my chest ache. Is it Sam, trying to tell me something? Is he trying to communicate from beyond the grave?
Bollocks. You see where my mind goes when I've had an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have been staring at this file [ rustling papers ] for too long, I'm starting to see things there as well.
Murder. Murder. Jim said it happened before. That I was back for a reason. And this file is all I have to go on, sparse as it is. I've requested more information from Manchester, but every time I try to bring it up with him, he shuts down.
I'm afraid we've forgotten how to talk to one another. And I <i>need</i> to talk to him about this. I need to know what happened to Sam.
I wish I could tell him, just <i>tell</i> him -- all of it. Everything. About the ghost. About my parents. About Layton, and Molly, and --
[ long pause ]
It's not helping. This isn't helping. Stay focused, Alex. Work the case. Work the <i>facts</i>. Getting emotional now isn't going to serve the team, and it isn't going to serve your own needs. Think of what you told Shaz.
At the end of the day, we all want the same thing. To see that justice is done. Whether it's for some heart-broken divorcee or for Kevin Hales or for Sam Tyler or or or for little Dorothy Blonde. Or for that copper. So young. So -- <i>lost</i>.
He deserves to see justice done. Him, and Sam, and all of them.
I have to remember that, even when it seems to make no sense at all. Even when I'm seeing faces in the dark. There is a truth to be discovered. And <i>that</i> is what I must focus on.