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[oom] 1x01b No More Heroes Anymore
It amazed her how easy it was to slip into this world. Sam's world, updated to 1981. It was so real. He was so real. They all were. Just like she'd read in DCI Tyler's reports.
Which gave her an advantage, didn't it? She knew what was going on. And regardless of that bloody white clown or the sickening lurches she felt as her real body dealt with the physical trauma of the head wound, she wasn't going to slip into madness. No. She knew what she had to do. Work the case, find the connection, find her way home again. Back to Molly and the world of the living.
Layton was behind it all, of course. If only DCI Hunt had listened to her the first time. If only he'd listened to her at all, instead of making sexually suggestive remarks and belittling her skills as a profiler. He was lucky she hadn't hauled off and clocked him one already.
Layton had taken WPC Granger hostage, just like that busker on the waterfront. This was her moment. She was supposed to confront Layton. She was supposed to put her fear to rest and she would wake up, right? That's how it was supposed to work? Not with the "A-Team" driving a speedboat up the canal and blasting away with machine gun fire. He'd ruined everything.
She didn't even try to keep the razor sharp disdain from her voice. "What was that? Back there in the speedboat. With the machine gun. Was that you being cool?
He pulled up short, turning to face her, all righteous indignation and testosterone poisoning. "Pardonez bloody moi, but I just saved your life!"
"You may have stopped me getting back! I was supposed to face this alone." She wasn't about to back down from this fight, not even for a moment. And of course, neither was he.
"Listen, Bolly Knickers. You were seconds away from death just now. It's a nasty, vicious messed up world out there, lady, but if you listen to me, you just might get through it." Or was she wrong? Did he actually have it in him to be the bigger man? "Right, 'ere goes. You were right, okay. About Layton. You have a knack of knowing how folk tick. Psychiatry."
"It's psychology!"
"Same thing!" His shout was like a punch to the face.
God, she was so angry she couldn't think straight, and here she was trying to reason with a figment of her own imagination. "I had a plan. I wanted to go home."
She wasn't prepared for how quickly his expression turned dark. "Well your presence is required here just a little bit longer 'round 'ere. By me!" He actually poked her in the shoulder like a school yard bully to emphasize his point.
She could only gape in astonishment as he turned and walked away from her.
~~~
Later, she'd returned to the flat over Luigi's, exhausted, mentally and physically. She'd sat at the table, methodically testing the frequencies on her police radio, checking each one for some sign of the real world. Something. Anything. The telly was on in the background. BBC One was signing off for the day, playing God Save The Queen and she knew she should just give in and go to bed, but she couldn't let it go.
She muttered to herself, turning the radio over and over in her hands. "It worked for him. Why won't it work for me?"
A buzz of static and Molly's voice said sternly, "Go to sleep," shocked her so badly, she dropped the radio, staring at it.
"Molly?"
The blue screen of the BBC logo glitched, like someone changing the channel. The white clown appeared, speaking with Molly's voice.
"You've just been shot. A second ago."
Alex stared in utter dismay. The camera pulled in for a tight close up of the clown's face. Molly's voice continued, and Alex felt herself slip to the floor, crawling towards the television on her hands and knees.
"You're lying on the wet ground. Don't fight to wake up. It'll hurt too much.
"Molly." She could hear the water dripping, could hear each drop echo against the hull of the boat. Her limbs felt numb, filled with icy lead.
"You'll never make it to her party."
The blue logo returned, and Alex's heart clenched in her chest. Tears made her voice crack. "Please. I'm so sorry."
The clown returned. "All those memories."
A film cut in. A huge fireball of an explosion, seen from the rolling green lawn, the country manor in the background. Her own nightmare replaying on the screen in front of her eyes. She imagined she could feel the wash of heat on her cheeks. "Mummy... Dad." Her whole body felt water logged. She reached up a dripping wet hand to touch the cold glass of the television.
The clown continued to speak, Molly explaining in soft, matter of fact tones. "But it doesn't have to hurt." The visage receded into blackness and she flipped through the channels until the television went completely dark. Alex fought back tears, reaching for the radio. It was dead as well.
So close.
No. She would not get emotional. She could figure this out. She could do this. She picked herself up off the floor and went for her notes. Her hands were shaking too bad. She fumbled for her notes recorder. Damn it, this took tapes like everything else in this backwater decade. Didn't matter. She fumbled for a new mini-cassette, labelled it with the date and pressed it into the machine.
She stared at her image in the mirror as she spoke.
"My name is Alex Drake. I've just been shot and that bullet has sent me back to 1981. I may be one second away from life or one second away from death." She could see Molly's face across the flickering birthday candles and she struggled to maintain her composure. "They say that as you die, your life flashes before you. All those -- memories and mistakes that form us. Well bring it on. My life can flash away as much as it likes, because I am not going to die."
She clicked the tape off, still speaking softly.
"I'm coming back to you, Molly." Tears threatened as she blew a kiss to the mirror, seeing her vibrant daughter's face as she leapt up to catch that kiss.
~~~
She put the tape and her notes in the drawer, and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away the running mascara. She could hear the music and laughter coming up from the restaurant below. She had to be among the living now, even if they were her own constructs. She touched up her makeup, but didn't bother putting on a coat. She made her way down the stairs, seeing Chris and Shaz holed up together in a booth, and Ray with some bird she didn't recognise.
"Buona sera," Luigi greeted her, setting down a freshly polished wine glass on the bar in front of her.
Before she was even settled on her barstool, she felt Gene's weight at her shoulder. She didn't look up, didn't want him to see the redness around her eyes. He didn't speak, simply poured her a glass of red wine, filling it right to the brim and turning away, stalking back to his usual place in the corner. She turned to look at him, after a moment, but his gaze was focused on lighting the fag between his fingers.
She turned back to her wine glass, bending to take a long sip without even lifting the glass
He wasn't going anywhere. And neither, it appeared, was she.*
(*All dialogue and scenic descriptions are directly from S1E1 of Ashes To Ashes.)
Which gave her an advantage, didn't it? She knew what was going on. And regardless of that bloody white clown or the sickening lurches she felt as her real body dealt with the physical trauma of the head wound, she wasn't going to slip into madness. No. She knew what she had to do. Work the case, find the connection, find her way home again. Back to Molly and the world of the living.
Layton was behind it all, of course. If only DCI Hunt had listened to her the first time. If only he'd listened to her at all, instead of making sexually suggestive remarks and belittling her skills as a profiler. He was lucky she hadn't hauled off and clocked him one already.
Layton had taken WPC Granger hostage, just like that busker on the waterfront. This was her moment. She was supposed to confront Layton. She was supposed to put her fear to rest and she would wake up, right? That's how it was supposed to work? Not with the "A-Team" driving a speedboat up the canal and blasting away with machine gun fire. He'd ruined everything.
She didn't even try to keep the razor sharp disdain from her voice. "What was that? Back there in the speedboat. With the machine gun. Was that you being cool?
He pulled up short, turning to face her, all righteous indignation and testosterone poisoning. "Pardonez bloody moi, but I just saved your life!"
"You may have stopped me getting back! I was supposed to face this alone." She wasn't about to back down from this fight, not even for a moment. And of course, neither was he.
"Listen, Bolly Knickers. You were seconds away from death just now. It's a nasty, vicious messed up world out there, lady, but if you listen to me, you just might get through it." Or was she wrong? Did he actually have it in him to be the bigger man? "Right, 'ere goes. You were right, okay. About Layton. You have a knack of knowing how folk tick. Psychiatry."
"It's psychology!"
"Same thing!" His shout was like a punch to the face.
God, she was so angry she couldn't think straight, and here she was trying to reason with a figment of her own imagination. "I had a plan. I wanted to go home."
She wasn't prepared for how quickly his expression turned dark. "Well your presence is required here just a little bit longer 'round 'ere. By me!" He actually poked her in the shoulder like a school yard bully to emphasize his point.
She could only gape in astonishment as he turned and walked away from her.
~~~
Later, she'd returned to the flat over Luigi's, exhausted, mentally and physically. She'd sat at the table, methodically testing the frequencies on her police radio, checking each one for some sign of the real world. Something. Anything. The telly was on in the background. BBC One was signing off for the day, playing God Save The Queen and she knew she should just give in and go to bed, but she couldn't let it go.
She muttered to herself, turning the radio over and over in her hands. "It worked for him. Why won't it work for me?"
A buzz of static and Molly's voice said sternly, "Go to sleep," shocked her so badly, she dropped the radio, staring at it.
"Molly?"
The blue screen of the BBC logo glitched, like someone changing the channel. The white clown appeared, speaking with Molly's voice.
"You've just been shot. A second ago."
Alex stared in utter dismay. The camera pulled in for a tight close up of the clown's face. Molly's voice continued, and Alex felt herself slip to the floor, crawling towards the television on her hands and knees.
"You're lying on the wet ground. Don't fight to wake up. It'll hurt too much.
"Molly." She could hear the water dripping, could hear each drop echo against the hull of the boat. Her limbs felt numb, filled with icy lead.
"You'll never make it to her party."
The blue logo returned, and Alex's heart clenched in her chest. Tears made her voice crack. "Please. I'm so sorry."
The clown returned. "All those memories."
A film cut in. A huge fireball of an explosion, seen from the rolling green lawn, the country manor in the background. Her own nightmare replaying on the screen in front of her eyes. She imagined she could feel the wash of heat on her cheeks. "Mummy... Dad." Her whole body felt water logged. She reached up a dripping wet hand to touch the cold glass of the television.
The clown continued to speak, Molly explaining in soft, matter of fact tones. "But it doesn't have to hurt." The visage receded into blackness and she flipped through the channels until the television went completely dark. Alex fought back tears, reaching for the radio. It was dead as well.
So close.
No. She would not get emotional. She could figure this out. She could do this. She picked herself up off the floor and went for her notes. Her hands were shaking too bad. She fumbled for her notes recorder. Damn it, this took tapes like everything else in this backwater decade. Didn't matter. She fumbled for a new mini-cassette, labelled it with the date and pressed it into the machine.
She stared at her image in the mirror as she spoke.
"My name is Alex Drake. I've just been shot and that bullet has sent me back to 1981. I may be one second away from life or one second away from death." She could see Molly's face across the flickering birthday candles and she struggled to maintain her composure. "They say that as you die, your life flashes before you. All those -- memories and mistakes that form us. Well bring it on. My life can flash away as much as it likes, because I am not going to die."
She clicked the tape off, still speaking softly.
"I'm coming back to you, Molly." Tears threatened as she blew a kiss to the mirror, seeing her vibrant daughter's face as she leapt up to catch that kiss.
~~~
She put the tape and her notes in the drawer, and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away the running mascara. She could hear the music and laughter coming up from the restaurant below. She had to be among the living now, even if they were her own constructs. She touched up her makeup, but didn't bother putting on a coat. She made her way down the stairs, seeing Chris and Shaz holed up together in a booth, and Ray with some bird she didn't recognise.
"Buona sera," Luigi greeted her, setting down a freshly polished wine glass on the bar in front of her.
Before she was even settled on her barstool, she felt Gene's weight at her shoulder. She didn't look up, didn't want him to see the redness around her eyes. He didn't speak, simply poured her a glass of red wine, filling it right to the brim and turning away, stalking back to his usual place in the corner. She turned to look at him, after a moment, but his gaze was focused on lighting the fag between his fingers.
She turned back to her wine glass, bending to take a long sip without even lifting the glass
He wasn't going anywhere. And neither, it appeared, was she.*
(*All dialogue and scenic descriptions are directly from S1E1 of Ashes To Ashes.)