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[oom] 1x02 The Happy Day
July 28, 1981.
Another long damned day in the depths of her clearly disturbed psyche. The day before Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles were to be wed.
She'd been up early, clicking through the television channels, hoping for a message from 2008. Instead, she'd been greeted with the image of her mother addressing the cameras at a press conference. And though she'd resolved that it was only a memory, it wasn't real and therefore, she would not get upset, she knew in the pit of her stomach what it really meant.
She knew then why she was really here.
It wasn't real. She had to keep telling herself, this was all a puzzle her mind had constructed as a means to an end. She couldn't take it as anything more than that. She wasn't staying. It wasn't real. That's why she found it impossible to take this world at all seriously today. She hadn't even bothered to try. She addressed the squad room with a cheery, "Good morning, imaginary constructs!"
The Guv was all in a tizzy, something about keeping his "Patch" free of any trouble until the Royal Wedding was, ahem, consummated. But of course, Fenchurch was never completely trouble free. There were protests planned against the Docklands development. This couldn't stand! So she'd set off with him in the Quattro, for once content just to relax and enjoy his madcap driving. (Honestly, trying to put a seatbelt on was force of habit, not any real concern for her safety.)
The Bonds family had ensconced themselves in the flat above their pub, refusing to moved. But she was convinced that psychology would be what saved the day. (It wasn't real.) Sure, she'd managed to spare the Guv having to break down another door, but somehow that didn't earn her the points she thought it might. Every time she breathed today, he seemed to have his typical angry, utterly inappropriate response. She'd snapped finally, unable to keep from expounding her own albeit reductionist take of the downfall of the working class in Britain, telling them it was useless to fight the advance of progress, that in ten years time, the only thing that would remain of this street would be its name. The rest would all be covered in glass and steel. It was her fantasy and she was bloody well going to be listened to.
Of course, it got them kicked out, unceremoniously.
And then Gene had started banging on about her 'proper welcome to the Met'. He actually wanted to bend her over, hike up her skirt and stamp PROPERTY OF THE LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE, 29/7/1981. In front of the whole team. She had no idea where that little bit of prurient nonsense had come from, and honestly, she didn't want to examine it to closely. (He wasn't real.)
After that, it wasn't much of a surprise that her mind had dredged up that curious urban legend of a dog fetching a stick of dynamite. It wasn't funny, really, it was tragic, but for some reason she couldn't stop laughing. It only got worse from there. Gene's manner of extracting information from the locals was -- creative, to say the least. She'd never look at a snooker table the same way ever again, that was for certain.
And then, there was the note. The ridiculously trite bomb threat from the London Liberation Front, made up of letters cut out of papers and magazines. They all huddled round, speculating wildly. She analysed the note. Tried to build a profile. It didn't help. Her brilliant psyche in the form of WPC "Shaz" Granger supplied a key piece of information. And so they trotted off to investigate one Thatcherite business man, Danny Moore.
Gene did not approve, that much was apparent. For some reason, that made her all the more determined to not play along with his game. None of this was real. Why not have a little fun? Especially when Mr. Moore turned out to be a bit of a flirt. Gene tried to apologize for her. And then, when she tried to say she wasn't going to be around very long, he continued to assert that whether or not she went home was entirely up to him.
He followed it up by again asserting that he was going to stamp her arse. "In your dreams," she told him. The irony of the statement didn't escape her.
Thank heavens Danny showed up to take her for a bit of a drive in his Delorean. "Thank you, frontal cortex." He asked her about the men in her life, and the subject of Molly came up. It was a touch sobering to be reminded that she was on her way to her birthday party. But her shift in mood didn't seem to bother her imaginary Thatcherite. He invited her out to dinner.
And then the ticking sound under the driver's seat reached her ears. The alarm went off and all she could see was that fireball engulfing her parents car over and over again. She rather lost it then. Danny tried to comfort her, but his laughing it off really didn't help the matter.
She was understandably shaken, but the Guv didn't even seem to care. The fake bomb and the note with it had turned the fire up another notch. He angrily dismissed her, sending her along to be Danny Moore's protection detail.
She had to keep reminding herself, none of this was real. It was nothing but a fantasy. Her fantasy. She wanted something different. And surely enough, Danny Moore took her dancing at Blitz, one of the finest Mod dance clubs in all of London. Boy George was working the coat room, and Visage was headlining on the main stage. And she was having fun until that damned white clown reappeared, telling her to hurry up. She found herself chasing him through the club, and accosting some poor girl in an Italian clown costume.
She felt like she was losing it. She went back to Danny, and he was cute and funny and (not Gene) tried to keep her spirits up. He was a decent kisser, too, and for a moment there, she thought she could forget about her problems. Just for a moment.
No, she'd gotten too far off the path. The poster on the wall of the club caught her eye and she found herself lurching as the ground itself shifted beneath her feet. (She may have had a bit to drink, somewhere in there.) But it didn't matter. She'd been distracted and now she was back on her game. The boy had been wearing a shirt with the band's logo, and the flyers held that strange looking 'O' they'd seen in the note. He fit the profile.
She went back to CID and found Gene still working. She plead her case, and he was adamant that she was wrong. And also, he seemed to still be harbouring some resentment that she'd gone off with Moore in the first place.
Interesting.
She asked again that the Bonds boy be brought in for questioning, and he refused, sitting in his chair like a petulant child refusing to share his toys. So she pouted a little, not proud of it, but it worked. Oh, and she agreed to let him stamp her bum. (Not real.)
He came round so fast her head spun.
Even more interesting.
They picked up the Bonds boy, and confronted him with the evidence. She worked the profile, tried to explain to the Guv about 'passion' and 'belief in cause'. He didn't seem to understand that a slap to the head was not all it would take to crack this case, but for once it seemed like he was willing to listen.
Well, so long as she agreed to have her arse stamped again. The whole team was waiting. She'd agreed, it was only fair, and again, it wasn't real! No one but her and her therapist would know. So she bent over a desk, and hiked up her skirt while the Guv went on about welcoming her to the force. He was taking far too long, enjoying the view a little more than she thought really necessary. So, of course, the moment she shouted, "Would you please? Just stamp my arse!" her mother walked in.
Yes. Caroline Price, the solicitor who made the police administration jump through hoops had walked in on her initiation.
She'd never felt more humiliated in her life. She was representing George Bonds. And all Alex could do was fawn and she shut Alex down hard. She did it again in the interview room, accusing them of falsifying evidence and persecuting an innocent man. It was ridiculous. She felt like she was twelve years old again, justifying her entire existence to this woman.
And still, it didn't stop Alex from desperately wanting her approval. So when Caroline showed up outside CID and wanted to go for a drink, Alex was thrilled. She never saw the feint for what it was, an attempt to forge a friendship inside the department for the purposes of exposing corruption. Caroline played her like a fiddle, and left her stunned and emotionally spent afterwards.
Alex did the same thing she did when she was younger and her mother made her feel that way. She rebelled. She got all dolled up, drank half a bottle of wine in ten minutes, and went right back to Danny Moore's place. Where of course, the penthouse elevator doors opened on him and some bird in flagrante delicto. No it seemed her psyche was bent on humiliating her again and again.
So she went back to Luigi's. Stumbling drunk. And of course, Gene was waiting for her.
"DI Bolly Knickers. You seem to be drunk in control of a hand bag, and dressed like a tart again."
"Oh piss off, you lardy fascist!"
"We'll make a copper of you yet."
And she was happy to see him. Relieved. Gene, who never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Gene, who respected her, begrudgingly sometimes, but he did respect her. Gene, who seemed to understand her better than any of them, even though he didn't really know it himself. Gene, who kept her focused, kept her from getting distracted. Work the case. Solve the crime. Get back to Molly.
She questioned the Bonds boy again, telling him she had been wrong the first time they spoke. That fighting was never futile, so long as he didn't do it out of hate, but out of love. He fit the profile. A loner, angry, bitter about his father's fate. And when Gene brought his father in, the boy absolutely broke down. Confessed to it all. Case closed, right?
Not at all right. It was Gene that cracked it, from an offhand comment that Luigi had said. For all there were days when he felt more comfortable shouting and using his fist, he could be a brilliant copper when he put his mind to it. It wasn't the boy. It was his father. He'd served in the military in North Africa, and was an explosives expert. It explained the vintage dynamite.
Gene surprisingly didn't gloat. She was stunned. And when he suggested they take up Danny Moore's invitation to a bit of a do, she accepted. It was a lovely little street party celebrating the Royal Wedding, with music and food and the works. It was a delightful, wholesome little diversion. Gene did note that she'd already been replaced by the blonde, but again, that didn't matter. He seemed content.
The Bond boy and his mother made an appearance. George told her he thought she was right, that everyone could fight.
The comment didn't sit right with her, but she couldn't quite place why. So she hung back while the rest of the team fell in with the conga line. She watched and waited, until that cold feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't let her keep quiet another moment.
"Guv, there's a bomb here."
He only asked her if she was sure once. And then he went into action. It was a damned good thing. They'd only just got the crowd out of the way when the Bonds boy called out his slogan and detonated the bomb. She felt the wave knock her off her feet without hearing a thing. Glass and brick rained down around them, and Gene was pulling her to her feet asking if she was all right. She watched as the smoke cleared and the white clown made his final appearance of the day.
When she went back to her flat, she knew it was time to get serious. She put up a calendar with the months until October. She marked the day of her parent's death in red ink.
Maybe she could save them. Maybe that's what she was here for. Maybe that was her release. Maybe if she could do that, she could get home.
Caroline Price stopped by to check on her, just for a moment, and to apologise. And that was some small victory.
After she left, she heard the honking of a car horn and the Guv's voice calling her from the street. She pulled up the blinds and opened the window, and was graced with the sight of the whole squad, even Shaz, mooning her.
Simply brilliant.
[ Gene's take ]
*All dialogue taken from 2x02 of Ashes to Ashes.
Another long damned day in the depths of her clearly disturbed psyche. The day before Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles were to be wed.
She'd been up early, clicking through the television channels, hoping for a message from 2008. Instead, she'd been greeted with the image of her mother addressing the cameras at a press conference. And though she'd resolved that it was only a memory, it wasn't real and therefore, she would not get upset, she knew in the pit of her stomach what it really meant.
She knew then why she was really here.
It wasn't real. She had to keep telling herself, this was all a puzzle her mind had constructed as a means to an end. She couldn't take it as anything more than that. She wasn't staying. It wasn't real. That's why she found it impossible to take this world at all seriously today. She hadn't even bothered to try. She addressed the squad room with a cheery, "Good morning, imaginary constructs!"
The Guv was all in a tizzy, something about keeping his "Patch" free of any trouble until the Royal Wedding was, ahem, consummated. But of course, Fenchurch was never completely trouble free. There were protests planned against the Docklands development. This couldn't stand! So she'd set off with him in the Quattro, for once content just to relax and enjoy his madcap driving. (Honestly, trying to put a seatbelt on was force of habit, not any real concern for her safety.)
The Bonds family had ensconced themselves in the flat above their pub, refusing to moved. But she was convinced that psychology would be what saved the day. (It wasn't real.) Sure, she'd managed to spare the Guv having to break down another door, but somehow that didn't earn her the points she thought it might. Every time she breathed today, he seemed to have his typical angry, utterly inappropriate response. She'd snapped finally, unable to keep from expounding her own albeit reductionist take of the downfall of the working class in Britain, telling them it was useless to fight the advance of progress, that in ten years time, the only thing that would remain of this street would be its name. The rest would all be covered in glass and steel. It was her fantasy and she was bloody well going to be listened to.
Of course, it got them kicked out, unceremoniously.
And then Gene had started banging on about her 'proper welcome to the Met'. He actually wanted to bend her over, hike up her skirt and stamp PROPERTY OF THE LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE, 29/7/1981. In front of the whole team. She had no idea where that little bit of prurient nonsense had come from, and honestly, she didn't want to examine it to closely. (He wasn't real.)
After that, it wasn't much of a surprise that her mind had dredged up that curious urban legend of a dog fetching a stick of dynamite. It wasn't funny, really, it was tragic, but for some reason she couldn't stop laughing. It only got worse from there. Gene's manner of extracting information from the locals was -- creative, to say the least. She'd never look at a snooker table the same way ever again, that was for certain.
And then, there was the note. The ridiculously trite bomb threat from the London Liberation Front, made up of letters cut out of papers and magazines. They all huddled round, speculating wildly. She analysed the note. Tried to build a profile. It didn't help. Her brilliant psyche in the form of WPC "Shaz" Granger supplied a key piece of information. And so they trotted off to investigate one Thatcherite business man, Danny Moore.
Gene did not approve, that much was apparent. For some reason, that made her all the more determined to not play along with his game. None of this was real. Why not have a little fun? Especially when Mr. Moore turned out to be a bit of a flirt. Gene tried to apologize for her. And then, when she tried to say she wasn't going to be around very long, he continued to assert that whether or not she went home was entirely up to him.
He followed it up by again asserting that he was going to stamp her arse. "In your dreams," she told him. The irony of the statement didn't escape her.
Thank heavens Danny showed up to take her for a bit of a drive in his Delorean. "Thank you, frontal cortex." He asked her about the men in her life, and the subject of Molly came up. It was a touch sobering to be reminded that she was on her way to her birthday party. But her shift in mood didn't seem to bother her imaginary Thatcherite. He invited her out to dinner.
And then the ticking sound under the driver's seat reached her ears. The alarm went off and all she could see was that fireball engulfing her parents car over and over again. She rather lost it then. Danny tried to comfort her, but his laughing it off really didn't help the matter.
She was understandably shaken, but the Guv didn't even seem to care. The fake bomb and the note with it had turned the fire up another notch. He angrily dismissed her, sending her along to be Danny Moore's protection detail.
She had to keep reminding herself, none of this was real. It was nothing but a fantasy. Her fantasy. She wanted something different. And surely enough, Danny Moore took her dancing at Blitz, one of the finest Mod dance clubs in all of London. Boy George was working the coat room, and Visage was headlining on the main stage. And she was having fun until that damned white clown reappeared, telling her to hurry up. She found herself chasing him through the club, and accosting some poor girl in an Italian clown costume.
She felt like she was losing it. She went back to Danny, and he was cute and funny and (not Gene) tried to keep her spirits up. He was a decent kisser, too, and for a moment there, she thought she could forget about her problems. Just for a moment.
No, she'd gotten too far off the path. The poster on the wall of the club caught her eye and she found herself lurching as the ground itself shifted beneath her feet. (She may have had a bit to drink, somewhere in there.) But it didn't matter. She'd been distracted and now she was back on her game. The boy had been wearing a shirt with the band's logo, and the flyers held that strange looking 'O' they'd seen in the note. He fit the profile.
She went back to CID and found Gene still working. She plead her case, and he was adamant that she was wrong. And also, he seemed to still be harbouring some resentment that she'd gone off with Moore in the first place.
Interesting.
She asked again that the Bonds boy be brought in for questioning, and he refused, sitting in his chair like a petulant child refusing to share his toys. So she pouted a little, not proud of it, but it worked. Oh, and she agreed to let him stamp her bum. (Not real.)
He came round so fast her head spun.
Even more interesting.
They picked up the Bonds boy, and confronted him with the evidence. She worked the profile, tried to explain to the Guv about 'passion' and 'belief in cause'. He didn't seem to understand that a slap to the head was not all it would take to crack this case, but for once it seemed like he was willing to listen.
Well, so long as she agreed to have her arse stamped again. The whole team was waiting. She'd agreed, it was only fair, and again, it wasn't real! No one but her and her therapist would know. So she bent over a desk, and hiked up her skirt while the Guv went on about welcoming her to the force. He was taking far too long, enjoying the view a little more than she thought really necessary. So, of course, the moment she shouted, "Would you please? Just stamp my arse!" her mother walked in.
Yes. Caroline Price, the solicitor who made the police administration jump through hoops had walked in on her initiation.
She'd never felt more humiliated in her life. She was representing George Bonds. And all Alex could do was fawn and she shut Alex down hard. She did it again in the interview room, accusing them of falsifying evidence and persecuting an innocent man. It was ridiculous. She felt like she was twelve years old again, justifying her entire existence to this woman.
And still, it didn't stop Alex from desperately wanting her approval. So when Caroline showed up outside CID and wanted to go for a drink, Alex was thrilled. She never saw the feint for what it was, an attempt to forge a friendship inside the department for the purposes of exposing corruption. Caroline played her like a fiddle, and left her stunned and emotionally spent afterwards.
Alex did the same thing she did when she was younger and her mother made her feel that way. She rebelled. She got all dolled up, drank half a bottle of wine in ten minutes, and went right back to Danny Moore's place. Where of course, the penthouse elevator doors opened on him and some bird in flagrante delicto. No it seemed her psyche was bent on humiliating her again and again.
So she went back to Luigi's. Stumbling drunk. And of course, Gene was waiting for her.
"DI Bolly Knickers. You seem to be drunk in control of a hand bag, and dressed like a tart again."
"Oh piss off, you lardy fascist!"
"We'll make a copper of you yet."
And she was happy to see him. Relieved. Gene, who never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Gene, who respected her, begrudgingly sometimes, but he did respect her. Gene, who seemed to understand her better than any of them, even though he didn't really know it himself. Gene, who kept her focused, kept her from getting distracted. Work the case. Solve the crime. Get back to Molly.
She questioned the Bonds boy again, telling him she had been wrong the first time they spoke. That fighting was never futile, so long as he didn't do it out of hate, but out of love. He fit the profile. A loner, angry, bitter about his father's fate. And when Gene brought his father in, the boy absolutely broke down. Confessed to it all. Case closed, right?
Not at all right. It was Gene that cracked it, from an offhand comment that Luigi had said. For all there were days when he felt more comfortable shouting and using his fist, he could be a brilliant copper when he put his mind to it. It wasn't the boy. It was his father. He'd served in the military in North Africa, and was an explosives expert. It explained the vintage dynamite.
Gene surprisingly didn't gloat. She was stunned. And when he suggested they take up Danny Moore's invitation to a bit of a do, she accepted. It was a lovely little street party celebrating the Royal Wedding, with music and food and the works. It was a delightful, wholesome little diversion. Gene did note that she'd already been replaced by the blonde, but again, that didn't matter. He seemed content.
The Bond boy and his mother made an appearance. George told her he thought she was right, that everyone could fight.
The comment didn't sit right with her, but she couldn't quite place why. So she hung back while the rest of the team fell in with the conga line. She watched and waited, until that cold feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't let her keep quiet another moment.
"Guv, there's a bomb here."
He only asked her if she was sure once. And then he went into action. It was a damned good thing. They'd only just got the crowd out of the way when the Bonds boy called out his slogan and detonated the bomb. She felt the wave knock her off her feet without hearing a thing. Glass and brick rained down around them, and Gene was pulling her to her feet asking if she was all right. She watched as the smoke cleared and the white clown made his final appearance of the day.
When she went back to her flat, she knew it was time to get serious. She put up a calendar with the months until October. She marked the day of her parent's death in red ink.
Maybe she could save them. Maybe that's what she was here for. Maybe that was her release. Maybe if she could do that, she could get home.
Caroline Price stopped by to check on her, just for a moment, and to apologise. And that was some small victory.
After she left, she heard the honking of a car horn and the Guv's voice calling her from the street. She pulled up the blinds and opened the window, and was graced with the sight of the whole squad, even Shaz, mooning her.
Simply brilliant.
[ Gene's take ]
*All dialogue taken from 2x02 of Ashes to Ashes.