Life on Mars: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos - Tom Graham

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him the same thing: that he had no future, least of all with Annie; that coming back here had been a terrible mistake, far more catastrophic than he could imagine; that what life he had here in 1973 was destined to end in ruin and pain and utter despair.

      ‘Just dreams,’ he told his reflection. ‘Meaningless.’

      But something deep within him seemed to say, Ah, but you know that’s not the case.

      ‘I have a future.’

      You know that’s not true.

      ‘And it’s with Annie. We’ll be together. And we’ll be happy.’

      Sam, Sam, you can’t kid yourself for ever.

      ‘We’ll make it, me and Annie – no one, and nothing, is going to stop us.’

       Bash! Bash! Bash!

      A fist pounded massively at the door like gunfire.

      ‘Who the hell is it?’ Sam shouted.

      An all-too-familiar voice bellowed through the keyhole back at him. ‘Sorry to interrupt any intimate encounters you might be enjoying with Madam Palm and her five daughters, Sammy, but I just thought you might find the time to nick a few villains.’

      Sam sighed, padded over to the front door and opened it. Filling the doorway loomed a barrel-chested grizzly bear dressed in a camelhair coat and off-white tasselled loafers. The reek of stale Woodbines and Blue Stratos shimmered about him like a heat haze. His black, string-backed driving gloves creaked as his implacable hands flexed and clenched. Peering down at Sam as if unsure whether to ignore him completely or batter him into the ground like a tent peg, this rock-solid, monstrous, nylon-clad Viking narrowed his cold eyes and jutted out his unbreakable chin.

      This was him. This was the man. This was the guv. This was DCI Gene Hunt. Up close to him like this, eclipsed by his massive shadow, Sam felt vulnerable and absurd dressed in nothing but a T-shirt and shorts.

      ‘Fetchin’ little outfit, Sambo,’ Hunt intoned. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’

      ‘Actually, Guv, I was contemplating a metaphysical dilemma.’

      ‘I hope you flushed afterwards.’ He swept past Sam and planted himself in the middle of the flat. The room seemed too small to contain him. He glared around him, his brooding glance seeming almost powerful enough to shatter windows. He rolled his shoulders, stuck out his chest and tilted his head, making the vertebrae of his neck give off an audible crack. ‘Excuse the early-morning house call, Tyler, but duty is calling. We got a shout. A to-do. A right bleedin’ incident.’

      ‘What sort of incident?’ asked Sam, hopping into his trousers.

      ‘Terrorists.’

      ‘IRA?’

      ‘No – disgruntled Avon ladies. Of course it’s the bloody IRA, Sam. Now zip your knickers up and get yourself decent.’

      ‘Any chance of you giving me a few details about what’s happening, Guv?’ asked Sam, shrugging on his black leather jacket. ‘Or have we got another couple of hours of sarcasm to get through first?’

      ‘Don’t get shirty, Mildred,’ said Gene, turning on his heel and leading the way out through the door. ‘I’ll fill you in on the way. It’ll take your mind off my driving.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      A MESSAGE IN RED

      Tyres screamed. Grey, urban streets flashed past. Gene floored the gas as Sam floored an imaginary brake pedal.

      ‘Right, pay attention,’ Gene ordered, flinging the wheel recklessly back and forth as he weaved through the traffic. ‘We got a warning phoned through a little under an hour ago saying there was a pack of high explosives rigged up and ready to go pop in the local council records office.’

      ‘Was an IRA codeword given?’ asked Sam.

      ‘No, but we’re not taking any chances,’ said Gene. ‘There’s been a lot of angry Paddies on the move recently. We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, so we’re assuming it’s the real thing.’

      ‘That makes sense,’ said Sam. ‘But what about Bomb Disposal?’

      Gene shrugged.

      ‘And what does that shrug mean, Guv? We need Bomb Disposal down here. They should be dealing with this.’

      ‘We’re still waiting for them bone-idle bastards to get ’emselves out of bed,’ growled Gene, flagrantly roaring through a red light.

      ‘So what are we going to do?’

      ‘Well, until they deign to show up and start snipping wires, this is our shout.’

      ‘Guv, we’re not qualified to start messing about with explosives.’

      ‘And neither are they. You ever met any of them Bomb Disposal ’erberts? Half of ’em can’t even read.’

      ‘We need to cordon off the records office and keep the area secure until Bomb Disposal and Special Branch show up,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a terrorist incident. That’s their jurisdiction.’

      ‘Their “jurisdiction”? Nicking villains, Sammy-boy, that’s my jurisdiction, no matter what shape, size, colour or flavour they come in. Bombs and bastards and big blokes with shooters, it’s all the same to me. And I don’t plan sitting around on my pert and perfectly formed arse waiting for Special Branch to saunter over, not when things are kicking off right under my nose. So if you don’t mind, Tyler’ – the Cortina tilted noisily onto two wheels as Gene belted round a tight corner and Sam gripped the dashboard – ‘just remember which one of us two is the boss. You diddlin’?’

      ‘Guv, you can’t muck about, not where Special Branch are concer—’

      Gene threw the Cortina ferociously around another tight bend, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question, Tyler. I said are you diddlin’?’

      Sam backed down. ‘I’m diddlin’, Guv.’

      ‘Lovely lad.’

      The Cortina howled on, bouncing and veering at breakneck pace, until the drab, grey shape of the council records office appeared up ahead, standing out against the hard Manchester sky. Police cars were skewed across the road. Uniformed coppers were busy stringing up blue police cordons and trying to shepherd the already growing crowd of curious gawpers.

      Gene gunned the engine, powering forward recklessly and sending people scattering out of the way like frightened rabbits. When he hit the brakes and brought the car to a lurching stop, Sam found that he had been holding his breath.

      Gene shot him a glance. ‘Woken up now, have we?’

      ‘It still feels like a nightmare to me,’ said Sam, as he clambered out of the car.

      Striding with Gene through the uniformed officers and rubbernecking sightseers, Sam spotted DS Ray Carling and DC Chris Skelton. Ray had wrenched his tie loose and flung open the top two buttons of his blue, wing-collared shirt to reveal a masculine flash of blond chest hair. He was in his element, barking orders at the uniformed coppers and snapping at the public to get their ruddy arses back, back, back! Beside him was the youthful Chris, his dark hair flopping anxiously across his left eye, his knitted tank-top already darkening with sweat as he rushed about assisting Ray. He looked overwhelmed and fretful, as if he was expecting the crowd to suddenly rise up and lynch him at any moment, or for the council offices to suddenly go nuclear and blow them all to kingdom come.

      For a moment, Sam recalled how Chris and Ray had appeared to him in his nightmare. Their taunts echoed momentarily through his mind:

      You’re not in 1973. You’re in hell.

      And

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