Giles Pt. 01: Down Among the Dead Men

She had to admit, the offer wasn't given solely for professional purposes.

Out of the police station, Giles fell into the first pub he could find. Maybe strong drink would do for the wreckage inside his head. It being midweek there were few patrons at this time of day and he was able to claim a corner for himself. The fitful late afternoon sun slanted in through the big glass windows making rays in the drifting cigarette smoke. The main doors were open but there was no breeze to move things along.

He drank with single minded determination, trying to drive recent events and his predicament from his thoughts. This being London, no one tried to strike up a conversation.

Sometime later, he looked up from his glass to discover that the light had gone from outside the windows and the pub was filling up to the point where people were starting to eye the vacant seats at his table. Deciding he needed a change of scene he stood and had to grab the back of the seat to steady himself. Filled with the surly resolve that alcohol imparts, he shouldered his way to the gents to relieve his bladder. Someone at the adjacent urinal mentioned Ronnie Scott's, and Giles seized on the notion: somewhere to drink and be entertained by some well played jazz.

Not quite reeling from the pub, he hailed a cab and flopped into the back seat to stare unseeingly at the Cromwell Road as they trundled towards Soho.

Unfortunately the doorman at Ronnie Scott's seemed unimpressed by his general demeanour. He gave him the side-eye from somewhere comfortably north of 6' and fractionally shook his head.

Giles was nonplussed and walked away into the jungle of bars and eateries that spilled on to the pavement in the cool evening air. People stood chatting and drinking on the road, and he weaved a little unsteadily between them. Now what?

More booze.

Not far away, there were vacant tables outside a corner establishment and Giles settled himself carefully on a wooden chair that had seen better days. A waitress appeared and he ordered a bottle of wine. Gloomily surveying the local punters over the rim of his glass, their good mood only served to make him still more sour. A light rain started to fall, and Giles felt it like a shroud.

After the wine was gone, he struggled to stand upright and set off into the night, becoming intimately acquainted with lampposts from time to time. Somehow, he found himself in Piccadilly Circus where the blaring lights and noise of the traffic made him profoundly disoriented. More by luck than anything else he skidded down the stairs into the Tube station and landed in a heap at the bottom. Passers-by avoided looking at him as they stepped past carefully.

Down in the depths, he waited on a platform that was otherwise entirely deserted. He stared blankly at the adverts on the opposite wall. A young family sported playfully in a hotel swimming pool. The sunshine of the image was a stark contrast to the grubbiness of a well-used station.

Some minutes later the air started to move, a warm gale signalling the approach of a train. The destination board showed it as bound for somewhere that he didn't recognise. But then, why would that matter? He didn't belong here more than he belonged anywhere. Other than Dearborn.

The train stopped and the doors opened. No one got on and no one got off and somehow it encapsulated his misery perfectly. When the train pulled away, Giles got up and went unsteadily to the edge of the platform. He stared down at the tracks, and then half jumped, half fell down to stand between them.

"Hoi!" shouted a voice. "What do you think you're doing?"

Giles turned and focussed blearily on a man in uniform who was running down the platform towards him.

"There's a train due in three minutes, get off the fucking track!"

"Why?"

"Oh fuck!" The newcomer dithered briefly on the edge of the platform before turning and bellowing, "Max! Max! Emergency!" and then he jumped into the gap between the rails. He was a bear of a man, comfortably bigger than Giles. He seized Giles by the scruff.

"You're going to get off the fucking track. Now."

There was a shout of "Jesus Christ!" in the distance and the sound of running feet as another staffer arrived.

"Help me get him out."

"There's a train due any minute, Derek!"

"Tell me something I don't know, but I can't do this on my own. He's stinking drunk!"

A hand went under Giles' arse and others under his armpits and then he was being boosted on to the side of the platform to sprawl in an untidy heap. The railwaymen hoisted themselves to safety just as the air started to move. One sprawled on the ground while the other stood clutching his knees, shaking with the adrenaline.

Giles was lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

Over the next couple of minutes the two staffers debated what to do next that wouldn't involve an awful lot of administration. Thus it was that Giles found himself being ejected out a side door on to the wet pavement with the instruction 'Go and top yourself somewhere else.' ringing in his ears.

***

By blind chance, as Giles was ejected from the station, DC Tiplady was driving home after her shift. She immediately clocked the boneless heap on the pavement and dithered momentarily before sighing and pulling over.

Despite his dishevelment, she recognised him immediately and rolled her eyes at the Universe's sense of humour. She did some more dithering between calling for an ambulance, calling a colleague or taking Giles to A&E. He stank of booze and had a few cuts and bruises but otherwise seemed unhurt. She decided unhappily that on balance it was simpler all round to take him back to her flat to sober up.

As she drove, she looked sideways from time to time to where his head lolled on the head rest. Pulling up outside her little basement flat, she hurried round to the passenger side. The last thing she wanted was him throwing up in her car. Rousing him to semi-consciousness, she piloted him down the steps to her front door. Once inside, she took one step before a series of gurgling noises came from Giles' stomach. Only too familiar with what they signified and thankful that the bathroom was immediately on hand, she manhandled him to the porcelain throne where he vomited copiously.

She sat on the edge of the bath and periodically flushed the toilet as he retched. Finally he fell back to sit beside her against the side of the bath.

"All done now?" she enquired, looking down at him.

"Yes, I think so," he rasped, his voice hoarse from the stomach acid, "I'm so sorry."

Then, to the embarrassment of all present, Giles started to cry.

Sharon pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Maudlin drunks were the worst. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and into bed. It'll be better when you wake up," she said firmly. Giles obediently wiped his face with a flannel and washed his hands, then followed her to her spare room. She helped him out of his clothes, and he fell into bed.

She fetched a glass of water for the bedside table and stood looking down at him for a minute. It was a mystery how people with everything could fall so far when most everyone else had to struggle for what they had. She shook her head and let herself out quietly.

***

In the morning, Giles awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. He was in a clean but somewhat spartan bedroom, untouched by any personal effects. Through the window there was a short gap to a wall above which peered the heads of flowering shrubs. He squinted, unable to make sense of it. Memories of the previous evening were fragmentary.

He sat up and experimentally waggled his head side to side. Another hangover was waiting in the wings but, curiously, not as bad as he was expecting. Swinging his legs around to the side of the bed he levered himself into a sitting position. Right about then, the door opened, and Sharon Tiplady poked her blonde head around.

"Oh good, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Giles stared at her. "Where am I?"

"In my spare room. D'you want some coffee?"

He couldn't process what she was saying. "Am I under arrest?"

She laughed. "I'll get you a dressing gown, your clothes are in the wash. Come into the kitchen."

He looked down. Boxer shorts were the only clothes he had on. Moments later a beige flannel dressing gown came flying round the door to land on the bed. Putting it on he realised it had to be hers, on him it was ridiculously short. He looked past the hem to where a couple of spectacular bruises were starting to form on his knees. There were also cuts and bruises on his hands and a vague recollection of falling down surfaced. He'd been in a railway station he thought and went cold as the memory of his failed drunken suicide attempt came back to him. He put his hands over his face as if to block out the images.

"Your coffee's getting cold," Sharon called.

Giles let his hands fall by his side and walked numbly to the kitchen. His host took one look at his face and guided him to a chair where he sat with his head in his hands.

"What happened?" she asked, gently.

He looked up at her through his fingers. "I tried to kill myself."

"Uh huh," she nodded.

Her response was so unexpected that Giles sat upright.

She sipped her coffee. "Well, you obviously failed so that's got be a positive, yeah? Drink your coffee."

Nonplussed, Giles picked up the mug and took a sip. He frowned and took another. "This is really good coffee!"

She gave him a sardonic look. "We're not animals in the Met. Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know."

She said nothing and the silence stretched as she waited.

Eventually Giles heaved a sigh and stared out of the window. "I've lost my family, my home, my inheritance. I don't know anyone, and London is an alien place. I've got nothing to live for so I guess I thought it might just be easier if it all stopped."

She gave him another sardonic look. "Says the man staying in rather nice hotel. You're not exactly on the streets, Mr Stanforth."

"Please, call me Giles."

"Seeing as I'm off duty I guess that's okay. You can call me Sharon. Now, you have money, you're obviously educated, have you no connections you can call upon?" She got up from the table. "I've not got much in. Toast?"

"Toast would be lovely," he said, gratefully. He gave another sigh. "I don't know anyone here. I was going to be taking over the running of the estate so that's all my life has ever been. Now I'm not I don't have a purpose."

She leaned back against the sink and folded her arms. "You're a refugee."

"Say again?"

"You're like one of those people that come here after a civil war or a natural disaster. At least you speak the language and are a citizen so that's two ticks in the ledger."

"I guess."

There was silence for a while as she collected the toast from the grill and spread some butter on it.

***

After midday he dressed himself in the clothes she'd washed for him. He didn't know how he felt about that. The slight fragrance left by her detergent was strange to him and was yet another subtle dislocation. However, he was feeling quite a lot better, probably from having emptied his stomach the previous evening.

He stood awkwardly in her kitchen where she was tidying up. 'Nice arse' his internal monologue commented as she bent over to rummage under the sink. Something of that must have leaked into the aether as she looked under her arm at him, and he started guiltily. However, she went back to looking for whatever she was looking for and her derrière moved most enticingly.

In a further sign of his recovery, his cock twitched, and he groaned inwardly. He very much doubted DC Sharon Tiplady would be open to any approach from a suicidal down on his luck drunk. Nice arse though. And she'd seen him looking.

She stood up and said, "I'm out of a few things, fancy a walk to the shops?"

Giles blinked. "Um, okay."

She smiled and her face was transformed, crinkles appearing at the corner of her soft brown eyes and highlights dancing in her hair. Giles was taken aback, where had this been hiding? He smiled back reflexively.

"Come on, then."

She headed for the door. Giles followed.

It had been years since he'd walked anywhere with a woman and longer still since he'd walked with one who wanted to accompany him. As they left the apartment and climbed the steps to the road, Giles looked about. "Where are we?"

"Clerkenwell."

Giles was no more enlightened and was still further disoriented when Sharon abruptly disappeared down an alleyway at the end of the row. The alley opened on to a park and she waited for him to catch up.

"Sorry. I walk a bit briskly. Comes with the job."

They made their way across the grass towards a small parade of shops on the other side, and as they walked, Giles' gaze kept drifting back to the sway of her hips. He tried to distract himself by looking at the shop windows they passed, but the gallant reflex stirred, and he tried to adjust himself discreetly.

Meanwhile his companion's gaze kept drifting up to the leaden sky. "When's fucking summer coming?"

Giles had nothing to say to this.

They entered the grocery store. These small premises were ubiquitous, jammed in at odd corners of the vast metropolis. Sharon collected a wire basket from the stack beside the door and started down the aisles. Giles grimaced at the collection of shabby but overpriced goods. As she chatted away about... stuff, Giles nodded from time to time, but he was lost to a dissonance that left him marooned by a line of cabinets of frozen fish and ice cream.

Aware that he was no longer behind her, she turned and came back to take his arm and he jumped.

"You okay?"

Her eyes were all warm concern and he suddenly found himself mute. His mood was all over the place, see-sawing wildly from one intense emotion to the another.

She nodded. "I understand. It's been a lot. It happened to me in the early days when I attended some awful incident. I'd make a cup of tea and then just go blank. When I'd come to the tea would be cold. Anyway, can't stand here all day, I've got a barbecue to prepare for this evening."

She considered him briefly. "You want to come?"

Giles almost dropped the shopping. "Me? Are you sure?"

"Of course. It'll be a good distraction. You need socialising," she said, looking at him sideways, knowingly.

Giles felt disoriented. Who was this person? She'd been all brisk efficiency at the police station, then picked him up off the pavement like some modern day Good Samaritan and now was inviting him to... to what? He shook his head to clear it.

"Sure, what the hell!"

***

He attracted his fair share of odd looks from her friends, which was to be expected from such a lot of coppers. However, no one was hostile, and no one probed too deeply. He overheard one of her girlfriends whispering none too quietly, 'God, Shaz, he's gorgeous! Where'd you pick him up?'

To his relief she kept his confidence, making some bland statement about a chance meeting at a station.

Despite his misgivings, Giles found himself relaxing as the evening went on. The sunken patio provided some protection from the chill wind, the smell of barbecue smoke filled the air, and the sound of laughter and conversation was very normal and remarkably soothing. He sipped at his drink, not wanting to risk another faux pas, instead filling the time talking to Sharon and her colleagues. They talked mainly about their lives outside of work, their families, and an awful lot about sport. Giles reluctantly confessed that he knew little about sport, which raised a few eyebrows amongst the ever curious bobbies.

In her duties as hostess, Sharon mingled but kept a weather eye on Giles. He wasn't the only unknown at the gathering, but he had had a turbulent couple of days and might be... unpredictable.

However, mid evening she looked across the courtyard to where Giles was chatting to Paddy and Paddy's latest squeeze. He seemed relaxed and at his ease, all traces of earlier upset absent. Even though his suit was looking a little distressed, it hung off him just right, as if he was Pierce Brosnan's younger brother after a night on the town. She frowned, it wasn't right that it took her a good thirty minutes to look even half presentable, and he was, let's face it, ridiculously good looking without any apparent effort whatsoever! There really was no justice in the world.

He felt her stare and turned to look but she was well practiced in nonchalance and simply raised an ironic eyebrow. He laughed and raised his glass to her.

As hostess, she'd been careful to limit her consumption but even so, the wine she'd allowed herself had loosened her inhibitions and the little twist in her gut was hard to ignore. And why should she ignore it? He was hot and it had been a while.

As the night drew on and people began to leave, Giles eventually found himself alone with her. The clouds had thinned, and the full moon cast a ghostly phosphorescence across the trellis and shrubs Already deep shadows became inky black. Light from the living room spilled into the yard and their faces were illuminated with a soft glow.

She inspected him. "Giles, can I ask you something?"

"Fire away. Can't promise I'll answer."

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated before answering. "What, right now, or in general?"

"Whichever."

"Well, in the last three days I've been robbed, drugged, and I made a decent attempt to kill myself, so I'm rather wondering what else can go wrong," he said cheerfully.

"Now, now, no self-pity," she said crisply. "Are you going back to your hotel? You can stay here this evening if you want. I'm not on duty again until the day after tomorrow so there's no pressure to leave in the morning. I think you might benefit from a bit more normality."

Giles found himself touched by her offer, he still felt in some fundamental way fragile and didn't want to be alone, not yet. Not after everything that had happened in the last few days. Plus, he found himself drawn to those warm brown eyes that had seen so much.

Sharon stood and held out her hand to him. He stared at it for a moment, alive to the subtext, and then gripped it firmly as she hauled him to his feet. A shiver ran through him as their hands touched, and he frowned. He was being ridiculous. He needed to get a grip.

As they made their way back into the house, Giles could feel the tension rising between them. He tried to push it aside, but it persisted.

She picked up on his discomfort, and her voice was soft with understanding as she spoke. "Don't worry, Giles, you'll be fine."

Their eyes met, the tension snapped, and they crashed together, kissing fiercely, urgently.

After a moment, he put her at arm's length. "Is this a good idea?"

"Probably not," she muttered as she pulled him back in.

They kissed again, hands roaming, pulling at fastenings, buttons popping.

She pulled away. "Bedroom. Now."

"What's wrong with here?"

"I don't think my knees are up to it."

He laughed out loud and fumbled for the door handle to the bedroom. Her hands roamed his bare chest, and she was nipping his neck with her teeth, the sensation tightening the muscles in his back. He discovered that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were shallow cones with sensitive nipples, and she gasped as he caressed them with his fingers. The brush of her hands over the hard line of his erection was like fire and the deep approving throaty sounds she made were melting what was left of his mind.

"I wish skirts were more popular," he grumbled as he wrestled with the buttons of her jeans.

Her fingers twined themselves in his hair. "Just all round more practical to wear trousers in my line of work. Need a hand?"

"Hah!" he exclaimed as the last one popped open and he started to tug the tight fitting fabric over the curve of her rump.