She felt her legs begin to buckle, the gun digging into her lower back, pushing her forward, closer to the waiting figure. The clown raised his arms, beckoning her. The corridor started to swim in front of her, as she stumbled, dizzy and disoriented. The clown's voice, slow and deep, called out to her.

"Alex.."

"No... please..." She whimpered, dragging her feet but somehow feeling as though she was on some kind of conveyor belt, beginning to speed towards the sinister white being who watched her progress, impassive.

"Right, sunshine, let go of her, right now" Hunt's firm voice called out, and the corridor began to stabilize beneath her feet. Her kidnapper whirled her round and pointed his weapon at Gene, who was standing in the open doorway with his gun in one hand, face grimly determined as he nursed the back of his head with the other.

"Oh, go on, really, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to turn you into a human colander, but you will let her go." He yelled, but the masked man was still silent. Alex looked back, but the clown was no longer there.

She was only a few feet away from the end of the corridor. Thinking as quickly as she could while her mind cleared, she planned an escape, and elbowed the gunman in the stomach. In her wooziness, it didn't have nearly the power it could have had, and instead seemed to enrage him.

"Drake! No!" Hunt bellowed and started to run to them as the gunman raised his weapon. He brought it crashing down on her head. She crumpled to the floor and he fled. Hunt reached Alex, and faced a brief moment of indecision as he heard the main doors flung open. She wasn't unconscious, but she was clearly stricken.

"Bloody hell, Bolly, have I got to carry you again?" He muttered as he inspected the livid welt appearing on her temple. "And you've got the brass-necked cheek to call me lazy."

She felt him scoop her up, and sank into him, the pain in her head hot and angry. He carried her confidently; he was still a broad-shouldered, strong man for all the creep of the years elsewhere. She was still slumped, dizzy and unfocused, but her eyes open and her head resting on him where he had grown too used to it.

Hunt allowed himself a downward glance. She met his eyes briefly, porcelain perfect features marred by the bruise on her forehead.

The main door opened in front of them and Hunt looked up to see Evan walking in, all carefully coiffed and tailored. He met Hunt's stony glare with his studied air of concern.

"DCI Hunt? What's happened?"

"You might very well ask, Mr Suit. How very convenient of you to show up now." Hunt snarled. Alex focused on Evan. She was clearly groggy, but she managed a nervous smile.

"Evan, you're here."

Evan ignored Hunt's aggressive demeanour and moved to look at Alex's head.

"God, Alex, what's happened?" He said, reaching out a hand.

"She got pistol-whipped by the invisible man. He magically appeared where she'd arranged to meet you." Gene pulled her back from Evan's out-stretched hand.

Evan half-laughed incredulously. "Well, you don't think I...? Why would I do that?"

"I don't pretend to know why toffty scum-defending tossers do what they do."

"Hunt, put me down." Alex insisted, her voice still unsteady.

"You're staying where you are, Bolly, you're wounded." Hunt tightened his hold on her, despite her wriggling protestations. "Perhaps the sainted Mr Suit can tell us what it was that was he needed to meet you in a deserted office block to tell you?"

"I.. I don't really think this a good idea anymore, Mr Hunt. Perhaps you should put the lady down, she clearly doesn't want you to hold her any longer." Evan replied.

"She doesn't know what she wants. Now, how long have you been here?"

"I've just arrived, as you saw. This was supposed to be a private meeting between me and DI Drake."

Hunt sniffed. "Are you with-holding information about a police matter? Because that could end very badly for you indeed."

"I really don't think you want to be threatening me, DCI Hunt. You have no idea what you're dealing with." Evan's tone was still dismissive, but there was something darker there now, and Alex, even through the concussion, sensed the atmosphere change.

"What's up with you, Bolly?"

Gene leaned back in the chair, boots casually hoiked up on the corner of his desk. Alex looked at him, one hand on her hip, one brandishing a biro, which she thrust towards him.

"You really haven't got the slightest clue, have you, you ignorant pig?" She spat.

"Apparently not, you haughty tart, or I wouldn't have asked. What is it, bra straps cutting off the circulation to your brain?"

She sparked, banging her hands down on the desk between them, momentarily stopping the chatter in the main office, which resumed again just as quickly; low, knowing murmurs about DI Drake and the Guv going at it once more.

"My brain is probably shutting down as we speak, Hunt, and your fat, lazy self is blocking the very thing I need to hold on to."

"Oh you think so, do you?"

"Yes!"

"Right then, Bols!" He snapped, swinging off his chair. "You can follow up your pretty boy, on one condition."

"Oh, and what's that?" She said, flinging down the biro and throwing him her coldest tight-lipped smile.

"I'm comin' with you." He grabbed his black overcoat and pulled open the office door, stalking past Chris and Ray, who were overly focused on the unimportant paperwork on their desks. Stunned, but momentarily triumphant, Alex hurried after him.

***

Gene parked up the Quattro and cracked his knuckles inside the black leather gloves. He turned to her, pressing his lips together, and paused, taking a sharp breath through the nose.

"Let me make this crystal clear for you, Drake. Under no circumstances are you to move out of my sight when we're in there. I know you seem to have taken a liking to that smarmy suit, but you're my responsibility, and I don't trust the fancy bastard one little tiny bit. Do you get that?"

"Oh, perfectly, my chivalrous protector." She dripped sarcasm.

"Oh no, no chivalry, I'd like to throttle you before he does, that's all." He got out quickly and slammed the door behind him.

She followed him into the building, hands in the pockets of her white jacket.

"Evan's message said he'd meet me in the foyer" She said, looking around.

"Well, he's not 'ere. No-one is. Remember what I said, I don't like this." Gene's tone made Alex's stomach knot a little. It didn't feel right. Suddenly it seemed very dark. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a figure in white walk past the end of a corridor at the far end of the foyer. The clown? She wanted to run out again, but she knew she couldn't. Whatever the clown was, she knew she had to follow the narrative clues of her own fantasy here, so she started towards where it had gone.

"Hold up, where are you going? Am I talking to my bloody self here?" Gene barked at her, running after her down the corridor.

They moved more slowly around the corner. The corridor was a long one, doors on either side, and a fire exit at the end. "Get behind me, woman." He commanded, and for once, she didn't want to argue. He put a cautious hand to his gun and they walked foward. Alex put her hand on his arm unconsciously, and he glanced down at it. Eyebrows raised, he didn't draw attention to it, but nursed a little smugness. She was always so steely, and he did enjoy those scarce moments of vulnerability.

Suddenly, there was the sound of something in one of the offices, and they both ran towards the sound. Hunt tried the door, but it wouldn't budge, so he kicked it. It swung open, cheap grey handle flying off as it did. There was a window open, and a vase rolling on the floor. Alex went to the window and peered out; there was no-one to be seen.

"Nothing." She said dejectedly, turning just in time to see Gene being knocked over the back of the head by a masked figure. Hunt slumped to the ground, and the figure approached her, gun pointed, and motioned for her to move foward.

"This isn't a good idea." She said, in the calm, conciliatory tones of a trained negotiator, stepping towards him, glancing down at the prone DCI. He still wasn't moving as she was forced to leave the room and go back down the corridor.

The masked gunman was edging her back towards the other end, and there, she saw the white clown.

He doesn't really understand. He's just standing there, an ineffectual shrug of a man. I'm not sure why I just explained it all, because I knew he would do that. I didn't even bother to hope he'd smile, maybe approach me consolingly, or have anything helpful to say. But I needed to hear it explained at least.

So anyway. I'm actually watching him counting his teeth with his tongue, while he pretends to be thinking deeply. I should just get my stuff and go, but I actually think I'm almost owed the experience of watching him squirm a little. That's quite mean, I know, but I'm a little bit past caring. Not so far that I can't recognize it as mean.

"Well, that's about it then. I'll phone you when I get there"

"Yeah." He answers.

"Bye, then, Dad."

They been driving for around 40 minutes now, the rain steady, visibility poor. The ritual was beginning to become meaningless anyway, but Terry still did wanted to do it. She paused, hoping the rain would ease off momentarily, and then opened the car door. She stepped into the chill Spring air, head down, arms folded against the wet, and ran in through the church gates and into the cover of the big russet-coloured porch. The sandstone looked so soft you could rub it away to dust in no time.

Sam would wait in the car, and try to amuse the children, already fractious from the tedium of driving in the wet. Terry would sit in the porch and... what? What would she do this year, 9 years after?

Before, on finer days, she had walked in the churchyard and looked over to the hospice grounds. She had thought, she had prayed, she had said things that needed to be said. But this year, what was there to say? The hospice was just a building now, nothing of mum there. Nothing of mum in the churchyard, either, she'd been scattered at the crem.

She was just gone. Not even really a space where she used to be. Most of the people in Terry's life now never even knew her, and, shockingly to Terry, she found that was beginning to matter less. She'd promised. She made a promise to remember, and now, as she sat feeling the wind tugging at the hood of her coat, she realized that she'd meant something different.

Remembering isn't hard. Remembering is just what you do. Terry knew that she'd actually meant that she wouldn't stop feeling, and she also knew it was an impossible promise to keep. Feelings are not subject to promises. It still bothered her, though - she felt unfaithful, cruel. There was something else, too, something that made her feel even worse.

She was clinging on, trying to conjure up the same raw bereavement because she wanted to be felt too. She wanted to leave a hole.