Sam Tyler

A day at the station with the lads, dinner with Gene and Barbara, a nightcap with Annie (and a 'nightcap', too). It's the same old daily round, keeping a man busy enough so's he can't get into too much trouble. It ought to leave Sam pleasantly sleepy, waking up only to nab a glass of water or a quick kiss from the missus.

Instead it's left him wide awake, sitting on the couch with his head resting in one hand, hair askew and eyes shadowed. The light of the telly flickers against the darkness. He ought to get up to turn it off, get himself to bed before Annie starts fretting, but every time he starts to move he could swear he sees --

But of course it's only his own reflection in the glass, a trick of the light and his own weariness. No old black and white movie would ever contain a flash of red.

***

That night Sam dreams of clowns picnicking in a forest. There are no teddy bears.

***

Tea and toast ought to make the morning more livable, and he forces himself to be cheerful just to get a rise out of Carling and the Guv. That and to keep Chris from asking what's the matter. It'll only make him sound mad, and Sam's had just about enough of that lately.

He stutter-steps halfway to the front desk, reaching up to rub at his forehead.

Mad? Who's ever said he was mad except for Annie, back when they first started seeing each other and he'd do something wild, like --

Like --

Pretending he was a step away from throwing himself off the roof.







Mad is right. Only that never happened.

Did it?

Maybe he could use some air, clear his head a little.

A lack of company would be favorite about now, too. But that doesn't explain why his stomach is sinking through his shoes as he heads for the precinct roof.