October 1995...

London was a lonely place. Colleagues came and went. Meaningless faces drifted in and out of Fenchurch East CID: DI's, DS', DC's, just... drifting. Countless numbers. He didn't even remember their names anymore. Some got promoted: within the Met and elsewhere. None kept in touch. Some quit. Some just disappeared. One of his DI's had hung himself a few years back because he just couldn't cope with the pressure. Gene didn't even remember his name. He had committed to memory some of their first names: there had been Daniel Elton and Steve Bentley and Candice Garrett. His memories of Sam Tyler even were diminishing by the day; twenty years ago he'd driven his car into the Tame, hadn't he? Sometimes he'd dream about a DI whose name he couldn't remember, Amber, maybe? She had been mouthy with dark, curly hair and he'd taken her to a pub somewhere... or at least he thought he had.

This 'Amber,' she'd been special to him, that much was plain. Maybe they'd been in a relationship; he didn't recall that either. He dreamed of her sometimes.

He was well into his fifties now, way too old for casual sex and certainly too old to be paying toms for it. He came to bars like this, a different one every night, hoping he'd get lucky and pick up a desperate, forty-something divorcee. Sometimes it worked, a lot of the time it didn't.

The place he was trying out tonight was classier than most of the establishments he normally frequented. It was in Mayfair, classic, all dark oak panelling. He'd managed to exhaust all of his options within a five-mile radius of Fenchurch, twice over. Too many people knew him there, same women and too many memories...

The joint was practically deserted, just him and another woman sat at the bar. She looked half-cut, all sad eyes and long legs, knocking back Rusty Nails like they were going out of fashion. She must have already had six in the time he'd been sat here watching her...

Gene gestured to the Barman, indicating another Glenfiddich for himself, "And whatever she's having." The Bartender set another shot in front of the girl and she thumped it back without even pausing for breath. There was something about this girl- it was her eyes, they were enchanting. A distant, fleeting memory. He couldn't explain it; it was more than the usual brief, short-lived physical attraction he normally felt. He had to talk to her, he had to know her.

"Rough night?" he asked the girl, sidling closer without hesitation.

"Could say that." Her words were already slurred and she smelled of Drambuie. "I'm getting married in a fortnight."

Typical. "Congratulations."

She didn't look very happy about it. Lazily, she drew the cocktail cherry lying in her glass to her mouth and expertly tied a knot in the stem. Christ, was she *trying* to give him a heart attack? "Yeah, well, I just walked in on him in bed with my best friend, so... I ran away."

"He's a bastard and I'm sorry. 'Nother drink?"

"Yeah... and I'm not. Sorry I mean. Wouldn't have met you otherwise, would I?"

That was certainly encouraging. There were more drinks. She kept doing the thing with every cherry placed in every one of her glasses. Occasionally, she would put her hand on his leg and squeeze. He thought he might die or explode or something. He was too nervous to make the first move and Gene Hunt was *never* nervous. She was intoxicating. He'd found out her name was Alex Price but not a lot else. Oddly, she reminded him of 'Amber.' Everything about her was so familiar to him somehow.

When it was finally closing time it was her that made the first move. She asked, "Wanna get out of here?"

"Yeah, yeah I do."

And then they didn't speak again. It was her that took the lead: dragging him into a seedy alleyway, yanking his trousers down and he was drunk and he couldn't be held responsible for mating like an alley cat with some captivating teenager he was sure he'd known in another life in a doorway, could he? There was something about this girl. She was mesmerising and he felt like he'd known her forever.

When it was done and they were both fully dressed again and she'd called a cab to take her home to Oxford, he found himself planting a long, lingering kiss on her lips. God, she must be special, as a rule the Gene-Genie didn't kiss afterwards. "Can I see you again?"

She shook her head and he thought (though maybe it was wishful thinking on his part,) she looked sad about it. Possibly even a little bit heartbroken. "Maybe next lifetime." She checked her watch. "I'm getting married in thirteen days."

Of course. She'd already forgotten her prick of a fiancé had cheated on her. She was so drunk she was also bound to forget about tonight but Gene was pretty sure, despite everything, his fading memories, he wouldn't be forgetting Alex Price.

He was a gentleman after their brief encounter; he walked her to the main road and helped her find her waiting taxi. There was no way he was letting her walk the streets of the capital alone in the early hours of the morning, anything could happen to her.

Unable to resist a final, passionate kiss, he told her, "Goodbye, Alex. Until next lifetime then."

"Yeah... next lifetime."

She was already asleep and had already long forgotten the events of the evening. She had forgotten Pete had cheated and she had forgotten she had cheated herself...

Alex and Pete married on October 31st 1995. Less than nine months later, Molly Drake was born. Alex's encounter with the mystery man had long been forgotten...