Everything about Helen Bartlett makes me sad but one of the things that struck me hardest was the scene that the cover image from this story is taken from. Rachel goes to arrest her and finds Helen out cold, lying across the foot of the bed still dressed and the really killing thing is that you can see that one side of the bed has been slept in. That just sat with me. Then I put it together with a few other things from Helen's interviews. We don't know Louise yet, we don't know anything about her, so this fic will probably be blown out of the water in a few weeks time - it's just in response to Series 3, episode 1.

It is quiet, the house, without her. Feels empty like. Which is stupid, I know, but yeah, it does, all right? I'm just not used to being in a house on my own. Well, I should be by now. I mean I am used to it. I just don't like it.

I put the telly on, down low, so it sounds a bit like there's someone in the front room. I could pretend like she's in there, watching something. She does watch a lot of crap sometimes, sits and stares at it, drinking. She was doing that earlier. I could tell myself she's still there, but that's a bit sad really, isn't it?

She was on a right one earlier. Really bad. I haven't seen like that in ages. Totally, not there. She's got problems. Memories. Bad memories. And every so often they get on top of her. She works really hard normally, to keep it all under control. She's really good. Strong. Not one of these soft types, always whining on about how bad they've had it and how everyone owes them something because of it. She's not like that. She's a fighter. She's always fighting it.

But it's hard, right. It's hard for her. People have no idea.

She was obviously on a really bad one tonight when she got it. I'm always home first so I'd got the tea on and that. Normally, she'll shout when she gets in the door, and come through to the kitchen first, before she does anything else. She always wants to get changed, out of them smart work things, but she usually comes to say hi first cause I like to see her in her suit. You want to see her, all dolled up, she looks dead posh. And she's a real looker, our Helen. With all that make up, she's like another person, it's funny. I love her how she is normal like, obviously, but I like to see her being that other person, get to know her. Sometimes, when she's in a good mood, and if she stops and has a couple of drinks first, she'll do that person – the posh Helen, for me, in our little kitchen. She'll put on the smile and the voice, just for a minute. It's weird, but, like, in a nice way. I'm dead proud of her.

But anyway, tonight wasn't like that. Tonight she comes in dead quiet and goes straight upstairs. I was gonna tell her I'd got the lamp fixed in the bedroom before she went up, and I'd got her glass of wine poured and all. But she didn't even stop. I could just feel it, from the minute she walked in, it wasn't good. She came down, five minutes later, changed and with her face all scrubbed. She downed her glass and filled it up again, took the bottle into the front room, stuck the telly on. She didn't even speak to me. Just for a second, when I said her name, she looked at me. She stopped in the doorway and looked up and, when she's scared she does this thing where she looks all round you, she did that, like all round my head. Then she looked at me, just for a second. God I hate it when she's like that. I want to, you know I just want to, hold her and make it better, make it all go away. It really hurts. But it's not good. You can't do anything with her. You just have to leave her alone.

So we sat and watched telly and ate our tea. Well, we sat and the telly talked away to itself and she stared it and drank a couple of bottles and I watched her and we both sort of pretended we were eating but I only cleared half me plate and I think she only ate a couple of chips. I haven't a bloody clue what was on. I had a couple of drinks too, all right? I don't drink as much as Helen does but I like a few. And believe me, I needed them. I get worried sick. Anyway, it's not her fault she drinks. It helps her get by and she does get by so who are you to judge.

I knew it was coming. I knew she'd want to go out. About nine o'clock she started to get antsy. She tries to hide it but she's rubbish at it. Then she just got up, sudden like, and said she had to get out for a bit, get some fresh air. I just says 'right, ok' and 'take care.' I wouldn't try and stop her. It'd be cruel, trying to keep her in when she's like that. And it'd be stupid, we'd only end up fighting and I don't want to fight with her, ever. Specially not when she's bad like that. Cruel. I can't do that to her, make things worse. I know where she goes. Well, what I mean, I don't know where she goes exactly, but I know what she goes for, what she does. I'm not stupid. And yeah, it hurts, ok, of course it does. I want to be everything for her. I want to be enough. I want to make her happy, but sometimes I can't. That's life and it's shit but that's it.

It doesn't make her happy, but it does something for her.

That's... something.

I know she shouldn't really be driving, not really like, she's over the limit. She must have been well over the limit by the time she went out and she probably had more to drink before she drove home. She would have done, knowing Helen. But she's all right, she can handle it. She's safe enough, safe as any of those other mad bastards that are out on the roads. She's not going to plough into someone. She's used to it. The only risk is getting stopped by some random patrol but there's not many of them round us, not ones that'd stop just anyone even if they weren't doing owt silly. You'd have to do something to get their attention and Helen's not going to do that.

She went out and I stayed put. She did give me a quick kiss when she was going, leaned over me and give me a peck on the lips. I made it a bit more but she wasn't having anything much, didn't want it from me. I wanted to grab her. I wanted to hug her tight. I wanted to put my hands on her face and kiss her so she knew, so she could feel, how I feel about her. I wanted her to stay, so badly. But I'd never force her. Ever.

So she went.

I turned the telly down and went and washed up, cleared the kitchen a bit. I try not to think about her too much on nights like this, when she's out, it's not good. You've got to keep going, don't you? No good wallowing. So no, I don't pretend she's still in the house. I just get on with normal things, I go to bed early. I do leave the hall light on though cause she's hopeless in the dark, when she gets in. She's pissed and she falls over things, breaks stuff, if she can't see where she's going. I go to bed early and read my book. I don't wait up. No point.

Bed always feels weird without her too. Empty. I suppose that makes sense. You notice a person missing. It's cold.

No good dwelling on stuff. I try to get to sleep, hope she'll come in quiet like, not too late.

And she is pretty quiet. She's opening the door before I really start to wake up at all, in fact I think it's the light that gets me. I didn't hear her on the stairs at all. That means she's really pissed. She's probably crawled up them dead slow. I listen with me eyes shut, she's shuffling across the room, can't even pick her feet up. Should I get up? Should I say something? What's the point? She gets over by her side of the bed and then she must just stand there cause for a minute, a whole minute like or it feels like it, there's nothing. Silence. What's she looking at? And I nearly open my eyes, I'm just about to roll over and look at her, see what she's at. Maybe I'll ask her what's up, and maybe this time she'll tell me. But before I do anything she sighs, mutters something. I think she's been crying, she sort of sounds that way somehow. Then she goes down dead heavy. The whole bed creaks. Her head hits my feet.

It's quiet then. She's asleep already. I sit up a bit, look at her in the light from the landing. She's left the door open and all the lights on of course. I hope she got the front door shut, but she always does. Her hair has fallen all over her face and she's curled up across the bed, fully dressed. Maybe I should move her. Maybe I should try and get her clothes off, or at least her shoes. Maybe I should tuck her into bed properly, the right way up.

But I don't.

I watch her for a bit. She doesn't move.

I lie down with her head still on my feet and try to sleep and not to think.