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‘We saved Annie,’ Sam said slowly, as if working it out for himself. ‘We sent Gould back where he belonged, empty-handed. But we paid a price. We lost Chris. We lost Ray. And we lost the Guv.’

‘Ahhh,’ said Nelson, ‘but you played your
get out of jail free card,
Sam. You played your joker. Just the one – you won’t get another – but then, you don’t need no more.’

‘Played my joker?’

Nelson grinned, and his rich Jamaican accent started to swell. ‘Dat Mr McClintock, he clutched it tight, right when he died – bought it wit him, he did, all de way from
dat
life to
dis.
Not much comes troo dat way, but little trinkets make it from time to time. Always very important dey are, Sam. Always a reason they come troo. I tink – I ain’t
sure
– but I certainly tink dat dere’s somebody lettin’ dem tings come troo here … if folks deserve it, ya know? Special folks. Good folks.’

At that moment, there was a sound from outside – the roar of a car engine, the howl of tyres slewing across tarmac. Sam knew that engine, and those tyres. It was the Cortina!

‘The watch …’ he said. And he patted himself, realising that he was real, he was solid, that this wasn’t a dream at all, that it was really happening. ‘The little gold watch …’

The talisman that Mr McClintock had brought with him at the moment of his death – Sam had been sure it was a relic from
Life.
It was … but more than that, it was a relic from
Time –
from when Time was different than it was here in this strange, otherworldly simulacrum of 1973. And as it had burned away in the flaming ruins of Trencher’s Farm, something else had burned away with it …

‘Time,’ Sam said. ‘I destroyed Time.’

‘Not
all
of it,’ grinned Nelson, as the doors to the pub flew open with a crash. ‘Just the right part …’

Gene swept in, his coat billowing, and hot on his heels came Ray and Chris.

‘Well cock-a-ruddy-doodle-bloody-great-do!’ Gene declared, clapping eyes on Sam. ‘Detective Inspector Tyler, as I live and breathe, poncing about in his leather jacket before he slopes off for an evening’s vigorous cottaging. But before you go, I do believe the Milky Bars are on
you.
A pint of Courage for yourself truly, much obliged. And same goes for you gentlemen, I take it?’

‘Won’t weep no tears at a Courage,’ nodded Ray, sparking up a fag and planting himself firmly at the bar.

Chris pretended to think deeply: ‘Well … I was
going
to have my usual Campari and soda, with a twist of lemon, ice and a dinky little olive bobbing about in it like that floater I still can’t shift from me khazi … but on second thoughts, aye, a Courage will do me grand.’

Gene opened his mouth to say something crude, something cutting, smart-arsed – but he didn’t get the chance. Sam was suddenly on him, crushing him in a bear hug.

‘Oh, Guv!’ he cried, tears threatening to spring to his eyes. ‘Oh, Guv, Guv, Guv, Guv,
Guv
!’

‘You’ll notice, fellows, that I’m not returning this display of affection,’ Gene intoned, holding his arms away from Sam. ‘Tyler, you have exactly one second to sling your nancy-boy hook.’

But Sam was already hugging Chris, crushing him.

‘Why is it the lasses never want to do this?’ Chris mused over Sam’s shoulder.

And then Sam turned to throw his arms around Ray. But what he faced was a man poised to defend himself, his fists raised, his stance that of a ready boxer.

‘Don’t you even
think
about it, Tyler …’

‘All of you!’ Sam laughed. ‘
All
of you! You’re
all
here! Even the bloody Cortina’s here! Nelson – beer! Beer for my team! Beer for everyone!’

Gene shoved a cigarette into his gob, fired it up, and said, ‘Tyler, I will forgive you your revolting display of poofery on the grounds that you were over-excited. You have evidently got wind of my recent change of heart.’

‘Change of heart, Guv?’

‘Over your soppy tart, WPC Leg-hair. I’ve reinstated her. She’s back on the team.’

Sam paused, thought, and then said carefully, ‘Yes, Guv. That’s right. That’s what I heard. That’s what got me excited.’

‘I’m still not happy about her glassin’ my esteemed colleague DS Carling, and I have a funny feeling my esteemed colleague DS Carling ain’t too happy about it neither …’

Ray grumbled something and made a face.

‘… but tempers run high in CID, and none higher than when a bird’s involved. And after her little coup of late, well, credit where credit’s due.’

‘Annie’s what? Her “little coup”, did you say?’ Sam asked, nonplussed.

Gene tapped at Sam’s head with his knuckles. ‘Hello? Are you reading me? This is Earth calling Tyler, come in Tyler!’

‘The case, Boss,’ Chris put in, looking at Sam like he was senile. ‘The cold case she found dug up in the files. The thing with Clive Gould.’

‘Finding out he weren’t really dead?’ Ray prompted heavily. ‘Trackin’ ’im down? Nickin’ ’im? Christ, boss, where you been of late?’

‘Where have I been?’ asked Sam. ‘I’ve been …’ He laughed. ‘I’ve been out of the loop, it seems. Out of
this
loop, anyway. And I like this loop more than the other one.’

‘You on the wacky, Tyler? Gene asked.

‘No, Guv. I’m all right. I’m just … I’m fine.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Gene said. ‘Communications have been restored. Tyler is reading us again, loud and clear. We have made contact. There
is
life on Mars.’

But then the pints arrived, and everyone was distracted by the serious business of beer.

More people began piling into the pub, and the place became rowdy. There was banter, there was laughter, there was raging bullshit – but Sam felt detached from it all, too elated to join the company. He couldn’t believe that the clock had been set back, that time had healed hurts he thought irreparable, that the gold watch had turned out to be not a secret weapon after all but a secret
defence.
He even pinched himself, just to make sure.

‘I saw you do that,’ said Nelson knowingly, speaking quietly despite the noise and the laugher. He gave Sam a look. ‘It ain’t no dream, Sam. But it is over.’

‘Over?’

Nelson nodded slowly: ‘I told you. You were here to do a job. And you’ve done it. You’ve done it grand. Time to move on now.’

Sam looked around at Ray, who was guzzling beer; at Chris, who was showing off by failing to juggle three packets of pork scratchings, and at Gene, who was waving a pound note at the bar for more drinks.

‘Your place ain’t with these boys anymore,’ Nelson said, and his voice was so low it was almost a murmur. The sounds of the pub had receded. All Sam could hear was Nelson’s voice. ‘Go on, Sam. Follow Tony Cartwright, the way he went out of here. Go to your rest. Annie will see you there one day soon. But for now – go and get your reward. You’ve earned it.’

Nelson smiled, and with a nod of the head indicated towards the door.

Sam looked right at him.

‘Can’t I … stay for a bit?’ he asked.

Still smiling, Nelson shook his head: ‘Rules. Rules is rules.’

Slowly, Sam put down his pint glass. And all at once, the riotous clamour of the pub returned, deafeningly loud. Stiffly, he turned from the bar, and headed towards the door.

‘Aye up, Sammy!’ It was Gene, blocking his way. ‘What’s the matter, just realised you’ve left the iron on?’

‘I just need some air, Guv,’ Sam said, feeling suddenly like a little boy heading off on his very first day of school. He had to swallow down the lump in his throat. ‘I’m just going to pop outside. I’ll be … back in a moment.’

Gene narrowed his eyes, scrutinized him for a moment, then shrugged.

‘Sometimes, Tyler,’ he said, ‘I think you’re like them one of them weirdos. Other times I think you’re like a twat. Or a nancy. And half the bloody time I think you’re a prime candidate to be shunted back to Hyde where you came from and out of my hair forever. But you know what, Tyler? There’s something about you, something that stays my hand when I go to knock your dopey block off, something I think I need for my department … and do you know what it is? Shall I tell you?’

Sam smiled: ‘Tell me when I come back in, Guv.’

He patted Gene’s arm, and then worked his way through the crowd to the door. Refusing to look back, but aware of Nelson's eyes on him, Sam went out into the night.

It was cold and crisp, with a full moon and as many stars as you could hope for from a Manchester night. Sam stood, looking up, a racket of men’s voices pouring out of the Railway Arms behind him.

‘Right then …’ Sam sighed. ‘That’s that.’

He turned to the left. Far away, at the end of the street, he saw the Test Card Girl. She looked forlorn. In her hand she clutched a limp piece of string, attached to the burst remains of a black balloon on the ground at her feet. The street lamp above her flickered, and when it steadied again, the Girl was gone.

And then Sam looked to his right. He could see two men laughing and chatting together, sharing cigarettes, waiting for him. It was Tony Cartwright, and with him was James McClintock. They grinned at Sam, waved, beckoned him over. A taxi was waiting.

One more minute here,
Sam thought, savouring those last moments of 1973.
Thirty seconds …

‘Been stood up?’

Annie appeared, wrapped up snugly in her fake-fur coat.

Sam hesitated, then said: ‘No.
I
haven’t.’

He turned to where Cartwright and McClintock were waiting for him, and waved at them to go on without him. Then he put his arm around Annie and kissed her.

‘Who were you waving at?’ she asked, peering back along the street. All she could see was a taxi pulling away.

‘Oh, just some fellas I know,’ said Sam. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘You’re only saying that because I got a result. Clive Gould. The Mr Big of yesteryear. And
I
nailed him!’

‘Clive Gould …’ said Sam. He looked at her very carefully, reading her face, reading the thoughts
behind
her face. ‘What does that name mean to you?’

‘Mean?’ She laughed. ‘It means I’ve got me bloody job back, Sam, that’s what it means!’

‘No more than that?’

‘What do you mean? What more could I ask for?’

‘So, the slate’s been wiped clean,’ said Sam. ‘Back to normal. Business as usual. What a strange old world this is … but I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘And when are you going to stop talking daft and buy me a drink?’ Annie asked, raising her eyebrows in mock impatience.

‘My lady, forgive me,’ Sam bowed, and held the door of the pub open for her. He followed her inside and was instantly assailed by the bellowing of male voices, the blast of male laughter. He caught Nelson staring at him, and saw that the smile was gone from his face. There was even a hint of anger in his eyes.

I’ll be for the high jump over this,
Sam thought.
But sod it. That’s an existential trauma for another day.

He looked at Annie, and thought that being with her was as near to heaven as made no odds. And when he looked across at Chris, and Ray, and the mighty Gene Hunt, all three half-cut on Courage and puffing away on slim panatelas, Sam knew – he
knew
– that whatever this place was, whatever strange and far-flung corner of creation this replica of 1973 inhabited, it was
home.

He drew a deep breath.

'Well, I’m back,’ he said.

Tom Graham left school at 14 without qualifications. He is a smoker, and says that writing the
Life on Mars
novels is the nearest thing he’s had to a regular job since he got banned from driving. He part-owns a greyhound called Arthur and his ambition is to get fruity with Raquel Welch (to be clear about it, that’s Tom’s ambition, not Arthur’s).

Bombs, Bullets and Blue Stratos

A Fistful of Knuckles

Borstal Slags

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Ebook Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9780007472604

Version 1

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