Life on Mars: A Fistful of Knuckles. Tom Graham

told him, over and over. ‘You have nothing to look forward to but misery and hopelessness and oblivion …’

      Sam felt himself slowly falling forwards, giving himself up to the lure of the drop. At once, he pulled himself back, stumbling away from the edge, his heart racing. He drew in huge lungfuls of cold air and forced his tumultuous thoughts to calm down.

      ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he told himself, looking out across the grey Manchester cityscape spread out all around him. ‘Everything’s going to work out fine …’

      Movement caught his eye. Three dark specks were travelling slowly and steadily across the autumnal skyline, passing over the city towards him. It was a trio of light aircraft, flying in formation, trailing behind them banners printed with bright red letters. Sam peered and squinted, trying to make out the word on the first banner.

      ‘World …’

      He shielded his eyes and tried to decipher the second banner.

      ‘Of …’

      World of – what? Leather? Opportunity? Adventures?

      Before the third plane’s banner came into view, a man suddenly began speaking in a cheery and familiar voice directly behind Sam’s back.

      ‘Hello, and a very warm welcome to World of Sport.’

      Sam spun round. The rooftop had transformed into a TV studio, with typewriters clacking and reporters bustling; behind a desk sat a man smiling warmly beneath his moustache – a man whose face and voice were straight out of Sam’s memories of childhood Saturdays.

      Dickie Davies shuffled the sheaf of papers on his desk and announced brightly: ‘And in a full line up this afternoon we’ve got exclusive live coverage from CID A-Division, including all the latest shoddy police practice, professional incompetence and casual sexism from regulars Ray Carling and Chris Skelton – plenty of action there – plus we’ll be bringing you the highlights of the week’s heavy-drinking, chain smoking, and nig-nog baiting from DCI Gene Hunt, so make sure you stay tuned for all that.’

      Dickie Davies now raised his eyes to stare directly at Sam, the good-natured light going out of them.

      ‘But right now we’re going over live to the rooftop of Manchester CID where Detective Inspector Sam Tyler is once again trying to convince himself that he has any sort of a future with Annie Cartwright. Of course, the two of them have about as much chance of being happy together as Evel Knievel has of clearing a jump without breaking every bone in his back … and deep down Tyler knows it. But until he stops kidding himself and starts facing up to the awful reality of the situation, then I’m going to have to keep on popping up like this and having words with him.’

      Dickie stood up from behind his desk, and as he did his moustache vanished, his body shrank, his suit became a black dress, and his face morphed in the small, round, pale face of a twelve year old girl, with a big teardrop painted on each cheek.

      ‘Awful things are going to happen,’ the Test Card Girl said sadly. ‘You should never have come back here.’

      The TV sports’ studio melted away. There was just Sam and the Test Card Girl, high up atop CID, the city of Manchester spread out all about them and the grey sky reeling over their heads.

      Sam clenched his fists and said: ‘You don’t scare me anymore. I know what you are. I know what you’re playing at.’

      ‘I’m just telling you the truth, Sam …’

      ‘Oh no you’re not. You’re trying to mess with my head. But you’re nothing! You’re not even real!’

      ‘But I’m very real, Sam. And so is the horrible fate that’s in store for you and Annie.’

      ‘I’m done listening to you. You’re just a bad dream. Go back to where you came from.’

      The Test Card Girl listened mournfully, shaking her head with infinite sadness. She hugged her little teddy bear doll, rocking it – and then, quite suddenly, she hurled it over the edge of the roof.

      ‘And there it goes,’ she said. ‘Better off out of it. Better off dead than facing what you and Annie have to face …’

      ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Sam said. ‘You won’t make me give up. You won’t make me despair.’

      ‘It’s not looking good, Sam. It’s all going to end in tears. Your tears. For ever. And ever. And ever.’

      ‘I’m not listening.’

      ‘Shall I tell you what’s going to happen?’

      ‘Get out of my head!’

      ‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Sam? Don’t you want to know what I know … about Annie?’

      ‘I said get out!’

      ‘She has a past, Sam. Like you have a past. But it’s a very different sort of story from yours, Sam. Shall I tell you about it? Shall I? Shall I, Sam? Shall I?’

      ‘Damn you, get out of my head!’ Sam bellowed, and at that moment the air was ripped apart by a deafening roar. Dark shadows swept across him; glancing up, he saw the trio of planes shriek overhead, recklessly low, their banners streaming behind them – but now the lettering had changed. It read: Terry Barnard’s Fairground.

      When he looked back down, the rooftop was empty. He was alone again. The planes dragged their advertisement for the fairground away across the rooftops of Manchester. The wind cut through him like a knife. Looking down, he saw that his hands were shaking.

      ‘Don’t let her get to you,’ he gently told himself. ‘The little bitch isn’t real. She’s just messing with your mind.’

      Suddenly, the door to the roof flew open and an overexcited Chris Skelton burst out.

      ‘You see that, Boss!’ he cried, pointing at the planes as they veered away. ‘Pretty nifty, eh? You reckon we could get one of them for CID? Eyes in the sky! Do they come with guns on? Now that’s the future of policing, Boss. You think they’d train me up?’

      He grinned at Sam, the huge, round-ended collars of his blue nylon shirt flapping and fretting like cherub wings in the harsh Manchester wind. But as he read Sam’s expression, his grin faltered.

      ‘Hey, boss, you all right?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ said Sam, sticking his hands in his pockets and clenching them into fists to stop them shaking. ‘I just … needed a few minutes alone to think about stuff.’

      ‘No time for thinking, Boss. The guv’s yelling for you. We got a shout.’

      From far below, the Cortina’s horn brayed angrily for Sam to move his arse – pronto. The Guv was impatient. There was a big, bad city out there that needed its sheriff.

      ‘Dead body in a bedsit in Greeton Street,’ Chris said. ‘A big bloke, beaten to a pulp, ‘pparently. Very nasty. Sounds like a good ‘un.’

      The Cortina honked again, more threateningly. Only Gene Hunt could be so expressive with a car horn. This time, Sam obeyed his guv’s summons; he moved his arse – pronto.

      The big bloke in the bedsit in Greeton Street had indeed been beaten to a pulp. And just as Chris had predicted, it was very nasty. DCI Gene Hunt stepped into the room carefully, so as not to get congealing blood on his off-white leather loafers. He moved about the room in his camel hair coat, his tie knotted loosely beneath the raw, aftershave-inflamed turkey flesh of his throat. Sam followed him. The bedsit’s fat, string-vested landlord watched from the open doorway.

      ‘What’s his name again?’ Gene asked, looking down at the dead man.

      The landlord said: ‘Denzil Obi. A darkie name. He were one of them half-castes. You know, half-coloured, half-normal. Mongrel type.’

      ‘Mixed