[Touching Evil] Can't Anybody See Ana Cotton
Feb 09, 2001 18:15 PST
Mwaha! See? Not Buffy fic.

Disclaimer: Dave Creegan and all related people were created by the
fabulous Paul Abbot. I'm sure the BBC or someone similar owns the
rights. No money is being made from this fragment.

Notes: _words_ = thoughts
Other than that, this is slightly fragmentary in nature.
It's set rather before the first set of episodes of Touching Evil, a
brilliant British cop show.

Can't Anybody See
by Ana Lyssie Cotton

There was a hole in his head.

It hadn't been there before--there'd been a moment of surprise.

_He's got a gun._

"I need some more light here!"

A drug raid gone bad they'd say.

A man down, they'd said.

They laid him out on the stretcher, fit for burial.

A tube in one arm, oxygen being pumped down his throat via another.

He didn't need it, of course. Not if they were burying him. They should
save it for others, people who actually needed it.

Not him.

"Jesus Bloody Christ!"

The voices were there again. They jumbled around inside his head.

_He's got a gun._

Muzzle flash, boom.

There was a hole in his head....

He was dead, right? Right.

So, as his first act as dead person, he should follow the light.

It seared his eyes, dug into his brain.

"We're losing him!"

Red patches on his chest where they lay the paddles. Seared and burnt
like his eyes.

It had flashed at him, winked. And he hadn't had time to move.


He'd heard that your life flashed in front of your eyes when you died.

His wasn't.

He was already dead, though, so it didn't matter.


Kerry would miss him, maybe. She'd been so distant the last time they'd

"Dave, you're so absorbed..."

The girls would miss him. Miss daddy being there infrequently to read to

_A gun, he had a gun. How did we miss him?_

Maybe Kerry wouldn't miss him. Maybe nobody would.


Drug bust gone wrong and he had a bullet in his head. That would look
nice on his gravestone.

Here lies Dave Creegan, killed in the line of duty.

And who would give his epitaph?

Enwright, maybe. Old Steven would be unpleased that his best man was
gone. But he'd cope, he would.


Maybe they'd dig the bullet out of his brain and give it to his kids as
a sort of medal. They'd probably think of it as a splendid gesture.

He'd gone up the stairs, careful, so careful. Not careful enough.

_He wasn't supposed to be there._

The gun had fired, and pain had taken him downwards.

Down to death, where he belonged, really. His marriage was in tatters,
his career? Well, not many trusted him, he was too brilliant, too

The ladies liked him well. Dark hair, intense blue eyes.... But there
was only ever Kerry for him. Only her.

And she... well, she was unhappy with him.

"Dave, I think we need to talk."

He'd heard about conversations like that. Colleagues had had them and
suddenly ended up single.

He wasn't happy. No one was happy. Kerry certainly wasn't. Not even men
who pulled the trigger on unsuspecting hard-working policemen were
happy, really.

_He's got a gun._

It had happened so fast.

Too fast for thought, too fast to do anything but fall, stupefied by
pain and shock.


Movement, now. He could see colours and lights and things. People.

Working rapidly, trying to save a man on a table.

Dark hair, open eyes. They were blue.

_This is death, innit?_

His eyes were blue like that.

"I've got a pulse!"

Movement again, this time a dragging. Waking, almost.

Eyes blinded by light.

"He's stable."

"Good. Bag him and get him up to surgery. They're going to want that
bullet out as soon as possible."

Blinded by light.

_There was a gun..._

Something trickled down his temple.


Further notes: Creegan was, in fact, technically dead for almost 15
minutes, iirc (some bastard has my tapes right now, so I can't check).
And Kerry did indeed ask for a divorce after he'd recovered.