Chapter 1: Too much To Drink
It had been another day on the job for DI Sam Tyler in 1973 Manchester; he and his partner, DCI Gene Hunt, had arrested yet another murderer that afternoon: a young man by the name of Lawrence Dirnt, who bludgeoned his girlfriend to death after she discovered his involvement with a gang of drug dealers. Dirnt had been shipped off to prison a few hours ago, and everyone had gathered at the pub that evening for the usual rounds of drinks. Sam was sitting at the bar, watching Gene from the other side of the room as he loudly recited the story of the chase. Showing by his slurred words and boisterous tone, he had already had too much to drink.
"An' then, when the little weasel turned the corner, I clocked 'im on the head with a brick! The bastard didn't see it comin'." He roared, taking another swig from the scotch in his hand.
The pub roared with laugher and applause, and even Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Gene might not use the right tactics when it came to policing, but at least he got the job done.
A couple beers later, Sam staggered back home to his flat. He had turned down Gene's offer to drive him due to his usual carless behavior under the influence. Thankfully, Nelson had offered the intoxicated DCI to spend the night before he did something stupid. After finally arriving at his front door, Sam shoved his hand into his front pocket, searching for his keys. As his fingers curled around the small piece of metal, he pulled it from his trousers and fumbled to get it into the lock. It took him a little while due to his shaking hands, but he managed to insert it after a few tries. He leaned on the door, pushing himself into his flat.
Not even bothering to change out of his usual leather jacket and dress shirt ensemble, Sam plopped himself face first onto his bed. The springs beneath the mattress creaked as he landed, struggling to hold his weight. Sam breathed a heavy sigh into the sheets and dozed off to sleep.
All of a sudden, a strange whirring noise came from outside the window. Surprised by the sudden break of silence, Sam shot up from his bed to face the direction of the noise.
"What the hell is that?" He exclaimed, still groggy. He stumbled over to the window to identify the source that had awoken him.
There, underneath a street lamp across from his apartment complex, was a big, blue box. A flashing lantern was illuminating from the top of it, and the words, "Police Public Call Box" were written across the top.
But what was this police box doing here? Sam had never seen it before, and it certainly hadn't been there when he had arrived home earlier. Or was it? He was too drunk to remember. Could that thing have made that noise? No, Sam thought, police boxes don't whir.
"This has got to be just a dream. It'll probably be gone in the morning." Sam mumbled to himself. He was drunk after all. Maybe he was just seeing things.
"Yeah," He told himself, "I'm just seeing things."
He crawled back onto his bed, and went back to sleep.