"Listen, sunshine, keep this up and you'll be taking an early bath!"

Sam looked up. Pelting rain washed down his face, plastering his hair to his head, and running under the collar of his already soaked football shirt. He looked back at the furious face of Gene Hunt, dressed all in black, whistle around his neck, his hair limp and dripping.

"Early bath?" Sam said. "Who needs a bath when they've had a ninety minute shower?"

He would need a bath though. Mud caked his legs right up to the thighs. The same applied to the rest of the teams, detectives v uniform, all covered in so much mud that they could barely tell which team was which any more.

"Look," Sam said, "nobody's going to come out on a night like this."

"He's right, guv," Chris said, joining the face-off between Sam and Gene. "We should call it off for the night,"

"Go down the pub," suggested Ray.

"Junkies don't care about the rain," Gene said. "They'll come looking for their score." He laughed, a bitter sound. "The five-a-side centre as the new place to score. Bastard dealers have a sense of humour, I'll give them that." He raised a fist. "And if any of the buggers shows up, I'll give them this."

"Guv," Sam said. "I think..."

"Right!" Gene blew his whistle hard in Sam's face making him flinch back. "If I have to be the poxy referee, I might as well enjoy it." He took out the red card and held it up. "Sam Tyler. Off."

"What?"

"Dissent. Move your arse."

Sam stared for a moment, then looked up at the dark sky. The rain still lashed down. He looked at the mud bath the pitch had become. And he saw that expression in Ray's eyes that said "You're going home in an ambulance, pal." Only Sam's greater speed had saved him from some crunching tackles. He thought about the nice hot showers in the nice warm changing rooms.

"Well thank god for that."

Sam took an early bath.