"Of course, the bloody lift doesn't work."

Resigned, he shrugged the guitar case over his shoulder, secured the hold-all under one arm, flexed his fingers into a solid grip on the two suitcases then took the stairs two at a time. His leather jacket strained across flexed shoulders and he listed slightly as he strode down the hall, this owing to his unbalanced load. One of those suitcases held nothing but books. His cramping fingers reminded him that he was breaking one of his own rules. He liked his life uncomplicated, cluttered with neither entanglements nor possessions. That made it easy to clear out when the mood struck.

He dropped the lot in front of the door and fished through his pocket for the key. The door open, he shovelled the luggage inside, then stepped over it to have a look around. He walked through the flat, surveying his new domain, his first home in over fourteen years. The living room was a good size and nicely furnished, modern straight lines, soft neutral colours. He inspected the electric fire. 'Nice touch, that.'

He nodded his head in approval and stepped across the narrow hall to the bedroom. It was adequate, actually better then he had a right to expect, with that big bed and all, but that too perfect still-life arrangement above it would have to go. He bounced twice on the bed testing it. 'Too bloody soft.' He made a mental note to order a board for between the mattress and spring. Next he opened empty drawers and looked into bare closets. Soon these would be hung with decent clothes, tailored suits and shirts, none from off the racks and comfortable, maybe even hand-made, shoes. He would never again run out of clean clothes, never again have to put on something that had been worn, but not yet laundered.

On his way to get the suitcases, he detoured into the kitchen. A cursory peek through the cupboards showed they contained all the utensils he would ever need. Grabbing a glass, he went back to the luggage. The guitar case was stowed in the hall closet along with the leather jacket. The suitcases and hold-all he hauled into the bedroom.

The books went on the shelf provided, in alphabetical order, by author. Poetry went on the first shelf, history books, the second. The gun books. everything from care and cleaning to the expensive ones with the pictures of antique weapons, took up the bottom two shelves.

He attempted to group his few clothes, arranging first jackets, long-sleeve shirts, short-sleeve shirts, pants creased and folded over a proper hanger. Shoes were lined in a neat row on the floor. This was learned in the military, but he had adopted the habit for his own. He liked things orderly, but perhaps more importantly he like to know where everything was; he wanted nothing hidden and certainly no surprises.

From the hold-all he took a bottle of scotch and poured it, two fingers high, into the glass. He swirled the amber liquid as he looked around the room. You could smell the newness of the refurbished flat. It look unlived in, and would a year from now.

Walking to the door frame, he pushed on it, testing its strength to see if it would hold a chinning bar. It was not vanity that prompted these actions, though he was that. No, he had a more practical reason. His body was a machine like the weapons he was trained to use. His job depended on both being in peak condition, and more importantly, his life depended on it.

Turning, he sipped from the glass and contemplated the near empty closet. 'Maybe I should have brought the uniforms,' he thought. then immediately reversed himself. Better to have left them behind with that part of his life. The uniforms that is, not the skills. Those he would need for his new job. He smiled at the incongruity, finished his drink and refilled the glass. He had not been surprised that the Army was willing to overlook his past and accept him. They figured to use what skills they wanted and regiment the undesirable ones out of him. It amazed him to admit it, but the some extent, they had. It might seem like a big jump from the jungle to civilization, but was it really? The Armed Forces always needed men with his particular skills, whether they publicised the fact or not. But him--Bodie, fourteen year old run-away, ex-mercenary--recruited by the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police. Summoned by "The Bloody Yard" itself. Him, working in Her Royal Majesty's Service. "Bloody hell." He was almost sorry his father hadn't lived to see this day. Bodie would have so enjoyed flashing his ID under the old man's nose. "William Andrew Philip Bodie, Agent, Criminal Intelligence. See that, you old bastard. I did amount to something, and it a good sight better than the Liverpool ship yards. Take off your belt now and.... Oh, sod him. It's better that he's dead, better for me mum--better for everyone." He swallowed the scotch in one gulp and slammed out of the room.

Back in the kitchen, he rinsed the glass and set it up-side-down on the drainboard, then he put the bottle away.

He showered, the water running hot and strong, needling his body. He dried raking the towel across his back then wrapping it around his waist. Grabbing another, he took care to dry his feet properly. They were healed now and had been for some time, but he could still remember what having to go for days on end with boots full of sand or water had done to them.

Contemplating himself in the mirror, he stood his own inspection. Most would be wearing Levi's but Bodie had yet to own his first pair. It didn't matter. The black cords, smooth and fitted to his body, were every bit as good. And the white turtle-neck polo was striking against his dark hair and eyes and the stretch material accented and outlined his broad shoulders and full biceps.

With a keen eye, he appraised himself. He was aware of his body, paid attention to its sensations and signals and knew how to interpret and to control them. He knew his good points--his skills and looks--and his bad--his temper--and how to use each to turn a situation to his advantage. His eyes, for instance, wide set and deep blue. In questioning, they could beguile with sincerity or turn black with threat, whatever was required to get the information.

Running a comb through his dark short hair, he pushed a stray wisp into place. He was confident of he appearance, "cocksure," he'd been told and he had learned to use it. When he was certain that he was presenting the casual appearance he wanted, he nodded his approval to the smiling reflection, switched off the light and left the room.

Slipping his watch onto his wrist, he checked the time. It was just gone seven and he was late, but then he had planned to be. Tonight the new agents were planning to celebrate with a pub crawl. For the first time since their training had begun they would be relaxed. This morning's ceremonies had ended the formalities and completed the final selections. Now, with their appointments a fact and a few half pints under their belts, the talk would flow freely. Bodie was not ready to be one of the mob, not just yet; but he would not miss this chance to see these men on a social level and to hear what they had to say. He would catch them at the Green Man Tavern and hoist a pint or three with them, laugh and call them "mate," and when it was all over he would know something about these men. The reverse would not be true.

-- THE END --