Bodie stretched out one leg and winced as the blood began to fill his toes, then forgot about it when he spotted the tiny hole in the rubber tube he held. "Got you," he told it triumphantly and reached for the patching tape.

That minor flaw attended to his satisfaction he surveyed the jumble of parts spread around the body of the Harley and smiled. Almost done. And Ray said he'd never do it.

Not that Bodie himself had really believed he'd do it either. But he had - well, almost. By, say - he glanced at his watch - 1800 hours he'd have it together. He'd take it for a spin then...just to SHOW him.

"Yeh," Bodie said and rubbed another bit of grease onto his nose.

Six months of work, this lot. Ray, of course, had found the framework, got it all going. But it was he, Bodie, who had searched out the replacements for the missing or damaged bits, slogging through collectors' magazines, shifting over junk piles, bartering, buying one piece after another. What had started as a quick conversation had grown into an obsession.

"Can't find the right carburator," Doyle had said fretfully, and Bodie, eager to go for a quick pint, had answered, "You couldn't find your own arse if it jumped up and bit you."

Doyle pointed out the various flaws in this theory and eventually challenged, "I'll bet you couldn't find one either."

Nettled, Bodie took himself off. By the next day he had the part in hand. Doyle had been appropriately awed, Bodie remembered with satisfaction.

"Bet you can't find THIS bit."

Six parts later Doyle moved to a garageless flat and the cycle was given into Bodie's reluctantly interested board and care. He was a sucker for a challenge, Bodie reflected and hummed as the carburator slid neatly into place. Always had been. He knew what Ray was doing - a Tom Sawyer number - getting Bodie to suss out the pieces so Ray could do the tinkering he so loved at his own leisure. Bodie didn't mind, he never refused a dare either.

The diagram he'd picked up from a touch looking biker with "E.T. PHONE HOME" stitched across the back of his jacket was faded, old, and stained with years of abuse. Bodie added another smudge as he held it up to the light. Yes, he had it right. REAL Harley enthusiasts would sneer at him, he knew, but he still needed the reassurance of the schematic. He had a sneaking suspicion that they memorized this print somewhere about the time they cut their first teeth - but his love was for a particular cycle and was largely connected with the man who'd brought him in on it to begin with.

"Sweet thing," he crooned and screwed the shiny nut into place. It seemed to cuddle against the metal. Doyle and his bike, snugglers, both of em. Now this particular bit had come from the Harley of a former Hell's Angels leader, according to the proprietor of the yard where he and Doyle had found it. The so-called notoriety of it had upped the price ten-fold and Bodie smiled to himself, remembering Ray's indignant response. Flashpoint temper - tiny Raymond threatening to make a jigsaw puzzle out of a guy impersonating an eighteen wheeler.

"What does it matter?" Bodie told Doyle as he dragged him away still grumbling.

"Puts me right off, doesn't it?" Doyle was in a definitely snarky temper. "People like that. Lie through their teeth just to hear the sound of their own voice. I'm sick of em. You can bloody ave. em."

"Right," Bodie agreed and went back the next day alone to buy the part, then lied and swore to Ray he'd found it elsewhere.

It wasn't long after that the cycle came into his care completely and he worried over it like a mother hen, reading up from Ray's old magazines, chivying the local librarian into a frazzle when she helped him look up the mystifying bits. He wasn't going to admit ignorance - or defeat.

At 1800 hours exactly he checked the air in the tires one last time. "Perfect," he announced to the garage from his seat on the cold floor.

As if on cue a pair of trainers came into view and Bodie raised a smug face to his partner. "I did it."

"Finished?" Warm eyes slid over the spotless cycle and rested on Bodie. "It's easy to see where all the grease went."

"Look at her," Bodie waved a hand. "She's gorgeous."

"I got to admit, mate, I never thought you'd do it. Come on, I'll pour you a drink to celebrate."

"You go ahead. I'll be up in a minute." Bodie was still admiring his handiwork. "Get the good stuff," he added absently.

"Now I'm REALLY impressed!"

Footsteps faded away up the stairs to Bodie's flat but he ignored them.

He felt proud, and somehow relieved. As if a great weight had lifted and set him free.

He stood back and surveyed the bike. He was right - it was perfect, down to each gleaming centimeter.

His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning. Maybe if he played his cards right he could talk his partner into springing for dinner out.

To celebrate. He had finished Ray's Harley.

Doyle would have liked that.

Bodie smiled and turned off the garage light before locking the cycle away. He bounded up the steps three at a time and called to his partner, "Murph, you pratt, where's my drink?"

"Cheers," Murphy said. He took a close look at Bodie and added, "Fly free."

"Yeh," Bodie agreed and drank the pure malt down in one.

-- THE END --