He's still sulking. Doyle glanced across at the set features of his partner as the Capri swung onto the northbound carriageway. A whole bloody month, he's been miserable and moody -- and to think it all started over a football match! Now, when he gets an all-expenses paid trip to his home town, he makes an excuse a five year old couldn't believe, and hopes that Cowley will take him off the job. Christ, he was lucky not to get sacked on the spot!

Doyle sneaked another look at him. Something's upset you badly, my son; so badly it's affecting your professional conduct. You won't tell me, so I'm going to have to do some investigating of my own. I think that's half the reason the Old Man sent me with you on this one, though on reflection, even Bodie couldn't be expected to trail an IRA suspect for too long without suspicion, despite his claim of superior ability. You watch for Billy O'Malley, and I watch you...the answer, Doyle felt sure, was up in Liverpool -- and it had all started with that bloody match...

Bodie had been on about the match for weeks. For the first time in too long, they had a free weekend, and Bodie had made arrangements for them to go up to his home town to watch Liverpool. It would've been a nice little break for them both...

The first cloud appeared on the horizon on Wednesday night. An all-agents call meant that all leave for the next sixty hours was cancelled and security was increased on a group of visiting European MP's. Bodie was cautiously optimistic about swapping shifts with Lucas and McCabe so that he and Doyle could sneak up north.

"We'd catch an overnight train, sleep on the way up, and be there by the time the gates open," he told Doyle.

"And if something blows up while we're away," Doyle wanted to know. "It would've been a good match, but it's not worth losing your job over..."

Bodie shrugged. "Was just a thought." But there was a glint of mischief in the blue eyes, that Doyle knew too well: his partner had something planned and knowing Bodie, it meant trouble for them both.

They were rostered off on Thursday evening and had adjourned to Bodie's flat: it was more practical for their early start the following day.

Doyle was in the kitchen when the phone rang and he cocked half an ear in case it meant a change to their duties.

"Yes, love -- " Bodie's girlfriend, what's-her-name, with the legs... "What?"

Something in the tone drew Doyle to the doorway, where he stood watching as the colour drained from his mate's face. Bodie was sitting on the end of the sofa, his expression unreadable.

"When?"

Doyle came into the lounge, but Bodie didn't notice.

He swallowed with difficulty. "Of course, right away. I'll see you, love..." He laid the receiver to rest and got to his feet, rubbing his eyes.

"Bodie?"

At the mention of his name, the dark head came up sharply, as if he suddenly remembered Doyle's presence. He gathered his wits.

"Ray, could you cover for me tomorrow -- something's come up, I have to be out of town for a while -- "

Doyle glared at him. Bodie was refusing to meet his eyes, a sure sign it was a trick of some sort -- the match, of course: Bodie was determined to go...

"Oh, no, sunshine. I'm not telling the Cow any lies so that you can sneak off to the football, or live it up with some bird -- "

The pale face before him flushed with anger in an instant. "Is that what you think?" Bodie fished into his jacket, took out his wallet and opening it, he withdrew the tickets. He tossed them onto the coffee-table, and barged past Doyle. "You keep hold of 'em then..." he snarled over his shoulder as he made for the front door.

Doyle was too stunned to react immediately, the slamming of the door brought him to his senses just a little too late.

"Bodie!" He hurried after him.

But Bodie had disappeared.

Puzzled and not a little disquieted by the outburst, Doyle returned to the lounge and picked up the tickets. It was only when he went to fold them into his own wallet that he found there were three...

Bodie went through the next forty-eight hours in a sort of daze. Cowley noticed and called Doyle in at the end of their shift to question him. "Has he been drinking?"

Doyle didn't think so and shook his head. "Dunno, sir, he's just -- "

He couldn't tell the controller that his partner had been out all night, returning on Friday morning with scarcely enough time to wash and eat before they went on duty.

"Think it's girl-trouble," he mused aloud.

Cowley snorted disbelievingly but let it pass. "In that case, he won't need next Friday off. You can both have Monday and Tuesday in lieu of this weekend." The older man was already turning his attention to a more pressing problem.

Doyle thanked him and went to break the good news to his colleague. Bodie seemed resigned when Doyle told him and went home alone after dropping his mate off. The following morning, Sunday, Doyle phoned him, but there was no reply. He drove round later in the day to find the silver Capri outside and all the curtains drawn, as if in mourning. Doyle lost no time letting himself in and checked the apartment over thoroughly.

The bed hadn't been slept in and a search of the wardrobe showed that Bodie'd packed some over-night gear -- his only pair of jeans and a couple of sweatshirts. Intriguingly, his shaving tackle was still on the side in the bathroom, although his toothbrush was missing. A weekend with his bird, Doyle concluded: it didn't feel RIGHT...His gut tightened. She must be a very special lady for Bodie to drop everything and go to her...It was galling to think that someone else had that kind of hold over his partner...

Bodie never said where he'd been, or why. He was disinclined to speak to anyone for the first few days. He threw himself into his work, on the grounds that it kept his mind off -- other things. Life seemed to settle and they were put onto the case involving stolen arms which were finding their way to the Irish republicans.

"Bloody murdering bastards," Bodie growled, his eyes aglow with a feral light. "I'd shoot the fucking lot of 'em if I had the chance..."

Doyle could understand the sentiment behind the words. As a policeman, he'd seen the aftermath of bombing campaigns first-hand; Bodie was bound to have seen even more as a member of the security forces in Northern Ireland...

It was the sighting of one of the chief suspects on the mainland that signaled a possible break-through for them. Thus, Cowley was sending his two top agents to Liverpool to apprehend one Billy O'Malley, lately come from the Emerald Isle...

In Doyle's opinion, the hotel was a glorified dump. Set below the Metropolitan cathedral, it was a sooty building with grimy windows. Bodie risked the on-street parking, but was clearly unhappy -- Doyle noticed his lip starting to curl, a sure sign of displeasure.

"It's got me itching already," he murmured in sympathy.

Bodie merely grunted as he unloaded their gear. They trudged up to the entrance where Bodie rang the bell. Doyle snatched the opportunity to scan the immediate vicinity. It made him feel depressed. The sky was leaden and cast a dismal gloom over the murky buildings that he could see.

The door opened unexpectedly, revealing a wary-looking girl.

"What d'you wan'?" The accent was thick enough to cut.

"Rooms for the night, love. We booked," Bodie replied, in less-broad Scouse.

Doyle knew he shouldn't've been surprised: I keep forgetting he speaks the lingo...

"Better come in then..." The girl stepped away, and Bodie mounted the stairs, shadowed by Doyle. A pair of curious eyes raked them both from head to toe. "Wass yer name, chuck?"

Bodie told her and signed them into the tatty register.

"Your room's been double-booked. D'you mind sharing? It's at the top of the stairs."

"No," Bodie sighed, apparently unsurprised by the information. "We don't mind."

"Loos and bathroom are down the passage. Payment in advance."

Bodie produced his wallet and Doyle made certain they got a receipt, which he folded into his inner pocket.

The girl led them up the seemingly endless flights of narrow stairs. The whole place smelled musty, old, uncared for. It reminded Doyle sharply of the East End, in the sixties, with its rooms full of immi- grants...Ahead of him, his partner was lost in another world completely. A brief pause by the door as their guide fumbled with the key, then they were inside, facing another filthy window that overlooked desolate rooftops. There were two beds.

"Tea's around six, if you want."

"We'll let you know, love." Doyle had already decided to eat out, find a chippy or a take-away.

The girl shrugged and left them to it. Bodie went over to the window and gazed out. Doyle bounced on the bed nearest him. The spring creaked alarmingly, but it seemed reasonably soft. He watched his partner. Wherever Bodie was...he stared at the monochrome landscape, one hand propping his weight against the wall.

"Bodie?"

Doyle swung off the bed and came to stand behind him. He risked one hand on the powerful shoulder. Tell me, he willed. TELL ME WHAT'S THE MATTER.

Bodie glanced at him and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. "We can buy our food in town. It's not too far to the centre from here..."

Doyle took his hand away. "You get some sleep and I'll get the grub. Just point me in the right direction..."

Bodie turned his back on the window and proceeded to give his partner instructions, delving into his wallet again. He passed over a five pound note. "Bring back some beer," he added, as he went to stretch out on the bed next to the door. "Something decent."

Doyle gave him a mock salute, grinned and departed, scooping his keys off the side. Once outside, the feeling of unease that had plagued him on the journey up, returned with a vengeance. Ridiculous he knew: Bodie was a native of this place and was well able to look after himself. The sense of disquiet persisted though, and Doyle hurried about his errand. It wasn't such a surprise, when he got back to the hotel, to find Bodie had gone. He checked the toilet and bathroom as a matter of course, and asked the receptionist whether he'd left a message.

Bodie had gone for a walk, she said, probably up to the cathedral.

Doyle went back to their room and fell asleep waiting for his return...

By evening, the joke, if it was one, had worn off, and Doyle vowed to every deity that he would kill Bodie in the most painful way imaginable -- if someone hadn't beaten him to it. Attempts to contact him were futile: though the R/T was gone, Bodie had turned it off. His gun was missing, too, but he'd left his ID card.

Angry and worried in roughly equal measure, Doyle felt justified in going through his colleague's belongings for any clue to his whereabouts. His search revealed a wallet full of photographs, carefully stowed in a pocket of the holdall. Doyle took them out, spreading them on the bed.

A mixture of old black-and-white snaps -- terraced houses and kids playing in the street -- and more recent colour pictures. He studied them, reading the brief scrawl on the back. The monochrome ones were all from 1960 -- Bodie would've been eight-ten years old. He might easily be one of the brats playing football...Doyle peered closely and grinned. He could just make out some little urchin who could've been William Andrew Philip Bodie, aged nine. Nice looking kid, who had turned into a handsome man...

Doyle sat back and let this thoughts wander for a while, mulling over his favorite subject: his partner, Bodie.

Doyle had had designs on his colleague's body for quite some time now -- working with him was an exquisite form of torture that he had borne to the best of his ability, resigned to the fact that Bodie would never reciprocate his feelings. It took time for him to notice that those accidental touches that occurred were not as coincidental as he'd at first thought.

Doyle had intended broaching the subject over the weekend -- then Cowley had fucked their plans, Bodie had disappeared...and no amount of effort on Doyle's part could induce his partner to say where or why -- or with whom -- he had spent that crucial two days...With a heart-felt sigh, Doyle roused himself and turned his attention back to the photographs.

The later pictures were all amateur snap-shots. Three boys playing with a non-descript dog. Doyle flipped them over: Granny M's -- two years ago. He studied the children, finding nothing remarkable about them. The eldest looked about twelve and obviously didn't like having his picture taken...Doyle could sympathise.

There were two other shots of him -- a formal portrait with the other two dog-teasers, and one on his own showing him in Liverpool team stripes.

The change of expression in the last one made him seem like a different person. Someone had scrawled hastily on the back 'Liam -- Liverpool's next centre forward'...The rest were just pictures of a grave decked with flowers.

Doyle put them all back the way he'd found them. Far from shedding light on his colleague's disappearance, they only raised more questions: who the kids were, and why Bodie should have pictures of them in the first place, but most of all, where the bloody hell was he?

Doyle didn't bother to inform Cowley of his partner's disappearance. He maintained daily contact with central and instigated a low-key search for his errant mate, alternating between fury and anxiety; Bodie wouldn't have to worry about facing Cowley -- Doyle would give him a bollocking when and if he caught up with him...

He'd been in Liverpool four days and was drifting round the city centre when he sighted a familiar figure on the other side of the road. Doyle automatically tailed him, keeping a discreet distance between them.

Cowley would love you, old son, he mused. You vanish for four days, which is bad enough, but you haven't noticed you're being followed.

Bloody good job it's only me...

Bodie was heading for the taxi-rank outside the station. Doyle picked a cab at the opposite end of the line, flashing his ID to forestall any argument. Ahead, Bodie was getting into his vehicle. "Okay, sunshine..."

"I know," grinned the Scouser, "which one d'you want me to follow?"

Bodie's taxi was pulling away. Doyle pointed. "Keep a car between us and them," he advised.

Smirking, the driver eased into the traffic flow. The chase was on.

Bodie paid off his cabbie and walked swiftly down the road. The street was lined with terraced houses, punctuated by cul-de-sacs. Bodie turned into one of them out of sight. Doyle passed over a handful of notes and went after him. Bodie had stopped by the penultimate house and was waiting for the front door. Doyle managed to work his way into a position which afforded him a good view of the hallway when the door finally opened.

"Holy bloody Christ!" The woman was toweling her hair. "Get in here before someone sees you!"

Doyle cursed vehemently as his partner was hustled inside. There was nothing to be gained by staying -- Doyle back off and headed for the main road. He ran through all the possible reasons for his mate to be at the house: not a single one seemed a plausible enough excuse for Bodie to be calling on Billy O'Malley's sister.

An alley ran between this road and the one where Bodie's girlfriend lived. Doyle parked the Capri under one of the unvandalised street lamps, and made his way to the target house. Senses alert for anyone watching, he scrambled over the back wall.

The kitchen light was on, but there was no sign of movement.

Doyle crept towards the back door, digging in his pocket for his skeleton keys, ready to use if necessary. He paused for a long moment in the shadows before trying the handle. Unlocked. He slid into the house, drawing his gun as he went, nerves jangling. The ground floor was deserted -- Doyle made a sweep of all the rooms, lingering in the lounge as the kitchen light picked out the photographs on the mantlepiece. Three solemn-looking dog-teasers, two fair-haired, one dark...

Mary McMahon's children...Doyle recalled that her file said she was widowed...Husband-hunting, he wondered? Bodie? His head rejected it as absolute lunacy; his heart gave a lurch at the suggestion.

Bodie -- and a terrorist's sister? Doyle couldn't believe -- WOULDN'T believe. He put down the picture, retraced his steps and mounted the stairs.

He ascended slowly, scanning for danger. The bathroom was empty, as was the back bedroom, which contained two bunk beds. Doyle crossed the landing, switched the gun to his left hand, and tried the third door. It swung open onto another small bedroom, bouncing gently against the single bed. No need to ask who had slept here -- the scent of Bodie's aftershave hung in the air. When the voice called out, Doyle froze in his tracks.

"Liam, is that you?" Mary McMahon was padding down the passage from the main bedroom. Doyle ducked behind the door, stowing his gun.

"I hope you remembered to turn out the lights -- " She felt for the switch.

"Liam?"

As it clicked, Doyle pounced, grabbing the woman from behind. Terrified, she lashed out, her heel connecting with his shin, and spun round.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she demanded, anger bringing out the Irish accent in full.

Doyle kept hold and shook her hard. "Where's Bodie?"

"Fuck off!" she kicked him again. He clouted her.

"I want some answers, and I'm not leaving till I get 'em. I know he was here -- I followed him this morning. So where is he now?"

"How the hell should I know? I don't keep him on a leash!"

"When's he coming back?"

"He's not!"

Doyle shook her again. "Try again, darlin'. He wouldn't've left his stuff here if he wasn't."

Mary glared at him. "I don't fuckin' well know, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you!"

"You'd better, sweetheart, or I'll -- "

He never saw the blow. He felt it connect with the base of his neck and he tumbled sideways onto the bed, pulling the woman with him. Half of him admired the discretion with which it was delivered; the other half was furious at being caught out...Hands were unlatching his from Mary's shoulders, and he could hear their voices; enquiry -- soft assurance that she was not hurt...

"Better tie him up, and lock him in here," his assailant ordered. "How did he get here?"

"Followed you this morning. Mother of Mercy, who is he?"

"His name's Ray Doyle. He's with CI5." Someone was going through his pockets -- he didn't have the strength to resist. "My partner..."

"Holy Christ?" breathed Mary. "Why did you -- "

"I didn't hit him that hard -- just enough to keep him out for a couple of hours."

"For God's sake, WHY?"

Bodie discovered the car keys. "Because," he explained, "he has a habit of sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong, and getting himself hurt." The hand lingered on his thigh for a moment longer than necessary.

"I'm saving his life. He's no match for Billy." Bodie knelt back on the bed, regarding his unconscious partner. "Besides, Ray has a conscience -- he wouldn't like what I'm going to do to your brother when I catch him ..."

The menace hung in the air; Doyle almost held his breath.

"An eye for an eye..." murmured Mary. "A life in payment for a life..."

Bodie shook his head. "Oh, no, love. I won't kill him -- but he'll wish to God I had by the time I've finished with him..." He became practical again.

"There's some cord in the boys' room."

Mary trotted off to fetch it and helped Bodie make it fast around Doyle's wrists and ankles, tight enough to restrain, not to damage.

"You'll have to stay and keep an eye on him, he's a tricky little sod when he's cornered -- "

"You're very fond of him, aren't you?"

Bodie didn't deign to reply, which in itself was answer enough for her.

"You're a fool," she chided softly.

"Pursuit of the unattainable," Bodie agreed, patting Doyle's rump. He scrambled off the bed and met Mary's grave eyes. "Will you be okay?"

Mary gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Don't you worry your pretty head over me, I can take care of myself."

Bodie had done an excellent job with the ropes: Houdini, thought Doyle sourly, would've had a problem. All the same he struggled.

He succeeded in rolling off the bed, jarring his aching head badly. He stayed down as the key scraped in the lock, and the light flicked on. Mary stood, considering him for a moment.

"You're looking very uncomfortable, Mr. Doyle. How's the head?"

Doyle eyed her sullenly. "Where's Bodie?"

"I don't know." The woman parked herself on the end of the bed.

She'd changed into a pair of jeans and a sweat-shirt, Doyle noticed. "How long've I been here?"

"Just about an hour. I'll get you something for your head..." She slithered out of the room and Doyle listened as she tramped into the bathroom. He managed to prop himself up against the cupboard by the time she got back. Mary knelt down and offered him aspirin and a glass of water.

"So, you're Bodie's girlfriend," he began.

Mary smiled, an almost Bodie-esque expression. "We're old friends. We grew up here together," she expanded, as Doyle raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I take it he knows your brother, too."

Mary's eyes flashed hell-fire, but her voice was pure ice. "Oh, yes," she hissed, "everybody knows Billy..."

"And Bodie's out chasing him now..."

"Yes." She sat back on her heels.

"And you're just going to let him go ahead, and maybe get himself killed."

"It's not your fight," Mary told him. "Leave well alone what doesn't concern you -- "

"If my partner's involved, it concerns me!" Doyle yelled. "He might've conned you into believing he's Superman, but I've seen him in hospital too many times -- cut me loose!"

Mary took only a moment to decide, then she got to her feet and went to rummage in the pockets of Bodie's jacket. Her hand closed over the knife and withdrew it.

"What will you do -- when you find him?" she asked as she turned to face him.

"First, we'll catch O'Malley, and then I'll break Bodie's bloody neck!" swore Doyle. "Where's he likely to've gone?"

Mary sat down beside and chose a blade. "Billy had a thousand bolt-holes -- people who would've sheltered him once before he -- Sean Flynn would know -- he's an old friend of Liam's and mine..." The cord around Doyle's wrists parted. "What'll happen to Billy when you get him?"

"He'll go to London to face charges," Doyle flexed his hands as they came free.

Mary sliced through the rope around his ankles. "It's a pity they don't hang him."

Doyle pulled the last knots apart. "You don't get on with your brother?" he asked drily.

"If he walked through the door now, I'd kill him with my own hands." Her voice trembled slightly. Doyle put a hand to her shoulder and stood shakily. She changed the subject. "Are you fit?"

"Gimme a couple of minutes," Doyle tried to smile reassuringly.

"He's taken your keys," Mary observed. "Sean's isn't far -- if you can walk."

In reply, Doyle motioned her out onto the landing, and followed her downstairs. A thought struck him as they reached the street. "Where're the kids?"

Beside him, Mary stiffened. "Brendan and Patrick are with their Nanna -- " The Granny M. of the photos.

"Thought you had three boys?"

"We buried Liam last month."

Doyle licked his lips nervously. "I'm sorry. I didn't know..."

Mary kept walking. "He died in hospital, Mr. Doyle, as the result of a gun-shot wound. Liam was looking forward to going to the match...When Billy turned up, he promised to show the boy something more interesting. Billy said they were fooling around, and the bloody gun went off." She stopped and dashed away the bitter tears. "What the HELL was he doing showing a fourteen year old child a gun?"

Doyle didn't have an answer for her. He put a tentative hand on her arm.

"Billy always resented the fact that Liam's dad wasn't Irish. When his father went to be a soldier, and ended up fighting in Belfast..." Mary's voice trailed off. "Come on, we're wasting time. What's done is done." She shook Doyle's hand away. and started walking briskly.

Doyle had no choice but to follow.

The silver Capri was hiding in the shadows. The engine was still hot -- Bodie wasn't that far ahead of his partner. The dockside was completely dark, a fact that was both pleasing and annoying. It afforded the CI5 men cover, but it also meant that he wouldn't be able to locate either Bodie or O'Malley. Caution was the watch word and he stuck to the sides of the buildings where the shadows were deepest. The sound of a footstep behind him made him crouch and turn sharply.

"Doyle," Mary hissed.

He straighten up. "I told you to stay at Flynn's."

"If you're going to do for Billy, I want to see it!"

"I'm not going to DO for him -- your brother's coming back to London alive, so that he can answer questions."

"He killed my baby, he deserves to hang," growled Mary.

A single shot rang out from ahead, inside one of the warehouses.

"Stay here," Doyle ordered curtly.

He made a dash for the building, pausing at the entrance to assess the situation. He slithered inside, stalking through the darkness, senses open for any move or sound from O'Malley or his partner.

A voice called out suddenly, harsh, mocking Irish.

"Liam, why don't you come out and fight like a man?" O'Malley was on the far side, probably dug in behind something solid. "Remember that time at Flynn's -- I beat you cold, boy," he taunted. "Half-breed bastard! LIAM!"

A machine pistol let rip, raking fire across the crates at the end, and Doyle dived for cover. He grunted as his head caught the edge of a packing case.

O'Malley heard and fired again, smearing Doyle's sanctuary with lead. Doyle was tempted to yell out 'missed!' but stayed quiet. Bodie would know who had come to join the fight. He would wait, choose his moment...

The Irishman was moving. Quietly, but not silently enough -- coming to gloat over his victim...

Doyle struggled into a striking position...

"O'MALLEY!"

Bodie loosed a couple of rounds. The terrorist was quick to retaliate, and arc his fire across Bodie's (hiding place). There was a clatter as the agent's weapon hit wood, and landed on concrete. Doyle could almost see the manic grin on the Irishman's face as he squeezed the trigger again.

"O'MALLEY!" he bawled, echoing Bodie's cry. He sprang up, clearly lined against the doorway. Bullets struck the crating and doorpost. Doyle felt a pain sear his temple, and his knees folded beneath him. There was a roaring sound in his ears, like an express train...or a war-cry -- Bodie was screaming as he launched over the boxes at the terrorist.

Doyle was down -- O'Malley was responsible, and he was going to pay. The pain in his heart negated the agony in his wounded hand -- Doyle was down, and O'Malley had breathed his last...

In all the years as a killer, Billy O'Malley had never encountered anything like a furious Bodie. He raised his weapon only to have it knocked aside and he found himself under a hundred and eighty pounds of pure hatred. Bodie made good use of his left hook and bounced the Irishman's skull on the concrete a couple of times for good measure.

Doyle rolled onto his side, his head bleeding from the bullet crease. He could hear the massacre, but he didn't know who was murdering who -- he crawled to the wall and staggered to his feet, his hands clutching for a hold, found the switch...

The warehouse was suddenly bathed in light, revealing a white-faced Bodie straddling a battered terrorist. The agent looked up and saw the source of the illumination crumpling to the ground. He promptly forgot about O'Malley and went to tend Doyle.

A firm arm round his waist eased his impact with the concrete this time, and Doyle even managed a wan smile.

"You hurt your head," Bodie murmured, brushing a trembling hand through sticky curls.

"Your hand's bleeding," Doyle countered softly, taking it in both of his. "Bodie?"

"I wasn't going to kill him..."

Behind them on the floor, O'Malley was hardly stirring.

Mary had hovered outside the entrance whilst the agents exchanged fire with her brother -- she assumed that the light meant all was well and darted through the doorway, taking in the scene at a glance: a grey-faced Bodie with one arm round an equally ashen partner. And before her, struggling up through unconsciousness, lay Billy. He looked as if he'd been hit by a steam-roller. She started for- ward, and her foot connected with the machine pistol...Without thinking,

she picked it up, and continued towards her brother, seeing again her Liam as he had been in the hospital, with half his heart torn away...

Doyle raised his head from Bodie's shoulder, sensing the movement. The first shot made both men jump -- the second galvanised them into action.

"MARY, NO! Bodie, stop her!"

Billy O'Malley's screams drowned him out. Mary had the gun poised, sighting along the barrel, aiming at the centre of her brother's chest. Bodie batted the weapon away, cursing roundly as his injured hand caught the metal.

"Don't do it, Mary. It won't bring him back..." He slid his arms awkwardly round her, fighting the urge to vomit from the pain in his hand, and the fear that Doyle may've been killed. Someone would have to tend Billy, or he would bleed to death. Doyle had gathered his feet and tottered over to join them. Bodie drew him close, so that he was supporting his partner's weight.

Doyle smiled weakly. "We'll get the local lads to clean this lot up," he decided as he eyed the man writhing on the floor. He slipped free of Bodie's embrace and stepped slowly to the terrorist's side.

"How does it feel, Billy, having no knee-caps?" He glanced at his partner and the woman. "It's a good job for you they're here, mate," he snarled, "that means I can't kill you for what you've done to them. You'll have a long time to think about what you did..." And raising one foot, he brought his heel down on one shattered leg. With an agonised shriek, O'Malley fainted.

The rest of the night passed like a dream for them. The police came in answer to their request for assistance, and Billy was spirited away under armed guard. The others all wound up at the local hospital having their various injuries tended: Bodie's hand was taped, Doyle's forehead bandaged, and Mary instructed to have a sedative -- which she refused.

It was half past three when she ran the Capri onto the pavement in front of her house. Doyle was out on his feet, and Bodie and Mary struggled to get him upstairs and to bed. Bodie didn't question her decision to put them into the main room together, and he helped strip his colleague, tucking him up in the double bed.

"Mary..."

She smiled at him and spoke softly. "I'll see you in the morning."

With a kiss, she disappeared into her eldest son's room. Bodie watched the door close quietly behind her before turning back to where his new love lay.

EPILOGUE.

Cowley sat through their verbal account of Billy O'Malley's capture, watching both his agents carefully. They were unsettled, on edge. As well they might be, thought the controller, for letting the situation get out of hand.

"What'll happen to Mrs. McMahon, sir?" Bodie asked.

Cowley eyed him speculatively. Bodie -- and Doyle -- seemed

inordinately concerned about the terrorist's sister. "She should be charged with Grievous Bodily Harm -- possibly even attempted murder--" He noted the hardening of his men's expressions.

"Without her help, we would still be looking for O'Malley," Doyle observed icily. "She had her reasons..."

Cowley turned his attention to the other operative. "Well, 3.7?"

"If she hadn't shot him, I would have, sir."

Cowley got to his feet and rounding the desk, strode to the drinks cabinet. He poured three very generous measures of Scotch, handing one to each of his men.

"I saw Mrs. McMahon this morning, before my appointment with the DPP. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that she was prepared to kill her brother, and would accent her punishment. Her only concern was for her children..." He caught the tail-end of the message that flashed between his two agents. "The DPP was of the opinion that she would go free. To quote him, 'No court in England would condemn a grieving mother for taking the law into her own hands under these circumstances.' I've issued a D-notice to the Press on the story of O'Malley's capture," he continued.

"Mrs. McMahon will be spending a few days in London at the department's expense. It's a low-key body-guard duty..." He paused, gauging their reaction to the news. Bodie was actually smiling.

"I explained to her that you were both officially signed off as unfit, but I promised her I'd let you make the decision..."

"When do we start, sir?" asked Doyle.

Cowley checked his watch. "If you go now, you'll be able to relieve Murphy and Turner..."

Neither man needed a second bidding.

Doyle stared at the clothing strewn over the bed. It would take a miracle to get it all into the suitcase and shoulder-bag that stood open on the floor. Undaunted by the magnitude of the task, Mary was methodically folding, packing and flattening.

"I appreciate what you've done for us." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "It's been a good holiday."

Doyle smiled and handed her the next item from the pile on the mattress. "I'm glad you enjoyed it -- made a change for us as well."

"Back to the grind tomorrow, though?" she asked.

Doyle shrugged. "Never know in this job..." His voice trailed off. This was the only chance he'd had all weekend to get her on her own. "Tell me about Bodie..."

The bed dipped as Mary sat down beside him. "What's to tell? We grew up together -- we were best friends," she smiled reminiscently. "We were virtually inseparable as children...Billy hated him -- I think that's what made me love him more..."

Doyle's heart sank as she spoke. "You still do -- love him, I mean."

Mary regarded him steadily. "I lost him years ago, Ray, when he went to sea." She paused, choosing her words. "He was always looking for something more -- something I could never give him...I often meant to ask him if he ever knew what he needed, but I never got the chance..." She patted his arm comfortingly. "I do know that you make him happy -- that's something I couldn't do."

Doyle was startled by the revelation. "You know -- did he tell you, about us?" About the end of their stay in Liverpool; how they had woken up, their arms around one another in Mary's bed; their having to share the hotel room, sleeping feet apart, when all they wanted was to be together; the first night back in the capitol, they had headed back to Bodie's... From that moment on, they were never apart for more than five minutes...

"He didn't need to," laughed Mary. "It's there in his eyes...I'm happy for both of you -- truly."

"You're not even a bit hurt?"

Mary shook her head. "I've got a part of him that nobody else can own..."

Doyle's eyes met her steady gaze. Mary reached down for the

shoulder-bag, and dipping into the side pocket, she withdrew a paper wallet. She handed Doyle pictures: the black-and-white one was of a boy and girl -- about fourteen, he judged. They had their arms around one another. Both were dark-haired, could've been brother and sister -- except that he knew the boy's eyes were blue...

The other photo was of Liam McMahon, caught unawares without his usual scowl. His hair was dark, and had a tendency to wave like his mother's, and the innocent blue eyes smiled at him happily.

"Brenda took it, the week before he died."

"Can see where he gets his looks from," murmured Doyle. "Liam -- William?"

"Named after his father -- " Mary confessed. "They're very like..."

Doyle leaned across, slid his arm round her waist and kissed her gently. The sound of the front door opening and the giggles of the children intruded. Doyle let his arm drop, and Mary shot to her feet. "Holy Mother, is that the time? And I've not got the bags packed..."

The two boys came racing into the bedroom, chattering like magpies.

"Mam, mam, we've been -- "

"Mam, mam, look!"

Bodie lounged in the doorway, grinning and Doyle smiled in reply, acknowledging the resemblance between his partner and Liam McMahon.

Mary was trying to calm the kids and was being treated to an in-depth report about London from both of them simultaneously. Doyle took over the packing as she was bundled into the safe-house lounge by her offspring. The two men exchanged a knowing look, and Bodie went off to play host one last time...

"What's wrong?" Doyle pressed himself into his partner's side.

"Nothing," Bodie lied, rolling over to present his back to his lover.

Doyle put a hand on one broad shoulder, and began to massage it, easing the tension away. Bodie was not happy and he was determined to find out what was upsetting his bed-mate.

"I had an interesting talk (with) Mary today, while you were out with the children."

He felt the muscles beneath his hand bunch again, and Bodie

squirmed. Doyle was hard-put not to laugh. "She told me about Liam..."

Bodie made a move towards the edge of the mattress. Doyle caught hold of him and held him firmly. "Bodie?"

"What was I s'posed to do? I couldn't just calmly announce I've got a fourteen year old son, whose mother is the sister of a known IRA activist..." Bodie rolled onto his back, and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. This, he knew, was long overdue. "I hardly knew the kid -- he was eight years old before I even found out about him -- Mary was married to Jim McMahon by then. It was easier to be an old friend of the family...my prospects weren't that bright at the time, and I had developed -- other interests by then..."

"Would you've told me?" Doyle asked softly.

"I wanted to -- came close to it a couple of times, but I couldn't find the right words..."

Doyle snuggled up to him. "And this?" he questioned. "Would you've said how you feel about me?"

Bodie swallowed, hesitated.

In the semi-dark of the bedroom, Doyle smiled. "That football match -- I was planning to seduce you," he confessed. "Had it all worked out -- hotel room, share the bed, the works..."

"Then Cowley goes and buggers it all." The smile was back in Bodie's voice. "There's no bloody justice in this world, is there?"

Doyle touched his lips to Bodie's chest, above the nipple. "Oh -- I don't know. The DPP let Mary off, Billy O'Malley has had a taste of his own medicine -- I've got you -- uh, maybe you're right at that!" he teased.

"Course I'm right," snorted Bodie, entering into the spirit of things. "I'm far too good for you -- "

Doyle loomed over him and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'LL be the judge of that, if you don't mind." He wriggled further up the bed, rolling half onto his lover. "You got any more deep dark secrets I should know about while we're at it?"

Bodie shook his head. "You?"

"Uh-uh." Doyle settled against his partner. "You already know I love you..."

Bodie grunted non-committally, and hugged him close...

He was almost asleep when he heard his name being called softly. "Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Bodie paused. "Nothing."

Doyle waited.

"Ray?"

"Still here, sweetheart."

Bodie gathered himself. "Thanks -- for everything..." Then, after another moment, "I love you."

Doyle squeezed him gently and kissed Bodie's throat. "No more secrets between us? No more ghosts from the past..."

A deep sigh answered him and he couldn't help smiling. Bodie had fallen asleep. A wriggle and a snuffle later, Doyle had joined him...

-- THE END --

Thanks to Paul, when we were lost for words, and Wendy "the policeman-lady"!!