The Rest-Cure
by Ashlea
Bodie glanced in the driving mirror. The man in the back seat was very soundly asleep, his head rolling with the tiny movement of the car, a frown creasing the craggy face.
Doyle was less subtle. He squirmed round and leaned over to stare rudely at the controller.
"Ray!"
The car inched forward a fraction.
Doyle writhed back and met his partner's troubled gaze. "Right out, mate."
Bodie's eyes flicked again to the mirror and he chewed at his lower lip anxiously. "I still reckon we should go up with him..."
Doyle's expression clearly said he felt the same, but a meaningful look at Cowley told him that HE would disagree.
"I mean, it wouldn't take us long to drive him up and we could cut across and pick up the motor-way..."
Doyle put a comforting hand on his friend's arm. "You know him -- wouldn't thank us if we did." Doyle stared glumly out of the window at the rest of the traffic. "He might even cancel our leave."
For once Bodie was tempted to tell Doyle that he didn't care about their planned vacation, that he was worried enough about the older man to forego the pleasures of his lover's company to make certain that Cowley got to his destination safely. Another check in the mirror -- Bodie took time to study the face, noting the lines of fatigue and pain. Christ, he looked -- ancient!
"I suppose you don't notice it until times like now -- he's always too busy belting round after the ministers and terrorists to stand still long enough for you to see it." Doyle's words echoed Bodie's thoughts with uncanny accuracy.
"Wonder how they managed to persuade him to go. I mean, he gets God knows how many days leave a year, and he doesn't use half of it. Says he can't get anyone to deputise for him -- dunno what'd happen if he retires!"
"Would you stay on?" Doyle asked suddenly, concerned.
Bodie shrugged. "Never really thought about it. Would you?"
"I asked first," Doyle countered.
"Depends," Bodie hedged. He brightened perceptibly and shoved the car in gear. "We're moving."
Cowley gazed out at the speeding countryside for the umpteenth time in a minute. His mind was on the last interview he'd had with the doctor...
"If you don't take a break, George, nature'll do it for you. You work twice as hard as any of your lads -- and they're half your age. A long weekend now could mean the difference between seeing your retiremeant or a total breakdown in six months. Face it, man, you're no spring chicken..."
Older, yes, that much was true. That damn leg was giving him gyp now and on cold mornings, he ached in a dozen other places. He could still tumble the younger agents, though, if matched against them in the gym...The guard punched his ticked and left him to his thoughts.
I don't feel old, he protested silently. My mind is still clear -- rest, a break...there was a joke doing the rounds in the office that if he ever won a holiday, he wouldn't know what to do with it. Cowley knew who'd started it, of course: only Bodie would've had the nerve. He let it go, knowing that the impudence masked a great deal of affection that the younger man would never admit to. He recalled the almost-stricken expression on Bodie's face when he and Doyle had dropped him off at Liverpool Street station. It was Doyle who had asked whether their chief wouldn't change his mind, and let them drive him. Bodie had hovered hopefully, car-keys still in hand.
"Wales," Cowley pointed out to his brightest agents, "is the opposite direction from Norfolk."
"We can cut across, pick up the motorway, after we drop you off," Bodie replied.
And sacrifice a well-earned day of their own holiday. Cowley was touched by the gesture, but would never say as much to either man. "Och, away, will you? I'm old enough to look after mysel'," he smiled. "But you can pick me up on Monday when I come back."
Monday? But Bette had told them he'd be gone for a week at least...
"Er, right, we'll -- see you then."
They saw him onto the train, stowing his bag and waiting till he was on his way. Bodie had waved...
The young man who collected him at Norwich smiled as he took the case. "Dad sends his apologies for not coming down in person. He was called away this morning, but he hopes to be back by the time we get home."
Kit McKay, the youngest of Douglas' boys had been a buck-toothed kid when Cowley had first seen him. His father had shaken his head over the child in desperation. "Don't think even the Marines'd have him, George!"
Cowley smiled: the boy had done his parents proud and had become a member of the Army's elite. It was as a corporal that Christopher McKay had taken the individual judo medal in Amsterdam, back in '75. In the process he had wiped the floor with his sergeant, one William Bodie...He came back to the present when he heard the soldier call his name.
"I'm sorry, Kit, what was that? I was miles away."
"We don't see very much of you these days, sir," McKay was infinitely more polite than Bodie.
"No," Cowley sighed. "I appreciate your taking the time to fetch me."
McKay smiled warmly and cast a glance his way. "It's a pleasure, sir." Then, almost innocently, "Is Bodie still working for you?"
The corner of Cowley's mouth twitched in amusement. "Aye, he is."
From the tone of his voice, McKay knew the question was not unexpected.
"He was -- still a little upset -- the last time I mentioned your name to him," Cowley added.
"I did rub it in a bit," Kit conceded. "Did he ever tell you how I came to beat him?"
Cowley shook his head. Bodie seldom discussed his past, either his achievements or his failures, with anyone. "He mentioned he was ill," Cowley recalled.
"So he was," McKay slowed the car. "They carted him off the mats and sent him straight to hospital. Appendix had burst, stupid little sod..."
Cowley shook his head; that was typical of Bodie, and he said as much. "Still, I don't believe he holds that against you..."
The conversation turned to other more general matters and Cowley settled back, beginning, at last, to relax.
"How would you like to spend a week up at the Lodge?" Douglas McKay arched an eyebrow at Cowley as they lounged in the huge winged armchairs.
Cowley frowned. "I'm due back in London on Monday."
"George," the other man admonished, "I happen to know you've been given a week's leave on medical grounds -- I had a word with your secretary and your doctor. You are not going back to London on Monday."
From long experience, Cowley knew it would be futile arguing with McKay, so he surrendered with as much grace as he could muster, making a mental note to have words with Bette as soon as he got home.
"Kit was telling me you've had it completely renovated..."
McKay smiled. "Indeed. You'll see for yourself. We'll make an early start tomorrow..."
Cowley ran rapidly through a list of possible excuses not to go, just in case.
The house stood back from the banks of the loch in it's own nest of trees. It shone in the midday light, bright with it's new coat of white paint. McKay smiled with relish at the expression on Cowley's face.
"It was beautiful before, but this..."
"I've had several offers for it," McKay informed him. "Mostly from Americans, who want a place with character."
"Well, you have to hand it to them," Cowley chuckled, as he surveyed the reception area, "they do have an eye for quality."
"A lot of them come over to discover their roots," McKay continued, as he led Cowley up to his room. "Or a glimpse of Nessie. I've a lot to thank Sir Peter Scott for, one way and another. His survey revived interest in the creature and those of us who were canny, took advantage of the publicity." McKay snorted disparagingly. "Imagination is a wonderful thing."
"You don't believe in it," Cowley prompted.
McKay laughed outright and grabbing his arm, drew Cowley to the window. There was a grand view of the water, and the traffic that plied its trade there.
"The only things you'll find swimming in that loch -- aside from the odd drunkard -- is fish. Or otters. Once in a blue fit, there might be a seal, or the occasional adventurous stag, but the one thing that loch does NOT have, is a monster. I'm sorry to shatter any illusions you may have."
Cowley smiled, unconcerned. "I'll retain an open mind on the subject," he commented. "I suppose there's still a little part of me that wants to believe in the beastie..."
McKay laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "You're just an old romantic at heart, George."
Cowley's eyes left the page as he head McKay calling. A movement at the corner of his vision drew his attention to the water's surface. The sunlight bounced off the resultant waves...Too big to be an otter or a fish -- Cowley's heart skipped a beat and his hunter's senses clicked to alert.
"George?"
He started almost guiltily as McKay tapped on his open door and came in.
"There's something in yond loch -- but I don't think it's a beast."
Their eyes met and McKay chuckled. "We'll investigate -- after lunch..."
An afternoon spent on the water revealed nothing untoward, but Cowley trusted his instincts: there was something odd out here...They rounded off the day at the pub in the village, settling in to a corner in the small lounge, and letting the conversation wash over them as they supped on pints of McKay's usual.
" -- sheep missing. That makes three he's lost in the past month."
" -- be a fox," suggested someone else.
"The dogs would've found it," the original speaker snorted derisively. "It would leave traces. No, these creatures've been dragged off wholesale..."
"He's not the only one to've lost stock. McLeod's lost lambs earlier this season."
"That's the other end of the loch," protested the fox-fancier. "You're not thinking maybe it's a wildcat?"
"Or the beastie fae the loch," the first man laughed. "It's been known before..."
Cowley caught McKay's eye, and lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
"George, there is no beast in that loch," insisted McKay. "McLeod's shepherd is getting on in years -- I dare say the man's miscounted. And," he added, "you are on holiday..."
McKay had a point. He hadn't come all this way to worry about a few missing sheep. Cowley dutifully turned his attention to his beer.
Old habits died hard: Cowley was used to being up early in the morning. Even now, when he was supposed to be relaxing, he was awake before the sun rose. He rolled out of bed and went to the window to gaze over the water. It was too good an opportunity to miss... He donned his clothes hastily, and sneaked into the ever-brightening morning.
Taking the path at a gentle pace, he headed towards the village. The air was chill, heavy with the scent of wet earth, pine and the water itself -- beautiful, peaceful...Cowley caught himself wondering if Bodie and Doyle were enjoying themselves and he smiled: he missed them -- despite their boisterous insolence. His wanderings took him down onto the shore to the very water's edge, where he stopped to admire the view.
Moving onward, he was forced to go more slowly as the ground was muddy and strewn with rock and other debris cast up by the waves. A few yards out, half a tree was floating, tangled with weeds. Cowley considered the possibility that this might have been what he had seen from his window the previous day and dismissed the idea. Whatever he'd spotted had had the power to propel itself through the water, whereas this inert mass was at the mercy of the current.
As if to belie that theory, the lumber turned almost languidly, as it rolled in towards the bank. Cowley blinked, staring at the wreckage for a moment before plunging into the shallows to haul it in to land. Jammed in the branches, were the remains of a sheep.
"It was a McLeod ewe," McKay confirmed later when he returned from his visit to the local constabulary. "It had been partially eaten and submerged for some time. The police are taking the line that a wildcat had at it and that the carcass got caught under the tree as it came down..." He saw the speculative look in Cowley's eye. "All right, I don't believe it either -- but there's still a logical explana- tion. There is no beast in that loch."
"I'm not saying there is," Cowley held up a placating hand. "As I said, I am keeping an open mind on the subject." Both men, however, were naturally pensive over lunch and it came as no surprise when Cowley suggested another fishing trip on the loch that afternoon.
The little outboard chugged happily as they travelled up the lake, risking a grounding as they put into small bays to scan the banks for anything out of the ordinary. There were plenty of otter slides, and the prints from other wild creatures. Cowley wished for a while that he had Bodie with them to make some sense of the confusion of tracks in the mud and grass.
All too soon the light began to fail them, as the clouds gathered and the two men turned back without finding anything of significance. In the bow of (the boat), Cowley gazed back at the darkening water. A tiny movement in the middle of the lake attracted his attention, as a small black something slid beneath the surface. He fixed the spot in his mind and settled back, a warm and familiar feeling in his stomach. For him, the hunt was just about to begin.
An evening's research in the Lodge's library confirmed his suspicions that the area they had covered that day was one of the deepest in the whole loch. Anything wanting to stay hidden could do so without much effort. Cowley toyed -- very briefly -- with the idea of diving at the location, but he knew what McKay's reaction to the scheme would be, and truth told, he didn't like the thought of going down alone. His leg gave a twinge, a timely reminder that he had been on his feet most of the day. He couldn't stifle the grin -- so much for a week of rest. The trouble was, he thought, he was really enjoying himself.
He stared at the shore in disbelief. If an otter had made that particular slide, it would've had to be the size of a cow. Whatever had used it had snapped the saplings at the head of the bank as it descended. He took the boat along to where he could beach it and returned on foot to examine the site more closely. At the waterline, he cast around for any tracks before scrambling up the slope beside the slide, eyes raking the ground for any clue about its maker. Once on top, he paused to catch his breath and massage his complaining leg. He found himself standing on a trail that disappeared off into the trees.
Cowley plunged on, still scouring the immediate vicinity. The track wound upwards through the timber, coming to a finish in a large clearing high above the water. He took another breather as he surveyed the area and began to rationalise this thoughts. Subconsciously, he knew he had been half-hopeful that there was a beast in the loch, but although any self-respecting animal would have a lair to bolt to when necessary, he seriously doubted that an amphibious creature would make a run for high ground when all it had to do was dive, and stay down for a couple of hours. And it was obvious that this path was in regular use. Cowley began a sweep of the clearing, poking around the bases of trees...
The carcass lay under a light covering of earth and pine needles between two conifers. A wildcat's prints crisscrossed the soil beside it. Cowley wrinkled his nose in distaste, and stirred the mutilated mound with a tentative toe. A tiny glint -- he bent closer to the noisome mess to see. A live cartridge -- he frowned as he examined it. Somebody loose on these slopes with a weapon that took Russian ammunition...Cowley made a tactical withdrawal, determined to return and stake the place out over- night if necessary.
Cowley shifted to ease his cramped muscles. Night was falling and with it, the temperature. Beside him, McKay sighed and followed suit, joints cracking in protest. The breeze shushing through the tree tops almost masked the sounds from the beach below. Cowley strained his ears and heard the crackling of twigs. He put his hand to McKay's arm, squeezing a warning and they turned their heads towards the loch...
There were eight: the two in front were armed with machine-pistols, scouting. The four behind dragged the inflatable up the smooth surface of the slide and two more guards followed.
"Stoy!" The command was hissed and the boat was placed gently on the ground, mere feet from Cowley and McKay's cache.
Neither man dared to breath as the leader gave his instructions: he was speaking Russian. Cowley turned his mind to escape and contacting his people for reinforcements. Slowly, he worked his way into deeper shadow, motioning McKay to follow. The half moon that had made it easy for them to find their way would now be working against them...
They made it down to the waterline without mishap and were cautiously picking their way towards their own craft, when the wind drifted the sound of soft voices -- Russian voices -- to them. They were discussing the boat.
McKay cursed under his breath and Cowley cocked his head to hear more. What they said did not bode well for either of them: there was a submarine at anchor beyond the curve of the bay...Their chances of getting clear to raise the alarm were very slim indeed. Cowley and McKay manoeuvered into a position to attack...
It was disappointingly easy for the two older men: Cowley dropped the man nearest the boat, while McKay took care of the one on the landward side, and they shared the last -- one economical blow a piece. They ran their craft out into the water, praying that the others of the landing party were too widely spread to cause them danger. All too soon, the shouts from the bank told them that they had become the prey for the night.
McKay kicked the outboard into life and the boat lurched forward, the ex-soldier opting for a straight run for home rather than hedge-hopping into the bays and inlets for cover.
Behind, the Russian engine fired up and the cloud drifted from the moon, giving Cowley an unpleasantly good view of the other's wash. It was too close for anyone's comfort and the inflatable was already curving its path to harry them toward the mother-ship. McKay was swinging the boat in an arc, desperately trying to out-manoeuvre the foreigners, and Cowley twisted round to call out the enemy position...
Above the noise of the engine, he heard McKay shout. "George -- the sub!"
He was pointing at the steely grey something that was cutting through the water from the middle of the loch. Cowley's senses screamed at him: it was traveling at a rate of knots, with an undulating motion that was unfamiliar to him. He glanced back at their pursuers and saw the black bulk of the ship as it nosed its way to the surface.
"THERE'S the submarine," he bawled, stabbing a finger at the menacing shadow behind them.
McKay's face was leeched of all colour in the silvery light and his voice sounded distinctly odd. "If -- that's -- the sub -- what the hell is -- "
The wash caught them, rocking their boat so that they clung on for dear life. Cowley counted four humps as -- IT -- swept by, heading for the intruders.
"Douglas, I don't give a DAMN what it is, just get us out of here!"
EPILOGUE
Cowley folded the paper carefully and gazed out the window as the train pulled into King's Cross. A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth, as he tucked the tabloid under his arm and picked up his bag. A taxi across town, he decided, to the office to catch up with news...
Bodie was scanning the crowd anxiously. His face showed relief as the controller ambled into sight and he wove his way through the commuters eagerly.
"Let me take your case, sir."
Cowley favoured him with a smile, and handed it over. He glanced towards the entrance. Doyle was lounging there. He waved at them and Cowley stifled a laugh at the inevitability of it.
"Did you two have a good weekend?"
"It rained from the time we crossed the border till the moment we left," grumbled Bodie.
"Aye, does the same to me," sighed Cowley contently.
"How was Norfolk, sir?"
"Flat," replied the older man drily. "And Kit McKay sends his regards."
"Ye-es," Bodie gritted his teeth. "He called to say which train you'd be on."
They had reached Doyle's position by this time and the two younger men fell into step, flanking him closely in the milling crowd.
"Anything happen while I was away?"
The agents looked at each other as they escorted Cowley to the car.
"Willis was called in to see the minister," Doyle raised his eyebrow at the controller.
"Apparently," Bodie took up the tale, "he allowed a group of his men to train a bunch of agents for infiltration purposes -- without getting suitable approval from the P.M. and the Minister."
"He was going to send them into the Soviet Union, and have them monitor the Baltic Fleet," Doyle explained.
Cowley chuckled as he ducked into the back seat of the Capri. "How very ambitious of him!"
"The best of it," Doyle couldn't keep his laughter to himself, knowing the older man would appreciate it, "was they were spotted by a couple of local fishermen, who reported them to the constabulary..."
Bodie, too, was smirking as he slid behind the wheel. "Ideas above his station, you might say, sir?"
Cowley groaned and Doyle thumped his other half affectionately. The controller tossed the newspaper over. "Use that, it'll make more of an impression."
Doyle got in two good whacks while Bodie defended himself one-handed, and started the engine. Cowley settled back, closing his eyes as they got under way. There had been a moment or two out on the loch, when he wondered if he would ever see these lads -- or London -- again...
Doyle wriggled round to speak to the controller, only to find the old man's head rolling with the slight movement of the car. He nudged his partner in the ribs and jerked a thumb at the back seat. "He's right out of it again, love."
Bodie risked a longish look in the mirror, studying the craggy face. He couldn't quite decide whether all those lines had been there before the holiday.
Doyle sat back and unfolded the newspaper. His eyebrows climbed as he noticed which of the dailies Cowley had bought. It took him five minutes -- reading slowly -- to go through all the newsworthy items.
Bodie glanced briefly at the pages open in his lover's lap. "Anything interesting in there?"
"Some doctor's wife's bit of stuff giving evidence against her -- tot takes milkfloat for joy-ride -- " Doyle turned the page " -- and Nessie's been sighted again...Not much, really," he sighed. "I expect he bought it for the crossword."
In the back seat, Cowley manfully suppressed his smile. Glad to be home, he told himself. These lads would never know...he fell asleep as the Capri slid behind a taxi-cab waiting in the queue...
-- THE END --
For Kenny W. and the banker
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