CHAPTER 5

Thursday

Sprawled across his bed, Doyle woke with the new-born sun in his face and a smiling Basil on his chest. He raised a single finger in front of her nose, then pointed it unmistakably toward the floor. Taking the blatant "hint" with head down and tail flagging, she plopped onto the frayed rug, and slinked away to the kitchen. There, beneath the dining table, she came to lie, hurt brown eyes heavy on Doyle's face.

"Shit." Folding an arm over his head, Doyle contemplated crawling under the table with her. Instead he dragged himself out of bed, put the kettle on to boil, and went into the bathroom to wash up.

Clad in running suit, day-old socks, and green-stained trainers a few minutes later, he shared a cup of tea with Basil, before performing a few obligatory stretching exercises. Then he shoved open the door to officially greet the morning.

Their run of good weather seemed to be holding. The wispy fog of the previous night had crept away before the dawn, leaving a hazy, but discernibly bluing sky overhead. To the east, shreds of yellow, sienna, and ochre hung low above the horizon, gilded by the weak but gaining presence of the early sun.

Unimpressed, Doyle took a moment to consider his surroundings--including the caravan where Bodie resided and which now stood dark and silent. No one else was about, although faint sounds carried from the other end of the compound on the fretful breeze. Derek, probably.

Doyle pulled the door closed behind him, but did not bother to lock it. He had noticed that none of the others seemed to concern themselves with the possibility of theft. It was like that in circuses.

The hair lifted off his forehead as he took off at a slow trot. Basil, her spirits immeasurably improved, kept stride beside him, bright eyes searching out the slightest flicker of movement. Before long, Doyle increased his speed, concentrating hard on the uneven ground, having no desire to twist an ankle or pull a tendon. As the sun inched higher in the sky, and the sweat prickled on his chest and down his back, Doyle ran harder and harder. Soon he lost Basil when she took off after something in the tall grass. Up and down the hills he ran, pushing himself as he had not done in months.

Gauging his distance by time, after half an hour he started back, surprised then to see just how far he had gone. The circus compound lay at least three miles away, visible to him only because he had been steadily climbing out of the valley for the past several minutes.

Letting his mind idle, Doyle worked himself even harder on the return stretch. No one turned up to disturb him--least of all Bodie. Upon that thought, Doyle's tenuous peace of mind came unravelled. He shot forward, ruthlessly ignoring the protest of muscles and lungs already overtaxed, his footfalls pounding angrily and unfalteringly on the gravel road.

Insistent yapping finally broke through his preoccupation. Running full- out, Basil still lagged four or five yards behind. Doyle banked back his speed until the dog had caught up. "Lazy git, aren't you?" he said unkindly.

Basil's eyes gleamed bright with unquestioning allegiance.

"Christ," Doyle whispered. He bent over and lifted the animal up, offering her his shoulder. Panting heavily in his ear, she accepted as though this were owed, and remained perched there as Doyle walked the last half mile to the compound, through the tents to the caravan site, and at last, up to his own place.

Back inside he opened a tin of dog food and put half of it into a small container which he placed at her feet, freshened her water bowl, and filled a large glass for himself as well. His head was clearer now; it was time he rang Cowley.

---

By eight that morning, Doyle felt he had already put in a respectable day. After driving all the way into town to use a phone box, he had rung Headquarters only to be informed by the controller's secretary that Cowley was out for the morning. At Doyle's request, she had connected him with a recorder so that he could leave a detailed verbal report--not that there was really much to tell.

Once he had chronicled the very few bits of information regarding Alf Weatherby and the operation of Circus Sergei that Doyle had unearthed since his arrival, he had gone on to describe the circumstances surrounding Rose's departure the previous night, not neglecting the snatches of conversation he had overheard between her and her husband, Alf--nor Doyle's own blundering involvement.

Then he had passed on the address where he had taken Rose. Before ringing off, Doyle had considered conveying his observations regarding the circus troupe--not leaving out equipment handlers, trainers, and "groupies." In the end he had chosen to keep them to himself. As yet, after all, all he had were impressions, and in some cases, only gut instinct--nothing Cowley would want to be bothered with at this stage.

Back at his caravan with fresh rolls and a meaty bone for Basil, wheedled out of a couple of early opening shops, Doyle had then settled down to eat, feeling as though he had shaken off a small, but unwanted burden from his shoulders.

Afterward, having no desire to be seen a nuisance--or worse yet, a gooseberry--Doyle had given Bodie's caravan a wide berth, electing to deliver some of his rolls to Derek and Simon, along with the cup borrowed the previous night, as a kind of restitution. As he had suspected, both men had been up, if only one of them bright-eyed and bushy tailed. His offer of assistance had been taken under consideration by Derek for all of two seconds before being accepted. Leaving Simon half-drowsing over his cup of coffee--too groggy to inquire into Doyle's absence of the night before--they had gone off to see to the animals.

Derek's manner had not markedly changed, although he had taken care not to let Doyle stumble into a compromising position when they had gone into the tiger's cage to clean it. Sanjay, done with his breakfast, had watched them thoughtfully while according himself a thorough toilette. The raspy sound of the great tongue stroking a curled forepaw had struck Doyle as rather soothing--if nothing else, so long as he could hear it, he need not worry about being leapt upon from behind. Once the cage had been mucked out, fresh sawdust brought in, and the large water dish rinsed out and refilled, Sanjay himself had been seen to--the time had come for his morning's dose of medication.

Communicating by way of broad gestures and infrequent use of guttural language, Derek had brought Doyle to understand that he was not expected to put himself at risk if he did not choose to do so. Recognizing that he had overcome one of Derek's barriers, Doyle had been flattered to aid him in any way he could.

Following a few uneasy moments during which Sanjay had become restless and uncooperative, they had contrived to get the medication into his mouth and down his gullet--without either of them coming to grief. Then Derek had given Doyle the honor of feeding Sanjay a small treat, even though the cat had only picked over his breakfast a short time before. This the animal had taken with aplomb and perfect manners. Thrilled, Doyle had melted into a grin--which had grown even wider when Sanjay had given his fingers an appreciative lick.

After that the grooming of several horses could only pall in comparison, but as a diversion proved very effective. It was there, engrossed in the swabbing off of Tuppence's dock, that Bodie put in an appearance. Alerted by the prickling sense of being watched, Doyle glanced round, expecting Simon or Derek, but came face to face with Bodie instead.

"Enjoying yourself?" Bodie asked, amused.

"Why not?" The stiffness of his own voice annoyed Doyle; there was, after all, no reason for it. Not so far as Bodie was concerned, anyway.

"Forget our work-out?"

Still holding Tuppence's tail up as much for control as for ease of access, Doyle twisted his wrist to see the face of his watch. "Oh. Sorry. Must've lost track of the time."

"'S all right. What happened to you last night?"

Having explained the evening's events to Simon and Derek over a cup of tea after cleaning out the tiger's cage and before starting on the stables, Doyle had got his story refined to the barest details.

"Bloody hell," Bodie groaned, once Doyle had recited the condensed version. "That's just great, that is, mate. Sergei is going to have a coronary, you realize that, don't you?"

Doyle shrugged. "He hit her, Bodie. What would you have done?"

"You sure of that? Did you see it happen? No, I didn't think so. For God's sake, Doyle, you can't imagine this is the first time those two have had a go at each other?"

Biting his tongue against something unnecessarily scathing, Doyle sneered, "Such a hero."

"Don't give me that. I told you--remember, I told you--Rose keeps this place on an even keel. Without her--"

"That's a bit selfish, isn't it, mate?" Tuppence shifted her hindlegs nervously at Doyle's raised voice. "Look, let me finish here, eh? It'll only take another couple of minutes."

"Right." The pleasant set of Bodie's face--post coital contentment?--had given way to dark irritation. "See you in the tent. And make it snappy. Jesus."

His own hard-earned equilibrium effectively eradicated, Doyle rebelliously took his time with the mare. When her coat was smooth and gleaming, he set every hair in place by wiping her down with a damp sponge. Then, mindful of her back feet, he let himself out of the stable.

Derek waved him on when Doyle explained that he was running late. After a quick rinse in a bucket of the stables' water stores, Doyle hurried into the corridor joining the stables to the big tent, through the great red curtain, and into the main tent itself.

At the side of the ring where they usually set up, Bodie was already on the ground, bent forward in a torturous stretch. The net was in place in the center. At various points outside the inner curb, Hannah was working with her dogs; a couple of the children, supervised by their parents, were spinning from the webs; and Aidan, Zoe, and Falstaff were discussing the timing of their clown act.

Doyle had almost forgotten how well the performance had gone last night, but he could see it now in the faces of the performers themselves. Confidence had been given a boost and now ideas for minor adjustments and refinement were a joy to consider.

Ignored as he joined Bodie on the sawdust floor, Doyle fell into the pattern they had already established, although after the morning's activities, he considered a work-out superfluous. Since such a suggestion was scarcely likely to meet with approval, he did not bother to make it.

"Given any more thought to what we might do with you on the trap?" Bodie asked suddenly.

"No." Doyle did not think it necessary to point out that his remaining time with Circus Sergei could probably be measured in hours.

"I have. After we get warmed up, I'll show you what I have in mind."

"Fine."

As before, they went quickly from calisthenics to paired exercises, emphasizing those which incorporated smoothness of movement and concordance of thought. When both men were breathing deeply, their bodies supple and thoroughly responsive, they ended the work-out and headed for the upper rigging.

"Let's just go through a few basics first," Bodie called as soon as he had reached the catcher's trap. "Fly out and back, but think of yourself as--I don't know--a colt, say."

"A what?"

"You heard me." Unblinking blue eyes challenged him to snigger. "Young, vigorous, full of spunk."

"Spunk." Doyle fought back a grin. "Right."

Feeling exceedingly foolish, he nevertheless tried to put himself into the proper frame of mind of a colt: young, vigorous, full of spunk. Whereas under normal circumstances Doyle strove for a dignified fluidity, now he tried to invest his actions with extra energy--the sort radiated by children of every species.

As his hands met Bodie's, were caught and held, Doyle asked, "Like that?"

"Far as I could see, yes," Bodie said approvingly. "Now go back the same way."

"A colt," Doyle gasped. "With spunk."

A smile lightened Bodie's face. "That's it, sunshine."

Ridiculously warmed by the mild utterance, Doyle found it literally child's play to comply.

Back on the platform, he struck a pose for Bodie's benefit. "Now what?"

Sitting at an angle across his bar, Bodie instructed, "You've been injured. Deep inside. A mortal wound."

A frown creased Doyle's brow. "And I can still fly?"

"You're a warrior, Ray. You couldn't give up if you wanted to."

The picture took form in Doyle's mind. "Easy for you to say." But he swung away from the platform, visualizing pain, feeling it eat away inside him. It made him turn inward, extinguishing the fire of youth that had characterized his movements only a moment before. Taken in Bodie's grasp, he seemed to hang lifelessly--an illusion, for doing so would result in an unrealistic hardship for Bodie.

"That's it," Bodie breathed. "Keep it up going back."

Doyle did as directed, making himself look convincingly hunched, his body dragging from his own arms, hands only just grasping, then holding the bar.

"And now you're reborn," Bodie told him when Doyle stood waiting on his own platform once more. "A superhuman creature, no longer of this earth, stronger than a mere mortal, more noble, beautiful. Transformed."

This time Doyle did not question him, for the picture painted by Bodie's words came to him full-blown: A mythological hero. Like Viking warriors--childhood favorites--taken into Valhalla, there to await Ragnorak, the great battle at the end of time.

Standing on the platform, arm stretched out to hold the trapeze, Doyle's very posture changed; he seemed to grow taller, even larger, head held high and proudly, his face cast with determination.

"Yes." Bodie's gaze was piercingly intense. "Just like that." He pushed out to begin his swing.

Doyle stepped off the platform, a creature of the ancients, a warrior made indestructible by his gods. The hair lifted from his brow as he swept forward, leaving his face open and somehow inhumanly luminous. When he left the trapeze, it was as though he had been freed from the cloying bonds of earth so that he might enter his natural habitat--the nothingness of the ether. His hands came into Bodie's with a power that impressed them both; his entire being projected vastness of spirit. Transformed, Bodie had said--and that was what Doyle had become. Released, Doyle turned to his own trapeze; the bar took his weight as though it were insignificant. With the contained grace of a falcon, he alighted on the platform, came round and faced his partner.

Bodie, balanced on his bar, one hand wrapped around a cable for balance, regarded him with a measure of awe. "Exactly ri--"

"Doyle!"

The spell was shattered. Below them, standing in the center aisle, was Sergei. Even from here his anger could be felt, rising upward like waves of heat from a furnace.

Doyle shot Bodie a rueful look and reached for the ladder, taking the ropes because doing so afforded him a few seconds to brace himself for what was likely to be an ugly confrontation. The facade of boldness deserted him as he scrambled downward, so that as he put his foot onto the sawdust floor, he felt more the gawky youth Bodie had described than even his normal, contained self.

"Sergei," he said evenly.

The big man closed the few feet separating them, his face blustery with the tumult of his emotion, eyes hot and brimming with reproach.

Doyle stood his ground, arms loose, hands open and relaxed. "She asked me to take her into town," he said flatly, anticipating Sergei's accusation. "That's all."

"That's all!" The mottled complexion became an alarming shade of kiln- baked brick. "You put Rose up to it. She'd never have gone if you hadn't encouraged her to run off."

"I didn't encourage her to do anything. She was upset; I wanted to help."

"You should've minded your own business, you little fu--"

"Doyle's right." Bodie's voice, bitingly sharp and laden with threat, came from behind Doyle, cutting Sergei off mid-syllable.

"Stay out of this, Bodie," Sergei snarled, recovering quickly. "This is no concern of yours."

"Oh, but it is." Stepping forward assertively, Bodie aligned himself beside Doyle. "You've been giving Rose grief for years; she should've walked out on you ages ago."

White teeth flashed menacingly. "I'm telling you, this is between Doyle and me."

"He's right, Bodie. Leave it, eh?"

At this soft statement, Sergei narrowed his small, dark eyes, favoring Bodie and Doyle with equal animosity. "Where did you take my wife?"

"Into town," Doyle replied.

"Where exactly?"

"Sorry, Sergei. I can't tell you."

Bodie stood a little straighter at the expression that contorted Sergei's face. Unmoved, Doyle waited, half expecting Sergei to strike out.

"You could if you wanted to."

"Yes."

Composing himself, Sergei took a deep breath. "Did she say anything? About coming back?"

"No. In fact, she hardly said anything at all," Doyle said truthfully. "I asked her why you'd fought, and she wouldn't tell me. She said she had to leave and asked me to drive her into town. For all I know she only stayed there last night. She could be on her way to anywhere by now."

The tension began to drain out of the angry man, like air leaking from a slow puncture. "That's all she said?"

"That's right." Regarding Sergei without sympathy, Doyle remarked, "You shouldn't've hit her."

"I didn't-- I--" Sergei stuttered to a halt. "I didn't hit her very hard." His face darkened again. "And it's none of your fucking business, d'you understand? I should sack you for this."

"Give it up, Alf," Bodie advised, a tinge of boredom coloring his voice. "You need him and you know it. Rose'll be back. Just give her a few days, eh?"

"Fuck off, Bodie," Alf said viciously. He stabbed a finger toward Doyle's face. "But he's right, I can't afford to get rid of you. Don't you imagine there's any other reason I don't."

"And the reason Rose left?"

Sergei stared at him as though he had been slapped. In a low, harsh whisper, he hissed, "Watch yourself, sonny."

Aware of what he had done, Doyle dropped his head, shuffling his feet repentantly. "Look, Sergei, I shouldn't've said that, okay? I just have this thing about thumping women. I don't like it. Whatever you were arguing about, that's your affair--you're absolutely right. Just don't go hitting her while I'm around, okay? Makes me forget myself."

The other man subjected him to a long, unfriendly scrutiny. "I'll try to remember that," Sergei said with elaborate sarcasm. Without another word, he strode from the ring, up the center aisle, and out of the main tent.

"Whew," Hannah said dramatically, after Sergei had shouldered his way through the heavy curtain at the back of the stands.

A wave of twittering laughter followed, soon replaced by animated conversation, none of it so loud as to carry intelligibly to either man's ears.

"You're a hero, my boy," Bodie proclaimed grandly. This statement was met with a small round of applause.

Chagrined, Doyle twisted away. "He's a bully."

"But he does pay the bills--and your wages. Lot of other blokes would've been more careful."

"Yeah. Like you?" When Bodie only smiled at the gibe, Doyle muttered, "Look, we're wasting time."

Bodie clapped a hand upon Doyle's shoulder. "True. But I think we could do with a cuppa just now. My place or yours?"

The question stung. Doyle suggested tightly, "Yours."

"Mine it is," Bodie said without hesitation. "Come on, then."

---

The small table was strewn with slips of paper, each heavily covered with sketches and roughly pencilled notes, and here and there, the odd tea and butter stain.

"Make a meal off these, did you?" Doyle wondered aloud. In fact, he was hiding his surprise. Bodie had obviously spent a considerable amount of thought and time on his ideas for their new aerial act--an act which highlighted Doyle almost exclusively. In doing so, Bodie had reduced his own role to little more than facilitator--yet he seemed not the least concerned about removing himself from the public eye.

"Some clumsy oaf got his hands on 'em. So--what d'you think?"

An incoherent sound comprising both admiration and bemusement spilled from Doyle's mouth. "Fantastic, if we can pull it off. But you're not being very fair to the team, are you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Don't play thick, mate. You've put the focus almost entirely on me. What about you?"

"It's flattering that you've noticed--but only an idiot would neglect your talents, Doyle. And there aren't many flyers capable of this sort of thing. Saw something like it done once, a long time ago." Bodie glanced down at his hands, at the oft-sharpened pencil held between them. "It was magical. Really something."

"Where was that?" The question was framed in an off-hand, almost indifferent manner.

"South Africa. Boswell-Wilkie Circus. Spent two winters there."

"Winters?"

Dark blue eyes flicked condescendingly over Doyle's face. "Southern hemisphere, sunshine. Our winters are their--"

"Summers. Yes, I seem to recall hearing tell of that curious phenomenon. Expect it must be a bit weird getting used to, that."

"Didn't hang about long enough to get used to much of anything, actually."

"Long enough to learn how to catch better than anyone I've ever flown with."

"That's just us, Doyle," Bodie said succinctly, something of the mocking look spilling into his voice.

"Not just us," Doyle argued good-naturedly. "You're bloody good, Bodie. And you make me look better than I am."

Bodie raised his mug and drank down the cold remains of his tea. "Tell me what you think of the idea, then--not just 'it's good.' I know we can carry it off. Give me some constructive comments."

"Okay." Doyle slumped back in his chair, hands folded across his waist, ankles overlapping. "There's the opening bit: The courageous young hero appears. That sequence's got to be filled with action, lots of stunts, spins, tumbles. That shouldn't be a problem; basically everything we've done to date.

"The death scene follows; slows things down very fast. If it's done wrong, we'll lose the audience through boredom--or we'll make them laugh, which would be far worse."

"Remember, we'll have Riley doing the narrative," Bodie interposed. "Imagine him speaking, that rich, chocolate brown voice of his. He'll give you time to languish on the ropes until the web can be dropped into reach. That'll be easy enough for one of the lads to take on--Des or Jeremy, they're both conscientious."

"They'll have to be. One misplaced rope and we're all going to look bloody stupid."

"The lighting'll help," Bodie pointed out. "When you've plummeted into the net, the fallen hero, there'll only be one spotter on you, the pale blue."

"Still," Doyle drew the word out. "You going to write the script?"

"Good Lord, no. We'll get Lily to do it. Would've had Rose do, but--"

"Yes, I know. I don't need another reminder, okay?"

Gazing broodingly down into his empty cup, Bodie did not at first respond to Doyle's self-castigation. "I didn't know he was thumping her," he stated at last. "Probably would've killed the bastard, if I had."

"Which wouldn't've done Rose any good," Doyle said; he spoke matter-of- factly to cover his surprise at Bodie's unexpected vehemence. "She loves the prick, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Not that he deserves it." Bodie's voice was low and cold. He looked sharply across at Doyle. "Steer clear of him, Ray. You've opened a Pandora's Box by leaving our Alf on his own. Told you before, you're just his type."

"Well, he isn't mine. And I can look after meself, thanks."

Bodie smiled, but not very pleasantly. "One of your charms, sunshine."

---

The remainder of the morning passed quickly. Doyle settled in to watch the various acts continue their preparations while Bodie worked out overhead on the fixed bar. Hannah's dog routine drew him once more. Keeping an eye on Bodie, he sidled over to have a clearer view of Hannah's hand signals and her use of body language to command her four- footed charges.

Having missed the bulk of the show the night before, some of the tricks were new to him. She was working with Aidan, Zoe, and Falstaff along with the animals now. Aidan and Zoe were slight and quick-footed; Falstaff was heavy-set and boomingly loud-mouthed. None of the dogs were intimidated by the huge man, however, performing leaps and tumbles around and on top of him. They executed their tricks with more agility than human acrobats--and with a great deal less fear.

Enchanted by the boisterous animals, Doyle was slow to react when a furry head came up under the palm of his hand where it hung between his knees. "Basil!" He patted his leg, and she scurried up beside him. "Didn't think you liked it in here, old girl." She licked his face in greeting. "Oh, that's right--no horses yet. Well, sit yourself down and keep your eyes on this lot. They really know what they're doing."

"What they were doing" at the moment looked, to the untutored eye, a lot like uncontrolled mayhem. Zoe, playing the role of robber, had just tied up Falstaff and Aidan and was attempting to make off with the loot. Unfortunately for her, one of the larger dogs, a standard-size poodle, had bowled her over and now she was being held in place, amid much squirming and flailing of arms, with the help of two terriers who, in fact, were providing more noise than useful assistance. Another terrier, distinctively marked with large black spots, and Aidan, were attempting to untie Falstaff with their teeth. It was the terrier who proved successful.

The skit came to a triumphant denouement with Zoe reduced to quivering terror, the dogs forming a pyramid on her back, and Falstaff chasing after Aidan, who had managed to bite the other clown, both of them trailed after by the heroic terrier, yapping deafeningly.

Unaware that he was grinning, Doyle tipped his head back to check on Bodie's progress only to find that he was even then hand-over-handing his way down the web.

"Hallo, Basil! How ever did you get her in here?" Hannah, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, came over to sit beside Doyle and the dog. Her large frame was handsomely set off by a long, grey skirt and a brightly flowered, overlarge blouse. At Doyle's querying glance, she said, without removing the cigarette, "Don't worry, love. Of course I know the rules. Never light up in here, do I? Just feels good between my lips-- and I can smell the tobacco. Hm."

Doyle laughed. "Was just wondering. They're incredibly good, your dogs. That business with untying Falstaff's hands--what'd you do just then? I must've missed the signal."

"As you were meant to." She looked hard into Doyle's face, raising a brow imperiously at him. When he only stared blankly back, she broke into a smile. "You just saw it. Watch again." Once more she slowly raised her brow--then nodded approvingly when enlightenment flared in Doyle's eyes.

"Ah! Does it matter which one?"

"Yes. The left. Falstaff's got a huge left eyebrow, so it works perfectly. Some people can't do it at all."

Waggling his brows industriously, but with little success, Doyle muttered, "You had to say that."

Laughing, Hannah pulled Basil into her lap. "You're looking good," she remarked to the dog and commenced an impromptu examination.

"That's because she's latched onto Mr. Softheart here," Bodie informed her caustically. "What are you doing?" This, as he spied Doyle's facial contortions.

"Trying to raise my left brow."

Bodie's left brow flew up in consternation. "Like this?"

"Exactly." Doyle growled peevishly, "Show-off."

"Frown, Ray," Hannah commanded, setting Basil on the ground at her feet.

He obeyed her at once, ignoring Bodie's snigger.

"Now bring up your left brow. There! That's not so difficult, is it?"

"What's all this in aid of?" Bodie demanded.

"Never you mind," Doyle said darkly.

"Don't expect it to work with Basil," Hannah warned him. "Bloody resistant, she is." She rose from the bench.

"Not with him."

Hannah looked at Bodie sharply.

"'S true," he went on. "After watching you yesterday, Doyle ran her through a whole slew of tricks."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Try it yourself, Hannah."

"Oh, I shall. Basil!"

The dog went to her at once, but it was quickly evident that she had no desire to perform for the woman. After much encouragement and exhortation, she dropped her belly into the sawdust and crept forward imploringly.

"Hm," Hannah drawled. "Your turn, Ray."

"I don't--"

"Oh, come on. I'm not going to get my feelings hurt, y'know. Sometimes animals develop a rapport with someone else, that's all. Give it a go."

Feeling uncomfortably conspicuous--more so, somehow, than when he was suspended from the trapeze or mounted on Tuppence's back--Doyle climbed to his feet and came to stand in front of Basil. The dog's tail stirred faintly, and her ears inched upward.

"Okay, Basil, do me proud." Awkwardly forming one of the hand signals he had observed Hannah execute, Doyle gestured to the dog, harboring little hope that she would comply.

To his gratification, she stood up at once. One trick followed another until Doyle had exhausted his limited repertoire.

"Well, I'll be double-damned!" Hannah exclaimed under her breath.

Squatting down beside the dog and cuffing her affectionately, Doyle looked up smiling. "She did it."

"She certainly did. That's amazing."

"What d'you mean? You just said--"

"Didn't mean a word of it," Hannah averred. Then she laughed, cackling like a hearty old crone. "Take that stunned look off your face, Ray. I'm only half-serious. It isn't exactly commonplace her doing all that, what with you being a stranger and all."

"Lerv at first sight," Bodie pronounced stirringly. He slung his towel over his shoulder. "He's got a way with furry things, Ray has; Sanjay likes him, too."

Hannah's eyes widened. "Sanjay?"

"Well--I guess it's liking when the bloody great brute decides not to eat your arm," Doyle put in.

"He bit you?"

"Nah. Just had a taste of me."

"Probably reckoned there wasn't enough of you to satisfy him," Bodie said unkindly. "Whoops--there she goes!" All three watched the blur that was Basil speed down the aisle and out of the tent. The slow clip-clop of horse's hooves from behind the red curtain provided the explanation for her lightning departure.

"That'll be Simon and Pat, and they don't need us hanging around. You want something to eat, Ray? I'm famished."

"God, yes," Hannah concurred. "Good Lord, is it as late as that? Come along, you lot. It's time mother had her ciggie--or three or four. See you lads later."

As Doyle and Bodie started out of the tent, Hannah clapped her hands to gather her flock. They tumbled over one another in their haste to reach her, each vying with all the rest for her special attentions.

---

Lunch in Doyle's kitchen was necessarily brief. Doyle kept Bodie talking about the prior evening's performance in between huge bites of a cheese and pickle sandwich--demanding every detail he had missed during his headlong run into town. For a man of so few words, Bodie seemed content to natter on--so long as none of Doyle's questions veered into the realm of the personal.

That never happened, Doyle having decided earlier that morning that he would not be the one to bring up the subject of Bodie's late-night visitor. Honoring that promise to himself was not easily accomplished, however. Being in such close proximity to the other man was a trial Doyle had not anticipated--he was coming to like Bodie entirely too much. And as he collected soiled paper serviettes while Bodie sleepily rocked the wooden chair off its front legs to lean precariously against the wall, Doyle was hard pressed not to slam the chair back down on the floor and demand who the other man was and how Bodie could have slept with him after kissing Doyle only hours before.

Only sanity and a refined abhorrence of looking unutterably stupid stopped him. Instead, Doyle took advantage of those few, still moments, by going about his tasks and studying the other man, unobserved.

The thought of someone else hungrily exploring that arrogant mouth filled Doyle with a fury out of all proportion to his present reality. He knew he had no claims on Bodie; Christ, he had only known the man four days--if he included today. But Bodie had kissed him, and in the doing, had awakened something that Doyle knew would never be completely quietened again.

That he could live with. What scraped at him was the possibility that only Bodie would be able to tame the newly roused beast. The notion was ludicrous. Doyle was a grown man who had slept with more women than he could possibly ever name. Presumably, there waited to be forgotten a myriad of unnamed men as well.

But he liked Bodie.

Putting the few soiled dishes on the sideboard, Doyle turned round and stared at the other man. Damn you, Bodie. Heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, Doyle gathered his resolve and, cautiously stepping over a groggily wakening Basil, went up to Bodie, placed both hands on the wall beside Bodie's dark head, and bent forward. Bodie's mouth yielded to his at once, a fact that suggested the other man had been dozing rather than deeply asleep. In fact, after a few seconds, Bodie let his head drift a little to one side to improve the angle of contact.

Doyle, however, was somewhat hazardously placed. Maintaining his balance with increasing difficulty, he waited until Bodie was actively encouraging his attentions before pulling back. Drowsy, smouldering blue eyes followed his departure, the soft mouth parted and silently inviting Doyle's return.

"Time to go," Doyle announced pleasantly. "We have to see Lily, remember?"

"I can think of better things to do." Bodie's voice was deep and vibrant, goading the hunger that lay coiled and waiting in Doyle's insides.

"But not just now." Especially after you spent the night with someone else. "C'mon, mate, shift yourself."

Pretending Bodie's kiss had left him unaffected, Doyle collected the corsair trousers he had borrowed from the dressing tent the night before, and strode, followed by a yawning Basil, to the door.

The front legs of the chair impacted lightly with the floor. "Right," Bodie said equably.

Doyle cast a sharp look at him.

Meeting that wide-eyed gaze with a slow, promise-filled smile, Bodie said, "That's okay, sunshine. I can wait."

---

The fitful start and stop of a sewing machine reached their ears before the two men stepped through the pinned-back entry flap of the dressing tent. Lily glanced up, peering at her visitors over the tops of dark- rimmed glasses. "So, there's the miscreant," she said by way of greeting.

"'Lo, Lily," Doyle said. "Sorry I didn't get these back to you last night."

"Don't apologize, Ray. Simon told me all about what happened with Rose and Sergei last night. You may not know it, but you're the local hero."

"Is he?" Bodie asked.

"The only better news would've been that she'd put the sadistic pig in his grave."

"Lily!"

"'Strewth, Bodie! You know the way he's treated her, always yelling, getting a leg over on anyone who'll lie still long enough--male or female, and God knows about the horses--not to mention fiddling her books. Hell's too good for that man, I'm telling you."

"And anyone else who'll listen probably," Bodie added, trying very hard to contain his laughter.

"Yes, you go ahead and laugh. Took the new lad here to set him to rights."

"Lily--" Doyle tried to stem the harangue.

"'E's the only one with enough backbone to help out poor Rose. If it hadn't been for--"

"Okay, Lily," Bodie broke in, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I believe you. In fact, you'll be happy to hear that this virile young bullock had me in a most compromising position not five minutes ago."

Lily stared at him, stunned into silence at last.

Doyle rolled his eyes and stuck his hands into his back pockets, turning around one hundred and eighty degrees on the heels of his trainers.

"And about bloody time," decreed Lily.

"Oh, my God." Doyle could feel the blood rush into his face.

"Don't hold it against him that he didn't complete the act," Bodie added, his voice falling an octave on the last three words. "But it wears a bloke out being all chivalrous, y'know."

"Bodie, you bastard, shut up," Doyle snarled.

Lily laughed, a delightful mixture of lewd-sounding throatiness and little girl high-pitched giggles. "You are a bastard," she informed Bodie.

"And if I ever manage to forget it, there are loads of people to remind me." He propped himself on the edge of her work-table. "I need you to write something out for me."

She clasped her hands in front of her. "A love letter?"

"That's personal." Glancing surreptitiously back at Doyle, he cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered loudly, "I'll let you know if the going gets sticky."


"Oh, Christ," Doyle moaned to himself. He came to rest against one of the four main poles, prepared for a long wait.

"But until then," Bodie went on, "what I need is a script for our aerial act."

"A script? You've come up with a new act, then?"

"Uh huh. Now listen closely, and tell me if you think you can do it."

---

"Why'd you do that?" Doyle asked.

"Do what?"

They were on their way out of the dressing tent. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the circus was gearing up for the evening's performance.

"Tell her that you and I'd been--erm--"

"Indulging in homosexual contact?" Bodie prodded delicately.

Doyle winced. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"Well, I could've said we were snogging in your kitchen, but that might have offended her; very fastidious person, is Lily."

"Would've been nearer the truth," Doyle reminded him. "This way she probably thinks--"

"You were fucking me through the mattress. But, then--I like the way Lily thinks sometimes."

Seized by a spasm of pure lust, Doyle took a deep breath before looking at the man beside him. "Is that what you want? Me to fuck you?"

Bodie's forehead wrinkled with the effort of his thoughts. "I think," he replied slowly, "the idea holds definite appeal."

"With me? Specifically me, I mean?"

"Of course you. You don't think I'd be fantasizing about Lily, d'you?"

What about the bloke in your caravan last night?

Doyle closed his mouth tightly, half afraid the words had already slithered out. "'S nice to have a willing body close to hand, isn't it?" he said evenly.

"Second thoughts?"

The timbre of Bodie's voice had deepened noticeably, causing Doyle to raise his head and look searchingly at the man beside him.

"Early days yet," Doyle explained, his expression faintly troubled.

"Too right. But, Ray--"

"That's okay. Hell, Bodie, we hardly know each other. It's just--well, one of these days I'm going to want to go to bed with you. And when I do, I'd like to think I was the only one. Personal hang-up, y'see. Very boring." Doyle closed his mouth, more than a little appalled at what he had just admitted--mainly because that had come from him, Ray Doyle, private citizen, not Raymond Doyle, undercover CI5 agent, who was expected to fuck anyone in the service of his country.

Bodie heard him out, his face lacking all expression. "May happen sooner than you like, y'know."

"Maybe." Doyle pressed his fist against Bodie's shoulder, very lightly, very matey. "I'm off to the stables; want to see how Sanjay's getting on. Later, eh?"

"Yeah."

Quashing the urge to look over his shoulder, Doyle walked briskly round the back of the animal enclosure to the entry to the stables. As he stepped inside, he couldn't restrain himself any longer and shot a quick glance in the direction of the dressing tent.

But Bodie was gone.

---

Tricked up and ready for the ring, Doyle once more went into the animal enclosure. He had not seen Bodie since the afternoon, and although the other man's presence had been missed, Doyle had made good use of his solitary time.

Once his "smalls" laundry, dutifully scrubbed in the sink, had been hung out on the communal clothes-lines to dry, Doyle had tidied his tiny kitchen, taken a cup of tea with Basil, then had turned in for a much needed nap.

The morning, made awkward by the fallout from the night before, seemed a million years gone by the time Doyle had awakened, refreshed, just in time for a meal and another leisurely cup of tea. After that he had seen to his ablutions, praising the present for all the modern caravan conveniences that had been lacking in his early experience of gypsy living. Cleaned, coifed, and bedecked in full Regency gear, Doyle had urged Basil out, noted the curtain-drawn quietude of Bodie's unit, and had pulled the door closed behind him.

As expected, Basil left him as soon as Doyle got close to his intended destination. Musing over her whereabouts when he was otherwise engaged, Doyle laughed at the possible activities the clever little dog might get up to. That, for no obvious reason, brought to mind Bodie's comments to Lily--and subsequent remarks he had made regarding certain, very tantalizing, sexual activities Doyle had yet to sample--with Bodie, the taste of whose mouth Doyle could remember as though he were savoring it even now.

Feeling a certain constriction in trousers that had been restitched once already, Doyle turned his mind to other imperatives, inconspicuously adjusting himself with a thumb as he came round to the tackroom.

"Anybody home?"

"In here," Simon called.

The slight young man was seated before a folding mirror that was propped up on the table, expertly applying make-up.

"Beautiful," Doyle said.

Holding the mascara wand away from his face, Simon accorded Doyle a lingering once-over as well. "And you, petal."

"Thanks. I probably forgot to mention what I thought of your performance last night."

"You certainly did," Simon said archly. Then he leaned forward, face cupped lightly between red-tipped fingers, and smiled engagingly. "So tell me now."

"Fantastic. Wouldn't've thought such a routine could be pulled off wearing all those bloody skirts."

Pleased, Simon gracefully sank back in his chair, plunging the eye-brush into the depths of the tube. "I have very strong legs. Comes of all that stretching my knees up around my ears, y'know." He licked his lips and raised an eloquent brow.

"Hm. Lucky for you Derek is so cooperative."

"Cooperative!" Simon's eyes widened with mock outrage. "He's a bloody taskmaster."

Having heard boot heels thudding down the aisle between the stalls, Doyle stepped deftly to one side as Derek entered. The other man laid a hand on his shoulder in greeting, then continued past him. Looming over the small table, he bent forward and kissed an instantly sputtering Simon. "Oh, Derry, you bastard," he erupted after being released. "Now I'll have to start all over!"

Unimpressed, Derek took three steps to the teapot temporarily residing on the shelf at the back of the room, ruffling Simon's short hair lovingly as he went.

Simon's mewl of protest was rewarded by a caress upon the nape of his neck. "Hm." Simon curved his head forward. "Now, that's nice."

One-handedly pouring tea into his mug, Derek raised the pot in silent invitation to Doyle, who looked on with a twinge of envy.

"No, thanks," Doyle said. "Just thought I'd hide out here for a bit."

"Where's Bodie?" Simon's eyelids shuttered downward as Derek continued his massage.

"Still in his caravan, I expect. I think he may have been up a bit late last night."

"Oh." Simon grimaced. "His groupie, I suppose."

"Tall fellow, dark hair, grey-green eyes?"

Simon confirmed Doyle's fears with a terse nod. "That's the one."

"Come round often, does he?"

"Ouch!" Simon twisted in his chair, fixing his lover with an angry glare. "I am not gossiping. Doyle is Bodie's partner. He's a right to know about him." Sitting in front of the mirror once more, Simon went on, "And knowing Bodie, it'll be years before he'll ever tell you anything." Applying the mascara brush with a tremorless hand, Simon said, "Used to see that bloke all the time when we were in Manchester. According to Bodie, the chap was posted near there."

"Posted?"

"Army," Simon explained. "Think he was demobbed not long after. Not certain, though." Canting his head becomingly while surveying his image, Simon thought for a second. "Must've been a month ago since he was here last. Never stays for more than a day or two."

Derek sat on a stool behind him, resting his head against the canvas wall, one leg hooked around a support bar on Simon's chair.

Always near, Doyle thought.

Not unaware of Derek's presence, Simon reached back and gave his lover's dirt-encrusted knee a caress. "He's a nice enough bloke, I suppose. And I don't think there's anything serious between them."

"It's his business, anyway," Doyle said flatly, his brusque tone effectively putting an end to their conversation.

---

That night Circus Sergei was inundated with patrons. Word had spread throughout the town following Wednesday's performance that here was an entertainment worth paying to see. By early evening the sideshow features were overflowing with jostling, exuberant people, children running wild, and teen-agers whose bored-looking façades occasionally crumbled to reveal unfeigned amusement.

Fortunately, the crowd was of a mind to be pleased. From the band's opening notes, heralding the arrival of Riley atop a marvellously rigged-out Flash, they blared their approval. Watching everything for the first time along with them, Doyle shared the audience's high spirits, breaking into spontaneous applause when the jugglers pulled off a particularly impressive trick, cheering the clowns in their manic routine, and hooting with glee at Simon's amazing striptease.

In the midst of the fire-eater's set, Bodie came up behind him and touched a fingertip to Doyle's shoulder.

"Oh, hello," Doyle said, overflowing with joie de vivre. He took in Bodie's appearance. "Very nice."

"Not so bad yourself. Is it going well?"

"Great. Where have you been? Thought you'd show up before now."

"Resting up. Had a late night."

"Oh."

At that moment, Derek appeared with Tuppence and Piper. Burying a sudden sharp anger deep inside himself, Doyle mounted while Derek held the horse's bridle. Eyes straight ahead, he was nevertheless aware when Bodie was in place beside him.

Enthusiasm reverberated inside the Big Tent. Then a hush fell as the crowd awaited the next act. Very softly, the band began to play.

They had not got far into the routine before Doyle realized that the horses were tuned into the crowd every bit as intensely as any of the human performers. Their ears followed every tiny sound, swivelling independently from side to side, each one tracking its own bit of interesting information. The boisterous ambience did not affect their performance, however; they went through each carefully choreographed movement with superb dignity and grace, as heedless of the men atop them as they were of their captivated audience.

As Doyle backed out of the ring, Tuppence bowing her sorrow for all to see, the crowd sighed its sympathy as one. Removed from view by the great red curtain, he heard a breathless pause as Piper contemplated whether to follow or to stay--his decision made for him when Tuppence whickered to him to follow.

Stunned applause filled the air; loud snuffles expressed the emotions of many. Standing at the curtain, Derek and Tuppence behind him, Doyle nodded to Bodie as he appeared. "I think they liked it."

Bodie grinned boyishly. "I think we could go out and sing rugger tunes and that lot'd like it."

He handed Piper off to Derek, who had already collected Tuppence's reins. "Thanks, mate." Bodie glanced across at Doyle. "You hanging about?"

"Yeah. D'you need anything?"

Bodie shook his head. "Nah. Just a kid at heart, aren't you, catching a peek at the circus?"

"Missed it all last night, didn't I?"

Groaning under his breath, Bodie said, "Don't I know!"

"Sorry." Doyle met and held Bodie's eyes. "Knock their eyes out, sunshine. I'm looking forward to seeing you up there."

Bodie raised a hand and touched Doyle's mouth. "It'll be better when we're both up there, eh?"

"Off with you, mate," Doyle breathed.

Bringing his hand up to his own mouth, Bodie kissed the finger that had brushed Doyle's lips. He winked.

Watching him stride away, Doyle realized that, after eradicating his good mood with only a handful of words, Bodie had restored it with no more than a fingertip.

"Bastard," he whispered.

---

As in a happy dream, the remaining acts performed flawlessly to enthusiastic shouts and applause. The liberty horse routine--horses running unreined while executing precise commands on cue--followed immediately upon Bodie and Doyle's act. Overseen by Derek from behind the curtain at least part of the way through, it was directed by Riley, aided by his long, wicked-looking ring whip and the shorter guide whip, neither of which were ever used to hurt the animals, but only to direct their movements according to the routine.

The horses were astoundingly well-trained and behaved. With the band matching their cadence, the animals formed a line and reared and pawed-- rather like a line-up of musical dancers. Upon command, they then pivoted to the left, all at the same time, and circled the ring, odd numbered horses nimbly switching places with their even counterparts. Taffy, the shetland pony, galloped up from behind and proceeded to weave in and out and under the horses, much to the audience's amazed delight.

Before long it was Taffy, with her mischievous antics, who had won the hearts of the crowd. Her pranks never failed to raise a laugh, the public willingly fooled into believing that she acted all on her own, whereas the other horses were more regimentally minded.

At the close of the act, the horses formed a pyramid using Flash as its base. Once all were in place, Taffy dashed round them, kicking and pretending to bite. As the audience howled, she collected herself and swung out in front of Flash. There she skidded to a stop, bent her near leg under, and with the off stretched out, very prettily performed an extended bow.

Riley signalled them to break up. The horses circled the ring, then one at a time filed out through the red curtain. Taffy energetically brought up the rear, pausing briefly at the curtain to look round before disappearing, raising a cheer from the crowd.

Even with the insider's unblinkered knowledge of what fired the engines of circus magic, Doyle was not immune to its particular brand of enchantment. The next two acts proved that incontrovertibly, as he was drawn into them as readily as any school child under the age of ten.

First was a clown balancing act, performed by Aidan, staged unprecariously but with hurtling energy upon a low wire. His crazed escapades were no less magnificently skilled for the seemingly lunatic way he went about them.

With the audience's mood nicely revitalized, the next act was unlikely to fail, especially as this one featured Flash as the "teacher" and Taffy, along with several of Hannah's dogs and Zoe in clownsuit and make-up, as his "pupils." The animals, prompted by Riley from the shadows, put on a marvellous display, never missing a cue, their timing impeccable.

At last Bodie majestically appeared, stripping off his voluminous cape and abandoning it with splendid arrogance to a fawning assistant, the sequinned flyer's costume glittering hypnotically in the bright lights. He went up the web hand over hand, the sheer power and animal suppleness of the man holding the audience spellbound long before he reached the fixed trapeze. There he paused just long enough to resin his hands, before flipping backward into his routine.

Gasps of startlement, wonder, and sheer enchantment came out of the stands as Bodie moved fluidly from one stunt to another. Doyle, looking on intently through a thin crevice between the red curtain and the canvas sidewall, narrowed his eyes when Bodie came out of a flip with a hint of a jolt. While nothing to disturb the audience, to the trained eye it bespoke possible damage. Nevertheless Bodie completed the set without curtailing any of his prepared routine, and the audience happily paid clamorous homage to his skills and impressive ability.

Doyle was waiting for him on the other side of the curtain in the dressing tent corridor. Head down, face set, moisture shining off chest and arms, Bodie did not see him until Doyle thrust the towel kept waiting there into Bodie's hands.

"Went okay?" Bodie asked, eyes brightening at sight of him.

"Went great," Doyle corrected him. "Are you okay?"

Bodie gave a little laugh. "Trust you. Yeah, I think so. Hot shower, bit of a rub down should put it to rights." He regarded Doyle hopefully. "You wouldn't consider giving me a massage?"

"Who, me?" Doyle asked coolly. "What about your groupie?"

"My group-- It was you came round last night, wasn't it? Why didn't you say something?"

Uncertain how to take Bodie's forthrightness, Doyle ignored the latter question. "Yeah, it was me."

"Thought it must've been. Murph's not my groupie, you idiot. Wish Simon would quit calling him that. He's an old friend from the Army."

Feeling ridiculously stupid, but also immeasurably pleased, Doyle said jokily, "The Flying Hussars?"

"The-- Oh, yeah. SAS, actually."

"SAS?" Doyle favored the other man with a wicked grin. "Thought they were fairly strict about who they let in?"

"You casting aspersions, boy?" Bodie asked imperially. "They are careful, y'know. I just made a point of never abseiling into Parliament to announce the fact that 'I'm that way inclined.' Can get on amazingly well that way."

"I'll bear that in mind. Come on, Bodie." Doyle tugged the ends of the towel down around Bodie's broad neck. "Get out of that costume before you catch your death."

As they started down the corridor to the dressing tent, Doyle said off- handedly, "So this bloke was visiting, was he?"

"Yep. Whenever he's running free, Murph looks me up. You should've told him who you were--or did the robe and those long hairy legs of his give you the wrong impression?"

Glancing down at his feet, away to the side, then back across at Bodie, Doyle merely shrugged.

"Like that, eh?" Bodie's voice warmed with understanding; he waved Doyle through the opening which gave access to the dressing tent.

"Expect so."

"That's why you've been so bloody stroppy today?"

"Wasn't being stroppy," Doyle defended himself hotly.

"You were, too."

"Wasn't."

"Were."

"Boys!"

Both men flinched at the high-pitched reprimand issued from Lily's Cupid's bow lips. "You had better be getting changed, Master Bodie, if you intend to ride in the parade."

"Yes, ma'am," Bodie drawled, his too-broad American accent earning him grimaces all round.

---

It was well after eleven before the last car drove away. The entire troupe had revelled in the rousing farewell given by their generous second audience of the season.

Since Bodie did not appear to be in any distress, Doyle had made no effort to encourage him to leave the tent following the parade. Punch- drunk with success, and sparking with surplus energy, everyone was slow to return home that night. But at last Doyle escorted his partner to his caravan, having noticed that Bodie was beginning to favor his left shoulder just a little.

"You want something to eat?" Doyle asked, as Bodie fumbled open his door.

"You cooking?" Bodie flung an arm wide in invitation for Doyle to enter.

"Why not? Wouldn't want to damage that arm of yours any more, now would we?"

"Depends on what 'we're' doing with it."

"Hold that thought," Doyle said wryly. "Get yourself in the shower, why don't you, and I'll nip round to my place to collect a few bits and pieces."

Wide-eyed, Bodie said, "Into that sort of thing, are you?"

"You should be so lucky, mate. Go on, off with you. I should be here when you get out."

"See that you are." Bodie leaned forward and pressed his mouth very lightly to Doyle's. "Bye."

Lips tingling, Doyle went out the door and tripped down the steps, looking forward to removing his too-confining costume. As he neared his own caravan, a sudden movement from the seat of the motorcycle brought him up sharply--but it was only Basil, curled up tightly and shivering in the cold night air.

"Bas, you mindless little bugger, what're you doing out here?" He strode over to her at once. "We'll just have to rig up some way for you to get in and out, won't we--now you've decided to move in permanent-like."

The dog unfolded and stretched from one end of her small, lean body to the other. Then she stepped up into Doyle's waiting arms, swabbing her tongue across his neck as soon as he was within reach.

"Silly prawn," Doyle mumbled, feeling unconscionably guilty that she should choose to suffer while waiting for him, rather than seek shelter elsewhere.

Shifting her onto his shoulder, Doyle turned back to the caravan door. With the advent of late evening, the temperature had fallen to notable effect. Doyle took a moment to pour some dry dog food into Basil's dish and placed it on the floor.

From there he went into the tiny bathroom and retrieved the bottle of liniment given him by Simon from one of the small shelves that ran down the wall between the toilet and the narrow shower. Checking in the mirror-panelled cupboard over the sink for anything else left behind by Roger that could be of use, Doyle's eyes were caught by the crumpled, half-empty tube of lubricant that lay on the lowest ledge. His hand came up, then fell back, still empty, to his side.

Clutching the soft-plastic container of liniment, Doyle strode into the bedroom and quickly removed the Regency outfit. He chose a pair of worn, skintight jeans, and a large flannel shirt. With the laces of his trainers neatly tied, he started for the door--only to hesitate at the bed.

Basil watched with curiosity as Doyle mounded the top edge of the bedcovers in front of the pillow, forming a small nest. Looking straight at her, he pointed a finger down at it. The dog leaped up in a single bound, tail wagging enthusiastically. Cupping her head in one palm, Doyle bent forward and rubbed his nose against her short, smooth muzzle.

"'Night, Bas. Don't wait up for me, eh?"

The glow from a few, dimly shining doorlamps pricked the night, making his passage over the gravelled surface easier than finding his way in full dark. Approaching Bodie's caravan, Doyle could hear water running at the back; the other man was still in the shower, washing away the sweat and strain of the day.

Inside, Doyle made himself at home in the cramped kitchen. After digging about in the refrigerator and Bodie's cupboards, he came up with the makings of a cheese sauce mixed with rice, chunks of left-over chicken, and an assortment of cooked vegetables, including peas, carrots, and something that may have been diced turnips--but as Doyle had no intention of sharing Bodie's repast, and harboring a distrust of turnips that had been established in early childhood, he did not bother to verify what it was.

The sauce was thickening and Doyle was shoving slices of bread into the oven to grill when Bodie stepped out of the bathroom, a plain terry- cotton robe wrapped round him. Working a towel over his hair, Bodie sniffed exaggeratedly and pretended to follow his nose into the kitchen.

Looking on approvingly, he said, "Smells great; what've you got there, then?"

"As you see," Doyle replied unhelpfully. "D'you like turnips?"

"Can't stand 'em. Why?"

"Never mind." Waving vaguely at the small dining table, Doyle suggested, "Sit yourself down. This'll be ready in a tick."

"Oh, goody," Bodie exclaimed as he spied the bottle of liniment. "Afters."

"Only if you eat all your supper," Doyle countered automatically. He busied himself stirring the glutinous mixture in the pan. Slowly adding grated cheese, he asked, "How's the shoulder?"

"Won't be a problem." Ignoring Doyle's invitation to sit down, Bodie went to the sink and filled the kettle.

"Tea's already brewing," Doyle informed him smugly.

The kettle came down on the sideboard with a thunk. Stepping up close behind Doyle, Bodie hooked his chin on the other man's bony shoulder and peered over the side into the pan. "You're good at that, aren't you?"

"Have to take care of meself, don't I? Look out, you're impeding progress here."

Bodie turned his head and slowly pushed his mouth up against Doyle's ear. "Maybe I've found something else I'd rather eat."

Eyes closing, Doyle leaned back into Bodie's warmth. Two arms came round his waist; a hand slid upward past the last closed button on his shirt and disappeared under the material.

"Nice," Bodie murmured, "warm, and furry." The other hand rode down the line of Doyle's left hip toward his thigh.

Floating on velvet sensation, Doyle hummed softly under his breath.

"You said you haven't had too much experience with men," Bodie reminded him a little tentatively. "How much is that exactly?"

The irresistible, liquid warmth generated by Bodie's touch gelled in Doyle's abdomen.

In response to Doyle's involuntary tensing, Bodie murmured, "'S all right, sunshine; just asking."

"I've--done a lot of looking." Doyle made a face at the break in his voice, grateful that his back was still turned toward Bodie.

"So, you've never had it off with anyone?"

"No men," Doyle muttered.

"Meaning, you've had women?"

"Yeah."

"Being bi's nothing to be embarrassed about, y'know," Bodie misinterpreted Doyle's silent chagrin, communicated to him through body language alone, for Doyle had said nothing. Then he clarified: "So long as you're careful, of course. Can't go flaunting it about."

"I know that."

"But?"

Doyle covered the hand exploring his chest with one of his own. "But I was too shit-scared to admit that I only ever wanted men."

"Oh." Bodie considered this for a moment. "What's made you change your mind just lately?"

Suddenly hating the lies that had shaped his life--continued to shape his life, Doyle wanted to say, "Cowley said I could." Instead, he whispered bitterly, "I don't know, Bodie. The first lad I ever fell for--" Doyle shut his mouth with an audible snap; the inappropriate words had spilled from his lips before he could call them back. "Only I didn't fall, he did."

"Keith Leland."

"Congratulations on an excellent memory. Yeah, Keith."

Bodie clasped his arms round Doyle's waist, and brushed his cheek against Doyle's neck. "That may explain more than you realize."

"Oh, yes?"

Warm breath coursed ticklishly over Doyle's collarbone. "I'm not a trick cyclist, mate--well, of course, I could be, but not the kind that messes your head about--but just think on it: You were in the circus when you lost him. Now you're back in the circus--"

"You're not a substitute, Bodie."

"Should hope not." There was nothing contrived about Bodie's affronted attitude. "But we've a freedom here we don't get anywhere else." A quiet wistfulness filtered into Bodie's words. He opened his mouth, and took another breath--then faltered.

When Bodie failed to finish, Doyle glanced back at him. "Go on."

Letting him go, Bodie said, "Nothing." He turned Doyle round so that they stood facing one another. "Told you before I'm in no hurry. When you're ready, you just say so. Okay?"

Melting with sudden yearning, Doyle leaned closer and kissed the other man long and hard. "That's hardly fair to you."

"I'll manage," Bodie promised, his smile bordering on saintly.

"C'mere, you," Doyle growled.

Bodie went willingly as Doyle reeled him near again and covered his mouth with his own hungrily searching lips.

A moment later, Bodie remarked breathlessly, "You're good at that, y'know. Very good." Grinning wryly into Doyle's face, he added, "But I think supper may be burning."

"Damn!"

The best portion of the meal was salvaged, although a fair amount remained on the bottom of the pan. Fetching plates from the cupboard, Bodie looked askance when Doyle told him he would need only the one.

"You're not eating, then?"

"Nope. Not hungry. Sit down and pull your robe off your shoulders, will you?"

Looking scandalized, Bodie remarked, "While I'm eating!"

"After serving with the famous SAS, you must've learned to do everything while you were eating."

"True." Seated in the chair at the end of the table, Bodie jabbed a fork into the steaming rice-sauce mix, and muttered rebelliously, "Not that I liked to, mind."

"Then why'd you let them second you?"

"Don't be an idiot, Doyle," Bodie stated thickly round a mouthful. "Not something you turn down. And it was good training."

"The best, I hear. Wouldn't've thought that sort of job would suit you, that's all." Standing behind him, Doyle picked up Bodie's towel and lightly rubbed it on his still damp hair.

"I've known worse. What're you doing up there?"

Doyle grinned. "Checking for bald spots." He danced aside, barely avoiding an elbow aimed lethally at his midriff. "Temper." After draping the towel over the door knob, Doyle again took up his place and began to pull the terry cotton robe farther down Bodie's shoulders, stopping just shy of making his arms unusable.

For the next few minutes, Doyle probed and prodded at the expertly developed musculature of Bodie's upper back and shoulders, while Bodie occupied himself with his plate.

"That's it," Bodie gasped, when Doyle settled on a particularly tight spot.

"Thought so."

It was no hardship touching Bodie's skin, which was smooth and finely pored, and, fresh from the shower, very warm to the touch. Doyle's fingers kneaded carefully as he worked the bunched muscles. He let his eyes roam over the back of Bodie's head and its healthy growth of thick, wavy, dark brown hair; the nape of the neck, which was long and curving; and the creamy white shoulders and back.

"This is interesting," Doyle said, speaking softly so as not to startle Bodie, who appeared to have fallen asleep.

"Hn?"

"This." Doyle placed the tip of a finger on a long scar that extended from the top of Bodie's left shoulder blade almost to its base, stretching along the inward curve.

"Old news."

"Don't want to talk about it, y'mean?"

"Not particularly."

"Right. You nodding off down there?"

"Yes."

"Finish your dinner?"

"I think so. There's nothing left on my plate, anyway."

"And you've had your shower and used the loo. Time for bed, I think."

Bodie rolled his head back and looked up into Doyle's eyes. "At fucking last," he said with new energy.

Doyle waved his arm toward the narrow bed. "Hm--I can see passion smoking out of your ears. Over there, sunshine; on your belly."

"Be still my heart."

"Will you shut up?"

As Bodie complied, Doyle stood transfixed, watching the removal of the robe and the revealing of the fair form that lay hidden underneath. Unselfconsciously, Bodie drew back the bedclothes and stretched out on the mattress. With a sharp tug, he twitched the soft fabric up around his hips, leaving himself bare from shoulders to waist.

"I'm waiting," he sighed, when Doyle did not move to join him.

Walking like an automaton, Doyle took two steps, then remembered the liniment. Fetching it off the table, he slowly twisted off the cap, his gaze returning to Bodie's unprotected back.

As he came nearer again, his thoughts whirled in a chaotic cyclone of images, needs, and fears. Allowing himself no chance to dwell on any of them, Doyle sat down on the edge of the mattress at Bodie's waist and poured a sizable quantity of liniment directly onto Bodie's shoulder.

Lying on his stomach with a pillow hugged to his chest, Bodie's respiration briefly spiked before resuming its natural rhythm. "Thanks for the warning, mate."

"Cold, is it?" Doyle asked briskly, hoping to conceal the tremor in his voice by speaking abruptly, but knowing his hands would betray him the instant they came in contact with Bodie's back.

"Prick."

Doyle pressed both palms over the broad shoulders; Bodie arched his back, encouraging the pressure. "Oh, that's it," he said in a husky purr. "Magic hands, Doyle. Anyone ever tell you?"

"Every woman I ever touched," Doyle lied, concentrating on the feel of Bodie beneath his fingers.

Wriggling slowly, Bodie turned his head on the pillow, trying to get a glimpse of Doyle's face. "Have there been that many?" he wondered.

"Thousands."

"That all?"

"What about you?" Doyle turned the tables, suddenly keen to take Bodie's attention off him. "How many men?"

"Men?" For a second, Bodie did not answer. "Oh--countless of 'em."

Doyle paused. "The way you said that, it sounds as though there've been women, as well."

"There have. You're not the only one who's played the part of the proper lad, my son."

"How many?" Doyle immediately prompted. The muscles under his hands were growing more relaxed by the minute.

"Thousands, of course."

"Of course."

Countless men and thousands of women, Doyle thought morosely. He fell silent after that, hoping Bodie would, too. In fact, Bodie dropped off soon after, so quickly and so deeply, that Doyle was surprised that he had been able to remain awake so long.

Ten minutes later, Doyle eased himself off Bodie's bed. Looking down at the strong form so defenselessly exposed, Doyle recognized the degree of trust that had been vested in him. Making not a sound, he pulled the covers up to the base of the dark-capped skull, his fingers allowed to feather through silky hair for only a few instants.

Then, switching the light off over the bed, he turned and went to the door. As he twisted the knob, Bodie's voice came to him, groggy and a little confused.

"Ray?"

"G'night, Bodie," Doyle said. "See you in the morning, mate."

"Thought...you might want to stay?"

A faint smile lifted Doyle's lips; Bodie was more than half-asleep.

"Get some rest, Bodie. Don't think I'm up to competing tonight."

"Compet--?"

Doyle closed the door quietly and with finality behind him. Hunkering forward against the sharp breeze, he strode swiftly across the caravan site, his emotions ambivalent and incomprehensible.

Perhaps Bodie was right about the influence of circus life on him. Five days ago, Cowley had instructed him to woo Bodie's attentions, and by extension, his trust. No emotional attachment, only sex, the Old Man had said.

But for the first time in ten years, Doyle doubted his ability to do the job and retain his self-imposed barriers. Something about Bodie-- Or was it something about him--Doyle--being back in this old, familiar setting--

What in hell was happening to him?

---

CHAPTER 6

Friday

High above the circus floor, Doyle crept spider-like across the web of rigging that supported the aerial equipment. Systematically he checked every tie-off and pivot point, hundreds of inches of cabling, and the integrity of even the least-used webs.

Rising before dawn, Doyle's first order of business had been to prop open the window over the kitchen sink for Basil's personal use. The sink itself was made passable by placing a cardboard box upside down inside it, which formed a platform for the dog to step across. The box had been scavenged amidst bird-song and rodent rustling under cover of pitch darkness from the edge of the caravan site where a communal skip had been set up. After that, he had wheeled the motor bike round the side of his caravan and parked it anew under the kitchen window.

The next priority had been to ensure Basil's understanding of the set- up. As usual, she had responded to Doyle's instructions with willingness and enthusiasm. Once he was content that she could get up onto the bike, bound from there to the sill of the kitchen window, then alight on the box in the sink without incurring disaster, he had called an end to their impromptu training session.

"Just don't turn the taps on, eh?" he had advised, ruffling her ears and giving her a treat. "Or I'll have to requisition another box."

After gulping down a forgettable breakfast, notable only for the speed with which he had consumed it, Doyle had chosen to leave off running. Instead, with Basil at his heels, he had gone to the Big Tent, which was already beginning to stir with activity, for this day--Friday--would see the first of the matinee performances.

Sergei's extra hands had already been hard at work. The circus floor inside the ring had been raked clean of the previous day's detritus, fresh sawdust and tanbark added, and the surface smoothed preparatory to the first performance. There were men on tall ladders inspecting the canvas for tiny rents, which could become huge tears if not speedily checked; and yet others, posted here and there, who were tidying the curtains and brightly colored valances.

Doyle had passed unchallenged and, though he knew better, apparently unremarked. Leaving Basil to her own devices, he had stripped off his sweatshirt and trainers, and folded them up neatly in a pile on one of the benches nearest the ring. From there, he had crossed the newly surfaced floor to the rope ladder. This he had climbed slowly to give his muscles a chance to warm up properly.

In the upper, wire-latticed region of the tent, he had hoped things might seem clearer. Nevertheless, as removed from this particular world as he could be and yet still be in its midst, he found it impossible to divorce himself from the growing intensity of emotions long buried--and even longer denied. This was only an assignment, no different from all the others. And yet--

Why Bodie?

Because he could fly like no flyer Doyle had ever seen before? Or because, when they flew together, it was better than the best magic Doyle had ever known? Or because, against all odds, they seemed able to communicate on an instinctive level that transcended verbal language? Or, more basically still, was it simply because Bodie was quite the most attractive man Doyle had ever known--and he had been ordered to seduce him?

In the middle of retightening a clamp which joined two cables, suspended at the highest point over the circus floor, Doyle closed his eyes and rode out a wash of yearning that raced through his system, leaving him flushed with sexual heat from head to toe.

He could not call it the embryonic flutterings of love, this heightened awareness that overcame him at the mere thought of sleeping with Bodie.

And yet--

He was an idiot. Chandra's death had shaken him more than he had realized, that's all. Three weeks had not been time enough to acknowledge the loss of a fine partner--even one he had kept at arm's length throughout their partnership.

It wasn't Bodie at all--not really. Although perhaps Bodie had been right when he had said, "We've a freedom here we don't get anywhere else." Freedom to be himself for the first time in ten years? Surely, that freedom had always been his.

Frowning faintly to himself, Doyle precariously scampered across the cables to the last batch of connections he had to examine. With heavy hair falling onto his forehead and crowding round his neck, he swiped at a sheen of sweat beading clammily on his brow. This feeling, this out- of-kilter longing for something unnamed, would not last; nothing ever did, as he knew well from first-hand experience. But in the interim--

As though summoned, he raised his head and looked out beyond the stands to the main entry. Through the unpopulated seats, he could see him, knew him even in shadow.

Bodie.

Smiling wryly to himself, Doyle watched the other man come into the ring, head tilted back, eyes directed upward at Doyle. Those eyes would be a deep, lustrous, cobalt blue, if not even darker, shaded to indigo. Heart hammering in his throat, Doyle sighed softly. Somehow it was immensely galling to have lost a battle without even knowing war had been declared.

And you've won, Bodie.

"Ray? You 'bout finished up there? Or d'you need me to come up?"

"Almost done," Doyle answered smoothly. "Just be a couple more minutes."

---

The first part of the morning was given over to an abbreviated work-out. Once the net was erected, just after eight, Bodie talked Doyle through his ideas for the new act. They restricted themselves to the most basic of acrobatics out of deference to Bodie's shoulder. Still, they were able to utilize the movements to gauge their timing and to get a notion of the overall flow of the set.

"D'you really think we can get all of this put together before next Wednesday?" Doyle called, hoisting himself out of the net as Bodie brought himself down by way of a single rope.

"Sure. Lily was going to talk with Riley after she'd had a chance to piece together the script. I've spoken with Sergei about using a couple of extra riggers for manning the webs; he didn't have a problem with that. Might have to talk to Donal about the--"

"Donal?" Doyle echoed sharply.

"McShane." Bodie gave him a curious look. "Electrician. You've seen him: stumpy little bloke who works the lights."

"Oh, right. Knew a Donal Ead once when I was with Donny Devereaux's circus--real git, he was."

Doyle picked up the towel from an overturned tub and gave himself a quick rub-down. Hannah waved at him from across the ring, her dogs sprawled in various poses of indolence at her feet. He grinned back at her and tossed the towel to Bodie.

"What about costumes?"

Sitting down heavily on the bench beside Doyle's clothing, Bodie buried his face in the towel before answering. "Still thinking on that. Can't be too complicated. Oh, yes--Simon said he needs to see you today about finishing your leotard. Seemed a bit peeved you hadn't stopped in this morning."

"Did he?" After tugging his fleecy trousers up around his waist, Doyle plopped down on the bench beside Bodie and began to pull on his shoes. "Can we use the lights, d'you think? Y'know, to make up for fancy costume changes?"

"Now there's an idea." Bodie smiled up at him from cotton folds. "We could use different colored gels for spectacular effects; I'd intended to use them for certain bits anyway. Good idea, mate."

Doyle concentrated on tying his shoe. "Thanks. So all we have to do is choreograph our routine, time it with Riley doing a voice-over and your man Donal playing with the lights, not to mention the lad who'll be working the web for the great ascension scene--did I leave anything out?"

"Cynic. Want some tea?" He raised a brow when Doyle appeared ready to object. "We'll go round to visit Simon and Derek. Give you a chance to look in on Sanjay."

Doyle laughed softly; had Bodie learned to read him so well in a few short days? "I could murder a cup of tea," Doyle admitted.

"Is that your dog under there?" Bodie wondered.

"Very likely. That you, Bas?" Doyle asked, peering under the benches. Two bright eyes gazed back at him. Yanking the sweatshirt down over his head, Doyle bent toward the dog.

Basil lunged forward, lifting her forepaws onto the bench.

"C'mon, then," Doyle said, clapping his hands. "Bet you could take a cup as well." Basil sprang into Doyle's arms and was ferried to his shoulder.

"Until you get near the horses or Sanjay," Bodie argued, "then she'll skedaddle off to parts unknown."

"Clever dog. Avoids a great deal of work that way."

As they started toward the main opening, Bodie asked quietly, "What happened to you this morning, Ray? Missed you on the run."

Doyle looked across at the far side of the Big Tent. "Wanted some time alone, I reckon."

"Everything okay?"

Green eyes turned Bodie's way. "Everything is fine, Bodie."

---

Doyle, attired in a pure white leotard, offset by glittering sequins which formed a star pattern on the torso, and small Catherine wheels on each hip, stepped out of the tackroom with a flourish.

"I expect that'll do," Bodie remarked.

"'Do!'" Simon exclaimed from behind Doyle. "He looks absolutely exquisite!"

Tipping his head a little to one side, Bodie gave Doyle a closer look. "Well, now you say so--I suppose there is something vaguely exquisite about him. Just there, on his right shoulder."

"You are positively wretched beyond words, Bodie," Simon complained.

"So sorry."

"You're not."

Derek raised his mug toward Doyle in silent appreciation. For him alone, Doyle performed a sleekly controlled pirouette.

"Oh, yes," Simon murmured. "See how the spangles catch the light; imagine that on the trapeze."

"Especially his right shoulder; it's exquisite, you know."

"Barbarian."

"Will I have a cape to go with it?" Doyle asked. "Like Conan over there?"

"Better," Simon promised with malicious satisfaction. "With the cape I give you, he'll look a poor cousin in comparison."

"Now, see here--"

Abandoning Bodie and Simon to their squabbling, Doyle returned to the tackroom and changed back into his work-out apparel. "Thanks, Si," he called out, folding the fragile material into neat bundles before joining the other men. "The costume's fantastic."

"You are welcome." Simon cast an arched brow speakingly in Bodie's direction.

Bodie blew him a kiss. "That's what I love about you, Simon: You never sulk like some people I know."

Shedding his outraged facade, Simon giggled. "You're still a bastard, Bodie," he said. "Even if Ray likes you."

"Of course he likes me; who doesn't?"

"The list is too long to--"

Deeming it time to put an end to their bantering, Derek took a single step forward and silenced his lover with a thorough kiss. When he let Simon go, he gestured to Doyle to accompany him to the tiger's cage.

Receiving a similarly questioning look, Bodie shook his head. "Nah, you two go along and play with the big moggie. I want to see how Lily's getting on with her writing." He gave Doyle a little wave and struck off down the canvas corridor to the side exit.

Doyle handed the leotard over to Simon. "Keep this for me, will you?"

"Of course. Be careful, eh? Sanjay's been a bit restless this morning."

Glancing sidelong at Derek, Doyle asked, "He's not doing well?"

Derek rocked his hand graphically from side to side.

"Just be careful," Simon repeated meaningfully.

In fact, after rousing very briefly at their arrival, Sanjay fell back into his slumber. Doyle and Derek worked quietly and efficiently to muck out the great cat's cage. They managed to freshen the sawdust on the floor and clean out the water bowl, all without disturbing him.

"He's getting weaker, isn't he?" Doyle muttered.

Derek nodded abruptly while collecting the cat's medication.

Supporting the great head with a gentle grip, Doyle sensed Sanjay's wakening. The yellow eyes shuttered open, and a wide, pink tongue curled out to swab the tip of the broad nose.

"It's all right, big fella." Doyle looked up at Derek, who was watching him. "He feels warmer than usual."

With a flicker of the eyes and brows, Derek indicated his agreement. While Doyle braced the cat's head, Derek worked the medication into the huge mouth. As soon as Doyle freed him, Sanjay worked his jaws and swallowed. He gave a paw a languid lick and rolled back onto his side, eyes closing heavily.

---

Doyle stayed a while longer, helping Derek with the horses. At noon, he refused Simon's offer of lunch and started back to his own caravan. The circus grounds were roiling with activity; but Doyle wanted to distance himself from the hubbub. As he ambled past Bodie's unit, he noted that Bodie himself was nowhere in evidence. Mildly disappointed, Doyle continued on to his own caravan. Standing on the steps in front of his door, he was in the midst of turning the knob when a warm, large hand came to rest on his backside.

"Bo--"

"Not Bodie," Sergei said with a slow smile.

"Sergei." The politeness in Doyle's voice came from a long-established well of civility which he was forced to dip into from time to time. In his line of work, such a resource was a necessity.

Letting his gaze drift down Doyle's narrow frame, Sergei reluctantly withdrew his hand. "I saw you and Bodie this morning."

"Yes?"

"Very nice." He inclined his head toward the door. "Don't suppose you could spare a cup of tea? Don't get taken care of so well these days, now Rose has gone."

Doyle hesitated. Then: "Sure." He pulled the door open and stepped through, leaving Sergei to follow.

It was cool inside the caravan, despite the sunny day. After tossing the leotard and tights onto the table, Doyle unobtrusively removed the box from the sink, and leaned forward to look out the window at the bike. As he had suspected, Basil was there. She raised her head sleepily; at sight of Doyle, she began to stir. With a subtle hand gesture, Doyle signalled her to stay. She did so, stretching out on the leather seat again quite happily.

"Have you heard from Rose?" Doyle asked, conscious of Sergei stepping up behind him as he filled the kettle.

"Not a peep. You?"

"No reason she would." Plugging in the flex, Doyle turned round, hands braced on the lip of the counter.

"No?" Sergei's redolent breath spoke of considerable whisky consumption. "She trusted you to help her."

"Rose was upset," Doyle said flatly.

Under Doyle's flinty stare, Sergei sidled a short distance away. "She would've got over it."

"I expect she will yet. Bodie said you've rowed before; 's not uncommon with married folk."

"No." Wandering purposelessly in the small space, Sergei spied the leotard on the table and picked it up. "Simon does an excellent job, doesn't he?" he murmured. "Such a pretty lad, too."

Doyle said nothing.

"Y'know, I saw you last night." Fingering the closely woven fabric, Sergei shot him a look from under his lashes. "Sneaking into Bodie's caravan."

"Wasn't sneaking," Doyle said on a mirthless laugh.

"It was late."

"The grounds didn't clear out until late. What are you getting at, Alf?"

Drawing himself up to his full, but not impressive height, Sergei said, "I prefer that you call me Sergei."

"Sergei, then."

Bunched in the circus owner's thick hands, the leotard was thrust at Doyle. "I think I ought to see you in this--make sure that it is what we want."

"It is. And I've already tried it on."

"I would like to see it, all the same."

Doyle's first thought was to refuse in no uncertain terms--but he realized he must think carefully before speaking. If he protested, Sergei might do something irrational--perhaps even fire him, despite earlier remarks to the contrary. Cowley would have his head on a pike for that. But if he conceded, Sergei might try his hand--and Doyle did not think an ugly scene would serve his best interests just now. In any case, he did not intend for the other man to touch him again--not without coming to harm, anyway.

"Why not?" he said equably. He swung out a hand and snatched the costume from Sergei's grasp; in the mood Sergei was in, he might try to play keep-away once Doyle had undressed.

With the leotard safely stowed on the counter behind him, Doyle removed his trainers then peeled the sweatshirt and underlying t-shirt off in one, unbroken movement. With the same air of indifference, he stripped off his trousers, revealing the narrow band of nylon that served as underpants. A prickling annoyance spread through him as Sergei wet his lips with unfeigned interest. It seemed an age before Doyle had drawn the clinging tights up around his hips, longer still before the close- fitting bodysuit afforded any degree of decorum.

"Hm," Sergei said noncommittally; his eyes spoke far more explicitly. "Turn round, please."

Knowing with complete certainty what the other man meant to do, Doyle nevertheless obeyed. When Sergei's hand closed on his right buttock with painful ardor, Doyle was completely unsurprised, and perversely, allowed the liberty for one full second before twisting round and seizing the broad wrist in a brutal grip.

"I take it that means, you approve?"

Through clenched teeth, Sergei growled, "What d'you think you're--?"

The door swung wide behind them; Bodie entered, his affable expression belying the tautness of his posture.

"Ray. Sergei. Showing him the new costume, are you, mate?"

Doyle flung Sergei's hand away. "Yeah. And he likes it a lot. Don't you, Sergei?"

Cradling his forearm close to his body, Sergei took a step backward and swung toward the door. With a hot glare, he ordered Bodie to get out of his way. When Bodie did not immediately comply, Sergei snapped, "Now, Bodie."

Smiling with mock affection, Bodie remarked, "He's a little stronger than Rose, isn't he?"

At that, Sergei barrelled past him, knocking Bodie half off balance as he bolted down the steps. Once Sergei had disappeared round the front of his own caravan, Bodie shut the door, and clucking his tongue admonishingly, commented, "There goes your rise, sunshine."

"Along with a third of my right cheek."

"He never! Turn round; let me look."

Doyle scowled at him. "Don't you start. Miserable swine."

"Me?"

"Very likely; Sergei, certainly." He would have said more, but a soft whine had caught his attention. Glancing out the window, he found Basil staring back up at him, her ears at attention, eyes worriedly alert. "C'mon, then, you."

The dog leapt up at once; Doyle caught her before she could plummet into the sink. "Don't worry," he said meanly as she licked at his face. "I think your meal-ticket is secure through the evening performance."

"More like six months." Bodie plucked a sheet of paper out of a pocket and unfolded it, casually leaning over the counter to see how Basil had managed such a remarkable leap. Hmming to himself, he added, "You've got a contract, remember?"

"Somehow, I don't think anything involving ethics will carry much weight with our Alf." Doyle set the dog on the floor and resumed the process of making tea.

Lifting up the flannel running trousers that had been discarded on the floor, Bodie said aghast, "You undressed in front of him?"

"Didn't have a lot of choice, did I? If I'd gone into the bedroom, with only a curtain to keep him out, he'd've been in there like a shot."

"Expect you're right."

As Doyle placed the lid on the teapot and wrapped the towel around it, Bodie stated, "You are okay?"

"Sure." Doyle made a face. "You don't work with a load of laborers and not get into a dust-up once in a while, y'know."

"Yeah, I reckon. Not your refined company, like us circus folk."

Giving way to a smile, Doyle agreed, "Nothing like. What d'you have there?"

"Hot from the typewriter: Our new routine. Too bad the 'a' doesn't work all that well--would make a lot more sense, I think."

"Hand it over. I want to see that."

Bodie dangled the single sheet in front of him. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No, was met at the door by Our Friend." Doyle grabbed the paper out of Bodie's hand. "Think maybe he was even waiting for me." Doyle's eyes began to scan the sheet; Bodie was quite right: The unreliable 'a' made for a difficult read.

"Told you before. You're just what he looks for in a man."

With a retort poised on his tongue, Doyle chose to exercise restraint when he saw Bodie squatted down in front of the open refrigerator, gathering assorted items to his chest. Doyle muttered, "I'm sure you're right."

"'Course I am. Thought you had some brinjal pickle in here."

"Behind the pickles." Aware that he had gone from borderline rage to domestic contentment in record time, Doyle shook his head at himself, and tried once more to focus on Lily's text.

As Bodie piled sandwich makings on the sideboard, Doyle gave a low whistle. "This is heavy stuff. D'you really think the audience will buy it?"

Bodie snorted. "You've seen how they react to that silly horse gag. This'll be spectacular."

"Hope you're right. More than that, I hope I'll be able to keep a straight face while Riley's reading it."

"Faint-heart. Riley could read the ingredients off a tin of beans and wow that lot."

"He is good. Incredible voice." He looked questioningly at Bodie. "What's his story, then?"

"Story?"

"Background, history, whatever you call it."

"Don't know a whole lot about him, actually. Keeps to himself. Only person I've ever known him to talk to much is Hannah; and she doesn't pass on anything hugely personal. I do remember her saying something about him being married and having a family in New Zealand--and he showed me some pictures once. Other than that, nothing."

Frowning down at the teapot as he removed the makeshift cozy, Doyle mused, "Wonder why he's here, then?"

"Why are any of us?"

The question was unanswerable. After placing mugs on the sideboard opposite where Bodie was working, Doyle reached into the refrigerator and took out the milk carton. He slopped some of it into both mugs, added sugar to Bodie's, then poured the tea.

"By the way, you didn't just happen to come round just now, did you?"

"Eh?"

"You heard me." Doyle set the sugared tea at Bodie's elbow.

Bodie shrugged. "I'm not playing protector, if that's what you mean."

"Very good timing, all the same."

"Luck," Bodie said dismissively. "Better change out of that rig, y'know. Get anything on it, and Simon'll have your goolies."

"And then Derek would have his," Doyle said pragmatically. "How much longer are you going to be?"

"You can't hurry perfection, Doyle. Don't worry; I'm making enough for both of us."

"No offense, sunshine, but I've seen you eat." He laid a hand on Bodie's shoulder, seeking out the spot that had received his attentions the night before, and gently renewed his acquaintance with it.

Bodie grinned wolfishly. "So change quickly. Better still, just keep doing what you're doing. Maybe I'll fall asleep, and you can have it all."

"Sod." With a final caress, Doyle collected his clothing and went into the bedroom. Drawing the curtain that served as a partition between the two areas, Doyle let his thoughts stray to Riley, the long-faced ringmaster, whose family lived so many thousands of miles away. If Doyle ever found someone to share his life--although the prospect seemed fairly remote--he resolved that he would never leave him.

Not when there was so little time to be had--and even fewer 'him's.'

---

The first house of the day was rife with children. They squealed, they screamed, they shouted their amusement. There was something special in playing to them, something noticeably lacking when the audience was composed mainly of adults. Magic was a given with children, not something to be derided, as was characteristic of their elders. Somehow, too, their acceptance made the magic more real for adults, less foreign.

As before, Bodie and Doyle's equestrian routine came to a close amidst a telling silence. Waiting for the audience's response from behind the red curtain, Doyle broke into a pleased smile as cheers and applause filled the canvas structure.

Giving Doyle's arm a thump, Bodie bent his head toward the side exit. They handed the horses over to Derek, who gave them both a congratulatory nod. As he led the animals away, down the corridor back to the stables, Bodie and Doyle went through the opening into brilliant daylight.

Lily was waiting for them in the dressing tent. While Bodie made a beeline for the changing screen, she asked Doyle, "What d'you think of the script, then?"

"'S bloody good. Don't know if we can carry it off, though. Pretty sturm und drang-ish, y'know."

"Really?" She looked alarmed. "I can rewrite it, if you want."

"No. That isn't what I want," Doyle assured her. "It's me I'm worried about." He poked a thumb in Bodie's direction. "He's got this entire routine revolving around this character I'm supposed to play."

"Don't listen to him, Lily. Once we put those spotlights on him, he'll perk up."

Doyle gave a snort of laughter. "Sure of that, are you?" To Lily, he said, "I've never done anything like this before. Wasn't hired on as an actor."

"He's afraid they'll laugh the place down," Bodie said unperturbed. "And he doesn't think we have enough time to get everything coordinated before Wednesday. He's wrong, of course."

"You see what I'm up against," Doyle complained.

"Ah, c'mon, Ray," Bodie said with weary entreaty from the other side of the dressing screen. "You were all for it at first."

"So, my clay toes are showing, okay?"

"If you think rewriting it will help, I really wouldn't mind," Lily insisted.

Doyle gave one of her petal-soft cheeks a caress with the edge of a forefinger. "You couldn't've done better--the writing is terrific."

"Just ignore him, Lily." Bodie stepped out from behind the screen carrying his cape. "You wrote exactly what I want. I'm even going to see to it that you get a credit on the playbill."

Slumping back in her seat with a heavy sigh, Lily muttered, "Mr. Gerry Cottle himself. I don't know who's worse, you or him."

Blue eyes widening with disbelief, Bodie proclaimed, "Don't be silly; he is, of course." With unthinking arrogance he handed the cape to Doyle and turned round, regally showing him his back.

Casting a long-suffering look Lily's way, Doyle spread the glittering fabric wide and laid the collar with precision round Bodie's shoulders. "Anything else I can do for you, m'lord?"

"There certainly is, my boy." Bodie's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "But I'd rather not have an audience for that, what?"

"Moron."

---

A little later, while Bodie was finishing up on the fixed trapeze, Doyle took advantage of the circus' preoccupation to finally go through the second equipment caravan. Unsurprised to find nothing that could not be explained to the appropriate authorities, he nevertheless made a thorough search. His investigation was not entirely wasted, as he came up with a piece of plywood that measured the very dimensions needed to fit perfectly over his sink--and which would have a greater longevity and resilience than the cardboard box he was presently using for Basil's springboard.

Pleased with his finding, he came out of the door and almost stumbled over one of the equipment movers who was racing up the steps. "Whatcha doing in 'ere?" the man demanded.

"Taking this," Doyle replied bluntly. "I don't think you'll miss it."

"You lot don't have any business in here." Tall, with a brawny physique to match his height, the other man eyed Doyle with some distaste. "Well, go on, now you've done with your pilfering; take it."

"Right."

A few feet away, Doyle heard the man mutter, "Bloody poof."

Doyle froze mid-step. Then very slowly, he turned.

The other man stared challengingly down at him; the words had been spoken with intention.

This, the first encounter with malice based on his sexuality, left Doyle a little uncertain how to react. His immediate response was to plunge a fist down the other man's throat. On reconsideration, however, he concluded that that might prove a bit permanent for his heckler, not to mention painful to his knuckles. His next was to rip into the man with words of one syllable--just to be certain he completely understood Doyle's displeasure. In the end--his internal debate lasting no more than ten seconds--he realized the futility of striking back on the basis of such minimal provocation.

So, he said with a feral smile, "Ooh, lover! Big, strong lad like you-- don't reckon you'd be willing to say that down here?"

The man's eyes lit with unholy joy. "Wouldn't I just!"

He bounded off the steps, gauging Doyle's dearth of inches and slight carriage with smug confidence. Coming to a stop less than a foot away, he said sneeringly, "I said, you're a bloody poof. Not going to deny it, are you?"

"Not at all," Doyle assured him, throwing the piece of plywood a few feet away. Then he brought his left fist up and smashed it into the man's well-muscled abdomen, following the first blow with a right jab to the square jaw. Taken by surprise, the man yet proved himself a fighter and lunged at Doyle to forestall his attack. While Doyle would have liked to accommodate him, he knew he dare not soil the equestrian costume, and danced easily out of the other man's range, causing him to stumble.

Bloodlust glinted in blue eyes as his attacker regained his balance, a warning to Doyle that he would have to end the fray soon, or face Simon's--and Lily's--wrath. He fell back a step and kicked out as the man bulled toward him once more, the toe of his boot catching the other beneath the chin, felling him instantly.

As soon as the other had crumpled to the ground, Doyle crouched down beside him to check that no permanent damage had been done. But the man was already stirring, disoriented eyes slowly taking in his surroundings and his own ignominious placement.

"'Ow'd you do that?" he groaned.

"Me mum taught me. Look, I'm sorry," Doyle muttered, genuinely ashamed to have let his temper get the better of him. Still, he was not quite ready to let the other off the hook. "But you really shouldn't've said that, y'know?"

"You said it was true."

"Doesn't mean it's polite, mate. Any more than me calling you a big fucker, eh? Even though that's probably true, too, isn't it?"

Gingerly probing at his jaw, the man said blankly, "Yeah, 'course it is."

"There you go, then." Giving his opponent a dark look, Doyle said, "You wouldn't want a hand up, would you?"

Eyeing Doyle with equal suspicion, the man said with reluctance, "Not if you intend to thump me again."

"Don't need to, do I?" Doyle said reasonably.

"Well--no."

Doyle thrust out his hand. When the other man accepted it, he pulled him upright, then waited until he had got his feet under him. "You might want to see Derek about that lip. You're bleeding."

"Derek takes care of the horses."

"I know. But he might be willing to have a look at you, as well." Brushing off his hands, Doyle retrieved his piece of plywood. "Thanks for the bit of wood, mate."

Hannah stood outside the side exit where the dressing tent connected with the Big Tent. Inhaling deeply from a cigarette, she offered Doyle a crooked smile. "What was that all about?"

"He called me a poof."

"Oh. Bodie would've put the boot in for good measure, in that case."

"Then Bodie must be less forgiving than I am," Doyle said wryly. "How's the show going?"

"Wonderfully. But I couldn't stand it anymore and had to come out for a puff. Not that I'm needed for anything when they're in the ring; the others, Aidan and Falstaff and Zoe, put them through their paces just fine--or Riley, when it's his turn." She pointed toward the square of plywood with the glowing tip of her cigarette. "What're you going to do with that?"

"It's for Basil. So she can jump in and out of the kitchen window when I'm not around."

"It's quite amazing the way she's latched onto you, y'know." Hannah shook her head; dark hair swung down across her face. Pushing it back behind her ears, she asked, "Have you tried out the rope trick on her yet?"

"Rope tr--? Oh, you mean getting her to untie me? Nah, haven't had a chance, have I?"

"I will be very interested to hear how she does. May just have to bring you to a few practice sessions, so I can have my dog back."

Faintly stricken, Doyle said, "I'm not forcing her to stay, y'know. As you say, she--"

"Not to worry. It's true she wouldn't perform properly for me before. But it would be nice if we could convince her to work in the ring. Earn her keep."

"Maybe it's stage fright," Doyle proposed whimsically.

"Don't smile; it's not unheard of."

"Really? Oops--sounds like they're getting close to the parade."

Hannah cocked her head toward the Big Tent. "Yes, you're right. Off with you, then. And Ray--"

Poised half in the entry leading to the corridor, he paused. "Yeah?"

"That was a very impressive display of fighting back there."

Doyle summoned a weak grin. "Been around." He winked. "I'll let you know about Basil, okay?" With that he disappeared into the corridor, where he was almost run over by the young web spinners who were hurrying into position.

Bodie, dressed once more in his Regency costume, and mounted on Piper's back, gave Doyle a curious look as he passed the piece of wood to Derek for safekeeping before taking hold of Tuppence's reins. "Thought you were going to miss the finale again. What happened to your hand?"

For the first time, Doyle noticed that his knuckles were bleeding. "Must've scraped it on something. Hello, Tuppence, old girl. You ready for the parade?"

The horse whickered softly as Doyle lightly scratched behind her ears.

"I'm afraid to ask," Bodie said.

"Then, don't."

"Right."

---

A two-hour respite followed the closing of the first performance. While Bodie skulked off on his own pursuits, Doyle opted to spend his time with Derek in the stables, preparing the horses for the next show. Restoring sweaty equine coats to their usual luster was a singularly mindless task. And after his set-to with the man outside the equipment caravan, Doyle needed some time alone with his thoughts. Derek welcomed the assistance, asked no questions, and left him to it.

Picking out bits of tanbark from Mickey's left forefoot, Doyle suffered a growing sense of uneasiness as he contemplated the ridiculous little fray. Not that he regretted what he had done; more, actually the way he had done it. Hannah had noticed his unusual skill in bringing the big man down--and it was not a skill to be broadcast, even for an acrobat.

Had it angered him so much to be labelled a homosexual that he had forgotten his cover? To some extent, certainly; after all, that was the name he had denied for more years than he cared to count. Conversely, he had embraced it as his own, now: Would he fight everyone who dared speak it? Or would he learn to ignore them, as he had learned to ignore far worse--and in many ways more appropriate--pejoratives?

While taking the man down a peg or two had been completely warranted as far as Doyle--or any gay--was concerned, that showy bit of self-defense had been uncalled for, employed for expedience rather than absolute need. He had not wanted to get his costume dirty--what sort of excuse would that be, if he had to defend his actions to Cowley?

Squirming inwardly, Doyle resolved to encourage the next would-be bully he encountered to push his face in the sand. Seven-stone weakling, that's me, he thought gloomily, and startled rather badly when a familiar voice announced, "So that's where you've got to!"

"Shh, 's all right, Mickey," Doyle murmured, as the horse flinched away. To Bodie, he hissed, "You trying to get me trod on in here?"

"I couldn't've picked a better nag, if I were."

"What?"

"Mickey. He tried to take a chunk out of Taffy during the liberty routine. How's the hand?"

"The--?"

"Hand."

Giving Bodie an old-fashioned look, Doyle raised his fingers, splayed wide, for inspection.

"You'll live. Someone's jaw will look worse, you'll be pleased to know."

Returning to his task, Doyle muttered, "Hannah told you?"

"Tom."

"Tom?"

Bodie grinned maliciously. "The bloke you roughed up."

"He started it."

This statement was met with a low rumble of laughter. "By calling you a poof?"

Grateful for the horse's wide flanks, which hid the wash of red warming his face, Doyle growled, "Yes."

"He calls everybody a poofter, Doyle--all the performers, that is. Doesn't mean anything by it."

Doyle slowly stuck his head round, eyes wide and incredulous. "You're not saying I overreacted?"

"Don't need to say it."

"Ta a bunch, mate. I expect this Tom of yours has gone crying to Sergei as well?"

"Nah--Tom wouldn't do that."

Lowering Mickey's hoof to the straw, Doyle said archly, "He told you, didn't he?"

"Only because I asked him whose door he'd run into. Gave him a hell of a lump, sunshine."

"Yeah, well, I apologized, didn't I?"

Almost repressing a smile at this ungracious statement, Bodie remarked, "Very sportsmanlike of you. And here's him painting you as the villain of the piece."

"Me?"

"Said he caught you nosing about the equipment caravan."

"Nobody told me it was out of bounds," Doyle countered belligerently. He dropped the hoof pick in the grooming kit, unclipped the leadshank from Mickey's halter to release his head, and eased himself alongside the still skittish horse to the front of the stall.

"He didn't know who you were; could've been anybody."

With a scornful chortle, Doyle said, "Oh, I see. And just how many thieves roaming around in full Regency get-up d'you know?"

"That's not the point. It was the roaming round the equipment caravan that made Tom nervous," Bodie stated practically.

"Look, if you don't want me going in there, just say. And while you're at it, make sure you give me a list of everywhere else I'm not to go!" Doyle pushed past his partner, pulling the stall gate to behind him.

"No restrictions, Ray," Bodie said mildly. "Why should there be?"

"You tell me. Derek, I'm off," he called out, knowing the other man was in one of the adjoining stalls. A hand rose above the partition separating Jake from Flip. Not bothering to see if Bodie followed, Doyle took the grooming kit into the tackroom, stored it in its place, and wheeled round to leave. Halfway through the door, he remembered the plywood square and went back to retrieve it from the table.

"You can tell Sergei to deduct this from my wages."

Bodie arched a quizzical brow at the innocuous-looking object. "Tom did say you took a piece of wood; he thought it was bloody suspicious."

"It is," Doyle said tightly. "I'm going to make a bomb out of it, and blow up the whole sodding circus." Scowling blackly, he made to swing past the other man, but was brought up by a vice-like hand on his upper arm.

"You're beautiful when you're narked," Bodie proclaimed softly, as though discovering a new universal axiom. Foresightedly pinning Doyle's arms to his sides, he stepped close and kissed Doyle full on the mouth.

Remaining very still, Doyle made it clear by his lack of response that he was only tolerating Bodie's advances, no more.

Slowly Bodie drew back, heavy lids revealing smoky blue eyes. "Gonna use that blinding footwork on me now?"

The breath caught in Doyle's throat--more from the look on Bodie's face than the provocative words. "Bastard," he breathed. Deftly driving a leg between Bodie's thighs, Doyle hooked an ankle round one of Bodie's knees and jerked it forward, forcing him to stumble. Before Bodie could recover, Doyle was on him, shoving the heavier and taller man hard against one of the tackroom support poles, eliciting an ominous creaking sound throughout the structure. Chucking the piece of plywood to the trampled grass floor, Doyle took Bodie's head between both of his hands, and brutally brought their mouths together.

Bodie's cooperation was instantaneous and whole-hearted. A moan formed in his throat, but Doyle's demanding kiss allowed it no outlet. For long minutes they stood there, struggling to get impossibly nearer.


Trapped and feeling the discomfort of his position, Bodie finally wrenched his head free. "Jesus, Ray! Slow it down, will you?" He gasped aloud as Doyle gave his throat a sucking, biting kiss. "Ray." His voice cracked. "Ray, not here, for Christ's sake!"

Recalling himself to their whereabouts with something of a shock, Doyle released Bodie at once, but his eyes were abstracted, a soft, hazy shade of jade. "Sorry," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his gaze to Bodie's mouth, glancing up sharply when the puckish lips formed a smile.

"Better be careful what I ask for, eh?"

"Complaining?"

"Not complaining, no. Impatient, more like."

Doyle bent forward and contritely nuzzled his mouth against Bodie's. "Expect we ought to be getting ready for the next house."

"Expect we ought."

"Oh, don't stop now!" Simon's voice carried plaintively across the small enclosure. "You two are more inspiring than the bluest video I've ever seen--even if you are about to bring the place down."

Peering round Doyle's shaggy head, Bodie asked dangerously, "How long have you been there?" He twisted a glance up at the pole behind him; as usual, Simon was exaggerating.

"Not nearly long enough by the look of things," Simon sighed. Dressed in flaring skirts and flowing blonde wig, his face expertly rouged and mascaraed, he looked every inch the fair damsel. Only his voice, a pleasantly modulated tenor, struck a discordant note--for a woman. "Do feel free to continue," he implored.

Doyle punctiliously withdrew from Bodie's arms. "Seem a bit inhibiting in here to you, mate?"

Agreeing with a prim nod, Bodie commented, "Show's over for the day, Si."

Picking up the cast-off square of wood, Doyle straightened to find Derek, his face split in a huge grin, lurking in the stall opposite the tackroom. "Not you, too!"

Derek winked, his knowing eyes plunging straight to Doyle's groin.

"Bloody hell," Doyle groaned. "Is there no respect in this place?"

From the stall at the end of the stable, Piper gave a noisy blow.

Bodie shook his head. "There's your answer, sunshine: straight from the horse's mouth."

---

By the end of the day, Doyle wondered if somehow he had got stuck on an emotional roller-coaster. After the morning's depression he had managed to re-establish a moderately normal state of mind, only to soar wildly in triumph after avenging his pride over Tom's petty insult. Bringing himself down to earth once more, his equable mood had then been shattered thanks to a bout of mindless lust in the stables with Bodie. Overcoming that diverting madness so that his performance in the ring would display some credibility, Doyle had then impossibly got sucked into their silly tale of wrenching, equestrian woe, and in the midst of acting it out had plummeted to gripping doubt as to what his next logical step concerning Bodie should be.

It plagued him to think that going to bed with Bodie had to be more than something he very much wanted to do--it was also an integral part of his job. After the passion, there would be questions: What can you tell me about Sergei? Have you ever known him to be involved in treasonous activities? Why did Rose run away? Not so bluntly worded, of course, but wheedled and coaxed out of the other man by whatever means of persuasion Doyle could bring to bear. And then he must report to Cowley, who would know where and how Doyle had elicited this privileged information--Cowley, who didn't give a tinker's cuss about anything so muddlesome as a man's emotions.

Sending him here had been a mistake on Cowley's part. The circus was as far removed from the mundane reality of life as the stars and the moon. And Doyle was falling deeper under its sway with every minute he remained. Or, in truth, had he ever actually been free of it, but rather simply managed to keep it at bay all this time?

Ten years ago, Doyle had thought the circus would be his future. That notion had been scattered to the winds along with Keith's ashes. Yet Doyle's first day under the Big Tent of Circus Sergei had reminded him of what he had abandoned all those years ago: The freedom, the camaraderie, the comfortable distance extended to everyone by everyone. In the circus, a man could be himself--or, in fact, anyone he wished.

Their lives were governed by a different set of rules. Here, Doyle's only objective was to please a public well-primed to be satisfied. Here, no one was likely to shoot him and leave him for dead in a puddle of souring milk and congealing blood--a scenario that, despite having been endured, visited him occasionally in unfriendly dreams. And here, for the first time in far too long, he could put that ever-vigilant, duty- bound homunculus that resided in his brain to rest, and be truly, all the way to the core of him, at ease.

After the parade, Doyle took Tuppence into the stables himself, absorbedly cloaked in unpleasant thoughts. Gallingly, it had not escaped him that his feelings would not be so turbulent were he required to seduce someone other than Bodie.

How to explain the rapport he had established with this man--and the uncommon affection and affinity that had formed so easily between them? Was such a rare bond to be callously dismissed for the sake of HMG's selfish interests?

As far as Cowley was concerned, no bond, however rare, could justify the contravention of his purpose. And just as certainly--if he knew the truth of the matter--Cowley would condemn Doyle for having put off the moment too long as it was. Never, ever, must Doyle forget why he was here. After all, he had experienced disillusion in trusting eyes before; could that unique shade of blue make his betrayal any less tolerable?

But, Doyle decided, it would not take place tonight--no matter what Cowley might say.

Bringing Piper alongside, Bodie laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder.

"You look like you could use a beer, Ray," Bodie said as he guided Tuppence into her stable. He pulled the rope-gate to.

"Ah-- No. Not tonight, thanks." Doyle shrugged, pretending not to see the flicker of dismay in Bodie's face. "Knackered, mate."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm away, then. See you tomorrow, eh?"

"Yeah. G'night, Bodie." As Bodie's footsteps thudded dully out into the corridor, a hint of movement caught Doyle's eye. Derek, hanging up one of the gaudily decorated saddles a few feet away, stood looking on, a vague frown heavy on his brow.

Doyle nodded at him--a parting salutation--and with a last pat on Tuppence's withers, strode out. A beer with Bodie would have led to bed with Bodie, and Doyle simply could not face that--and all it entailed-- just yet.

"You'd better hurry, if you're going to catch Bodie up," Simon announced, meeting Doyle in the corridor which led outside. "Although, maybe you'd be safer to wait a bit: He looked in a beastly mood."

"Thanks for the warning, Si. You were great tonight, y'know?"

"Was I?"

"You know you were." Doyle dredged up a cocky smile. "I think Derek's waiting for you."

Simon's smile beamed through his heavy make-up. "Ever since we interrupted you and Bodie--well, I've seen that gleam before."

"And it's good for keeping the legs limber," Doyle reminded him, suffering a pang under his heart as he wondered where Bodie would sleep this night. After all, Bodie had only said he would wait for Doyle to make up his mind--which Doyle had taken to mean Bodie would not force his attentions on him before he was ready. Undoubtedly, however, there were others who would count Bodie's amorous regard most welcome.

---

In the event, Doyle spent the remainder of the evening dining and drinking alone. At midnight, well in his cups and at the very nadir of the day's roller-coaster ride, he sought distraction by putting Basil through her paces. The dog responded willingly, her eyes swift to anticipate Doyle's every move. But she performed too well, racing through her limited repertoire before Doyle was quite ready to be done.

Intent on fending off the night, and despite the late hour and his abysmal state of mind, he remembered that he had yet to try out what Hannah had called the "rope trick." After using a curtain tie-back to loosely bind his wrists together--a feat not easily accomplished, even with the use of facile teeth--Doyle sat with arms extended in front of him and valiantly attempted to raise his left eyebrow--which at first seemed less than inclined to cooperate. Oddly, however, his somewhat impaired motor functions soon supplied a flexibility of movement usually lacking--although by then, Basil had already comprehended what he wanted of her.

She tore into his bonds with alacrity, worrying at the knots like a ferret at a rat. Doyle gave a soft grunt when she scraped his wrist--but only the first time her teeth connected. Far quicker than he would have expected, the dog had freed him--leaving both the curtain tie-back and Doyle's wrists bearing the evidence of her diligence.

"You are incredible, Bas--no matter what anyone else says," he informed her thickly.

The dog leapt onto Doyle's chest and affectionately lashed his face with a warm, smooth tongue. Protected from her exuberant attentions by the thick growth of beard, Doyle sank back onto the bed and let the heaviness of his eyelids carry them down, like a velvet curtain, bringing longed-for darkness. His last thought, as Basil curled up in the crook of his left armpit with her nose stretched out along his collarbone, was that he should take off his shirt and jeans. Go into the bathroom and wash up. Brush his teeth. Comb his hair. In his mind, he did all of these irritating but important bedtime chores--but only in his mind.

For by then he was asleep.

---

CHAPTER 7

Saturday

A scrape of sound scratched at the far boundaries of Doyle's consciousness. His slumbering mind translated it as a foot treading on gravel. Outside; several yards away.

Basil growled, the percolating rumble coming up from the depths of her chest. As she had not changed position throughout the night, her warning vibrated against Doyle's breastbone in the space under his chin, filling his ears with numbing alarm.

The door of the caravan swung open.

Sitting bolt upright, Doyle lunged for his gun, recalling belatedly and rather stupidly that it remained in London. Overbalanced by his sudden action, Basil tumbled to the floor with a squeak. At once she was on her feet and charging the intruder with yipping barks that cut shrill and high through the otherwise dark stillness.

"Only me, Basil."

The light came on in the kitchen. Blinded and trembling from an upsurge of adrenalin, Doyle yet recognized the voice. In place of relief came anger, a huge, flame-spurting ball of it, filling his chest and head, and erupting from his throat in a fierce snarl, "What the fuck--!"

"Up and at 'em, Ray." Impervious to Doyle's pop-eyed outrage, Bodie sat beside him on the edge of the mattress, one hand lowered to stroke Basil's head.

"It's the middle of the fucking ni--"

"Five in the morning, mate--and we've got a lot to do." Blue eyes, wide awake and penetrating, insolently took in Doyle's disheveled condition. "Nice pajamas." He bent over and removed the empty wine bottle from the floor, expressionlessly studying the label. "A shower first, I think. Reckon you can manage?"

"Bodie, I don't need your--"

"Like that, is it?" Bodie slapped the tapering Burgundy bottle down on the cupboard beside the bed, staring hard at Doyle. Catching a handful of thick hair at the back of Doyle's head, Bodie kissed him roughly, only once and without lingering. "I'll start the coffee."

Reeling from his too-abrupt awakening, Doyle blankly watched the other man stroll into the kitchen, Basil trotting at his side.

"Make it tea," he called hoarsely.

"Tea it is."

Staggering just a little, Doyle hoisted himself out of the bed, unpleasantly aware of his creased and rumpled clothing. He made his way to the bathroom, prying open the clasp at his waistband as he went. The buttons on his shirt were already undone, but it took him a moment to extricate his arms from seemingly tenacious folds. After that, the jeans almost defeated him, for his legs had somehow grown far too long for his uncoordinated hands to reach his feet.

"Here, hold on to me."

Doyle threw out an arm in immediate rejection, adding a menacing glower for effect.

Folding his forearms across his chest, Bodie planted himself in the narrow doorway to the lilliputian bathroom. "The kettle's on," he explained, when Doyle opened his mouth to snap. "Get on with it, Doyle!"

"Bit early, isn't it?" Doyle demanded caustically. He stripped off his underwear and stepped up to the shower-cum-bath stall, great goose- pimples layering the surface of his skin from head to toe as the frigid morning air laid icy fingers upon sleep-warmed flesh.

"A bit," Bodie agreed tranquilly. "But I've lined up some help for the morning work-out."

Letting the water run just long enough to feel its heat, Doyle slid through the gap between the stall and the shower curtain. Rubbing his hands over his chest to spread the moisture quickly, he turned his face full into the blast. Gasping for breath a few seconds later, he asked, "What sort of help?"

"Des has agreed to meet us in the ring at half past six. He'll man the web to pull you off the net."

Doyle stuck his head--hair flattened to his skull, huge globules of water dripping off nose and beard--around the edge of the curtain. "It's only gone five now."

"Which will give us plenty of time for a run and a good, stiff work- out."

"Gosh," Doyle declared sarcastically, "why didn't I think of that?"

"No imagination, that's your problem. There's the kettle. Hurry up, Doyle."

Curiously, the room seemed empty without Bodie's presence, however annoying and unwelcome at the moment. But as Doyle sluiced soapy water off his shoulders, back, and chest, he felt a warm glow begin to spread under his ribs. Jolted by Bodie's galvanic spirits, he was completely awake now, and quite suddenly, looking forward to the day with mingled apprehension and stomach-clutching anticipation. Tonight, if he did not lose his nerve, he would take Bodie to his bed--and worry about Cowley later.

In the kitchen, the subject of his ruminations waited with fresh tea and a slab of thickly buttered bread. "No wonder it's cold in here," he greeted Doyle. "You left the window open over the sink."

"Did I? No, leave it; can't hurt to have it open now. Bit musty." Having provided amusement enough for Bodie this morning, Doyle chose not to explain the reason for this apparent lapse. Instead, he pointed down at Basil, while stuffing a corner of bread into his mouth. "Have you fed her?"

"Of course. By the way, it's rude to talk with your mouth full. Expect you want me to let her out now?"

Doyle nodded, occupying himself with a slurp of scalding tea and another cheek-popping bite.

"C'mon, then, Bas, you old reprobate. Out with you."

---

The wind died down in the hushed moments between night and the tentative glow of dawn, offering the runners a little respite from the biting cold. Doyle had taken pains to dry his hair thoroughly, but wore his fleecy hood over the dampness that remained--even before Bodie could suggest it.

They jogged in companionable silence until a mile lay between them and the circus compound. Basil trailed erratically behind, easily seduced into examining the softest twitter or hint of movement at the sides of the road.

"How's the shoulder doing, then?" Doyle asked.

"You asked me that last night when we were waiting for the second set." Bodie gazed out over the rolling hills that undulated like a great, slumbering beast for miles in all directions.

"Did I?" Doyle pondered this reflectively for a while. He had been so engrossed in his own concerns yesterday, nothing of real importance had broken through. "So what did you tell me? I watched your performance; went without a hiccup as I recall."

A lazy grin stretched across Bodie's mouth. "It's fine, Ray. Like I told you, the massage did the trick."

Glancing sideways, Doyle murmured, "Maybe you can return the favor sometime."

"Be happy to. Just say when."

"Tonight?"

Bodie shot him a probing look. "Yeah. Sure. Love to."

Smiling with uncomplicated pleasure, Doyle turned his attention back toward the road. He could feel Bodie's stare upon him like a tangible weight; hot and intensely focussed, a burning-glass would have been less searing.

Entering the Big Tent an hour later, they used the next half hour to continue their calisthenics on a mat stretched across the sawdust floor. Every muscle was put to a grueling test, every tendon and joint loosened up until both men were as limber as hot wax. Lying flat on his back to catch his breath, Doyle bent his knees to his chest and stretched them out again.

Standing over him, Bodie threw his towel to the side and took hold of Doyle's calves. "Try this," he said, folding Doyle's legs back down until they formed a platform. Bare to the waist, Bodie bent forward and rested his chest on Doyle's knees, while lowering his hands to the mat on either side of Doyle's shoulders. Pushing off lightly, Bodie raised first one leg, then the other high into the air above his head, until he was vertically poised in a modified handstand. His chest remained propped against Doyle's legs, Doyle having altered their angle to accommodate Bodie's movement.

"Okay?" Bodie asked softly.

"'Course."

They stared into each other's faces, bodies unmoving save for the unhurried ebb and flow of respiration. Very slowly, Doyle began to part his legs, using well-developed thigh muscles to keep Bodie from falling through precipitately. Bodie carefully lowered his left leg until his knee met the padded mat between Doyle's legs. The other followed soon after, leaving Bodie crouched over Doyle's supine figure.

"Someone might see us," Doyle whispered.

"Yes." Lowering his hips and torso until their bodies made contact from groin to chest, Bodie brought his head down, lips parted--and kissed the tip of Doyle's nose. In the next instant, he was up on his feet, grasping Doyle's hands in both of his and hauling him unceremoniously upright.

"C'mon, you. Time to check the rigging."

Shifting from hormone-churning sexual promise to sweaty arbeit ber alles with uncomfortable swiftness, Doyle was slow to follow in Bodie's wake.

"Who put the net up?" he wondered inconsequentially, hoping to hide his pique at having surrendered so speedily to Bodie's charm. He chose, unlike Bodie who caught hold of a dangling web, the comparatively sedate rope ladder as his means of ascending to the upper cables.

"Had the lads do it last night before they called it quits," Bodie replied, swarming energetically upward. "Spent a bit of time with Des, showing him what I wanted. He'll do a good job by you, Ray. A reliable lad, is Des."

"Is he the big guy, taller than you, bald as a cue-ball?"

"No, that's Jeremy. Des is the other one."

"Oh, great." Doyle pictured Jeremy's constant companion without difficulty; short, stocky, and grey-haired, he did not inspire confidence. "You wouldn't be wanting to talk me out of this altogether, would you?"

"Des can do it. Trust me, Ray."

Squirming into position on a dense cable from which several thinner guys radiated, Doyle muttered loudly, "First thing I learned when I was but a wee lad, was never to trust anyone who says, 'Trust me.'"

"Cynic."

---

To Doyle's happy surprise, Des, low of stature and unprepossessing though he was, proved to have the strength of ten men--or at least two and half. They ran through the part of the routine in which the young hero, mortally wounded, plunges to the earth and must be returned to the domain of the gods. The earth, of course, would be imaginatively played by the net; Doyle's transport to the upper realms would be provided by the prosaic web, wielded by Des. Returned to his trapeze amidst a great stroboscopic display of lights, Doyle would then rouse, no longer the callow youth, but a hero rewarded by the gods for his deeds of valor and selflessness.

The lights and accompanying narrative would be added later; at the moment, the three men bent their minds to establishing the overall timing, which would be crucial to sustaining the delicate mood of tragedy and suspense they hoped to create.

After an hour of repeatedly tumbling into the net, Doyle was beginning to lose his resilience; the ropes, more treacherous than they appeared to the casual onlooker, could abrade the skin off a rhino, given enough time.

Flat on his back, Doyle saw the web dangle in front of his eyes once more. Taking a huge breath, he raised his hand to guide it onto his arm--

"That's enough, Ray. We're done for the morning." Bodie waited until Doyle slowly and tellingly uncurled off the edge of the net and came to stand on the sawdust floor, before diving off the trapeze where he had coordinated all the action, onto the ropes in Doyle's wake.

"Des, d'you want some tea?" Bodie asked, landing on the tips of his toes beside Doyle, who was brushing his fingers gingerly over a raw patch on his left elbow.

"Nah. Thanks, Bodie. Promised to help Jem pick up some supplies in town. Tomorrow, right?"

"Right. See you first thing."

Des waved and turned to go.

Before the man could strike off across the ring toward the main aisle, however, Doyle called out to him. "Thank you," he said simply. "You took excellent care of me."

The sudden glint in the older man's eyes revealed his surprise at Doyle's remark. "Cheers, lad."

Peering over Doyle's shoulder, Bodie commented, "Bit of a rope-burn there, eh?"

"A bit." Doyle stiffened when Bodie snaked a hand round his waist and caught hold of his wrist. Patiently tolerant, he waited while Bodie rolled it over, taking in the claw and teeth marks laid there by Basil.

"What's this, then?"

"Basil." Doyle pulled away as Aidan and Zoe appeared at the main entry. "Trying out a new trick with her."

"And you're going to tell me she succeeded beyond your wildest expectations, right?"

Drawing a face at Bodie's unsubtle sarcasm, he said tartly, "That's right." He wiped his forehead off with the back of a hand. Collecting the sweatshirt off the bench where it had been dumped, he thrust his arms into the sleeves. Careful not to snag the collar on the earring glittering in his left ear, Doyle dragged the shirt over his head.

"So, go on--out with it," Bodie said. "What's this new trick?"

"The same one you've seen Reggie do with Aidan and Falstaff."

Bodie's face went blank. "Aidan and Fal--?" He came to a halt, looking perplexed. "Wait--you don't mean the bit where he bites the ropes off their hands?"

"Believe it or not, yes."

Bodie's expression turned calculating. "How long did it take her?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

"Just tell me. How long?"

"What's going on in that twisty little brain of yours, Bodie?" Doyle asked suspiciously.

"C'mon, Ray!"

"A couple of minutes--no more." A laugh bubbled up from Doyle's chest. "You're never thinking of adding her to the act? Let's see: When the hero is injured, he doesn't die right away, but ends up bound and gagged and hanging by his heels from the trapeze. Intrepid Basil soars to the rescue. We'll have to talk to Lily about the costume--and rewriting the script! And then--"

"Shut up, Doyle," Bodie said. "You do natter on."

"So what'd you have in mind?"

"A bet."

It was Doyle's turn look askance. "As in money? Yeah, all right, that's obvious. But who with?"

"Hannah. She couldn't get Basil to do any of her gags right; we could set her up--"

"Set me up for what?"

Doyle grinned unrepentantly, only then disclosing that he had been aware of Hannah's approach for some time.

"You bastard!" Bodie gave Doyle a blow to the belly that would have been painful had it been delivered with only a little more force.

"Bodie was plotting." Doyle held out his wrists for Hannah's inspection. "Basil can do the rope trick."

Startled into a smile, Hannah shook her head at the lurid scratches and tiny tooth indentations marring Doyle's thinly haired forearms. "Fancy her doing that for you. Wouldn't think she'd remember how, it's been so long."

"You mean, she's done it before?" Doyle's voice gave away his disappointment.

"Yes, indeed. In fact, that's why Falstaff despises her; she tore a bloody great hole in his wrist the one time we tried her out. Could never get her to do it again--even with someone else." She studied Doyle's wounds measuringly, "Falstaff was always convinced she savaged him intentionally--that's why he detests her so."

"Ah. I seem to recall you saying something about that."

With the towel slung round his neck, Bodie stood lowering impartially at them. "You set me up, sunshine. And us being partners and all."

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Hannah stepped prudently past them. "It's time I fetched my charges."

"We'll come with you," Doyle offered. "Heading that way ourselves."

"Are we?" Bodie said doubtfully.

Doyle jabbed him in the ribs; Bodie's skin was cool and damp. "Put your shirt on, muscle-man, before you take chill. And, yes, I heard someone mention tea. Besides, I want to see how Sanjay's getting on."

"You and that bloody tiger. Maybe he died during the night."

Clucking his tongue reprovingly, Doyle remarked, "Sore loser."

---

They caught Simon and Derek at morning tea, and managed, without too much grovelling, to cadge toast and jam out of them. Simon had an air of almost cat-like repletion about him, which earned him pointed looks and sly asides until he demanded that Derek put an end to them. In reply, Derek gave his lover a long, deeply affectionate kiss and gestured at Doyle to join him in the cat enclosure.

As Doyle stood up to follow, Bodie immediately began to ask Simon's opinion regarding the sequencing of lights to be used in their new aerial routine. Marvelling at the way Bodie could insinuate himself into anyone's good graces, Doyle gave Bodie a gentle thump on the shoulder and made for the corridor. Once past the dividing curtains, he could smell Sanjay's cage well before it was within sight. Derek had already begun raking soiled straw and solid matter into a pile before Doyle entered the cage. Sanjay lay on his side, not only awake, but very alert, his long tail lashing up and down.

Keeping his back to the bars at all times, Derek handed Doyle the rake and set about shovelling the pile into the bucket kept handy for this purpose. Taking up where Derek had left off, Doyle gradually worked his way round the entire cage. Never did he let the tiger out of his sight for more than a second. Sanjay was hatching something; Doyle hoped that neither he nor Derek figured in his plot, whatever it was.

Coming to some conclusion, Sanjay relaxed and set about cleaning his whiskers and paws. Entranced, Doyle watched, following the progress of the wide, dexterous tongue as it scraped at the pads of the animal's right forefoot. Yellow eyes blinked shut as the great paw swept up and over the head, and dragged forward from behind the perfectly shaped ears. Then the tongue appeared again, licking the paw clean.

The soft chink of the cage door fitting inside its frame drew Doyle's attention for only a second; he knew it was Derek taking the bucket out for emptying. Otherwise it was very quiet in the tiger's enclosure, the grate of the rake's teeth rhythmically scoring the earthen floor, and the lazy lap-lap-lap of Sanjay's tongue the only other noises to be heard.

The tiger rolled onto its feet, an all-in-one motion that took the breath out of Doyle's lungs. After the briefest of hesitations, he carried on what he was doing, but his entire being was now concentrated on the cat and its next move.

In fact, its next move was to stretch long and languidly, splayed paws revealing the dark, hard tips of barely sheathed claws. A low staccato growl emanated from the animal's yawning mouth as it came completely upright, ears cocked forward, eyes fixed on Doyle.

"Hang in there a bit longer, mate," Doyle said assuringly. "We'll be out of your hair before you know it."

Sanjay's muzzle twitched, as though struck by a previously unencountered scent. Lifting his head, he pushed off from his corner of the cage and headed toward Doyle.

With the rake gripped tightly in his hands, Doyle braced himself for the animal's approach.

"What're you up to, eh?" Doyle whispered, as the cat came to stand directly in front of him. Close up, Sanjay was impossibly huge, his head almost as broad as Doyle's torso. The muzzle bobbed up again, the smooth nose pad wrinkling slightly as the cat absorbed Doyle's presence. His hindquarters dropped onto the freshly cleaned ground, and sitting now, he stared up at Doyle's face.

Uncertain what to do, Doyle acted on instinct. Sanjay seemed to desire a bit of personal attention. And whatever Sanjay wanted--short of an arm or a leg--Doyle thought it best to give him. So he extended his hand cautiously, on the lookout for the slightest hint of aggression. When none was forthcoming, he continued the movement toward the cat's head until his fingers came in contact with short, surprisingly soft fur. At that, Sanjay butted his head against Doyle's fingers, pleading a more stimulating touch. Breathing a little raggedly, Doyle was prompt to comply, searching behind the cat's ears, then down his neck to the especially sensitive spot beneath the chin.

Sanjay began to purr. The noise, loud and rather machine-like, almost scared the life out of Doyle. A second later, realizing what the cat was doing, he remembered to breathe again.

"Bloody hell, Sanjay," Doyle gulped. "Warn me next time, will you?"

The contented rumbling increased in intensity, until Doyle could actually feel the vibration of it through his hip. Commanded entirely by the cat's presence, Doyle hardly heard the ring of metal against metal as the cage door came open behind him.

Seemingly unconcerned, Derek entered bearing fresh straw. He cast Doyle a quick, questioning look, and waited until Doyle answered with a stalwart nod of the head. Satisfied, Derek proceeded to cover the cage floor, save for the small area where tiger and man stood, until the zesty odor of straw had largely obscured the tiger's musky signature.

After that, he came over to Doyle's side and interposed himself between Doyle and the cat, gently but firmly making the animal accept his touch instead. Sanjay made no complaint, although the yellow eyes opened speculatively when Doyle took a step away.

"You're a beautiful, great fellow, aren't you?" Doyle murmured. He was torn. He wanted to stay, honored that the cat found his company worth having, yet more than a little shaken by the tiger's obvious affection. A jerk of the head toward the cage door cinched his resolve; Derek wanted him to clear off, at least for now, and Derek most certainly knew best. Yet he hesitated, recalled to himself by the sight of Sanjay's medication on the overturned tub outside the door.

"Don't worry, Ray," Bodie said evenly from the shadows where the enclosure gave way to the corridor adjoining the stables. "I'll give him a hand with it this time."

"You're sure? I don't mind, really."

Bodie laughed under his breath as Doyle stepped out. He took hold of one thin wrist and lifted it into the air. "You're shaking, sunshine."

Glaring amiably, Doyle said, "Didn't expect that, did I? I know how to deal with 'em when they act like they're supposed to."

"You'll get used to it. Dogs and tigers--what is it with you, Doyle?"

"Natural charm," Doyle shot back wryly. "Look, I'm going to find somewhere I can faint without shattering my street credibility. You want anything from the shops?"

"You going into town?"

"Yeah, after a shower to keep from offending the townfolk. Hoped to put it off till Monday--the trip, not the shower, you berk--but I don't think the larder will hold up till then."

The taunt stolen from his lips, Bodie grinned superciliously. "Wasn't going to say anything. A couple of Flakes will do. You'll be back by noon?"

"Of course. It's only--" he consulted his watch "--half past eight now. I'll stop at the launderette first, then Sainsbury's. Sure that's all you want?"

"Ta, mate. You go on, then."

Doyle flexed his fingers, remembering the sensation of them buried in white and burnt orange fur up to his knuckles. Glancing at Bodie, he said with a fey smile, "Anything in particular you'd like for dinner tonight?"

Dark blue eyes flickered thoughtfully. "Surprise me."

"I'll do that."

With the cat's loud, breathy purr echoing in his ears, Doyle strode off into the corridor.

---

It was just after eleven when Doyle drove back into the caravan site. Zipped protectively in his jacket, tongue lolling out of her mouth in simple-minded happiness, Basil barked once to announce their arrival as the bike came to a stop. After freeing the dog, Doyle unstrapped the bulging rucksack from the saddle, along with two plastic carry bags stuffed full with assorted tins and packets.

His foray into town had been most productive. From the launderette, he had proceeded a few streets away to the grocery. There, following the completion of his purchases, he had stopped at a call-box long enough to ring Cowley. Once more he had been required to leave his report with the recorder. But with nothing to report--Bodie's sexual conquest, amongst other things--Doyle was grateful to make use of it.

It took him only a few minutes to sort out the carry bags, although he had to remove Basil from underfoot with the bribe of a chew toy he had picked up for her before he could get on with the job at hand. While the dog happily began to gnaw away, Doyle arranged the food items in cupboard and refrigerator, then conscientiously moved on to the sorting of freshly laundered clothing. While hanging shirts and trousers, and folding socks and underwear, he mused that he and Bodie had yet to discuss the particulars of the evening, although he expected Bodie meant to come to Doyle's place for dinner--and for whatever else might follow.

Snatching up the two Flake bars, Doyle called a quick good-bye to Basil and trotted down the front steps, letting the door slam to behind him. Whistling softly to himself, Doyle slowed abruptly at sight of a strange vehicle parked alongside Bodie's caravan. Pursing his lips again, Doyle hefted the crinkly packets in one hand and sauntered up to the door, where he rapped sharply, twice.

From inside, he heard, "'S all right, mate, I'm closer, I'll get--"

Having seen him only once, and then only briefly, Doyle almost didn't recognize the man who greeted him. But memory, not always kind, came back very quickly, and with it a degree of animosity.

"Roger, isn't it?" he said coolly.

"That's right. Fancy you re--"

"Ray!" Bodie imposed himself adroitly in front of the slighter man who had been his flying partner. "Come inside for a beer."

Glancing from the soft-lipped young man to Bodie, Doyle queried, "You sure?"

"'Course." Bodie's gaze told him more.

"Just for a few minutes. I left lunch on the counter." This was a lie, but Doyle offered it smoothly. As he passed Bodie, he waved the two Flake bars in his face.

"Great." Bodie scooped the candy into one big hand, and shut the door with the other. He pointed out the open space at the tiny kitchen table; Doyle scooted onto the bench, sitting opposite Roger.

"What brings you back?" Doyle asked pleasantly. "Not for anything you left behind, I hope--most of it was ruined, y'know."

Roger gave him a slow smile, peering up from under long, thin lashes. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Was a bit wrought up."

Doyle nodded understandingly. His lips parted for reply, but just then Bodie tapped the back of his hand with a chilled bottle. He glanced up at Bodie. "Ta."

"Roger came by to say hello," Bodie said gingerly, as though picking his way through a minefield. "Didn't you, mate?"

Studying his fingers, Roger nodded. "Yeah." His head came up, dark eyes settling on Doyle's face without expression. "Bodie says you're putting together a special routine."

"That's right." Doyle placed the narrow lip of glass against his mouth and tipped his chin back; strongly brewed, dark ale foamed down his throat.

"Expect you could use another rigger."

Turning the bottle round in his hands, Doyle said noncommittally, "That's Sergei's decision, not mine."

"You could put in a word for me."

"Leave it out, Roger," Bodie said sharply. His lips were pressed tightly together, eyes hard and uncompromising.

"Oh, yeah, Bodie? Thought you wanted me round here, mate." Roger's long, mobile mouth curled in a sneer. "But, that was then. Oh, I know what you're up to."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," Roger assured him, his eyes assessing Bodie with impudence. "Get to know a bloke real well when you've been together like we were."

Something of Roger's abandoned-lover pose did not ring true, Doyle decided. Or perhaps it was Bodie and the way he was reacting to him. Bodie had heard Roger out, but with barely repressed anger--as though he could not simply dismiss the other man out of hand, however much he might like to.

Mulling this silently, Doyle chugged down the better part of his ale and set the bottle on the table with finality. He announced, "Got to go. Sorry I can't help you, Roger." He slid out of the booth and went to the door. To Bodie, he said, "See you in the ring, mate."

"Doyle!"

Hand on the knob, Doyle paused.

Bodie raised the two candy bars in a sort of salute. "Thanks again."

Smiling wryly, Doyle let himself out.

---

Doyle kept to himself for the remainder of the afternoon. The small caravan received a very thorough cleaning, including floors and windows, the latter of which soon shone clear and bright in the sunshine. There were more productive chores Doyle could have focussed on; but he wanted to know the very moment that Roger departed the circus grounds, and he would know that only by staying near. As the time lengthened, Doyle's insides began to tighten up, making him high-strung and a little resentful. Although he was the first to admit that he had no claims on Bodie, he could not deny that Roger's presence irritated him. Greatly.

The afternoon was gone by the time Roger finally drove away. By then forced to give up his vigil, Doyle happened to be on the footpath leading to the circus compound when he heard the toot-toot of a horn as the car he had seen parked outside Bodie's caravan spun away onto the main road. Attired in the Regency outfit, and accompanied by a boisterous Basil dancing at his side, Doyle watched the vehicle vanish into a dale on its way toward town.

He stopped and let his eyes swing across to Bodie's caravan. The thought surfaced that he ought to see how Bodie was getting on--showtime was less than half an hour away. But some instinct argued against doing so; not questioning it, Doyle carried on toward the sideshow attractions.

The first house of the day had begun to gather in force. Being that it was Saturday, and school and work could not interfere, Doyle expected that the circus would be accorded its largest crowd yet. Heedless of his striking appearance, Doyle made his way through the clumps of people, avoiding children sticky-fingered with toffee-apple and candyfloss. One gasped aloud as he went by, and began a frantic tugging at her adult companion's sleeve.

"Look, Mum! There's that dog. Remember? The one at Sainsbury's who did all those tricks."

"Oh, yes," the woman said, and smiled with recognition when Doyle stopped and beckoned Basil to his side. "And you're the young man who rescued her."

"Hallo," Doyle replied pleasantly. The girl, dark braids running like two train tracks down her back, worshipped him with her eyes. "Is this your first visit?"

"Yes. Vanessa hasn't been able to speak of anything else for days."

"Well, I certainly hope we won't disappoint you."

"You said you fly on the trapeze," the girl blurted out, her bewildered eyes scouring over Doyle's costume.

"Not till Wednesday next. In the meantime, you'll see me on a beautiful dappled grey horse."

"Haute école?" the child whispered reverently.

"That's right." Canting his head to one side, Doyle remarked, "D'you know much about it?"

Face glowing with excitement, Vanessa said, "I've always wanted to see the Lippizaners."

"Piper and Tuppence aren't quite in their league--although I think you'll agree Piper is quite amazing for an old fellow."

"The poster outside Sainsbury's says he does the capriole."

Reassessing the child's age from this show of knowledgeability, Doyle inclined his head in agreement. "If we're lucky. He's getting on a bit, though, and I've been told he can't always manage."

"Oh, no!"

"Don't worry. He'll give it his best. Basil." The dog's head came up at once. Doyle flicked two fingers and she reared up on her hind legs. He turned his hand and she sprang head over heels.

The girl clapped, and her mother gave a laugh. "Thank you," she said. "We'll be watching for you."

Doyle nodded again, gave a dark, shiny braid a gentle tug, then strode to the main entry of the Big Tent, Basil's wiry legs marking double-time to keep up.

It was much cooler out of the sun, under the canvas. Inside was a hive of activity, laborers directed by Riley scurrying in all directions across the sawdust floor of the ring to meet his last minute specifications. The ringmaster gave Doyle a wave as Doyle, Basil tagging behind, steered clear of all the bustle to reach the red curtain.

In the stables, he found Derek alone, applying the finishing touches to Tuppence's coat.

"Anything I can do?"

Derek gestured "no" with his head. He peered over the back of the horse, and grinning, pointed down at the trampled grass behind Doyle's feet.

There stood Basil, cowering and shivering, but bravely keeping her place as Doyle's lieutenant.

"Look at you," Doyle remarked affectionately, and squatted down to cradle her head in a caress. "Go on, Bas." He flicked a finger under her chin. "No point in your staying here."

As though unshackled, the dog took to her feet, mouth open in a wide grin, and bolted for the corridor, her curled-high tail the last of her to be seen as she tore round the corner.

Doyle smiled at the puff of dust that rose in her wake and climbed to his feet again. "Why d'you reckon she's latched onto me?" he wondered.

Urging the Andalusian into her stall, Derek looked meaningfully across at Doyle and placed a hand on his heart.

"I'm no different than the rest of you," Doyle argued.

Cocking his head toward the corridor, Derek touched a finger to his temple.

"Yeah, I expect she does." The corner of his mouth came up. "Bodie says she knows a soft touch when she sees one. But maybe that's what you meant?" He broke out in self-deprecating laughter as Derek gave his head a firm nod. "Thanks, mate. How's Big Whiskers getting on?"

Again the equivocal hand motion Derek had applied to Sanjay once before.

"Can I go see him?"

Having secured the horse, Derek beckoned Doyle to follow. They went through the side corridor that gave access to the tiger's enclosure. Sanjay lay in a shaft of mote-filled sunshine. His great, striped figure was poised like a statue, eyes half-closed, head upright but unmoving.

Doyle went up to the bars, eyes full of the cat. He was struck by a sudden portending sense of loss. "How's the old puss, then?" he murmured.

The regal head stirred at Doyle's voice, even though the animal had certainly already taken note of his arrival--probably even before Doyle had come through the opening--and slowly turned in his direction.

Fixed by that steady gaze, Doyle would have liked to know what thoughts loomed behind the yellow eyes. The cat blinked, golden lashes unhurriedly falling and rising.

"The last place I look, of course." Simon's voice, softly muted out of consideration for the cat, came to them from the opening.

Derek caught sight of his lover and strode across the distance separating them. Tweaking a bright yellow curl, he surveyed Simon's ring outfit with an eye to detail before giving his approval by way of a smile and nod.

"Thank you," Simon breathed, accepting Derek's butterfly-soft kiss. Automatically wiping lipstick from the other man's curving lips, he turned toward Doyle. "Derek wants to know if you can lend me a hand with the animals for the next couple of days."

"Of course," Doyle said.

"Bodie will help you with Sanjay's medicine. He doesn't entirely approve of me, I think--Sanjay, that is."

Derek rolled his eyes, then used the ball of his thumb upon Simon's jaw to smooth an errant line of make-up.

"Derek'll be gone till Monday. There's an auction--some horses he wants to have a look at. He's leaving tonight after the second show."

"I see," Doyle said. Sensing words unspoken, he invited quietly, "What else, Simon?"

Folding his arms tightly across his chest, Simon said baldly, "Bodie'll be gone tonight, too."

Derek's head came round sharply. Simon ignored him. "I overhead him with that dreadful oick, Roger. Bodie's going to join him in town--" At Derek's growl of warning, Simon said swiftly, "I think Ray should know! Roger's such a yobbo, Derry."

Given Derek's frowning leave to continue, Simon went on, "Bodie likes you. If you say something--"

"Like what?" Doyle asked, exasperated. "He's a grown man, Bodie is. He'll do as he likes."

"Roger's just trying to use him. If you let him weasel his way back in--"

"It's nothing to do with me." Doyle's glinting green eyes warned Simon to drop the subject.

"Oh, Ray!"

Doyle addressed Derek directly, "Put together a list of all you want me to do--so I won't forget? Thanks, mate." Swinging about, Doyle found the tiger studying him in turn, his gaze as impenetrable and unforthcoming as ever. "Take care, mate," he muttered, and swept past the two men without another word.

---

After a slow start, the crowd fell into the proper mood and thereafter rarely stopped cheering. Only the haute école routine, with its suggestion of drama, cooled their fervor--and even then their emotions were fully engaged and audible.

As everyone flooded out of the Big Tent, either to search for their car or to spend a few minutes more in the arcades located in the sideshow, Doyle slipped through the side exit from the stables and struck off toward his caravan. Halfway along the footpath, Basil caught him up, yapping once to get his attention.

"Hello, there!" Doyle bent down and gently rubbed at the animal's jaw. "Where have you been, then?"

"Doyle!"

A young man, tall and lanky-boned, waved to him from the edge of the circus compound. Recognizing the boy as one of the part-time ticket takers, Doyle hailed back, "Damien. What is it?"

"Woman wants to see you--if you will. Has a little girl with her; said you might remember."

Doyle bit his lower lip; dark braids and a woman's friendly smile took form in his mind. Striding back toward the compound, Doyle asked, "Where are they?"

"At the edge of the sideshow; the duck shoot."

"Thanks, mate."

The woman and her daughter stood where Damien had reported. Doyle worked his way through the milling bodies and managed to come up alongside them unnoticed.

"Hello, again," he said amiably. Basil stood on her hind legs and danced at his knee. He bent down and hoisted her onto his shoulder, steadying her with a hand as he stood upright.

Vanessa beamed with unalloyed pleasure. Her mother appeared equally impressed.

"Thank you for stopping by; I know you must be busy, what with the next program and all."

"That's all right. I have a few minutes."

Braids streaming down her back, Vanessa tilted her chin up to meet Doyle's eyes. "You were amazing. The horses were terrific! The black one--the capriole--! Oh, it was beautiful!"

"That's Piper. Told you he'd give it his best," Doyle said.

"Could you give him something for me?" the girl asked. "And the grey, too?" She held out her hand; lying in her palm, overlapping the sides, were two halves of a toffee-apple, the stick removed.

Looking down at the small hand, Doyle was reminded of his own early experience with the circus, and the magic that would never be so enchanting as one grew older. He pursed his lips, expression skeptical. "Well, I--"

"Not if it's a bother," Vanessa added quickly.

"It's not that," Doyle said thoughtfully. "It's just-- I don't think Piper or Tuppence would like it as much coming from me." He scratched at his beard. "I don't reckon you'd like to give it to them yourself?"

The girl's eyes grew large. "Could I?"

"Of course. If you want to, that is."

"Oh, yes! Mum?"

The woman studied Doyle uncertainly. "Won't we be a nuisance?"

"Not unless Derek says so--he's their trainer. But we can ask. What d'you say?"

"Oh, please!" the girl breathed.

Doyle waited until the woman nodded her agreement. "Come along, then."

After wending their way through the crowd, Doyle cleared their passage with the entry ushers--one of whom was Damien--and led them into the Big Tent. Basil stayed on Doyle's shoulder right up to the juncture with the stables. She swayed slightly, her footing precarious as she recognized her surroundings. Doyle lifted her down and carried her in his arms, hoping Lily wouldn't disembowel him when she found dog hairs on the costume.

Doyle raised a hand at the threshold of the stable entry to bring his small group to a stop. While the woman hung back with her daughter, he stepped inside, spying Derek in the center aisle, scraping sweat off the Friesian's broad back.

"Derek, I've brought a couple of admirers along." He set Basil's feet on the floor; she disappeared with all haste into the relative safety of the tackroom. "Would you mind if this young lady gave Tuppence and Piper a treat?"

Derek shifted his gaze from Doyle to the woman and her daughter. At sight of the solemn-faced girl, he raised a hand and flagged them inside.

The girl approached with caution, her eyes full of the seemingly enormous black horse. A tiny smile wreathed Derek's bluff features as he gestured her closer still. When a few feet away, he mimed to her the way she should hold her hand so her fingers would not be caught between the horse's long teeth.

Following his silent instruction without query, she stepped a foot nearer, and lifted her palm, displaying one half of the toffee-apple for Piper's inspection.

Piper sniffed and nudged at the offering only briefly before scooping it into his mouth.

The girl smiled broadly. "May I touch him?" she asked Derek softly.

He indicated the horse's withers, his neck, and the area behind his ears.

"Oh, yes," she whispered. "They don't care to be touched on the face." With worshipful caution, she stroked the broad neck, timidly running a hand up to the base of the horse's short ears, an action that brought her all the way up on her toes.

Piper blew without force, whickering and dropping his head as the girl found a spot especially needful of attention. Smelling the remaining chunk of apple folded in her other hand, he butted her with the tip of his nose, lips curled back from his teeth as he tried to get his mouth within range.

Derek drew the animal's head down at once, watching the child closely.

"I'm okay," she said with a giggle. "The rest is for--Tuppence, did you call her?"

"That's right," Doyle said. "She's the--"

"Oh, bloody hell, Derry. Did you see what happened to my--?" Erupting from the corridor, and almost running over Vanessa's mother, Simon came to a startled halt. "Oh. Hello." The crinolines had been traded for baggy, cotton trousers and a patterned shirt that was more than half unbuttoned. The make-up, however, remained.

"You're the voltige rider," Vanessa exclaimed in voice ringing with respect.

"Yes, I am," Simon admitted. He thrust out his hand. "Simon Hamilton. And you?"

"Vanessa Potter. This is my mum. You were incredible! How ever did you do all that wearing a dress?"

"Years of practice, love," Simon informed her irrepressibly. He smiled at her mother and took her waiting hand as well.

"Jean Potter. You were amazing, you know."

"Yes, I do actually," Simon said sweetly. He winked at the woman disarmingly. "But it's lovely being told."

"Vanessa has something for Tuppence now, don't you?" Doyle reminded her.

She looked up at Derek. "If it's all right?"

The trainer passed the Friesian's leadshank to Doyle. He jerked his head toward the last stall, and flicked a finger in summons for the girl to follow. She went at once, big-eyed and rosy-cheeked with wonder. Derek stepped into the stall, and waved the girl inside to greet the Andalusian, who had been looking on with interest.

"She's very keen on horses, isn't she?" Simon asked, amused.

"Since she was a baby. Always looking at horse books. We're on our own, and she keeps asking me to marry someone who owns horses," Jean Potter said with a rueful laugh. She glanced across at Doyle, who smiled back understandingly.

"Oh, mummy," the child called, "she's beautiful!" She giggled again as Tuppence nuzzled her dress-front, searching for something else to eat.

"They all are. Come along, now, Vanessa. We really must let everyone get on with their work," the woman called firmly.

Derek secured Tuppence's stall, then brought the child back down the center aisle to take up Piper's leadshank.

"You've been very kind," Jean Potter said, looking at each man in turn.

"Oh, yes, thank you." Vanessa grinned up at Doyle as he gave one of her braids a pull.

"I'll show you to the car park," Doyle said. "Thanks, lads." He winked at Derek and Simon.

As one, the small group turned toward the corridor entry--only to stall at sight of Bodie, who leaned against the supporting pole just inside. Regarding him as a stranger might, Doyle felt his insides contract at his partner's singular handsomeness, the brooding intensity in his rich blue eyes, the strength and power of strongly muscled legs encased in tight breeches contrasting sharply with ruffled shirt, tailored vest, and romantically cut jacket.

"This is Bodie," Doyle said evenly.

"Hello," Vanessa breathed. She appeared stunned, as though she had tumbled down a dark tunnel and now found herself in the brilliant presence of a godlike being. "You did the capriole."

A crooked smile flickered across Bodie's mouth. "I just held on," he said modestly.

"It was amazing," Jean Potter assured him. "It stunned everyone."

"Thank you."

Despite his polite demeanor, tension emanated from Bodie like static electricity ahead of a lightning bolt. "I've been looking for you," he told Doyle.

"Well, you've found me. But just now I've promised to show Jean and Vanessa back to their car."

"I'll come with you."

"Do as you like. Basil, what about you?" The dog shot out of the tackroom and into Doyle's arms. He set her on his shoulder, sweeping a hand forth for the mother and her daughter to precede them. Bodie eyed him darkly as Doyle strode past, but fell into step beside him without speaking.

Vanessa's blithe chatter swirled around them as they came out through the Big Tent, her words filling the air like a halo of gnats. It continued unbroken as they passed through the middle of the sideshow alley and out onto the field that served as the car park.

"Will you be flying next week?" she asked Doyle through the wound down window; her mother sat in the driver's seat, waiting for her daughter to strap herself into her belt.

"If everything goes according to plan. Wednesday next. Maybe you'll be able to come again?"

Jean Potter smiled across the seat at him. "We'd love to, but I'll have to see. Thanks again for everything."

With Vanessa waving wildly out of her window, the car pulled away and plowed through the soft ground toward the main road.

Having stood silent throughout the visitors leave-taking, Bodie now announced, "I need to talk to you." The arms folded over his chest tightened a little; his outthrust chin jutted higher.

"Do you?" Doyle brought his head round, long, wind-swept tendrils of hair whipping across his face. He regarded Bodie unencouragingly. "So-- ?"

"Ray! Bodie!"

Bodie grimly closed his eyes and set his jaw as Lily's piercing voice reached them from the top of the rise.

Welcoming the interruption, Doyle lifted a hand to curb the heavy-set woman's approach. "No, stay there," he shouted. "We're on our way."

Bodie's expression remained bleak as they strode back across the open field to the edge of the circus compound. "Forgot," he muttered. "We're to meet with Simon and Lily about the staging."

"Oh. You might've told me."

"Just as well I didn't," Bodie said sardonically. "Otherwise you'd have missed out on the pretty missus and her daughter."

"That is true," Doyle said sedately.

---

For over an hour they conferred in the dressing-tent, jotting down ideas and sketching out the changes necessitated by the new routine. Doyle's head began to ache from the quantity of detail required, involving not only their costumes, but the webbing as well.

It was the imminent second showing that curtailed their discussions.

"We'll have to meet again," Lily said matter-of-factly. "This evening, after the performance?"

Simon coughed softly and pretended to examine his hands. Doyle glanced sidelong at Bodie, polite inquiry pasted on his face. Bodie scowled as though trapped.

"I can't," Bodie said at last. "I have to leave just after."

"Tomorrow, then?" Lily said impatiently. "C'mon, lads. You have to put forth some effort, too."

"We'll be working out first thing." Bodie glared across at her. "Noon?"

"Make it tennish," Lily countered. "I'd like to get started on some of these changes, Bodie," she elaborated, patently expecting argument.

Bodie sighed. "Is that all right with you?" he asked Doyle. "Simon?"

"Why not," Doyle said genially, once Simon had inclined his head, eyes fixed on Doyle. "Right after we give Sanjay his medicine." He pushed back the overturned tub that had served as his chair. "Need to spruce up a bit. See you in the ring, Bodie." Waving to the others, he loped out of the tent and into the thick darkness of night that lay beyond. Breathing bedewed air deeply into his lungs, he shut off his mind; there was still the second performance to get through.

---

The delight of that audience was infectious--Doyle found it difficult to remain glum when he was a contributor to such vast pleasure. Afterward, he chose to remain with Simon and Derek for a while, helping with the horses. Toward eleven o'clock, he declined the offer of a meal, finished grooming Taffy, and made his good-byes for the night.

As he came nearer the caravan park, he saw Bodie's door swing open. Riley appeared, cast in shadow by the light pouring out of the caravan. "Don't worry, mate," Riley said in his deep, mellifluous voice, "it's a solid routine; won't take but a bit of work."

Doyle continued unnoticed to his own unit, surprised to see Bodie still on the grounds. Perhaps Simon had misunderstood? Perhaps Bodie would come round to his place after all?

A little shocked by the intensity of yearning this thought invoked, Doyle refused to contemplate it further. He would be leaving himself open to crashing disappointment if he continued to do so--especially if Bodie was, as Simon had implied, intending on spending the night with Roger. Slamming the door shut on that thought, Doyle stomped up the steps outside his door and walked inside.

Basil blinked wretchedly at him in the sudden flood of light. She lay on the foot of the bed in the nest Doyle had built for her.

"Just look at you," Doyle said with feigned reproach. "Lying about with not a care in the world." He filled the kettle and plugged it in. Thumb on the switch, he started when there came a rap from outside. Before he could even think about responding, however, the door swung open and Bodie strode inside.

"Come in, why don't you?" Doyle said dryly.

"Simon told you, didn't he?"

Leaning back against the sideboard, Doyle tipped his head to one side, regarding the other man without expression. "I didn't expect you round tonight, if that's what you mean."

"It isn't what he thinks."

"No?"

Bodie had yet to release the doorknob. The corners of his mouth cut upward in a petulant grimace. "Roger's having some problems. I promised I'd try to help him out."

Since this statement required no comment on his part, Doyle said nothing.

Annoyed, Bodie said acidly, "It wasn't Simon's place to tell you."

"No." Doyle summoned a remote smile. "And you don't owe me any explanations." He turned his back on Bodie then, the brief, leaping hope that had accompanied Bodie's arrival subsiding heavily inside him.

"Yeah, I know that," Bodie said sharply. "But I thought-- Well, we kind of had something set for tonight."

Doyle stood a little taller. "So we did." He twisted round again. "And now we don't. You're wasting time, mate--your Roger'll be waiting."

"Damn you, Doyle, it isn't like that!"

"Like what?" Doyle asked softly.

Bodie dropped his eyes, mouth clamped tightly shut.

"Roger's your mate; you owe me nothing." A hint of steel came into Doyle's voice. "Good night, Bodie."

"Ray--"

There was no mistaking the unwilling appeal in Bodie's face. Perplexed and angry, Doyle nevertheless wondered what it was Bodie could not--or would not--tell him. He hazarded, "You wouldn't be messing about with something illegal, Bodie?"

At that, Bodie let out a snort of almost-laughter. "Hardly." He tipped his head back and regarded Doyle measuringly. "Look, I-- Tonight, we were--" Growling with frustration, he finished almost challengingly, "Well, what about tomorrow night?"

Doyle allowed the words to dissolve into the silence before saying, "We'll talk about that tomorrow. That is, if you'll be back then?"

"Before the dawn," Bodie assured him. "Have to work out, y'know." He gave Doyle a raw smile. "Tomorrow, then. I'll remind you."

"You do that."

Bodie's eyes travelled down Doyle's face, coming to settle on his full mouth. A look of longing darkened Bodie's gaze--only to be replaced by one of unhappy purpose. He wheeled around and stepped out onto the platform. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Bodie."

The door closed behind him with a hushed creak; the kettle switched off, recalling Doyle to himself. Whatever Bodie was up to, Doyle wanted very much to believe him when he said it involved nothing outside the law. And, though Bodie had not been able to come right out and say so, Doyle accepted that he had no intention of bedding Roger this night.

What Roger's intentions were, however, Doyle could easily surmise.

---

Only a few minutes later, Doyle went outside, escorting Basil up the rise that edged the caravan site. He rested on a relatively dry patch of ground amidst misting shadows while the dog ventured into the scrub and heather.

From this vantage point Doyle could see the whole of the caravan park, the variously shaped and colored caravans packed close together, the light from windows and glass-fronted doors forming dimly radiant pools in the darkness. Bodie's Mini came to life while he sat there, the headlights stabbing into the night like twin daggers.

Cool despite his jacket, Doyle watched the lights of Bodie's car arc away then fade into the distance. He felt very alone in the blackness and the silence that ensued. Basil reappeared a few moments later, pawing at his chest for warmth. He raised the stretchy band at the bottom of the jacket and gave her entry. With the dog pressed close to his abdomen, he remained for some minutes longer, thinking of nothing.

In the confines of her womb-like shelter, Basil began to lick her legs as she was wont to do preparatory to a nap. Knowing he would end up a sodden mess if he allowed her to carry on, Doyle began to rise to his feet.


Sergei's door came open, some distance away. Doyle hesitated, not wanting to be seen by the circus owner. In the next instant, two men appeared in the hazy outfall of light issuing from inside the caravan. One was clearly Sergei; the other--

Doyle's heart sprang into his throat as he identified the man who had almost killed him three years before: Donal O'Shea, known member of the Irish Provisional Army. Doyle had been working undercover, employing an alias, when O'Shea had come--quite rightly--to suspect him. Escaping with his life and his alias barely intact, Doyle knew himself to be permanently marked for liquidation by O'Shea and his cohorts. The anonymity of his name offered some protection, but it had been the sensible decision to remove Doyle from any situation that might allow them to come into contact again.

Until now.

Grinning fiercely to himself, Doyle knew no fear at sight of the other man, who even now was hurrying across the narrow space separating Sergei's unit from Aidan and Zoe's caravan to the Ford Escort awaiting him, with Sergei trotting behind. No, what he felt was relief and a kind of triumph: Bodie was not a party to Sergei's nefarious activities.

Not questioning his reaction to this new knowledge, Doyle remained on the rise until O'Shea had driven off and Sergei had come back, walking none too steadily, to his caravan. Only then did Doyle leave his post to carry Basil to their own unit, where Doyle drank cold tea, performed a sketchy wash-up, and finally fell into bed. With Basil curled up outside the covers in the crook formed by the bend of his knees, Doyle slept at once.

---

Adrift on a sea of senseless but compelling dreams, Doyle had no warning when his door burst open, Basil as soundly asleep as he. Tearing out of the bedclothes with no regard for the slumbering dog, nor his own safety, Doyle lurched to his feet and braced himself to meet any threat head-on.

"Ray!" That was Simon's voice, pitched high, laced with panic.

"Simon, what--" Taking one great stride, Doyle switched on the light in the kitchen, absorbing the young stunt rider's appearance--silk pajamas torn open and hanging off his lean frame, exposing scraped skin underneath; his face bruised, with a spray of blood at the corner of his mouth--just as the door was thrown back once more, and Sergei lumbered drunkenly inside.

"Ray," Simon whimpered, shrinking away from the looming circus owner.

Unthinking, Doyle reached out a hand, gripped Simon's arm, and shoved him into the bedroom behind him. "What're you doing here, Sergei?"

Sergei laughed, his breath carried on a rush of alcoholic fumes. "The little laddie must want to make it a three-way," he drawled, the words thick and barely intelligible.

"Derek's going to have your hide for this, you idiot," Doyle said sharply. In the bedroom, he could hear Simon trying to catch his breath.

"That boy's probably got his prick up someone else's arse right now." Sergei swayed slightly; to Doyle's eye the big man was not so drunk that he could be considered harmless. And much of the bulk that formed his stocky body was hewn muscle. Doyle studied him closely, mind racing. Sergei ended his indecision by lunging nearer. "Let Simon watch," he mumbled. "You and I'll show him--"

The hand that reached for Doyle's bare chest was stopped mid-motion. "It's time you went back to your own caravan, Alf," Doyle said with uncompromising insistence. "Now."

Wincing slightly as the pain of Doyle's grasp slowly penetrated his brain, Sergei said, "Don't play hard to get. I've seen how you look at Bodie. Let go--"

Propelled by Doyle's shove, Sergei stumbled back a pace. Having gauged Sergei's strength, Doyle planted his legs apart and waited for the other man to make up his befuddled mind. "C'mon, Alf. Let's not make this ugly, eh?"

"Won't be ugly," Sergei said, his face mottled with blood. "I'll just fuck you till you can't stand anymore." He started forward, arms spread wide to seize Doyle in a bear-hug.

In the narrow space, Doyle knew he must strike quickly or risk being pinned by the heavier man--presuming he did not want to kill him. At this instant, with Simon moaning pitiably behind him, Basil growling threateningly from the foot of the bed, and the beginnings of a headache hammering at the back of his head, the prospect held considerable appeal. But Doyle chose constraint. He twisted round on one foot and kicked out with the other. His toes connected with Sergei's stomach, driving deeply inward. Spinning back to face him, Doyle brought one forearm up under the other man's chin as he doubled over, then delivered a final, cudgelling blow to the back of his neck.

Through all this, Sergei whooped only once--more with surprise than pain. He was unconscious before collapsing, in a heap, to the floor.

"Oh!" Simon gasped.

Collecting his terry cotton robe with one hand, Doyle said briskly, "Did he hurt you?"

Shivering a little, Simon said, "I'll live." Pointing down at Sergei as though he were something loathsome, he asked, "Will he?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Doyle said grimly. He tied the belt at his waist. "I'd like your help carrying him back to his place, if you can."

Simon nodded. His face crumpled. "Thank you, Ray. I didn't know what--"

Doyle pulled the other man close for a quick hug. "It's all right, Si. Let's get him out of here, okay? Then we'll have a cuppa and you can tell me what happened."

Swallowing hard, Simon nodded again and let Doyle go.

Rubbing a thumb across Simon's cheek, Doyle said, "You're doing fine, sunshine. C'mon."

Between them, they manhandled Sergei's dead weight out of the caravan, down the steps and across the caravan site to Sergei's unit. The door was unlocked, so they hoisted him inside and dropped him on his bed-- despite Simon's suggestion that they leave him outside in the rain instead.

Doyle carefully checked the big man, who was already beginning to rouse. Before leaving, he even went so far as to provide a bowl beside his pillow for the heaves that would certainly follow.

Back in his own caravan, with Simon huddled at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket, Doyle set about making a pot of tea. Basil lay on the rug in front of the sink, drowsing in between every movement Doyle made. Her head seemed to bob up and down endlessly, her eyes heavy with disturbed sleep, her expression baffled.

While the kettle heated, Doyle sat down opposite the other man. "You are all right?"

Simon's mouth screwed into a scowl. "He tried to rape me."

"How'd he get into your caravan?"

Sighing disgustedly, Simon whispered, "I let him in, of course. He is my boss, Ray!"

"What'd he say?"

"That he wanted to talk to me about our arrangements for your new routine."

Doyle's brows crawled up his forehead. "At--" He glanced at the time displayed on the clock-radio which stood on the shelf above the table. "Two in the morning?"

Shrugging, Simon said dispiritedly, "I was still awake. I always have a hard time sleeping when Derry's away. And I...I didn't know how to tell him to leave me alone without sounding--"

"Rude?" Doyle said with a gentle smile.

"It isn't funny, Ray!"

"No. But why didn't you just put him down, Si? You know, when he started in on you?"

"Me?"

Shaking his head exasperatedly, Doyle said sternly, "With legs as strong as yours--those legs, the ones you like to boast about--you could've disabled him at least long enough to get away."

Lifting his chin high, Simon retorted, "How d'you think I got here?"

Pleased to see a resurgence of the other man's usually unshakable spirit, Doyle spread his hands placatingly, "Yeah, okay. Look, why don't you clean up your mouth--you're bleeding, y'know--then we'll have that cuppa, and you can go back and get some--"

Wide-eyed, Simon said quickly, "I don't want to go back there."

"Derek'll be gone for two days, Simon. Oh, I see--you want to stay here, is that it?"

"Oh, could I?" Simon dabbed at his lip nervously. "I won't be a bother, I promise. It's just--"

"Sergei's a prick, and you're afraid he'll try his hand again."

"I-- Well-- Yes. I'm a miserable coward, Ray. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's a good thing he didn't hurt you, Simon. All that blood would've turned my stomach."

Simon flinched away, appalled at Doyle's choice of words.

Flicking a finger under Simon's perfectly formed nose, Doyle said, "Not yours, silly; Sergei's, after Derek'd got hold of him."

Shoulders bent under the warming folds of the blanket, Simon muttered, "He may yet. Derek despises him anyway."

"Then it's up to you whether Derek's told or not. Go on, get cleaned up. The kettle's boiling."

---

They lay side by side in the dark. For several minutes, Simon had unobtrusively squirmed, rolled about, and twisted into complex positions, lazily apparently attempting to make himself comfortable.

"D'you want to talk?" Doyle asked tiredly. His chivalric act was beginning to pall. With the usable space in the bed reduced to half-- allowing a two-inch buffer between them--and Basil lying like a long, skinny hot water bottle along his chest under the sheet, Doyle could foretell that a long night awaited him.

"No," Simon exhaled roughly. "Yes. I'm sorry, Ray."

"Come here, Simon," Doyle ordered. He looped an arm round the other man's back and drew him close. "Mind the dog." But Basil took the hint and padded to the foot of the bed, casting a wounded glare over her shoulder.

Simon gave up a sort of giggle. "I shouldn't. Derry would kill me if he found out."

"Found out what?" Doyle asked quietly. "There, isn't that better?"

"Too nice, actually," Simon murmured, his hand lying cold on Doyle's waist. "I like you, Ray, but I won't--"

"Nor will I. Never fool around with married folk, that's my motto." Doyle could feel Simon's mouth stretch into a smile across his shoulder.

"We are, y'know. Me and Derek. And it's so crazy!"

"Why?" Doyle murmured, his hand moving lightly back and forth, with hypnotic consistency, across Simon's shoulders.

"Because I wanted to be famous--even though I had a very privileged upbringing, mind. 'S how I learned to ride, in fact; although Derek had to teach me the stunt work, of course. He says I'm a natural, y'know?" Simon sighed. "Sorry, I'm digressing. When I was on the circuit, I played a load of cabarets and nightclubs, singing--badly--and telling funny stories. That's where I met Derek."

"In a cabaret?"

Simon's smile deepened. "In Swindon."

"Swindon," Doyle said, without inflection.

"Derek was in town looking for horses--"

"You did say Swindon?"

Laughing softly, Simon whispered, "He can be blindly optimistic sometimes."

"And he went to see your cabaret act? Doesn't seem like Derek, somehow."

"Ah-- No, he didn't."

Eyelids drooping downward, Doyle prodded sleepily, "Out with it."

"The sad truth is, I'd been sacked. Was standing in the queue waiting for the all-night bus, with all my things stuffed into a hold-all at my feet, when he came driving along, looking for a place to stay for the weekend. He offered me a lift. You know what Derry looks like: all honesty and homespun values. You can imagine my surprise when I found out he was gay."

"You're not telling me he propositioned you?"

"Of course not. Had a proper courting, didn't I? He didn't even try to kiss me till we'd been together for three days." Simon's voice dropped to a reminiscent whisper. "Didn't think anyone would ever want me that way--y'know, love, marriage, the works."

"But he did?"

"He insisted. It was all or nothing. He really loves me, Ray. Not that I deserve him--the things I've done in my life. But I'll never do anything again that might hurt him."

"And you're telling me all this so I won't try it on, is that it?" Friendly humor lilted in Doyle's voice.

"Not only that," Simon confessed. When Doyle's hand stopped moving, Simon explained, "You must know how sexy you are. And being here with you like this-- Even more than that, you rescued me from the clutches of that--"

Doyle let free a laugh. "Oh, God, please. I'm not ready to become St. Raymond. Stop worrying, Simon. Much as I might like to ravish you, I won't."

"Because of Bodie?" Simon wondered, his voice as hushed as the night.

Doyle hesitated. "Because I like to avoid pain at all costs, and Derek would slaughter me if I took advantage of you now." His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "And, yes--because of Bodie."

Simon hugged him tightly. "Oh, good. I know you care for him. I don't know why he insisted on going off with that bloody Roger tonight, but he won't stay. Not when he feels about you the way--"

Raising his head an inch, Doyle tried to peer into Simon's face. "Go on."

"Nothing. It's all guesswork on my part," Simon mumbled. "But I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"And how is that?"

"Can't describe it, really. But you've seen Bodie--hard to tell what he's thinking at the best of times. When he looks at you, though--it's as if you're the only person in the world."

"You're a romantic, Simon," Doyle informed him dismissingly.

"Not about Bodie," the other man countered emphatically. "He thinks a--"

A jaw-cracking yawn threatened to take off the top of Doyle's head; Simon elbowed him smartly in the ribs. "Are you listening to me?"

"Oof. 'Course I am."

"Liar. Oh, all right, I'll shut up."

"You're a mate, Simon," Doyle said warmly.

"And you're unbelievable." Simon pinched Doyle's bearded cheek in the dark. "Thanks, again, Ray."

"You're very welcome. And now just go to sleep, okay?" With Simon snuggled close along one side, and Basil curved behind his legs on the other, Doyle settled back. In the darkness, the night seemed very still and comforting. Suffused with the heat of the man sharing his bed, Doyle could only wonder how it would compare when Bodie lay next to him like this. He was looking forward to finding out.

---

CHAPTER 8

Sunday

The mist fell heavy on the moors throughout the early hours. Its muffling folds deadened every twitter and rustle. Dawn came, the sun's brightness and heat made diffuse and unimpressive.

When a familiar, muted tread bounded up the steps, Doyle was slow to register its significance. Only when the unlocked door was jerked open and Bodie's cheery voice cut through the silence, did he remember the night and all that had transpired.

"Ray, you up, sunshine? Ray--"

Blinking owlishly, Doyle stared up at the other man who stood frozen at the door to the bedroom, intensely aware of Simon's arm draped across his naked chest, and Simon's head tucked under his chin. Far too late Doyle realized precisely what sort of tableau he and Simon must make.

Blistering emotion brought a surge of color to Bodie's pale cheeks. "Don't get up on my account," he said caustically.

"Bodie--" Doyle croaked.

But Bodie was already tramping out of the caravan with noisy disregard, the door crashing shut behind him.

Slumping back onto the mattress, Doyle moaned bitterly, "Doesn't anybody around here know how to fucking knock?"

"Oh, dear," Simon said in a very small voice. "I've rather dropped you in it, haven't I?"

Extricating himself from Simon and the entangling folds of bedding with difficulty, Doyle finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. A small, warm-nosed muzzle poked out from under the sheet, followed by a compactly built body at the end of which a smooth-haired tail ceaselessly wagged.

"Basil, where's my gun?" Doyle said hopelessly.

"Gun?" Simon gasped.

Brought up sharp, Doyle said quickly, "The one I'm going to buy today so I can put myself out of my misery."

"Oh, well, in that case, Derek keeps a rifle. For the animals, y'know."

Doyle bared his teeth at his spike-haired companion. "You're a help, you are."

A hand flopped down on Doyle's thigh and patted it kindly. "I'll explain everything to Bodie."

"And you think he'll believe you?"

"Of course he will," Simon said drowsily. "In fact, it'll occur to him that he's made a right idiot of himself--oh, any second now."

"You're not serious?"

Simon rolled over and dropped his head back down on the pillow. "You're forgetting Derek. You're not the only one he would kill, y'know."

"There's hope for us yet, then."

"Speak for yourself. Hurry up; Bodie will be waiting for you."

Rising hopelessly to his feet, Doyle gathered his robe and started moving in the direction of the kitchen, wrapping the warming material round him as he went. "We were supposed to be up early, Si; there's the animals to do."

"I'll get going with them. After your work-out, you can help me finish up."

Doyle looked back at the other man, admiring his youthful resilience, which he himself was sadly lacking this morning. "You're very chipper today."

Stretching and yawning, Simon said, "I have reason to be--thanks to you." He sobered suddenly. "Although, when Sergei wakes up--"

"If my guess is right, he'll pretend nothing happened. In fact, he'd be stupid to do otherwise."

"Hope you're right."

"I am. 'Sides--it's Bodie I'm worried about."

"Don't be. I think he's falling in love with you."

---

I think he's falling in love with you. Could a person fall in love in only six days?

After six years with CI5, Doyle had come to doubt the existence of love altogether--so it was not surprising that he found it hard to credit not only that such an apocryphal emotion might occur, but that it might occur with such feverish haste. And, ultimately, love was not something Doyle wanted--neither for Bodie nor himself. While his own feelings were already suspect--he had admitted that to himself--the prospect of Bodie developing an attachment for him was, somehow, well nigh to unbearable.

For if Bodie loved him, Doyle might be foolish enough to love him back. And if he did that, he would leave himself open to the kind of devastation that had dogged his heels for ten years.

On the other hand, Doyle consoled himself, Simon was indeed a romantic for whom love was perennially in bloom; his observations, accordingly, must be considered suspect. Bolstered by that thought, Doyle left the footpath and hurriedly made his way to the Big Tent.

Inside the canvas, Doyle found Bodie overhead, performing the morning inspection of the upper rigging. Their eyes met and briefly held, before Bodie continued tightening down a brace which reinforced one of the fixed traps.

While, for them, it was a late start, the hour had only gone seven. "Are we working out?" Doyle called up. A blur near his feet informed him that Basil had scurried under the lowest bench where Bodie had piled his outer clothing.

"Any reason we shouldn't?" Bodie countered.

"None that I know of." Doyle heeled off his trainers and stripped off his fleecy trousers. He kept the sweatshirt on as an aid to warming up.

While Bodie completed his task, Doyle performed a few stretches, involving his entire body so as to limber up quickly. By the time Bodie had brought himself hand-over-hand down the web, Doyle had eliminated the residue of tension left over from his skirmish with Sergei and the long, cramped night spent with Simon.

His face set, Bodie joined Doyle on the mat. They launched into a series of merciless calisthenics, all directed by Bodie, who never faltered. Aware that Bodie must have had as little sleep as he--perhaps, even less--Doyle offered no complaint. The sweat was running freely between his shoulder blades and breasts within half an hour. Stealing a handful of seconds, Doyle peeled off the sweatshirt, and immediately resumed the set, determined to maintain Bodie's killing pace.

The tension between them was almost palpable; when Bodie decreed a bout of wrestling--something they had incorporated into their warm-ups only once before--Doyle knew a moment of relief: Either they expunged the enmity swirling dangerously about them now, or they would pay the consequences later.

Guessing the reason for the other man's bunched shoulder and thigh muscles correctly, Doyle braced himself for a frontal attack. It arrived an instant later, on the back of a charging bull. Doyle used Bodie's momentum against him, curling an arm round Bodie's shoulders, and flinging his legs into the air before Bodie could have him on the mat. To counter his defense, Bodie threw himself onto his side, and they went down together in a welter of arms and legs.

This time Doyle did not escape.

Blood flowed hot in his veins, angry confusion pounding in the too-tight cavity of his chest--yet Doyle refrained from employing the lethal skills that would have given him freedom, for to do so would cause Bodie serious, possibly permanent, damage. So he let Bodie pin him to the mat, then lay there, not struggling.

"What's the matter, Bodie?" Doyle gasped, harshly sucking air into his lungs. "Didn't Roger come across last night?"

The dark blue eyes might have been cut from stone, so coldly did they glitter. "I just wanted to prove something to myself," he said cryptically. He sprang up, then held out a hand to bring Doyle up alongside him.

Piqued, Doyle said, "Prove something--about Roger?"

"About you." Bodie went over to the bench and retrieved the towel. After wiping himself down, he tossed it across to Doyle.

"And what," Doyle asked with labored forbearance, "might that something be?"

Bodie tapped his own chin with the tip of a finger. "No bruise."

Doyle stared at him stupidly. "Sorry?"

"You didn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt me, would you?"

Scrutinizing him suspiciously, Doyle said, "What are you talking about, Bodie?"

"Spoke with Sergei this morning." At Doyle's expression of interest, Bodie went on, "Not that he said anything, mind. But I think I can puzzle everything out for myself."

Flinging the towel back onto the bench, Doyle folded his arms across his chest and assumed a pose of idle indifference. "And what did this great brain of yours come up with?"

"What I should've known this morning: Simon wouldn't've gone to bed with you just because Derek was gone. But Simon was in bed with you when I came into your caravan this morning." Bodie's face softened slightly. "Sergei was sporting an almighty great lump on his chin this morning, too--very like Tom's, in fact. Coincidence? I thought not. Sergei has always wanted a taste of our Simon. Simon's protector was gone; Sergei tried his hand; Simon went to you for help; Sergei didn't know when to give up-- Rather obvious, really. You were playing the hero again, weren't you?"

Evading the question, Doyle queried, "And what has all that to do with this little test of yours?"

"Just curious, I expect. You haven't hesitated to show off your muscles when someone's annoyed you; wondered if that applied to me, as well." Changing the subject abruptly, Bodie asked, "Did Sergei hurt Simon?"

"Tried to rape him," Doyle replied simply.

"But he didn't get far, right?"

"Not far enough to suit him, no."

"Simon went running to you before Sergei could do any real damage, I take it?"

"Yes."

Shrugging slightly, Bodie said, "Thanks, mate. I try to look after him when Derek's not around."

"This has happened before?"

"No. Well-- Not on this scale, anyway. You see, you've thrown off the balance of power, Doyle: Rose is gone. Alf'd never have tried it when she was here."

"Oh."

"You couldn't know," Bodie said reassuringly. "Let's go, mate. Best get up top before we cool down."

---

The remainder of the morning proceeded without incident. The flyers performed an extended run-through of the new routine--complete with special use of the web, courtesy of Des' capable hands, and Riley timing them from the ground--after which Bodie and Doyle hurried off to the stables. Simon had the situation well in hand, however--save for the tiger, who was not faring well today and had yet to receive his tonic.

At first sight of him, lying in the pallid, misty light filtering through the canvas opening, Doyle knew Sanjay had taken a turn for the worse. The animal was apathetic to their attentions, and his meal, served earlier in the morning, had hardly been tasted.

"Ah, don't do this, old son," Doyle said quietly.

The tiger's head came up at his voice, tired eyes slitting open as Doyle came nearer.

"You're just missing Derek, aren't you? He'll be back tomorrow--and he won't be happy if you're looking like this, y'know." Doyle went down on one knee beside the tiger's head, and sought the special spot under his chin. "Maybe you're just bored, eh? Know I would be, stuck in this rotten little cage all day." A tentative purr stirred in the tiger's deep chest. "Oh, yeah, that's it," Doyle whispered. "Tell me where you'd like to be--Africa, is it?"

"India, more like," Bodie corrected him. "And a few places in Asia."

"India, then. You been there, Sanjay? Though maybe not. Might've been born right here, like all the rest of us."

"India," Simon said from the entryway. "That's what the bloke who was getting rid of him said, anyway."

The cat's eyes narrowed as Doyle found an itch wanting attention behind his left ear. "What's it like, India? D'you remember, Sanjay?"

"Hold his head, Ray," Bodie said, the syringe containing Sanjay's elixir hidden in his palm.

"Must be cool where you came from, furry as you are," Doyle suggested, as he moved into position. The cat's rumbling purr grew in volume. "Although jungles are supposed to be hot, aren't they?"

"Cold in the winter?" Simon proffered.

"Tigers live in warm climates, too," Bodie pointed out. He slid the tip of the needleless syringe into the corner of Sanjay's mouth and depressed the plunger.

Swallowing reflexively, Sanjay closed his eyes, head lifted slightly toward the mild sunshine.

"That's the lad; you're such a good lad." Yellow eyes blinked twice as Sanjay focussed briefly on Doyle. The wide, pink tongue rolled out and rasped across the back of Doyle's thin hand. With a heavy sigh, the tiger stretched out on his side, one paw, deceptively harmless, folded over the other.

"He's due a kip," Bodie said. "Takes it out of you, growing old."

Doyle looked up at him gratefully. "You're good with him."

Shaking his head and laughing under his breath, Bodie stated, "And you're besotted. Show you one ancient, moth-eaten old cat and you go all trembly. Had an aunt just like that."

"Go on! You never had any family--who'd've had you?"

Bodie glanced away, backing toward the cage door. "That's closer to the truth than you know."

"Is it?"

"Stop prying. Lily'll be waiting."

---

Lily was indeed waiting, as it was nearer eleven than ten before they arrived. Nevertheless she had a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits waiting as well. Their discussions, approached with a new mind-set, went smoothly. The unresolved concerns of the previous day were neatly disposed of, to the approval of all involved. Simplicity was their clarion call, and that theme was applied to all aspects of the routine.

"This may just fly," Doyle remarked with some amazement. "No pun intended."

Simon groaned noisily.

"You had doubts?" Bodie growled.

"From the beginning," Lily said flatly. "And he didn't bother to hide them to spare our delicate sensibilities."

"Disbelieving bugger," Simon chimed in.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Forgive my lack of faith."

"We'll consider it." Lily folded her sheaf of papers in half. Then she reached across the table and gave Doyle's cheek a rather painful twist. Doyle voiced his objections to this callous treatment loudly and at once. "I can do that to you," she explained, seemingly apropos of nothing. "Him, now--" Lily nodded toward Simon. "That'd probably split his lip open again."

Simon raised a hand self-consciously to his mouth.

"What happened?" Lily asked.

"Nothing," Simon murmured.

"It was Sergei, wasn't it? I heard him prowling about last night. He hurt you, didn't he?"

"No, not really."

Lily's mouth curved into a wide, brilliant smile. "Which is why he's going round with a face like thunder and a jaw with a dent in it, eh?"

Simon's eyes danced with malicious delight. "I must say, he earned it."

"So long as he got it. Hasn't anyone heard from Rose yet?"

There was a consensus of 'no's.' "A pity. I don't know what will happen if she doesn't come home soon." Lily frowned thoughtfully. "He's up to something, Sergei is. And with Rose gone, it probably isn't good." She drew the edge of her palm across Doyle's jaw. "You're a good lad, love. Just a little misguided, I'm afraid."

"I shall endeavor to remember that," Doyle assured her piously.

He received another pinch for his insolence.

---

Doyle could have told Lily that she was all too correct about Sergei, but that information was privileged. It worried him a little that she had caught on to the circus owner--not, of course, his precise activities, just the fact that he was involved in something shady. They were good people, these circus folk he had come to know over the past week, and he would not like to see any of them come to harm.

The demands of the day took him out of himself, however. With two performances, their new routine, and Derek's chores to contend with, he could not waste time brooding. In fact, despite a very real urgency to ring Cowley and inform him of O'Shea's visit, Doyle was unble to work in a flying trip to town.

Instead he spent the early part of the afternoon contemplating horse droppings as he mucked out stables, and later, with Bodie's vigilant assistance, tiger droppings, as he cleaned out Sanjay's cage. The tiger was a little perkier in the afternoon. His dish had been emptied and fresh food provided; the tiger seemed to find this more to his liking and gulped the meal down.

While Doyle shoveled soiled straw and solid matter into the bucket, the cat roused himself long enough to take a turn around his pen, stopping beside Doyle to strop himself against his legs. Since the huge beast came up to Doyle's waist, the first sweep almost had him over. Laughing with joy to see Sanjay up and about, Doyle petted the buttercup yellow head between the rounded ears and spoke nonsense to him. Behind him, Bodie stood poised to spring to Doyle's defense. Although tigers could be friendly animals, they were ever unpredictable.

Weak and lacking endurance, Sanjay made a final pass against Doyle's legs, then retired to his patch of sunlight, which had grown somewhat brighter throughout the day. Wanting to linger, but aware that he was needed elsewhere, Doyle followed Bodie out of the cage.

"He's not dead yet, Ray." Bodie thumped him lightly on the shoulder, his uncanny knowledge of Doyle's thoughts unexpectedly comforting. He added, "But when the old sod goes, we'll have him stuffed so you can keep him in your caravan; what d'you say?"

Pretending to give this remark serious consideration, Doyle waited until they were in the corridor outside the stables before pouncing. He found Bodie's ticklish spots rather quickly; while Bodie squirmed to get away, Doyle made full use of his advantage.

"Bastard," Doyle pronounced, as they tumbled amidst a riot of pin- wheeling arms and legs into the stables. The horses snorted and tossed their heads at their precipitous arrival. Composing themselves at once, Bodie and Doyle walked through the side exit with spurious dignity, neither aware of the wisps of straw adhering to their backs and dangling from their hair.

---

The day's performances were hectic with behind-the-scenes activity. The three men worked together and separately to prepare the horses and move them into place for their turn in the ring. In fact, the quietest moments of the night came for Doyle while he was astride the Andalusian, putting her through her paces.

For the first time since joining Circus Sergei, Doyle was well-pleased to see the completion of the second program. As the parade came to an end, and all had received accolades of applause, whistles and cheers, Doyle could think of nothing but brushing down and feeding Derek's herd of horses.

With the task broken up three ways, however, the trio were soon finished. Doyle looked in on Sanjay, who was breathing heavily, but without apparent difficulty. The tiger took note of his presence, then dropped immediately back into feline slumber.

A little subdued by their lengthy day--and the night preceding--all three adjourned to Doyle's caravan for a late-night meal. Lacking ingenuity and energy, Doyle put together toast and tea, while Bodie laid the table and Simon whipped up a packet of Angel Delight for afters.

"You know," Doyle said, "I've been meaning to ask what name we're going to perform under."

"The Flying Falconis, of course," Bodie said confidently.

"But that's Victor and Arturo, isn't it?"

Simon sniggered. Spreading marmalade on a slice of toast, he said, "That's only their performing name, Ray. And it doesn't even belong to them. Sergei made it up."

"Sergei?"

"Yes, of course. Their real names are Clive and Alex Bruce."

"Hmm." Chewing industriously, Doyle swallowed, then said, "So which of us is which?"

"Eh?"

With a creamy laugh, Simon shot Doyle a sly look. "He means, which of you is Arturo and which Victor--right?"

"Right."

"Well, let's see," Bodie said, unperturbed, "Arturo was the big, hunky, good-looking one--that'd have to be me, then, wouldn't it?"

"Conceited prick," Doyle commented without resentment. "How'd they come to be injured, anyway? I only ever heard that one or the other was out of commission--which, of course, created an opening for another flyer."

"Victor had a bad fall and ruined his arm just over a year ago now."

"What sort of fall?" Doyle persisted.

"Arturo dropped him," Bodie replied baldly. "Maybe you know more about it, Simon? That was before my time."

"There were stories," Simon said with a shrug. "You know how those things circulate."

"As in Arturo was rat-arsed and his timing was off?"

"Not so much that, Ray." Simon looked up from under his brows. The pose was unintentionally disarming. "More along the lines of, 'Was he tampered with?'"

Doyle pretended to recoil. "He? Surely, you mean 'it,' as in the cabling?"

"No. The day after the fall, Arturo claimed he'd been drugged. It didn't occur to him at the time--so he said--because he was really feeling okay; just his reflexes were skewed."

"Who could've done that?"

Simon spread his hands wide. "You know how we live. No one locks their doors--"

"Is that a gibe, Simon?" Bodie asked, with silky menace.

"I didn't say they don't knock! The opportunity was certainly there, if someone had a mind to do them damage."

"Did someone? I mean, was there bad feeling?"

Simon shook his head. "No. Very likable, the pair of them--for the most part."

"So what d'you think happened, Si?" Bodie asked.

A moment passed while Simon composed his thoughts. "While they weren't disliked, Victor could be a right ass when he wanted to, and Arturo wasn't much better. But whether there was foul play," Simon added a histrionic twist to the two words, "no one knows. There was no clear evidence, only Arturo's word for it--and he could have been trying to save face."

Shoving back his chair, Doyle rose and went to the refrigerator. "Did anyone think it odd when Arturo came to grief--what, a year?--later?" He drew out a can of lager and invitingly displayed it to his companions. Bodie promptly raised a hand; Simon gestured his refusal with cringing shoulders and horrified expression.

"Bodie was there when that happened; maybe he'd know. Can I have some tea, instead?"

"Of course." Doyle lobbed the can to Bodie, who caught it with ease. He lifted the kettle off the counter and lowered it under the tap.

"We just happened to be in the same pub," Bodie said a little defensively. "A row boiled up near the bar; by the time I even knew anything was going on, Arturo was being bounced off the walls. Made a mess of his shoulder, I understand."

"Why d'you ask, Ray?" Simon wondered, helping himself to a chocolate- coated biscuit. "You're not worried, are you?"

Doyle glanced over his shoulder as he plugged the flex into the base of the kettle. Despite an expression bordering on ennui, Bodie seemed to be following the conversation intently; Simon, on the other hand, appeared only mildly curious. "Like to watch my back. If someone was playing silly buggers with the rigging, I'd like to know."

"But you knew about the accidents--something about the accidents, anyway--before you hired on," Bodie commented.

"True. I didn't think much when Victor fell--Christ, it's part of the job, isn't it? But when Arturo had his shoulder done in, I kind of wondered."

"And toddled round to ask for a job, anyway?"

"Not much choice," Doyle replied with untrammelled good humor. "There aren't many slots for flyers these days, what with all the circuses dying left, right, and center."

"I don't believe that," Simon declared. "As good as you are, you could get on anywhere."

Swinging his toe across the small rug in front of the sink, Doyle replied realistically, "Only if you can get in the door to begin with. And--as I've told Bodie--I'm not keen on signing up with one of the big outfits."

"But why not? The pay would be ever so much better--and you wouldn't be expected to ride a horse, as well."

Doyle flashed Simon a chipped-tooth grin. "But I like the horses," he demurred. When Simon pulled a face at him, he said guilelessly, "I don't know; maybe there's less attraction in being only one of many."

"You'd be the star turn once you'd strutted your stuff," Simon argued implacably.

A large hand came out and ruffled Simon's hair. Bodie said, "Quit trying to emancipate him, eh? We need him."

"Hardly," Doyle said frankly. "Those crowds have been perfectly pleased with what they're getting right now--which doesn't include me on the trapeze."

"Yet. Once they do, we might be able to justify adding another nightly and matinee showing."

"And move home once in a while?" Doyle asked softly. At Bodie's querying look, he elaborated, "It does seem a bit strange that we never go anywhere, this being a travelling circus and all."

Frowning eloquently, Bodie said, "That's Sergei's doing."

Simon piped up, "He's done it before, y'know--made us stay in one place for far too long."

"Anyone have an idea why?" Doyle asked carefully.

Simon sighed. "We all know he gets up to something--but he's also always very careful to keep the rest of us out of it. Thank God!"

"Bodie?" Doyle poured boiling water into the rinsed-out teapot. "You're keeping very quiet."

Thoughtfully drinking from his can, Bodie swallowed and smacked his lips before saying, "Simon's right. There've been all sorts of rumors: That Sergei dabbles in assorted fiddles, runs illegal drugs--I've even heard that he sets up exchanges in the white slave trade."

"Sergei? Really?"

One corner of Bodie's mouth sliced upward, his eyes resting lazily on Doyle's disbelieving face. "All, believe it or not, to keep Circus Sergei afloat. There must be some truth to it," Bodie raised his hands and indicated their surroundings, "or none of this--or us--would be here. He has to get additional capital from somewhere."

"And d'you happen to know which particular offense our Sergei is guilty of?" Doyle asked lightly.

"No." Bodie slid out from under the table. "And I don't want to. It's a good circus, this is; without Sergei paying the rent, we'd all be back out on the street."

"Hm." Doyle carried the teapot to the table.

Stopping beside Simon, Bodie laid a hand on a thin shoulder. "You staying here tonight?"

"If Ray'll have me," Simon said wistfully.

"If he won't, I will. Thought I saw Sergei's unsmiling face lurking in the shadows when the house was emptying out. Which may mean nothing, of course; but it's better to be safe."

Looking gratefully up at him, Simon murmured, "Thanks, anyway, Bodie; but I brought my toothbrush and nightie round after the first show."

"So long as you're looked after." Raising a brow meaningfully at Doyle, Bodie said, "And our Ray seems well capable of doing that."

Doyle wrinkled his nose at him.

"Be prepared for an early start, mate. We're going to be at it the better part of the day, now the matinees are over for a while."

"I'll be ready."

"G'night, then."

"G'night, Bodie." Doyle trailed the other man to the door, and stood on the top step, ostensibly to let Basil out, but in reality to watch Bodie walk off into the night.

"Sorry," Simon said simply, when Doyle came back inside, a yawning terrier at his feet.

"For?"

"I'm being inconvenient, aren't I?"

Doyle patted the top of Simon's head. "Yes. But it can't be helped. Bodie and I aren't complaining, so forget it, eh?"

Studying Doyle assessingly, Simon remarked, "It'll make it that much better, y'know."

"Simon."

"The waiting, I mean. Fireworks and noisy cannon--the lot."

Doyle took a deep breath. "I'll remember that. While you're finishing off that pot, I'll just commandeer the bathroom, shall I?"

"It is your caravan, Ray," Simon said innocently.

"You're a bloody nuisance, Simon," Doyle informed the other man good- naturedly. "Don't know why I put up with you."

"Because I'm gorgeous, and nubile, and--"

"And Derek would kill me if you came to grief."

Simon laughed contentedly. "There is that."

"There is, indeed."


...Continued in Chapter 9...

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