CHAPTER 9

Monday

Woken by the sound of his door opening, followed by a firm, familiar touch upon his shoulder, Doyle uncomplainingly escaped Simon's embrace and the dancing tattoo of four constantly moving feet on top of his chest. Nodding gratefully when Bodie whispered an offer of tea, Doyle took himself into the bathroom and washed up, the cold water doing much to bring him out of the lethargy of clinging slumber.

They were outside and running up the far slope a quarter of an hour later, the surrounding night still darkly grey and resisting the arrival of a chill dawn. Bodie explained what awaited them in the ring once they had completed their work-out, which would be somewhat abbreviated this morning to allow more time on the bars.

One by one, Bodie ticked off the various elements of their new routine-- all of which he intended to put to the test this morning. Doyle silently marvelled at the degree of effort required to organize so many different individuals in such a short period of time. While Bodie and Doyle were performing in the upper rigging, Riley would provide the sonorous narrative, backed by the band's rendering of a most varied musical selection; Des would be on the floor in the shadows, operating the web; and Donal McShane, the electrician, would supervise the frequent lighting changes. Doyle had, of course, seen far more entailed productions--but all had involved considerably more participants, as well. He feared that their shoestring operation would inevitably be exposed for what it was--and suffer accordingly in comparison to the grand circus acts.

But Bodie's contained enthusiasm was catching despite his customary reserve. Through the images created by Bodie's words, Doyle could envision the effect he wished to create, the enchantment they might weave for their audience, even the emotions their little story might evoke.

Inside the Big Tent, the magic became very mundane. The net went up while they worked out on the mat. The band members, bundled in sweaters, woollen trousers, and fingerless hand warmers slumped sleepily over their instruments. Seemingly unaffected by the cold or the hour of morning, Riley sat on one of the benches near the ring and scribbled on a pad of paper; Basil, with her nose buried under her tail, napped in Doyle's jacket near the ringmaster's feet. Des chatted with Tom and Donal, all three drinking steaming hot tea while they waited for the two flyers to finish their warm-ups.

A short while later, dawn cast orange and yellow streamers across the eastern sky, tingeing the worn canvas that tautly formed the Big Tent with a hazy glow. Wishing for the heat of the sun on his leotarded back, Doyle rode the web, hoisted by Des, up to the platform. Familiar with the short, stocky man's strength now, he was quick to entrust himself to the other man's care.

Balanced on the slat of wood, Doyle covered his hands with resin, idly looking down on the people below. Riley set his pad of paper and pen aside, then tucked the edge of Doyle's jacket round Basil as he stood up. While the tall, lanky man strode across the sawdust-coated floor to his usual place just inside the ring, Donal doused the lights focused on the upper rigging, so that nightfall seemed to descend once more.

"This'll be rough, lads," Riley said to no one in particular. Whisking the single, folded sheet of paper from a breast pocket, he glanced round at everyone, and up at the shrouded trapezes. "You lot ready up there?" Answered by Bodie's vibrant, "Get on with it, you showy old sod,'" Riley nodded lugubriously and cleared his throat commandingly before beginning to read.

The script, taken from Bodie's skeletal first draft, had been expanded and refined by Lily. While her authorship was credible, Riley's full- bodied, reverberating voice and the remarkable control with which he wielded it, lent the words a richness they lacked on their own. Smiling to himself, Doyle let the last of his doubts slip away; Bodie knew precisely what he was doing.

Cued by the script, Doyle gripped the bar, waiting for the instant that the spotlight snapped on. It surged out of the darkness, fixing him in its center, burning him with its brilliance. He lunged forward, young, vigorous, full of spunk, frolicking with youthful disdain of mortality, his every movement executed with carefree expertise. Bodie caught him and sent him back to his bar, Doyle's returning pirouette exuberantly graceful and apparently effortless. As Riley spoke, attempting to match his pace to Doyle's actions, the band joined in, lagging at first, but, guided by Riley's gestures, soon adding, rather than detracting, from the mood.

Doyle recognized the music, but could not name it: a sprightly Vienna waltz, burgeoning with charming, unfledged sparkle. He danced to it, employing the movements he and Bodie had choreographed so diligently over the past days. Back and forth he went, spinning, tumbling, folding over and under in seemingly impossible positions. Having established himself as the quintessential jejune scapegrace, Doyle paused briefly on the platform to catch his breath and to resin his palms. He then swung out over the floor of the ring, forming a bird's nest, reaching out for Bodie's waiting arms--

--and it was no longer Bodie, the kindly benefactor, meeting him, but a jealous deity, bent on his destruction. The spotlight cut from garish white to jarring red, making the mock battle appear far more fearsome than it was. Strident musical notes stabbed raucously into the air from below, and Riley's stunned voice imparted his alarm.

The contest ended suddenly and shockingly. Violently thrust away from his ruthless attacker, Doyle, now the youth fatally wounded, dropped like a stone. He landed on his back in the middle of the net, amidst drumrolling tension. The music swelled dramatically as he bounced back into the air, struggling to rise, torso straining upward, shoulders and head flung back--but gravity claimed him, and he crumpled to the net.

The lights blinked out.


Riley allowed a beat, a single pulse, before reporting the tragedy that had befallen the youthful hero. In the darkness, the end of the dangling web dropped onto Doyle's flank. Moving only his arm, he hooked his elbow through the loop and gave the rope a tiny tug. In seconds the web began to reel him upward, slowly, but without pause. Doyle, hanging limply, was washed by a pale blue glow. Higher he rose, taken into the area of the upper rigging--here, the realm of the gods--Riley's reverent tones calling upon the non-existent audience for its hushed support, while the band softly underlay all with a haunting musical motif.

The web brought Doyle alongside his trap; in character, he sluggishly reached out for it, and took hold. Clutching it to him with both arms, he swayed back and forth, his body describing a small arc. The solitary, filtered, blue light shifted to red once more. Several other lights came on at once, blinding white clashing with lurid orange and bloody red. As Riley's narration rose in volume and urgency, the lights strobed wildly, and the band's discordant fanfare approached cacophony. Doyle spasmed as if run through with an electric shock. This was the intercession of the gods--those who would give the youthful hero immortality in return for the use of his warrior's spirit.

Hardened now, and imbued with uncanny power, Doyle began to stir, creakily at first, then with increasing fluidity. Suspended in the center of shattering brilliance, and accompanied by somber, dramatic music and Riley's impassioned voice, Doyle lengthened his swing until he could hand himself over to the once more benign Bodie. They floated across the better part of the ring and back; then Doyle spun free and returned to his own trapeze. Pushing off strongly with his legs, he widened the measure of his arc, rapidly gaining speed and momentum. Breaking from the bar, he rolled into a double, backward somersault. Coming out of it with heart-stopping speed, he yet uncurled in time to connect with Bodie's waiting hands, which clasped his wrists in turn and held tight.

The lights went out once more. Doyle returned to his platform, striking a pose as the huge overhead lights came up, illuminating the entire ring. Chest heaving, he found Bodie, sitting casually on his bar, a brow arched inquiringly his way.

Out of the silence below came a soft ripple of applause which gradually increased in intensity. Glancing downward, Doyle was startled to discover that their audience had grown. Springing from one foot to the other with an elegant flourish, and beaming with achievement, Doyle looked across at Bodie once more. "And what do you think?"

"Needs work," replied Bodie succinctly.

---

He was right, of course. For all that the performance had gone from beginning to end without a major flaw, there had been choppy transitions from one musical piece to another, Riley's pacing had not always matched Doyle's actions, and the lights had failed to track Doyle at least twice. This first run-through had given everyone an idea of what they were dealing with, and from that baseline, they could fashion their improvements.

As Bodie had promised, he and Doyle spent the better part of the day working on the routine. When not in the air, they debated with their confederates on the ground, going over every aspect of the performance. At noon, Bodie finally called a halt, to Doyle's mingled relief and regret. He was exhausted, having subsisted on innumerable cups of tea and a couple of dried out scones provided by an unknown donor; yet, the adrenalin was still bubbling in his veins, and he was loath to quit with so much energy fizzing in his body.

Throwing a towel in Doyle's direction, Bodie reminded him, "Sanjay'll be wondering where you've got to, y'know. Time for his stuff."

"Oh, shit," Doyle winced. "I forgot."

Amused, Bodie began to climb into his sweatsuit. "I noticed. Feeling better about the routine, are you?"

Doyle flashed two fingers at him. "Know-all. Yeah, now I've seen it all of a piece--I think it may just work."

"I'm so pleased."

"Bugger off. You can't've been so certain it would work."

"Sure he can," Riley interposed, stepping onto the lowest bench beside them. He handed Doyle his sweatshirt. "Has an instinct for what works, does Bodie."

"Thank you." Bodie seemed a trifle nonplused by the ringmaster's praise.

"No need to be modest, son." Riley picked up his paper and pen. "You've got a talent for organization and execution. And Lord knows you had to've seen how much better Doyle would be over Roger. It all speaks of a military mind, I'd say."

"Got you pegged," Doyle attested.

"And the heart of a baroque romantic," Riley added devastatingly.

"Christ," Bodie muttered, as if wounded.

"But that's all right. It might not work with the outside world, but in the circus, it's essential." A sheet of paper slipped from the pad and fluttered to the ground.

Doyle bent over and picked it up. Handing it back, he said, "Here you go."

"Ta. 'S a letter to my family," Riley said unnecessarily. He tucked the sheet of paper into place with the others. Looking down his long nose at Doyle, he said archly, "I write to them every day."

Ignoring the unstated challenge, Doyle asked blandly, "How long since you've seen them?"

"Two years." At the expression of polite comprehension that flitted across Doyle's face, Riley went on, "I can't get a job there, y'see; I have a record."

"Murder, mayhem, sedition--?" Doyle began gamely.

"Ray--"

Riley raised a hand to end Bodie's intervention. "No, it's all right, Bodie." He smiled at Doyle. "Murder, actually. I killed a man--some would say justifiably--after I found out that he'd raped my wife. She had his baby while I was in jail. As there were extenuating circumstances--legal jargon, y'know--the court eventually reviewed my case and I was released, supposedly with my name cleared. But no one will hire me there. Not at home."

"Oh."

Riley scooped Doyle's jacket up off the bench. "So I came to England-- being an expat and all--so that I could find a job. There aren't many people with my sort of credentials, y'know."

"Show him the pictures," Bodie suggested.

"It is only fair," Riley said with a touch of malice.

Grinning a little sheepishly, Doyle took his jacket, forbearing comment until Riley had peeled his wallet out of a back pocket. There were many pictures stored therein, all of which had been viewed and viewed again with loving eyes until the colors had faded from over-handling.

"She's very pretty," Doyle said truthfully, studying the dark-haired woman who smiled hopefully into the camera. On her lap sat a sturdy, well-fed child who reflected her coloring, rather than Riley's sandy hair and fair features. "Your son--?" He caught himself too late.

"Yes," Riley said, unhesitating. "My son, Neil."

"How old is he now?" Doyle peered closely at the picture.

"Almost eight." Riley returned the pictures to his pocket. "He longs to see the circus. Says he would like to be a ringmaster, like me. Melanie says she will come if I will only send her plane fare. But it could be another year."

The longing was stark in the other man's eyes--yet completely removed from his well-trained voice.

"Your Neil will be nine by then," Doyle remarked. "The perfect age to start him in the circus."

Clearly having expected pity, Riley accorded Doyle a closer look before responding. "Yes. That is what I think, too."

---

"So, what are you plotting?" Bodie asked once more.

While Bodie manned the shovel, Doyle shifted the bucket from spot to spot and scattered fresh straw. Sanjay lay in his customary spot, but as the morning was grey and drizzly, the canvas had been left in place, and the tiger was forced to bask in the unwarming light of a low-wattage bulb.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Doyle muttered. Sanjay had not improved during the night; Doyle silently weighed the benefits of calling in a veterinarian.

"Come on. I can see that crusading glint in your eyes--even from here, and through the stench of this abomination Derek calls shit."

Crouching down before Sanjay, Doyle twisted a quick glance over his shoulder. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"Riley," Bodie said with heavy emphasis. "You're planning something, aren't you?"

"You mean, a way to get his family over before the Millennium?"

"I knew it! Hardly here a week and you're trying to undo the world's injustices."

"If you knew what I was thinking, why'd you ask?" Doyle peered into the tiger's half-closed eyes; they seemed clear, but on no account could they be described as bright.

"Always good to have clarification. So what d'you have in mind? A raffle--we could give Sergei away? Except nobody'd have him. Or a pool-- ? No, scratch that."

"Sounds as though you've already been thinking about it." A low, vibrant purr pleaded Doyle's continued attentions. Settling on his knees behind the tiger's forelegs, Doyle let his eyes wander over the lemony yellow coat broken all down his spine with jagged black stripes.

Bodie admitted, "Not only me."

"But there is a plan? Tell me: Maybe I can help."

"Actually, you're an important part of it."

Alerted to something indefinable in Bodie's tone, Doyle looked round at him once more. "Go on."

"Let's finish the cat first, eh?"

"Why?" Dark brows skimmed low over Doyle's narrowed eyes. With a final ruffling of fur, he bade the tiger good bye, and resumed his chores.

"You'll know 'why' when I tell you."

"Bad as that, is it?"

"Just wait till we've given this old bugger his medicine. Don't want you stirring him up, y'know.

"Bodie."

But no amount of cajoling would get Bodie to confess his secret; Doyle would have to be patient until they had completed their tasks in the tiger's cage. Once the soiled straw had been removed and the water bowl refreshened, Doyle took his now-comfortable position behind the tiger's shoulders so that he could brace the huge, powerful head preparatory to dosing him.

But the semi-slumbering feline accepted Bodie's ministrations without protest, seemingly removing himself altogether from his surroundings. As the aged throat muscles worked, Doyle lightly fingered the thick fur. "Did he take it all?"

Holding the empty syringe up to the wan light, Bodie nodded. "The lot."

Mouth twisted bleakly, Doyle mumbled, "Although I don't see that it's doing him much good."

Tipping his head toward the door of the cage for Doyle to join him, Bodie said, "He is old, Ray. Sometimes it's kinder to let 'em go."

All expression vanished from Doyle's face. "Think I don't know that?" Giving the tiger a pensive caress, Doyle took to his feet, and began to follow Bodie out. "So tell me your idea for getting Riley's brood over here."

"Two people hardly constitute a brood. And it's not my idea, really."

"You're stall--"

"Oh, Ray! Bodie!' Simon swung into the tiger's tent from the connecting corridor. "We need your help."

"What's up?" Doyle secured the cage opening before regarding Simon closely.

"And who's this 'we'?" Bodie demanded.

"I've already got Tom and Des and Jeremy. But we need someone who knows horses."

"What for?" Doyle asked, his patience already strained. He glanced over his shoulder at the snoring tiger. Although the animal's breathing sounded rather harsh, Sanjay appeared to be sleeping peacefully; he had not been disturbed by Simon's arrival.

"Mickey's got cast in his stall."

Bodie's face contorted into a grotesque mask. "Oh, bugger."

"Great," Doyle concurred gloomily.

"When's Derek due back?" Bodie asked, aggrieved.

"Not for hours; you know that. We have to have Mickey up and ready for the night's house well before then, Bodie!"

Both hands raised defensively against Simon's piercing entreaty, Bodie said sharply, "Okay, okay!" He glanced sidelong at Doyle. "Ray?"

No more enthusiastic than Bodie, Doyle shrugged. "Can't just leave him like that, y'know."

"Don't I just." Looking well put upon, Bodie groused, "Better be at it before the silly nag starts to panic."

---

Panic, however, appeared to be the furthest thing from Mickey's mind. He lay on his back, wedged in the corner formed by floor and stable wall, all four legs sticking out at improbable angles, his long neck curved toward the front of the stall, eyes watchful but not in the least alarmed.

"Thank God it's not Flip," Simon said irrelevantly. "He raised a terrific ruckus the time he got stuck. Almost killed us when we tried to set him to rights."

"No telling how long Mickey's going to put up with this, though," Bodie pointed out grimly.

The bay's dark eyes swivelled toward Bodie with ineffable trust.

"Good Lord, will you look at him?" Doyle snorted. He slipped the latch and swung the gate open. The horse was completely harmless, so long as he did not begin to flail those sharp-edged hooves. "Tom, you're a strong lad," Doyle said, flagging the other man to his side. "Come over here with me."

"Keep the gate open, Si," Bodie ordered. "Mickey'll need a bit of room to stand up in once he gets his feet under him." Looking from Des to Jeremy, Bodie said, "Only need one of you. All five of us in here, we'll just get in each other's way."

Jeremy gave his smaller companion a shove. "Go on, mate. You helped Derek when I was down sick with flu."

"You weren't sick with flu, Jem; you just said that to get out of working." "What're you on about? I--"

While the two men argued back and forth, Doyle said to Tom, "Whatever you do, be careful of his feet, eh? He may be taking this awfully well, but he'll come up all at once. He could hurt you without meaning to."

Refraining from comment, Tom chose to glower at Doyle instead. Accepting this as his lot in the order of things, Doyle simply turned toward Bodie and raised his brows.

Acknowledging the look and interpreting its meaning with ease, Bodie said firmly, "That's enough! One of you, out!"

Bodie's tone of voice brooked no argument; Des stepped smartly through the stall gate. "Everybody else, stand as clear as you can, right? We'll pull him over together."

Four sets of hands came out and grasped the horse's ankles. With their combined strength, the sixty stone horse was smoothly brought onto his side. A hint of muscle bunching in the region of the left hamstring was all the warning Doyle required to shove himself violently against Tom's side, carrying both of them to the opposite end of the enclosure. Before they had even connected with the partition, Mickey's hind legs flashed out; they slammed up hard against the back of the stall, almost taking it over. Mickey lurched to his forefeet, head stretched right out to give him the balance needed to raise his hindquarters. Then he was shaking vigorously, straw flying into the air and cascading down onto his hapless rescuers.

"You okay?" Bodie snapped.

"I am," Doyle replied. "Tom?"

Ashen-faced, Tom clutched a hand to his chest. "Felt that hoof slice right past me. If you hadn't--"

"He's fine," Doyle said. He thumped Tom lightly on the shoulder. "How about tea, Simon? Think we could all use some."

"A pint would be better," Jeremy muttered.

"Sorry, Jem," Simon said wryly. "This house is dry. Tom, come in here and sit down; you're looking bloody awful. Are you sure you weren't hit? Can't always tell right away, y'know."

Bodie smothered a laugh and turned away before the others, except Doyle who was watching him, could notice.

Keeping his own face quite straight, Doyle sidled up alongside him, stepping out of the way of the other three men who were lumbering after Simon into the tackroom. The bay now stood with his nose eyelash-deep in feed, seemingly unfazed by his traumatic experience.

"You still trying to earn points with this lot?" Bodie murmured under his breath.

"Points?"

"Rescuing Tom like that. Mickey almost had you, too."

"He would've had Tom for certain, if I hadn't got him out of the way."

Bodie's eyes were unreadable. "I don't care about Tom."

Doyle reached out and slapped the horse's withers. "Neither does Mickey."

---

Finally freed from his temporary duties in mid-afternoon, Doyle announced his intention of driving into town to visit the shops. Bodie, who had spoken little, despite never being more than a stall away, immediately offered him a lift in his Mini. Having no plausible excuse for refusing--other than that he wanted to place a call to Cowley--Doyle felt compelled to accept.

With Basil on his lap, and shrouded in stonewall silence during the short ride, Doyle wondered, however, just why Bodie had bothered: Every conversational olive branch went stoutly ignored, until Doyle set his mouth in an even line and gave up altogether. He kept his eyes on the scenery after that, watching the less developed, outer edges of town swiftly alter to concrete and brick as they entered the town proper.

For all his remoteness, once in the grocery shop, Bodie became Doyle's shadow. It was impossible to ignore him, hovering a step back from Doyle's elbow. Nevertheless Doyle pretended to, concentrating on making his choices along one aisle and now another. Occasionally, Bodie would add something to the trolley, scrupulously keeping his items separate from Doyle's.

But Doyle knew it was only a matter of time before Bodie stated his mind, which Doyle suspected was simmering with repressed irritation. In the event, Bodie's unnatural restraint was snapped by an unlikely item: a packet of curry mix. As Bodie picked it off the shelf, Doyle remarked jokily, "Living dangerously there, mate."

"Me?" Bodie exclaimed in a furious hiss, rounding all too quickly on his companion, who instinctively fell back before that ice-cold demeanour.

"I can't hold a candle to you, Doyle."

Staring at the other man blankly, Doyle said, "You're angry."

"Bloody right I'm angry. You moron. D'you really think I fancy the idea of digging Mickey's foot out of your forehead?"

Doyle winced. "Keep your voice down, fool."

Bodie's eyes flashed unmistakable warning signals, his mouth pursed petulantly, his face strangely waxen.

Comprehension surging through him, Doyle's first reaction was to laugh. "This is ridiculous, d'you know that?" Almost belatedly sensing that Bodie was a hair's breadth away from clubbing him, Doyle sobered at once, and laid a precautionary hand on Bodie's right forearm and squeezed it mindfully. "You giving me gyp about that--Christ, I haven't heard you complain when we're up on the rigging!"

"That's different."

"How?"

"I'm in control there."

"We're partners, Bodie." Doyle opened his mouth to say more, then decided that he did not have to. We're partners. How long since he had said that, and truly meant it? Bodie was staring down at his arm, where Doyle's hand still gripped it. "Partners," Doyle said on a note of enlightenment, the kind that heralded the unveiling of the mysteries of the universe.

"You're an idiot," Bodie marvelled aloud.

Unoffended by this appraisal, Doyle smiled widely. "Takes one to know one."

Reluctant amusement broke through the obsidian hardness of Bodie's eyes. "Yeah. I reckon it does." He raised his unencumbered wrist and consulted his watch. "You going to spend the rest of the day here? Lily wants to see me about my costume before the performance tonight."

"So why'd you offer to drive me into town? Or were you worried I might smash my bike into a bloody great lorry?" At Bodie's glacial stare, Doyle only broadened his toothy display. When this did not earn him a clout on the side of the head--although Bodie appeared to consider the prospect--Doyle safely released the tensed arm, and began to chivvy his companion toward the check-out with unsubtle nudges. All the while he mused to himself that he was very likely in more danger when baiting Bodie than at any other time--and wondered if Bodie himself were aware of that little conundrum.

---

Abandoned by Bodie the instant the engine of the Mini ceased idling-- because, according to Bodie, he feared retribution from Lily--Doyle retired to his own caravan. Faced with a couple of hours to while away, he occupied himself at first by storing his purchases. With Basil settled on the rug with a new chew toy, he then sipped a heartening, hot mug of tea while deliberating on what he might do with this brief respite. His intention of ringing Cowley had been totally confounded by Bodie's sullen presence; in that state of mind, Bodie would undoubtedly have hung round the very phone kiosk while Doyle had placed the call.

A little later, rinsing his hands in the bathroom sink, Doyle caught his reflection in the looking glass. Thoughtfully, he picked through his beard. Evans, his hairdresser, had warned him that he should be prepared to maintain the artificial aging process. While the hairdresser's handiwork still evinced authenticity, Doyle decided to take advantage of his few idle moments, just to ensure that he did not get caught slack at a later time--although Doyle had to remind himself that he was not expected to be here more than a couple of weeks. Still, it could not hurt to take precautions.

Making himself comfortable on the edge of the bath, Doyle commenced his repair work. Mystified, Basil lay in the doorway, alternately worrying her toy and overseeing Doyle's curious behavior. She was incapable of comprehending this new ritual in which Doyle painted a creamy mixture of specially prepared bleach and peroxide onto his beard--which had been carefully parted and held back with sticky tape for a natural overlap-- nor the waiting period that followed during which Doyle sat boredly rapping his knuckles on his knee, hummed to himself, and stared fixedly into space.

Basil would have understood even less her companion's jumbled thoughts, for Doyle's mind was back on Bodie.

Partners, Doyle ruminated. When a bloke knew what to expect from his partner, he didn't waste time trying to nursemaid him. Bodie was learning that, it appeared, slowly but surely. He patently trusted Doyle's skills on the trapeze and his ability to look after himself against a human assailant--Tom and Sergei, for example--but he had yet to learn all Doyle's special talents--his physical speed, split-second instincts, his fire-born wisdom. That would come. What fascinated Doyle was this unlikely aspect of his partner--for the urge to protect obviously did not rest easy with Bodie; in fact, Doyle could see how he fought it, even scorned it. But, for all his resistance, it was not something he could deny, however much he might like to, and at the slightest whiff of a fray, if he believed Doyle might have need of him, he cast aside all pretense and plunged right in, no matter the hazard.

Bodie, quite simply, cared more than he ought to.

Rousing from his wool-gathering twenty minutes later, Doyle rinsed off the concoction with a groan of relief, then minutely examined the results in the mirror. Although the sticky tape, when removed, had taken with it an unwilling strand or two, Doyle decided that Evans would have declared the operation a success.

With nearly two hours left to kill before he got kitted up, Doyle decided to take a turn about the circus compound. Undaunted by a misting, very cold rain, Basil trotted at his heels, and together they strolled down the muddy path to the sideshow.

The barkers were in their stalls, sprucing up their come-ons in anticipation of the night's spenders. Doyle was greeted often, and with real friendliness, the "new-boy" taint having sloughed off unnoticed sometime in the last week. This ready acceptance came as something of a surprise to him, for he remembered how clannish circus people could be-- not unlike CI5 operatives, who were legendarily slow to warm to a newcomer. Such treatment usually suited Ray Doyle, who had ever stood apart from his fellow agents. In this present reality, however, being made a member of the circus community was gratifying, for it meant he was playing his role well. Perhaps he was playing it too well.

As Doyle wandered along, responding with a wave and a smile to those who took note of him, he reflected that he had never adjusted so effortlessly to an undercover persona. For years he had believed that the resin and bright lights of his youth had been expunged from the deepest corners of his mind; yet, a week here, and he might never have moved on. In fact, there were times of late when he could not say with any certainty where Ray Doyle, CI5 pretender, left off, and Ray Doyle, circus habitué, took over.

Perhaps, he mused, this was simply all part of the changing process that had begun in London. There, doubts and festering discontent had grown to unignorable proportions. Here, he could pretend that Ray Doyle lived only to shine as Circus Sergei's newest aerial star--and to further his nascent relationship with his partner, William Bodie.

And what would William Bodie think when Doyle was recalled to London?

Maybe, Doyle would not go back.

By this time on the verge of the moors bordering the north end of the compound, Doyle threw his head back and laughed out loud. The blustery wind, its icy edge sharpening by the minute, tore the sound to tatters.

"Bodie's right: I am an idiot, Basil."

The dog sat shivering by his trainers, awaiting his pleasure.

"And so are you," he said, not ungently. "Let's have a quick run, and we'll go home. Dinner for you, tea for me; what d'you say?"

Tongue curled pinkly in the middle of a wide grin, Basil came up off the ground, to dance on her hind legs, forefeet raised high. Doyle took off into the heather at a run; Basil, like a bullet, shot after him.

---

An hour later, outfitted in his Regency finery, Doyle bounded out of the caravan, and almost ran over Sergei, who had just appeared from round the side of his own unit.

"Sorry!' Doyle automatically put out a hand to steady the other man.

Gaining his footing with dignity, Sergei subjected Doyle to close scrutiny. "You will be performing on the trapeze Wednesday?"

"Yes," Doyle replied. "As we've arranged."

"I watched you this morning, from the back of the Tent."

After allowing Sergei a moment in which to say more, Doyle finally prompted, "And, what did you think?"

"It is not circus, as I grew up with it," Sergei replied thoughtfully. "Then, we made the audience believe that merely being caught by another person forty feet above the floor of the ring was high magic. But these days, people demand more. I think that is what you will give them."

Strangely affected, for Sergei had spoken with obvious sincerity, Doyle gave the circus owner a thin smile. "Bodie thinks it'll work."

"Bodie's instincts are usually the best. Not always," Sergei amended with a flash of teeth. "But usually." He brought up both hands and tidied Doyle's frilly cravat. "This costume suits you."

"As much as the leotard?" Doyle murmured.

"Every bit." Sergei fell back a pace. "You are welcome to join me for a drink after the performance."

Doyle shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't think so. Been a long day, y'know. Be ready for bed by then."

Eyes dark and hungry roamed over Doyle's face. Sergei said softly, "I have a bed. And you are welcome to use it." He licked his mouth, then looked aside. "They'll be waiting for you in the stables. I'm sure Simon has worn Derek out by now, but he ought to be ready for you."

"Yes, I saw him return while I was taking a run on the moors," Doyle said. "Empty-handed, apparently."

"Apparently." Eyes falling on Doyle's face once more, Sergei said, "Don't forget my offer, will you? I keep a bottle of finest malt whisky; I'll look forward to sharing it with you." Touching Doyle's arm lightly, he started off again, his footfalls heavy on the soft ground.

A low sound, less than a growl and more than a grumbling whine rippled from Basil's throat.

Glancing down at the dog standing protectively in front of his feet, Doyle said, "Good idea, Bas: I'll hold him down, you disembowel him." He gave her a prod with the toe of his boot. Muttering sourly to himself, he said, "Malt whisky, indeed. Cowley'd get along with old Sergei just fine."

---

Monday's house was dismally sparse. There was something hugely disheartening about performing to so few onlookers, no matter how enthusiastic they might be--and this group, die-hard circus devotees, enjoyed themselves loudly and at length.

After the parade, Doyle led Tuppence to the stables, accompanied by Bodie, who was tiresomely continuing to keep his distance. It was on the tip of Doyle's tongue to invite him back to his caravan--that, after all, had been the plan two nights ago--but Bodie's lack of interest and Doyle's pride held the question deep in his throat.

Derek, looking weary and underslept, took the horses and led them back to the stalls. As Bodie walked away with a remote "G'night, all," Doyle decided to remain and lend a hand for a while. Gratitude lightening the grey cast of his bluff features, Derek clapped a hand on Doyle's shoulder and gathered up a grooming kit for him.

Five horses later, Doyle bid the other man good night, too, and, after a brief peek into Sanjay's cage, where he found the tiger sleeping soundly, started exhaustedly for home. The night was frigid, a raw breeze cutting right through the sweat to the bone. Half asleep on his feet, Doyle came up to the door of the caravan without a hint of something amiss--until he touched the knob, and the door swung noiselessly out on its hinges.

Brought wide-awake all at once, Doyle slid a hand through the narrow gap and flicked on the central light. Starkly illuminated, the kitchen-cum- dining area exhibited appalling vandalism. Biting off a curse, Doyle shoved the door wide and stalked inside.

"Shades of Roger," he groaned, boot heels scraping across shattered glass and pottery.

Batting material gushed out of huge rents in the padded booths like disemboweled entrails. The curtains hung in shreds, and various unpleasant, smelly substances had been smeared wantonly over the glass.

Temper rising as his eye caught sight of each new outrage, Doyle glanced down at Basil's water and food bowls, now in shattered pieces on the floor.

"Basil?" he whispered.

Since he had started leaving the window open for her, Basil had made a habit of letting herself in each night before the conclusion of the last performance, so she could nestle warmly on the bed to await Doyle's return. The bed, however, was a nightmare, sheets and duvet shredded and thrown about, the mattress wrenched off the frame and leaning drunkenly against the opposite wall in the middle of the narrow corridor that led to the bathroom.

There was no sign of Basil.

"Basil!"

A hesitant whine caught his ear; Doyle raced to the kitchen window, heedless of the debris-mined floor. He peered out: The bike stood unmolested, but Basil was nowhere in sight. "Basil, where are you?"

The sound came again, and with it a sort of slithering, scraping sound. In the shadows at the base of the caravan's skirting, the black tip of a narrow muzzle appeared through a very small crevice formed by the joining of panels. "Basil, come on, girl!"

After a bout of frantic wriggling, the whole dog materialized. She gave herself a fierce shake, then raised her head, her nose twitching as she verified the identity of the man in the caravan. Then she leapt up onto the bike, and from there, through the window, right into Doyle's arms.

He held her close to his chest for a moment. "You know who did this, don't you?" he said in a low, harsh voice. "And so do I."

In the next instant, Doyle was out the door and striding across the short distance that separated his caravan from Sergei's. Standing with legs braced apart on the top step, he hammered at the door with a fist, and kept hammering at it until Sergei shouted furiously from inside, "Hang on, damn it! Give me a minute, will you? What the--"

The door swung open, Doyle sidestepping to avoid being struck.

"My caravan," he said coldly. "Someone's turned it into a tip."

Cinching the belt of his dressing gown at his waist, Sergei frowned soberly at him. "What are you shouting about, Doyle?"

"My fucking caravan," Doyle said with vicious enunciation. "It's been turned upside down."

Sergei leaned against the jamb. "Bad?" he asked.

"A little," Doyle intoned caustically.

Folding his arms across his bulky chest, Sergei murmured, "Roger again, probably."

"What's 'Roger again'?" Bodie's voice came from the darkness near the front of the caravan.

Glowering down at his shadowed form, Sergei said, "Doyle says his caravan has been done over. Maybe you'd know something about that?"

In the faint overflow of light spilling through Sergei's door, Bodie could just be seen to smile. "Oh, I might. But I don't think Roger had a hand in it--not this time."

"Who, then?" Sergei drew himself up to his full height.

"Hardly matters. The mutt okay, Doyle?"

"Yes."

Interrupting abruptly, Sergei said, "You'll need a place to stay for the night. You're welcome here, Doyle."

Pure rage burned through Doyle's veins. He only just managed to keep his hands round Basil--and away from Sergei's throat.

"That's all right, Alf," Bodie said in a maddening drawl. "He was planning on spending the night with me, anyway."

Sergei's eyes shot from Bodie to Doyle, who met the circus owner's searching gaze with barely concealed enmity.

"Better luck next time," said Doyle meaningfully. He clattered down the wooden steps and walked past Bodie without look or word.

"You know he did it," Bodie stated flatly, falling in step beside him.

"Of course I do. Was very insistent about my coming round for a drink tonight. Didn't occur to me he'd go this far, though, did it?"

"Ray, we're here. Ray! Where're you going?" Bodie demanded, when Doyle passed by Bodie's caravan without a hint of slowing.

Doyle spun round then, and said evenly, "I know where I'm not wanted-- but thanks for the offer. It gave Sergei the hump, anyway. But the stables'll do for me, thanks."

"Not wanted! What's that supposed to mean?"

A light went on next door in Hannah's kitchen. Lowering his voice, Doyle stated precisely, "You've made it clear all day, Bodie, that you'd be happier without my company. Let's leave it at that, okay?"

"Stupid bug-- Get in here, will you?" When Doyle ignored him, Bodie snarled, "Just for a bloody drink, okay?"

Hannah's voice wafted tiredly through her front window, "God, Ray, do what he asks, will you?"

Swallowing an acid retort, Doyle said through clenched teeth, "Sorry, Hannah."

Smoke from a cigarette billowed out through the curtains into the night. "If you think it will help you settle your differences, you can leave Basil with me for the night."

"Good night, Hannah," Doyle snapped. He shouldered his way up the steps past Bodie, boot heels coming into loud contact with the linoleum floor.

Bodie came up after him at once, slamming the door shut, then leaned back against it, as though he might have to fight Doyle to keep him inside.

This impression was not lost on Doyle, who stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, unthinkingly cradling Basil against his chest. He eyed the other man without liking.

Bodie spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "What'll you have? Whisky? Beer?"

For the first time, Doyle noticed that Bodie was dressed in his terry robe, haute école boots, and to all appearances, nothing else. Thawing the slightest bit, Doyle remarked, "Go back to bed, mate. I'll fold the booth out and sleep there."

"Christ, you can be thick," Bodie grated out. "D'you want something to drink, or don't you?"

Sighing heavily, Doyle glanced round, his eyes taking in Bodie's neatly appointed caravan, in such jarring contrast to his own. "Dunno."

"You are in a state." Bodie left the door and reached out for Basil. "Let me have the--' On a sudden high-pitched bark, the dog's head lunged out and sharp teeth snapped at Bodie's hand.

"Why, you little-- C'mere, you!"

Basil growled, every muscle in her body gathering to spring, until Doyle said, "'S all right, Bas. You know Bodie won't hurt you."

"She isn't worried about her," Bodie corrected him. "Give her to me, will you?"

Doyle did as Bodie asked; the dog went into his arms stiffly, but without further complaint.

"Time for you to be in bed," Bodie said darkly. He lifted up the duvet at the foot of the mattress, and placed the dog underneath. She poked her head out a second later, keeping a wary eye on Bodie.

"She was under the caravan," Doyle said. "Squeezed through a small crack when I called to her. She must've been underneath all the time."

"Lucky she had a way to get out." Bodie's expression was grim.

"Luckier for Sergei. If he'd hurt her--"

"He must've been drunk."

"I don't think so." Doyle raked a hand through his hair. "Look, can I just use your shower? Give me a spare blanket and I'll sleep out here, as I said. Don't want to be a nuisance."

Grudging amusement eased the hard cast of Bodie's face. "Go take that shower. I'll put the kettle on." When Doyle hesitated, Bodie said, "Go on."

Soon cocooned in the humid warmth of the tiny shower stall, Doyle took his time in his ablutions. The long day had had its toll; there was no point in belaboring the destruction of his caravan just now--but Doyle hated being put at a disadvantage, and there was a distinct feeling of his having been done over as well.

With a towel slung round his middle, and another over his shoulders to catch drips off the ends of his hair, Doyle quit the bathroom. Basil looked up at him from the folds of the bedding. He stroked her head and back reassuringly, then walked through to the kitchen. Just then the front door came open and Bodie appeared, various bits of clothing draped over one arm, Doyle's trainers dangling by their laces from his other hand.

Doyle paused in the drying of his hair, noting the cold-kissed bloom in the other man's cheeks and the sheen of dew on the smooth, dark cap of hair and long, thickly clustered eyelashes. "What's all that?"

"A few things you'll need in the morning. Bit of a ruin over there, isn't it?"

"Someone was very thorough."

Piling Doyle's articles on the seat of the single kitchen chair, Bodie waved him toward the sideboard. "Tea should be ready by now. You want something to eat?"

"Nah. Thanks." Feeling just a little exposed--not to mention, chilled-- by his state of undress, Doyle started toward his clothing with the intention of pulling something, anything, on. Spying his running gear, he reached out--only to have Bodie block his path.

"Get in bed, mate. You're turning blue." He placed both hands on Doyle's shoulders and wheeled him round until Doyle faced the bedroom. His touch was no more than comradely, but Doyle resisted.

"Which side d'you want?" Bodie asked, giving him a shove. Once Doyle had falteringly walked from the small kitchen into the other room, Bodie stepped across to the sideboard and poured two mugs full of tea. "I favor the wall, myself."

Doyle sat down on the edge of the mattress, watching Bodie's every move. Basil twisted her head round and gave Doyle's hand a lick. Reflexively scratching behind her ears, he announced baldly, "I used your toothbrush."

Bodie's only reaction was a slight lifting of dark, curving brows. Gripping the handles tightly, he carried the two mugs into the bedroom, lazy spirals of steam rising above the surface of creamy brown liquid. "So long as you didn't touch my lipstick, that's all right."

Conceding a small grin, Doyle took the proffered mug.

Bodie sat down beside him. "Let's get a few things straight--if you'll pardon the expression." He sipped delicately at his tea. "We're both tired--and tomorrow's going to be a bitch of a day. While I'd happily have you fuck me through the floorboards, we'll have none of that tonight, okay? Just you and me, two mates, sharing a rather narrow bed. What d'you say?"

Doyle merely nodded and buried his nose in his mug.

"I overreacted today," Bodie admitted. "Made me do a bit of thinking. About us. What I told Sergei wasn't entirely untrue--y'know, about you spending the night with me. The reason I was there when you lit into him, was because I was just coming round to see if you wanted to talk. Nothing else, just talk."

Heating his hands round the mug, Doyle looked sidelong at his partner. "About?"

Avoiding his penetrating gaze, Bodie gave an abbreviated shrug. "I like you, Ray. I want to have sex with you, too. I'm afraid I might do both at the same time."

"That's honest enough," Doyle commented, his blasé tone hiding the liquid warmth spreading throughout his insides.

"I--"

Doyle dropped a hand on Bodie's thigh and gave it a hard squeeze. "Leave it out, mate. I'm full-grown; if you break my heart, I'll survive, y'know."

Snorting, Bodie stretched out an arm and set his mug on the narrow bed cupboard. Bending over, he wrenched off his boots, then stood up to remove the robe. "Maybe it's not your heart I'm thinking about." Without another word, he scooted, bare-bottomed, across the top of the bed, then burrowed under the duvet, bringing the upper edge to lie just below his chin.

Intrigued by that flash of pale skin, Doyle placed his mug alongside Bodie's, switched off the wall-lamp overhanging the bed, and twitched the towel from his hips.

"That's cheating, Doyle," Bodie grumbled.

"Hm?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Easier to turn the light out first. 'Sides, nothing you haven't seen before," Doyle argued, lifting the side of the duvet and gliding underneath. Basil edged out of his way as his feet stretched to the bottom of the mattress, then curled up beside his ankle. A shift of the head skimmed long, wiry hairs ticklishly across the sole of one foot. "Keep those whiskers to yourself," he gasped.

"Didn't touch you," Bodie said, affronted.

"Not you." Doyle added whimsically, "Though you could, if you wanted to."

He felt the bed dip as Bodie rose up beside him. Heart suddenly galloping like a horse bolting free, Doyle held his breath.

"Could I?" Bodie breathed, and brought his mouth down onto Doyle's.

Doyle turned into the kiss, all weariness banished, hungry for this in a way he would never have imagined. But Bodie pressed a hand flat to Doyle's chest and pushed him back down.

"It's late, sunshine. And I wasn't joking about tomorrow; it'll be a killer."

Doyle gritted his back jaws together. "Right. G'night, then." He would not admit for the world that he did not give a damn about tomorrow--not now, when he wanted very much to hold and be held. On that thought, he said gravely, "Can I--?" But pride killed the words in his throat.

"What?" Bodie asked softly.

"I'm cold. Could we--?"

The bed tossed like a skiff caught in a storm. Bodie's powerful arms encircled Doyle's comparatively skinny frame and gathered it to his solid body.

Shocked by the sudden warmth and satiny smoothness of Bodie's skin, Doyle closed his eyes and pressed even nearer. "Wonderful," he murmured, ignoring the interest kindled in his groin, not unobservant of a kindred interest tangible in Bodie's.

"Better?" Bodie asked.

"Much. God, you're warm."

"So're you. Very. What's that poking into my leg?"

"Probably the same thing that's poking into mine."

Bodie laughed, his breath ruffling the hair lying heavy on Doyle's temple. "This is ridiculous. Maybe we should just--"

"No." Doyle's hand was draped round Bodie's neck; a thumb swept idly up and down the thickly buttressing musculature. "You're right. It'll be better when we're not tired--and when I can see you. Expect I'll enjoy that."

The hardness pressed against Doyle's hip slightly thickened and lengthened. "I think the lamp still works," Bodie muttered.

Doyle hugged him with violent exuberance. "Shh." Amazingly, he yawned. The urge communicated by no more than sound, Bodie produced a jaw- cracker himself only seconds later.

"See?" Doyle said sleepily.

A small flurry of movement at Doyle's feet signalled Basil's renewed settling in.

Bodie gave a muffled gasp. "That bloody dog of yours has a cold nose!"

Chuckling softly to himself, Doyle moved his head slightly on Bodie's shoulder, revelling in this undemanding closeness and warmth, his body weighted with pure exhaustion. His comment to Bodie, If you break my heart, I'll survive, had been all bluff; but this moment was one he would remember for a long time, no matter what happened. And even if it never happened again--for whatever reason--it would be more than some people ever had; people like--

"Bodie!"

The man lying next to him startled slightly. "Yeah?"


"Earlier, when we were talking about Riley--you remember--this scheme of yours to get his family over here: You never told me what it was."

Doyle felt the broad chest cease moving. Then Bodie was laughing, a low gurgle that slowly gained in intensity.

"Come on, what is it?" Doyle's hand slid down to one tidy buttock. Forefinger and thumb hovering perilously over the downy skin, he threatened, "So help me, Bodie, if you don't--"

"No! I'll tell you. Just-- Oh, shit."

Doyle's hand closed over Bodie's left buttock. He liked the way it filled his palm, smooth and round. Finding himself on the brink of total distraction, he growled, "Well?"

"You'll kill me."

"I'll kill you if you don't tell me."

"Believe me, I forgot all about it."

"I believe you."

"You don't. Never met anyone as suspicious as you, Doyle."

"Quit stalling!"

"Right." Bodie took a deep breath. "Told you it wasn't my idea, and it wasn't. But I overheard a couple of the lads talking a day or two after you hired on; seems Hannah and Lily had set up a lottery to get some money to bring Riley's family over. They've done that before, using match results, that sort of thing; but they've only ever brought in a few pounds, y'know."

"I'm listening," Doyle assured him, when several seconds went by without Bodie continuing.

"Yeah, well-- This time they decided to base the stakes on something a little more interesting--at least to their perverted little minds."

"Why am I getting this sick feeling in my stomach?"

Bodie pulled him even closer, tucking one of Doyle's thighs between both of his. "Because you're cleverer than you look. Stop that!' He twisted free of Doyle's teeth. "Cannibal."

"Bodie--"

"They sold days--counting from when you started--with the winning day being the one you and I-- Well, you know."

Having reached that conclusion as soon as Bodie mentioned the selling of days, and resigned to the ignominy of his fate, Doyle said simply, "I see. So who's the lucky winner? D'you know?"

"Derek. And before you ask, he and Simon are the only two who know that I know. Otherwise, they'd've called it off."

"Will Derek give his winnings to Riley?"

"Of course. He's as bad as Simon, y'know. And Riley will get the money Hannah and Lily raised from selling chances, as well. All told, it should come to over five hundred quid."

"Christ," Doyle said disgustedly. "Lily, I could see; but, Hannah?"

"Incurable romantics, the lot of 'em," Bodie agreed condescendingly.

"You, on the other hand, wouldn't've rigged all this--you and me together, I mean--in the name of romance, eh?"

"I might have--but I didn't. I swear it." Bodie's voice thrummed with sincerity. "Anyway, you like Riley. And, besides, sleeping with me is small price to pay to get that kind of money together."

"Especially since sleeping with you is all I'm doing to--" Doyle broke into another yawn, "night."

"Yes, but you're not going to mention that little fact any more than I will."

Mulling this over, Doyle realized he had finally warmed all the way through. "No." Dismissing the silly wager as no longer worthy of concern, Doyle concentrated instead on Bodie; having him in his bed could become quite habit-forming.

"Are you bothered?" Bodie asked tentatively.

"No." Doyle brushed his mouth against the pulse beating in Bodie's throat. Laying his head back down, he pressed, "But you really did forget?"

"Yes, I really did." A chuckle rumbled in the depths of Bodie's chest. "After all, if we'd waited another two days, the pot would've been mine! Had Simon buy me a chance, y'see. Since there were a few left over, Hannah didn't-- Ow! Stop that, Ray!"

"You'll pay for that, Bodie," Doyle promised him ominously, his breath hot upon Bodie's shoulder.

"One can only hope. Ouch!"

---

CHAPTER 10

Tuesday

Dreary, rain-washed light filtered in through the curtains over the narrow bed. Lying on his side in the pre-dawn chill, Doyle stared sleepily at the man stretched out beside him. During the night, they had changed positions often, their two bodies meshing together like well- oiled gears. Some while ago, Bodie had placed his head on Doyle's shoulder, an arm slung heavily across his chest, a hard, contoured thigh hooked possessively over one of Doyle's.

In repose, Bodie was enchanting--even with thick, black stubble, sandpaper rough, dusting his jaw. Underneath the new growth of beard, his skin was as unmarred and pale as marble. Dark, curling lashes rested on the upper curve of his cheeks. His face, so often remote, if not outright forbidding, in sleep was as irresistible as a child's.

Doyle favored his mouth. The impish upper half and its longer, curving lower mate drew him like a siren's song, speaking of sweet pleasure at the very hint of a touch. He wanted to kiss Bodie, and to be kissed in turn. Smiling to himself, he recalled Bodie's statement of the night before: I might want to do both at the same time. Bodie was not alone.

Moving cautiously in order not to precipitate the sleeper's awakening, Doyle freed himself from Bodie's embrace and gently guided him onto his back. For a moment the other man's breathing became slightly more shallow, and his eyelashes shifted, as though they were about to open. After a moment, however, Bodie subsided back into dreams.

The duvet had slipped from Bodie's shoulders with his movements, and now lay draped across his chest just below the armpits. Pulling the fabric down even further, taking care not to tug, Doyle slowly revealed the impressive expanse of Bodie's chest from collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage. The superb definition of muscles over bone might have served as a model for a Greek statue. A sparse growth of hair grew at the crest of Bodie's breast, hardly enough to be noticeable; extending downward from his collar-bone were hard-packed pectorals and, planted to either side, small, dusky rose nipples.

Breathing a little faster, Doyle curled around so he could encircle the nearer nipple with his lips. Incapable of stopping himself, Doyle snaked out the tip of his tongue and outlined the rapidly hardening nub, encouraging the transformation until he could suck the tiny peak into his mouth.

A low moan informed him that Bodie was no longer asleep. A second later, a hand came to lie on the back of Doyle's head, fingertips gliding into thick, straight hair, pressing his mouth harder onto Bodie's chest. Doyle willingly increased the suction, one hand floating over Bodie's ribcage to cover the other nipple. Gently tweaking and pulling, he mimicked the action of teeth and tongue with his fingers.

"Ray."

"Hm?"

Bodie's hand curved under his chin. "Look at me."

Letting go his prize with some reluctance, Doyle was not prompt to obey.

"Ray."

At last he looked up--and fell into twin pools of molten blue.

"Come here."

Doyle went, complying with Bodie's wordless direction to lie between his thighs. Cautiously lowering himself onto the sleek-planed body, Doyle cupped Bodie's face between his palms, and began to kiss him.

Two hands moved from Doyle's shoulders and flowed downward over spine and ribs and the small of his back, until slowed by the sharp rise of Doyle's buttocks. Deliberately they made the ascent, until Doyle was tightly gripped, thenceforth to be kneaded, caressed, and explored, almost roughly, until he thought he would go mad.

Taken to fever pitch with dizzying speed, Doyle pushed back against Bodie's fingers, then thrust downward into the yielding smoothness of Bodie's belly, where he met an impressive heat and hardness to match his own.

Rocking his hips, Bodie deepened their kiss, forearms pistoning as he controlled the force of Doyle's up-and-down movements. He stretched out his legs, shoving aside the clinging bedclothes so that he could brace Doyle's feet with his own, lending them both added leverage.

From the side of the bed came a muffled thump and a yip of surprise.

Jerking his mouth away from Bodie's, Doyle gasped raggedly, "Shit! Basil, are you--?"

Almost at once an implacable, electronic beep, beep, beep commenced, emanating from the clock on the bedside cupboard. Frozen in a state of high passion, Doyle swung his head back around and stared wildly down into Bodie's eyes.

Grimacing as if with pain, Bodie snapped, "Christ! Wouldn't you know it!" He moved his hands to Doyle's flanks and bodily lifted him. "Get off me, Ray! We'll be late, if we don't get started right now. We've got to be in the ring in half an hour!"

"Bodie!"

"In the ring and ready to fly. Oh, God!" With that, Bodie grabbed Doyle's head and held him unmoving while he kissed him with desperate passion. "Promise me we'll finish this tonight."

"Don't worry," Doyle said furiously, swinging himself off Bodie with cold efficiency. "You may not live long enough to need reminding."

Completely naked and still hotly erect, Doyle strode into the kitchen while Bodie dove into the bathroom. The clothing Bodie had collected for him the night before lay in a heap on the dining-room chair; Doyle snagged a pair of pants and his sweatsuit, both of which had apparently survived Sergei's vandalism undamaged, and pulled them on.

Sitting on the edge of one of the kitchen booth benches, he methodically put on one shoe after the other, then raised his head to glare with intense dislike at his partner, who at that moment emerged from the bathroom.

Stabbed by green ice, Bodie said helplessly, "D'you think I wanted to stop?"

"You did."

"There're people waiting for us, Ray. We owe it to them to be ready at the same time they are. If we don't warm up, we'll--"

"Oh, forget it, Bodie! C'mon, Basil." The dog had been looking on with injured perplexity for some moments. "Let's see if Simon's got something you can eat--and maybe a cuppa for me."

Shutting the door angrily behind him, Doyle marched across the caravan site to the path leading to the circus compound. The bitter, wet morning did nothing to alleviate his vile mood. And it did not help that in some, still rational part of his mind he knew that he was being grossly unfair to Bodie. After all, Bodie had been as caught up in the moment as he--almost--and every word he had said was true. Selfishly, however, Doyle wanted to believe that their love-making should have counted for more, should have taken precedence over a bloody early morning work-out. Anyway, how much longer could it possibly have taken them? Doyle had been right on the edge--was very near it, even now.

The fresh breeze cutting across the field rapidly cooled Doyle's ardor, however. In fact, the nearer he came to the stables, the more he felt a fool. A week ago, it would have been Doyle calling a stop to less important activities--because sex with anyone other than Bodie would have been just that: something unimportant, a part of his job, and no more.

When had that changed? It was as though, without his noticing, Doyle had come violently, excruciatingly alive after being numb for many, many years. And as might be expected, suddenly sensate nerve endings were adjusting to this unexpected reversal with searing discomfort.

In the tackroom, Doyle found Simon sitting at the small table, a cup of tea in hand, Derek behind him, massaging his shoulders.

"I won't stay," Doyle said by way of apology for intruding. "But can I beg a favor?"

"You're usually out running by now," Simon remarked languidly. He leaned back into Derek's ministrations. "And of course you can stay, if you like. What's the favor?"

"My caravan's been wrecked, and--"

"Yes, Hannah told us."

Doyle stared at him. "Hannah? It's not even dawn yet."

"Last night, when we got back from the stables. Derek and I stopped by your place this morning, after Derek finished feeding the beasties. It is a shambles."

"It bloody well is--and I can tell you who did it, too."

"We all know who did it, Ray," Simon agreed gloomily.

"The bastard. He isn't going to--" Doyle closed his mouth abruptly. Looking from Simon to Derek with a slow, searching gaze, Doyle said, "If you were over there--then, you know I stayed the night with Bodie."

Derek broke into a huge grin.

"You're a rich man now, aren't you," Doyle exclaimed with sudden, genuine humor. In the morning's lusty preoccupation, he had forgotten all about Bodie's revelation of the night before.

"Bodie told you?" Simon asked warily. At Doyle's placid nod, he prodded, "And you're really not angry?"

"I hear it's all in a good cause. Look, I've got to meet Bodie in the ring in about two seconds. Could you give Basil something to eat? I don't think anything in the kitchen was salvageable."

"I'll see to her."

"And can I have a thermos flask of tea for me and Bodie? We--overslept."

Repressing an approving smile, Simon shooed Derek away from his chair. Free to move, he rose and went to the kettle at once. "Consider it done. I'll just bring this round to the Big Tent, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Simon. Derek, I'll try to get over later to see Sanjay, if that's all right?"

Derek's head bobbed in agreement. As Doyle turned toward the corridor, Derek grunted loudly, a hand raised to delay him.

Doyle stopped, jamming his fingers into his pockets, head bent to one side in inquiry.

One big hand came up to lie over Derek's heart. Then he pointed at Simon, who was looking on with a faintly sheepish expression.

"I had to tell him--y'know, about Sergei," Simon whispered contritely. "But I made him promise not to hurt him."

Having understood Derek's gesture without Simon's explanation, Doyle said, "Happy I could help. But if you do decide to give that prick a bash, you just let me know, Derek. After all, what're mates for?"

"Ray!"

Doyle ignored him. Derek raised a thumb into the air, his smile wreathed with malevolence.

---

Doyle managed to work in a round of stretches before Bodie appeared. A few of the crew helping out with the routine had already arrived; even now the net was being tied off, and a couple of the band members were playing experimental notes on their instruments. Shamefacedly, Doyle acknowledged to himself that, had they selfishly carried on with the morning's diversion, they would never have made it here in time.

As Bodie strode up to the mat, coldly aloof, Doyle said quite simply, "I'm sorry."

Giving him a sharp look, Bodie dropped his towel onto the bench a few feet away. "So am I."

"I asked Simon to bring us a flask of tea. Should have it here in a bit."

"Good. Are you ready to start?"

Doyle said sheepishly, "I'd rather finish--but as 'start' is our only option, yes."

Hands on his hips, Bodie asked flatly, "Does that mean you're going to give us a chance to take up where we left off?"

"Try and keep me away."

Bodie's face slowly relaxed. "That's all right, then."

The morning's work-out was every bit as brutal as that of the previous day--Doyle would not have thought it possible. Once the two men were thoroughly warmed up and ready to ascend to their trapezes, the missing members of their crew had arrived.

The first run-through was a disaster. While the flyers performed reasonably well, nothing else was up to standard. Riley, unusually abstracted, missed several cues; Donal fired the lights out of sequence, and Des managed to bump Doyle into the trap when reeling him up out of the net.

Following an extended tea break, during which Riley offered everyone husky thanks for the money collected on his behalf, things greatly improved. The overall atmosphere turned to one of buoyant optimism, smoothing over minor flaws and timing glitches without slowing the pace of the production.

By the fourth run-through, it was agreed that a costume rehearsal was in order, as much to try out the intricacies of Bodie's new costume as to continue refining the routine. Other aspects of the production--painting the web black so that it would blend into the darkness, and realigning the lights so that they would rotate over a precise area--had already been taken care of.

Bodie declared that they would continue their rehearsals the next day, and their last effort would be a costume run-through. Based on that, they would spring the latest version of the Flying Falconis on the Wednesday night audience--providing there was one.

Voicing his concern over this, Doyle came in for some good-natured ragging concerning doom-sayers and albatrosses.

"The Monday following opening weekend is always dead," Bodie said philosophically. "In fact, things won't pick up again until Friday."

"Lord, how d'you manage to stay in business?" Doyle exclaimed appalled.

Bodie eyed him in reproachful silence. "It's a small circus, Ray."

"But we had such great houses the first few days. You'd think with word of mouth--"

"Circus is dying--you know that. The first audiences are the last of the faithful. This new routine should churn up some interest, but Circus Sergei will never have the kind of spectacle people associate with the old-time circuses--the sort of thing they can see on the box any time they like."

"Yeah," Doyle murmured, "I know. It's just--"

"What?"

Doyle had been about to say, It's wrong. But that was Ray Doyle, bright-eyed aerialist, speaking--not Ray Doyle, the hardened cynic, who comprehended all too well the state of dreams in the world these days. "Nothing. If we're done here for the day, I'd best away to my caravan and start the repairs."

"Come over to my place first," Bodie suggested. "We'll have a big lunch to make up for the bread and butter Simon gave us."

"If it hadn't been for Simon, we wouldn't even have had that."

"True. But I'm a growing boy, and I need something substantial to carry me through the day."

---

Replete after a hearty meal of sandwiches, fruit, cheese, and a bolstering ale, Bodie and Doyle, the latter with Basil on his shoulder, struck off across the caravan site to Doyle's faded green unit at the far end of the park. The back of the hair on Doyle's neck began to rise as they drew nearer and he saw with certainty that the door stood wide open. Not only that, but a skip leaned drunkenly beside the steps.

"What the--?"

A man's backside appeared in the opening, and even at this angle and from this distance Doyle recognized its owner as Tom. As the big man felt his way down the stair, Doyle saw that he was carrying a large box, filled with debris and other bits and pieces that had constituted his household goods.

"Oi!" Doyle called, removing Basil from her perch and setting her on the ground. "What are you doing there?" He came up alongside Tom and peered into the depths of the box.

"Lending you a hand, son," Tom said bluffly.

He had no more than spoken before two other people emerged from the door of the caravan, hefting another large box between them. Unfamiliar with the two teen-aged boys, Doyle glanced across at his partner, eyes wide and perplexed.

"Tom's boys," Bodie said. "Adrian, Denis, this is Ray Doyle." The two young men could only nod and mumble a greeting, their hands otherwise occupied.

"Hello," Doyle said faintly.

Once the boys were clear of the doorway, Doyle sprang up the steps. From the threshold he looked round the inside of the caravan in utter bemusement. "Who organized all this?" he asked hoarsely, noticing that the floors, walls, and windows had been scrubbed clean, the ruined curtains taken down, the mattress restored to its proper place and made usable again with fresh bedclothes--even the rents in the upholstered booths had been concealed with strips of plastic tape.

"He did," Tom said, thudding up the steps. One big thumb stabbed in Bodie's direction. "Came round this morning first thing and asked if we could help out."

Remembering the morning, and his wretched temper, Doyle inhaled deeply. "I see." Gathering himself with an effort, Doyle said solemnly to Tom, "Thank you." Shooting a quick look of chagrin Bodie's way, he added, "And thank you."

"It won't be habitable for a bit yet, mind you," Simon proclaimed, poking his head out from behind the half-closed door of the bathroom. He walked into the bedroom, a smaller container of smashed articles propped on his hip. Squeezing himself up against the wall opposite the bed, he allowed one of the boys to pass in front of him, then managed to haul his ungainly burden into the kitchen. "Don't reckon you'd want to explain this?" he asked, and held up the remains of the bleach mix Doyle had used the previous day.

Struck speechless, Doyle could only stare at this evidence of his deception.

"Tampering with nature, eh?" Bodie said gleefully. "What's the matter, wasn't it grey enough on one side or the other?"

"Lacking the proper balance?" Simon threw in with mock sympathy.

Doyle stitched a flimsy almost-grin across his mouth. "Bastards," he muttered weakly.

Simon patted him on the face. "Don't worry, Ray," he assured him conspiratorially. "We won't tell."

"Speak for yourself." Bodie wrapped an arm around Doyle's shoulders. "It's always good to have a bit of blackmail in reserve."

"Stop it, Bodie! Or he'll be telling all your deepest, darkest secrets--bet he must know a few of them by now, too--the odd freckle, unusually placed birthmarks--that sort of thing."

"You're a cat, Simon." Oblivious to the smooth hiss that followed this remark, Bodie commented, "Looks like you lot are almost done."

"We are." Simon waved a graceful hand at the cupboards over the sink. "You have dishes, glasses, and eating utensils, Ray. A teapot--and a proper cozy, thanks to Lily." The hand pointed at the drawer under the oven. "And a few pots and pans. The basics only, I'm afraid."

"But as that's all he had to start with, it should do," Bodie said pragmatically.

"Yeah," Doyle whispered huskily.

"You'll want to take him into town to replace his perishables, then," Simon said knowingly to Bodie. "Food, soap, loo paper--all that. The clothing that wasn't destroyed is being laundered by Lily. She'll have it back before you settle in for the night." He smiled kindly at Doyle. "Don't look like that, Ray. Hasn't anyone ever been kind to you before?"

Doyle swallowed hard and kept his mouth firmly shut.

"C'mon, mate," Bodie said and turned Doyle back toward the door. "Didn't you say something about wanting to look in on that bloody tiger? You can do that while I'm being groped by Lily. I'd expect Simon would have a list of necessary items ready by then. Then we'll have a pleasant drive into town."

"An excellent idea," Simon concurred without hesitation. "Half an hour ought to see it done."

As they left the caravan site with Basil scampering round their feet, Doyle finally said, rather gruffly, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't have much chance to get a word in edgeways this morning, as I recall," Bodie said with only a hint of rebuke.

"I feel a right berk."

"And so you should. Mind you, I didn't have to twist anyone's arms. You've done a few good turns here yourself, y'know."

"No reason for you to put yourself out, though," Doyle said, conscience- stricken. "Especially after this morning."

"That's all right, mate." Bodie mock-punched Doyle on the upper arm. "I'm relying on you to set that to rights tonight."

"Count on it," Doyle promised.

---

Sanjay had finally improved--not a great deal, but Doyle could see the cat's renewed strength in the deceptively boneless but unbowed shoulders, the untrembling set of the head, even in the clear, lazily blinking yellow gaze. And to Doyle's delight, the cat made a point of welcoming him when he came inside the cage to say "hello." Sanjay butted Doyle's hand, then curved his head under Doyle's fingers, demanding that he caress the furry ears.

Shaking his head to himself as he observed this silent communication, Derek took up Doyle's shovel and completed the mucking out of the cage Doyle had begun.

After a few minutes of this, the cat yawned suddenly, displaying long, impressive canines and shorter, less fearsome teeth--which, despite their lack of size, were by no means to be ignored. All at once, he seemed very wide awake.

Derek set aside his shovel and rake to collect Sanjay's medication. Talking soothingly in the cat's ear, Doyle held him while Derek quickly emptied the mixture into the animal's mouth.

"Well done, mate," Doyle murmured. He stood up--and in one, unfaltering movement, Sanjay came up alongside him. "What're you up to, then, old son?" Doyle's voice dropped a register, as it always did when he was nervous. The cat's movement, disconcertingly agile in a creature so large, had taken him by surprise.

Standing only a foot away, Derek studied his charge with tilted head.

"What d'you think he wants, Derek?"

Coming to some conclusion, the trainer raised a hand and described a large circle.

Taking that to mean the inside of the cage, Doyle clarified, "You want me to walk him in here?"

At Derek's nod, Doyle gave a slight heave of the shoulders. "Fine with me. What about you, Sanjay, me old fruit?"

Tapping the animal on his sloping shoulders, Doyle led with one foot, but hung back until he saw that Sanjay was inclined to join him. Slowly, out of deference to the cat's lumbering stride, they made a complete circuit of the cage. Doyle was careful to restrict himself to the tiger's pace, so that he presented neither a challenge nor inadvertently triggered the cat's primal "prey-chase" instinct--even if the beast seemed too decrepit to respond. With his massive weight, he could have Doyle on the ground with half his face gone before either man could contemplate defense.

As they walked, it seemed to Doyle that the tiger's stride began to lengthen, and he was certain of it when he had to quicken his own pace to keep up. Two, then three times they went round the inside of the cage. Sanjay ended it by coming to a stop in front of Derek. Welcoming his trainer, he slowly rubbed up against him with playful familiarity.

A bitter-sweet smile smoothed the lines on Derek's weather-beaten face; he cuffed the tiger lightly, then dropped to one knee and hugged him.

Deciding this was too effusive a reaction, Sanjay backed away, shaking his head vigorously, and repeated the affectionate gesture with Doyle. For his part, Doyle simply struggled to stay on his feet, letting the old cat push back and forth against his legs while he kept a hand on the tiger's neck, fingers rubbing at the sensitive spot between his ears.

Sanjay yawned again, and just as this simple action had signalled the start of the cat's liveliness, it also denoted its ending. Expelling a rumbling sigh, the tiger slunk over to his customary place, despite the absence of sunlight, and became one, in the way that all cats do, with the floor.

Together, Doyle and Derek left the cage. Their departure went unnoted, for Sanjay was already asleep, his breathing loud, but steady. Gripping the other man's arm briefly, Doyle indicated his thanks, then started for the corridor, the region under his heart strangely constricted.

---

The remainder of the day flew by. Doyle, with Basil zipped into his jacket, met up with Bodie in a frigid, blowing rain. They clambered into the Mini and rode into town to replenish Doyle's supplies.

"Guess I'll have to take to locking my door," Doyle mused sulkily.

"Wouldn't stop him, if he really wants to get in, y'know," Bodie said. "That's why none of us bother."

"He's done this before?"

Hedging a little, Bodie said, "Can't say for certain--although it seemed likely at the time. Was one of those rare days when Rose was away all night. Alf stuck his nose in a bottle and when he finally poured himself out, he was ready for lerv. Went after Arturo that time. But a straighter bloke you never met, and our Alf came out of it a little battered. The next morning, Arturo discovered his car had been worked over--all the tires slashed to pieces and the paint-work scratched from stem to stern. Was his pride and joy, that car."

"But Arturo couldn't prove anything?" Doyle guessed dryly.

"That's right."

"Then, why-- Oh, look!" Doyle's eye had been caught by the distinctive colors of a Circus Sergei poster plastered against a low brick wall in front of some council flats. Realizing that this must be the latest edition, Doyle insisted that Bodie pull off to the side of the road so he could inspect it more closely.

"Get an eyeful of that, mate!" he cackled gleefully, equal parts of astonishment and elation ringing in his voice. "'The Flying Falconis will debut their spectacular new act on Wednesday!' I wouldn't've thought it of the old bugger."

"Wasn't Sergei," Bodie advised him.

"No? Who, then?"

"Lily, I expect. She takes care of the press releases and the advertising. They go a few rounds when the receipts for service come in, but Lily always wins."

"She's done us proud, Bodie. Hope we can live up to it."

"We will. That is, you will."

"Hold that thought."

---

Weighted down with carry bags, the two men returned to the caravan site late in the afternoon. Stepping into his unit, Doyle ordered Basil to stay just inside the door until he could wipe her muddy feet. She dropped her hindquarters at sight of his hand signal as though her bottom had acquired a load of lead.

After letting Bodie pass by him, Doyle closed the door and looked round. "This is incredible," he stated, at last. "New curtains, a rug for Basil; Christ, they even supplied bowls for her food and water!"

"Nothing if not thorough, is our Simon." Bodie set about emptying out the bags, ordering the assorted purchases on the sideboard. "Put the kettle on, will you? It's bloody cold in here."

"Bodie--how can I possibly pay them back?" Doyle asked raggedly. Coming up alongside his partner, he turned on the taps and began to fill the metal container.

"Told you, mate. They were paying you ba--"

A knock at the door interrupted him. As Bodie reached for the knob, he noticed the dog still seated on the entry mat. "How long you going to keep this poor mutt over here, Ray?"

"What? Oh, bloody hell, Basil, don't be so literal." He snapped his fingers just as Bodie opened the door, and reached for her with a damp tea towel.

"Well, hello, Emma." Bodie gestured the woman onto the top step. "Come in out of the rain. Ray, meet Emma, Tom's wife."

The woman, petite and pleasantly round-faced, held a large foil-covered pan in both arms. She made no move to enter. "I've just come round to give this to Mr. Doyle."

"Ray," Doyle said quickly. Giving Basil a last swipe, he rose up and came alongside Bodie. "Please come in."

"Oh, no, thank you. Tom told me what happened yesterday--in the stables, y'know? This isn't much; but he said your place had been done up. I thought you might like to have some food in, already prepared, like." She smiled self-deprecatingly. "Well, it's a nice, hot meal, anyway."

"You're wonderful, love." Doyle swiftly relieved the woman of the heavy container. "There's an awful lot here; surely you and Tom will join us?" The "us" sprang from his mouth spontaneously. One way or another, Doyle meant to spend the evening with his partner.

"No, no. Tom's taking me into town tonight--even if the weather is filthy."

"You're sure, Emma?" Doyle shrugged helplessly. "Then, thank you so very much. I really don't know what to say; you're very kind."

"You don't need to say anything, Mr.-- Ray. I know you and Tom didn't get off to the best of starts, but he's very grateful now, and so am I." She raised a hand in parting. "I must go! Good night."

She leapt off the wooden stair, and dashed off into the rain, her blue jeans-clad legs eating up the distance as she ran.

Looking after her, Doyle murmured, "This is mad."

Guiding Doyle back into the room, Bodie shut the door and gave a theatrical shudder. "No, cold is what this is." He peeled back an edge of the foil. "What's in here? My God! Next time Mickey gets cast in his stall, you let me do the heroics, eh? Beef stew with chunks of meat bigger even than your mouth, potatoes, carrots, onions; fresh-baked bread by the smell of it--Emma's well-known for her home cooking, y'know; and lemon tarts. I think I've died and gone to heaven."

"Lucky for you you're invited for dinner."

"There's enough here for a small army."

"Then we'll ask Derek and Simon round. Okay with you?"

Bodie bent his head to one side. "Yeah. That's very okay with me."

"What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You. You don't understand why these folks are willing to lend a hand, do you?"

"Not really," Doyle confessed. "It isn't--what I'm used to."

"You worked in the circus before. What's so different this time round?"

Doyle shook his head, incapable of answering, because he had no answers to give. "It just is. Different, I mean."

Reaching out, Bodie removed the large container from Doyle's hands and set it on the sideboard, a few inches of it left hanging precariously off the edge. Then he stepped forward and took Doyle into his arms. "I've never met anyone like you, you know that? One minute you're an arrogant swine; the next you could sell shares in humility."

Uncomfortable, Doyle tried to draw away.

"Don't," Bodie said. "I want to hold you. Just hold you, okay?"

Drowning in brilliant blue eyes, Doyle said shakily, "Okay. Hold me, then."

Standing in Bodie's arms, his bearded cheek pressed to Bodie's smooth one, Doyle was tempted for the first time in his many years with CI5 to confess exactly who and what he was to someone who could be told nothing. The urge was frightening in its intensity; for an instant, Doyle thought he might not be able to control it.

Like a shaft of light stabbing into the heart of darkness, it came to him. Here was the shelter he had sought all his life: Someone to love him while granting him his own strength; yet, someone he could also be strong for. "Bodie--"

"Hush, sunshine. Don't you like this?"

Doyle blinked hard against a sudden stinging sensation at the backs of his eyelids. "Maybe too much."

"If it's the right person," Bodie whispered, "it can't be too much." He kissed Doyle's forehead, then let him go. "C'mon, you, let's get this lot put away. We've a show to prepare for."

---

Tuesday's turn-out was even more disappointing than Monday's crowd. The circus troupe worked with its usual manic fervor, but there was something soul-destroying in playing to so few people; even the horses and dogs seemed to sense the difference.

After the parade, Doyle changed out of his Regency outfit and handed it over to Lily for a thorough cleaning. In dulcet tones, he asked for a preview of Bodie's new costume, but was summarily refused. Affecting disinterest, he bade Lily good night and adjourned to the stables to hurry the grooming of the horses.

The post-performance ritual was hastened by the added hands. Once the last horse had been returned to his stall, Doyle and Derek sent Bodie and Simon on ahead while they sidetracked for a last visit with Sanjay. The tiger slept deeply and undisturbed. Switching off the torch and restoring it to its hook, Derek held the flap open for Doyle to precede him. They raced across the field, their breath billowing in the frosty air. Doyle outpaced the more huskily built man by only a few seconds. Laughing, Doyle swung open the door to his caravan and bowed Derek inside.

Giving Doyle's ear a twist, Derek strode across the threshold.

In their few minutes head start, Simon and Bodie had fed the dog, laid the small table and started the meal warming. A bottle of red wine stood breathing in the center of the mismatched place settings--to Doyle, everything looked absolutely perfect.

His feeling of glowing contentment lasted far beyond the late dinner, the sweet, and the post-prandial coffees. Silly with it, Doyle offered to entertain his companions. Basil featured largely in his antics, eagerly somersaulting and dancing upon Doyle's shoulders and back, and even balancing on his head--very briefly, for neither of them were terribly sure-footed at that stage of the proceedings. The evening's amusement culminated with Doyle cajoling members of his audience to tie his hands securely behind his back so that Basil could free him.

The dog lit into the offending bonds with great fervor--yet she had learned how to leave the skin on Doyle's wrists relatively unscathed and untied him with a minimum of damage. Testing her ability, Derek bound Doyle's hands in a more complicated knot. This time, Basil took a little longer in her efforts; still the bond was undone with impressive speed. Unfortunately, Doyle's left wrist also came away sporting a bright red scratch--nothing, he swore, to worry about.

Bodie, however, argued otherwise. Citing his need for a capable partner, he declared the game at an end.

"Oh, Lord, Derek, it's gone midnight already!" Simon's mouth fell open in an elegant yawn. He dropped his head back against the animal trainer's shoulder.

Derek gazed down on him fondly, then jabbed the slighter man in the ribs.

"What? Oh! Right." Sitting up in a sinuous stretch, Simon blinked sleepily across the table at Bodie and Doyle. "I'm supposed to ask you: would you look in on the animals Thursday night?" He melted into a dreamy grin. "Derry's promised to take me into town, but he wants to know his children will be all right without him."

"Of course," Doyle said promptly. He was drunk on high spirits and anticipation. Cuddling Basil on his lap, he said, "I reckon I know the routine by now." Butting his shoulder against Bodie, he added, "We'll be happy to. Won't we, mate?"

"Our pleasure." Bodie raised his glass in an informal toast. "'Bout time you lads went off on your own for a bit."

Simon sighed expressively. "It will be lovely." Slumping back against his partner once more, he let his eyes fall shut. Without the garish stage make-up, he looked very young and innocent.

Drawing him into the circle of his arms, Derek blew a kiss onto the top of Simon's head. He pushed him upright.

"Hm," Simon mumbled. "Time to go."

Outside, the temperature had dropped drastically and an icy rain was falling. As the other two men hurried off into the gloom, and Basil scurried into the heather, Bodie muttered, "You'd never know there's supposed to be a warming trend in the offing."

"Who told you that?"

"Piper. He always favors his right foreleg when the weather gets better. Not so's you'd notice, mind."

"Should I believe you?" Doyle asked, shivering on the top step.

"'S up to you," Bodie said indifferently. "You'll see, though; it'll be bright and sunshiny tomorrow."

"Hope you're right. There you are!" This, to the dog as she bounded up the box stair. "Poor Bas; must be awful to have your bathroom outside on a night like this."

"Not that it's notably warmer in here," Bodie stated meaningfully.

"Faint-heart. Stop that shaking, you idiot animal! You'll have us drowned in a minute. Come here." He wrapped the tea towel round the shuddering terrier and rubbed her down while Bodie closed the door. "Go on, off with you."

As he stood up, he found himself the center of Bodie's attention, that inescapable blue gaze sparking a flame deep in his gut. He stretched forth a hand, and Bodie took it, as though he had done so a hundred times before. Needing no prelude, they walked into the bedroom.

A thousand thoughts raced through Doyle's mind as he stopped and looked into the face of the man at his side. Most important in that moment was not that, after a lifetime of waiting, he was about to have sex with a man; rather, it was that he was going to bed with this man--and not just for the all-too-transitory pleasure of orgasm, but to lie with him throughout the night, to enfold him in his arms and shield him--and be shielded in turn--from the cold.

Something of his musings must have communicated themselves to Bodie. A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth, leaving his features unguardedly tender. He raised a hand to Doyle's face, and slowly traced the outline of the full lips with his thumb. "You are a romantic, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Doyle whispered.

"You're looking at my face, not my crotch. That's a romantic in my books. You want to kiss me?"

"Very much."

Doyle's artless response seemed to surprise Bodie. Something that might have been regret flickered across his face. "Ray--"

"Don't worry about it, mate," Doyle assured him gently. "I'm not going to ask you to make an honest man of me in the morning. Promise."

Whatever stood poised on Bodie's tongue remained unspoken. He nodded. Raising both hands to Doyle's bearded face, he stepped forward and placed his mouth lightly upon Doyle's waiting lips.

Doyle closed the gap between them, eyes rolling shut as their bodies came in contact. The flame guttering in his groin surged into a bonfire, tendrils of heat licking out headily in all directions.


As one, they stripped off their inconvenient clothing; as one, they moved toward the bed; and as one, they stretched out on the mattress under the duvet. Tangled in each other's arms, they sought a perfect fit, rolling together until Doyle came to lie on his back, with Bodie bent over him.

"Bodie!" Doyle moaned sharply, spreading his legs to make way for the knee that pushed peremptorily at his thighs. Bodie lifted himself on top of him, bringing his silken length and heat up alongside Doyle's straining erection. "God!" Doyle arched up to meet it, hips canted forward as he struggled to intensify the dizzying feeling.

The friction was exquisite; that, coupled with Bodie's naked closeness and devouring kisses, stimulated Doyle almost more than he could bear. He bucked against his lover like a wild pony, incapable of holding still while every nerve ending in his body threatened to flare into sunbursts of pure sensation.

There was no question of their spinning the moment out; it was upon them almost as soon as they had begun. Doyle cried out and stiffened, clinging to Bodie's sweat-slick back as pulse after pulse of body-hot urgency spurted out onto both of their bellies. A fractioned-second later, it was Bodie who groaned, his face buried in the curve of Doyle's neck, his convulsive grip on Doyle's buttocks painful, but by no means unwanted. For seemingly long moments Bodie continued to move against him, the violence of his release leaving him slow to recover.

Dazedly, Doyle beheld the other man's vulnerability, withholding complaint as Bodie continued to lie on top of him while his breathing slowed and his heartbeat, still palpable under Doyle's softly rubbing palm, returned to normal. This was the instant at which Doyle should swoop in for the kill; the instant when he should put forth the questions that Bodie might otherwise deign not to answer.

Instead, Doyle clutched his new lover even closer to him, wanting more than anything to protect Bodie--from the world, from himself, from anyone and anything that might do him harm.

Apparently already more than part-way asleep, Bodie, as malleable as a child's teddy, merely gave a low murmur when Doyle rolled him onto his side and settled the dark head on Doyle's breast.

"Bodie?"

"Hm?"

"You still awake?"

"'Course."

"Tell me something?"

"Whazzat?"

Doyle hesitated. So many questions he ought to ask--

"What d'you want?" Bodie mumbled sleepily.

Gazing down at the peaceful face illuminated by the glow overflowing from the kitchen lamp, Doyle said, resigned, "Why'd you leave all the lights on, eh?"

"Did I?" Bodie skimmed his cheek against the hair on Doyle's chest. "Close your eyes, sunshine. 'S dark in there."

"Yeah, I expect it is." Doyle kissed the top of Bodie's head, slowly becoming aware of the stickiness drying on his abdomen, and the cool, damp spot on the sheet where their bodies met. Smiling mockingly to himself, he closed his eyes.

And Bodie was right: There, it was dark.

---

CHAPTER 11

Wednesday

"I fell asleep on you."

Under skies of liquid pewter, the two men ran up the slow incline, footfalls crunching on gravel, their misting breath churning like miniature cyclones.

"Twice," Doyle said, purely in the interests of accuracy.

"Didn't think you were awake enough to notice when it happened again," Bodie admitted, abashed.

Doyle laughed softly. "Even after six bouts of mad, passionate sex I notice when something that heavy is lying on top of me."

"So why didn't you say something?" Bodie asked indignantly. He looked away toward the rolling field, shrouded in heavy fog, to his left.

"Did. But you were well away by then."

Bodie muttered, "Didn't mean to, y'know?"

"'S all right," Doyle said unconcernedly. "Seem to recall dropping off on you, as well, at some point."

"Yes, you did," Bodie said, vindicated. "In fact, I thought you'd died. Wouldn't move when I prodded you; hardly breathing, you were."

Doyle shot him a sardonic grin. "Is that why you woke me? And here I thought--"

Glowering intimidatingly at his partner, Bodie cut in sharply, "You know why I woke you. And don't make out as if you didn't enjoy it. 'Sides--I only woke you once."

Snorting his incredulity, Doyle countered, "Once! How about the time I rolled over, and you--"

"Your own fault. You ought to be more careful where you go sticking your bottom."

"Was trying to get warm," Doyle reminded him. "Especially after you'd pinched all the covers."

"Got you warm, didn't I?" Bodie asked reasonably.

"Well, I must admit--"

"Anyway, the way you were pitching about, if I'd had evil designs on your arse, there was no way I was going to--"

"Your aim was off, you mean. Or maybe you were just slow after--what was it at that point?--four times?"

"Five. But be honest, Doyle: You weren't exactly fighting me off, now were you? One word, y'know, and I'd've left you well alone."

"One word, eh?" Legs dragging just a little, Doyle reached the top of the rise. There he turned round and began to jog in place. "Better tell me what that one word is, then--just in case I ever need it."

Circling him with untapped energy, Bodie said, "Won't."

"'Won't?'" Doyle asked, bewildered.

"Won't ever need it. C'mon, mate, race you back."

"Bodie!"

But the other man was already pelting back down the stony path. Growling under his breath, Doyle took a deep breath and started after him.

---

"That'll have to do," Bodie said, dropping off the web and landing lightly on the tips of his toes.

Poised uncomfortably on the spreader ropes, legs curled under the edge to keep himself from rocking forward, Doyle admired his partner's nonchalance. "Still a few rough patches," he said mildly.

"And we haven't got time to smooth 'em down," Bodie countered. "That'll come."

"Eventually," Doyle agreed. "What about the new costume? Mainly the cowl? Was worried you wouldn't be able to see me."

Wiping one arm down with rough cotton, Bodie grinned sidelong at Doyle. "Don't need to see you, sunshine. I know where you are all the time."

Startled by the admission, Doyle smiled back.

"It's the reversible flap that needs some work. I'm going to see if Lily can alter it so it doesn't hang open. Spoil the effect, that would."

Doyle sprang down off the net, readily accepting the terry towel Bodie proffered him. "You do that. I'm off to look in on Sanjay."

"Bloody tiger. Watch yourself, eh?"

"Yeah, I shall. I heard what Derek said when he stopped in a bit ago; just Sanjay wanting his medicine, I expect."

"Or extra attention. You're spoiling him, Ray."

"And you're just jealous." Bodie's beatific expression caused Doyle to look at him twice. "What's that for?"

"'M not jealous--not after last night, anyway," Bodie replied nostalgically.

Doyle pretended to flinch. "We have company, y'know?"

"They can't hear me. 'Sides, they expect it of us."

Exhaling sharply, Doyle gave his head a shake. "Incorrigible, that's what you are."

"If you think last night was good," Bodie whispered, his words spoken for Doyle alone, "just wait till tonight."

Refusing to own up to the lick of heat that spurted inside him, Doyle said evenly, "Take a lot to top it."

Bodie's eyes darkened. "Bottom or top," he murmured, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, "would suit me just fine."

"Maniac," Doyle reproved, his voice dropping huskily. "Christ." He tossed the towel back to Bodie, who snagged it mid-air. "Sodding maniac."

A low cackle percolated up from the depths of Bodie's chest, and he winked once, slinging the strip of cotton round his neck. Then he struck off in the direction of the red curtain, his clothing tucked under one arm.

Lowering himself to the bench, Doyle took up his trousers and shook them open. As he angled his left leg into the material, a narrow, black- whiskered muzzle appeared from underneath the seat.

"Eavesdropping again, were you, Basil? That's all right; who're you going to tell?" He tweaked the animal's nose, then concentrated on guiding the other leg into the crumpled running suit.

---

Sanjay was indeed fretful, pacing the confines of his cage in a way Doyle had not seen before. Derek seemed unconcerned, however, and led Doyle inside to minister the day's potion. The cat gave them a baleful once-over before coming to a stop a few yards away, there to observe their approach through slitted eyes.

"Ah, don't be that way, old son," Doyle muttered coaxingly. He strode with unfaltering purpose toward the animal, knowing that he would not stand a chance should Sanjay choose to lash out at him. Paying almost as strict attention to his human companion as he did the huge cat, Doyle took root where he stood when Derek raised a warning hand.

Sanjay spat once, baring discolored, but still formidable fangs. Slowly, slowly his ears shifted forward, and he sat down. When Derek reached out and stroked his throat with a curled forefinger, he neither resisted nor quibbled.

Swallowing dryly, Doyle moved into position, and gently surrounded the cat's neck with an arm. Not for the first time, as he braced his elbow against the powerful shoulders, Doyle marvelled at the animal's indulgent nature.

But now the cat was tense, pushing into Doyle's loose hold. Responding reflexively to that slight challenge, Doyle tightened the angle of his elbow. This was sufficient to stall the tiger's forward motion. Making swift use of the minor distraction, Derek emptied the syringe into Sanjay's mouth, then rubbed the thick throat to encourage him to gulp the fluid down.

"There's a good lad." Doyle relaxed his arm, letting it slide naturally down the broad, lushly furred breast. His fingers curved into the cat's hair, gleaning the sensations of warmth, softness, and the pulse beneath the hide. "Beautiful, that's what you are, mate."

The intimidating rattle that signified that all was well in Sanjay's world welled up from the hidden place deep within the cat's body. Doyle could feel the arresting vibration through his fingertips.

"Beautiful," he said again.

Sanjay's mouth split open, widening into a great yawn. With no warning, he lay all the way down, bearing Doyle's hand with him. Butted lightly-- but, given the size of the cat's head, with imposing pressure--Doyle hunkered down onto his heels to continue his caresses.

A tsk from Derek brought Doyle's gaze up; enraptured with the cat's acceptance of him, he had quite forgotten the other man's presence. Derek looked on with a crooked smile, his head turning slowly from one side to the other with cynical disbelief.

"Sanjay," Doyle announced, "has impeccable taste."

Rolling his eyes, Derek groaned speakingly.

---

Dismissed from the cat's favor when Sanjay fell into an all-consuming slumber, Doyle walked out into bright sunshine. Squinting his eyes against the glare, he remembered Bodie's prediction of the night before-- which, according to Bodie, had been passed on to him by way of Piper-- that clear skies were in the offing.

An inquiring whimper brought Doyle's head round; outside the back entry to the animal enclosure, Basil sat patiently waiting, watching him to determine whether he would walk toward the caravan site or back around to the circus compound. Doyle, however, was no longer moving at all, for his attention had skipped beyond the dog to the large, mud-encrusted lorry parked on the other side of Derek's Rover.

Somehow, despite having seen Donal O'Shea only a few days before, and well aware that his appearance must presage imminent activity, Doyle was unprepared for the reality that greeted him. His first reaction was gut- deep denial: Not now, when things are finally coming together for me and Bodie. His second was a sense of inevitability: Cowley had foretold Doyle would not stay here beyond two weeks.

Smothering a sudden churning disappointment, Doyle poked his head back inside the canvas opening and called, "Derek, d'you want some help unloading the lorry?"

"Not his to unload," Simon called from the tackroom. "Something Sergei ordered." Nearly a minute passed before Simon went on, "But thanks for offering."

Doyle scarcely registered Simon's addendum, which had probably been prodded out of him by Derek. Something Sergei ordered. It would be child's play to speculate what that something might be.

Tonight, Doyle must inspect the lorry's contents; if his guess was right, his stay with Circus Sergei was about to come to an end.

---

For half an hour, Doyle searched the circus grounds for his partner. In the ring, he found Hannah putting her dogs through their paces; Falstaff, Aidan, and Zoe arguing the timing of their act with Riley; and the juggler and plate spinner practicing their skills under precariously dangling web spinners who were working out overhead. None had seen Bodie since morning; Riley, however, reminded Doyle that Bodie had been concerned about his costume and when last observed, had been headed in the direction of the dressing tent. Doyle thanked him and loped outside.

Lily was alone. At sight of Doyle, she drew a face that brought him up short. "Oh, Ray, I promise this will be ready by tonight."

"What will?" Doyle stared at the length of cloth that lay across Lily's ample lap and overflowed onto the floor. "Is that my cape?"

"It is. Or it will be. It's just I've been so--"

"Stop worrying," Doyle said with a laugh. "If mine's not ready, Bodie'll just have to do without his."

She shook her head wonderingly at him. "You don't seem the least bit nervous about tonight."

Made aware that everything had gone clean out of his mind--save the prospect of Donal O'Shea inconveniently interrupting his idyll--Doyle said ruefully, "Haven't had a chance to think much about it. Bodie had us running all morning long."

"I watched you for a few minutes. It's going to be tremendous."

"Hope you're right. Lily, I didn't come in here to nag you about my cape. Have you seen Bodie?"

"Not for an hour or more--since just before noon. I added another Velcro fastener to keep his costume from popping open, then he left."

"No idea where to?"

"None."

Doyle scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Need to find him. When d'you want me to stop back for the cape?"

"If I haven't finished it by six, it won't be ready," she apologized.

"Not to worry, love." Patting her hand lightly, Doyle favored the woman with a reassuring smile. "Believe me: That cape is the last thing on my mind."

---

It seemed that Bodie was nowhere to be found. Doyle searched the compound, Basil ever at his heels, but no one could report any more recent sightings than Lily's. Concluding with a brief visit to the stables, Doyle refused lunch with Derek and Simon for the second time that day, and strode outside into warm sunshine. As he neared the caravan site, he glanced across at Bodie's caravan. That had been his starting point in his quest half an hour ago. As then, the blue structure stood unaltered, betraying no sign of habitation, Bodie's battered Mini a silent sentinel alongside.

"He's been nicked by aliens, Bas," Doyle muttered irritably. His stomach rumbled its discontent--by his watch, the afternoon had gone nearly two-- and Doyle had not eaten since early morning.

Together, Doyle and the dog trundled up the steps to his door. A sound from within alerted him the instant he turned the knob.

"It's about damn time you showed up," Bodie declared querulously. He sat at the dining table, a plate of sandwiches piled high in front of him. At the opposite end another plate waited, covered with cling film.

Doyle sighed. "How long have you been here?"

Tipping his wrist to arch a brow at his watch, Bodie snapped, "Since half past twelve. Thought you'd be done in the stables nearly half an hour ago."

"Was." Pulling the door to behind him, Doyle went across to the sink and washed his hands. "I've been looking for you since then."

The vexation vanished from Bodie's features. "Oh." He broke off a piece of bread and passed it down to Basil. "Leave my fingers, you little git!"

"Don't feed her table scraps," Doyle admonished perfunctorily. Lowering himself into the booth facing Bodie, he added in priggish tones, "Bad habit." His laughing eyes met Bodie's.

Allowing a hint of apology to cross his face, Bodie reached out and touched Doyle's lower lip. "Sanjay okay?"

"Bit peevish. He's lost weight, y'know, even in the short time I've been here." He pursed his mouth to kiss Bodie's fingertip.

"Hard to believe you've been here only a little over a week," Bodie mused, more Doyle thought, to himself than to his audience. Bodie drew back his hand, and settled his fingers round the edges of his sandwich.

"Yeah," Doyle said. And how much longer would he remain?

"What is it, Ray?"

Eyes fixed on the meal in front of him, Doyle could not bring himself to look up. Forcing a chortle, he mumbled, "Wore me out, didn't you?"

"And what d'you think you did to me?" Bodie parried bluffly. "Was going to suggest a kip, actually."

Disbelieving, Doyle brought his head up sharply.

"Just a kip," Bodie assured him, conceding a tiny smile. "Tonight I want you to fly like you've never flown before."

"And after the show?"

"Was talking about after," Bodie said with a rakish grin. When Doyle sniggered, Bodie stretched out a finger and shoved Doyle's plate nearer to him. "Go on. Eat up, sunshine. Then we'll have a little lie-down."

---

Doyle woke in the early evening, as closely held in Bodie's arms as when he had first nodded off almost three hours earlier. As good as his word, Bodie had asked nothing more than the warmth and comfort of Doyle's presence. After sketchily tidying up the kitchen following their repast, they had lain down on the narrow bed. With Basil at their feet, and swathed in a single blanket, they had exchanged lazy kisses--initiated by Doyle--until both had become driftingly quiet, not completely asleep but no longer strictly awake. Shortly thereafter Doyle had dissolved into the sheltering recesses of his subconscious, as totally at peace as he ever allowed himself to be.

Now, he lay mutely observing his partner, wondering at the changeability of the man. One moment, Bodie could be imposingly gruff and distant, the next, gently and tenderly affectionate. None of Doyle's previous bed partners had ever captivated him so totally--not even now, when the bed was being used only for sleep.

As if becoming aware of Doyle's scrutiny, Bodie twitched, dark, saturnine brows dipping low over closed eyes. Before he could awaken, Doyle slid nearer and pressed his mouth against Bodie's lips, kissing him thoroughly but without passion.

"Hm, yeah." Bodie's drowsy blue eyes sought out his partner, coming to rest on Doyle's face. "What time is it?"

"Just after five. Ought to be getting up soon."

"Very soon." Stretching languidly, Bodie arched up against Doyle's slighter frame.

With a hand braced in the small of Bodie's back to keep their bodies from separating, Doyle rode out the sinuous movement, eyes shuttering as the pleasurable friction generated a flood of molten heat in his groin.

"You are a wanton thing, aren't you?" Bodie commented, his breath scudding across Doyle's throat.

"Not wanton," Doyle objected weakly; Bodie's mouth was on his collarbone, sharp, but cautious teeth claiming an area of tender flesh for their own. "Just...susceptible."

"To me?"

"Especially you," Doyle admitted, squirming slightly as Bodie turned his attentions to Doyle's left nipple. "Do we...really have time for this?"

Chuckling hoarsely, Bodie caught hold of Doyle's hand and unceremoniously shoved it under the waistband of his briefs, there to wrap it round his own silken hardness. "How long d'you think that'll take?"

"How long does it get?" Doyle asked brightly.

With a strangled growl, Bodie dragged him away from the edge of the bed and rolled on top of him. Frantically trying to accommodate his partner, Doyle tugged Bodie's pants down in between each of the other's driving thrusts, finally bringing the slip of material to lay across the tops of Bodie's thighs--all the while wriggling desperately to aid Bodie's rough efforts to do the same for him.

Regarding Bodie's length, Doyle soon found himself far too absorbed to tender an accurate measurement. The bulk and heat of Bodie's erection burned into his abdomen, and stroked demandingly alongside his own aching member, stripping away every consideration except the immediacy of that compelling touch.

And then Doyle was soaring, ecstasy glowing hot inside him for an endless instant before it erupted outward, racking him with the violence of uncontrollable spasms.

Bodie moaned, his searching kiss deepening briefly before he, too, tipped over the edge.

Arms clasped round Bodie with jealous strength, Doyle murmured, "Fantastic--that was fantastic. Love you, Bo--"

Hearing the words only as they were spilling out of his mouth, Doyle caught his breath and winced as if with pain. "Sorry."

Unhurriedly lifting his head from its place on their shared pillow, Bodie gazed down into Doyle's wary green eyes. "I'm not," he said flatly, and kissed Doyle again, this time with unmistakable tenderness and indolent repletion. "And now we have to get cleaned up." He pushed himself up and swung both legs off the side of the bed. "You can scrub my back, if you like."

"Won't both of us fit in that bloody tiny shower at the same time," Doyle advised him.

"That's all right." Grabbing hold of Doyle's wrists, Bodie impelled his partner into a sitting position beside him. "You can stand outside and reach round the curtain."

"That's generous of you; you going to do the same for me?"

"'Course. Do anything for you, Doyle. D'you hear me? Anything."

Spoken with unembroidered simplicity, Bodie's words held the ring of truth. Wide-eyed, Doyle looked hard into his partner's handsome face, unaware how much his own unguarded expression gave away.

Bodie bent forward and touched his lips to Doyle's forehead. "Don't gawp like that, son, or I'll own up to something really embarrassing."

"No," Doyle said abruptly. "Not yet. I--"

"Don't worry. I'll wait till we're both ready, okay?" Granting Doyle no time to answer, Bodie stood up and jerked him onto his feet. "You get started while I try to find where all my things have gone. And I could use a cuppa right now, so I'll just put the kettle on. You?"

"Yes, please," Doyle said gratefully, letting go of Bodie's hand with reluctance.

Giving Doyle a friendly leer, Bodie turned toward the kitchen; smiling lopsidedly after him, Doyle took himself off to the bathroom, a hand smearing their combined ejaculate across his abdomen before it could drip down onto his thighs. Stepping into the shower compartment, Doyle paused when he heard Bodie say, "What're you doing under the table, you silly mutton-head? Wait a minute--is that my shoe?! Basil!"

With a flick of the wrist, Doyle rotated the taps wide open, the sound of rushing water drowning out the yaps and shouted curses that ensued. As far as he was concerned, Bodie and Basil would have to thrash out that particular altercation without him to act as referee.

---

"Come with me, to a simpler time, when men of honor feared nought save disgrace, and the gods of the realm looked down with favor upon their champions. Behold, the youth!"

The great light flared on, exposing Doyle, who stood balanced proudly on the platform, one arm outstretched to stay his trapeze. Pushing off, he swooped out over the ring, his leotard starkly white in the brilliance of the massive klieg, spangles winking with every tiny movement. Out he swung, and back, gaining momentum and speed until, suspended over the center of the ring, he let go, cavorting like a creature born to the air. Too soon he was forced to concede to his earthbound origins and gave himself over to Bodie, who, in the guise of the gods' deputy, here served as the youth's protector. Playing his role with verve and unbridled enthusiasm, Doyle easily conveyed the impetuosity and resilience of the young and sound.

"Such strength and valor must always draw the attention of darker forces, and so it is now. They wait, and once they find our lad alone, seize their moment. See, the attack!"

His costume black from the waist up, an executioner's cowl concealing most of his face, Bodie challenged the young hero on his next crossover, testing his strength with brutal indifference. Barely escaping unscathed, Doyle swung back once more--and now Bodie delivered a fearful blow, sending Doyle spinning away, his awkward movements giving the impression of crippling pain. Undaunted, if badly wounded, the youth returned to the fray yet again, as all heroes must--only to be unremittingly vanquished. Clinging weakly to his trapeze, Doyle hung from one hand, his body sagging heavily. And then he pretended to lose his hold altogether, rousing a gasp from the audience as he plummeted down, luridly lit by the damning blood-red light, and still down, into the net, where he landed with winding force.

"Even at the moment of death, he will not surrender. No, even then, with his last ounce of strength and unbroken spirit, he struggles vainly upward--"

Using the impetus of his impact with the net, Doyle launched himself back into the air, chest high, arms thrust out behind him, creating the image Bodie had described so soon upon his arrival: Like a bloody great bird. The audience believed in it and was pulling for him; he could sense the tension as muscles not his own struggled to lift the injured warrior.

"--only to fail in the end."

The hush was complete as Doyle collapsed back down into the net--then lay there unstirring. Riley let the moment go just long enough for the stunned onlookers to believe that Doyle might truly be hurt; but not long enough for anyone to leap to his assistance.

"Will the gods abandon one of their chosen few?" The web, operated by Des under cover of darkness, tapped at Doyle's shoulder, right on the mark and with meticulous timing. Unobtrusively Doyle snaked his arm into the loop and gave the rope a solid pull. He ascended with accelerating speed, outlined by the blue light which suggested the coldness of death. At the instant the web brought him within reach of his trapeze, the lights overhead began to coruscate. Amidst this strobe effect, Doyle stiffened, as he imagined someone touched by the galvanic energy of the gods might do.

"Fresh blood floods his veins, new strength powers his muscles, and the certainty of purpose fills his heart and mind. Imbued with life reborn, he commits himself to the service of his gods." Riley's voice boomed with amazing conviction over the Tannoy, keeping pace with Doyle's effortless acrobatics.

Twaddle, Doyle thought, cynically amused, as he was taken into Bodie's hands following completion of a bird's nest pass-over.

Having dispensed with the black hood, and with the flap on his costume reversed and secured in place so that once more he, like Doyle, was clad all in white, Bodie sent his partner pirouetting back to his own trapeze. Both lengthened their swings in preparation for Doyle's double somersault.

"Left older and wiser, but now immortal, the warrior takes his place amongst his peers, no longer of this world, but of a far, far better one." The music rose to a crescendo just as Doyle broke from his trap. Spinning once, twice, then unfolding to give himself into Bodie's hands, Doyle's supple movements held the audience spellbound, not only by his display of unquestionable skill, but through the remarkable flamboyance with which he executed every action.

Alighting onto his platform in the glow of the white klieg, Doyle spun round, one arm raised dramatically, his stance all circus as he invited response from every corner.

The house, somewhat larger than the previous two nights, broke into applause and cheers. Doyle waved across at his partner, lest he be neglected in the accolades. Bodie, however, stood removed on his own platform, seemingly untouched by the audience's approval.

"Bastard," Doyle whispered to himself; for, in his eyes, Bodie was magnificent. All hard muscles and compact strength, it was Bodie, Doyle decided, who should play the role of the youth in their preposterous production.

Diving down into the net--and eliciting renewed gasps from the unprepared audience--Doyle turned over in his mind the possibility of their trading out roles. Despite appearances, he knew himself strong enough to serve as Bodie's catcher; it would depend on whether he could convince Bodie to give it a try.

And whether he had the time.

Joined by his partner on the floor, Doyle folded in half, the first of four bows made to each quadrant of the stands. A scantily dressed female assistant skipped up behind them and restored their capes to their shoulders. In perfect sync, they straightened, then strode imperially out of the ring, exiting through the red curtain.

"Convinced?" Bodie asked.

"Convinced." Grinning to himself, Doyle amended, "But only because Riley's doing the voice-over. Nobody'd believe that nonsense otherwise."

"Don't sell yourself short. If you weren't making their eyes pop out with all that stylish swanning about, no amount of 'rich chocolate brown tones' would matter a whit." Bodie stepped out of the corridor into the stables.

"Oh, there you are!" Simon exclaimed. "I've just put the tea on." He strode forward and kissed Bodie lightly on the mouth. "Marvellous!" Then he turned to Doyle and engulfed him in his arms. "Unbelievable! Did you hear that audience? They loved you!"

Released suddenly from Simon's grasp, Doyle staggered to catch his balance. "It went okay." He oofed as a large elbow dug into his ribs. Glaring at Bodie, he said, "Well, it did--but just okay, mind. Was nowhere near perfect. You almost dropped me when I came across in that first bird's nest."

"It was supposed to look like that."

"You sure you weren't having trouble with that bloody cowl?"

"None at all. Just adding a touch of verité to the routine, that's all."

"Codswallop."

Pouring milk into mugs, Simon said, "So it wasn't perfect; it was still very entertaining."

"Not per--!" Doyle broke off, pretending to be lost for words. "You mean, you didn't like it?"

Seeing the teasing glint in Doyle's eyes, Simon smiled with impunity. "You're just being ratty. But what you pulled off tonight was nothing less than a miracle, considering the short time you've had to put it together. The way you two get on, a body'd think you've known each other forever."

"Wasn't us; it was Riley," Bodie said lugubriously.

"Des," Doyle countered.

"Donal and his fabulous flashing lights."

"No, no, it was Trevor." Doyle held up his hand, as though awaiting a drumroll.

In chorus, Bodie and Simon dutifully asked, "Who's Trevor?"

"The red-nosed bloke who plays the trumpet. You know."

Groaning noisily, Simon placed a mug in Doyle's hands. "I shall be sure to thank him at the end of tonight's performance."

---

At the culmination of the show, Bodie and Doyle rode in the parade wearing their flyer's costumes. As they passed round in front of the audience, Doyle's attention was caught by the sound of his name shouted in a thin, high voice. Glancing into the crowd about three rows back, he spied Vanessa Potter and her mother, Jean. Vanessa raised her hand, displaying another toffee apple split in two. Winking broadly, Doyle gave her a quick nod.

"And right under my nose," Bodie said mournfully, as they continued round.

It was the faintly brittle tone, rather than the ludicrous words that gave Doyle pause. "Only take a moment or two," he said firmly.

"Just don't forget I've got plans."

"So long as I'm included," Doyle replied gravely, "I shan't forget."

The house emptied out soon afterward, some people to troll through the sideshow attractions, others to return to their cars or the bus-stop half a mile down the road.

Doyle, protected from the cooling evening by his new, voluminous cape, found Vanessa and Jean Potter waiting outside the main entry. Flagging them back inside, he escorted his two admirers through the now strangely empty Big Tent into the corridor which gave access to the stables.

"You are very kind, Mr. Doyle," Jean Potter said, the heightened color in her cheeks bringing out the blue in her eyes.

"Not at all. Come on now. Vanessa's told me what she thought of the aerial routine; it's your turn. Go on; be honest."

"Magnificent," the woman stated without hesitation. "You make it look effortless, as though anyone could climb up there and just--fly."

"You didn't think it at all silly?" Doyle probed. He stopped inside the tackroom and waved mother and daughter in ahead of him.

"Oh, no. Not at all. It was--terribly romantic, actually."

In the center alleyway of the stables, Derek, who had been forewarned, straightened up from brushing down Tuppence's flank to flash the visitors a welcoming grin.

"There you are," Simon greeted them cheerfully. "You will take tea, won't you?"

"Oh, thank you. But please don't let us put you out," Jean Potter said graciously.

"No bother at all," Simon assured her. "So long as you don't mind mismatched cups. They are clean, though."

Vanessa had already forgotten everyone else, drawn toward the white Andalusian as though under an enchantment. Derek took his place at the horse's head, overseeing the child's safety as she presented half of the apple for Tuppence's inspection.

Simon performed the duties of the perfect host, while Doyle sought out his partner. He found him in the shadows near the back exit, leaning against one of the support poles. Legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest, Bodie expressionlessly returned Doyle's questioning look.

"Oh, yes, please!" Vanessa entreated, her high-pitched voice commanding the attention of everyone. In the next moment, she was lifted up by Derek onto the Andalusian's back. "Oh, Mummy!"

A whicker bespeaking neglect sounded from the back of the stalls. "That's Piper," Simon explained, handing Jean Potter a cup of tea. "He's just envious."

"Can I have a cuppa, Si?" Doyle asked.

"Of course you can. Expected you to help yourself, didn't I? Usually do, y'know." To Jean Potter, he said, "He's trying to impress you with this rash of good manners."

"Ta, mate," Doyle said, with a glowering smile. He took up a cup as soon as Simon finished pouring, then prodded, "And one for Bodie, eh?"

"Oh, sorry! Where's he got to?"

"Behind you." Burdened with both mugs, Doyle strode across the straw- covered floor to Bodie's side, his cape swirling round him with every step. "You're very quiet," he remarked.

"Nothing to say--except thank you." Watching the woman and her daughter over the rim of the mug, Bodie said, "You seem to be in your element."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Mum and child and Mr. Doyle make three."

"Don't be an idiot," Doyle said pleasantly. "Look at Vanessa's eyes: They're glowing. It's easy to forget that there really is magic sometimes, that's all."

Bodie said nothing for a moment. A beaming Vanessa was hoisted off Tuppence's back. A little wobbly-legged, she followed Derek's lead to Piper's stall. "The magic of home and hearth," Bodie wondered aloud, "or of circus?"

Taking a sip of his tea, Doyle tried to puzzle out Bodie's mood. "Maybe both," he said at last. "Me dad died when I was young. We were pretty close; I missed him a lot. Then Mum married Evelyn Preston--he was managing Donny Devereaux's lot at the time. That's how I came to be a flyer."

"Until Keith Leland died."

"Until Keith Leland died, yes," Doyle agreed.

"And now?"

"What about now?"

"D'you want to be a flyer for the rest of your life?"

Doyle tore his eyes from Vanessa and Derek to look searchingly in Bodie's face. "I don't know. What're you really asking me, Bodie?"

The smooth-capped head nodded toward Jean Potter, currently engaged in conversation with Simon, and Vanessa Potter, who was feeding toffee apple into Piper's willing mouth under Derek's ever-vigilant supervision. "A lot of flyers find it hard to settle down. D'you want all that: children, family?"

"I'm gay, Bodie," Doyle reminded him with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Bi. Some blokes do, gay or straight."

With certainty, Doyle said, "No. I can't abide children--well, I can in small doses, and so long as they aren't mine. But I wouldn't marry just to carry on the family name, if that's what you mean. Doyle's common enough; it would never be missed because of me."

"Otherwise you could go on as you are? I mean, you don't need someone to love?"

Green eyes flicked back toward Derek and the child. "Used to think so."

"'Used to?'"

Tipping his nose into his mug, Doyle muttered, "Yeah."

---

Magic still shone in Vanessa Potter's face as she and her mother drove away from the circus compound. Seeing them off alone, Doyle mulled over Bodie's questions, and the broodiness their arrival had triggered. Possessive was too strong a word to characterize Bodie's reaction, but it bordered on an emotion equally as strong, and one Doyle was leery of pronouncing.

As he skirted the compound, passing between the second equipment caravan and the power generators, Doyle took note of the oversize lorry still parked outside the animal enclosure. It mocked him by its very existence, a bothersome reminder that he was here under false pretenses; that he was here, in fact, to do a job.

As Doyle strolled by, glancing with outward disinterest at the bolts holding shut the two panels of the vehicle's back door, he contemplated on one level of his mind how easily--or how hard--it would be to break inside. Nothing so obvious as a padlock secured the bolts; he could, in fact, chance his hand now--

The sound of voices approaching from the second equipment caravan came to Doyle on the breeze. Glancing back, he saw the unmistakable, portly outline of Alf Weatherby; beside him strode a lean shadow Doyle would have bet a sizable amount of money was Donal O'Shea. Carrying on toward the path without altering his pace, Doyle gave up a quick sigh of thanks that the two men had come along when they had. Things might have got very sticky indeed, otherwise.

Yet their arrival had only postponed the inevitable. He must get into that vehicle, and soon. But what excuse could he offer to Bodie that would plausibly explain his absence? Or ought he to solicit Bodie's aid-- make him an accomplice?

The very notion was ludicrous, not to mention irresponsible. Why, Bodie would want to know, are we wasting our time snooping around inside an equipment vehicle?

There was an easy solution, of course: Send Bodie back to his own caravan tonight. Plead exhaustion, indifference, a change of heart. Any or all would suffice to get rid of him.

And what choice did Doyle really have? The likelihood of the lorry remaining on the site much longer was remote in the extreme. And the longer it stayed, the sooner it would become an object of curiosity. Neither Sergei, nor his associates in the Irish Republican Army could permit that.

Clutching his cape about him--and very grateful that Lily had contrived to finish it in time--Doyle left the path and stepped down onto the gravel of the caravan site. Even from here he could see that lights were shining in his unit; through the drawn curtains, he could make out Bodie's distinctive shadow--waiting for him.

---

"Mother and daughter get away okay?" Bodie asked. He was bent almost in half, painstakingly placing the casserole dish containing the remnants of Emma's beef stew squarely in the center of the oven.

"Yeah. How long till the nosh's ready?" Tucking the just-buttoned shirt into the waist of his jeans as he emerged from the bedroom, Doyle gave an exaggerated sniff.

"Long enough for me to try an experiment."

"What sort of experiment?" Doyle opened the refrigerator door and took out the milk.

Watching Doyle take a swig directly from the lip of the bottle, Bodie gave a reproving cluck. "Nasty." When it was offered to him, however, he took it without demur. Licking a wash of white from his own upper lip, Bodie said, "You and that wretched dog of yours."

"What about us?"

"I'll bet I know a knot she can't beat."

"Better than Derek's?" Doyle scoffed. He slid the bottle back onto the rack and closed the door.

"Of course."

"Okay." Planting a hand on his hip, Doyle glanced round the room. "Where's the strip of cloth we were using last night?"

Digging into the pocket of his corduroys, Bodie produced a length of lightweight rope.

"Been planning on this, have you?" Doyle chided. "And you were the one complaining about ruining my wrists!"

"Don't worry; I'll see to it that Basil doesn't scratch you."

"Big of you. Okay." He thrust out his forearms, crossed at the wrists, in front of him. "Tie 'em up."

"Nah, you've gotta turn round. I think Basil gets an unfair advantage when she can watch your face."

Smirking at his partner, Doyle said. "All right, tie 'em at the back, then. By the way, you haven't said what the stakes are."

"A tenner that she can't get it undone at all."

"You're on." Doyle did as instructed, his bare feet pale upon the patterned linoleum floor. With his arms lying comfortably upon the small of his back, he said, "Pay attention, Basil."

The dog lay on the rug in front of the sink, gnawing on her toy. At the sound of Doyle's voice, she raised her head, dark eyes fixed inquiringly on his face.

"Taking your time back there, aren't you? What're you doing?" Doyle demanded, pulling a face as Bodie cinched the rope tightly.

"Be patient. These are expert knots, eh?"

"Oh, right." Humming loudly and tunelessly simply to annoy his partner, Doyle occupied himself by making faces at the dog, who responded by tilting her head first one way and then the other in bafflement.

"There, that's got it."

Tugging sharply at his bonds, Doyle said drolly, "Certainly seems to." He sat down sideways in the chair. "C'mon, Basil."

The dog sprang up, no longer needing Doyle's facial cue to understand what was wanted of her. As she bent her head to the task, however, Bodie scooped her up and carried her to the door.

"Out you go, Bas."

Looking up astonished, Doyle began, "What're you--?" His voice trailed away as Bodie shut the door and, leaning back against the panel, began to unbutton his shirt.

"Bodie?" A frisson of alarm shot up Doyle's spine. Never had he seen Bodie's eyes so darkly intent. Despite himself, Doyle began to struggle against the rope.

The shirt landed with a soft thup in the corner of the booth. Bodie reached for his belt.

Instinctively stumbling to his feet, Doyle stared wide-eyed at his partner. "Bodie, what are you doing?"

His reply was a slight smile; Doyle did not find it reassuring. "Bodie, I--"

With a single step, the other man closed the distance between them. Holding Doyle's head between both hands, Bodie kissed him, intimately and with unmistakable urgency.

Gasping, Doyle tried to pull away. "Untie me, you fool."

Still unspeaking, Bodie bent forward, and before Doyle could guess his intention, hefted Doyle bodily onto his shoulder.

"Bodie, what the fuck are you up to?" Doyle said the words laughingly, but there was a shrillness to his voice that betrayed him.

He landed on his back on the bed, immediately rolling onto his side away from the edge to take the strain off his arms. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the zip on the corduroys slide down, guided by one big, very steady hand. In no hurry, Bodie stepped out of his trousers, the front of his briefs bulging.

"Bodie!"

The underpants were dealt with next, with the same unrelenting efficiency. Doyle's eyes fell to Bodie's groin and remained there. In his present state of helplessness, he found Bodie completely nude and fully aroused, as intimidating as he was enthralling.

Doyle looked up slowly; the forbidding features almost frightened him. Driven to act, he rocked forward, determined to get to his feet. But Bodie anticipated him; seizing the front of Doyle's shirt, he slung Doyle back onto the bed. Before he could regain his balance, Bodie came down on top of him, stabbing a knee between Doyle's thighs.

Doyle's mouth was covered and hungrily taken, while a hand stripped open the buttons of his shirt one by one. He struggled violently, trying to throw Bodie off--but to no effect. With his lips on Doyle's throat, Bodie pushed aside the flaps of the shirt, his hands roaming arrogantly over Doyle's bare skin.

"Bodie, why are you--?"

Bodie smothered the nascent protest with another savage kiss, at the same time moving his deliberate assault to Doyle's belt and the clasp at the waist of his jeans. The zip came open with a loud rasp of metal teeth. Shuddering, Doyle felt Bodie's fingers push inside his thin pants. He was taken into one very warm hand, his own arousal impossible to deny.

Shocked into submission, Doyle did not at first resist as Bodie peeled the jeans and briefs off his hips and long legs. Then, feeling terribly exposed--and almost painfully stimulated--Doyle kicked his feet free and tried to lift himself up against the headboard. Bodie yanked him down and threw a leg over him, straddling his waist.

Breathing hard, Doyle was made to wait while Bodie moved upward over his torso, downy buttocks and testicles skimming across the hair on Doyle's chest. Long and heavy with blood, his erection preceded him, bobbing nearer Doyle's face with each passing second. Taking his weight on his knees, Bodie stopped at last. With a hand curled round the base of his own penis, he positioned it a scant inch away from Doyle's mouth.

Glaring up mutinously, Doyle found unreadable blue eyes staring back down at him. There was nothing in Bodie's face to reassure him, and yet--

Bodie's other hand slipped into Doyle's hair; he nudged the sensitive glans against Doyle's full lips, a request--not a demand--for entry.

And all at once, Doyle thought he understood what Bodie wanted of him. Four days ago, Bodie had suggested a bout of wrestling--a test, he had said, to see if Doyle would hurt him. Now, it appeared, he wanted to know if Doyle would let himself be overpowered while Bodie directed their sexual activities. A jealous response to Doyle's attentions to the Potters? Perhaps. Or, possibly Bodie was just examining the limits of their relationship--how far could he go before Doyle called a halt? In any case, there was no doubt in Doyle's mind that if he refused, Bodie would not force him--and that was all that was of importance to him.

Opening his mouth, Doyle played the tip of his tongue lightly across the velvet head. A bit-off sigh hissed into the air above him. Emboldened, Doyle parted his lips and sucked the smooth column inside. Unexpectedly, Bodie moved his hips, driving deeper into Doyle's mouth.

Anxious that Bodie might choke him, however unintentionally, Doyle jerked back against the restraining hand. Bodie released him at once, then delicately ran a finger over Doyle's face and jaw, rubbing his thumb across the corner of Doyle's tingling lips where mustache blended into beard.

Looking up at his partner's absorbed expression, Doyle smiled to himself and relaxed. In all things, it appeared, he trusted Bodie implicitly.

This time when Bodie offered his penis, Doyle took it without hesitation, no longer questioning why Bodie kept him bound. He was, after all, not terribly uncomfortable; more than that, he could not deny the eroticism of commingling helplessness and sex.

In fact, it was a wondrously pleasant sensation having another man's straining sex in his mouth. The toadstool tip, so impossibly silken soft; the hard, yet pliant length; the burgeoning veins rolling under the probe of his tongue; even the salt-bitter taste of pre-ejaculate-- all fascinated rather than repelled him.

And the unwilling moans, forced out of Bodie by Doyle's efforts, filled him with a sense of power; at this moment, his partner was completely dependent on him. As Bodie rotated his hips, keeping his thrusts short and unthreatening, Doyle learned how best to please, alternately sucking with his whole mouth and fondling with his tongue to keep his jaws from tiring--and to keep Bodie in his thrall.

When his partner suddenly drew away after only a few minutes of this, Doyle was abstractedly disappointed. Unknowing that his own features were flushed, his eyes hazy and heavy-lidded, and his mouth slightly swollen, Doyle did not understand the fierce look that crossed Bodie's face. But his frustration vanished when Bodie shifted off him, hunched over so he could kiss Doyle's mouth.

Wanting the use of his hands to hold his partner, Doyle pulled his head to one side to speak. "Bodie, let me-- Ahh!"

But Bodie had dropped further down Doyle's body, his mouth going around Doyle's neglected erection, taking it in and in until Doyle thought he must be swallowed whole.

An expression that might have been confused for agony tore across Doyle's features as new sensations splintered throughout his system. He had known pleasure in a woman's mouth before--many women, for that matter--but none had ever worked him with the sure knowledge that Bodie brought to bear. Doyle writhed and cocked his hips, trying to drive himself deeper into that warm haven, regardless of his partner's comfort.

With one hand on Doyle's belly, and the other carefully cupping his testicles, Bodie worked with him while restraining Doyle's undulating movements. He moved his mouth up and down the long, aching shaft, tonguing it with lush, merciless strokes, taking Doyle nearer and nearer the longed-for precipice.

Doyle was there, right at the edge, when a thud, a startlingly loud splash, and a surprised canine outburst snatched him back to his senses.

"Basil!"

"Shit!" Bodie was off the bed and on the balls of his feet at the same instant that Basil dashed into the bedroom. Soaking wet, she skidded to a stop and proceeded to shake the rinse water from the kitchen sink off her smooth-haired coat.

"You idiot dog!" Bodie roared.

Trying to control his harsh breathing, Doyle took in the sight of his naked lover--still displaying all the symptoms of lustful preoccupation-- and his indignant and bristling dog, and began to laugh, high gasping howls that, given his present constraints, proved actually painful.

Slipping past Bodie, Basil leapt onto the bed, her rough, wet pads scraping across Doyle's chest. His laughter turning to muffled shrieks, Doyle tried to squirm away. Bodie grabbed the sodden animal before she could do serious damage and wrapped the edge of the sheet round her. Brusquely rubbing her down, he scowled menacingly across at Doyle.

"S-sorry," Doyle groaned, hiccupping. "Forgot about the window. My God, that smell--Bodie, the oven!"

"Bloody fucking hell," Bodie said viciously. Plopping the dog, still entangled in the sheet, onto the floor, he stalked into the kitchen and flung open the oven door. The scent of well-heated beef stew surged forth, rapidly reaching into the bedroom. Bodie grabbed a pot holder and the tea towel off the refrigerator door handle and, picking up the casserole dish between the two, ferried it out of the oven and onto the sideboard. Slamming the hand protectors down beside it, he stomped back into the bedroom.

Biting his bottom lip to keep his none too steady composure, Doyle shrugged innocently.

With a growl, Bodie stepped past the dog, who remained seated on the floor amidst the folds of the sheet, licking her legs. Climbing onto the bed, Bodie bent over and took hold of Doyle's hips, canting them forward so that his somewhat wilted erection took prominence. Then Bodie lowered his head and took up where he had left off.

The friction of Bodie's tongue coupled with inescapable, lavish suction brought Doyle rocketing back to the summit. Mewling out his partner's name, he succumbed to the shattering sensations within seconds, spine arched to bury himself in Bodie's mouth as pleasure shot through every nerve in his body.

A moment later, Bodie released him, his square-cut hands rubbing up and down Doyle's thighs, thumbs carefully brushing against Doyle's tender genitals.

Devastated, Doyle thought it would be ridiculously easy for him to make the mistake of falling asleep right now.

Kneeling above him, Bodie looked down on his companion with mute hunger. Viscous fluid beaded at the tip of his penis, which still curved searchingly upward.

"D'you want to fuck me?" Doyle asked hoarsely, knowing only that he must give Bodie something of equal value in return for the unparalleled lovemaking he had just experienced.

Bodie's lips parted, then closed abruptly.

"In the kitchen, there should be something," Doyle said matter-of- factly. "Butter, cooking oil, something."

Bodie's hands fell motionless on Doyle's thighs. "Only if you promise to do me later."

"After that?!" Doyle exclaimed softly.

"I'll wake you. Promise me."

"If that's what you want, sunshine, you won't get an argument out of me."

"That's what I want," Bodie said resolutely. He touched Doyle's face lightly. "Don't go away."

"No," Doyle whispered, insides fluttering at the expression in Bodie's luminous eyes. As Bodie went into the kitchen, Doyle glanced down at the dog, who lay sleepy-headed in her nest of bed linen. Recalled to his situation, he arched a brow in her direction, then shifted onto his side. Basil's teeth and dripping muzzle were there immediately, tugging adroitly at his bonds. Listening to the sounds of cupboard doors opening, the contents being heedlessly pawed, then hinges creaking shut again, Doyle silently urged her on.

"This'll do!" he heard Bodie mutter. Footsteps padded softly on the linoleum floor, and a second later Bodie appeared around the corner.

He took in Doyle's guilty, overwide gaze and Basil's determined assault on the cords lashed round Doyle's wrists.

"Let me finish that, mutt," Bodie said brusquely, setting the bottle of cooking oil on the floor as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

At that moment, however, Basil won through, a fierce shake of the head effecting Doyle's freedom.

"You owe me a tenner," Doyle crowed triumphantly, flailing his wrists like a rag doll to restore sensation to his tingling limbs.

"Happily." Bodie took Doyle's hands in his palms and rubbed them briskly. "Better?" At Doyle's nod, he said plaintively, "Roll over, then, will you?"

Rising up on his knees, Doyle leaned nearer instead. He murmured, "Happily. But I want a kiss first."

It was a luxurious, unhurried kiss, and Doyle made the most of it. "That was incredible," he said, touching his lips to the curved-up tip of Bodie's nose. "Thank you."

With an inarticulate sound, Bodie brought Doyle up hard against his chest and held him there for a long moment. "Cheers, mate," he whispered.

Trailing a finger down Bodie's abdomen, Doyle slowly pulled away. Crouching low, he brushed his lips over a dusky nipple, then turned and lay himself face down on the mattress.

A warm hand came to lie over both of his buttocks. Fingers glided from one side to the other before dipping between, following the line of the cleft downward. Doyle raised a leg to aid Bodie's explorations, recoiling involuntarily as Bodie raked the pad of a finger over unexpectedly sensitive skin.

Something only slightly cooler than body temperature slid down the crevice between Doyle's buttocks. He caught his breath as Bodie began to smooth it in, the sensation not unpleasant but decidedly alien.

"Okay?" Bodie asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

"So far."

But Doyle tensed as Bodie moved between his legs, then stretched his buttocks apart with forefinger and thumb.

"You're going to have to raise up a bit," Bodie instructed.

"Like this?" Doyle scooted his knees a short distance under his body, not particularly keen on the way cool air swirled around his exposed bottom.

"Better." Bodie crowded closer, fingers forcing Doyle open once more. Doyle felt something rub up against him, a snub pressure he knew without doubt must be Bodie's penis. Holding his breath a second time, Doyle bit his lip as Bodie began to push inside.

"Ray?" Bodie checked himself.

"Go on," Doyle hissed. "You're the expert here, aren't you?"

"I-- Oh, Christ!"

All at once Bodie was inside him, deep inside him, and the instinct to thrust must have been overwhelming, for he shoved in and out in three quick strokes.

Assailed by a pain quite unlike any he had ever known, Doyle tasted blood, his hands twisted crampingly in the mattress cover.

"Jesus, Doyle." Bodie's breath flowed hot across Doyle's shoulder blades. "Are you okay?"

"Hurts," Doyle said through clenched teeth.

"Bad?"

"Enough."

Bodie gave a low moan. "Bloody hell, Ray, I can't-- I'm almost-- Oh, damn!"

To Doyle's amazement, Bodie began to withdraw. Knowing well the agony his partner must be suffering--to be so close, yet to exercise such extraordinary control--Doyle threw back a hand to stay him.

"Don't, you bastard! Just-- Can you lie still a minute? Let me get used to this?"

Trembling, Bodie clung to Doyle's slight frame. "Yeah, but--don't change your mind, eh? I don't think--"


"You're not supposed to," Doyle said with a sharp laugh. He felt oddly secure with Bodie plastered all down his back and buried to the hilt inside him. "Tell me what it's like, Bodie?"

"No...words. Hot, tight, perfect--you're perfect." Bodie nuzzled his lips against the nape of Doyle's neck, then moved higher, snuffling behind one ear. "Is it better?" he asked. "Can I move now?"

Smiling shakily down into the mattress, Doyle steeled himself then said, "Yeah, go on, then."

"Sure?"

Trying to escape Bodie's ticklish explorations, Doyle growled, "Get on with it, will you?"

"Love to," Bodie sighed. Slowly and with infinite care, he drew most of the way out of Doyle's compliant body before easing inch by inch back inside. Rhythm established, he gradually quickened the pace, muttering huskily, "Love to--love to--love to--"

All at once, the pain subsided. To Doyle's surprise, being coupled with Bodie was no longer something to be endured only for Bodie's sake, but an act of incredible eroticism. He ruminated if this was what women felt, this sense not of being taken, but of taking in. It was his body that held Bodie spellbound, his heat that surrounded him, his smooth softness that provided the channel for Bodie's completion. And there was something more. With each stroke inward, Bodie provoked a surge of purest carnality. It welled up inside Doyle, inducing him to actively encourage Bodie's thrusts, where before he had only tolerated them.

Flying on emotion and voluptuous sensuality, Doyle bit off a moan of dismay when Bodie clutched him suddenly tighter, belly pressed flat against Doyle's buttocks, and gave up his passion into Doyle's body. Somehow Doyle had imagined this would last forever, completely unaware that it had been his whole-hearted enthusiasm that had jolted Bodie to the point of culmination.

For the moment, however, there was yet a certain fascination in experiencing Bodie's orgasm from the inside, feeling the once imposing organ twitch and jerk until it stilled. Even more curious was the way it slowly dwindled until it no longer seemed to fill him.

Bodie guided them onto their sides, his arms surrounding Doyle's skinny chest, hands idly brushing over the soft pelt of hair, unabashedly cuddling Doyle to him.

Lying silent, Doyle thought back to only a couple of days ago--then, he had even doubted that they would ever make it to bed together and now, here he was, his virginity well and truly stripped away.

After all these years.

Bodie's grip slackened and the rate of his respiration noticeably slowed.

"Bodie."

"Hm?" Blunt-tipped fingers were stirred to fresh explorations.

"You fall asleep on me--like this--and you're minced meat."

"I wouldn't dare."

Half-drowsing himself, Doyle murmured, "Dinner's waiting, y'know."

"Hm."

"You need something substantial, remember--growing boy that you are?"

"Uh huh."

"More than that--"

Only a few seconds passed before Bodie muttered lethargically, "Yeah?"

"You'll need it for later tonight--when I keep my promise."

Two viselike arms squeezed the breath out of Doyle's lungs. "Good idea. I'm looking forward to that."

"Lunatic," Doyle mumbled, bringing one of Bodie's hands up to his mouth and kissing it with profound affection. "You get to wash the sheets, mate."

Bodie murmured something unintelligible--curse or endearment, Doyle could not tell--and hugged him once more. "Love to," he said clearly.

"Just bet you do," Doyle grinned.

---

CHAPTER 12

Thursday

"Is he in pain?" Doyle asked. Sanjay lay on the cage floor beside him, licking his lips following the morning's dosing.

Derek curved a finger under the tiger's jaw and shook his head. Then he shrugged.

"You mean, you're not one hundred percent certain?"

At Derek's nod, Doyle sighed. "Simon says he's suffering from old age. D'you know what, precisely?"

With a hand at his ribcage, Derek opened and closed his fist, mimicking the action of the heart.

"A murmur? Yeah, it feels like a murmur." Rising to his feet, Doyle muttered, "So he just gets weaker and weaker."

The cat's head came up, swivelling in Doyle's direction. Staring down into those inscrutable eyes, Doyle knew a fierce longing to see into the animal's mind, to know his thoughts regarding the limited world in which he lived, to know his opinion of those who populated it.

Bending over to administer a final caress, Doyle waited until the yellow eyes had retreated beneath their veil of heavy lids before straightening again.

While Sanjay slept, Derek and Doyle finished mucking out the tiger's cage, leaving him with fresh water and food, his meal of the night before having gone completely ignored.

Departing through the back exit, Basil his familiar shadow, Doyle cast a glance past Derek's Rover to the equipment lorry. This, the first sight of it Doyle had had since morning--and then only as a blocky shadow against the pre-dawn sky--pleased him to note that the circus' banner, proclaiming that this vehicle belonged to Circus Sergei, had been attached to the sides. What better cover under which to ship armaments across the country's motorways?

He took one step toward it, then stilled as Sergei came round from the other side. With one hand, Doyle commanded the dog to sit. Luckily, the circus owner was lost in his thoughts, staring down at the ground as he walked back toward the animal enclosure; his distraction gave Doyle a chance to compose himself.

"Sergei."

The man's head came up. Small, dark eyes focussed on Doyle as though he had materialized from the ether. "What're you doing here?"

"Just came out of the stables; helping Derek, y'know? Been wanting to ask: What'd you think of the new routine?"

"New--?" Sergei's face went blank. "Oh, yeah. The audience seemed to like it."

"And you?"

A tired smile pulled half-heartedly at the corners of the man's thin lips. "It's circus. Not, as I've said before, the old circus, not real flying--but it will do."

Accepting this as the compliment it was, Doyle nodded his head. "Thanks." He studied Sergei's wary face, sensing the other man's suspicion. He added a little belligerently, "Sanjay's not doing too well."

"No? That's sad. But it is Derek's problem."

Eyes narrowed, Doyle said, softly. "True. Lucky for you, eh?"

To Doyle's surprise, Sergei gave him a genuine smile. His features relaxed, revealing a worn-out, chronically unhappy, middle-aged man. "One mouth I don't have to feed. Although it would have been useful to have a real tiger in the show," he said parenthetically. "That's the sort of the thing Joe Public expect, y'know--razzle-dazzle rather than real skill. Barnum and Bailey; Bertram Mills--no loss there, now they've gone out of business; Gerry Cottle--that's what people want."

"All those shows have--or had--more flash than Circus Sergei, it's true; but you can't deny their performers were talented," Doyle argued smoothly. At times like this, he found Alf Weatherby an absolute conundrum.

"Of course not. But they're not honest, either--not like circus was originally."

Doyle squelched the beginnings of a grin. "Like the Roman arena?"

"Like Philip Astley!"

"From what I've heard, even he used a bit of the old razzle-dazzle."

"But he stressed the craft! Compare your equestrian performance to your larking about on the trapeze--which is more honest, Doyle?"

"I understand what you're saying, Sergei. Just guess I can see both sides, that's all."

As if realizing he had given away too much of himself, Sergei visibly withdrew. "If only--"

"What?"

Sergei's eyes scoured Doyle's face. "Nothing. You and Bodie just continue as you are; the public love the new routine."

"Right." Understanding that their conversation had come to an end, Doyle said, "Well, I've a few things to get done before this afternoon." When Sergei only stared at him, Doyle waved five fingers in the air and struck off toward the path, signalling Basil to follow.

If only--

What had Sergei balked from saying? If only there were enough money? If only there were more circus-lovers? If only there had not been one mistake which now could never be forgotten?

It would serve no purpose sympathizing with Alf Weatherby. How ever he had got himself into this situation, he surely had no one but himself to blame.

More importantly to Doyle, twice now he had been frustrated in his attempt to breach the secrets of the lorry--but at least it was still here. Perhaps he would be able to get inside sometime before nightfall. There had, after all, been no opportunity last night, with Doyle held in Bodie's arms and simply incapable of sending him away.

In fact, Doyle had spent a good portion of the morning run and subsequent work-out racking his brain for an excuse to submit to Cowley should he fail in this assignment altogether--although, it had been Cowley's intention that Doyle do no more than keep an eye out for suspicious activity. You are not to act on your own. He wondered wryly if he could convince Cowley that he had only been following orders.

Yet it was difficult to exhibit the proper remorse: Last night had been a revelation. True to his word, Bodie had woken Doyle during the night to exact the fulfillment of Doyle's promise. Nothing loath to comply, Doyle had discovered for himself what had driven Bodie to such mindless raptures only a few hours before. Having learned first-hand how uncomfortable penetration without proper preparation could be, he had taken the time to try to relax Bodie properly. All the same--and even though Bodie had said nothing--Doyle had been fairly certain that he had been unable to eliminate Bodie's discomfort altogether, much to Doyle's regret.

Afterward, Doyle had held his companion close to his breast, shocked at the intensity of emotion he harbored for this man. Never had he felt so bound to another person--not even Keith. And surprisingly, acknowledgment of that fact had not disturbed him; for with Bodie, this fledgling devotion seemed incontrovertibly right.

Somehow--if he could persuade Bodie to come round to his way of thinking--Doyle would find a way to keep them together. How, he did not know. But it was something he meant to try.

And now he was due to meet Bodie for lunch in Bodie's caravan. With Basil trotting along at his side on the path which angled from the compound to the caravan site, Doyle shoved the problem of the lorry to the back of his mind. There were far more pleasant thoughts to entertain--chief among them, Bodie.

---

The evening's performance was an unqualified success. The crowd surpassed the previous night's house both in size and enthusiasm. It had been drawn into the aerial drama with very little encouragement. Doyle still credited Riley's euphonious voice and convincing manner for this achievement. He and Bodie alone, he insisted, with all the bright lights in the world, could not have pulled it off.

They argued good-naturedly as they rode in the parade, waving to the crowd from the backs of their mounts. Despite the hot lights and the warm bodies filling the Big Tent, their breath frosted slightly in the cold air--Bodie's warming trend had not lasted long.

"Got to do the nags now," Bodie complained once they had reached the private side of the red curtain.

"Derek and Tom are going to help," Doyle reminded him placidly.

"Hm." Dismounting, Bodie dropped onto the hard-packed earth, slipping Piper's reins over his ears. "Didn't see your lady-friend and her daughter tonight," he remarked.

"My lady-friend?" Landing on the ground beside his partner, Doyle clicked softly at Tuppence to follow.

"She likes you."

"So?"

"What I asked you last night, y'know, about children--"

"My answer hasn't changed."

"You seemed fond of her."

"Vanessa--or her mum?"

"Both actually," Bodie said darkly. He edged past Aidan and Zoe and a handful of young web spinners, ushering Piper into the corridor which opened onto the stables.

"You seem fond of Lily. And Hannah. And Rose--quite protective of her, you were."

"And I wish she'd come back," Bodie admitted.

"Don't we all," Doyle agreed with an eloquent sigh. "Sergei's hovering like a bloody ghoul. Had a glimpse of him standing inside his caravan this evening on my way to meet you; just standing there, watching everyone, he was. Only I haven't figured out who the next victim's going to be."

"Ah, yes, Sergei." Bodie walked Piper into his stall.

"Maybe you know what's on his mind?" Doyle asked off-handedly.

"I'd rather not ever know what's on Sergei's mind," Bodie assured him.

"Hm. So why were you asking about Vanessa and her mum?" Waiting for Bodie to secure Piper's gate latch so he could get past him to Tuppence's stall, Doyle studied his partner curiously.

"Dunno," Bodie said after a moment's pause. "Sometimes, I don't think you really fit into all this."

"And you do?"

"More than you, maybe. Asked you yesterday if you ever think of doing anything else, other than circus. You didn't answer me."

"Didn't have a chance. But, yeah, I think about it. Why?"

"If I--"

"Oh, Bodie, Ray, you're already here! Thank God!" Simon gasped. "Derek was convinced you'd leave the horses and fly off--well, you are known to do that, aren't you?--but he positively won't leave until we've done all the grooming and he's had a last look-in on Sanjay."

"We're here, Simon," Bodie assured him. "With Tom's help--" this for the benefit of the big man, who had just stepped in from the corridor "-- we'll have you on your way in no time."

---

Outside the animal enclosure, the night had grown still and misty. Shivering despite jeans and bomber jacket, Doyle waited for his partner to join him. From the other side of the canvas panel, he could hear Simon cajoling Derek to stop worrying, that the horses were fine, that Sanjay was holding his own, that Doyle had promised to look in on him faithfully, and that they would be back early the following morning--so what could possibly go wrong?

"Those two should have an interesting night," Bodie commented dryly, materializing at Doyle's side. The flap fell closed behind him.

"Are they ready to leave?"

"Derek's uneasy--just a feeling, y'know?"

"But they're going?"

"Any minute--here they are," Bodie said, holding the canvas panel open until Derek and Simon had stepped through. "Told you before, Ray and I'll take care of everything. But if something happens to Ray, I'll do it; and, should something happen to me, Ray'll do it."

"Listen to him, Derry!"

Despite being dressed for an evening out, the animal trainer did not bear the stamp of a happy individual.

"You sure you want to take him to town looking like that, Simon?" Doyle asked, scanning Derek critically.

"What d'you mean?" Simon said archly. "He looks wonderful."

"That's what I mean," Doyle said smoothly. "Some young bloke may just take a fancy to him; try to steal him out from under your nose."

"Just let anyone try." There was honed steel in Simon's voice.

Derek flashed Doyle a wink and tugged his lover against his side. With a wave, he escorted his more gaudily clad companion into the old Rover. While Bodie and Doyle watched, Derek keyed the engine. The Rover went down the hill on the far side of the second equipment caravan, its twin beams cutting through the hazy darkness.

"Why don't you go on down and put the kettle on while Basil does her thing?" Doyle suggested, fabricating a yawn.

"She can't take that long." Bodie nudged the dog with the toe of his shoe. She gave him a reproachful look. "C'mon, we'll go down together."

Casting an overtly indifferent glance at the large vehicle a few yards away, Doyle suffered only a tiny twinge of conscience. "Yeah, okay."

As they strolled toward the edge of the circus compound, Bodie reached out and casually took Doyle's hand in his. Unspeaking, they ambled through the field to the caravan site. Stepping down onto the gravel surface, Doyle was first to notice the figure standing beside Bodie's caravan.

Withdrawing his hand, he murmured, "Someone's waiting for you, mate."

Bodie's head turned in the direction of Doyle's gesture. "Sergei," he said colorlessly.

"Was just about to come looking for you," Sergei stated; Doyle thought he discerned a note of disapproval in the circus owner's voice.

"Why?"

Never, not even in their earliest acquaintance, had Doyle heard Bodie sound quite so cold and distant. He wondered if something had been said earlier between the two men, when he had not been around to hear it.

"Message for you." Sergei stretched his arm out from the elbow, a piece of paper caught between two fingers. "From Roger."

Bodie reached out and plucked the paper from Sergei's hand. In the glow of light cast from inside the caravan through the open curtains, he unfolded the note.

"Fuck." Crumpling the piece of paper in his fist, Bodie said sharply, "I've read it, thanks, Sergei. You can get your beauty sleep now."

The circus owner had been drinking. It had taken a moment for the reek of alcohol to reach Doyle in the heavy air, but he recognized it now-- and the careful rigidity of the other man's posture. "The day will come, Bodie," he began warningly, "when you re--"

"Save it, Alf! Or maybe you'd rather--"

"Shut up!" Bringing himself up to his full height, Sergei took a deep, steadying breath. Then he slowly turned and walked carefully across the site toward his caravan.

"What, may I ask, was that all about?" Doyle asked interestedly.

"Alf and I owe each other a few, that's all." Bodie would not look at him.

"And what does Roger want?"

Expression bleak, Bodie said, "He needs to see me."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

Pursing his lips, Doyle examined his partner's features, considering what Bodie might be leaving out. "Okay. Tomorrow, then, sunshine." Snapping his fingers to get Basil's attention, Doyle sauntered away. For all his apparent detachment, the night seemed to close in around him with every step. It was too much to hope that Bodie would catch him up, that he would say that Roger would just have to do without him tonight. At his door, Doyle reached for the handle.

Bodie had said nothing.

Basil bounded up the steps in front of him, and raced over to her dog dish, which had been empty since morning. She was followed more slowly by Doyle, who paused to shoulder the door shut.

Answering her silent plea without thought, he poured far too much food into her dish so that it overflowed. Cursing under his breath, Doyle picked up the spilled chunks and restored them to the tin. Then he turned to the sink and set about making tea.

The door opened behind him.

Doyle stood unmoving, holding the pot under the tap to rinse it out.

"Ray."

Bodie's arms slid round Doyle's waist, his cheek pressed familiarly against Doyle's beard.

"I have to go." His voice was harsh and low.

"Didn't ask you not to."

"Ray--"

Doyle closed his eyes. This was why he had not allowed himself to care all those many years. His insides were in turmoil, his pulses pounding at his temples, and all he could think of was Bodie, the feel of him, the scent, the sound of his voice, and the taste of his kiss.

"Ray, he's got himself into more trouble. It's the last time I'll help him out, I swear it."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Doyle said evenly.

"No." Raising his head, Bodie touched his lips to Doyle's misshapen cheekbone. "But after tonight--once I get back--I don't intend to leave you ever again. And that's a promise I will keep."

Shutting off the tap, Doyle placed the teapot on the sideboard and turned round in Bodie's arms. He kissed the other man angrily and without a trace of tenderness, but Bodie did not resist him; nor did he try to evade the thin hands that stroked with possessive arrogance up and down his flanks and back--then cradled his groin with right of ownership.

It was Doyle who broke away. "Go on, then. I'll be here when you get back."

"Ray--"

A single finger came up to silence Bodie's mouth. "Go."

Swallowing hard, Bodie nodded once. Then he walked out, into the night, the door closing smartly behind him.

---

On the rise behind the caravan site, the air was thickening with moisture and cold. Doyle sat there amidst the darkness, as he had for more than half an hour. While Basil inspected the heather growing at the side of the field, Doyle stared at the Big Tent. Nearly twenty minutes ago, Bodie had driven away, the fits and starts of the Mini lingering in his ears long after the car had disappeared.

By unhappy coincidence, Doyle now had both the time and opportunity to inspect the equipment lorry parked outside the animal enclosure. Within minutes of Bodie's walking out of Doyle's caravan, Doyle had taken to the ridge, determined to choose his moment with care--there had already been far too many interruptions regarding this particular investigation.

A cold nose pushed up under Doyle's hand. "Is it time, Bas?" he whispered.

The dog's fervent tail-wagging caused the last third of the animal's body to sway from side to side. Her eyes gleamed up at him; a neat tongue darted out and swabbed the tips of Doyle's fingers.

"That must mean yes."

Still wearing the jeans and black sweatshirt he had thrown on to groom the horses, Doyle hunkered down into his bomber jacket, empty eyes sweeping the site from one end to the other. He was stalling; there was no one else about, and therefore, no reason for further delay. With the wind lifting the hair off his forehead, he hiked up to the top of the rise then headed out across the field to the path which connected the site to the circus compound.

At this time of night, there was no sound, save the occasional rustle of small animals in the brush and the endless wind. Tuned to much more threatening noises, Doyle did not falter in his approach of the lorry.


There it stood, black against the moonless sky, the nemesis whose arrival foretold the end of Doyle's involvement with Circus Sergei. Listening keenly, he crept round all sides of the hulking shape--even peering underneath--sparingly employing a small, red-filtered torch to illuminate his way.

It would be a marvellous joke, Doyle thought, if there were only circus equipment inside.

He sprang up onto the wide bumper. In the distance, he could hear the purr of a motor coming this way. Keeping half an ear concentrated on that sound, he took a minute to pull on his gloves before turning his attention to the upper bolt, forced to stretch up high on his tiptoes to reach it. It squawked loudly but gave way easily. The second bolt was not so accommodating. Using one hand as a hammer against his other fist, he set about trying to dislodge it. Several blows and a painful bruise later, that bolt, too, finally slid free. Much to Doyle's relief, the last one, at the bottom of the double door, yielded as though it had been greased.

Breath steaming in the air, Doyle realized he had begun to sweat with nervousness and the force of his exertions. Stopping to fill his lungs and to slow the pace of his heart, he noticed that the approach of the car was no longer audible. He guessed that it must have turned off the road half a mile or more away, for the rumble of the engine had never grown loud enough to place it nearer.

Dismissing it as of no concern, Doyle carefully pried the overlapping door a few inches off its mate and shone the torch over the interior. The whole back end of the lorry was empty, while the front half was stacked thigh-high with heavy-duty crates covered with tarpaulin.

Doyle slithered through the opening, then gingerly let the door shut behind him, taking a few seconds to ensure that he would not be locked inside accidentally. Stepping quietly, he went up to the first of the crates while digging his multi-blade knife out of his pocket.

Thick ropes secured the cargo to hooks welded to the frame of the vehicle; the gauge of them indicated to Doyle that whatever was held in their web must be of considerable weight. He sawed through a length that stretched diagonally across the tarp. It came apart with a snap, one end falling to the floor at Doyle's feet. Flipping the edge of the covering aside, he cast the torch-beam over the wooden crate beneath.

AERIAL RIGGING was stencilled on the outside. Gnawing at his lower lip, Doyle curled his fingertips under the lid and gave it a tug. The wood creaked slightly--to Doyle's mind encouragingly. He tried again. The top came off in a single piece, having been tacked down with only two nails, neither of which went very deeply into the frame of the crate.

Rough packing material stuck out in prickly clumps. Picking through it with one gloved hand, Doyle searched downward until he encountered something solid. Bent over, he peered into the bowels of the crate--

"C4." Plastic explosives.

Digging further, he uncovered field-stripped AK-47's, ready-to-fire automatic handguns and boxes of ammunition.

"Damn you, Sergei," Doyle grumbled half-heartedly.

There was no need to extend his investigation; it was time to ring Cowley. Closing his eyes for just a moment, Doyle took a deep breath, visualizing Bodie as though he stood before him. Somehow, he promised himself, somehow I'll make it work!

Pocketing the torch, Doyle tread silently to the door, pushed it open less than an inch and let his eyes adjust to the comparative brightness outside. Hearing nothing, and seeing less, he widened the opening until he could squeeze through, grateful despite his solitude, that the hinges made virtually no complaint.

Resting the door back in place, Doyle went to the end of the fender and jumped down to the ground.

"What the--!"

He swirled to face the owner of the voice, striking out at the same instant that the other man slung a fist at him. Doyle managed to deflect most of the force of the blow, while his knuckles connected rather loudly with his attacker's ear.

Larger but not taller, the other man charged in again, punching and kicking. Struggling for his very life, Doyle brought all his skills-- street-learned and CI5-issue--to his defense.

A crack to the side of his head nearly stunned him, but Doyle countered with an up-and-around knee jab to his assailant's kidneys. The other grunted but was unslowed; a flailing punch split the corner of Doyle's lip.

They went down together, neither shy about using vicious knowledge to gain the upper hand. Wriggling away like quicksilver, Doyle got a little of his own back when he cut open his fist on the man's teeth--the yowl of pain that exploded from the other's throat confirmed that Doyle had taken the lesser damage.

On the ground they tussled, tumbling into the canvas outside the tiger's enclosure. A driving blow from the other man sent them both beneath it, twisting over and over until they slammed into the metal cage.

Coming up all at once, Sanjay let out an ominous growl. The blood stilling in his veins, Doyle scrambled to get away, knowing what those long claws could do at close range. His assailant threw himself in the opposite direction. There came the shocking sound of a metal slide grating against the steel body of an automatic pistol as a round was chambered, followed by the softer scrape of the safety release giving way to the firing position.

Hunkered low and protected only by the cloak of darkness, Doyle spent half a second deciding his next move--only to lose that one advantage when the weak, overhead bulb flared to life.

"O'Shea, don't shoot!"

Bodie!

In an instant, two thoughts collided in Doyle's mind: the first, that Bodie was back; the second, that Bodie knew Donal O'Shea.

Wiping at the blood on his face, O'Shea seemed not to hear Bodie. The muzzle of the gun zeroed in on Doyle's heart.

"O'Shea!"

"Who is this?" the terrorist rasped out furiously.

"My partner," Bodie replied, his voice placing him a few feet behind and to one side of Doyle. "He promised to take care of the animals."

"That doesn't explain what he was doing in the lorry." The words were spat out, lust for revenge burning in O'Shea's eyes.

"In the--? You must be mis--"

"Caught him coming out. Heard the door close--you can check the bolts if you like--and there he was."

O'Shea came a step nearer, head bent to one side, cradling his jaw where blood streamed out of a cut onto his hand, all the while eyeing Doyle with unsettling concentration. He said suddenly, "I know you!"

Doyle's stomach contracted as though he had taken a blow.

"Yeah," O'Shea breathed. "I know you."

"What're you talking about?" Bodie growled. "He's a bloody snoop, nothing more."

"Is he?"

On his feet now, Doyle saw no sensible way to resist as O'Shea approached to within a foot of him.

"You!"

"Bodie's right," Doyle said huskily. "I was just having a look-see. When I ran into you out there, I thought--"

The pistol swung out and caught Doyle across the side of the face. He staggered, eyes watering at the raking pain.

From the cage came a hiss and snarl; Sanjay padded along the near cage wall, tail lashing fretfully.

According the animal the most fleeting of glances, O'Shea said almost congenially, "You lying swine."

"O'Shea--" Bodie began.

The terrorist gave a bark of laughter, then fell back a step, holding the gun pointed straight at Doyle's heart. "Sorry, Bodie, but this one's got to go."

"Don't be stupid, Donnie. He's just a flyer, okay?"

O'Shea's smile deepened. "CI5--that's what he is."

"What?"

O'Shea licked his lip; his tongue came away coated with blood. His mouth twisted at the taste. "Don't know his name, but we've met before-- haven't we, sonny?"

"You're out of your nut," Doyle snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Too bad; 'cause I remember you very well."

"Come on, Donnie," Bodie said reasonably. "He's no more CI5 than I'm MI6, eh? Just a bloody-minded dope who doesn't know when to keep his nose out of other people's business."

"You're wrong, Bodie--although the disguise is good."

"Disguise?" There was a note of disbelief in Bodie's voice.

"Yeah. The beard, the hair, the grey. This here's really a curly-haired bloke, believe it or not. When I saw him, he didn't have a beard, and he certainly didn't have any grey. None that I saw, anyway."

Doyle said, "I'm telling you, I don't know what--"

The gun rose threateningly; Doyle stumbled backward, coming up hard against Bodie, who clamped strong hands round Doyle's arms, locking them behind his back.

"It won't work! I remember your eyes, mate. And, anyway, that ugly cheek of yours is a dead give-away." The pistol rose level with Doyle's chest once more. "Stand aside, Bodie."

"You can't do that," Bodie said sharply. "The report'd be enough to bring everyone running. D'you hear me?"

"I'm not leaving him here alive."

"You fuck this up," Bodie said savagely, "and I won't leave you here alive!"

"He knows who I am; and now he knows about you, too. Have you thought of that, Bodie?"

Sanjay paused at the end of the cage not far from where Bodie stood, Doyle in front of him. His head came up as he tested the air, whiskers and nose pad vibrating.

Snorting softly, Bodie said, "You don't just want him dead, though, d'you? You'd like a little of your own back, I reckon."

"Oh, yes, I would," O'Shea said coldly. "He made things very unpleasant for me."

"Okay, then, I've got an idea. Give me that bit of rope hanging off the hook on the pole over there behind you. Cut it first. I'll need it to tie his hands and legs."

"I'm not leaving him--"

"I know, I know. But let's have someone else do the dirty work, eh?" Bodie cocked his head in the tiger's direction. "We'll feed him to the cat."

Doyle stiffened; a warming smile flowed across O'Shea's mouth.

"Can you get him in there without the moggie getting out, is the question."

"Let's get him tied up first--and gagged. C'mon, mate, give me that damned rope!"

O'Shea set the safety on the pistol and jammed the weapon into the back of his waistband. As he stepped across the sawdust floor to the pole, Doyle swung a leg round, behind Bodie's left knee, and jerked forward. They went down together, but Bodie used his greater weight to bring Doyle under him without releasing his hold on Doyle's arms.

Whipping his body like an eel, Doyle tried to break Bodie's hold. Throwing one leg across Doyle's thighs, Bodie held him down, then rose up on top of him, making Doyle cry out from the strain on his shoulders. It was a mocking re-enactment of their lovemaking of the night before; Doyle cringed inside at the memory.

"You got him?" O'Shea asked tensely.

"Yeah. Where's the fucking rope?"

"Here."

"Set it down. Go out through that flap--look at me, Donal--over there, see? Round inside is the tackroom. Bring me back a tea towel from the table. Underneath the table you'll find a first aid kit on a shelf--I'll need the sticking plaster to gag him."

"Yeah, okay." The terrorist gave Bodie a level look. "Just don't go fucking me about, right?" With that he disappeared through the canvas flap into the connecting corridor. His footsteps pelted away.

Looping Doyle's wrists together and drawing the rope tight, Bodie said viciously, "You've really fucked this one up, Doyle."

"Me?" Spitting sawdust and tanbark out of his mouth, Doyle summoned a bitter laugh. "And what the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"What I have to do." Bodie took a sharp breath. "You had me fooled, y'know?"

"Could say the same, mate." Doyle bared his teeth in a travesty of a smile. "Christ, look at me: I should've hired on as a bloody clown!"

"Never that," Bodie assured him bitingly. He knotted the rope a second time, higher up on Doyle's forearms. "Got too much style to be a mere clown, haven't you?"

The sisal cut into Doyle's skin; he forced back a gasp before Bodie could hear it.

"A harlequin, maybe," Bodie mused, oblivious to Doyle's discomfort. "Yeah, you'd make a great harlequin; they've got class, too." He finished the bonds at Doyle's wrists, and twisted round to start on his ankles. "Don't even think of trying to kick me, sunshine. You wouldn't like what I'd do in return."

"And what would you do?" Doyle said contemptuously. "'Feed me to the cat?'"

As though beckoned, Sanjay stopped his heavy-footed prowling to once more monitor the activity outside his cage. Watching him from the corner of his eye, Doyle could imagine what the tiger would do once it had tasted blood.

"Something suitable," Bodie muttered aloud. Then, mockingly: "CI-bloody- 5! Me sleeping with a CI5 agent!" A grunt of laughter fell heavy on Doyle's ears. "You're probably even straight, aren't you? No, don't tell me. I don't want to hear it."

Seared by Bodie's words, Doyle had no intention of saying anything. He was summarily rolled onto his back. Bodie stared down at him, eyes piercingly blue and brimming with mirthless humor.

The flap billowed inward, signalling O'Shea's return. He tossed the tea towel to Bodie, then began to peel off a long strip of sticking plaster.

Bodie pressed the towel against Doyle's mouth; Doyle kept his jaws tightly closed. "Open up, mate, or my friend here'll be happy to do this for me."

Furious, Doyle grudgingly complied; he knew what O'Shea would do to him, given the chance.

With a flick of the wrist, Bodie swabbed the end of the towel over Doyle's face. Doyle winced as it rubbed over the scrape at his temple and the cut at the corner of his mouth. Tucking the bloodied end into Doyle's mouth first, Bodie packed another goodly portion in on top of it, then used the tape proffered by O'Shea to strap it into place.

Despite having kept his tongue as far forward as possible to repel the intrusion of the gag, Doyle feared he might choke on the dry folds of cotton. Panic boiled up from the depths of his belly as Bodie continued to wrap the sticking plaster round his head. Claustrophobia clawed at him; he tried to wrench away.

"Stop it, Doyle," Bodie said abruptly. "I'm done."

"Doyle? Is that his name?"

"Probably not, if he's CI5 like you say." Bodie climbed wearily to his feet then dragged Doyle up alongside him. "Need you to go to that side of the cage and distract the tiger, O'Shea. Just wave your arms or something, okay?"

"You bet." As O'Shea circled round to the place Bodie had indicated, he asked, "You sure this'll work, Bodie?"

"No doubt at all. In fact, it'll probably be messy enough even for you."

"I don't know," the man said sardonically. "I owe Doyle a lot."

"Don't worry. Once the cat's finished with him, they may not even be able to tell that he was tied up--which would leave you and me and Sergei in the clear." Bodie frog-marched Doyle closer to the cage door. There he undid the latch one-handed. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

"Then do it; we're running out of time."

Several yards away, O'Shea leapt toward the cage, bashing his hands against the metal bars. Sanjay roared--the first time Doyle had heard the cat do so, full-bodied and unrestrained, and devastatingly terrifying--and launched himself at his tormentor.

At once, Bodie swung open the door and thrust Doyle inside. Landing roughly, Doyle managed to make short work of rolling as far away from the incensed tiger as he could get. When he fetched up sharply against the opposite end of the cage, Doyle scrabbled to his knees and thence to his feet, balancing himself against the bars to remain standing.

The door closed with a mighty clang. Bodie fixed the latch. "That's enough, O'Shea! If the cat carries on howling like that, someone'll be sure to wonder what's up."

"They'll expect boyo here to see to it, though, won't they? You said he was looking after the animals. What the--!" The man's hand was a blur as the pistol appeared out of his waistband; he aimed it at the lower hem of the canvas sidewall. "It's a dog!"

Bodie went very still.

"It's his dog, isn't it?" O'Shea exclaimed.

"Yeah," Bodie said tonelessly. "Bloody mutt. Basil! Come here, girl. Come on, Basil."

Doyle jerked around, spying the black and white terrier as she crept out from under the bottom of the canvas. Hesitantly, and with several nervous sidelong glances at Doyle, the dog obeyed.

"C'mere, girl."

"No!" Maddened with outrage, Doyle shouted wildly. Although the sound was muffled by the tea towel stuffed in his mouth, Basil heard him--but so did Sanjay, who brought his massive head round in Doyle's direction. Crippled by indecision, Basil lowered her hindquarters on the spot, while, intrigued, the cat dismissed the man who had been bedevilling him and shifted his stormy gaze to Doyle instead.

Bodie lunged forward, one foot impacting loudly with the cage. Sanjay spat his startlement, sending Basil skittering to her feet. But the dog was too slow; scooping her up, Bodie fell back just as Sanjay made a swipe at him through the bars.

"Jesus!" O'Shea said, impressed.

Bodie's lips tightened. "Put the gun away, will you? Don't much care for the way you wave that thing around."

"Know what I'm doing." O'Shea defiantly used the barrel to rub at his shoulder. "That the dog Sergei was talking about?"

"Yeah."

"Could she really untie him?"

"We can leave her here, if you'd care to find out," Bodie said, his voice lacking all inflection.

O'Shea shrugged. "Nah. Can't take the risk."

"Right. Let's go."

"Yeah, okay. Wait, Bodie, look! The cat's going to see about dinner." The glory of retribution lit up O'Shea's face, glinting in his eyes and stretching across his mouth in a pleased smile.

"Let's go, O'Shea!"

"Damn it, Bodie!" Despite his rebellious manner, the man made to join Bodie, bringing up a hand and waving "good bye" to Doyle with pretended regret. "It was worth the wait, eh, Doyle?" Pausing at the support pole, O'Shea pulled the light cord. His last words, as he slipped through the canvas entry, came to Doyle through pitch darkness: "Sweet dreams, mate."

In the seconds that followed, Doyle stood as still as a statue, pressed up hard against the cage wall, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. The crunch of heavy, metal doors broke the stillness; shortly afterward, the big engine of the lorry choked and sputtered, sounding as though it were crushing rocks into gravel. Once the motor caught, the vehicle ponderously backed down the mud track, rolling noisily away from the animal enclosure.

Concentrating intently on the passage of the vehicle, Doyle was slow to take in the meaning of the other sounds registered by straining ears: Sanjay was on the move.

Suddenly conscious of the blood trailing down the side of his face, Doyle sank back against the bars. He dared not push away too quickly, or he might fall; but to stand here, and do nothing to defend himself, seemed unconscionable.

Powerful paws ate up the distance between Doyle and the tiger, each footfall striking the ground with a distinctive thud. Sanjay was panting, his labored breathing made disproportionately loud and harsh by Doyle's inability to see. There was no question but that he was seeking Doyle out--and why not? The rich, alluring odor of blood must be drawing him like a bee to nectar. Doyle caught his breath as a darker shade of black rose up in front of him.

All at once, Sanjay was there.

Retreat was useless. Yet, Doyle shrank back against the bars, instinct compelling him to act when logic would have had him do nothing. A huge object smacked into Doyle's chest; by tightening his fingers Doyle managed to remain upright--but only for a few seconds. Sanjay's head came up again, his presence not to be ignored. A third head-butt had Doyle over, though he frantically sought to retain his hold. He twisted clumsily, meaning to keep his back to the tiger--instinct, again--but his balance was off and he crashed helplessly to the sawdust floor. Before he could wrench himself away, the tiger had dropped down beside him, sniffing interestedly at his mouth and temple, where the worst damage had been done.

For a moment, Doyle could do nothing at all. Then, keeping his efforts as fluid as possible, he mustered his strength to move--only to have the cat lift one huge forepaw and lay it heavily across his chest.

Heart rate soaring, Doyle squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip to keep from crying out. The cat's breath poured down on his face, hot and unpleasant. Then the wide, wet tongue came out and rasped over Doyle's cheek and forehead, as abrasive as sandpaper. Shifting nearer, Sanjay lowered his nose, whiskers brushing across Doyle's jaw. The cat opened his mouth and licked again.

Waiting for the instant when Sanjay's rough-tongued ablutions turned to tearing bites, Doyle tried to withdraw into himself. Trussed up like a sacrificial victim awaiting slaughter, it occurred to him that he would have been better off had O'Shea shot him outright. But for Bodie's ingenuity, Doyle already would be dead.

Thoughts of Bodie sent Doyle even deeper into himself. Lying motionless under the cat's paw, his head rocking uncontrollably with every sweeping stroke of the animal's tongue, Doyle chose to disconnect, well aware that the first ripping pain would bring him back to himself all too quickly.

---

It might have been hours or only minutes later that Doyle realized that Sanjay had put his head down and was now asleep, leaving Doyle, impossibly, still alive. The cat's paw yet lay like a dead weight across Doyle's chest, causing him to breathe shallowly and with some difficulty.

In the interim, the cage had grown noticeably colder. At some point Doyle had begun to shiver; the violence of his tremors promised to exhaust him should they continue for any length of time.

Moving very carefully, Doyle began to extricate himself from the proprietary paw. Sanjay stirred, a low groan resonating from the depths of his throat. He opened his mouth and smacked his lips, then heaved himself, puffing softly, onto his side. The change of position set Doyle free at last.

Resolutely, Doyle crept away from the enormous creature, sighing inaudibly at every inch that put him further in the clear. Once a few feet lay between them, he commenced a torturously slow and arduous, but slightly less cautious, journey to the cage door. Above all else, he did not want to wake the tiger again, and hoped absurdly that Sanjay might sleep through until morning.

Seemingly centuries later, Doyle reached the other end of the cage. After several moments of awkwardly feeling his way around, he came upon the framework that surrounded the cage door. Breathing heavily through his nose, he leaned forward and lay his uninjured temple against the cold metal.

The illusion of success was short-lived; fingers and toes tingling forewarningly reminded him that he must still try to escape, and the hardest part loomed before him. On his knees, Doyle brought his arms up as high as he could, and began to pull this way and that, testing his bonds, trying to gain every centimeter of leeway Bodie may have inadvertently left to him. All of his efforts were to no avail, however-- Bodie had done an excellent job of binding Doyle's hands and legs.

And now there was no Basil to rescue him.

The dog had been stupidly devoted to Doyle; else, she would never have entered the tiger's tent uncoerced. Worse, she had even trusted Bodie. Now she was undoubtedly dead, either cast out of the moving vehicle to meet her death on the asphalt road, or dumped in the dirt after having her neck broken by O'Shea's loving touch. Maybe, Doyle was forced to concede, it was Bodie who had done the deed.

Bodie.

Despite everything, Doyle wanted to believe that Bodie would have killed her quickly.

Finding little solace in his bleak ruminations, Doyle set about trying to untie his feet. More supple than most men, he was able to arch far enough back to bring his fingers in contact with the rope at his ankles-- but the ends had been knotted in front and no amount of writhing and twisting would grant him the reach and leverage he needed.

Admitting defeat once more, Doyle breathlessly struggled to his feet beside the cage door, and turned his mind to finding a way out. With the use of his hands, it would have been dead easy to reach up through the bars, unclip the spring-clasp located high on the other side, lift the latch, and let himself out.

Without them....

Picturing the metal framework surrounding the cage door, Doyle knew a moment of optimism: some of the edges were rusted and rough--he remembered snagging his sweater on one of the posts. Perhaps he could use one of those edges to saw through the bonds at his wrists. Gathering his rapidly depleting energies, Doyle swung himself round and fell back against the mesh door--wincing when it made a rather profound clank-- then set to his self-imposed task with grim-faced determination.

Sometime later, having made no appreciable headway insofar as he could tell, he lowered himself to the ground and gave in to a moment of inanition. His hands were almost numb and he could no longer feel his feet to stand. It would not be long, he suspected, before his arms would refuse to work altogether.

Sitting there, he determinedly thought of nothing beyond the moment. Blood had dried annoyingly on his face and under his collar, his head throbbed with a syncopated beat, and myriad scrapes and bruises burned with incessant anger. For all that, he felt strangely removed from the world--and in a very real sense, the world he had known had ceased to exist. Despite himself, the treacherous thought stole into his mind: Was it really possible that only a few hours ago, I was plotting my very own happily-ever-after?

Needing activity to keep his mind at bay, Doyle started in with renewed fervor, scraping the ropes against the edge of the metal, but perforce rubbing his forearms and hands against the outer edges of the frame as well. The resulting pain served to keep him awake, so it was not without purpose. Nothing was without purpose--or so Doyle chose to believe.

Plagued by various bruises, numbing limbs and the added annoyance of increasingly frequent bouts of dizziness, Doyle nevertheless refused to give up. Nothing would please him more than to make it through this wretched night. And when he did--not if--he would hunt O'Shea down, and slowly, and with great pleasure, pulverize the sadistic bastard. And once he had finished with O'Shea--

Bodie.

Doyle laughed hopelessly to himself, the sound trapped at the back of his throat. Letting his hands fall idle, he stared emptily into the night.

Bodie, you bastard.

Close your eyes, sunshine. 'S dark in there.

For Doyle, it was dark everywhere.

Across the way, Sanjay let out an abrupt rumble. He rose and yawned with a snarl, then walked to the spot in the cage where he habitually relieved himself. The acrid odor of fresh urine stung Doyle's nostrils. And then Sanjay swung round--headed unerringly for Doyle. Listening to the animal's steady approach, Doyle discovered that the fear had gone all out of him. In a way, this seemed to be happening to somebody else-- with Doyle in the role of vaguely interested onlooker.

This state of dissociation did not waver, not even when the tiger, exuding a strength far exceeding Doyle's own, stood towering over him. The cat's whiskers brushed against his temple, and Doyle flinched; but it was a reflex action, no more. In fact, a second later, when the tip of Sanjay's tongue curled out and flicked across the clotted-over wound, Doyle's only thought was that he would melt from the stupefying blast of the cat's breath.

Perhaps he would not meet his fate as the main course on the tiger's menu after all; instead, Doyle would be found in the morning a victim of suffocation.

Not a mark on him, sir; haven't a clue what killed him.

Sanjay lowered himself to the ground, so close that Doyle could feel the creature's heat. He remembered the sensation of sinking his fingers into the soft, thick fur; it would be lovely to curl up next to his oversized companion, a living blanket to keep Doyle warm.

A cracking of jaws and another wave of odoriferous air bespoke Sanjay's enormous yawn. The great head sank down to lie on equally huge forepaws. Very soon, the wheeze of rhythmic respiration made it clear that the cat had resumed his slumber.

Bemused, but too pragmatic to allow himself any real hope, Doyle forced his wrists up behind his back and doggedly set his bonds against the rusty metal once more.


...Continued in Chapter 13...

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