O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

A Saturday off didn't happen often, especially not the week before Christmas. Ray Doyle accepted it as compensation for all the nights, weekends and holidays he had put in during the years. About bloody time, too. Gave him a day to take care of a few outstanding items, including shopping for the handful of presents he bothered with any more: anything but single-malt for Cowley, whose desk resembled a distillery by Christmas day; an assortment of toys for nieces and nephews; chocolates for the girls in the secretarial pool; and a shirt for Bodie.

Ray shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled as he walked up the Brompton Road toward Harrods. A year or two back, he'd bought Bodie a shirt with little red hearts on it, knowing that Bodie'd take it for the joke it was. Damned if the berk hadn't worn it, grinning when Ray had rolled his eyes at the sight.

"Suits you," Ray had said, secretly chuffed that Bodie – dapper, fashion-plate Bodie – would wear something so… unlike his usual choices. "You're always wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"Nah. My heart's all safely tucked away." Bodie had settled his cuffs, looking pleased. "You're the bleeding heart in this outfit."

Thing was, Bodie'd never noticed that Ray had given him his heart long ago.

A woman laden with carrier bags jostled Ray, her apology breaking his reverie. The pavement teemed with harried mums, reluctant husbands or boyfriends who'd much rather be home watching the telly, and excited children, sticky with sweets, but his time with Macklin stood him in good stead, and he dodged them easily.

Ray's smile widened. This year he'd buy a shirt so outrageous that even Bodie wouldn't dare wear it in public. Two passing birds paused, returning his smile in kind. He winked but didn't stop, leaving their high-pitched giggles behind.

Early afternoon, and the entrances to the food hall were packed tighter than Ray's jeans, so he rounded the corner into Hans Crescent, and gained the men's department without being trampled underfoot.

Amid the racks of shirts, he searched for the loudest, most garish. Nothing subtle for this year's offering. No, Ray had finished with subtlety, in more ways than one. He spotted an orange shirt so bright it made his eyes water, leaned down to check the size.

When the world exploded around him.

What the. . . Without conscious thought, Ray dropped to his knees, taking cover under the rack of clothing, as the building shook and lights shattered, spraying glass. Bits of plaster rained down; he choked as dust clogged the air. Over the ringing in his ears, several women screamed, high-pitched, quavering, and a man shouted, sounding as if he were in pain. Once the debris stopped falling, Ray scrambled to his feet and quickly surveyed the damage, wiping grit from his face. His hand shook a little from the familiar surge of adrenaline. The building appeared structurally sound, but he waited a moment, in case there was another explosion – a gas pipe? Something more sinister? – then headed to the doors.

The street was chaos. Frightened shoppers milled on the pavement, almost every window facing the road was shattered, and a column of black smoke rose from the corner. Coughing as the acrid smoke caught in his lungs, Ray looked up, blinking in surprise: a piece of car roof hung from a flagpole.

A car bomb.

Bastards.

Rage building hot and tight in his chest, he ran toward the smoke, passing a few people who sat on the kerb with bloodied faces and hands. In the road, a man knelt beside an injured policeman who gasped something about a suspicious car into his R/T. Ray broke his stride for a heartbeat, but the civilian seemed to be competently dealing with the situation. Farther along, a police dog handler and his dog lay in the gutter, covered in blood. Still conscious, he called out for help. A woman in a white coat stopped, dropped her carrier bags and took his hand.

The crowd thinned, and he saw the twisted, blackened metal that had once been a car. A young woman's body lay sprawled on the tarmac, long blonde hair matted with blood, staring sightless into the cold blue sky. A policeman ran to the car, cursing and wiping his eyes.

Tamping down his anger – there would be time later to give it rein – Ray grabbed the policeman's arm. "Doyle, CI5. Is there another bomb?"

"I don't know." The young policeman blinked his damp lashes. "My friend. . ." He gestured up the road, took a deep, shuddering breath, and met Ray's eyes. "Damned IRA. I must clear the area."

Before Ray could reply, a man in a suit dashed out of Harrods, shouting "Run! There's another bomb inside!" and the crowd surged down the pavement.

In the distance, sirens sounded. The man kneeling beside the policeman didn't move, despite the possibility of another bomb, but the road was clearing of all but the dead and seriously wounded.

Ray coughed again as smoke drifted in his direction. He couldn't be any help here. Cowley would be looking for him after this, as would Bodie.

He ran through the crowds, away from the carnage, as the screams of the wounded rang in his ears.

---

"The coded warning was received at 1245." Cowley's specs slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back irritably. "The police were responding when it detonated at 1328."

Ray slouched in the chair, his easy sprawl at odds with the anger gripping his gut. "They must've planned that, the bastards. Call in a warning, but don't give the police time to clear the area, or get out themselves. Hans Crescent looked like a war zone."

"Brought the war home, haven't they." Bodie stood beside the window, the late afternoon light catching his chin and cheekbone, warming the austere black of his jacket. "Lucky you, taking cover in men's haberdashery." Tone light, but Bodie's barely hidden worry was clear. Another close call.

Ray met his eyes. It had been close, but not as close as some. He rubbed his chest, phantom aches a faint echo of the pain he remembered so well. But this was no time to worry about close calls. "Never been so happy ducking under gent's fine clothing before."

"Do that often, do you?" Bodie said, turning away.

Ray knew he was hiding a smile inappropriate for the occasion, and fought to keep his own expression solemn. "Only if the gent's as fine as his clothing." Outsiders didn't understand that jokes made the job more bearable, but the sudden memory of the dead girl wiped away his momentary good humour.

Cowley's eyes flickered over Ray, then lingered a second longer on Bodie's back. "The Met have made it quite clear that they want to take the lead in this investigation. . ."

Ray sat up.

". . .and I see no reason to duplicate their efforts." He opened a file and read the top page.

Ray's head automatically turned to the window. Not like Cowley to hand over a case. Bodie turned and met his look of disbelief with widened eyes, and Ray shifted in his chair. "You're joking. You mean we're just going to let this go? People died out there!"

"I never joke about death, Doyle." Cowley's glare pinned him to the seat. "And no, I'm not letting anything go, least of all the deaths of innocent civilians. But good policemen died there as well, and the Chief Constable is baying for blood." Cowley paused. "If I agree to this, he's beholden to me: a fact that will be useful in time."

"Politics." Ray practically spat the word. "Hate 'em."

"Then it's a good thing you don't have to play the game, 4.5." Cowley tossed the file onto his desk. "You're not alone in hating politics, lad. But they're a necessary evil; a game both of you would do well to learn."

"At least in the streets we know who we're fighting."

"Aye. There's a simplicity in the streets that I envy. And that's why you're here."

"What do you want us to do, sir?" Bodie spoke softly.

Hesitating, Cowley looked from one man to the other, then stood and crossed to the cupboard where he kept his best single malt. He poured three generous portions. Handing a glass to each, he returned to his desk before taking a sip.

"I want you two out in the streets," Cowley said, consulting a sheet of paper. "Ask questions, follow leads, but stay out of the Met's way. According to one of my sources, it appears this is only the first salvo in a planned series of bombings over the holidays."

"What happened to 'peace on earth and goodwill to all men?'" Ray asked, letting the whisky's burn ease down his throat.

Bodie shrugged and emptied his glass. "Went the way of the dodo." He turned to Cowley. "Any idea what they're planning?"

"No, 3.7, that's your job." Cowley glared at him over his specs. "Now, go on, both of you, before another bomb goes off."

"Sir."

Ray hurried down the corridor, Bodie at his heels.

"Fuckin' Republicans," muttered Ray. All those people dead, good policemen among them. Although nothing as important as those lives lost, his plans for this evening had gone arse up. Long-held, deeply desired, quite secret plans. "So much for our takeaway curry and pint in front of the telly."

Bodie rubbed his hands together. "All the more reason to tie this up quickly."

"Since when do we ever tie anything up quickly?" Not always true, but he couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. Everything had gone pear-shaped. "Was fucking horrible out there."

"Always is." They rounded a corner, bumping shoulders, and Bodie breathed a warm gust against Ray's ear. "Never did say why you were at Harrods. Had you pegged as more a Marks and Sparks type."

Not fair, Bodie's breath ruffling his hair that way. And his damned zip bit into tender parts interested in Bodie's closeness. Darting into the rest room, he snapped, "Was Christmas shopping, wasn't I?" Ray grabbed his leather coat and headed toward the car park. "Tis the season, and all that."

Bodie jogged to keep up, shrugging into his own coat, and winding a scarf around his throat. "Right," he said, voice dry. "The season for emptying out your wallet."

Too tempting to resist baiting Bodie. "I was buying something for you, Mr. Scrooge. But since you don't like presents, I won't bother."

"Hang on! I never—"

"Don't worry," Ray laughed at Bodie's chagrined expression, his own foul mood lightening. His partner was no sentimentalist, but the oddest things meant the world to him, a ridiculous present apparently one of them. Christ, but Ray loved the silly git. "I'll make sure Father Christmas brings you something other than a lump of coal."

"What? Are you moonlighting as one of his elves?" Bodie grinned and brushed some flakes of plaster from Ray's hair.

Ray swatted away his hand. "Nah. I'd look a right berk in a tunic and tights."

"Dunno." Bodie leaned over and leered at his bum. "You've got the. . . legs for it."

'Course he did. Why else did Bodie think Ray wore his trousers so tight? He knew his assets, did Ray, and if Bodie liked to look, he wasn't going to complain. In fact, he'd done pretty much everything he could think of to encourage Bodie looking. And he had hoped, after the curry and pint that night, to finally go from looking to getting into Bodie's trousers.

Not bloody likely anymore.

They slammed out the door and headed toward the car. Ray tucked his hands in his pockets. "Where d'you want to start?" His words emerged as small puffs of steam in the frosty air.

Bodie shivered and slid into the driver's seat. "A nice, warm pub. In front of the fire."

"Cowley'll start a fire under our arses if we don't find something soon." Ray joined him in the car.

"Too right." Bodie sighed. "Let's go talk to Jimmy Meany. In a nice, warm pub. In front of the fire."

"As long as you're buying." Ray ducked to avoid Bodie's punch.

---

"Four days." Ray dropped his head into his hands. Every joint ached, and pain throbbed dully behind his eyeballs. "Four bleeding days with nothing to show." A thud and crackle, and he looked up at a pint and packet of crisps sitting before him on the table. "What's this? A last meal before Cowley kills us?"

Lips pale, eyes red-rimmed, Bodie looked as exhausted as Ray felt. "Need something to keep body and soul together." He sat heavily on the settle beside Ray and picked up his own pint. "Cheers."

"I'll give you cheers." Ray took a long swallow, closing his eyes briefly as the beer – Boddington's by the flavour – pumped a little energy into his tired limbs. Thoughts of anything save the case had long since disappeared. "No one knows anything. No one's seen anything. It's like searching for water in a desert."

"Believe me, water would be easier to come by." Bodie laid waste to the crisps, then stared down at the empty bag. "We've touched all our usual grasses. Who've we missed?"

"Anyone with a scrap of information."

Bodie drank, then paused, glass suspended half-way to the table. "What about Sammy?"

"Sammy?" Ray shook his head. Bodie wasn't thinking straight. "He's not connected with the IRA."

"No, but he knows who's selling what to whom, especially anything to do with explosives." Bodie thumped his pint on the table, sloshing beer over the side, dampening his cuff. "I'll bet Sammy knows. . ."

". . .who bought what and where," Ray finished, raising his glass. Bodie's faint ray of hope lifted his spirits enough to curl the corners of his mouth in a small grin. "Finish up. Let's find this bird and make it sing."

---

"But I don't know nothing!"

The East End whine grated on his nerves; Ray twisted his fist in Sammy's shirt and pushed him against the brick wall. Felt good, easing the frustrations of the past several days. "Sure you do. Doesn't he, Bodie?"

Bodie flipped back the lid of the crate and raised his eyebrows at the contents. "Looks like it to me."

"A name, Sammy." Ray hitched him higher, and Sammy's eyes bulged. "I saw the bodies of those people who bought it in the Harrods blast, and I want a name!"

"I don't—"

"I'd tell him, old son." Bodie leaned against the wall beside Sammy, looking perfectly at ease. He glanced at Ray, then bent toward Sammy's ear. "He'd as soon kill you as look at you."

Sammy gulped – no mean feat with Ray half-throttling him – and sniffled. "Cusak," he croaked. "Eamon Cusak."

"Cusak?" Bodie started, jerking away from the wall. "What's that piece of. . ." He pressed his lips together. "What's he doing in London?"

"Who's Eamon Cusak?" Ray loosened his grip, and Sammy slumped against the wall, gasping, shaking his head back and forth, too frightened to say more.

Ray didn't receive an answer to his question until later that evening. He and an unnaturally silent Bodie stood before Cowley's desk as he repeated his question. Cowley removed his specs and rubbed his eyes, looking older than his years. "Cusak's one of the young bloods in the IRA, one who won't hesitate to use violence, regardless of how many innocents are killed. He's based out of Liverpool, but if he's in London now, he might be moving his base of operations south."

"We have to stop him before he can dig in," Bodie said.

"And before anyone else is hurt," Ray added, with a sharp glance at Bodie. What did he know about Cusak? And why didn't he tell Ray? They were partners, for Christ's sake, not passing acquaintances.

"So what are you two doing here?" Cowley replaced his specs and scowled at them. "I don't want to see either of you in the building unless you have something more to report."

Beating Bodie to the car, Ray ground his teeth and waited impatiently for Bodie to slide into the passenger seat. He tore out of the car park with a screech and the faint whiff of burning rubber. "What does he think we're doing, taking a walk in the park?"

"The old man has his ways."

"Yeah, and sometimes they're as inscrutable as God's."

"I don't like it either, all right? But if Cusak's involved. . ." Bodie shook his head.

Ray leapt on the opening. "What do you know about this Cusak?"

Bodie hesitated so long Ray wondered if he'd answer. "Bully boy," he said finally. "Scrapper. Likes a fight, doesn't much matter why."

"Sounds like you've crossed paths before."

Ray waited, but Bodie remained silent for a long moment.

"I knew him years ago, when we were kids."

Ray's ears perked up; Bodie seldom spoke of his past, especially his childhood. Ray wouldn't push, though. Not now, at least. "Cusak's not an unusual name, 'specially in Liverpool. How d'you know it's the same man?"

"Heard he'd been recruited when I was in the army." Bodie's voice was harsh. "Listen, Doyle. If Eam. . . If Cusak's involved, be careful. He won't roll over, and if we do box him into a corner, he won't care who he tops to get out."

"Sounds like some others we've met. And bested." Sometimes by the sheerest luck, and not without paying a heavy price, but Ray pushed away those memories with practiced ease. You couldn't do the job if you let the bad bits get to you, but it was becoming more and more difficult to forget and move on.

Bodie frowned, his expression grim. "I've met some bad'uns in my time, but Cusak's in a category all his own. Just watch your back."

"Have you to do that, don't I?" Not like Bodie to be so dour, but then again, they were both hungry and sleep-deprived. Still, Ray never ignored a warning, not any more. That was one of the reasons he was still alive. Ray concentrated on the traffic. With any luck, they'd track down Cusak in the next 24 hours and get Cowley off their backs.

---

A jigsaw puzzle. That's exactly what this case was like; a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing and no box lid to check the finished picture. Ray downed his pork pie in half-a-dozen bites, too hungry to care what it might do to his arteries. Christmas Eve: a bleedin' week since the bombing, and they juggled a handful of leads, none of which looked especially promising.

Bodie handed him a cardboard cup of tea and Ray took a sip. Disgusting, but at least it was hot; the only hot thing in the car.

They'd been camped on the upper floor of the multi-storey car park, watching the warehouse since the crack of dawn, and Ray was about ready to pack it in and move on. Bodie had insisted on fetching food and tea before setting out.

"We're tired," he said. "Can't afford to lose our edge, not with Cusak out there."

"Don't know why we're bothering," Ray grumbled. "He's not there."

Bodie looked toward the warehouse, his brows drawn together. "Hang on. I thought I saw. . ." He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and frowned. "Back in a tick."

Fresh air, that's what Ray needed. He leaned against the bonnet, nursing his tea. Far below, a foreshortened Bodie crossed the street, one tiny figure among many on the crowded pavement. He paused beside one of the grimy windows and even from that distance, Ray could see the moment when Bodie stiffened.

Had he seen or heard something?

Ray tossed the dregs of his tea into the gutter, his eyes following Bodie as he turned a corner, rounding a brick buttress that shielded him from the street, and creeping cautiously down the passage that bordered one side of the warehouse. Before he disappeared into the far shadows, Bodie stopped, took a step back, and. . .

Fuck.

At least five toughs in black surrounded him; Bodie could fight, and fight hard, but five against one was a slaughter, not a battle. Ray drew his gun, cursing. Here he stood, watching his partner struggle for his life, too far to help. He aimed, but couldn't make the shot, not at that angle, not with the possibility of hitting Bodie. Two of the toughs sprawled on the pavement – Macklin would be proud – but Bodie fell to his knees after a brutal gut punch and was dragged inside.

It had all happened in less than twenty seconds.

Heart racing, Ray jumped into the car and grabbed his R/T. "Cusak's got Bodie," he yelled as he steered wildly down the ramp. "Send backup, I'm going in." He smiled with satisfaction as he cut off Cowley in mid word.

By the time he reached the car park entrance, desperation grudgingly yielded to training and experience. Bursting in, gun blazing, would get them both killed. No, he needed to slip inside and assess the situation before rescuing Bodie's arse. Once they were safe, he would beat Bodie to a pulp for being so careless.

"What did he see or hear?" Cowley asked, after Ray had snapped out his report. "He didn't give an indication of what made him circle the building?"

"No." Ray matched Cowley's scowl. "All I know is that I have to get inside. The only way is to approach from the rear, down a small passage from the next street, and climb a fence. There aren't any windows facing that way, so I can steal to the nearest one and have a look without them knowing I'm there."

Cowley narrowed his eyes. "I don't like it, 3.7."

"I don't like knowing that Bodie's in there with that nutter!" Ray glanced over at the men awaiting orders. "Give me ten minutes before you storm the place, but if you hear any gunfire, break down the doors and start shooting." He turned on his heel. "Just don't hit either of us."

Seemed to take forever for Ray to get into position, eyes peeled for lookouts. He slipped around the rear corner of the warehouse, and cautiously peered through a broken pane. He couldn't see much in the shadows, but he could hear enough to make him break out in a cold sweat: the meaty sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a grunt of pain.

"So, Billy wants to play with the big boys, does he?" Rough voice, thick Scouse. Cusak? "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"Africa."

Ray edged closer. At least Bodie was alive and talking. Still. No bets on how long that might last. But Cusak recognised him. Might not be a problem, if he didn't know who Bodie's employers had been since he left Africa.

Cusak laughed. "Africa? What were you doing with all those nig-nogs?"

"Fighting for whichever side coughed up the most brass. Detonations a specialty." Scouse bled into Bodie's accent. Ray wondered how long it had taken Bodie to shed it originally. "Came back last year, looking for work."

"Work, eh? What sort of work you looking for?"

No sign of a lookout so far, but Ray couldn't trust his luck, or Bodie's life, to hold. He opened the window and crawled inside, thankful the crates and shipping pallets scattered around would provide cover. The voices came from the far corner, and he crept forward, silent and unseen.

"Anything that pays." Bodie's words slurred, he sounded sullen. "Don't much care what."

Ray climbed onto a stack of crates and peered over the top. Bodie slumped in a wooden chair, his hands tied behind his back. A thin man with a shock of wild dark hair and a wicked-looking knife paced before him. Two men – probably the ones Bodie'd felled – lay by the door, dazed if not dead. That left three others ranged behind Bodie. Ray didn't like the way they fingered their weapons. They'd lost face, and were itching for a reason to resume the fight.

Cusak – had to be him – stopped pacing and lifted the knife. The blade glinted in a shaft of sunlight. "I'll ask again, Billy boy. Why were you hanging around outside?"

Bodie raised his head, his eyes sweeping over Ray without pausing, returning to glare at Cusak. His nose and lip were bleeding, and even from a distance, Ray could see bruises darkening his cheek and jaw, but no signs of knife wounds. Had to work fast. Damned if he'd let this bastard use that knife on Bodie.

"Heard someone needed a man for a job: a bit of bang up work. If I'd known it was you, I would've scarpered right back to Africa." Bodie shifted on the chair, head dipping and raising in a slow nod, disguised as momentary weakness. A signal: he knew Ray was there. Small comfort, and Ray hoped Bodie's apparent weakness was as false as his story to Cusak.

With a chuckle that raised the hairs on the back of Ray's neck, Cusak stepped forward and placed the flat of the blade on Bodie's bruised cheek. "I'm hurt. Don't you remember the games we used to play behind the school?"

Cusak dragged the blade down Bodie's cheek until the tip rested under his jaw. "Let's play again, Billy. For old time's sake."

Forcing himself to stay calm, to wait for the right moment, Ray balanced on the crate and aimed at Cusak's torso. He'd rather blow off the bastard's head, but couldn't afford to miss, not with that shiv so close to Bodie's jugular.

They'd tied Bodie's hands, but not his feet. If Cusak had meant to stay out of kicking range, he'd been too interested in baiting Bodie to remember the danger.

"Now!" Bodie yelled. He kicked out, catching Cusak in the goolies and toppling the chair over backward. As Cusak doubled over and let loose with a string of oaths, Ray dropped two of the toughs as they stood. Bodie scrambled to his feet, hands still tied, and Ray took out the other tough before he could reach for his gun.

"Don't move, Cusak," Ray warned, as Cusak turned.

The warehouse doors burst open. Their backup raced in, and Cusak, with a shout of desperation and anger, whirled around and flung his knife straight toward Bodie's back.

Ray shot Cusak through the heart, and even before he collapsed onto the floor, jumped down from the crate and hared across the room to where Bodie lay face down.

With a groan, Bodie rolled onto his back, his bruised face smeared with dust and grit. "What took you so long to move? Waiting for an invitation?" He looked toward the side wall.

"You're the one with the invitation. I had to find me own way in." Ray followed his gaze. Still quivering, the blade of Cusak's knife was buried deep in a wooden support beam, and Ray's gut lurched. Another close call. "Lucky you stumbled and fell."

With an outraged snort, Bodie sat up, and jerked his head toward the knife. "Me, stumble? I knew Eamon would try that. Went down all on my own."

But Bodie's cold hands shook a little as Ray untied the rope, and if Ray's fingers were clumsier than usual, Bodie didn't mention it. The blood from his lip and nose contrasting sharply with his pale cheeks, Bodie leaned against Ray for a moment.

"Dead!" Cowley strode into the warehouse and surveyed the carnage, his face flushed. "What were you thinking, 4.5! If I wanted dead bodies, I'd go to the morgue."

"Sorry, sir." Ray helped Bodie to his feet, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, and took comfort from the fleeting touch. Odd how they stood together after danger had passed. Or maybe not so odd, after all. He honestly didn't care that Cusak and his men were dead; at least Bodie was still alive.

"And you, 3.7." Cowley rounded on Bodie. "Allowing yourself to be captured." He shook his head in disgust.

"Couldn't help it if he recognized me." Bodie straightened with a wince and wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "And there were five of them, sir."

"Only five?" Cowley raised an eyebrow. "I should send you both for a refresher with Macklin, then."

"Both?" Ray shot Cowley a look of outrage. "Why me? I'm not the one who rolled over when—"

"Rolled over?" Bodie turned to Ray. "Since when have I ever–"

"Enough!" Cowley's shout echoed off the rafters. "I want your report on my desk. . ." He paused, eyes narrowing, as Bodie surreptitiously elbowed Ray. "Are you quite finished, 3.7?"

Bodie snapped to attention, then groaned once as his injuries made themselves felt. "Sir."

Ray made sure Bodie heard his chuckle and was rewarded with a glare.

Four hours later, bodies disposed of, preliminary report delivered, Ray stood beside Cowley on the pavement as the Chief Constable nodded briskly and stepped into the car waiting at the kerb. Bodie leaned heavily against the doorframe, but Ray heard every catch of breath as his bruised muscles protested movement.

The car drove off, and Cowley looked at Bodie. "Och, it's Christmas Eve," he said with a sigh. "Off with you both. I don't want to see either of you until after Boxing Day."

About bloody time. Ray caught Bodie's eye and, as one, they headed for the car.

Cowley called after them. "At eight sharp!"

"Happy Christmas, sir!" Ray threw over his shoulder as he herded a limping Bodie down the street.

---

A groan echoed in Bodie's quiet flat. Lips twisting in a sympathetic grimace, Ray reached for another glass, pouring a double measure into both. Carefully carrying them down the hall, he rapped once on the door of the bath, then nudged it open with his hip.

Bodie leaned back in the bath, wreathed in steam, and waved a negligent hand. "Ah, Jeeves," he said in the plumiest of tones, a shocking contrast to his battered face. "Thank you, my good man."

"So you're Bertie?" Sketching a court bow, Ray chuckled as he handed Bodie his drink. "Remember, Jeeves was the brains of the outfit."

"But Bertie had the looks and charm." Bodie grinned lopsidedly, then closed his eyes with a sigh.

Ray settled himself on the edge of the bath and studied his partner. He seldom saw Bodie nude, or even half-dressed, and wondered when clothing had become part of Bodie's armour against the world. Had Cusak had a hand in that? If so, then his quick death was too good for him.

A contrast to Ray's wiry leanness, Bodie had a sturdy body: smooth and strong, not fussed over, but not ignored, either. Ray ached to touch him, taste him, to learn every inch.

Christ, he had it bad.

Dragging his eyes from Bodie's groin, lax genitals barely visible under the water, Ray shifted enough to ease his own growing erection. Bodie's hair stuck up in damp spikes, taking ten years off his age, and Ray could see shadows of the sulky boy who'd roamed Liverpool's streets and left home so young. Bruises mottled his face, but it was the one on his belly that worried Ray. It looked painful, dark and swollen. "You pissing blood?"

Mouth full of whisky, Bodie spluttered and choked. "Warn a bloke, why don't you?"

Ray met his eyes. "Well?"

"No. No lasting damage. 'M just a bit tender." Bodie raised his glass. "This'll help, even more than the bath."

"Right." Ray stood, relieved. The temptation of a naked Bodie was becoming hard to resist, and he needed to adjust himself beyond the sharp eyes of his partner. "You finish up in here. I'll find us some grub."

A quick reccy of the larder turned up eggs, some suspect sausages and a tin of beans, as well as a heel of bread suitable for toast, if one wasn't too particular. Bodie arrived as Ray dished up, tying his dressing gown and stifling a groan as he sat.

Ray waited until they'd finished their meal before starting the questions. "How'd you know Cusak?"

Bodie stared at the table, one finger tapping a rough tattoo on the side. "His family lived down the street. Our mums were friends, and wanted us to be, as well." A soft snort indicated what Bodie thought of that.

Might as well get everything out in the open. Discover the worst before his imagination could concoct more horrors. "What sort of games did you two play behind the school?"

"Not the kind you're thinking." Bodie's chuckle was devoid of humour, but Ray breathed a little easier. "We'd nicked knives and practised throwing them. Eamon would throw for hours at a time, until he could point to a spot ten yards distant and hit it first try. Or skewer a rat across the yard."

Ray nodded. "Explains why you dropped when he threw at you."

"Knew what he could do." Bodie stifled a yawn. "'M not just a pretty face."

"Not even that until those bruises heal." Ray cleared the table, piling the dishes in the sink to soak.

"Then I'll just have to rely on my winning personality." It took Bodie two tries to get to his feet, exhaustion as well as pain making his steps unsteady. He paused at the kitchen door. "You off?" Didn't sound as if he wanted to be alone, and Ray took heart.

He glanced at the clock – a minute to midnight – and shrugged. "Thought I'd stick around for a bit. Make sure you don't peg out on me."

"No chance of that." Bodie slowly walked into the lounge. "Nothing wrong with me that bread, booze and bed won't cure."

Ray followed, keeping an eye on Bodie's dragging feet. Time was passing; they were both slowing down. Oh, not by much, not yet, but enough to lose any slight advantage they might have. Close calls would grow closer, and one day they might not be sitting together after an op. In the distance, bells tolled for midnight services, their peals clear and crisp in the night air. Ray didn't want either of them to listen to those bells alone one day.

"You've had the bread and booze. Need help shifting yourself into bed?"

"Why?" Bodie grinned. "You offering?"

"Yeah." The word came out easy, no hesitation. Ray stepped up to him, their bodies separated by no more than a breath. His hands skimmed up Bodie's arms, finally coming to rest on broad shoulders, terry rough under his palms.

Bodie searched his face, grin faltering. "Ray?"

"I'm offering, Bodie." His fingers tightened and he pulled Bodie close, no air, nothing but cotton and terry between them. Pushed his hips forward, so Bodie could feel just what was on offer, and, mindful of his bruised mouth, brushed his lips over Bodie's. "You taking?"

Bodie's tongue ran over his bottom lip, as if he were tasting Ray. Ray groaned, his belly tightening at the sight. He couldn't help himself, he had to kiss Bodie again, harder, deeper, his hands sliding up to cup the back of his head, fingers sliding through short, thick hair.

Hands circled his waist, then slipped down to squeeze his bum. Ray's hips jerked forward, pressing his erection against Bodie's. . . Christ, Bodie's cock was as hard as his. Ray's pleased grunt was muffled by their kiss.

Ray would have continued to kiss Bodie until they were both breathless, but Bodie swayed in his arms and would've fallen if Ray hadn't tightened his grip.

"Jesus, Ray," Bodie panted, holding on to him like a drowning man. "My knees have gone."

"So, I make you weak-kneed, eh?" The thought made Ray grin.

Bodie winked. "You. . . and the whisky."

"Oi! Don't give me that. One drink's never made you legless before. It was me masterful kissing."

"Oh, very masterful," Bodie laughed.

"Right. I'll show you masterful." Before Bodie could do more than blink, Ray hurried him into the bedroom, kissing him every time he opened his mouth and occasionally when he didn't. Quick kisses lengthened, melting together into one long, dizzying exploration. As they kissed, Ray slipped Bodie's dressing gown off his shoulders and pressed him onto the bed. They broke apart, gasping for air.

More. Ray needed more, and, from the look of his flushed face and stiff prick, so did Bodie. Now. No time to undress, except to pull off his boots. Still in jeans and shirt, Ray climbed on top of Bodie, straddling him, gripping his wrists, holding his hands firmly against the mattress, leaning down to nip the soft join of jaw and neck, running his tongue along the length of his throat, kissing his way along Bodie's collarbone. Warm and clean and smelling faintly of soap, Ray had never tasted anything as good as Bodie's skin, unless it was Bodie's mouth. Bodie groaned, lifting his hips, trying to grind his flushed cock against Ray.

"Not a chance." Ray shifted back on Bodie's thighs, pinning him to the bed. He loved the way Bodie looked: lips swollen from his kisses, eyes dark with need, panting and aching for his touch. He'd give Bodie everything he wanted, make him want more than he ever dreamed. "I'm driving tonight."

"Drive, then. Don't just—" His words disappeared into a groan as Ray bent over and gently bit each peaked nipple, sucking them in turn until Bodie writhed beneath him. Ray smiled around a mouthful of tender flesh: that would teach the sod to complain when Ray was in charge.

Once Bodie was fairly vibrating under his touch, Ray widened his scope of work, treating himself to the feast laid under him. Taking care to avoid his bruises, Ray kissed as much of Bodie's flushed, smooth skin as he could reach, working his way down chest and flanks, to where his cock stood, impatient for attention.

He released Bodie's hands, wrapping his fingers around the hot shaft and tightening his grip to a chorus of moans – this time of pleasure, not pain. Bodie's wordless grunts rose in pitch, his hands flexing and twisting in the sheets as Ray kissed and licked his prick. Ray loved this, loved Bodie's bitter taste, his scent, the feel of him under his tongue, the way he trusted Ray to take care of him, love him…

Too much, yet not enough. Ray wanted Bodie to return his love, wanted Bodie to love him as much as he did. No way to do that, though. No, all he could do was show Bodie what he felt and hope he'd understand. Maybe return what he could.

Bodie's voice grew hoarse, sweat sheened his face and chest, and Ray finally took pity on him. He gripped the base of Bodie's cock and capped the tip with his lips. He sucked once, twice, swirled his tongue, and Bodie stiffened and cried out a warning. Ray sat up as Bodie came over his own chest, then slowly relaxed into bonelessness.

"Christ, Ray. You nearly killed me," Bodie gasped, half-lidded gaze meeting Ray's eyes, lips curling in satisfaction. "But what a way to go."

Every brush of clothing over his sensitised skin went straight to Ray's cock, and he could wait no longer. "Not finished yet."

Bodie's eyes flickered down to Ray's erection, trapped inside its denim prison. "Got anything particular in mind?" He reached out and pressed his palm against the bulge.

"Yeah." Ray's prick twitched in pleasure. "Going to fuck you."

Bodie groaned, and his cock made a valiant effort to rise. "Tell the Cow I died happy." He gestured toward the bedside table. "In there."

Hands shaking, Ray unfastened his jeans, gasping as the pressure eased from his prick. He pulled them off, too impatient to strip completely, scrabbling in the drawer for condom and lubricant. He carefully prepared himself – if Bodie touched him, he'd go off like a rocket. "You ever do this before?"

"Enough to know how. You?"

"Same." Ray turned, had to squeeze his eyes shut at the sight of Bodie on his side, top leg drawn forward, granting Ray access.

Heart pounding so hard he wondered that Bodie didn't comment on it, Ray kissed his way along Bodie's hip, down the curve of his bum. He reached between Bodie's cheeks, generous with the cream, stroking and pressing lightly until Bodie reached back and grabbed his shoulder. "Now, Ray."

Stretching out along Bodie's damp back, he positioned his prick and nudged. "Let me in, love."

With a grunt, Bodie bore down and Ray. . . oh, Christ, he was there, he was inside Bodie.

Hot. Hot and tight. Ray bit his lip and pushed, sliding deeper. And deeper. Too far gone to take it slow, he pressed forward until his belly rested against Bodie's bum. Pressing kisses on Bodie's heaving back, he snaked his arm across Bodie's chest and held him close. Every bit as good as he'd imagined, and lately he'd imagined it often.

Bodie drew in a deep breath and pulled Ray's hand to his lips. He kissed each fingertip, then sucked Ray's forefinger, stroking it with his tongue. Ray shivered and took the hint. He slowly pulled from the tight clasp of Bodie's body, leaving just the crown of his prick still inside. Pausing, he waited until Bodie pushed back, then sheathed himself again, gasping at the sweet bliss of taking Bodie.

Too far gone to draw out their pleasure, Ray managed half-a-dozen thrusts before pressing his forehead against the back of Bodie's neck and emptying himself inside Bodie with a resonant groan. He had done it, they had done it, and he never wanted it to end. Already Ray was greedy for all that he could have, all that Bodie would allow. He wanted everything, Bodie's body, his heart, his very soul.

Ray had just enough energy to carefully pull free and bin the condom before turning back to Bodie, who'd rolled over, facing him. Hair rumpled, lids heavy, Bodie looked half asleep, but he managed a grin. Hauling the sheets and blankets over Bodie, Ray doffed his shirt and slid into bed, wrapping his arms and legs around Bodie's.

"Best present ever," Bodie mumbled, eyes closing. "Was expecting a shirt so foul I'd have to give it to Oxfam on Boxing Day."

Ray kissed his temple and held him close. "You mocking my taste?"

"Just in clothing, Ray. Just in clothing." The corners of Bodie's mouth twitched. "Your taste in lovers is spot on."

-- THE END --

December 2005