CHAPTER ONE

As yet another heavy door clanged shut behind him, Bodie barely managed to suppress a shiver. Down the bare corridor an unseen man could be heard shouting orders. Prison. Even the sound of the word was depressing. The uniformed warder opened the final door into a small room, bare except for one scrubbed table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs.

A door on the opposite side of the room opened and a prisoner escorted by two uniformed men entered.

"Prisoner for transfer, sir," shouted the larger of the two men. Bodie saw the eyes in the gaunt face widen.

"Transfer? Where to?"

"Shut up, Doyle. Speak when you're spoken to."

"This is the first I've--"

"I'm warning you, Doyle, belt up."

The door behind the prisoner opened again and a fourth warder appeared carrying a tatty holdall and brown paper carrier bag. Doyle snatched the bags from him.

"That's my stuff!"

"Check the contents, Doyle, then sign this." The officer who had accompanied Bodie put the official form down on the table. In silence Doyle diligently checked each bag and box, not hurrying and totally ignoring the irate glares and snorts from the four burly, uniformed men.

Bodie saw the quick glance that raked him from head to foot but did not say anything.

Satisfied that all his possessions were there, Doyle straightened up and turned to the man who had shouted at him, handing over a bar of slippery soap with a hard smile.

"This isn't mine. Wouldn't want to get done for thievin' Her Majesty's property, would I!" He turned back to the table. "Now, where do you want me to autograph?"

The form signed, Doyle picked up his bags and looked expectantly towards Bodie's escort.

"Right, sir." The warder moved towards the door, indicating that Bodie should precede him. "We've a few forms for you to sign at the office and he's all yours. Milton, bring Doyle." And the procession moved towards the other office.

Watching discreetly through the glass partition as he completed the paperwork, Bodie looked his new acquisition over. The washed-out, baggy prison issue clothing swamped the frail-looking figure, his size diminished even more by the sheer bulk of the guards that flanked him. Again he wondered what Cowley was up to. This was hardly normal procedure.

Prisoners' interviews were usually carried out within their place of abode; to be released into the custody of a lone CI5 agent without even an escort was, to Bodie's knowledge, unheard of.

What was so special about Raymond Doyle, he wondered.

"I can't say I'm going to miss the bugger," the warder confided as Bodie asked about his prisoner. "Sometimes I reckon it's a shame they stopped transporting 'em to Australia. Real bundle of trouble, he is."

"What's he in for?"

"Bent copper." The man pulled a face. "Nothin' I hate more than a bent copper."

Paperwork over, Bodie collected his prisoner and the procession continued in silence to the outer gate. Before opening the final lock in the door, the guard with the loud voice stopped Bodie.

"Shouldn't you cuff 'im?"

Doyle glared at the guard but remained silent. Bodie assessed the skinny man.

"Nah. Not going to do a runner, are you," he said brightly, confident of his own abilities if the smaller man should risk it.

The door opened and the two men stepped into the free world. Bodie started to move towards his car but then stopped. Doyle wasn't following.

"Come on, Doyle. The car's that way." He pointed to the solitary vehicle.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll find out when you get there."

"Who are you? This isn't normal procedure. I want to know where I'm being taken." Doyle stood his ground.

Annoyed by the stubbornness, Bodie grabbed hold of a surprisingly well-muscled arm and pulled.

"You're going where I'm taking you." He manhandled Doyle across the empty space, unlocked the car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Ingrained caution made him lock the door before walking around to his own seat.

The drive into town took nearly an hour and the journey was conducted in silence.

As they pulled into the CI5 car park Doyle peered up at the drab building. "What is this place?"

Bodie ignored him and got out to unlock Doyle's door. An hour ago the man hadn't wanted to get in the car, now he didn't want to get out.

"I'm not moving until I know where I am and why I'm here."

"Look, mate," Bodie growled, "you're here because I was told to bring you here."

"Doesn't answer my question," Doyle answered belligerently. "I've been stitched up once too often. I'm not moving until I know what's going on."

Bodie knew that it would take very little effort on his part to get the little toad into the building, but it had been a tough week, he was wearing a good suit of clothes, and, quite frankly, he couldn't be bothered.

"I'm CI5." He flashed his I.D. before the brittle gaze. "That is CI5 headquarters." He pointed towards the building. "My boss, who is not known for his generous nature and kind heart, is in there waiting to see you. If you shift your arse out of my car and get it over there you might find out what's going down because I neither know or care. Okay?"

It obviously was because Doyle gathered his belongings and followed him through the doors. The bags were left at the security office and the two men walked into the building. Coming towards them, his attention on a file in his hands, was a sandy-haired, middle-aged man. Bodie called out to him.

"Sir."

The man looked up and removed his glasses.

"At last. I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you. No problems at the prison, Bodie?"

"No, sir."

The man turned his attention to Doyle.

"Well, Mr Doyle. If you would come with me, my office is just here."

The man opened a door bearing the nameplate of George Cowley, Controller CI5. Doyle did not know whether to be worried or impressed.

"Bodie, there's no need for you to remain, but stay in the building, please. Once I have spoken with Mr Doyle I'll want to see you again."

"Sir." Bodie acknowledged the order and the dismissal as he left the office.

Ray Doyle watched the door close and turned his attention to the man seated at the desk. Any minute now, he thought, I'm going to wake up and find it's all been a dream.

"Sit down, Mr Doyle, make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you a drink?"

He must have nodded because the man stood up and crossed the room to remove glasses and a whisky bottle from the filing cabinet. He took the offered glass and sipped the golden liquid. The burning sensation spread like wildfire down his throat and into his stomach.

"Now," Cowley reseated himself behind his desk, "down to business. How much did the Governor tell you?"

The whisky had caused his vocal cords to seize up and even his second attempt was not too clear.

"Not much." Doyle cleared his throat and told Cowley all he knew. "I was called to the Governor's office yesterday afternoon and told that new evidence had come to light. He wouldn't tell me anything else. Said he didn't want to get my hopes up."

Cowley was unsurprised by the bewildered voice. Governor Bryant had not been too pleased when his ordered routine had been disrupted by CI5's demands. Events had occurred so fast it was surprising that Doyle looked as confident as he did.

"You are not in my custody, Mr Doyle. You are perfectly free to leave as and when you like."

"Free?"

"Free," confirmed the Scots brogue softly, the sharp blue eyes missing none of the effect his announcement had caused.

"I don't understand. I don't understand any of this, do you mean I'm getting a retrial?"

"Let me explain from the beginning. Your defence at the trial, your only defence, was that you were setting yourself up as a plant in the drug ring in the hopes of snaring the other police officers whose identity you didn't know but were sure were involved. Now, you claimed that on the night in question you told your senior officer, Detective Inspector Taylor, of your plan. What was Taylor's reaction?"

"He told me not to go ahead, said that he didn't think it was a good idea for me to go undercover alone."

"Did you obey his order not to proceed?"

"You know I didn't. If I had I wouldn't have got myself in this mess, would I?"

"The prosecution's main evidence was your total lack of official orders; there was no record of your informing the squad of your intentions."

"Of course there wasn't. It wasn't until the next day when I was arrested that I heard about the accident."

"Yes. D.I. Taylor's death was most unfortunate, especially for you."

"Most unfortunate," Doyle repeated, his voice bitter. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"I have examined the reports; the crash was, beyond any doubt, an accident."

"What made you think it might be otherwise?" Doyle asked, the wariness in his voice being replaced by curiosity.

"D.I. Taylor did make a report on your plan to infiltrate the group. It seems he guessed that you would ignore his instructions to leave things alone--"

"Where's the report? Why didn't anyone find it at the time?" Three years, three lousy years, all because of one missing report, the last report of a dead man.

"He handed it over to D.I. Behan."

"Mike? Mike Behan?" Doyle couldn't believe his ears. Mike had been one of the few friends who believed his claims of innocence.

"D.I. Behan was the police presence within the ring. He knew you had to be stopped. Taylor's death provided him the ideal opportunity. No one else knew of your intentions. Behan arranged your entrapment, planted the evidence and destroyed Taylor's report."

"I'll kill him!" Doyle leapt to his feet, ready to find his former friend and carry out his threat.

"He's already dead; he died four days ago. Cancer."

Doyle slumped back down into the chair, disappointed to have been robbed of his chance to wreak revenge.

"Amongst his papers was a letter addressed to the Home Secretary. It seems he wished to die with a clear conscience. The original report was destroyed but the letter is thought to be an accurate record of his involvement with the suppliers and dealers and, of course, a statement declaring your complete innocence and the way he framed you. Here," Cowley passed over several sheets of paper, "is a copy of the letter. I'm sure you'll want to read it."

Doyle took the document in shaking fingers and forced himself to concentrate on the scrawling, spidery writing. The letter was dated only a few weeks previously.

At last he folded the papers and handed them back.

"So I'll get a retrial?"

"That is what I want to discuss with you. A retrial would become a very public affair. The media would have a field day--a young policeman framed by his senior officer, all those wasted years you've spent locked away, broken dreams, personal heartache, only to be cleared by the testimony of a dying man. The film companies would be queuing at your door for exclusive script rights. Is that what you want?"

"Well...no, but--"

"I can use you, Doyle. I had already noted your name before the charges arose. I was sure I wasn't wrong about you but, as you know only too well, there was no proof. I want you in CI5. What I don't want is someone whose face has been plastered across every newspaper in the country."

"Well... I don't--"

"If you agree to my proposals, your innocence in this matter will become a matter of record and you will, of course, be financially compensated for your loss of earnings and the hardship you've suffered."

"What proposals?"

"You have every right to request a public retrial, I am suggesting that you forgo that right."

"Why?"

"As I said a few moments ago, Mr Doyle, I can use you. Three years ago I would have welcomed you on your professional abilities alone. Though a trifle rebellious you were a good policeman. Now, after your recent experiences, you have a wealth of contact with those on the other side of the fence. As an ex-prisoner your face is known and you'll be able to gain easy admittance to circles that undercover agents would have to work months to achieve." Cowley paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. "But, as a publicly affirmed, upright, honest citizen you'd be back to square one. If you agree, your criminal and prison records will be destroyed, you'll be free to tell friends and family about your innocence. All I ask is that you consider it. I have a feeling you will find working for CI5 an...experience. Well?"

"How long do I have to decide?"

"I need your answer now. I'm sorry to rush you, but D.I. Behan's letter has stirred up a regular hornet's nest and the D.P.P. is eager to get started on it. How he deals with it depends on your answer."

"If I agree, my name will be left out of new investigations into that little lot." Doyle pointed to the letter. Cowley nodded.

"How can I avoid the retrial? It's a formal procedure, how could I get out of that and the attendant publicity?"

"I have examined the implications of the letter. It clears you completely. You were arrested before you uncovered anything that will be of any assistance in the new enquiries. The Home Secretary has agreed to leave your name out of the new investigating. D.I. Behan is dead. There is no need to rake over old ground. Unless you feel the need to be publicly exonerated. It is, of course, your right."

Doyle's mind was in a whirl. Ever since the summons to the Governor's office the day before, his thoughts had been a jumble of 'what ifs' and hopes that kept insisting on struggling out from under the tight lid he kept clamped down. It was happening too fast. He had only just begun to accept his lot, and try to adapt more to the strange prison life. In less than an hour this man, George Cowley, had turned his whole world upside down. Mike, his friend, had betrayed him and left him to rot in jail, only a guilty conscience releasing him, and now he was being asked not to scream his freedom cry from the rooftops, but to keep the stain on his name, to hide his innocence in a way others would hide their guilt? What for?

Because it would make him useful to CI5, because this Cowley person said he could use him. Even three years ago Cowley had wanted him. Doyle knew he would have jumped at the chance then, but a lot had happened since. He'd changed.

Cowley could see the indecision in the shockingly large eyes.

"I know a little of what you've been through, Doyle. You'll be allowed time to retrain and rehabilitate yourself."

Time. Time to retrain and rehabilitate. Would there ever be enough time for him to escape the past few years?

"I don't think I could face going back inside. Not now."

"I won't ask you to, not now. I can't promise you that I will never ask you, though; as a CI5 agent, I frequently order my men to do unpleasant duties."

"All right, I waive my right to a retrial." Where had the words come from? Doyle thought in amazement. Not from his brain, that was for sure. Cowley was already moving into action, showering him with reams and reams of paper, all requiring his signature. So much for reading everything before you sign it, he thought ruefully.

As the last of the papers were signed Cowley called someone on his desk intercom and in response the door opened and an attractive woman entered.

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, Betty. A small matter for you to attend to, more pleasure than duty I hope, though. This is Ray Doyle, he has just agreed to join our organisation. Our timetable has become a little behind and I'm sure that he would welcome a break from business and a meal. Take him down to the canteen and fix him up with something, bring him back here when he's finished."

"Yes, sir."

"Before you go, call Bodie to my office."

"Yes, sir." Betty turned to the latest addition to the family. "If you'll follow me, Mr Doyle."

"Yes, of course." For all the informality of the conversation, Doyle knew he had been dismissed. Dutifully he followed Betty.

"Where do you come from, Mr Doyle?"

"Pardon?" Doyle's head snapped back to the woman, trying not to show his surprise at the seeming abundance of men openly wearing shoulder holsters that passed them going in the opposite direction.

"Bodie, Mr Cowley wants you in his office."

His escort from the prison came into the corridor from a side room; like the others he was minus his jacket, his shoulder holster looking as if it belonged to his body. Doyle saw the double take in the blue eyes and waited for the inevitable comment, but all the man said was "Everything okay?" to which Betty replied:

"Fine. Just going to get some lunch. See you later."

Bodie moved past them without another word.

"I said where do you come from? Most of us were trawled from army, navy, airforce or the police," Betty continued.

"Oh, er...police." Doyle jumped on his impulse to say prison.

"Met.?"

"What?"

"The Met., are you from the Met.?"

"Yes."

"What part?"

"Drugs Squad."

"I don't think we've got anyone else from there, a few Met. boys but mostly the armed forces." Betty gamely struggled on but the conversation was like wading up a muddy river against the current. Conversation clearly wasn't one of the new boy's good points.

Rather than eat in total silence Betty talked almost non-stop about CI5 while Doyle picked at his food.

---

Bodie entered the quiet office with trepidation, wondering if perhaps this was how Daniel felt on entering the lion's den. He knew the old man was up to something, he could feel it in his bones.

"Come in, Bodie, stop hovering in the doorway. Sit down."

Bodie stopped hovering and sat.

"How's your back now?"

"It's just fine, sir."

"Dr Willis doesn't agree."

"Now I've got rid of that bloody neck brace I feel much better, hardly so much as a twinge."

"Willis said you could stop wearing the brace?" asked Cowley. Everyone who had come within range of Bodie's tongue over the past few weeks had heard about his view on modern instruments of torture.

"Yes, sir, providing I don't 'exert myself'," Bodie said meaningfully, leaving Cowley in absolutely no doubt of his meaning.

"Hardly a twinge is not 'fine', Bodie. Damaged vertebrae are not things to be trifled with. You're damn lucky not to have been killed or crippled--" Cowley broke off, realising that Bodie knew only too well how lucky he had been.

"Perhaps you don't need to be told that. Anyway, it will be some time before you will be medically cleared for normal duties so I feel obliged to keep you occupied in some way. You're causing havoc in the office, you've got to divert some of that energy and I've just the job for you."

Bodie managed to look wounded and cautiously interested at the same time.

"I've decided it's time you were teamed up with a partner."

"Oh no. I work solo, I always have," Bodie broke in. This was not what he had been expecting.

"You've worked alone because it suited me to let you, Bodie. It now suits me to partner you," Cowley snapped back, the authority in his voice quelling further protests. "The man I've selected is new to us. CI5's facilities will be placed at your disposal and I want you to supervise his training. Dr Willis feels another two months will be enough time for your injury to heal properly. In ten weeks I want you and your partner ready and fit for active duty. Macklin will run the last two weeks' training so you can participate fully."

In other words, thought Bodie with a sinking heart, the last two weeks are to pummel me back into shape. Oh well, might as well know the worst, find out who Cowley wants to saddle me with.

"Who is he?"

"Ray Doyle."

The name hung in the air. Bodie couldn't believe his ears.

"He's straight from the nick! He's still doing time, for christ's sake."

"Kindly lower your voice, Bodie," Cowley ordered. "These files are for your perusal; read them, familiarise yourself with their contents. They will tell you all you need to know about Doyle. He can tell you his personal details himself."

"You're nuts!" Bodie stood up and paced the floor. "I really don't believe you. You are teaming me with a bent copper!"

Cowley ignored his operative's disrespectful attitude; he could quite understand how it looked from Bodie's point of view.

"Sit down, man. Doyle has been completely exonerated from all the drug and corruption charges. As from today he is a free man without a stain on his character."

"I haven't heard about any retrials going on," said Bodie.

"And you won't. Doyle has waived his right to retrial; he has agreed to accept the Home Office decision and no public announcement will be made."

"Why should he do that?"

"Think, Bodie! Doyle has been inside the prison system for three years. Think of the faces he knows, people he's met, the people who have met him. When I send him undercover those same people are going to see a familiar face, a kindred spirit, not a stranger who is to be mistrusted. Doyle and everyone who matters to him, along with the authorities, will know he was falsely accused. But everyone else will accept him for what they think he's proved to be. A bent policeman, a criminal of the worst kind, someone they can trust."

Bodie could see the point behind Cowley's impassioned speech, but he could also see one or two flaws.

"So the past three years were a set-up then?"

"No."

"How do you mean? Was he really convicted or wasn't he?"

"The case against him was sound, he had no defence to speak of and he was convicted and sentenced to eight years. With good behaviour the earliest release date he could have would be eighteen months from now."

Bodie was really confused by this time. If the case was so good how come Doyle was being released early? Why should the man forgo all public declaration of his innocence? He had a hundred and one questions which all demanded answers.

They came in a shortened version of the Taylor/Behan report and letter and the files listing Doyle's police and prison records. A swift scan of the files told him a lot about his proposed partner. Detective Constable Raymond Doyle had been quite a busy little bluebottle, and a police marksman to boot. Reading between the lines Bodie could see why Cowley had considered Doyle for CI5 even before the spell in prison. From the comments written by his superiors it was clear that Doyle hadn't been popular. Insubordination was a common complaint--his methods, though at times unorthodox, got results.

Moving on to the record of the prisoner Bodie found a very different story.

The arrogant, incorruptible D.C. Doyle had not reacted positively to incarceration. There were pages of logged incidents in which Doyle was the alleged instigator or the centre of disturbances and fights. His aggressive behaviour had not endeared him to either the warders or his fellow inmates and he had been subjected to the full gamut of official punishments. A few sheets clipped to the front of the file turned out to be medical notes from the prison hospital. The seemingly endless list of cuts and contusions bore testimony to frequent fights. Not all the injuries had been minor; a year ago Doyle had been seriously injured in a fight and had been transferred to an outside hospital for treatment. Fractured skull, shattered cheekbone, broken wrist and cracked ribs. It had been some fight.

The shattered cheekbone obviously accounted for the strange bump high under the skinny man's eye. The medical notes were incomplete but Bodie had read enough.

"He spent three years in hell and you expect him to be sane enough to work for CI5!"

Cowley's answer was interrupted by a ringing telephone; he answered it promptly.

"Just a moment, Betty," he said into the phone and then turned back to Bodie.

"It's up to you to see that he's got what it takes. You've got twelve weeks to turn him into what you know I want." He pinned Bodie to the spot with a glare, then without looking away spoke into the telephone again. "All right, Betty, send Mr Doyle in, please."

Crossing the room, Doyle felt his skin prickle as Bodie looked him over, the dismay at what he saw all too clear.

"Doyle, I know you've already met Bodie but from now on you're going to be seeing a lot more of him. For the next twelve weeks he will be running you through a training programme."

Twelve weeks, Bodie thought with disgust as he looked at the frail, green-eyed wraith, twelve months wouldn't do it. He came to the conclusion that Cowley sometimes expected too much of his men.

Everything still felt unreal to Doyle; his senses were still reeling from the calmly delivered news that he was free. He knew he'd made a right prat of himself with the woman. Lord knows what she thought of him, he knew he hadn't managed to form sentences of more than two words over the whole meal. He returned the wary look he was getting from this Bodie character. Cowley was handing him over to that! It was as clear as the nose on his face that Bodie didn't want anything to do with him. Cowley had said he was free to leave any time he wished. All he wanted to do at that moment was start running, to run and run until he found a quiet place where he could be alone to think. Everything was moving too fast. Stop the world, I want to get off, he thought to himself, and almost giggled aloud at the cliché. Christ, now I'm getting hysterical!

"Doyle."

The voice cut through his confusion, but no one seemed to notice he hadn't been paying attention.

"...will of course be issued with your own car from the pool. It will take a month or so for the allocations office to find you a flat; in the meantime, Bodie, your present flat has a spare room I believe?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bodie, not too sure he liked the way the conversation was heading.

"Unless either of you have any valid objections you can share. It shouldn't take security too long to clear a place for Doyle."

If either of the men had any objections they chose not to voice them.

"Right then," Cowley looked at his wristwatch, "there isn't much more we can do today. Doyle, I've arranged for you to attend a meeting at the Home Office at 10 tomorrow morning. Bodie, make sure he gets there on time. It will only be a formality, Doyle, so don't worry about anything." Cowley broke off from his talk and watched the two men.

It was clear that neither of them was happy with the arrangements but that couldn't be helped. The young man's disorientation was all Dr Ross had predicted. If Doyle was going to be of any use to CI5 they had to stop him from falling into a mire of self-pity; Ross' advice was to keep the new recruit moving at such a speed he could only react instinctively, he shouldn't be allowed time to begin any self-doubts.

Bodie was just what the doctor ordered. Cowley knew that the established agent was going to try and run his unwanted partner into the ground. Doyle would either go under or survive. Cowley only hoped there was enough spirit left to survive!

"Right, gentlemen, I've only a few more things to say. Firstly, Doyle, I've told Bodie the bare facts leading up to your imprisonment and subsequent release. He has also seen your police and prison records; once you have completed your training period you will be given access to his professional details--as partners it is only fair that you each know the other's history and training. Any exchange of personal information is completely up to the pair of you.

"And finally, Doyle, you have been told you can inform anyone you care to that your character has been cleared. I wish to caution you to use discretion when telling people. Remember, however unpleasant, your 'prison record' can be useful only as long as it is believable."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all, gentlemen." Cowley stood up and walked around his desk, extending his hand to Doyle, who rose from his chair to take it.

"Welcome to CI5, Mr Doyle."

"Er...thank you, sir."

"Bodie, there are a queue of people waiting for Mr Doyle in the Administration Office, show him the way."

---

It was another few hours before Bodie led the way out of the building, only to return immediately to retrieve Doyle's bags from the security office.

Doyle could feel the heat burning his cheeks as they emerged through the doors for the second time. How was he supposed to have recognised where they were? All day he had been dragged along corridors, into one office after another, rarely being told where he was going or why. Every time someone shoved a piece of paper under his nose he scribbled his name on it; he had probably signed his life away a hundred times over. The Incredible Hulk had glowered and snarled constantly and was letting everyone know exactly how he felt about being lumbered with so much dead weight.

On top of his physical exhaustion, Doyle's mind was numb from the speed of events and he was almost too tired to take anything else in. He was feeling knackered, confused, a little frightened and more lonely than he had ever believed possible. The Hulk clearly wanted nothing to do with him and Cowley only wanted him because he could 'use' him. People had used him before and he didn't like it.

Glancing sideways at his silent shadow, Bodie gave a mental groan. The poor sod was grey with exhaustion and clearly didn't know whether he was coming or going. He could feel himself softening and jumped on the reaction, squashing it firmly. Don't feel sorry for him, you fool, he told himself sternly. You'll be offering to carry his bags next! He turned his attention towards the evening he had planned--shit! Doyle.

"Look," Bodie began, "I've already made arrangements for tonight and I expect you've got things you want to do..." Doyle didn't say a word and Bodie felt a nasty insidious feeling well up inside but squashed it before he could recognise it. "I'll give you a spare key and I'll see you at my place later, okay?" The emotion demanded to be recognised. Guilt.

Doyle felt his heart sink a little further but schooled his voice and features to hide how much yet another rejection was hurting him.

"Suits me. The admin. bloke gave me your address. I'll see you later then."

Bodie winced at the tone of voice, deciding at the last minute to at least try and be friendly. It was, all said and done, the bloke's first day of freedom in three years. He stumbled, embarrassed over his invitation.

"Look, I've arranged a date with this girl, I can call her up, maybe she would bring a friend."

Doyle had received better invitations, but even so he was tempted. The relaxed atmosphere of a pub and a few drinks could be what he needed to unwind a little, but common-sense prevailed. Apart from the fact Bodie obviously felt obliged to ask him, Doyle was suddenly aware of his meagre funds. The solitary five-pound note in his pocket wouldn't last long and he had no wish to impose on Bodie's begrudging charity.

"Thanks, but no. Like you said, I've got things to do."

A weight lifted off Bodie's shoulders and he began to move towards his car.

"Just in case I'm back late, you'll find sheets and blankets in the airing cupboard in the hall, help yourself to anything you want, should be something edible somewhere in the kitchen. See you," Bodie shouted across the road as he climbed into the car. He was already manoeuvring out of the car park when he looked back to see that Doyle was still standing where he had left him. He pulled up alongside and wound the window down.

"Can I drop you anywhere?" he asked politely.

The question terrified Doyle. Panic welled up inside him. Did he want to go anywhere? What a stupid question. What a bloody stupid question! Yes, he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere away from here, from the drab building filled with its energetic, lively happy people and the dour Scotsman who wanted to use him, away from the piercing blue eyes that had already seen right through him and despised him. Just away. Somebody please--come and take me away! But he knew nobody would come--who was there left to care? Only himself.

"I said, can I drop you anywhere?"

"No, thanks. It's all right."

Relieved, Bodie shouted a farewell and accelerated out of the car park, trying vainly to leave his feeling of unease behind with the solitary figure standing clutching his bags on the pavement.

Doyle watched the car roar down the road until it disappeared into the traffic. He looked around at the surrounding buildings and tried to work out where he was. No one had thought to tell him. In the distance and through the hum of city traffic he heard a clock chime. Five o'clock. He hadn't realised it was so late. His own watch had been stolen soon after his arrival at the prison--so much for honour among thieves. He was certain the clock was Big Ben and so made off to find the nearest tube station that he knew could only be a few streets away. Once he found the station he'd think about his next move.

He turned the corner and stopped dead, the sudden mass of humanity taking him by surprise. The rush hour! Endless streams of busy, hustling office workers scurrying to catch busses and trains home after a hard day's work.

Stepping into the flow of bodies he was swept along with the tide to the Underground station; standing still in front of a map he was buffeted and knocked aside by the constant movement of human traffic. His eyes traced the coloured line; Bodie's address was Knightsbridge, practically a direct line from Hounslow; he could go and collect his belongings from John's house.

Rejoining the flow of people, he bought a ticket and struggled onto a packed train. He stood all the way and the journey took forever.

He was already walking up the path to his brother's house before it occurred to him that perhaps he should have telephoned. Too late now. He reached out and rang the doorbell.

The hall and porch light came on as the door was opened, the sudden brilliance blinding after the dim street lighting.

"Good lord!" Doyle recognised his brother's voice. "What are you doing here?"

Now he knew he should have telephoned.

"'Lo, John," Doyle said calmly as he tried to gauge his brother's reaction.

"How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Yes, well it's really great seeing you again too. Me? Oh, I'm fine, how about you?" The sarcastic bite successfully hid shaky notes.

"I suppose you'd better come in," his brother said ungraciously.

"Why, don't you want the neighbours to see me?"

John Doyle stepped back to let his troublesome brother inside and was unable to prevent himself looking up and down the street to see if anyone was watching his house.

"I suppose you want a cup of tea."

"Only if it's not too much trouble." Doyle knew that his brother had only offered out of habit, but he suddenly realised how thirsty and hungry he was.

"Your face--what happened to it?" Standing under the bright kitchen light, John got his first proper look at his brother's battle-scarred face.

"A fight. Thought you were told about it," he answered in a forced attempt at nonchalance.

"The one that put you in hospital."

"Yeah, oh and thanks for the get well card and chocolates."

"What...I never sent any card--"

"No? Oh, sorry, my mistake." He had known that. A week in intensive care and another month in a public hospital before being carted back to prison...he knew the doctors had called his brother and told him about his condition but nothing came of it. Not even a visit.

Daft to have expected it really, he told himself.

"What are you here for? You can't stay here y'know. I told you at the funeral that you weren't welcome anymore."

His mother's funeral. They'd let him out, with an escort of course, to attend the service. Milton, the creep, had waited until the family were all around them before removing the bright, shiny handcuffs. His brother had told him right there outside the church before going in to the service, exactly what he thought. Mum's death was entirely his fault. The shame he'd brought on the family was what finished her. The cancer that had slowly been destroying her for years had absolutely nothing to do with it.

"I just want the cases I left here."

"You should have phoned, I could have sent them to you, you know I don't want you here."

"All right, I should've phoned but I didn't. Just give me my stuff and I'll go."

"Too right you'll go, Carole and the kids are due home soon and I don't want them seeing you."

John pushed past his brother and disappeared upstairs. After a few minutes of banging around he came back struggling and sweating with the effort of retrieving the heavy cases from the very back of a cupboard.

He set them down and opened the front door.

"Here's what you came for. Now you can go, can't you."

"Thanks for looking after them--"

"Don't mention it. Only reason I took 'em was because I didn't want you going round Mum's upsetting her when you came out. If I'd had my way I'd've chucked them on the council tip the day of the funeral. Get your cases and get out, I don't ever want to set eyes on you again."

((line missing)) but his brother didn't want to hear.

"No. Go on, get out."

"Things have changed, John. I was released today because--"

"If you don't move I'm going to kick you out and I don't care if the bloody neighbours are watching!"

"John, please listen to--"

"Get going before I call the police."

John pushed the cases out of the house, shoved his brother out with them and shut the front door.

It was a few minutes before Doyle looked away from the closed door. The encounter had been even worse than he had imagined it. God only knew why he'd come here today, perhaps just to get the inevitable over with. He rearranged the holdall over a shoulder and tied the carrier bag to one of the cases, then started up the path towards the station.

He didn't look back.

---

He was shaking with exhaustion by the time he pushed open the door to Bodie's flat, his arms and shoulders protesting fiercely at the strain of lugging all his worldly possessions across London. It was a relief to find the place empty.

He placed the bags in the spare room and found the airing cupboard and the kitchen. He made a cup of coffee but decided against eating anything. His stomach was in a knot, the whole day had been one shock after another. John's reaction, though expected, had been the last straw.

Feeling uneasy about imposing on Bodie's privacy, he returned to the spare room and collapsed onto the bare mattress. He did not lie there too long though, only too aware he could easily fall asleep. He unlocked his luggage and started to check through the contents.

He had packed them the first night after the trial had started. It had taken the court six days to find him guilty but he had known the outcome already. Not much to show for twenty-nine years of life. After he had been suspended from the force and released on bail to await his trial, Ann had asked him to leave the flat. He hadn't even been able to convince her he was innocent. She had believed all the lies and hadn't even tried to believe or trust him. The cheap, furnished bedsit he had moved to had been a long way from the cosy house the lovers had shared. He had agreed to let her keep the furniture they had collected together; somehow even then he'd known he wasn't going to need it. Good job they hadn't been married really, Doyle thought as he carefully checked each item; Ann could be such a snob at times. She would have hated being a felon's wife. And as for prison visiting--she would have died of embarrassment. He put the last item back, clicked the lid shut and moved on to the second case.

She hadn't visited him once. There had been a few letters at first, polite, stilted notes completely ignoring the fact that the recipient was a recently abandoned lover who had fallen on desperately hard times. The last letter had been over two years ago and had been full of information about the 'really terrific job' that would be 'so tremendously fulfilling' in America.

He'd never had many visitors. One or two of his colleagues, his mother once, just after his committal. She had cried the whole time. That had been the last time he saw her.

Satisfied that everything was all there, he locked the cases up again, shutting from sight all the memories of his former life. They contained no clothing, only personal treasures that he had found it impossible even to consider parting with: photograph albums, a few special framed pictures that had always been a part of his home, documents, certificates, records, books and, somewhere wrapped in tissue, the picture of his class at Hendon the day he had passed out. He knew it was there and had seen the white tissue but he had not unwrapped it. He still couldn't touch it--not yet, there were still some memories that were still too painful.

He stood up and wandered through the flat until he found a clock. It was just after eleven. Having had an enforced bedtime of ten o'clock for so long, it seemed very late and he wondered what time Bodie would get in.

Struggling against his tiredness, he made up the bed and then went in search of the bathroom. The bath proved irresistible and before he could stop himself he was up to his neck in hot water and thoroughly enjoying his first totally private bath in a very long time. He only just managed to find the strength to drag himself back into the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed. About to lie down and give up the battle to stay awake, his eyes caught sight of the closed door.

He didn't have to close that, did he?

Doyle knew he was being stupid, there wasn't even a lock on it, but he did it anyway. Getting up, he re-opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar; then, satisfied, he crept back to bed.

---

As he pushed the door shut and clicked the double lock over, Bodie listened. The flat was quiet, but his sigh of relief was cut short as he saw the pool of light spilling into the dark hallway.

It was gone midnight; if the little toad was waiting up for him like some Victorian maiden aunt, Bodie decided he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences.

His night out, like the day preceding it, had gone from bad to worse. Marianne had been in a strange mood, alternating between sullen silences and a nagging bitchiness which indicated, to Bodie's mind, she had just about had enough of broken dates, phonecalls out of the blue, not to mention being abandoned mid-date. He knew it was all over bar the shouting but he had wanted to finish the affair on a high note--give the poor creature something to remember him by.

But Marianne was like a tiny china doll, incredibly beautiful miniature perfection, and her under five feet in six-inch heels height had meant her six feet in his two-inch heels escort had spent a great deal of time stooping to hear her soft, genteel voice. By the time they adjourned to her bedroom his back was killing him and the lure of lying on the exquisite Marianne's bed had nothing whatsoever to do with the lady's skills.

But it was her bed, he was her date and she knew it would probably be the last time and she felt she had earned it. Not wanting to disappoint her and unwilling to appear ungentlemanly, Bodie tried to put his heart into it. Things were moving along nicely when a pair of slender arms slid around his neck and her soft, supple body arched up against him as she stiffened beneath him. Bodie felt his own release building up, but as her body jumped in a final orgasmic convulsion she tightened her grip around his neck.

The yell Bodie uttered was not one of triumph. Unwittingly, the luckless Marianne had applied pressure directly over the injured vertebrae.

His whole body, with one noticeable exception, went rigid as the pain washed over him. It was left to Marianne to manoeuvre the pain-wracked body off her and to try and comfort the sweating man.

Unable to face the prospect of a repeat performance, Bodie had finally managed to get away, only too aware that his swan song was not likely to instil any feelings of regret or loss in Marianne.

He peered into the bedroom, ready--even eager--to let rip. But even in that he was thwarted. Doyle was asleep.

Spoiling for a fight, Bodie walked right up to the bed, willing the man to wake up. Doyle slept on.

Bodie looked around the room. Over in the corner were two medium-sized suitcases, a holdall and carrier bag. On top of the bags, neatly folded, were Doyle's clothes. With a guilty start Bodie realised that Doyle had still been wearing the prison issue when he'd left him outside headquarters. Of course he had, Bodie told himself, no one at the prison had realised he was going to be released.

He looked at the cases again. Where had Doyle got them from? How had he got there? The uneasy guilt magnified. Christ, he thought, he hadn't even checked to see if the poor sod had any money! It was more than likely that he hadn't. Fuckin' hell, he thought morosely, maybe I should have passed the hat around at H.Q. He forced the uncomfortable feelings away with practised ease.

His gaze returned to the sleeping man. That's right, Doyle. You get your beauty sleep because you're gonna need it.

The gaunt face was softened into delicate planes and angles by sleep, dark rings and the ugly mismatched cheekbones transformed by the gentle lighting that also played on the smooth bare shoulders and arms. Doyle was slim to the point of being skinny. There was no way this frail creature was going to last the training period. Bodie cheerfully estimated the inevitable collapse would happen in the first week.

He clicked the light off and softly padded into his own bedroom. There was no need to worry about Cowley teaming him with Doyle. His headache forgotten, Bodie climbed into bed, already planning the first and last week of Ray Doyle's career with CI5.

---

CHAPTER TWO

Wrapped as he was, warm and comfortable within a cocoon of bedding, dreams unremarkable and nearly forgotten, already fading away, it was the silence that finally made him open his eyes.

Being accustomed to a dawn chorus of heavy boots, clanking doors and jangling keys, mingled with loud and often heated verbal exchanges, this new stillness was almost frightening and he was still half afraid that any sudden move on his part would wake him up only to find the whole thing another cruel joke.

He blinked against the brilliant sunshine that was pouring through the uncurtained, unbarred window.

It was a beautiful morning.

He slid out of bed and crossed over to the window, grimacing a little as his shoulders protested about the previous day's physical demands. Pushing the window wide open, he leant out and peered into the street below. Although bright, the sun gave little warmth, but the discomfort did not interrupt his enjoyment of the new morning.

Further down the road, three uniformed school boys, heads together, could be seen making their unhurried way to school. As he watched, two of them snatched something from the third and ran off, their victim running shrieking after them, their war cries echoing up and down the quiet street. As they vanished around a corner, a milk float rattled into view and squeaked to a halt outside the next block of flats; the milkman climbed from his cab and passed a few words with the postman emerging from the same block. An old man out walking his dog completed the picture.

Sounds from inside the flat drew his attention from the tranquil scene. Doors opening and closing, somebody moving about. Bodie was awake. Doyle was half dressed before he really looked at the clothes he was putting on. The previous morning, like so many other mornings, he had dressed in the standard prison gear; blue trousers and jacket, blue and white striped shirt. Fashion and individuality were unheard of where he had been living, and he had long since stopped caring about his appearance; to be different meant you stood out. It had been a hard lesson but he had soon learnt to blend into the drab 'sameness' and become just another blue uniformed prisoner. Anonymity had its benefits.

He suddenly went cold as he recalled the previous day. He hadn't given it a single thought. All day he had been wearing the prison uniform--even going out to his brother's house--he had thought himself a little paranoid at the time and had convinced himself that he was imagining the strange looks he had received from everyone; the women in the CI5 canteen, the office staff, the ticket collector and the hard-looking man who had stared at him from Hounslow to Knightsbridge. Nowadays the uniforms were not decorated with brightly coloured, vile arrows, but they might just as well have been.

He tore the sleeve in his hurry to get the garment off. Never, ever again would he wear a blue and white striped shirt. The only clothes he had were all issued, courtesy of Her Majesty. He finally settled on the short-sleeved white vest; it would do until he could get something more suitable.

Barefooted, he walked through to the kitchen. "Morning," he said, as Bodie started in surprise.

"Bloody Christ!" the other man swore as he recovered from the silent entrance. He had almost forgotten about his visitor. "Do you always creep about like that?"

"I wasn't creepin' anywhere," Doyle retorted, immediately on the defensive. Stooping to pick up the plastic bottle Bodie had dropped, he read the label--the tablets were strong distalgesics--and handed them over.

They were taken with poor grace.

"Kettle's just boiled, tea and coffee's over there, milk's in the fridge. Bread's in the bin. Help yourself." Bodie tipped two tablets onto his hand then swigged them down with some water.

"I'll drop you off at the Home Office in time for your appointment, then go on to HQ. I'll either see you there or here tonight as I don't know what's going on just yet. I've got to arrange your training programme and fuck knows what time you'll get out of your meeting."

"Okay."

Bodie watched as Doyle made himself a cup of coffee.

"How did you get on yesterday?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Last night, I noticed you'd collected some cases from somewhere."

Doyle spun round; the cases were in his room, the only way Bodie could know about them would be if he had come into the room last night--while he was asleep.

Not understanding the troubled expression, Bodie pressed the question again.

"Pick them up from a friend, did you?"

"No."

"Family?"

"Yes."

"Pleased to see you were they?" Bodie asked politely. Those painkillers were good, the sharp pain in his back was already ebbing away to a more tolerable ache.

"Surprised," was Doyle's answer.

"I'll bet they were." Bodie chuckled. "How did they react to the good news?"

Doyle turned back, pointedly ignoring the question, and spooned some sugar in his cup. "I've just used the last of this milk, you got any more?"

The flat voice and change of subject curtailed that particular conversation. Once Doyle had drunk his coffee he left the kitchen, leaving Bodie sitting there alone to finish his in peace. Finally Bodie rinsed his breakfast things up and got ready to leave.

Jacket on and car keys in his hand he tapped on the door to the spare room. It swung open to reveal Doyle standing at the window.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yes." Doyle followed him towards the front door.

Bodie looked back at the T shirt-clad figure. "Haven't you got a jacket, it's going to be cold out there."

"I'll be okay."

"I said it's cold, you'll need a jacket or something." Bloody hell, Bodie thought, I'll be wiping his nose for him next.

"I'll be okay," Doyle insisted.

Suddenly Bodie caught on. Why on earth hadn't the daft sod said something? Even he could understand why yesterday's jacket was no longer acceptable.

"Hang on a minute," he shouted over his shoulder as he dived into his own bedroom. "Try this, it's bound to be a bit big but at least you won't get cold." He held out his second best leather jacket.

"No thanks, I don't--"

"Wear it," Bodie snapped out. "The last thing I want right now is you going down with bleeding flu." He thrust the jacket over and left the flat without looking back. By the time he reached the car, Doyle, wearing the coat, was right behind him.

---

By lunch time Doyle was beginning to wonder why he had ever wanted to leave the quiet sanctuary of his cell. He had spent all morning determined not to give in to the desire to apologise for all the trouble he was causing as he was seen by a never-ending stream of bureaucrats who seemed at a loss to know what to do with the man cluttering up their neat offices. He had received an awkward handshake and garbled apology for the inconvenience the mistrial had caused him from the Home Secretary's secretary's assistant's secretary. At least he thought it had been an apology. He had never seen so many embarrassed faces in one day before. Oddly enough, it seemed to be his decision not to go for a retrial that was causing the problems rather than the fact he had wasted three years of his life in H.M. prisons.

He was ushered into yet another office and braced himself for the next round. The fact that he was clearly expected almost threw him off-balance.

"Ah, Mr Doyle, I was expecting you hours ago, get lost did you?"

The vigorous handshake and thump on shoulder were as genuinely friendly as all the others had been false. "Come in, come in, have a seat, cup of tea? Might even round up some chocolate biscuits if we're lucky." The redheaded whirlwind pulled him into the wonderfully unregimented office, while issuing orders to his secretary.

"Two teas then, Bet, luv, and some biscuits; oh, and tell Mr Randall that we'll be over to see him soon."

Doyle removed some papers from a chair and sat down.

"Right, now then, I'm Bob Craig. Let me see where you've been so far." He took the file that Doyle had been carrying around with him and quickly scanned the list of departments already visited. "Been around a bit this morning. Any idea of exactly what's been going on, have you?" Craig's cheerful face positively beamed across the desk at him and Doyle felt his gloom lift a little.

"To be honest--no."

"Can't say I'm surprised. Gets right up their noses when they realise that our wonderful Courts of Justice aren't all they're cracked up to be. Don't suppose anyone's even apologised to you yet, have they."

"Well, I think someone did earlier this morning."

"Not that any apology is ever going to make up for what you've been through." Craig looked the young man over; he had read the reports and had no doubts at all that the man before him had been through a lot. "How's it been since you were discharged from the hospital wing? No more trouble I hope?"

The green eyes widened as Doyle understood that Craig knew everything that had happened to him.

"No, no trouble," he answered flatly.

Craig was wise enough not to press the point.

"Mr Cowley is a formidable man, are you sure that he hasn't pressured you into forgoing your right to a public retrial?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I can understand the reasons behind his desire to keep your good character quiet but I'll give you the credit for knowing your own mind. I believe that you are to start a training programme to qualify you for CI5."

"That's right."

"If at the end you find you don't want to join Cowley's organisation or, indeed, if CI5 decide they don't want you after all, you will still have the right to ask for a public announcement of your innocence. This whole affair is totally without precedent so I don't see that a delay of another few months will hurt anyone."

"Sounds fair enough."

"Now, down to practicalities. Money. Do you have any?"

"Er...some savings in a building society, not much though."

"In time you will receive financial compensation, the amount will no doubt be bickered over but when all's said and done it will amount to your three years' loss of salary, taking into account any overtime and increments you would have been entitled to plus, of course, what they call 'recompense for hardship endured'. Though how they agree on a total for that defeats me. The Legal department will be in touch with you in due course; my job right now is to make sure you've enough to be getting on with. I understand Mr Cowley has provided you with a flat..."

"Yes."

"Again, should CI5 dispense with you in the near future you must come and see me about accommodation. Can't have you dossing down under the arches, can we?"

Doyle's thoughts immediately went to his current flatmate--dossing under the arches didn't seem such an unpleasant prospect.

Bob Craig continued the interview at a brisk pace, speaking in plain, everyday English that seemed to cut through reams of red tape and make the effort of rejoining the free world seem a piece of cake.

In under two hours, this very untypical civil servant had taken him to a quiet pub garden for a beer and a ploughman's, introduced him to Mr Randall, the local friendly bank manager, and arranged for an impressive advance on his forthcoming compensation. Cheque book and card were promised as soon as the ink was dry and Doyle now found himself at one end of Oxford Street with enough money in his brand-new leather wallet to buy a complete wardrobe.

With a light heart and a spring in his step, Ray Doyle walked into the first shop.

---

"Morning, Sid." Bodie nodded a greeting to the security man on the door and made his way up the stairs, his mind already listing the things he had to do when he reached his office.

"Morning Bodie, where's your little friend?"

Bodie looked at Connors, non-comprehension mingling with the scowl on his face.

"Huh?"

"Rough night was it?" said Connors, whose main problem in life was correctly assessing people's moods. "Showing our little jailbird the finer things in life were we."

"What?"

"Doyle--took him out on the town, didn't you?"

"No, I flaming well didn't!" Bodie's acid tone implied that his colleague was mad to have even suggested the idea, and adequately covered the uncomfortable suspicion that everyone--including Cowley--had expected him to do just that. He glared at the unfortunate Connors and rounded the corner, walking straight into one of the subjects of his thoughts. Cowley.

"Oof!"

Cowley reeled back under the impact and was only prevented from landing in an ignominious heap by Bodie's restraining hands.

"Ouch!" As he righted his boss, Bodie's hand went to the stabbing pain at his neck, and he closed his eyes against the threatening black and white spots.

"Bodie? Are you all right, man?" Cowley asked, his voice full of concern. Bodie had gone as white as a sheet.

"Yeah...fine... I'm fine..." Bodie had to admit to himself that hadn't sounded very convincing.

"Are you sure Dr Willis said you could leave the neck brace off?"

Recovering quickly, Bodie forced a pained smile. "Would I have taken it off otherwise?"

"I won't waste breath answering that, Bodie, but if you cause further injury to yourself by your own neglect I advise you against--"

"I'll be careful, sir. Promise. Scout's honour."

"Huh." With a warning glare, Cowley continued along the corridor and Bodie entered his own office without further mishap.

Halfway through the morning, Bodie threw his pen down and allowed himself his first smile of the day. Reading back through the timetable he had compiled, the smile grew. It wasn't excessive, he told himself. He knew he couldn't come down too hard on the man, but he was confident that Doyle would be willing, even eager, to cry off the rest of the training.

It wouldn't take much. After very little thought he had decided to stay in town and concentrate on the facilities available at HQ and the nearby gymnasium; a few runs around the building would kill Doyle off just as well as the open spaces down at the army ranges they normally used, and for a week or two it was hardly worth the effort of packing a suitcase.

He suddenly remembered that he would have to book time on the indoor ranges; he would have priority, of course, but it was still best to book. What guns had Doyle been trained on, Bodie wondered thoughtfully, probably something pretty basic. None of the so-called police marksmen he ever met amounted to much in the way of skill and versatility. Doyle probably thought he would be some kind of hot-shot, he decided disparagingly. That would be another way to knock him down to size; after three years Doyle's style was bound to be more than a little shaky, and there had been a lot of innovations during that time. CI5's armoury was extensive. Blind the little bugger with science, he thought cheerfully. First things first, though, he had to check on Doyle's weaponry record.

Walking slowly down towards the General Office, Bodie detoured via the vending machine and, by dint of a powerful thump on the side of the cabinet, persuaded it to cough one plastic beaker three-quarters full of a dubious liquid that claimed to be water. He couldn't decide which taste was worse, the sweet coffee/tea tasting water or the tablets which started dissolving immediately they touched his tongue. As always, one of them lodged in his throat and he had to repeat the manoeuvre to get a second drink of water. He was still trying to get rid of the bitter taste when he heard his name mentioned. Ever curious, he listened to the conversation drifting into the corridor through the open door.

"I thought he looked...cute."

"Come off it, Cathy...cute hardly does him justice."

Bodie's ears pricked up even more, it sounded like a good conversation.

"Those eyes," Cathy said. "I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful eyes on a man. I'd kill for eyes like that." The open envy drifted towards Bodie who, if he had been a bird of the feathered variety, would no doubt have preened the said feathers.

"What about his bum! Have you ever seen one like--"

A sudden commotion further down the corridor cut off the rest of the other girl's sentence; Bodie thought it was Barbara, but a girl with taste whoever she was. He knew he ought to move away but vanity made him stay. It wasn't often he actually heard firsthand what the office girls thought of him. The noise stopped as quickly as it had started.

"...training programme."

"Poor thing, fancy being stuck with that berk," said Cathy, and Bodie agreed wholeheartedly.

"If the department's so hard up for accommodation, I'll volunteer to let him come and stay with me," Barbara offered. It wasn't often that one could claim to hear a woman speak lecherously, but Barbara managed it beautifully and Bodie made a mental note to have a quiet word with the accommodation officer.

"I saw him first."

"Claws in, pussy cats," interrupted a third voice. "By the time Bodie has finished grinding the little darling into the ground he won't have any energy left for what you've got in mind."

Raucous laughter rang out but Bodie wasn't listening any more. Doyle. They had all got the hots for that pathetic weed that Cowley had dumped on him.

By the time he reached the counter in the office, the girls were a picture of decorum.

"I want a file. Ray Doyle," he snapped.

"Sorry, Bodie," said Barbara sweetly. "All CI5 personnel records are kept in Mr Cowley's office."

"He's not in CI5 yet," he barked.

"Mr Cowley holds his file though, you'll have to see him."

Bodie did an about turn and left, his bad temper wrapped around him like a visible cloak which people saw and avoided.

On arriving outside Cowley's office, Bodie caught sight of the file he was seeking--on Betty's desk. Naughty, Betty, he thought, the file should have been under lock and key, not available for every Tom, Dick and Bodie to have a look at.

He flicked through to the relevant pages and whistled under his breath. Not just a marksman, Doyle had been the top marksman for the two years before his committal. He had wiped the board in competitions, taking top prizes and honours in inter-constabulary competitions in handguns; he hadn't trailed far behind the riflemarksman either. Even three years away from the ranges would be unlikely to destroy that level of skill--a little practice and Bodie suspected he might find himself bettered on the handgun. It would be interesting to see how Doyle would progress with the brand-new technology available to CI5. He snapped the file shut; he wouldn't see it because Doyle was not going to last that long.

"Bodie, I want a word with you in my office. Now."

Bodie almost jumped in surprise; he hadn't heard Cowley come in. Taking the folder with him, he followed Cowley, wondering as he went why the Old Man was looking so disgruntled.

"Shut the door."

Bodie closed the door and moved across the room to sit down, only stopping as he saw the stern expression and upraised brow that indicated this was not an occasion to make himself comfortable. Wondering what the hell he had done wrong now, Bodie stood, military style, at ease before the desk.

"Last night," Cowley snapped out. "Where did you go?"

"Pardon, sir?" asked Bodie.

"When you left here, where did you go? What's the matter, don't you understand English anymore?"

Bodie was at a loss to understand why Cowley should be so mad. That he was furiously angry was obvious. It took a lot to get George Cowley this riled.

"Out, sir. To a pub--the Black Lion, on to a restaurant, another pub, and then to a home in Richmond."

"Who with?"

Bodie began to get the sneaking suspicion that Cowley was not going to like his answer. It seemed that Connors' assumption of who he should have spent the evening with was shared by Cowley.

"Marianne Phelby."

"Who else?"

"No one."

"Where was Doyle while you were gadding about with Miss Phelby?"

"Don't know, sir."

"What did he use for transport?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Did you think to ask him if he had any money on him before you left him to amuse yourself with Miss Phelby?"

"No, sir."

"What was he wearing when you parted company?"

"Prison clothing, sir."

"Where exactly did you leave him?"

"Forecourt outside, sir."

"What time did he arrive at your flat?"

"Don't know, sir."

"You don't know much, do you Bodie? It seems that the entire London Transport Police, Prison Service and the Home Office have been informed that there was an unescorted, possibly escaped prisoner travelling between Westminster, Hounslow and Knightsbridge last night. There were half a dozen telephone calls from retired prison officers, an ex-probation officer and several ticket collectors to that effect. Last night, Governor Bryant received a phone call from a Mr John Doyle who wanted to know if the Governor knew his brother was roaming the streets, free as a bird, in prison uniform." Cowley came to an abrupt halt. He had been perfectly aware that Bodie had not welcomed the prospect of having Doyle as a partner, but he had been sure that his agent's fair-mindedness and cleverly concealed soft heart would prevent him from being too hard on the man. Had he been wrong? Yesterday he hadn't thought so.

"Did he tell you anything about what he did yesterday?" Cowley asked, his voice a fraction less icy. He could only be thankful that none of the people had attempted to apprehend the prisoner. God only knew what that little scene would have done to Doyle's off-balance self-confidence.

"Only that he had collected some cases from a member of his family." Bodie's voice was very subdued. Listening to his own string of 'Don't know, sirs', he finally admitted that his behaviour towards Doyle had not been very benevolent.

"His brother reported him to the Governor, sir?" he queried.

"Aye, he did. It would seem that Doyle chose not to enlighten his brother about his change of fortune." John Doyle's telephone call to the Governor troubled Cowley. The next few months were going to be tough on his newest recruit, and it seemed that he was going to be denied the respect and understanding of his family as well as being run into the ground by a hostile instructor. He knew that if they mollycoddled Doyle the chances of losing him would double, but they didn't have the right to destroy him completely.

"Have you worked out a schedule for Doyle yet?" Cowley asked; at least he would keep an eye on Bodie, make sure he did not go over the top.

Bodie handed over the rough plan he had worked out and watched as his boss examined the very untidily drawn outline.

"It is only a rough draft, sir," he offered as Cowley peered at the scribbled handwriting.

"That much I can see, Bodie." He peered at the scrawling words a little longer, then removed his glasses.

"I'll want a decent copy of the working timetable."

"Sir."

"There are only two weeks here, what will be your plans from that time?"

"Haven't worked them out yet, sir. I thought it best to see how he gets on with that little lot first."

Cowley pushed the timetable back across the desk. Bodie's answer hadn't fooled him at all. It was plain that the younger man was not expecting Doyle to last that long.

"Very well. Before you start I want you to see Macklin, he will tell you how to measure Doyle's heart rate, respiration and so forth. Bearing in mind that Doyle has not had any strenuous exercise for a long time you must be careful not to push him too hard too fast. If you have any cause for concern over his physical condition you will consult Dr Willis immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

"As crystal, sir," Bodie said crisply.

"I'll want a rough outline of the entire programme before tonight. You will show it to Macklin when you see him, as well. You are in charge of Doyle's training, Bodie, but Macklin will have my permission to change or adapt anything he deems necessary. That will be all."

Cowley dismissed Bodie from his office but not from his mind. The outline had been what he had hoped for. Not easy but not excessive. Bodie clearly did not have a very high opinion of Ray Doyle's resilience or stamina.

This whole idea of teaming the two men had been more than a diversionary tactic to keep the convalescent agent out of the office staff's hair. Bodie had all the skills that CI5 needed at his fingertips, a true professional; his military experience combined with his mercenary experiences, gun running and slightly illegal youth, plus the hard-shelled nature that he showed to the public was what made his presence so advantageous to the department.

But, and Cowley admitted that it was a big but, all that skill was in danger of running wild and free. Bodie had no roots, nothing to hold him down and Cowley was aware that if the occasion arose, he would move off. Nothing would stop him; apart from himself, Cowley guessed that few people would even care. The only reason Bodie remained now was because of his personal loyalty to the head of CI5. Loyalty was hard-won and easily lost. Cowley knew that there would have to be something else to hold Bodie back, another binding loyalty. The two men were chalk and cheese, they had little in common, practically nothing except comparable weaponry skills and a seemingly ingrained sense of competitiveness. If the teaming worked, Cowley suspected they would be unbeatable.

Ifs and buts. That's what it all boiled down to in the end. Cowley sighed and pulled out a file that had been out of sight in his desk drawer.

Slowly he read through the medical reports. Was it really wise to put the two men together, he asked himself. He had gained access to Bodie's confidence only rarely, the young man's private life being a close-kept secret; but the little he had gleaned of the horrific experiences Bodie had endured in Africa said that he was right. If only Doyle would trust Bodie enough he might find an understanding friend.

---

It took two trips from the taxi and four trips to the rubbish disposal chute before he could begin to put his purchases away in the drawers and wardrobe of his new temporary home.

He had enjoyed the experience of spending money like it was going out of fashion, had savoured the sensation of owning a wallet that, like Dozemary Pool, was bottomless. Money had never been much of a problem before, but the complete freedom of buying something just because he liked the feel of the cloth and the vibrant colours of the fabric was new to him.

Once everything was neatly packed away Doyle set about choosing something to wear. He was spoilt for choice but eventually settled on a pair of jeans and a soft cotton shirt that even with its starchy newness was more comfortable than his much-washed prison clothes. Dressed, he fastened the new watch around his wrist and began to attempt tidying up his tousled hair. He frowned at his reflection as he watched the curls spring straight back; next on the list was a decent haircut. The hand dragging the comb through his hair stopped mid-motion, and the frown deepened. The small shaving mirror he had used over the past year had been old and speckled, reflecting enough for him to shave adequately. This mirror was as good as new and situated in the correct position to reflect a perfectly clear, well-illuminated image of its user.

For a long time Doyle looked at himself. It was almost like seeing a stranger. He had known he had lost weight but he'd never realised how much; he had always been slim, but the wide-eyed waif in the mirror was a complete surprise. He looked like a walking skeleton--no wonder The Hulk (which he had adopted by way of name for his appointed trainer and flat mate) had not looked overly impressed. D.C. Doyle of the Yard had vanished and in his place stood--what--Ray Doyle, exonerated ex-con and CI5 hopeful. His gaze returned to the reflection of his face, and in particular the protruding lump high on his cheekbone.

"That'll teach you to be so bloody vain."

A chill crept up his spine and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he heard that hateful, despicable, loathsome voice that haunted his waking hours as well as his dreams.

Had he been vain? he asked himself. Before what happened to him inside he would have said not. He was what he was. He could not change the colour and curls of his hair or alter his physical shape any more than he could suddenly grow horns. He had never had any problems attracting the girls he had wanted once he'd passed the puberty-pimply stage and it had never occurred to him that he might attract fish from the other side of the pond. Again he asked himself, Why me? But, as on the millions of other occasions, he could not fathom an answer.

He forced himself to turn away from the mirror. How long would it be, he wondered, before he would be able to see that mark on his face without remembering all that went with it?

He consulted his watch; it was early evening and he wondered what time The Hulk would arrive at the flat. There was no way of knowing without calling HQ and he had no intention of doing that. Rummaging around in the bedside cabinet, he came across a few technical manuals on basic firearms, and for want of anything better to do, he settled down across his bed to read.

When Bodie arrived home he found Doyle still sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, with the magazine still open at the first page.

Bodie took stock of the new clothes; at least that was one worry settled, he'd clearly got some money from somewhere. He looked at the time; it was just gone 6.30 p.m., surely it was too early for Doyle to want to settle down to sleep for the rest of the night--besides, he wanted to talk to him about their plans for tomorrow. He crossed the room and laid a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder.

Doyle was standing upright on the opposite side of the bed almost before his eyes were open.

"Oh...it's you..." Doyle rubbed a hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Startled me... What d'you want?"

Bodie couldn't help but be amazed at the speed of Doyle's reactions. He would have sworn that the man had been very deeply asleep.

"Didn't mean to startle you, but I thought you'd want to know what's in store for you tomorrow." Now that Doyle was fully awake, Bodie was conscious of something in the cold glare he was receiving that was very unsettling; for a brief moment he felt that Doyle was scared of him but the aggressive stance denied that impression immediately. "Come through to the other room when you're ready." Still puzzled by the mixture of emotions, Bodie retreated to the living room.

It was a few minutes before Doyle joined him and settled down in the opposite armchair, perched on the edge, his eyes scanning the sheets of paper Bodie had spread over the coffee table, preparing for the worst.

"Right, first things first," said Bodie in a businesslike, impersonal tone of voice. "From Dr Willis, the departmental quack; he's gone over your medical files and will be seeing you for a thorough medical at various stages during your training. He reckons you're about two stone underweight so here's a special diet sheet--follow it."

Doyle looked at the paper; it contained a list of high-protein, high-carbohydrate foods, most of which he had always disliked intensely and had no intention of eating now on anybody's say-so.

"Next, you ever gone in for jogging?" Bodie asked, successfully making the question sound as if jogging was a distasteful vice that no sane person would ever consider.

"Yes, I used to do a fair bit, it's a good way of keeping fit."

"Oh." Somehow Bodie had guessed that would be the answer. "In that case you can start first thing tomorrow, set your own pace and distance, then after breakfast we'll go down to the gym and start on building up your muscles." Bodie smiled as he spoke but the expression failed to reach his eyes.

"Okay," Doyle agreed quietly, already looking forward to a jog around the peaceful streets the next morning.

"Have you got any gear? Shoes, trainers, that sort of thing?" Bodie asked. After this morning's encounter he could imagine Cowley's reaction to discovering Doyle exercising in normal street clothes.

"Yes." Doyle was pretty sure he had anticipated and prepared himself, equipment- and clothing-wise, for everything The Hulk was going to throw at him.

"After the first week or so we'll start going over department policies and tactics; your papers say you've done a bit of urban-guerrilla training."

"That's right."

"Well, you can forget just about everything you learnt. In CI5 we have our own way of handling things. I'll put you through all the ranges; as you progress we'll move on to the next group and then the next. In CI5 you will have to reach a specified level of accuracy and remain constant, otherwise you'll be out on your ear."

"How long will the testing go on for?"

"Constantly. Everyone is checked regularly; if you get complacent you're out."

From the casual, offhand tone Doyle surmised the Bodie was sure he was going to fail at the first hurdle. People had underestimated him before; just because he wasn't built like a brick outhouse they assumed he was a seven stone weakling. He had surprised his opponents on more than one occasion and he would do his utmost to shock The Hulk out of his careless judgement.

The discussion of the training schedule was suddenly interrupted by a very loud rumble. Embarrassed by his betraying stomach, Doyle forced himself to look up.

"Sorry, but I think my stomach's trying to tell me something."

"Wouldn't say no to something to eat either. What do you fancy, there's an Indian and Kebab's takeaway, a Kebab House or a chippy just around the corner."

Before Doyle could answer, though, Bodie said, "Shit, it's Wednesday, the Indian and Kebab's shut so it's chips, unless you can cook," he added without much hope.

"I can cook. What have you got in the kitchen?"

"Dunno, Marianne got a load of shopping at the weekend; it all cost enough so there must be something out there."

"Don't you cook?"

"Not if I can help it. Do you want to see what's there?"

"Okay."

Once he had shown the new cook where to find everything, Bodie retreated to the living room where he settled down in front of the telly with a can of beer and Doyle's training programme, only half aware of the muted clattering coming from the kitchen.

It was nearly an hour before Doyle piled everything onto two plates and carried Bodie's tray through to the living room. Trusting that Marianne would have pandered to Bodie's tastes, he had chucked just about everything he had found into the bolognaise sauce and poured it over a pile of steaming spaghetti.

Apart from the widening of his eyes and the undisguised eagerness with which he reached for the tray, Bodie made no comment, but the speed at which the meal vanished spoke for itself.

"There's some more outside if you want it," Doyle offered.

Bodie did, and helped himself to a second generous portion, offering some to Doyle, who just shook his head. As he watched the second helping go the way of the first, Doyle wondered why it seemed to be his lot in life to end up with people who enjoyed good food but were unable or unwilling to cook it. Ann had hated cooking; the very thought of peeling potatoes or chopping meat would make her miserable for hours. She'd enjoyed his cooking and he had always found pleasure in spending an hour or so in the kitchen. Mind you, he admitted to himself, with Ann it was cook it yourself or starve.

Bodie leant back in the armchair and stretched. "That was really good. Put you to work in the kitchens, did they?" It had been meant as a compliment; he had enjoyed the meal, and a full stomach usually put him in a very benevolent mood.

"How did you guess!"

The biting voice cut through Bodie's sated well-being and made him realise that perhaps his comment had lacked tact. Before he could respond, Doyle finished his meal and strode through to the kitchen.

He really hadn't meant to offend the man and Bodie waited for him to return so he could apologise, but an item on the news caught his attention and by the time the programme had finished he realised that time had passed and still Doyle had not returned. Walking through to the kitchen with his own dinner tray, he found everything washed up and left to drain, and the room empty. Adding his own things to the stack of pans and dishes on the drainer, Bodie peered into the hallway; light was spilling out from the half-open door to Doyle's room.

So, he thought grimly, the little toad had decided to sulk in solitude. Stuff him then, and he turned back to the living room and the film that was just starting.

Lounging across his bed with the gun magazine spread out in front of him, Doyle lifted his head and listened as he heard the footsteps from the living room to the kitchen and back. Through the doorway he could hear the music heralding the start of the film. He refused to let himself dwell on the stupid throwaway remark. It wasn't worth it, and it was, he acknowledged sadly, probably only the first of many such comments. He couldn't afford to let each one upset him, but pretending that they didn't was proving to be harder than he had expected.

The magazine was not particularly interesting and the noise from the television eventually proved too distracting. Unable to settle, Doyle got up from his lounging sprawl across the bed and walked quietly through to the living room.

On reaching the darkened room, though, his resolve to walk in and watch the film faltered. Bodie looked very comfortable. The light from the television fell upon a very cosy scene, with Bodie lying full length across the sofa, his head propped up on a cushion.

How long he stood in the door he was not sure. There was nothing to prevent him from entering the room, absolutely nothing--except Bodie's indifference. Unable to force himself to intrude on the man's privacy and reluctant to experience any more hassle, Doyle returned to the friendly isolation of his own room.

---

CHAPTER THREE

Turning left into the quiet side road in which he lived, Bodie gave a sideways glance at his flaked-out passenger who had been asleep since before they left the car park.

It was hardly surprising, though, Bodie admitted cheerfully, and he allowed himself to smile properly for the first time in nearly a week.

Today had been pretty tough for Doyle; standing on the sidelines the gleeful convalescent had seen the confidence and cockiness of the previous few days falter and fade. He had at first allowed Doyle to set his own pace without letting him realise exactly what he was doing. It made sense to know precisely what the little toad thought he was capable of, Bodie had decided, and so for three days he watched as Doyle did his early morning jogging, weight training and shooting practice. Doyle's level of fitness, considering his undernourished state, was in fact a little above average for his size and age--a fact which told Bodie that he had not spent the past three years shackled to some dungeon wall.

Ray Doyle had decided against informing his instructor about the series of exercises Bill Hillyard had worked him through in the prison gymnasium, deciding that it would be in his own best interest not to lay all his cards on the table at once. His object, however, was completely and utterly defeated by his wish not to fall flat on his face and show himself up in front of the irritatingly superior agent.

By the third day, Bodie knew exactly how far Doyle's strength and skill could take him. The fourth and fifth days he had pushed Doyle to his limit and beyond--and then on some more.

Drawing up to the kerb, Bodie jerked on the handbrake and switched off the engine. Doyle didn't so much as twitch. Bodie shook him roughly, then even harder. The sleeper jumped and pulled away from his touch, then mumbled something too softly for Bodie to hear, before settling down again on the other side of the seat.

"Oi!" Bodie leant over and shouted in his ear. "We're home. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!"

A hand reached up to cover the ear nearest the noise and heavy lids lifted to glare in sleepy annoyance.

"We're home," Bodie repeated loudly, deciding there and then to leave Doyle in the car all night if he didn't wake up soon.

"Mmm--pardon? D'you say something... Oh, we're home..."

Uncoordinated fingers fumbled with the catch and pushed the door open. Recalling the agony last night's unthinking haste had caused, Doyle was careful to move each leg slowly and ease himself out of the car gently. He didn't care if he did look like an arthritic geriatric, he wasn't going to give Bodie the pleasure of seeing him doubled in agony caught by a cramp halfway between the car and the pavement again.

Following Bodie into the flats, he glared first at the staircase and then at the smug grin on the arrogant face. He dearly wanted to tell Bodie what he could do with his bloody lift, but he knew he lacked the energy to do it; he didn't even have the strength to crawl up the flaming stairs on his hands and knees--and Bodie knew it.

Angry with himself for being so weak, he raged mutely as Bodie considerately opened and closed the lift gates. Once inside the flat he flopped down in front of the television, prepared at least to try and take an interest in the news and following current affairs programme. Apparently--according to Bodie anyway--all self-respecting CI5 agents kept on top of current affairs constantly. As well as the physical training, Bodie had him reading all the daily newspapers, every day--cover to cover--from the Court Diary in the Times to the gossip column in the Sun and all points in between. If he wasn't being thrashed, pounded and humiliated, he was stuck in a corner hidden behind piles of newsprint.

Since the first disastrous evening Doyle had not offered to cook anything more adventurous than toast or coffee, and it had been left to Bodie, with half an eye on Dr Willis' diet sheet, to prepare the evening meals.

The reason for Doyle's malnourished appearance swiftly became obvious to Bodie. The man had the appetite of an anorexic sparrow! What Doyle had eaten in the last week wouldn't keep Bodie satisfied for a day. Coaxing a grown man to eat was not a skill that Bodie had ever acquired. His culinary expertise was not extensive but he tried to tempt Doyle with the few things that Willis recommended and he could cook. Steak and potatoes. Oven chips, Bodie decided, were the next best thing.

Carrying the dinner trays through to the lounge, Bodie was hard-pressed not to laugh at Doyle's earnest attempt to look wide awake and alert as he stared with glazed eyes in the general direction of the television, looking for all the world as if the Andrex puppy was the hottest news of the day.

The weight of the tray on his lap drew Doyle back to the present and he looked down, trying to hide his dismay.

Steak and chips again! Couldn't Bodie cook anything else? He couldn't even cook steak, Doyle decided as his stomach threatened to revolt; it was raw--if it had even seen the base of a frying pan it hadn't stayed long enough to make any impression, and if that wasn't bad enough, the blood made the chips go soggy.

Once he was sure Bodie had forgotten he was there, and he had eaten his fill of the unbloodied chips and accompanying tomato, Doyle slipped quietly into the kitchen and carefully disposed of the unwanted steak.

Surfacing from his own preoccupation, Bodie was unsurprised to find himself alone. Apart from the aggravation of preparing an extra meal and the odd extra cup of coffee, he could almost forget he was sharing his flat with anyone else. Even after five days there were no outward signs that anyone other than Bodie lived there. He'd had girls stay over before and even after only one day he would find things scattered about, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, a strange jacket in the hallway, an unfamiliar book beside a chair, but so far nothing belonging to Ray Doyle had left the small spare room that he occupied.

It was still early, not even half past nine, but Bodie knew that if he went into the hallway he would find the rest of the flat in darkness. Early to bed, early to rise and all that, Bodie thought. At least the berk didn't try to pretend he didn't need to sleep that much. Christ! if he had to tuck him into bed at night as well as everything else he'd do his nut next time Cowley asked how things were getting on.

Cowley! Should he tell Cowley about last night? God, let's hope that's not going to be repeated in a hurry, Bodie thought fervently. Doyle hadn't mentioned it this morning. Not that there was any reason why he should, of course. Nightmares were a perfectly normal thing to have; it was just your subconscious showing you all the nasty, horrible things that your conscious mind insisted on forgetting. A lot of perfectly normal people had nightmares; Bodie even had them. High on his list of most embarrassing memories was a recollection of the circle of twelve startled, sleepy faces around his bed as he screamed and fought off the enemy, only to wake up in his nice, safe bed in the middle of the barrack dormitory. One bad dream could happen to anyone.

It was the seventh night before the second dream disrupted the quiet flat.

Already reaching for his gun as sleep vanished, Bodie was on his feet before the panicked cry faded. For a moment it was quiet, but he trusted his senses enough to know he wasn't remembering a dream.

Not his dream--Doyle's. In the dark the voice cried out again, louder and more distressed. Slipping his gun back into its holster, Bodie relaxed a little.

Another cry came from the other room. More disturbed than he cared to admit by the obvious terror behind the garbled cries, Bodie slipped on his dressing gown and softly padded down the hall. The other night Doyle had seemingly woken up after the first cry because there had only been the one, blood-chilling scream that had frightened Bodie out of a year's growth. Sleep was reluctant to loose its grip on the exhausted, terrified man tonight, though. One more cry decided it for Bodie and he pushed open the door and reached for the main light switch; in the same instant Doyle jolted awake and hit the bedside light, the resulting brilliance blinding both men.

"What do you want?" Doyle asked in a breathless voice. "What's up?"

"That's what I came here to ask you," Bodie replied, slightly annoyed that he had to explain his presence. "Sleepwalking isn't something I go in for--neither is waking the neighbours at three in the morning screaming my head off."

So he had been screaming then. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Doyle knew that he would wake up before the screaming started, but like tonight, more often than not he wouldn't. Instead of the screws banging the door down, he now had to contend with Bodie also suffering broken nights.

"Sorry if I disturbed you...it was just a dream." Might just as well warn him of the worst, Doyle decided. "Get them every now and then. Seems I get a bit...noisy."

"I'd already worked that out for myself."

Sharp eyes looked up at him in a silent question.

"A few nights ago I heard you--guessed it was a bad dream."

The eyes dropped and gazed intently at the sheets. He didn't remember that one, they didn't always wake him up. Now that the recent nightmare was fading and the icy fear that chilled him to the bone was thawing, other emotions, mainly embarrassment, flooded in.

Remembering his own humiliation in the wide-awake barrack room, Bodie found himself trying to ease the tension. There was no shame attached to having the odd nightmare.

"Look, it's okay, don't worry about it," he said kindly. "All coming to get you, were they?" he joked.

The innocent words made Doyle freeze. Did Bodie know, he wondered. Surely not. He wasn't even sure if Cowley knew. Stupid. Of course Cowley knew--it was just easier to pretend that no one did. Was there anyone who didn't know? He'd grown used to the change of expression, the flash of sympathy, revulsion and in some cases excitement. Bob Craig, the doctors, the nurses in the public hospital, Governor Bryant, the screws--everyone in 'B' wing had known. Why should Bodie remain ignorant of the facts? But maybe he didn't know; Doyle wanted to believe he didn't. Were CI5 agents allowed to have nightmares, he asked himself--probably not. Would Bodie write "unsuitable because of recurring nightmares" across his report? Time would tell.

"Something like that."

The answer, when it finally came, was something of an anticlimax. Bodie watched as the immobile figure had worked the intended joke through, thought about it and spat it out. He would dearly love to know what had been behind the changes of expression in the drawn face that, in only a few seconds, had reflected shock, fear, disgust, despair and resignation.

"Look," Doyle continued, his fingers plucking at a loose thread on the pillow case, "like you said, this wasn't the first time...don't suppose it'll be the last either. There's no point both of us being up half the night--so next time, if there is a next time, I'd be grateful if you just left me alone. There's nothing you can do...just ignore it."

"If that's what you want."

"It's what I want."

"See you in the morning then."

"Yeah."

Giving him a stiff nod, Bodie switched off the main light and went back to his own room. Doyle watched him go, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard him returning to his own bed. Relaxing against the pillow, he closed his eyes. He was wide awake now; not that he wished to go to sleep right away, the dream always seemed to come back when he did that.

Through the open door he heard Bodie cough as he snuggled back into his bed, the noise sounding clearly through the quiet flat. Getting out of bed, Doyle walked to the door and slowly shut it; he stayed there for a few minutes with his hand resting on the handle. The small room grew oppressive; a cold sweat broke out across his face and down his back and his heart started pounding wildly. Suddenly terrified that he was going to be trapped in the tiny room, he opened the door, the rush of cool air dispelling the panic as swiftly as it had begun.

He stood there, leaning on the doorframe, gulping at the air. CI5 might well accept agents prone to nightmares but Doyle was certain that claustrophobes wouldn't even get past the first interview.

He closed the door and walked away, back to the other side of the room. It wasn't locked; there wasn't even a lock on the door. Any time he wanted to get out he could just walk over and open it. Any time.

He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

---

With his jacket slung over his shoulder, Doyle sauntered out onto the street, hoping that he looked more at ease than he felt. It was the first time since being released that he had gone out alone of his own choice. Although he enjoyed his solitary morning jog, he was always aware that someone was awaiting his return and hoping that maybe this morning he would collapse and refuse to go on.

No, he thought, deciding to be fair, Bodie was starting to realise that he meant business. Strolling along the sun-drenched, tree-lined avenue, Doyle felt in a mood to be charitable. He really couldn't blame Bodie for reacting to the proposed partnership without any enthusiasm. It must have been a terrible blow to his ego when Cowley had informed him that, after due consideration, he had decided that an ex-convict--albeit a wrongly convicted one--who had done three years inside, suffered from nightmares and various other psychological disorders and was two stone underweight was the ideal partner for him. It would probably take a bit of getting used to.

He carried on walking slowly, just looking around him, soaking up the easy atmosphere. Most of the office workers had gone home and the only people on the streets seemed to be people like himself, just out enjoying the summer evening: tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, couples soaking up the sun and each other's company, a few families looking tired but happy after a day in the big city.

A little way down the road, a public house had set tables and chairs outside on the pavement so people could drink and continue to watch the gentle flow of life and London, and he made himself comfortable with a cool beer at one of the tables. He was tired but not exhausted, today having been slightly easier because of Bodie's distraction. Doyle felt mildly guilty that he had used the other man's lack of attention to ease up. For the past two weeks Bodie had been pushing him harder than necessary, but he had an idea that he was going to be grateful for the strict regime he had imposed. Today, in a different part of the gym, another agent had been working out and Bodie had asked her to take Doyle on the mats in hand-to-hand combat. Ruth had agreed and set to enthusiastically; at first her degree of skill had floored Doyle--several times--but Ruth calmly told him that the first rule was always--never underestimate your opponent. He already knew that and was mad with himself for having to be so forcibly reminded, especially in front of Bodie, and by a woman who was certainly no taller or heavier than he was. He didn't consider himself to have a chauvinist attitude but being defeated so soundly by a mere woman was painful.

At the end of the day Bodie had told him quietly that he wouldn't be going straight home that night; the news had not surprised Doyle in the least. Bodie had not been very discreet about who he had been concentrating on all day, so after seeing Bodie and Ruth Pettifer slip away together, he had decided to venture out on his own.

There had been nothing to stop him going out at any time except his own exhaustion. Another reason why he had put off going had been his total lack of choice. An evening out with Bodie was something he was sure he could live without; all day in the man's company was bad enough. He had never really enjoyed drinking alone and he was very reluctant to call on any of his old friends, none of whom had visited or kept in touch with him--which really only left the cinema or a show, a meal in a restaurant--table for one, cruellest sentence in the world, that.

No. A quiet walk. Soak up the sunshine then go home, read that manual Bodie'd given him, try to stay awake past ten o'clock and then with luck, a dreamless sleep.

"Hello, love, sitting all alone on a lovely night like this! Can I join you?"

The soft, lilting voice jolted him back to the present and he looked up in time to see a slim, fair-haired young woman settle herself down at his table and arrange her drink and bags neatly beside her. He looked around them and saw that there were other empty tables she could have chosen and found himself wishing she had.

"Nice sitting out here like this, isn't it?" she said conversationally, trapping Doyle instantly when he agreed that it was by launching into the predictable make-talk by discussing the weather. Not in the mood for talking, Doyle made another mistake by mutely agreeing with her meteorological comments.

"Come from around here, do you?" she asked, in a sudden change of direction.

"No, not from here."

"Not a Londoner then?"

"No." He wasn't, not a born one anyway, and before he could stop himself he made his third mistake and began contributing to the so-far one-sided conversation.

"I was born in the Midlands but I've been mostly in London since I left school."

"I come from the sticks too, came to London for some excitement, I did. My name's Carole, by the way."

He couldn't have cared less but couldn't bring himself to be rude and so introduced himself.

"Ray." He returned her smile and tried to convince himself that he wasn't seeing all the signals he thought he was. There was nothing blatant about Carole; her personality was a little too powerful for his taste but she was modestly dressed and somehow didn't look as if she was a working girl.

"Are you meeting someone, Ray? I mean, I don't want to intrude."

"No, I'm not."

"All alone on a beautiful evening like this, criminal that is," said Carole softly.

Now he knew his first guess had been right. Up-market and classy but still a scrubber. Doyle's first reaction was a strong wave of revulsion but he kept in control long enough to stand up and make a reasonably civil farewell.

"Maybe it is but that's the way I prefer it. Goodbye."

Abandoning his unfinished beer he left the table and walked away, heading down towards the embankment, fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. At last he reached the river and, oblivious to passers-by, he leant against the wall, stared blindly out across the water and tried to stop the terrible trembling that shook his body.

The strength of his reaction frightened him. She was only a prostitute after all. He had spoken with enough of her kind in the line of duty not to be surprised or shocked by anything she might have said or done. She had been quite attractive; any other red-blooded man who had spent three years away from women would probably have jumped at what she was selling--whatever her price, he knew he would have been able to afford it.

Admit it, Doyle, he told himself harshly, she bloody terrified you! You're shit-scared of getting involved in a sexual scene. You're bloody hopeless! Inside his head the word echoed cruelly. Hopeless! Even if he had gone somewhere with her, nothing would have happened. Nothing. Ever since that last big fight when--his mind shied away from the thought, practice making it almost a reflex action. For nearly a year now there had been a whole lot of nothing. At first he hadn't bothered, hadn't cared, but then as time went by he found he did care--but still a big, fat nothing!

Turning away from the river he began to walk more or less in the direction of Bodie's flat. Not only claustrophobic but impotent as well. He could imagine Bodie's horror if he ever discovered the real truth about his new partner.

---

Summer ended abruptly and autumn began wetly; it rained constantly for the next three days. Bodie, who liked getting caught in the rain about as much as a cat did, hated it.

Waiting huddled out of the wind and wet in the doorway, Bodie looked up from his stopwatch in the direction that Doyle ought to be approaching from. The rain-washed street was deserted. Still, Bodie conceded, it was a bit premature to expect him just yet. The route he'd sent him on was at least five miles and the longest yet. He'd give it another five minutes then send out the hearse to bring back the body.

He spent the time checking through Doyle's progress chart that he had compiled over the last three weeks. For the first time he actually allowed a glimmer of admiration to peek through. It must have been obvious to Doyle that he had been put through the mill, that CI5 didn't really expect him to have progressed so far quite so soon, but he hadn't complained once. There had been the odd occasion when he'd seen Doyle close his mouth over a quick, explosive retort, or when he'd seemed to question the severity of a test, but each time he'd knuckled under and done what was asked. Not always successfully and not always very well--but at least he'd tried. Bodie had to give credit where it was due.

So far, Doyle had been full of surprises, physically at least. The lean, stringy body was surprisingly strong and had more staying power than first impressions led one to believe. After only three weeks the results of plenty of exercise, fresh air, sunshine and good food had banished the haunted, hunted look from Doyle's face. If only the recurring dreams would leave him alone Bodie was sure that Doyle's mental recovery would also speed up. But it wasn't just the dreams, Bodie acknowledged; the nightmares were only a symptom of a more serious condition and something would have to be done about the root cause of Doyle's unease before he could be considered for active duty with the department.

Cowley had not mentioned anything about Doyle suffering from psychiatric problems, and Bodie suspected that if he got a whiff of any mental trauma, Doyle would swiftly find himself out of the section. Or would he? The department had its own psychiatric specialist--Kate Ross; although Bodie had a deep dislike for and mistrust of the profession that had little to do with Dr Ross personally, he admitted that she seemed to serve a purpose. One or two agents had been told to see her professionally after a couple of very ugly operations had backfired with horrific results. Should he involve Ross? Later perhaps--if no other solution presented itself. Meantime, thought Bodie, what the hell can I do with a man who retreats into his room at every opportunity and emerges only at feeding times and for his scheduled exercises?

Despite invitations from other members of the squad and the odd genuine invitation from Bodie, Doyle had shunned all social contact, neither had he made any arrangements to see his own friends. After three years locked away from the finer things in life, Bodie was more than a little surprised at Doyle's total lack of interest in women.

The first time it happened he'd just thought that Doyle was too thick to realise what he was being offered, but in the end the girls were being so blatant even a Trappist monk would have at least suspected the motives behind their interest.

In an official situation he coped with the office staff and the few female agents in a perfectly normal way, but once the business was over he became distant and introverted, doing everything except melt into the wall in an effort to become invisible. The more the girls pressed, the further Doyle retreated. Wasn't just the girls though, Bodie realised in a sudden flash of insight; in every social encounter Doyle had done his utmost to remain in the background, retreating from any conversation as fast as he could without drawing any more attention.

Splashing feet drew him out of his thoughts and he looked up in time to see Doyle on the last few yards of his run. Instead of being confronted by a weary, bedraggled figure, though, Bodie saw a man almost bursting with excitement and lit up with an inexplicable inner joy. Apart from being a little breathless he didn't even seem to be tired.

"What are you hiding in there for?" Doyle enquired, his eyes and face transformed by a previously unseen smile. "Anyone would think you were scared of getting wet!"

Noting down Doyle's time, Bodie just shrugged. "Dunno what you're looking so cheerful for--you must be soaked to the skin."

"I am. Beautiful, isn't it! Love running in the rain--makes everything so fresh, clean." He drew in a deep breath. "Just smell it, all that clean, fresh air. How did I do?" he asked, peering over the top of the clipboard Bodie was busily scribbling on.

"Not bad, not bad." Actually, it was quite good and he had an idea Doyle knew it, but Bodie refused to let him see that he was impressed. "Not quite up to our standard yet but you're getting better."

"Blimey, go easy with the praise, won't you!"

Bodie responded to the teasing voice with a smile of his own. "Just 'cause you've managed to finish a little run on your own two feet rather than on your hands and knees, don't go getting any ideas."

"Hands and knees, Christ, I didn't even finish that first run." Unconcerned by the dismal failure of his first long run, Doyle laughed at the memory of Bodie having to scoop him up from the pavement where he collapsed, sweating and exhausted.

"Just goes to show what a decent bed and food can do for you. Prison life's never won anyone competitions in the fitness stakes."

Even as the words formed in his mouth Bodie knew he shouldn't say them--but it was too late. Immediately the happy sparkle in the bright eyes faded and the battered face turned to stone. Any mention of prison caused this reaction and Bodie only knew he had destroyed Doyle's happy, carefree mood with his remark. But even though he regretted breaking the cheerful mood, Bodie was irritated by Doyle's excessive reaction to every harmless comment.

"Look," he began, unsuccessfully trying to keep his voice calm, "I'm sorry if I'm thoughtless enough to keep making references to where you've been for the past three years--" Doyle's face became even bleaker and Bodie's patience snapped.

"It's a fact of life, Doyle," he shouted. "You've been inside one of Her Majesty's Institutions for three years. You know it and I know it. It was very unfortunate and I don't expect you had the time of your life while you were in there but neither of us can get away from it. You, Raymond Doyle, have been in prison for three long years. I don't blame you for wanting to forget about it but there's no call for you to get all twitchy and miserable every time I or anyone else is bloody daft enough not to cater for your delicate sensibilities. If you're going to act like Lot's wife every time the subject comes up you might as well get out now! If we're going to end up working together it's a fact we're both going to have to accept. You can't pretend it didn't happen because it did."

"A fact that we're both going to have to accept!" Doyle spat the phrase back at him. "That's rich, that is. It's just a fact of life that I'm gonna have to accept, is it?"

Bodie was rooted to the spot by the venom in the smaller man's voice, suddenly remembering his own hard-learned lesson that strength wasn't directly related to size.

"I haven't really got much choice, have I? Even if I did want to forget it'd all come flooding back the next time I looked in a mirror. I'll tell you something that'll make you laugh, you'll really love this, Bodie." Doyle's face twisted with bitterness and anger and Bodie knew that whatever he was going to hear, he wouldn't want to laugh.

"I don't look in a mirror to shave any more. In fact I hardly ever look at my reflection nowadays because every time I do see it..." A slim white-knuckled hand rose and touched the protruding cheekbone. "Once upon a time they used to brand criminals so everyone would know who they were and what they'd done. This--" Bodie watched as a finger stroked over the disfiguring bulge and the scarring that was still shiny pink. "This is a brand as far as I'm concerned, because every time I see it I remember how and where I got it. Forget! No chance!"

As if he suddenly realised that he was revealing too much of his inner torment, Doyle turned away and made a performance of picking up his track suit jacket and sports bag that he'd left on the floor. The movement didn't fool Bodie for a moment. He'd heard Doyle's voice waver and crack and seen the over-bright eyes. It was the first time that Doyle had made any reference to what had happened to him and Bodie guess there was a lot of pain bottled up inside, pain that needed to be released if it wasn't going to fester and warp his outlook, thereby destroying everything.

"How did that happen anyway?" Bodie asked mildly, illustrating the point by tapping his own, unflawed cheekbone. He knew that Doyle was going to have to talk it out with someone eventually. It was perhaps unfortunate that Doyle had not read the same psychology books, though--for he had obviously decided that he most definitely was not going to discuss it.

"It's none of your fucking business!" was Doyle's not wholly unexpected retort before he headed off towards the shower room at a brisk trot.

Unconcerned, Bodie watched him go, following behind at his own unhurried pace.

That's what you think, sunshine, he thought as Doyle disappeared through the locker room door. Maybe what happened inside that prison was none of his business but a little triviality like that was not going to stop him from finding out a few things. Pushing through the swinging door, Bodie saw that they had the shower room to themselves and Doyle was already minus his rain- and sweat-soaked T shirt.

As soon as he heard the protesting squeal of the door hinge, Doyle felt an icy hand clutch at his entrails and he spun around.

It was only Bodie.

He wiped the fresh sweat from his face and tried to still his pounding heart. He knew his hands were shaking but was powerless to prevent them. Dropping the shirt onto the seat, he looked sideways at Bodie, who had settled himself down on the opposite bench and was busily scribbling on his clipboard.

He's not even looking, Doyle told himself, but it was no good--the shaking wouldn't cease. Don't just stand there, Doyle, get undressed and get it over with before he does start looking, the voice inside his head told him calmly, and he knew it was the sensible thing to do...if only he could get his body to cooperate, he would.

Not looking up from his sheet of times and schedule, Bodie suddenly asked: "You met Macklin yet?"

Peeling off his second wet sock, Doyle refused to look up, forcing himself to keep calm and act naturally.

"No. Heard of him though," he said stiffly as he stood up and forced leaden fingers to slip his running shorts down.

"Oh well, you'll get a nice surprise on Monday then. I've asked him to run you through the department's fitness test. Want to see how much further I've got to push you."

Doyle had heard of Macklin's fitness exam from some of the other agents and knew that Monday was going to be a real toughie, but all he was worried about now was getting through the next ten minutes without disgracing himself. As if from a great distance he heard himself talking, his voice sounding tinny and unreal.

"Do you think I'm up to it?"

"No," Bodie said bluntly. "But it'll give a chance to see how much you've progressed and how much further you've got to go."

Unable to postpone the moment any longer, Doyle slipped off his briefs and walked into the communal shower.

"No one's expecting you to have reached the grade just yet," Bodie continued, looking up in time to see Doyle's stiff-legged walk into the shower. "You've come on pretty well--better than I expected, to be honest--but I want Macklin to see you in action; this training thing is more in his line than mine and he'll be able to see what needs working on."

The way Doyle was standing under the shower made Bodie look at the naked man worriedly. Had he strained himself, Bodie wondered.

"What's up?" he asked, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice. "Have you pulled a muscle or something?"

"No." Doyle could feel Bodie's eyes burning into his back and even though the water was hot he felt icy prickles all over his skin.

The abrupt 'no' did little to dispel Bodie's worry. Something was wrong here, he knew that much--but what? Standing up, he walked across to Doyle's towel, his eyes not missing the way the nude body jumped as he knocked against the bench. He held the towel out for Doyle to take, unprepared for the naked fear in the white face and wide-opened eyes, but the hand that grasped the towel was steady. It was so unexpected that Bodie found himself speechless, and he watched in stunned silence as Doyle wrapped the cloth around his waist and moved to the bench where his dry clothes were.

Doyle was scared of him...no, terrified! Doyle was terrified, but why? Bodie racked his brains trying to think what he had said or done to have caused such a reaction, but found nothing. Instinctively knowing that his closeness was contributing to Doyle's problem, Bodie moved back to his clipboard on the other side of the room and felt the tension ease fractionally as the physical distance between them increased.

"I'll meet you in the cafeteria for a cup of tea. Okay?"

"Okay," Doyle agreed, but Bodie had the feeling that he would have agreed to anything if it meant he was going to be left alone.

Musing over his cup of tea while he waited, Bodie tried to pinpoint what was bothering him so much--or rather, what was bothering Doyle. There were lots of little things that did not seem very important on their own but, now he put them all together, began to take shape like a jigsaw. Going backwards, Bodie mentally listed everything, starting with Doyle's very obvious fear in the shower room. It wasn't the first time they'd been alone together--so what was different, what had happened? He had never been in the locker room with him before; all the other times, Doyle had slipped away unnoticed or waited until Bodie had been involved with someone else. So what was so different about being alone together in that room? And the other day in the car...on several occasions Doyle had fallen asleep on their way home and until now Bodie had taken no notice of the physical jump Doyle gave each time he was woken up...that very first night too, Bodie remembered suddenly, he had leapt off that bed as if he thought Bodie was going to rape him or...

The jigsaw was suddenly complete.

God no, Bodie thought, surely not. But even as he sought to deny it, he re-ran everything through his mind, his surprising explanation fitting perfectly with Doyle's behaviour...the social withdrawal, his seemingly untypical attitude towards sex, his dislike of being touched unexpectedly, and his fear of being unclothed in front of someone.

Bodie recalled the records he had seen; Doyle had been involved in an extraordinary number of fights and 'incidents'. Having spent most of his adult life in a predominantly male society, Bodie was only too painfully aware of how some men, deprived of normal sexual outlets, could turn on each other for release. Already an outcast, the former policeman would have found few, if any, allies amongst the prison staff, and the inmates would have had free rein over the unfortunate man who represented the system that had put them there. The vulnerability of Doyle's position combined with his looks would have made him the obvious target if what Bodie suspected was true. How far would it have gone? His medical notes were, Bodie now realised, incomplete. A broken wrist, cracked ribs and a broken face said Doyle hadn't gone down without a fight...but that was over a year ago. What had happened since then?

Bodie pondered over Doyle's possible, no, probable reply if he questioned him, and knew he would have to wait until Doyle wanted to talk; it was no good trying to force out a confidence before it was ready. The problem was, when would Doyle decide he was ready to talk?

---

Bodie rolled over onto his face and pulled the pillow over his head in a vain attempt to block out the desperate cries that reverberated around the quiet flat.

"Come on, you bugger, wake up," he muttered through clenched teeth as he waited for the choked-off scream that usually heralded the end of this particular nightmare.

Another wordless scream reached his buried ears.

"Four bleedin' thirty in the morning," he groaned. "For chrissake, Doyle, wake up so I can get to sleep. Please!"

Being woken at all hours was fast becoming a habit.

Doyle's mental state seemed to be deteriorating in relation to his improving physical condition. At first, the dreams had only happened once a night with two or three peaceful nights between them; then they'd come every other night and now, for the second night in succession, they were trapping their victim every time he settled back down to sleep.

So far the nightmares had been a taboo subject; each morning Doyle had eaten his breakfast with an unfriendly, distant expression which discouraged any attempts on Bodie's part to discuss the cause of the dreams.

The training programme had been going very well up till now, but this afternoon, Bodie had seen the troubled expression on Macklin's face as he watched Doyle being defeated again and again because of his inattention and carelessness. The charts Bodie had been keeping on Doyle's progress were also beginning to reflect the downward trend--the impressive start was turning into a dismal decline.

Lack of sleep was the main problem. Doyle's reluctance to try and sleep was caused by the fact that each time he did succumb he would wake up, shouting and fighting and, not unnaturally, scared to drop off again.

A routine medical check yesterday had revealed that Doyle was beginning to lose weight again; the little he had gained on being released was being eaten away by exhaustion and lack of sleep.

Even through two closed doors and several inches of pillow, Doyle's garbled shouts and cries reached Bodie's ears. Should he go and wake him up, Bodie wondered. Did he really want to face a repeat of the previous night's arguments? Monday night had been bad enough without trying for a re-run. Doyle had made it quite plain weeks ago that he wanted to be left alone, but his obvious distress had worried at Bodie until he'd been compelled to go down the hall to Doyle's bedroom. His timing had been off and Doyle had shuddered awake the moment before he reached there and was already sitting up, rubbing the vestiges of whatever horrors had beset him, when Bodie burst through the door.

"What do you want?" Doyle had snapped out.

"Nothing. Thought I might be able to help, that's all," Bodie muttered, already regretting his impulse.

"Don't you know how to knock?" Doyle enquired nastily, turning his fear into anger because that way it was easier to handle. "I know this is your flat but I'd expected to be granted a bit of privacy."

"Pardon me for breathing," Bodie retaliated. "You can have all the bleedin' privacy you want, mate--all I ask in return is a decent night's sleep where I don't have to listen to you shrieking and hollering your head off!"

"I wouldn't say no to a decent night's sleep myself."

Bodie heard Doyle's voice crack and tried to cool things down; he knew it wasn't Doyle's fault.

"Look, I'm...sorry," he said carefully. "I know you're not doing it on purpose and I don't really mind--"

"I do!" Doyle was still struggling to hold onto his anger; he had a nasty suspicion that Bodie was building up to a good old all-men-together heart-to-heart and right now that was the last thing he wanted.

"Do you want to talk about it, get it off your chest?" Bodie offered.

"It was just a dream. I've already told you that I get them sometimes. I'm sorry they disturb you but--"

"I'm not talking about tonight and you know it," Bodie pushed.

"It was just a bad dream. What's wrong, are you going to tell me that CI5 agents aren't allowed to have bad dreams?" Doyle asked in a scathing voice.

"No," Bodie countered placidly. "Even the best of us get unpleasant dreams. It's an occupational hazard. You stick around and one day you'll get a front row seat on one of my screaming specials." Bodie stepped further into the room and sat down at the foot of the bed. Doyle glared at him with undisguised contempt.

"Do make yourself comfortable."

"The odd dream," Bodie continued, "is perfectly normal. I'm not sure that Ross or Cowley will think your record over the past few weeks counts as normal, though."

"You're going to tell them?" Behind the I-don't-give-a-damn-if-you-do, Bodie heard the note of worry.

"You're going to have to talk to someone."

"Fuck off!"

"And if you won't talk to me it'll have to be someone else."

"Talk about what?"

"You tell me."

"Nothing to tell. I just get a bad dream occasionally--I don't even remember what they're about, it's just a bad dream," lied Doyle, not even sounding as if he managed to convince himself of the untruth.

"Come on, Doyle, loosen up, it's not as if I can't guess what's behind all this. You're not the first bloke it ever happened to and I doubt very much if you'll be the last. It's behind you now though, and it's time to--"

Doyle had gone white, every drop of colour vanished from his face and for a second Bodie thought he was going to faint, his words dying unspoken as he waited for Doyle to move, collapse or whatever.

In a flash, Doyle was out of his bed and on him, heaving him bodily and almost throwing him towards the door; stunned by the sudden, white rage the smaller man had flown into, Bodie allowed himself to be pushed, a small coherent part of his brain telling him that it would be safer and less painful to cooperate.

"What are you talking about?" Doyle yelled furiously. "What do you know about anything? I'm not going to talk to you about anything. Do you hear me? There's nothing to talk about. Nothing!"

Doyle's voice was marginally below the point at which it would have been hysterical, and he shoved Bodie out into the darkened hallway. "They didn't do it. The doctors said they didn't do it so there's nothing to talk about, is there. Now get out. Get out and leave me alone!"

The door had been slammed in his face and Bodie had meekly returned to his own bed, awed by the strength released by Doyle's temper. Shocked and troubled, the remainder of the night had been passed in an uneasy but undisturbed sleep from which he'd woken up tired and unrefreshed. Doyle hadn't looked any better and Bodie accurately guessed that he hadn't managed or dared to go back to sleep. The day had gone from bad to worse and they had returned to the flat in the evening, tired and despondent.

After the disturbance of the previous night, Bodie had turned in fairly early but he had known that Doyle had probably fought against his tiredness, unwilling to give in to a sleep that he knew was going to be plagued by terror.

Another bloodcurdling scream, by far the worst so far, reached through the pillow.

Unable to ignore it any longer--he wouldn't even leave a wild animal to suffer so--Bodie snatched up his bathrobe and strode purposefully down the hallway, disregarding totally all of Doyle's pleas to be left alone. It had gone on long enough.

Opening the door and switching on the light, Bodie's initial fury died as he saw the curled-up ball tangled in the bedding. For a split second he thought Doyle had woken up but then realised that although he had reacted to the sudden light and noise he was still trapped, trembling and terrified, in his nightmare.

"Doyle," he called softly. "Doyle...Ray...come on, Ray, time to wake up."

The trembling only increased and the hunched figure made a jerky movement that looked as though he was trying to burrow into the mattress.

"Come on, Ray, snap out of it." Bodie reached over and touched a bare shoulder, intending only to shake the sleeper awake.

"No!"

Doyle uncurled and exploded into movement, throwing himself at Bodie and launching an all-out attack with flying fists, knees and elbows, the wild, uncoordinated frenzy taking them both down onto the floor where Bodie was barely able to protect himself from serious injury.

It was a few, painful seconds before Bodie realised that Doyle was still trapped in his dream world and set out to wake him up without either of them getting killed in the process. Hampered by his concern that Doyle shouldn't be hurt any more, the only way left for Bodie to immobilise him was to wrap himself octopus-fashion around the thrashing body and use his greater weight to pin Doyle to the floor.

Instinctively recognising the helplessness of his position, Doyle froze, his whole body rigid, and Bodie heard a small, heart-rending whisper that made him want to kill the bastards who had almost destroyed a young man.

"No...please don't...no...no." Doyle's voice was pathetically tired, almost as if he had given up hoping to be listened to, and he'd stopped fighting.

Cautiously, Bodie eased the vise-like grip, thinking again that Doyle was awake, and pulled away slightly, propping himself up on an elbow to look down on the trembling body he was still sprawled across.

"Hey--you awake?" Bodie lightly touched the man's arm, half expecting to be thrown off again, but not this time.

As his fingers skimmed up the bare flesh, Doyle went rigid and inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open, finally awake. Seeing the confusion in the brilliant jade eyes, Bodie spoke softly, reassurance flowing easily as he sought to calm the trembling that was shaking Doyle's body.

"You're awake now. It's all over...everything's gonna be just fine. 's all right, no one's going to hurt you...just keep calm...relax...there's nothing to get worried about, I'm not going to hurt you--no one is...are you listening? Can you hear me?" Bodie asked, suddenly wondering if his good intentions and words of comfort were getting beyond the glazed, wide-eyed stare.

There was still no reply, so Bodie eased himself off Doyle but remained close by him on the floor, one hand cupping the warm skin on Doyle's shoulder, squeezing and rubbing gently with soothing, relaxing movements, touch reinforcing the protective and caring emotions that Bodie was projecting.

Watching as Doyle closed his eyes again, Bodie took hope from the fact that neither his touch nor his presence had been rejected. He was unsure of what to do for the best and racked his brains for any ideas. How should he cope with this? One wrong move and he knew he would lose Doyle forever.

The near-hysterical outburst of the previous night came to the fore of his mind. Something that hadn't sounded right, sort of out of place. He'd said that he hadn't been raped, that there was nothing to--no, he hadn't, thought Bodie with amazement. Doyle had said nothing of the sort. The doctors had said nothing had happened. Surely Ray would know if he had or hadn't; after all, Bodie thought as he continued to gentle Doyle, it's hardly the sort of thing you'd forget.

Beneath his hand the trembling was reaching mammoth proportions and the warm body shook spasmodically as Doyle drew in great gulps of air, fighting against the inevitable breakdown. Unable to react to such distress in any other way, Bodie drew Doyle into a loose hug, pressing the curly head onto his shoulder.

"Stop fighting, Ray...just let go...just let go..."

Unable to hold back any longer, the dam broke and Doyle found himself holding on to Bodie, sobbing his heart out, the concern the other man was giving washing over him in waves. He could feel that Bodie didn't mind and wasn't finding his loss of control demeaning, and finally allowed himself to relax enough and give way to three years' worth of suppressed pain, fear, loneliness and the overwhelming sense of betrayal.

All the time Bodie just held him, rocking him and stroking firm hands across his back and up his neck into his hair, talking softly all the time, just a lot of reassuring, comforting nonsense that actually meant nothing except that there's someone here, someone who cares.

Patiently waiting for the storm to blow over, Bodie began planning what was to happen next. There was no way Doyle was going to retreat back into his shell this time. Tonight they were going to talk.

Eventually the tears slowed down, the cries became soft hiccups and Doyle made his first attempt to draw back. Bodie only let him go a little way, holding him and turning him so they were sitting face to face on the floor.

"Here, it's clean, do you want to borrow it?"

Bodie received a shaky smile and soft hiccup by way of answer, but Doyle took the handkerchief and tried to repair the damage, not that a few half-hearted dabs and blows could improve the ravaged face much, though.

"I'm going to go and fix us both a drink. Come through to the living room when you're ready."

Bodie spoke softly, but there was no doubt in Doyle's mind--he hadn't been given an invitation but a nicely worded order.

Bodie waited until he received a nod of acknowledgement before getting to his feet and leaving the room.

Placing the coffees on the table, Bodie reached over for the whisky bottle and poured a generous slug in each mug, then set the bottle down onto the table. He had a feeling that they were going to need a little spiritual help to get through what was left of the night.

Another few minutes passed and still there was no sign of Doyle. Bodie sighed and covered his face with his hands, he just didn't know what to do. He didn't want to have to drag Doyle forcibly from his room, but he couldn't take any more repeats of the past few nights; Doyle couldn't either. If he didn't come out and start talking soon, Bodie knew that he would have to involve Cowley and Ross.

A movement in the doorway caught his eye; there was Doyle, dressed now in jeans and T-shirt, standing nervously at the threshold of the room.

"I'm not going to force you to come in and talk to me," Bodie said reasonably. "If you come in now I'll expect to hear exactly what's been bugging you. I don't want a fabricated story or a whole lot of 'nothing happened'..." Bodie's voice hardened as he set down the rules, "...you want to talk crap you can go see Ross and Cowley. For what it's worth I think you and I can make a good team, but I'll tell you now, 'good' isn't good enough. Take my lead and we'll be bloody good, the best Cowley's got!" Bodie smiled as he knew that what he was saying would come true. "I don't think the Old Man's gonna stand much of a chance when we start letting rip; play our cards right and we can make him rue the day he ever dreamt up partnering us two. But--" the smile vanished and Bodie became serious, "--being partners starts from now. Maybe there's nothing I can do to help, but I've got to know what I'm up against. I'll help you all I can, Doyle, but you've got to tell me what's wrong. I may be brilliant at most things but psychic I'm not."

Bodie finally threw down a verbal gauntlet.

"Come in and talk or walk out now--that's it."

For a few agonising seconds Doyle remained hovering on the brink; it wasn't until he stepped into the room and reached for his coffee cup that Bodie realised he'd been holding his breath.

---

CHAPTER FOUR

Sitting on the floor in the middle of his bedroom, Doyle watched Bodie's retreating back and considered his options.

Although Bodie hadn't said anything, Doyle knew the other man was expecting to be told what the problem was. All things considered, Doyle conceded his host had been remarkably restrained in not beating the truth out of him weeks ago. The screws had never been so considerate, banging on the heavy metal door and shouting abuse through the grille; one or twice it sounded as if the entire population of 'E' wing had been airing their none-too-polite sentiments in response to the screws' harsh orders to 'wake up and belt up'.

He could just imagine how Milton and his crony, Mr Magill, would have reacted to the past week's worth of nightmares. The night watch was considered to be an easy number by the screws. Everyone was locked up and expected to be asleep and it was an accepted thing that after the money had dried up the cards would be put away and the duty officers would take it in turns to get some sleep.

The dreams hadn't been so frequent then; they might come one or two nights in succession and then not reoccur for a week or two, but even so, fate decreed that when Milton drew night duty Doyle would wake the whole block with his shouts. There was only one thing Milton hated more than having a winning poker hand stopped and that was being woken up from an illicit sleep in the duty room because some inconsiderate prat--usually Doyle--had woken the wing up.

Climbing to his feet, Doyle tried to decide which fate he would prefer: the irate Milton or the calm confidence of the man who was waiting for him in the living room. Doyle came to the conclusion that Milton hadn't been all that bad.

His gaze fell upon the wreckage of his bed; sheets and blankets screwed up and tangled in a heap on the floor. He didn't even remember getting out of bed, let alone how he ended up on the floor, head buried into Bodie's shoulder, crying his eyes out. As a few, disjointed memories returned he became aware of various tender spots on his body: his left knee was aching and he was slowly seeping blood onto his pyjama trousers. He reached down to examine the injury and noticed that his knuckles on both hands were red and bruised looking. In his dreams he knew exactly who he'd been fighting. Memory of heavy weight pressing him down returned along with the feeling of utter helplessness, and he suddenly realised that this time it had been no dream, that the body had really been there, but instead of following its normal course, this time he'd received comfort and kindness, the hands that touched him only seeking to relax and calm.

The whole thing flooded back now; Bodie's touch and voice had pulled him out of the pit; shaken and puzzled to wake up in such a position he hadn't been surprised when Bodie began to pull back--but he didn't move right away, he'd stayed close, sprawled beside him on the floor with one warm, comfortingly heavy hand resting on his shoulder, the simple touch establishing a much-needed contact with a real, kind world.

As he waited, Doyle had accepted that the withdrawal and disgust at his behaviour wasn't forthcoming; Bodie was staying close in case he was needed, because he wanted to help. Horrified by the tears he knew were coming, he'd tried to fight them back, but Bodie had seen what was happening and had taken over, unexpectedly drawing him into an embrace and urging him to let go.

Remembering how he had cried and how Bodie had accepted even that, fresh tears blinded him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried like that, and doubted if he ever had; even as a child he had seldom sought refuge in tears. Only girls and cissies cry, his dad had told him. He could still feel where Bodie's hands had rubbed over his back as he'd tried to soothe him; he couldn't remember feeling that Bodie had been embarrassed by his outburst, all he could recall was Bodie actively encouraging him to cry, telling him how much better he would feel if he just let go.

In the bathroom he splashed cold water over his face, washing away the tears, old and new, and dabbed at the small cut on his leg. From the kitchen he heard the chinking of a spoon in a cup and sighed. He was going to have to talk to Bodie; he knew that he wanted to be part of CI5 and talking to Bodie was going to be his admission fee. But he didn't want to talk about it and spent most of his time thinking about anything else; now he was away from it, all the memories were growing grey and confused, particular memories--even the few more pleasant ones--were becoming elusive; the only things that were clear and growing more vivid and detailed each time were his dreams. At times it felt as if the dreams were true and his waking existence was nothing but bleak, colourless nightmare.

Slipping into some clothes, Doyle padded barefoot down the hall and came to a stop outside the partly open door. Sitting staring at the steaming coffee cups was Bodie, unaware that he was being watched. Doyle heard him give a loud sigh before he covered his face with his hands. Guilt flooded through Doyle as he saw how tired and worn out Bodie looked and sounded. The past month had been no easier on him; in many ways it had perhaps been worse. Sometimes having to watch another suffer and find yourself unable to help was worse than being the one who suffered.

Doyle stepped into the room and Bodie threw down the gauntlet.

"Come in and talk or walk out now. That's it."

Still unhappy with both choices presented to him, Doyle sat down in an armchair placed just on the edge of the soft pool of light and fussed around with his coffee, the heavy whisky flavour warming him through to his toes.

"What do you want to know?" Doyle's quiet voice asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Everything."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know what's going on inside your head. I have to know if you're going to fall to pieces on me."

"Oh!" They subsided into silence again. It was time for Doyle to start talking.

"What do you think happened to me?" asked Doyle, still trying to put off the inevitable.

"You tell me."

"You must have some idea. I want to know what you know...or what you think you know. I saw all my files on Cowley's desk, you've read them and I haven't. What's in them?"

"Okay," agreed Bodie. He couldn't blame Doyle for being curious about the contents of the files. "You weren't anyone's idea of a model prisoner. Your behaviour was reported to be overly aggressive and your attitude left a lot to be desired. You got caught up in an inordinate amount of fights and scraps." Bodie swigged back the last of his coffee and set the cup back on the table with a thump. "There was nothing official logged, but reading between the lines I'd say you were subjected to a lot of...harassment. You never complained about it but I think I can work out what path it took."

Refusing to give in to the silent plea in the green eyes, Bodie would not make it easier on Doyle and come right out with what he suspected had really happened. He didn't want to be sadistic and he was gaining no pleasure from the other man's discomfort but he really believed that it would be better if the final, damning words came from Doyle himself.

"You think you can work it out?" Doyle mocked him. "Expert on it, are you?"

"I've been around; it happens. Happens more often than everyone in their nice, safe little homes realises, that's why it's such a hell of a shock when it happens to you."

"What do you know about it?" Doyle said, desperately trying to change the focus of the conversation and completely missing the flash of remembered pain and sorrow that passed across Bodie's face.

Abruptly Bodie stood up and snatched Doyle's empty coffee mug, the sudden movement making the smaller man flinch.

"More than you'd guess," Bodie mumbled softly and inaudibly as he filled up the tumblers with whisky.

Once again as they each settled down with a drink, the room became very quiet.

Doyle stared into his glass. Everything, Bodie had said. Such an insignificant word, everything--but then again, everything covered too much and he really didn't want to talk about everything.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asked.

Watching the unfocussed gaze, Bodie understood Doyle's dilemma. Where on earth would everything have started going so wrong...before his arrest...after the trial?

"From your committal," he suggested.

"They found me guilty and I was committed. I wasn't surprised, don't think anyone was really. I was sent to Ford--you know, the open prison just outside London. I'd been there a few times to interview prisoners myself--I always remember thinking it seemed a cushy life. Soon discovered the difference between visiting and living there, though."

"You made quite an impression on the place, didn't you?" Bodie ventured cautiously, recalling the report on Doyle's short but troubled stay there.

"Yeah, well...at the time I just wanted to hit something, hurt someone--the daft prat just pushed me once too often and I went off the deep end. If it hadn't been him it would have been someone else."

Attacking a prison warder was a serious offence, and it was only because the officer's injuries had not been too serious that Doyle had been let off with a severe reprimand, loss of privileges and transferral to an establishment that could cope with overly aggressive prisoners, instead of facing further criminal charges.

"What happened?" Bodie asked.

"At Ford?" At Bodie's nod, Doyle elaborated.

"I'd been warned to expect some pretty rough treatment. The screws tried to be fair but no one likes a bent cop, least of all the other inmates. It was pretty relaxed in the recreational rooms--you could come and go as you pleased to a certain extent. About the only thing you couldn't have was privacy."

Bodie could understand feeling that particular loss keenly; he valued his privacy and guessed Doyle did also.

"Most of the treatment I got was pretty...juvenile: being tripped up, knocked over, my dinner tray knocked off the table, someone's soup down my neck, my clothes inexplicably ending up in a puddle in the shower room--nothing serious but pretty hard to ignore week after week. After about four months I decided enough was enough. I'd been there long enough for the novelty to have worn off and I stopped being such a nice, quiet, well-mannered little convict. Most of 'em took the hint and backed off but there's always one, isn't there?"

Bodie agreed, there was always someone stupid enough to stay the course.

"Ben Johnson, pathetic little creep he was, a small-time embezzler who dreamed of being Mr Big. One of the screws, the one I thumped, practically encouraged him to keep coming down on me when I tried to get him to fuck off. I just snapped in the end, can't even remember what he did but I went for him. Mr Miles must've seen I'd cracked and tried to stop me but it was too late by then; I was so mad I just went berserk. I think I'd been wanting to hit something for a long time--he just happened to be it.

"They had to call the doctor over to sedate me and I ended up strapped in a body jacket in the padded cell. I ought to be grateful to that doctor, I suppose. He said I was just having a serious, delayed reaction to the pressure I was under while I was on trial."

Doyle could hear the slightly off-key gaiety in his voice and knew it was just nerves; if he thought it would throw Bodie off he would carry on talking about Ford forever rather than progress to the next point in the sordid tale.

"Any more whisky left?" he asked, needing the warm blanket of alcohol to cover his raw, bleeding nerves.

Bodie filled Doyle's glass but made no attempt to top up his own barely touched drink. He was not the one who needed Dutch courage.

"So," he prompted, "what happened when you got to Maidstone?"

"Wonderful place that. Every modern convenience that was around at the time it was built. Didn't go in for creature comforts two hundred years ago, did they! Should've been demolished before I was born."

The current state of British penal institutions was not what Bodie wanted to hear about and he said so. Doyle glared at him but refrained from further discussion of the merits and demerits of Napoleonic architecture.

"You ever heard of Bert Kingsley?"

Was there anyone in London who hadn't? Bodie wondered. The Kingsley brothers would no doubt find themselves immortalised in Madam Tussaud's one day, alongside Crippen, the Drays and Jack the Ripper.

"They put me in the same cell as him. The way his face lit up you'd've thought it was Christmas. He'd been on his own for the last few years but on account of the sudden upsurge in crime they'd run out of single, deluxe rooms with en-suite bath, and so they shoved me in with him."

Doyle took a long pull at his drink and drained the glass; he scarcely noticed Bodie lean forward and refill it.

"He was quite nice at first and I began to think all those stories about him and his brother were a bit exaggerated. He even told the others in the wing to lay off me. They all respected him, you see. He was The Man, as they say inside. Bert Kingsley, King of 'B' wing."

Bodie watched Doyle knock back the whisky and just hoped they'd get to the crunch before he became too drunk to talk.

"It was such a relief to be left alone I didn't see what was coming. Yeah, I know, I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes." Distanced by the alcohol, Doyle was able to look at his mistakes objectively. "Woke up one night, right at the crucial moment of a really terrific dream, you know what I mean?" he asked. "Christ knows who she was but she was really something...anyway--woke up and couldn't work out what was happening; it was pitch dark, couldn't see a fuckin' thing but I knew I was awake--thing was, I could still feel her hands on me, took me right over the edge, they did. But as soon as the bells stopped ringing I realised it was Kingsley. He'd twigged that I was having a hot little dream and decided to get in on the act. Nearly threw up over him as well, I was that furious, but he just got back into bed and said something about being friends and helping each other out. Sounded really hurt, he did, made me feel guilty as hell. He'd been really good to me up till then, showing me the ropes, keeping the others off my back, so I said I was sorry about yelling at him but I made it plain that I didn't go in for taking friendship quite that far."

The drink in the tumbler was going down steadily but Bodie could see that the flush spreading across the drawn face and the glitter in the bright eyes was anger--rather than drink-induced.

"It was only a few weeks later the same thing happened again but that time I woke up as soon as he touched me. He got very nasty when I told him what he could do with himself, kept saying I owed it to him for looking after my interests. From then on things just got worse, if I so much as twitched in that bloody bed he was down there offering to lend a hand. Then he took to lying in on his own bed and having his own little fantasies and telling me what he wished he was doing to me in wonderful detail...didn't leave much to the imagination. I decided to ignore the old faggot 'cause the more uptight I got the hotter he got!"

Doyle drained the bottle into his glass, then opened the second one that had somehow materialised out of thin air, and filled the glass to the top.

"'s not a bad drop of stuff, this, Bodie. Never really liked whisky before but this is slippin' down a real treat."

To illustrate the point, half a tumbler of the rich, brown liquid disappeared down his throat.

"What happened next?"

"Patience, Bodie, have a little patience," Doyle chided, his voice slightly thicker than usual. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, the old faggot getting' hot..." He took another mouthful. "Right, now then, next thing I know is everyone on the wing is being all horrible and unkind to me and dear, dear, sweet Bert isn't doing his 'I shall protect you, Raymond' bit any more. I'd got quite used to being treated like a human again so I really didn't take to goin' back to bein' treated like a leper. Then dear Bert drops his little bombshell and tells me that if I stop making such a fuss and let him have his wicked way with me he'll tell everyone to leave me alone again." Doyle's voice shifted upwards at least two octaves as he let Bodie know how he felt about that little revelation.

"I mean...what would you have done, Bodie? What would you have done? Me, I told him to go fuck himself." A harsh laugh came from Doyle's throat before being cut off abruptly as if in realisation that the story wasn't funny.

"It was downhill all the way after that. He kept the pressure up for a couple of months but then he had a rethink. Everyone must've guessed why he was telling them all to keep needling me, and he got to thinking that being seen to fail wasn't good for his image. Bert Kingsley always gets what he wants, and the fact that he wasn't must've been a severe blow to his ego. So--all of a sudden, dear, sweet Bert tells everyone to lay off his little Raymond and spends all day smiling at me and being horribly nice and smarmy. Course, the whole fuckin' block thinks I've finally given in and am letting the old faggot screw me senseless every night."

Doyle's whole face suddenly darkened and Bodie realised that the worst was still to come--if only the narrator was going to remain awake long enough to relate it.

"After a while I even got used to that. He'd have his little wanking trips and tell me all about it, and every now and then he'd get adventurous and start touching me up at night when I was asleep, and everyone just took it for granted he was knocking me off. I sometimes wonder if the old goat would have known what to do if I had said yes. So life settled into a routine of sorts until I saw a light at the end of the tunnel--or thought I did. Boy, was I ever wrong!"

The second bottle had just hit the halfway mark and Bode spared a moment to wonder what he'd do if Doyle ran out of drink before he ran out of steam.

"Why?" Bodie asked. "What were you so wrong about?"

"Kingsley was released about--oh, I dunno, fifteen, sixteen months ago. He'd done his nine years, told the parole board he was very sorry and promised to be a good boy in the future. Couldn't wait to see the back of him--fool that I was," said Doyle disparagingly.

"What do you mean?"

"Once he was gone the throne was up for grabs, wasn't it. It's not just a story, you know, about there being a baron, a sort of top man, on each wing. Even the screws don't mind, makes their job easier. A powerful baron like Kingsley keeps the wing in order, keeps everyone in their place and easier to control. Once Bert was gone there was one hell of a fight over who was going to take his place."

A premonition of what was coming next hit Bodie hard, and suddenly felt very sick. He'd all but forced Doyle to open up to him but now he realised that he really didn't want to hear. He wanted to say, 'Shut up, stop talking, go to sleep--have another drink,' but he couldn't, and if he could and did he suspected Doyle wouldn't even hear him.

Although his whole outward demeanour showed the effects of downing so much whiskey, his movements heavy and lethargic, speech thick and slurred, Doyle's eyes were like mirrors reflecting his soul, the oblivion he was seeking having not yet blanketed the ugly memories.

"I was so fuckin' 'appy dear Bert had gone I never saw what was goin' on. 'parently there were a couple of blokes 'oo wanted to be The Man and they were sloggin' it out between 'emselves. Opinion as to who should take over was split down the middle, so in the end they decided whoever got the most of old Bert's little businesses would win. Come as one 'ell of a shock to discover I was one of Bert's assets!"

Bodie decided that maybe he would have another drink after all and grabbed the bottle; Doyle looked at the empty place on the table with mournful eyes.

"Oh, 's all gone, Bodie. Got another one 'ave you? 's nice stuff. Pity it's all gone though."

After all he'd gone through, Bodie thought that Doyle was going to cry again simply because the bottle had disappeared.

"I'll get you some more in a minute, mate. You were sayin' about who was taking over from Kingsley," he prompted carefully.

"What?" Doyle blinked at him. "Oh yeah, 'most forgot. 's almost funny when I think 'bout it now...not at the time, though--wasn't funny then. They both--Richardson and Ward--tried the friendly approach...you ever been chatted up by two blokes before, Bodie?" He didn't wait for a reply but went straight on, words tumbling out in a sudden rush as if he just wanted to get to the end of the story and then hide away. "Scared me shitless. Every time I turned round, one of 'em was there, showing everyone 'ow friendly he was with me and trying to fool 'em all 'ow much I like 'im. Richardson was all right but Ward...he's really sick...Bert was twisted but Ward...kept on and on...always touching and hurting, trying to scare me into it...then one day he really cracked...'e's mad, should be in Broadmoor or Rampton, 'e should..."

Doyle's voice tailed away as the memory drew closer. Bodie watched, helpless to do anything to ease the pain. Doyle leant forward in the armchair, rocking slightly, arms wrapped around himself, face bloodless and eyes wide as he finally pushed the memory into being.

"There was some sort of industrial dispute going on," Doyle said, his voice no more than a hushed whisper, "so there were fewer screws than normal on duty...we were in the shower room...was morning time, Monday morning...he suddenly decided he wasn't going to wait any more and told his friends to hold me down. I tried to fight them but there were too many and no one would help me...or stop them...I tried, I really tried...I didn't want it to happen but I couldn't fight them all...just couldn't." The scene was so brilliantly vivid that Doyle experienced all over again the growing terror as the men advanced, cornering him in the bleak, white-tiled shower stall...

He had looked around frantically for the duty officer but he was nowhere to be seen. The other men--sensing what was about to happen--were almost falling over themselves to escape the vicinity, no one, but no one was trying to help him.

"Come on, Doyle," Ward leered. "You know what I want so why not make it easier on yourself?" Come over here and be friendly."

The odds were five to one and Doyle knew his only chance was to make enough noise to attract the guards' attention, but Freddie, Ward's sidekick, jumped in and increased the odds even more by clamping a huge hand over his mouth, almost smothering Doyle in his effort to silence his cries for help.

Lashing out, Doyle fought back with the ferocity of a cornered tiger, biting, kicking, punching for all he was worth. He had surprised them at first and he'd managed to hurt them, but not enough. Blow after blow to his unprotected midriff made him fold over into a protective ball; unable to fight back with any effect, he could barely summon the energy to resist their attempts to pin him to the floor. A hand had grabbed hold of his hair and tugged him down off balance and something very hard and very cold impacted with the side of his head with a sickening crunch; a brilliant, white-hot pain erupted and spread throughout his whole body. He knew he was hurt, but it all hurt so much that he was beyond feeling everything--except the cold floor beneath his bare skin and the heavy pressure across his legs and shoulder. From a long way off he heard Ward's voice, thickened with lust.

"You've hurt your face, Raymond, hurt your pretty face. It's a pity, that is, but never mind--maybe it'll teach you not to be so bloody vain."

And another voice replied, laughing, "Not his face you're interested in!"

There had been a whole lot of laughter then, it was the last sound he remembered. As everything faded away he could only hear the laughter and feel the hard fingers probing him and preparing him for the next, inevitable stage...

Bodie desperately wanted to do something to help but couldn't summon up the strength to move, was too frightened to reach out and touch the shaking man anyway in case it reminded him of another touch.

"Next thing I remember is waking up in Maidstone Hospital about a week later...everything hurt so much it was weeks before I could talk, my jaw was all wired up and everything was so swollen...no one said anything about what Ward had done to me, and I didn't even want to think about it...it was some time before I could talk and then someone from the prison came to take a statement from me...I pretended I couldn't remember...just didn't want to talk about it...was ages before I managed to ask the doctor...just couldn't understand why no one was saying anything. I really want to believe what he said, I mean, there was no reason for him to lie, was there?"

The bleary green gaze was turned on Bodie, who suddenly realised that Doyle wanted him to agree with him. No, Bodie thought, needed him to agree--but with what? What had he missed?

"Lie about what?"

"He said that I wasn't...that Ward hadn't...that the screws got there just in time to stop him...least that's what he said..."

"Don't you believe him then?"

"I don't know...just don't know...it was going to happen...after all that time with Kingsley it was going to happen...jus' couldn't stop 'im...nothing left...to fight...with...nothing..."

The halting voice whispered to a standstill, the alcohol finally winning the battle. Doyle was asleep.

Numb, Bodie watched empty tumbler slip from Doyle's slackened fingers and fall to the floor.

So, he thought, Doyle had been raped after all. Or had he? The confused, disjointed sentences had showed quite clearly that even Doyle didn't really know. He thought he had been, but the doctor said he hadn't. Maybe the cavalry had arrived in time--and maybe they hadn't! Could the doctor have acted on a misguided impulse and told Doyle a lie, believing Doyle's own lie that he couldn't remember what had happened? Any injury caused by Ward's penetration of the unconscious body would have healed before Doyle had regained his senses a week later.

Slowly, Bodie began to understand that it was the unsolved question of whether or not he'd really been raped that was at the root of Doyle's problems. He'd survived nearly two years of Kingsley's dubious and apparently harmless attentions without cracking up. If Doyle could know for a fact that he wasn't raped--or even that he was--maybe he could stop agonising over it and begin to put the past where it belonged.

Sighing quietly, Bodie eased himself upright and pulled the footstool over towards the other chair, carefully lifting Doyle's legs up onto it, then he propped a cushion under the sleepy head. Stretching cautiously, Bodie reached around to the back of his neck and massaged the annoyingly persistent ache. At least the rigours of the morning had not done too much harm to his still-healing injury, but he knew he wouldn't be comfortable if he tried to sleep in an armchair like Doyle was. Covering the sleeper with a light blanket, Bodie [missing phrase] dressed and making himself some breakfast.

By nine o'clock he'd come to the conclusion that Doyle was probably going to sleep for much of the day. In the last two hours he had only stirred once, and that was to twist around on the chair and burrow down into the soft blanket and cushion. Doyle looked so peaceful, his face free for the first time of the perpetual worry lines around his eyes and mouth, that Bodie didn't have the heart to disturb him.

It was about time they had a day off anyway, Bodie decided, so he telephoned the gymnasium and shooting range to let them know they wouldn't be in today after all.

Midday came and went and Bodie found himself wondering what the hell he was going to do next. He had tidied up the flat as much as possible without making a noise, read the papers, listened to the radio in the bedroom--very quietly--and generally just pottered around his home feeling very much at a loose end. How much longer was the little bugger going to sleep, he wondered.

It was nearly four o'clock before Doyle opened his eyes and saw Bodie, who had finally managed to fall into an uncomfortable, restless doze on the sofa. Very much aware of his pounding head, Doyle cautiously stood and wove none too steadily towards the kitchen. He was so thirsty.

"Stick the kettle on while you're out there," came a sleepy voice from the sofa.

"Didn't mean to wake you, sorry. Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee. How do you feel?"

In reply Doyle just pulled a face and continued his way to the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with two mugs, one containing very strong, very black coffee.

They sat in awkward silence until Bodie asked how much of the morning's talk Doyle remembered.

"I've never been blessed--or cursed--with alcohol-induced amnesia. Remember everything except falling asleep." There was a quick flash of teeth as Doyle gave a rueful, embarrassed laugh. "Sorry about getting you up so early; what is the time anyway?" He looked up from his bare wrist to the brilliant sunlight outside.

"Four-thirty PM," Bodie said cheerfully. "Almost time to go back to bed again."

"Afternoon? Four-thirty in the afternoon? You mean I've slept..." Doyle stopped, trying to get past his headache and calculated the time involved.

"About nine hours all told. And," Bodie emphasised, "you needed every minute of it. God knows how long it is since you slept that soundly. Apart from which I decided it was about time we had a day off anyway." The glare which accompanied the latter part of his speech defied Doyle even to think that perhaps he was going soft.

"So--what do you fancy doing for what's left of the day?" Bodie asked, determined to spend some time with Doyle, having promised himself during Doyle's sleep that he would at least try and get to know the man he was beginning to accept was going to be his partner.

---

CI5's most hated man walked calmly into George Cowley's office.

Macklin was the person responsible for getting and keeping the highly trained personnel on their toes; he sharpened their reflexes and fine-honed their deadly skills. To get the best from the men he worked with, he had to force the worst out of them; he probably knew more about what made a CI5 agent tick than anyone--except Cowley himself, of course.

"Morning, sir, Dr Ross, Dr Willis," he acknowledged. "Sorry for being a little tardy but I wanted to watch Doyle's training this morning before coming over."

"How is he coming on?" Cowley asked right away, going straight to the reason for the meeting. They had all been watching Doyle's initial progress and his apparent decline was causing some concern.

"Well..." Macklin said reluctantly, "that's why I'm late. Doyle's performance yesterday was so bad I wanted to see him in action today. I didn't want to judge him by an off day. Bodie rang in about twenty minutes ago and cancelled his booking of the gym and range facilities today."

"What reason did he give?" asked Dr Ross.

"I didn't take the call but I don't think any reason was given, he just cancelled everything."

"Well," Ross smiled the smile of one who has been proved right, "it's no more than I warned you to expect."

"One day does not signify the end of everything, Dr Ross," said Cowley sharply.

"Doyle's physical condition has been going down over the last week, his lethargy and lack of interest in everything around him has been growing more noticeable with each day that passes," Willis chipped in, supporting his colleague.

"Doyle's tired," said Macklin, ignoring the department's medical experts and talking directly to Cowley. "I'll bet my life on it. He's out on his feet he's so tired. Bodie's had him going everywhere at double time and the man just doesn't know whether he's coming or going."

"I did warn you that Doyle's chances of lasting the course were less than favourable. There's a chance we can salvage something, develop his skills to the department's benefit--but as an active agent he is going to be useless," Ross insisted.

"I still feel we should not judge Doyle too hastily. You told me he would need time to readjust and I am still prepared to give him that time if I think the end result is going to be worthwhile," Cowley said firmly.

"I am also concerned about Bodie." Ross spoke earnestly, trying to convince Cowley of the futility of his efforts. "He is also under pressure; you've forced this pairing on him against my advice. Bodie is not suited to one to one partnerships."

"You said Doyle needed to be pushed, prodded into action and away from apathy." Cowley waited for Ross to agree. "Bodie, to my mind, was the ideal choice."

"William Bodie is an insensitive, callous, immoral thug and surely no one's idea of a perfect solution," Ross said forcefully, her eyes glittering angrily.

"There is no call for you to bring your personal feelings about Bodie into this, Dr Ross," Cowley rapped out, putting the psychiatrist firmly in her place. "I have the final word on these matters and I stand by what I have previously stated. Until I say otherwise, Bodie and Doyle will remain as a teamed pair. I still think it is too early to write Doyle off. On your own advice, Dr Ross, we agreed a twelve-week training period. Any final decision will wait until after that."

"I think that's fair," said Macklin. "It's only reasonable to accept a small backsliding. So far Doyle's doing exceptionally well."

"But Bodie has cancelled today's training," persisted Ross. "That's not backsliding, that's giving up. Bodie has pushed too hard, too fast, and Doyle has gone under--"

"It's quite obvious that as things stand today we cannot clearly judge Doyle's future worth to CI5. I suggest we adjourn this meeting until next Tuesday, a week from today. Then we will know whether Doyle has in fact given up, or if today is merely a hiccup."

"I disagree that the facts are not clear now, but I can't see that seven days more will make much difference," Ross said sourly.

"Sounds fair enough," Macklin agreed.

"A week--long enough to show further decline, or improvement," said Willis.

---

CHAPTER FIVE

So late in the day Bodie had no trouble finding a space in the car park.

"I was going to suggest it would be a good idea for you to do the driving for the next few weeks," Bodie said as he switched off the ignition. "But somehow I don't think you'd pass a breathalyser test right now. Perhaps we'll start that tomorrow."

A pair of bloodshot eyes and a very pale, pasty-looking face turned towards him. "Tomorrow?" Doyle said softly. "You reckon I'm gonna live that long?"

"Still feeling bad?"

"You could say that."

"C'mon then," Bodie said cheerfully. "A walk round the park and some fresh air in your lungs will soon blow the cobwebs away."

Bodie, full of energy after being cooped indoors all day, set off at a brisk pace, leaving Doyle no choice but to follow. Turning back to watch his partner's unenthusiastic progress, Bodie shouted, "How about a go out on the boats?"

"No."

"Spoilsport," replied Bodie. "Why not? Fancy a quick row around the lake, I do."

"No," said Doyle a little more firmly.

"Why not?" persisted Bodie.

"Because I feel sick enough already and I don't fancy bobbing about in a wooden boat just so you can pretend you're Captain Bligh."

"Bad sailor, huh?"

"Yes," said Doyle shortly, then softened his tone slightly. "Get seasick on the Woolwich Ferry, I do."

"You always this ratty when you're hungover?" Bodie enquired cheekily, the light in his eyes making it impossible for Doyle to think he was being serious.

"Dunno," Doyle replied, then laughed. "Can't remember ever drinking so much so quickly before." His face twisted into a wry smile. "Can't remember ever feeling this awful either." He rubbed a hand across his stomach and shook his head--carefully.

After two circuits of the lake and a wander through the deserted children's play area, Bodie decided that even if Doyle hadn't had enough fresh air, he had. The sun was rapidly going down and the little warmth that the autumn day held was going with it.

He looked across at Doyle, who was perched on the axis of the see-saw and looking across the lawns at a couple of boys playing tag on their bicycles. Since waking up, Doyle had been in a strange mood and Bodie found he was not sure how to cope with him. Over the weeks he had grown accustomed to the monosyllabic answers, and had almost given up hoping for some friendly, two-way conversations; Doyle spoke when he was spoken to, but today...Bodie struggled to pinpoint the difference. Doyle was still quiet, still unwilling to initiate conversation but somehow he seemed more...approachable, as if he was trying to let Bodie know that he wanted to talk, wouldn't mind talking--but just didn't know where or how to start.

"How do you feel about a hair of the dog?" Bodie asked. "I know a nice little boozer over the back of the park."

"It's a bit early, won't be open yet, will it?"

"Not far off opening time. Let's make an evening of it, grab a pizza first and then go on to the pub if you feel up to it." Bodie was reluctant to return to his flat, suddenly aware that once through the front door, Doyle would make for his bolt-hole and this new openness would be lost.

"A pizza?" Doyle thought about it. "Sounds more inviting than raw steak and bloody chips." It wasn't until he heard Bodie's deep chuckle that he realised he had voiced his thought.

"You knockin' my cooking?" asked Bodie, his whole attitude showing that he didn't really mind if Doyle was.

"Well...no...yes, I bloody well am." Doyle finally discovered a little bit of lost courage. "You're the worst cook I've ever met--and I've met some bad ones in my time. Can't you cook anything else? Is raw steak and oven chips all you can do?"

"No," Bodie protested, trying to look wounded by Doyle's scathing criticism and failing. "Rustle up a lovely sausage, egg and chips; bacon, egg and chips; bacon sandwich; sausage sandwich--"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture," laughed Doyle. "I thought Ann was bad but you're even worse. Come on, then, where's this pizza house? My stomach's beginning to remember what it's for."

Bodie led the way--wondered who Ann was.

In the restaurant, Bodie flirted shamelessly with the two waitresses. It was still only early evening and apart from themselves and a young couple in the opposite corner, the place was empty. As he joked and laughed with the girls, Bodie couldn't help but notice Doyle's withdrawal. It was clear that neither of the girls objected to Bodie's attentions but the younger, smaller one of the two kept smiling invitingly at the silent half of the handsome duo, almost begging him to join in the fun so she could respond to him too.

Bodie eked the meal out as long as he could, giving Doyle a chance to thaw, but at last conceded defeat and paid the bill.

As they left the restaurant, Doyle tried to avoid catching Bodie's eye. He knew that the girl had been trying to flirt with him, and he knew Bodie knew it too. Eventually the awkward silence became too much for him.

"Okay," he said, finally looking at Bodie and acknowledging his failure, "maybe my technique had got a little rusty. Hell!" Doyle said explosively, kicking a crushed Coke tin along the pavement, "'s been so long since I had to chat a girl up, think I've forgotten how. It's been longer than you think, too," he said, looking sideways at Bodie. "Haven't pulled my, 'What are you doing tonight, darling?' routine out of me bottom drawer for..." he paused frowned as he tried to work out the time involved, "...bloody hell, nearly four and a half years."

"Oh. Go in for celibacy, do you?"

"Nah. Fidelity...for all the good it did me." The tin received another, harder, kick which sent it scuttering noisily along the pavement and into the gutter.

"Married?" Bodie asked, knowing full well that Doyle wasn't. He knew he wouldn't have missed that bit of information.

"Almost," Doyle replied quietly, his voice softened by remembered sadness. "Didn't quite make it to the altar." The jaunty voice was at odds with the sad eyes, and Bodie couldn't contain his curiosity.

"What happened?"

"I got arrested."

There were times in his life that Bodie felt he could do without a brain, his mouth seemed to get along just fine without one.

They'd reached the pub by now and made themselves comfortable in a quiet corner, Bodie filling the stiff lull with getting the drinks.

"No thanks," said Doyle in response to Bodie's suggested refreshment, "I'll have a lemonade...Coke...anything long and cool but not alcoholic."

Returning with two pint jugs, one filled with beer and the other with Coke, Bodie sat back on the bench seat, furious with himself for ruining the smooth flow of conversation.

"Wasn't Ann's fault," Doyle said into the quiet. "Can't really blame her, she was only doing what she thought for the best. With her mother saying one thing and all the evidence backing her up, I didn't stand a chance."

"Ah," said Bodie cautiously, not wanting to break the reflective mood Doyle was in, "up against her mother, were you?"

"Fancied her as a mother-in-law about as much as she fancied me for a son-in-law."

"Bad, was she?"

"Bad!" Doyle took a long pull at the Coke, then smiled at Bodie as he remembered her. "Doesn't even begin to describe her." He laughed, a sharp brittle sound. "Mrs Harrison felt that Ann had rather let the family down when she got mixed up with me--if I'd been an inspector or something even higher I would've been a little more acceptable, but a poor, lowly detective constable was rather scraping the barrel. Bit on the high and mighty side was dear old Constance. She thought the end of the world had come when Ann and I started living together...just about cracked up when I got arrested."

"Where's Ann now, still around, is she?"

"I didn't see her outside the gates ready to fall into my arms. Did you?" Doyle said sourly. "Sunday matinee stuff--and not exactly Ann's style."

For all the bitterness in Doyle's voice, Bodie was certain he detected a hint of a crushed dream that just maybe Ann might have been there.

"Couldn't have been, could she mate?" Bodie pointed out. "Even you didn't know you were getting out."

"She wouldn't have been there anyway." Doyle didn't look up from his examination of the condensation on his jug. "Didn't exactly get the 'love you forever' routine when I went down. Didn't go to the trial or even visit me. I got a few letters...but that was all...couldn't even convince her I was innocent."

"How long were you together?"

"'bout...eighteen months, actually lived together for about a year of that."

"And she didn't believe you?"

"Had trouble convincing anyone, didn't I," Doyle said mockingly. "Judge and jury included. There were even times when I wondered if I wasn't going insane and forgetting that I really was guilty."

"Didn't anyone believe you?"

Doyle thought about it carefully, his face growing bleaker.

"Oh yeah, Mike Behan believed me--but when you think about it that's not so surprising--and my mum believed me. At least...she said she did...but then I never had much trouble convincing her black was white..." Doyle's voice trailed off and Bodie tried to imagine all the trauma Doyle had gone through, cut off completely from all emotional support.

"Must have been pretty rough," Bodie said, feeling hopelessly inadequate.

"It got rougher." There was no bitterness in Doyle's voice. It was a fact, not very pleasant and not very nice, but a fact nonetheless.

"What happened to Ann then?"

"Went to America with Mummy and her stepfather to recover from a broken heart."

Bodie knew that he didn't like Ann and fervently hoped that he'd never meet her--or else she was likely to end up with more than just a broken heart!

"What about your Mum, told her the good news yet?" He didn't understand the sudden anger that flared in the baleful green eyes.

"No."

"Why not? Should've told her weeks ago."

"I didn't tell her because I don't care much for Spiritualism," Doyle said flatly, his voice chillingly devoid of all emotion. "She's dead. Died just after I was transferred to Maidstone." Across the small table Doyle found he couldn't meet Bodie's probing gaze any more and dropped his eyes to look at the bubbles in his drink. He could feel his helpless anger welling up inside him and he desperately wanted to keep his mouth shut--stop talking--but as it had earlier this morning, everything just overflowed and all his hurt poured out. "My Dad died about ten years ago and that leaves John, my brother. He hates my guts because he's always hated my guts and because it's all my fault that Mum died. The shame," he said bitterly. "To hear him talk you'd think I never brought anything but shame on Mum and the family. It was bad enough that I broke Dad's heart because I refused to join the family business, rejecting the last, god-knows-how-many generations of Doyle traditions, and living in sin with someone who was worth ten of his bloody stupid wife, Carole. But--getting put away for something I didn't do and thumping hell out of some stupid, pea-brained, jumped-up screw who had a down on me and half of the bloody world was, according to the Book of John Doyle, the final straw. The fact that she had a massive stroke and was dead before she hit the ground had nothing to do with it. It's all my bloody fault!"

Every head in the small bar turned their way and Doyle suddenly realised he was shouting. The angry flush on his cheeks deepened and he quietly subsided back down onto his stool, pointedly ignoring everyone.

There really wasn't much more that Bodie could say after that and, wisely, he didn't even try. He downed his drink and went back to the bar, returning with half a pint for himself, a bottle of lemonade and two packets of crisps; he dumped them down on the table hard, the noise waking Doyle from his daydreams. "I'm going to play the fruit machines," he said, jumping up.

"Try the Space Invaders. You still need the target practice," Bodie replied.

In deference to the two elderly women seated at a nearby table, Doyle used a graphic visual display rather than a verbal retort to convey his reaction to Bodie's suggestion.

Sitting himself down at their table, Bodie watched Doyle root around in his pockets for some loose change, then slip a ten pence coin into the slot. The metal clunk and soft whirr sounded loud in the early evening lull in the pub; it would be another hour or so before the place began to fill up. Bodie was feeling very tired, and his neck was beginning to ache. Another coin was fed into the machine and he wondered how much longer Doyle would want to stay here. Bodie leant back on the hard bench, arching his spine and closing his eyes against the tiredness and painful tingles. The continuous thunk-chunk-chink made him open his eyes again, and he watched as coin after coin was spat out of the machine into the tray.

"It's hit the jackpot! Hey, Bodie," Doyle shouted gleefully, "it's hit the jackpot!"

In the corner of the bar, the balding man who had only just walked away from the machine hit his head on the bar-top and groaned aloud his misfortune. The tray was almost full and Ray was scooping up handfuls of ten pence pieces, shoving them into his pockets.

"Here," he pushed a handful towards Bodie, "put some in your pockets, I'm running out of room."

The machine finally stopped regurgitating silver.

"How much is it? No--no more," Bodie protested. "You'll make my pockets go all baggy."

"Dunno, let's see..." Doyle peered at the front of the machine. "Flippin' 'eck, it's thirty quid!"

The bald man groaned even louder.

"Have you got any room left for this?" Doyle asked, peering into Bodie's already-full pockets. Pushing Doyle off, Bodie backed away, leaving about ten pounds' worth of silver still sitting in the tray.

"Barman," called Doyle, "a drink for everyone in the house. I'm payin'."

Bodie winced at the terrible John Wayne impersonation, then smiled as he saw the beaming faces scattered around the pub. The ten pounds quickly vanished, but there was still enough to buy Doyle another lemonade and put something in the charity box. Recalling Cowley's lecture on the terrible life a breathalysed agent could expect, Bodie declined another drink but attacked the crisps with relish.

Once the fuss and excitement had died down, Doyle lifted his glass of lemonade as if he was about to propose a toast.

"I've played those machines for years and I've never won a jackpot before. You know, Bodie, I think that maybe my luck's changing. Cheers!"

Bodie smiled back into the animated, happy face.

I dunno, mate, he thought, you've been shut away for three years, persecuted, pestered and practically raped, your fiancee's emigrated, your mother's died and your brother hates your guts--all things considered, your luck couldn't get much worse!

"Cheers!" said Bodie.

---

By two o'clock the next morning Bodie was beginning to wonder how he could have been so wrong. He was so tired he hurt, every nerve and muscle in his body was crying out for sleep, sleep that was made impossible as Doyle's entreaties and pathetic cries wafted along the darkened hallway.

After all the talking they had done Bodie had hoped that the dreams would fade away--but it was not to be. The harsh voice reached a peak, then cut off abruptly and he knew Doyle was awake. Bodie was too tired to talk any more and he guessed that simply talking wasn't going to solve anything just yet, but he had to get some sleep.

Hauling himself out of bed, he made for the spare room, wondering what Doyle was going to make of his suggestion.

"Did I wake you again? Sorry," said Doyle quietly in response to Bodie's perfunctory knock as he stuck his head around the door.

"You okay?" Bodie asked, blinking against the brightness of the table lamp.

"Fine, just fine!" replied Doyle, his voice laden with heavy irony.

"I've got an idea that might work," Bodie offered cautiously. "It's doing neither of us any good being wide awake half the night, is it?"

"No," agreed Doyle warily, half suspecting he was going to be told to go and sleep on a park bench until morning.

"If we could wake you up before the dream gets a proper hold on you, we could both settle back down to sleep a lot easier, couldn't we?"

"If I could wake up. Do you think I don't want to?" Doyle snapped back. "I'd love to wake up if I could--but I can't."

"I could wake you up as soon as you start moaning."

"How?" Doyle asked incredulously. "You goin' to install one of those two-way baby alarms and whisper soothing words into it every night?"

"No."

"How, then?"

"I'll just lean over and dig you in the ribs."

"Do you think you're Twizzle or something? Got an extendable arm shoved up your sleeve, have you?"

"No. You come into my room, share my bed--"

"Get lost!" exploded Doyle.

"It beats traipsing up and down the hall twice a night. If you've got a better idea, let's hear it."

"No way!"

"Come on, Doyle," Bodie said calmly. "It's the best idea I've had in ages, and who knows, it might even work."

"I'm not gettin' in your bed!" Doyle's eyes were wide with alarm and he hung on to the bedclothes as if he thought Bodie was going to drag him forcibly to his bed.

"Partners," Bodie said firmly, "have to help each other. You trust me, don't you?" Doyle didn't answer and Bodie watched him carefully. "Look mate, I've never had to force anyone to get into bed with me and I'm not going to start now. The only reason I want you in my bed is so I can get a decent night's sleep. Believe me, Raymond, you have absolutely none of the qualities I look for in a friendly bedmate." Bodie looked over the parts of Doyle not covered by the sheet. "You're too hairy by half, and too skinny, apart from which you've got too much of the wrong equipment and not enough of the right." Bodie laughed, relieved and pleased to see some of the taut control in Doyle's body ease a little.

"I'm pleased to hear that at least," Doyle said wryly. "Was beginning to think I was irresistible."

"I can resist you, don't worry your head about that. Now are you coming--'cause I'm freezing my balls off out here," Bodie complained.

There was a heavy sigh before he was answered.

"Okay, but I can't see it's going to make any difference."

"We'll see, we'll see," Bodie said encouragingly as Doyle slowly began to get out of his bed. A sudden thought made Bodie shoot back along the hall and into his bedroom and start pulling drawer after drawer before pouncing on a pair of pyjamas. He usually slept in the raw but he supposed Doyle would feel happier with two thicknesses of material between them.

"Good lord, which hospital did you nick those from?"

Doyle's voice made Bodie look down at his candy-striped, cotton trousers before shrugging his shoulders.

"Can't remember now, I've had them for years."

"Looks like it."

Doyle stood by the door and looked around the room, seeing it for the first time. Like the rest of the flat it was tastefully luxurious, his bare feet sinking into the soft pile carpet as his gaze fell on the king-size bed that dominated the room.

Trying to feel comfortable in the loose pyjama bottoms, Bodie climbed back into the bed, snuggling down straight away.

"Come on, Ray, I'm not going to bite you," he said softly.

There was no reply, but Bodie heard Doyle cross the room and felt the bed dip and sway as he got under the covers. After a few minutes Bodie broke the silence.

"Do you always sleep flat on your back as stiff as a board?"

Again there was no answer but the bed shook as Doyle shifted his position.

"Will you do me a favour?" asked Bodie.

"What?" Doyle's voice was tight and full of suspicion.

"Turn the light off, please."

Doyle reached out to click off the lamp on his side of the bed and the room was plunged into darkness.

The swift rise of panic was halted by near superhuman effort but Doyle managed to force himself to talk normally.

"It's a bit hot in here, do you mind if I open a window?"

"Window's open already," Bodie mumbled into his pillow.

"Open it a bit more then, 's awfully hot in here."

The lamp was switched back on and Doyle was halfway to the window by the time Bodie's sixth sense told him something was wrong. It was not that hot.

Throwing the heavy, lined curtains back, Doyle almost fainted with relief when the light from the street lamps hit his face. Since that first attack of claustrophobia in his own room a few weeks ago he had discovered that blanket darkness was just as terrifying. All the time he could see, he was all right. In the darkness he knew that every second could bring the first groping touch of hot, sweaty, loathsome hands...

"You all right?" asked Bodie from his propped-up position in the bed, puzzled by Doyle's behaviour [missing line] not even attempting to open the casement.

"Yeah, fine. I'm fine." His relief at finding an outside light made Doyle forget his initial excuse and he made his way back to the bed without opening the window any further but leaving the drapes drawn back.

This time when the light clicked off, the room remained dimly lit by an amber glow from the street. Bodie opened his mouth to complain about the irritating light but shut it again firmly, swallowing the words before he uttered them.

No, he told himself. He couldn't be--could he? Scared of the dark--ridiculous! But what other explanation could there be? He was asleep before he came up with another answer.

The banging of a door woke him up next morning, and Bodie reluctantly opened his eyes. He would have sworn before Cowley and God that he'd only closed them seconds ago, but the bright sunlight pouring through the uncurtained windows told him it would be a pointless exercise.

The bed beside him was empty. That meant the sound he'd heard was probably Doyle going for his morning jog...the new sound of running water and unmistakable hiss/thunder from the shower made him alter that to returning from his morning jog.

They were in the car, with Doyle in the driving seat, before any mention was made of the previous night.

"You still look terrible," Bodie said. "How well did you sleep?"

Not taking his eyes off the road, Doyle replied, "Not very," but then he flicked a quick smile across the car. "Did you know you snore? I'm surprised your neighbours don't complain."

"That explains why I've never been invited onto the Residents' Committee. Next time just dig me in the ribs to shut me up."

Next time. The words had just slipped out but Bodie knew he meant it.

"How were you last night--no more dreams?"

"No."

"Did you actually go to sleep?" Bodie asked doubtfully.

"Off and on, just sort of dozed really."

"Because of me?"

"No...I don't know...perhaps... I always feel uneasy about going straight to sleep after..." Doyle admitted quietly.

"We'll try sharing a bit longer, it might help if I can wake you up before you get too..."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do but I don't want to start sleeping in your bed every night. I know you didn't even want to share the flat with me, so don't pretend you're happy about sharing your bed."

"Cut it out, Doyle," Bodie barked irritably. "Don't try dodging out on this. You'll be sleeping in my bed until I say otherwise. We both need some decent sleep and you being within arm's reach so I can poke you in the ribs is how we're going to get it. Okay?"

Jerking the car to an abrupt emergency stop that would have delighted any driving instructor, Doyle missed the suicidal dog and changed the subject.

Under the watchful eyes of Jack Prescott, Doyle carefully snipped the red wire.

"No, no!" Prescott groaned. "With this type of detonator you must always cut the wire leading from the timer to the detonator. If this was for real we'd be scraping you up into a bucket right now. Try again."

Another mock incendiary device was placed on the table and Prescott began his commentary.

"That's it...feel it with your fingertips. Unless you've got a date with an angel never, never rush opening any device. Tease it. That's it. No! No, gently--gently! That's better. Now check the detonator, identify the type. Now the explosive. The casing, Doyle, check the casing! Remember what I said about booby traps. Right, now choose your wire. Steady. Well done!"

Prescott glanced over the downbent head and caught sight of Bodie loitering at the back of the room.

"Come to take him away, have you?"

"If you've taught him all you know, yes." Bodie smiled as Doyle looked round at him.

"Well, he's tried. Red wires, blue wires, trip wires--what the hell's the Bomb Squad for?" Doyle asked peevishly.

"No one expects you to be an expert, Doyle," Prescott said. "It's just that you Glory Boys have a habit of getting to these little nasties first. I'm here to make sure you can identify the type and immediate danger. On the spot you'll have to decide whether you've time to evacuate the place and call the bomb squad, but one day you just might have to defuse it yourself--and you'll only get one chance."

"Point taken," said Doyle seriously.

"I'll want him back for another session, Bodie. He's still a bit shaky on the smaller devices, nothing a bit of practice won't help though. I'll give you a call in a few days and arrange a time, okay?" As he was speaking, Prescott was gathering his tools and equipment together.

"Oh, Doyle," he handed over a small metal object, "a present for you. The ideal agent's kit: screwdriver, knife, scissors, tin opener and corkscrew. The owner of one of these little gadgets is prepared for every eventuality."

Prescott dropped the shapeless piece of metal into Doyle's hand and then picked up his holdall and left, pausing only long enough to acknowledge Doyle's thanks.

"Neat little thing, isn't it." The two men examined the device, testing the various functions.

"You feel fit?" Bodie asked as Doyle tested the scissors on a piece of wire.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I've arranged a session in the gym, rounded up a couple of the lads to give you a tryout."

The new toy was folded up and they made for gymnasium.

"Where are you going?" Bodie asked as Doyle went to turn down a corridor.

"Changing room--to change!"

"Not this time, street clothes, street situation. This time it's not just an exercise."

"What do you mean?" Doyle asked warily.

"I know you're fit--well, fitter than you were to start with, and I know you know the basics, in practice you're good, but fights rarely happen on gym mats between people who really only want to test your strength. So today, if you don't want to get hurt, you'll have to fight properly."

They reached the door to the gym and the first thing Doyle saw was the sudden flare of appraisal in the eyes of the three men waiting for him, but none of them made a move towards him though they all greeted Bodie warmly.

"Wondered where you'd been hiding yourself," said the sleek black man.

"Trust you to wangle a cushy little number, 3.7," joked the tall, fair-haired one.

"This it then?" The last man jerked his head in Doyle's direction. "All three of us!" The richly even voice rose in astonishment as he looked Doyle over. "You sure he's up to it? Get seven years for manslaughter, you know!"

Doyle's back stiffened at the ridicule and his temper rose a fraction.

"Doyle, meet Murphy, Jax and Williams. He's all yours, lads."

Bodie placed a hard hand in the middle of Doyle's back and shoved him into the centre of the room.

The relaxed languor vanished; suddenly the smiling men were gone, replaced by stealthy, hard-muscled predators seeking their prey--Doyle!

Circled by the men, Doyle kept on his toes, turning, checking, waiting for them to make their move. At first they came one at a time, testing him, his reflexes, his aggression, then they speeded up the pace, allowing him less recovery time and then no recovery time.

"Come on, Doyle," Bodie shouted from the sidelines. "Fight them. Hurt them--they're hurting you! Stop holding back. Knee the bugger's balls. Follow it through. You got him down, now keep him there. Show some aggression. Hit him, you fool, don't tickle him--hit him! And again! Harder..."

Jax, Murphy and Williams kept coming; they were all sweating and showing some damage and through it all Doyle kept hearing Bodie's voice, the criticism and scathing comments steadily burning through his self-control.

"Are you fighting or dancing? No--no! Hit him! Get up, you idiot, can't fight flat on your back. Bloody well saw that coming! Surprise them, surprise us all. Be unpredictable, you fool. No--unpredictable, I said. Don't let them know...oh, I give up. Put some life into it, don't just lie there--get up..."

Doyle staggered to his feet, clutching at his stomach trying to hold the pain in and blinking away the pinpoints of bright light. They weren't playing, these friends of Bodie's. This was no technically perfect, freefall bout--more of a free-for-all. He kicked out sharply, caught one of his opponents dead centre, and was wholly satisfied with the softness that folded around his foot. One down, two to go!

"About time, too!" cheered Bodie. "Hurry up, they've only got half an hour left before Cowley wants them in the briefing room. If you make 'em late they won't like you, Doyle. Come on--move a bit faster. Get in first, you prat, shove him down. That's better, Doyle! Attack! They'll keep coming until you're down or they're down."

The tall, fair-haired man was the next to go; a hard chop in the ribs followed by a short, sharp kick made him stay down. Only the black man remained and the two men circled each other, dancing on their toes, watching, waiting for a wrong move and an opening.

"Well done, you're learning! Now, forget all about the Marquis of Queensbury, use anything to get an advantage--if you won't, he will!"

Jax leapt forward and for a second there was a flurry of fists and swift grunts as skin and bone met forcibly. Then they broke apart, neither having gained any advantage.

"Even a blind man would have seen that coming, Doyle. Be purposely unpredictable! Don't let him outguess you. Surprise is nine-tenths of winning. Attack him first. Don't wait--hit him. Stop backing off, go forward!"

Over a haze of exhaustion and pain the critical monologue continued. The comments weren't a bit helpful--in fact they were a distraction; a bit like a persistent fly buzzing in your ear, Doyle thought suddenly. What do you do with a pesky fly, he asked himself--swat it, of course!

When the end came it took Bodie completely unawares. He had been looking over at Murphy and Williams, who were straightening themselves out at the far side of the gym; he did not see the two men dancing closer and closer as Doyle backed towards him, nor the light of anticipated victory in the rich brown eyes of Jax, premature and unfulfilled anticipation as Doyle, with the speed of light, changed the focus of his attack, grabbed the unsuspecting Bodie by his arm and swung him around, using his hip as an axis, lifting Bodie off his feet and throwing him bodily at Jax, diving in and catching the winded man with a decisive neck chop which successfully kept him down.

"Well done, Doyle."

The words of praise made him spin round ready to fight again, but the other two men held up their hands.

"No thanks, mate, enough is enough," said Murphy as he rubbed his stomach.

Williams extended a hand to help Jax up while Murphy assisted Bodie to his feet. "You weren't exactly straight with us, Bodie, so I reckon you deserved that."

"Too bloody right! Next time you want someone to test Doyle out--don't call us!"

"Be purposely unpredictable--you sound as bad as Macklin," said Murphy. "Are you sure you're not gunning for his job?"

"Who's after my job?"

Macklin's silent arrival took them all by surprise.

"Er--Bodie here, Mac," said Murphy, "seeing as how he's doing such a good job with Doyle..."

"And bearing in mind that memo the Home Sec. put out about early retirement," chipped in Williams.

"We thought Bodie might be after a cushy number," finished Jax.

"A cushy number, aye," said Macklin carefully. "Well, if any of you want to apply for the post of my assistant I'll be only too happy to run through a few training programmes with you."

"Wouldn't want to put you to any bother, Mac."

"I'll pass this time."

"Thanks for the offer but I hear the Cow wants someone to sharpen his pencils."

It was a very hasty and inelegant retreat, but in seconds, only Bodie, Doyle and Macklin were left in the room.

"I hadn't heard that Willis had cleared you, Bodie," Macklin said, concerned by the way Bodie was holding himself and massaging his neck.

"Er...he hasn't," admitted Bodie, as he meekly submitted to Macklin's order to sit down, while the beefy instructor began to manipulate the tension Doyle's throw had caused in his healing and almost-forgotten injury.

"Then what the hell are you doing playing silly buggers in the gym? You know as well as I do that the doctor has to clear you before recommending training after a serious injury," snapped Macklin.

Doyle listened to the exchange with growing guilt. Serious injury? He hadn't known Bodie was hurt.

"There's no harm done," Bodie said hurriedly as he recognised the dawning expression in Doyle's eyes. "Doyle just took me by surprise, he was just--"

"Being purposely unpredictable," finished Macklin. "Don't go stealing my lines, Bodie. Invent your own! And I saw what happened." Macklin turned towards Doyle. "You're getting better but until you learn to attack, you're not going anywhere. Forget the police, forget all about minimum force for maximum effort. The people you'll be going after eat policemen for breakfast. You've got to get in first, don't wait for the trouble to start, get in first and finish it quick."

Macklin's hard gaze bored straight through Doyle's uncertain defences; this was no oft-repeated textbook lesson, this was the voice of experience. Doyle had known that CI5 was very different from the police but all his training up till this moment had held a slightly unreal air; he had been taught to shoot, fight, defuse bombs, even make them, and he'd been filled with hundreds and hundreds of relevant facts, names, places, policies, politics, but it had been like adults' version of the spy game he'd played with his friends all those years ago...suddenly, Macklin had made it very, very real.

Macklin saw the spark of awareness flicker into life in Doyle's eyes and knew instinctively that the young man had finally woken up to reality. Maybe now they would get somewhere.

"That's enough for today, boys," was all he said though. "Bodie, if your neck's bothering you, see Dr Willis, don't forget you've got your own retraining period coming up in a few weeks and I don't want you back until you're one hundred percent fit."

Macklin's friendly but unrelenting gaze quashed any comments Bodie might have wished to make.

"Doyle," Macklin turned back to the other man, "you're to see Dr Willis on Monday afternoon, aren't you?" Doyle nodded in agreement. "Well, keep an eye on Bodie. If you think his injury is still causing him discomfort make sure you tell the doctor. When it comes to the medical fraternity our friend here becomes positively tongue-tied."

Bodie denied it of course, at some length, but Doyle was left with the impression that Macklin had not been lying. But a serious injury? Doyle wondered exactly what was wrong with Bodie, and how badly he had been hurt. How had he been hurt--and how come he hadn't noticed? Tagging along behind Bodie and Macklin, Doyle followed them out of the gym and along the corridors, down towards the private bar at the rear of the building. He wasn't surprised to see his three opponents standing there, nor other familiar faces he'd seen at HQ; this small, noisy little haven from the rest of the world seemed to be exclusively for the use of CI5 personnel.

Once the loud routine of, 'Hi, hellos' was over with and their drinks were in front of them, Doyle managed to slip to the back of the crowd where he sat, watching and listening.

A sudden commotion at the door caused every head in the room to swing around in time to catch the spectacular entrance of four vigorous and energetic if slightly scruffy-looking young men.

"The hero of the moment returns," one of them yelled at the top of his voice.

"Heroes," corrected one of the group as he playfully swatted his companion on the back of his head. "We were all there as well."

"All wrapped up is it," asked a voice from the crowd around the bar.

"Go well, did it?" asked another voice.

"Like a dream," answered one of the four.

"Right, lads," announced a booming voice that any parade ground RSM would be proud to possess, "anyone with any outstanding expense chits should take advantage of the Cow's benevolent mood."

"How'd the Old Man take the news?"

The four men walked, unhampered, to the bar, puffing their chests up and almost cooing with contentment.

"Offered us all a drop of his best malt."

In the shocked but respectful silence that followed that announcement Bodie was heard to ask which drawer Cowley had removed the famous bottle from.

"Top drawer, of course!"

"Sorry, mate," Bodie said as he broke the news gently, "but he keeps the really good stuff in the third drawer down."

The room erupted into good-humoured uproar as the newcomers were welcomed into the crowd and the details of their successful job were pored over with great interest. The post mortem carried on for an hour or so and Doyle used the relaxed, free and easy atmosphere to good advantage. A subtle question here, a delicate manoeuvring of conversation there, and he managed to learn quite a bit about his partner. He took it all in, filing all the little comments and anecdotes away until he had time to go over them properly. After nearly six weeks he was surprised that there was so much he didn't know about Bodie.

Driving home, he thought over what he had learned. Bodie was well-liked and respected, though more than one person had hinted at some unpleasant sides to his nature. Good for a laugh and a great one for the girls, apparently--not that either trait had shown itself in the last six weeks; apart from that one night out with Ruth Pettifer, Bodie had stayed in every night. Because of me, Doyle thought guiltily.

The most important facts Doyle had learned, though, were quite interesting. Without asking direct questions--because he had not wanted to appear obviously curious or concerned--Doyle discovered that he was the first person Cowley had tried teaming with Bodie. For the last two years, Bodie had been a solo agent--and by all accounts, one of the best Cowley had--until four months ago when he had taken a fall through a skylight and come close to breaking his neck. For a few days there had been a big question hanging over Bodie's future; CI5 had no room for cripples. But with the luck of the devil, Bodie had apparently bounced back and was as good as new--almost!

Watching the traffic up ahead, Doyle managed to catch Bodie stealthily rubbing his neck when he thought he couldn't be seen.

"I'm sorry about aggravating it. You should've told me, though, I'd no idea you weren't fit."

Realising he had been caught out, Bodie stopped pretending and gave his neck a proper, hard rub.

"Nah, 's not your fault. Hardly feel it all now except when I'm tired. I'll be okay by the time Macklin's ready for me."

"When will that be?"

"Another four weeks. We'll both be ready for him then."

The certainty in Bodie's voice made Doyle look round, smiling.

"You think I'm going to make the grade, then?"

"With me teaching you, you can't fail."

Doyle was beginning to recognise that smug, superior tone.

"You don't mind being lumbered with a partner then?" Doyle parked the car and switched the ignition off. "...or with me?" he added quietly.

"How d'you mean?"

"Someone said that you'd told Cowley you had no intention of being partnered by anyone--that you work best solo."

"Someone's got a slack mouth," said Bodie slowly as he digested what Doyle was asking him.

Ever since he'd looked up from his talk with Lucas and McCabe about the operation and seen Doyle joining in with the conversation and relaxed atmosphere of the clubroom, he'd known something was coming up. It was the first time he'd seen Doyle initiate a conversation with anyone--when he'd heard his name mentioned once or twice he had suspected that at long last Doyle had begun to be curious about him.

It had pleased him to see Doyle was finally taking notice of other people and he wasn't bothered at what any of his colleagues might say about him--they only knew what he wanted them to know anyway--but he hadn't considered how his initial loud and indiscreet reluctance to take on a partner could undermine Doyle's slowly awakening self-confidence. There was nothing like knowing you were unwanted to make you feel even more unwanted than you already thought you were.

"But after all the time and trouble I've taken gettin' you this far I'll be buggered if I'm letting someone else step in and reap the benefit!"

As they walked into the building, Bodie wondered how something just said out loud on the spur of the moment could possibly be so true. He really meant it! Doyle was going to be his partner whether he liked it or not. Apart from appearing rather unimpressed by Bodie's ambiguous answer to his question, Doyle made no comment and, as Bodie had suspected he would, vanished into his own bedroom at the earliest opportunity.

Much later that evening Bodie showered in readiness for bed and then donned the awful, candy-striped trousers again before padding down the hall to Doyle's bedroom. He knocked and walked in to find Doyle already sitting up in bed reading a book.

"I'm ready," Bodie said firmly, "and I don't like being disturbed once I'm comfortable."

"So?" said Doyle, unhelpfully.

"So--you're in the wrong bed, aren't you!" Bodie knew Doyle had not forgotten and guessed that he was probably hoping Bodie would.

"Don't you think you're carrying this 'partners' thing a bit too far?"

"No."

"For christ's sake, we're working partners, I'm not married to you or anything, there's nothing in the contract that says I have to sleep with you!" Doyle protested.

"I'm not suggesting you're to love, honour and obey me--just obey and trust me. Now, come on!"

It was a complaining and reluctant man that followed Bodie back along the hallway to the dimly lit bedroom.

"Make yourself comfortable," Bodie instructed. "I'll be back in a sec," then he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Doyle took advantage of his absence to open the curtains, hoping that if Bodie noticed, he wouldn't think it strange.

When he returned Bodie saw the opened curtains immediately but chose not to comment, trusting his own ability to wheedle the truth from his close-mouthed companion in time.

The second night started out quite promisingly as Doyle, worn out by successive interrupted, disturbed nights and prolonged sessions in the gymnasium and class rooms, fell asleep almost immediately. For some time Bodie found himself lying in the semi-darkness listening to the soft breathing beside him; a relaxing, hypnotic sound which gradually eased him, unknowing, into sleep.

He awoke from a wonderfully deep, dreamless slumber to an uncomfortable physical sensation.

"Get off me, you great lump!" Doyle hissed in his ear. "Get on your own side, will you? Move over!"

Strong hands and a bony knee emphasised the point by pushing his heavy sleeping body across the bed onto a bit of cold sheet.

"...got bony knees..." Bodie managed to mumble before slipping back to sleep, only to be woken again seemingly minutes later by Doyle's outraged whisper:

"Fuck off!"

"Mmmm, wha'?" Disentangling himself from the irate bundle of warmth, Bodie withdrew to the cold sheet.

"Keep your flaming hands to yourself!"

"Sorry," Bodie whispered as he realised what was happening. "I can't help it--I'm used to cuddling who I sleep with--"

"Well, if you think you're gonna start cuddling me I'm going back to my own bed--"

Bodie grabbed hold and pulled Doyle back into the bed.

"Whoa, not so fast! It's nothing personal, mate, it's not you I'm after, it's just...well, you know...I usually get to cuddle what I sleep with. There's no need to get uptight...after all, I'm bound to wake up before I get to the good bits, aren't I?" Bodie joked. "Now, lie back down, shut up and go to sleep...and I'll try to remember you're 5'8", skinny, hairy and male. Okay?"

They settled down again and for a while the room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic breathing from the two exhausted men.

The first glow of the new sun was painting the sky when the easy rhythm was disturbed as Doyle became restless, his breathing quickening as the dream took hold; trapped in his nightmare, he struggled to get free, his body twitching and shifting restlessly.

On the other side of the bed, still wrapped in his own peaceful oblivion, Bodie sensed the silent struggle going on beside him and reached across the bed to offer his own sleepy comfort.

The instant Doyle's fist connected with Bodie's nose both men were wide awake and sitting up, Doyle reaching for the light switch and Bodie holding his injured face with both hands.

"By dose, you broke my dose!"

"I'm sorry. You touched me and I just hit out... I'm sorry. Oh christ, you're bleeding over everything. Got any hankies?"

"In der ches' of 'rawers, 'op 'rawer."

Handing the hankies over, Doyle stood helplessly by the side of the bed apologising over and over.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were...I forgot where I was, I'm sorry...I just got used to hitting him every time he touched me...I'm sorry...I knew this would happen..."

"'s all right, jus' bel' up. Know you didn' mean it," Bodie mumbled through the wad of bloodstained cotton. "Oh, gob, I fink it's broken."

"I'll get you a cold flannel," Doyle said as he ran for the bathroom, emerging seconds later and replacing the useless handkerchief with a freezing cold, wet cloth.

"Have you got any ice cubes in your fridge?" he asked.

"'uckin 'annel's 'old enough," Bodie protested nasally, flinching as the icy water dripped onto his bare chest.

"'ink ith's 'opped now anyway." Carefully, he pulled the flannel away. Yes, it had stopped.

"Is it broken?"

"Nah, don't 'ink so," Bodie said as he gingerly touched his nose; it was very painful but he didn't think it was seriously damaged. "'s all right, jus' a bit tender. What time is it?"

Doyle turned the clock around to se. "Nearly six."

"'aven't got to be at the range till ten so get back into bed. Maybe we can still get some sleep."

"After what I just did?" Doyle asked incredulously. "I probably will break it next time."

"Won't be a next time."

Lulled into a sense of security by Bodie's confident voice, Doyle climbed back into bed--only to try and leap straight back out again.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he demanded to know as he pulled away from a pair of octopus-like arms.

"Got it all figured out, haven't I!" Bodie said. "You get all twitchy every time you're asleep and someone touches you. So, you're going to go to sleep with me holding you so you're used to me being here, an' I'm going to be wrapped round you so fuckin' tightly you aren't going to be able to twitch without me knowing about the second you do!"

Bodie pulled Doyle back into his arms and made sure they were snuggled up nice and tight, Doyle's back pressed hard against his own chest, and his arms secure around the trim waist, holding him there.

"And relax! Neither of us is going to sleep if you're as stiff as a board," Bodie whispered into Doyle's hair. "All I want to do is sleep, so don't worry...this way I know where you are and you know where I am, neither of us gets any nasty surprises. Now, go to sleep!"

It was not a very comfortable position, so Bodie made his reluctant companion move to accommodate him.

"Bend your knee...that's better. Now lift your arm up a bit. There, 's more comfy, innit!"

"No."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

"How can I with you plastered down me back? You're making me too hot," Doyle complained.

Bodie released him only for as long as it took to throw the top bedspread off.

"Now will you go to sleep?"

"Your elbow's digging in my side."

Bodie sighed and shifted his elbow.

"How am I supposed to sleep with you blowin' a flippin' gale in me ear?"

Bodie pulled back a fraction so they were almost, but not quite touching, back to chest, but still kept an arm resting around the trim waist with his hand loosely circling Doyle's wrist, ready to grab hold should he start getting jumpy again.

"Do we really have to sleep holding bloody hands?"

"Yes! Now shut up!" Bodie's tone clearly showed the limits of his patience were almost exceeded, and Doyle finally gave in. Too tense himself to sleep, Bodie was relieved to feel Doyle slowly slip into unconsciousness.

Again, Doyle's soft, rhythmic breathing had a soporific effect and Bodie felt himself falling asleep.

There was only one dodgy moment in what remained of the night, and that was when, for a few seconds, Bodie's fingers automatically began light, stroking caresses along the warm skin beneath them, but Bodie snapped back to full awareness and stilled his errant fingers as soon as Doyle began to fidget and pull away, the light touch obviously weaving itself into the fabric of his dreams and becoming something sinister.

"Ssh...ssh..." Bodie whispered, holding his breath. "It's all right...just go back to sleep...'s all right now..."

Holding the restless sleeper firmly, Bodie felt the tension sliding away, and breathed out.

Maybe his idea was going to work after all.

---

CHAPTER SIX

"Are you coming, then?" Doyle asked quietly.

"Might as well," Bodie replied as he rose from his desk. "Get it over with."

"You gonna tell him how you got that?"

There was no need for Bodie to ask what 'that' was supposed to be. Since his painful awakening in the early hours of Friday morning he had been sporting a beautiful black eye.

"I never could understand why they call 'em black eyes," Bodie said as he pulled a face at himself in the mirror while studying his injury. "Blue, green, yellow, mauve and every other colour in the rainbow, but there's not a single spot of black."

"Now the green's fading it doesn't look quite so bad."

"No, it doesn't--maybe I can just tell him I've got jaundice," said Bodie mournfully.

"In one eye?" Doyle asked.

After a final grimace at his reflection Bodie turned to follow Doyle down to the medical room where Dr Willis was waiting to give him another check-up and make sure Bodie was fit enough to begin his own training schedule in preparation for Macklin's fitness tests.

The medical section was like a very small, compact casualty hospital where the department doctors could treat a wide range of injuries from splinters through to broken bones. It saved a lot of time having the facility on the premises and, with the dangerous nature of the department's work, the section was well used.

Willis mmm'd and aah'd and fussed a lot, but he was a good doctor and he took his task of keeping his patients healthy very seriously. In a job where a pulled muscle or an ignored minor illness could lead to slower reaction times, injury and even death, he had to stay on his toes.

He lingered over Bodie's X-rays and poked and prodded his silently suffering patient.

"Are you sure you feel no discomfort when I do this?" Willis pushed firmly on the back of Bodie's neck.

"It feels okay, there's no pain at all."

"Hmmm." Willis flexed his fingers and probed an inch or so further down. "How about here?"

"No. Nothing."

Willis hmm'd to himself once more then moved away to his desk.

"All right, Bodie, you can put your shirt back on. Now, you can start a slow build-up, you've got another three weeks before Macklin can start on you but I want you back here the minute your neck starts paining you."

Bodie looked across the room to Doyle and smiled, making no pretence of listening to Willis' well-meant advice and never-ending list of dos and don'ts.

Then it was Doyle's turn. Bodie settled himself down in one of the chairs and concentrated half-heartedly on an old magazine lying there. Across the room it was Doyle's turn to be measured, poked, prodded and examined. The quietly spoken instructions to 'do that,' 'move this,' bend that,' 'breathe in' and 'blow out' and a smattering of 'hmms,' 'aahs,' and 'very goods' were the only sounds.

"Right, Doyle, if you would just step up on the scales for me."

Sensing that the end of the examination was looming, Bodie looked up from the article he'd been reading in time to see Doyle palming something and holding it behind his back as he stepped over to the scales.

Intrigued, Bodie got up and wandered over.

"Well done, Mr Doyle. You're gaining weight nicely, we'll soon have you up to par. I'm pleased that someone in this organisation appreciates the value of a properly balanced diet. Mind you," and Willis turned from the scales to glare at Bodie, "you are the first underweight patient I've had since I joined the section. Most of your colleagues' problems tend to lean in the opposite direction."

Bodie looked distinctly uncomfortable under the piercing glare and Willis tried to be fair.

"But then I suppose it's easier to gain weight than to lose it, isn't it, Bodie?"

By now, Bodie had moved close enough to see the object Doyle had hidden behind his back.

"Oh yes," he agreed, "much easier."

Especially when you're holding an eight-pound weight in your hand, Bodie thought. He looked up into Doyle's worried eyes. So, the little sod knew he'd been caught out, did he.

Just then the telephone rang and Willis moved away to answer it, leaving the two men standing by the scales whispering to each other.

"You say anything, Bodie, and so help me I'll hit you with it," Doyle hissed.

"Keep your hair on," answered Bodie, judging from the angry glitter in Doyle's eyes that he really meant it. "Dunno what you want to cheat for--I wish I had your problem," Bodie said earnestly. Willis was always nagging at him over his weight; had a weight fixation, did Dr Willis.

Standing by the desk, Willis was listening to the lab technician's voice while trying to work out what was happening over in the corner of the room. For a moment he'd thought Doyle was going to thump his partner with whatever he was holding behind his back. Willis's eyes opened wider as he identified the object; he looked over to table and checked which weight was missing.

"Yes, right, thank you," Willis said rather distractedly as the phone call drew to a close. "Well, I'll get back to you about it later on then, good-bye." He placed the receiver down and walked back to the scales.

"If you'd just get back on for a moment, Mr Doyle, I'd just like to check your weight again."

Bodie moved away as Doyle stepped back onto the scales.

"Oh, and just put the weight back over on the table, please. We don't want to get the wrong reading do we, Mr Doyle." Willis smiled, Bodie choked back a snort of laughter and Doyle sighed as he did as he was told.

"That's better," said Willis. "Amazing the difference a small lump of lead can make, isn't it? Nine stone seven pounds. You're still over a stone underweight. Have you looked at that diet sheet properly?"

"Yes, of course I have," Doyle answered.

"Are you following it?"

"Yes...well, sort of," Doyle finally admitted.

"Sort of isn't good enough. Your ideal weight is ten stone twelve pounds, but I'm not fussy, I'll settle for ten and half stone. Now," Willis indicated the chastened but unrepentant Doyle could get off the scales, "I'm due to see you both when Macklin has finished with you. Doyle, I'll want your weight to be at least ten stone and Bodie, we'll try for about eight pounds off yours, shall we?"

Feeling like naughty schoolboys escaping from a classroom, they left and took themselves off to the canteen to get their long-overdue lunch.

Standing in the queue, Bodie finally broke the silence with a mumbled threat about what he'd like to do with Willis's scales.

"Yeah," Doyle laughingly agreed. "And if I ever get my hands on the berk who compiled those bloody ideal weight lists I'll kill him."

"At least your problem's easier to handle, just keep eating. Me--he expects me to starve! Only eight pounds, he says. Only!" Bodie moaned. "I feel perfectly all right and I'm not overweight, just well developed."

"I've never been ten and a half stone in my life," Doyle added his moan. "About ten or ten four is my limit. Every time he sees me he makes some comment about how peaky and thin I look. I know I was a bit underweight--"

"Only a bit?" Bodie questioned the understatement.

"--but I've always been slim," Doyle continued, trying to ignore the sarcasm. "This is all muscle, you know, not an ounce of fat on me," he said, patting his enviably flat stomach.

Selecting their meals, Bodie carried the tray over to the table, leaving Doyle to pay and collect the cutlery. Just as they were sorting themselves out Dr Willis walked by, his look of approval fading as Bodie, with a devilish grin, took the plate of meat pie, chips and beans, and pushed the ham salad towards Doyle.

---

As the door closed behind Macklin and Dr Willis, Cowley summoned up the dregs of his patience and turned to Dr Ross.

"I would be grateful, Doctor, if you would enlighten me on this 'confidential' problem." Cowley's irritation was plainly obvious to the psychiatrist, and she calmly gathered her arguments.

"I was given to understand that my assessment of our agents' mental states was to be confidential except in circumstances where--"

"Yes, yes," Cowley snapped. "I'm perfectly aware of your brief, Dr Ross, could you get to the point. What have you to say that you felt you were unable to bring up in front of Macklin and Dr Willis? And please," Cowley begged ungraciously, "speak in layman's terms, otherwise we'll both still be here tomorrow."

"I always endeavour to speak plainly, Mr Cowley," Ross assured him in sugar-coated tones. "The problem is quite simple. Bodie."

"Bodie?"

"I have been observing them during training and study periods and it is my opinion, my professional opinion," she stressed, "that a working partnership between the two of them is doomed to failure."

"Macklin is of the opinion that Doyle is shaping up well."

"I agree, he has done much better than I initially expected but I doubt his progress is going to advance much more; in fact it's highly likely that he will backslide."

"Why?"

"Bodie is why, Mr Cowley."

"You keep saying 'Bodie'," Cowley replied, completely exasperated by Ross's confident, complacent and incomprehensible arguments. "I ask again, why Bodie?"

"There is no one answer, Mr Cowley, but I will try to explain the problem."

The psychiatrist ignored the heavily whispered, 'please do' and continued:

"Because of Doyle's treatment in Maidstone prison we knew he was probably going to suffer from some degree of trauma and we knew he would need a great deal of emotional support." Ross paused and waited for some indication that her audience of one was still with her. "We know that Doyle has had no satisfactory contact with his family and discreet observation has indicated that he has made no move to renew old friendships or strike up new ones. So far he has spent all day, every day with Bodie. The only social contacts he's made have come through Bodie."

It became clear to Cowley that he was obviously missing something Ross felt to be terribly important.

"So far I see nothing wrong with what you said. Doyle is leaning on Bodie--what is wrong with that? The man's still disoriented and Bodie is the only steady constant in his life--"

"Precisely."

Cowley was totally thrown by the doctor's triumphant exclamation. It appeared he had found the crux of the matter without recognising it.

"Please, Dr Ross, explain yourself."

"Bodie is the stabilising factor in Doyle's life. That is the problem."

Cowley almost gave up. Had he been given a choice between five minutes with Dr Ross or twenty-four hours with a hostile, rabid mass-murderer, the murderer would have won--every time!

"Doyle is leaning too heavily. Throwing them into such close contact is forcing Doyle to turn to Bodie for the emotional support he needs. We know that Doyle was suffering from nightmares while in prison and Dr Willis confirmed that he has not been sleeping well."

"But Willis said that the problem appears to be getting better. Both Bodie and Doyle have been looking more relaxed and refreshed of a morning--"

"Which means Bodie is also coping with Doyle's nightmares as well as the daytime problems."

"I still don't see the problem, if Bodie is coping." Cowley shrugged his shoulders.

"How long can he go on meeting Doyle's emotional demands? However you look at it, Doyle is demanding a lot from Bodie, he still needs a great deal of support."

"A need that Bodie is, apparently, meeting."

"For the moment, yes," agreed Ross, "but not for much longer. I was against this pairing from the start because Bodie is a loner. His personal records show quite clearly that he consistently shuns emotional involvement. He has friends, colleagues, acquaintances and a plethora of girlfriends, but no one who makes or is allowed to make any emotional demands. Bodie can work as part of a larger team, and he has on occasion worked in two-man teams but those pairings were always short-lived and always terminated by special request by Bodie."

The room fell silent as Cowley digested what he was hearing. Unfortunately, it did seem to be making sense.

"So," said Cowley slowly, "in your professional opinion, you are sure Doyle is eventually going to ask too much from Bodie and destroy the partnership."

"In essence, yes."

"And the end result...in your professional opinion?"

"The break could well be the final rejection for Doyle, the ultimate failure. I think we would lose him and possibly Bodie too."

"And Bodie?" asked Cowley. Doyle had been a risk from the beginning but he did not want to lose Bodie as well. The main reason behind teaming them had been an attempt to bind Bodie more securely to CI5.

"I am not unaware of your reasons for initiating this pairing and I won't repeat my thoughts on the matter, you already know them, but I suspect your plan to tie Bodie to CI5 with more than personal loyalty to yourself has backfired." Seeing that she had Cowley's complete attention she continued:

"Considering his dislike for involvement, Bodie has allowed himself to respond to Doyle's needs. Surprisingly, once the initial introduction period was over they got on extremely well and Bodie has taken the training programme very seriously; he's bullied and coaxed every inch of Doyle's progress and he's become very...protective." Ross struggled to find the right words. "He's looked after him...fussed over him...kept the other agents from trying all the usual new-boy tricks...he's allowed himself to...care."

"Is that so very wrong, Dr Ross?" Cowley asked quietly.

"In Bodie's book, yes. Caring means involvement and sooner or later he always shuns involvement. When he breaks away from Doyle, I think he'll know that as far as CI5 goes Doyle'll be finished. The combination of caring, involvement and guilt will probably make Bodie break away from CI5 as well."

It could happen. Even Cowley could see that. To lose Doyle would be a great pity--but to lose Bodie as well would be much, much worse.

Cowley dismissed Ross and told his secretary to hold all his calls; he needed time to think over Ross's damning prediction.

"Mr Cowley, Bodie is waiting to see you on a personal matter. Shall I ask him to call back?"

Bodie? What personal matter did he wish to discuss, Cowley wondered.

"It's all right, Betty, send him through now."

The door opened and Cowley got his first good look at the black eye everyone had been talking about. It would well be the most spectacular bruising he had seen in a very long time. It was rumoured that Doyle, tiring of his instructor's training methods and pushed beyond his limit had finally laid one on him. So far, Bodie had not denied the story and Macklin and Willis had only just finished reporting that the compatibility of the two men was becoming as obvious as the bruising--so if the story was true, it hadn't damaged the partnership. Unless, of course, Bodie wanted to talk about dissolving the team.

"A personal matter, Bodie?" Cowley prompted after he had stood awkwardly in front of the desk seemingly at a loss for words.

"Yes, sir. But not me--Doyle."

"Doyle has a problem?" Cowley was determined not to make the way easier; if Bodie wanted out he was going to have to say so.

"Well, yes and no...it isn't really a problem, it's just..." Bodie foundered helplessly. "It seems that Doyle was involved in a spot of bother, a nasty fight, about a year or so ago and he's troubled by...memories of the fight...apparently he was quite badly hurt and he doesn't really know for sure what happened. I just wondered if it would be possible for Doyle to see the reports regarding the incident."

It wasn't the problem Cowley had been anticipating and he felt himself relax a little.

"Which reports?"

"There must have been some kind of internal enquiry...and I think he would like to see his medical reports as well."

"I can't hand over Doyle's medical notes to you, Bodie, they're confidential."

"I don't want to see them, sir, but I think Doyle has every right to."

"So why are you asking for them and not Doyle?"

Bodie wouldn't--or couldn't--reply, but Cowley, a shrewd man, was sure he knew the answer. So, the thought, Ross was right. Bodie was learning to care.

"All right, Bodie," he said. "I will get the reports I think Doyle needs to see and I'll give them to you in confidence. Once Doyle has seen them I'll want them back. Call by my office before you leave tonight and I'll have them ready for you."

"Thank you, sir."

Bodie let himself out, his mind whirling with fresh doubts. Cowley had agreed very quickly to his rather strange request. He knew for a certainty that Cowley had already seen the reports and would of course know exactly what the outcome of the fight had been--was that why he was so unsurprised at the request, had he, in fact, been expecting it?

"Wanna watch it, Bodie, I can almost hear your cogs struggling into action." Doyle's voice, right behind, took Bodie by surprise. "That or you've taken to sleeping with your eyes open."

"Didn't see you, mate. Where're you off to now?"

"Jack Prescott, remember, he's going to have another go at teaching me how not to blow myself up."

"Course, I remember now, he's actually going to give you a live one to defuse, isn't he?" Bodie said seriously.

"Oh, yeah!" Doyle laughed. "You're kidding, aren't you. Aren't you?" he asked, as he was assailed by a sudden doubt.

"Of course, mate," Bodie replied to the anxious voice with a forced joviality. "Not going to let you near a real one, is he! Stands to reason. Course it'll only be dummy ones. Don't worry about it." Bodie threw an arm around the lean frame and gave it a quick hug. "There's nothing to worry about, just take your time. You're not nervous, are you? Steady hands and all that!"

"Of course I'm not nervous. Why should I be?" Doyle was suspicious of the overbright camaraderie. Bodie was just winding him up--wasn't he!

"No reason at all, sunshine."

---

Later that evening Bodie tapped lightly on the doorway to Doyle's sanctuary, for once waiting to hear permission to enter before walking in.

"Just wondered what you were doing," Bodie said, to excuse his intrusion.

"Nothing special," Doyle replied as he folded the newspaper away. "Just catching up with what Fleet Street's saying about the world."

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the living room?" asked Bodie. The spare room was very basic, only a bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers graced the small room, and Doyle had a choice of his bed or the floor on which to sit.

"I'm okay," Doyle assured him, and Bodie saw the wariness in the clear wide-eyed gaze that was warning him not to encroach too far into his territory.

"I was just going to make a drink, do you want one?" As an excuse, it was as good as any other; Doyle didn't appear to be overly suspicious, replying that yes, he would like a drink--coffee.

"Fine," replied Bodie. He turned to leave only to turn back, seemingly as an afterthought and tossed a squat, document-sized envelope through the air to land with a loud spat on top of the newspapers. "I managed to get hold of these for you...thought that you might like...want to read them...that they might help you come to terms with what happened to you...give you your answer one way or the other..."

Untypically, for the second time in one day, Bodie found himself waffling on like an idiot.

"Oh, hell," he said finally, "I'm going to put the kettle on. It's up to you whether you read what's in there or not."

Utterly confused, Doyle watched Bodie's hurried exit, then picked up the envelope, broke the seal and tipped the papers out.

His amusement at seeing Bodie behaving so ruffled and ill at ease died as a cold, sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. There were three reports: the internal enquiry, Officer Magill's statement and the admission notes from Maidstone General Hospital.

He stared at them blindly; his first reaction, once the shock receded, was to tear them up, burn them, destroy them completely. Why, he asked, had Bodie given them to him, what possible good did the stupid idiot think reading about it was going to do him? What possible good?

Unbidden, the embarrassed look on Bodie's face as he had thrown them over came back to him.

"...give you your answer...one way or the other..."

One way or the other.

Did he really want to know, Doyle wondered.

Of course he bloody well did a voice screamed from inside, and a smaller voice also demanded to be heard--but supposing the worst really did happen--could he accept that? Not really knowing, he could always tell himself that Ward had been stopped in time--but to discover, for an absolute certainty, that he hadn't--could he face knowing that?

He was sweating so much that his fingers, already stained by the newsprint, left smudgy marks on the pristine white paper the hospital notes were photocopied on. Suddenly, unable to read on, Doyle switched to Magill's report, the stark, clinical description of his injuries proving too much for him right now. If they went into as much detail as they had over his broken wrist, the first injury listed, he dreaded to think what he might find described in explicit, cold medical terms over the page.

Taking a deep breath and mentally bracing himself against what he might discover, Doyle began to read.

---

Alone in the kitchen, Bodie clattered about, keeping one ear tuned in to whatever might happen further down the hall. Because he wanted to take his time, the kettle boiled quickly of course, sod's law that is, Bodie told himself. How long should he leave it before going back? Would Doyle want him to go back? He had no way of knowing.

The envelope had not been bulky, so it shouldn't take Doyle long to read the reports.

Unable to settle, Bodie drank his coffee as he moved restlessly between the living room and kitchen. Before long, though, he had finished his, and Doyle's was growing cold as it sat on the draining board. Bodie tipped it away.

Back in the living room he poured himself a small whisky; as he rolled the smooth, fiery liquid around in his mouth he looked at the clock, then gulped it down. Twenty minutes. Surely Doyle had read it all by now.

In the bedroom Doyle shoved the papers away, tearing the envelope in his hurry to get rid of the distasteful reports--then tossing the package down to the end of the bed.

So--now he knew.

Cowley had read those reports.

So had a lot of other people. Bodie? Doyle didn't know. Even knowing that the reports had been one-sided--the Establishment's view and opinions were there, in black and white, for anyone with the right authorisation to see--did not ease the sense of injustice. Had everyone in that godforsaken, so-called House of Correction gone around wearing blinkers? Even admitting to himself that he had not been anyone's idea of a model prisoner, Doyle found it hard to understand how everyone from the Governor to the lowest-ranking screw could have misjudged him so. He hadn't been that bad--had he, he asked himself. Maybe he had. Once dear, sweet Bert had spread his malicious, mouth-watering gossip, there had been plenty of opportunity for Doyle to display his aggressive, antagonistic and anti-authority behaviour that the reports made so much of.

What the hell should he have done; lain down and let them take turns, for god's sake?

"Do you want that coffee yet?"

Bodie's quiet voice intruded on Doyle's very private, very bitter thoughts.

"You can shove your fuckin' coffee up your fuckin' arse!" Doyle shouted.

Immediately cursing the impulse that had forced him to see if Doyle was all right, Bodie withdrew, only to be called back.

"Oy!" Doyle leapt from the bed, snatching the envelope up and throwing it at Bodie. "You can shove this up there too!"

The anger that was burning through Doyle gave Bodie his answer. Well--at least now Doyle knew.

"Shout all you want, mate," Bodie said quietly, prepared to take the full brunt of Doyle's anger if he had to. "I don't blame you for being mad but if you really want to hit someone, we'll go down to the gym--Cowley isn't too keen on allowing us to wreck the furniture."

"Hit you...why'd you think I want to hit you?"

So used to fighting fire with fire, Doyle was thrown by the placid acceptance of his rage. He had always had a quick temper but his time on the Force had helped him to control it; but in Ford and Maidstone, everyone's tempers were quick off the mark. Two sparks could start an uncontrollable blaze among the closely confined prisoners. Inside, to back down meant losing--and there was no way Doyle was going to lose--ever.

"I don't want to fight you," said Doyle in a slightly bewildered voice. Puzzled, he had walked back to his bed and sat down slowly. Where had all his anger gone, he asked himself. He had been all set to wipe the floor with Bodie: and why--just because he gave him the reports that he had known existed somewhere but was too scared to look for?

"I'm...sorry...there's no reason to take it out on you...'s not your fault," Doyle apologised awkwardly.

"Come on, Doyle...you look like you could do with a drink--and no, I don't mean coffee."

"I'm gonna end up an alcoholic if you start pouring alcohol down me throat every time I lose my rag!"

"There's only about two inches left in the bottom of the bottle, mate, so I doubt if either of us is going to wind up drunk and incapable tonight. Come on."

Grateful that Doyle had calmed down, Bodie led the way into the living room and poured each of them a drink, draining the bottle into Doyle's glass.

For a while they sat in silence, only the television chattering away softly in the corner. Bodie started talking first, and Doyle found he didn't quite understand what was prompting the cautious speech, that is until he mentioned something about time healing most hurts, then he realised with a shock how Bodie must have interpreted his anger over the reports.

"Have you read that?" Doyle asked and pointed to the crumpled envelope that lay on the arm of Bodie's chair.

"It's confidential," Bodie replied. "Of course I haven't. It was given to me sealed. I didn't open it."

"Do you want to read it?"

"No." Bodie's answer was expressionless and definite.

"Aren't you curious?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?" Were their positions reversed, Doyle wasn't sure he would be able to contain his curiosity.

"Should I be?" Bodie responded to the irritatingly teasing voice with icy sarcasm.

Immediately, Doyle regretted his teasing. Bodie really didn't deserve that sort of treatment.

"Do you think Cowley's read it?"

"I expect so. Why--does that bother you?"

"No," Doyle answered thoughtfully, "but after seeing what the Governor thought of me, I'm surprised Cowley ever considered me for CI5. According to Bryant," Doyle explained, "I was the most undisciplined, troublesome, warped individual who invited trouble, thrived on violence and deserved everything I got, which by the way," he added, "was not as bad as I thought. My virtue is still intact and my body still pure--despite Kingsley and Ward's efforts to the contrary."

"So you weren't..." Bodie only just managed to regain control of his tongue but, apparently unconcerned by such indelicacies, Doyle finished the sentence for him.

"Raped. 's almost enough to make a person believe in miracles, isn't it! According to that," the envelope received another look, "even the bumbling, cack-handed Mr Magill has his uses, he actually managed to get to the right place, a little late but still in time to stop the fireworks."

"What happened to Ward and his cronies?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Bodie exclaimed. "They half kill you and are allowed to get away with it?"

"Maidstone is full of very blind, very deaf, very stupid people, Bodie. By the time Magill clonked along the landing in his size twelve regulation boots the only person left in the shower-room was me. The way I was lying and the fact my trousers were somewhere around my ankles apparently aroused some suspicion but, by the time I came around and worked out what I thought had happened and developed a nasty case of traumatic amnesia, there wasn't much they could do."

"Surely there was an enquiry?" Bodie was quietly appalled that such a vicious and serious attack could happen in a secure institution without there being repercussions of some kind.

"Oh yeah, there's a report on that too in there." The envelope received another cold look. "There was some criticism of the screws fouling up the rota system and letting the fight happen in the first place, but most of the blame came down on my head," Doyle said bitterly.

"On you?" Bodie asked. "How did they work that out?"

"Being as how me and dear Bert were such bosom buddies--" Doyle saw the look of disbelief on his partner's face. "Oh yeah, according to the screws--who of course know everything about everyone--"

"Says who!" sneered Bodie.

"Says the screws, of course--you'll never catch them admitting otherwise. Anyway, I've already told you what happened after dear Bert left, haven't I? Well, they thought that I was in the running to take control, there was a lot of tension in the wing and they knew something was brewing. They decided the fight was the climax of the struggle for the top...and that I was the loser."

"So nothing was done?"

"I was put...somewhere else after being discharged from the prison hospital. Ward took over from Bert and peace was restored. Ward was happy, the screws were happy, Bryant was happy and I was out of it."

But not happy. The unspoken words hung between them, making Bodie wonder exactly where the 'somewhere else' was. He asked.

"'E' wing," was Doyle's unenlightening and reluctant answer.

"'E' wing?" Bodie asked. "What's that?"

"Maximum security."

"Solitary confinement!" Bodie said, horrified. "How long for?"

"The last eight months or so."

All at once Bodie understood Doyle's reluctance to mingle with crowds of people, his reticence when drawn into a group's conversation. Eight months' maximum security could do that to you, spending at least twenty-two hours out of twenty-four locked away in isolation, month after month; a person could easily forget how to converse freely with others.

Bodie knew that long-term inmates in maximum security wings were allowed to make their cells comfy with radios and televisions, pictures and other small luxuries--if there was someone outside to bring them in for you, but being completely alone, cut off--Bodie shuddered at the thought. He was a loner by choice--to be forced into isolation was an idea that sickened him.

"How did you cope with that?" he asked eventually.

"It was...okay. I soon got used to it. Was nice, being alone, no one bothered me, pestered me; even when I did see the others on the wing at exercise time we all kept to ourselves--everyone had their own reasons for keeping apart and the screws didn't encourage friendly conversation. After Bert and everything...being ignored was a nice change. I made the best of it."

Doyle knew he had glossed over the misery he had felt every date of each month that passed, but there was no point wallowing. Although unpleasant, 'E' wing had been a lot better than his first introduction to Maidstone. He could see that Bodie had been shocked by what he had heard, his indignation that Ward had got off scot-free somehow warmed Doyle; it was good to know that someone cared. He drained his glass and stole a quick look across the room to see what Bodie was doing. Unaware that he was being watched, Bodie was fiddling with the envelope, bending the corners, then rolling it into a tube, flattening it out and then rolling it the other way. That his hands were acting without conscious thought was obvious to Doyle. Bodie's eyes and face were guarded and shuttered, blocking out what his thoughts might be.

Bodie tried to imagine the enforced isolation; Doyle's voice had revealed only a glimmer of the loneliness he must have felt--'I soon got used to it...being ignored was a nice change'. Shuddering with horror, Bodie wondered how many times a day Doyle had had to tell himself that being alone was what he preferred.

Not for the first time, Bodie began to re-evaluate his opinion of the man Cowley had all but dumped on him.

---

"How much longer are you going to be?" Bodie demanded crossly. He had been in bed for nearly a quarter of an hour and Doyle was still fiddling around, flitting between his room down the hall and the bathroom.

"I'm just cleaning my teeth," the voice answered.

"Just leave 'em to soak, they'll be safe in the bathroom! Hurry up, I want this light out," Bodie yelled as he thumped a fist into his pillow then switched off the lamp on his side of the bed, leaving only the lamp on Doyle's side. The shade must have been knocked at some time, because instead of a soft, cosy glow a beam of brilliant white light poured unhindered straight from the bulb and into Bodie's face; even with his eyes shut the light was still annoying.

He heard Doyle enter the bedroom, heard the sound of the curtain being drawn back, then, just as Bodie thought he was about to get into bed, the soft footsteps left the room.

"Now where are you goin'?"

"I'm putting something away."

"Hurry up!" Bodie complained. This nightly ritual was becoming exceedingly irritating. Every night Bodie had to make a point of reminding his house guest where he was sleeping; left to his own devices Bodie knew that Doyle would slip into his own bed and hope against hope that his absence wouldn't be noticed. Once he had agreed that yes, tonight he would sleep in the double bed, Doyle would take his time getting there, just finish reading this, or I want to watch the end of that, cleaning his teeth, washing his hair--and then taking hours to dry it--anything to put off the inevitable--and then once actually in bed the rigmarole of settling down to sleep would start. Ever since giving Bodie the nosebleed and subsequent black eye, Doyle had not refused to let Bodie hold him--he protested at some length every night, but he didn't refuse the restraining embrace.

Tomorrow night, Bodie decided grimly, they would start going to bed as soon as dinner was over, that way they might get the light off before midnight.

The footsteps returned and moved towards the bed...and then away again.

Now what's he doing? Bodie thought desperately.

Resigned to another stalling tactic, he opened his eyes to see Doyle removing his bathrobe and draping it around a chair but still making no move towards the bed.

"What are you fiddling with now?" Bodie demanded, his temper finally getting the better of his desire not to get mad with the infuriating little bugger. "I want this fucking light off so's I can get some sleep!"

"All right, all right," Doyle answered rather distractedly, Bodie's tone of voice only barely penetrating the cloud of thoughts swamping him at that particular moment.

Unable to wait patiently a second longer, Bodie surged across the empty half of the bed and switched the light off.

"Bodie!" a surprised voice cried out, "can't see a bleedin'--ouch!"

A muffled thump and a stream of extremely coarse expletives poured from Doyle's mouth.

"You all right?" Bodie asked, quite unconcerned at first, no one could be that voluble if he was seriously injured, but then the swearing tailed off to be replace by a series of choked-off hisses and sniffs, and he repeated his question. The only reply was an increase in volume and frequency of the strange, strangulated noises Doyle was producing. Alarmed, Bodie turned the light back on.

Doyle was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, only his shaking shoulders and the back of his downbent head visible.

"Doyle?" Bodie called softly.

There was no answer, no indication he had even heard his name.

Bodie slipped out of bed and moved to where Doyle was sitting, crumpled, shaking and holding his left foot with both hands, his face hidden by his arms and upraised knees.

"What's wrong?"

The shaking only increased. Bodie was really concerned now and he moved to crouch beside Doyle, reaching out to touch the curly head gently.

"Hey, come on, what's up? What's wrong? Have you really hurt yourself?"

For a few seconds Bodie thought Doyle was crying and cursed himself for having given him the reports to read. For the last few days Doyle had wandered around in a very strange mood, not appearing at all relieved to know, finally, that Ward had not achieved his object. He had instead seemed more angry over what the Governor and screws had written about him--angry and hurt, very hurt, that anyone could have apparently prejudged and misunderstood him so badly.

The wheezes and shakes were reaching mammoth proportions when Doyle finally gave in to Bodie's coaxing hand and lifted his head up. For a second their eyes met--then Doyle threw his head back and roared with laughter, helpless, uncontrollable laughter.

So relieved not to have found tears, Bodie found himself breaking into a smile and soft chuckles, eventually laughing outright in response to Doyle's unrestrained mirth.

In the end, after several long minutes during which Doyle ended up sprawled, helpless and weak on the floor, the laughter subsided. Wiping away the tears from his eyes, Doyle took hold of the offered hand and allowed Bodie to help him up and steer him towards the bed.

"Oh god!" Doyle gasped, "'aven't laughed like that for years...stomach's killin' me...oh god, dunno what hurts more, me stomach or me foot!"

Sitting down heavily on the bed, Doyle twisted his foot round to examine its underside.

"Not even a mark--felt like a ten inch bleedin' nail!"

"What's so funny about treading on something sharp?" Bodie also checked the sole of Doyle's foot for injury and then turned to scan the carpet for the offending object.

"Nothing," Doyle answered, a fresh bubble of laughter making further speech temporarily impossible.

Bodie found the small silver shirt pin that had embedded itself, point upwards, in the carpet pile. "Come on--share the joke," he begged, setting the pin safely aside and returning to his own side of the bed.

His breathing still ragged, Doyle tried to explain. He collapsed back onto the pillows and allowed Bodie to flick the duvet across him.

"I was just thinking, see," he began, "about what I enjoy most about being free, outside. Just the little things, you know," he turned his head on the pillow to look at Bodie as he tried to make him understand, "like...I dunno, 'aving a bath at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon just because I want one and not because it's my turn and I won't be able to for another day or so, and being the first person to read today's newspaper--not the twentieth to read the day before yesterday's. But what really cracked me up was thinking..." the green eyes sparkled anew and Doyle broke off with a fresh bout of giggles; Bodie waited patiently, "was...thinking how nice it was to get into bed...and then turn the light off...myself..." The explanation continued disjointedly as Doyle struggled against the wild desire to laugh again at what he knew was coming next. "...luxury of turning a light on and off...from your own bed...'s wonderful...never...never realised how wonderful until I couldn't do it...inside, screws turn the lights off...every night...always on the wrong side of the cell when it happened...bleedin' Bert always left his boots sticking out...and I always tripped over the damn things...was just thinking about...that when you turned the light out...and then I trod on...and it just...struck me...as being a...bit...oh gawd, it's...bringing tears...to me...eyes..."

Laughter being infectious anyway, Bodie couldn't stop himself from responding to Doyle's enveloping good humour, and they lay side by side, giggling like schoolboys in a dormitory, until they were laughed out. Finally and with a sense of ceremony, Doyle switched the light off and rolled onto his side, accepting with no discernible restraint Bodie's covering arm.

Hardly able to believe how things were turning out, Bodie carefully made himself comfortable, tucking his knees behind Doyle and resting his arm around the trim waist. Doyle's laughter had so relaxed him that he didn't tense up or raise his normal objections when his wrist was taken in a firm grip but instead relaxed into Bodie's protective embrace and slipped into sleep.

Even waking the next morning was a pleasurable experience. Bodie awoke first and was slightly surprised to find Doyle still sleeping soundly. Neither of them could have moved much during the night, and they were still cuddled up closely. Not only was it the first morning Bodie had woken to find Doyle still in bed, but it was also the first completely undisturbed night they had both had. It had been nearly a week since the last big nightmare that had so rudely and painfully woken them both up, but every night since then, Doyle's sleep had still been troubled and restless; only Bodie's soothing grip and sleepy reassurance had prevented the dreams from gaining a hold on the helpless sleeper.

Doyle's breathing changed rhythm as he slid, easily, from sleep to waking. Curious as to what he would do, Bodie remained still, but Doyle knew he was awake and uncurled himself, releasing his grip on the hand that was resting on his stomach, and stretching.

"Ummgh!" he grunted.

"Morning to you too!" Bodie replied, then asked, "Are you going running this morning?" when Doyle finished his bone-popping stretch.

"Mmm," Doyle answered. "When I've woken up properly." He yawned and rubbed his eyes then looked at the time--seven o'clock. "Why?"

"Thought I'd join you." Bodie's voice wasn't very enthusiastic.

"How come?"

"Macklin in two weeks is how come," Bodie said gloomily. "Gotta be nearly fit before I go near him or else he'll kill me on the first day."

"He seemed a nice bloke to me," Doyle said, not understanding the reason for the depth of Bodie's gloom.

"Do you think I could have that in writing?" Bodie asked as he slipped from the bed. "Then when he's finished hammering us to death I can show you what a fool you were. A nice bloke! Macklin?"

Hoisting his pyjamas to a more secure position on his hips, Bodie gave Doyle a final, disbelieving look and vanished into the bathroom, shaking his head and muttering, "Macklin! A nice bloke! Macklin!"

---

CHAPTER SEVEN

Feeling comfortable and relaxed, Bodie leaned back in the plush leather armchair and took a slow pull at his drink. The huge, ornate clock out in the lobby chimed out half past seven, and Bodie's forehead creased into a slight frown.

"Don't look so impatient, Bodie, I'll be with you as soon as I've finished with these breakfast menus."

The tall, elegant woman blew him a kiss as she glided across the bar and out into reception. Joanna was the sort of person who glided, Bodie decided appreciatively, never walked, always a sexy, sensuous glide.

But it hadn't been Joanna that had caused him to frown. It was taking Doyle one heck of a long time to finish dressing and come down to the bar. If he didn't hurry up the girls would arrive first.

"There you are," Bodie said. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Sorry," Doyle replied quietly. "Didn't realise you were waiting specially. Are they serving dinner?"

"Yes, but we can't go in yet, the girls aren't here."

"Girls? What girls?" Doyle's head swung around sharply.

"Joanna and...whatsername...Jo's friend...Terry. I did tell you," Bodie said defensively, because of the look of startled surprise in Doyle's eyes.

"You've mentioned a Joanna but this is the first I've heard about her friend."

"Sorry," Bodie said. "Must have forgotten to mention her. When I told Jo I was coming down here she said that her friend was spending her holiday here so I thought we could double date."

"Double date?" asked Doyle.

"Yeah. I've booked a table in the restaurant for eight o'clock. You don't mind, do you?" Bodie asked belatedly.

"It's a bit late to ask now, isn't it!" Doyle said irritably.

"Sorry if I've upset any plans you had but I thought that a good meal, and drink and a couple of nice girls would relax us nicely before Macklin tries to kill us off tomorrow."

"A light meal and an early night would be more sensible."

"So? Be sensible and go to bed early." Bodie winked and grinned lewdly. "I have every intention of going to bed early. I've also seen Terry and she looks like she might be agreeable to an early night if you play your cards right!"

Any answer Doyle might have wished to make remained unspoken as Joanna and her friend arrived and the conversation became dominated by introductions and the organising of predinner drinks for everyone.

Joanna and Bodie controlled the conversation, talking to each other and drawing the other two into a friendly, animated circle.

It was the first time Doyle had seen Bodie so relaxed, his quiet, unfamiliar laughter adding to the sense of cheerful well-being. That Bodie and the elegant Joanna had known each other some time was revealed by a few amusing anecdotes told mainly for Doyle and Terry's benefit.

The meal progressed slowly and Doyle was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. Terry came across as a very pleasant, intelligent woman and once they found a common interest they got on pretty well.

Managing to divert Joanna's attentions for a few moments by getting her to choose a liqueur coffee, Bodie glanced across the table to see how Doyle was getting on. At first, Doyle's usual stiffness and reserve had proved a little awkward but by degrees throughout the meal he had thawed and was now talking earnestly to Terry, looking more relaxed and at ease than when they had first sat down.

The drinks Doyle had consumed before and during the meal had no doubt helped considerably, Bodie decided. A snippet of the other pair's conversation drifted across the table... He hadn't known Doyle knew anything about art.

The coffees arrived and were duly drunk, rounding off an enjoyable meal.

"Did you know that we have a disco down in the basement, Bodie?" Joanna asked as they left the restaurant.

"Didn't have one last time, did you?"

"Not quite, it was still being converted then, but," as Joanna pointed out, "that was nearly nine months ago."

"As long ago as that!" Bodie exclaimed dramatically. "Seems like only yesterday."

"Liar!" Joanna laughed. "I suppose you're going to try and kid me that you've thought of me every day."

"Well..." Bodie smiled and then admitted, "not every day."

"Come on then, Terry, Ray, do you fancy going down for a dance?"

A hot, smoky, overcrowded disco was something Doyle wanted to avoid but Terry was pulling on his arm.

"Oh yes, I'd love to. Please come with us, Ray?" she asked sweetly.

Under the combined silent persuasion of three pairs of eyes, he capitulated and they entered the club.

It was as bad as Doyle had expected. The dimly lit room was throbbing with noise and bright lights and was packed to capacity. Most of the men present were plainly from the army barracks further down the road, and all seemed intent on having a wonderful time.

There were no empty tables, but Doyle managed to collect two stools for the girls to sit on while Bodie went to get them some drinks.

As they were waiting for Bodie to weave his way back through the crowd, Doyle could see Joanna was trying to talk to him and had to lean over and place his ear almost on top of her mouth to hear what she was saying. Through the heavy beat of a very energetic rock and roll number, he could make out about one word in three but he managed to catch her drift.

Apparently, so Joanna told him, the disco was usually closed midweek, but the NAAFI from the barracks had hired the cellar to promote easier relations with the local populace. Looking around the room, Doyle decided that the fathers of the local girls had every right to be concerned.

Bodie returned with a tray of drinks.

"Double," he shouted. "Save going through that lot again."

He had barely taken a sip of his, though, before Joanna was tugging him towards the dance floor. Passing his drink and his jacket over to Doyle, Bodie went. Having already removed his own jacket, Doyle spread them both over their stools and pulled Terry towards the dance floor.

In a perverse way Doyle was happier than he had been in the restaurant. Terry was a nice girl and he'd enjoyed her company but she had been making him increasingly uncomfortable. Everything about her revealed a tantalising glimpse of the sensual nature smouldering beneath the veneer of well-bred gentility. Down in the disco the noise completely stopped any intelligent conversation, and mime was the best way of conversing. The fact that the D.J. was a rock and roll fanatic and playing to a sympathetic audience also prevented any slow dances where, Doyle was sure, Terry would prove her ability to let her body talk for her. So, he danced and enjoyed himself.

Having decided that two dances at this pace were enough, Bodie pulled Joanna back to the stools where they sat and watched Doyle and Terry.

Bodie downed a good measure of his ice-cold lager. He should have guessed that his partner was such a good dancer; Doyle and Terry complemented each other and, looking around, Bodie noticed that he wasn't the only one watching them. Their lively interpretation of the jive had earned them a little more floor space, which they were using to good effect. The record came to an end and Doyle and Terry collapsed, holding each other up. Another record started and the space they'd worked so for was taken by other dancers.

Bodie held their drinks out for them as they made their way back to the stools. Terry sat down, as Bodie pulled Doyle closer to shout in his ear.

"All right?" he bellowed.

Doyle just grinned and nodded. He was having a good time and managing to quell his niggling doubts about Bodie's ulterior motives in arranging the double date. For all Bodie's talk about the delectable Joanna, Doyle knew that little if anything heavy was going to happen. Bodie had, after all, booked them into a double room, and surely he didn't intend taking Joanna to bed with them both!

Never having been keen on cavorting around a dance floor, Bodie was only too happy to let Doyle partner both the girls. There would be plenty of time to dance with Joanna when the D.J. finally decided his audience were tired, mellow and drunk enough to enjoy the inevitable smoochy numbers.

---

The first slow dance took Doyle by surprise; the way Terry melted into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder threw him for a moment and he stumbled, treading on her toes.

As the second smooch faded away, Doyle looked around for Bodie. It was past midnight and if they were going to face the assault course in the morning with any chance of success, they really ought to be thinking of turning in.

The dancers parted, and he saw Bodie, moving slowly around the same piece of floor, holding Joanna close and nuzzling lovingly at her neck.

Another intimate number welled up through the loudspeakers, and Terry shifted slightly, pressing herself so close that it was difficult to move without losing balance. In time to the music, Terry moved her body in a gentle, slip-sliding motion that made Doyle aware of every inch of his body that was touching hers.

Ever since his early teens, Doyle had always found it difficult to dance that closely with a partner. The music and the slow movements were hypnotically erotic and it was incredibly embarrassing to know that the girl could feel every inch of his arousal. With someone special it was different, it was almost a form of love-making, but with a stranger it could ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening.

By the end of the fourth dance Doyle didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Poor Terry had been giving it all she had, sliding, rubbing, nuzzling around his neck but so far she hadn't had much response. In fact, she'd had absolutely no response whatsoever, and a slightly bewildered look was beginning to replace her previous smouldering sensuality.

A bell rang behind the bar and the shout of 'last orders' went up. The D.J. played the last waltz and the party finally came to a halt.

Relieved that the end of the evening was in sight, Doyle was shattered when Bodie said that he'd see him at breakfast. Joanna, it seemed, had her own suite of rooms in the hotel, one of the perks of being the manager's secretary.

Doyle was speechless. It was now perfectly clear that this was what Bodie had been planning all along. When he'd first seen the double bed in their hotel room, Doyle had questioned whether the hotel staff wouldn't think it a bit strange with the two of them sharing it, but Bodie had shrugged it off, saying that all the twin bedded rooms were booked and as they were so used to sleeping together what did it matter, and that the staff had seen stranger things than two men sharing a bed.

Joanna and Terry returned from their hurried confab in the ladies' room, and latched onto the arms of their companions. Before Doyle could think of any plausible delaying tactics, Bodie and his companion had bidden them a cheerful goodnight and vanished.

Doyle groaned inwardly and turned to look at Terry, who was waiting expectantly at his side. She smiled and hugged his arm.

"Do you fancy a cup of coffee? I expect we can still order one from reception," Doyle stalled as his mind frantically searched for a way out.

"Mmmm. Love one," replied Terry. "Shall we have it sent to my room or yours?" she asked as they approached the reception desk.

"Er..." Doyle floundered. There was no way he was going to wind up alone in either room with Terry. "It's a bit daft asking for room service this time of night. We'd be waiting forever."

"I'm in no hurry," Terry informed him.

"Can we have a couple of coffees in the lounge, please?" Doyle asked the night porter, completely ignoring Terry's almost blatant invitation.

The lounge was empty, and it was a rather disconcerted young lady who watched her escort sit a respectable distance away from her on the elegant sofa. Terry was a well-brought-up young lady who had her own strict protocol. While she considered it permissible to indicate her warm and loving nature to a desirable young man and show him a metaphoric green light, actually to take the active role and press the starting button was not how a lady should behave.

The coffee arrived and was drunk in an uncomfortable silence. A few stragglers from the disco were hanging around the lobby in a noisy group. Some were waiting for taxis but two rather loud-mouthed squaddies were each trying to persuade the night porter to let them book into the hotel, while their girlfriends tried to hide their blushes and their faces behind one of the huge green leafy displays decorating the reception area. The church-going, upright citizen and father of three daughters was firmly telling the drunken revellers that his hotel simply did not allow that sort of thing to happen on the premises. Having put the squaddies firmly in their place, the night porter called over to the girls.

"Helen, Maria, would you like me to call a taxi for you? Your fathers would never forgive me if they found out I let you walk home alone at this time of night."

The girls gave up pretending they weren't with the soldiers and stepped out from behind the concealing greenery.

"You know how your dads feel about you walking out past the barracks late at night," the porter added for good measure.

In the face of such opposition, the soldiers decided to cut their losses, and headed back towards the barracks, drunk, alone and frustrated.

Watching this by-play from the lounge, Doyle wondered what Terry's reaction would be if he called one of the soldiers back and told the lucky man that he had an available room and a girl who was raring to go but that he just wasn't in the mood to satisfy her requirements. No! That wasn't called for, Doyle told himself. Not called for at all. There was no reason he should direct any bitterness towards Terry.

"Ray?"

The soft voice made him snap back to awareness. Terry was standing in front of him.

"Are you all right, Ray?" she asked, puzzled by the sad expression that had settled across his features. "You're not ill, are you?"

"Er..." Doyle's mind tried to shift into gear and catch up. Terry was giving him a way out. "No...I just feel a bit...you know. The meal was lovely but the dancing and beer on top of it might not have been such a good idea..."

At such short notice it was the best he could come up with, but it seemed to work.

"A bit of peace and rest will probably make you feel better. You're leaving first thing tomorrow morning, aren't you?"

"That's right. I suppose I ought to get some sleep. We've got a heavy day tomorrow."

"I'll say goodbye now, then, you'll be gone by the time I come down in the morning," Terry said brightly.

Relieved that everything wasn't going to get horribly complicated, Doyle stood up and gave her a brief hug and kiss on the side of her mouth.

"Goodnight and goodbye. It's been a lovely evening, it was nice meeting you," he said, and was surprised to realise that he meant it.

The quick embrace and sudden change of mood took Terry by surprise. Maybe he really was just feeling a bit off colour. Perfect gentlemen were so rarely come across that she found it hard to judge. Being of a naturally generous and unbegrudging nature, Terry decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Perhaps we'll meet again. Joanna said that Bodie comes here from time to time."

"Perhaps we will," Doyle agreed, thinking of the army assault course only a few miles away. In the next few years he was going to be seeing quite a bit of this part of England--if Macklin had his way.

"I hope so," he added.

Terry returned a chaste kiss of her own and smiled. "So do I." Then she was gone, leaving Doyle alone in the quiet lounge.

Reaching his room, Doyle noticed, with no surprise whatsoever, that all of Bodie's things were gone.

Wearily, Doyle sank down onto the bed and pulled his shoes off, kicking them away, and tugging off the rest of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap beside the bed. Remembering to set his alarm for the next morning he fell back onto the bed and pulled the covers over his nakedness. Too tired to think about the way the evening had ended, he switched off the light and rolled onto his side to sleep.

But he couldn't get comfortable. He rolled onto his back, then onto his side again before turning to lie flat on his stomach. Doyle wondered if something was wrong with the bed, but discounted that; it was no softer for firmer than the one he'd been sleeping in for the last month. The bed was all right, it was just...so big. The root of the problem suddenly became clear. He couldn't get comfortable because he couldn't get warm enough. It had been ages since he'd last slept alone in a double bed, and the last few weeks he had grown used to sleeping with a warm-blooded living blanket wrapped around him.

Turning the light back on, Doyle padded to the wardrobe and pulled out a spare blanket which he folded double and spread over his side of the bed; then, taking the spare pillows he placed them on top of the covers down the centre. Satisfied, he climbed back into bed where, comforted by the heaviness along his back and warmed by the extra blanket, he slept.

Waking up was a bit of a shock.

One second he was fast asleep and the next wide-awake and grasping at thin air. Puzzled, Doyle blinked and looked around the pre-dawn gloom in the bedroom. Surely someone had been there, he had felt...something...a presence. The room was empty, though, no one but himself there.

Still puzzled, Doyle snuggled back down under the covers. It was strange, he thought sleepily; although he'd been sure someone was there the presence had not been disturbing like it usually was, in fact, it had been quite...nice.

Curling up to go back to sleep, Doyle's warm hand found something it hadn't come across for a long, long time. Hardly able to believe that his senses weren't deceiving him, Doyle threw back the covers to look. The sudden exposure to the cooler bedroom air caused the appendage to shrink back even more.

Barely remembering to breathe, Doyle touched himself gently, memory guiding his hand through familiar motions. Instead of the erection growing, though, the pleasurable sensations faded into nothing and the more familiar limp, sexless flesh rested in his hand.

Disappointed and frustrated, Doyle punched his fist into the mattress. This was ridiculous, he told himself, there was absolutely no reason why he couldn't get an erection. Of course there wasn't, the small quiet voice of common-sense told him, you just did! It had been so long since it last happened that he'd almost forgotten how it felt.

Forcing himself to be calm, Doyle rolled over to lie on his back, closed his eyes and took a series of regular, deep breaths. Waiting until he felt the last of the tension leaving his body, he moved his left hand to slide over his lower belly, stroking himself, touching the soft indentation under his hips where memory told his wandering hands that he liked to be caressed.

Enjoying the simple touch, Doyle eased his right hand over his belly to mirror the actions of his other hand, sliding them down until his fingertips brushed against the tangle of pubic hair. A gentle throb rewarded the careful touch. Another, stronger pulse encouraged him to reach further into the nest of hair and touch the heavy balls resting there. Beneath his fingers he felt himself tighten, pulse and grow.

Frightened to open his eyes just in case it was all happening in a dream, Doyle continued touching himself, revelling in the very real pleasure of pleasuring himself.

As his excitement grew he tried to recall the elusive dream that had first woken him up. Was it Ann, he wondered, had he been imagining her touch? But time had eroded Ann's image from his mind and he couldn't conjure up anything, her face, her scent or her hands to feed his fantasy.

Terry then? As his hands worked on his cock, Doyle recalled how Terry had danced with him, the feel of her breasts rubbing against his chest through the soft, silky material of her dress, her nipples brushing against him, little hard buttons of flesh rubbing...her scent, her voice, and the hard press of her as she danced against him...

Considering that he had waited almost a year, Doyle felt that perhaps it would have been nicer if it had lasted just a bit longer. All that fuss, all those months of worrying and wondering and then it was up and down again quicker than it took Roger Bannister to run a mile!

Stamina's what you need, Doyle! he told himself, stamina--and a bit of practice.

Peering at the alarm, Doyle could just see he had another few hours before he had to get up. Time for a bit more sleep--and who knows, he thought as he rolled onto his side, on hand still curled around his sensitive, sated penis, maybe even a bit more practice!

---

With a final, lingering caress, Bodie eased himself out of the warm bed, fending off a pair of silky, warm arms that sought to pull him back down again.

"Sorry, love, but it's time I wasn't here."

"Just five more minutes?" Joanna's sultry voice pleaded.

He was sorely tempted but the thought of what Macklin was going to throw at him for the next four days gave him the strength to fight off the temptation.

"Sorry, petal," he whispered regretfully, "but I'm gonna need some energy to get through the next few days."

"Spoilsport!" Joanna complained as she blew her lover a kiss. "You've got no stamina, Bodie; come on." She followed him from the bed and slipped her arms around him, pressing her naked body against his as she continued her efforts to tempt him back to her bed. "Just for a few minutes, please."

It was rather difficult walking into the bathroom with Joanna so firmly wrapped around him but he coped--just! Stretching out an arm, he managed to turned the shower on.

"I'm going to be late, Jo. Will you please let go so I can get in the shower?"

"No."

Short of prising her off with a crowbar there was little Bodie could do. So he decided on a compromise. Pulling her under the shower with him, he twisted around and took the warm, inviting mouth in a bruising kiss and allowed her expert hands to coax his far from reluctant flesh into life once more.

---

By the time Bodie finally reached the main lobby, they had only ten minutes to get to the training centre that was a good fifteen minute drive away.

Doyle wasn't there, neither was he in the restaurant having breakfast. Through the reception windows he could see their car where they had parked last night.

Taking the stairs at a run, Bodie hurried up to Doyle's room only to meet Doyle as he came charging around the corner, holdall gripped between his teeth as he struggled to finish dressing himself.

"Shorry 'f I've 'ept you waitin'," Doyle mumbled around the thick strap.

Bodie took the bag off him and they headed back down the stairs.

"What kept you?" Bodie asked, blithely omitting to mention that he too had been late.

"Sorry," Doyle muttered as he finished struggling into his jacket and patted his hair into place, "but I forgot the time..." Blushing furiously, Doyle kept his head down and grabbed his holdall back.

Delighted that his plan had worked, Bodie slapped his partner on the back and chuckled.

"Good morning is it--or was it?" he asked, grinning lewdly.

By now they had reached the car, Doyle having tossed his room key onto the reception desk as they shot past it. He knew exactly what Bodie was thinking and didn't feel in the least bit inclined to enlighten him. Waking up the second time this morning, Doyle had gone back over the arrangements Bodie had made and realised that the whole thing had been pre-planned. The unnecessary overnight stay at the hotel--they could just as easily have stayed at the barracks--and Joanna with her conveniently available 'friend,' the meal--which Bodie had insisted on paying for--and the sleeping arrangements. Doyle knew that Bodie had been quietly concerned about his reluctance to rejoin the social mainstream and had got used to the way Bodie always seemed to make a point of chatting up girls in twos and then feigning uninterest in both girls when Doyle hadn't taken the bait.

It wasn't that he didn't understand or appreciate what Bodie had been up to--because he did--but Doyle had, not unsurprisingly, found himself unable to confide in him and reveal that it was his fear of falling flat on his face when the final clinch came that held him back. To have to admit to Bodie that, on top of everything else, he was impotent had been too embarrassing even to contemplate--but now it didn't matter! Once he had thought everything through this morning Doyle had deliberately relaxed and slowly, patiently and lovingly repeated the carefully erotic actions that had sent him into the relaxed, sated sleep he had just awoken from.

Just thinking about the delicious loving he had given himself twice this morning caused a fresh hopeful sensation in the pit of his stomach--and brought a new rush of colour to his cheeks. Now that body had remembered how to operate it didn't seem to want to stop!

Recognising the cloudy, heavy-lidded eyes and rosy sheen on the freshly shaven cheeks for the rising sexual heat it was, Bodie laughed again, then pushed his foot down on the accelerator. They had five minutes left in which to try to keep in Macklin's good books.

---

Leaving his driver to park the car, Cowley carefully stepped over the debris to where Macklin was watching the proceedings out on the site through a pair of powerful binoculars.

"How are they shaping up?" Cowley asked.

Without taking his eyes from the scene before him, Macklin answered:

"Bodie's in good form, you can have him back on active service as soon as you want."

"And Doyle?"

Macklin lowered the glasses and turned to look at the man beside him, then handed the binoculars over.

"Technically he's good--bloody good."

"Practically?" Cowley asked as he watched his newest recruit completely obliterate his target.

"Practically..." Macklin said slowly. "We both know that only the real thing will show us that. In the mock-up, the trials, in the gym--he's all right."

"As good as Bodie?"

"Different."

"How different?"

Macklin didn't answer straight away, and Cowley dropped the glasses and turned his back on the simulated street battle. Against the backdrop of rapid rifle shots and distant explosions, Cowley repeated his question.

"How different? I need to know if he's going to hold Bodie up, slow him down, are they so different they won't work together?"

"In a way they're almost...opposites," Macklin said thoughtfully. "Once, twice in the mock-ups Bodie was 'shot' because Doyle didn't cover him adequately and, vice versa, Doyle's been 'shot' because he didn't anticipate the line of action Bodie took."

Cowley knew the training routine; after each run an inquest into what happened and why was held, and the agents would be faced with their mistakes or victories on film. Frame by frame they would analyse, criticise or justify their actions.

"The discussions showed that Doyle can be impulsive but on the whole is more cautious, takes a more defensive stance whereas Bodie, as we know, is more aggressive and more inclined to jump in both feet first and with his eyes shut."

Macklin paused and frowned slightly. "But I feel they're good together. Different--but good. Bodie needs a little of Doyle's caution and Doyle...well, he could use a bit of Bodie's forcefulness."

"Doyle is no good to me if he needs Bodie to nursemaid him."

"A nursemaid is something Doyle doesn't need," Macklin said, his face breaking into a smile. "Put Doyle into a position where he is being threatened and you'll see what I mean. He's a bit like one of those sixpenny bangers you buy for Guy Fawkes night. Small and doesn't look like much but, oh boy! light the blue paper and stand well back!" Macklin laughed outright. "There aren't many people who catch me out or manage to hurt me but he managed it--only once, mind you, but he did it. Knows how to fight dirty does our little Ray of sunshine."

Cowley raised an eyebrow at the strange nickname, but Macklin forestalled any comment by continuing: "Doyle's problem is that he thinks like a policeman."

"Time will cure that," said Cowley.

"If he survives long enough." Macklin's sombre comment was a chilling reminder of the possible fate awaiting any new agent.

---

Slumped, sweating and exhausted on his makeshift sandbag armchair, Doyle watched the informal meeting that was taking place on the other side of the butts. His ears were burning and the cold sweat had nothing to do with the exercise he had just completed. Macklin and the range sergeant were talking about him to Cowley--he knew it! Sergeant Blowers was no doubt reciting the list of blunders starting with how he blew his own safe house and shot the innocent passer-by and ending up with getting Bodie shot three times. At least he'd only got himself shot once. A head shot. Dead was dead; the thought didn't help to make him feel better.

It hadn't started too badly the first week; back at HQ Doyle felt he'd coped with Macklin's demands. Bodie had prepared him well. Halfway through their second week, though, he had begun to understand why Bodie had laughed when he'd said he though Macklin was a nice bloke.

Macklin was a sadist.

A bloodthirsty, merciless, ruthless, unmitigated bastard.

And a sadist!

Unaware that he was scowling, Doyle turned away from the three men.

"Don't worry, sunshine," Bodie said reassuringly; he had seen the little group as well and could guess what was going through Doyle's mind, "you'll be all right."

"Ta very much," Doyle replied sourly. "I suppose they'll overlook the fact that I blew all the wrong things up and shot the wrong targets."

"And got me shot and yourself killed," Bodie finished for him.

"Thanks for reminding me!"

"Look, Doyle." Bodie leant forward and rested a hand on a bony knee, shaking it until Doyle looked at him. "You've done all right. Macklin knows it and so does Cowley--and shape up, mate, 'cause God is coming over to talk to us."

Doyle scrambled to his feet and braced himself to hear the worst. If the last two weeks had been his final trial he knew it was hopeless to hope--

"My office, eight o'clock Monday morning," Cowley barked at them, and Doyle's heart sank; the whole weekend to wait before hearing the final inevitable decision. The head of CI5 had already turned away from them, towards his waiting car when he turned back and snapped at them:

"And may I remind you, 4.5, 3.7, that I demand punctuality as well as obedience from all my men." Then he was gone, his car fast disappearing away up the road.

Slightly puzzled, Doyle turned to Bodie.

"What was that all about?" he asked, hardly daring to think what he hoped it was.

"Really, 4.5," Bodie chided, "I would have thought it was obvious."

"Well done, 4.5," said Macklin as he gave Doyle a congratulatory thump on his back that knocked him even more off balance than he already was.

"4.5," Doyle repeated, testing the sound and deciding that he quite liked it. "I'm in," he announced in a breathless whisper, then shouted it. "I'm bloody well in!"

"Don't exactly pick 'em for their quick thinking, do you?" asked Sergeant Blowers.

"Or for their brawn!" Macklin gripped Doyle's upper arm and examined the muscle there before sighing sorrowfully.

"Nah--it's his face. Sucker for a pretty face, is Cowley--ouch!" Bodie cried out as the full force of Raymond Doyle, alias 4.5 and the newly authorised, card-carrying member of CI5 threw himself at him, toppling them both to the ground.

Macklin and Sergeant Blowers walked off, leaving them scrabbling and scuffling in the dirt, talking of the demerits of allowing such juvenile behaviour on army property.

---

Eventually, Bodie began to steer the elated, shocked, scruffy, worn-out bundle of clothes that was his new partner back to the barracks. On the way back to their room, though, they met up with another of Macklin's victims who were intent on finding something in the NAAFI bar to deaden their pain. Once they discovered that Doyle had just officially been accepted into their ranks they put their hearts and souls--not to mention a good portion of their wallets--into giving him a welcome none of them would forget in a hurry.

The drinking session ended when the bar steward threw them out an hour and a half after closing time. Accepting that all good things must come to an end sometime, the agents all weaved their way through the dark-windowed Nissen huts to their beds.

Almost falling through the doorway of the cupboard that was their room, Bodie and Doyle struggled to undress and climbed into their beds, sleep coming almost before their eyes were shut.

Bodie woke up once during the night to find himself whispering softly and stretching across the eighteen inches that separated them to pat a chilly shoulder.

"Ssh...ssh...'sall right, Ray...everythin's all right. I'm here. Ssh...ssh..."

Reassured, Doyle stopped fidgeting and settled down into a deeper sleep, trapping the palm on his shoulder by covering it with one of his own. When Bodie withdrew his hand Doyle murmured a sleepy protest but then accepted the blanket that was tugged up in its place.

They arrived back at the Royal Arms Hotel just in time to treat the girls to lunch before braving the windswept, deserted promenade and throwing stones into the crashing surf. Out of season, Hythe had very little to offer four young people out for a day's excitement, and it only took a few hours of the bracing sea breeze to convince them that a return to the hotel was their best option.

Without discussing it with Bodie, Doyle booked them back into the same double room and invited both girls to join them for dinner, just as they'd arranged a week ago.

The girls accepted, not that Doyle had thought they were likely to refuse, and made their excuses to take their leave to go and get ready. Dinner was still three hours away, but Doyle could already feel a rising bubbly excitement starting up inside him. Terry's little smile and expectant, burning gaze served to heighten his anticipation.

Not by a turn of a single hair did Bodie let on that he was quite frankly surprised by Doyle's behaviour. They had returned to the hotel on Doyle's suggestion and Bodie had had to agree that another evening--and night--with Joanna would be rather pleasant. Their reception had been rather cool, though, and although he knew Joanna was okay, Bodie got the distinct impression that Terry wasn't exactly overwhelmed that Doyle had wanted a return match--at first that is. After about thirty seconds, though, Terry's cool melted under the charm and undiluted personality of Ray Doyle, even Joanna had gone soft at the edges and Bodie found himself having to make an extra effort to keep her attention.

Watching Doyle throughout the meal, Bodie found himself wondering if they should have requested a more secluded table; the way the main course was going down it looked as if Terry was going to be dessert!

The D.J. of the previous week was thankfully having a night off, and his relief played a well-balanced mixture of old, new, funky and smoochy numbers; not that Ray and Terry seemed to notice, they danced slowly, holding each other close through everything. By ten o'clock, when Bodie looked up from investigating the smooth perfumed skin behind Joanna's left ear, the lovers had gone. Bodie waited until ten-thirty and then escorted Joanna back to the privacy of their bedroom for the night.

---

The slight movement beside him jolted Doyle out of his light almost-sleep. Turning over until she came up against the naked warmth, Terry gave a murmur of sated contentment and slipped back into a deeper sleep. Waiting until he heard her breathing deepen and even out, Doyle carefully shifted sideways, moving even closer to the edge of the bed than he already was--another inch would tip him onto the floor, though.

Sleep just would not come tonight. Even though everything had gone all right and he and Terry had played, explored and loved each other to the point of exhaustion, sleep just refused to claim him. Each time his body tried to slip over the edge of awareness into thankful oblivion, Terry would move and he would wake up with his heart hammering inside his chest and every muscle in his body tense and ready to lash out. It had finally got to the point where he was too tense even to try and fall asleep just in case he couldn't wake up in time to stop himself from hitting Terry the way he'd hit Bodie.

For the rest of the night he slept by snatching a few minutes whenever he could, but never once falling into the deeper, relaxing sleep that could be very dangerous for the restless Terry.

Around dawn, Doyle finally arrived at the conclusion that at some point in his life he must have been a very bad boy, because someone--up there in heaven--really had it in for him. If it wasn't one thing it was another--after three and half years of celibacy and a year of impotent fantasies and nightmares, he'd finally got around to making love with a girl only to find that he was too uptight to relax and unwind enough afterwards to actually sleep with her.

Life, he decided, just wasn't fair.

---

Switching the bathroom light off behind him, Bodie was surprised to see that the only light left on in his flat appeared to be the small lamp on his side of the bed. After his success with Terry, Bodie had half expected Doyle to insist on being allowed to sleep alone in his own room. Not once during the evening since they had returned to London had Doyle mentioned altering their sleeping arrangements and when he'd said he was going to have an early night, Bodie presumed he meant on his own. There was no movement to indicate Doyle was awake and Bodie quietly placed his clothes on a chair and slipped into bed.

"Bodie?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Who else?" Bodie asked jokingly.

"Night."

"Tired you out, did she?" Bodie whispered as he clicked off the light and turned onto his side.

"What?"

"Terry."

"What about Terry?"

"Forget it, mate," Bodie said as he curled around his partner and tucked his knees closely behind Doyle's.

"Forget what?" Although his body was asleep, Doyle's brain still hadn't shut up shop for the day.

"Nothing, sunshine. Just go to sleep. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He was just about to drop off when Doyle began to get restless, but before Bodie could do anything, Doyle snuggled backwards across the mattress until he found the bare warmth of Bodie's chest and snaked an arm behind himself to find Bodie's pulling it around to rest across his waist. Then, holding Bodie's hand loosely, he muttered a contented sigh and settled back into a deeper sleep.

Hardly able to believe the change the last month had made, Bodie took the unconscious movement as a token of Doyle's trust in him, and happily settled down against the relaxed form to sleep soundly.

---

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning Doyle was very much aware of a nervous, fluttery 'new-boy-at-school' feeling unsettling his stomach. In less than an hour he was going to receive his first briefing as an active operative. Last night and then even more so this morning he had listened intently to the half-hourly radio news broadcasts, but so far this wintry morn there had been no international scandals, outbreaks of terrorism or sudden, horrific upsurges in major crime that might require him to leap into action and save mankind. The closest incident of major crime mentioned in the seven o'clock bulletin a few minutes earlier had been about an arms discovery in a little Basque village somewhere in Spain--somehow he doubted that CI5 would be asked to assist in police enquiries--unless, of course, Interpol decided there was a link with a British cell and asked CI5 to assist them...

Turning into the department car park, Doyle glumly acknowledged that the most exciting task he had to look forward to would be chauffeuring Bodie home again tonight. Thinking of Bodie, Doyle looked up to see the glum, thoughtful expression that had been there ever since Bodie had woken up this morning.

Doyle couldn't think of anything he had said or done that might have upset his partner, and so far all his attempts at trying to lighten the atmosphere had fallen on deaf ears...not that he had tried all that hard, though--he had enough problems of his own without taking on Bodie's as well.

During the shindig at the NAAFI club, Tom Blowers, who turned out to be quite an amicable chap once he changed out of his sergeant's uniform into civvies, had expressed some surprise when Doyle told him that so far no one had tried any funny business, no practical jokes or such-like on him. Some of the tales Blowers imparted to the new agent had almost turned his hair grey and made him determined not to get caught out. No way was Ray Doyle going to allow himself to become the laughing stock of CI5.

"Once we've seen Cowley we'll have to go and sort the motor-pool out," Bodie said suddenly as they entered the building. "It's about time we got your own car sorted out; now you're on the active list you'll need your own wheels," he said tersely.

"Have you any idea what Cowley'll have us doing today?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"Ready to save the world, are you?" said Bodie unkindly, completely forgetting the burning enthusiasm with which he'd begun his first day.

"Something like that," mumbled Doyle.

"What did you do on your first day as a fully fledged copper?"

"Watched the flies in the charge room get stuck to the fly paper hanging from the ceiling," Doyle said, his prospects for this first day in CI5 looking even more gloomy.

"That all?"

"And carried the tray of tea and biscuits into the Chief Inspector's office..."

"Oh well, there was a bit of excitement then!"

"...and tripped over the carpet and threw the whole lot over his desk." Doyle laughed at the memory and his day suddenly began to look a little more cheerful. "You know, I often wonder if that had anything to do with my getting transferred to another section."

"If you throw a tray of tea and biscuits over George Cowley the only section you'll be transferred to is a bit of ground measuring six by two and six feet under!" Bodie said cheerfully. "But seriously, don't worry about today. You're not likely to die of excitement but at least you won't have to watch the flies on a bit of fly paper. In CI5," Bodie said in a confidently superior tone, "we shoot them--target practice, you know. We've got to keep our hand in somehow!"

Their arrival in the squad room did not go unnoticed and Doyle found himself to be the focus of some good-humoured banter.

"Tooled up, are you?" one of the men he'd fought in the gym asked him; he thought it was Murphy.

Already keyed up and with Sergeant Blowers' warning uppermost in his mind, Doyle had successfully coped with all the double-meaning banter thrown at him, but Murphy's question made him even more aware of the bulky weapon on his ribs and stiff leather band across his shoulders. On Macklin's and Bodie's insistence he'd worn the gun every day for the past two weeks, taking it off only to go to bed and, because Bodie had done so, when they had gone out with the girls. The one thing he'd noticed over the last few weeks was that no one ever mentioned or alluded to the fact that they were wearing a gun or knew that you were wearing one. To do so was considered a social gaffe in CI5's book of Agents' Etiquette--a bit like telling someone he's wearing smelly underpants.

Something of Doyle's confusion must have shown on his face because Murphy repeated the question and elaborated on it a bit more to Bodie.

"Both loaded up and ready to go, are you? Revolving pencils loaded and new cartridges in our rolled-gold Schaeffers!"

"Sod off, Murph," said Bodie as he pulled a face. "But you're probably right; paper-pushing and baby-sitting is going to be all I'm gonna see of the action--watch it, Puddle, where's the fire?"

Having only just caught up with the conversation, Doyle frowned at the inappropriate name.

"Loverly Lambeth! Seems the hot-shot Cowley's dumped on me's had a phone call from his favourite snitch," Lake replied as he yanked his jacket out from underneath Bodie. "Did you have to sit on it?" he grumbled, trying to smooth out the creases.

"Puddle!" yelled a loud voice from the doorway.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Lake yelled back, pausing only long enough to give Doyle a friendly punch to his shoulder. "Watch this loon," he said quickly, meaning Bodie. "Before you know where you are he'll have a nickname for you and soon no one'll ever remember you were ever called anything else..."

"Puddle!" Williams' cry was taken up by everyone present and with a final grimace at Bodie, Lake answered his partner's call.

After another five minutes or so of shop talk, Bodie decided it was about time they made their way to Cowley's office, the tight, nervous expression on Doyle's face telling him not to prolong his agony any longer.

"Come on then, sunshine, let's go and see what Uncle George has got in store for us today."

Lake's parting shot suddenly became a lot clearer and Doyle smiled at the name. His mother had been the last person to call him Sunshine, and before that, his grandfather; "Little Ray of Sunshine"! At least it was better than being called Puddle! All of a sudden it occurred to Doyle that he didn't have a single clue as to what Bodie's forename was; he was opening his mouth to ask when the swing door flew open, letting a blast of smoke and flame erupt into the corridor, deafening and flattening him at the same time.

Bodie was the first to recover.

"Cowley! That was Cowley's office!"

Scrambling to his feet, his head still ringing from the shock-wave, Doyle followed him.

Confusion reigned for all of thirty seconds before Cowley appeared, unharmed and barking orders, causing everyone to jump immediately to his bidding. Everyone--except Doyle--seemed to have something terribly important to do, and so he stood quietly to one side, still holding on to the piece of charred wood that he'd picked up when he'd begun looking for the body.

"Yes, sir. Should I take Doyle?"

Hearing his name, Doyle glanced up in time to see Cowley look at him.

"Yes, it should be all right. Keep him occupied. Call in as soon as you find Murray," Cowley replied eventually, and Doyle guessed that Bodie was being sent out on a fairly unexciting task. Keep him occupied, Cowley had said. Keep him out of the way was what he had meant.

Feeling rather like a little boy tagging behind his big know-all brother, Doyle tried to look as if he knew exactly what he was doing and resisted the impulse to grab hold of Bodie's jacket as he rushed from office to office and then down into the car park. Doyle had started the engine and moved the car to the exit before he realised that he had absolutely no idea of where he was going.

"Carlisle Avenue, SE5," Bodie snapped back. "And put your foot down."

With a cautious disregard for the speed limit, Doyle headed for Westminster Bridge.

"Am I going to be told why we're going there before or after we arrive?" Doyle asked quietly, having told himself that it would be pointless to get annoyed simply because Bodie knew what was happening and he didn't.

"What?" Already intent on finding Murray and getting whatever information there was to be had from him, Bodie had very nearly forgotten that his chauffeur would also want to get in on the act.

"Murray, Peter Andrew," Bodie said crisply. "He's GPO technician and he's got a Grade A security pass. Log book shows he was in Cowley's office yesterday. The bomb was in Cowley's telephone so--"

"--we're going to get Murray who's in Carlisle Avenue," finished Doyle.

"Under Carlisle Avenue," Bodie corrected with a small, hard smile.

"Under?"

"As in down a hole...fixing cables," Bodie explained.

Doyle watched Bodie's conversation with Murray keenly. It was the first time he'd seen Bodie 'in action' so to speak, and felt that his partner's grim face and quick-fire questioning wasn't having the right effect. It must be very difficult to get into a heavy interrogation routine when your subject was a disembodied voice emanating from the depths of a dark hole in a suburban side street, Doyle conceded.

A tea cup emerged from the hole first, closely followed by the untroubled Murray, who calmly handed over his ID and suggested that CI5's security might not be all it was cracked up to be.

Heading back towards HQ, Bodie passed the bad news back to a none-too-pleased Cowley.

"Ease up a bit, Doyle," Bodie said as he finished reporting in. "There's no need to rush back. Our Leader is not very happy and security is going to get a right kick in the arse over this little fiasco."

"Because they didn't check the telephone man's ID properly?" Doyle asked.

"Because they shouldn't have bloody well let him in the building in the first place. Murray is the only bloke with the right clearance and has been for over a year now."

"Surely just having the one bloke is a bit limiting?"

"It was done purposely to stop exactly what happened today happening!" Bodie exclaimed.

"All right, keep your hair on!" said Doyle. "I was only asking."

"Sorry," apologised Bodie. "Well, a bit more than you were expecting for your first morning, isn't it!"

"Having a bomb go off in the boss's office wasn't the kind of excitement I was looking for, though," Doyle said with a smile.

"Baptism of fire," Bodie said grandly.

"Eh?"

"Took me two weeks to get out of HQ and another month before I got on a Grade A assignment."

"And here's me, new to the job, out on a Grade A before me ceremonial handshake from George Cowley," laughed Doyle.

"You've got high hopes, haven't you, mate? As far as I know no one gets more than one handshake from our Leader and you've already had yours."

"When?"

"Months ago," replied Bodie. "You mean the momentous moment isn't indelibly printed on your mind?"

"No." Doyle shrugged. "When months ago?"

"Your first visit to the building."

"I don't remember. Are you sure? I've mean I've heard he doesn't exactly give his handshakes away."

"Saves 'em for special occasions," Bodie chipped in. "If he ever briefs you and then shakes your hand as you leave--start worrying."

"I'd already heard that--that's why I was sort of looking forward to my first official one."

"Sorry, mate, but you've already had it--I saw it," Bodie added quickly. "Right after he introduced you to me and just before we went down to the Admin office." Doyle frowned and then shook his head as he failed to find the elusive memory. "Just after you came back from lunch with Betty," Bodie elaborated.

"Who's Betty?"

"Who's Betty!" Bodie said as he knocked his head against the car window in mock anguish. "The first bloke in CI5 to take iron knickers to lunch and he can't remember it! Just how much of that first day do you remember?" he asked suddenly.

Stopping the car to allow a neat, uniformed crocodile of juniors and their teachers to walk over a zebra crossing, Doyle frowned as he tried, for the first time, to recall that day.

"Not much," he finally said slowly. "Funny, but...I hardly remember the details at all."

"What can you remember?" Bodie asked, all serious now.

"Someone taking me from the prison in a car...without an escort..."

"Any idea who?"

"Dunno...all I remember is thinking it strange that there wasn't any escort...then reading Mike's letter...Cowley telling...no, asking me to waive my right to a public pardon...then John showing me into the street...dragging the cases back to the underground station..." Doyle's voice tailed away. Although the details were not clear, all the emotional turmoil of the day flooded back, the heavy depression, his overwhelming weariness and the swamping loneliness.

Bodie too was quiet. Not once, that day or since, had he ever considered the impact Doyle's sudden and unexpected liberation would have had on his state of mind.

"Units 3.7, 4.5, Situation Priority Grade 1. Newport Street Estate. Explosion involving 3.4. Assist 5.1 on arrival. Back-up already underway."

"3.7 responding," Bodie snapped into the radio phone. "Put your foot down, sunshine, that's Lake and Williams."

The order to drive faster was unnecessary as Doyle was already roaring down the road, his own problems pushed away and his full concentration on the job in hand.

By the time they arrived, the fire brigade had already done their work and the water hoses were lying idle. Pushing through the inevitable crowd, they made their way up the stairway and picked a cautious pathway through the fallen masonry and blackened wood.

There wasn't much they could do in the devastated flat and so, when Susan told Cowley about the telephone call in the caretaker's flat, they followed him down there. Maybe the call would have some answers for them.

Cowley's face became, if possible, even grimmer. The second bomb hadn't been an ugly coincidence then, but a planned, cold-blooded attempt to destroy CI5--and George Cowley.

Leaving the caretaker's flat, Bodie and Susan walked over to the shocked agent. Doyle watched them from a discreet distance; he had met Williams only very briefly a few months ago in the gymnasium, but they hadn't really talked, and Lake he had only seen for the first time a few hours ago. Feeling rather useless and left out, Doyle wandered over to where the car was parked and watched the firemen sorting out their equipment.

What a way to start a new career--the first day on the job some nutter tries to blow up the head of CI5 and succeeds in blowing an operative to smithereens!

Just at that moment a blanket-covered stretcher was carried from the stairwell to the waiting ambulance. Still distanced by shock and the speed of events, Doyle could only be amazed that they had found enough of Williams to put on the stretcher. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bodie holding Lake back, stopping him from going over to the blanket-covered remains. Once he had stopped fighting to get away, Lake turned his face into Bodie's shoulder.

The ambulance pulled away, the absence of any flashing lights or blaring siren only emphasising the futility of its journey.

"Come on, Puddle," Bodie said softly, "there's nothing you can do here. I'll drive you home."

Pulling himself together, Lake shrugged off the arm around his shoulder.

"Home!" he shouted. "I'm going to find the creep that set this up! It was...was his flaming Christopher that did this--I knew that bloke was no good but would he listen--never gave him any good information, it's always rubbish--I kept telling...him that Chris was no good--but would he listen? Would he?" Shock and grief were replaced by anger and a desire for revenge. Lake was a hardened agent and he had seen friends die before; he would grieve later...in private...right now he wanted action--and revenge.

"I'll come with you," Bodie said, and moved to get in the car.

"No, you won't, Bodie," a hard Scots accent informed him. "Aren't you forgetting something--or rather someone?"

Doyle! Bodie thought. Yes, he had forgotten him.

"I'll go with Lake, sir. 4.5 can take the car back to HQ. I'll be of more use with Lake than baby-sitting Doyle."

Bodie pulled the door open and slid into the seat. Lake had already started the engine and was revving it impatiently.

"No, you won't. Stay with Doyle," Cowley instructed. "Lake, you'll call in if you find Chris Benton?"

"When I find him."

"You will report in before you approach him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yessir," Lake snapped back.

The second Bodie slammed the passenger door shut, Lake was gone.

"Mathieson and King, 3.7, Control can't raise them on r/t to warn them of the current situation. They last reported in about forty minutes ago from Station Road, N.5. You and 4.5 get out there and find out what's happening," ordered Cowley. "Susan, you come back to HQ and start checking through the computer files. Well," Cowley glared at Bodie, "what are you still here for?"

"With all due respect, sir, I think I'll be of more use on this operation--"

"You'll stay with Doyle, Bodie! Now, get going--and when you find Mathieson and King tell them I'll want to know why they aren't wearing their personal r/ts." Cowley turned away and beckoned for his car to come over to him. "When Lake calls in Benton's location you and Doyle will be his back-up."

"Yes, sir," Bodie responded sulkily, still annoyed at not being allowed to join Lake right away.

From where Doyle had parked their car the whole scene had been clearly visible if not audible. He hadn't been able to hear what his partner was arguing about, but Doyle did not find it too hard to guess.

The top-speed drive to Station Road was conducted in near-silence, Bodie speaking the barest minimum to snap out directions. They were still two streets away when they heard the explosion. Doyle pressed his foot to the floor and their car nearly flew the last few hundred yards.

The car was a ball of flame, but through the heat haze, in the driving seat they could just make out the shape of a body.

Doyle saw the other agent first and rushed over to help him, and although barely alive, Mathieson managed to gasp out the name of the informant who had sent them there. Billy.

While Bodie notified HQ, Doyle pulled Mathieson's notebook from a pocket in the torn and charred jacket.

It took only a few minutes for the CI5 forensic team and George Cowley to arrive, and Doyle took the time to decipher Mathieson's log. The dead man had been an ex-policeman and his log was laid out in a familiar way, the abbreviations making some sort of sense.

Bodie had given up trying to make anything out in the log book and was therefore surprised when his chauffeur told him he knew Billy's address.

"We'll tell Cowley where we're going when we're on our way," Bodie said as they hurried over to their car.

As they pulled away, though, Cowley happened to look up. Bodie saw the irritation on his face and the gesture for them to come back--but Doyle, who was manoeuvring the car through the narrow space left between the forensic team's cars, didn't.

"Bodie!" crackled the r/t. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Flat 15, Walcot House NW3, sir." Bodie repeated the address that Doyle had found.

"I take it there is some significance to the address?" Cowley asked, the anger in his voice being overtaken by a more weary resignation.

"Mathieson and King had an informant who lives there. Doyle deciphered Mathieson's log book and reckons it was this Billy who tipped them off about Station Road. Sir." Bodie added the 'sir' as an afterthought.

"All right, but be careful. Remember Benton's flat was booby-trapped." The r/t clicked off.

"Put your foot down, Sherlock," Bodie said. "Let's see if we can't give Billy the shock of his life."

"Control to 3.7," crackled the r/t.

"3.7 responding," replied Bodie promptly.

"5.1 has reported a sighting of Christopher Benton's car at the railway sidings, Thornton Fields. He is awaiting your back-up before moving in. 3.7, 4.5, respond."

"3.7, 4.5 responding." Bodie clicked the handset off and logged down the call. "Billy'll have to wait."

"Lucky Billy," said Doyle as he slid into a controlled skid for a U-turn before shooting off in the other direction.

The sidings were huge, most of the buildings derelict shells, and an air of desolate decay hung over the area.

Doyle drove on past the empty sheds and alongside the railway track. Way over on the other side of the vast open space two trains rattled and clattered past each other and the drama that was unfolding.

"Over there!" Bodie pointed out Lake's car.

Once their car was parked they stepped out, careful to watch out for anything untoward.

A harshly whispered, "Over here," led them to Lake, who pointed out the battered, rusting car parked haphazardly further down the dirt track.

"That's Chris's car. It was spotted by the local police about half an hour ago, so I reckon he's around here somewhere--probably hiding in one of those carriages."

"Where's the police now?" asked Doyle.

"Told them to seal the area off and only let your car through. We can do without them getting under our feet."

Throughout the conversation, Bodie's and Lake's eyes never rested for longer than a split second on any one place. They were continuously searching, checking, evaluating, rechecking.

"We'll work our way through from this end. Doyle, you come with me." Bodie was already swinging up to climb into the first carriage.

"Wouldn't it be quicker if I started on the next carriage?" Doyle suggested, more than a little irked by Bodie's tone of voice.

"Follow me or go and wait in the car," Bodie snapped back, not bothering to look down on Doyle as he began checking the first corridor. Although Doyle had reacted well in training, an agent's first experience of a Grade A could be a very telling matter. He couldn't afford to spare the time or concentration to wonder how Doyle was coping.

"Well?" he demanded after a very brief pause.

There was no verbal answer, but Doyle climbed in behind Bodie, drew his gun and waited for his next instruction. He was very much aware that this was the first time he had drawn his gun in a 'live' situation. A small click drew his eyes to Bodie's gun. The insignificant noise had been Bodie releasing the safety. Swallowing hard, Doyle did likewise.

"Watch the other end and cover me as I go along." Bodie waited until Doyle moved into position before setting off, checking each compartment. Doyle kept his eyes alert for any movement that might pose a threat, edging his way down the corridor, side-stepping into the empty compartments, giving cover but staying safe--just like it said in all the manuals.

In a few minutes they were climbing into their second train and the procedure was repeated. In the third, they took it in turns to cover each other, alternating between checking the compartments and covering the corridor.

Doyle found Benton in the fourth train.

The inelegant, graceless sprawl of death was covered in a blanket of money.

Lake was sickened by the presence of the money rather than the luckless Benton.

"That's inflation for you," Bodie said cryptically, once Lake had moved away back to his car.

"Huh?" asked Doyle.

"Inflation," Bodie explained. "Used to be thirty pieces of silver. Now..."

"Close on to a thousand pounds, I reckon," finished Doyle as he watched a young PC scoop all the money into a plastic bag.

"Why do you think they left it behind--the money. It's genuine stuff," Doyle wondered out loud.

"He can't have been dead more than an hour. Maybe the police car that spotted Benton's motor in the first place frightened them off."

"Possibly," agreed Doyle. "Unless of course we're dealing with a nutter."

"A nutter with a thousand quid to chuck away!"

"It could be revenge is more important than money, and it looks like this is all some revenge trip. Someone's after blood, Cowley's blood--"

"--and anyone else's they manage to drag along. Terrific!"

Stepping past the department's forensic team, Bodie admitted to himself that Doyle could well be right. A nutter. Unpredictable, unstable--and bloody hard to outguess.

"Bodie!" Lake called them over to his car where he was talking to Cowley over the radio, his face a rigidly controlled mask that hid the anger and anguish he was feeling. Replacing the handset in the car, Lake turned to speak to them, but his attention was suddenly taken by a flurry of activity over by the railway carriage. The policemen manhandling the dead body had accidentally dropped Chris from the train doorway to land in a heap by the siding.

"With one thing and another, it's just not been his day, has it!" Bodie remarked casually.

Doyle thought the remark in rather bad taste, but Lake smiled briefly at the black joke.

"Cowley wants us to go to Billy's address; bearing in mind how he," Lake jerked his head towards the stretcher bearing Chris's body away, "was rewarded for his efforts, chances of Billy drawing his pension are pretty slim."

"Okay," Bodie agreed, already moving away to his car. "If you get there first wait for us," he ordered.

"Just don't be late!" Lake yelled back as he switched on the ignition and roared away with a tremendous squeal of tyres amid a cloud of dirt and dust.

With Bodie in the driving seat this time, they arrived only seconds behind Lake. For a few moments, three pairs of eyes subjected the neighbouring buildings to an intense scrutiny, then:

"All right," said Bodie as he began to move out of the car.

In the entrance hall it was decided that Bodie would take the front way to Billy's flat while Lake covered the back. It was not until Doyle made a play of clearing his throat that the other two agents acknowledged his presence. Bodie and Lake exchanged looks before Lake turned to take up his position at the back.

"Stick with me," Bodie said tersely as he moved towards the stairwell.

They climbed the stairs in silence, each alert for the least indication of danger, but they reached the fifth floor without incident.

Pressed flat, one each side of the door, Bodie drew his gun and listened to the sounds emanating from the flat. A radio, someone moving about...and a hairdryer. Billy was still at home--or so it seemed.

Ready, Bodie indicated to Doyle that he should announce their presence. The first knock went unanswered; a second, harder knock followed by Doyle calling Billy's name resulted in the dryer being switched off. Doyle called out again.

"I'm just coming," a voice finally replied. "I won't be a minute."

All was quiet until the unmistakable sound of a sash window being opened up broadcast Billy's intent to the men waiting outside.

Bodie's shoulder charge made short work of the flimsy door and they burst through just in time to see a jean-clad backside disappear through the window out onto the maintenance scaffolding. Leaving Doyle to call Lake on the r/t, Bodie climbed out after Billy.

A swift look at the shaky boards on the scaffolding, and Doyle ran back down the hallways and staircase, guesswork telling him that one of the corridors must lead onto the fire escape that Billy was probably heading for. The old building was like a rabbit warren, and it took three dead ends before he managed to find the doorway onto the metal fire stairs. He burst through the doors just in time to see Bodie and Lake corner a short, fair-haired young man.

The youth was easily subdued, and in fact offered no resistance at all; he only cowered away from them all, clearly terrified and scared for his life.

Keyed up with grief and frustration and high on adrenalin released by the excitement of the chase, Lake badly needed to let off some energy but, as Billy didn't provide the opportunity, he turned his need for action into scathing criticism of the late arrival.

"Get lost, did you?" Lake sneered unpleasantly. "Lose your nerve when you looked out of the window or something?" Turning his back on Doyle, Lake pulled Billy to his feet. "Still, I suppose we ought to be grateful you got here at all--looks like we might have needed you, seeing how tough chummy here is. Come along, Billy," Lake said, his voice switching from mocking derision to suspect amiability, "we just want to have a little chat with you."

"A chat!" squeaked Billy. "You've got no call to treat me like this if all you want is a chat. Who are you?"

"Who were you expecting?" Bodie asked.

"Are you police?" Billy's quivering voice said that he had already discounted that possibility.

"No," Lake informed him, the grin on his face growing fractionally larger as Billy's fear increased.

The procession made its way back through the halls that Doyle had run along. Once back in the cramped, untidy bedsit, Billy was thrown back onto the unmade bed where he made a final attempt at bravado.

"Look, who are you and what do you want from--"

Lake's glare caused the rest of his sentence to remain unspoken.

Bodie thrust his ID under Billy's nose and then indicated the other two that were being held for inspection.

"CI5," Billy gasped, "you're CI5!" The fear and tension drained away, leaving him limp and weak.

"Know many CI5 blokes, do you?" Bodie asked coldly.

"One or two," Billy answered cheerfully.

"One or two? How many exactly?" pushed Lake.

"A few. Two, only two--Mathieson and King, that's who I know." The fear had crept back into Billy's voice.

"Knew," Bodie corrected.

"Huh?" said Billy.

"What he means, Billy," Lake explained crisply, "is that you knew two agents. Knew as in 'did know' as in 'don't know any more'."

From his vantage point by the door it became increasingly obvious to Doyle that either Billy was an excellent actor or he didn't know what Lake and Bodie were talking about--and he doubted that Billy was any good at acting.

While Bodie and Lake concentrated on grilling the hapless Billy, Doyle continued to check out the flat. That Billy was still alive, though a relief, was definitely worrying Doyle. Williams' informant had not been so lucky. Was Billy in any immediate danger, Doyle wondered.

At that moment Lake, finally losing his patience with the evasive replies, dragged Billy to his feet and threw him across the room where he landed heavily on an armchair.

Bodie stepped in smoothly between the almost incoherent boy and Lake.

"Now, come on, Billy. We're asking you nicely to give us some straight answers. Where can we find this Parkes fella?" Bodie said as he tried to cool the situation down.

"I dunno, I dunno," squealed Billy. "No one place...anywhere--out in the street, anywhere."

Under the combined glares of two extremely powerful, intimidating interrogators, Billy was fast becoming so scared Doyle guessed that before long he wouldn't even be able to remember his own name. His interruption was clearly not welcomed by the two established agents, but Billy turned to Doyle as if he had been thrown a lifeline.

"I really don't know," Billy repeated in a slightly calmer voice. "It's like he always finds me."

"Where are you when he finds you? Out shopping, walking to your local, in the job centre, where?" Doyle asked gently.

Much preferring the manner of the smaller, quiet man who looked to be in a totally different class to the high-powered gorillas pinning him to the armchair, Billy responded to the friendly prompt and tried again.

"Around the High Street in the shopping centre and once, the time he told me about Station Road, in the car park by those warehouses off the High Street...yeah, that's where," Billy said with growing confidence. "I think he works somewhere behind the High Street...got his own office, I think."

Acknowledging that Doyle had won Billy's confidence, the two men backed off, Lake just relieved to be finally getting somewhere and Bodie to watch the clever way in which Doyle used his charm to guide Billy's memories along the right tracks. DC Doyle had obviously had a lot of experience with the Mr Nice and Mr Nasty method of interrogation. Content with his role of Mr Nasty, Bodie merely watched Mr Nice play his part to the end.

At last, Billy's memory had revealed all it could and he collapsed back into the armchair and watched the whispered conference on the other side of the room, his sense of impending doom not being lessened by the glowering looks and barely audible references to himself.

"No," Doyle said firmly, "it's a waste of time taking him in. Look what happened to Chris," he reminded them. "Leave Billy on the street and maybe Parkes will find Billy--who knows! Keep tabs on him and let him go."

"And if whoever killed Chris gets to him first?" Lake asked sourly.

"If we're watching Billy properly, we'll be there in time, won't we," Doyle answered quickly.

"Okay," Bodie added. "First we'll take Billy in--get everything we can from him checked out with computer control, then we put him back on the street."

"Okay," said Lake.

"Fine," compromised Doyle easily.

Once Billy had been handed over to their back-up, Lake left to handle the unenviable task of visiting Williams' widowed mother, leaving the other two men free until Billy had been dealt with at Headquarters.

"Lunch?" Bodie asked as Doyle started the car up.

"Good idea," Doyle replied and then looked at his watch. "More like dinner. Lunch was over and done with hours ago."

"Dinner!" exclaimed Bodie. "Shit!"

"What's up?"

"Dinner," Bodie explained. "Jo came up to town to see her sister today and I'd arranged to take her out for a meal. Damn, she's not gonna like being put off again."

"Again?"

"Yeah. We were supposed to go out to this place after the last time I met her at the hotel. She wasn't too pleased then; can't see her being overjoyed about tonight either." The vision of the only good thing about Macklin's army-style weekends flickered and faded from view. The obliging friendly Joanna was not the sort that took being stood up lying down!

"Make a detour past my place. I've got her sister's number on the pad by the phone," Bodie ordered crossly.

Parked outside the building, Doyle shouted out for him to hurry up, reminding him that they still hadn't had anything to eat.

Alone for the first time since getting up that morning, Doyle took the opportunity to relax a little. His first day was certainly turning out to be very different from the one he had expected. Although Bodie had made it quite clear at the start that he didn't relish being stuck with an inexperienced, untried agent on such a difficult operation, he had at least accepted and acted on the few pieces of information and advice that Doyle had felt able to offer.

Finally allowed the time to reflect on his actions, Doyle felt pleased with the way he had handled Billy. Doubtless the other two men would have extracted the small but not insignificant scraps Billy had to offer, but Doyle was sure that his intervention had speeded things up a little.

"Come on, Bodie," Doyle muttered under his breath as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. All in all, he reflected happily, day one was taking on a promising shape. None of Sergeant Blowers' ghastly predictions had come about--yet! Suddenly, inexplicably, the sergeant's dire warnings of horrible happenings crowded out all Doyle's comfortable sense of well-being.

The tale of how one poor, unwary agent was caught out unfolded as Doyle sat, frozen at the steering wheel. They had tricked the poor man into believing that the unsavoury youth trailing behind the visiting foreign dignitary was a suicidal, left-wing activist determined to handcuff himself to the dignitary at the first chance he got, and then detonate the explosive hidden beneath his coat. Determined to make his mark in CI5, the unsuspecting man grabbed the youth, knocked him out with a single, powerful punch and then proceeded to rip the youth's clothes off to get at the non-existent explosives. Apparently the dignitary didn't take too kindly to the way Britain's fascist secret police brutally assaulted his nephew. The young agent was, so Blowers informed Doyle, never seen in CI5's hallowed halls again.

"Doyle, get in here!"

The r/t crackled unexpectedly. After a second's hesitation Doyle leapt into action. Bodie's voice had been--strained; trouble, perhaps.

Three steps from the front door to the flat, Sergeant Blowers' warning flashed loud and clear through Doyle's mind. Anywhere...any time...

The headlong dash slowed to a more cautious pace. Doyle was prepared to meet anything. Murderers, robbers, terrorists--practical jokers. Anywhere. Any time.

His gun drawn, safety catch released, Doyle opened the door. The hallway was empty, as was the kitchen. Through the open door he saw Bodie sitting by the telephone, watching him. Doyle knew that had anyone else been in the flat, the cautious blue eyes would have been firmly fixed on the intruder. Even more certain the sergeant's prediction was coming true, Doyle entered the room, gun ready to shot the balls off anything that moved.

Having pointedly ascertained that the only occupants of the flat were Bodie and himself, Doyle calmly flicked the safety back on and moved away from his position against the wall.

"What's up then?" he asked, trying to and not quite succeeding in keeping the knowing smile off his face. There was no point in letting Bodie know he had already guessed what was happening. Let the children have their little game.

"Phone's got more plastic in it than it did this morning," Bodie said rather too calmly.

"That all!" Doyle said offhandedly, but then realised he would have to alter his tome if he didn't want Bodie to know the game was over. "How many numbers did you dial?"

"How many d'you think? One."

"Ah well." Doyle looked at the phone. "You want me to do it?" he asked politely.

"Wouldn't dream of it, no. Go to the pictures, go on."

"Nah," Doyle said after he'd considered the idea for a second or two. "I've seen everything that's on locally anyway." He reached for the phone with one hand and fished out his pocket wonder-kit with the other.

"Careful," Bodie warned. "Might be some kind of mechanism." A booby, he mouthed silently.

Doyle had to look away; one more second under that overly innocent gaze and he knew he would burst out laughing.

"Oh yeah--you mean that thing I always got wrong at bomb-disposal school."

Gently, Doyle unscrewed the phone and started to part the case from the body. "Tripper's probably on the bell--or if we're really unlucky, on the dial," he said, suddenly remembering that he never did quite manage to defuse one of those properly. He lifted the case away. Surprise, surprise! "It's on the dial. Don't mess about, do they? There's about a pound of plastic explosive in here."

"Let's have a look," Bodie said, and he carefully turned the phone around without moving his finger.

"Looks straightforward," Doyle said as he scrutinised the device and identified it. "There's a miniature detonator." Confident that he could remember all of Prescott's instructions, Doyle began to defuse it.

"I feel like that kid with a finger in the dike."

"That's just what you are, mate. You keep it stuck in there," replied Doyle rather distractedly. He wished Bodie would shut up; he couldn't remember which wire he should cut first. "Hold your breath, sunshine," he muttered. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Doyle chose a wire and snipped.

"You were very lucky, mate. It could have been the last cheap rate call you ever made."

With a relieved smile, Bodie released the dial, then immediately called Cowley on his r/t and told him about the bomb Doyle had defused.

Doyle only half heard the conversation. Now that he had cut the wiring away he was getting his first proper look at the detonator. Across a suddenly yawning void, Bodie's voice confirmed what Doyle's eyes were showing him.

The bomb had been live!

Doyle's stomach dropped through to the building's basement and his heart missed a beat or four. It was only when his ears started buzzing and the lights flashed black and white in front of his eyes that he remembered to breathe.

Thankful that he was already on his knees, Doyle sat back on his haunches so that the table top hid him from Bodie's eyes. He twirled the detonator in decidedly shaky fingers, examining the dainty, precision device, barely able to absorb that he had been that close to the end of everything. He couldn't put it down to skill, though. Choosing the right wire had been pure chance; he had been so sure it was a put-on.

Christ! If he had cut the other wire...

Returning to reality, against the background of a loud, tuneful, chirruping bird and the gentle hum of city traffic, he heard Bodie finish reporting in and knew that if he didn't snap out of it Bodie would realise that something was up.

"D'you wanna drink?" Doyle asked, his voice sounding distant and breathless to his own ears.

"Yeah, let's have a drop of the good stuff before I hide the bottle," Bodie replied.

"Huh?"

"Cowley, Phillips and half of CI5 forensics are about to descend on us, so--"

"We hide the good stuff." Doyle caught on.

Hampered by legs that were still decidedly shaky, Doyle had only managed to get as far as standing up by the time Bodie had poured the drinks out.

"Cheers," said Bodie, then added, "To life!" and chinked glasses.

"L'chaim!" Doyle returned, and then allowed the smooth malt to banish the last of his shakes. "Did you get your number?" he suddenly asked.

"That's a point. I'll have to call her later. We'd better not touch that any more." The phone received a hard stare. "As much as she's going to want me to go up in a puff of smoke when I cancel our date--I don't think she'd want me to go that far!" The rest of the room came under another searching glare. "I wonder if there are any more little surprises waiting for us?"

"How did they get in?" Doyle asked as they both began to check the doors and windows. "I thought these places were supposed to be secure."

"So did I," said Bodie grimly. "The alarms would have gone off if a window or door had been forced."

"Forensics will be able to tell if the wiring's been tampered with, won't they?"

"Should do," Bodie answered.

A series of squealing brakes and slamming car doors announced the arrival of the forensics team--and Cowley.

"You go and let Cowley in while I tidy up."

"What?"

"The bedroom, dimwit," Bodie shouted back from the other room. "Didn't have time to make the bed, did we. Can just see Cowley's face when he claps eyes on the bathroom, too."

"You were last up and last in the bathroom," Doyle responded virtuously. "Should have left it how you found it, shouldn't you!"

Leaving Bodie darting around the flat tidying away everything he didn't care for Cowley and the massed ranks of CI5 to see, Doyle obligingly took his time opening the front door.

Once the forensics boys were all engaged checking out the rest of the flat, Cowley asked for and got a more detailed report. When Bodie described the competent manner in which his new partner had coped with the bomb, Doyle felt a hot flush creep over his cheeks. Although Bodie had taken getting his digits tangled up with a pound of plastic explosive in his stride, he wasn't mean in handing out praise where he thought it was due.

Half expecting--hoping for--a few words of praise from the All-Powerful Cowley, Doyle was rather disappointed when, at the end of Bodie's report, Cowley dismissed both of them and promptly turned his back on them. A new, hotter glow burned Doyle's cheeks as he crossly asked himself if he had really been expecting a pat on his head and a lollipop! Defusing bombs was, clearly, a part of everyday life for a CI5 agent.

After being moved from his third seat in as many minutes by a busy forensic man, Doyle joined his partner out in the kitchen.

"Have a sausage," Bodie offered.

"Ta. Got any potatoes, peas and gravy to go with it?"

"Bread'n butter."

"I'm starving," Doyle complained plaintively.

"So am I but if you think I'm going to start cooking while those gannets are still here you can think again, sunshine."

"How much longer are they going to be?"

"Not much," Bodie answered as he attacked the last sausage. "We're still on standby, anyway."

"And I still haven't had any dinner."

"Well," Bodie said thoughtfully, "Cowley doesn't want us at HQ tonight, and I doubt that Wakeman will be found much before tomorrow--"

"Who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked, interrupting what Bodie had been about to say.

"Cowley was just telling me. Susan and Puddle found Billy's contact. Parkes is only a wire man and a supplier. Said he was paid by a bloke called Wakeman to do the phone in Cowley's office but that he didn't do any of the others."

"So who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked for the second time.

"Cowley knows the name, but the big puzzle is that Wakeman and all of his team are either dead or out of action."

"What was his game then?"

"Not too sure," Bodie said slowly. "Cowley knows but he's not saying much. I get the feeling Wakeman was a sleeper--or that he turned, and Cowley was involved in it."

"And Wakeman's dead?"

"Yes, but Intelligence reports have a listed sighting of one of his 'pals', a Philip Catrell, only a few months ago, so that's who we're looking for."

"We?"

"Well, not us exactly. Cowley wants us ready as back-up."

"Oh!"

Once again Doyle realised with a thump that he was still very much the untried agent.

"Don't look so down," Bodie said as he playfully punched Doyle's arm. "It's not been a very organised day but at least you've not made any cock-ups."

"That's what you think," Doyle said, and immediately wished he hadn't, but rescue in the form of a busy forensic man burst into the small kitchen.

"You got anything to drink, Bodie? This is thirsty work."

"Tea, coffee," Bodie offered generously. "Orange squash."

"Plenty of milk in the fridge," said Doyle blandly.

It was clearly not the answer the man had been hoping for and he left the kitchen in a huff, muttering to himself and anyone within earshot, about a particular tight-fisted workmate.

"Anyway," Bodie said suddenly, "as I was about to say before you butted in--seeing as how we've got some time on our hands this evening, how about you putting on your chef's hat on and giving me a break, not to mention a decent meal for a change," he added hastily with a cheerful grin on his face.

Doyle considered it. Ever since that first time he'd cooked a meal he had pointedly refused to attempt anything apart from hot drinks and supper snacks. At times he had felt a little guilty at letting Bodie do all of their main meals and wondered if he shouldn't perhaps offer to try again--but Bodie had accepted his silent reluctance to cook so well that he'd found it difficult to offer his services.

This was the first time Bodie had asked him for anything and Doyle suspected that if he refused it would also be the last.

"Why not--perhaps I could come up with a variation on flash-fried steak and oven chips!"

"Wouldn't be difficult."

"Okay. What do you fancy then?"

---

The jarring clamour of the telephone bell jolted Bodie out of a beautiful floating dream in which he was safe, warm, happy and loved. The dull pre-dawn light was still cruel to his eyes and he struggled to get a hand free to answer the phone. Still disoriented, he was puzzled by his inability to reach the bedside phone. Not only was someone in the way, but the arm that wasn't wedged between the two bodies was being held tightly, the strong grip refusing to free him.

Inured to the constant noise always present in prison, Doyle slept on, waking only when Bodie shook him in an effort to free his arm--but then erupting into sudden movement, curling into a protective ball while his fists and muscles clenched in preparation for a fight.

Having freed his arm, Bodie grabbed the phone and pinned Doyle to the mattress by dint of leaning on him. The instant Doyle came fully awake, though, the resistance melted away and Bodie relaxed his guard.

"3.7...yeah...Chalmers Road Industrial Estate...got it." Bodie replaced the receiver. "Morning, sunshine."

"Is it?"

"Rise and shine. Cowley's laying on breakfast for us the other side of town."

Realising that the call was to return them to duty, Doyle wasted no time in pulling his clothes on.

"They've found Catrell then?" he asked a few minutes later as they pulled the front door shut behind them.

"Maybe," Bodie replied as he slid into the driving seat. "Lake's found a caravan he's thought to have been using, and it looks like someone's in it."

The speed with which Bodie tore through the deserted (and not-so-deserted) streets made Doyle wonder if he would survive his second day as an active agent.

The industrial estate was discreetly busy. To an untrained eye all appeared normal; the run-down buildings and gutted warehouses looked as boringly uninteresting as normal but Doyle saw the armed rooftop observers and perimeter security immediately. They were waved through the gasboard road block without having to slow down.

A few hundred yards further down the road they saw Cowley and Lake and pulled up close by.

Forestalling whatever Bodie had been about to say, Cowley snapped out his orders without taking his eyes from the binoculars.

"See Phillips over there," he said. "He's got some equipment for you."

Doing an about turn, the two men walked quickly over to the department's explosives expert.

"At last," said Phillips. "What kept you?" he asked sarcastically but, on seeing the glowering look Bodie sent him, changed his approach. "Have you ever used either of these before?"

Bodie reached out for the smaller of the two gadgets.

"No, but I've seen this working."

"This is a metal detector, isn't it?" Doyle asked, examining his gadget.

"It's a bit more than just a metal detector." Phillips then quickly explained the uses of the two sensors and the operating procedures.

"But why us?" asked Bodie. "What's wrong with the Bomb Squad?"

"Because, Bodie," Cowley suddenly appeared behind them and answered the question, "if there is anyone in that caravan it's up to CI5 to get him out and if there isn't then it's probably booby-trapped.

"So?" Bodie asked, the logic behind Cowley's reasoning escaping him.

"So, Bodie," Cowley continued, "you will give Doyle cover as he checks a path to and around the caravan and, when you reach the caravan--"

"If we reach the--sorry, sir," Bodie backed down under the icy glare.

"When you reach the caravan, should it prove unoccupied you will check it out or--"

"Nab whoever's in it," finished Bodie.

"Move off when you're ready," Cowley ordered in clipped tones before returning to his observation of the solitary, sorry-looking caravan.

---

The first thing Doyle became aware of was the noise. A distant but irritatingly pervasive clamour. Without warning his world tipped over to one side and a solid object landed heavily on his legs.

"Gettoff 'im, you great oaf!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying."

Doyle recognised Bodie's voice and realised who it was that was cutting off the circulation to his feet--Bodie was no lightweight.

"Tell your mate to slow down for Christ's sake," Bodie said, his voice strangely distant. "He's only stunned--he's not dying or anything."

"Not according to Cowley, old friend."

Above the siren and Bodie's voice, Doyle identified Lake. "Doyle's dead--and so are you. Official."

Everything was becoming increasingly unreal to Doyle as he lay there listening to Lake relating the manner of his apparent demise. Surely his head wouldn't ache so much nor his legs protest so strongly at the painful treatment Bodie's backside was still giving him. He wasn't dead--to prove it he moved his legs in an effort to dislodge his partner.

"Watch it, I think Sleeping Beauty's coming round," Bodie said as he finally managed to get enough leverage to lift himself off the bed.

Unable to do much else, though, he only shifted forward a few inches and remained perched on the edge of the stretcher. Ambulances were not designed to carry crowds, and even the ambulance man had been surprised at the number of agents that had crowded into his vehicle.

"Come on, sunshine." Bodie encouraged Doyle's progress to full awareness by gently patting the side of his face.

"'m'wake," Doyle mumbled thickly. His own voice, like Bodie's and Lake's, had a peculiar, hollow ring to it. "I'm awake," he repeated a bit louder and shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears.

"I can see that, sunshine. Can you hear me?" Bodie asked.

"What?"

"Can you hear me?"

"No...yes--but not properly."

"It's the explosion," Bodie explained.

"John who?"

"Explosion!" Bodie shouted.

"What explosion?"

The ambulance came to an abrupt halt and the rear doors were wrenched open. Bodie was pushed down onto the opposite stretcher and a red blanket was placed over him, covering him from head to toe. Suddenly Lake was holding a similar blanket all ready to place over Doyle's face. The alarm must have shown in his eyes because Lake hesitated momentarily to explain.

"Just play dead while we get the two of you inside. We'll explain later--okay?"

After receiving a rather unsure nod, the blanket was lowered and Doyle's world became a red, stuffy place filled with a jumble of confused but oddly familiar sounds.

After what seemed like hours to Doyle but was only minutes later, the blanket was removed and a pretty young Oriental nurse was there, asking if he was all right.

During the journey into the hospital Doyle remembered what had happened, the mad dash away from the caravan--the crack of rifle shots and the wall of air that had lifted and thrown him head over heels.

"What happened to Cowley?" he asked Bodie.

"Pardon?"

"Cowley? What happened to him?"

"Cowley?" Bodie shouted back.

"Yeah?"

"He's fine. They've taken him through to intensive care."

Bodie's answer only confused Doyle. Maybe the explosion had shaken Bodie's brains up as well as his ears.

"What for?" Doyle asked. "Why take him there if he's all right?"

"All part of the plan," Bodie said sagely. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"How bad's the bad?" asked Doyle, suddenly suspicious of the innocently twinkling blue eyes.

"The good news is that it won't affect your pension but the bad news is--you're dead, mate, and so am I."

"I don't feel dead," Doyle said after giving it a moment's thought. "I just might die of thirst in the near future if I don't get a cup of tea and a couple of aspirins--but I don't think I'm dead yet."

As if on cue, the nurse returned with two cups of tea.

"Here we are, gentlemen. Doctor will be through in a few minutes to check you over."

Once the tea had been sorted out, the doctor was there, checking out their assorted bumps and bruises.

"Your hearing will come back to full strength within a few hours," he assured both of them. "It's only a distortion caused by the shockwave. You're both lucky you weren't any closer or perforated eardrums would have been the least of your worries!"

Once the doctor had gone, Lake popped his head into the room.

"Catrell's arrived," he announced. "He's on his way up."

"Come on, Doyle." Bodie jumped up and yanked his partner off the bed.

"What's going on?" Doyle asked, angry at being kept in the dark for so long.

"Cowley's laid a trap so Catrell will try to finish him off here in the hospital," Bodie explained as he peered along the corridor through a narrow crack in the door. "Here he comes." He drew back and pushed the door to as Catrell walked on by. "Right, come on then."

Quietly, the three men eased out into the deserted corridor. Outside the ICU another agent was standing, gun drawn, peering through the window blinds; without looking away from the window, he spoke to them, giving them a running commentary on Catrell's actions.

"He's inside. Cool as a bleedin' cucumber. Outside Cowley's room. Going in. He's shut the door."

"Move in!" ordered Bodie.

Catrell didn't stand a chance. His confidence had been his downfall and the combined forces of a not-so-ill Cowley and his minions soon overpowered and subdued him.

All the excitement was over and Catrell was being escorted to the waiting cars. Lake and Bodie were in a quietly jubilant mood and held the handcuffed man between them.

Following behind, as he had been for most of the last two days, Doyle was the only one who noticed the strange reaction of the tall, elegant woman that walked past.

Non-reaction would have been a better word, Doyle thought. Surely the sight of an obviously bruised and somewhat battered, handcuffed man being frog-marched along a busy hospital corridor would have aroused a little curiosity or consternation.

Puzzled, Doyle stopped and did an about turn to follow her, his intuition alerting him to some as-yet-unidentified danger.

The nearer they got to the ICU the more Doyle knew he was right to be following her. Up ahead she paused; Doyle heard the voices coming from around the corner--Cowley and Phillips.

From her shoulder bag the woman drew a small handgun and calmly took aim.

"Drop it!"

Doyle's voice cracked out and the woman twisted suddenly, clearly startled, her finger automatically completing the job it had been instructed to do. Doyle's gun echoed the shot and the woman gave a startled cry before crumpling to the floor, holding her shoulder.

Behind him, Doyle heard the swing doors burst open as Bodie and Lake arrived on the scene.

"She's Wakeman's sister, Lisa Wakeman," Bodie announced into the sudden quiet. "Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps by the look of things," he added.

Too numbed from the shock of the bullet lodged in her shoulder, Lisa Wakeman was in no condition to present any problems and the second clearing-up operation was set in motion.

Now that the immediate panic was past, Doyle found that the expected shock at shooting the woman didn't hit him. His system had clearly had as many shocks as it could cope with in one day.

Further down the corridor, Cowley was complaining, loudly, about the bullet that had passed through the overcoat he'd had over his arm.

"A perfectly good coat. Ruined," he said. "Ruined!"

"Well," Doyle heard himself say. "Look on the bright side--at least you haven't got blood on it as well."

For a split second the hustle and bustle in the corridor stopped. No one moved or spoke and Doyle began to wonder what happened to people unwise enough to cheek George Cowley.

"Hrmph!" Cowley vocalised, and after pinning Doyle to the spot with the glare he normally reserved for Bodie's sometimes caustic comments, strode away along the corridor, leaving Doyle wondering if the world was ever going to start turning again.

---

Late in the night, Cowley was still working at his makeshift desk as he finished checking the reports on Wakeman and Catrell.

The more immediate work done and out of the way, he turned wearily to his next task. From under a pile of papers he retrieved the red ink pad and stamp that his secretary had placed there in readiness. Three times he printed the damning word in luridly appropriate ink across each file. Deceased. Deceased. Deceased.

One and half operative units wiped out in a single morning. Two units really, Cowley realised grimly. Today, Lake had been working purely on momentum--automatic pilot--his training seeing to that; but now that the action was all over, Lake would have time to think, time to grieve, time to fall apart.

Cowley sighed and pushed the files away. Some good had come from the day's disaster, though; Doyle had more than proved his potential to the Department. As first days go, Cowley had to admit that Doyle's had been impressive. But even so he knew that the hoped-for partnership still had a long way to go.

It was standard practice for all established agents to prepare an additional report, totally separate from the operations one, on the actions of any newcomer to the squad. Reading through them, Cowley had seen Lake and Bodie's opinions on Doyle's behaviour.

Both men had clearly shown, without any resentment, that it had been Doyle who had guided the path their actions had taken. Not only had he deciphered Mathieson's log book after Bodie had discarded it as illegible, but he had gained Billy's confidence at a crucial moment, as well as recognising the danger in the elegantly dressed Lisa Wakeman. Admittedly Bodie and Lake were right behind him following Susan's radio message, but their arrival would have been too late.

Foolishly off his guard and completely without protection, he had let Wakeman have him in her sights; only Doyle's timely intervention had saved his life.

Doyle had worked well, but on his own--not part of a team.

Cowley mentally reviewed the training period and came to the conclusion that Bodie had achieved his task of turning Doyle into a useful operative--but the bonding of two halves to make a working partnership had not happened--yet.

Pushing his chair back, Cowley got up from the desk and collected all the papers that needed to be secured in the safe. Locking the paperwork away, he finally switched off the light and left his office--his mind still mulling over the intricacies of trying to match individuals into effective teams. He had three good men, men with a wealth of experience and potential. Lake's and Doyle's futures were predictably sound, the only maverick was Bodie. Cowley knew that he had to find the right partner if he stood any chance of keeping Bodie for much longer--if Doyle didn't work out perhaps he ought to try Lake.

Stepping out into the crisp night air, Cowley pulled his coat on and walked across to his car. No, he decided as he slipped behind the steering wheel. Bodie and Lake didn't 'feel' right in the way Bodie and Doyle did. Time was all they needed, he was sure of that. Time for Doyle to learn how to trust, and for Bodie to learn that to care need not be a recipe for disaster.

The problem resolved, Cowley drove out of the car park, heading for home and peaceful, undisturbed sleep for what was left of the rest of the night.

---

CHAPTER NINE

The road leaving the airport was heavily congested, the heavy rain and oncoming darkness not really helping. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Bodie made his bad mood perfectly clear. Unable to do anything, Doyle sat still and watched the slow progress of the never-ending line of cars.

"Christ," Bodie mumbled. "How much longer are we gonna be stuck here?"

Doyle didn't bother to answer.

From behind them a blue flashing light and droning siren heralded the imminent arrival of an ambulance. As if by magic, the jam of cars melted sideways, up onto hard shoulder and pavements to create a path for the vehicle.

Watching the progress of the flashing light in his rear view mirror, Bodie quickly steered his car to follow immediately behind the ambulance.

With the help of their pathmaker, the car sped on down the road, leaving all the other slow thinkers sitting in the rush hour traffic jam.

Arriving eventually outside HQ, Bodie pondered aloud on the form their next assignment was going to take.

"Maybe the Minister's granddaughter needs collecting from school," he said. "Or else we might be told to escort the post van to the sorting office. Or--" he continued excitedly, "maybe it's our turn to lick the stamps!"

Again, Doyle didn't bother to answer. He had found the last few weeks interesting if not exactly enjoyable. But protecting--or baby-sitting as Bodie called it--fairly low-level ministers and foreign diplomats, or observing the activities of particular addresses and people from a discreet distance, was not the type of work his partner had any great love for. Of that Doyle was in no doubt, because Bodie had told him so. Repeatedly.

"I want to see John in the armoury," Bodie said as they entered the building. "Will you sign in for me upstairs?"

Once Doyle had agreed, Bodie turned off to go down into the basement. The squad room was almost packed, Doyle noticed as he slipped in to the room next door to add his and Bodie's names to the list of 'operatives in residence' board. Just about everyone was in, it seemed, because there were only a few lines spare on the board, the rush of activity tailing off with the departure of all the different heads of state and their accompanying entourages.

All of a sudden the congenial buzz of conversation was interrupted by raised voices. For a moment the crowded room was quiet and then, into the stillness, the indignant voice repeated its question to his audience.

"I'd just like to know what Cowley's trying to achieve, that's all. I mean--what possible good can come from recruiting that sort of bloke?"

"If you can't beat 'em--join 'em," said one voice.

"Cowley's got his reasons--maybe he means to use him as a plant, undercover--that sort of thing." said another.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, that's probably what the Cow's after."

"I still don't like it," the original protester said firmly. "How can we trust a bloke that's already proved he can't be trusted?"

About to enter the room and find out what everyone was talking about, Doyle was frozen to the spot just outside the door as another voice added its contribution to the debate.

"Doyle's all right. He's done his time, paid his dues to society and all that crap. If Cowley sees fit to trust him I don't see that we can't."

"All right, Puddle," said the angry voice. "You trust him--you work with him--but I'm damned if I will!"

The room was suddenly filled with clamouring voices, some agreeing with Lake, but mostly with the other man.

Outside, Doyle finally managed to get his feet to work and walked woodenly, resisting the impulse to run, into the toilets, the nearest place where he could be alone in private to absorb what he had overheard.

He locked the cubicle door and leant on it, closing his eyes, screwing them up tightly, angrily, refusing to let the moisture overspill and form tears.

Quite wrongly he had thought it was behind him. He should have known that the stigma of prison would cling on to taint all he touched. For what seemed to be a lifetime he had been protesting his innocence, refusing to be forced into becoming what others believed he was; refusing to be beaten by a pack of lies.

Slowly the numbing rage receded and his thoughts moved along more coherent, dispassionate lines. Why should they believe him to be innocent? Hadn't he agreed to Cowley's suggestion that he waive his right to a public retrial--hadn't he agreed not to tell too may people about his change of fortune? Of course he had! No one had asked him about his immediate past. Foolishly he had told himself that they didn't know--and if they did they would realise that the judge and jury had got it all wrong.

Doyle, he told himself, you are a fool!

Someone came into the toilets from the corridor, and he immediately recognised one of the voices that had been raised against him.

"...load of rubbish. I thought this was supposed to be a rigidly upright, law-abiding incorruptible organisation." The unmistakable sound of two zips being unfastened and the following noises were as audible as the conversation which continued relentlessly.

"It was bad enough when his partner joined the squad, but at least he had the sense not to shit on his own doorstep."

Whether the man had come to the end of his argument or merely noticed the closed cubicle door and become aware of unknown ears, the conversation stopped and the two men finally left the small room.

After a few minutes, Doyle unlocked the door and crossed over to the wash basins where he splashed a handful of cold water over his face.

What, he wondered, had that last little comment meant? Although no names had been mentioned, Doyle knew that this time they had been talking about Bodie.

Re-entering the corridor, Doyle turned away from the squad room. Quite by accident he found himself outside the computer room. Peering around the door, he found the place almost deserted, and only a few operators seated at the odd terminal. One of the girls looked over at him.

"Want any help?" she asked.

"No. Is it okay if I do a couple of searches myself?"

"Go ahead," the girl answered. "Just yell if you need any help."

Without meaning to, Doyle found himself tapping out the names he had read on his partner's ID: William Andrew Philip Bodie, gave a possible date of birth, sat back and waited for the few minutes it took the computer to check all the National Criminal Records Offices for any matches on the names. One by one the answers flashed up on the screen. Nowhere in the country was there any record of one William Andrew Philip Bodie.

It had only been a thought after all, Doyle told himself. Again he tried to work out what the man had meant--perhaps Bodie had been involved in something abroad.

"Excuse me, love," Doyle called to the girl. "Does this thing have access to International Computer Banks?"

"No, sorry. All international requests have to go through the duty officer. Why, do you need something?" she asked.

"No, it's all right. I just wondered."

I just wanted to check my partner out, he thought quietly. About to leave the room, a sudden burst of curiosity flared and Doyle returned to the keyboard and tapped his own name out.

In seconds his full record was flashing up on the screen. Every meticulously recorded detail. His description. His age. His photographs. A summary of his court case and its outcome. Everything was there. Not a single word had been amended or deleted to show the reversal of the conviction.

Having been expecting a 'no trace' message, it took Doyle a while to see the flashing strip across the top of the screen but it soon demanded his attention. He read it: "This person is subject of a Home Office 'A' notice. All enquiries on this file are automatically recorded. No action is to be taken on the subject except the express permission of Home Office Department Code XXX."

Doyle cleared the screen and left the room. A flashing light on another terminal attracted its operator's attention; the girl responded to the message flashing across her screen by reach for a telephone.

---

Emerging from the overcrowded, overheated squad room, Bodie greeted his partner warmly. "Thought you'd got lost, sunshine. I've just booked us off duty until tomorrow--fancy coming down to The Three Kings for a pint and a game of arrows?"

"Fuck off!" Doyle growled as he shoved Bodie aside.

"Oi!" Bodie protested, his good mood vanishing almost as fast as it had come. "What's got into you?" he yelled after Doyle's retreating back. "Doyle? Doyle!"

Running to catch up, Bodie grabbed hold of an arm only to let go quickly to block the retaliatory punch from the unrestrained arm. "What the hell's got into you?"

"Are you going to tell me you don't know?" Doyle hissed.

"Don't know what?"

"Ah--forget it!" Doyle twisted away and continued his way along the corridor to Cowley's office. "Is he in?" he demanded of the secretary.

"Unless you have an appointment--no."

"Is he in?"

"You can't see him now." Betty held her ground.

"Come on, Doyle," Bodie said placatingly. "Can't go bargin' in on Cowley, he'll have you scrubbing the ablutions for weeks."

"I've already told you to sod off, Bodie, and I'm going to see him," Doyle insisted and moved towards the door.

The phone on Betty's desk buzzed and, trusting Bodie to restrain his partner's progress, she answered it.

The room was quiet until Betty replaced the receiver.

"Mr Cowley says to send Mr Doyle straight in," she said, her calm exterior expressing absolutely no surprise that Mr Cowley was anticipating the arrival of one rather agitated and disgruntled agent.

Too angry to wonder how Cowley had known he was outside, Doyle walked into the office.

Uncertain of what was going on and only aware that something had happened in the last half hour to make his new partner see red, Bodie followed. If his presence was unwelcome no doubt someone would tell him so.

"You have something you wish to discuss with me, 4.5?" Cowley asked straight away.

"I most certainly have," Doyle snapped back. "You..."

"Sit down, 4.5," Cowley interrupted.

His train of thought broken by Cowley's quiet order, the authority in the soft voice was impossible to ignore. Doyle sat down.

"Why have you--" he began again.

"Bodie, either come in or get out," Cowley said. "Do you have any objection to your partner's presence?" he asked Doyle.

Biting back the vulgar response that leapt into his mouth, Doyle managed to indicate that Bodie could stay if he wanted to. He drew breath to try again.

"Now then, 4.5," Cowley said smoothly, "what was it that was so urgent?"

Realising that an incoherent babble was not going to impress Cowley, Doyle tried to control his tongue and temper.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"Lie?" asked Cowley. "Could you try to be a little more specific?"

"About my criminal record. You said it would be destroyed--but it hasn't. It's still there for everyone to see!"

"And you have just seen it yourself, I presume."

"Yes."

"It took you longer than I thought, to become curious," Cowley said.

"You still haven't said why you lied," Doyle persisted angrily.

"I lied to you because at that moment in time it was what you wanted to hear."

"What--why?" asked Doyle, his anger giving way to a bewildered jumble of questions. "I don't understand why you--"

"I have already told you why, Doyle. It was, quite simply, what you wanted to hear. Surely your common sense would have shown you that a 'live' record is infinitely more precious than a false one. Unfortunately there are far, far too many policemen who are not as incorrupt as yourself."

"So you've slapped an 'A' notice on it!"

"Yes."

"So as well as being a known convicted, bent copper you've also labelled me a 'snitch,'" Doyle said, the disgust at the additional slur on his name perfectly obvious, but Cowley remained unperturbed.

"The 'A' notice is not exclusive to informers," he reminded the angry young man, "and is the most effective way of placing a 'Hands off without permission' notice on your file. It also allows this department to know immediately if anyone anywhere in the country requests computer access to your file."

"I don't like it."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Why didn't you tell me what you intended doing?"

"Because," Cowley replied, "I assumed you would realise how valuable your record was and reach the obvious conclusion yourself." The lie sounded convincing enough, and Cowley could see Doyle's anger ebbing away as the inference that he had somehow disappointed his boss sank in. Sitting back in his chair, Cowley rode the unexpected feelings of guilt with ease. The Wakeman affair had caused a lot of upheaval and the loss of three seasoned men had thrown everything a little out of synch. Doyle's first month on the squad had hardly been conventional; there had been no easy step by step progression to lead him up to the hectic and often dangerous way of life in the squad. In at the deep end on his first day, and never once within sight of shallows since, Cowley thought with grim amusement.

It was inexcusable however, Cowley admitted, that Doyle should have been left to discover his file on his own, but it had been one of the things he had been about to discuss with Doyle the morning the Wakeman affair had blown up, quite literally, in their faces. That, and of course, he remembered suddenly, Bodie's professional records.

"The others on the squad..." Doyle said quietly, breaking into the silence that had settled over the room. "The others..." he started again awkwardly. "They think my record is true, don't they?"

"I have not discussed it with them."

"If they think it's true...how can they...I mean, how do you expect me to work with people who don't--can't trust me."

"Who's said they don't trust you?" Bodie chipped in?

"No one," Doyle answered. "Yet," he added. "At least, not to my face...but I know some of them don't like it...that they don't want to work with me."

"Who?" demanded Bodie.

"Who, is really irrelevant, Bodie," interrupted Cowley. "It was perhaps remiss of me not to have foreseen this problem. It was my intention to ensure the squad knew about Doyle's background as well as how important it is to keep the information from becoming public knowledge, but...with Wakeman and the Commonwealth Conference things have been pushed aside."

Bodie listened to Cowley's rather stilted speech with amazement. It was the nearest he had ever heard the Old Man come to making an apology! And the experience was utterly wasted on Doyle, who was unaware that he was listening to history in the making. But Bodie's happy mood was soon shattered by Cowley's next topic.

"There was one other matter that should have been attended to on your first morning, Doyle." Cowley saw but ignored the sudden jerk Bodie gave in realisation of what the 'other matter' might be. "As I said at your first interview, once you are graded onto the squad you have the right to see your partner's professional history; the copies that had been prepared for you to read were destroyed in the explosion but a replacement file will be ready for you by tomorrow morning."

Bodie had completely forgotten about his file. Never having been allocated a permanent partner before, he knew that no one except George Cowley and probably that hard-nosed bitch, Ross, had ever read his history. He had wondered why, on that fateful morning a month ago, his black mood had cleared as fast as the smoke from Cowley's devastated office; now he knew why--he'd known that his file had been part of the crisp, black cinders that littered every crevice; each page burnt beyond salvation. He should have known they would have only been copies!

"The Drugs Squad," Cowley said suddenly, "have requested our co-operation with certain aspects of the Behan Operation--"

"Mike Behan?" asked Doyle.

"Yes. The papers he left have shed some light on--"

"I want in on it!" Doyle interrupted.

Bodie was slow to make the mental connection between Behan and Doyle.

"That is out of the question," Cowley answered flatly. "I have already selected the teams and their first briefing is to be held tomorrow morning. During the briefing I will--"

"Why is it out of the question--after the way Mike stitched me up I want to get everyone else--"

"4.5!" Cowley barked. "Your involvement in the operation is not open for discussion--I am merely attempting to let you know that at the briefing tomorrow I shall give the others the background to Behan's confessions. I will tell them that you were framed and wrongly convicted."

"I know the drugs scene--the people Mike knew, his contacts--I can help!" Doyle insisted.

"But they'll know you, sunshine," Bodie added, having caught up with the conversation. "That's why you can't go in."

"Precisely," agreed Cowley. "If you become involved in the new enquiries you might just as well tell your life story to one of the Sunday scandal sheets--the cover we are trying to establish for you will be destroyed."

"It'll be destroyed anyway at the briefing tomorrow."

"No," said Cowley, "only my men, only CI5 agents will be told of Behan's testimony about you--I can't risk revealing everything to the Drugs Squad team--"

"Behan might not have been the only one on the take," said Bodie.

Doyle spun around ready to deny that anyone else could have been involved in the corruption but his angry protest died in his throat as he realised that he hadn't even suspected his so-called 'friend's' involvement. How many of the awkward, embarrassed or horrified voices of his colleagues had been hiding their relief at his removal from the squad?

"Which is why neither of you will take any part in the operation--is that understood?" Cowley waited until he received a begrudging affirmative from Doyle.

Outside Cowley's office the two men walked side by side in a thoughtful, moody silence, Doyle inwardly fuming about the unfairness of life, and Bodie already trying to guess what Doyle's reaction to reading his file was going to be. Over the last four months or so he had discovered quite a lot about Ray Doyle--and he knew that Doyle was not going to be favourably impressed by his partner's history.

They reached the main doors without speaking and it was Doyle who made the first move as he tried to pull himself out of a well of self-pity he knew he was in danger of falling into.

"Who's treating who?" he asked.

Bodie looked at him blankly, and he explained. "A pint, a game of darts, the Three Kings--remember?" Doyle said brightly. "It was your suggestion," he reminded Bodie. "Oh, never mind--come on, I'll pay," and he moved off in the direction of the pub.

For a second or two Bodie stood and looked after the retreating back and knew beyond any doubt that after tomorrow Doyle would never dream of making such an offer.

Already bracing himself for the forthcoming rejection, Bodie decided he would make the first move.

"No, thanks," he call out. "I've just remembered something I've got to do--I'll catch you later." Turning away, he strode over to his car, climbed in and roared away out of the car park before his amazed partner had time to say anything.

---

As soon as he opened the door, Lake regretted the impulse that had made him stop by for a drink. The bar was packed with hordes of revellers, all of whom seemed to be full of more than just Christmas spirit. But the heat of the smoky room was infinitely preferable to the crisp, cold night air.

Fighting to gain the barmaid's attention, he suddenly saw a familiar face. On the other side of the room, tucked away in a corner almost hidden from view by the ten-foot Christmas tree, was Bodie.

After ten minutes and about a hundred 'excuse mes' Lake arrived at the alcove with two drinks.

"Where's the lamb, then?" he asked as he placed the full glass down in front of Bodie, causing him to start in surprise.

"Who?" said Bodie as he thanked Lake for the drink.

"The lamb," Lake explained. "You know, Mary had a little lamb, followed her everywhere--" Bodie's face became a comical blank as he looked up at Lake. "Oh, for god's sake--Doyle, bonehead! I was asking you where Doyle is."

The amusement on Bodie's face drained away and Lake knew that he had misjudged his friend's mood yet again.

"Dunno," Bodie said with polite formality. "I haven't got any pockets in this jacket!"

A loud burst of raucous hilarity from the other side of the room prevented any further conversation for a few minutes and the tension between the two men eased. Lake made himself comfortable on one of the stools and the two men watched the merry goings on in the room. Slowly, as their tension lessened, an air of depression took its place, and they carried on, drinking companions in depression and silence.

About half past ten, the largest party of noisy drinkers left to go on to a night club, and signalled to the others that the evening was drawing to a close. By the time 'last orders' was called, the room was nearly empty by comparison.

Bodie collected their last drinks and sat down heavily after having a nasty experience with one of the prickly, needle-like fronds sticking out at an odd angle from the Christmas tree.

"Merry Christmas, Bodie!" Lake cheered, and raised his glass.

"What's so bleedin' merry about it?" Bodie grumbled.

"Come on," Lake smiled across the small table at him. "You've got to at least make an effort."

"Why?" Bodie demanded to know.

"Because! That's why."

"That's no answer."

"Well at least I'm trying," Lake snapped back angrily.

All at once Bodie remembered that he was not the only one in the world with partner problems. Puddle and Williams had been partners for nearly three years--

"How's things going?" he asked gruffly.

Lake didn't pretend to misunderstand and the well-hidden misery and loneliness were suddenly all too visible in his eyes.

"Everything's fine, everything is all going smoothly and then I turn around to tell him something...and he isn't there," Lake said softly. "Don't seem to be able to stop myself doing it. It's not as if I could forget that he's...dead. But I keep expecting to turn a corner--open a door--walk into a room and find him sitting there." Lake tipped the last of his drink down and thumped the glass back down on the table. "I never thought I'd miss the aggravating, vulgar-minded sod this much. I never realised how much time we spent together--I had to clear my stuff out of his flat today, took me two trips in the car, then there was the stuff he'd left at my place--god only knows why we had two flats because he was either staying with me or I was staying with him. His family have taken everything, every--bloody--little--thing. I've got nothing, nothing! Not even a photograph, a keepsake, nothing!"

The depth of Lake's loss was a revelation to Bodie. He could still remember Williams joining the squad a few months after himself and Lake, and he had seen them knit together and become the polished, slick, professional partnership that had been destroyed totally by Lisa Wakeman and Philip Catrell.

"Do you know what Cowley asked me when we arrived at Chris's flat?" Lake demanded to know of Bodie. "Do you know what the first thing Ken's brother asked me--do you?" he said angrily. "Did--he--have--a girl? That's what they wanted to know. Was there anyone apart from his family that cared about him?"

Bodie couldn't see why such an enquiry about Ken's girlfriend should be so upsetting.

"Everyone went out of their way to tell Ken's family and Helen how sorry they were--and what a waste, such a terrible waste of life his murder was," Lake continued bitterly. "They tried to spare them all the messy little details like identifying his body, his parents don't hold with cremation so someone had to find an undertaker that was prepared to put what was left into a decent coffin--"

The publican chose that moment to give a belligerent cry of, "Glasses, gentlemen, please!" He caught the glass thrown at him--just--and glared at Bodie. "Why don't you take 'im home--he can chuck his own glasses around as much as he likes there!"

Bodie pushed Lake towards the door and out into the street. They stood, breathing in the fresh, nicotine-free air; Bodie saw Lake sway and reach out to steady himself on a lamppost.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked, realising that his companion appeared more intoxicated than he should have been after what they had just drunk.

"A fair bit," Lake answered quietly.

"You're pissed."

"Probably," agreed Lake without any particular enthusiasm.

"How much have you drunk?" Bodie asked again. Lake looked up at the stars in the heavens for a few moments before finally turning his attention back to Bodie.

"Not that much really," he admitted. "Just haven't eaten all day--didn't feel very hungry."

"Christ, what the hell are we going to do with you?" Bodie muttered; he had not intended Lake to hear him.

"That's what Kenny used to say," Lake said brokenly. "What the hell am I going to do with you, Puddle, he'd say. You know what happens when you get drunk, Puddle--that's what he'd say. Guaranteed. Every time."

"What does happen when you get drunk then?" Bodie asked gently, unsure how close Lake was to breaking down completely.

"Maudlin, Bodie. Very, very maudlin. Used to let me cry on his shoulder when I got a bit down, he did." Lake sniffed. "He was a good bloke, Bodie... Best friend I ever had. There's not many blokes who'll let another bloke weep all over them. Partners...he was the...best partner..."

Bodie took control and steered Lake towards his car. There was no protest as keys were fished out of pockets and he was driven home. Numbly, Lake allowed Bodie to let them into his flat and put him to bed.

There was nothing else Bodie could do. He guessed Lake would sleep through until morning and decided to go home himself; he could always check on him early next day. About to leave, Bodie was almost through the bedroom door when Lake called to him.

"Thanks, Bodie... I'm sorry about getting so...thanks anyway," he finished awkwardly.

"That's all right, Puddle. You can do the same for me one day."

"Christ, I hope not!"

Bodie was halfway though the door before he worked out what Lake had meant. He turned.

---

For a while Bodie drove without any destination in mind--around the centre of London through the brightly lit streets that were never empty of cars or people--past the lions and the fountains and on down past the offices of government.

None of the sights or sounds touched him. He drove mechanically, his thoughts locked into the maelstrom of emotions that Lake had evoked. No one had ever turned to him for such comfort before, and he had never seen anyone, friend, colleague or even an enemy so vulnerable or defenceless.

Lake had needed someone and he had been there; Bodie felt sure his presence had helped--not that he had been able to do much except listen and then pour Lake safely into bed--but he had helped, just a little. It had felt strange to be in a position to offer comfort, even more strange to have had it asked of him, and he had given what he could--all he had, in fact--and Lake had quietly taken it. But it hadn't been enough.

He was driving towards home now, his speed and consideration for pedestrians and other drivers impeccably correct--and totally without conscious thought.

Feeling awkward and unusually tongue-tied, Bodie had made one mistake with Lake and at first he had been unable to understand the anger that had momentarily replaced the hurt in Lake's eyes. As he clocked off the ignition after neatly parking outside his flat, Bodie was suddenly able to place the reason for that anger.

Even distanced by greater losses and disappointments, Bodie could still remember the sense of outrage his mother had evoked when she offered to replace his cat, Ginger, with a kitten; as if anything could ever replace the love and affection that the unfortunate Ginger had both given and received.

A new cat could never have replaced the one that had died any more than a new partner could ever replace Williams.

Walking up the stairs, Bodie remembered something else; his mother had bought another cat and he had grown to love the new Ginger just as much as the old one--until he was put down because his new dad decided he was allergic to cats.

Letting himself into the flat, Bodie heeled his shoes off and walked softly into his bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, he looked for a long time at the man fast asleep, the bright winter moonlight and amber streetlights pouring through the uncurtained windows giving him a clear view.

It felt...odd, Bodie decided as he continued to watch Doyle sleep, to come home and find someone there. It wasn't something that happened very often.

In the street a taxi drew up and began to disgorge its noisy occupants onto the pavement, the slamming doors, engine and party-bright voices sounding loud. The men were almost shouting and, in the bed, Doyle began to stir. The braying voices of his neighbours faded as they began to cross the road into the flats but as the group finally entered the building all the sounds died away. Doyle moved restlessly once more before settling back down to sleep.

Without really understanding why he did it, Bodie crossed over to the window and drew the curtains. They were heavily lined to create darkness at midday to enable him to sleep when his duties allowed. Until Doyle moved in he had always slept in the dark.

Almost at once Bodie heard Doyle begin to move in the bed.

"Are you awake?" Bodie whispered.

There was no answer except for another movement and a soft murmur.

"Doyle? Don't piss about. If you're awake, say so." Bodie's voice was a little louder; if Doyle was messing him about he'd wrap the curtain around his neck.

Feeling unaccountably guilty, Bodie opened the curtains. By comparison to the darkness it was almost daylight now, and Bodie saw at once that Doyle had turned to face where the light should have been and curled into a ball, his face worried where it had been relaxed and peaceful only moments ago.

Moving to begin undressing, Bodie's shadow passed over Doyle's face. On a shuddering intake of breath, Doyle jolted awake.

"Bodie?" he asked urgently.

"Nah--Santa Claus--go back to sleep, little boy."

"What time is it?"

"Quarter past two."

"Where've you bin?"

"Out!" Bodie replied shortly.

"Sorry," Doyle apologised sheepishly. "I sound like my dad, don't I! I used to dread getting home late and finding him sitting behind the back door waiting to catch me out."

Undressed, Bodie slipped in under the covers.

"Been with Puddle," Bodie offered across the pillow as Doyle turned away into his normal sleep position. "Bumped into him and...he wanted to talk, needed to. You didn't wait up for me, did you?"

"Course not," Doyle lied easily. "Now, belt up and go to sleep--and don't you dare put your hands or feet near me until you've warmed them up."

"This is my bed," Bodie said in an aggrieved voice."

"Go to sleep!" Doyle ordered.

The alarm was the next sound they both heard. After a few sleepy peaceful minutes Doyle sat up and pushed the covers away as he climbed out of bed. Bodie pulled them back up to his ears.

"Rise and shine," Doyle said brightly.

"Shuddup!"

"Don't go back to sleep, Bodie. Come on--up!"

"Umgh!" Bodie grunted and burrowed down under the covers.

"Coming for a run?"

"No."

"Do you good."

"So will another half hour's sleep--fuck off!" Bodie retrieved the duvet that his aggravating partner had twitched away.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes."

"'bye!" Bodie said hopefully.

"Coffee and toast."

"Thanks, mate, I'll have a bowl of cereal as well."

"You'll be lucky, I was hoping you'd have it ready for me."

"Fat chance."

Returning, sweating and breathless, Doyle was greeted by the pleasant aroma of fresh coffee and burnt toast and his smug, shower-fresh, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed partner.

As he munched his way through his toast, Bodie found himself consciously looking at Doyle as a long-term partner and possible friend for the first time. Lake had talked until the early hours of the morning about his partner and Bodie had listened. At first he'd told himself that he was only supporting a colleague in distress, just being there for Lake to talk to, but as the night had gone on he'd found himself listening for an entirely different reason--almost a selfish one.

Until last night, Bodie thought he had known Williams well. A good man, sharp, on-the-ball, always reliable, great hand-to-hand combat technique and a hit with the girls. But he hadn't known him at all, not really. Only now, after listening to his closest friend talking non-stop for hours on end, did Bodie feel he was close to really knowing the man.

Bit by bit, anecdote after anecdote, one incident and disaster at a time, Lake had slowly told the way in which their partnership had taken shape. It had taken them years to become a unit, to act and know instinctively that the other would be there to help, to laugh with or save each other. Years of hard work, blood, sweat and even a few tears--all destroyed by one ugly trick of fate.

Never having been that closely involved with another person's life, Bodie had been surprised at the depth of the ties between Lake and Williams. More than friends, closer than brothers even, they had shared everything, good times and bad--even girls as some of the light-hearted remembrances had revealed.

But the closeness was now demanding a price that Bodie wasn't sure he ever wished to pay. CI5 was a dangerous business and he had already contributed toward more wreaths than he cared to think about. He had learnt a long time ago that caring only ever resulted in pain. Lake had known this, though, and had told Bodie how he had fought against being teamed with Williams, but had learnt to care and was prepared to pay the cost--not that he had much choice not to do otherwise!

"Anybody in there?"

Bodie was jolted back to the present to find Doyle peering worriedly into his face.

"Huh?"

"I said, is there anybody in there? I've asked you three times if you want any more coffee and all you've done is look straight through me," Doyle explained. "I was beginning to think rigor mortis had set in."

"Sorry, I was...thinking."

"Did it hurt?" Doyle joked.

"I will have another coffee, thanks," Bodie said abruptly.

Puzzled, Doyle poured the coffee out and passed it over, all the time wondering what was wrong.

"What's up?" he asked as he decided to jump straight in.

"Nothing."

"Balls!"

"There is nothing wrong," Bodie said patiently.

"And I said, balls!" Doyle snapped out. "You're a moody bugger at the best of times but even I can see something's really bugging you."

Bodie opened his mouth to deny the allegation but the expression on Doyle's face stopped him dead. Ray was really worried! He wasn't asking just to be nosy, he was genuinely concerned.

"Do you think we can make a go of this like Cowley wants us to?" Bodie suddenly heard himself asking.

"What?" The question was unexpected and shook Doyle a little. "A partnership, you mean? Well, I don't see why not. We've managed all right so far, haven't we?" he finally answered.

"Do you know why Cowley has teamed us?" Bodie asked cryptically.

"Because..." Doyle groped for an answer. "I suppose he thinks I'm so green I need someone experienced to help me out."

"But why me?"

"You were...available, you didn't have a partner and I needed one--I dunno, I've not given it much thought," Doyle said irritably, now even more puzzled by Bodie's odd mood.

"I have," said Bodie slowly. "I've been giving it a lot of thought."

"Where were you last night?" asked Doyle; up until Bodie had vanished from outside Cowley's office everything had been fine, he was sure of it.

"Last night? I've already told you I met Puddle--but it doesn't really matter where, except it gave me time to think," Bodie answered. "Cowley knows me, probably better than anyone else, and he knows the type of person I am--not that he's ever held it against me," he joked, lightening the sombre mood momentarily. "I have strong suspicion that he's banking on this partnership keeping me in CI5."

"How?"

"Personal loyalty and what it entails. All the partnerships on the squad, if they last the training period they hold fast through everything. No one wants to leave a partner behind," Bodie explained. "One man can resign or get himself invalid out or killed without disrupting the organisation--but if you lose half of a team you lose everything."

"And you think you're so indispensable Cowley's trying to tie you to CI5 using me as the string." Doyle couldn't keep the note of derision from his voice.

"I don't think I'm indispensable--but I think Cowley reckons I am."

"And what is so special about you then?"

"What's special about you, sunshine?" Bodie returned. "We've all got something Cowley wants--but you haven't answered my questions. Do you think we're going to make a go of it?"

Doyle realised that Bodie was being serious and that he was expecting a truthful, considered answer.

"Yes," he said confidently. "Don't ask me why but I think we can do it. I can't see any reason why we won't--can you?"

Bodie tried to think of one, just one valid reason--but he couldn't.

"No. God help us both, but no, I can't think of any reason either."

"Why do I get the impression that you're not exactly overwhelmed with the prospect of working with me?" Doyle asked lightly, hiding his concern about Bodie's all-too-apparent doubts about their future.

Because I don't want to watch you die--Bodie only just managed to stop himself saying it out loud, but his face must have betrayed him because Doyle altered his voice, wiping away the sarcasm, the air of unconcern, and repeated his question.

"Do you want to work with me?" he asked. "Because now's the time to speak up. However much Cowley wants us together I can't see him forcing you to work with me if you really don't want to."

Bodie knew that Doyle was right. If he refused outright there was no way Cowley would be able to justify keeping them together.

"Don't you have any doubts?" he asked Doyle.

"No," was the prompt answer.

"Why not?" Bodie was curious to know. Nothing that had happened to Doyle in the past three years had encouraged him to trust people--friends or strangers--but he seemed prepared to accept him at face value. "You don't know the first thing about me and I practically know your life history."

The conversation he had overheard came back and Doyle realised with a shock that it was true. All he knew about Bodie was his name, address and present occupation.

"Well," he said consideringly, "if by the end of this conversation you're still of a mind to make a go of it I'll be reading your papers later on this morning, won't I!" He looked Bodie straight in the eye. "Am I going to find any surprises?"

"Depends on what you're expecting really, doesn't it?" Bodie replied.

Doyle nodded in agreement. The way Bodie turned his attention back to his breakfast gave Doyle the hint to leave the subject alone--for a while anyway.

Walking along the corridor towards Cowley's office, Bodie brought the matter up again.

"What are you expecting?" he asked, suddenly curious to know.

"You've been CI5 for...three years, isn't it?" Bodie nodded. "Before that...the way you enjoyed mucking about on the ranges...the army. You came on the squad from the army." Doyle paused and looked Bodie over very carefully from head to toe. "Probably a boy soldier or cadet or whatever they call 'em nowadays. A career soldier," he summed up, then once more recalled that cryptic reference to Bodie's past. "And here and there--a few...surprises," he added carefully.

"Close," Bodie said as he reached out and knocked on Cowley's door, opening it on the command to 'Enter.' "But you're right about a few surprises," said in a whispered, rueful voice as they crossed the room to stand before Cowley's desk.

The interview was brief. Doyle was handed a slim folder and told to return it as soon as it had been read. If he had any questions he was to ask Bodie. Dismissed, Doyle left the room alone with the folder tucked under his arm.

Once the door had closed behind Doyle, Cowley indicated that Bodie should take a seat.

"How is Doyle shaping up?" Cowley asked.

"So far he's done all right, taken everything in his stride--but the work we've been lumbered with the last few weeks has been pretty routine." Bodie took the opportunity to voice his complaints over the duties they had drawn. "Baby-sitting a bunch of dishwater diplomats didn't exactly give him much scope to display his talent," Bodie finished sourly.

"And off duty?" Cowley ignored the sarcasm in the young man's voice.

"Off duty?"

"Socially," Cowley elaborated. "How well has he...adapted to his new way of life?"

Bodie wondered why he should be so surprised that Cowley would want to know about Doyle's social life. He knew that he was still being watched by Ross and Dr Willis; over the last month or so Bodie had become quite used to suddenly finding Ross's eagle-eyed, see-all gaze centred upon either himself or Doyle. The woman unnerved him; she had a similar effect on Doyle too, Bodie had noticed.

"He hasn't exactly thrown himself into any kind of wild social whirl," he finally answered. "As far as I know he's not made contact with any old friends from the force or otherwise. He's not tried to contact his family either."

"What is he like to live with?"

Bodie pondered on which answer he thought Cowley wanted to hear.

"Quiet," he said slowly. "Keeps himself very much to himself. He's pretty easy to get along with--so much so that it's easy to forget I'm sharing the place with anyone."

"Is he still troubled by nightmares?"

Cowley watched the careful nonreaction with interest. Bodie knew what he was talking about--that was clear enough--but any surprise was swiftly replaced in the clear blue eyes by a cautious, appraising look.

"This is a silly question, I know," Bodie said, "but I know Doyle never told you or Ross about his nightmares--so how come you know?"

"His medical report from Maidstone mentioned that he was prone to suffer such dreams. There was a recommendation that he should receive some form of counselling to help alleviate the problem."

"Then why wasn't he?" Bodie asked angrily.

"He was released from Maidstone and I suspected that once he was clear of that environment he would be all right."

"You suspected!" said Bodie disbelievingly.

"Ross agree with me," Cowley replied. "Were we wrong?"

"No!" Bodie shouted. "But you could've at least warned me what to expect--"

"You appear to have managed well enough," Cowley broke in. "After a few initial problems Doyle's health and mental attitude appears to have made a remarkable recovery."

"Small thanks to you and Dr Ross!"

"Indeed?" Cowley questioned quietly, but immediately switched the conversation to a different topic. "In your opinion as the person who probably knows more about Doyle than either Ross or I, do you consider him ready to start living independently?"

"There's been a flat available for months," Bodie suddenly accused. "You've deliberately kept him in my flat so as to keep an eye on him."

"A flat is available now," Cowley agreed, "but accommodation had been instructed to put Doyle's allocation on 'hold' until I instructed them otherwise.

"So he could have moved out any time!"

"I knew that you would let me know if you found living with Doyle to be impossible," Cowley said placidly. "When neither of you pestered the office or me I surmised that the situation was proving agreeable to you both."

Bodie was rather surprised to realise that not once had he questioned the time it was taking the accommodation people to house Doyle, but Cowley's question still had to be answered, though. Did he think Doyle was ready to live on his own? He was undecided; half of him said no, but the other half argued that alone Doyle would stand more chance of establishing himself, in his own home he might feel freer to contact some of his own friends.

"Yes," he finally replied, "I think he's ready."

"You don't sound too sure, Bodie." Cowley had not missed the worried expression that passed fleetingly across Bodie's face.

"I'm not," he said honestly. "But I can't see that keeping him cooped up with me day and night is going to help him much more. From a couple of things he's told me I get the impression that he's not naturally so...introverted...retiring; out on his own maybe he'll feel easier about picking up on his old way of life."

"You're probably right," Cowley agreed. Bodie had only confirmed what he had suspected. "I'll get the office to inform Doyle about his flat then."

---

Further down the hall, Doyle was having a tough time trying to find somewhere quiet so he could concentrate on Bodie's papers. The squad room, duty office and all the smaller offices were full of men and women, milling around. The briefing Cowley had arranged had resulted in just about every available operative being in the building. The whole department was buzzing with anticipation and the arrival of a bunch of senior Scotland Yard drugs squad officers in the car park confirmed everyone's suspicions.

"I told you it was a drugs case," Doyle heard someone say--he glanced up and identified John Day. "It's not often the Drugs Squad lads ask for our help so it must be something big?" Day's voice held a questioning note and Doyle suddenly found himself the centre of attention.

"I've felt something bubbling under the surface for months now," Day said to Doyle after checking that the whole room was watching the two of them. "Been a lot of funny goings on, hasn't there?" Day crossed the room to stand by the desk Doyle had sat at to read.

"Has there?" Doyle returned mildly, then turned a page over, dismissing Day casually.

"I daresay we'll find out what's happening once the Cow gives us the briefing," Day said smugly.

Doyle suddenly identified Day's soft country accent as being the loud voice he had heard being raised yesterday against his presence on the squad.

"I daresay you will," he said coldly, pleased to see a flicker of apprehension on Day's face as he became aware of the icy glare and underlying rage in the quiet reply.

"Yeah..." Day stumbled and lost his train of thought but then remembered their audience. "I expect we'll get some answers to some questions we've all been wondering about."

"What questions would they be, Day?"

Bodie's voice matched Doyle's for temperature but it had more effect on the room full of people because they all knew Bodie's temper--Doyle was still little more than a stranger to them, still only a piece of hot gossip.

Bodie repeated the question but Day still failed to voice any intelligible reply.

"I will tell you one thing, Day," Doyle offered. "You're late for your briefing--it's three minutes past nine!"

Nearly half the people in the room checked their watches before mouthing obscenities and moving towards the door.

A safe distance away, Day turned back before he left the room.

"Aren't you coming then?" he sneered.

"Any reason why we should?" Bodie's voice covered Doyle's own, similar reply.

"Your little friend's the one with all the drug connections--isn't he? Should have thought Cowley'd have him using his...shall we say...expertise," Day said, snickering at his little joke. "Still, maybe he thinks it's best to keep temptation out of--"

Bodie's stance shifted fractionally and Day wisely beat a dignified if somewhat hasty retreat. The few remaining people suddenly became occupied with other more important matters and drifted away from the storm brewing in their midst.

"Read it yet?"

"Not had much chance, have I?" Doyle snapped back and shrugged off the warm hand that had gripped his shoulder, keeping him firmly but unobtrusively in his seat. "And I'll thank you not to do that again."

"Do what?" Oh," Bodie said and grinned sheepishly. "Well, Cowley doesn't hold with brawling in the ranks."

"I didn't intend brawling with anyone, I was just gonna lay 'im out--period!"

"Ah well, now if I'd known that I'd've let you hit him," Bodie apologised. "Still," he added, "it's Cowley's fault for not spilling the beans about your background or at least letting you do it yourself."

"Well they're all going to find out now, aren't they?"

"Look on the bright side--once the briefing is over the stain on your wonderful, honest, clean-living, noble, law-abiding character will be gone forever and you'll be at the top of everyone's social list."

"How d'you work that out?"

"Stands to reason," Bodie explained. "Such a nice bunch of lads, they'll be tripping over themselves to show you that they don't hold the past that you never had against you. Especially the women--be fighting over you, they will--trying to make up for all your hardship."

"You reckon?" Doyle said hopefully, caught up in Bodie's enthusiasm.

"Any of them you find too much to handle--you know where I live," Bodie offered. "Which reminds me--when you've read that lot you can go down to the accommodation office; the keys to a flat are waiting for you and we've got the day off to move you in."

"A flat! Where?"

"You read me life's story and I'll get the keys and address from the office, then I'll give you a hand to pack your stuff and shift it, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply Bodie was gone, leaving Doyle staring, open-mouthed, behind him. His mind was full of things that needed to be done if he was to move home today; vying with the thoughts of things to buy and do were thoughts on the briefing room full of people. Now, instead of treating him like a leper they would probably wonder how anyone stupid enough to get himself so thoroughly stitched-up could get a job with CI5.

He read Bodie's file automatically. He took everything in, but nothing touched or amazed him. Maybe it would later--but there was too much buzzing around in his head for Bodie's past history to bother him.

Bodie re-entered the squad room in time to see Doyle close the folder and lean back in his chair, stretching the kinks from his back. Doyle looked up at him then at the bunch of keys swinging from his hand.

"Fort Knox, is it?"

"As good as, sunshine. This..." Bodie peered at the crumpled paper tag, "is the key to the Yale lock on the front door." He held up the next key on the ring. "Front door security lock...front door alarm lock...fire exit security lock...kitchen window...bathroom...living room...study--that's posh, I've never had a flat with a study...bedroom door...wardrobe...security safe--security safe! I've never had one of them either."

"Where is this humble abode then?" Doyle asked as he took the tangled knot of keys from Bodie's hand.

"Off Kensington High Street, just round the corner from the park. Come on, mate, let's get going--don't want to read it all again, do you?" Over-conscious of the other people still left in the squad room, Bodie felt uneasy about saying the address out loud. It would mean nothing to Doyle, of course, but everyone else would still remember the previous tenant.

"Hyde Park?" Doyle asked as he followed him out of the room, causing Bodie to pause a second at the tight quality at odds with the expressionless face.

"No--Holland Park--near the Commonwealth Institute," Bodie added.

All Doyle's enthusiasm vanished as swiftly as it had come.

"What's wrong?" Bodie asked. Doyle only shook his head and shouldered past him, striding along the corridor to Cowley's office where he handed the folder back into the care of Cowley's secretary.

"Do I have any choice?" Doyle asked quietly as they crossed the tarmac to the car.

"Over what?"

"Taking the flat--have I got to have this one?"

"You haven't even seen it yet, it's a palace compared to mine--even got your own balcony. It's got some great furniture in it, too--bleeding' great pinball machine in the middle of the living room."

"You sound like an estate agent, are you really that keen to get rid of me?" Doyle said laughingly. "How do you know so much about it anyway?"

Bodie swore quietly; he would have to tell Doyle before someone else did. "I've been there a few times," he explained. "It used to be Williams' place."

The car was quiet until they arrived outside Bodie's flat.

"That's not why I'm not keen on the place--I didn't know Williams, so moving into his flat doesn't worry me...it's just the area. Used to live near there--only a five-minute walk from the Institute."

"With your bird?"

"Ann? Yeah, with her," Doyle said quietly.

"Thought you said she was in America, though."

"Only went there for a holiday. To forget all about me--get it all out of her system!"

Feeling hopelessly inadequate, Bodie climbed out of the car and they entered the building in a solemn silence.

Within fifteen minutes Doyle had all his belongings packed into two of Bodie's suitcases and stood them ready by the front door alongside the cases he had collected all those months ago from his brother's house. The speed with which Doyle was ready to go amazed Bodie. He had known women take longer to pack their handbags.

Doyle drove the car and Bodie was about to comment on their circuitous route when he saw Doyle's eyes fix on a block of fashionably expensive apartments. Following the line of Doyle's gaze, Bodie looked closely at the third floor flat, the only one that had a light shining out on that floor.

"Nice place," he commented dryly.

"Mmm..." Tearing his eyes away, Doyle looked back at the road and refused to be drawn any further.

Three minutes later they arrived outside Doyle's new home.

Doyle gave the flat a good look over, investigating all the rooms and cupboards, discovering what was hidden behind concealing doors and in cupboards and drawers. Covering his territory.

Bodie waited awkwardly in the lounge by the window. Without Williams' personal belongings, the untidy piles of books and papers, photographs and other ornaments and mementoes, the flat looked cold and uninviting. Aware of what had once been there, he was only too conscious of what was missing.

"Where's the linen cupboard?" a rather breathless voice shouted down the spiral staircase.

"I think it's in the wall between the bathroom and bedroom," Bodie shouted back as he recalled a dim memory of hunting for a dry towel on the one occasion he'd used the upstairs shower; as the memory gained substance Bodie looked at the settee with remembered disgust. After a long, tedious observation in a frozen, muddy trench in the Kentish countryside the three of them, Williams, Lake and Bodie, had returned to dry out, thaw out and flake out here. Williams and Lake took the bed upstairs and left Bodie to fight with the bed-settee. It had taken him a good ten minutes to work out how to open the thing without severing his fingers and then he discovered that a spring in the centre of the mattress was broken and had spent the night jumping every time he speared his nether regions on the protruding metal.

"It's empty."

"What?" Bodie jumped, he hadn't heard Doyle come back downstairs.

"Linen cupboard--all the cupboards, come to that. I thought these places were supposed to be furnished?"

"What's all this then?" Bodie said, indicating the furniture in the room.

"Furniture," Doyle agreed. "But nothing else; there's a bread knife and a milk saucepan in the kitchen, a bald loo-brush and broken bog-roll holder in the bathroom and not a blanket or pillow in sight--not even a dustpan and brush."

It had been three years since Bodie had moved into his first CI5 flat, and that had been from a private place where he had already accumulated most of the necessary domestic equipment.

"Now you know what your wages are for, don't you," he said cheerfully.

Several weary hours later Bodie deeply regretted his offer to help his partner with his shopping. While Doyle piled the next load of parcels and packages on the back seat of the car, Bodie rested his head on his aching arms; he'd thought that the duvet box and bag of sheets had been awkward enough to manoeuvre through the crowded shops but the last trip with the vacuum cleaner had just about killed him. He hated shopping at the best of times and always made a point of doing it only when it was really necessary and he never but never ventured near any shopping precincts the week before Christmas. It just wasn't safe!

"Have you finished yet? You must have run out of cheques if not money by now!" Bodie asked. "There is a law about deliberately writing rubber cheques, you know." He didn't want to pry into Doyle's financial affairs but, peering into the loaded car he began to calculate what Doyle had spent. "Are you on a different rate of pay to me, or something?" he asked. "Or do you have a rich relative hidden away somewhere?"

"Let's just say I'm on to a good promise, shall we!" Doyle answered as he set the front seat back and climbed in. "One more stop at a supermarket and then we can get back to the flat."

"You haven't got to buy everything today, Doyle. Give your cheque book a rest, for god's sake. Tell you what, drive us home and I'll cook us some dinner. We can take all this stuff back to your flat tomorrow."

"We're on the Embassy job first thing tomorrow morning," Doyle reminded him as they drove off in the direction of the supermarket. "If it takes off like Cowley's predicting we're going to be too busy to fiddle around getting the place straight. Makes sense to get it all done today while we've got the day off, doesn't it."

Bodie had to agree that it did, but it didn't stop him complaining when he saw the length of the queues in the shops.

Much, much later Bodie began to think life wasn't so bad after all. They had ended the day with a celebratory meal which christened the pots, pans, crockery and cutlery they had brought home from the shops. Settling back on the settee that was much more comfortable as a settee than a bed, Bodie listened to the bustling domesticity as Doyle cleared away the remnants of their meal.

"I'm going to miss you," Bodie said as his partner finally emerged from the kitchen and slumped into an armchair.

"Why's that? It's not as if I'm going anywhere."

"I'll have to wash me own dishes now, won't I," he said plaintively.

"Buy a dishwasher!"

"Got a better idea--cheaper too. You come visiting regularly--I'll even let you do all the other housework."

Doyle responded by tossing a cushion to hit him square in the face, the offending object was returned somewhat forcibly and a mock fight broke out, only to be stopped when Doyle realised the coffee mugs were in danger of being knocked over, and the room was restored to order.

"I suppose I'll have to get going," Bodie said mournfully. "'s all right for you, all cosy and snug in your little nest."

"What are you on about?"

"Going home!" Bodie moaned. "Listen to that wind howling--bet it's raining too."

"How're you getting there?" Doyle asked smoothly. Bodie smiled politely and reminded his partner about the invention of the car.

"You're not taking my car! How am I going to get to the Embassy tomorrow if you drive off with it tonight?"

Already halfway through buttoning his jacket in preparation for facing the wintry elements, Bodie swore. Profusely.

"You can walk to the tube or catch a bus," Doyle suggested, his face creasing into an amused smile. This was the first time that sharing a car had proved awkward.

Once Doyle had rather rudely vetoed the suggestion that he should drive Bodie home a solution was easily reached. Placing the phone back on the hook, Bodie unbuttoned his coat and settled back down on the settee.

"They'll be here in about ten minutes, so I've got time for another drink, haven't I?" Bodie hinted.

Once the ring pulls had been popped and disposed of, the two men relaxed back and awaited the arrival of the taxi.

His eyes roaming around the flat, Bodie assessed the difference the fleeting tenancy had so far made. Chairs not quite straight, curtains drawn and soft lights on, glasses and a few cans of beer about. Nothing much really--but enough to make the place look lived in. Over by the front door though, Bodie could see the cases that had sat on the floor of his spare bedroom for the several months. Still locked; Doyle had made no attempt to open them, although the other cases containing his clothes were unlocked and half unpacked in the small bedroom upstairs.

"It's going to be strange when you've gone," Doyle said quietly, almost to himself, and when Bodie asked him what he meant he became embarrassed and fidgeted in his seat. "This place...it's just... Oh, I dunno," he said tiredly, running his fingers through his hair.

"It's a nice place. You'll soon settle in," Bodie said.

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "We'll have to work something out with the cars though," he suggested.

"Sometimes we'll need both, the times we don't we can just pick each other up and drop 'em off afterwards. It'll work itself out, don't worry about it. Seeing as I live closer to the embassy than you, you can pick me up tomorrow morning, okay?"

Doyle agreed and an awkward silence descended on the room and they waited for the minutes to tick by. Eventually, to the relief of both men, the door buzzer went, announcing the arrival of Bodie's taxi.

Doyle saw him out and then locked the door before walking back slowly to the living room. The battered suitcases caught his eye and he dragged them into the centre of the room, snapping the locks open and lifting the lid to his old life.

---

It wasn't until he checked out the living room for the third time that Bodie realised what he was looking for. He still didn't find it, though. It was as if Doyle had never set foot in his flat--there was absolutely nothing that had been left behind by his temporary lodger; no forgotten book, toothbrush, toiletries or bits of clothing. Nothing to say he had ever been there and nothing to say he was ever coming back.

Getting into bed was another oddly unsettling experience. Through habit, he did not close the curtains and it took him over an hour to remember that there was no longer any reason why he should suffer the glare of the street lights. Climbing back under the covers, Bodie found the room to be terribly dark and the bed cold and empty.

---

CHAPTER TEN

Full of the joys of spring, Bodie sprinted up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time, breezed along the corridor and burst into the--for once--quiet sanctuary that was the squad room. The room's only occupants, Doyle and Lake, eyed Bodie's noisy and overenthusiastic entrance with sinking hearts.

"Good morning!"

Lake closed his eyes and fell back into the tatty, threadbare waiting-room reject. Doyle just winced and covered his ears with his hands.

"I see that The Times has reported the first spring cuckoo." Bodie refused to lower his voice.

"You read The Times?" Lake said disbelievingly.

"Nah," Bodie conceded, and then admitted wryly, "Heard it on the radio on me way in."

Taking possession of the chair next to Doyle, he leant over to take a generous swig from Doyle's coffee cup. "By the way, thanks for last night, mate." Bodie winked and then drained the last of the coffee. "I do wish you'd remember that I like sugar in mine," he complained, as he pulled a face.

"Then I suggest you buy your own--and while you're at it you can get me another one," Doyle said placidly.

"Is this the thanks I get for getting you out of a sticky situation--some people have no gratitude." Bodie's voice suggested that he was sorely wounded by his friend's response but the smug grin on his face declared that it was not so.

"You enjoyed yourself then?" Doyle asked.

For an answer Bodie collapsed back into his chair and sighed mightily.

"I take it that means yes."

"And then some," Bodie said happily. "Any time you get stuck in that sort of situation I'll be only too pleased to help you out."

"She didn't mind?"

"Mind! Five minutes after I arrived she'd forgotten what you looked like. How did it go with the delectable Delia?"

Doyle echoed Bodie's own smug, satisfied sigh.

When Doyle had asked him if he had any plans for last night he had been both pleased and disappointed. It had been almost two months since Doyle had moved into his own flat and in all that time he had only met his partner socially once, and after having spent virtually every minute of the preceding three months in his company, Bodie had felt the loss keenly. But it wasn't Bodie's company Doyle had been asking for. It seemed that Doyle had finally broken through his reserve and was making steady progress through the lives of several young ladies simultaneously.

Bodie recognised that he had been--temporarily anyway--dethroned as the top Romeo in the department, but he was gracious in his defeat and when Doyle requested his assistance was only too pleased to step in, thus the tricky situation of two beautiful young ladies waiting to be escorted to two different theatres at opposite ends of Shaftesbury Avenue at the same time had been resolved.

"What was the play like?"

"Play?" Bodie frowned. "Dunno, wasn't really paying much attention to what was happening on stage." He smiled as he remembered what he had been paying attention to.

"It wasn't the pink silk lacy dress with the rosebud bra?" Doyle demanded to know.

"Bra--what bra? She wasn't wearing one, mate. She doesn't need one--anyone could see she doesn't need a bra, and no it wasn't pink...more a backless, frontless mini diamante evening...strap. Beautiful," he finished. Behind him, Bodie heard the door open and as soon as he saw the look that flashed over Doyle's face he guessed who had come in. He was right.

After pointed saying good morning to Bodie and Lake, Day moved past Doyle, knocking against his chair as he went to collect a drink from the vending machine.

"Anyone got any change--this bloody thing won't take fivers."

Out of habit, Bodie and Lake dutifully checked their pockets and found them lacking the correct coins.

"Here you are," Doyle said silkily and slid the coins across the table.

"Er...ta very much," Day mumbled ungraciously, and fed the money into the slot. The machine still refused to produce anything and the reject button was punched rather forcefully. It refused to refund the money as well.

"One of the coins must have been bent," Doyle suggested, his face bland.

Day flushed and thumped the side of the machine; Lake and Bodie were unsuccessful in their attempts to keep their faces straight.

As Lake moved to answer a ringing telephone Day continued his efforts to make the machine cough up something.

"Doyle--it's for you."

Whilst Doyle talked on the phone, Day gave up the battle of man versus machine and left the room in disgust.

Bodie watched, a worried frown marring his face as Day slammed the door shut behind him and then he looked over to where Doyle was still talking quietly.

Lake saw the frown and wondered if Bodie had heard any tales that Day had been carefully repeating to selected ears throughout the department.

"He hasn't taken to Doyle, has he," he ventured, unsure of how far he should stick his own neck out.

"What? Who?" Bodie dragged his attention back from watching his partner.

"Day," Lake said. "He doesn't like Doyle very much, does he?"

"Day's a prick!" was Bodie's bald statement.

"Agreed," chuckled Lake, but then he sobered and decided to make sure Bodie knew what was going on. "But he still doesn't like Doyle--and he's making waves!"

"What do you mean?" Bodie was suddenly intent on his answer, recognising the carefully regulated voice and bland facial expression which meant that Lake was deadly serious.

"He's being very careful but he's chucking a lot of muck around and all of it's hitting your mate." Lake hesitated. "I take it he's not said anything to you?"

"He's obviously got more sense than I credit him with," said Bodie grimly. "What's he saying then?"

"Nothing specific, just general shit-stirring. He's been a bit vocal on how Cowley seems intent on ruining CI5's reputation by employing people with dubious backgrounds and..."

Lake hesitated again and Bodie had to prompt him to finish. "...and he's been suggesting that Doyle got himself...involved...mixed up...sort of...sort of..."

"Sort of what?" Bodie asked, wondering what the hell was coming next.

"Oh christ!" Lake stared down at the table top. "That Doyle put himself about...that he made life easier for himself by letting some of the other inmates..."

"Letting some of the other inmates what?" Bodie demanded, his voice a cold, chilling whisper of sound.

"Fuck him!" Lake spat out, then shut his eyes and waited for the roof to fall in. After a few minutes, during which the world continued turning and Doyle's voice was the only sound in the room, Lake risked opening his eyes and started breathing again.

"Nothing specific!" Bodie repeated. "How specific was he, for fuck's sake!"

"Look, Bodie, I just thought that if you didn't know, you ought to--I can't see either Cowley or Doyle being too pleased if they hear what's being said," Lake said defensively.

"Okay, okay." Bodie backed down, holding his temper in check. "How long's this been going on and where's he getting his information from?"

"Last few weeks he's been spouting off about Doyle's drug connections--ever since he started on the big drugs caper. The blokes are working quite close to some of Doyle's old drug squad colleagues."

"Has he blown Doyle's cover? None of the Met. boys are supposed to know that he's clean."

"All right, he's a prick," Lake whispered back. "But he's not got that much of a death-wish. He knows Cowley's orders over Doyle's record but it's not stopped him from fishing for any more dirt on the man."

Begrudgingly Bodie found himself agreeing; Day was not that stupid.

"The rest of it--how does he know about that?"

"It's true?" Lake's eyes widened in surprise and Bodie knew he had been careless.

"What do you think?"

Lake's eyes swivelled around to watch as Doyle continued talking and laughing into the phone.

"With his looks he wouldn't've found it easy. Being an ex-copper they would have jumped him every chance they got. Between the hard boys and the faggots he wouldn't have much peace--but I don't think he would have given in--not without one hell of a fight--"

Just then Doyle turned towards the window and the sunlight shone directly on his face, highlighting the misshapen cheekbone. Turning back, Lake saw that Bodie had followed his eyes and his thoughts. "So it's not true. Not Day's version of it anyway," he finally worked out. "So what did happen?"

For a moment or two Bodie wondered whether he should tell Lake the whole story, but quickly realised that it was not his story to tell; but he had to counteract Day's malicious tongue, so he told Lake what Doyle's life inside had been like, outlining only briefly the sexual harassment, the anti-police antagonism and the final, attempted sexual attack that had been very nearly murder.

Listening to Bodie's cold recital of facts, Lake knew that a lot of the story was missing but his own knowledge of prison society, learnt through the years of contact with the dregs of humanity that populated the prisons and criminal world, fleshed out the tale.

"What's going on?" Doyle's voice took them both by surprise. Seeing the startled and embarrassed looks he chuckled. "God, you two look like you just got caught with your hands in the biscuit jar!"

Lake and Bodie smiled awkwardly.

"Look, mate," Doyle said eventually, when he realised the two men were not going to let him in on their conversation, "are we doing anything?"

"Now? No, just standby--why, what's up?"

"Nothing much, just I've got to go somewhere. That was Bob Craig from the Home Office; he wants to see me about something before he goes off on leave tonight."

"You might as well shoot off now. Take your r/t and if anything comes up I'll collect you on the way."

---

Sod's Law, of course. Barely five minutes after arriving at Craig's office the r/t crackled into life. Leaving the room at a trot, Doyle had a large flat package thrust into his hands.

"They're yours," Craig shouted down the corridor after him. "You left them in your drawer in one of the recreational rooms."

In the car, ignoring the puzzled look on Bodie's face, Doyle shoved the portfolio onto the back seat and promptly forgot about it as they took off from a standing start to 60 mph in thirty yards.

---

After a hectic start, though, the excitement quickly died down and a monotonous surveillance routine started up.

A simple toss of a coin won Bodie the opportunity of trying to get some sleep in the back seat of the car.

"One day," Bodie complained as he struggled to squeeze his length onto the back seat, "the Cow is going to let us have state cars with collapsible seats."

"Or even reclining chairs with posture springs," Doyle chipped in, flexing his back and shifting his own position.

"Ah, the simple pleasures of life," Bodie said with feeling as he settled onto his side, shoving the portfolio away from his face, its awkward shape causing it to fall right back and hit him on his nose. "What's in this thing anyway?" he snapped irritably as he pushed and shoved it sideways where it finally came to rest on his knees.

"Just some stuff Bob Craig gave me, that's all," Doyle said vaguely, his attention suddenly taken by a movement at one of the windows as if someone was trying to look out into the street. They were parked a safe distance away, the house's occupants wouldn't be able to see them.

"Come in, 4.3," Doyle spoke into the handset.

"4.5," crackled back in response.

"Anything moving back there?"

"Upstairs bedroom light's just gone out, I reckon Sunny Jim's off to bed. Why? What's up your end?"

"Twitchy curtains in the front bedroom but no lights," Doyle said, his attention still on the front of the house.

"Okay, 4.5, we'll keep our eyes peeled. Out."

The r/t clicked off and the car fell silent until Bodie's voice came from the back seat.

"Did you draw these?"

"What?" Doyle spun round in his seat to find Bodie lifting sheets of paper from the portfolio and holding them up to the dim street lighting.

"They're not bad," Bodie said approvingly as he flicked through the sketches.

"Just put them back!" Doyle made a snatch for the sketch pad but missed as Bodie held it just out of reach. Perhaps unwisely, Doyle lost his temper. "Just leave them alone, they're nothing to do with you--now give 'em here!"

"What's so special about a few little scribbles then?" his partner taunted.

Pride made Doyle speak out in defence of his work.

"They're not scribbles and they're mine, now get your greasy mitts off them!" Leaning right over into the back seat he managed to grab his pictures and shove them untidily back into the case, swiftly tying the cords, closing it.

"4.5, 3.7, he's coming out the back way, over." Even before 4.3 had finished speaking, Bodie was back in the driving seat, the engine was on and they were pulling smoothly away from the kerb. The chase was on and the sketches were forgotten.

---

Dawn was breaking as he dropped Doyle off outside his flat, the order from Cowley being to get some sleep before reporting back for another hopefully less hectic surveillance detail. As the door clicked shut, Bodie remembered the sketches but managed to stop himself from jogging his touchy companion's memory.

---

Fresher but still exhausted, Bodie dried himself off and shrugged into his dressing gown. Pouring himself a drink, he carried it and the portfolio over to the couch and sank down onto it. Undoing the ties, he carefully tipped the contents onto the seat beside him. Looking at the water colours and the one oil painting, Bodie could quite understand why Doyle hadn't wanted anyone to see them. They were awful! Ugly blotches of wrong shades in peculiar positions all over the paper. Next, he turned to the sketches he had first seen in the car. There were three pads, two of which had something drawn on every page and one of which was half full.

Being unable to draw a straight line without the aid of a ruler, Bodie found he was impressed with the fresh, vividly real pictures, the simple style of lines and shading that filled each page.

Turning the pages through, he found the pictures to be disturbing and looked through the books a second and third time in an attempt to pin down the reason for the odd, hauntingly lonely feel of the sketches.

One of the last pictures really brought home to him how Doyle's isolation had affected him. It was a sketch of a brick wall. It filled the page, each brick shaded and shaped with such meticulous care that Bodie felt he had only to touch the paper in order to feel the rough texture of bricks on his fingers as easily as he could read the graffiti that adorned it.

He tried to imagine staring at a wall so long he felt compelled to draw it.

The rest of sketches were an insight into prison life. Neat, cramped cells, huge, heavy metal doors with each rivet, lock and hinge drawn in fine detail, a view along the never-ending metal landing, winding staircases, views of the outside world framed by ugly steel bars.

The detail of inanimate objects was in striking contrast to the people that were sometimes included. Always vague, always indistinct, always unrecognisable. But then Bodie noted with surprise the small portrait almost hidden away on the corner of a page. Flicking back through, Bodie found more of them, each one tucked away on the edge of another picture as if it were an afterthought, a doodle.

Instinctively he knew that this was Ann. Turning the pages, he tried to see the obvious attraction that the woman held for Doyle but the small sketches revealed only a woman's face...not an unattractive face but nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Paying closer attention, because he was curious to find out all he could about the woman who had turned her back on Doyle when her love and support was probably desperately needed, Bodie discovered that each picture had a small flaw, something the artist never quite managed to get right. Ann's eyes were either totally lifeless, lacking in any expression or in some cases simply not finished, that final touch never--quite--being applied with the same attention to detail as appeared everywhere else.

Returning the pictures and sketch pads to the portfolio, Bodie tied it up and placed it to one side. In the morning he would put it back into the car as if he had not touched it. For some reason he felt uneasy about letting on that he had peeked. Looking through the drawings had, in a way, been intruding on Doyle's privacy--rather like reading someone's personal diary--and from the way Doyle had reacted in the car he obviously did not want people looking at his work.

With the images Doyle had committed to paper swirling through his mind, Bodie feel into a restless slumber that was filled with a confusion of hazy, mixed up not-quite-real troubling dreams...

---

The clanging doors and sound of heavy boots on metal walkways echoed back and forth through the enormous building.

He passed door after door, each one the same, each a doorway to apathy and misery, until he reached his own.

He opened it.

The cell's occupant looked up at him uninterestedly then away again. A brief flash of emerald and Bodie felt a tug of recognition.

"What's your name?" he demanded to be told.

"Doyle." The reply was begrudging and the speaker seemingly had little interest in discovering who was asking.

Swinging himself up onto the top bunk, Bodie felt tense and relaxed all at the same time. Behind the closed door the screws were getting everybody banged up. The final, loud and seemingly endless call of numbers and names finally came to an end and the lights clicked off.

In the darkness he heard Doyle climb into bed, but there was something he wanted to know before he went to sleep.

"What are you in for?" he asked. It was a bit like being in hospital, after a few hours you always knew more than you really wanted to know about the other bloke's ailments.

"Nothing--I'm innocent," Doyle replied, a deep chuckle in his voice as he said it.

Bodie joined in with the joke.

"Oh yeah--me too. It was this other bloke--honest!"

The ice was broken and they both laughed. It was comfortable...easy.

"This other bloke, see," Bodie felt the need to explain, "got himself mixed up with the wrong sort of people."

"This bloke who just happens to look, think and sound like you, do you mean?"

Bodie had known that Doyle would understand.

"That's right."

"So what did you...uh, I mean what did this other bloke do then?" Doyle corrected himself.

"This and that."

"And the other?"

"Oh, plenty of the other," Bodie chortled vulgarly. "Got himself caught up with some smugglers."

"What--contraband whisky and cigarettes?" Doyle asked; the romantic notice of the noble historic smuggler clearly appealed to him.

"No. Drugs and guns."

All at once the warmth left the small, dark cell.

"Disprins and pea-shooters, you mean?" Doyle asked coldly.

"Heroin, cannabis and Armalites." The words fell like lead weights into the silence.

"A drug pusher and a gun runner," Doyle said in disgust. "What did you do in your spare time--rape little girls?"

"No! No!" Bodie cried out in protest. "It's not like that!"

"Of course it is--you just said so. You were smuggling drugs and guns. You knew what you were doing!" Doyle accused, then started banging on the door, calling for a guard to come and let him out.

Through the darkness Bodie tried to deny his guilt but Doyle wouldn't listen, he just kept pounding on the door, demanding to be let out, calling out to anyone who would listen that he was not going to share anything with a drug pusher and gun runner, pounding and pounding until at last a key was turned and the door began to open.

"No!" Bodie shouted in desperation. "Don't go...please don't leave me...you don't understand...don't go... Ray! Ray! Ray!"


The name still on his lips and his hand outstretched, Bodie jolted awake. The darkness of his bedroom confused him and for a second he thought he was still in that cell and that Ray had gone--but then he awoke properly. Drawing his hand over his sweating face, he dropped back onto the pillow and took some deep breaths. Only a dream, he told himself with relief, only a dream that was already fading away leaving only cooling sweat and a feeling of unease.


The next day, stuck outside another moderately innocuous suburban semi for hour after hour, Bodie found he could remember every single second of his dream. For some reason it just would not fade away into the void that dreams usually conveniently faded into. He didn't, as a rule, attempt to analyse his dreams; it wasn't often he remembered enough about them to do so, but this one was different.

The awful, terrifying feeling of being left behind, being deserted or abandoned, was not new to his nightmares; neither was the knowledge that somewhere, out in the dark, someone was waiting, watching.

The cause of his unease was sitting only a few inches away dutifully paying attention to all the incredibly unenthralling comings and goings in the street. Behind Doyle, on the back seat, rested the portfolio. Neither of them had mentioned it, but Bodie had seen the speculative glance that had flared in his partner's eyes when he opened the car door earlier that morning.

But knowing the cause did not even begin to resolve the problem.

If, of course, Bodie ruminated, there was a problem. It had been nearly two months since Doyle had read his file; two months in which he had neither referred to or questioned what he had read. At no time had he given any hint as to how he felt about working so closely with a man who had been, to all intents and purposes, deeply involved in the two areas that were guaranteed to turn most men's stomachs. Drugs and guns.

Bodie sighed as a wave of depression swept over him. All his working life he had peddled life and death--legally or otherwise. What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he had stayed on at school that extra year and finished up with the 'A' levels his mother had so desperately wanted him to get.

"Oh for crying out loud!"

"What?" Jolted back to suburbia and the boring surveillance detail, Bodie looked around him in surprise.

"Oh--back with us are you?" Doyle asked sarcastically. "All that deep breathing and sighing, I thought you'd fallen into a coma!"

"Sorry," Bodie apologised lamely.

"What's up, you've had a face as long as a mile all morning?"

"Nothing, just...thinking."

"Look," said Doyle, "there's a big depression over London right now, more specifically it's sitting right over your head. Now," he repeated patiently, "what's up--and don't say nothing because it's bloody obvious that something is."

The silence was almost deafening and it stretched out for several long minutes.

Eventually, and only because he knew Doyle would not, Bodie spoke. "Look," he said haltingly, embarrassment fighting with irritation, "you're not the only one in the world to have a few problems, you know." The words were formed before he could stop them and he could only curse himself when he watched the tentative openness that showed only rarely, drain away from Doyle's face.

"Pardon me for intruding then," Doyle sniped back, his hurt feelings showing themselves by his expressionless face and eyes.

"Oh for--I'm sorry," Bodie said and turned in his seat to smile warmly, his eyes asking for...something--forgiveness, understanding, Doyle didn't know what, only that the gloom and bad feelings in the air had been banished. "I must have got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, just ignore me."

"I usually do--and whose bed was it?"

"Ahh--a gentleman never kisses and tells."

"Karen?" asked Doyle.

"Would you mind if I said yes?"

"No, of course not, why?"

"I did you a favour the other night," Bodie said, "helping a mate out of a spot of bother is what mates are for, but I thought you'd been seeing quite a bit of her, wasn't too sure if you'd take kindly to me seeing her again."

Doyle chuckled, a deliciously warm, rare sound. "Yes, I have seen quite a bit of Karen but you can, as the saying goes--have too much of a good thing--besides, I haven't the energy for Karen and Delia."

"Oh, I see, getting the cast-offs, am I?"

Laughing, Doyle agreed. The mood broken, the atmosphere in the car became more relaxed and the rest of the duty stint passed without incident.

Signing off, they left the suburban backwater to the next pair of luckless agents and made their way home.

Outside Doyle's block of flats, the remembered portfolio in his hands, Doyle looked across to Bodie.

"What did you think of them?"

Quite how Doyle had known he had looked at them defeated Bodie, but he answered cautiously, recalling the way the other man had reacted to his looking at them in the car the previous evening.

"They're...not bad," he answered noncommittally.

"I dunno what's in here myself," Doyle said as he untied the laces and poked about inside. "What the--these aren't mine."

"Thank christ for that!" Bodie said with relief as Doyle peered at the lurid oil painting and wishy-washy water-colours. "I would have found it hard to be polite about them!"

"You'd 'ave tried, would you?"

"Artists are supposed to be very sensitive about their work, I didn't want to bruise your ego." Bodie reached over and twitched one of the pads out of Doyle's grasp. "But I did like these, I thought they were quite good."

"Only quite good?" Doyle raised an eyebrow.

"Better than I could do anyway," Bodie said, refusing to bolster the artist's ego any more.

"You're right though," Doyle said ruefully as he shoved everything back into the portfolio, "they're nothing special; didn't want to do the damn things anyway," and then in answer to Bodie's puzzled look of enquiry, "The occupational therapist at the hospital kept on at me to do something creative, it was these or basketry. Then once I got back to the prison I kept it up. Something to do, I suppose."


Driving back to his own flat, Bodie decided that he would call Karen as soon as he got in. He felt in the mood for some uncomplicated relaxing company. Doyle's parting comment had left a chill that had settled deep inside. Quite innocently Bodie had remarked that it had been generous of the screws to allow Doyle, a prisoner, to sketch in the halls and along the landings.

"Oh they didn't. I can't draw from life, not even to save my life. It's one of the reasons why I gave up thinking art school. I can only draw from memory."

Bodie could only think of the graffiti-strewn brick wall. Somehow, knowing how it had been done only made it that much more horrific.

---

Closing the completed file, Dr Ross placed it on top of the others and opened the one remaining on her lap. Shuffling through the papers she then passed some photocopied sheets across the desk to Mr Cowley.

"Finally," she said, "we have the problem of the 4.5, 3.7 pairing."

Quickly scanning over the pages he had been given, Cowley spared a moment to peer over the top of his glasses.

"Is this 'problem' specific or general in its nature, Doctor?"

"Mister Cowley," Ross began, but was interrupted before she could really break into her stride.

"Doctor Ross, your persistence in giving pessimistic opinions on this teaming is becoming rather tedious." Cowley glared across the desk, daring--perhaps even willing--the psychiatrist to interrupt him. "You are the only one who doubts the success of this pairing. All the evidence to date has proved your earlier misgivings to have been wrong. To all intents and purposes 3.7 and 4.5 are adjusting well and are becoming a productive, viable unit."

"'To all intents and purposes,'" Ross quoted back. "I agree with those observations--"

"Then what is the nature of this 'problem'?" Cowley only just managed not to shout.

"Mister Cowley, I have explained before that this is not a 'single' problem, it is a mixture of events, personalities, lifestyles and past experiences. The problem is a combination of all these things but it is possible to break the facts down into specific areas."

Acknowledging that she had Cowley's attention if not his favour, Ross proceeded to state her case.

"Bodie's behaviour since joining the squad has differed greatly from the past in that he has 'allowed' Doyle to form an attachment that is more than strictly professional. He has also begun to be slightly more approachable on a social front to other members of the squad."

"In other words, he's made friends with Doyle and other squad members," Cowley summed up, cutting through the jargon.

"Yes--but this behaviour is contrary to what is 'normal' for Bodie," Ross stuck to her guns with tenacity. That George Cowley considered psychiatrists useful only when they agreed with him was a major problem that she was determined to overcome.

"In addition, contrary to what he says, I do not believe he is happy with the teaming. I still feel that he is best suited to solo assignments. Although he is sublimating the irritation of having to work so closely with another agent, the reluctance could surface at an inconvenient or even dangerous moment for both men concerned."

"Sublimating the irritation," Cowley echoed. "Well, he is doing it very effectively. Macklin and Willis are both of the opinion that Bodie is actively enjoying his association with Doyle." The reports the instructor and doctor had given earlier had been cheerfully optimistic, a direct contrast with Ross' gloomy predictions. "Bodie has been both supportive and encouraging to Doyle. Now I know you feel these characteristics are not normally present in Bodie's make-up, but the facts speak for themselves. Bodie has never been known for quiet suffering--if he found Doyle to be an irritant there is no doubt in my mind that he would say so--to anyone and everyone who would listen!"

"I disagree."

"Very well, Doctor. Please tell me why you disagree," Cowley said wearily. "But please try to be brief."

"During the assessment interviews I held last week Bodie was clearly disturbed by one specific aspect of the teaming. Never having been assigned a permanent partner before, Bodie knew that the only people in this department who knew the full details of his past working experiences were you and me. Now, of course, Doyle also knows."

From the sudden change of expression on Cowley's face, Ross knew that he was beginning to grasp the root of the problem. Bodie's past had always been a problem--to Bodie.

"And Doyle's reaction to his file has upset him?"

"He didn't say so--but then he never does; with Bodie the important things are always left unsaid," Ross said and Cowley knew just what she meant.

"You've discussed this with Doyle?"

"I did question him about his knowledge of Bodie and his reaction to what he read was what I would have expected of him. He accepted that it was in the past and that Bodie had clearly been too young and too naive to have understood what he was mixed up in. Doyle had dismissed those years of Bodie's life as being unimportant, and to have questioned him further would have aroused his curiosity and possibly created more problems for Bodie."

"I agree," Cowley said, unsurprised to find himself doing so. Bodie's overdeveloped sense of guilt was about the only facet of his personality that they ever agreed on. The eighteen months the teenage Bodie had spent drifting around the ports of North Africa and Europe were in no small way directly responsible for his deep involvement with the security services. Hired as a deck-hand, he had become a very small, but very necessary part of the illicit trading organisation between the sea ports bordering friendly and not-so-friendly countries. At seventeen, the excitement and seamy glamour given off by the crews on board the decrepit coasters and tugboats were all the incentive that the runaway had needed to climb aboard. Reality had taken a long time to filter through and by then it was too late to escape. Trapped by the lies of the older, established crew, the boy was too frightened to leave and with each trip the horror and guilt increased.

But eventually luck and a force 10 gale in the Channel forced the Algerian-registered ship into Folkestone Harbour; after that, escape had been easy. Not wishing to attract any attention to its hidden cargo the ship left, minus its deckhand, as soon as the storm abated.

It had been a casually delivered question by Cowley during the mopping up of a very messy siege-situation in the first months of Bodie's life in CI5 that had surprisingly revealed his motivation for joining first the army, then the department.

Shaken and shocked by his narrow escape, Bodie had accepted the whisky Cowley had rescued from the broken, bullet-marked drinks cupboard. An empty stomach and lack of sleep coupled with relief that it was over and he was still alive all helped to make the alcohol go straight to his head. Before passing out, Bodie had confided to a rather startled Cowley that it would have been poetic justice if he had been killed by one of the hundreds of guns he had helped to smuggle into the country.

The next day Bodie had been put through the toughest debriefing of his life. Every day of the eighteen months Bodie had spent on board, every port, every name, every date, every detail was prised out of him. Expecting dismissal and possibly even prosecution, Bodie had tried to resign but Cowley had refused to let him go. After two weeks of virtual home-arrest, Cowley had visited him with the results of the investigations.

It had been impossible to convince Bodie that he had not committed any crimes and that he was not going to punished, prosecuted or even fined. For ten years he had carried the guilt of knowing he had helped to supply terrorists with guns and ammunition, pushers and suppliers with their poisons, and profiteers and money-makers with the opportunity to get rich on human misery. He knew he was guilty and nothing Cowley said was able to convince him otherwise.

"I agree," Cowley repeated. "So I take it that Doyle realises that apart from being a very junior member of the crew, Bodie was not directly involved with the actual trafficking of drugs and arms."

"I think he understands Bodie's role better than Bodie does himself. The guilt Bodie feels about those months is the main reason--in fact the only reason--why he ever became involved in the security services. Bodie feels that he must atone for what he thinks he did--he is quite blind to the fact the other crew members must have banked on his ignorance and naiveté to keep him quiet.

"But that sole purpose is something which makes Bodie very special to CI5. Now I agree that he is not too keen on people discovering his contacts with the runners, but he has never objected to the rumours that have circulated the department about his experiences."

"That's because they are rumours. Doyle knows the truth. And that is the one thing Bodie is incapable of facing, the truth. Regardless of how you, I or even Doyle see the truth, Bodie can't bear to face it himself." Satisfied that at least one of her points had been made, Ross sat back in her chair to gather her reserves for the next round.

"Very well," Cowley said after a few minutes' quiet thought. "I concede that 3.7's attitude to his past is a hurdle but I am optimistic that as in the past it will not prove insurmountable. Now--your next point?"

"I am still unhappy with 4.5's mental state." Ross spoke firmly. "In may ways 4.5 and 3.7 are very similar in that they always seem to project an air of emotional stability, but you must agree that I am qualified to advise you on such matters."

About to refute that, Cowley subsided as he recognised that Ross was only stating the truth. "Very well, Dr Ross," he said in a neutral voice, "please advise me which aspects of Doyle's mental state disturb you."

After spending a few moments looking through her notes, Dr Ross checked to ensure she had Cowley's complete attention before starting.

"I believe your main reason for selecting Doyle was his usefulness in the area of undercover work, using his record and real identity to gain access."

"Not the main reason, Doctor, but one, yes." Cowley nodded his head, trying to follow the path she was clearly trying to lead him down.

"Perhaps it's just as well it is not the main reason then," she said smoothly, "because I doubt that he will ever, voluntarily, renew any contacts he made whilst he was in Ford or Maidstone prisons."

"You seem very sure of that."

"I am. Very sure," was the confident response. "He refuses to discuss any aspect of his life as a prisoner. He pointedly withdraws from any conversation in which prisons or prisoners figure and any attempt to coerce him into such a discussion is met with evasion, resistance, increasing agitation and on one occasion distress."

"Distress?"

"It was a few months ago now, but it was when I first realised how reluctant he is even to think about his life inside, let alone discuss it with me. He stormed out of my office, refused to continue the interview and then missed several appointments that I made to see him again. It was only when I pointed out that his continuing employment in the department depended on his co-operation that he finally, but very reluctantly, agreed to meet with me again."

"Which aspects of his life in Maidstone were you questioning him on?"

"I asked him if there was any truth to the rumours about him and Albert Kingsley."

"Just like that?" Cowley asked, appalled by Ross' uncaring attitude.

"I saw no reason to cover the question with a lot of pointless soft talk."

"And what did he say?"

"Just 'No,' but that was after he had stormed out of the office then failed to turn up for several interviews. He simply refuses to discuss the matter." Ross' voice clearly showed how unreasonable she considered Doyle's behaviour.

"Are you really surprised that he won't talk to you about it?" Cowley demanded to know. "Have you even considered why he won't talk to you about it?"

Surprised by Cowley's almost palpable outrage, Ross sat back in her chair, blinking under the onslaught of the icy blue eyes. "You're a woman!" Cowley almost shouted across the desk. "I am not in the least bit surprised that he refuses to talk to you. Have you ever had any training on counselling the victims of sex attacks--"

"Really Mr Cowley," Ross interrupted, "my training is perfectly adequate in all the relevant areas and I do know what I am doing. Doyle must talk to someone about what happened to him. Maybe the rumours about Albert Kingsley are just that--rumours, but it is an irrefutable fact that he was subjected to an extremely violent attack that was only just prevented from becoming rape!"

"The report also states that Doyle cannot recall the reason for the attack nor the men responsible for it."

"He's lying!"

The room fell silent, and the two antagonists stared across the disk at each other as they regained control of their tempers.

As the heat began to fade from the almost-argument, Cowley engaged himself in a pointless reorganisation of his neat desktop and Ross waited patiently for the next round to begin.

"Very well," Cowley finally said, "I agree that Doyle is very probably lying about the attack." The basilisk glare dared Ross to award herself any points. "But he quite clearly does not wish to discuss it with you. At this moment in time there is no need to force him to confront any of his former inmates. Should such an occasion arise we shall have to reconsider, but for now I do not see that this problem is affecting his work."

"I still feel he must be made to talk to someone about the attack, and also about the Kingsley business. The rumours are unpleasant and ugly but Doyle will neither denounce them nor admit that they are even partially true--"

"How do you know that he hasn't?"

"Pardon?"

"How do you know that he hasn't talked about it to someone else?"

"Who?" Ross asked in amazement.

"Bodie," suggested Cowley, immeasurably pleased to have rendered the woman speechless at last.

That Ross did not consider his suggestion very likely was obvious, and she spent the next ten minutes outlining exactly why she felt Bodie was ill-equipped to handle such a delicate affair.

Cowley listened and shrugged off nearly all her arguments. Although Ross felt she knew all the personal details about the men and women in her care, Cowley knew that she didn't; she knew only what he felt she needed to know--and that wasn't necessarily everything.

Eventually Ross had said all she wanted to say and Cowley had listened to far more than he had intended to, the discussion on Doyle drew to a conclusion, with the understanding that they were unlikely to reach an agreement.

Collecting her files together, Ross swept out of the office, leaving Cowley to reflect on the unsatisfactory outcome.

His own knowledge of people and personalities had been learnt through experience with only a sprinkling of official schooling throughout his varied career. Supposedly Ross was far more qualified than he to know what was going on inside Doyle's, or anyone in the department's, minds, but in this instance Cowley knew that she was wrong. Maybe Doyle did have a few problems, but Cowley knew that if this was so, Doyle would only talk to whom he wanted--when he wanted, if, of course, he had not already done so.

Pulling himself from the threshold of exhaustion that Kate Ross always left him on, Cowley gathered the necessary files for his next meeting of the day. Psychological profiles and problems were soon pushed to the back of his mind as he turned his attention onto the slow-moving but promising joint operation with the Drugs Squad.

---

Turning left off the main road into the quieter one-way system, Bodie launched into the story he had been saving all afternoon for this precise moment. He thought that he had Doyle's full attention, but when he reached the part about Cowley's reaction to finding the trouserless Murphy revealing his outlandishly speckled underpants to the Minister's wife, he realised that his audience of one was not listening.

How can you hate someone you've never met? Bodie asked himself. How can you compete with a memory? He knew what he was doing and was even angrier with himself as a result. Did he really care that every time they drove down this road Doyle went off on yet another trip down memory lane? The answer was simple. Of course he bloody did! Why else would he save all the juiciest stories and most ridiculous jokes to tell them only when he wanted to distract his partner's attention from the flats that he used to live in. With Ann, of course. Sometimes it worked. More often than not, it didn't.

When the brakes slammed on, Doyle landed hard up against the dashboard.

"Jesus!" he complained as he sat back into his seat. "Did you hit it?"

"Hit what?"

"How the 'ell should I know? Whatever you slammed your bleedin' brakes on to miss!"

"Nothing." Both hands on the steering wheel, Bodie gripped it so tightly the strain stiffened his arms up to his shoulders.

"What?" Confused, Doyle looked around them, trying to work out why they had stopped so suddenly.

"Why don't you go and knock on the door?" Bodie asked, staring coldly across the car.

"What door?"

"Hers!" Bodie jerked his head towards the block of flats and derived a small measure of satisfaction from the guilty start on Doyle's face.

"You're blocking the road," was all Doyle would say. The driver behind them began to blast away on his horn.

"Are you getting out?"

"No, now move off you mad bugger!"

"You're quite sure you don't want to get out?"

"Quite sure--now shift this bleedin' car!" The noise from the blocked vehicles was growing louder and louder and windows up and down the street were being opened. In the flats, net curtains twitched as the people who did not want to betray their curiosity tried to see what all the commotion was about. If the curtain on the third floor moved he would kill Bodie. Slowly, very, very slowly.

Feeling that he had made his point, Bodie keyed the ignition. The engine coughed, whirred and died. Doyle sank down in the seat. On the third attempt the engine sputtered into life; it did not sound very healthy, but the car moved and that was all Doyle was interested in.

They didn't talk until the front door of Doyle's flat was shut and they were both nursing drinks, trying, without much success, to appear relaxed and at ease.

Bodie broke the silence. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he apologised gruffly.

"No, it's me that should be saying sorry. I just hadn't realised how...obvious I was being."

"No, I've got no right to tell you to stop thinking about her--"

"Course you 'ave. It's bad enough you got lumbered with a partner you didn't want without getting one who goes all moody every time he passes--"

"Cut it out, mate, I was in the wrong and I'm saying sorry, all right," Bodie snapped back, the apologetic tone of moments ago covered by held-back anger.

"I don't believe this," Doyle said and started chuckling, then before Bodie could misinterpret his humour, said, "Are we really arguing about who can say sorry?"

The humour of the situation took a little longer to filter through Bodie's belligerence but eventually they both relaxed; disaster was averted.

"Seeing as I'm here and I'm hungry, what are you going to feed me with?"

"What did you do before you met me?"

"Spent a fortune at takeaways and endured the company of fussy but clever women who knew how to treat a growing lad with a healthy appetite."

"Yeah, but what did you do about food?"

"Pillock!" Bodie lobbed an over-stuffed cushion across the room. "Come on, let's have a butchers at what you've got in the kitchen."

Resignedly following Bodie, Doyle complained out loud. "The only reason you haven't told Cowley you want to go back solo is because you can't find anyone else daft enough to cook for you!"

"Ah!" Bodie said, and turned a pair of guileless blue eyes towards him. "You guessed."

Later on Bodie risked bringing up the subject of Ann Holly up again.

"Are you sure she still lives there--I mean, they're pricey those flats, I know you were sharing the place, could she afford to carry on living there once you'd...left?" he finished lamely.

Without looking up from the meal he had been pushing around his plate for the last ten minutes, Doyle replied quietly that yes, he was sure she was still living there.

"It's her flat, well her mother's really I suppose, so there's no rent or mortgage to worry about--but even if there was she could afford it."

Bodie looked up sharply; Doyle sounded as if he resented the fact that his ex-fiancee had no financial problems.

"Got a bit of money, has she?"

"And class and looks--what more could a girl want?"

"Money, class and looks," Bodie said cautiously. "What did she want with you then?"

"That's what her mother used to ask!" Abruptly Doyle pushed his chair back and crossed the room where he busied himself filling the bowl with hot water, bubbles and dirty dinner plates.

Conveniently ignoring the growing pile of crockery on the draining board, Bodie leant back in his chair and considered the little Doyle had told him about Ann; precious little really, considering how much time he seemed to spend in a dreamworld thinking about her.

"How close did you come to getting married?"

There was no answer but Bodie was not one to give up easily. "Long engagement, was it?" he said in a voice that held more than a hit of mockery. "Insisted on being engaged before letting you past first post? Yeah," he said knowingly, "a girl like that, good looks, classy, bit of money in the family vault--bound to have high principles."

Doyle sighed and threw the dishcloth into the bowl.

"Seeing as you're so interested Bodie, I'll tell you," he said flatly. "Maybe you should go and get a pen and paper so you can take notes, I mean, I wouldn't want you to miss any of the details."

Bodie refused to let Doyle's anger faze him. He calmly returned the angry stare.

"Too right, mate--if I'm going to get the chop because you're too busy daydreaming about the love affair of the century to watch my back properly--then I do want to know all the details. What's so special about this bird then? She can't be worth that much if she ditched you the first time the going go rough."

"Shut up!"

"--suppose you'd already been married when you were arrested, what would she have done then, divorced--"

"Shut up, Bodie!" Doyle shouted. "Shut up, you don't know anything about her, you don't know what you're talking about, just leave it, all right!"

"So tell me," Bodie said quietly. "Tell me why she's so special. Tell me why you don't just go to see her and tell her that you were stitched up?"

The silence stretched on. "Well?"

"Well what?" Doyle asked.

"Well--why don't you go and see her, talk to her?"

"No."

"Why not?" But Doyle chose not to answer; a sudden thought occurred to Bodie.

"Has she married someone else, found herself another fellow?"

"No!" Doyle's rejection of that idea was very definite.

"You're very sure of yourself. Reckon she's been pining away for you do you, saving herself for you?"

"No." The answer was just as adamant as the first but a smile tugged at Doyle's mouth as he tried, unsuccessfully, to picture Ann pining away for anyone. "But I just doubt very much if there is anyone else."

"Put her off that much did you?"

Bodie's voice was so incredulous that Doyle just had to laugh. He finally gave in to the inevitable, succumbing at last to the clever technique of his partner. He sat back down at the table after pouring them each a beer and told Bodie all about Ann.


After the beer was gone the whisky bottle was unearthed and after a short discussion on the lines of drunk driving, exorbitant taxi fares and the broken springs in Doyle's bed-settee, the two men wound up in a comfortably familiar position in Doyle's bed.

Feeling wonderfully relaxed and sleepy and just a little bit drunk, Doyle wriggled down under the covers and rearranged Bodie's hand so it didn't rest so heavily on his ribs.

"So," Bodie continued, truly puzzled by the intricacies of the tale Doyle had revealed that evening and not wholly convinced he wasn't being subjected to a monumental put-on, "that dance you met her was the first time she'd been out socially since Roger jumped off the cliff?"

"No, no, Roger was the one that drowned, Philip was the one that fell off the cliff."

"I thought Philip was the fella that jilted her." At some point during the evening the whole story had become very confused.

"No, that was Trevor."

"Let's see if I've got this right," Bodie said as he shifted his head around on the pillow, trying to find a position where Doyle's hair didn't get up his nose. "Trevor jilted her, Roger drowned and Philip threw himself off a cliff."

"Trevor didn't exactly jilt her--he just called the wedding off without saying why," Doyle explained patiently, too sleepy to object to Bodie's persistence. "Roger was drowned during a freak storm and Philip fell off a cliff by accident. Now shut up and go to sleep."

For a while Bodie considered the fate of his Doyle and the luckless Roger and Philip.

"Lucky old Trevor," he whispered softly. "I wonder what he knew that you didn't." He gave Doyle a gentle squeeze, a sudden flood of unrecognised emotions making him want to hold and protect the sleeping man, to keep him safe, happy and...

Curling up even closer to length of bare flesh, Bodie made himself more comfortable. Doyle was sound asleep, his breathing regular and soothing to Bodie's ears, his heartbeat pulsing away gently against the arm draped across his chest. Doyle, Bodie decided, was nice to hold: warm, firm, silky and supple all at once.

Floating towards sleep, Bodie found his thoughts drifting to Ann again. At one point he had almost begun to feel sorry for her but the story had become so unbelievable that he could only wonder what the next instalment in her life could be. Surely no one deserved to be that unlucky. But, if the tale was true then, Bodie decided, she deserved everything she got for treating Doyle so badly.

All night long Bodie dreamt of Ann. Weird, disjointed senseless dreams that bordered on near-nightmares. By dawn he knew that she had filled his dreaming hours, that the dreams had been unpleasant--but he couldn't recall one second of any dream.

Washing the sleep from his eyes, he decided that he never wanted to hear her name uttered ever again. So later that morning as, bleary-eyed, they both dragged their hungover heads around the local supermarket, he was totally unprepared for the way his stomach plunged and his heart missed a beat when Doyle uttered the name.

"Ann."

"Ray?" she answered, disbelieving. "Ray!"

"Hallo, Ann." His feet rooted to the spot, Doyle watched recognition dawn, surprise turn to bewilderment then, unbelievably, to pleasure.

"Ray! I can't believe it." Now over the initial shock, Ann took a second look at the man standing before her. "I... You've changed so much I almost didn't recognise you." Doyle saw her eyes linger on the most noticeable change.

"What on earth happened to your--" She raised an elegantly manicured hand to brush the damaged cheek.

"Something hit it," Doyle answered shortly, catching the hand and holding it firmly, almost afraid to let go.

"When did you get... I mean how long have you been... I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to embarrass you, but what are you doing here, I never expected to--" Confusion and embarrassment warred equally and the conversation faltered and stopped.

The meeting was what he had hoped for, but now it was happening Doyle found himself floundering, his prepared speech vanishing from his memory as reality hit home hard. It was impossible to stand in front of the cooked-meats counter in Sainsbury's with Bodie on one side and the shop assistant's ears flapping on the other and tell Ann that he wasn't the criminal she thought, that he had been framed, pardoned and was now respectably employed by a very important, very secret government organisation.

Divining the nature of the problem, Bodie broke the awkward silence by introducing himself.

"Hello, my name's Bodie. You must be Ann--I've heard a lot about you." He smiled warmly and held out his hand, all politeness and formality.

A cold hand barely touched his in return and a pair of steel grey eyes reminded him that his own were probably bloodshot and his clothes looked as dirty and rumpled as they felt.

"I really must go, Ray, I'm in a bit of hurry--"

"Can we meet later, I'd like to--"

"I'm flying to America this evening, I won't be back for about a week."

"I'll call you then?" Doyle asked. After a moment's hesitation Ann answered that he could, then she was gone.

Standing in the aisle, Bodie watched Doyle watch her go before turning his mind to more important matters.

"Greenback or smoked?"

"What?"

"Bacon," he elucidated, pointing at the displayed produce. "Which one and how much? This young lady is ready to leap into action to provide you with anything your heart desires." The uniformed girl blushed until her cheeks were as red as the pimples that glowed on her chin.

The rest of the shopping was done by Bodie, Doyle seemingly in too much of a daze to think about such mundane matters. Back outside Doyle's flat Bodie sorted out the shopping, then thrust a carrier bag full towards his partner.

"That's yours and this is mine, I'll see you tomorrow morning then."

Doyle took the bag, and looked at it as if he was wondering where it had come from.

"What?" He stood on the pavement, clutching the bag of groceries to his chest and stared as Bodie threw his half of the shopping onto the back seat of his own car before getting in and starting the engine up.

"Wake up, Doyle," he snapped irritably. "I've already wasted half of the day steering you round the shops. I've got plans for this afternoon--and I'm picking her up in three quarters of an hour--so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah, okay," Doyle agreed finally as he watched Bodie's car tear off down the road.

---

After emptying the contents of his carrier bag into the fridge and larder, Bodie quickly leafed through his address book. Carole was less than delighted with the precipitate summons.

"You could have called and let me know last night, Bodie," she complained.

"Ah, come on, Carole, didn't know myself until a few moments ago," he lied glibly.

"Well--"

"Go on!" Bodie encouraged, hearing the capitulation in her voice.

"I've only just got up, I was working until three this morning, I've just run a bath--"

"I've not had a bath since Tuesday," Bodie said longingly. "Boiler's broken," he sighed. "I hate boiling kettles to wash 'n shave," he piled the pathos on. "And they're not coming to fix it until next Tuesday!"

"Well... I suppose you could always come round here--"

"Thanks, Carole, run a bit more hot in and I'll be there in five minutes."

Driving around to her flat, Bodie tried to push the uncomfortable, niggling feeling that he was ruining the sexual anticipation he knew he should be feeling. Carole was a nice girl but... A nice girl but what? he asked himself. But he had been meaning to spend the first day off in three weeks with Doyle--not that they had arranged anything, well--nothing definite anyway.

Carole opened the door wearing, Bodie guessed, only a thigh length dressing gown and a splash of delicate perfume.

It was some time before any thought of Ray Doyle returned to disturb him and by then he was pleasantly sleepy and in Carole's bed for the second time that day. Fast asleep beside him, Carole lay, arms and legs spread with careless abandon, taking up a good two thirds of the bed. Carefully pushing the sleep-heavy body to one side, he decided that as a considerate bed-partner he would have to go a long way to find anyone as accommodating as Ray Doyle.

The thought tickled his outrageous sense of humour and he was unable to prevent a low giggle from breaking out. Pulling Carol towards him, he tidied her arms and legs up and settled down to sleep. His last thought was that Carole's neatly cut hair was neither as long nor as silky as Ray's...

---

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Drawing up outside Doyle's block of flats, Bodie parked neatly but left the engine running.

"Coming in?" Doyle asked.

"No, I've arranged to meet Carole this evening and I've just about got time to get home and change before I pick her up."

"Oh!" Doyle's face dropped. "See you tomorrow then."

"Are you doing anything tonight?" Bodie asked suddenly. "Why don't you come along too--we're only going to the pictures and maybe a meal after--I'm sure Carole won't mind."

"Well," Doyle hovered, undecided. "If you're sure she won't mind," he said, feeling disinclined to spend another evening alone.

"Of course she won't, I'll pick you up at half seven on my way to her place, okay--see you later!" Bodie waited until Doyle slammed the door before speeding off with a cheery wave.

Returning a little over an hour later through the one-way system leading into Doyle's road, Bodie, freshly washed, shaved and spruced up, found himself behind a black taxi that parked inconsiderately in the centre of the road to allow its passenger to disembark. He wondered if Doyle knew she was back.

Bodie watched the cab driver carry her luggage into the lobby of the building then storm back into his cab with a miserable face after counting the money she had so efficiently dropped into his hand. The posh voice and address had obviously led the driver to expect a handsome reward for his exertions.

Climbing back into his cab and ignoring the line of cars he had held up, the driver finally moved off. About to do likewise, Bodie narrowly missed denting his front wing when the door of a parked car unexpectedly swung open and its occupant, a tall middle-aged gentleman, climbed out totally unaware of the accident he had nearly caused. His attention obviously elsewhere, the man did not see or hear the abuse Bodie directed towards him.

Doyle was ready to go as soon as Bodie arrived but Carole was neither ready nor, as he quickly found out, in a particularly good mood.

"Really, Bodie, you could have let me know--this is the third time you've done this to me," she complained.

"I thought you liked Ray?"

"I do," Carole said. "He's a nice person, it's just that I rather thought I was going out with you, not you and your friend."

"He wanted to see the film, why can't he come and see it with us?"

"Why can't he go and see it with his own girlfriend?"

"I don't think he's seeing anyone at the moment. Look," Bodie said sweetly, grabbing hold of Carole as she snatched her jacket angrily from the hanger, pulling her close and kissing her softly, petting and gentling her. "We'll just go to the pictures with him, see the film and then drop him off at home before we go on somewhere else, okay?"

"Oh...all right, but not mmnhg!" Bodie smothered her agreement with a long, breathless kiss. "Oh, Bodie, I do wish you wouldn't do that!"

"Do what?" he asked innocently, his eyes sparkling, alight with mischief.

"You know damn well what," she retorted, laughing now, her anger almost gone. "But really, next time--just you and me--please. Just leave your friend at home."

Bodie found her persistence annoying, he really couldn't see what she was making a fuss about.

"Okay, okay, I give in. Next time I'll find a baby-sitter for my poor lonely friend," he said mockingly.

"I really don't understand why he can't find his own baby-sitter, why doesn't he have a girlfriend? He seems nice enough, why is he so lonely that you feel obligated to drag him everywhere with you."

"I don't drag him anywhere," Bodie fumed, " and what's more, I do not feel obligated to look after him, he's a friend, that's all, a bloke who's just feeling a bit low who happens to be between girlfriends at the moment." Carole's unwillingness to understand Doyle's problem was beginning to irritate Bodie beyond his patience. "If you don't feel like going out tonight just say so!"

"And you'll go to see the film with Ray," she sniped at him.

"And I'll go to see the film with Ray. Just the two of us," Bodie agreed icily.

"Well I hope you'll be very happy together. You make a wonderful couple!" Carole turned away and opened the door. Bodie took the hint.

"I don't believe this," he stormed. "What are you getting so wound up about--anybody would think I'd invited him to come to bed with us instead of the pictures!"

"The way you've been carrying on it wouldn't surprise me," Carole shouted back.

"Exactly what did you mean by that?" Bodie asked, his voice so cold and hard that Carole flinched as if his words had actually struck her.

"Just what I said," she answered bravely, only barely managing to stop herself from stepping back to escape the tiger she had unwittingly unleashed in her living room. "It really wouldn't surprise me if you did invite him to bed with us. You called me Ray the other night," she said hurriedly as Bodie stared at her. "You were stroking my arm and you kissed my shoulder--I thought you were awake but then you pulled me back towards you and kissed me again--then you called me Ray, you said it twice, you thought you were kissing--Bodie!" She screamed and ran towards the safety of the kitchen, her eyes wide and frightened. Bodie started after her but quickly regained control of his senses. He stared down at Carole, seeing her very obvious fear and realising with a shock that he was the cause of it. Stepping backwards toward the door, he smiled, a smooth cheerless smile that was a mockery of his normal smug grin.

"If you didn't want to see the film you should've said. There was no need to go to extremes, you know." He reached the door. "I'll tell Ray you're not feeling too good but that you send your love. See you sometime then, okay?"

Carole nodded, a sharp jerky movement of her head without taking her eyes off him for a second.

They were halfway up the road before Doyle managed to clamber over into the front passenger seat and repeat his question.

"She's got a bad migraine," Bodie answered curtly as he mashed the gears yet again.

The evening was not a success. The film was awful, the projectionist managing to get the lip-synch movements right only half an hour before the end, not that they could concentrate on the rather intricate plot anyway--the crisp-crunching, sweet-rustling restless bunch of moronic young trendies that had turned up in force had seen to that.

After the film finished, Doyle followed a very moody Bodie back to the car and allowed himself to be driven home in silence. Outside his block he tried--one last time--to break through the cloud his partner had hidden behind but Bodie had shrugged his concern off. Knowing that he had somehow soured things between Bodie and Carole made him awkward and uneasy; Bodie had been so sure that Carole wouldn't object to his presence and Doyle now knew that that had not been the case.

Still furiously angry with Carole for resorting to such a callous method of dumping him, Bodie didn't realise that Doyle was still completely unaware of what had taken place in Carole's flat. Her spur of the moment accusation was still sending shock waves through his mind. Dropping Doyle off outside his flat, Bodie drove home, still seething at the lying little cat's revenge. Why, he wondered, had she chosen that little scenario? There were easier ways to end a relationship.

Pouring himself a drink, Bodie began to find it amusing. He could just imagine what Doyle's reaction would be if he told him. He knew he never would, though. He didn't know why--he just knew that he never would, he wouldn't see Carole again either, she could sharpen her claws on someone else. Unsettled, sleep took a long time to come and, when it finally took hold, it was restless and uneasy, his dreams haunting grey affairs that were out of focus and impossible to follow, the substance of each always just too far away or too vague to reach, dreams that held so much promise but which, on awakening to the alarm's clamour, left him feeling alone and mildly depressed.

At HQ the next day Bodie spent a good twenty minutes wandering through the offices, locker room and rest rooms before stopping someone and asking them if they had seen his missing partner.

"What is it with Doyle," Murphy asked. "You're the third person to ask me that today."

"Who else is after him?"

"Cowley--but he was also asking if you'd managed to drag yourself in yet as well, and Doctor Willis."

Checking first with Cowley's secretary, Bodie wondered down to the medical room and poked his head around the door just in time to catch the tail end of Willis' favourite lecture and the expression of polite interest that sat awkwardly on his partner's face.

"...Well, you've heard me say all of this before, haven't you, Doyle?" Willis said. "Hop up onto the scales, I'll just check to see how your weight's coming on--you still look too slim for my money. Whatever Macklin says, I say you need pounds as well as skill to cope with a determined adversary. Just slip your shoes off while I get your record sheet from the file."

As the doctor stepped into the adjoining office, Bodie slipped into the room and quietly closed the door.

"What's with the medical--you ill or something?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," Doyle said as he undid his trainers and stepped onto the scales. "Oh shit!" he groaned as he looked at the reading. "I'm going to get another lecture on wholesome eating habits."

"Let's 'ave a look. Well," Bodie said, grinning from ear to ear, "it's getting better."

"I've been ten stone or just under for a couple of months now, it just won't go up any more," Doyle complained.

"Try eating a bit more."

"I don't have the ability to gorge myself like some people I could mention."

"How's this?" Bodie asked as he peered at the scale.

"Ten and ha-- What are you doing?" Doyle said in amazement, then grinned as he saw Bodie's foot resting on the platform just behind his.

"Here we are then," Willis said, re-entering the room. "Good morning, Bodie. Well that is an improvement I must say!" Surprise at the scale's measure clearly showing on his face, Willis blinked and re-checked the measure, looked disbelievingly into Doyle's innocent wide eyes and then swiftly over to the table where the lead weights were all neatly and correctly placed. "Well this does surprise me, I must say that I thought you were still under your optimum weight and it's not often I make a...mistake. Mr Bodie," Willis said, smoothly, "are you aware of the fact that your foot is resting on the scale? Thank you. Now let's see what it says."

Sheepishly, Bodie backed away and left Doyle to the mercies of the damning scales. "That is more like it, Mr Doyle," Willis said crisply. "You are still to my mind underweight and I shall record the fact on your file."

"You are still passing me fit for active duty though, aren't you?"

Stepping down and retrieving his shoes, Doyle's eyes followed the doctor around the room. Worried, he repeated his question, Bodie chipping in with his own concern about his partner's duty status.

Willis regarded the two men closely and made a mental note to inform Cowley and Ross of the incident. He toyed with the idea of standing Doyle down just to see what they would both do.

"I am not satisfied with your weight, Doyle, but I agree with you that at the moment it does not appear to be affecting your performance. However," he added as the two men relaxed, "do not consider the matter closed. If for any reason your weight drops below ten stone I will recommend that you be removed from the active list."

Summarily dismissed, the two men escaped out into the corridor.

"What did he drag you in for?" Bodie asked as they made their way up to Cowley's office.

"I don't think he had anything better to do--no bullet wounds or broken bones to patch up!"

"Now, now, 4.5," Bodie chided. "There's no need to sound so bitter. We can't have you fading away or getting blown away by a puff of wind can we?"

"I'll blow you away if you don't belt up."

"Oh yeah--you and whose army?" Bodie jostled against Doyle, making him stumble on the stairs.

"Just me!" Doyle retaliated, shoving Bodie across the stairwell then hooking a hand into the waistband of his partner's trousers to pull him even more off balance. It was the signal for a schoolboy scuffle to break out and they tussled and giggled on the stairs, each preventing the other from moving to escape until...

"3.7, 4.5," a voice barked out, stopping them in their tracks. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sorry, sir," Bodie apologised as he attempted to tuck his shirt back in.

"Sorry, sir," Doyle echoed, tugging his jacket back up onto his shoulders.

"I will not have brawling in the halls of CI5, is that understood?" he snapped.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," the two men chorused. The sight of Doyle unconsciously sniffing and rubbing the back of his hand across his nose made Cowley feel like a headmaster scolding two mischievous, scruffy schoolboys, their embarrassment and efforts to straighten out their faces and clothing only heightening the illusion. He dismissed them, ordering them to await him in briefing room two, but not before Bodie caught sight of the smile that twitched at the corner of his boss' mouth.

---

A short while later they were heading across town to an insignificant old building almost hidden from sight just off a busy main road. They parked along the side of the building and walked quickly towards the battered looking door. Bodie pressed the buzzer and spoke his name into the rusty security intercom.

The door buzzed and they entered a different world. The contrast to the drab, rundown exterior was remarkable, sophisticated surveillance equipment was in evidence everywhere and their I.D.s were thoroughly checked before they were allowed to proceed any further into the building. As they walked down to the interrogation rooms in the basement a sudden scream of metal, gears and protesting machinery echoed in the stone stairwell.

"That," Bodie said in response to Doyle's query, " is why we are walking down to the basement. They've spent almost a million pounds on electronic surveillance and security equipment but refuse point-blank to improve the lift that was installed when the building was built."

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. "It's safe enough to use, I suppose," Bodie added, "but it has a nasty habit of getting stuck. About two years ago I got stuck in there for over an hour with Ruth and Susan," he sighed. "It took them an hour to realise we hadn't rung the alarm bell!"

Refusing to acknowledge the smug grin on his partner's face, Doyle elbowed his way past him and out into the corridor. The strict security was even more in evidence down here. Having had their I.D.s verified yet again, they finally reached their destination. Day was waiting for them, and they both eyed his rumpled and battered appearance, the bruising around his lip and eye darkening nicely.

"You took your time getting here," he snapped at them.

"Came as soon as we could," Doyle said placidly. It was obvious that Day was tired and in some pain from his injuries and this helped Bodie to be a little more tolerant. Doyle didn't bother to answer at all, he just returned the icy stare he was receiving.

"Cowley told you what we want, did he?"

"Not really--things are a bit hectic back at HQ, what with the bomb outside the Old Bailey, the Prime Minister's car being rammed in Downing Street and your little party last night. He didn't have much time to brief us properly. What's going on?"

In answer, Day indicated that they should follow him. The room was full of electronic surveillance screens and devices, the banks of televisions showing the goings on in each of the interrogation rooms. In front of each screen, an operator monitored the discussions taking place.

"We pulled in six men last night in connection with the Christmas case. At first we thought that the Drugs Squad had blown it but then I noticed something in this man's records."

Doyle and Bodie exchanged glances at the man's pompous tones and then looked at the screen. "I thought that Doyle might be able to tell us something about him."

Ignoring the coolness in Day's voice, Dole peered at the image of the man sitting at a table in one of the rooms.

"Who is he?"

"Are you saying that you don't know him?" Day asked.

"I wouldn't ask if I already knew his name, would I!" Doyle returned sharply. "Why do you think I know him anyway?"

"You won't have seen him for nearly four years. Take another look. Are you sure you don't know him?" Day insisted.

Doyle looked again. Four years ago; that would take him back to the time he was arrested. What the hell was Day up to now, he wondered.

"I've had another look and I don't know him. I've never seen him before. Now," he turned to Day, "tell me what's going on."

"It's strange that you don't know him," Day answered snidely. "Specially since he was based at the same station you were."

"He's a policeman?" Bodie asked, staring at the skinny, nervous looking man on the screen.

"No," said Day. "He was a motor mechanic at the station, he looked after the repairs and the garage, did a bit of driving. He worked there about a year in all, left about two weeks after Doyle was arrested."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Doyle asked why they had pulled the man in.

"The Drugs Squad team raided a 'shop' last night, only it turned out to be more than just the shop. It's a factory store house and pushers' warehouse. Things got a bit hairy for a while and they had to call us in. We found him, Alan Weston," Day pointed to the screen, "hiding in a cupboard."

"And just because he happens to have been employed at the same station as Doyle you dragged us halfway across town to let us know."

"I wouldn't bother Cowley or you if it was just that," Day said smoothly, smiling at Doyle. "It was Weston's reaction to a question that made me think Doyle might know something. I'll show you."

Day asked the operator to wind the tape back and the scene on the screen changed to reveal a stormy interview taking place between Weston and Day. Weston was pacing up and down the room, his face white and running with sweat, his movements fast, jerky and barely controlled.

"...I don't know what you're talking about. I was only there to get some stuff. I always buy my supply there, but I don't know anything about them others. I've never seen them before."

"You used to work for the Met. police, didn't you?" Day asked quietly. "Were you a junkie then? How did you get your supplies while you worked at the station? Did anyone know you were a junkie?"

"No. No," Weston said, shaking his head.

"You were already on drugs when you worked for the police weren't you, Alan?"

"Yes," Weston admitted. "But no one knew, I'd've lost my job if they'd found out."

"Who supplied you then while you were at the station. Who?" Day pushed.

"No one, no one."

"Come on, Alan, someone did, just tell me who."

"No, no." Weston stopped pacing and leant against the wall, closing his eyes. "No, I can't tell you." He wrapped his arms around himself and sank, groaning, to the floor. "Please," he begged, "I need some really bad. Please!"

"Tell me what I want and I'll see you get something to help you," Day coaxed. "Tell me who your supplier was."

Weston whimpered and shook his head, refusing to speak.

"You must have got to know quite a few people while you were working there. Get to meet many of the police officers did you?" Weston nodded this time. "Didn't the Drugs Squad use that station as a base for their operation?" Weston whimpered again but he didn't move.

"Did you ever meet an old friend of mine," Day asked gently, "he was there with the Drugs Squad about the time you were--Ray Doyle's his name. Oh, you do remember him!"

Weston's eyes opened wide and he shook his head frantically, the whimpers and cries growing alarmingly.

"Tell me about Doyle," Day pushed. "Did he know you were a junkie?"

Bodie switched the tape off as Doyle went for Day, then pulled the two men apart and hustled them out past the eagle-eyed operators and into an empty interrogation room.

"Just what do you think you're up to?" Bodie demanded to know as soon as the door closed behind them. His question was ignored by the two men as they squared up to each other, Doyle's face contorted into an ugly snarl.

"You just won't let up, will you?" Doyle growled. "You won't let things be. You keep on pushing and poking around, you're determined to find some dirt, aren't you? It doesn't matter that Cowley believes me, that the Home Secretary believes me, that I've been cleared and pardoned officially. You know that Mike Behan confessed to framing me! Why are you so determined to prove everyone wrong and me guilty. Why!"

"A death-bed confession!" Day sneered. "How very dramatic, how very convenient. I wonder how much someone paid him to do it!"

For a second Bodie thought his partner was going to launch himself across the few feet separating him from Day but after a few moments Doyle, his whole body trembling with rage, turned his back on him, clearly trying to control his urge to lash out--to hurt as much as he was being hurt.

"What," Doyle demanded coldly, "do you mean by 'convenient'?"

"Just that," Day snapped back, his attention divided equally between Doyle's back and Bodie's glowering presence. "Why did he wait so long to develop a guilty conscience. He knew he was dying for nearly a year before he finally did. If the 'guilt' was troubling him that much why didn't he confess earlier?" Feeling more confident that Bodie was prepared to act as referee, Day continued, "I hear his wife's just bought a lovely little bungalow down in Cornwall, didn't realise a widow's pension could run to that sort of money."

"If you've got a point to make, Day--make it!" Bodie ordered.

"All right," he said. "How does this sound--" He waited until Doyle turned back round to face him. "You're a liar, Doyle--and what's more I'm going to prove it. You've been very clever getting this far but you don't fool me for one second."

"What proof have you got to back this up, Day?" Bodie wanted to know. "You can't go round making allegations of this sort without--"

"Oh I've got proof, Bodie--and he knows it," Day gloated as he stared into Doyle's white face. "Maybe D.I. Behan was bent, but there's no reason why he should have been the only one--and that man in there--" he jerked his head towards the other interrogation rooms, "Weston, he knows something--he certainly knows Doyle--and I'll make damn sure he tells me everything he knows."

"Are you going to make this official--drag Internal Security into it? Do you really think you're going to find anything Cowley overlooked?" Bodie wanted to know; he cast a puzzled glance over to where Doyle stood, white-faced, a frozen mute statue.

"What do you take me for, Bodie," Day said tiredly. "Of course I'm making it official, I couldn't do otherwise, could I?" Both men turned to Doyle, waiting for him to say something, do something--anything--but he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the tiny barred ventilation window. Eventually Day shrugged his shoulders, nodded to Bodie and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Long minutes passed before Bodie moved the few steps to stand at Doyle's side; he reached out and gripped a thin shoulder and felt Doyle draw a long shuddering breath then hold it a few seconds before slowly releasing it.

"Not again," he whispered. "Dear God, not again."

"Come on, mate," Bodie said awkwardly. "I've never known the Cow to be wrong about something as important as this."

"But," Doyle said slowly, as he turned to look at him. "But there's a first time for everything--is that what you were going to say?"

Usually so expressive, Doyle's face was unreadable and Bodie found himself lost, wondering for a brief moment whether Day really had stumbled onto something; the doubt must have shown on his own face because Doyle's expressionless mask crumpled, revealing the fear and hopeless dejection that he was feeling.

"I've never asked you outright, Doyle," Bodie began, "because I didn't think there was any need, and I'm not asking now because you've given me reason to doubt you--but," Doyle looked at him unblinking waiting for the final blow to fall, "but I have to ask you now, especially if Day's going to push this thing." The cool, level stare was unnerving but Bodie finally voiced his question.

"Are you guilty?"

"The judge and jury thought so," Doyle answered, "my former friends and colleagues didn't have too much trouble believing I was guilty, my family made all sorts of sympathetic noise but I could tell they didn't really believe me! You know, Bodie," Doyle laughed, a harsh, ugly sound, "until George Cowley told me I was innocent even I believed I was guilty. After all," he reasoned, smiling at his partner, "could all those people be that wrong, could they? Mike Behan--who was he anyway--just a friend, just a bloke I once knew, maybe he thought he'd just do an old friend a favour so he very kindly wrote a nice tidy death-bed confession--fooled everyone didn't he--certainly fooled George Cowley." Doyle laughed again, seemingly highly amused at the joke he had pulled on everyone and Bodie felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Sickened, he turned to leave.

Doyle stopped him, his voice cracking, breaking, the laughter completely gone.

"No!" he cried out. "No!" Bodie turned back in time to see Doyle drive a fist into the solid brickwork. He heard the crunch of bone. "I didn't do it!" He hit the wall again. "I didn't," and again, "I didn't!" Bodie reached out in time to stop the fist pounding into the wall a fourth time.

"Okay, okay," he murmured, pulling Doyle away from the wall, "you didn't do it, I believe you."

"You do?" Doyle asked, his voice quietly desperate.

"I do," Bodie agreed."

"Why?"

The question threw Bodie for a second or two and he found he had no logical reasoned answer. "Because I do, dunno why," he said honestly. "But I do believe you."

The confidence in Bodie's voice was reassuring and Doyle found himself beginning to relax a little, but the relaxation only made him realise how much damage he had done to his hand; it throbbed painfully.

"Come on," Bodie tugged him towards the door, ruffling the curly mop of hair affectionately. "They've got a first aid room upstairs somewhere--let's go and get that fixed before we try and sort out this mess."

Out in the corridor they bumped into Lake, who was limping past the door.

"Hey, Puddle," Bodie called out, "you any idea where the first aid room is in this place?"

"It just so happens that I do--I'm on my way there myself--and the queue forms behind me," he added as he saw the sorry state of Doyle's hand. "What does the other guy look like?"

"In need of a plaster job and a fresh coat of paint," Bodie said as he walked the wounded towards the stairs.

"Oh, no," said Lake, "not them, it's on the third floor--I'm using the lift." As soon as he pushed the call button the machinery screamed into life. Pushing his mistrust of the lift to one side, Bodie followed his companions into the spacious but antiquated car and closed the doors. They passed the basement levels, ground and first floors, the machinery's scream changed to a different agonised note, the car juddered, halted, started again and finally stopped completely somewhere between the second and third floors.

All three of them stared at the floor indicator, willing the little arrow to move up onto the three, waiting in expectant silence for the reassuring scream of gears and weights.

"Fuck it!" Lake said eventually, and totally without heat, already resigned to a long wait.

"Fuck it," Bodie echoed as he slid down the wall to make himself comfortable on the floor. Sliding down a little more carefully, Lake shifted his injured leg out of Bodie's way and calmly opened the emergency telephone cupboard to tell whoever answered it that the main lift had broken down again and would someone please try and come to get them out as soon as possible.

Still standing up nursing his sore hand, Doyle stared from one man to the other in amazement. Lake looked up at him then across at Bodie, who was in the process of turning his jacket into a pillow behind his head.

"This his first time, is it?" Lake asked.

"I did tell you about this thing, Doyle, didn't I! You may as well make yourself comfortable--it'll take them an hour at least to get us out of here." Bodie looked back at Lake. "Yeah, his first time--I reckon he thought I was just making it up."

"Did you tell him about the time you got stuck with Ruth and Susan?"

"Yeah," Bodie sighed. "Pity they're not here now--wasted of bloody time getting stuck with you two."

"Just hold your noise, Bodie," said Doyle as he settled himself on the floor next to his partner. "It could be worse--you could 'ave got stuck with Cowley."

"Or Macklin."

"Or Evans with his perishing cigars."

They tried to outdo each other by naming the worst person to get stuck with, going from the sublime to the ridiculous as their suggestions became more outrageous.

"Well," Lake said finally, as their laughter quieted down, "at least we missed getting lumbered with Day--he's been a right bloody pain recently."

"Oh I don't know," said Doyle. "I wouldn't mind having him all to myself for a few hours in a locked room." The humour vanished in a flash and all three sobered up.

"What's he up to?" Lake asked. "He's dancing around like a flea on heat right now--seems pretty excited about something." As soon as the words were spoken Lake felt the atmosphere in the cramped compartment change. "What's going on?" he asked of both of them. "Is he still trying to stir up trouble for Doyle?"

"He's doing his level best," said Bodie grimly.

"You know why he's got it in for you, Doyle, don't you?" Lake said quietly. Doyle shook his head and Bodie looked up interestedly. "Before he joined CI5 he worked in army intelligence out in Hong Kong. A friend of his was murdered trying to break into a smuggling outfit--when they caught the murderer he turned out to be a policeman, seems the bloke realised Day's pal was onto him and shot him full of pure heroin, so not only does Day hate pushers, users and suppliers, he also hates bent policemen. The way he carries on I think he blames just about every bent copper for his mate's death, it's nothing personal against you, you understand--it's just something he feels very strongly about."

"If he's neurotic about bent coppers he's got no right to be in CI5!"

"Maybe he is going a bit over the top where Doyle's concerned--but he is a good man--give credit where it's due. Once he's investigated Doyle and found nothing he'll give up, he's only making sure."

Neither Doyle or Bodie found Puddle's words particularly reassuring though they didn't say so. Bodie changed the subject and they all welcomed the fresh topic, leaving the uneasy thoughts about Day's accusations as far behind them as they could.

At last the sound of something happening above began to filter down to them and via the emergency telephone Lake informed them they were going to have to hand-crank the car back down to the second floor to get them out. The car juddered and shook a couple of times until suddenly, with a muffled bang and a painful cry, the car was plunged into total darkness.

"What the--" Bodie began, only to stop as his arm was gripped painfully tight.

"Oh wonderful!" Lake could be heard swearing from the other side of the car. Bodie guessed that the swearing was being directed to the poor unfortunate at the other end of the emergency line. While Lake was clearly so busy on the other side of the left, Bodie tried to release the painful grip on his upper arm.

"Ray," he whispered underneath Lake's irate dialogue. "Jesus, let go, you're cutting off the circulation!" He managed to prise the fingers away but they clutched desperately at his hands; he could feel the whole of Doyle's body shaking beside him.

"Ss..sorry... I'm sorry," Doyle mumbled.

Bodie's mind was racing. Doyle was clearly petrified, the grip on his hands was still just as strong, the initial shock of being plunged into total darkness had not worn off.

He's afraid of the dark! Bodie realised incredulously--and not just afraid either--he's bloody petrified. Suddenly Bodie remembered the nightly pantomime that happened every time they had slept together; every night out of habit and preference, Bodie would close the curtains before going into the bathroom, and every night Doyle would open them again.

Without warning Doyle released his hold and withdrew slightly, moving away.

"Would you believe it," said Lake. "The stupid bugger only went and dropped a wrench into the fuse box, the whole bloody works are jammed up now--it's gonna take 'em another thirty minutes at least to get us out."

Whilst joining Lake in expressing his opinion of the average British workman Bodie wondered what the hell he should do. Cautiously he stretched out a hand until he touched Doyle; he felt him flinch at his touch and heard the soft indrawn breath. Feeling blindly, Bodie worked out that Doyle was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around himself, he was trembling continuously. Still carrying on the banter with Lake, Bodie shifted his position slightly and slipped an arm around Doyle's shoulders, then found a tightly clenched hand with his free arm and prised the fingers loose, holding the hand firmly; rubbing the back of it with gentle circular movements of his thumb he pulled the stiff body to lie closer alongside him, his actions offering comfort and reassurance while he continued talking to Lake without giving a hint of what was taking place only feet away from him.

"You gone to sleep on us, Doyle?" Lake asked unexpectedly. Bodie felt Doyle tense up even more and went to say something to cover up if he wasn't going to answer but it was all right.

"I've been considering the idea." Doyle's voice was nearly normal and Bodie didn't think Lake would notice the difference.

"I wonder if we can put this down as overtime," Lake pondered aloud.

"No chance," Doyle offered. "Cowley's more likely to put this down to time off. We'll come out of here owing him a couple of hours!"

"You're probably right," Lake agreed morosely. "Hang on a minute, was that an earthquake or are we really moving?"

They were moving. Shaking and juddering every inch of the way, the car moved downwards until voices on the other side of the door told them they had arrived. Scrambling to their feet in the blackness, they were ready to be liberated from their dark prison.

Blinking in the bright neon-lit corridor, Bodie shrugged back into his jacket and pushed through the welcoming committee. Further down the hall he put a hand on Doyle's arm, stopping him.

"How's the hand?" he asked. "You really ought to get it seen to."

"It's okay, a bit sore but nothing's broken," Doyle assured him, flexing it to prove the point.

"Ah, there you are--Doyle, isn't it?" a tall, forbidding-looking man asked. "Let me see that," he said and before either man could react he took a hold of Doyle's bruised and swollen hand and began manipulating it. "Oh, I'm Doctor Webster, Mr Lake said that you were coming along to see me about this--how does this feel?"

"Ouch!"

"Ah hah," the doctor said in the say that all doctors do. "And how about this? I see." Doyle's wince and sharp intake of air through gritted teeth told him all he wanted to know. "It's not broken but if you want to make sure you'd better drive over to the medical section at your HQ."

"It's okay," Doyle said, gently pulling his hand out of the doctor's painful grasp. "I know it's only bruised--just looks a lot worse than it is, that's all."

Having ascertained that his medical skills were not needed, Doctor Webster nodded politely and moved back along the corridor to escort the limping Lake up to the first aid room.

"You sure you're all right?" Bodie asked worriedly. Doyle was more than just a little pale around the gills.

"Jesus--he's got hands like a bleedin' vise!" Doyle swore as he nursed his injured fingers. "If it wasn't broken before I bet it bloody well is now--I think he's crushed it. Did you see the size of his hands?"

Bodie made sympathetic noises as they returned via the stairs to the ground floor.

"We might as well return to HQ," he said as they walked back to their car. "I can't see any point hanging around here--can you?"

"No," Doyle said shortly. "Besides, I want to know if Cowley knows what Day is up to."

"He doesn't."

"You sound very sure of yourself," Doyle said.

"I just know George Cowley," Bodie answered carefully. "If he had even the slightest doubt about your involvement in this drugs business you'd be out so quick your feet wouldn't touch the ground."

"You reckon?" Doyle said glumly.

They were summoned to Cowley's office as soon as they entered the building. The first thing Doyle saw as he entered the office was the video tape.

"You have seen this tape," Cowley said. "You are aware of its implication, Doyle?" His face was unreadable and Bodie saw the colour drain from his partner's face.

"Yes, sir," Doyle said quietly.

"Have you anything to say about it?" Again Cowley's voice was impossible to read as he spoke without the slightest inflection that could be construed as a hint of how he regarded the film.

"No, sir."

"This man Weston, Alan Weston--did you know him?"

"No, sir."

"Even though you've been told he was employed at the same station as you were at the time of your arrest?"

"I don't know him, sir."

"You're sure about that?"

"I don't know him," Doyle repeated stubbornly.

"How do you account for the fact that he knows you?"

"I don't know him," Doyle repeated again. "I don't recognise him or his name--and I've no idea why he thinks he knows me."

"Knows you!" said Cowley. "He was already agitated when Day began to interview him, he became positively incoherent when your name was mentioned--why should the mere mention of your name have that effect on a man you say you don't know?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You are not being very helpful, Doyle." A measure of irritation had crept into Cowley's voice.

"I don't know the man!" Doyle suddenly shouted. "A lot of people worked at that station--I don't know everybody that ever worked there, maybe he does know me but if I ever met him or spoke to him I don't remember him and I don't know why he thinks he knows me!"

"If he was working at the same station when Doyle was arrested he's got more reason to remember Doyle than the other way around," Bodie added. "It's not every day that a policeman gets arrested, is it--he's bound to remember Doyle--it must have made quite an impact on the place after all!"

Cowley waited quietly, watching and listening intently to both men. Doyle was understandably worried by the day's events and was reacting exactly as he would have expected him to, but it was Bodie's reaction that he found the most interesting.

What Day thought he had uncovered certainly appeared very damning for Doyle, all his arguments--though based on supposition, conjecture and very little fact--were plausible and they would be stupid not to check into it further. Cowley knew that, and so must Bodie--but it appeared that Bodie had already made his decision. Armed only with the same facts they all had plus nine months' close contact with Doyle, he had clearly decided that his partner was innocent.

Bodie had learned to trust.

There were very few people that could claim to have Bodie's complete and utter trust; Doyle had joined a very small, exclusive club.

"Very well," Cowley said eventually, when Bodie finally paused in the defence of his partner, "the matter will have to be followed through of course but in the meantime I want to two to get down to..."

Doyle listened in amazement as Cowley began to brief them on their next assignment. He had been expecting to be carted off back to the interrogation centre or at least to be stood down, suspended while Day continued his investigations. It wasn't until Bodie nudged him towards the door he realised that the briefing was over and he didn't have a clue as to what they were supposed to be doing.

---

Having drawn the short straw, Doyle ended up spending the night across the road from a smart block of service flats in his car while Bodie was comfortably asleep at home in his own bed. By the time Bodie joined him at eight o'clock the next morning he was too cold and tired to care about anything. That absolutely nothing untoward had happened throughout the long night was no surprise to either man.

"Sleep well, did you?" he asked sourly as he took in the bright-eyed well-rested smugness of his partner.

"Lovely, thank you," Bodie returned politely. "No ghoulies or ghosties turned up then?"

"Not one--though I did witness some interesting goings on in a blue Volvo estate over there; could 'ave been arrested for being a peeping tom!"

"Yeah, Mac said things got a little lively--said to tell you that you ought to try being a radio commentator, reckoned you have a 'very descriptive turn of phrase' was the expression he used."

"Get him going did I?" Doyle laughed. Finding himself a reluctant spectator to a truly mind-boggling display of what two people of opposite sex but like minds could get up to in a car, Doyle had enlightened the nightwatch at HQ with a step-by-step account of the couple's antics. When the windows of their car had steamed up Doyle would not have been in the least bit surprised to discover Mac suddenly turning up and offering to clean and polish the car's windows in time for the grand finale.

"Is she moving around yet?" Bodie peered up at the window."

"Hasn't drawn the curtains back--postman arrived half an hour ago, she's got two letters, an Access statement and a telephone bill."

"My we're getting efficient aren't we," Bodie said; then: "She's up, the curtains were just pulled back so she's probably going in to work. We'll follow her and try to make contact, then you can shoot off home to get some kip before checking the firm out."

More disgruntled than he wanted to admit about the surveillance detail Cowley had put them on, Doyle's ill humour was only slightly appeased by the promise of sleep.

"Baby-sitting!" he snorted. "Who is she anyway? No one," he answered himself. "A nobody. A toffee-nosed, poor-little-rich spinster whose only joy in life is imagining terrifying encounters with sinister masked men in underground car parks!"

Bodie sat quietly as Doyle moaned and complained about their assignment; he knew as well as Doyle did what was really disturbing him, and it wasn't Susan Grant's mysterious masked man.

"I dunno who Cowley thinks he's fooling," Doyle continued, "anyone with half a brain can see there's nothing in this. Why doesn't he just come right out and stick me on suspension, at least that way you won't be lumbered with following some toffee-nosed tart around."

"Give it a rest, Doyle," Bodie snapped irritably. "The Old Man's not stupid. If he wanted to suspend you he would--he wouldn't waste time sticking both of us on this job just to keep you busy!"

Doyle emitted a low grunt, whether of denial or agreement Bodie was none too sure but at least it ended that particular conversation and they sat side by side in a silence that was only broken by the odd sarcastic or barbed comment.

At last, the woman emerged from the building and began her drive to the office. Doyle watched in stony-faced silence as Bodie went into action and made contact.

Waving Susan a polite and friendly farewell, Bodie climbed back into his car and moved off to park in a side street.

"And that, my son, is how the experts do it," said, grinning idiotically across at Doyle, wanting desperately, without realising it, to see the despondent gloom leave that weary face.

"I'm very impressed," Doyle intoned flatly.

"Yes," said Bodie with false cheeriness, "I can see that."

"Well," Doyle said with a sigh as he twisted around to get out of the car, "I can't hang around here all day, call me later on this afternoon to fill me in on the day's exciting events." Slamming the door shut, he turned and moved off to the end of the road where Bodie watched him hail a cab.

Echoing Doyle's heavy-hearted sigh, Bodie climbed out of the car and opened up the boot to take out the brand new light fitment he'd bought the night before and went to repair the damage he had deliberately caused to the girl's car.

---

CHAPTER TWELVE

Setting the alarm to allow himself six hours' sleep, Doyle snuggled down between the covers and closed his eyes. An hour later he got up and made himself a cup of tea in the hope that a hot drink would help to relax his tired body. Sitting on the settee, idly sipping at his drink and listening to the noises down in the street, he deliberately forced his mind away from the happenings of the previous day. Maybe, just maybe, he reasoned, if he didn't think of it nobody else would either.

He wondered if Ann was back from America yet. On calling her office a few days ago he had been informed that her return had been delayed due to business commitments. The secretary's snooty tone had not encouraged him to leave any messages. His fingers dialled her home number without conscious thought--he had called her flat so many times over the past few weeks that he no longer expected an answer.

"Hello, Ann Holly."

The tea cup was resting on his lips and he almost choked on a mouthful of hot liquid.

"Hello?"

Doyle swallowed the tea and tried to speak, separately trying to say something--anything, but his voice failed him.

"Hello?" Ann said again. "Is anyone there? Hello?" There was a short silence in which an irritated sigh was heard and then the line went dead.

"Hello Ann, Ann?" He finally managed to get the words out but it was too late. Swearing, he slammed the phone down. It was a conspiracy, he decided bitterly. Nothing but nothing ever went the way he wanted it. All his plans for getting back with Ann were falling to pieces around him. He had known that it wouldn't be easy but he hadn't expected it would be this hard either!

Going back to bed, he relaxed his mind by daydreaming his own reunion with her but, even in fantasy, the picture of Ann--waiting damp-eyed and beautiful outside the prison gate--refused to gel, so he tried another one. This time, in true Hollywood style, the dream flowed like magic along its way. He saw her walking along a sunlit pavement, her pretty face sad and her eyes dull and listless as she trudged along her weary way with her shopping. Buying an enormous colourful bouquet from an old flower woman, he crept up alongside Ann, who was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't see him.

"Ann," he said softly, reaching out to touch her hand. She turned toward him, her face and eyes lighting up in recognition, the love she felt radiating from her.

The dream followed its programmed course and soon they were lying together in their old bedroom, the pictures on the walls and the scent on the sheets as familiar to him as the warm, graceful body that he held in his arms. Replete and comfortable, they slept.

The dream had been so vivid that it took Doyle a moment to remember that a dream was all it had been and that Ann had never been there. He rolled over and turned the buzzing alarm off, the feeling of having just lost something precious still strong enough to depress him. He lay there a while, thinking about getting up and trying to recapture a little of the happiness he knew he had felt during his sleep. He was still lying there dozing and dreaming when the phone rang.

"Ray? Where the hell have you been. I've been looking all over for you." Bodie didn't sound pleased.

"What?" Doyle blinked and looked at the clock. "Oh shit! I'm sorry, I must've fallen asleep again," he apologised.

"Have you been to Companies House yet?"

"Ah--no...no I haven't and they'll be shutting up soon."

"You been asleep all day?" Bodie asked and Doyle had to admit that he had. "Well, there's no harm done," he said finally, "and if you're that tired you might just as well stand down for tonight."

"What about night surveillance on the Grant woman?" Doyle asked guiltily.

"I'll do it--I'm taking her out to dinner tonight."

"Reckon she'll invite you for breakfast then, do you?"

"Maybe, if not I'll make sure it's a late night and then tell Mac to send one of the new boys over to watch her place."

"Okay," Doyle agreed. "I'll get round to Companies House first thing tomorrow morning and then come over to you. Where will you be--outside her work place?"

"Yes. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Doyle had only replaced the handset when it rang again.

"Doyle?" It was Cowley and he carried straight on into the reason for his call without giving Doyle time to draw a breath. "Alan Weston died a few hours ago. The doctors think it was probably a heart attack induced by prolonged drug abuse. There will be an inquest of course, but you are not required to attend it. I have instructed Day to make whatever enquiries he feels that are necessary regarding Weston's employment the Metropolitan Police, but I do not consider that he has enough evidence of collusion between yourself and Weston to initiate through Internal Security. Do you understand, Doyle?" Cowley asked. He waited only long enough to hear Doyle's bemused acknowledgement before ringing off.

So, thought Doyle, I.S. was not going to be called on--yet--though the threat was still there. Cowley had clearly given Day permission to continue his investigation. Mentally worn out, Doyle groaned aloud and collapsed back onto the bed. What should he do now? Bodie had, unfortunately as it turned out, given him the night off when he could really do with some work to keep his mind occupied. The rest of the afternoon and a whole long empty evening was stretched out in front of him. If he didn't find something to do he knew he would go quietly mad sitting there waiting for Day to ferret around until he found some more mud to throw.

He busied himself getting showered and dressed, then wandered around the supermarket before it closed. He did keep an eye out for Ann--just in case, but this was no rose-tinted dream and there was no sign of her. Home again he pottered around, moving piles of 'things' from one side of the room to another, half-heartedly tidying up. In the bedroom, at the back of a cupboard, he found the portfolio. Sitting back on his heels, he thumbed through the pages, pausing every so often to linger over one particular sketch or another before suddenly seeing, for the first time, the tiny cameos he had unconsciously doodled around the main pictures. Small sketches of Ann, some half completed, a few only roughly outlined and one or two more or less completed ones. He flicked back through the pages, amazed that he had drawn her so many times without realising it and frowning at the few he had obviously finished--they weren't very good at all, he acknowledged. For some reason he had never been able to capture Ann's likeness on paper. Scrabbling around in the bottom of the cupboard again, he found a few pencils and a small packet of charcoal. He settled himself down on the floor in a comfortable position, his back leaning against the bed, turned to a blank page and began to sketch Ann as he had seen her the other week with Bodie.

It was only the fading light that made him stop. Once he had to move to switch on a light the mood was gone and he could only look back over his work critically. There were three pictures in all and he wasn't particularly satisfied with any of them. He hadn't had much practise since leaving the prison and it showed. He spent some time tidying a few bits and pieces up, adding a little final detail or shading where it was needed, the charcoal gliding over the paper almost of its own accord. Doyle had never really thought that much about Bodie's appearance before and had never noticed how curly his hair was--at first he'd shaded in a smooth cap but it had looked so very wrong that he'd had to alter it. Not exactly curly like his own, of course, more...wavy, not straight like Ann's. He fiddled around for a while longer before putting the pad away.

After fixing himself something to eat, Doyle found he was still feeling very restless and unable to settle. The prospect of the whole evening with just his own company and the television didn't fire him with any enthusiasm. He debated whether to call Ann again, then his nerve failed after it had rung a brief three times without being answered. He flicked through his telephone book trying to choose a companion for the evening--Joanna, Delia, Claire? None of them, he knew, would find his strange mood agreeable so he was stuck with his own company--but he still couldn't face remaining indoors alone.

After checking in with HQ and making sure that everything was going all right with Bodie's plans for the unsuspecting Susan Grant, Doyle found himself heading towards a pub he had begun to frequent. Ordinarily it was not his choice of 'watering hole,' but he had stumbled on it more or less by accident a couple of months ago. That first time, Bodie had been with him and they had both been starving hungry, hot, tired and thirsty after an eventful, hectic day trailing a couple of IRA bomb-makers around the lowlights of London. By the time they had been relieved by Murphy and Johnson, the 'Brewers Arms' had been the first place they came across that sold food and drink and was open.

It was the sort of neighbourhood that supported boarding houses, bedsits and Salvation Army hostels and most of the customers seemed to be transients--labourers, drifters--people looking for somewhere to spend their dole money. Without saying anything to his partner, Doyle had visited the pub again a few nights later. So far he'd to struck up a conversation worthy of note but he was carefully building his identity. After his third visit the landlord had greeted him with a smile and drew him a pint of his usual without waiting to be asked--he was a regular customer!

"Evening, Ray," the barman said as he walked up to the bar. "Watch your toes--don't get trampled in the rush now! Lord, but it's busy tonight," Tommy laughed and wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow as he served Doyle with a drink.

"Can see that," Doyle answered as he looked around the room; apart from three old codgers playing dominoes in the corner and Mad Mary propped up next to the door to the ladies' loo, the place was empty. There were as many people behind the bar serving as there were waiting to be served. "Where is everybody?"

"Bleedin' unfaithful lot!" Tommy bemoaned. "They've all gone up to the Five Bells--got a stripper there tonight 'aven't they?"

"Don't take on so, love," consoled a brassy painted-up, cinched-in woman, "as soon as she drops 'er drawers they'll be back."

"If it's competition," Doyle offered, "maybe you should sign a stripper up to come down here--pinch the Five Bells' customers in retaliation."

Tommy's eyes lit up. "Now there's a thought, what do you think, Ivy?"

"I'm not 'aving no flirty bit flashing what God gave 'er in my bar, Thomas Mahone," Ivy informed her husband forcefully but then her eyes twinkled and she looked across at Doyle. "But there is something to be said for being a bit...different. I hear some pubs have these special 'Hen Nights' for the girls--you know...with a male stripper."

"Wot!" Tommy was outraged. "You mean a bunch of women all sit down to watch a bloke--a man--take 'is clothes off! That's...that's...disgusting!"

The unholy glint in Ivy's eye was unsettling Doyle. "Ooh...I dunno..." she said, completely ignoring her husband and winking at their customer. "D'yer fancy the job, sunshine?" she offered suggestively. "I'll pay you well for your trouble."

"Now look here, Ivy," Tommy broke in and dragged his good wife back towards their living quarters where he could be heard demanding to know where she had got to hear of such immoral goings on.

Chuckling to himself, Doyle moved over to the Space Invaders and began to test his skill. His score had reached a ridiculous 150,000 and he was on his fourth free game when the other 'regulars' began to drift back from the Five Bells with tales of the Mata-Hari-Annie and the wonderful things she could do to a pork pie. One or two people who recognised him drew him briefly into their groups to tell him the delights he had missed and, as the evening began to draw to a close, Doyle realised that he had actually enjoyed himself. Although he was quite pleased he had not had to sit through Annie's erotic performance, he found the second-hand tales amusing and the casual way that he had been included into the conversation warming. Without offering any information about himself, these people had accepted him. Odd snippets of conversation and half heard sentences led him to believe that a high proportion of the clientele had a finger--or two or three--in some racket or another, and he was pretty sure that he had seen at least one pusher trading his wares behind the large broken-down jukebox. Not that he could act on anything he saw, though, he could only watch and listen and wait. Eventually, if he was patient enough, careful enough and--the biggest if of all--if George Cowley thought it was worth blowing his cover for, he could act--but until then he had to sit and wait--and be friendly.

Being completely honest with himself, Doyle knew that this was really only a trial run and that nothing was likely to come out of his contacts with this particular pub, but it was a start. Someday, Cowley was going to ask him to establish himself as Ray Doyle, bent ex-cop, for real and then he would have no choice over where or when. At least this way he was doing at his own speed where, when and how he chose. So far he had offered very little information on himself and had been obviously vague when asked about his background. He knew they were curious about him but that was what he wanted, he would let little bits of background slip out piecemeal until they had the picture of him that he wanted--but on his terms and in his own time--not George Cowley's.

Emerging from yet another version of Annie's pork-pie routine, Doyle noticed that the atmosphere had undergone a drastic change. The friendly bonhomie had gone, to be replaced by a cool, somewhat icy nervousness as everyone watched the progress of two heavily built men across the room. From the corner of his eye, Doyle saw the pusher and his customer slip out a side door, a few more followed but with less discretion and glowering looks at the intruders.

The policemen reached the bar and Tommy moved to serve them--all the other staff suddenly finding things to do at the other end of the bar. Doyle's attention was drawn to the bald spot on the older man's head. It looked horribly familiar. His heart sank as the man turned slightly to talk to Tommy. He knew him, and Doyle was pretty sure that Detective Constable Henry Wilson would recognise him as soon as he saw him. He looked over to the door--if he was luck he just might slip out unseen... A strong hand gripped his arm tightly.

"Don't even think it, mate," his companion hissed. "As soon as you move towards that door you've 'ad it. Just stand still--Jimmy, move over here behind Ray." Held fast by the grip on his arm, Doyle could only watch as Jimmy complied with the instruction. "Sup up, Ray," the big man advised him. "You'll really attract his attention if you pass out--here, take this." This, was the man's own glass of whisky. The hand gripping his elbow pushed upwards and Doyle had the choice of drinking it or tipping it down his shirt. He drank it.

"Fuck it!" the big man hissed. "Bastard's comin' over, Ray," he warned.

The sudden weight on his shoulder turning him around still made him jump slightly but at least he was prepared.

"Well, well, well, I thought I recognised that curly mop. As I live and breathe! It's Ray Doyle, isn't it?" Wilson breezed, very loudly and very intentionally. "Hello, Ray. How's things?"

"Fine, thank you," Doyle replied tightly. Behind Wilson he could see everyone who hadn't already escaped out of the side door watching and listening to the drama unfolding before them--their appetite already whetted by Mata-Hari-Annie--a showdown with the Old Bill would round the evening off nicely.

"How long have you been out then?" Wilson asked loudly. "Thought you went down for seven years?"

"Eight, actually," Doyle grated out, refusing to be intimidated.

"Eight! My, my. Doesn't time fly--it hardly seems like yesterday... Tell me, Doyle, I've not heard the news today--you 'aven't escaped, have you." Amused by his own joke, Wilson laughed loudly, but when he'd finished his demeanour underwent a sudden change. The mock friendliness was replaced with a stern 'no nonsense' attitude and he grilled his victim mercilessly, uncaring of who was watching or listening.

His skin crawling with embarrassment, Doyle allowed Wilson to drag the details that Bob Craig had set up for him all those months ago for just this eventuality. Jimmy and the man who had tried to shield him moved away slightly to at least grant him the illusion of privacy, but the bar was far from private and Wilson was not renowned for his soft tones. Eventually, though, Wilson seemed satisfied with all the answers and Doyle began to think that the ordeal was over.

"Does your probation officer know what type of pub you frequent? Not exactly mixing with the right sort of people, are you? I dunno...can't help thinking there's something funny about you being in a place like this--maybe you ought to come back to the station while I check your details out."

Grateful that he'd at least had the sense to leave his I.D., gun and wallet locked in his car, Doyle allowed himself to be indignant enough to protest.

"You can't just take me in for nothing--I know my rights!"

"Of course you do," agreed Wilson. "But surely you remember that I can take you in on suspicion?"

"Suspicion of what!" Doyle asked, realising suddenly that the man was serious and that he could just possibly spend tonight locked up in the local nick.

"I'm sure I'd think of something by the time we reach the Station."

"Come on, Mr Wilson," Tommy said, butting in at last on the conversation. "You know as well as I do 'e ain't done nothin'. Leave the lad alone."

"You said you didn't know him when I asked you," Wilson accused.

The publican only shrugged. "Thought you were just being nosy--didn't realise you were goin' to give the poor bloke the third degree, did I? Come on," Tommy smiled rather stiffly. "Leave him alone--come up the other end and I'll fix you a drink--on the house."

"That sounds remarkably like bribery to me, Tommy."

"You know me, Mr Wilson--would I do a thing like that?"

Wilson snorted rudely but, with a final searching stare towards Doyle, moved off to claim his promised free drink.

Left alone at last, Doyle was surprised to find another drink being pushed towards his mouth. At the bar, Ivy was smiling at him, she nodded and winked in his direction while making an obscene gesture towards the backs of the two policemen.

"Bleedin' bastards!" Jimmy said softly. "Think they rule the bleedin' world, they do."

"Come in here often, does he?" Doyle asked.

"No," answered Jimmy. "Thank christ. They don't get much change out of folk in 'ere--don't usually bother us as a rule, you just struck unlucky tonight."

"Unlucky? I'll say," Doyle repeated bitterly.

"Know 'im of old, do you?" asked the big man. "He seemed to know you pretty well."

Doyle's mind was running into overdrive. It was not how he had intended things to happen but it was just possible that D.C. Wilson had done him a big favour; at least the worst part was now over.

"I met him a couple of times before...before I went...away," he said carefully.

"Where'd you go, anywhere nice?"

Doyle didn't answer immediately, it had been perfectly obvious exactly where he had meant by 'away,' obvious to Jimmy too--of that Doyle was certain.

"Didn't he say something about Ford?" said Jimmy.

"Yeah," Doyle allowed himself to grin self-consciously. "Had a bit of a disagreement with a screw." He didn't elaborate any further, letting the two men read what they wanted into it, and knowing full well that if any of them had contacts either in or just released from Maidstone they'd soon know all they wanted to about him--and quite a bit he'd rather that they didn't.

Leaving the pub a short while later presented another problem. Two whiskies and two pints of beer--it would be just his luck to find Wilson waiting around the corner to breathalyse him--also, his CI5 car did not fit in at all with the identity that had just been so publicly revealed and, if that wasn't bad enough, Doyle realised that most of his money was in his wallet--which was safely shut up with his I.D. and gun in his car. Sorting through his pockets, he discovered he had just enough money to catch a bus and tube to get home. He started walking.

Doyle arrived home just after one o'clock and called HQ to see what, if anything, was happening. He dialled Bodie's home straight after.

"So didn't get invited to breakfast then," he said smugly as soon as Bodie picked the phone up.

"Give over, Doyle--she's a nice girl."

"And nice girls don't invite big bad wolves to breakfast then--you must be losing your touch, mate," Doyle joked.

"She had a bit of a scare this evening--"

"Why, what did you do to her?"

"When we left the restaurant," Bodie continued, ignoring his partner's interruption, "there was couple of heavy boys waiting by my car."

''What were they up to?"

"Dunno, could 'ave just been trying to pinch a car to get home but they seemed more keen on doing me over than nicking my car."

"What was Susan doing while this was going on?" Doyle asked.

"When I'd chased them off I walked back to the car--she was just standing there looking like she'd seen a ghost. She was pretty shaken up and when I asked her what was wrong, she wouldn't say but when I pushed a bit harder she said that some man had jumped out of the shadows at her--"

"But you didn't see him?" Doyle added, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"I was too busy with the other men to notice what was happening behind me--anyway she told me about these weird phone calls she's been getting and this man that keeps calling her name in the car park where she lives. Just now she reported it to the police."

"You don't believe her?" Doyle asked in amazement. "I reckon she's a bit touched mate. A poor lonely little rich girl who's going off the deep end."

Doyle's voice sounded harsh and off-key. Bodie had already heard his partner's acid tongue but rarely had it sounded so ugly.

"What's up?" he asked gently, the sudden change of direction surprising himself as much as Doyle.

"Nothing," Doyle said and immediately regretted it. Bodie seemed to have developed an uncanny knack of knowing when something was troubling him.

"Don't say nothing, mate--I know you too well by now...and where have you been tonight anyway? I tried to call you about twenty minutes ago and you weren't home."

"Are you checking up on me?" Doyle exploded down the phone. "Has Cowley got you sniffing around me as well?" Angry and furious with himself as well as Cowley, Day and now Bodie, Doyle let all his pent-up fears and frustrations pour down the telephone wire to Bodie's defenceless ear.

"Why don't you just wire me up so you'll all know exactly where I am and who I'm talking to every second of the day--or maybe you already have--shall I go and have a look under my bed?"

"Ray--"

"Fuck off, Bodie."

"Ray--"

The phone slammed down, leaving Bodie staring in open-mouthed amazement at the handset. Slowly he replaced it.

Well, Bodie thought, maybe he should have expected that. Apart from the short ride back to HQ from the interrogation centre, during which Doyle had been moody and totally unresponsive, they had not been able to talk about anything Bodie knew they ought to; Day's fresh probing into Doyle's arrest and imprisonment and the final damning proof that CI5's newest recruit suffered from claustrophobia.

---

When the door buzzer sounded at 6:25 that morning Doyle was relieved. Now he at least had an excuse to get up and he didn't have to lie there any longer trying to convince himself that he wanted to go back to sleep. Shrugging into his robe, he slouched down the hallway to let Bodie in. Even knowing why his partner was calling so early, Doyle still found the inevitable conversation a more pleasing alternative to another nightmare.

Though he was half prepared for it, Bodie was still shocked by the stark, wide-eyed pallor that greeted him, but wisely decided not to comment on it. Instead he followed Doyle back towards the kitchen and Doyle sat down opposite him before talking.

"Bad night?" he asked, the unsmiling blue eyes and raised sardonic eyebrow daring Doyle to answer with a facetious comment.

Knowing himself to be defeated already, Doyle nodded in weary agreement.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"A few hours I suppose."

"You told me you'd stopped having those nightmares," Bodie said flatly.

"I had," Doyle replied. "I haven't had one for...ages before tonight."

"How long ago was the last one then?" Bodie demanded.

"Are you going to make something of it--are you going to go running to Ross with a report on your partner's nightly neuroses?"

"Nightly?" Bodie picked up.

"No--not nightly," Doyle snapped, irritated. "Not even very frequently--not now, but last night was just..."

"Last night was just...?" Bodie said softly. Doyle's confusion increased and Bodie guessed that perhaps he wasn't the only person who didn't understand. "Look," he spoke carefully as he led Doyle toward the settee and pushed him down onto it, settling himself beside him. "Now I know that it's not a straightforward fear of enclosed spaces--am I right so far?"

Doyle nodded tightly but didn't speak. "And I think there's something about the dark?" Again Doyle nodded. "But it's not just the dark because you were fine last month when we sat outside that barn down in the country, weren't you?" Bodie thought out loud, remembering the hours they'd waited hidden in the bushes for three pitch-black nights without the benefit of an obliging moon or torchlight. "That first night you slept in my room, you were fine until I turned the light out. Then you leapt out of the bed to open the curtains--to let the streetlights shine in the room?"

"That's right," Doyle agreed quietly. "It's not...just a room--or just the dark...it's...it's, oh I don't know."

"Yes you do," Bodie encouraged. "It's not just a room or the dark..."

"It's just...the two together...a small room...and total darkness...it just...I can't help it...sometimes it's worse than others--when I know that I'm on my own...when I know for certain that I'm the only one in the room it's not so bad...but sometimes...sometimes I know...or if I think someone is in there...it just catches me...not knowing where they are--not being able to see them..."

"Does anybody else know about this?"

"Christ, no! Can you imagine Ross getting her teeth into that!" Doyle shuddered. "I've never...been too keen on the dark--it's just that the last few years have made it worse." They sat in silence for a few minutes, Bodie lost in thought trying to imagine the additional horror even a mildly claustrophobic person would have to endure in prison--and Doyle's fear of sharing an enclosed dark space with another person. Every night must have been an ordeal. "...The simple pleasures in life...being able to switch a light on and off..." Doyle's confession all those months ago had told him if he had only realised it.

"Are you going to tell Ross?"

"I don't know," Bodie answered truthfully.

"Thanks, partner!"

"Look, Doyle," Bodie explained. "How can I just say 'no' after what you've just told me? Supposing we get into a situation in a...an enclosed dark space," Bodie continued ruthlessly. "How am I going to concentrate on the job if I'm worried about you cracking up on me?"

"I wouldn't crack up," protested Doyle. "Not on the job."

"Can you guarantee that?" asked Bodie. "Well? Can you?"

"I wouldn't risk your life, Bodie. I know I wouldn't crack--I just know I wouldn't," Doyle insisted, shaking Bodie's arm fiercely.

Staring into intense, angry eyes, Bodie found that he believed him; Doyle certainly believed it and although all the evidence was to the contrary, Bodie knew that he trusted his partner. 'I wouldn't risk your life.' No one had ever said that to him before... Maybe the day had got off to a very early and rather shaky start--but it was getting better and brighter every minute.

---

When Doyle arrived outside the offices of 'Associated Charities' just after midday, Bodie was more than pleased to see him.

"Another five minutes and I would have died of starvation!" he complained as Doyle opened the car door and got in. "What have you got me?"

"Something that could be very interesting--totally irrelevant to the job in hand--but very interesting anyway."

"Eh?"

"A little cuckoo in the nest," Doyle elaborated generously.

"Cuckoo-bird-chicken-chicken sandwich, got it!" Bodie exclaimed, fixing his patient but intelligent look firmly on his face.

"Eh?" This time it was Doyle's turn to lose track of the conversation.

"You were supposed to be bringing me some sandwiches," Bodie reminded him. "Remember?" he asked hopefully.

"Sandwiches," Doyle repeated dumbly and Bodie's heart sank into his empty stomach. Taking pity on the forlorn, starved waif beside him Doyle tugged the packet of polythene-fresh-when-they-were-buttered-yesterday sandwiches out of his pocket.

"Would I forget?" he asked innocently. "But getting onto more important matters, that old boy you wanted checked out, Henry Laughlin," Doyle continued in a more serious vein. "He's the odd one out. Political oddball. Got himself caught up in the Hungarian uprising and sent to Lubianka. Nowadays, under the kind auspices of 'Associated Charities,' he's running something called 'Freedom Incorporated.'"

"This is liver sausage!" Bodie complained after peering between the slices of bread.

"He's dedicated to helping politicals all over the world and...guess what?"

"He likes liver sausage?" Bodie hazarded a guess.

"He doesn't think too highly of us, CI5 that is."

"Why," Bodie asked patiently, "did you get me liver sausage. I hate liver sausage."

"And--he's always writing to the editor of the Times about--"

"Liver sausage sandwiches?"

"--the evils of secret organisations. Written reams and reams on the subject and I think Miss Grant is leaving work early this afternoon--mustn't keep you. Cheerio." Doyle escaped from the car only seconds before the unfortunate sandwich.

"You want to watch that," Doyle said, leaning down and peering into the car. "Dropping litter on the public highway is an offence. You could get arrested." Keeping half an eye on the woman as she climbed into her car and manoeuvred out of the tight parking space, Doyle gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry about the sandwich--I didn't know you didn't like it."

Bodie smile back, happy at that moment to forget his lunch.

"Should have said--might 'ave known you'd be thick enough to pick the one thing guaranteed to make me puke," he said lightly.

"I'll make it up to you tonight if you like--do you want to come by my place for a meal?"

Bodie didn't have to think about his answer. "Love to--once I've swapped places with the night team. Be over about eight--see you later," and with a final wave Bodie followed Susan's flash red Lotus into the traffic.

---

The meal was as good as Bodie had known it would be and he finally admitted defeat, pushing his plate away.

"That was really good--you're a good cook, mate," Bodie said as Doyle gathered up the plates and piled them beside the sink. "Where did you learn to cook like that?" he asked curiously, guessing that a casual scrutiny of the odd cookery book was way below Ray Doyle's level of skill.

"Me mum..." Doyle thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders and laughed self-consciously. "And school--nearly went on to a catering college at one time."

"What stopped you?"

"Well...just didn't turn out that way. I had to get into college or some kind of job pretty quick because my dad wanted me to work for him..."

"And you didn't want that," Bodie divined.

"No I bloody didn't," Doyle said forcefully. "I hated working for him, loathed having to go into the workshop during the school holidays. Then, when I was due to leave school he decided he wanted to semi-retire and use me to make up the hours he couldn't do. My mum knew how I felt about the business and stood up for me--but he only agreed to let it drop if I got myself started somewhere else pretty quick." Doyle's face was bleak as he remembered the endless arguments his decision had caused. "When it came down to it," he finished up, "the catering college couldn't take me until Easter but the police college took me in September. If it had been the other way round I could have been a rich restaurant owner and superb chef by now."

Bodie found himself wondering if all those years ago Doyle had got into the catering college, whether they would ever have met.

"Dunno about a superb chef--but you're a bloody good cook." He looked at his watch--Doyle caught the action.

"Why don't you call her?" he said sarkily. "Check that there were no spiders in her horlicks."

"Give over, Doyle," Bodie said without any heat in his voice. He knew Doyle thought the observation was just Cowley's way of keeping them out of the way, but Doyle didn't know Susan. "I think I will call her though--won't be a minute."

"You're only doing it to get out of the washing up--you can't fool me, 3.7," Doyle joked.

Clearing up the kitchen, Doyle listened unashamedly to the one-sided conversation, admiring the smooth patter of his partner even as he was irritated by the intrusion of work into a pleasant, relaxing evening.

"All quiet on the western front," Bodie announced as he re-entered the kitchen and took the tea towel that Doyle was holding out for him. "It's like old times, this is," he added as he began drying the plates.

"What is?"

"This. Us," Bodie explained. "The warming bustle of domesticity after a hard day's work. Never tried living with anybody before, sharing a flat...you know," he said, suddenly embarrassed by what he was saying. "Not for as long as you stayed with me anyway--had a couple of girls stay for a few weeks, a month even--but they both drove me nuts. Couldn't stand either of them for long." Bodie had a feeling that he was beginning to ramble but was unable to stop himself now that he had started. "But it wasn't like that with you...it was good. Place seems a bit big now that there's only me in it."

The kitchen was quiet save for the noise of plates and cutlery being washed and dried.

"Know what you mean," Doyle said eventually without looking up from the sink. "For a while it was nice being on my own here--seemed like I'd been surrounded by people, bodies...for so long it was great to have somewhere to get away from everyone. But lately...I can't help feeling a bit isolated when I come through that door and lock it behind me. It'd be nice to come home and find someone already here--or know that they'll be home sometime during the evening."

Somehow, Bodie had known that Doyle would understand perfectly.

"What would you think about us...I mean there's no reason why we shouldn't...is there? We work well together--we know we can live together... Even Cowley could see it would be saving him money--"

Bodie's voice stumbling and quiet was almost obliterated by the ringing telephone. Doyle leapt to answer the red phone that was the direct link to Headquarters. "Yes, he's here, switch it through," he said before handing the receiver over to his partner and hurriedly whispering that Susan Grant had dialled his private number being intercepted by the vigilant switchboard.

"Hello, Susan... Okay, love, now calm down...now slowly, start from the beginning..."

Doyle had his partner's coat ready by the time he hung up.

"She's really rattled this time," Bodie said, his concern evident. "She was damn near hysterical--I'd better get over there. Do me a favour and tell control I'm on my way over--I'll be in radio contact once I reach my car. See you later," and then he was gone.

Driving as fast as was safe, Bodie had time to think about the idea that had only just found voice. Why shouldn't they share a flat? Considering all the hours they spent in each other's company and homes it would make sense. No serious problems had surfaced during the months they had lived together before Doyle got his own flat--if anything, once Doyle's sleeping problems were solved everything else had just slotted neatly into place. Living alone had never bothered him before meeting Doyle but now, going home alone after a day's work or even a satisfying night out with an obliging girl friend, he was always conscious of being alone once he locked the front door on the rest of the world. After months of puzzling about the cause of his periodic depression, Bodie had finally come to the conclusion that he no longer enjoyed--or wanted--a life alone.

Pulling up neatly outside the block of flats, Bodie resolved to push his partner for an answer as soon as the whole business of who was putting the frighteners on Susan Grant was over.

Doyle checked in with control at fifteen minute intervals. After three hours, the operator informed him, rather acidly, Doyle felt, that 3.7 was a grown man and was probably coping nicely with the 'subject' without any help from his partner at the massed ranks of CI5.

The filthy chuckle only added to Doyle's annoyance and he threw the handset disgustedly across the room where it landed safely on an armchair. He waited another hour before deciding it was unlikely Bodie would come back now and became more and more annoyed with himself for being so annoyed that a silly, witless upper crust female had so obviously slipped past Bodie's better judgement.

He had barely warmed the sheets up before his telephone alerted him to the fact that Susan's mysterious caller had suddenly and rather alarmingly gained human and visible form.

After examining the body, Doyle cast a few surreptitious looks toward the poised though slightly ruffled demeanour of Susan Grant. She was holding on to Bodie as if afraid she might collapse without his support and Bodie--Doyle gave him his due--was being gently firm with her, carefully guiding the conversation away from the dangerous topics--like why he had a gun. Clearly shaken, Susan was quite willing to let her guardian angel guide her through the mess her life was in.

Because of Bodie's low profile, Doyle was unable to speak to him and had to leave with the corpse, following it to the mortuary where sometimes the saying 'dead men don't tell tales' is proved wrong. But this was not one of those times and the corpse refused to oblige them with any helpful details.

Sifting through the dead man's clothing, Doyle became convinced that he was a professional hit man. Whoever he had been, the dead man had taken pains to make identification difficult. Another squad man came to itemise the possessions; Doyle recognised him as one of the more recent additions to the team.

"Have they finished with him yet?" the young agent asked.

"You're...9.7 aren't you," Doyle checked.

"9.4," 9.4 corrected him. "Glen Andrews, 9.7's old Cooper."

"9.4," Doyle acknowledge. Someday, he though, he'd divine the logic behind Cowley's numbering system. "No, they haven't; they've only just opened him up--looks like he was a vegetarian--full of ratatouille or something like that." He didn't miss the blink or sudden indrawn breath and felt the devil take hold of him. "I just popped out to get a cup of tea and I've some sandwiches here--do you fancy one?" Andrews went impossibly pale and sat down rather heavily onto a chair.

"Don't faint in here, mate," Doyle exclaimed, alarmed. "You close your eyes in this place and before you know it you're stretched out on a slab with a name tag tied onto your big toe."

Unfortunately Doyle's r/t sounded, demanding his presence at HQ and he had to leave Andrews to the ordeal of witnessing the autopsy. It was several hours before the corpse's fingerprints were identified and a name given to Susan's attacker. With little else to do, Doyle found himself hanging around the computer room; it was there that Cowley found him. With one look, Cowley cleared the area around Doyle, everyone suddenly finding something to do on the other side of the room, if not elsewhere. Sitting in the chair next to the younger man, Cowley tapped the slim file with his glasses.

"I was surprised to discover that you have made your first attempts to make use of your cover story--surprised but pleased." Cowley allowed himself to be honest with Doyle. "I am aware that it is not a task you undertake lightly and I'm sure that at some point it will prove useful to me, and to CI5."

Doyle listened carefully, wary of this openness.

"Was there any particular reason why you chose that pub?"

"No," Doyle said, choosing his words with caution. "No special reason--just happened on it one night with Bodie and realised it would be as good a place as any to start."

"Do you carry your ID when you go there?"

"No," Doyle replied, "and I parked my car a few streets away with my gun safely locked away inside it."

"So if Sergeant Wilson had taken you in for questioning there would have been nothing to link you with CI5?"

"Nothing," Doyle answered flatly, certain now that he could expect no help from Bodie, or Cowley, if he were ever arrested.

"Good--make sure there never is, Doyle. Whenever possible you are to avoid getting involved in police business. We were lucky last night that none of the officers at Miss Grant's apartment recognised you but in the future you will make sure you leave the scene of any incident involving the police."

"Yes, sir."

"The fewer people who know about your new circumstances the better."

"Yes, sir," Doyle intoned.

"Is Wilson going to present you with any problems?" Cowley asked.

"I don't think so," Doyle said after a moment's thought. "If anything I think he's done me a favour. He wasn't very tactful or discreet about recognising me and the whole pub was treated to an earful concerning my sinful misdeeds." Doyle's voice was bright, too bright, and Cowley didn't miss the carefully hidden distress but he let Doyle believe he was fooled. "By the time Wilson left the pub only Ronnie Briggs would get a warmer welcome than me!"

"Indeed," Cowley intoned, allowing a glimmer of amusement to colour his voice. "Very well, Doyle, maintain your contact with this pub--keep your eyes and ears open but don't be too hasty to act; use your discretion." Cowley stood up and began to go. Believing the interview over, Doyle relaxed. "Just make sure to log any visits in your diary, Doyle. Keep an up-to-date profile on any contacts you make--it may be that nothing at all will come from it but it won't hurt to have a record." Cowley didn't miss the barely perceptible stiffening in Doyle's back nor the sudden spark of anger in the man's eyes, but he had not time to waste worrying about Doyle's insecurities at this point. "Oh and one other thing," he added. "Bob Craig wants to see you at 2.30 this afternoon; it seems there are still one or two things that need sorting out. You can stand down from duty for the remainder of today--report in at 8 a.m. tomorrow."

"But what about Bodie?"

"What about Bodie?" Cowley asked, impatient to be away to more urgent matters.

"Susan Grant--what if he needs back-up?"

"If 3.7 requires back-up, Doyle," Cowley snapped icily, "no doubt he will request it."

"Sir--" Doyle began.

"4.5, as from now you are officially 'stood down.' In the event of an emergency you will be called out but for the time being you have an appointment at the Home Office, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Doyle answered woodenly; he understood only too well. Once Cowley was safely out of earshot Doyle allowed himself to swear--quietly but strong. Oh yes, he understood all right. First of all Day starts stirring up some mud, then Cowley put both of them onto a piddling surveillance job that was almost certainly a dead end, then, when the surveillance finally looks like it might develop into something, Doyle--and not Bodie--is effectively taken off the case. Oh he understood all right, Doyle thought bitterly. So much for Cowley's assurance that Internal Security weren't going to be involved.

Bob Craig met a very different Ray Doyle that afternoon. Over the past year he had seen that young man's quiet, bewildered disbelief change into confident self-assurance. The cold, unyielding man who discussed his compensation settlement with such a clinical detachment was unnerving to say the least. The financial matter dealt with, Craig hesitated before broaching the next topic.

"My office took a call from a D.S. Wilson this morning--Mr Cowley had already warned me that a computer check on your record had been made the previous day..." Craig faltered under Doyle's unrelenting stare.

"And?" Doyle prompted.

"I've still to return his call...I wanted to check out the story you gave him first--before I contact him."

"I told him what you told me to last year," Doyle said. "You're my probation officer--I'm not working--living in digs--I just kept to what we agreed."

"Did you give him an address?"

"No, just said it was a men's hostel in Vauxhall--he'll probably take it to be either the Salvation Army place or that doss-house by the bridge."

"Are you likely to meet him again?"

"It's possible," Doyle answered wryly.

"Well if you do--if he pushes you for an address, in fact if you ever get pushed for a cover address make it the Salvation Army hostel--and let me know straightaway--I know the Warden at Vauxhall and he'll put your name in the register--okay?"

"Okay."

"Well--do you have any questions?"

"Just one," Doyle replied. "How much longer is it going to take this compensation thing to go through?"

"It's only been a year, and I did warn you at the beginning that it would take time--there are always lengthy arguments about this type of financial remuneration--but I expect a final figure to be reached within six months or so--maybe in the New Year."

The news didn't exactly cheer Doyle up--the way his luck was running at the moment, by the time the courts decided how much compensation he deserved for his wrongful imprisonment, he could well find himself back inside serving another sentence for something he didn't do!

After his appointment was over Doyle once again found time hanging heavily on him. Unable to think of anything to do with himself or someone who would be pleased to see him, he drove towards home. As always his eyes picked out two particular sets of windows on the block of flats halfway round the one-way system. Today, after weeks of closed windows and no lights, both the bedroom and kitchen windows were open. Doyle had parked the car and locked it before conscious thought took over. What had started as a purposeful stride towards the main entrance slowed to a complete halt as he stared up at the open windows. Just because they were open, he reasoned to himself, didn't necessarily mean that she was home--and perhaps turning up out of the blue wasn't such a good idea. Indecision caused him to turn and walk back towards his car. Maybe he should telephone her first. Standing beside the car, keys in his hand, Doyle wavered; other people entered and emerged from the building--one or two glanced at him as if they knew him before turning away to continue their business--but no-one seemed to remember their former infamous tenant.

Glancing up and down the street, Doyle tried to pinpoint the reason for his sudden nervousness. He couldn't see anyone watching him--for all that he could feel their eyes on him. Someone was watching him--but who, he wondered.

Critically his eyes scanned the curtained windows; the long street with its parked cars; even the few pedestrians came under close scrutiny--but he drew a blank. He couldn't see him but all the same, Doyle thought grimly--he knew he was there.

Doyle's mind buzzed furiously; it couldn't be Day, that would be too risky, so would any other member of the squad, so--he reasoned--it had to be Internal Security, whatever Cowley said about not bringing them in on it.

There was nothing he could do about it except rage impotently--if he complained they'd probably just find someone more secretive to follow him. All he could do was act normally, behave carefully, and hope to God he didn't do something unwittingly that would bring the wrath of Cowley and Internal Security down on his head or a smile into Day's face.

What about Bodie? Did his partner know about the surveillance, Doyle wondered. Was Bodie in on it, keeping tabs on him and reporting back to Cowley? It would certain go a long way to explaining the number of off-duty hours they spent in each other's company. Conveniently forgetting the occasions he had just asked Bodie to join him for a drink or a meal, Doyle thought of all time times Bodie had 'dropped in because I was passing' to ask him out for a drink--even those late night telephone calls after a rough day took on a sinister meaning. Was Bodie following orders to make sure he was where he was supposed to be?

The answers to all the questions racing around inside his head were not going to be found easily, Doyle acknowledged. It was unlikely they would expect him to be aware of the surveillance yet--but if he altered his behaviour in any way they would know he'd found out: so--everything would continue as before, except now he wouldn't fall into line with their plans quite so willingly.

Deciding it was unlikely they had bugged Ann's flat--yet--Doyle entered the block.

Across the street a man climbed out of his car and began to follow Doyle into the building; halfway up the path he hesitated as Doyle had done, then, obviously having come to a decision, turned and almost ran back across the road and entered an identical block. Minutes later, the curtains directly opposite Ann's windows moved slightly as the man adjusted his binoculars.

---

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It would have been better, Doyle realised with a sinking heart, to have telephoned first. Neither of them were prepared for this meeting and what little conversation there had been was stilted and awkward; it was as if they were strangers.

"Well," he said quietly once Ann had stopped jumping nervously around her kitchen as she fixed a pot of tea that neither of them particularly wanted. "How have you been keeping? You look well."

"Oh, fine. I've been fine. Busy--work's pretty hectic now that John's retired."

"Promotion?" Doyle asked.

"Yes, last year," she replied. "You must remember John Hawes--well, once he retired Mr Simms offered me the position."

"That makes you...chief editor?" He vaguely remembered the hierarchy of the firm that Ann worked for.

"More than that," she corrected. "International Editor. My work is split between our offices in America, Canada and Europe, we're even negotiating opening an office in Australia at the moment."

"Quite the little globe-trotter, aren't you." Doyle raised his bone china tea cup to toast her success.

"Well," she said, smiling and relaxing a fraction, "you know how much I always wanted to travel."

Yes he did now, he remembered suddenly, he also remembered wondering how his future wife's wanderlust was going to fit in with his unpredictable statutory leave and salary.

"And what about you?" Ann asked politely once she felt her career had dominated the conversation long enough. "How have you been? When did you... Oh dear, I'm sorry... I didn't mean...what I meant was..."

Lulled into a false sense of security, Doyle felt the trap spring shut; his expression must have alerted Ann because she became flustered and stood up, knocking over her cup. Dropping down to mop up the spilt liquid, she fumbled for some tissues. Numb, Doyle could only watch her; he had not thought of what to tell her; hadn't even considered the fact that she might still think of him as a convicted criminal. He had stupidly been convinced that she would just know the truth when she saw him. Ann took the wet tissues into the kitchen to dispose of them, giving him more time to think; time to think how it looked to Ann. He quickly counted up the years and months and realised that his original earliest release date would be about now. Ann probably thought he had only just been released from jail.

"Ann..." he reached out to hold her, tightening his grip as she tried to move away. "Ann, please...listen to me...Ann!"

Still trying to pull away, she began to cry. "Please, Ray...just...let me go...please..."

"Ann," Doyle spoke gently. "Just listen to me please..." He released her and moved away, giving her room. "I was given a full pardon," he said quickly when he recognised the beginnings of a very real fear in her eyes. "Just under a year ago. It's true, Ann... I promise...I'm not lying to you. They finally found some evidence to clear me and I was released. I was innocent, Ann. Innocent--I always told you I was--now will you believe me..." Incredibly, Doyle felt his eyes burn and fill with moisture. Embarrassed, he turned away, wiping his eyes angrily and sniffing moistly.

"Ray..."

"I just wanted you to know..." he said. "I needed you to know," he repeated desperately.

"Ray?" A featherlight touch on his arm turned him around. "Ray... Oh my poor Ray..." she cried. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry." Then he was holding her and she was crying into his shoulder while he hid his face and his own tears into her sweet-smelling hair.

After clearing away the light meal that Ann put together, they settled down together on the sofa in a position that reminded Doyle of so many pleasant evenings in the past that had begun this way. Her legs tucked neatly to one side, Ann rested against him, her head nestled on his shoulder and her hands clasped tightly around him.

"Why didn't you let me know before, Ray? Why wait until now?" she asked in a small voice.

"I...I didn't know how," Doyle answered truthfully. "Didn't even know if you'd ever want to see me again--give me a chance to explain--"

"Ray--don't," Ann cried out sharply and twisted round in his arms to hold him even tighter, burying her face into his neck. "Please don't...please forgive me for not believing you... I'm so sorry I let you down--"

"Ann--"

"I'm truly sorry," Ann repeated, crying yet again. "I tried, I really tried," she wept.

"Come on, Pet. I'm not blaming you--no-one believed me. You weren't the only one." Doyle tried to sound convincing but he found it surprisingly hard. It was true that no-one had believed him. That was why he had been convicted--but deep down inside he believed that Ann should have trusted him and her betrayal was more painful than all the others.

She took a lot of consoling but eventually talk turned to the present; the guilt and pain of the past was swept to one side.

"So," Ann smiled. "Tell me more about CI5. The newspapers make it sound very sinister and mysterious."

"It's not that much different from police work; long hours, rotten shifts, cancelled leave and lousy pay."

"It sounds like just your cup of tea," Ann joked, but then she became serious. "It's very dangerous, though, isn't it," she asked. "I remember reading about that man who was shot during that assassination attempt on President Mbutawe--they said he was CI5...and then some months ago all those men were killed," she continued, her face paling as she realised how dangerous he new job was. "The newspapers claimed it was some kind of vendetta against the person in charge of CI5--the Home Office denied it of course, but it was CI5, wasn't it?" she asked urgently.

"It's like most jobs, love," Doyle evaded. "Unless you're careful any job is dangerous--and I'm always careful."

"But this Bodie person," Ann persisted. "He sounds a perfect fool--why have they lumbered you with him?"

"Maybe I've exaggerated Bodie a bit," Doyle conceded with a laugh; everything he had told Ann about Bodie had been true but, taken out of context, the long list of crazy, idiotic stunts and ridiculous behaviour did make him out to be a regular wally. "Just wait until you meet him. You'll like him, he's very easy to get along with."

"He sounds an insufferable fool to me!"

Remembering too late how fast Ann was to judge people and how stubbornly she stuck to first impressions, Doyle realised he had made a slight error. Still, he reasoned, it wouldn't take Bodie long to set her straight.

"...and then I can call Mummy and tell her your news."

Doyle came back to the present with a bump.

"Pardon? Who are you calling?" he asked, reaching out to stop Ann using the phone.

"Why... Ray, really." She shook her hand free. "Weren't you listening to me. I said that I would call Mummy and tell her the good news."

Doyle couldn't picture Constance viewing his return--full pardon or not--with any favour.

"Ann. Just put the phone down...please."

"Why? Whatever's wrong?"

"You can't call your mother. You can't tell her anything...please."

He held out his hand and gently tugged her back towards the sofa. "You mustn't tell anyone--I probably shouldn't 'ave told you either--no. I shouldn't," he forestalled her protest. "I can't tell anyone. As far as the rest of the world is concerned I'm still a convicted man, a bent policeman. Only about a dozen people know that I'm not and it's got to stay that way. Do you understand?"

"No!" Ann looked frightened again, as if she had suddenly thought that perhaps he had been lying to her after all and Doyle realised that he would have to tell her everything.

---

"Why on earth did you agree to that?" Ann demanded to know. "You should have a full public apology. They've no right to make you pretend that you're guilty when you're not!" Outraged at the injustice of it all, Ann paced back and forth across the living room, her face alive and her eyes glittering angrily and beautifully. Doyle soaked up the visual and emotional balm and enjoyed watching her being so vocal, so protective towards him. "How did they make you agree to keep quiet? Surely your counsel advised you against agreeing to their demands?"

"I didn't have a counsel," Doyle replied. "And to be quite honest, I don't really remember agreeing to anything much--the whole day is just a big blur to me now. I can't remember very much about the first day or so when I was released--it all happened so fast I just couldn't take it all in."

"Then why don't you--"

"But I trust Cowley," Doyle continued. "Up to a point anyway. And I really don't mind. There are times when it gets a bit unpleasant but on the whole I understand Cowley's logic. He tried to explain. "Keeping my record open gives me a perfect cover for some of the work CI5 sometimes gets involved in."

"You mean undercover work?" said Ann. "Oh, Ray, look what happened last time you went undercover!"

Doyle sighed and pulled Ann into a comforting embrace as tears flowed again. When the outburst fizzled to a watery halt, Ann wiped them away and with genteel sniffs announced that whatever Doyle said, she believed that Mr Cowley had taken unfair advantage of him and was wrong to treat him so.

"What on earth does your mother think of all this?" she asked finally when she accepted he was not going to change his opinion of Cowley's treatment. "Surely she can't be happy knowing that everyone still thinks you're the lowest of the low--Ray? ...What's wrong? ...Ray?..."

"Oh...nothing...I'd forgotten you wouldn't know..." he stumbled. "Mum...died...a few months after I was sent to Maidstone..."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

Doyle was relieved that his news didn't herald another cloudburst; Ann had been about as friendly with his mother as he had been with hers.

Conversation became awkward again, each new line meeting with embarrassment or renewed guilt and Doyle decided that they had talked enough for one night. Standing, he said his goodnight and moved to leave. Ann reached out her hand, preventing him from opening the door straightaway. The hallway was narrow and only barely illuminated by the light from the living room.

"Ray?" she hesitated. "Thank you for coming by... You...you will come again?"

"If you want me to," he answered huskily.

"Please...oh, yes please..."

They moved together slowly, kissing each other tentatively at first but then with rising heat. It was Ann who made the first move, stepping backwards and pulling him with her as she moved towards her bedroom. Doyle needed no further invitation. Trembling, sensitised fingers undid blouse and shirt buttons. Manicured nails teased a path along ribs and down a naked back even as the clip of a satin bra was unfastened, the sweet weight of her breasts pulled against taut elastic. Trousers, skirts and pants vanished as if by magic and they finally lay down on the bed, kissing and touching and crying from the beauty of it.

Slowly, reverently, Ray caressed her with hands and lips. Licking, sucking and loving her. Remembering those things only a lover would. Pleasuring her and being loved in his own turn. It had always been good between them. Each knowing and enjoying what pleased their lover the most. Their loving was slow, careful and intensely pleasurable. Ann led him onwards, upwards. Guiding him, urging him on with her heels and hands. Pausing and pulling at him, deeper and deeper into herself. Her breathless voice telling him to love her, more. Harder. Now. Nownownow! Her muscles spasmed and locked him tight inside her. Unable to move, he could only remain still as his body exploded before they both relaxed, mindless and boneless for long minutes.

Slipping to one side, Ray rearranged limp arms and legs to lie comfortably as they continued to kiss and nuzzle against each other's skin.

"Mmmm..." Ann murmured appreciatively as she licked along the line of his chin and neck. "You taste delicious...all salty and tangy...beautiful."

They lay in a relaxed tangle, playing, loving and whispering silly trivialities until Ann drew their attention to an odd noise.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can't you hear it?"

As soon as he listened, Doyle recognised the bleeping immediately as being his r/t. He leapt out of bed, trying to remember how many minutes ago he had first heard the intrusive sound. It was in his jacket, which was lying in a heap by the bedroom door.

"What is it, Ray?"

"Ssh," he admonished as he freed the machine from his pocket. "4.5," he said rather breathlessly into it as he waved Ann into silence.

"Control to 4.5. Intruder has been apprehended at Location Blue. Alpha is on site and is bringing him back to HQ. You're ordered to report in to take part in interrogation."

"Ray--" Ann whispered urgently.

"Ssh. 4.5 to control. I'm on my way. Are there any injuries at Location Blue?" he asked worriedly as he hunted around for the rest of his clothes.

"Negative, 4.5," the detached voice informed him, then with slightly more relish added, "3.7 copped the bugger in Nightingale's bedroom. Rumour has it that Nightingale's not too happy the excitement happened so early in the evening--seems to have ruined her plans for givin' 3.7 a road test!"

Even allowing for exaggeration on the part of Control, Doyle felt a malicious glee that Susan's plan for Bodie had gone awry.

"Ray!" Dressed and hunting for his other shoe, Doyle remembered Ann.

"Sorry, love--you heard him--I've got to go in to HQ."

"Well... Really!" Standing beside the bed, stark naked and furious, Ann presented a beautiful picture.

"Just like old times, isn't it?" he joked half-heartedly. She had never been best pleased then either.

"Do you really have to go?"

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry..."

"Ooh..." Ann sighed and then resigned herself to the inevitable. "Go on then--just...come back soon--please?"

He leant forward and kissed her.

"You just try keeping me away."

At the door a cry from Ann stopped him dead.

"Oh damn!" she said angrily. "I'd almost forgotten--I'm going to New York the day after tomorrow. I'll be gone for a few weeks."

"I'll try and come back later tomorrow, okay? But I can't promise..."

"All right." Ann kissed the frown away from his brow. "I'll expect to see you tomorrow--sometime--if I'm lucky. Just like old times," she teased.

"Just like old times," he agreed, then kissed her quickly and left.

Waving back up towards Ann's window, Doyle unlocked his car. Not oblivious but in no mood to really care, he ignored his audience and blew a kiss. Up at the window Ann obligingly returned the kiss while modestly clutching a robe around herself.

---

Doyle arrived HQ only moments before Cowley and the captured intruder, and while the man was swiftly fingerprinted and photographed he was brought up to date with events. From being a simple surveillance matter, the job was turning into an intriguing mystery. So far two very professional hit men had failed in their attempts to murder or even kidnap Susan Grant--but why she should be a target was still very much of a puzzle. Bodie was very suspicious of Henry Laughlin--but even Cowley admitted that it could amount to little more than a lonely old man's obsession with a younger, attractive woman.

The prisoner did not give them any information--except for his name, and no one was taking any bets that was genuine.

Doyle persevered with the interrogation for several hours, but it was obvious that Raymond Miller felt very safe with his non-co-operation. Both Cowley and Murphy, who took turns in trying to beat him down, conceded that short of outright physical torture or drugs they were not going to get him to talk, and those were steps Cowley was extremely loath to take.

Because they had so little to go on, Laughlin found himself the focus of CI5's surveillance team. For over twelve hours a group of men stuck in a cramped, stuffy transit van had been forced to listen to Henry Laughlin's routine, dreary life. The argument with milkman over his missing pint of milk; Henry's muffled but electronically amplified complaints about the sock that had lost its partner and the routine visits to toilet and bathroom were duly recorded, listened to and logged.

The phone call to the solicitor changed everything, though. CI5 swung into action and though Laughlin was furious at their intervention he realised he was powerless to stop them. Things moved with alarming speed all at once as Miller was murdered and Bauer, after failing to get the tapes once again, tried and nearly succeeded in kidnapping Susan.

By the end of the day, though, everyone seemed happy enough. Laughlin had his precious tapes and was reunited with his daughter, and all of the loose ends were tied up.

Watching Susan walking away with Henry, Bodie caught himself feeling oddly protective towards her. He'd got to like her more than just a little in the short time he'd known her, and he hoped that Henry wasn't going to try and pull too much 'fatherly' weight too soon. She had had enough upsets in her life just recently.

"Bodie!" Cowley's call from the far end of the rose arbour attracted his attention. "You and Doyle can make your way back to HQ to file your reports on this before going off duty. Report back to me 9.00 a.m. tomorrow."

With both men in their own cars the drive back took on a Grand Prix flair--through the emptier country roads anyway. Arriving outside the building only seconds between them, they both raced for the same parking space. Doyle won by a whisker which left Bodie forced to hunt further afield for another place.

Entering the large cupboard which served as their office, Bodie found his partner hard at work with one and half pages of his report already written.

"Don't do it too fast," Bodie chastised, "or the Old Man will always expect it."

"Shut up, Bodie!"

"If you're that keen you can do mine too. What are you doing tonight?" Bodie asked as he sifted around in his desk, half-heartedly looking for something to scribble his report on. Doyle?"

"Ssh!"

"I asked you what you were doing to..."

"Belt up, will you, I'm busy," Doyle muttered abstractedly. "Do your own report and shut up." Scribbling furiously, he didn't look up.

Bodie was just beginning to get stuck when Doyle threw his pen into the desk tidy, collected up his papers and shouted: "Goodnight--see you in the morning!" over his shoulder and left before Bodie had a chance to react.

Skimming through the bare essentials for his report, Bodie was finally able to throw it into the tray. It was highly likely the typists' supervisor would throw it straight back--probably via Cowley--but, eager to quit the building, Bodie found it easy to shrug off tomorrow's cares.

Driving through the traffic to Doyle's flat, he ran through his carefully prepared arguments. Apart from the odd hairy moment, the past few days had given him plenty of time to think about sharing a flat with his partner. So far he hadn't come up with any problems, and he was sure Doyle would see it the same way. After all, even he had said that he was no longer enjoying living alone.

Ringing the door bell a second time, Bodie wondered where his partner had sot off to so quickly.

"Hello?"

The intercom crackled just as Bodie was about to turn away.

"Hello," Bodie said into the mouthpiece. "It's me. Let us in, mate?"

The door opened, he entered the building and walked up to the first floor flat, where the sight of Doyle dressed up to the nines stopped him in his tracks.

"Wow!" Bodie's wide-eyed exclamation was completely lost on his partner, who was fighting a losing battle with his tie. "What time are you due back in the window then?" he asked as he wandered round Doyle inspecting the phenomenon properly from all sides.

Manfully ignoring the sarcasm, Doyle pulled the tie apart and started all over again.

"Give it here," Bodie said, slapping Doyle's fumbling digits away. "Let go and let me do it. You'll be here all night otherwise."

Standing nose to nose almost, Doyle stood with his hands on his hips, chin up in the air, peering down his nose at Bodie's intent face as he concentrated on getting the knot tight. "There, all done."

"Thanks, mate," said Doyle, and automatically loosened the knot.

Bodie stepped back and sniffed loudly and dramatically before peering around behind the armchairs and sofa.

"What are you looking for?" Doyle asked, mystified by Bodie's behaviour.

"I think a cat must have got in while you weren't looking."

For a few seconds Doyle actually began scanning the room for the cat--then the penny dropped.

"Oh, very funny," he said as he picked up his jacket.

"You got an invite to Buck House or something?" Bodie asked when it became obvious that Doyle wasn't going to offer any information. "Didn't know you had a tie--let alone a suit." Bodie took a handful of fabric and proceeded to examine it closely.

"Just because I don't turn up to work wearing suits and blazers," Doyle countered loftily as he snatched his sleeve back, "does not mean I don't know how to dress when the occasion demands it."

"And what's the occasion then?"

Bodie had to repeat the question twice more before Doyle, who was busy hunting through cupboards and drawers for a clothes brush, answered.

"Going out."

Bodie had worked that out for himself and said so.

"Going out to dinner," Doyle elaborated--rather grudgingly, Bodie thought.

"Who with?" he asked, but answered himself. "Ann?"

Taking the brush out of Doyle's hand, Bodie swept non-existent lint from the back of the jacket with hard, forceful strokes that almost rocked him off his feet.

"You called her," he said flatly. He didn't see the puzzled look in Doyle's eyes. "First date then?" Bodie forced out, the gaiety in his voice at odds with his stern face and hard strokes down the dark back. "Hope you have a nice time."

"Second actually," Doyle said, turning to take the brush back. "And yes, we did have a nice time, thank you very much." He put the brush back in the drawer.

"You've already seen her then--everything all right, was it?" Stupid question, Bodie thought. It was bloody obvious everything had gone okay--why else had Doyle been so cheerfully energetic and eager to get home? "When?"

"Last night. Why?" Doyle was puzzled by Bodie's strange behaviour and couldn't understand his partner's obvious lack of enthusiasm. He'd told him how much Ann meant to him, had even hinted at how much he wanted to see her again, however hard he tired to pretend that he didn't. "It went all right, Bodie," he said quietly, thinking perhaps that Bodie was concerned about Ann's reaction to him. "Once I explained everything..."

"You told her!"

For some inexplicable reason Bodie's tone irritated Doyle. "Of course I told her," he snapped. "What was I supposed to do--pretend I was on a few weeks' leave from the chain gang!"

Picking up his keys and an enormous bunch of roses which he dared Bodie to comment on, he moved to the door. "I'm going now," he said pointedly, "and I want to lock up."

Bodie stepped out into the hallway.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning then," he said. "Pick you up about half eight."

Locking the door securely, Doyle spoke over his shoulder. "I'll pick you up instead."

---

Bodie wasn't a total fool and he didn't need to have it spelt out. Wandering along the road towards his car he waved a distracted hand as Doyle took off towards Ann's flat.

If he didn't come home tonight Bodie was pretty sure it would be the first time--since he'd known him anyway. Over the past six months or so they had overlapped girlfriends once or twice--more than once or twice, Bodie realised now he actually gave the matter some thought, and had discovered a few remarkable facts about his partner's sleeping habits--namely that he liked to sleep alone. The night Carole had gone home to Bodie's flat had been quite a revelation--knowing that the two men were friends, Carole had been more than willing to kiss and tell. The saucier and more personal revelations apart, Bodie had been amazed by Carole's complaint that while Doyle was generally considered to be a good catch, the girls' room committee had voted him to be a lousy bedmate.

"...and then, just when you're feeling nice and warm and sleepy, he calmly announces that he's going home..." Carole had said. Doyle, it seemed, was not one to stick around for breakfast.

Bodie had not consciously courted Doyle's ex-girlfriends, but when they came his way he was never slow to ask them a few pertinent questions--and they all made the same complaint. Doyle was famous as the 'love 'em and leave 'em' CI5 stud.

Unlocking his car, Bodie got in and began to drive home. If Doyle was so confident about getting back together with Ann, he reasoned, he was hardly likely to give much consideration to having Bodie as a flatmate. Arriving home he wondered how long it would take for Doyle and Ann to move in together.

---

"What are you doing tonight?" Doyle asked his partner as they began to wend their way out of the CI5 building.

"Nothing much--wouldn't mind seeing the late film--why?" Bodie enquired, puzzled as to why he had been asked. Compared to how they had spent their time together before Ann had turned up, now they hardly ever saw each other socially. Whenever Ann was in town--and that was far too often for Bodie's liking--Doyle would be off the second their duty was over, to return the next morning bleary-eyed, grey with exhaustion and not exactly raring to go. It seemed Bodie wasn't the only one who had noticed how tired and listless his normally ebullient partner was after a night spent with Ann. Only the other day he had walked into the rest room to find everyone taking bets on whether Doyle had got his oats the night before.

"Do you want to come over for a meal?" Doyle invited.

"I thought you were seeing Ann."

"I am," Doyle agreed. "She's coming over as well. Thought it might be nice for you and her to meet at last."

It wasn't the first time Doyle had tried to arrange a meeting between his two friends but it was, however, the first time Bodie did not have an excuse to cry off--not without making it obvious, anyway.

"Yeah. Okay. Haven't had a decent meal in ages," Bodie joked weakly. "What time?"

---

By the time they reached the coffee stage even Doyle knew that something was wrong. Bodie's behaviour had been impeccable, which relieved one small worry from his mind, and Ann was being charming and polite. But no one looked or sounded relaxed. He had been so sure his two friends would get on together, and the fact that they weren't was worrying. As always when he was tense, his appetite deserted him and he barely touched his food--which was made known to him when Ann paid a visit to the bathroom.

"Unless you ate something when you first got home this evening," Bodie accused, "you've had nothing except a stale cheese roll and two mouthfuls of lasagne all day!"

"Don't nag, Bodie!"

"You should eat something. What's the matter, suddenly gone off your own cooking, or aren't you feeling well?"

"I feel fine," Doyle said wearily. "Christ, there are times when you sound just like my mother."

"You'll only have Willis on your back if your weight drops," Bodie warned, and Doyle glowered across the table at him.

When Ann emerged from the bathroom Bodie pushed his partner towards the armchair and announced that he and Ann were going to clear away the dinner things.

"We can't allow him to work himself into the ground, can we, Ann?" he said silkily and passed her a tea towel. I'll wash and you can wipe."

Making sure Doyle stayed in the chair with a small after-dinner brandy, Bodie ushered Ann into the tiny kitchen. Sipping at the drink, Doyle sighed and closed his eyes. Already tired, the tension of the evening had drained him of energy. Maybe once the pair of them got to know each other, he thought wanly, they would get on better.

It was a good thing that he could neither see nor hear what has happening in the kitchen.

"When do you go back to America?" Bodie asked as he filled the bowl with hot, soapy water.

"Not until mid-December," she answered as she dabbed at the water splashes on her dress. "I'm actually going to see Sydney next, though."

"Sidney who?" Bodie enquired. "Afraid I'm not up on these modern authors."

"Sydney, Australia," Ann said icily. "I'm leaving from Heathrow on Saturday morning."

"That's a long way--like travelling a lot, do you?"

"Oh yes! Of course, it's not quite like being an ordinary tourist--getting on a plane is rather like catching a bus to me, except when I have to travel tourist class if there are no other seats available--then I just hate it. Why the airlines insist on forcing people to travel in such crowded planes I really can't fathom. It's so uncivilised," Ann confided to him.

Having only ever flown tourist class or in military aircraft, Bodie could see that he had nothing in common with Ann on that score.

"How long will you be away?"

"Oh, not long. About three, possibly four weeks. I hope to be back by the end of August."

The washing up was nearly finished before conversation started up again.

"I really think that we should try a little harder to be friends, don't you?" Ann said stiffly as she carefully dried the last plate.

"Why?" Bodie asked bluntly--rather amazed that she had come out with it so boldly. "I know you don't like me--and you'll be relieved to hear that the feeling's mutual!"

"Because," Ann said coldly, her voice hardening and her face becoming even bleaker and more distant than normal, "because Ray wants us to be friends."

"And you always want what Ray wants."

"Yes."

"Then, my dear Ann," Bodie said smoothly, "where were you when he needed you? Where were you when the going got really rough?"

Ann gasped as if she had been struck.

"How dare you say such a thing to me," she protested.

"I'll tell you how I dare," Bodie said, "and you'll listen to me, won't you. Won't you!" he repeated and grabbed her wrist before she could escape; he pulled her towards him and held her. "You ditched him, you toffee-nosed little snob, because you couldn't bear to think that you could possibly get involved with a drug pusher--with a corrupt police officer. You ditched him," Bodie hissed angrily, "even before the courts found him guilty. If you loved him so much how could you have done that to him?"

"Let me go, you great..." Ann wriggled and kicked at Bodie's ankles. "Ow! You're hurting me, she protested.

"Then stop kicking me," Bodie demanded.

"Just leave me alone," Ann cried. "Leave us alone! I can make it up to him. I can make him happy."

"You'd damn well better not make him unhappy!"

"Is that a threat?" Ann asked incredulously.

"If you want to take it that way." He shrugged non-committally. "You've hurt him enough in the past--all I'm asking is that you don't hurt him any more."

"He loves me!"

"I know he does," he said quietly. "Why else would he want to risk getting his teeth kicked in again? But you," he said, "you haven't said that you love him. You've said that he wants you. Loves you, that he wants us to be friends--but what about you?" Bodie saw a flicker of fear cross Ann's face. "Do you really want him or is this whole thing just your way of saying sorry? Now that you've finally had your nose rubbed in the truth and know that he was innocent, you're feeling guilty." Bodie saw the bolt strike home.

"He loves me, Bodie," Ann said quietly but in a determined voice. "Yes, I know I let him down badly, and yes," she admitted to herself as well, "I do feel bad about that, but that's not all. I can make all this up to him. I can help him forget all the bad times. He needs me." She looked Bodie squarely in the face. "I think he needs both of us, don't you? For that reason alone I think we should make the effort."

Bodie had to agree; he had no other choice.

---

Wandering into the dimly lit bedroom, Ann wasn't surprised to find Ray fast asleep. Feeling something akin to guilt she stood by the bedside watching him closely as she slipped her clothes off and laid them neatly across a chair. Looking around the room, she spotted a towelling robe and shrugged into it, making a mental note to bring her spare one over next time she came. In the bathroom she used Ray's toothbrush without hesitation and added that to her list too; if she was going to make a habit of staying overnight it would, after all, be the sensible thing to do--in fact she was rather amazed that she hadn't already done so. Rinsing her mouth and drying her hands, Ann realised with a shock that this was the first night she had stayed at Ray's flat and, thinking further, realised that he had been intending to take her home. It was only because he had been so tired he'd fallen asleep leaning against her on the sofa as she and Bodie made polite conversation that she had insisted he went straight to bed as soon as Bodie left.

Back in the bedroom she slipped the robe off her shoulders and crossed over to the bed, frowning as she saw the deep furrows in Ray's face. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed them. The warm, living blanket she had such fond memories of was very far removed from the restless, twitching man that now shared her bed. In the past, in their past, their nights together had always been comfortable and untroubled, with both of them sound sleepers. The changes in Ray that had been hardly noticeable at first were becoming more apparent as time went on. The pleasant, amenable man who had always been prepared to compromise at worst, or even give in, had changed almost beyond recognition. Before, Ann had been confident of her ability to get Ray to agree to anything within reason, but once or twice over the past month she had realised she had lost that control and could no longer make him dance to her tune. The cold, hard-edged bitterness underlying his cheery personality was new too--and it frightened her. She felt a similar edge hidden beneath Bodie's charm--similar but different. Was that CI5, she wondered, was the bitterness part of the 'job' that they both seemed to enjoy so much?

Slipping between the covers, Ann moved to lie closer to the sleeping man only to freeze when he flinched at her touch.

"Ray?" she whispered, but there was no answer.

She moved closer again only this time he moved away from her outstretched hand and mumbled into the pillow.

"Ray! Darling, what's wrong?" Leaning across the bed, she tried to turn him back to face her.

"No! No!" Doyle protested, trying to push her hands away. "I don't...don't...don't...please!" Stunned, Ann listened to the troubled murmurings as they became only unintelligible sounds. This too was something new to her. The troubled nights broken by Ray's restless movements and sudden shuddering transformation from sleep to wakefulness were becoming increasingly familiar, though.

"Ray...hush up, love. Ssh! It's all right," she promised, knowing full well that she had no idea of what was wrong or what could be troubling him. "Ssh...that's better!" And she rubbed her hand across his shoulder and down his arm. She saw the blow coming just in time and managed to throw herself backwards, the draught on her skin letting her know how close she had come to misfortune.

Doyle woke up just as she slipped off the bed to land with a thump on the floor.

"Bodie? Bodie?" he cried out, confused and disoriented. Then: "Ann...Ann..."

"I'm all right," she answered shakily as she climbed back onto the bed. "Were you dreaming? Was it a bad dream? Are you all right?"

"A...dream. Yes...bad dream," Doyle agreed, lying back on the pillow with his eyes closed as he waited for his racing heart to slow down. "I'm sorry...did I...I didn't hit you, did I?" he said, suddenly stricken in case he could have injured Ann as he had Bodie that time before.

"No. No," Ann assured him. "You missed me, you didn't touch me--really!" She cuddled up close and found herself taken in a bruising hug.

"I'm sorry," Doyle apologised haltingly. "You must have...did you touch me? Only sometimes I do get these dreams...and I don't like being...touched...not when I'm asleep anyway," tried to joke. He had been frightened of this. Going to bed to make love was different, but going to bed to sleep with another body beside him was proving almost impossible. Over the past month he had made love to Ann several times but he had stayed all night on relatively few occasions--only when he had been unable to think of a plausible excuse as to why he had to get up and go home.

"What sort of dreams?" Ann asked curiously.

Doyle gave a harsh laugh. "Bad ones usually."

"What do you dream of?"

"I don't really know," he answered. "I never seem to remember once I'm awake--I just know that...that something's frightened me--terrified me...and I can't get away."

"You were very restless just before you woke up."

"I think that's normal for me. Bodie says I get very twitch and start moving around, mumbling and moaning and generally being a bloody nuisance." Doyle tried to make light of it: he really didn't want to get involved in lengthy dream analysis at one in the morning.

Ann only had a moment to wonder how on earth Bodie could know about the dreams before Doyle's hand began to roam freely over her skin, arousing and driving mundane thoughts from her mind.

"Must've been asleep when you came to bed," he apologised. "Sorry! Mmm! You feel so good," he sighed as her hands found him. "So...good..."

---

Crouching behind a pile of sturdy wooden crates, Bodie checked then reloaded his gun. From around the corner came the sound of running footsteps and Doyle's voice shouted out: "Freeze!" The footsteps kept going and Doyle's gun barked once, twice. Emerging around the side of the building, breathless but otherwise safe, Doyle indicated it was all clear.

Stuffing his weapon back into his shoulder holster, Bodie strode across to his partner. There were one or two things that needed saying before the rest of the squad arrived.

"You fucking--stupid--idiot!" he bellowed. "What did you think you were doing? You could've got us both killed!"

Guilt already wrapped around him like a clinging blanket, condemnation was the last thing Doyle needed.

"We got him, didn't we!" he shouted back.

"We could've got him alive if you hadn't been having forty winks in the car."

"I was not asleep," Doyle denied hotly.

"Jesus fucking christ!" Bodie swore. "So who the fuck was snoring then--me?" he demanded to know.

"I was not asleep..."

"Your eyes were shut--your eyes were fucking shut!"

"The sun was bright, it was so low in the sky it was near blinding me."

"You were supposed to be watching the door--"

"And you should've been round the back, so what the hell were you doing up front with me?"

"Bloody good job I was, mate," Bodie hissed, "or else you'd have been dead before you opened your eyes."

"For the last fucking time," Doyle yelled, "I was not asleep!"

"Well," Bodie finished nastily just as the rest of squad and Cowley's car arrived on the scene, "you were doing a bloody good impression of a man who was!"

---

With their ears still burning from Cowley's tongue-lashing, Bodie drove them home.

"Thanks," Doyle said awkwardly into the silence that hung between them.

"What for?" Bodie asked grimly.

"For not dropping me in it. You didn't have to take all that from Cowley."

"So you were asleep then?" Bodie said gruffly.

"For the last fucking time, Bodie, I was not asleep! The sun was bright and I had only just closed my eyes when you knocked on the window."

"Oh for fuck's sake," said Bodie, totally exasperated by his idiotic partner, "you've been wandering around with your head in the clouds for weeks. If you're not daydreaming you're half asleep--and even when we're on a job I get this feeling that you're not all there. Jesus, mate," Bodie ended, "get your act together before you get yourself or me killed."

"Bodie..."

"Don't mess around, Doyle," Bodie cut in. "You know it's true--either get yourself sorted out or..."

"Or what?" Doyle asked quietly. "Or what?"

"I don't want a partner with his brains in his balls," he finished crudely.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"You know damn well what I mean. Ever since you started seeing her you've been...different. Christ, Doyle, I'm all for you making up for lost time and enjoying yourself but..." Bodie faltered, unsure of exactly what he was trying to say. "But after a night with Ann you usually look as if you've not slept a wink. Don't get me wrong, mate. You two want to go in for the sexual Olympics that's fine by me, but for fuck's sake, just make sure you've got enough energy left for the job," he finished forcefully.

Doyle didn't answer. He couldn't because he knew Bodie was right. With all his defences raised high, the only option left to him was attack.

"What were you doing round the front anyway?"

"Eh?"

"Back there--you were supposed to checking the back so what were you doing checking on me?"

"It's a bloody good job I did, isn't it, or you'd be dead right now."

"Why were you checking up on me?" Doyle persisted; over the last few weeks he had carefully noted when he thought he was being watched and had worked it out. Even though he hadn't actually seen them he knew they had been there--every time he went out with Ann, to her flat, the times she had gone home with him--the only time his skin hadn't pricked in warning had been when he was with Bodie.

"I was not checking up on you," Bodie answered. "I could see there was no way out the back and was coming to warn you about the cellar exit when all hell broke loose."

"That sounds a little weak, don't you think?" said Doyle sarcastically.

"What are you getting at?"

"Come on, Bodie. I know they're watching me. I'm not so far gone I haven't noticed, you know."

"Who's watching you?"

"Don't pretend you don't know!" Doyle spoke scathingly. "The only time I'm not watched is when I'm with you--is that because you're watching me for them?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bodie said in a puzzled voice.

"I know about the surveillance, Bodie," Doyle said patiently. "I've known for a couple of months. It started back in March just after Day pulled that Weston bloke in. All I want to know is when am I going to get hauled in front of Internal Security? How much longer is Cowley going to fart around making both of us do these stupid, piddling jobs?"

"You're not under surveillance, Doyle," Bodie said, but it was obvious he wasn't believed. "I'd know if you were, wouldn't I!"

Surprisingly, Doyle half believed his partner's denials--the puzzlement in the blue eyes was genuine, Doyle was sure of that.

"I can check it out. It should be easy to find out if I.S. is watching you," Bodie offered.

"No!" Doyle said urgently. "If you do that they'll know I'm on to them and they'll change their operation--at least the way things are at the moment I know where I stand."

"Are you really..." Bodie didn't complete the question--he didn't need to.

"Do you think I'm making it up?" Doyle demanded to know. "My idea of fun, is it?"

"There's no need to bit my head off," Bodie said, trying to keep his temper in check. "If someone had been following us around for a couple of months I'm sure I would have noticed."

"Me," Doyle corrected. "Me, not us. They're watching me."

"But you're with me more hours than you're not--how come I've not noticed them?"

"Because they're not there when you are," Doyle said coldly, accusingly.

"Meaning?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Meaning whatever you like," Doyle said, making it quite clear why he believed the anonymous 'they' were not there when his partner was.

"Doyle," Bodie grated out through clenched teeth, "there is no one following you. No one is watching you. Not me, not Day, not Cowley and not Internal Security. If anyone was watching us--watching you--I'd know."

Doyle refused to believe him. Bodie had one last try as they arrived outside his block of flats.

"Look, mate, it's been a rough couple of weeks, we're both tired, overworked, maybe you're just over-reacting to something you think you've seen."

"You think I'm imagining it, don't you!"

"No...not exactly." That was it--exactly--but Bodie didn't think Doyle wanted to hear that. "Don't you think you might be getting a little...paranoid?"

It was the wrong word to use.

"Paranoid!" Doyle yelled back at him. "First I'm falling asleep on the job, then I'm imagining things and now I'm fucking paranoid! Thank you and a good night to you too--partner!"

"Doyle! Doyle...Ray!" Bodie called after him, but he refused to answer. Deciding against following him, Bodie drove towards his own home. Without intending to, he found himself rerunning the past few months through his memory for an out-of-place face or car, searching for memory that wasn't there. He spent the rest of the evening thinking back, checking and double checking, but still he found nothing. Maybe Doyle was paranoid, he decided eventually--yet one more quirk in his partner's personality.

He'd check it out though--discreetly. Just in case!

---

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Shifting uncomfortably for the umpteenth time on the squeaky vinyl chair, Bodie yawned and stretched, trying to ease the crick in his neck and the stiffness in his muscles and meeting with little success. The doors at the end of the corridor crashed open as Cowley arrived.

"A complete write-off!" Cowley said immediately. "You're supposed to have lightning-fast reflexes, man," he sniped. "'A little accident' is how you reported it. Bodie, I've just seen the car--it looks as though you drove it into a brick wall!"

"Sir..."

"A complete write-off! Do you think cars grow on trees, 3.7? It'll come out of the department's budget--as if it wasn't tight enough already. You've no respect for property, any of you."

The Scotsman was well known for his shrewdness: his attention even to minor items on expense chits was famous and Bodie could only imagine the pain and outrage he was feeling at losing what had been an almost brand new vehicle.

"Sorry about the car, sir," he grated, "but at least no one got killed," he pointed out when Cowley finally paused to draw breath.

"Aye." Cowley clicked his tongue with irritation. "How is Doyle?" The question, casually delivered, could almost have been an afterthought.

"Managed to avoid killing 'im as well as writing the car off, sir."

"Don't get smart with me, Bodie," Cowley scolded and Bodie bit down on his smouldering anger. "Mild concussion and small contusions, or so I was informed."

Well, Bodie conceded, at least the Old Man had been concerned enough to enquire.

"Yes, sir, Doc's just stitching him up now."

Just then the door to the treatment room opened and a very pale Doyle, propped up by two tiny nurses, entered the room.

"You can take him home now, Mr Bodie," the sister informed him. "But Doctor says to have someone keep an eye on him for tonight at least."

"Bloody hell, mate--you look even worse than when you went in there!" Bodie exclaimed. "You sure he's fit to go home?"

"He's just a bit shaken up, he'll be all right in a few hours, but call your doctor or bring him back if there are any problems."

"Doyle?" Even Cowley looked at his battered agent and wondered whether he had the strength to walk as far as the car park.

Concentrating on fastening his jacket one-handedly, Doyle noticed Cowley for the first time.

"Sir," he acknowledged with a start; then: "Sorry about the car, sir."

"Aye...sorry indeed. Still...cars cost about as much as it would to retrain another agent--except new cars are easier to come by."

Having reassured himself that Doyle was not seriously hurt, he turned to go but stopped at the door. "Your young lady, Doyle--I believe she's abroad at the moment?"

Not bothering to ask how Cowley knew he was even seeing Ann, let alone her whereabouts, Doyle gave an affirmative nod of his head--then wished he hadn't as the pounding at his temples increased.

"In that case, Bodie," Cowley turned to address the other man, "take him home and look after him. I don't want to see either of you until Monday morning. Goodnight."

"Wha'? Hey! My old son," Bodie cheered once he had gone, "we've cracked it--a long weekend! The Old Man's going soft."

Following Bodie along the corridor at a more sedate pace, Doyle couldn't see what there was to be cheerful about and said so.

"Come on, Doyle, a whole weekend--when did we last get a whole weekend off?"

"And unless you plan to wrap your car around another flamin' brick wall it'll be the last one too. Christ almighty, you could 'ave killed me!"

"It was an accident, no one's fault. It's a bloody good job I was driving--anyone else would have written the car and themselves off!"

"So you made do with the car and only half killing me!" His head was aching abominably, bruised muscles were beginning to make themselves felt and the cold, unpleasant numbness of his injured arm began to wear off.

Realising that as well as feeling as bad as he looked, Doyle was still suffering from shock and in no mood for joking around, Bodie dampened his relief that they had escaped so lightly and got a free weekend into the bargain, and escorted his friend home.

Only taking an interest in the proceedings when they reached the front door, Doyle found the energy to protest.

"Bodie, I want to go home. Mine, not yours."

"Just belt up and go in," Bodie ordered. Doyle did, but with little grace and complaining all the way. "Why did you want to go home, any special reason?"

"No," Doyle sighed. "I just feel...I wanted to go home, Bodie. I feel bloody 'orrible."

"Precisely...so you can stay here and have a good, long soak in a bath, can't you!"

The logic behind his partner's plans finally filtered through to Doyle's tired brain. Home was nice, home was home, but his home only had a nice modern shower stall, and right now his aching body needed a hot bath.

"Right," Doyle smiled, feeling a bit more cheerful.

When it became obvious that Doyle wasn't going to move without help, Bodie led the way to the bathroom which was soon hot and steamy, helping him to strip and lower himself into the bath.

Watching the tension lines ease imperceptibly, Bodie smiled as Doyle leant back, his eyes closing.

"Just keep that arm on the edge, out of the water."

"Yes, Mum," Doyle said dutifully.

"Don't go to sleep there."

"No, Mum."

"I'll 'Mum' you in a minute, Doyle," Bodie laughed. "Now, is there anything you want before I go and start dinner?"

"Well..." Doyle said dutifully.

"What?" Bodie asked warily.

"Me hair." Doyle tweaked at a limp curl with his good hand. "It's all matted with blood...it'll itch like hell if I don't rinse it out."

"Blood in your hair!" Bodie bent down to inspect Doyle's scalp. "What was that stupid doctor doing leaving you--"

"It's only from scratches, Bodie. Just pinpricks really, from the windscreen--my arm got the worst of it."

"Well, it'll teach you to wear a seat belt in future," Bodie said once he'd confirmed Doyle was telling the truth. "Okay, bend your knees."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Knees," Bodie repeated. "Bend them--so you can tip your head back."

"Phew! You had me worried for a minute. Thought you were turning kinky on me. Hang on, I think we've got a problem."

"What's up?"

Doyle's injured arm was the problem. The bandage extended from knuckles to elbow, the whole of which had to be kept out of the water, which was extremely difficult when tipping his head far enough back to wet it without losing his balance. They eventually found a way, though. Bodie held Doyle's head steady, cupping it in one hand in the water and washing the bloodied curls with the other.

Taking care not to splash any of the soap into his partner's eyes, Bodie gently stroked the waterlogged curls, rinsing them clean, all the while holding Doyle's head securely in his hand, stopping him from going completely under the water. He couldn't remember whether he had ever washed someone else's hair and found himself enjoying the sensations, fascinated by the way it floated around Doyle's face in the water and clung to his own fingers as he combed through it.

"Mmm! That's nice," Doyle murmured, totally relaxed and more than half asleep. "Beautiful!"

The dreamy voice jolted Bodie back to the present.

"Come on, sunshine, can't fall asleep in the bath."

Helping Doyle to sit upright, Bodie yanked out the plug and held out a towel.

"I can't stand up...give us a hand, Bodie." Unable to gain a purchase on the steamy damp bathroom tiles without soaking his bad arm, Doyle needed to be half lifted out of the bath. "Ow! Ouch! Watch it! That hurt," he complained as his various bumps and bruises made themselves known.

Wrapping a bath towel around Doyle's shoulders, Bodie gave a heavy sigh.

"I suppose you need another towel for your bloody hair!" Nodding mutely, Doyle agreed, and Bodie fetched another towel. "You can dry yourself?" he asked.

Even through the sarcasm, though, Doyle guessed that if he said he couldn't Bodie would even do that for him too.

"Could do with a hand with my hair," he admitted half truthfully. "It's a bit difficult with one hand."

It was a matter of minutes before he was comfortably seated on the rug by the armchair clad in Bodie's bathrobe--he had declined the candy striped hospital pyjamas--wedged between his partner's knees as his head was patted dry by surprisingly gentle hands.

Bodie even combed it too, and took great care not to pull or drag on the hair where his scalp was tender.

By the time they got to bed Doyle was feeling so much better that he was able to really enjoy being so thoroughly pampered. All the worries caused by Day and Internal Security, the tiredness from nights when Ann's presence or bad dreams had kept him awake and the tension that had followed him and Bodie around over the past few weeks seemed very far away; he was content to lie back and let Bodie do all the fussing and worrying for him. He slept better and more soundly than he had for months.

---

Bodie woke up slowly; he could feel himself climbing through the muzzy layers from sleep to consciousness and was aware enough to know that something wasn't quite right. He didn't want to wake up. He was quite sure about that. It was nice here: warm and cosy and safe; lovely; it was really lovely; lovely and warm; cuddled up; cuddling someone lovely and warm. He snuggled closer to the warmth, loving it. So right. So very, very right. It was getting hotter. He was getting hot and the lovely warm feeling was growing too. He pulled the warmth closer, easing his heat on the sweet softness. It wasn't enough, though, and he moved, trying to hold more, trying to grasp even more of that lovely, loving warmth to him. Touch was not enough. He needed...more. Taste! A lick of moisture on his tongue, salt-sweet, raw and smooth. His hands moved, marking territory, laying claim to what he wanted. It still wasn't enough. He needed...more... He opened his eyes.

The shock was as effective as a bucket of iced water and Bodie withdrew even as his tongue flicked out to steal another taste of Doyle's flesh.

Recognising the withdrawal, Doyle muttered a sleepy protest and inched backwards until he came up against Bodie's chest, whereupon he sighed and settled back to sleep.

While his brain told him to move away from Doyle--quickly--his body and other ideas and he was horrified to feel himself curl closer to the sleepy warmth, appalled at the way he tucked his knees up tight against the back of Doyle's legs, even pushing the relaxed legs apart to trap himself more securely between the sleep-heavy limbs and tugging Doyle's hips backwards to press the bare buttocks against his own pulsing maleness.

Unable to stop himself, Bodie began undulating gently against Doyle, easing and inflaming the rising need that was growing more urgent with each movement.

Doyle's sleepy grunt of protest at the tight band around his waist was all that stopped Bodie's headlong fall into what was promising to be a beautiful, exhilarating climax.

Breathing heavily, sweat breaking out over his body which made both men slippery and sticky, only increasing the delicious feel of flesh on flesh, Bodie forced himself to break away, rolling to the far side of the bed, freezing when he thought the abrupt movement had awoken Doyle and not relaxing until he was sure he had settled back into a deeper sleep.

Dragging his hands over his face, Bodie tried to pull together shattered nerves as his heart and respiration slowed and the burning urgency lessened to uncomfortable, aching frustration.

Slightly calmer, he shifted slightly to sit up, moving with great care so as not to disturb the sleeper. Thankful for once for the light that streamed through the uncurtained window, Bodie stared for long minutes at Doyle's face. It was some considerable time before he could make any sense of the thoughts that swirled around his head.

Once the first shock began to fade Bodie found himself questioning why. Why Doyle? Why now? Why anyone come to that but especially why Doyle?

Moving stealthily, Bodie slid out of the bed and padded along the hallway to living room, scooping his bathrobe up as he went. Three o'clock in the morning was probably too late--or too early--to start a serious drinking bout, but he felt he needed one. The first couple of inches of golden warmth slid down his throat with little noticeable effect. The refill took a little longer to disappear and by the third round he was actually sipping at the whisky, taking time to savour the taste, rolling it around in his mouth as the confusion in his mind slowed its whirling, frantic panic.

Ray? he thought in amazement. Never in his whole life had he ever felt so much as a flicker of sexual interest in another man. Especially not since... With the ease of long practice, Bodie's conscious mind pushed hidden subconscious thoughts back behind the wall. Why Ray? Why not? Bodie tried to picture waking up in a similar position with any of this other colleagues--Murphy, Jax, Puddle-- and found his only reaction to be amusement. Thank god! he thought fervently. He couldn't imagine ever sleeping with any of that lot--so how come he was so keen to sleep with Ray then? How many times had they shared a bed over their year together when either one of then could easily have driven home or slept on a couch. Ah! Bodie reasoned to himself, Ray's couch was bloody uncomfortable and his own was a good nine inches too short. But, his conscience argued, why bring him home tonight. Admittedly Doyle had enjoyed the bath but it would have been easier to wash his hair in a shower but... But, Bodie finally admitted, he'd wanted to look after him, he'd wanted to care for him and make sure he was comfortable...and happy...just as he had for nearly a year now. He wanted to care for his partner.

And he did.

Care!

Doyle was his partner. Cowley had given him to him.

Doyle was his!

The anger that welled up inside was as big a shock as the sensations that had initially woken him. Bodie slammed the tumbler down on the table and swore, quietly but vehemently. Damn Cowley! he thought bitterly. Damn the man with his intricate, devious schemes. Cowley's Grand Plan had worked all right, had worked better than Cowley would ever know. Would never know! Never! All the scheming to bind him to a partner, to snare him with bonds of loyalty had backfired. Cowley had chosen well. Too damned well!

The anger was easier to handle, the emotion more familiar. Bodie knew how to make anger work for him.

He didn't return to bed until after dawn with his plan of action already firmly mapped out, the battle lines drawn up. The solution had been ridiculously easy. All Bodie had to do now was make sure Ray got what he thought he wanted. Marriage and CI5 made poor bedmates and Doyle would leave the squad--if not the department completely.

Once Doyle was no longer his partner, Bodie could resign, and to hell with George Cowley and his damned loyalties.

By the time Mr and Mrs Doyle realised their mistake it would be too late.

Lying in the bed alongside his oblivious, gently snoring partner, Bodie felt his resolve falter. But when he reached out to touch a bared shoulder, Doyle flinched and moved restlessly, hammering home a reminder of why Doyle disliked being touched.

Ruthlessly Bodie forced the longing inside him away, refusing to allow himself the luxury of even daydreaming about the remote possibility that just maybe...

From the other side of the bed Bodie watched Doyle sleep.

It was considerable time before he put a name to the dampness on his face.

---

From the observation room Cowley watched the events happening down on the warehouse floor grimly, his mind analysing the scene in a completely different way from the woman beside him but arriving, regretfully, at the same answer.

To one side of them Macklin groaned in amazement and wrung his hands through his hair.

"What the hell happened there?" he asked of no one in particular.

"Bodie let him fall," Ross answered clearly, her normally emotionless voice tinged with disappointment.

"Only a few weeks ago--a month ago--Bodie would have been there," said Cowley worriedly.

"A few months ago Doyle wouldn't have needed any help. He's way below par," Macklin added.

"They're not communicating," Ross said thoughtfully.

"How do you mean?"

"Almost from the beginning--well," Ross added not unfairly, "since Bodie accepted him as partner, I've noticed that in tight, fast-response situations, they only need the barest minimum of verbal communication to agree on a course of action."

The three watched the men being put through their paces. Macklin had noticed the uncanny way the two operated, he'd noticed something else, too.

"Do you ever hear them when they're fooling around, either before a job or just after when the tension's easing off? Bodie'll start to tell a joke--"

"--and Doyle will finish it for him. Aye," Cowley said, smiling. He had noticed that; most people had.

"Look at them!" Ross gestured to where the two agents were huddled together. "They're planning their attack on Towser, and they're having to use speech to do it. Something is very wrong down there.

"I'm open to suggestions as to what exactly is wrong, doctor," Cowley said briskly. "How far below par is Doyle?" This was addressed to Macklin.

"Well," the fair-haired man spoke slowly, choosing his words with care, "physically, he's fit--fit enough by my standards anyway. Dr Willis is of the opposite opinion."

"Why?"

"The usual story, Doyle's weight is down again and Willis feels that the weight loss is a reflection of Doyle's emotional state."

"It most probably is," Ross added.

"And if he's emotionally...unbalanced at the moment, his whole biological make-up is likely to be equally unbalanced--"

"Just hold it there," Cowley ordered. "One psychiatrist in the department is quite sufficient," he said, glaring from Macklin to Ross. "I was under the impression that Willis had passed Doyle as fit. Is that right?"

"That's correct," Macklin agreed.

"And you say he is below par. Are you refusing to pass him as fit?"

"No."

"Dr Ross?"

"No."

"So everyone is prepared to allow 4.5 to continue on duty?"

"Yes, sir--but with grave reservations." Ross and Macklin nodded in agreement with each other. "It's quite obvious that something is happening within the pairing, something is causing friction. But even allowing for the loss of effectiveness they are still a formidable team."

Cowley watched the two men as they finally out-manoeuvred Towser and succeeded in pinning him down to the dusty floor.

"I agree that they're good," he said as the two men let out banshee victory cries when Towser admitted defeat, "but I'm not happy with the way things are. This 'something' that's causing friction--could it be the girlfriend?"

"Ann Holly?" asked Ross. "Very likely. In fact, almost certainly. It seems wedding bells could be looming up sometime in the near future."

"Marriage?" Cowley asked in amazement; he hadn't thought things were that serious.

"From what Bodie was saying last week it seems probable," said Kate Ross smoothly.

"Bodie said that?" Macklin said in surprise. "I've not heard Doyle mention anything."

"And he's not thought to mention it to me either," said Cowley, "and he knows the procedure. The girl will have to be vetted."

"Well," Ross said, slightly defensive in the face of such open-mouthed amazement, "the way Bodie was speaking I took it as a foregone conclusion. He seemed quite positive about it. Made some joke about having to drag Doyle to his tailor to stop him arriving at the altar in jeans, if I remember right."

"Hmm," Cowley thought for a minute before voicing his suspicion. "Will Doyle want to continue in the department once he's married the girl?"

"Marriage and CI5 don't fit together too well," said Macklin.

"Form the little 4.5 has told me about Miss Holly I don't think she would be content to take the back seat to her husband's career. I got the impression that Doyle was under some pressure from her to resign from the police when they were nearly married before."

"But Doyle enjoys being on the squad," Macklin protested. "I don't think he's even thought about turning his back on Bodie."

"Maybe Bodie's turning away from him." As soon as the words left his mouth Cowley knew he was right. So did Macklin and Ross.

"What was it you said all those months ago, doctor?" Cowley said quietly. "Bodie always shuns personal involvement. Well, this time he made a mistake--and he knows it."

Macklin finished off Cowley's line of reasoning.

"Somehow, Doyle's got under Bodie's skin and now Bodie is trying to pull away before he gets hurt. He knows if Doyle marries the girl he'll leave the squad--"

"So he's building up the wall between them, he's pulling away first, before Doyle does."

Problem understood.

It might be understood but it was still unsolved, and it would have to be faced.

Standing alone in the observation room Cowley watched the two men gather their equipment together and help Macklin and Towser put the mats and training gear away. Each taking one end of a mattress, they dragged and carried it over to the storeroom. The job finished, they did not immediately return to the centre of the room but stayed leaning against the wall and door talking earnestly and deeply for several long minutes. Cowley continued to watch as Bodie shook his head in a very definite manner before turning his back on his partner and walking away. Doyle called after him, once, twice, before turning his own back to the room and punching his fist into the mattress with a force that rocked his body.

It was just possible, Cowley mused consideringly, that Bodie had met his match. Doyle quite clearly did not want his partner to walk away from him.

Leaving the building and walking towards his care, he decided not to start the vetting procedures until Doyle formally declared his intent. For some inexplicable reason Cowley found he was quite unwilling to accept Bodie's declaration of his partner's intent.

---

Determined to find the reason behind Bodie's persistent bloody-mindedness, Doyle was in no mood to linger in the draughty shower room. Cleaner though still unrefreshed, he threw on his clothes and followed Bodie out of the training complex at a brisk trot. Just lately he was always following Bodie, always a couple of steps behind, and only ever catching up when it was obvious Bodie had no option but to allow it. Reaching HQ only seconds behind him, though, he found Bodie was nowhere in sight. The deceptive tattiness of the reception area, deserted except for the electronic, computerised wizardry that allowed the ever-present security man to look like the lethargic, innocuous person he most definitely was not, offered him no clue.

"Where did he go?"

"Who?"

"3.7."

"Lost him have you?"

"Oh...fuck off!" Doyle said sourly, the man's sarcasm only serving to irritate him further.

"You blokes," the security man called after, "think you're so bloody wonderful, but you can't even keep tabs on each other!" The man's voice followed him up the stairwell.

Their office was empty, only Bodie's jacket draped over a desk indicating that once again, Doyle was just a few steps behind his partner. The sound of raucous hilarity rumbled its way along the corridor form the operations room. Doyle opened the door and walked through.

Carter noticed him first. As soon as he saw the double-take in the man's eyes he knew it was too late to retreat and he steeled himself to carry on. Carter nudged the man next to him, who was crowing like a constipated chicken; following Carter's nervous glance, the man choked down his mirth and kicked the chair leg of the man next to him.

That he, Doyle, had been the source of everyone's amusement was blatantly apparent. The laughter stopped within seconds of people becoming aware exactly who had entered the room, everyone's embarrassment too great even to attempt an effort of normality.

"Must 'ave bin one hell of a joke," Doyle said quietly. "Anyone care to share it?"

No one spoke and in a moment of icy, insane clarity, Doyle wondered why everyone had stopped breathing.

"Isn't anyone going to tell me the joke then?"

"You intending to add it to your repertoire?"

This, from Day--who else, Doyle thought--brought more than one nervous snigger.

"You going to tell me or what?" Doyle turned to face the agent, realising that this moment had been a long time coming. He was aware of people moving about, leaving the room. There were no cowards in CI5 but no one deliberately got caught in the fallout. From down the corridor he could hear raised voices, he thought he could hear someone calling his partner's name.

"Keen on sharing things, are you, Doyle?" said Day as he eased himself to his feet and stepped away from the table. "I mean, I've heard that you are...generous, that is."

"And what else have you...heard?"

Someone touched his arm and he flung them off without taking his eyes from Day.

"I've heard a lot about you, sunshine!" Coming from Day's lips the nickname sounded warped, twisted. "Very keen on sharing...things!" Day's eyes roamed insolently over Doyle's body, a small, almost imperceptible flicker of tongue showing through the smiling mouth. "a little bit here...little bit there...sharing...things." Day saved the best until last, enjoying the moment and uncaring of Cowley's orders. "Met an old friend of yours the other day. Got to talking about you. He said next time I saw you I was to give you his...regards!"

From behind, Doyle heard another snigger.

"This 'old friend,'" Doyle asked, "got a name, has he?"

"Said how much he missed you," Day said casually as he measured how much further he could risk pushing Doyle. "You cheered his days up no end, he said--poor old Bert--bet you cheered his nights up too."

It was so fast he didn't see it coming. Doyle was pumping his fist into his abdomen for the third time before the pain from the first one registered.

Day was fighting him off, pushing and punching at Doyle while someone was trying to grab his arms from behind. Doyle fought them both, fought them all.

A riot in the operations room was not the best way to keep their Controller in the right frame of mind and so everyone piled back into the melee, trying to break it up before the disturbance reached the office at the far end of the corridor.

Pinned to the floor by half a dozen of Cowley's finest, Doyle was still fighting them, struggling against he weights that secured his arms and legs, bucking against the weight that settled heavily on his back.

"Doyle! Doyle!" Somebody was touching his face, trying to turn it; he bit the fingers hard. "Ouch! Jesus, Ray! Pack it in, mate. Ray, pack it in before someone gets hurt!"

It was Bodie. Doyle turned to look at the owner of the bitten fingers. Bodie was there on his knees looking worried--frightened even--and he wondered why. He saw Bodie nod to someone behind him, above him, and felt the weight on his back lift off a few inches; the body hesitated before shifting any further but Bodie made an impatient movement with his head and all the restraining hands left him.

"Get him out of here before Cowley starts sniffing around," a voice barked roughly. Doyle tensed again, but it was Day who was jerked to his feet and hustled out of the door. "Everyone else can get out too--go on! The fun's all over now. Sod off!" Bodie dismissed everyone else and helped Doyle to his feet.

Stunned by both his temper and a blow to his head, Doyle just stood there, rocking slightly, as first Bodie and then Lake tried to disguise the evidence. Pulling a hanky from his pocket, Lake pressed it into Doyle's hand and then pressed the hanky and hand over a nose which was bleeding slightly.

There was a slight commotion at the door.

"Cowley's on his way down to see the rota boards. Quick!" an urgent voice announced. For a moment the men, with the exception of the cause of it all, panicked.

"Into the side room, then we can get him out through the rest room when Cowley's not looking," Lake said.

They only just made it. To avoid being seen they had to get down on their hands and knees and crawl below the half-glass partition to reach the door that led back into the corridor.

Totally unaware of the goings on only a few feet behind his back, Cowley gave his attention to the rota boards.

Waiting until Cowley moved over to the duty operatives desk, the three men scurried across the few feet of exposed floor to escape into the corridor. They were out of the building and halfway across the car park before they began to believe that they had got away with it.

Lake turned and gave Bodie a meaningful look; he didn't have to say anything.

"Thanks, Puddle. He owes you one!"

"Forget it. Just take him home and keep him out of trouble, Bodie, for all our sakes!" Lake said quietly before squeezing Bodie's shoulder and moving away. He didn't really want to get involved; he knew all about dealing with a partner's problems and he didn't want to know--not any more.

"Come on, Ray," Bodie said gruffly as he unlocked the car door. "Get in and I'll take you home."

"Oh, you are talking to me then!"

Bodie ignored him and waited for Doyle to get in the car. "Do you need a doctor?" he thought to enquire. Doyle had after all very nearly single-handedly fought off a small army

"No."

"Are you all right now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, christ!" Bodie drew in a deep breath and tried to gather the threads of his patience. "Are you going to have a fight with me now?"

"If you want one, why not?" Doyle demanded to know. "Might clear the air a bit. Who knows, you might even stand still long enough for me to hit you!"

Driving down the street, Bodie had to negotiate between some buses before he could answer. He hoped the delay would help him think of something to say.

"Tell you what," Doyle said in a brittle voice, "how about a compromise? Instead of a fight let's 'ave an argument."

Bodie could feel the tension in the man next to him and realised that Day had been the final straw and the things they had avoided talking about all summer had finally bubbled to the surface.

"Hell," Doyle went on in his partner's continued silence, "even an argument would be a novelty. How long is it since we last talked?"

"What are you on about? Never stop talking, you don't!" Bodie joked lamely.

"Oh yeah! We talk about the job, we talk about Cowley, we even talk about Anson's fuckin' cigars but when do we ever really talk?"

The silence continued as the car moved along the streets, Bodie desperately trying to think of a way to turn the conversation and Doyle mopping the remaining blood spots on his face and wondering where the hell everything had started to go wrong.

"How long has he been spreading it around?" Doyle finally asked, sounding much calmer.

"Has who been spreading what around?" Bodie asked, still trying to stall.

"How long," Doyle said with care, "has Day been telling everyone about Kingsley and me?"

"Oh, that!"

"Yeah, oh that!" Doyle said bitterly.

"Since you joined the squad."

"Shit!" Doyle swore without any real heat. "Was half hoping it was only recent. When did you first hear it?"

"Not long after you'd told me what had really happened. And as far as I can tell he's only talked to the squad; he's got more sense than to spread it any further."

"Does Cowley know?"

"What do you think?"

"He knows." Doyle thought for a few minutes. "Do you think he already knew or would the rumours going round have been the first he knew about it?"

"I don't know for sure but I'd say he knew about Kingsley before you left Maidstone," Bodie said quietly. "You said to yourself that everyone on the wing thought Kingsley was screwing you. Stands to reason that the story would get about--nice juicy bit of gossip...plus..." Bodie stumbled again, "well...you've never...denied it--except to me, of course...you let them believe it, and since you left Maidstone you've never talked about it to anyone apart from me."

"That fuckin' pervert!" Doyle hissed. "I bet he'd just love to know how he's still mucking my life up."

They arrived at Doyle's flat and although he didn't really want to stay while his partner was in such an odd mood, Bodie felt reluctant to leave him. Doyle's mood kept swinging back and forth between anger and depression and although Bodie knew the depression was not deep enough to be dangerous, he knew that the anger was.

Deciding that alcohol would be easier and less painful to administer than a thump on the head, Bodie poured them both a drink, but when he turned with the glasses the room was empty. He found Doyle in the hallway staring at his mirror image.

"What do they see?" Doyle asked aloud. "What do I do that makes them look at me?"

It took Bodie a second or two to realise that Doyle wasn't really talking to him, that he was asking himself the question as he stared at his image, trying to see what they saw.

"It keeps on happening...even before I went inside...just didn't understand what they wanted before...too naive, I suppose. Do you think I look queer?"

The question took Bodie completely by surprise, and he took too long to answer for a denial to sound believable.

"What does 'queer' look like?" Bodie finally managed to say, his heart pounding as he realised how horrified Doyle would be if he ever guessed how his partner felt about him. He stared into the mirror straight into the reflection of Doyle's eyes. Beautiful was a word which sprang into Bodie's mind. He tried to turn the word into handsome, but beautiful was better.

"You're...good-looking," Bodie said carefully. "Slim--fit--an attractive man. I suppose if a...man was...that way inclined...he might think you worth...approaching."

"Good looking!" Doyle mimicked him, "with this!"

Bodie touched a finger to the damaged cheek, shocked at his daring and recklessly giving in to his need to reach out and touch.

"Makes you look...different; exotic."

"Exotic!"

"Special, then," Bodie said, relaxing slightly as Doyle permitted the touch and even turned his head to allow to allow Bodie's fingers to trace the scarred tissue as it disappeared into his hairline.

Unconscious of what he was doing, Doyle closed his eyes and moved his head slightly, encouraging Bodie's fingers to linger in their fleeting caress of his skin. Bodie was forced to apply more pressure with his hand to prevent Doyle from noticing how much he was trembling. He slipped his hand along the curve of Doyle's skull and down the tense column of his neck, turning the action into a firm, relaxing and, Bodie hoped, an asexual massage--asexual, that was, from Doyle's point of view; certain not from his. Totally oblivious to the storm Bodie was encountering, Doyle relaxed into the massage, encouraging him to continue with soft moans of contentment as the tension was eased away.

His eyes open again, Doyle saw only his own reflection looking back at him, imperfection and disappointment seemingly etched onto his face.

"Nah," he said softly, "how could anyone call that exotic?" He touched the cheekbone with a finger and pulled the skin taut in an attempt to even it out. "Ann says that a good plastic surgeon should be able to do something with it."

"What?" Bodie was astonished to discover that the scar caused his partner so much anguish that he would consider such drastic action. "What on earth do you want to go mucking around with that sort of thing for?"

"It does make me look a bit odd. Ann says it makes me look..."

Doyle's voice trailed away as he was suddenly overtaken by a burst of self-consciousness.

"She said it made you look odd?" Bodie asked, more than prepared to make her a present of her own damaged cheekbone if she so wished.

"Not in so many words," Doyle admitted. "She does have tact--sometimes." He laughed softly, wistfully. "She keeps looking at it, but she's never touched it. Not once."

Bodie laid a finger across the mark again, a thrill of unexpected pleasure surging through his nerve endings at the knowledge that he was doing something for Doyle that Ann couldn't or wouldn't do. And Ray was letting him, encouraging him even.

"What do I do about Day?" Doyle asked later that evening. "If Cowley gets to hear about this afternoon's debacle we'll both be on the carpet."

"Day's hardly likely to tell him--from what I heard he was asking for it, deliberately provoking you."

"He asked for it all right."

"Most of the squad don't share his opinion of you--"

"Most?" Doyle picked up on the word.

"You've still got to charm a few of 'em, sunshine--but no one listens to him and more--"

"The whole bloody room was listening when I walked in on him!" protested Doyle.

"Come on, Doyle!" They'd all been stuck up there on standby all day. They'd've listened to Percy Edward's bird impressions if he'd been there."

It had a ring of truth; Doyle had to admit as much. After a few hours you'd find yourself listening to anything to keep yourself awake, and a nice piece of spiced up gossip, however untrue, was as good a way as any of passing the time.

As Bodie got ready to go home for the night Doyle asked him about his plans for the next evening.

"Why? I thought Ann was coming home tonight."

"Well, yes, I think she is but--"

"By tomorrow night she'll be over her jet-lag and all ready to tell you what she's been up to in all those foreign parts, won't she. It's been a few weeks--I expect you'll both have a lot to talk about," Bodie said brightly.

"I suppose so. But I thought..."

"Well, I must go. Want to get me eight hours in. See you tomorrow. Goodnight."

"But, Bodie...'night," Doyle called out lamely as the door slammed shut behind the swiftly retreating figure.

Wandering through the flat, locking up and turning the lights off, Doyle thought about Ann, wondering when she would arrive at Heathrow. If her flight didn't get in until very early in the morning she might still be too tired to want company tomorrow evening.

He didn't once question the reasons why Ann's imminent return did not fill him with happy anticipation. Neither did he think it strange that he wanted to spend tomorrow evening relaxing and unwinding in his partner's company.

---

As he had known it would be, the conversation was soon steered back towards the coming festivities. He didn't want to discuss it, Ann knew it and so did Bodie, and he was beginning to feel picked on.

"For the last time," he raged quietly, "I don't think going to visit Constance is a good idea."

"You'll have to go and see her sometime, Doyle," Bodie said politely.

"Why?"

"Oh, Ray, really!" Ann exclaimed.

"Because you have to," Bodie insisted. "Stands to reason, you can't hide away forever. You'll have to see her and explain everything. She'll have to know eventually."

"Why?"

"Because!" Bodie said meaningly as he winked across the small table at Ann, who blushed prettily and smiled back at him. "My round, isn't it--same again?" He picked up the empty glasses and moved towards the bar, leaving Doyle tracing the circles of liquid on the table top and scowling fiercely.

"Darling, please!" Ann begged sweetly. She knew her mother was expecting her to go home for Christmas and after Bodie had told her how Ray had spent his first Christmas out of prison she felt obliged to do something to make this year happier for him. "Bodie's right, darling. Once we tell her the truth about those dreadful things that happened everything will be just fine. Just like before. Oh, please, Ray! Please say you'll come. You know that you'll be welcome, Mummy and Harry will just love to see you again."

Doyle didn't particularly feel like placing a bet on that. Dear Connie and Happy Harry would do all they could to make him feel about as welcome as a fertile flea, only Ann couldn't see that. Had never been able to see that.

"So, when are you off then?" Bodie asked as he plonked their drinks down on the table. "Don't forget to get your good suit pressed; got to make a good impression on your future in-laws, haven't you!"

Ann simpered and took a delicate sip of her drink and didn't notice the filthy look her intended gave his partner.

---

Life was very hectic in the weeks leading up to Christmas. The Christian sprit of goodwill towards all men seemed to affect all the heads of state, and military leaders of all denominations at the same time. They all converged on London--it seemed to share their goodwill--before vanishing back to their respective homes, castles, places and fortresses prior to the Christian world closing down for Christmas.

---

Deliberately, and very purposefully, Bodie did not allow his partner a moment in which he could really talk to him about anything outside their work.

In fact, it wasn't until the squad's party was almost half over that he sought his friend out. Doyle was talking to Puddle with no sign anywhere of Ann when Bodie found him.

"Where is she then--where's my lovely lady?" Bodie asked.

"Gone to--powder her nose," Lake answered discreetly.

"That's all right then. For a nasty moment there I thought you'd let one of this lot of rabble walk off with her."

"She's got too much taste to do a daft thing like that, haven't you, love?" Doyle slipped his arm around Ann's waist and pecked her cheek as she returned.

"To do what?" she asked.

"Run off to my love-nest for a night of unbridled passion with me, my dear," Bodie said in his best Rudolph Valentino style.

"Don't listen to him, beautiful!" Lake added. "You'd end up washing his socks and making him bacon butties all night."

"Give over, Puddle," Bodie laughed and thumped his friend o the back. "Anyway, Doyle, when are you two off to see the in-laws then?"

"In-laws! You've not said anything about getting married!"

"Well, we've not actually--" said Doyle.

"He, listen everybody, listen!" Lake raised his voice to be heard above the noise of the party. "Shut up and listen--I've got an announcement to make."

"Puddle!" Doyle failed to stop him.

"Everybody listening? Right. Got an important announcement to make. Doyle's getting married!"

From then on it was pure bedlam, congratulations rained down on the 'happy couple' from every direction. They were parted from each other by sheer force of numbers; Doyle was borne to the bar to be given celebratory drinks and Ann was swept around the dance floor by a succession of men keen to dance with the newest squad 'wife.'

By the time the party came to an end they were officially engaged.

---

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The phone rang at odd intervals throughout the whole of Christmas Day. Bodie stopped what he was doing each time it rang out to look at it...and waited for it to stop. He didn't feel like talking to anyone and he most definitely did not feel up to coping with joyous greetings and seasonal salutations. He half wished that the red phone, the direct line to HQ, would ring, but if it did it would probably cancel Doyle's leave too--and he didn't really want that either.

The phone shrilled again, longer this time as though the caller knew someone was there. The ringing went on and on. Bodie just glared at it as it continued.

"Fuck off, Doyle!" Bodie shouted at it. "Jus' fuck off an' leave me alone!" The phone was suddenly silent. Bodie stared at it for a few more seconds before slumping back into his chair and topping his glass up. "Tha's right...you jus' fuck off an' leave me alone, see if I care. You see if I..."

It took a lot to make Bodie drunk. It was an expensive habit that he didn't pursue very often, but then it was Christmas after all. He didn't usually pay much attention to Christmas and, since freeing himself from his own family ties had single-mindedly refused to get drawn into anyone else's. Except for the last year, of course. To fend off the feelings the memory initiated, Bodie took another long swallow before allowing the thoughts to solidify into the chain of events. It had all been Cowley's fault. And Puddle's--not forgetting Murphy...good old Murphy!

"Bet Doyle's looking forward to next week, eh?" Murphy had said. Bodie hadn't understood and said so. "Christmas," Murph had said, waving his arms around like some demented windmill and smiling broadly. The one-word explanation had still not made all that much sense to Bodie, who was prepared to conclude that Murphy had already been afflicted with the seasonal insanity.

"Good of the Old Man to give you two the holiday off--not even on standby, you lucky sods! Must be the Christmas spirit--probably opened the bottle a bit early, eh!" Murphy had chortled. "It's only fair, I suppose, even the other lads reckon Cowley's being pretty decent letting Doyle off this Christmas--Christ, I don't suppose he's had much to celebrate the past few years!"

It was only then Bodie realised that it was going to be Doyle's first 'free' Christmas for four years--and everyone, it seemed, was expecting him to do something about it. Uncertain of what to do and resenting the widely held belief that he should be the one to do it, Bodie had eventually gone around to visit Doyle at his new flat.

For one reason or another they didn't get round to discussing Christmas until much later that evening. Helping his partner to 'rearrange a few bits of furniture' had turned into a mammoth task, the whole house being shifted around until Bodie was quite certain that some bits had ended up exactly where they had started from.

"All you need now is a tree and some tinsel," Bodie had ventured as an opener.

"Nah," Doyle dismissed the suggestion casually and sent to get them something to drink."

"No."

"Christmas is for families." Bodie recited the phrase people often quoted at him and did at least try to sound as if he meant it.

"You going to see yours?" Doyle asked.

"No."

Doyle just shrugged at his answer and changed the subject.

"What are you going to do?" Bodie asked him again a little later on. Doyle sighed before answering.

"Hadn't given it that much thought--how long did you say we have off?"

"Three days."

"Three days--what can you do in three days for heaven's sake?"

"Celebrate Christmas," Bodie said recklessly.

"How?"

"Same way as everyone else, I suppose. Eating, drinking and...watching the telly! How did you want to spend it?"

Doyle went very quiet for a few minutes before replying and at first Bodie didn't want to listen too closely, but it soon became apparent that Doyle was quite lost in his memories as he relived past Christmases. Childhood tales and reflections of a family life that was quite unknown to Bodie were slowly revealed; simple, touching tales that were sometimes bittersweet and occasionally, childishly magical. Of the Christmases spent in prison there was no mention and Doyle refused to be drawn. The shutters on that part of his life were, as always, well and truly closed.

It took Bodie a few days to work out his plan and it went off beautifully. The wonderful 'Family Sized Christmas Hamper' that he 'won' in some unspecified lottery cost him a considerable portion of his monthly salary and the invitation to spend Christmas in decadent comfort and willing arms, but it had been worth it. Doyle had responded to his partner's cry for help and unearthed a recipe from somewhere to cope with the turkey, Christmas pudding and all the other trimmings it took them the three days to eat and drink.

They had stayed at Doyle's new flat the whole time, not straying outside the front door once, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and enjoying themselves. It had been the closest Bodie had come to a 'family' Christmas for many years. The last too, he thought bitterly.

The phone rang once more during the evening and started again about mid-morning on Boxing Day. Bodie continued to ignore it. Eventually he covered the phone with a pile of pillows and took himself off to bed to sleep away his overdose of Christmas.

The dream was so familiar that he already knew the ending. He followed the set pattern easily, remembering with boring ease each turn of conversation, shift of tension, but this time the analytical part of his mind rebelled against the routine and forced a few changes, subtle changes that were, at first, barely noticeable.

"What are you in for?" he asked his cell mate.

"Nothing--I'm innocent," Doyle answered quietly.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" Bodie spat out as he pulled at the other man's shirt, forcing him to look up.

"It's true," Doyle insisted.

"Don't make me laugh."

"It's all lies, I didn't do anything!"

"I suppose it's all lies about you and Bert Kingsley too?"

Doyle paled and tried to pull away but Bodie held on to him.

"Don't..."

"Don't what?" Bodie demanded of his prisoner. His own prison garb was gone, replaced by the trim, serviceable serge of an officer.

The change of clothing changed the rules.

The power of his new position ran through Bodie like an electrical charge, adding fuel to his growing anticipation and increased awareness of the man he held so closely.

"You're a bent copper, Doyle," Bodie sneered. He gripped Doyle's chin, forcing it up. "And you know what we do to bent coppers, don't you?" He jerked Doyle forward, bringing him into hard contact with his own body. He could feel Doyle's trembling body down the whole, hot, aching length of himself.

"Did you say 'don't' to Kingsley when he did this?" Bodie rubbed his groin against Doyle's. "And what about when he did this?" Bodie slid his hands about the taut body to cup Doyle's buttocks, pulling him forward to increase the sensation centring nicely in his own body but before he could force it through to completion Doyle was snatched away from his arms.

"Ray!" he cried out, protesting his loss.

"He's not yours," the man snarled. "He's mine, aren't you, Ray?" The man had his arm resting loosely across Doyle's shoulders. Doyle smiled at Bodie before answering:

"That's right," as he turned into the larger man's embrace. Stunned, Bodie watched as the stranger pulled the unresisting Doyle to him and repeated the coarse movements he had made himself only seconds earlier--the only difference being that Doyle was not passive this time and he watched helplessly as his Ray responded to the rough handling. Held captive by the spectacle, Bodie looked on as Doyle's body was bared by knowing hands, the sight of his obvious arousal adding more fire to Bodie's own lust. Unable to bear the lack of physical stimulation a second longer, Bodie loosened his own clothing, freeing himself, his hand starting a fast and furious beat immediately. He closed his eyes at the moment of climax and fancied that he heard a cry from Doyle. He couldn't help himself responding to the sound and he opened his mouth to call his partner's name as he came. He was still pulsing stickily into his hand with Ray's name on his lips when he woke up, every ugly second clear in his mind.

"Bodie!"

He shook his head to clear it but Doyle's voice could still be heard--although edged with irritation rather than passion--but just as clearly as in his dream.

"Bodie! I know you're in there, if you don't come and let this chain off I'm going to kick the bloody door down!"

Bodie froze. He couldn't possibly face him now; not after...

"Bodie. You've got until I count to three to convince me you've got a good reason why I can't come in!"

Shakily clambering out of bed and shrugging into a bathrobe, Bodie moved towards the hallway, his brain going into overdrive. Inspiration hit as he opened the bedroom door. He stepped into the hallway and continued an imaginary conversation with no one in a voice calculated as being just loud enough to carry to the cracked open front door.

"...okay, I'll just get rid of him, just wait a bit...no, there's no need for you to get up--I'll just get rid of him." Reaching the door, Bodie slammed it shut, careless of Doyle's nose or fingers, released the safety chain and opened it again with a belligerent expression firmly fixed on his face.

"What the bloody hell do you want? Who the fuck do you think you are knocking on my door at this time of night?"

"Bodie, it's four-thirty in the afternoon," Doyle said sweetly.

"So?" Bodie demanded. "What do you want? Make it snappy--there's a mate." Bodie softened his voice a little and nodded towards his closed bedroom door.

"You've got company?" Doyle asked, feeling rather foolish now that he was here.

His voice heavy with irony, Bodie simply said, "You noticed! Someone gave you a brain for Christmas!"

"Sorry. Interrupt something did I?" Only now did Doyle realise why his partner had taken so long to answer the door; the smell of sex still strong enough to carry across the draughty hallway.

"We've established that I've got company and that you did interrupt something," Bodie said patiently. "But I still don't know why you were intent on doing a shoulder charge on my front door."

Intent now only on getting away, Doyle began to back towards the stairs.

"Just wanted to tell you that your phone's not working--I've been ringing and ringing you, yesterday and today; knew you were in so I reported the fault," he added generously.

"What did you want that was so important?"

"Oh...nothing." Doyle had reached the beginning of the stairwell. "Just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas, that's all and to invite you over for dinner tomorrow."

"Dinner? I thought you were staying with Ann's family?"

Doyle wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, well...had enough of them. Came home this morning."

"I dunno about tomorrow--"

"Ann's staying on for a few more days, won't come back to town till Thursday at the earliest," Doyle added, realising unconsciously that his partner wouldn't come if he thought Ann was going to be there.

"What time?" Bodie asked.

---

Bodie arrived half an hour early--and was let in by Ann.

"Hello, Bodie," she said in the moment of surprised silence. "Ray had a phone call from someone about twenty minutes ago and had to go out."

"From HQ?" Bodie asked.

"No, I don't think so. It was a Bob someone. I think Ray said he was with the Home Office."

"Bob Craig?"

"Yes, I think that was it," she replied as she led Bodie into the living room. "Here, let me take your jacket. Would you like a drink?"

Bodie let her take his jacket and moved towards the small drinks cabinet to help himself.

"Glasses are in the middle cupboard and I think you'll find some mixers in the cupboard underneath," Ann called out from the hallway. Bodie already had a glass in his hand and had not needed to be told where anything was, being as he was as comfortable in Doyle's home as he was in his own--something his hostess noticed as soon as she came back into the room.

"I'd forgotten, you're probably quite familiar with Ray's flat, aren't you," she said, accepting a glass of dry martini. The flash of colour on his hand drew Bodie's attention to the new jewellery adorning the manicured finger.

"All formal now, is it?" he asked as he held her hand to look closer at the ring.

"Yes." Ann twisted it on her finger. "Ray wanted to buy me another ring, a new one, but I told him that I still wanted to wear this one." She moved away to rest her glass down before going out into the kitchen.

Bodie followed her. "Another ring?" he asked curiously.

"Yes. This one was my first engagement ring, the one Ray bought me the last time...I could never bear to get rid of it."

"Surprised you kept it all this time," Bodie said unthinkingly.

"Why shouldn't I?" Ann spun on her heel.

"Well..." Bodie groped frantically for an agreeable answer, he could hardly say what he really thought she should have done. "I thought you girls were supposed to chuck it in the river or pawn it when love's dream goes sour," he said with a disarming smile.

Saved by the bell, he thought with relief as the phone rang. They both reached to answer it, Ann's hand closing on the receiver first. Bodie acknowledged she could answer it with a brief nod and stood back. Had it been the red phone, of course, there was no way she would have been allowed to answer it.

"Hello. Yes, he arrived about ten minutes ago. All right. Bodie--it's Ray." She held out the phone for him to take.

"Hello, mate," Bodie said.

"Sorry about this, Bodie, but I'm not going to get back for another few hours." He sounded tired and irritable.

"What's up, Ann said that Bob Craig had called?"

"Yeah, the whole compensation business comes up before the board in a few days and he needed to get some papers prepared--and some berk has gone and lost half the bloody file so I've got to go over everything again!"

"Need any help?"

"Nothing you can help with, mate. I've just got to plough through a mountain of papers to check what's missing. Sorry about this," Doyle apologised again. "Mucked my plans right up it has, especially with Ann suddenly flying off to America tomorrow. Look, why don't you two go ahead and have dinner, I'll try and get back as soon as I can--" Doyle's voice became distant and voices could be heard in the background, then the mouthpiece was muffled as he spoke to someone in the room with him. It was only a moment before he was talking down the phone again. "Bodie, I've got to go, sorry about this evening. Tell Ann I'll see her tonight when I've finished here, bye." The line went dead and Bodie replaced the receiver.

"He had to go, said he'll see you tonight," he said awkwardly. Wonderful, he thought, a perfect evening--just Ann and him--recipe for disaster.

"Did he say anything about dinner?"

He could lie, of course. The thought was very tempting.

"Yes, said we were to go ahead without him."

"Well, if you came for dinner the least I can do is feed you," Ann said lightly.

Bodie suddenly recalled the few things Ray had ever said about his fiancee's cooking and tried to withdraw from the predicament he found himself in.

"It's okay, love. I don't want to put you out."

"Really, Bodie. It's no bother, besides, it'll make a pleasant change to have a chance to cook something without Ray fussing around in the kitchen." The sarcastic tone Ann used took Bodie aback and it obviously showed because she laughed, a genuine laugh this time. Not a genteel giggle, but a warm rich sound that Bodie couldn't help but respond to.

"Honestly, Bodie," said Ann as she went back into the kitchen and started rummaging through the vegetable racks and fridge. "The way Ray goes on you would think he was the only person in the world able to cook a decent meal!"

"He is a good cook--miles better than me," Bodie defended.

"He told me you were lousy in the kitchen."

Had he, indeed, Bodie thought, surprised to realise that the pair must have talked about him. "I think lousy is a bit strong!" he said, slightly wounded.

"Oh, don't worry, Bodie. I always take everything Ray says about other people's cooking with a big pinch of salt--no one ever matches his standards. Have you honestly never noticed how fussy he is with his food?" she asked. Bodie had to admit that apart from thinking that Ray never ate enough, he hadn't. Ann wasn't surprised. "It took me ages to work it out--and even then it was Helen, his mother, who told me. You'll never get him to admit it, but he's got a real 'thing' about eating food prepared by other people. If he cooks for himself he'll usually eat the pattern off the plate but give him a meal prepared by someone else and he'll eat enough to be polite or to stop himself from feeling hungry."

"I've seen him eating out--and he eats at my place," Bodie continued to defend Ray although he knew that what Ann was saying had more than a grain of truth in it.

"But what does he eat? In a canteen or restaurant he will opt for a salad or something really basic like an omelette, rolls or sandwiches. Things which take relatively little cooking. And, at your home, when you do the cooking, I'll bet that Ray is in the kitchen with you, watching, helping to get it ready?"

"Well...now that you mention it," Ray admitted. "Can't say that I'd really noticed before but yes--he's always under my feet--I usually just back out and leave him to get on with it." The told-you-so expression on Ann's face gave Bodie food for thought. He considered he knew his partner well and had got to know all about his moods and peculiarities and it was a shock to find that he didn't. What else was there that Ann knew and he didn't?

When Doyle finally arrived home several hours later he was greeted by the unexpected sight of his fiancee and partner deep in conversation seated at the dining table with the remnants of dinner still around them.

"Hello, love." Ray leant down and give Ann a peck on her cheek. "Sorry I was so long--had a nice meal?" Testing the atmosphere, he was doubly amazed to discover how relaxed they both were--a total contrast to their usual encounters.

"Lovely," said Bodie. "We even left some for you. It's in the hot plate keeping warm--shouldn't be too dried up; we only ate about an hour ago. Sit yourself down and I'll get you a plate." Bodie busied himself in the kitchen serving up his partner's portion of the scrumptious meal Ann had prepared. "Careful, it's hot," he added as he put the plate in front of Doyle.

"It looks interesting--who cooked?" Doyle asked innocently and looked up to find two pairs of inscrutable eyes looking at him.

"Ann," Bodie said finally. "With a little help from me--it's delicious. Almost ate your bit as well, didn't we?" This last, addressed to Ann who agreed, caused the pair of them to smile broadly.

"I'm not really very hungry--you can have it if you want and I'll just have a sandwich." Doyle was very bemused. He knew that he was missing out on whatever was amusing his friends--but something inside stopped him from asking them to explain the joke.

Guessing that Doyle was picking up the undercurrent of their amusement, Bodie decided that tactical withdrawal was the best course of action and said his goodbyes, arranging to meet his partner at the morning briefing.

After Bodie's departure, Doyle ate his supper in silence, puzzling over the strangely warm atmosphere between Ann and his somewhat moody partner. He had fully expected to arrive home to find Bodie already gone or the two protagonists fighting for points.

"Bodie was in a strange mood," he said finally as he helped Ann to tidy the kitchen.

"Was he?"

"Didn't you think so? I'd got the impression that you two didn't really get on too well." He was probing carefully but Ann understood the reason behind the casual question.

"Whatever made you think that? Bodie's a charming man." Ann smiled and kissed her fiancee on the corner of his downturned mouth.

Charming was not a word he would have expected to hear Ann use with reference to Bodie. On the few occasions they had met, Doyle had always felt like a representative of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force--and just about as unwanted and ineffective! Suspicion, unwanted and ugly, reared its head. "Trying to chat you up, was he?" he asked with a nonchalance he didn't feel.

"Ray!"

It wouldn't be the first time, love," Doyle defended himself. "Leave him alone for five minutes with any of my girlfriends and he'd always start with his charm--trying to convince them to ditch me for him."

"He was trying nothing of the sort! Honestly, Ray. I'm surprised at you. How could you accuse a friend of doing such a terrible thing?" Ann was really upset at his accusation and moved around the flat in a cloud of pique. Doyle tried to patch things up but only succeeded in making it worse. "Of course we looked as if we were having a good time!" Ann raged. "What on earth were you expecting--steak knives at twenty paces? What's got into you--I really don't understand why you're so upset that Bodie and I were actually enjoying each other's company for once...wasn't that what you wanted? Do you really think so little of him that you believe he would seriously try to make a pass at me--"

"Of course I know he wouldn't--"

"Maybe you think I made a pass at him--" Ann shouted.

"Ann--"

"Is that it. don't you trust me not to get too friendly with your friends?"

"Ann--"

"That is it, isn't it. You don't trust me!"

"Of course I--" Doyle tried to patch things up but it was too late.

"No!" Ann's voice cracked out, cutting his denial off. "You don't trust me. You really can't bring yourself to believe that I won't let you down again. Like last time..."

"Ann, please...I didn't mean anything by what I said. I'm really pleased that you two are getting on better--" But Ann wasn't listening.

"I know that I hurt you badly," she went on. "But I'll never do anything like that again. You can't really believe that I could. Do you?"

Doyle pulled her into his arms and cradled her gently as he soothed her.

"Oh, love...sshh...come on, there's no need to get so upset. I know you wouldn't hurt me again. It wasn't your fault last time... And I'm really pleased that you and Bodie are getting on better now... Come on," he coaxed, brushing away her tears with a gentle finger. "Dry your eyes. Can't spoil what's left of tonight, can we? I can't have you flying off to the other side of the world with a box of damp tissues now, can I?"

"New York is hardly the other side of the world," Ann said quietly as she slowly responded to the gentle teasing.

"Come on, then let's finish up here and go to bed. We can talk in a bit more comfort there."

"Talk?" Ann queried as her body began to respond to the way Ray was caressing her.

"Of course," he said once he'd finished a very thorough kiss. "You've still got to tell me what Dear, Sweet Constance said about our engagement once I'd left the house."

---

"Get your fucking head down!" Bodie hissed angrily, causing Doyle to withdraw from his exposed vantage point. "Get back here."

"But I can see better from up there."

"So can they!"

"I can't see anything from here!"

"Neither can they," Bodie added dryly.

"Shift over," Doyle urged. "Let's 'ave a look."

"Shut up and stay put--we can't both see!"

"Bodie!"

"Doyle, shut up. They're not going anywhere and neither are we until Cowley arrives with the back-up."

"Are you sure they're all in there?"

"I'm sure--oh, go on--take a flamin' look for yourself." Bodie gave in and rolled away from the slit in the masonry. "You can just make them out--third window from the left. I counted four heads."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed eventually. "I count four too. How much longer before back-up gets here? They look pretty restless to me."

Shifting himself to peer across the wasteland between themselves and the holed up gang, Bodie carefully considered the gang's options. "It'll be suicide if they try to break and they know it."

"Oof...Bodie, do you mind?" Crushed beneath his partner's not inconsiderable weight, Doyle could barely find the breath to complain. Satisfied that the men in the opposite building had no way out, Bodie took the time to enjoy the feel of Doyle pinned, squirming and helpless beneath him.

"I did say there wasn't room for both of us to look," Bodie said smugly.

"I...believe...you...now get...off me...you weigh a bleedin' ton!"

"There's no need to get personal," Bodie said in an offended tone.

"I'll get...more than...bleedin' personal if...you don't shift yourself!" Doyle's wriggles sent a delicious shuddering through his partner's entire body that almost took his breath away. Though sorely tempted to give in and enjoy the sensation, common sense prevailed and Bodie regretfully slid off Doyle's back. "Thank God!" Doyle sighed in relief. "I had a bloody great rock digging in my side." He extricated the small stone and balanced it on Bodie's nose.

Removing the offending object before it could damage his eye, Bodie settled himself down, preparing himself for long wait. It was going to take their back-up a good forty minutes to arrive.

"Ann get off all right, did she?"

"What?"

"She said she was flying to America this morning?"

"Oh that. Yes, she left this morning, she's probably half way there by now," Doyle answered abstractedly, his attention wholly on the nervous bunch across the way.

"Bit of a surprise."

"Huh?" Doyle grunted once Bodie repeated the question for the third time... "Oh yes, it was a bit sudden," he agreed.

"Not her flying off somewhere; she's always packing her bags to fly somewhere. No, what I meant was I was surprised to see her at your place last night--particularly when you'd said that she wasn't going to be there." Bodie wasn't too happy with the way that had sounded but Doyle was so distracted that he needn't have worried.

"Like I said--a bit sudden." Doyle's response was vague and careless but something in Bodie's manner caught his attention and he realised that things weren't quite right. "I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to warn you. I did try phoning but there was no answer," Doyle's tone became accusing. "I did consider asking HQ to put me through on the hot phone but I thought that might be going over the top a bit." Bodie had the grace to look shamefaced. "It's a bad habit to get into," Doyle continued, "not answering your phone--could get a bloke into all sorts of trouble."

"I did hear it ring a couple of times," Bodie admitted, "but I was in bed and just couldn't be bothered to wake myself up enough to get to the other room." After his little confession it was quiet until, "How did Christmas go? You haven't said anything about it."

"Well..." Doyle said slowly. "It could have been a lot worse--not much, but it could have been worse."

"How much do they know?"

"Everything. I did consider not telling them but Cowley gave the okay. It made things a bit easier, for Ann, but not that much."

"What do you mean?" Bodie asked.

"We explained to Constance and Harry, Ann's parents, about the need for secrecy because of CI5. She was more than a little chuffed at the thought of having a son-in-law who's something-we-don't-speak-about-for-the-Home-Office, but none too keen on the posh friends and neighbours finding out that the same son-in-law is an ex-convict with a criminal record for doing nasty deeds!"

"She won't do anything stupid, will she?"

"No. Connie may be a class one snob, but she's no fool. Besides, Cowley gave me some Official Secrets Act forms for them to sign."

"You threw the Official Secrets Act at them!" Bodie said in amazement.

"It was Cowley's idea," Doyle defended.

"Bloody hell!"

"Yeah," Doyle laughed. "The old snob nearly busted something when I told her she had to sign."

"What did Ann say about it?"

"Not much," Doyle conceded, the humour gone. "I don't think she liked it, but there's not a whole lot she could do about it. It was the Official Secrets Act or letting her mother believe that I really had been guilty as charged all along."

"So," Bodie said eventually, breaking into the silence that fell between them. "Everything's settled now then, is it?"

"All what's settled?"

"The wedding...and everything," Bodie said lamely.

"There's no rush."

"What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not waiting for anything--I just can't see the point of rushing around."

"Well, yes...I can see that, but you have made some plans?"

"What sort of plans?" Doyle asked.

"About...well, about where, when, that sort of thing."

"What is this? Have you got a burning ambition to be a bridesmaid or something?" Doyle asked nastily.

"You are going to marry her?" Bodie asked, suddenly wondering if his carefully orchestrated plan had gone wrong.

"Why, what's it to you?"

"Just interested, that's all," Bodie said brightly, "want to know how long I've got to save my spare pennies to buy you a pressie."

"Don't kid me, Bodie. You just want to know so's you can save up the petrol stamps to get me a set of those free glasses." Doyle laughed easily.

"So," Bodie pushed again. "When's it to be?"

"Oh for--I don't know. We haven't talked about it. Sometime. Is that all right with you?" Irritated now, Doyle couldn't help but wonder at his partner's probing. "What's up? Scared I won't invite you or something?"

Thankfully, at that moment the back-up squad arrived and their thoughts and energies turned towards the serious matter of winkling the four men out of the building without causing any unnecessary bloodshed.

---

Doyle replaced the phone on its rest and took a sip of his long-cold coffee. Pulling a face at the taste, he went through into the kitchen to make himself a fresh cup. Already feeling ill at ease, Ann's phone call had done little to dispel his ever present sense of impending doom. After nearly a week's absence the sound of her voice had raised his spirits a little; and after a succession of boring, fruitless days at work as well as the tension between himself and Bodie, the sound of her voice had been a much needed balm on ragged nerves. But, by the end of the transatlantic call, depression was overtaking him again.

Get a grip on yourself, he told himself sternly. Stop moping about, get out and go somewhere; do something! He considered his options: he could visit the Brewers Arms--or, he could call Bodie. Neither choice attracted him very much. Bodie had been behaving very strangely of late, one minute friendly and chatty and the next, snapping his head off. Today had been the worst ever, Bodie's mood chopping and changing so rapidly that Doyle was almost spinning in confusion by the time he had been dropped, without so much as a 'goodnight,' outside his block of flats.

That left him with The Brewers Arms: Doyle shook his head; that was out, too. Tommy and Ivy were a nice couple--in small doses; the perfect landlord and his lady. Only problem was, Ivy was clearly enjoying the role of surrogate mother whilst Tommy was trying to inveigle his way into his confidence, thereby gaining even more access to the criminal underworld than he already had. Thomas Mahone, Doyle had realised glumly, was too much of a coward to become a real true-to-life villain and so did the next best thing--he encouraged the criminal fraternity to use his 'facilities' to arrange their jobs, thus experiencing the thrill of the crime at a safely legal distance.

On his infrequent visits to the pub, Doyle knew that Tommy pointed him out as a Category 1 man, a 'hard man' to other lesser mortals in the pub. So far no-one had confronted him--but then who in their right mind would pick a fight with a known ex-maximum security prisoner?

No. He wasn't in the mood to parry words with Tommy tonight; the way he was feeling he just might give in to the impulse to do something unpleasant--and permanent--to Tommy.

So much for his social life, Doyle thought bitterly. Rather than spend another evening sitting in feeling sorry for himself, he decided that he might as well go over to Ann's flat and see if that letter she was asking about had arrived. Afterwards he might drive on over to Bodie's place...

It was dark when he let himself into the flat, so he switched the lights on as he scooped up the letters on the mat. One from the bank, and several other businessy looking ones, but no sign of the letter she said she was waiting for. Putting them neatly on the table, he moved through the flat, checking that everything was secure. Alone there for the first time, Doyle found himself examining each room in detail. Nearly four years had passed since he had last been completely alone in there and it came as a surprise to realise that little in the flat, or even Ann's life come to that, had changed very much. New curtains throughout and a new shower unit in the bathroom were the only immediately visible changes. The arrest and imprisonment of her fiancee had barely caused a ripple in her elegant lifestyle. Had Ann been torn so abruptly from his life four years ago, Doyle thought soberly, he thought that it would have devastated him. How, he asked himself, had she found it so easy to cast him aside as soon as the allegations started flying? He had offered to move out of the flat to save her from being exposed to the unavoidable press coverage of the sorry affair--but he hadn't really expected her to agree quite so readily.

What would she do now, he wondered as he switched all the lights off and locked up, if she knew Internal Security was watching him again? Walking out into the street, he flicked an uninterested gaze over the building opposite. Even though Bodie persisted in denying it, he knew they were there. If he really made the effort, he could even work out which flat they were using--there were only so many possibilities. But he wouldn't give them the pleasure of acknowledging their presence. He didn't even discuss it with Bodie any more, there didn't seem to be much point.

A sharp blast on a car horn made him look up to find Bodie parked alongside where he was standing; lost in his thoughts, he hadn't seen him arrive.

"'lo, mate," he said, his greeting sounding as lifeless and cheerless as he felt even to his own ears.

"What's up--you look like you lost a fiver and found a penny!" Bodie asked carefully, ready to back off should Doyle respond with another acid riposte.

"Ah...nothing, just...nothing," Doyle finished lamely. "Coming round to see me, were you?" He smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his features.

"Yes. Thought maybe we could go out for a drink or something."

"Don't fancy a night boozing--what sort of 'or something' did you have in mind?"

"Dunno, nothing in particular. What do you fancy doing? Ann isn't back yet, is she?"

"No, just checking the place out--picking up some mail. You going to drive on to my place then?"

"Okay, want a lift?"

"My car's over there," he pointed to a row of cars and groaned in dismay as he saw how neatly he had been boxed in by a flashy red sports number and a mud-spattered old style jeep.

"Oh, nicely done!" Bodie applauded. "You don't seriously think that you're going to be able to get out of that, do you?" He sat back and watched as his partner crossed over to the cars and examined the situation from all angles. "Serves you right for being an untidy parker," Bodie shouted through his window.

The whole operation took a lot of manoeuvring back and forth but, eventually, Doyle cleared his car from the space with only the tiniest crack on his rear offside light. Needless to say there wasn't a mark on the bumper of the dirty jeep. In a perverse way, Bodie was grateful to the jeep's driver; his partner's moans about 'inconsiderate road-users' broke the ice on what was their first purely social evening together in almost a month.

Sitting comfortably in an armchair and nursing a drink, Doyle milked the situation for all the sympathy he could get. "...I wouldn't mind, but it's only the dirt on that thing that's keeping it together! That and the rust, of course."

"Give over, Doyle. It's only a few years old, they're meant to look like that. It's a working vehicle--not a 'Sunday Car.'"

"Bloody thing's always parked out there. Flamin' driver never parks the damned thing properly."

"Give over," Bodie said a little more forcefully, his patience with the subject almost gone. "Anyway, about coming over here tonight--"

Doyle looked at him sharply.

"I thought," Bodie said firmly, refusing to let his partner's warning look put him off. "I thought it was time to talk about some things."

"What sort of things?" Doyle asked. He had a good idea but didn't want to face them unless he was forced to.

"You. Me. Us. The department." Bodie waved a hand around trying to cover everything."

"Couldn't be a little more specific, could you?" Doyle asked with icy politeness and Bodie's patience finally broke.

"Look, Doyle, you're not blind, and you're not thick either. You know that things aren't going right in this partnership as well as I do."

"I wasn't aware that we weren't working properly," Doyle said defensively.

"Oh, we're working all right," Bodie agreed. "We're just not working as a team anymore."

"You reckon?"

"Yes, I do. You know it's true, Doyle." Doyle was the first to back down from the eye-to-eye confrontation.

"And you think that it's all my fault?" he asked as he paced jerkily up and down the living room. "Of course, you wouldn't admit that some of it just might be your fault!"

"Look, Doyle. I didn't come here to argue--"

"Well, that's nice to hear!"

"--but we've got to talk this out before--"

"Before you go running off to Cowley?"

"Before one of us gets killed. It's going to happen, Ray. Sooner or later, it's going to happen."

"Why?" Doyle demanded defiantly, refusing to admit that Bodie just might be right.

"Because--oh, for crying out loud--stop prancing up and down and park your arse on the chair. Just listen to me, for once just listen will you?" Exasperated, Bodie appealed for his partner to sit down. With poor grace and a scowl that would in all probability sour cream, Doyle did. "Have you given any thought about what you're going to do once you're married?"

"Yes," Doyle answered seriously. "We had a long talk. Didn't rush anything and I think we covered just about everything. Mind you--I couldn't just turn around and tell him he was a good few years too late, could I?" Doyle flashed a cheeky grin that failed, just, to reach his eyes.

"Eh?"

"Me dad. Not that long before he died he gave me the 'What mummies and daddies do on Saturday night' talk."

"Can't you be serious for once," Bodie snapped impatiently.

"Oh I am, Bodie. Believe me, I am."

"You want me to spell it out for you?" Bodie said, mustering his patience. "It's a rule, an unwritten rule, that in CI5 no married men are operative on the active squad. Once married you'll be shifted onto the B squad."

"Downgraded."

"No. Not downgraded. The B squad works just as hard as we do but in a different way--you know that."

"Bit unfair, innit?"

"On who? You, your partner or your wife? If you stay in this squad, Ann will always be wondering when--if--she'll ever see you again. I'll be wondering whether you're more anxious to get home to her rather than covering my back and you'll be stuck in the middle making no-one happy."

"It doesn't have to be like that. Callahan's married and he's still on the squad."

"He works solo."

"Once things settle down it'll be okay."

"Always providing neither of us gets killed while things are 'settling down,'" Bodie pointed out bluntly. Doyle slumped back into the armchair, looking thoroughly dejected. Having succeeded in knocking Doyle down as far as he dared, Bodie began phase two of his plan. "It's inevitable that things will change for you. Look how far you've come since that day I picked you up from Maidstone. It's only been what, eighteen, nineteen months? You're not the same man any more. You've rebuilt just about everything you had before. Friends, good job, bit of money, you've even got the woman you loved and wanted to marry back. You've achieved everything you set out to. Ann loves you--you love her; it's only natural that you want to think about her and be with her more. It's no small wonder that you've not concentrating so well on work; I understand, so does Cowley; the only person who thought that everything would carry on smoothly was you. But, now you've just got to admit to yourself that things just can't."

"It was you that collected me from Maidstone?"

"What?"

"It was you. Yeah, I remember now."

"You'd forgotten?"

"No... Well, yes. The first few days are a bit hazy but I'd forgotten it was you."

"Doyle..."

"Yeah, I know," Doyle said warily. "I'm evading the issue again. Look, I know I'm not thinking too clearly at the moment but, as you've pointed out, I do have a lot on my mind. I don't want to...break off this partnership. To hell with Cowley's unwritten rules. There's no reason why I can't go on working with you after I'm married."

"You weren't listening, Doyle. If we're having trouble working and communicating now, do you really think it's going to get better once you've got the little wife waiting at home with your supper?"

"You're asking me to choose between having you as a partner or Ann as a wife?"

"Of course I'm not asking you to choose," Bodie said at once, horrified at the way Doyle had interpreted what he was saying; he hadn't allowed himself to say that, had he? Sick to his heart, he pushed on. "What sort of choice would that be? Ann would win hands down, I know that."

Bodie was so adamant, so earnest, that Doyle couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was all true. He seemed to have wanted Ann for so long that he had forgotten how things had been before she entered his life. A nice home, pretty wife, promising career--what more could he want—what else could he want? If only he could be as sure as Bodie was about his career maybe he would feel more settled. But for the time being anyway, it was easier to accept Bodie's reassurances than face his own anxieties.

Bodie declined Doyle's invitation to sleep over and drove himself home. Mentally exhausted from an evening of manipulating his partner's consciousness, he stripped off and stepped into a hot shower as soon as he got home, falling into bed where he was too tense to relax. His whole body ached with tiredness and his mind continued racing on with images of what had happened, what was going to happen and, briefly before he could force the thought away, what might happen. It was done, for better or worse, it was done. Doyle was going to leave. Falling asleep, Bodie's thoughts drifted along what path his own future was going to take once he left CI5 and England.

---

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Over the next few weeks, Bodie observed several things which suggested that Doyle had understood the point of that particular conversation. Although he acted as if nothing had been said between them and refused even to discuss the subject any further with him, Doyle had been checking on the work details and manpower of the B squad. On two occasions recently Bodie had seen his partner conversing with the other squads' members; he was especially pleased when he saw him with Mark Greenwood, recently married and just as recently transferred from the A squad.

He would not have been so happy, however, if he had been able to hear the conversation.

"It's all right," Mark had said quietly in response to Doyle's carefully worded enquiry. Everyone knew Doyle was planning to marry and, as the recently 'hitched' CI5 employee he had been waiting for Doyle to 'have a quiet word' with him. "It's still not a nine to five job--the wife gets plenty of opportunity to moan about being abandoned--but it's...safer," he said honestly.

"Safer?"

"Safer," Mark agreed. "Life still has its moments, of course, but the jobs, our assignments are inclined to be less...hazardous. You've still got to be on your toes," Mark added quickly. "Slow reflexes can still get you killed--a low security risk uses the same calibre and velocity as your high security risk...but..."

"But what?" Doyle prompted.

"But...nothing. It's the same job; the same department; the same procedures; same people--even the same lousy restroom and friggin' coffee--but it's not the same!" he ended angrily, crumpling the plastic coffee beaker and tossing it away in disgust.

"What were you expecting? You were on the A squad for how long--two years, wasn't it? Surely you knew what you were letting yourself in for?"

"It was my choice," Mark agreed. "But it wasn't a proper choice--more like an ultimatum." At Doyle's prompting he agreed to explain what he meant. "'Bout four months before I married, me and Kevin--he was my partner--had a spot of trouble. Kev was badly shot up and I got a flesh wound--nothing serious, but painful and messy for all that. Anyway we both survived, although Kev's injuries were such that he lost about three inches of bone in his left thigh and was invalided out of the department. It could have been worse, he could have been crippled--paralysed even, the fact that he wasn't was the beginning of the end as far as my Bev was concerned. Started dishing out ultimatums. In the end it came down to me leaving CI5 or losing her."

"You're still here though--and you're married, so what happened?"

"We compromised!" Mark said with a wry smile. "After a month of watching me job hunting she finally accepted that while I'm bloody good at doing this type of work there's precious little else--that's legal--that I can do!"

"So you agreed to accept the lower risks of the B squad?"

"Eventually, yes. I wanted Bev and I couldn't think what else to do so I stayed with the department."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"Oh! It's okay mostly. The work's not bad, the adrenaline's not there so often but, every now and then the advantages of being in the back line really hit home," he said heavily. "Every time one of you lot, one of the front line boys get shot--or even killed--I go home to Bev and give her a long, hard hug and tell her how much I love her. And," he added in a much softer voice, "every time the boredom gets to me, or the job I'm on falls to pieces because it was never there in the first place, I remember those hugs...and what they usually lead to and...I still moan and swear at Cowley and whoever else I can think of but, I know that deep down I don't really mean it." Mark smiled and laughed softly. "You know, I'm really pleased you asked me about it, Doyle," he added after a moment's quiet reflection. "I think that I've only just realised how much I don't mind missing out on all of the adrenaline highs; I thought that I did but talking to you has made me realise that Bev means a whole lot more. I think I could manage without CI5--but I want Bev for always." Mark became conscious of the fact that he was sounding very wistful and romantic--hardly the sort of image expected of a CI5 man, and looked at Doyle warily, waiting for some kind of sarcastic remark. Doyle noticed the change in atmosphere and managed to pull himself together to say the right things. Afterwards he couldn't remember what he had said but it must have been what Mark had wanted to hear because the man had been friendly enough when they parted company. Watching his retreating back, Doyle felt depression wash over him anew. Far from dispelling his doubts, Greenwood's rose-tinted view of love, marriage and CI5 had only accentuated them. He suddenly felt very envious of Mark and Beverly Greenwood; it all seemed so easy for them.

---

Ann's return home from America was not the exciting romantic reunion she had been looking forward to. At first she had been too tired from the frantic schedule she'd been keeping and jet lag to notice how quiet Ray had been. Slipping a robe around herself and knotting it securely, she padded into the kitchen where he was already up and making breakfast.

"Morning--sorry if I woke you up," he apologised. "Go on back to bed, you don't have to get up for another hour or so yet."

Ann just shook her head and sat down at the breakfast bar, only just managing to muffle a yawn with her hand.

"Coffee?" Doyle asked.

"Mmm, yes please," she answered automatically. It wasn't until the first sip passed her lips that she realised how much she didn't want the hot, strong-smelling brew. She pushed it away. The kitchen was illuminated by a strip light that was merciless--the best light in the flat for applying make-up, but the worst for exposing how rough you really felt. She thought Ray looked terrible. "Did you sleep much last night?" she asked him. "You were even more restless than usual; what's wrong, Ray?" she added quietly.

"I slept okay," Ray said defensively.

"Oh, Ray!" Ann swept her hair away from her face. "I woke up several times. Maybe you were asleep but you were so restless, so tense: even asleep you're uptight. Fidgeting and talking in your--"

"Talking?" he demanded urgently.

"Talking...mumbling," Ann amended hastily. "I couldn't understand anything, just mumbles really--but you can't possibly feel refreshed or rested after such a night. You look as if you haven't slept a wink!"

"I'm all right, Ann," he snapped tiredly.

"Well you don't look it!"

"You don't look so hot yourself," Ray said in a different tone of voice, puzzled by the sudden change of colour in Ann's face. "Are you feeling okay?"

About to reply that she felt absolutely fine, Ann suddenly decided that she didn't. She reached the bathroom just in time. He settled her back into bed once the nausea had passed and helped her to get comfortable.

"Are you sure you're all right, I've got to leave in a few minutes but I could call the doctor for you before I go?"

"I feel better already--and I've already got an appointment with the doctor for this afternoon."

"Why--what's up--you never said you weren't well?"

"Don't worry," Ann scolded him lightly. "I've just been feeling a bit low lately. I'm probably a little anaemic or something and Dr Thomas will take great delight in prescribing a course of those revolting iron tablets he saves especially for me."

"You've been working too hard."

"It's my job--and I like it."

"You still push yourself too hard--"

"Don't nag, Raymond Doyle!"

"I'm not nagging!"

"Take it from me, my love, you are nagging! Now, off with you or else we'll have Bodie pounding on the front door again waking my neighbours up," she scolded gently.

Remembering the last time he'd overslept and Bodie'd had to hammer on the door, he moved. "I'll try to call you tonight to find out what the doctor said but--"

"But you can't promise," Ann finished the familiar chant. "Don't worry, darling," she called out as he headed for the door. "I'll try to save you some of my iron tablets."

---

The job they were on for the next few days allowed them no time for socialising or the making of private telephone calls. The rota they fixed allowed them to snatch a few hours sleep now and then but, conscious of being on the job and shuffling of bodies in a cramped space, no-one could snatch more than a brief respite from the tedious observation.

Unable to sleep, Doyle still took his turn on the lumpy mattress in an attempt to relax his tense muscles and force his mind away from the dangerous tedium of the venture. Since his talk with Bodie he had been going over and over the paths available to him. Several times he'd decided on a course of action only to change his mind as another direction became possible. He was getting more and more confused and disturbed at the way things were happening and the feeling that he was losing control over events was getting stronger. Everything was happening too fast.

Lying in the gloom on the far side of the room, Doyle cracked open his eyes and surreptitiously watched Bodie as he talked to the other men or took his turn on the headphones or binoculars. Even Bodie was looking a little frazzled around the edges. Over the last few months Bodie's moods had been as unpredictable and swift to change as his own; one day bright and breezy, calm, smug and self-assured; and the next, sharp bitter and arrogantly independent. There were times when they worked well together but equally there were times when Bodie became the hard, unyielding loner of their first few weeks.

Turning over, trying to get a bit more comfortable, Doyle sighed. If it wasn't already bad enough that Bodie and he were swinging up and down with their moods, Ann too was suffering a few highs and lows of her own. Trying to get time together to talk things over was almost impossible. He had been working long and irregular hours for months now and a day off always seemed to happen at Ann's busiest time. Her work load had doubled since their engagement and, if the office rumours proved true, was likely to increase even more once the boardroom changes were announced. Christ! he thought tiredly, the way things were going he would have to make an appointment to see his own wife soon!

Across the room, Bodie lowered the binoculars and handed them to Lake before tiptoeing through the equipment-strewn floor to pour himself a coffee. He took the last half inch of lukewarm liquid without complaint and sat down on the wooden bench. Another sigh from Doyle drew his attention; he continued to watch him, safe in the knowledge that Lake was watching the building across the carpark and Henderson was captivated by the pornographic magazine the last watch had left behind. He relaxed as he saw the moment Ray finally slid into sleep, and saw his clenched hands fall open, curly slightly, the tension draining from the taut body. God knew how much he needed the rest--Bodie thought. All of them did, but it was clear to Bodie that on top of all the problems the job was causing, Doyle was wrestling with his own very personal troubles.

Checking that Lake and Henderson were still giving their attention to the surveillance, Bodie allowed himself to relax against the wall. He'd been watching Doyle closely since that talk they'd had; he'd observed carefully each time Doyle had made enquiries about the B squad and watched him watching them as the went about their lower-graded security tasks. He knew Doyle was having trouble seeing himself in such a role--even Bodie had to admit he couldn't see his partner happy with such work. But what was the alternative?

"Bodie," Lake called softly. "Take over for me--I need to take a leak."

Bodie took up position at the window. Staring over at the deserted looking building, he noticed for the first time how the whole room was reflected in the dirty, cracked panes of glass; to look at the building he had to stare through the reflection of his sleeping partner. Whilst his eyes watched the building for the slightest sign of movement, another part of Bodie's mind was enjoying being able to watch his unknowing friend.

The alternative? Bodie wondered again, the problem never far from his thoughts. Did he really want to force Doyle into taking a course of action that he knew was wrong? Doyle wouldn't enjoy working on the B squad, he was too good at the work he was doing now, he realised grimly. And Ann, Bodie considered her; over the meal they'd shared just after Christmas they'd talked quite a lot about things that Bodie in particular had wanted to hear, Ann not realising how the conversation had been carefully guided. He'd learnt a lot about Ann that evening, in some ways more than he'd wanted to because, by the time he'd left her he'd known, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that however much Doyle loved, or thought he loved Ann, she came nowhere close to equalling his feelings. They had been close once, years ago. Maybe close enough to have made a successful marriage, but quietly Bodie doubted even that. Subsequently he had suffered more than one twinge of guilt since that evening: left to their own devices Bodie guessed that the couple wouldn't have made it together as far as Christmas, let alone got themselves engaged. And, left to themselves, Bodie knew they still wouldn't get to the altar. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to get the arrangements going and Bodie suspected that unless someone stepped in and booked the church and honeymoon neither Ann nor Ray would.

A door opened behind him; in the room's reflection, Bodie saw Lake coming back in. Not knowing they were being observed, Lake and Henderson exchanged a look which told Bodie that their moody behaviour wasn't going unnoticed. Lake bent over Doyle, checking that he was asleep, his shadow falling over the sleeper's face. Bodie tensed and prepared to act when Doyle, sensing the nearness of someone, curled in tighter on himself. Lake stepped back hurriedly--he hadn't meant to disturb Doyle--and pulled another face at Henderson, who could only shake his head before sighing heavily and returning to the simpler pleasures of the centrefold in his hands.

The door opened again; this time it was Murphy, closely followed by two other men. None of them looked very pleased at being there and they all slouched into the room with poor grace.

"Your prayers have been answered, you lucky buggers--the experts have arrived to take over the highly skilled, incredibly demanding task of watching over the inhabitants of Unit 24A of the Barkingside Industrial Estate. While you go trotting off home to your orthopaedic, silk sheeted, sweet scented, dorma-downed-duvet covered bed--"

"Somebody shut him up, for Christ's sake!"

"We, the Saviours of CI5--otherwise known as the Knights of St. George--" Murphy droned on.

"Please," Henderson begged, "hit 'im before I kill 'im." He threw the magazine and scored a direct hit dead centre on Murphy's nose.

"Ouch...we the Knights of St. George will continue--ouch, that bloody well hurt!" Murphy chucked the holdall back across the room where it was neatly fielded by Lake. "...will continue to fight for honesty, peace, prosperity and the American Way!" Murphy finished gamely.

"That last bit was a bit off, wasn't it?"

"Is this your way of telling us we can sod off 'ome?" Lake asked.

"Yes...and no," Murphy said. "You...and you," he pointed at Lake and Henderson. "You can both go straight-to-HQ-do-not-pass-go-and-do-not-pick-up-£200. You and..." Murphy looked around to find Doyle still fast asleep in the corner of the room, "...him can go home to your comfy beds--"

"Jesus!" Lake swore. "Some people have all the luck."

"Some of us have it, Puddle," Bodie crowed.

"And then," Murphy continued, "at the appointed hour of noon tomorrow you will both present yourselves at the establishment known as Death Row for a meeting with your Maker!"

"What!" Bodie exclaimed in dismay.

"Luck like that you can keep, Bodie," Puddle shouted gleefully.

"Macklin?" Bodie asked, needing to hear the worst.

"None other," Murphy confirmed. "And rather you than me, mate. Don't be late--he said to tell you how much he's looking forward to seeing you two again."

"Fucking hell!" Bodie groaned.

"Couldn't 'appen to a nicer couple of fellas--shall I wake Sleeping Beauty and tell 'im the good news?" Lake started to bend over to shake Doyle awake.

"Leave him!" The command froze everyone and they all turned startled faces towards Bodie. "I'll wake him, okay? Just leave him!" Bodie said smoothly.

"Anything you say, Bodie." Lake backed off.

The new watch busied themselves taking over the observation as Lake and Henderson collected their things together. Bodie waited until everyone was busy before bending down to wake Doyle.

Watching the building across the car park, Murphy could see everything going on in the room behind him. He saw how Bodie held tightly onto Doyle's arm as he took a grasp of his shoulder to shake him awake; he saw clearly how the muscles in Bodie's arms and back tensed as they held the sudden, almost violent jerk of Doyle's body as he woke up. After a few seconds both men relaxed, Bodie stroking Doyle's arm before releasing it and stepping back.

"Right, we're off--"

"Wondered what the smell was!" said Murphy.

"Don't fall asleep on the job," Puddle advised as a parting shot.

"I'm sure the excitement of it all will keep us awake," said one of the men who had just found Henderson's pile of magazines.

"Give my love to Macklin," Murphy called out.

"Macklin?" Doyle asked sleepily.

"Pick your feet up, Doyle," Bodie said as his partner tripped up a step.

"Why did he say that?" Doyle was waking up now. "Why does he think--"

"Wake up, 4.5. Why else would he ask us to pass on his regards?"

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes!"

---

Driving around the one-way system leading to his road, Doyle saw Ann's car only a few hundred yards ahead of his. By the time he drew close, she had parked and was unloading some shopping bags; she saw him and waved.

"Are you coming up?" she asked as he drew level with her. He hadn't intended to, was in fact looking forward to a good eight hours sleep before bracing himself to face Macklin tomorrow. He parked behind her car and helped her in with the shopping. Maybe he could get away early if he pleaded tiredness; he knew that they desperately needed to talk but was just too tired even to think straight. How could they begin to talk things out if he was still so undecided about what he wanted to do?

"Just jump the bags in the kitchen, I'll be with you in a minute," Ann called out as she vanished into the bathroom.

In the kitchen Doyle shrugged off his jacket and began unpacking the bags, shoving things into the freezer or fridge and putting the items he couldn't find homes for on the breakfast bar for Ann to sort out. That done, he plugged in the kettle and got the coffee underway. One of the packages on the breakfast bar drew his attention. It was not something he'd ever bought but he certainly knew what it was. The coffee forgotten, he picked up the small box. Ann came in at that moment: he stared at her in disbelief.

"Ann...?"

"I just remembered it was in there," she said softly. "I didn't mean for you to find it."

"You didn't mean for me to find it! Ann..." He couldn't find the right words. "Ann, do you...do you really think that... You really think that maybe you're..." He was unable to say it, shock and a surge of emotion causing a lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

"I might be. I took a specimen to the hospital this afternoon. They say the result won't be through for about a week--I couldn't wait that long so I bought that."

"Is it...I mean... How reliable is it? Do you really think... Oh, Christ, Ann!" Ray dropped the pregnancy test onto the table and took Ann in his arms. "I'm sorry...I can't believe it...it's...it's... Does the doctor think that you really are? How long before we'll know for sure?" Tiredness forgotten, Doyle cradled her gently, kissing her softly. "I just don't...can't quite take it in... How come you're so calm?" he demanded to know, softening the question with another tender kiss.

"I've had two days to get over the shock--you should have seen me when I left the surgery--"

"You had no idea?"

"Well, maybe it was in the back of my mind, especially after I was sick the other morning, but it was still a shock." They laughed together and hugged again.

A meal, which neither touched, was prepared and then thrown away and the rest of the evening spent curled up together on the couch engaged in long dreamy conversations about their own childhood and what they wanted for their child. Before going to bed Ray retrieved the box from the kitchen and put it in the bathroom ready for the morning.

"I suppose it makes a change from reading a bedtime book," Ann teased as they snuggled close under the covers to read the explanatory leaflet that come with the kit. It was quiet while they read it.

"Mmm, well, it seems reliable enough. They certainly cover themselves against any mistakes," Doyle said dubiously.

"It is straightforward," Ann said. "If the result shows I'm pregnant than it's 99.9% certain that I am, but, if it comes out negative it doesn't mean that I'm not--"

"Just that you're not far enough advanced for the test to work."

"Thank you, Doctor Doyle," Ann teased. "And then I'll just have to wait for the hospital result--"

"Or buy another pregnancy testing kit--"

"Or buy another pregnancy testing kit," Ann agreed.

"They must make a fortune out of people who can't wait for the hospital results!" Doyle complained.

"They very probably do," Ann agreed and plucked the leaflet out of Doyle's fingers with one hand as she switched the light off with the other.

"What are you doing?" he asked breathlessly a few moments later.

"If you really have to be told that, my love, then that box in the bathroom is a complete waste of money!"

---

Bodie was more than a little surprised to find Doyle on his doorstep, almost bursting with energy and enthusiasm a little after eight thirty the next morning.

"A jog! Now?" he asked, wondering if his partner had gone mad.

"Yes. Cummon, loosen up those muscles, flex your joints--" Doyle answered.

"I'll loosen up your bloody joints--" he threatened as he let Doyle into the flat.

"A nice 10-mile run and then we'll come back here and I'll cook us both some breakfast."

"You cook some breakfast and then I'll wave you off on your run."

Doyle ignored that aside with ease and took himself into Bodie's bedroom where he promptly began opening drawers and cupboards until he found what he was looking for.

"Get dressed. London is waiting to greet you," he said brightly as he threw underpants, T-shirt and track suit at his partner.

"Doyle!" Bodie followed him into the hall in time to see him pulling a pair of trainers out of the cupboard. "You haven't forgotten where we're going this afternoon, have you?"

"Macklin." Doyle smiled. "Hadn't forgotten."

"Then why the hell do you want to go and knacker yourself--and me--before we even start with Macklin?"

"Where have we been for the past two and half days?" Doyle said patiently. "When was the last time you did anything more energetic than fiddle your expenses?"

"Doyle!" Bodie held up a hand in surrender. "Point taken." He grumbled as he dragged the T-shirt over his head: "But you've still got to explain why you're bouncing up and down on my carpet with more life in you than you've shown for the past six months?"

"Virtuous living and a clear conscience," Doyle replied cheerfully. "Plus, of course, a good night's sleep; half the morning is nearly gone already and I've been up for hours."

"Bully for you!" Bodie mumbled as he was pushed towards the front door and out onto the street. "Where are we going?"

"Up to the common, round it, down to the embankment and back, okay?"

"No, it's not okay," Bodie grumbled--more because he knew it was expected rather than because he meant it.

They ran easily, side by side, in a companionable silence, their efforts becoming more relaxed as the cobwebs blew away and they eased into a comfortable rhythm.

Back at the flat Doyle collected a change of clothes from his car then followed Bodie in to take his turn in the shower.

Keeping his promise, Doyle made breakfast for them both, a pleasantly informal affair which happened with a minimum of fuss, newspapers and radio three. All too often breakfast was a hurried piece of cold toast and indigestion and both men really enjoyed the quiet luxury of a proper meal.

Engrossed in an article in his paper, Bodie got himself in a mess with the marmalade from which he extricated himself by dint of wiping his fingers on the editorial, something about which Doyle complained mightily when they swapped papers.

By the time they finished clearing away they still had another hour to kill before Macklin would start trying to kill them.

"The condemned men ate a hearty breakfast," Doyle said bleakly, the afternoon's prospects only just beginning to dent his happy glow.

"Huh--and this from the idiot who once said that he thought Macklin was a nice bloke!"

"Are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Nope. Going to remind you every time you get too cocky."

Walking down the steps of the building towards their parked cars, Doyle mumbled something not quite audible about unforgiving elephants.

"Whose car?" Bodie asked.

"Yours."

"That's what I like about you, Doyle. Democratic to the end--why mine?"

"Because we know that Macklin is going to try and make mincemeat out of you and will make mincemeat out of me. You're going to be a damn sight more mobile than me at the end of this little caper!"

Bodie was forced to agree. Macklin never exactly went easy on him but the man did seem to enjoy pushing Doyle to his limits and beyond.

"You're your own worst enemy," Bodie said as they climbed into the car and set off towards the pub near the training shed. "You're too defensive with him. The reason he pushes you is because he's trying to make you more aggressive, more of an offensive fighter."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm naturally offensive," Bodie quipped with a grin. "No, physically me and Macklin are about equal; he's got a longer reach but I can fight dirty and he knows it. I've also got about the same staying power so it makes a bloody hard job for him to wear me down without knackering himself. Now you--well, different story, isn't it," he said. "You puzzle him. He can't understand how you've managed to survive eighteen months without getting mangled by some of the big 'uns we've had to put down. Come to that," Bodie added, "I think you've surprised just about everyone--even me on occasions!"

"How come?" Doyle asked curiously.

"Look at yourself," was all Bodie said. Doyle did briefly in the car mirror before repeating his question again a little more forcefully. "Well, not what you'd call 'powerfully built' are you?" Bodie said a little reluctantly, not too sure how Doyle would like hearing the truth. "You're easily the smallest bloke on the squad."

"I'm only an inch shorter than you!" Doyle protested.

"And about three stone lighter. You've got about as much fat on you as a whippet!"

"Don't you bloody well start on about my weight--"

"Willis is another one who can't understand how you've survived. Why the hell do you think he's always moaning about your weight? Like a lot of people he believes that you need muscle and body weight to back up physical skills."

"Cobblers!"

"I agree," Bodie said mildly, "but then you don't often let people see how you actually work on the street, do you? Macklin, Willis, Cowley, the other lads, they see you in the gym. How many have seen you in action? Me, Puddle and Murphy--that's all. We're the only ones who've seen how you do it."

"And what's my secret then?" Doyle asked, no really expecting a sensible answer.

"You go straight for their balls and throat and get the upper hand in the first minute. If it's not over in two or three minutes you lose."

Doyle opened his mouth to laugh--but closed it again in surprise. That was what he did. His opponents were rarely his size or smaller and instinct and training had taught him to attack hard and fast to gain the upper hand. The only times he came off worst were when he failed to gain the first all-important advantage.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged it off, "Macklin just doesn't bring out my aggressive instincts."

"Yet," Bodie said meaningly. He had known Macklin--and others like him, for years and yew that the instructor was there specifically to drag out those aggressive instincts. He'd find Doyle's Achilles heel one day. Bodie only hoped that he'd be there to see it.

By the time they reached the pub Doyle's high spirits had returned and even the run-down, dilapidated aura of the empty roads didn't dampen them. By comparison Bodie felt old and tired, though he did manage a moment of well co-ordinated macho lechery when the amply proportioned barmaid leant down in front of him. High on his own little cloud, Doyle missed it but Bodie shared the moment with a friendly stranger.

Slowly, but all too fast for both of them, the minutes ticked by until they had to leave to reach the sheds in time. They were just going when a bunch of rowdy bikers arrived.

"Will you look at that!" Doyle exclaimed and went into positive ecstasies over the merits of the shiny machine propped on its stand.

Behind them in the pub Bodie could hear the bikers being told to get out; the venom of the leader's reply didn't bode well.

"Come on, mate. Let's shift before war breaks out." Bodie pushed his partner towards the car.

"I used to have one just like that," Doyle said, still looking back over his shoulder at the bike as they drove off. "Beautiful, isn't it. Ann hated mine, wouldn't even try riding on it," he continued longingly even when the bike was out of sight. "Would cost me a small fortune to buy another one but I wouldn't mind--can't see Ann agreeing to it though. Sold my old one for peanuts! I asked my brother to sell it for me after I was sent down and bastard all but gave it away." Even after all this time Doyle was still indignant about the way his brother had treated him.

"Why don't you get one if you want it so much?" Bodie asked. Doyle thought about it for a moment then dismissed the suggestion.

"Nah. A car's much better, more comfortable. Besides, I'm getting too old to keep mucking about with bikes." The words were harsh and bitter and didn't sound a bit like Doyle. Bodie wondered whose words they were.

They arrived at the sheds.

---

By mid-afternoon Doyle's high spirit was all that was keeping him on his feet. He was simply in too good a mood to allow anything Macklin or that Neanderthal Towser did to get to him. It was Bodie's turn now and Doyle watched, only partially interested in the proceedings. It was some time before he raised himself from his rose-tinted daydreams to begin to wonder what Macklin was up to. The grunts and 'whooshes' coming from his partner were beginning to sound laboured and pained. From the corner of his vision the instructor saw Doyle's interest sharpen and he began a new tactic. His altered style had already taken the edge off Bodie's attack and Macklin knew the man was tiring and hurting. Holding nothing back, the instructor swept Bodie back across the hard concrete floor away from the padded mats. By the time Bodie picked himself up, Doyle was standing alongside him, daring Macklin to stop him from defending his partner.

"That was a quick rest, Doyle," Macklin said harshly. "You surprise me, I'd thought you were out for the rest of the afternoon."

"Thought wrong, didn't you," Doyle answered as he stepped in to tackle the older man again.

Aware only that the rules had somehow been changed, Bodie fought his body's demand that he sink back onto the floor.

Then Towser joined in too.

The afternoon dragged on, Macklin alternating the combat sessions with gruelling exercises and lengthy runs around the streets. When the light faded he took them into the gallery where they had an interminable session on the ranges which, even with the protection of ear defenders, left their ears ringing and heads pounding. Eventually they were allowed to sleep. They woke some time after dawn to the assurance that they had slept for eight hours, although neither man believed it, preferring instead to believe that Macklin had somehow managed to move the hands on their wristwatches forward.

Towards the end of the second afternoon Macklin took them back into the shed for another bout of hand to hand fighting. Halfway through the session Macklin decided to take a few more risks--if he got the reaction he expected it would be worth it--whatever the outcome. He concentrated his energies on Bodie, pushing and provoking him until only the knowledge that the instructor wasn't really trying to kill him was all that stopped Bodie from retaliating with all his deadly skills.

Exhausted and sore, Doyle fixed his thoughts on the fact that the ordeal would be over in only a few more hours. He'd overheard the telephone call Towser had related to Macklin; Cowley was coming to brief them in another few hours. All he had to do was hang on--just a bit longer.

Over on the mats Macklin could see that Doyle had lost interest in what was happening and wondered whether he could have made a mistake. He decided on a drastic last ditch attempt to prove his suspicion.

Bodie reared back in surprise as the blade whipped across his chest. In amazement he looked down at the slashed shirt and small nicks where the point had cut him.

"What the--" Bodie gasped.

"What are you up to?" Doyle demanded. "You're not supposed to kill us, you fucking idiot! Cowley wants us alive and kicking, not maimed and bleeding!"

"Recovered, have you?" Macklin sneered. "Got your second wind?" he asked as he lunged again at Bodie, who barely danced away in time.

"Give over, Mac!" gasped Bodie breathlessly. "Knives aren't exactly playthings, you know. You cut me with that thing and I'm liable to bleed all over you," he said," he said warily, uneasy about the way the instructor was behaving.

"Cowley'll be none too happy if he finds you've gone overboard and killed us before he gets here, will he?" Doyle said angrily.

So, thought Macklin. Somehow Doyle had known that the session was due to finish soon, that probably explained his lack of interest. "If I've managed to hurt either of you it's because you're not fit to be sent out on assignment anyway--Cowley will probably thank me for not letting you balls the job up! Come on, Doyle," Macklin goaded. "Stop letting your partner do all the work. You can't expect to get away with letting him carry you for much longer!"

Distracted by the tangled undercurrents of emotions and lethal knife, Bodie saw the swinging belly-blow too late to avoid it. As his partner folded painfully around Macklin's fist, Doyle was there easing him down onto the floor and inserting his own body between the instructor and his victim.

As the pain receded to a manageable level and his lungs began working effectively, the logic and reasoning of Macklin's strategy became clearer to Bodie. Too groggy to do anything and uncertain of who needed his help more, Bodie pulled himself to a safer seat and watched the instructor reap the reward for his efforts.

Even though he had been expecting it, the viciousness of Doyle's unrestrained attack almost caught him off balance. The outcome was inevitable. In total control of his emotions, taller, heavier and far more refreshed than the exhausted agent, Macklin let the fight continue until it was obvious Doyle couldn't hope to win before he twisted him around and held him hopelessly off balance; forcing him to concede defeat verbally.

"You can both rest up now. Cowley is coming here in a while to brief you both." Macklin's voice was level and impersonal with all trace of the biting sarcasm and sneering taunts of the past two days gone as if they had never been.

Still slightly breathless himself, Bodie helped his partner move over to the corner of the shed where a mattress lay invitingly. Conscious of aching bodies, they eased themselves down, their need to rest in peace and quiet more urgent than their need for hot food or drinks.

"Ray," Bodie asked softly. "You okay?"

"He's a bastard!" Doyle hissed venomously. "A lousy stinking bastard!"

"Seconded," Bodie agreed. "But I actually asked if you were okay?"

"I'll live--you?" Doyle replied after taking a moment to consider his bruised and aching bones.

"I've survived worse; nothing a hot bath and a piece of elastoplast can't put right."

Doyle turned towards his partner and examined the slashed shirt with its dark spots of dried blood. "Jesus--he's fuckin' mad! He could have seriously hurt you."

"He knew exactly what he was doing," Bodie said wryly. "And he's a bloody expert when it comes to handling knives; believe me, if he'd wanted to hurt me he would've done."

"What the hell did he think he was going to achieve by cutting you up?" Anger surfacing again at the stupidity of what Macklin had tried to do, Doyle was shaking as his fingers gently traced the red weal on Bodie's chest.

"Exactly what he got," Bodie said tightly and moved away from the searing heat of those nimble fingers. Lying back on the mattress, Bodie closed his eyes and tried to make his tense muscles relax.

"And what was that?" Doyle asked curiously, his fingers following Doyle down, checking that the cuts were only surface scratches.

Bodie shifted onto his side--effectively dislodging the unwanted hand. "You, of course. He wanted to make you mad enough to let go."

"So he went for you with a bloody knife!" Doyle said disbelievingly. "Why the hell should he do that, why not just go for me with the damn thing? Makes more sense than trying to stick it in you!"

"It worked, didn't it," Bodie said abruptly.

Doyle thought about it for a minute. "Suppose so--but I still can't understand why he thought going for you would make me so mad. Christ, but it's cold in 'ere--where's that bloody draught coming from?"

Lacking the energy to try and find the source, Doyle settled for the next best thing. Resigned to his fate, Bodie allowed his partner to use him as a draught excluder and let his tired body fall into an exhausted sleep.

---

Macklin was running through some gentle exercises, flexing sore muscles and easing the tension from others. Cowley waited patiently for the routine to finish before walking up to him. He handed over the tracksuit top and a towel.

"Well?" he asked, coming straight to the point. "How are they?"

"They'll do," Macklin answered as he finished dressing.

"I need better than that," Cowley snapped irritably.

"They'll do," the instructor repeated. "They're the best you've got--though I don't advise you to let them know it."

"You've changed your tune. Two months ago you were recommending standing Doyle down and terminating the pairing."

"I was wrong."

"Wrong?" Cowley asked. It wasn't often Macklin admitted such a thing.

"I know. It's not like me to change my mind so completely but," he said smoothly, "we were looking in the wrong place. There's nothing wrong with Doyle. He's quite able to hold his own with anybody--given the right motivation, of course," he added.

"And what might that be?" Cowley asked.

"Bodie," the instructor said crisply. "Though it's not as simple as that," he added in fairness. Give him a good enough reason or something he truly believes in and he'll fight with everything he's got. There's a lot more to Raymond Doyle than meets the eye. Bodie knows that; and so, I suspect, do a few other people. Those that really know him seem to either respect him or keep their distance."

"And Bodie?"

"He believes in himself. And Doyle."

"And you think they're the best the squad can offer?"

"Bodie always was good. Now...he's better--and Doyle's just as good."

"Where are they?" Macklin pointed the older man towards the shed. Walking quietly through the gloomy interior, his approach didn't disturb the sleeping men. Drawing back his foot to kick the mattress, Cowley paused, had second thoughts and aborted the movement. Sound asleep, the men were defenceless, their faces were totally relaxed and unguarded. Lying on their sides, spoon fashion, with Bodie's arm draped loosely of Doyle's waist, they looked very comfortable. Moving around the mattress, Cowley saw that the hand draped over Doyle was being held. His movements unsettled one of the sleepers; Doyle fidgeted a little, settling down only when Bodie inched closer and snuggled up along his back. Already fighting with disbelief at the way they were cuddled together and the implication of their actions, Cowley was even more astounded when Bodie nuzzled the back of his partner's neck, kissing him briefly before settling into a deeper sleep.

Treading carefully, Cowley retraced his steps and left the shed. They would be busy enough over the next few days, he reasoned; let them sleep while they could.

---

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Unable to concentrate on the wad of reports scattered across his desk, Doyle looked over at his partner who, to all intents and purposes was totally engrossed in his reading. Doyle forced his attention back to his own reports and tried to memorise the vital information; the list of President Parsali's enemies was endless. Two pages later, he gave up and checked on the time again.

Hearing the door click shut, Bodie looked up to find the room empty. Surely, he thought incredulously, he can't have to go again! What on earth was Doyle up to? he wondered. All of a sudden the memory of the licking Doyle had taken from Macklin earlier that afternoon returned. Maybe he was hurting too much to sit still. The fool, Bodie cursed silently. How did he think he was going to be able to concentrate on the job if he was hurt so badly he couldn't sit still in a chair for more than twenty minutes! Leaving the office to find his partner and drag him bodily along to the doctor if he had to, Bodie went searching. Drawing a blank in every room, he finally returned to their office.

"I thought you'd got lost!" Doyle said sourly in greeting as Bodie opened the door. Speechless, Bodie sat down at his desk and picked up the next report. He tried to give the history of political discontent his full attention but he had barely settled down to it when the door clicked shut behind his partner yet again. Bodie checked his watch--only thirteen minutes this time. What was he up to? Overtaken by curiosity and just a little worried, Bodie followed him. He needn't have bothered being so cautious, though; totally unaware that he might be being watched, Doyle made straight for the public payphone booth in the main reception hall.

Wondering why on earth Doyle had chosen not to make use of the perfectly good phone sitting on his desk in the office, Bodie managed to get closer.

In the closed-in booth Doyle counted the rings. He was just about to hang up when it was answered. He pushed his coin home.

"Ann, it's me."

"Ray--just a second...let me put this down, I've only just come through the door... Hello, have you been trying to get hold of me?" she asked.

"Only this evening. I missed you at your office--you'd just left."

"Are you coming over?"

"Can't," Doyle said wryly. "I'm working. Probably won't be able to get away until late sometime Friday."

"Oh, Ray!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, love, but there's nothing I can do about it. How are you anyway...anything?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm fine, really and no," she laughed. "Nothing!"

"Oh." Doyle let out the breath he was holding and leant his head back against the glass pane. "I don't about you but this waiting is killing me," he complained.

"Patience, darling, have some patience. We should know by Monday--"

"Monday!" Doyle said in despair. "You said a week--"

"I only took the sample to the laboratory on Monday afternoon, they probably didn't touch it until Tuesday, then someone's got to type the report and post it to the doctor's surgery--"

"That won't take till Monday, surely?"

"Well, perhaps not. The doctor said I could ring on Friday after the second post--but he couldn't promise the result will be in by then."

"But Monday," Doyle groaned.

"Well, I've got plenty to keep me occupied until then, there is just so much happening at the office at the moment--"

"Could you get away this weekend?" Doyle cut in, not really wanting to hear Ann's office gossip.

"I suppose so...why?"

"It's just... Well, if we've got to wait until Monday I'm going to go mad sitting at home and I thought maybe we could go away somewhere."

"You're sure you'll get the time off?" asked Ann doubtfully.

"Yes. Par--" Doyle checked himself. "The job should finish some time Friday afternoon." He knew exactly what time: Parsali's jet was due to leave Heathrow at 3.45 p.m.

"Where shall we go? A hotel?"

"No," Doyle said thoughtfully. "Somewhere quiet, just us."

"There's the cottage," Ann suggested. "Since they finished building the motorway the drive only takes a few hours. I could give Mrs Walker a ring and ask her to air it for us for Friday night--I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Sounds nice," Doyle agreed. "We could drive down to the beach on Saturday."

"For a paddle! It's much too cold for that," said Ann.

"Build some sandcastles then," Doyle laughed.

"Sandcastles? Have you forgotten, Ray? It's only stones at Eastbourne."

"There is some sand--when the tide goes out," Doyle said cheerfully. "Sandcastles, Lego houses, model aeroplanes--"

"What are you on about?" Ann asked.

"The baby of course," Doyle explained patiently. "A father does have his responsibilities, you know."

"Oh, Ray," Ann laughed helplessly. "It'll be years before it'll be old enough for half those things--and why are you so sure it'll be a boy?"

"Don't be so sexist!" Doyle said in mock outrage. "It's not fashionable to be sexist. Girls can build aeroplanes and build Lego houses if they want to."

"All right, but before you start planning our child's life let's get this weekend out of the way. Will you pick me up in your car when you finish work?"

Doyle thought about everything that could conspire to delay his departure from London. "No. I think it would be easier if I meet you down there. That way I won't keep you hanging around if I get held up."

"You're sure you remember the way?"

"I haven't forgotten..." the pips went. "That was my last ten pence, I'll try and call you before Friday if I can. See you at the cottage."

Creeping back into the office, he saw that Bodie was still engrossed in his reports. Sighing heavily, he resigned himself to ploughing through his share of the research material.

Across the room, Bodie read the words in front of him, automatically taking in the relevant points. He had stayed watching only long enough to realise who Doyle was talking to, but he was still curious as to why Doyle had needed the privacy of the booth to talk to Ann--he wasn't usually so coy.

---

When they found the man's cruelly tortured body, Doyle's first thought was that his peaceful weekend might now not happen; but at least they knew they were up against a very real threat instead of some undefined, possibly hostile protesters: Someone else knew that Parsali was coming to England. Quite apart from the fact that the murdered man had not know the location of the alternative venue it was also approximately an hour's journey nearer to Heathrow. If all went well, Parsali should still leave their jurisdiction and protection in good time.

Bodie drove the car out to the conference venue early on the Thursday morning. Doyle was quiet for the whole journey, all Bodie's attempts at conversation either falling on deaf ears or gaining only a very limited and subdued response.

Several times during the journey, Doyle wanted to tell Bodie about the baby but, each time he opened his mouth to say something the words just vanished, leaving him floundering. Somehow he just knew that Bodie wouldn't exactly welcome the news--however hard he must try to give the impression that he was pleased. Troubled by his own problems and feeling guilty that he couldn't share them with his partner, Doyle did not notice the puzzled looks his partner was giving him or the effort Bodie made to try and cheer him up.

After they arrived at the venue they spent the rest of the day checking it over, going through the house and grounds and watching the security systems being installed. The security boffins decided that all the windows had to be locked shut--something which the untypical spell of warm weather they were enjoying made very uncomfortable and everyone became hot and irritable.

Already restless and edgy, Doyle was not best pleased with his partner's choice for their sleeping quarters. The panelled corridor was stuffy, gloomy and dark, the part he had chosen being windowless.

Bodie had selected the corridor for its privacy more than any other consideration. Upstairs the rooms were bare with no carpets or curtains and downstairs was taken up by the surveillance men--two of whom Bodie knew from past experience smoked constantly and snored extremely loudly. By the time Doyle's discomfort and nervousness seeped into his consciousness he was already comfortably settled and, being thoroughly fed up with his partner's moody abstraction, not inclined to put himself out and move.

"How much longer are you going to fiddle around?" Bodie asked gruffly through a layer of sleeping bag.

"You going to sleep?"

"That's the general idea," replied Bodie, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Oh," said Doyle, surprised. "It's not that late--you tired?"

"I've set the alarm for 5.30, Doyle," Bodie said patiently. "So, I'd like to get some sleep--if that's okay with you?" he added caustically.

"I'll turn the main light off--this little one won't bother you, will it?"

"No." The little flashlamp cast a warm glow over Doyle's part of the corridor. Tired enough to leave Doyle to sort out his own worries, Bodie made himself comfortable and settled down for the night.

"How do you think tomorrow will go?"

The question brought him back from the very brink of sleep.

"Tomorrow," Doyle repeated in response to his surprised grunt. "What do you think."

"Bloody nearly today!" Bodie grumbled, but still he rolled over and peered out from his sleeping bag. "What's bothering you about tomorrow?" he asked quietly. "You seem very...edgy."

"I'm not edgy," Doyle said in surprise. "I was just wondering...about the set-up...security...and everything," he finished lamely.

"The place is secure. Nothing can pass through the cordon now without tripping any one of half a dozen alarms. The army boys are bringing him in, we will listen to his boring speech, then escort him back to his little helicopter and it will all be over. Nothing to it." Bodie spoke in a low monotone. He'd said the same thing several times already and was getting irritated at Doyle's persistence.

"Nothing to it," Doyle repeated. "If that's so, why are we here?"

"To make sure there's nothing to it. We are the final check, the fail safe if you like. Because, in the unlikely event of someone managing to penetrate the road blocks, bypass the security gates and fences, slip unnoticed past the exterior guards, gain entry to the building without alerting all the other alarms and interior guards, successfully getting past Jax and Kennedy on the door and manage to bust into the conference hall with his gun, knife, machete, grenade or whatever, we'll be there to stop him! Won't we!" Bodie finished on a rising note and then drew a calming breath before lying back down and covering his eyes with his arm.

"A kamikaze kill, one or two nutters prepared to die for their belief might risk it. God knows there are people out there with reason to hate Parsali enough."

"Kamikaze or not," Bodie said quietly, "we're here and we'll stop him, stop them. It's what we're trained for--what we're paid for."

"Paid--to kill?"

"Paid to protect. If that means we have to kill, we kill. It's all part of the job."

"Do you really want to waste your life trying to protect someone like Parsali?"

Bodie sat up and turned angrily on his partner. "I'm paid to do a job. A job I've been trained for--a job I've chosen to do. I'm here because I choose to be here. I don't know Parsali. I don't want to know the man. I'm here to protect him, to protect what he stands for and if someone tries to kill him I'll do what I'm trained to do and I'll protect him to the best of my ability. And if you don't feel the same way you can pack up and get out now--right now!"

The harshness of Bodie's response pulled Doyle up sharply. In the stillness that followed Doyle finally understood why the married agents were removed from exactly this situation. All day his mind had been full of 'what ifs.' What if he should be killed in the morning? Ann would be alone, pregnant; his child would grow up fatherless, a bastard. What if he were maimed in some way; how would Ann cope with that and a baby?

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "Just ignore me. I'm getting twitchy in my old age," Doyle joked feebly.

"It's not like you to be so wound up," Bodie said when he realised that Doyle was only suffering from an attack of nerves. "What's the problem?"

"Nothing...and everything," Doyle said tiredly. I just feel...something's wrong. Dunno what...there's just something that doesn't feel right. It's making me feel...nervous, I suppose." Doyle knew that now was not the right time to tell Bodie about the baby. It was bad enough with himself getting uptight over it--and he knew that if Bodie had any suspicions that his mind wasn't on the job he would be pulled off the operation--and he didn't want that. Not yet.

The alarm woke Bodie at 5.30. Doyle was already gone, his sleeping bag neatly rolled away and the clothes-hanger his suit had been on swinging free on the picture rail. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Bodie tidied his own things away and went in search of breakfast and his partner. He found Kennedy nursing a mug of steaming tea in the kitchen.

"Your partner," Kennedy informed Bodie," is not the most popular person here this morning."

"What's he been up to now?" Bodie groaned. Having sat up talking until gone two with Doyle, he was in no mood to face any more aggravation.

"What hasn't he been doing! He woke me up about two hours ago trying to give me a bleedin' heart attack. The sod was outside testing the locks on the bloody windows--damn near took his eye out with a bullet before I got the sleep out of my eyes. Then, not satisfied with waking me and Jax, he goes and tests the electronic sensors and wakes up everyone in the lower hall."

The kitchen door swung open to admit a couple more men, neither of whom looked awake or happy.

"Bodie, can't you keep that partner of yours under better control! The way he's getting up everyone's nose he won't survive until Parsali's chopper arrives!"

Everyone, it seemed, had a complaint about 4.5. Bodie listened to a seemingly endless stream of them before escaping into the grounds. He finally found Doyle walking along the perimeter fence.

"You were up bright and early."

"Someone had to be," Doyle said sourly. "Did you realise that there were only six people on watch last night? A place this size! The house was full of sleeping men, anyone could've--"

"All the electronic surveillance stuff was on. There were enough guards about and you know it," interrupted Bodie. "I hope you realise," he went on, "that you've managed to get up everyone's nose this morning."

"So?" Doyle shrugged it off. "At least everyone's awake."

"Parsali doesn't arrive until midday, for Christ's sake. It's only just gone six now! What's with all the panic?"

"There's no harm in being cautious," Doyle said defensively, knowing full well that he was over-reacting but powerless to stop himself.

"Agreed," said Bodie. "But what can go wrong?"

---

Watching the helicopter leaving the field with Parsali safely inside it, Bode remembered his words, spoken almost in jest, earlier that day. He shrugged his shoulders; it had after all been okay in the end, no-one was killed. Watching the ambulance move off away from the house he amended his thought. None of them had been killed. None of the 'good guys,' anyway, and when he thought about it that was all that really mattered, to him.

The panic over, the speeches had been hurriedly finished off, and now, with Parsali on his way home the other delegates were being ferried to less grand modes of transport. Between the hovering chauffeurs, ministers and bodyguards, Bodie could see Cowley holding a terse conversation with Kennedy and the chief electronics man and he took care to keep out of their way. Moving slowly through the house, he eventually saw Doyle enter the hall through the French windows. Amid the chaos and confusion he looked relaxed and surprisingly cheerful.

"I knew it wasn't just nerves," he said to Bodie and they drifted through the rooms trying to keep ahead of Cowley and his wrath. "Last night and then again this morning, ever since we arrived yesterday afternoon, I knew something was wrong. They were here all the time."

Pleased that Doyle's mood had improved, Bodie let him prattle on, knowing that it was Doyle's way of relieving his tension. Maybe some of his partner's edginess had rubbed off on him, though, Bodie thought quietly. Already keyed up because of Doyle's behaviour, his own senses had been doubly heightened and so, when he made eye contact with the familiar man descending the stairs he had been alerted the second the smiling recognition turned to surprise and then alarm. That split second had saved Parsali's life--and very probably his own too.

"I was beginning to think I was cracking up," Doyle was saying, obviously relieved to have found a reason for his behaviour. "Do you think the lads will ever forgive me for messing 'em around this morning?"

"I doubt it," said Bodie dryly.

"Well." Doyle shrugged. "Expect I'll survive without 'em. Managed all right so far." The last came out with more bitterness than he meant and he continued quickly before Bodie could pick up on it. "What are you going to do now?" he asked Bodie.

"What?"

"Two weeks' leave, Cowley said, remember? Starting when Parsali's plane leaves Heathrow."

"You reckon we're still going to get leave after this mess?"

"He's still alive isn't he!" said Doyle indignantly. "Anyway, I've made plans. So," he asked again. "What are you going to do with yourself?"

"Don't know," Bodie said thoughtfully. There were a lot of things he could do in the next two weeks--only he had a hunch that the person he'd most like to do them with had plans which didn't include him. "What about you?"

The happy spark went out like a light from Doyle's eyes as he thought about the coming weeks. "Get away for a bit. Spend some time with Ann, sort a few things out..." Untypically, his voice faded away as his thoughts overtook him.

"What's up?" Bodie asked, concerned to see Doyle looking so unhappy. "Got some problems?" he asked quietly. All the funny moods of the past few days and the secretive trips to the phone box suddenly added up to major problems for the engaged couple.

"Nothing I can't handle," Doyle snapped back defensively; too defensively, Bodie thought.

"Not about to call everything off are you?" Bodie asked. He'd meant to sound surprised and amused at the lovers' tiff but the question seemed, to Bodie's ears anyway, to be slightly desperate.

"No," said Doyle quietly as he examined the barrel of his gun before slipping the safety catch on and securing it in his shoulder holster. "Got to marry her now, haven't I."

It could have been a joke, Bodie told himself as he watched his partner vanish up the stairs to reclaim their bags from the upper corridor--but he didn't think so somehow. It was late afternoon as they drove back to headquarters to make their reports before Bodie had a chance to ask him about it.

"Did you mean that?" he asked carefully. "What you said about...you know, having to..."

"Having to marry Ann?" Doyle asked when Bodie trailed off into an embarrassed silence. "No, not really. I suppose we would have got married sooner or later anyway--it's just brought things forward, that's all." He shrugged.

"You mean that you're...that Ann's...expecting a baby?"

"That's right," Doyle laughed. He'd never seen Bodie look so uncomfortable before, he was almost blushing. "Ann and me--unless, of course, you know something I don't," he joked.

"How the hell did you manage that?" Bodie asked.

"Bodie!"

"No, you great berk!" Bodie answered, rolling his eyes heavenwards. "I know how, what I meant was how?"

"Mistakes do happen, you know."

"I know that but--oh, for crying out loud--" Bodie laughed with Doyle and the awkwardness between them vanished. "Haven't either of you heard of family planning clinics?"

"'Course we have," Doyle said scornfully. "Ann's on some pill or other: Her doctor seems to think that her flying between the States and Australia has mucked her cycle up...plus she wasn't well just after Christmas--it can all affect a woman inside, you know."

Bodie was suspicious of Doyle's superior tone; he thought that perhaps he wasn't the only person in the car that had had blind faith in letting the girl take all the precautions. "So she's pregnant then," he said after a moment's quiet thought on the near misses he might have had himself.

"More than likely," Doyle agreed.

"You're not sure?"

"Ann's pretty sure. She's as regular as clockwork usually, she's been feeling a bit off colour and all that. We're waiting to get a result from the hospital."

"Should've tried one of those home testing kits," Bodie said with the easy conviction of one who reads all the literature at the chemist's whilst waiting for his prescriptions.

"We did," Doyle said. "Only it gave a negative result."

"So she's not pregnant then."

"Blimey," Doyle said. "Can tell you've never had to use one. It's all there in the small print," he said knowledgeably. "They are supposed to be pretty reliable but the packet does warn you that all a negative result means is that perhaps you're not pregnant, the pregnancy isn't far enough along to give a positive result."

"Oh," Bodie said. He'd never had cause to be that interested to read all the advertising splurge. "When do you--does Ann--get the hospital result?"

"Today, I hope. Maybe tomorrow morning and then again we may have to wait until Monday!"

"Nerve-racking, eh?" Bodie asked as his partner ran his hands through his already tousled and tangled hair. "So you're going away for a quiet weekend to talk babies and weddings then?"

"Yeah." Doyle sounded less than delighted at the prospect. "Ann's family has a small house down near Eastbourne they use some weekends. It's a nice place, miles from anywhere, quiet, just what we need. We used to spend a lot of time there before--" As always when his thoughts turned towards that dark period, Doyle cut them off abruptly in mid-sentence. "Haven't been there for a while, though. It'll be nice to see the place again."

---

Pulling up outside the compact little house later that evening, Doyle wondered whether coming had been such a good idea. In the past he had some good times here with Ann, happy times. Curled up together on the enormous bed that almost filled the attic room, they'd spent long hours talking, planning and loving. It was in this house, after one such weekend, that he had proposed to Ann all those years ago. It was also returning from a few peaceful days away from the frantic wedding preparations happening in London that he had been arrested and all their dreams had been shattered. No, he thought, maybe coming back here wasn't such a good omen after all.

He was surprised to find the house empty although it was prepared for its weekend visitors. Picking up the key from its usual hiding place, he let himself in; the place was warm and the smell of something delicious was wafting through from the kitchen. There was a note from the ever-reliable Mrs Walker addressed to 'Miss Ann,' telling her about the casserole. Doyle gave the bubbling pot a stir and then turned the oven down low; there was no telling what time Ann would arrive.

In the bedroom he unpacked the few things he'd brought down and took a quick shower. Time dragged slowly and still Ann didn't arrive; he tried ringing her office and flat without success and could only guess that she was on her way. Tense and unable to settle he decided to drive down into the village to the little off-licence and buy some drink--the way he was feeling he knew he was going to need a drink before the weekend was over.

Returning from the shops a little later with enough alcohol to both drown his sorrows and, if need be, wet the baby's head, he was totally unprepared for the sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw Ann's car just ahead of his. He pulled in behind her as they stopped in the narrow driveway. Feeling like a condemned man being led to the gallows, Doyle picked up the bottles and went to greet his fiancée.

"Was beginning to think you weren't coming," he said tautly as he opened the front door for her.

"I'm sorry. Something...unexpected came up this afternoon and it was late before I could get away. Where have you been then?"

"Off licence--I'm glad you're here though, was just trying to figure how long I should wait before calling the hospitals!" he said sarcastically, his mood and temper worsening by the second.

"It'll be months before I need a hospital, Ray," she said quietly as they entered the house.

"You've got the result then?" Doyle said, hear in mouth.

"Result?" Ann puzzled. "Oh, I see what you mean--no, not yet. We'll have to call tomorrow morning," she said, then, "What's that smell?"

"One of Mrs Walker's casseroles. I think she's still trying to fatten us both up." Leaving Ann to unpack and freshen up, Doyle sorted the dinner out and laid the table up. The meal was a quiet affair, both of them seeming to have decided that eating was preferable to talking but, eventually, neither of them could eat any more and they knew they had to talk.

"So," said Doyle carefully, choosing a safe topic--or so he hoped. "What was it that kept you so late? Finally decided to make you Chairman of the Board, have they?" he joked, taking the sting out of his words by smiling gently.

An was quiet for a moment and she took her time folding her serviette and pushing her plate to one side before answering. "Not exactly," she said, obviously having arranged her thoughts to her satisfaction. "They have asked me to take over as Head of the American operation next year when George Hollis resigns." Having delivered her quiet bombshell, Ann sat back.

"American operations!" Doyle was amazed. "You were expecting something like this?"

"I've been hoping for it for the last few years. George did tell me some time ago he wants to retire when he's 65 but I wasn't certain that he would be able to persuade the Board to elect a woman to the post."

"And he has...persuaded them?"

"It would appear so."

"But..." Doyle foundered helplessly. "You can't accept it."

"Why?" Ann challenged coolly. "Because I'm a woman?"

"Because you're pregnant!"

"We don't know that for certain."

"Agreed--but just assuming you are--what then?"

"I don't have to take up the position until January next year. If I am pregnant the baby will have been born by then."

"But you'll have to go to the States. You can't just...up and leave the baby...and you can't start flying all over the world with it either!"

"I don't even know if there is a baby yet! Perhaps it's just a false alarm, besides--anything can still happen...and if I do have a baby I'll engage a nanny."

"A nanny!"

"Oh, Ray, please!" Ann closed her eyes and rubbed her temples to ease her tension. "Let's wait until we know for sure one way or another. We can't decide anything until then."

Having brought the conversation to an end, Ann started clearing away the dinner things, making it quite clear that she needed no help. Too angry and confused to even want to clear the air between them, Doyle left her to get on with it and adjourned to the lounge to watch the television.

---

"Thought you'd be long gone, mate," Jax said cheerfully as Bodie walked into the rest room. "Saw Doyle vanish out the door a couple of hours ago like a bat out of hell. I advise you to do likewise, mate, otherwise the Cow might decide to cancel your leave along with everyone else's."

"What? Something on, is there?" Bodie asked, only just noticing that the building was nearly buzzing with operatives from both the squads.

"The joint op," said Jax, pulling a sour face. "Day's jumping around even more than usual, seems he's been tipped off about some big drop that the top bloke's going to be involved with."

"So, Cowley's getting ready for the kill. An 'all hands' job, is it?" Bodie asked casually, but Jax knew him too well.

"Not exactly," he said carefully, "everyone already seconded on to the joint op, all the drugs squad boys and just one or two of us lot, unlucky imbeciles that Cowley found hanging around the place.

One or two more 'unlucky imbeciles' walked in to the rest room at that point and they greeted Bodie enthusiastically.

"Where's Doyle?" Murphy asked straightaway, failing to catch Jax's hurried semaphore.

"Eastbourne," Bodie said after a quick look at his watch.

"How the fuck did he manage that--I thought the Cow had everyone on a fifteen minute standby!"

"No," Bodie said stiffly, "not everyone."

"Ah, well..." Murphy said, having finally understood why Jax was making weird gestures behind Bodie's back. "Just as well I suppose. There's no reason why Doyle would want to get mixed up with this...drugs case."

"No," Bodie agreed. "No reason at all."

No-one moved until after the door to the rest room had slammed shut with Bodie safely on the other side of it.

---

Lying curled on his side, Doyle knew they should talk but couldn't think how, or where, to start. On the other side of the bed, Ann shifted and he knew that she was awake.

"Ann?" he whispered. There was a long pause during which he guessed she was trying to decide whether to feign sleep or admit that she too was awake.

"What do you want?"

"You really want that job, don't you?" Doyle said softly.

"Yes. I've wanted it for a long time."

"Even though it means spending so much time in America?"

"Yes," was her unhesitating reply.

"Being pregnant'll really muck things up for you then?"

"It won't make it very easy," she agreed softly.

Doyle turned over and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her round to face him. She resisted for a moment but then moved to lie on her back, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.

"Couldn't you...stay as you are...for a few more years, at least?" Doyle asked.

"Ray," Ann said firmly. "This is my career you're talking about. I worked very hard for a very long time to get to this position. I can't tell them to wait for a few years! The job is there now, it's mine now. It won't be there in a few years. I can't turn it down, Ray, I just can't."

"Not even for the baby?"

"Stop it, stop it!" Ann cried out. She sat up, snatched up her dressing gown and began fighting with the sleeves as she left the bed.

"I just don't understand how you can even think about swanning off to the States!" Doyle raged at her. "How can they expect you to agree to go? Okay," he said angrily, "they don't know about the baby yet, but they know you're getting married. What on earth do they think I'm going to be doing while you are--" Doyle stopped in amazement. "What was that?" he asked as Ann's angry words sunk in.

"I said," she repeated icily, "that I haven't told anyone at the office about the engagement."

"Why not?"

"Because...because there seemed to be no reason why I should. Our relationship has nothing to do with my professional career."

"Just when did you intend telling them?" Doyle asked mildly.

"Oh, Ray...please! I'm so tired, I can't really think straight any more."

But Doyle was beyond being 'reasonable.' "And what do you expect me to do while you're pursuing your 'career'?" He spat out the word contemptuously. "You haven't given one second's thought as to how our 'relationship,' as you put it, is going to affect my career. You've not even asked me what I intend doing. You don't give a damn about the fact that I'm going to be pushed off the squad to work with the other married off 'has-beens,' that I'll probably be assigned to a new partner because Bodie won't want to join the baby-sitters and bodywatchers brigade. You really don't give a fuck about me, do you! All you care about is your own precious fucking career and to hell with anyone else!"

Faced with the angry tirade, Ann collapsed in tears back onto the bed, her whole body shaking as she broke down, crying and sobbing. Shocked by Ann's reaction to his temper, Doyle tried to calm her down. The words of comfort, however, just wouldn't come to him and all he could do was pat her shoulder and make soothing noises. Eventually she let him remove the towelling robe and pull her back into the bed but, pulling away from him she positioned herself on her side of the bed as far away from him as possible.

"We're both tired," Doyle said softly as he retreated to his side. "It'll look better in the morning," he promised with little faith and even less conviction.

---

The woke early the next morning, the argument still very much on their minds making them both tense and irritable. Worse still, they found they were both clock-watching.

"What time does your doctor's surgery open?" Dole asked quietly.

"About now, I think. The receptionist should be there anyway. Should I ring now?" she asked.

"No reason why not?" Doyle answered. They had to ring and find out sooner or later. He prayed that the result would be in--the way they were going the tension would have them murdering each other if they were forced to wait until Monday!

There was a delay while Ann hunted for her pocketbook to get the surgery number and a further delay as the line was repeatedly engaged. When she finally got through to the receptionist, though, Doyle found he was unable to sit and listen to the conversation and he retreated into the kitchen where he could hear her talking but not make out the words. He opened the back door and stepped outside to gaze out over the fields. Behind him he heard footsteps as Ann, her call over, came out to him. He turned to face her but found her expression unreadable. "Well?" he asked nervously.

"Well, what?" Ann asked, clearly in the mood to tease.

"Well--yes or bloody no!" Doyle's patience snapped and he shouted at her.

"Bloody no!" Ann shouted back at him and promptly burst out laughing.

"No?" Doyle could hardly believe it.

"Yes." Almost hysterical with the relief from tension, Ann was incapable of being coherent.

"Yes?" Doyle was totally bewildered by her answers. He grabbed hold of her and pulled her close, cupping a hand behind her head and forcing her to look at him.

"Yes," she repeated between tearful gulps. "Yes, the answer's no. I'm not having a baby. I'm not pregnant. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not..." The tears finally won out over the laughter and she clung tightly to him. Fighting conflicting emotions of relief and disappointment, Doyle held her as they rode out the storm.

So engrossed were they in their relief that it was all over, neither of them saw the man watching them from the other side of the far field.

---

By the time he arrived at HQ, Bodie was more than ready for Cowley. Peremptorily summoned, with no apology for the suddenly cancelled leave, and ordered to present himself for a meeting with no hint of what it was about, he was feeling very uneasy. It was obvious that the recall hadn't affected Doyle; that alone was enough to set the warning-bells going and so he was not surprised to see Day or the drug squad officer waiting outside Cowley's office. Inspector Mellish refused to catch his eye as he walked in--but Day smiled.

---

"So," Ann said cheerfully, "what do you want to do now?"

"Sleep!" Doyle said and collapsed forward to rest his head on his folded arms on the table top. "I'm so tired I could sleep for a week," he mumbled.

"You poor darling--I think you've been suffering more than I have," she said solicitously as she rubbed a gentle hand over the top of his head, ruffling his hair. "You didn't sleep much last night, did you?"

"Last night," he agreed. "And the night before that, and not that much the night before that either. God, I'm really kna--tired," he amended at the last minute.

"Lord, but you can look pathetic when you want to," Ann said and kissed him on the tip of his nose. "Go on, go back to bed. I want to pop into town and get some things I promised for my mother. You might as well catch up your sleep--you hate shopping with me."

"No, better not. We really need to talk, Ann--"

"Yes, I know," she agreed. "But there's no hurry and besides, you're so tired I could talk you into doing just about anything now," she said briskly. "Off to bed with you."

"God, you're bossy!" Doyle said as he allowed her to push him towards the stairs.

"Well come on, move a bit faster."

"And you nag," he protested.

"Bed!"

"I love strong women," he joked and stole a kiss. "All right, all right, there's no need to push, I'm going. They're going to love you in America, the place is full of bossy women," he said, thinking he was far enough away to be safe. Ann's hand flashed out and caught his rump. "Ouch!" Rubbing a hand over his stinging buttock, Doyle vanished speedily into the bedroom.

Ready to leave to go shopping, Ann noticed at the last minute that the morning's fine drizzle had turned into a downpour. Reluctant to go into the bedroom and risk disturbing Ray, who had settled down to sleep, she picked up the jacket he had left over the chair the previous evening and slipped it on over her slacks and jumper; the hood would at least help to keep her hair dry until she got into the car. Opening the front door, she released an exasperated groan. Ray had boxed her car in last night. She was about to yell for him to wake up and come play musical cars when she felt his keys nestling in the pocket of her borrowed jacket and decided, at the last minute, to use his car.

Driving an unfamiliar car and peering through a rain-lashed windscreen, she did not see the man on the other side of the orchard as he moved his own vehicle out onto the road and followed her along the empty roads into town.

Keeping a cautious distance, the man could hardly believe his luck. As his excitement grew he could feel his heart beating faster, sending extra energy and vitality around his cold, weary body. At first he'd waited for the girl to emerge from the cottage to join Doyle but, when he set off without her the man knew that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. Leaning over to the passenger seat he tugged at a battered case and released the catch. He checked the contents; yes, everything was there--all he needed now was five minutes alone with Doyle's car. Laughter bubbled up inside him and he had to let it out: Giggling and smiling, he followed the white Capri through the lanes. It was perfect, everything was going so well, even the awful weather was on his side, the wintry rain and chilling wind keeping people home in the warmth.

He followed the Capri into a small carpark behind a shopping centre. Parking on the opposite side of the parking area, he watched as the Capri's driver got out and hurried towards the centre.

As soon as the coast was clear, the man left his vehicle and crossed over to the white car with his box of tricks held firmly under his arm. Working fast, the man told himself that nothing could go wrong this time: this time he would do the job himself--just to make sure. Finishing off, he stepped back from the car, examining it carefully; where his hands had touched the bodywork there were grimy finger prints and using his sleeve, he wiped the marks off. He couldn't risk Doyle noticing anything suspicious.

Pleased with his efforts, he hurried back to his own car and waited for Doyle to return. He spent a patient, happy hour thinking of how life was about to change for the better, how everything would be different once Doyle was out of the way for good and once Ann was free to be with him--as she should have always been. His train of thought was interrupted as he saw the familiar hooded figure moving quickly across the road back to the Capri. He watched Doyle as he unlocked the car and put some shopping not the back seat. The man's excitement died suddenly, horribly, as he saw Doyle look up at the sky and notice that the rain had actually eased off a little. As Doyle took off his jacket and threw it into the car the man shook his head in disbelief.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial. "No, nononono--" Fumbling with the door catch, he finally managed to push it open and he almost fell from the car. His legs were numb and he had to force himself to move across the car park. In desperate, panicked slow-motion he saw her get into her car, key the ignition and start to move away. As the engine started he managed to cry out to her. "Ann! Ann!"

Pushing her hair from her eyes and searching for the way out of the car park, Ann was only barely aware of the man running towards her. Her last thought when she finally saw him was that he looked frightened.

Charles Holly's frantic bellow of "Ann!" was all but drowned out by the thunderclap explosion that tore the car apart. Knocked down onto the gravel by the shockwave, he crawled on his belly towards the inferno, rising to his knees with his hands stretched out helplessly towards the flames when it became too hot to move any closer. No, he told himself over and over. It wasn't true, it just couldn't be true. He'd seen the bastard getting into his car; it wasn't Ann in there, it just couldn't be. It was a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake; his eyes must have been playing tricks on him, he decided finally, too numb to think any more. He'd go to the cottage, he thought tiredly: He'd go there now and get Ann; he knew she would be waiting for him. He climbed to his feet and walked away from the flames.

As shoppers and shopkeepers poured into the car park to investigate the explosion, no-one paid any attention to the old man getting into his battered Land Rover.

---

As tired as he was, Doyle awoke after barely an hour and found himself wide awake, restless and unable to get back to sleep. The knowledge that there was no baby on the horizon was such an overwhelming relief that his mind was too busy thinking ahead, unmaking all the plans he'd made when he thought family life and its attendant responsibilities had caught up with him to even think about lying idle in his bed a moment longer. Hungry also for the first time in well over a week, he went downstairs and attacked the disappointingly small larder for anything edible.

Seated at the breakfast table and munching his way through a mountain of hot toast, he wondered how he would break the news to Bodie. He was very aware that Bodie, for all that he'd said at the time, was not looking forward to the dissolving of their partnership. Yes, he thought happily; Bodie would be pleased, Ann's mother, Dear Constance, would be pleased, her stepfather, Harry, would be happy because Constance was happy and, best of all, Ann could depart with no regrets to America to start organising harried executives--unable to contain his joy, Doyle laughed out loud--everybody was going to be happy!

Thinking of his immediate plans, and the rest of the weekend, Doyle knew that they still had to talk, but they both knew what they wanted; Ann would go to America and he would stay with Bodie. Tonight, he decided they would go out for a meal where they could plan things, talk and warp up the engagement for once and for all in a civilised and amicable manner; then, tomorrow, they could go home, Ann to her mother to break the good news and he to Bodie's flat. He didn't even think that Bodie might have gone away somewhere to spend his own leave relaxing, he knew Bodie would be there.

Pleased with life, the world and his own good fortune, Doyle finished the toast and put the kettle on for some fresh coffee. Just as the kettle came to the boil he heard a car turn into the drive and, smiling, he put another cup on the tray for Ann.

---

Pulling up outside the cottage, Holly saw his daughter's car. It's all right, he told himself, she's there, she's got to be there! Even so, he felt his heart begin to race and his mouth go dry. "No," he said sharply, "she's all right...I wouldn't hurt my baby...not my baby..." He lifted the heavy brass knocker and knocked loudly. Inside the cottage he heard the door bang and then footsteps coming towards him. He held his breath.

The laughing voice and smiling face that greeted him cheerfully hit him like a blow and he could only stand and stare, helpless, as Doyle opened the door wide.

"Lost your key, did you? Lose your head if it wasn't screw-- Oh, sorry," said Doyle. "Thought you were someone else..." Expecting to see Ann, he was taken completely by surprise to find a stranger on the doorstep.

"Ann..." the stranger croaked.

"Ann?" Doyle asked, wondering if he'd heard right. "Ann Holly? She's out right now...shopping in town," he explained as the man just stood there looking at him. "She'll be back any time now--" Holly tried to push past Doyle. "Hang about," Doyle said warily, holding him back. "I just said she isn't here. Who are you? What do you--"

In the same fraction of a second he realised that the stranger was not rational, Doyle tried to push him back out the door and understood far, far too late that the man wouldn't, couldn't be stopped. Already off balance, Doyle tumbled backwards with Holly on top of him, his arm twisted painfully beneath him; he felt the bone crack and knew that the stranger was going to kill him.

Blind rage and utter despair made Holly blind to everything; his only contact with reality was the warm softness under his hands and he held on tight.

"Ann... Ann," he shouted into Doyle's face. "My Ann...where's my Ann, you bastard...where's my Ann?" When Doyle didn't answer Holly's fury grew and his grip on Doyle's throat became tighter still, making any response impossible. "Answer me," he screamed, lifting Doyle and shaking him like a doll. "Tell me, where is she...what have you done to my Ann...tell me...tell me...tell me."

Unable to breathe, Doyle only knew he was fighting a madman for his life and he was losing. Desperate for air, his ears ringing and his vision dimming, he fought weakly. An abrupt flash of pain and a brilliant white light tumbled him into a safe darkness and he went willingly.

The sudden limpness of Doyle's body beneath him only enraged Holly further.

"No!" he screamed. "No...not like that...not that easy, not for you...you can't get away that easy!" he raved, shaking the limp body. "My Ann, she's mine, do you hear me, mine! You can't have her, she's mine!"

Doyle's head rolled limply back and Holly threw him onto the floor. He knelt there, staring first at Doyle and then beyond him into the rooms of the cottage. He could hear voices.

"Ann?" he whispered hopefully. Crying, he shuffled to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. It was empty; one hand swept everything off the dresser top crashing onto the floor and he kicked at the table, sending it flying. From a rack he grabbed a large-bladed knife and turned into the small sitting room towards the voices. He found the radio and threw it across the room, smashing it against a mirror which shattered, showering the room with glittering fragments.

"ANN!" he screamed desperately, over and over and over again, slashing at fabric and woodwork in time with his cries.

Moving towards the stairs, he kicked Doyle's body out of his way. Ornaments and pictures were knocked awry or slashed as he made his way through the upstairs rooms. Using the knife, he hacked his way through the wardrobe and cupboards as if to reassure himself that no-one was hiding in there. With no other room to turn to, Holly collapsed face down onto the double bed, his hand still stabbing blindly, ripping pillows, mattress and linen. "Ann... Ann..." His cries grew weaker and the knife which had become wedged in the twisted bedsprings was released. As his rage ebbed, though, so too did his strength and Holly fell into an exhausted sleep there on the bed in the devastated cottage.

---

Cowley's face was grim as he passed the photographs across the desk.

"The second picture is dated on the reverse, three months before Doyle's arrest."

"Who is this Conroy? What's his connection with this 'Christmas Man'?"

"Conroy," Inspector Mellish informed Bodie before Day could open his mouth, "is a private pilot. Belongs to a small outfit that puts on aerial displays, trick flying, that sort of thing."

"As a sideline, of course, to his main job," added Day, "which is to import or export whatever people will pay him to import or export--legal or otherwise."

"And Conroy is connected to this operation in some way?" Bodie said. "If Conroy is mixed up in it and you think these photos implicate Doyle, why weren't they produced at Doyle's trial?"

"Because," Day informed him icily, "we only found them last night. We finally pulled in Albert Winterton and, to save his own skin, he put the finger on Conroy. Then," Day explained, "last night, two of our blokes did a little reconnoitring of Conroy's flat and turned up these little beauties, pictures of your mate, Doyle, being very chummy with Conroy."

"All these pictures prove is that Doyle was at a party nearly five years ago and that Conroy was there too!" Bodie said with little real belief that his comments would shake Day's conviction.

"Just one more piece of 'circumstantial evidence,' Bodie," Day said snidely. "To go with all the other 'circumstantial evidence'--"

"That's quite enough," Cowley reprimanded him. "I must admit that this evidence, in light of everything else, is very damning for Doyle; just another coincidence perhaps," he added as Bodie made to interrupt. "But, nevertheless we must investigate it fully and see if there is any real link between Conroy and Doyle."

"Where is Doyle now?" Mellish asked.

"With his girlfriend, Ann Holly, somewhere in Sussex. Control has the details," Bodie said vaguely.

"Holly?" Mellish said thoughtfully; he raised a bushy eyebrow and looked askance at Day. "Ann Holly," he said again. "Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

"What's a coincidence," asked Day, puzzled.

"Holly," said Mellish slowly. "Just hearing it like that... Holly, The Christmas Man...struck me as a bit odd...maybe some sort of link there..."

Day lit up as he realised where Mellish's train of thought was leading. "Yes," he said. "Wasn't Doyle involved with this Holly woman at the time of his arrest?" he asked Bodie urgently.

His heart sinking, Bodie had to admit that things were beginning to look very black for his partner. The coincidence was acceptable but the number of coincidences linking Doyle with the drugs case was getting unbelievable. It couldn't be true, though, he thought numbly; he was prepared to stake his own reputation on Doyle being innocent--surely he wasn't being fooled along with everyone else. The momentary doubt surfaced for a few ugly seconds, causing him to lose track of the conversation buzzing Cowley's office.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't take much notice of the incoming telephone call at first...

"...ambulance on the way there now? To which hospital?" he heard Cowley saying. "You're sure...what time did this happen? ...The local police...yes--one moment." Cowley put the call on hold. "Bodie get on to control, I want Doyle's address in Sussex immediately." He returned to the call. "Keep the press away. We'll be there directly. Control will radio you the address as soon as we are under way." Disconnecting the call, Cowley took over the call Bodie was making to control and ordered the helicopter be readied for immediate takeoff.

"Gentlemen," Cowley said, reaching for his coat. "We may well have our answers sooner than we expected; a car has just been blown to pieces in a shopper's carpark in Eastbourne--Doyle's car." Not giving anyone a moment to recover, Cowley went on. "Inspector, I'll be in touch with you. Day, come with me. Bodie, you can stay--" he didn't get any further.

"I'm coming with you. Sir," he added as a deliberate afterthought. Cowley hesitated for a second, wondering whether he ought to make a stand and then decided he would lose anyway and so conceded with poor grace, unwilling to waste time arguing.

---

Holly woke up suddenly; for a second or so he was completely disoriented but then the memories came crashing back in on him. This time, though, there were no tears and his grief seemed older and more bearable, shock having numbed his senses to a more tolerable level. He clambered up from the bed and staggered shakily into the bathroom where he put his head under a running tap; shaking the water from his eyes, he grabbed a towel and moved back into the bedroom.

The devastation shook him. The ruined bed and pillows had spilled out, covering the room with feathers and stuffing; torn clothes littered the floor. As he leant against the wardrobe, something slithered out onto the floor, catching his attention and he snatched it up and flicked through the pages. The first thing he saw was a sketch of Ann. He smiled at the simple drawing and touched the faint lines of her hair with a gentle finger. He rolled the sketch pad up and stuffed it into an inside pocket.

He moved around the bedroom touching things, picking up bits and pieces he knew were his daughter's running his fingers over the small make-up case and jewellery box, sniffing at her perfume bottles, feeling the silk of her blouse between his fingers. Her presence in the bedroom calmed him, soothed away the grief and covered over the painful memories. Here, in the bedroom he could almost feel her, see her and, bit by bit, his mind locked away the hurtful thoughts until he couldn't remember exactly what had happened--except that it was bad, very bad...he'd got Doyle, though. He remembered that clear enough, remembered the way his body had suddenly gone limp beneath his hands. He laughed out loud; yes, he thought, he'd got that bastard, all right. Doyle had paid for daring to mess around with his daughter!

Thinking of Doyle made him think about other things, practical things, and he started planning again. Doyle's body was lying at the bottom of the stairs; he couldn't leave it there for Ann to find--and he didn't want her upset. He knew that she must never find out how hard he worked to keep her safe. He had to hide the body before she came home.

Holly hurried back down the stairs; his mind whirring into action again, he only saw what he expected to see--Doyle lying dead at his feet. He didn't notice the gentle rise and fall of his victim's chest. Staring blindly at Doyle, Holly wondered how long he had been asleep upstairs...wondered how long he had before Ann came home...he had no time to waste.

Stepping over Doyle, he went outside and reversed the Land Rover up to the front door. Coming back inside, he tugged the rug away from the walls and rolled it around Doyle who, out cold, didn't even murmur, and then he dragged it outside and heaved it into the back of the vehicle. Without a backward glance at the cottage Holly drove out onto the road.

He drove mechanically, unthinking. He wasn't panicked or nervous and no one seeing him would have thought he had a care in the world. Even getting caught in a minor traffic hold-up only ten minutes form his home and safety didn't faze him. A helicopter clattered noisily into sight and landed only a few fields away. After a short additional delay there was a wail of police sirens and a small convoy of cars headed down the road towards him and back along the road he had just come from. No one in the convoy paid the slightest attention to the battered Land Rover with the carpet-roll bundled in the back.

The hold-up over, the policeman waved the cars on again and, with a polite nod of thanks, Charles Holly continued on his way home.

Pulling up outside his house, Holly quickly checked to see if anyone was about. The house was empty but he could hear the clatter of machinery and voices coming from the farm side. He knew he had to hide the body quickly and decided to put it temporarily inside the house. He pulled the rug, with Doyle still hidden inside, and dragged it over his shoulder to carry it through into the privacy of his home. Once indoors, Holly knew the best place to hide it. He had only ever used it in emergencies once or twice over the past twenty years; it was small but it would be ideal. Since his parents' death several years ago no one else in the family knew of its existence.

He carried his heavy load through to the library and dropped it onto the floor: the layers of thick carpet blanketed any sound Doyle might have made. Working fast, Holly's fingers found the right point in the panel and slid it back, then he dealt with the mock inner wall.

Intended as a hidey-hole for contraband in centuries past, it was too small to take the body wrapped in the rug and so Holly unravelled it, grunting and labouring over the dead weight. So sure that he was handling a dead body, Holly was never aware of the fact that Doyle was still breathing, still warm; all he knew was what his memory told him--that Doyle was dead and he'd felt him die under his own hands. Pushing a final leg into the space, Holly grunted in relief and slid the wall into place, then the wooden panel.

He stepped back to admire his work and noticed the scratches on the woodwork where it slid behind the other panels. Frowning, he searched the room for something to cover it. The bureau was ideal. He set the decorative flower arrangement sitting on top of it to one side of the floor and then, pushing and sweating, managed to move it up a few feet to cover the worst of the marks. Breathless by the time he'd finished, he rearranged the flower vase on the bureau again and slightly reorganised the rest of the furniture to make the room look right. Pleased with his efforts, he picked up the rug and left the room.

In the kitchen he calmly set about making himself a cup of tea. He thought about eating something but decided against it and chewed on some indigestion tablets instead in the hope they would relieve the pain in his side. Sitting in his kitchen supping his tea, Charles Holly felt oddly at peace with the world. Looking through the window, he saw that the rain had finally stopped and the late-afternoon sunshine was warming everything up nicely. For a moment he forgot all about an, and Ray Doyle, his efforts of the afternoon, and he walked out into the sunshine to enjoy the fresh air.

With no direction in mind he wandered aimlessly until, at the end of a tree-lined lane, he leant against a gate and stared out into the sunny paddock, enjoying the sight of the horses playing, running about. As he watched, a young girl wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, her ginger hair caught up in a tight pony tail, ran into the field with a handful of grass for the horse.

He laughed out loud at the way the little girl kept encouraging her horse to 'eat it all up so you can grow big and tall.' She was totally unafraid of the huge animal and, when the grass was all gone she looked round for more.

"'s all gone, daddy," she said, looking straight at him. "It's all gone, daddy." The words echoed around the empty field, leaving Holly blinking in surprise.

"Ann!" he called out. "Where are you, poppet?" He climbed over the gate to look for her. "Don't hide, poppet," he said worriedly. "Don't hide from daddy...Ann...come back here...Ann," he called. "Ann...don't hide from daddy...please, Ann...come back..."

Holly sank to his knees, groaning aloud as the pain in his chest suddenly expanded, flaring hotly outwards, engulfing him. Hugging himself to ease the pain, he felt the forgotten sketch pad in his pocket and he drew it out, leafing through the pages with numb fingers. He found the sketch of Ann again and, for a moment, forgot his pain as he smiled at it, caressing her face with his fingers. Then the pain gripped him again and he clenched the pad with whitened fingers. As the wave ebbed slightly his gaze fell on the page just visible underneath...another picture of Ann, a larger one this time taking the whole page up. His fingers moved over the ripples in the sheet that covered her slightly, coming to a halt as they traced over bare skin. As he stared at the picture, seeing it properly, he felt the pain inside tear him in two and his cry of agony was mixed with his scream of rage.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Holly fell face down into the grass, the pad falling and landing under his face. Paralysed, his eyes wide and desperate, Holly lay staring at the picture of Ann, eyes soft and sensual, lying naked for the eyes of the world to see her... "No," he sobbed, "not my Ann...not...my...Ann..."

Struggling, Holly managed to wrench the pad away from his face and he pushed it way where the wind whipped at the pages, tearing them free from the binding and scattering them around the field. As the first sketch of his daughter flapped past his face he tried to reach for it but the wind tugged it just out of reach; he was trying to crawl for it when the final burst of agony seared through him and his hand fell, lifeless, onto the grass.

---

Their helicopter landed on a school playing-field and they were greeted by a group of excited-looking uniformed policemen. A chubby-faced superintendent detached himself from the throng and introduced himself. To Bodie's immense relief, he got straight to the matter in hand and gave them all the information as their cars sped away towards the cottage.

"There was only one body removed from the car," the superintendent said. "So far, two witnesses have said they saw a young woman, early thirties, auburn hair, fair skinned, about five foot tall get into the car. The vehicle blew up approximately thirty seconds after it started moving.

"And the house?" Cowley asked.

"We're nearly there, it's just around the next corner...here it is, we get out here and it's about one hundred yards further up the lane." Superintendent Fox signalled the driver to pull over and they all got out, Day soon joining them from the second car. "My men have surrounded the house as per your order, Major Cowley," said the superintendent. "No one's approached it at all and it looks peaceful enough. There's one car parked in the driveway and the front door is slightly open."

"Thank you," Cowley said, then turned to Day. "I want you to approach the house with caution--if Doyle is in there I want him out in one piece!"

"Sir," objected Bodie. "You can't seriously think Ray had anything to do with the car--and even if he had, do you really think he's going to be sitting in there waiting for us!"

"Day will enter first, Bodie. Those are my orders!" Cowley barked and his expression gave no room for discussion. Simmering, Bodie forced himself to calm down and moved into position, ready to follow the moment Day signalled.

After checking the exterior, Day gingerly approached the open front door. He beckoned Bodie closer to give him cover as he went in. Cautiously they entered the house. Somewhere to the right of the hallway a badly tuned radio was playing, static whistling and distorting the sound. Broken china strewn across the floor crunched beneath their feet; as they moved through the small house, they was the destruction but, for the moment ignored it--they were looking for something more important than broken ornaments. Only when they had checked the house out thoroughly did they relax fractionally and give the all clear for Cowley to enter.

"Looks like everything that could be broken has been, sir," Day said quietly, shaking his head in answer to the unspoken question.

"I don't understand this, at all," Cowley said as he viewed the destruction. "None of this makes any sense," he waved his hand around the room. "If Doyle is involved with Conroy--"

"He isn't!" Bodie growled menacingly.

"If he is involved," Cowley repeated, "and he knew we were on to him he could possibly try to run out, break away somehow, but this...this doesn't add up," Cowley puzzled aloud. "Why kill the girl in his own car? Why smash this place up? There are far easier ways to cover your tracks than this."

Bodie had no answers for him and if Day had any he was wise enough not to voice them in Bodie's presence.

The forensic team were there in double quick time and both the burnt-out car and the house were given a meticulous examination.

Returning to the cottage after viewing the remains of the car, Cowley, Day and Bodie--who was still tagging along, refusing to be left behind--the Met Superintendent Fox and Mrs Walker, the woman who 'looked after' the cottage for Ann's family.

Although very distressed at the terrible accident that had befallen 'Miss Ann," Mrs Walker was able to give them one more piece of information to puzzle over. She'd gone through the smashed rooms carefully and had announced that nothing had been stolen...except for one loose rug which went in the entrance hall.

"A rug?" Bodie asked, wondering if he'd heard right.

"A rug," Mrs Walker repeated. "A beautiful one it is too. Mrs Harrison bought it when she lived in India with her first husband--although she was Mrs Holly then, of course--it came from one of the northern provinces where Mr Holly was--"

"You're sure it's missing?" Bodie interrupted. "It's not just been moved to one of the other rooms?"

"It's missing, I tell you. I remember it being there on Friday and it's not there now," the old lady insisted. "Why on earth should Miss Ann move it--it's been lying on that floor near on forty years!"

"How big is it, Mrs Walker?" Cowley asked quietly.

"Oh my...I don't know..." Mrs Walker became flustered, fresh tears welled up in her eyes and she sniffed. Cowley handed her a clean, neatly pressed handkerchief. "It stretched from just past the door mat to about...there...a foot from this door, and it must be a few inches less than the width of the hall...look, you can see where the edge tiles are more polished--that's how big it is."

Cowley made soothing noises to calm the woman as he gestured for a policewoman to come and take care of her.

"Just a rug missing," Saunders, one of the department's forensic men, said thoughtfully. "By the size of it--big enough to wrap a body in," he ventured.

"What would he need the rug for if he intended blowing her up in the car?" Day mused thoughtfully--forgetting for the moment that Bodie was still glowering beside him--and staring at the empty space the rug had once occupied. "All seems a bit pointless--why'd he need a rug?"

"To wrap a body in?" Cowley said grimly.

"But the girl was killed away from the house--"

"Another body," Cowley said.

"Doyle?" Bodie asked, a deep fear finally finding voice.

"Someone blows up Doyle's car and kills the girlfriend by mistake. When he, whoever he is, realises his mistake, he comes here to the cottage and kills Doyle, wraps the body in the rug and takes him off." Day laughed, a sour laugh that grated on Bodie's nerves. "Oh, very nice and tidy. Agatha Christie would have had fun inventing a plot like that."

"I think it's a bit early to start jumping to conclusions," Bodie forced himself to say with more calmness than he felt. One step slightly off line and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Cowley would have him packed off to London and away from all the investigations.

"Do you have a better explanation?" Day sneered.

"Back off," Bodie snapped. "We don't know what happened and we won't until we find Doyle--"

"Presuming he's hanging around somewhere waiting to be found--"

"That's enough!" Cowley hissed. "It's bad enough that one of our men is missing in suspicious circumstances without the sight of two more involved in a slanging match! You, get down to the town, check out the shops Miss Holly visited; find out what she bought, who she talked to, whether anyone was with her at all." Dismissing Day, Cowley turned to Bodie. "You, stay here until the forensic team have finished and then return with them to London and take them into Doyle's flat. I want it searched thoroughly--do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Bodie snapped back. A thorough search, he thought, the bile rising in his throat. It would mean ripping the flat, Doyle's home, to pieces. Nothing would be left untouched. Everything that Doyle had would be revealed to almost public viewing--nothing would be left untouched. Doyle, Bodie knew, would hate it.

---

Bodie arrived, with the team, shortly after midnight to find Cowley and Day waiting for him. Using the spare key that Doyle had given him for emergencies, he opened the door and let everyone in.

Cowley indicated that the team should wait outside until he called them and then closed the front door.

"You're familiar with his things," Cowley said to Bodie. "Before the team come in and start stripping the place I want you to look through and see if there's anything out of place...anything missing."

"You mean South American travel brochures, bank statements, missing suitcases, that sort of thing?" Bodie said tiredly.

"Don't be facetious, Bodie," Cowley said sharply. "You won't help Doyle with that attitude."

As Bodie reluctantly checked through each room Cowley followed closely; Day kept his distance but stayed within earshot as Bodie was questioned on his partner's behaviour over the past few weeks.

"Hmmm..." Cowley said thoughtfully as Bodie's report ended. "I've heard that he seemed edgy from other sources too. Have you any idea as to the cause...Bodie," Cowley warned as he saw the younger man's expression change. "Don't even think about holding anything back. What is it--come on, man, out with it!"

Deciding he might be about to hear something interesting, Day came closer.

"Doyle..." Bodie began awkwardly. "He...he and Ann... I don't think things were working out quite as they had planned..." His voice tailed off as he guiltily realised that neither Ray nor Ann had actually planned anything. "I think...they think--thought that she was...pregnant. It wasn't planned and I'm not sure Ray was all that happy about it." Bodie finished and slumped down into one of the armchairs and stared belligerently at Cowley and then at Day, daring them to come to the wrong conclusion. Surprisingly enough, though, Day's only comment was not what Bodie had expected.

"I can't see Doyle blowing up his car just to get rid of a baby and a girlfriend. He must 'ave heard of abortions even if he hasn't heard of family planning!"

"You could argue that she refused an abortion and was insisting he marry her," Cowley suggested.

"Nah," Day dismissed the suggestion. "Not in this day and age. Ten or twenty years ago perhaps, but not now. She was old enough to know her own mind and Doyle...well, presuming she wanted to name his as the father and sting him for child support, it wouldn't cripple him financially." Day sat himself down in the chair opposite Bodie--Doyle's favourite chair--and looked Bodie square in the face before continuing. "No, I think what's happened is that Doyle got wind of the fact that the Joint Op was moving onto some big names and started getting nervous. Why kill the girl?" he asked. "Maybe he wanted to start running and she refused to go with him. Maybe he couldn't trust her with the truth about his involvement...who knows--except, of course, Doyle himself."

"You've forgotten something," Bodie said, too weary and worried now to get angry. "What about the rug? If Ray killed her--whose body is wrapped in the rug? What about the stains the forensic boys found in the hallway?"

"An unidentified stain that could be human blood," Day said patiently. "My money's still on Doyle fixing the girl and trying to confuse things by ransacking the place and fooling us into thinking something happened to him."

"Until the lab results come through we'll still concentrate on Doyle--there's precious little else to go on," Cowley said. "Bodie, you stay here and supervise the search. Keep me informed...Day," he turned to the other man. "You've still got Conroy's home and office under surveillance?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just supposing, for argument's sake, Doyle and Conroy are connected. Conroy's aircraft would be an ideal vehicle for a man on the run to leave the country in. Double the surveillance and keep me posted as to developments."

As Cowley and Day left the flat they let the forensic team in. Grim-faced, Bodie watched as the men set about their task. They all knew Bodie; knew it was his partner's flat they were taking apart, 'carefully, and mind the furnishings!' Cowley had ordered before leaving--but it made little difference to the way they did their job.

Helpless to prevent any of it, Bodie paced restlessly from room to room, his brooding stare burning into the men's backs. There was little conversation, none of the jokey back-chat they usually indulged in; no-one made lewd comments about the contents of the bedside cabinet or joked about the more personal possessions Doyle had put away in cupboards and drawers. Even the discovery of a dog-eared instruction sheet for a home pregnancy test-kit didn't raise the titter it normally would have done, it was simply bagged and tagged and put onto the ever-growing pile of 'suspicious evidence' on the living room floor.

For the best part of an hour Bodie held his tongue and his patience but he was unable to restrain himself when one of the men pulled out a large suitcase--one Bodie had last seen in the corner of his spare bedroom when Doyle had been his 'house guest.' "Leave that!" he barked, causing the man to jump in surprise.

"Fuck off, Bodie." Flushed and sweating from effort and tension, Kelly just snarled at him. "Just keep out of it," he warned.

"Don't do that," Bodie said in a deceptively soft voice. "You don't have to rip it apart--there's no need to gut everything."

"Just trip the locks, Kel," said one of the other men in an effort to defuse the situation. "They're only cheap cases, shouldn't be difficult." Taking hold of Kelly's knife, the younger man worked at the locks and soon had them open.

"Okay, Bodie," Kelly said placatingly, "let's see what he wanted to lock away in here...strange place to put this stuff," he said with disappointment. Sickened, Bodie watched the contents of the case being tipped out and sifted through by Kelly. There was nothing special in there--nothing special or important to anyone but Doyle.

As Kelly pored over the contents his colleague delved into the back of the cupboard and pulled out a second case. This one was not locked, merely strapped shut, and Bodie recognised it as the other case Doyle had dragged back from his brother's house the day of his release form prison. He recalled seeing this suitcase the day Doyle moved into this flat and had offered to unpack it for him. 'Leave it,' Doyle had said. 'I'll do it later, there's nothing important in it.' Nothing important? Bodie knew otherwise. The two cases were all that Doyle had left of his previous life, all that he'd wanted to save when he lost everything else. They were important. "There's no need to read them!" Bodie snarled as he noticed Kelly sorting through a pile of letters."

"They're bleeding love letters!" Kelly crowed delightedly. "No romance though, done up with an elastic band, should have been a pink ribbon at least..." he laughed unkindly.

"Look at these," the other man said as he sorted through the second case. "Certificates, master marksman and everything...didn't realise he was such a good shot," he said, admiring Doyle's skill.

"Yeah, she reckons he was a good shot, too," Kelly snorted crudely as he sorted through Ann's letters.

"Good lord...he even kept his school reports...hey, listen to this one--"

The tension of the past hour found an outlet as the innocent keepsakes and mementoes were pulled from the cases.

"...must learn to curb his temper and channel his thoughts more effectively..."

"Kids' books!" Kelly said in disgust. "Why keep a bunch of kids' books?"

"...Raymond must learn to apply himself and concentrate on academic subjects..."

"...Hendon Police Training College, Passing Out Parade, March 1968--looks like the whole bloody lot of 'em are about to pass out! That looks like him, there, third from left in the middle--not smiling is he!"

"Listen to this...Mr and Mrs Henry Harrison request blah-blah to the marriage of Ann blah-blah to Mr Raymond Doyle...St. Barnabas Church, September 10th 1972--when was he first arrested?"

"Hmm..." Kelly answered, looking up from the pile of documents from the Police Training College, "Oh, sometime in August...yes, August '72 I think. Look at this one...she sent it to him while he was being held on remand. 'Darling Ray,'" Kelly read out. "'I really can't believe that this is happen--'"

"That's enough!" Bodie shouted as he snatched the invitation cards and letters out of their hands. "There's nothing of interest to you here and you bloody well know it!"

"Back off, Bodie," warned Kelly, rising to his feet.

"You've done your job and you've found nothing so get the fuck out of here!"

"I said back off and I meant it," Kelly said. "You're only here to observe so bloody well OBSERVE and keep out of our way!"

"I'm all for job satisfaction," Bodie said, "but I think you are enjoying poking your nose into Doyle's things, you've had the time of your fucking life pulling this place apart--"

"Pulling it apart?" Kelly countered. "We've hardly touched the place. I'll show you 'pulled apart' if you want me to. Start with the mattress shall we? Cut that up and see what's inside? Take the wallpaper off the walls to see what's hidden underneath, tip the flour and sugar and cornflakes into a pile on the living room floor shall we? I'll fucking well give you pulled apart if that's what you want!"

"Keep it down, Kel," the other man urged softly to his partner before turning to Bodie. "I appreciate that it's hard for you to watch us do this but it's got to be done."

"Oh yes," Kelly laughed bitterly. "We've got to see what the rat left behind before he jumped ship--they always leave something--"

"Kelly!" entreated his partner. "It's finished. Let's close up--"

"Finished! We haven't even started yet. I'll show Mr-Bloody-Wonderful here how we do a real search!" Kelly lifted the photograph frame and smashed it against the wall without dropping his eyes from Bodie's. "Might have something hidden under that picture." The glass shattered and, free from the frame, the photograph of Doyle's passing out class fluttered to the floor by Kelly's feet. Stepping forward, he ground his heel into it and the sound of crunching glass seemed very loud in the quiet room.

Kelly fully expected Bodie to take a swing at him and he wasn't disappointed. The fight caused more damage to the flat than the search had.

---

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

...He fought every inch of the way but it didn't help; gradually, step by step, he felt himself moving nearer and nearer to the door. Already frantic, his fear grew even more unbearable as it began to open. Spurred on by growing terror, he managed to throw his weight against the door--he had to keep it out...keep them out...it mustn't get in...he couldn't let it get in... The door shook, rattling its hinges and he doubled his efforts even though he knew he was going to fail; his strength finally gave out and the darkness, suffocating, powerful and unrelenting, rushed in, sweeping over him and dragging him down...

Jolted free of his dream, Doyle found the nightmare continuing. Darkness still pressed in all around him and he shook his head, trying to clear his confusion. It was the wrong move and he felt his world tip and sway sickeningly; his ears buzzed furiously and his skin prickled with cold sweat as he lost the battle to keep the contents of his stomach.

Eventually, the dizziness faded slightly and the pain became less sharp--but the darkness remained. Using his good arm, Doyle eased the broken one to a more comfortable position across his chest. His whole body ached and he knew he was hurt badly--but how it had happened and who did it to him was lost and he felt too confused and hurt to struggle for the memory. He wiped away the itchy, dried blood from his face and felt the brush of lashes against his fingers. His eyes were open--but the darkness was still total; moving his head as much as he could without being overwhelmed by the spinning, sickening feeling as he searched desperately for a glimmer of light.

There was none.

It was a nightmare, his worst nightmare, and yet he knew he was awake. The knowledge was scarcely reassuring. "Who's there?" he croaked. His voice fell into the darkness and he waited for an answer. None came. Blind, he listened for some clue as to where he was--who was with him. His own breathing, raspy and fast, was deafening and, as a fresh wave of terror washed over him, he held his breath--straining to hear who might be out there in the darkness. For a tense moment he lay frozen, listening, his lungs burning as he held his breath back. Sick and dizzy, he let it go with a whoosh and a cough which shook his body, making him groan in pain. Just as the noise passed his lips he thought he heard something--he froze, skin prickling and the hair on the back of his neck bristling. "Who's there?" he whispered after a moment's complete silence. Doyle's heart raced as he thought desperately of what he should do. He had no idea where he was, how he got there or--even more terrifying--who was there with him. "Who are you?" he croaked painfully into the darkness. "What do you want?"

His voice bounced straight back at him from the thick walls. He had no way of knowing he was alone in his dark prison and, in his confused state, had no idea that the sounds he could hear were of his own making. Suddenly, fear became panic; he had to get out; had to get away; had to get back into the light. His strength recharged by the adrenaline surge, Doyle managed to move; he got his knees beneath him and tried to lift himself up but his head hit the ceiling before he could straighten up. Lashing out with his arms, he found that all the walls were close--very close. Under frantically searching fingers he felt the crumbling, gritty stonework and the spongy dampness clinging to the bricks. The truth of his position finally hit Doyle and he fought to get out. "Bodie!" he cried out as he scratched at the crumbling plaster. "Bodie! Bodie!" He was unaware of everything except the desperate need to escape his prison, his movements were wild and uncoordinated and, driven by panic, he hit his broken arm against the unyielding bricks. The flash of brilliance in the darkness was as welcome as the oblivion that swept over him.

The next time he awoke the darkness didn't surprise him and he just lay there, huddled against a wall, and waited. He was no longer sure what was real and what was not. Everything was dark, nightmare and reality merging over and over until he no longer had the energy to even wonder why it was happening.

---

Lake rang the doorbell a third and then a fourth time. Eventually, Bodie's voice growled at him via the security intercom. "Who the bloody hell is it?"

"Just be grateful I'm not Cowley and let me in--it's pissing down out here." Lake waited another few minutes before he heard the door buzz free. On the second landing the door to Bodie's flat was ajar and he walked in. "Careless, 3.7," he admonished. "I could have been a hitman out to get you."

"More likely to be the Man From The Prudential!" Bodie said lightly when he got his first glimpse of what his visitor was wearing. "Strewth!" he whistled. "Fucking hell, Puddle. Who'd you pinch that get-up from?"

"It's mine!" Lake replied indignantly. "Nothing wrong with it...just a bit..."

"Dated. Old-fashioned," Bodie supplied.

"Well, fits the image. Been doing some low key leg-work for the Old Man--could hardly go in looking like an undercover copper, could I?"

"Working on what?"

Damn, Lake thought, furious with himself. "Just sniffing around a few characters he hopes might lead to something on the drugs thing."

"Grasping at straws, is he?"

"Bloody feels like it," Lake complained, gratefully accepting the proffered drink. "Something's happened in the set-up and we don't know what. Everyone Day's had under observation over the past six months is running about like so many headless chickens!"

"What's happened?" Bodie asked curiously.

"God only knows!" exclaimed Lake. "We can't get to the bottom of it--had word there was going to be a large drop somewhere along the Kent or Sussex coast in the early hours on Monday morning. We had coast-guards and radar stations keeping watch for us. Then, about five o'clock yesterday a small plane on a scheduled flight from Brittany, en route to Biggin Hill, makes a slight detour, circles around The Downs for thirty minutes, then returns, top speed for Brittany without touching down. The French police radioed through that the plane was clean."

"They ditched the stuff in the Channel."

"Certainly looks that way--though we've no proof. Something must have gone wrong with the drop; no one met them so they ran back to France and ditched the lot as a precaution."

"Are they being held in France?"

"No. One of the passengers, 'a respectable businessman'--if you can believe that--said he remembered an urgent business matter he hadn't dealt with and ordered the pilot to return," Lake finished sourly.

"Just like that," Bodie said in disgust. "What's Day's verdict on what went wrong?"

"Oh, he...um..." Lake hedged. "Well, he thinks that they were tipped off on this side of the Channel. Although he hasn't actually said so in my hearing I understand he reckons that someone..."

"Someone...meaning 4.5?" Bodie enquired.

"Probably," agreed Lake. "Someone, probably Doyle, has alerted everyone over here that we're getting close--not that we really are!" Lake said. "We're no closer or further forward than we were three months ago--but don't quote me on that, Bodie, that's just my personal, uninformed opinion. Day, Mellish and Cowley are playing this very close. No one knows any more than they really need to--I shouldn't even have told you what I have," Lake finished wearily.

"You do know that I'm under observation?" Bodie asked quietly.

"Yeah--wasn't sure if you did, though."

"Be bloody stupid not to be--under the circumstances," admitted Bodie. "Phones tapped too. Cowley told me when my suspension was made official."

Lake grinned at Bodie's rueful tone. "Yeah, well, Cowley was asking for it. So, by all accounts, was Kelly. How's the eye, looks very...colourful."

"Not so bad now it's opened up a bit. How's Kelly?"

"Mobile, but limping; he asked me to say sorry for him being such a prick--hadn't meant to get at you like that. He doesn't know Doyle that well and only knew what he'd heard on the grapevine since he came on the squad."

"Didn't know him! Christ--Doyle's been on the squad for almost two years!"

"Calm down, Bodie," Lake said. "You can't blame him. Neither of you mix with the rest of us very much--and you've got to admit...Doyle has always been a bit...stand-offish."

"With most of the squad accusing him of being a fucking drug pusher and the other half believing him to be a sodding nancy boy I'm not bloody surprised!"

"No-one really thinks he's queer, Bodie," Lake protested.

"Oh no. They just think he let Kingsley fuck him to make life easier for himself. Christ...are they still on about that. I'd thought that bit of gossip had died a death by now!"

"Come off it, Bodie. A juicy titbit like that? Doyle could screw a whole row of chorus girls in the middle of the day room and they'd still say he had his eye on the bloke heaving the bloody curtain up and down! It's just gossip--livens up a dull day, that's all. We know he's not really queer."

Do we? Bodie though morosely. It would be ironic if, after all the months of quiet lusting after that body, they found out Doyle was gay. But what did his lusty thoughts make him--a hopeful homosexual--a man who had dreams about what he would do to his partner when, if, he ever got the chance--if, that is, he wasn't already dead and lying in some unmarked, unknown grave. His thoughts forced him back to reality; what about Ann? For the first time since Doyle's disappearance he actually thought about his partner's fiancée.

"The Coroner's Inquest. When is it--on the Holly woman," he clarified.

"It's scheduled for ten on Tuesday morning."

"In Eastbourne?"

"No, Horseferry Road. Cowley's slapped a 'D' notice on it. Nothing has shown up in the press except a report on a traffic accident. The full inquest will be held over until after Doyle's...until we find Doyle. The family want her body released for burial, there's no reason why it shouldn't be."

"Have you seen the post mortem report?" asked Bodie.

"Yes." He shouldn't have, of course. Both men knew that. Bodie didn't ask how he came to see the report. "She wasn't pregnant, you know," Lake said. "And, according to the family GP, she knew she wasn't. She had telephoned and got the negative test result Saturday morning."

So, thought Bodie, I wonder if Ray knew--knows--he corrected.

"Bodie," Lake said with a warning in his voice. "You're not thinking of going to the court, are you?"

"What if I am?" Bodie asked and Lake knew that his mind was already set.

"Bodie...you're on suspension. You turn up at the court, interfere with the proceedings and Cowley'll hang you up by your balls!"

But there was no turning Bodie from something he'd decided on and, after a period of pointless arguing, Lake gave in. "Have you got anything to eat," he asked, changing the subject. "I'm starving," he added, trying to look pathetic and rubbing a hand over his rumbling stomach.

"I expect there's something in the kitchen," Bodie said. "But only if you take that bloody jacket off--it's making my eyes go funny!"

After watching Bodie move aimlessly around his kitchen for a few minutes, Lake pushed him to one side. "Here, let me do it." He organised some food for both of them, guessing that they were probably equally in need of a good meal. "Blimey!" he said in surprise when he'd rummaged around the food cupboard and fridge. "Is this all you've got in? What the hell is this...vegetarian cheddar? Natural yoghurt and...I don't know, what's this?" Lake held out a container with some brown sludgy stuff clinging in dried, suspicious looking clumps to the sides of the jar.

"That...dunno. Something Ray bought. Tastes better than it looks," Bodie answered vaguely.

Lake dropped it into the bin along with the aged yoghurt pots. "This looks more like it; bacon and tomato...got any eggs? How about some dripping? I'll knock up a quick fry-up."

"Dripping?" Bodie asked. "Er...no, don't think so. There's some corn oil in that cupboard; I think Ray chucked the dripping pot out when he was living here. The frying-pan's in the back of that cupboard somewhere."

Careful to keep his eyebrows firmly in place, Lake kept quiet his amazement at the apparent revolution Doyle had fought--and won--in Bodie's kitchen and breezed around, chattering away nineteen to the dozen in an effort to keep his attention.

Finding it easier to let Lake get on with whatever it was he thought he was doing, Bodie slumped down at the small table and pretended to read the newspaper. He would have preferred to be alone but Lake wasn't entirely unwelcome. The observation on his flat was low key enough that it didn't intrude--apart from his knowing it was there; as if Ray was likely to turn up here, he thought bitterly. And what was Lake doing calling round? Was he acting on Cowley's orders? He didn't think so. He watched as Lake carefully cracked the eggs into a sizzling pan.

"One pan of heart-attack coming up," Lake joked as he caught Bodie watching him.

Bodie was confused; no, he wasn't here on Cowley's orders and, he realised, when Cowley found out he'd stopped by he would be for it--so why the hell had he stopped by? Bodie asked him.

Lake blinked in surprise at the sudden question. He finished dishing up the food and put the plates down on the table. "Returning a favour," he said softly. "You did ask me to," Lake said, looking straight at Bodie.

Suddenly, Bodie remembered 'You can do the same for me one day' and Lake's agonised reply, 'Christ! I hope not.' The words had been spoken late one night when Bodie had taken home a rather drunk and very unhappy Lake after his own partner's death.

"You think Ray's dead," Bodie said tonelessly.

"I don't think he's sold out, Bodie. Nor do I think he's been pulling the wool over our eyes the last few year," Lake said firmly, but gently. "You saw that house, you've seen her body, Doyle's car...it's been four days! Do you really think they'd have wrapped him up and carried him out in a rug if he was still alive and kicking?"

"He's not dead!"

"Bodie...be reasonable. I hope he's not dead as well...but if he isn't dead, where is he? The bloodstains the forensic boys found match his blood type. If he is alive he's hurt--how badly, only God knows. The state that place was in--Christ! If it wasn't smashed it was carved up--"

"Don't!"

"Bodie..." Lake said. "Face it, Bodie...chances are that he is dead."

"Who?" Bodie snarled angrily. "And why? For crying out loud...WHY?" At last Bodie was forced to admit his fears out loud. Yes, he knew that already, Ray was probably dead. Hearing someone else say it only confirmed it.

---

With Cowley's knowledge, if not his permission, Bodie arrived at the Coroner's Court in time for the hearing. He sat at the back of the room and listened as the formalities were observed. He guessed that the fragile-looking weeping woman was Ann's mother. She was being supported by a bewildered and tired-looking man who comforted her softly in an unmistakably American accent. Apart from the court officials and the CI5 men, the couple were completely alone. When it was over they stood up and just remained by their seats, clutching at each other.

"Mrs Harrison, Mr Harrison," Bodie said quietly. "My name's Bodie, I worked...I work with Ray Doyle. I just wanted to tell you--"

"Ray, have they found him?" Mrs Harrison asked urgently.

"No, no...not yet. But I'm sure he'll turn up soon. "I don't care what they say," she turned accusing eyes towards Day, who was watching them from the other side of the court. "Ray wouldn't hurt my Ann...he couldn't hurt her...he just couldn't..."

"Hush, now, sweetheart," Mr Harrison said anxiously, not sure how this brooding man with a very bruised and swollen face stood where his missing partner was concerned. The interviews they had had with the other men had been upsetting enough. Bodie recognised the cause for the man's anxiety and tried to reassure them.

"Everything was going so well for them," Mrs Harrison stumbled on. "I know we weren't too pleased at first...but then Ray explained...Official Secrets Act, he said... We had to let people think that awful trial...and prison...everything...we kept quiet about everything, didn't we Harry...Official Secrets Act... It was very hard...we wanted to tell our friends...but Ray said we couldn't...it was hard...but we tried...didn't we, Harry?" She broke down completely and her husband looked beseechingly at Bodie for help.

"Come with me," he said kindly. "I'll get someone to take you home."

Suddenly a commotion started outside the guarded doors of the courtroom. A uniformed policeman entered the room and crossed hurriedly over to Day.

"A man outside, sir," the P.C. said hurriedly. "Trying to enter the court--says he knew the dead girl, says he was engaged to her--"

Bodie and Day reached the outer door at the same time; snatching it open they burst into the corridor. The scene that greeted them was not what either of them expected. Two CI5 men and one of the Court bailiffs had pinned an angry looking man up against the wall--and it wasn't Doyle.

"I just want to know what happened!" the man cried out. "Let me go!"

Day signalled the men to release him. Suddenly free, the man stumbled before regaining his balance.

"Who are you, what's your name?" Day snapped out.

"Look, I don't know--" the man protested in a plummy voice.

"No, you don't, sonny," Day said coldly. "Name?"

"Trevor?" Ann's mother's voice sounded loud in the still corridor.

"Mrs Harrison, oh thank god, Mrs Harrison!" the man turned to Ann's parents. "Please, I only came to find out... Mother told me that Ann had been killed--I had to know--"

"Had to know what?" Bodie rapped out. "Mrs Harrison, do you know him?"

"Yes...yes, oh Trevor, what are you doing here?" she said anxiously.

"Mr Day, please!" said Ann's stepfather. "Let him go, he's a friend of the family; a close friend."

"Mother said I shouldn't come here," Trevor said to the Harrisons. "But I couldn't stay away. When I heard about the car I couldn't help but think--" The young man suddenly swallowed his words and gulped nervously.

"Think what?" Day asked.

Trevor gulped again as he realised the seriousness of his situation. In the scuffle the jackets of the men holding him had gaped open and his eyes widened impossibly at the sight of their guns. "Oh no," he muttered. "I can't... I can't...he'll kill me. He'll kill me...like... I can't...can't..."

After giving terse instructions for Cowley to be notified of the turn of events and for someone to take care of the Harrisons, Day, closely followed by Bodie, hustled the man along the corridor and into a small interview room where he was pushed down into a chair. Over the man's head Day locked eyes with Bodie in a grim contest of wills: Bodie refused to be beaten and eventually Day conceded defeat, allowing him to remain in the room.

The waited in a grim silence until a sharp knock drew all three men's attention; the young man jumping nervously, Bodie and Day unsurprised and expectant. Day cracked the door open and held a whispered conversation with whoever was outside. Bodie waited and the young man looked even more nervous and dripped perspiration. Eventually the whispered conversation was over, Day shut the door and turned his attention on the sweaty man.

"Trevor Scott-Willis," Day said crisply. "Former fiancé of Ann Holly. A respectable accountant from a respectable family background. The Harrisons speak very highly of you." Trevor relaxed a little and mopped the moisture form his face. "So," Day continued. "Why on earth have you turned up here causing all this fuss? Not exactly 'respectable' behaviour, is it?"

"I...I had to come..." he said hesitantly. "Mother told me about he car--the papers said it was a car crash...but Mother said...Mother said..." he faltered.

"What exactly did 'Mother' say, Trevor?" asked Day.

"She...she's been helping Constance...Mrs Harrison...since Sunday, since the police broke the news. It wasn't a car crash...Mother said it wasn't a car crash...and her boyfriend...another one...he's gone, hasn't he you can't find him...I was scared, but I had to find out...I couldn't bear wondering any more..."

Over the man's head, Day and Bodie looked at each other; there was no animosity between them this time, only puzzlement. They let Trevor ramble on, guessing he was too scared to respond to formal questions.

"...The first time... I didn't think anything about it...but then, after Philip--it could still have been a coincidence...there was no mention of anything suspicious...and then when he went to prison--I saw him then...he saw me and he laughed at me...said that I was the lucky one...then I knew, I just knew. But who could I tell, who would have believed me? He was gloating, laughing at me...he's mad...mad! Really mad!"

Bodie felt a prickle of unease run down his spine.

"What do you mean by mad? Do you mean angry--or insane mad?" Day asked, clearly sharing Bodie's unease at this odd turn.

"Most of the time," Trevor explained, "he's okay. Acts...you know, normal. But...but then, sometimes, you only have to look at him and know...I think he's really sick--he's insane, completely insane--he just tricks people into thinking he's normal..."

Day tried to make some sense out of the man's rambling statements.

"You said he was gloating about the trial--what was he gloating about?"

"I don't know for sure... Christ, he scared me so much I just wanted to get out of his way, right out of his way before he decided to kill me too."

Over Trevor's oblivious head, two pairs of stunned eyes met.

"So Ann's not the first person he's murdered?" Day asked; he heard but ignored the sharp gasp from Bodie but couldn't spare him a glance. "How many others?"

"I...I'm not sure... I don't know...not for sure."

"Yes, you do," Day barked. "He's gloated about it--you said so yourself. Stop messing me around!"

"I've no proof," Trevor stammered. "I can't prove anything, it's only what he said to me...he asked me if I realised how lucky I was, and wasn't I pleased he'd only told me to clear off...that he hadn't...hadn't made me...disappear like the others... I didn't believe him at first but then I remembered, they never found his body...and now...they're not going to find this one either..."

"Didn't find whose body?" Bodie said quietly, a faint ugly tingle of familiarity ringing various bells in his memory. A conversation, half forgotten and never taken seriously was slowly becoming clearer to him.

"Thorpe, Roger Thorpe," Trevor said. "They found the other one; Philip at the bottom of a cliff; an accident the reports said but it wasn't an accident--I'm sure of it."

"Philip was found under the cliff--slipped over the edge on an early morning run and Roger Thorpe was drowned on a fishing trip in some loch up in Scotland," Bodie told Day, hardly believing what was happening.

"Who the hell are they?" Day asked. "And why did Doyle want them dead?"

"Not Doyle!" Trevor gasped in surprise. "No, not Doyle--he's probably killed Doyle as well!"

"Who the hell are we talking about then?" Day asked exasperatedly.

"Him!" replied Trevor. "Him, her father; Ann's father."

---

Cowley's office was fairly bristling with barely contained emotions: the computer search on Charles Holly had turned up some remarkable coincidences. The files had been there all the time--waiting for someone to find them and George Cowley was already planning the enquiry into why it had taken so long! Conroy, the object of Day's recent intensive observation, was, it turned out, married to the sister of Charles Holly. The photographs of Doyle with Conroy had been taken at a family celebration: the silver wedding anniversary of his fiancée's aunt and uncle. The information on Charles Holly confirmed everyone's suspicions--he was an ex-RAF officer whose service had been abruptly terminated in the late fifties when he had been declared 'medically unfit' and summarily discharged. The information eased out of Ann's bewildered mother told them that her ex-husband's mental health problems had been made worse when he was dismissed from the service; he'd suffered several breakdowns, each worse than the last. Unable to cope any longer with her husband's unpredictable behaviour, Constance had left him--taking their young daughter with her. The divorce had been a long and ugly affair made worse by Charles Holly's demands that his daughter be returned to him. Because of his unstable mental condition Holly was denied both custody and access by the courts and following another more serious breakdown he was committed to a mental institution. With her ex-husband now firmly out of her life, Constance Holly returned to her own family and began building a new life for herself and her little daughter.

Trevor Scott-Willis, visibly shaken to find himself involved in the unfolding drama, filled them in on Charles Holly's continuing dangerous obsession with his daughter. He told them how, shortly after the announcement of his engagement to Ann, her father had confronted him, warning him that the cost of 'interfering' with his daughter would be high. Convinced that Holly would carry out his threat and ashamed of his cowardice, Trevor had left Ann without any explanation, never once thinking that he ought to inform someone of Holly's dangerous behaviour.

From a safe distance over the years, Trevor had seen the tragedy that hit all the men who became involved with Ann--watched the tragic events in silence because he was still terrified of Holly: only now, when it was too late for Ann, had he talked--his fear of Charles Holly still strong but superseded by the fear of what the grim-faced CI5 men would do to him if he kept anything back.

Cowley had listened to Scott-Willis's account of Charles Holly. He didn't doubt the young man's word at all; everything he said only confirmed what he had long believed: Ray Doyle was innocent, his only 'crime' had been to fall in love with the wrong girl. There was little doubt left in anyone's mind that Charles Holly was insane.

Following Cowley's orders Bodie handed Trevor over to someone to take him home and hurried back to the small office where he entered without knocking.

"Bodie!" Cowley snapped. "I gave you orders to see Mr Scott-Willis got home safely."

"Yes, sir," Bodie agreed smoothly. "I handed him over to Doug Johnson, he'll be returned to his mother in next to no time."

"Bodie, need I remind you that you are on suspension? You are not involved in this investigation--"

"With due respect, sir," interrupted Bodie, "unless my partner is still under suspicion of being responsible for Miss Holly's murder--"

"Which in the light of Scott-Willis's statement seems highly unlikely," admitted Day wearily.

"Och...sit down man and stop glowering!" Cowley waved Bodie to a chair and slumped back into his own chair. "We are assuming of course that Holly was aware that Doyle and his daughter were engaged again, there is still a possibility that he is not aware--"

"He knows," Bodie said. "He's been watching them for the best part of a year at least."

"Just a minute," Day said. "You're telling us that Doyle knew he was being watched?"

"He knew," Bodie said. "He told me. He asked me if I was keeping tabs on him as well."

"As well?" asked Day.

"As well as you," Bodie replied.

"I've not been watching him," said Day.

"That's what Cowley said," Bodie answered grimly. "And that's what I told Doyle--only he didn't believe me, he thought I was lying to him--"

"He reported that he was being watched?" Day queried in amazement.

"I reported it," Bodie said. "I told you," Bodie nodded at Cowley, who nodded back at him. "I went back and told him that he wasn't under observation. He wouldn't believe me--or maybe he believed I was being kept in the dark about it."

"Who did he think it was?" asked Day.

"You," Bodie said crisply. "Or, more to the point, internal security under your instructions."

"He thought it was I.S. and so he did nothing--for a whole year?" Day asked incredulously.

"He thought he knew who it was and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it," Bodie said tiredly. "Then, after a while, he stopped mentioning it, I think he just got used to it...just tried to ignore it."

"Jesus, Bodie--why didn't he report--"

"Report what--that you'd put I.S. to watch him?"

"But I didn't, there was no watch--"

"I know that now!"

"When was the last time Doyle mentioned to you he knew he was being watched?" Cowley asked.

"Ages ago, last summer...about July."

"He wasn't overly concerned about it?"

"No," Bodie said, just about sick of it all. "I think he was just resigned to it. He knew Day wanted to hang him and there was nothing he could do he hadn't already done to try and convince everyone he was telling the truth."

Cowley and Day each looked a little sick themselves. All the facts had been there just waiting for someone to put them together in the right order.

"And Holly," Cowley said after a few moments' awkward silence. "You've got the connection between him and Conroy sorted out?"

"Yes, sir," responded Day. After nearly eighteen months' hard work, half an hour's computer time had tied up all the loose ends. "Conroy runs a small aircraft business in which Holly is a silent partner. Conroy apparently does all the donkey work and Holly supplies the finances and business connections. On paper it's only a small pocket-book company and supposedly Conroy's only source of income. Holly's family is very wealthy and money has never been a problem but Conroy comes from a very different background. His lifestyle does not fit with his declared income--even taking into account the money he got when his wife died last year.

"All along we've known that the man we were looking for was a financier; Conroy does the work and Holly provides the backing. Holly is our 'Christmas Man,'" Day ended bitterly: there was no feeling of success left after the mess they found themselves in; because of his conviction that Doyle was the missing link in the chain he'd spent too long looking in the wrong direction.

They now knew why Monday's drop had not happened; not because of some tip-off but because the Christmas Man had not arrived to make the payment. Everyone, it seemed, not only CI5, was looking for Charles Holly.

"When was the last time Holly was seen?" Cowley asked.

"Friday afternoon, a neighbour from his London apartment said she saw him getting into his car--an old farm-style jeep; said she got the impression he was going away for a few days. He has a large house in Friston--only about ten miles from the cottage 4.5 and the girl were staying at: Murphy is checking it out now; he'll be reporting in soon."

"I'm going there," Bodie said, getting to his feet and making for the door.

"You're on suspension, Bodie," Cowley barked. "You'll go nowhere without my say-so!"

"Sir!"

"Murphy will call in if there's anything to report."

"But sir--"

"Bodie!" Cowley's voice stopped the younger man in his tracks. Murphy chose that moment to call in his report and that was the only reason why Bodie remained in the office.

"I've found the jeep and the missing rug," Murphy reported. "The house is empty and there's no immediate trace of the suspect or 4.5."

"Keep looking," Cowley ordered. "Organise a full search--I'll be with you shortly." Breaking the connection, Cowley called the control room and issued a flurry of instructions. The three of them left the building for the helicopter base at a brisk speed: suspension or not, Bodie was with them all the way. Eager to be away, Cowley had not the time or, in all honesty, the heart to push the point any more.

The helicopter landed in an open field and they were met by Murphy and the superintendent of the local police force. Ducking under the whirling blades, the three men went straight to the waiting cars.

Murphy launched into his report as soon as the cars were moving away. "The house is empty and the outbuildings. There are more buildings still to be checked out on the far east of the estate--they're being done now."

"There's no-one there at all?" Bodie asked.

"A couple of men came up from the village when they saw the police cars arrive. Father and son, Sean and Julian Ede. Senior works for Holly as a groundsman and caretaker, Junior works with the livestock."

"Livestock?" Bodie asked as they sped along the rapidly darkening lanes toward the house.

"It's a pig farm," Murphy reported with the faintest glimmer of amusement. They arrived at the house just as the mobile lighting unit was being set up. "We'll need that to check the outbuildings thoroughly--not all the huts have electricity. I'll show you where the rug was found."

Steering the car past the sprawling red-bricked house, Murphy took a sharp turn and drove them down a narrow tree-lined roadway which, after several twists and turns, opened out to reveal a collection of dilapidated whitewashed buildings. By now the light was almost gone and the men were searching the low buildings by flash-lamps.

"According to the stockman, these buildings aren't used very much; mainly for storage and occasionally as quarantine pens. The rug was found just behind here--Mrs Walker identified it." Murphy led them to a large metal container. "Holly must have tried to burn it; looks like it was too thick and acted as a damper on the fire."

"How far has the search extended?" asked Cowley.

"All the outbuildings have been checked out but a finger-search will have to wait until tomorrow, same for the fields. The farm covers over three thousand acres; and most of it is pasture and woodland, but the biggest source of income is the pigs."

His heart sinking lower every minute, Bodie walked back along the dark lane towards the lights of the house. The place was swarming with people although bands of white tape across each doorway prevented them from entering the house. Showing his ID, Bodie walked through the lower rooms watching silently as the forensic boys searched for the slightest evidence that anything untoward had taken place here.

The house was richly furnished with both period and modern furniture; heavy oak sideboards and cabinets decorated with silver and crystal filled the receptions rooms, the kitchen was right up-to-date, very 1970's with stainless steel and bright Formica, and the armchairs in the drawing room were modern, comfortable and expensive looking.

Seating himself carefully in one of the huge chairs, Bodie sighed. He felt useless; what on earth was he doing here? he asked himself. What was the point of haring around the country in top-speed helicopters?

"Bodie," Cowley called as he entered the room and found Bodie more asleep than awake. "Bodie!" he called louder.

"Mmm?" Slowly, Bodie managed to dredge up an answer of sorts. He wasn't asleep--he was just finding it hard to function.

"These were found on the ground outside; do you recognise them?" Cowley held out a bundle of wet papers limp and mud-smeared; Bodie identified them easily.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Ray's sketches." He took them and leafed through the sorry-looking collection. The outside pages were stuck together, they must have been lying on the ground during all the rain of the past four days; but the middle pages were almost undamaged. Once again Bodie found himself looking at Doyle's sketches--it was uncannily like peering into his partner's soul and he could most feel what sort of mood Doyle had been in as his pencil had flashed over the paper: there was Ann, perched on a bar stool in a room overflowing with Christmas trees, decorations, holly and mistletoe; another of her lying asleep with her hair spilling out across a smooth pillow. Doyle had been experimenting with new techniques since Bodie had last browsed through his work; several pages were devoted to cartoons and they were an even better barometer from which to gauge Doyle's ever-changing mood. Simple in style, they were all blunt and direct in their humour, sometimes outrageous, occasionally bitterly critical, a few whimsical fancies and a few odd incidents of CI5 life that Bodie recognised and knew had always tickled his partner's funny bone. Even in cartoon form there was no mistaking the look of embarrassed outrage on Puddle's face as he walked through a pile of dung left behind the ceremonial horses in Whitehall after Trooping the Colour last year. As before, around the edge of each page there were lots of little half-finished pictures, rough outlines and cameos. Little cartoons and drawings that Ray had toyed with and, on looking closer, Bodie realised that a lot of them were of him--in fact, most of the edge drawings were of him, the cartoons instantly recognisable but the sketches less so--to Bodie's eye at least.

Folding the pictures up and sliding them into the plastic bag, Bodie watched the sketches being tagged for identification by the forensics men.

---

Bodie declined the lift of a car back to London; he'd stay until they found Ray. He was here, somewhere, Bodie knew it. He sat in an armchair, dozing off at times all through the night and at dawn he went out with the first search team as they began the painstaking fingertip search of the Holly estate.

At nine-thirty on Wednesday morning, five days after Ann had been killed, they found her father.

Bodie looked at the body in despair: Where the hell was Ray? Unable to face his colleagues' sympathetic, knowing glances, Bodie returned to the house. They knew as well as he did that finding Holly dead meant the slow search for Doyle's body would continue to drag on.

When the call from Cowley came through Bodie bucked against his orders. "I'm staying here," he told the distant voice. "There's no point me going with the body, I am still on suspension, after all--"

"You'll do as you're ordered, Bodie," Cowley snapped. "I can't spare anyone else," he added with unexpected understanding. "I don't want the local police to take over anything to do with this operation--call me once the coroner has a preliminary report." The line clicked and went dead before Bodie could protest any further.

---

His lips tightly compressed, Bodie looked down at the body lying on the table. Stripped of his clothing and bereft of dignity and privacy in his death, Holly's body was prepared by the coroner's assistants. Deft fingers measured and recorded his height and weight, small crosses were placed on a simple sketch showing the location of bruises and cuts. The preliminaries over, the doctor moved in to begin the examination proper.

As always, Bodie braced himself mentally and physically for what was about to happen. It was something he knew he would never get used to.

"Mr Bodie," the doctor said quietly as his hands worked. "There is really no need for you to be present for this--the constable will witness it. His clothes are all over there, you might as well check them and get them over to your labs."

Pausing only to spare the green-tinged constable a sympathetic but relieved grin, Bodie left the room.

Sifting through the contents of Holly's pockets, Bodie found a small wallet packed with photographs of Ann. He noticed at once that not one of the snaps had been posed for--most of them were of fairly poor quality as though taken hurriedly. One or two caused Bodie to frown, there was something about them...the angle... He telephoned through the HQ immediately.

"There's a block of flats directly opposite where Ann Holly lived. It looks as if Daddy had a camera fixed up to take shots of her. Start on the third floor...looks like the right height, maybe the fourth--check it out," he said tersely. "Hold on..." the next snap caught his attention. "A window with vertical blinds."

Bodie sorted through the rest of Holly's wallet and pockets then made a cursory check of the rest of his clothing; the lab boys would go through the clothes fibre by fibre if they had to. He was looking at the mud-caked trousers when he was stung. Startled by the unexpected sharp pain, Bodie dropped the garment on the floor. His thumb had a small puncture mark and, sucking it, he gingerly picked the trousers up again, shaking them gently. There it was, a lethal-looking thing covered with sharp, needle-fine bristles. It was caught in the leg's turn up, its bristles trapping it securely in the woollen fibres.

Carefully, Bodie checked the rest of the clothes and then bagged them up and signalled for the forensic boys to take them away.

---

"Death from natural causes," the coroner said eventually. "He had a history of heart complaint and suffered a massive heart attack; he's been dead--approximately--around four to five days. Difficult to be more precise, the body was lying in open country, the weather has been very mild, very wet...he's badly decomposed."

"There are some marks on the body that might interest you, look," the doctor pulled the concealing green sheet from Holly's legs. "Here, and here, the bruising is well defined and the skin has been broken." Leaving the legs uncovered, the doctor pulled out Holly's right hand. "And these here, clear finger marks...and again, here." Holly's face was uncovered. "Bruises and scratches. Someone had a good try at gouging his eye out!"

"Any ideas as to what caused the marks on his body?" Bodie had to ask--even though he knew the answer already.

The doctor looked at Bodie before saying carefully, "I could perhaps offer an educated guess."

"An educated guess," Bodie nodded in agreement, understanding what the doctor meant.

"The man that's missing...Doyle?" Bodie nodded. "How big was he in relation to Holly?" Bodie looked at Holly and made a rough guess. "So, Doyle was a head shorter and maybe two or three stones lighter," the doctor paused and then called his assistant over. "It'll be easier for me to demonstrate... Carole, would you stand like this...now, push me away...try to imagine that I am throttling you--now push me away." Carole's hands gripped the doctor around his wrists, tugging and pulling at them. "You're getting desperate, Carole...you're panicking..." Carole's hands moved up to his face and made as if to claw and scratch at his face. "I'm choking your life out, Carole...that's it...well done, that's enough. Thank you." Releasing his hands from his assistant's grip, the doctor rubbed at the redness left by her hands. "That is how I think Holly gained his bruises, Mr Bodie."

"That is your educated guess," Bodie answered hollowly.

"I've been in forensic medicine for a number of years, Mr Bodie. I've seen these marks before; I'm almost certain that this man has made a very serious attempt to strangle someone who managed to some extent at least, to fight back."

"Holly was fifty-five years old, overweight, flabby and with a weak heart!" protested Bodie. "Doyle's thirty-one, fit, strong and highly trained in hand-to-hand combat--how the hell could someone like...like this strangle him?"

"The bruising on Holly's upper torso appears confined to his right side, the left side is virtually unmarked. It is more than likely that Doyle was incapacitated in some way and only had the use of his left hand."

'Incapacitated in some way,' Bodie thought grimly. Even blindfolded with one hand behind your back you should have been able to take him--how the fuck could you let someone like him get you, Ray!

---

Bodie passed the report back to control and headed back to the farm. The driveway in front of the house was still full of cars, vans and people, there was even a tea-waggon serving soup and sandwiches for the teams of searchers. Inside the house it was quiet, only a few people milling about. Day found him in the sanctuary of the drawing room.

"We pulled Conroy in," he announced in a subdued voice. "Now all we have to do is listen to him--he doesn't know Holly's dead and so he's telling us everything he knows--hoping we'll be grateful and go easy on him. He's also spilling everything about how Holly stitched Doyle up four years ago."

"Bit bloody late. Still," Bodie said harshly, "better late than never, I suppose!"

"Bodie--"

"You couldn't leave him alone, could you?" Bodie accused. "Never once did you concede the possibility that he just might be telling the truth."

"All the way through this investigation Doyle's name kept cropping up," Day retorted angrily. "What was I supposed to do? Ignore the facts? Pretend the facts weren't there? Come on, Bodie," Day said tiredly, all his anger suddenly draining away. "Even now the links are still there--only now," he said quickly, forestalling Bodie's interruption, "only now we can see those facts differently. Christ, out of all the birds in London why'd he have to get involved with his daughter." Day paced the room, taking his frustration out on the carpet. "Boy, Holly must've really flipped when he realised that not only was his daughter cavorting about with a man but that man was a flamin' policeman and, what was worse, on the drug squad...Christ!" Disgusted with himself, Holly and the world in general, Day collapsed into one of the armchairs.

"That's Doyle," Bodie said humourlessly. "Certainly knew how to pick 'em, did Doyle." Too late Bodie heard himself using the past tense and, sharing Day's disgust, threw himself into another chair. In the relative quiet of the drawing room the two men shared an uneasy truce as they each took the time to recharge their exhausted reserves of energy and battered defences.

---

By Friday morning most of the possible sites had been explored without any success and the searchers were preparing to move further afield. The last place on the Holly estate they were still working on intently was a large lake on the north boundary. Bodie watched the divers as they sifted through the muddy lake bed. He'd seen the technicians a few days earlier taking their samples of the evil-smelling mess found in the pig pens. If they had to find Doyle anywhere, he begged silently, let it be in the lake, or in a shallow grave--anywhere but in the mess taken away in bottles, jars and bags to be examined under microscopes.

By early afternoon, wet through and thoroughly chilled, Bodie returned to the house. The drawing room, which had been taken over by the CI5 men as 'theirs,' was occupied by a grim-faced Cowley and an even grimmer Day. Not particularly wanting to see either of them, Bodie drifted aimlessly around the house. Staring out through the mullioned windows, he watched the distant activity. He still felt cold, only he knew it was nothing to do with the weather outside. He was still finding it hard to accept and, probably until they found his body, he wouldn't be able to fully accept it.

Absently he rubbed at the small inflammation on the pad of his thumb; sighing heavily, he wandered on to the next window and the next depressing view. He knew that Cowley wanted all the squad men to return to London and leave the search in the hands of the local police; but he couldn't leave, not yet. Cowley would just have to understand and accept that, he thought; besides, Bodie reasoned, he was still officially on suspension.

Forcing his depressing thoughts aside, Bodie began to really look at the house he was in, seeing it as a visitor would and not as a 'scene of a crime.' If things had been different he could almost envy Doyle marrying into such an obviously wealthy family--if things had been different! Small wonder really that Constance Harrison was not impressed by her only child's choice of husband. Charm and sex-appeal didn't rate too highly with women of her background; only family, wealth, influence and the old school tie. Bodie chuckled to himself; he'd only seen Doyle wearing a tie a few times and he was damn sure it didn't remain neatly knotted for even half of the evening! Bodie found he had very little sympathy for the pathetic Constance; coping reasonably well with the sudden death of Ann, she had only been temporarily shattered when her ex-husband's involvement was fully revealed--she had, to Bodie's mind, been far too anxious to make sure that the 'D' notice would prevent the full details of the family scandal leaking out to the press.

It had been Cowley's diplomatic evasion of her questions that let Bodie know he wasn't the only one hoping against the odds that they might still find Doyle alive. If Doyle was dead, there would be no reason to keep the full truth from the press--and, ironically, Ray could still get a public acknowledgement of his innocence--albeit posthumously.

Continuing his wanderings through the house, the reached the gallery-like corridor leading off the main entrance hall before anyone spotted him.

"Proof," Lake's voice cut into his thoughts. "Proof positive, as if we ever needed it, that crime does occasionally pay," he said cynically.

"No," Bodie disagreed lightly. "All this," he waved a hand around the gallery, "been in the family for generations--centuries even. Holly..." Bodie shrugged. "Just a bad apple."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, if I were you. This house and its occupants have probably all been involved in smuggling since the year dot! Probably a family of 'wreckers': smugglers, wreckers...Holly's just the end of a long line."

"Smugglers," Bodie said, distracted and oddly cheered by Lake's arrival. "This far inland?"

"I've been talking to that superintendent, he's not as daft as he looks," Lake said conversationally. "Local history buff. That lake over there used to be fed by a river that went on down to the sea. It's only about two miles away, you know. No time at all in a boat."

"What happened to the river?"

"Changed course; dried up...not sure," Lake said vaguely.

"Smugglers..." The thought made Bodie uneasy but he was unable to say why.

"Born in the wrong time, I was," said Lake cheerfully. "Can really see myself wearing a Stewart Granger shirt and swashbuckling all over the countryside..."

As Lake prattled on about his harmless fantasies, Bodie's mind was buzzing furiously...if only he could-- "This house was really used by smugglers?" he asked, interrupting Lake's happy musings.

"What--oh, er...yes." Surprised by the fierce expression on Bodie's face, Lake found himself asking, "Why?"

"I'm not sure...it's just something you said..." Bodie was thinking furiously. "What the super. told you, that's documented fact, you're certain he wasn't just spinning you a line?"

"He's genuine, Bodie. I'm sure of it."

"Smugglers...they'd bring the contraband up the river from the coast...they'd have to store it somewhere..."

"Secret caves," Lake suggested.

"Caves; tunnels--even hidden cellars or secret passages!"

"The house is old enough for all of those. Christ!" Lake said, wide-eyed. "We've been looking in the wrong fucking place!" he shouted, realising at last where Bodie's thoughts had been leading him to.

As Lake dived out of the door, Bodie was already tapping on the wooden panels and walls.

---

While Lake organised a team to search the house again, Bodie prowled restlessly from room to room, his eyes scanning the walls, assessing their thickness and whether or not a hidden passageway or bolt-hole could be hidden there.

Ray was here, Bodie thought fiercely. All along he'd known Ray was close. The irony of the situation did little to ease his bow-taut nerves. All this time they'd been looking in the wrong place--he was here, Bodie knew it. The superintendent who had first alerted them to the possibility of a smugglers' hideout was giving the search team a brief rundown on what sort of things to look for and the most likely places--unable to concentrate on the history lesson and desperately aware of the imperative to hurry, Bodie feverishly began his own search. Six days they had been looking; if he was in the house he was well hidden as there had been no sounds to reveal his whereabouts--six days...the thought burned in Bodie's mind. Was it too much to hope for...

The search progressed through the house and Bodie found himself in the library. Crowded with furniture and each shelf full of books, dusty but immaculate tomes, some of which were undoubtedly as old as the house they were in.

Bodie felt a tingle of sensation on the back of his neck...he scanned the room intently. His intuition didn't fail him often--and there was something wrong with the room... He began pulling books from the shelves, searching for some lever or button that would cause a panel to move away. Careless of the value of the books, he threw them onto a table; he worked systematically along the shelves. At some point Lake joined him and they worked silently, urgently; unconsciously aware of the imperative to hurry.

Halfway round the room Bodie paused--the central table was overloaded with discarded tomes; he threw them instead on top of a writing desk. Going back to the shelves, something made him turn again to look at the desk...no, not the desk...beside the desk.

Forgetting the shelves, Bodie stepped over to the large bureau: he stared at the flower arrangement that decorated it as he absent-mindedly rubbed his sore thumb. There was something about the flowers...his thumb throbbed anew as he touched the sore spot, drawing his attention to it...his eyes returned slowly to the flowers: it was a colourful display of dried and silk flowers, a simple arrangement to please the eye and add to the beauty of the room. Bodie ran his hands lightly over the display; they rusted in protest and pricked and scratched him back. He recognised on prickly stem: mindful of the sharp points he sucked at the small hurt on his thumb.

About to turn back to the shelves, Bodie stopped dead...the arrangement looked...uneven. Floristry never having been a required skill in the army or in CI5, Bodie was at a loss to identify what was wrong. "Puddle, come here...can you see anything...wrong with this thing?" he asked, unwilling to ignore his intuition but reluctant to make a fool of himself. "Hang on, what's this...this one's broken off. The stem looks a bit like this one, don't you think?"

Comparing the broken stem to the one beneath the wicked-looking teasel, Lake agreed.

"Found one of those things caught up in Holly's clothes...in his trouser leg turn-up!"

The two men looked hard at the chest-high bureau. The arrangement was level with their shoulders. As one they moved to pull the bureau away from the wall.

"Christ," Lake groaned. "It's bloody heavy..."

"It's moving, just...push...once more."

"Holly couldn't have moved this by himself--"

"Bingo!" Bodie yelled in triumph. The panel behind the bureau was scored with horizontal lines across the top and bottom. Squeezing into the narrow space, Bodie began feeling for the catch.

Bodie's yell brought the others running, the superintendent arriving swiftly to tell Bodie what to look for. "Let me," he said after Bodie fumbled uselessly for a moment or two. "I know what to feel for." After a few seconds' consideration Bodie moved away and let the uniformed man in. "Somewhere there should be a catch...providing the mechanism still works..." The superintendent ran his fingers over the ornately carved panel. "Sometimes a simple spring--ha!" Something moved under his fingers, then the panel moved slightly. There was some fumbling before it was moved to one side and hidden behind a neighbouring panel. They were now faced with what looked like a plastered wall. The super crouched down to examine it. "Seen one of these before...very clever," he said. "The wooden panel is only camouflage...this is the real entrance...a slight pressure is all that should be...needed..." He pushed against the wall. "If only I could find the right spot...usually off-centre...simple balance mechanism really--" The wall moved suddenly and the superintendent was pitched forward into the darkness, falling on his hands and knees.

"Well?" a single breathless voice asked.

"Phew..." The super sniffed. "Can't see a damn thing...smells...pitch black in here...I need a torch."

Bodie grabbed at a cigarette-lighter and elbowed the man out of the way, pushing in past him. The lighter gave only a dim glow but, at the edge of its reach he could make out a shoe. He held the light up and there was Doyle.

"Get some more light in here!" he yelled. Doyle wasn't moving, the noise and the light not causing him to stir at all. Heart pounding, Bodie inched in, keeping his head down and shuffling into the space. He took a tentative breath. Although foul, he couldn't smell the unforgettable odour of death... "Ray?" he said softly. He stretched out and touched Doyle's leg, shaking it gently. "Ray?" he whispered, almost afraid of disturbing the sleeper.

"Is he alive?" A voice called into the gloom. "Bodie, is he alive?"

"Ray?" Hands shaking, Bodie tried to find a pulse. "Ray?"

"Bodie?" the voices all clamoured anxiously.

"I...I don't know..." he shouted back, suddenly angry. "I don't bloody know!" There, he felt it beneath his fingers. And again. "Yes...yes, I think so... Yes!"

Then the light was there and, after what seemed an age, a doctor and an ambulance. Carefully, Doyle's unconscious body was placed on a stretcher and hurried out to the vehicle. The searchers returning from muddy, waterlogged fields for a hot cup of tea and a sandwich could only watch as the ambulance roared past them.

---

Sitting at Doyle's head, Bodie watched anxiously as the ambulance crew, under the doctor's instructions, fixed up a drip and oxygen mask, then cut away the soiled clothing. With soft pads they swiftly cleaned the worst of the filth away and then wrapped the still body in warm blankets.

The doctor recorded his patient's heart rate and blood pressure, and peered into Doyle's eyes--his grim look didn't lift once and Bodie's fear returned.

In the harsh light of the ambulance the week-old bruising was still black and blue, covering most of Doyle's throat, and the image of the coroner demonstrating what might have happened to Doyle was all too vivid for Bodie.

"Will he make it?"

"We'll know more later," evaded the doctor.

"How is he?"

"Not that good," the doctor admitted quietly. "He's badly dehydrated and I suspect a serious concussion. I think he's been unconscious for a long time."

"He'll make it," Bodie said--and the doctor wondered who he was really talking to.

---

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gowned and wigged, the judge leant heavily on the pulpit as he delivered his sermon. All alone in the front pew he had no option but to look up at the judge as he preached of the fires of hell and the eternal damnation of souls and knew that out of the entire congregation it was his soul, his evil ways that were being denounced. In the stalls behind the pulpit the choir were shocked into pious indignation as his misdeeds were listed: faces he recognised but names that only half formed in his mind joined in with the condemnation being heaped upon him.

He refused to bow his head with shame, he wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing him throw himself on their mercy.

Then, the sermon was over and he waited for sentence to be pronounced. But, one by one the congregation filed out past him; Mum, John, Kevin, Uncle Jack, Dad, Julie, Carole. Names, faces, more names and even more faces, friends from school days, from college, Don Taylor, Mike Behan, friends old and new. As the people in his life went by they all left him alone without a sound passing from anyone's lips and in their eyes he could see that he had already ceased to exist.

Unable to stop himself, he followed them out. He recognised the scene that greeted him only too well. The funeral cars stood polished and gleaming by the cemetery gate as the family gathered around the soon-to-be-filled grave. As he approached the grave they all, as one, turned their backs on him. He would have stopped, unable to go on, if it hadn't been for a light touch on his arm and a soft voice whispering in his ear.

"It's all right, everything's going to be all right, I promise," the voice said and, for some reason, he knew he could rely on that soft promise and it gave him the courage to take a few more steps forward. But then realisation struck and his new-found courage faltered.

The grave was his.

They were all waiting for him to climb down into the grave. It was deep and dark. Hands pushed and pulled at him, urging him towards the rickety stepladder and with no other option left he began the descent. The further down he went the colder and darker it became. He tried to rise up again but the hands pushed him down. The darkness welled up and swallowed him and he felt helpless. Way, way up he could just see a glimmer of light but he knew that any attempt to reach it would be thwarted by the reaching hands and he would be forced back into the darkness...

---

From his seat Bodie watched everyone arrive and take their places. Positioned deliberately at the back, he could see everyone but remain unseen. He watched as the late arrivals identified which group they belonged to and moved swiftly to join them, relaxing infinitesimally as they merged with them and then peering with haughty condescension at those arriving even later.

Not sure why he was even there, Bodie didn't join any of the groups and those that saw him didn't feel inclined to approach him. Alone, he sat through the memorial service. His view of the polished coffin with its single glorious wreath was suddenly blocked out as the mourners, family, friends and an odd mixture of police and CI5 rose to their feet as the ceremony ended.

The first to arrive at the small church, Bodie was the last to leave. Breathing in the damp air, he shook off the melancholy claustrophobia that churches always gave him. Not in the least bit religious, such places still managed to make him feel small, insignificant and frighteningly vulnerable. He was never comfortable in a church and could rarely be persuaded to pass through its door but, this time, for Ray, he'd done it.

The coffin had been carried to a spot near the outer boundary of the cemetery and the mourners were gathered around it to watch as it was lowered, slowly, into place.

The family were the first to leave, closely followed by the rest. He listened to the subdued chatter, the banging and slamming of car doors and the revving of engines. Eventually he was alone; the vicar seeing him standing there and assuming he wanted to be left to say his own solitary farewell, returned to his church. Bodie waited until the gravediggers had completed their job and covered the grave before approaching the spot.

It started to rain again, heavier than before. Already the ink on the condolence tags attached to bouquets and wreaths was beginning to smudge and run. Looking at the tributes, Bodie suddenly doubted the wisdom of being there: his motives were, to say the least, suspect and eventually he was forced to admit them to himself. At first he'd tried to tell himself that he was there for Ray. He wouldn't do this for anyone else but, as his partner and...best friend he knew that Ray would have expected him to be there.

His conscience wouldn't believe the lie and he was obliged to face the real reason.

Quite simply he had come to make sure she was dead--really dead. He'd come to her funeral for his own sake to make sure that she was finally out of Ray's life. At last, at long last he admitted the depth of his jealousy. He would never have let her win, he wouldn't have let them continue the farcical engagement to its conclusion: he would--Bodie knew--have got rid of her. One way or another.

Charles Holly, pathetic and insane, had simply beaten him to it.

Accidentally, brutally and permanently, Charles Holly had achieved what Bodie hadn't even known he intended doing. He wouldn't have killed her, though--but his method would have been no less subtle or brutal.

A burst of anger burned through him as he realised that even now Ann might still win. A ghost might prove harder to get rid of; a fond memory can remain faultless, perfect and beautiful forever--only life had the misfortune to sour.

Dead, Ann Holly might well prove unbeatable.

---

Quietly slipping into the ward, Bodie crossed to the bed in which his partner lay, still unconscious and still connected to all the different monitors, drips and medical paraphernalia. Settling himself into the chair alongside the bed, Bodie found himself checking over the sleeper for any changes that had taken place since he left only ten hours ago--ordered home to eat and sleep or risk being barred from the ward.

There didn't seem to be quite so many things attached to or stuck into Doyle's body. The respirator which had been placed in readiness beside his bed had gone, the threatening pneumonia succumbing to the influx of antibiotics into his bloodstream. The stark whiteness of the surgical cap covering his head and the plaster cast encasing his right arm from knuckle to elbow made the colourless face appear almost translucent. His breathing sounded easier, that awful rasping replaced by the normal, regular respiration of a sleeper.

Without warning, Doyle stirred, he moved slightly and made a small sound in his throat. Beneath pale eyelids, Bodie could see the rapid eye movement of the dreamer. Doyle's face twisted and the moaned again but through pain or distress; Bodie couldn't tell. Stretching out, he took Doyle's left hand, intending only to reassure him but Doyle's agitation increased and his voice, husky and cracking, grew louder, attracting the attention of the medical staff who rushed over.

"Talk to him, Mr Bodie," the doctor urged the worried agent. "He's beginning to regain consciousness, talk to him, let him know he's safe."

With the doctor, three nurses and all the electronic devices attached to Doyle suddenly making different noises, Bodie found himself too uneasy to sound very reassuring.

"Ray," he said hesitantly, and then again a little stronger. "Ray, come on mate, wake up...can't lie around here all day...Ray. Wake up, Ray..."

As suddenly as he had started, Doyle became still, only the rapid movements under the closed lids betraying whatever awareness he had.

"Keep talking," the doctor ordered. "Don't let him slip back..."

"Ray...Ray, mate, time to get up, sunshine... Can you hear me? Ray? Open your eyes, sunshine...Ray? Please Ray?" Frightened that somehow he was still going to lose him, Bodie forgot about the others' presence and kept up a monologue, asking, imploring and then nagging at him to please wake up. He took hold of the hand that had been snatched away as he spoke. At first, the hand, like Doyle's whole body, was stiff and unyielding, but, eventually, he gave in to the comforting, soft caresses and relaxed, his fingers curling at first tentatively, but then more decisively around Bodie's, finally holding on so firmly Bodie was unable to move his fingers or withdraw his hand from Doyle's grip.

How long he kept talking he didn't know but eventually the doctor put a hand on his shoulder and told him he could stop.

"He didn't wake up," Bodie said, worried. "Shouldn't he have woken up by now?"

"He is still in a coma--although not as deeply as before," the doctor told him as he finished checking his patient's vital signs. "The surgery on his skull to relieve the concussion was a success and he came through the operation well; we've managed to prevent pneumonia from developing any more and his throat is healing well. He's going to be fine, Mr Bodie," Doctor Kline said reassuringly. "This time next week he'll be up and about--if perhaps feeling a little fragile," he added honestly. "In two weeks' time at the very worst he will have a broken arm and--"

"But you've been expecting him to wake up since Sunday!" Bodie interrupted. "It's Tuesday and he's still out--what's wrong with him?"

"It's not always possible to predict exactly when a patient will wake up--"

"You've been saying that since Sunday--"

"Mr Bodie please! Lower your voice!" The doctor glanced round the room. "Nurse," he called out. "Stay here with Mr Doyle, call me as soon as the EEG registers any increased activity. Mr Bodie, would you please come through into the office."

Not waiting to check that Bodie would follow, the doctor detached the sheets of paper-printout from the EEG and left the bedside, turning only when he reached the glassed-off area that made up the I.C.U. office. "Mr Bodie?"

With a sign, Bodie extricated his fingers from Doyle's sleep-heavy hand and followed.

In the small room the doctor and another man were looking over the scroll just removed from the EEG; a pile of similar sheets littered the desk.

"Well..." the second man said eventually. "It looks more encouraging...an improvement certainly...yes, definitely," he said.

Kline introduced the two men. "This is Mr Bodie, Ray Doyle's partner. Doctor Carson has been running the EEG on Mr Doyle."

"You were present when this reading was taken just now," Carson asked urgently.

"When he almost woke up--or seemed like he was going to, yes," Bodie said. "I'd been with him about ten minutes before he began...twitching."

"Twitching--explain?" the doctor ordered brusquely.

"Well, he was quiet at first...breathing normally and then, all of a sudden he...he jumped, he moaned very quietly and I noticed and I noticed his eyes were moving very fast under his lids--"

"Did he open his eyes at all?"

"No."

"Just before he jumped, what was happening in the ward?"

"Nothing..." Bodie said slowly but then thought again. "Wait...just before...you were talking at the far end with some of the nurses and someone must have cracked a joke--everyone started laughing--up until then it had been very quiet in there," Bodie told Kline.

"Then what happened?" asked Carson. "Did something else happen?" He was looking at the peaks in the reading. "About a minute or so after the initial jump to awareness?"

"Well, nothing...nothing that I remember," said Bodie, puzzled.

"There's a second jump here, a minute or so after the first one, did you notice that?"

"I'm not too sure...the first jump gave me a surprise--he'd been so still...he made a noise, a sort of moan... I didn't know if he was hurting or what--his face looked scared...he looked frightened. "I touched his hand...I tried to hold it but he snatched it away--"

"Perhaps he was just agitated?"

"No," Bodie said. "He snatched it away. It was as if he didn't want to be touched..." Bodie ended lamely, remembering too late that Doyle never liked being touched unless he was wide awake.

"And then?" asked Carson.

"Doctor Kline told me to talk to him and I did. I don't know how long for."

"Hmm, interesting," Carson murmured as he pored over the scroll. "Interesting," he repeated. "Strange...but still, I suppose--"

"What?" Bodie asked anxiously. "What's wrong?" I thought you said he was recovering, that he's going to be okay?"

"Physically he is," Kline agreed. "But--"

"Mentally?" Bodie asked. "You said the head injury wasn't serious!"

"Initially I thought not, however--"

"I agree with Doctor Kline's initial prognosis," Carson interrupted. "I am sure the problem is not physical, merely psychological."

"What does that mean?" Bodie asked fearfully.

"Well," Doctor Carson started, then paused and looked at Kline for permission to continue. "This is the fourth time Mr Doyle has begun to surface--to wake up, you might say. But, each time he has slipped back into this coma state. His condition, his physical condition, is improving all the time but he remains in a state of deep unconsciousness. He responds, quite violently, to touch and to sounds. Usually once patient reaches this level of awareness they do wake up--"

"But Ray hasn't," Bodie said bleakly.

"Indeed," Carson agreed. "Each time, instead of opening his eyes and waking up he falls back to the deeper levels of consciousness."

"You're making it sound like he's choosing to remain in the coma," Bodie said angrily.

"I suspect that he is--now wait a moment," Carson said, forestalling Bodie. "Let me explain further. I suspect quite strongly that for some reason he is choosing to remain unconscious."

"Why would he do that?"

"Any number of reasons," Carson said quietly. "Shock in itself can have a devastating effect on a person. The trauma of his attack, the shock of his injuries all piled on top of the nature and duration of his ordeal in the hidey-hole--"

"Yes, but...he's free now. He's recovering--"

"Does Mr Doyle know that?" Carson asked softly. "I suspect not."

"He might think he's still trapped in here?" Bodie said, aghast.

"I do," Carson agreed. "I am also concerned about his condition when he was admitted to this hospital. His injuries, though obviously painful, were not that serious. The concussion and damaged throat were aggravated by the lack of medical care and compounded by dehydration but, even so, they didn't warrant the depth of coma he was in."

"He had been kept prisoner--virtually buried alive," Carson went on. "I think he retreated into himself in an attempt to escape the prison he was faced with. Being trapped, injured and helpless in that manner would be enough to cause any normal person to react so."

Any normal person. The doctors' words echoed mockingly around inside Bodie's head. To speak up now could effectively ruin Doyle, but to keep quiet could do him even more harm in the long run. That the information would remain confidential was, Bodie knew, a false hope. They would have to tell Cowley--and Ross.

"Supposing..." Bodie cleared his throat and began again. Ashamed of what he was doing to Doyle, he didn't notice that Cowley and Day had appeared behind him in the doorway. "What you said about any normal person being affected by something like that. What if the person already suffered...suffered from claustrophobia."

"Claustrophobia!" Carson said in surprise. "It wouldn't bear...surely you don't mean--"

"If someone with claustrophobia found themselves trapped like that what would you expect to happen to them?" Bodie asked, already half dreading the answer.

"Doyle, you mean?" Carson asked. "Well...it would certainly explain a few things--"

"But what has it done to him?" Bodie asked urgently.

"Let me get this right," Carson said firmly. "Doyle suffers from a mild form of claustrophobia?"

Bodie hesitated. "Not...not exactly that mild," he admitted.

"I see. How badly?"

A sound distracted Bodie and he spun round to see Cowley and Day. Neither man said a word but Bodie knew that they had heard everything. Turning his back on them he spoke to the doctor. "I'm no expert and I've never come across it before but I don't think it's classic claustrophobia as I've always understood it. Doyle's okay in small rooms or in lifts. I've never noticed him worrying whether the door is open or shut...but...sometimes. Well, it's two things really. Sometimes, if it's dark--pitch-black dark with no light at all, well, then if the room is...shut in, if he can't get out...he panics--well I've never seen him really panic but...I get the feeling that if he ever found he really couldn't get out of somewhere he would...he might panic."

"How does he cope with this fear in everyday life?"

"Doesn't seem to bother him that much," Bodie answered. "As far as I can tell it only really bothers him when the two come at the same time--a confined space and darkness--living in a city, working as we do, in two years we've not had to work in a situation like that. In bed at night, at his place he always leaves the landing light on, at my place there's a street lamp almost right outside the window--it never gets that dark."

"He won't sleep in total darkness?" Carson asked.

"Can't or won't," Bodie said. "I think can't."

"Have you ever removed the light source while he was sleeping?" Carson asked intuitively.

"Yes," admitted Bodie reluctantly.

"And?" the doctor prompted.

"He became...disturbed."

"You are sure he was asleep at the time?" Bodie nodded. "What happened?"

"I opened the curtains again and let the streetlight in. He calmed down, he woke up but I don't think he knew what woke him."

"Have you witnessed any other reaction of this fear?" Carson pushed--realising as Cowley did, that it was only because of his concern for his partner that Bodie was talking about it at all; he suspected that once Doyle's recovery was assured he would clam up and refuse to give any more information.

"Yes," Bodie grated out and bit by bit related the incident when they were trapped in the lift.

"And the other man," Carson asked. "He was unaware of the condition Doyle was in?"

"No--he made some comment after a while, asked if Ray was asleep or something."

"And after that, what happened?"

"Ray joined the conversation--he sounded a bit...strained, but I don't think Lake noticed."

"So there was no panic attack once he released the grip he had on your arm?"

"No."

"And later, afterwards?"

"Afterwards...nothing." Bodie turned then to face Cowley before continuing bitterly. "Life got a bit hectic workwise then and it was days before the subject was even mentioned."

"So you have discussed it with him then?"

"Not in any detail, he couldn't really explain it himself...didn't seem to understand it--he was more concerned to know whether I would report it to Ross--and Cowley, of course."

"And," Cowley interrupted, "as you have said nothing to me, nor I suspect to Dr Ross, you clearly decided against reporting it."

"That's right," Bodie said grimly. "I decided it wasn't worth the bother--it's not been a problem and I believe that Ray would cope with a bad situation if he had to, he's bloody good at his job and training would overrule any fear if he might have--"

"And if his training didn't help it would be your life on the line," Cowley guessed astutely.

"More than likely," Bodie agreed.

"That's not good enough, Bodie, and you know it--you should have passed this information on to Dr Ross--"

"Really, gentlemen," Dr Kline butted in hurriedly. "You can discuss CI5 policy another time; right now my priority is with my patient!" Sharply reminding everyone why they were there, the doctor, for the moment at least, closed the discussion on Doyle's claustrophobia.

Leaving Cowley to discuss whatever it was he came to see the doctor about in the first place, Bodie returned to Doyle's bedside. This time he spoke softly to Doyle for several minutes before tentatively touching the lax fingers. Almost at once his hand was taken into a steely grip, Ray murmured something and curled slightly to his side facing where Bodie was sitting.

Using his free hand to ease the kinks caused in the tubes in Doyle's arm and nose, Bodie smoothed the pillow and brushed back one chunky, wayward curl that had escaped from the surgical cap. Poor Ray, he thought, he'd have a large bald spot to cover until the operation site healed over.

"Bodie?"

Surprised because he'd not heard the man's approach, Bodie turned to see Day standing beside him.

"No, stay where you are," Day said softly. "Don't disturb him--I just wanted to have a word with you..."

Having decided long ago that he didn't particularly care what Day thought or said, Bodie turned back to his partner.

"I thought you might like to..." Day hesitantly started. "I thought you'd like to be able to tell Ray something from me when he comes round." Day waited for Bodie to comment and when the silence only stretched on he began again. "Holly's house--and the London flat, the one opposite Ann's place, gave us a lot of information--it confirmed one or two things we weren't sure of. Holly was mad; mad as a hatter but bloody clever: he managed to fool everyone. He seemed to be able to control things just enough that they didn't get out of hand. He kept a diary...thing's a bloody mine of information. Diaries, lists, telephone numbers, addresses--he wrote everything down, all his schemes...you'll have to see them sometime--every page is a month's work in itself for the drug squad and customs men." Day shook his head in reluctant admiration for the madman that had run rings around the drug squad for nearly a decade. "He kept a diary on his daughter, too. Photographs, school books, pieces of her clothing. I spoke to Mrs Harrison about him--seems he's always been obsessed with Ann every since his first breakdown; tried to kidnap her when she was a baby, lots of ugly court appearances over custody when the divorce came through, but then he seemed to drop out of the picture. Mrs Harrison thought he'd given up, forgotten about them even, but he hadn't. He just began watching her from a distance. The London flat is packed with photos of her, he followed her all over the world by the look of things. Photos are all dated, catalogued and filed. There's a whole drawer of shots of her with various men, Doyle too," Day said bitterly. "He's even mentioned in the diaries. I read the weeks where he was arrested and framed--Holly did set it up although framing Doyle wasn't what he'd intended at all!"

Something in Day's voice made Bodie look up. "Well?" he asked.

"Murder was more like it," Day said. "Remember Weston?" Bodie nodded. "Seems he did have a good reason to remember Detective Constable Doyle--he'd been paid to kill him. He was a mechanic at the station Doyle was working from. Doyle was driving a car which, because he was going undercover, he returned to the pool. Weston fixed the brakes but it was Inspector Taylor and not Doyle who drove the car out of the station that night. Doyle's alibi went bang same time Taylor was killed. Holly only had to alter a few minor details and Doyle was well and truly banged to rights!"

"Just like that!" Bodie was appalled that Doyle's downfall had been so easily arranged.

"Yeah," Day said, sighing heavily. "Just like that."

Swearing under his breath, Bodie raged quietly, only Doyle's warm grip preventing him from hitting something--preferably Day.

"Yeah," Day said quietly. "I'll be off--do you need a lift anywhere?" he offered.

"I'm staying here," Bodie said without looking round. Concentrating only on his partner, it was some time before he realised that Day still hadn't left and was hovering around the foot of the bed. "You forget something?" he asked sourly.

Day jumped, startled by the sudden question and the venomous look flashed his way. "What? Oh... Yes, well, not really--guess it can wait." He fidgeted and flushed pink, clearly discomfited.

"If you've bloody well got something to say--say it!" Bodie snapped. "You've not been shy about speaking your mind in the past."

"I had my reasons, Bodie," Day retorted, stung but refusing to let the other man make him feel any more guilty. "I'm as pleased as you are that Doyle's been cleared of all suspicion but I was right in my belief that he was mixed up with the racket in some way--"

"It's a pity your 'investigations'," Bodie managed to make the word sound almost obscene, "didn't show up Holly's insanity before Ann was murdered and Ray damn near strangled!"

"Sooner or later it would have come to light," Day defended, knowing he'd not failed in his work. "Maybe their engagement was the final straw that pushed Holly over the edge. He was slowly losing his grip on reality but Doyle coming back like he did into Ann's life was more than he could take. The shrink reckons that the bomb in the car was meant for Doyle. Holly thought it was him in the car when he detonated the bomb. When he found out he'd killed his daughter he just went berserk--I don't suppose Ray knew what hit him..."

"No, I don't suppose he did," Bodie agreed sarcastically, turning away from him and hoping he would have the sense to take the hint and leave.

The rest of the morning passed slowly. The nursing staff checking on Doyle's condition at regular intervals took little notice of Bodie as he sat quietly, unselfconsciously holding onto the patient's hand. Once, fingers hot and cramping, Bodie tried to withdraw them but Doyle's grip had tightened, keeping him there.

---

...The silence as he climbed towards the light was as terrifying as the dark but he felt compelled to keep climbing. As he got closer and closer his fear, impossibly, doubled. Were they still there? Would they force him back or, worse still, would no-one be there?

Undecided, he hovered; what was worse, the suffocating, heavy darkness or the bright, cold isolation of the light?

He turned back into the warm darkness but found he couldn't reach his sanctuary any more. Scared and unwilling, he moved upwards towards the light. He wanted the dark! He fought his rise upwards, struggling against the inevitable. He could hear noises--growing louder and louder and then he could feel hands on him; he tried to pull away and get back to his sanctuary but he couldn't escape them. The voices became clearer and he could hear his own name being called. One voice, closer than other others, troubled him, eh recognised the gruff tones and struggled to identify the speaker.

"Come on, Ray," the voice urged. "Please Ray...come on... Come on, Ray."

Bodie? It was Bodie; but something was wrong...whatever could be wrong, Doyle wondered. Everything was so confused and muddled and he couldn't think straight, couldn't imagine what was causing Bodie to sound so anxious.

"Ray!"

No, Doyle realised, frightened; Bodie sounded frightened. What was wrong, had the job gone wrong? Flashes of memory sparked images in his mind and he saw the dark corridor and his friend's angry face as he shouted at him. "I'll do what I'm trained to do and I'll protect him to the best of my ability. And, if you don't feel the same way you can pack up and get out now, right now!" Was Bodie angry with him? Then he was running, guns were booming everywhere, deafening him, and he was after someone...running...running...the man was just ahead of him...in slow motion Doyle watched as the man stopped running, turned and raised his gun...

---

"Ray? Ray?" Bodie cried urgently as Doyle stopped threshing about and became frighteningly still. "Ray?"

Doyle's eyes suddenly snapped open; wide, frightened and unfocussed. Reaching out, Bodie stroked the side of his face with gentle fingers and slowly the tension and fear seemed to drain away and heavy eyelids drooped and closed.

"Ray?" Bodie said softly. "Can you hear me, Ray, are you awake? Come on Ray, please...say something," he pleaded.

Slowly Doyle's eyes opened again and he turned towards him. Bodie smiled, the grin turning into a huge beam when a weak smile tugged at Doyle's lips in response.

"Hello, sunshine," Bodie choked past a large lump in his throat. "Decided to wake up at last, have you?"

Doyle looked at him with huge, sleepy eyes. "Mmmm," he mumbled. "Mmmnn what's 'appenin'? Wha's wrong?"

"What's wrong he asks!" Bodie said in amazement. "You lie there like a corpse for nearly a week and then wake up and ask what's wrong!"

Confused, but warm and comfortable, Doyle could see that Bodie was all right after all and he felt too tired to worry about it any more. Bodie was okay so everything was all right.

"Hey," Bodie tapped Doyle's cheek lightly. "Don't go back to sleep, mate."

"'m tired..." Doyle mumbled.

"Ray?"

"'m tired, Bodie..." Ray grumbled as he tried to go back to sleep. "You're all right...so everything's okay... 'm tired..." He finally realised where he was, the noises and the smell filtering through to his brain; hospital. Somehow he wasn't surprised. "He got...me, didn't he," Doyle whispered.

"He certainly did, sunshine," Bodie agreed.

"Must 'ave been...blind...point blank...poor shot...'

"Shot?" Bodie said, puzzled. "Ray?" But there was no answer as Doyle had finally managed to drop off--into a normal shallow sleep, the doctor hurried to inform him.

Doyle drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon before slipping into a sleep the doctors said would last most of the night. Bodie went home to get some sleep himself but he was still not happy with Doyle's condition. His partner had seemed totally unconcerned at finding himself in hospital and seemed to think he had been shot. It had taken a few mumbled comments about Parsali and the conference before the awful truth dawned on Bodie. If Doyle thought he had been injured on the job it would mean he had forgotten about going away with Ann...

Bodie hoped he would remember without having to be told.

After a few hours of restless sleep, Bodie, still tired and unrefreshed, returned to the hospital. He found Ray, this time in a small side ward and was cheered by the proof that the worst was over and intensive care was no longer necessary. The door creaked loudly as he went in and Ray's eyes opened slowly.

"Mornin'" he said in a husky voice. "Not 'here to shove...food down me throat, are you?"

"What?" Bodie stopped dead.

"Every time I...open my eyes they leap...out of the woodwork...and say...eat this...drink that, swallow...this..." he moaned.

"You're feeling better," Bodie said cheerfully. "I can tell."

"If it's not...food and drink...it's bleedin' needles..."

"Your voice sounds awful," Bodie said with concern. "You sure you should be talking?"

"Yeah," Doyle croaked. "'s long as I don't...overdo it."

"Make sure you don't," Bodie ordered. "Anyway, how are you feeling this morning--apart from a sore throat?"

"Fuckin' awful...if you...must know," Doyle said with a cheeky grin. "What the hell 'appened to...me. Feel like...I've been 'it by a steamroller!"

"What have the doctors said?" asked Bodie, unsure how much Doyle knew.

"The doctors?" Doyle pulled a face. "Oh...mmm...that's better...oh, very good...coming along...nicely," he mimicked. "Everytime I ask a...question they...the tell me to rest and...get well."

"Oh," said Bodie, his heart sinking.

"Don't you...bloody start!" Doyle rasped. "What...'appened?"

Bodie drew the small armchair up to the bedside. "What do you remember?" he asked.

Bit by bit, Doyle related all he remembered of his part in Parsali's conference. Keeping his face neutral, Bodie listened without letting on his dismay. Doyle's voice tailed off as he came to the point where he was chasing the would-be assassin across the lawns.

"...Running like blazes...then he stopped and...he stopped and turned to face...me. I remember his turning and looking at me." Doyle frowned as he struggled to remember. "His gun was...was in his hand...he lifted it and, and, nothing! I can't remember anything after that--it's just a blank; what happened? Did he get away, did I blow it?" he asked anxiously.

"No," Bodie reassured him, careful to keep the extent of his amnesia from him. You got him, we got both of them and Parsali got away safely--"

The door creaked loudly again and the doctor, followed by a couple of nurses, came into the room and Bodie found himself being ushered out by the Ward Sister who made it perfectly clear that visiting time didn't start for another four and a half hours.

Finding himself at a loose end, Bodie wandered into headquarters; he wasn't sure whether or not he was on suspension or annual leave but he had an idea that Cowley would soon let him know. He wasn't wrong.

"Brawling, Bodie," Cowley informed him icily, "is not the sort of behaviour I expect from my men. You were present as an observer at Doyle's flat because I wanted you to be a witness to what would or would not be found there. It is not unusual for one half of a team to be present in such circumstances and I had thought you were professional enough not to have been drawn into such petty tomfoolery! Do you really think those men enjoyed prying and poling into one of their colleagues' flats?"

Bodie didn't answer; he stood, back straight, eyes front before Cowley's desk. "Well, man?" Cowley demanded a response.

"Sir?" Bodie enquired with almost insolent politeness.

"I will not tolerate brawling, Bodie," Cowley said firmly. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie snapped back.

Cowley stared hard at Bodie for several minutes as if considering forms of punishment and Bodie waited patiently. But, instead of another lecture Cowley suddenly changed direction, giving Bodie no warning and no time to prepare a defence.

"Doyle's claustrophobia," Cowley said. "You should have reported it immediately you were aware of it. By not doing so you jeopardised your own life and the lives of others. It would also have been in 4.5's best interests that you alerted the department to the problem."

Bodie managed not to flinch from the scathing voice. Knowing Cowley as he did, he should perhaps have expected this.

"Maybe it was wrong not to report it but at the time I didn't think so. Okay, he's got a problem but it's his problem. He's never let it interfere with the job. Doyle's convinced that he could handle a situation and so am I, he's been well trained."

"An irrational fear is not predictable, Bodie. How can either of you know for sure what would happen if something triggered it off."

"You can't chuck him out simply because he's claustrophobic--it's a problem--yes, I agree--but he copes with it. If he hadn't taken so long to regain consciousness no-one would even know about it--that's how big a problem it is!" Bodie said tightly, barely holding onto his temper.

"Perhaps," Cowley said thoughtfully; he found Bodie's defence of his partner very interesting. Over the last months he had been watching the pair of them with increasing anxiety. Doyle's commitment to CI5 and to his partner had flourished even though his personal life had seemed erratic and unsettled, but meanwhile, Bodie's deepening commitment had suddenly levelled out and Cowley thought he had seen evidence he was about to take off leaving Doyle, CI5 and even England far behind him. Something had unsettled Bodie, confused him even, Cowley thought. "Perhaps when he finds out all that has been going on he might wish to terminate his employment with the department anyway," he said, allowing the impression that he would accept Doyle's resignation to filter through.

"And move on to what?" Bodie asked furiously. "Holly's not left him much to go back to!"

"A fresh start," Cowley suggested.

"Where? He won't resign--if you want him out you'll have to sack him--and if he goes so will I!"

"Considering your behaviour recently that could be arranged!"

Both men stared hard at each other, neither prepared to be the one to give way. But, surprisingly, Cowley looked down, relaxed into his chair and waived a hand towards the easy chair beside his desk.

"Oh, sit down, man," Cowley sighed. "You've been to the hospital this morning--how is he?" he asked as he poured them each a drink.

"Recovering. Slowly," Bodie said, taking the drink. "He's still a bit confused, seems to think he was injured somehow during the Parsali business."

"I see. And what do the doctors say?"

"Not much. His memory may or may not return; he could remember everything or just bits and pieces. Right now they've said it's best not to tell him the truth, it'll be best if he's given the chance to remember for himself."

"So he is unaware of Miss Holly's death?"

"So far, yes. He hasn't even mentioned her," Bodie replied. "But since he's still drugged up to his eyeballs that's hardly surprising. He'll soon start asking questions and then he'll start wondering why we're being so evasive," he said bitterly. "He'll know the truth soon enough."

"I daresay he will," Cowley agreed. Mellowed slightly by the whiskey and with the crackling tension between them less now, Cowley broached the subject of Doyle's claustrophobia again.

"And in your opinion it doesn't affect 4.5's performance," he ended.

"It hasn't--so far. I can't say it never will; as you said, it's an irrational fear and by definition unpredictable, but people can learn to control their fears."

"With help," Cowley agreed. "I've already spoken to Dr Ross. She has suggested that Doyle will most probably need professional help to recover from all that has happened. It would have been a traumatic experience for a person who didn't particularly have a phobia about being confined in the dark."

"Will he get help?" Bodie asked.

"We can provide it, of course. It will be offered to him. If he wants to remain on the squad it's essential that he co-operates to the full."

"Not Ross," Bodie said, knowing how much his partner disliked the woman.

"No, this is out of her field," Cowley agreed, only barely preventing a grin from appearing on his face. He knew how the men felt about her and he even agreed with them--although the woman was useful to him on occasions. "I'll get her to organise everything but she won't be directly involved," he assured. "In the meantime," he looked at Bodie and chose his words carefully, "you are still on suspension following your behaviour the other day. I don't want to see you back here until Monday morning."

"Yes, sir," Bodie said, relieved to have got off so lightly. That meant he could spend the next three days with Ray at the hospital.

---

Once Bodie had left the office Cowley returned to his desk and began to plough through the paperwork waiting there. But his attention kept wandering and shortly he gave up, closing the files and locking them away.

Bodie and Doyle, he thought. It had started as an experiment two years ago: against the advice of several people who all predicted disaster but it had been a success--if only a limited one. Last year he had thought it a total success, a few weeks ago less so and then he had nearly lost both of them; Doyle to a wife and family commitments and Bodie--to only Bodie knew where.

Cowley knew he had relied on Doyle's vulnerability to bring out his partner's protective instincts and to give Bodie a reason to stay in CI5 where hopefully, he would increase his own commitment to the department. But something had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way the Grand Plan had gone awry.

With nowhere else to turn Doyle had remained with the department and thrown himself into his work. Having nothing to distract him, his involvement had been a consuming one which had wavered only slightly when the engagement and impending nuptials had been announced.

Bodie's commitment had been strong when Doyle's was and had wavered at the same time. If Doyle did resign Cowley knew he would lose Bodie too--but then without Doyle holding him down, Bodie would have left two years ago.

Ruefully, Cowley acknowledged the flaw in his plan. Two years ago Bodie's loyalty had been to Cowley first and the department second. It was fast becoming obvious that Cowley and the department had been relegated to second and third places with Doyle way ahead of both of them.

Cowley sighed tiredly. It wasn't exactly what he'd set out to achieve but it was close--and in time maybe Doyle's conscience and commitment might rub off onto his partner.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY

Looking up from his book, Bodie smiled as he saw the eyes that were blinking sleepily at him. "Decided to wake up, have you," he teased.

Doyle returned the smile and then stretched and snuffled until he was really awake. "Mmmmn...nothing else to do," he said. "Sleep, eat, eat, sleep...they won't let me do anything else. Good book, is it?"

"Passable--better than watching you snore." The last few days Doyle had done little but sleep and regain his strength. The bruising around his neck had faded to a smudgy yellow that was only obvious now in a good light, the other visible signs of his ordeal being the half-cast on his arm and a bald patch on the side of his head that already was no longer such a startling pinkness; a week's growth and an abundance of surrounding hair almost covering it.

"Are you going to take me out to The Beeches?" Doyle asked.

"Yes, they're expecting you Monday morning. I'll bring a bag of clothes and some things from home for you to take."

"What sort of place is it?" Doyle asked casually as he fidgeted with pillows and bed covers.

"I've never been there as a patient, only as a visitor--went and saw John Henry when he was up there for a while recovering from a bad job. Seemed a nice enough place; it's just a hospital that's reserved specially for the services. We use it, so do MI5, MI6 and Special Services. It's well protected and used to dealing with security personnel."

It was in fact a beautiful building in acres of wooded, secluded countryside with a security network equalled only by Buckingham Palace. It was a hospital, a convalescent home, a hospice and, in a few cases, even a prison of sorts.

"Can't see why I've got to go there," Doyle grumbled. "I could stay with you."

"I go back to work Monday," Bodie reminded him.

"I could stay with Ann."

Bodie gave a nervous twitch at that. It was the first time Doyle had mentioned her.

"I'd 'ave thought she would have come to see me," Doyle said nonchalantly. "Has she been in touch, have you spoken to her?"

"No," Bodie replied, his heart sinking. "There's a 'D' notice on the whole Parsali business, besides, you don't want to worry her while you're still feeling so rough. Leave it a few more days until you're feeling better before trying to contact her."

"Okay," Doyle agreed immediately. "You're right, she'd only start moaning about the job again."

Bodie noticed Doyle frown and saw the worried look appear in his eyes. "What's up?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Up? Nothing...I just... Oh hell! I don't know... I just thought that there was something I should... You're right. I won't call her until I feel better." Shrugging the worrying feeling aside Doyle changed the subject.

---

By Sunday Doyle felt well enough to leave his bed and get dressed, but it wasn't until he discovered how exhausting those simple tasks were that he began to understand why everyone was treating him as if he were a fragile invalid--he was a fragile invalid!

Perspiration ran down his face and his shirt clung damply to his body as he sat on the chair in the shower room, resting before summoning the necessary energy to walk back to his own room at the far end of the hospital corridor.

En-route to his room he made a strategic detour to the deserted day room and collapsed into one of the large armchairs rather than run the risk of falling at the feet of the nurses. Shaking and dizzy, he leant back onto the cool vinyl and closed his eyes; he felt terrible, he decided, feeling very sorry for himself. His head throbbed, his neck and shoulders ached constantly and his broken wrist was bloody painful. He should, he admitted ruefully, have taken the painkilling medication offered earlier but, trying to convince the doctors--and of course, Bodie--that he was feeling so much better, he'd refused. Not that his sacrifice had been rewarded, they were still bent on sending him to The Beeches.

A frown appeared on Doyle's face as he strained to recall what he'd heard about the place. A private convalescent home for the likes of us, Bodie had described it. Doyle wasn't too sure. During his two years in CI5 he'd heard the place mentioned a few times--no one seemed to want to go there, preferring instead to recover their strength and health elsewhere. There was a reason why they wanted to send him there he didn't know about, Doyle thought to himself. Even Bodie, who normally hated even the thought of hospitals and convalescence homes, seemed keen to get him there.

Out of the way, a small voice told him.

Feeling slightly better after his rest, Doyle made his way back to his room where he collapsed with such obvious relief that the nurse repeated her offer of some medication. Sheepishly realising he was fooling no one, Doyle gave in and swallowed the tablets. As the pills took effect, the swimming not-quite-awake-but-not-quite-asleep feeling rolled over him. He dozed, eyes shut but all other senses operating normally, letting him know what was happening outside; the bang and clatter of the breakfast trolley returning to the kitchen, the harsh ring of the telephone at the nurses' station and subdued conversation. He heard everything from his safe, drug-induced cocoon. He listened, and he thought. Why did they want to send him to The Beeches?

The question nagged at him over the next few days. He had a bad feeling about it and knew that something was wrong, very wrong. Bodie knew something, Doyle decided eventually. When he'd made his report he'd seen the way Bodie had stopped taking notes; seen the carefully blank expression his partner had adopted.

"What happened next, Ray?" Bodie had asked in a very level voice--and Doyle had been unable to remember. It was maddening, but the last memory he had was of his quarry turning to face him and pointing the gun at him. Bodie hadn't seemed concerned that he'd clearly forgotten what happened next, only relieved--which only served to make Doyle even more nervous.

Think, man, think, Doyle berated himself, knowing that somehow it was desperately important that he did remember. Had he done something wrong, he wondered. He was sure he'd fired at the man...but if he had fired what had happened to him? Who had attacked him? Who? How? When? In ever-decreasing circles his mind raced around the questions without finding any answers, his mind only giving in under the constant, regular influx of tranquillisers and sedatives.

---

Bodie walked towards Doyle's room with little joy in his heart, knowing that as soon as his partner arrived at The Beeches he would have to be told about Ann's death. It wasn't a task he was looking forward to and, over the past few days as Doyle recovered he'd hoped that the memory would come back but, so far it was clear that his partner still believed he'd been injured while protecting Parsali.

Curiously though, Doyle had asked very few questions. Apart from once asking why Ann had not visited him, Doyle hadn't mentioned her again. Bodie thought that he had accepted the 'D' notice story rather quickly--is if perhaps on some subconscious level he really didn't want to know the truth.

Opening the door to Doyle's room, he was greeted with the sight of his partner standing in front of a mirror with a very worried look on his face. Seeing his friend enter the room, Doyle smiled. "Come to spring me, have you?"

"Yes, hurry up--got the bedsheets hanging out of the window down the corridor and a fast car waiting downstairs," Bodie joked, pleased to see Doyle so cheerful.

"Just trying to make something with this mess...must be the first time in my life I've ever been grateful for my hair growing so bloody fast!"

"Nother week and it'll be as long and curly as the rest of this bird's nest," joked Bodie as he tweaked a fat curl with his fingers.

"I'm ready to go as soon as you are," Doyle announced.

"Not so fast, the doctor's coming by to have a word with you about a couple of things--"

"I thought I'd ring Ann before we leave. Is there a call box or phone somewhere I can use?" Stuffing the last of his things into a bag, Doyle didn't notice the look on Bodie's face. "I think I ought to let her know where I am. I won't tell her anything about the hospital--I'll just say it's work, she's used to that."

"Ray--"

"I can't help feeling I've forgotten something," Doyle went on. "Everytime I nearly remember...it goes again. It's bound to have been something important and she's going to moan and bitch about it...but I still think I should ring. Bodie...what's wrong?" Clipping the bag shut, Doyle swung it off the bed. "What is it?" he asked as his partner continued to gape at him. A grim sense of foreboding washed over him. "Bodie...?" he said fearfully.

"Ray...here, give me that and sit yourself down." Bodie took the bag and set it on the floor.

"Bodie?"

"I have something to tell you," he started.

"Something so bad I have to sit down?" Doyle tried to joke.

"Ray--"

"Okay," Doyle interrupted. "You want to talk--just let me make one quick phone call to Ann and then we can talk."

"Ray, no--you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't," Doyle snapped back, irritated and clearly edgy. "I'll phone who I bloody well like when I like!"

"No," Bodie said as he tried to calm him down. "I need to talk to you first."

"Can't it wait?" Doyle snapped and tried to push past him to the open door. Bodie slammed it shut and leant on it.

"No, it can't," he said slowly.

Watching Bodie barring his exit, Dole felt the knot of tension inside him tighten. He didn't want to hear what Bodie had to say. He couldn't work out exactly what was wrong but nothing had felt right for days now. Obviously something terrible had happened and he knew now that it concerned him. What on earth had he done? The sweat was prickling along his back, soaking his clean shirt and he was aware of his quickening pulse. Whatever it was he knew he didn't want to hear it.

"Well it'll have to wait, won't it. Shift out of the way, Bodie!" Attack always was the best form of defence and he saw with some satisfaction the realisation in Bodie's blue eyes the knowledge that the patient was in no mood to be humoured. "Get away from the door, Bodie," he ordered. "I'll make my call and then we can have our talk. There's no need to make such a big deal out of it--I just want to talk to Ann, I've remembered that we were supposed to be going away for the weekend," he said, relenting a little. "I've got to let her know why I stood her up--might as well get it over with," he joked weakly.

At the mention of Ann, Doyle noticed his partner's start. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that look in Bodie's eyes when he mentioned her. "Look," he said placatingly. "I know you don't like her and I know you think I'm being stupid wanting to marry her, but--"

"I liked her," Bodie protested.

"Come on, Bodie. You can stop pretending, I know you don't like her--right from the start that much was obvious. Even Ann knows that you resent her in some way--"

"Ray...stop it. Just...come and sit down and shut up for a minute... Please!"

"Bodie?"

"Ray. Please?"

"After I've made my call!"

"She's dead, Ray," he finally blurted out. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. You can't call her, Ray. She's dead. I'm sorry...but she's dead..."

The room became silent and still as Bodie waited for Doyle's reaction. The silence stretched endlessly. As he heard the words a part of Doyle's mind accepted the truth of them. He would have liked to believe he'd misheard or that Bodie was lying but he knew that he would not lie about that. But, even though he knew it was the truth his mind still refused to admit it believed.

Bodie watched the colour drain from Ray's face and he waited, not knowing what to expect. He knew Doyle had heard him and guessed he'd understood but the total lack of response was unnerving.

"It was the day after Parsali left England; you went away with her to that cottage near Eastbourne." Bodie spoke softly. "She was in your car on Saturday morning when...it happened."

"My car," whispered Doyle. "My car? A crash?"

"No. He was trying to kill you," Bodie said quietly.

"Me?"

"Ann borrowed your car and he mistook her for you. He put a bomb in the car. She didn't stand a chance, Ray. It was over in seconds, she probably never knew what happened--"

"In my car?" Doyle repeated. "I was there?"

"No. You'd stayed at the cottage..."

Doyle's eyes were unfocussed, distant and he began to grasp some misty memories of that morning. "I...I went back to bed..." he said as if in a daze. "Ann...she wanted to get some...some shopping. I was...tired...hadn't slept much but...after ringing the doctor we were so relieved...so happy..." Doyle wandered back across the room and slumped down onto the bed, rubbing fingers into his temples. "We were so bloody relieved...knew that everything was going to be okay then. I went to bed...but I couldn't sleep...I remember hearing--" Doyle's face screwed up as if in pain and Bodie crouched down beside him taking hold of one trembling hand to offer support. "Heard a...a car...I thought it was Ann coming home so I opened the door..." Doyle tightened his grip on Bodie's hand. "I thought it was Ann," he repeated desperately. "But it wasn't...it wasn't..."

"Can you remember who it was, Ray. Can you describe him?" Bodie probed gently.

"No...I don't know him...I don't know..."

"Describe him, Ray." Bodie pressed, knowing that he would have to do this sooner or later.

"Big...filled the doorway. Tall...thickset, grey hair and eyes...those eyes. He's mad. I could see he was mad and then...and then... Nothing! I can't remember...Bodie!"

"Sshh, it's okay," Bodie soothed.

"What happened, Bodie? I can't remember what happened."

"What's the next thing that you can remember?" Bodie asked.

Doyle thought furiously. "I'm not sure...I don't know..."

"Do you remember waking up here?"

"Here...yes. I think so...but...I don't know...just dreams I suppose...just dreams..."

"Dreams about what?" asked Bodie anxiously.

"Who was he, Bodie? The man at the door, who was he--and Ann, what happened?"

"Slow down, Ray," Bodie begged.

"I need to know what happened. Tell me what happened. How long have I been here?" Doyle asked suddenly.

"Er...a week today," Bodie answered. "But it took us six days to find you--"

"Find me?"

"Holly had hidden you so well we couldn't find you--"

"Holly?"

"Ann's father. Charles Holly--"

"Her father--I thought he was dead!"

"Unfortunately he wasn't. He died two weeks ago, the day after he murdered Ann and tried to kill you--"

"Two weeks ago!"

"Ray, we didn't know to even start looking--it wasn't until the inquest on Ann that we even knew to look for her father--"

"Inquest?" Totally lost, Doyle was reeling under each new shock.

"We found her father's body four days after the bombing--it took us another two days to find you and then you were unconscious for another four days--"

"She's been dead for two weeks!" Doyle croaked, his voice breaking. "How long were you going to leave it before telling me?"

"Ray, the doctors felt you weren't up to being told--"

"And now I am?" he asked icily.

"You were obviously starting to remember--we were worried that something might trigger the memories off--"

"So you drew the short straw!" Doyle snapped out. "You should be pleased that she's dead--"

"Ray!"

"She liked you about as much as you liked her," Doyle informed him. "So don't worry too much--forget the mock sympathy. She's dead. That's it, isn't it. Over-and-out. The wedding was off anyway," he quipped lightly. "She said once that I ought to marry you, did you know that? She thought we were made for each other, she even had this ridiculous notion that you were jealous of her--did you know that?"

The brittle matter-of-factness alarmed Bodie more than the torrent of abuse pouring from Doyle's mouth. Now that the initial shock had receded, the pallor had been replaced by a sweat-sheened flush and sparkling, glittering, fever-bright eyes. Doyle was still far from well and the news was taking a heavy toll.

"Sit down, Ray. Calm down a bit," Bodie soothed. "Just hang on a minute while I get the doctor--"

"Calm down!" Ray yelled at him. "Calm down! You haven't told me anything yet. What the hell is happening? Why won't someone tell me what's been going on--this is so unreal...I can't believe this is really happening--why have you taken so long to tell me? Why didn't you tell me this days ago?"

"You're not well, Ray," Bodie tried to explain. "You're still not well, you've had a rough time of it and we wanted you to recover before we broke the news."

"Recover!" Doyle shouted. "You could have told me days ago. Christ...two weeks! Two bloody weeks and I didn't even know!"

"Ray, there was no point in telling you before now--"

"No point!" Furious, Doyle glared at him.

"You've been ill, you're still not well," Bodie shouted over Doyle's angry voice. "There was nothing for you to do--nothing that you could do."

"Nothing..." Doyle repeated, suddenly quiet, the contrast in his mood unexpected.

"Nothing," agreed Bodie softly, sensing that the crisis was over. "Everything's been sorted out now; her father is dead; Charles Holly was the Christmas Man. We've got the evidence to prove he was insane and that he was the one who framed you before. We know now that he meant to kill you five years ago but someone slipped up and your Inspector was killed instead; you were left to carry the can with no alibi," Bodie explained into the hush. "When you met up with Ann again he just waited for the right time to try and kill you--only he made another mistake and got Ann instead."

"By mistake..." Doyle said in a hollow voice.

"Charles Holly had been watching you for years because you were interfering with his daughter, Ray," Bodie went on, hoping his partner was listening and taking it all in. "That's why so many things seemed to link you to the drugs ring. Holly was the money behind it all. He had his men watch you. The drug addict--Weston--you remember him? Holly got him to fix your car to arrange an accident; only Weston didn't realise it was a pool car and you'd signed it in before going undercover. DI Taylor drove it out of the garage after your last meeting with him and died instead of you. That's why Weston remembered you so well--Holly had hired him to murder you."

"Murder me...so...he's killed two people trying to...trying to get to me..."

"He was insane, Ray. Completely insane where his daughter was concerned."

"Ann..." Doyle said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I...I..."

"It was over in seconds, Ray. There was about fifty pounds of explosives in the car--she shouldn't have known anything about it." Bodie stopped talking when Doyle lifted his head to look at him.

"Christ," Doyle spat out viciously, his face twisting. "You make me sick! Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he sneered. "She wouldn't have known anything about it, Ray," he mimicked. "How the fuck do you know what she felt?"

"Ray--" Bodie said, trying to calm him down again.

"Don't Ray me, you bastard!" Doyle snarled, slapping Bodie's hands away. "Get out...get out...just get out of here..."

"Ray. Look, Ray, calm down, you're not doing yourself any good getting uptight--"

"I'm not uptight!" Doyle all but screamed at him. "Just...get out...leave me alone--take your fucking hands off me!"

"Just sit down, Ray. Let me call the doctor to give you something." Bodie tried to manoeuvre Doyle back towards the bed. "He'll give you something to calm you down a bit--"

"Take your fucking ands off me!" Doyle strong-armed Bodie away. "I don't want any fucking tranquillisers!"

"It's just shock, Ray. Will you please try and be reasonable?"

"Reasonable!" It had been the wrong word; already furious, Doyle exploded and lashed out at his partner. He didn't feel the jarring pain in his wrist as the solid plaster cast impacted on the side of Bodie's head.

Bodie did. It didn't knock him out but the blow was hard enough to make him see stars. Senses reeling, Bodie crashed to the floor as Doyle snatched open the door and made good his escape. Bodie let him go, thinking that he needed some privacy, some time alone to regain control and recover from the shock.

Head spinning, Bodie slumped into a chair and waited for Doyle to return. Didn't handle that too well, did you Bodie, he thought to himself. There must have been an easier way to have broken the news, he thought tiredly.

Bodie walked over to the door and checked the corridor--no one in sight. Sighing, he went back to the chair--he'd give him five more minutes on his own before going to look. That decided, Bodie settled himself back into the chair to wait. Sleep, the farthest thing on his mind, swept over him--his exhausted body and taut nerves succumbing to the unlooked-for rest. Had it not been for the noisy arrive of a ward orderly a brief half hour later he would probably have slept he day away.

---

With outrage and anger spurring him on, Doyle left the hospital at a brisk pace. It was only several hundred yards down the road that his strength all but gave out and he was forced to rest on a convenient wall.

After the fourth passer-by looked at him with suspicion before detouring so they didn't have to walk too close to him, he began to take stock of his situation.

Sweating and trembling, he guessed he looked as rough as he felt. Another old woman veered across to the other side of the pavement tutting to herself and frowning at him.

Stupid old bag, he thought sourly. Probably thinks I'm just another addict sweating it out. "What's up, ducks," he called out after her. "Never seen someone sitting on a fuckin' wall before?" He shouted at another woman standing by the bus stop. "Am I hurting you by sitting here?" he demanded. "Am I?"

The women clucked like a bunch of nervous chickens at the acid questions. A bus came along and they all clambered aboard, hurrying to get away from the lunatic on the wall. As the vehicle pulled away from the stop, Doyle could see them looking at him, tongues wagging and heads nodding.

"Fuck 'em," he muttered to himself. He shivered as a fresh wind whipped through the light jacket Bodie had brought in for him. He wasn't dressed for roaming the streets and, even worse, there were spots of rain in the wind. He was going to get soaked.

Hands pushed into his pockets, he got off the wall. Where to now, he wondered. Back to the hospital--and Bodie? No, not now. Later perhaps. But he was cold and needed warmer clothes. Home then.

As if on cue a bus pulled up that he knew passed within a few streets of home. Legs shaking with effort, he boarded it and sorted through his pockets for some money--he was sure he remembered picking up some loose change. The walk from the bus stop to his flat was slow, his desire to hurry away from everything and everyone was almost gone. He was nearly home; once indoors he would be able to unwind and relax with the whole, ugly world and its messy problems safely on the other side of the front door.

He had to beg the skeleton key from the caretaker's wife. Looking so unwell, he had no trouble convincing her he had the flu and had managed to misplace his keys somewhere.

The door swung open and immediately he knew someone had been in there. All the doors onto the small hallway wee shut. Quietly he moved down the passage and pushed the kitchen door open. Everything looked tidy...yet different. The bathroom was the same--the shampoo and toothbrush put at the wrong end of the shelf...silently he went thorough each room in the flat. Everything was neat and tidy...too tidy and he knew that the place had been turned over very thoroughly.

Somehow the search didn't bother him--only the thought that someone else had tidied it up for him. Hoping perhaps that he would never know, Doyle wondered calmly.

His calm was shattered, though, when the bedroom door swung open. On the bed were his cases, locks broken and contents bulging out. His chest tightened and he felt a hot prickle behind his eyes as he realised that they had gone through everything. Fighting back his breakdown, he checked the cases thoroughly to make sure that everything was there.

Hands shaking, Doyle found the invitations for the wedding that had never taken place and now would never happen, ever. He tore them all in half. The letters were next, then the photograph album and certificates. Calmly, he tore everything in halves and quarters before showering the pieces over the bed and carpet. He didn't stop until the cases were empty and the bedroom floor invisible under a layer of destroyed memories.

Turning his back on the debris, dry-eyed and outwardly serene, Doyle pulled a warmer coat from the wardrobe and walked out of the flat.

---

Breathless, Bodie ran up the last set of stairs and burst onto the landing. He saw the door standing wide open with the key swinging in the lock and almost collapsed with relief.

"Ray?" Bodie called out as he entered the hallway. There was no answer; he retrieved the key and closed the front door. "Ray?" he called out again, his tension returning as he drew a blank in every room. "Oh shit!" he groaned in despair when he found the mess in the bedroom.

Mentally kicking himself for not having packed the cases away properly and put them out of sight, Bodie sank down onto the bed. "Christ, Ray...I'm sorry," he whispered. He had tidied the rest of the flat up during the days when Doyle had been recovering but the cases he hadn't touched. However hard he tried he had been unable to pack everything neatly back into the two cases. Everything had been tipped out onto the floor and pulled to pieces during the search. Letters had lost their envelopes, pictures had lost their frames; albums had burst open and bundles had become untied.

The cases, Bodie knew instinctively, had barely been touched since Doyle first packed them up over five years ago. For some reason his partner had chosen to save these possessions when his whole world had crumbled around him. They were important to him--or at least they had been before CI5 had poked and pried into them.

Standing, Bodie kicked at a pile of torn paper in disgust. Now thanks to the department Doyle had nothing--not even a suitcase or two of five-year-old memories! Bodie moved; he had to find Doyle. He was sitting at the wheel of his car and revving the engine before he realised he didn't have the faintest idea where to start looking.

It took less than one hour for Bodie to cover the few places Doyle just might have gone to. There hadn't been many places to look; Bodie's own flat, the two pubs they frequented when off duty and the small wine bar just off the Embankment.

Hoping that just maybe Doyle would have gone in the headquarters--after all, Bodie reasoned with himself, where else could he go?--he went there.

Lake saw Bodie moving up the corridor checking out each room in turn.

"What's up," he called out cheerfully. "Lost someone have you?"

"Doyle," Bodie snapped. "Seen him, have you?"

"Er...no," Lake replied, startled. "Thought you were supposed to be taking him to the funny farm this morning?"

"He had other ideas," Bodie said offhandedly.

"Where is he then?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be wasting my fucking time looking for him, would I?" Bodie bellowed and pushed past to check the locker room.

"'lo, Bodie," Murphy called out as the dark head appeared round the door. "What's got up your nose?" he asked casually as he closed his locker.

"Doyle," Lake answered for him. "Seems he's gone walkabout and Bodie's looking for him."

"Doyle? I thought he was being shipped out to the funny farm this morning--"

"The Beeches," Lake agreed. "That's right--" he stepped out of Bodie's way as he moved on down the hall to the next room. "Only Doyle seems to have had other ideas...what made him take off?" he asked as Murphy joined him following after Bodie.

"He wanted to telephone Ann," Bodie said bluntly. "I had to tell him. Everything...understandably he was...upset." Bodie would have laughed if he hadn't been feeling so miserable. "Upset...that's a bloody understatement! I didn't handle it too well...and things got a bit out of hand. I thought it best to leave him alone for a while. It was a mistake," he finished harshly. "When I went to look for him he was gone."

By now they had reached the rest room and Bodie threw the door open with such force that it slammed back into the wall, jerking everyone in the room awake.

"Well...he must be somewhere!" Lake said weakly.

"Well done, Puddle," Bodie said, his face twisting into a sneer. "I had worked that out already."

"He can't have gone far--he's not fully recovered. I've heard it'll be months before they even think about letting him back onto the squad. What sort of condition is he in?" Murphy asked.

"Physically or mentally?" Bodie asked, voice dripping with contempt. "I don't know--how would you feel if you'd survived being beaten, damn near strangled and shoved in a hole for a week with no food or water? How would you feel if you'd just been told that the girl you wanted to marry had been blown to bits in your car--that it should have been you that died--that your future father-in-law was a fucking psychopath that would do anything to stop you from seeing his daughter? I really don't know, Murph," Bodie ended. "You tell me, because I'd really like to know."

Recognising that whatever he said was bound to be the wrong thing, Murphy wisely kept his mouth firmly shut.

Into the corridor, completely ignorant of what had been going on, wandered Day. Seeing the group standing blocking the door, he shouldered through them whilst trying to unwrap a chocolate bar: intent of separating melting chocolate from cling sliver paper he walked straight into Bodie.

"Oooff...sorry mate," he apologised distractedly. "Oh. It's you. Left Doyle at the nuthouse, have you?" he asked in an innocent voice surprisingly free of malice.

No one stopped Bodie from landing a powerful hook onto Day's jaw. No one even breathed until the swing doors at the far end of the hallway swung shut behind 3.7's retreating form. No one offered to help Day get up from the floor, either.

The stunned silence ended with Murphy breathing a very loud and very visible sigh of relief.

"Well done," Lake said as Day, shocked and bleeding, rose to his hands and knees. "You ever thought about joining bomb disposal--you're a natural at defusing explosive situations."

The whole room joined in the relieved laughter and began to relax.

"What the hell brought that on?"

"What's happening?"

"Where's he off to now?"

The squad all started asking questions at once.

"Why did he hit me?" asked a bewildered Day. "What did I say?"

"Shut up." Murphy pushed Day away. "You bleed over me and I'll flamin' well punch you out as well!"

The rest of the squad were all clamouring to know what had happened and so Lake told them.

There was no surprise at the news that Doyle had reacted badly to hearing the news but they were all puzzled that Bodie didn't know where to find him.

"What about his friends, his family--Bodie must have some addresses?" several of them suggested.

"Oh of course," Lake said mildly. Then, "What friends?"

The quiet question made one or two of the men frown as they began to realise that Lake was trying to tell them something.

"Tell me, Dave," Lake addressed one of them. "You're an ex-copper. Have you ever worked with a colleague who was caught on the fiddle, another copper who was kicked off the force for taking back-handers?" Warily Dave Cooper nodded his head. "Was he a friend, did you ever socialise with him?"

"Yeah...once or twice."

"What about after he was kicked out?"

"Not bloody likely!"

"Why not?"

"Professional suicide--that's why!"

"Professional suicide," Lake repeated quietly. "We all know that Doyle's so-called criminal record is still live, don't we. As far as the world outside of this room is concerned 4.5 is still a criminal. Everyone except for us thinks he's bent--and I do mean everyone. His old colleagues on the force, even his family. No one out there will touch him with a fucking barge pole!" His voice rising with his temper as he spoke, Lake was shaking with rage as he finished. "Friends...what friends--I haven't seen any of you lot falling over yourselves to welcome him."

"He's never put himself out to be the life and soul of the party," Day was heard to mumble.

"Do you honestly blame him? Some people around here have made him as welcome as a tart with fucking VD! Do you really think he doesn't know about the filthy gossip that's been passed around--why the hell would he want to socialise with people who are prepared to believe he let some old lag fuck him around in prison?"

"Then why's he never denied it?" Day asked nasally through a bloodstained handkerchief.

"Why don't you ask him that yourself if you're so bloody eager to know?" Murphy snarled.

"Back off," Day warned, rising to his feet. "What is this anyway?" he demanded to know. "So what if Doyle's wandered off--he's a grown man, he can take care of himself--and don't give me that shit about how we should all feel sorry for him because his girlfriend's dead. So what? He's got eyes, he should have noticed what was going on--"

"Shut up!" one of the men growled from the back of the room.

"He was a detective!" Day shouted over the angry voices. "And then Cowley hoisted him onto us. If he was as bright as Cowley thinks he is how come he didn't see it coming--"

"Somebody shut him up!" another voice called.

"And don't go bleating on about his criminal record--he was given a choice," Day continued. "He agreed to forgo an official pardon."

"How often has the Cow had you agreeing to something that five minutes before you'd sworn you'd never do?" Murphy demanded angrily over the rising voices telling Day to belt up.

"It was Doyle's choice. He chose to--oof!" Once again Day crashed to the floor as another sidewinder blow hit him.

Amidst the cheers, Lake sucked his knuckles and stepped over the prone body. "Right, let's see if we can't organise a search and find 4.5 before the Cow realises he's gone walkies."

Leaving enough people to cover for any emergencies, the squad took to the streets, fanning out to cover the area between the hospital and Doyle's home.

Calling in on his r/t nearly an hour later, Bodie was amazed to hear the Operation Walkabout was well in hand.

---

Alone in his office, Cowley listened to the chatter on the r/t frequency. He didn't use the open channel very often and only a few of the men even knew he had the facility but, at times, it proved extremely useful.

He had arrived outside the restroom unnoticed in time to witness Day digging his own grave. At times feelings and tempers ran high amongst the squad and arguments were not uncommon, but he was careful to ensure violence between the agents was kept to a minimum. Breaches of the rules were dealt with promptly and severely but in this instance, prudence had prevented Cowley from announcing his presence.

The fact that Day had been asking for it for a long time also helped. The animosity between Day and 4.5 had been strong but there had been nothing Doyle could do to dispel it. The stories put around by Day were ugly and distasteful but, Cowley conceded fairly, they were not entirely fabricated. Rather than confront Day, 4.5 had turned his back on the problem--and thereby allowed it to fester and get out of hand.

The open channel crackled into life once more.

"I've checked with the brother's neighbours, seems that the whole family are on holiday--they've gone skiing in France or somewhere, been gone the last week or so. Shall I wait out here in case he comes this way?" Susie asked.

"No, there's little point. He's hardly likely to turn up there now," Dave Cooper answered from the control room.

"Where to now then?"

"God knows...come on back into town, call again when you're close to base."

"3.7 to base."

"Go ahead 3.7."

"Holly's apartment block is a blank. I'm going over to check the shopping precinct, I'll check out the coffee shops and restaurants. He can't still be walking around, he must be resting somewhere."

"Okay, 3.7. 2.4 is already working along the High Street."

"Tell him to check that old pub just behind the Post Office, up past the market place, I went there with Ray only a month or so ago--he might have remembered it."

"The pubs will be closing in another half hour so we'll have fewer places to look then."

"Keep me posted. 3.7 out," Bodie signed off.

Listening to the exchanges, Cowley frowned. Something Bodie said had caused a bell inside his head to ring. Trying to catch the elusive memory, Cowley thought hard--he had it. Quickly he pulled the right file and checked the address. It was only about three miles from Doyle's flat.

Acting on instincts that rarely failed him, Cowley reached for his hat and coat and ordered his driver to meet him at the door. Driving fast, they made it to the pub just in time to hear the landlord shout "Last orders!" Telling his driver to go round the block until she was called, Cowley walked towards the door of The Brewers Arms and peered in. He had known Doyle would be in there. Over the last year Doyle had quietly submitted reports on his visits to the Brewers. After the incident with the local CID it had taken him a month or so to return and even longer before he visited on a regular basis, but as far as Cowley could make out Doyle went to the pub whenever his fiancée had been working abroad or when Bodie had other engagements.

The reports, as requested, were detailed, giving full information on everyone he talked to whom he thought might prove interesting. At first they had been several pages long as he identified and described his contacts and filled in any background information on the dubious clientele that frequented the establishment. It had fast become obvious to both Doyle and Cowley that nothing of earth-shattering proportions was ever going to come from the inhabitants of The Brewers.

At times Cowley suspected his operative of using the reports as an exercise in creative writing: the physical descriptions of certain people being so vivid and Doyle's explanation of their antics so explicit and so different from the formal, blunt approach of his usual reports that Cowley was left with the impression Doyle liked writing the reports; the relaxed atmosphere and friendly bonhomie of the place almost spilling off the pages.

Peering through the grimy windows at the nicotine-yellowed walls and poorly lit interior, Cowley saw little that looked comfortable or relaxing. Sitting slumped on a high back settle was Doyle, eyes closed and face drawn and pale. As he watched, a plump middle aged woman leant over him, shaking his shoulder to wake him up. Cowley saw his eyes snap open and the woman hurriedly step back and guessed that she was telling him it was closing time. Realising that there was no way he could enter the pub without drawing attention to himself, Cowley backed away from the door and waited for Doyle to come out.

Doyle was the last to leave and came through the door with the woman at his side.

"Are you sure you're going to get home all right?" the woman asked anxiously. "Let me call you a cab?"

"'s okay, Ivy," Doyle said in a tired voice. "Just need a bit of fresh air...clear my head a bit."

"More like a week in bed!" Ivy grumbled at him. "You're in no state to be walking around the streets."

"'m okay, Ivy, like I told you earlier--I've just been a bit under the weather--"

"Look more like you've been under a bleedin' bus!" snorted Ivy. "Off you go then, love. Take care, ray. You sure you don't want me to call you that cab?"

"I'm fine. Really. See you, Ivy... Bye..." Doyle waved with his good arm and turned away from the door.

Cowley waited until Ivy had gone back in and the road was clear before waving at his driver to bring the car round. Quickening his step, he soon caught up with Doyle.

At the light touch on his arm, Doyle turned slowly and regarded Cowley carefully with no evident sense of surprise. "Afternoon, sir," he said, slowly realising that some sort of greeting was called for.

"Doyle," Cowley acknowledge, taking in the unsteady gait and sweat-streaked face. "How's it going, lad?" he asked gently. "Been drinking, have you?"

"Wouldn't serve me," Doyle said conversationally. "Made me have a cup of coffee...wanted a drink--but she gave me coffee."

Cowley smiled at the puzzlement in the husky voice. "And how are you feeling now?"

"Oh...fine...everything's fine...'cept...I've got a terrible headache...but, I'm...fine," Doyle answered, struggling with the words. "How are you...sir?" he asked politely.

Taken by surprise, Cowley blinked. "Oh...I'm fine too--but I am rather tired. Do you mind if we ride in the car...that's it, laddie. Mind your head."

As meek as a child, Doyle allowed his boss to manoeuvre him into the back seat of the car. Climbing in alongside him, Cowley murmured "The Beeches," to his driver, then turned his full attention to his passenger. Doyle was flushed and perspiring heavily, he looked more asleep than awake and seemed to be completely oblivious to the strangeness of his situation. Shock, Cowley recognised.

"I'm ever so hot..." Doyle mumbled quietly, moving restlessly in his seat. "Open a...window...I'm too hot..."

"Okay, laddie. Is that better? Do you want to take your coat off?" Cowley opened the window and helped ease the chunky jacket off; there were a few awkward moments as they both tried to draw the sleeve over the plaster cast. Doyle hissed and fell back in his seat, breathing heavily.

"Is it paining you?" Cowley asked.

"Hurts like hell...all the way from my fingers to my neck..."

"Is that more comfortable?" Cowley asked after rolling the discarded jacket up and turning it into a support for the broken wrist.

"Mmm..." Doyle mumbled. "Where are we going?" he asked unexpectedly just as Cowley thought he had dozed off.

"A place where you can have a rest," Cowley said cautiously. "A nice quiet place where you can rest until you feel better."

"The Beeches?" Doyle asked. "That's where Bodie as going to take me..." He eased himself into a more comfortable position. "That's where we were going this morning...but...I left him behind. Sorry...will you tell him I'm sorry...but he...should have told me...should have told me before..."

Cowley was amazed as Doyle wriggled around even further and settled himself down to rest finally pressed up against the older man, his curly head resting on the neatly suited and rather stiff shoulder. Catching sign of his driver's amused eyes as she watched her passengers, Cowley outstared her with ease. When she turned her attention back to the road Cowley allowed himself a small but exasperated smile as he twisted around to ease Doyle into an even more comfortable position. The remainder of the journey was uneventful with Cowley daring his driver to make any comment--after all, it wasn't every day that the Controller of CI5 could be found in the back seat of his Rover cuddling one of his operatives as he slept with his head neatly tucked on his shoulder.

Their arrival at The Beeches was with a minimum of fuss, Doyle not waking up until they had passed through the security gates. Still sleepy and not too aware of his whereabouts, Doyle was admitted and put to bed immediately, the doctors already working on ways to repair the damage caused by his earlier exertions.

---

Cowley arrived back at headquarters at six o'clock and found an extremely worried group waiting for him.

As there had been relatively little happening to keep everyone busy, Cowley had kept the news of Doyle's location to himself. Quite apart from making work for over-trained, under-used hands, he had reasoned that it would do them all good to worry about Doyle for once.

"Sir," Bodie said straightaway. "We've...I've lost Doyle, sir."

"Lost Doyle?" Cowley said. "Lost as in 'misplaced,' Bodie? I must say that's extremely careless of you."

"Sir?" Bodie said, bemused. "Look, he's gone--vanished. He walked out on me at the hospital after I broke the news to him--"

"And you just let him walk out?"

"Yes... No!" Bodie snapped impatiently. "I thought he just needed some time to himself--I never thought he'd take it into his head to wander off--"

"When exactly did he 'wander off'?" Cowley asked in a very disapproving tone.

"Er...this morning...at about...around nine thirty," Bodie answered eventually.

"So," Cowley said. "4.5 vanished nearly eight hours ago and only now do you see fit to report it."

"Sir," Lake butted in. "We've been looking for him since eleven. We thought...hoped we'd find him before...anyone realised he'd gone."

"Anyone meaning me, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Lake answered dejectedly, looking towards Bodie with mute apology.

"I assume you've checked out his friends, contacts?"

"Of course," Bodie said angrily. "Do you really think we've been sitting on our backsides all day?"

"That will do, 3.7," Cowley said frostily. "What do you expect me to do--produce him out of my top pocket?"

"No, sir," Bodie said, struggling to keep his temper. "We were just about to log him as a missing person. We've exhausted all the possibilities and we need more help--he could be anywhere!"

"No, Bodie. Not anywhere. He's safe at The Beeches. I delivered him there not two hours ago," Cowley said smoothly.

"What?" gasped Bodie.

"Where?" said Lake.

"You clearly don't know your partner as well as you think you do, 3.7," Cowley said harshly. "He was exactly where I expected him to be. As his partner I'm disappointed that you have no idea where that place was--you should have known, Bodie."

Bodie was left with little doubt that he had failed both Cowley and Doyle. Cowley dismissed the others with a glare but ordered Bodie to remain; when they had all left he turned to him.

"I am disappointed in you, 3.7," he said seriously. "You should have been able to find 4.5 just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Just as 4.5 ought to know where you'd run to."

"I know," Bodie answered, cheeks flaming. "Where was he--I just ran out of places to look?"

"You'll have to get the answer to that from your partner," Cowley told him.

"How is he?"

"As well as can be expected--or so the doctors at The Beeches say. He's...exhausted and suffering from serious delayed shock; and today did him no favours. But they were expecting that and he'll get the best possible help there."

Closing the office door, Cowley drew the bottle of malt from its resting place and poured two drinks out. Bodie took his glass and began to relax as the frantic worry eased.

"You do know that he thinks Beeches is just a convalescent home, don't you?" Bodie asked.

"Aye. But he will nee the expert care they can give him if he wants to return to CI5."

"When will they start the...the therapy or whatever it is they do up there?"

"They've started already but it'll be a while before he realises that," Cowley said with a wry grin. "The staff are trained to help patients who have themselves been trained to withstand psychological pressures."

"He'll kick like hell when he finds out," Bodie warned. "What if he decides to chuck it all in?"

"Ultimately, of course, the choice is his," Cowley said calmly. "But we must be sure--for his sake--that outside pressures don't force him to make the wrong decision."

Bodie swallowed the whisky in one too-hasty gulp as the meaning of the trite words sunk in. Ray Doyle was going to receive all the help at CI5's disposal whether he liked it or not.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Directed to a door, Bodie opened it, as yet still uncertain of his welcome. It was almost a relief to find the neatly furnished room empty. He dropped the bag down onto the bed and wandered over to the window.

Behind him, the door opened; he spun around quickly and found Doyle, grim-faced and weary, watching him.

"Hi...nice room, isn't it?" Bodie offered when it was clear Doyle had no intention of speaking first. "Great view, as well," he added.

"Have you come to see me or the view?" Doyle asked sourly as he sat down on the bed.

"You, of course," Bodie answered mildly. "And to bring that. It sort of got left behind on Monday."

Doyle unzipped the case and tipped the clothes onto the bed.

"I'm grateful you could spare the time."

"I couldn't get up here before today. MacArthur's been shifting around again and we've been doing twenty-four hour shifts since Wednesday--"

"So what was wrong with coming up here on Tuesday?" Doyle asked savagely. "I've been stuck in this fucking hole for six days with a Bic razor and pyjamas that would fit you, me and the rest of the squad at the same time!"

"They told me not to come."

"Who's they?" Doyle demanded. "And why did they tell you that?"

"The staff here--I telephoned Monday night and Tuesday, but they said you were resting and weren't to be disturbed."

"So you stayed away," Doyle sneered. "Just because they told you to."

"I thought you needed some time," Bodie answered, more in control now. "You'd had a big shock--Cowley said that you weren't...yourself when he brought you here, that you'd not done yourself any favours charging all over town. You needed rest," he said as he unobtrusively took over sorting out shirts and trousers onto hangers and putting them into the small wardrobe. "And we have been very busy. This is the first chance I've had to get up here."

"This isn't my shaver." Doyle threw the shaver onto the bed. "Where's my dressing gown--this is yours," he said petulantly. "Jesus--can't you even pack a case properly?"

Taking a calming breath, Bodie backed away from the things on the bed and let Doyle get on with it himself.

"How are you feeling?" Bodie asked when his partner finally stopped finding fault with everything he had packed for him.

"Oh, wonderful!" Doyle snapped at him as he struggled into jumper and jeans. "I feel just great."

Bodie was dismayed at how the usually skin-tight denim hung loosely from his partner's hips and legs.

"You look terrible!" Bodie said, tired and irritable himself after nearly a week of little sleep and tedious observations.

"You wouldn't win any beauty competitions either!" retorted Doyle. "And I don't suppose you remembered to pack my toothbrush? The one they gave me here is made of fuckin' wire wool--and what about a decent comb?" Doyle picked his way through the bag of toiletries Bodie had carefully selected.

"You look like you've settled in," Bodie said conversationally. "What are the staff like?"

"They're okay, the nursing staff that is. Some of the doctors are a bit weird though--keep on asking me how I feel. I'd 'ave thought they'd be telling me!"

"Well, they won't know unless you tell them."

"But I keep telling them--I feel fine! They just won't listen!"

"Maybe they just want you to talk to them."

"What about?" Doyle asked. "They ask how I feel and I tell 'em I feel fine. They keep asking and I keep telling 'em--they just don't seem to understand. I feel fine!" Doyle shouted. "For crying out loud, what do they want me to say?"

Sitting quietly and calmly in the easy chair by the window, Bodie made soothing unthreatening comments which gave his partner no opportunity to quarrel or argue and gradually the tension and anger lessened until Doyle was almost relaxed.

It was actually Doyle who suggested they go for a walk and they wandered through the plush corridors and out into one of the walled gardens.

"Those bleedin' pyjamas," Doyle confided with an air of embarrassment. "I only had to walk three steps and they'd fall down round my ankles. First day I was allowed up I got halfway between the bed and the bog when they slipped right down, then, just as I bent down to pick 'em up the door opens and in walks the nurse to the sight of me mooning!" Doyle chuckled good-naturedly at Bodie's amused snort. "And if that wasn't bad enough bending down and then standing up made me so dizzy I dropped my trousers again and nearly blacked out. She had to help me back to the bed and then the trousers got tangled around my ankles and we lost our balance and ended up on the floor." By now Bodie was openly laughing and Doyle found himself responding likewise. "It was very embarrassing!" he managed to splutter between bubbles of laughter.

He was so pleased to see Bodie. After what had happened that day at the other hospital he had been so afraid that he wouldn't come; now that he was here, though, things felt so much better. "Thanks for bringing my stuff," he said quietly once their mirth had died down.

"'s okay," Bodie said awkwardly. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to get out here."

"So am I," Doyle said, smiling.

The moment stretched, leaving Bodie floundering, almost drowning in the warmth emanating from Doyle. He felt his heart pick up speed and felt the heat rushing to his face; his mouth became dry and, unthinking, he licked his lips.

Doyle saw the pink tip flick out and the rosy flush and totally misunderstood the reason. "I wasn't complaining," he said hurriedly, a familiar leaden feeling settling heavily on him and dispelling all traces of happiness at his partner's presence. "I know you've been busy, I just..." he groped uselessly for the right words. "Thanks for bringing the bag," he ended lamely. "I think I'd better go back to my room now, I'm feeling a bit tired. Thanks for coming," he added quietly.

"Ray..." Bodie called after him. Doyle stopped at the door but didn't turn around to look at him. "Ray...I'll come by again as soon as I can."

"Will you?" Doyle asked as he opened the door and walked through. He pulled the door shut behind him.

---

Wandering around the walled garden the next morning, Doyle found a small doorway that was almost hidden behind a large prickly bush. He was still trying to force the rusted bolts back several minutes later when a soft voice surprised him, causing him to jump and spin around.

"I'm afraid it's bolted on the other side as well," the doctor told him. "It's all rusted up--hasn't been opened in years. Why do you want to open it?"

"I was just curious as to where it leads to," Doyle replied, embarrassed without understanding why. "Fancied a change of scenery I suppose. All the other doors are locked--I just wanted a walk."

"Feeling restless, are you? Come, walk with me."

Although voiced as a request, Doyle felt as if it had been an order and he followed Doctor Hardy back through the corridor, finally entering the gardens again through a door that he knew an hour ago had been locked.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Doyle answered automatically.

"How's the arm?"

"Fine." Doyle flexed his fingers. "This should be off in another week or so," he said, tapping the grubby plaster cast. "Weighs a bloody ton!" he complained.

"Your friend, Mr Bodie, came to see you yesterday."

Doyle looked at the man with suspicion, trying to work out what was coming next. "He didn't stay very long, I had thought he was going to spend the afternoon with you."

"He's very busy," Doyle said slowly.

"He has been very worried about you, I think he was rather concerned that he hadn't been able to come sooner--"

"He's very busy," Doyle cut in abruptly.

"Yes," said the doctor. "I suppose he must be. Mr Cowley keeps you all hopping, doesn't he? We were expecting you to arrive last Monday morning with Mr Bodie but then things...happened, didn't they?" Hardy said softly as he guided Doyle around the inner wall of another enclosed garden. "Would you like to tell me what happened?"

Doyle stopped walking as the penny finally dropped. He'd known there was something strange about the man. "You're a psychiatrist," he accused.

"No," said Hardy, smiling a little. "I am a psychologist."

"Same difference," Doyle said warily.

"Actually no. Different profession entirely. Does it bother you?"

"Why should it?"

"Do you like the gardens?" Hardy said, striking off at a tangent. "I think this is the best time of the year; everything about to burst into blossom. We are very lucky to have such wonderful gardeners."

"Are all the doors locked?" Doyle asked, pointing to the heavy wooden doors in the garden wall.

"I expect so."

"Why?"

"All the gardens lead straight into the house. We can't have people just wandering in and out, can we?"

"I've been looking for a way into the grounds. I can see a lake from my bedroom window but I can't find how to get out to it. The only doors that open all lead into gardens like this one. How can I get outside to the lake?" Doyle asked keenly.

"We could take a walk to the lake this afternoon if you like. Would you like that?"

Uncomfortable with the feeling that he was being offered a reward for being a good boy, Doyle declined.

---

Having finally managed to shake Hardy off, Doyle escaped to the library where he flicked through magazines and books without reading or really even seeing anything. He was staring out of the window when he recognised the silver Capri being driven into the car park below. Leaving an untidy pile of books behind, he dashed back to his room to meet Bodie. After five minutes of restless waiting, though, Doyle began to get worried. Why hadn't Bodie come? Perhaps he'd made a mistake--maybe it hadn't been Bodie's car after all, he though.

Trying not to look as if he were hurrying, Doyle returned to the library window and checked on the car. It was parked at the wrong angle for him to see the number plates but he was still positive it was his partner's car.

Confused, he returned to his room to wait for Bodie to come and find him.

It was over forty minutes later before one of the nurses came and knocked on his door. "Mr Doyle, you have a visitor. Would you please come with me, I'll take you to him."

By the time he was face to face with his partner, Doyle had managed to work everything out. Beeches wasn't the convalescent home he'd been led to believe and Bodie had very probably been talking to Dr Hardy about him.

He gave Bodie a very cool reception and followed quietly as he was led out through yet another door into the grounds. He wasn't in the least surprised to discover Bodie intended taking them both out to walk by the lake.

"You're very quiet," Bodie said. "Anything wrong?"

"What could possibly be wrong?" Doyle asked flatly. "Have a good chat with the shrink, did you?"

"Ray... I--"

"Don't deny it, Bodie," Doyle said angrily. "I watched you arrive nearly an hour ago." Turing away, he picked up some stones and began throwing them into the lake.

"I wasn't going to deny anything," Bodie answered. "We're worried about you, of course I wanted to talk to your doctor."

"Shrink," corrected Doyle.

"Dr Hardy is also concerned for you--"

"Why? I feel fine. why won't anyone listen to me?"

"Why don't you listen to yourself, Ray," Bodie said gently. "Who are you trying to impress, me? The doctors? Cowley?"

"I don't know what you're on about."

"Will you just listen to yourself, take a good look at yourself. Admit it to yourself, Ray--"

"Admit what, for Christ's sakes!"

"You won't talk to anyone, you haven't talked about it. You're acting as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed--"

"Don't be stupid!" Doyle replied scathingly. "Of course I know what's happened but what will wallowing in misery do to change anything? What happened, happened! Life goes on." A large stone plopped noisily into the water.

"Ray, this is me--Bodie. Will you please talk to me--will you at least look at me!" He snatched at Doyle's arm, spinning him round. "Will you stop pretending," he pleaded. "I know you, Ray, and I know you're hurting--"

"Bodie," Doyle smiled briefly. "You mean well...but you're wrong. Dr Hardy's wrong. I am fine. Really I am. Of course I'm...upset but I'm coping. I am...really. I just want to get on with things, I want to get back to normal. Once this plaster is off and I'm back at work things will be different, you wait and see."

Having already been briefed by Dr Hardy and Kate Ross, Bodie could now see the problems they were up against. Doyle simply refused to acknowledge that there was anything wrong.

"Ray, you aren't coming back to work until the doctors say you're well enough."

"Two weeks, maybe a month by the time I've done a session with Macklin," Doyle told him brightly, too brightly.

"No. Two months maybe--probably longer."

"What!"

"It's not broken bones the doctors are worried about, Ray. It's you, it's inside you. You're bottling it all up and it's going to kill you if you don't let go--"

"No!" Doyle shouted in denial. "I'm not staying here, I'm not hanging around for them to mess around inside my head."

"You've got to," Bodie told him, following after Doyle as he backed away. "They only want to help you."

"Help me!" Doyle nearly spat the words out. "There's nothing wrong with me. I don't need their help--I don't need anyone!" Doyle was walking fast, nearly running back towards the house and Bodie could only follow. Running through the corridors and up the stairs they didn't meet anyone but Bodie knew they were both being watched. Everything Ray said or did had been carefully monitored since his arrival. By the time Bodie caught up with him Doyle was already half packed.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bodie asked quietly.

"I assume you've no objection to giving me a lift," Doyle said, his voice shaking. "I'm leaving here now. I'm not staying here another minute--I'm fine, I don't need this place."

Bodie leant on the door, barring his exit. "You can't leave, Ray. You're not going anywhere," he said firmly. Bodie felt dreadful doing it but knew it was for Doyle's own good; his talk with Hardy before coming to see Ray had convinced him how much his partner needed what The Beeches could offer him.

"Of course I can leave," Doyle said, not hearing the finality in Bodie's voice. There was a knock on the door and Bodie moved to let Dr Hardy in.

"Hello, Ray," Hardy said.

Doyle just looked at him and then picked up his bag. "I'm leaving, discharging myself or whatever I have to do to get out of here," he said in a shaky voice, almost as if he knew that he wasn't going to get away. Bodie had never seen him look so frightened before. "Come on, Bodie, let's go no. Please?"

"I am very sorry, Ray," Hardy said gently. "But you do have to stay here, I'm afraid we can't let you go home just yet."

"Bodie?" Eyes wide and fearful, he turned to his partner.

"'m sorry, Ray," Bodie choked out. "It's for your own good."

"No!" Realising what was happening, Doyle made a sudden dash for the door, knocking the doctor aside. If Bodie hadn't caught his arm he would have made it. "NO!" he screamed into Bodie's face. "Let me go! Bodie let me go! I'm not staying here...you can't make me stay here. Bodie?" Struggling and kicking and clawing, Doyle fought to get past Bodie.

It actually took very little effort for Bodie to pull Doyle away from the door and pin him up against the wall, nor to hold the flailing arms and legs still. Doyle screamed abuse into Bodie's face when he understood the implications of what the two men had told him. He had no choice, none at all. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle saw the doctor pull a syringe from his pocket and he immediately renewed his struggles to get away. Instead of cursing and swearing at Bodie he began to beg him for his help.

"Bodie, please. I can't stay here. Please don't leave me here. I don't want to stay here, Bodie. Please don't force me to stay." His crying and begging fell on stony ground and Bodie held him still while Hardy injected the shot into his arm.

"Just something to help you calm down, Ray. Nothing to worry about, you'll soon feel calmer," Hardy soothed.

Doyle ignored him once the initial pain of the needle had gone and continued pleading and begging Bodie for help. They were still pinned up against the wall almost nose to nose but Doyle had stopped trying to push him away; now his hand gripped the leather-clad arms almost painfully tight. "Don't leave me in this place, Bodie. Please! I can come home with you, can't I? Tell them I can go home with you? Tell them, Bodie, please tell them...please, don't leave me here..."

"No, Ray...no. I'm sorry, you've got to stay..."

"Bodie please! Don't leave me here!"

"Ray..." Bodie was beyond words and felt helpless to do anything other than return the desperate terrified grip Doyle had on him. To see and hear Doyle crying and begging like a frightened child had shocked him to his very foundation but he knew that he was helpless, there was no way he could give Ray the help he really needed.

The tranquilliser soon took effect and Doyle's eyes grew heavy; the grip on Bodie's jacket became lax. Hardy tried to prise Doyle's fingers from the leather but Ray roused enough to make the doctor jump back in surprise.

"It's okay, Ray," Bodie said, gently deflecting the swing at the doctor's head. "He's not going to hurt you. Relax...that's it...breathe slow and deep...you're doing all right...Let's get you over to the bed before your legs give out shall we...that's it, swing your legs up...go to sleep...just close your eyes and rest."

Standing by the door, Hardy watched the hardened agent gentle his partner.

"Don't...don't go...Bodie...don't...leave me here, please...don't leave me here..." Doyle cried softly.

"Hush up...I'm still here...I'll stay for a while...just go to sleep, Ray, rest...just rest." Soothed by his partner, Doyle fell into a drugged sleep. Bodie didn't let go of his hand until he was deeply asleep and then only with reluctance.

Hardy pretended not to notice the wetness of Bodie's eyes when he finally turned round.

"He'll sleep for several hours. I'll make sure someone is with him when he wakes up."

"I'd like to stay. I want to be here when he wakes."

"No," Hardy said firmly. "I think it would be better if you leave him now. He's a lot calmer and he's finally realised why he is here. Perhaps now he will accept our help. If you are here when he wakes up, though, it could just upset him all over again."

"I can't just leave him! Surely I can help him in some way?" Bodie said as the doctor ushered him from the room.

"He has to face this himself, Mr Bodie. You can't do it for him, neither can I. Later it will be different, the very fact that he's admitted he wants you here means he knows he can no longer cope on his own--that is a start."

Bodie remained unconvinced that he was doing the right thing. His arms were still tender where Ray had first punched him and then gripped him so tightly; he couldn't help but feel that he was deserting him when he was most needed.

Driving back to London alone, Bodie's mind went back over Hardy's reasoning for keeping Ray at Beeches. The last five years of his partner's life had indeed been a veritable roller-coaster but Bodie thought--as had most people--that Doyle had survived it intact. Hardy's opinion was rather different. According to the doctor Doyle had never properly dealt with any of the crises that had confronted him. He had accepted and taken quite calmly all life had thrown at him. Throughout his trial he had quietly protested his innocence and been remarkably unmoved by the devastating "guilty" verdict. The doctors at Ford Prison had predicted a mental breakdown and had been pushing to get the right help when he had flared up, violently attaching a warder. Instead of receiving help, Doyle was sent into a high security wing of a main prison. In Maidstone, the cold, unapproachable prisoner that was Doyle soon became was noticed more for his tendency to cause trouble among other prisoners than his debatably shaky mental health.

It hadn't been until the night duty screws had complained for months about Doyle's screaming nightmares disturbing the entire wing that the doctors began to reconsider. Then he had been released into George Cowley's care.

Had Doyle really been so clever that no one, not even Doyle himself, realised how badly he needed help? Bodie wondered helplessly as he arrived home. He had only just entered the flat, taken his jacket off and poured himself a good, stiff drink when the telephone rang. Whether by accident or design it was several long days before he was allowed the time or space to think about Doyle again.

---

Pulling the consulting room door closed behind him, Doyle checked that the corridor was empty before sighing with relief. He walked slowly back towards the day room where he hoped to get a cup of coffee. This session with Dr Hardy hadn't seemed so long nor so exhausting as the first two; then he had waited, angry and tense, for the questions to come--questions that he would not--could not answer, but Hardy asked no questions at all. Instead they talked about matters Doyle chose to talk about--which was anything except prison, CI5, Ann or his family.

He still had not realised that not talking could be just as revealing as if he had been prepared to chatter away.

In fact, by the time he reached the coffee bar he was feeling very pleased with himself. All he had to do, he told himself, was stay calm; pretend to co-operate with their stupid, pointless relaxation sessions and they he would be able to go home.

"Hello, Ray."

Spinning around so fast he nearly spilled his coffee, Doyle found himself nose to nose with his partner.

"Bodie!" he cried, breaking into an enormous grin. "I wasn't expecting any visitors!"

"Thought I'd surprise you," Bodie said, relieved at his welcome.

"Surprised me all right. I thought you said Cowley had you out of town on a job?"

"Yes. Whole thing broke last night--sooner than expected, but I can't say I'm sorry."

They moved to a quiet corner and sat down. Once the initial surprise had gone through so did the ease they usually felt in the other's company.

"I thought that would have been off by now," Bodie said, pointing to the cast on Doyle's arm.

"One more week, they say. I'll be glad to get rid of the bloody thing. There's a swimming pool here," Doyle said awkwardly, needing to fill the silence but not knowing what he could say. "Once it's off I can have a swim...be glad of some exercise."

"Take the opportunity to have a good rest," Bodie advised.

"I'd rather be at work!" Doyle snapped: he should have known Bodie wouldn't understand. "What are you doing up here anyway?"

"Seeing you, of course," Bodie said carefully. After the first few visits he had become accustomed to Doyle's rapid mood shifts and pretended not to notice them. "And getting away from headquarters. They've got the whole building arse-about-tit with contractors ripping walls and ceilings apart."

"What on earth for?"

"Something to do with the new computer system, I think."

"They're not actually installing the terminals?" Doyle asked interestedly.

Amazed to discover his partner was genuinely interested, Bodie dredged up all the information he could recall hearing.

"This new computer has been arriving any day now, ever since I joined the squad. Don't tell me it's finally arrived?" Doyle was clearly sceptical at the progress of modern technology into the halls of CI5.

"Looks like it," Bodie said with dismay. "Can't move without tripping over blokes weaving spaghetti into the walls. We've even got one of those television things with a typewriter thing in our room. It's called a Vee Dee...something.

"A VDU," Doyle offered helpfully.

"Can't play Space Invaders on it," Bodie said. "God knows what we're supposed to do with the damn thing." Doyle's enthusiasm for the new system did little to improve his partner's dislike of it. Bodie told himself that Doyle was being deliberately irritating in pretending an interest in the subject. Still, he decided, at least it was better than awkward silences and stilted conversations.

When Doyle had exhausted Bodie's meagre knowledge of computers they left the day room and went for a walk around the walled gardens. Since the day Bodie had pinned him to the wall whilst Hardy stuck a needle in him he hadn't asked to go further afield.

"How's it going, Ray?" Bodie asked quietly on their second circuit of the garden.

"Okay," Doyle answered slowly, bitter experience teaching him he had to be as careful with Bodie as he was when talking to Hardy. "I still don't think I need to be here, I could just as easily be at home--but I'm being a good boy, I'm doing what I'm told to do," he said brightly. He knew that Bodie always talked to Hardy before going home and therefore it was important to convince Bodie he was recovering. With Bodie on his side half the battle would be over.

"You've never said anything about Ann. You've not mentioned her since I told you she was dead," Bode said into another lengthy silence.

Doyle reeled with shock. He hadn't expected Bodie to be so blunt and he felt his insides twist painfully. Schooling his features to betray nothing, he turned to face him. "There's nothing to say, is there? She's dead. What can I do about it?"

"Ray..." Bodie faltered, he didn't want to force the issue but felt it was time someone did. Ray was obviously happy to keep on hiding from the whole sorry mess. "Have you even cried?" he asked. "I get the feeling that none of this has even touched you--"

"Have I cried!" Doyle repeated numbly. "Of course I have," he lied.

"Will you please stop...pretending! Ray, if you can't feel anything at least say so!"

"I feel!" Doyle flared, angry. "Do you think I'm made of stone? Of course I feel! Sorry if I can't break down to order and give a public demonstration of grief but that's the way I am. Would it make you feel better if I sat down and cried? Would it? Is that what I have to do to get out of this place?" Suddenly Doyle realised he was shouting and could feel the itch prickle behind his eyes. No, he thought desperately. He wouldn't break down, he had to be strong--he had to! If he gave in to his emotions now he knew he would be finished in CI5. They couldn't keep him here forever, he reasoned. They would have to let him go sooner or later--and then he would be able to show them. He'd show Bodie then, he'd show them all.

"Look," Doyle said when he was in control of himself. "Of course I'm...upset by what happened. But I just want to get on with my life, Bodie," he said reasonably. "Looking back won't change anything, will it? Just because I'm not wearing my heart on my sleeve and snivelling all the time doesn't mean I don't think about...her...I do," he stumbled, unable to say here name aloud, but recovered quickly, hoping Bodie hadn't noticed. "I miss her...of course I do...but she's...gone and I'm still here. Life goes on."

Bodie watched helplessly as Doyle stumbled on, blind to what he was doing. Outwardly Bodie could see he looked calm and composed; there was no hint of the turmoil they all knew was going on inside Doyle. Looking beyond the expressionless face, Bodie saw the dark-ringed eyes that were dull from lack of sleep; hair usually vibrant and thick hung tangled, lank and unkempt; the clothes hung from the lean frame and looked as stale and lifeless as their owner. Nights haunted by fresh nightmares were taking their toll on Doyle's depleted strength.

"Ray, will you do me a favour, please?" Bodie asked as they left the gardens behind and walked towards Doyle's room. "Well, not me exactly, but someone else."

"Depends on the favour," Doyle answered warily.

"Like you said earlier, life goes on," Bodie said slowly. "Not everyone can handle...death as well as you obviously can. Some people take a bit longer. Ann's mother is having a rough time of it." Bodie saw Ray flinch. "Mrs Harrison would like to come and see you--"

"Why?"

"Because she's been worried about you. For a while we all thought you were dead as well as Ann," Bodie explained. "She feels she needs to talk to you--"

"What about? Why?" Doyle asked as he nervously paced about his room. He knew it was a ploy to get to him but he couldn't work out what they were hoping to achieve. What did Bodie and Dr Hardy want from him? "I don't want to see her."

Pulling together the arguments he and the doctor had put together, Bodie began. "Maybe she needs to see you, Ray. Try looking at this from her side of the fence instead of your own. You're not the only person who's lost someone. She's lost her daughter...for christ's sake, Ray. You've nearly married her daughter twice! You're almost family, too. We thought you were both dead. She discovers that her ex-husband has systematically murdered Ann's boyfriends and then kills their daughter instead of you!" Bodie forced himself to draw a steadying breath; the idea was to rattle Doyle and force him to break down, not to clam up and refuse to see anyone. "Maybe she just needs to know that Charles Holly hasn't destroyed everyone he touched. She's known you for a long time...maybe she just wants to make sure that you are all right."

Doyle tried to see the catch in the request. He didn't know that he could face Constance without cracking but there seemed little choice. Perhaps if he coped adequately with Constance they would realise he was well enough to go home. "Okay," he said unexpectedly. "When will she come?"

Just as soon as we can talk her into it, Bodie thought dazedly. They had never expected Doyle to agree. Before leaving the hospital he talked it over with Hardy.

"It is possible that we have misunderstood the relationship Doyle has with Mrs Harrison," Hardy said.

"No way," Bodie said definitely, remembering the stories Doyle had related about the woman. There was no love lost between those two.

But the plan wasn't totally ruined. Maybe a visit from Mrs Harrison would be the final catalyst needed to break down the defences Doyle had meticulously built around him.

---

The morning that Bodie drove Constance Harrison out to The Beeches was cold, wet and windy. Immaculately dressed, her hair curled and lacquered into place and her face precisely painted, she fidgeted and complained every single mile of their journey. In sheer self-defence Bodie turned the car radio on so that he could listen to the road reports that came with regularity every fifteen minutes. For five minutes out of twenty, Constance was forced to be quiet.

By the time they arrived at The Beeches, Bodie was convinced that setting the woman on his partner was going to make or break him. No one could be indifferent to Constance Harrison.

When she was taken away to meet Doyle, Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and escaped into the library to recover. Hardy was in there sitting on one of the large settees talking animatedly to a distinguished looking gentleman seated in a wheelchair. When they finished their talk the Major wheeled himself away and Hardy walked over to join Bodie.

"How was she about coming here?" he asked.

"Reluctant," Bodie grinned. "I managed to convince her that coming here would be seen by others as her 'doing her bit' to help poor Ray."

"You briefed her on what topics to discuss and what to avoid?"

"Of course. I think I managed to put the fear of god in here, she shouldn't cause any trouble...except perhaps for one thing."

"Oh, what's that?"

"She's brought him a birthday present," Bodie said quietly. "It was his birthday during the week he was missing. She found the present and a card at Ann's flat when she was clearing it out. She's giving it to Ray this morning."

"Any idea what it is?"

"No. Was already gift-wrapped," Bodie answered worriedly. "I wanted to check it out but she got all uptight, kept insisting that it was Ann's last gift and that he has every right to get it. In a way she's right--"

"Of course Mrs Harrison's right. A gift from Ann could well help crack these walls he's building."

"How is he doing?"

"We're not making much headway," Hardy admitted. "The nightmares have really got a grip on him. He puts off going to bed until the early hours of the morning and he refuses to turn off the bedside light. He rarely sleeps more than three hours before waking up extremely distressed and then fights going back to sleep."

"What do the night staff do for him?" Bodie asked.

"Oh, nothing," Hardy replied. "There is little they can do--or that he will allow them to do. Any attempt by the staff to settle him is rejected and he refuses to allow anyone to remain in the room while he sleeps. We've offered him sleeping pills but I suspect he's refusing them because he's scared that drugged he will find it so much harder to wake up.

"Have you tried talking to him about these nightmares?"

"I've tried," Hardy said in a voice that left Bodie in no doubt to his lack of success.

"Do you want me to ? I'm sure I could get him to--"

"No," Hardy said quickly. "He already resents the fact that you and I talk about him. It's important that you don't show yourself as one of the people trying to break through his barriers. Just carry on as you've been doing--just be there for him. Be his friend and listen when he wants to talk. I know it's hard," smiled the doctor reassuringly. "But just...be there when he needs you.

---

From the other side of the room Doyle stared in disbelief at Ann's mother and tried to work out why she was there, why she had bothered coming to see him.

"You're looking...well, Raymond," she said stiffly, politely not commenting on how awful he really looked. "Are they treating you all right here? A strange place," she hurried on without waiting for his answer. "I thought I knew all the good private hospitals but I must confess that I have never heard of this one." She looked around at the plainly furnished room. "Of course Edgar, that is Ann's Uncle Edgar, my brother, has been in private medicine for years. He has never involved himself overmuch with the National Health Service. I am sure that if you wanted to we could get you into Edgar's hospital...if you wanted to, that is," she faltered. "But then as you know, Edgar is a surgeon--I do not know that he can deal with...other problems."

"Might as well stay put then," Doyle offered helpfully.

"It is a frightfully long way from London," Constance complained. "It has taken us nearly two hours to get here--it ought to have taken longer but that young man drove so fast. Honestly," she sighed. "It's a wonder I'm here at all."

"Who brought you?"

"That man, Mr...I've forgotten his name..."

"Bodie?"

"Yes, that sounds like it. Mr Bodie. It's a wonder he still has a driving licence if he always drives like that.

"It was good of you to come," Doyle said, making an effort to appear sociable.

"Yes," Constance agreed.

Conversations between the pair had never been easy even when Ann had been there to field for them. Politeness and convention gave Constance a guideline from which to talk and she stuck to it rigidly. Doyle told her that he was getting on fine and that the staff seemed efficient and well trained. Yes, the hospital was a long way form London but the gardens were very nice and no, he wasn't on any drugs. She told him how nice the funeral had been and that she had been sorry he had not been there; everyone, it seemed, had missed him. Doyle apologised for his absence but she assured him everything went all right and he learned that Bodie had arranged for a wreath, in his name, to be delivered.

She went on that everyone had enjoyed the buffet luncheon she and Mr Harrison had laid on after the funeral and how grateful everyone was, particularly Grandmother Alice, that Mr Cowley had been able to keep the awful press people away.

He was told where Ann had been buried. On the left-hand side of the cemetery, near the oak tree and overlooking the park but nowhere near the dreadful main road with its tacky, cheap little corner ships. Doyle declined the offer of choosing an inscription for the headstone, a white marble angel holding an open bible with the option of gold or black lettering, and Mrs Harrison said she would try to choose something appropriate.

When the short visit had lasted over half an hour, Doyle was already numb from the shock of it all when Constance pulled the gaily wrapped box from her bag. "I found this," she said, thrusting it into his hands. "It's for you so you might as well take it. Ann bought it for you before..." for the first time since entering the room Constance Harrison faltered, her bright voice cracked and tears threatened her composure and makeup. Drawing a lace-edged square from her bag she dabbed at her eyes. "Do come and see Mr Harrison and me when you get out...when you get home. We can have tea... Yes, do drop by for tea..."

On that note she left, hurrying back to the front door where she was forced to wait for her lift back to London.

Watching the sniffing woman retreating at top speed from the room, Bodie waited a few minutes before approaching the door.

Doyle looked up form the inscription on the card in tie to see Bodie enter. Handing him the car he began to tear the paper off the box.

It was a shirt.

Very nice. Fashionable. Very expensive.

It was white...with neat little blue stripes.

Doyle's grip on the plastic box threatened to crush it and Bodie eased it out of his hands. For an instant it seemed as if Ray was going to fight to keep hold of the box. Their eyes met and Ray knew Bodie understood; he let him take the box and throw it into the rubbish bin.

Standing so close together in the quiet room, Bodie ached to be able to ease some of his partner's pain. "Ray?" he said softly, brushing a gentle finger over the damaged cheek to draw his attention. "You okay, mate?" he asked gruffly when he saw the misery in the green eyes. "Can I do anything?"

At first he thought Doyle was going to refuse but then he stepped forward into his arms, blindly seeking comfort.

Bodie felt the choked sob and tremor that shook Ray as he held him tight in his arms. For long minutes they simply stood there, holding on tightly, giving and taking the comfort and love they needed.

Rubbing his hands over Ray's back, Bodie felt that at last they were getting somewhere--for Ray to admit he needed this was a start. But, even as the thought formed, Doyle pushed him away and walked backwards out of his grasp.

"Ray?" Bodie said tentatively.

"Sorry," Doyle mumbled. "Shouldn't have done that--"

"I don't mind," Bodie said gently. "Anytime--"

"I'm fine now, Doyle responded, lifting his face up, revealing how far he had already retreated. "Thank you for bringing Constance. Are you taking her home as well?"

"Yes," Bodie said sadly. "I'll come by tomorrow afternoon. Do you want me to bring anything?"

"See you tomorrow then," Doyle said mildly and then turned his back on Bodie, mentally dismissing him as he concentrated fiercely on the view out of the window.

Guessing that there was little point in his staying, Bodie turned to leave, stooping down to lift the rejected gift out of the rubbish bin and taking it with him as he went.

When he arrived at Hardy's office he found the doctor still watching Doyle on the monitor; before he switched the picture off Bodie could see that he hadn't moved from the window.

"I don't think that was very successful, do you?" Bodie asked.

"Quite the contrary," Hardy said slowly. "I think it went rather well. What is the significance of the shirt? His reaction was not what I had expected."

Bodie showed the doctor the box. "It's a very nice shirt," he said. "If the blue stripes were a fraction thinner it could pass for prison issue."

"What?"

"The shirts issued inside are standard blue and white cotton. Doyle would never choose a shirt like that!" Bodie said in disgust.

"Miss Holly was obviously unaware of that," Hardy mused consideringly.

"I doubt Ray ever discussed prison with her. He never brings the subject up with me--in fact he avoids it; simply refuses to be drawn. I used to think..."

"You used to think what?" Hardy enquired when Bodie's voice tailed off.

"Well...Ray and Ann," he started awkwardly. "He talked about her once or twice before he met up with her after joining the squad. I got the feeling that she was his...ideal woman. She was all he'd ever wanted and expected from a woman or a wife, and that if he could get her back everything would be all right. If only he could convince her to marry him it would be as if all the bad things had never happened."

"By marrying her as he had intended it would effectively negate all the bad memories and he would be able to pretend it never happened," Hardy said thoughtfully. "Yes, especially if he never discussed his life in prison with her--it would make it easier for him to simply blot out those years completely."

"Once or twice," Bodie said, "I got the impression that he didn't so much want to marry her, but that he needed to...but then I could be wrong, I rarely saw them together."

"No, no," Hardy said. "I do believe you're right. He didn't want to marry her, he needed to so he could turn the clocks back."

Driving a thankfully subdued Constance back to London, Bodie was thoughtful. Without his interference, his coaxing and teasing, Bodie guessed that Ray and Ann would have drifted apart soon after meeting up again. The only thing that had kept the couple together was Ann's guilt and Doyle's desperation to turn the clocks back. Maybe Ann's gift had helped, though, Bodie thought, remembering the way Doyle had clung to him for comfort; his only regret that the moment had been so brief, but even as he'd pushed himself away--mentally as well as physically--Doyle's finger's had kept a tight grip on Bodie's jacket--as if he wasn't convinced that he wanted to let go.

Dropping Mrs Harrison off at her London home and continuing towards the centre of town, he began to wonder if perhaps Hardy didn't have it all wrong after all. Perhaps time and space were not what Doyle needed right now--maybe he was waiting for someone to step in and reorganise his life for him. Possibly all he needed was a little guidance to set him on the right path and to leave him floundering, lost and alone was wrong for him now. Reasoning that he was a poorly qualified psychologist, Bodie still felt he knew Doyle a damn sight more than anyone at The Beeches. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would be firmer with Doyle, tomorrow he would see if he couldn't snap his partner out of the dream world he was existing in and start bringing him back to reality.

Reality, Bodie discovered the next day, had its own problems. Finding himself down for an afternoon and evening session at the Dorchester Hotel, Bodie had gone out to The Beeches mid-morning only to have to wait over an hour for Doyle to finish a session with Dr Hardy.

Already in a foul temper, Ray Doyle was in no mood to deal with any surprise visitors and told Bodie, in colourful terms, exactly where to go and what to do with himself.

Realising that the session with the psychologist had not gone very well, Bodie gritted his teeth, remembered his new resolve and hung on.

"What the fuck do you want anyway?" Doyle asked eventually. "Thought you said you were coming this afternoon?"

"Duty got shifted. Murph's gone sick, Taylor's busted his collarbone so I'm covering for them on a double shift later today."

Scratching at the newly exposed skin on his forearm, the relief of having the cast removed having been ruined during the session with Hardy, Doyle was in no mood to feel any sympathy for his partner. "Suppose I'll have to amuse myself playin' bleedin' solitaire again this afternoon," he grumbled.

"That's right, take it out on me! It's all my fault of course!" Bodie sniped, feeling vary put out. "The way you carry on anyone would think I deliberately work twenty-hour days, seven days a bloody week just to make you go off in a sulk!"

"I do not sulk!" Doyle shouted and threw the paperback he'd picked up across the room.

"You," Bodie informed his partner forcefully, "always sulk when things don't go how you want them to and you bloody well know you do so don't try to deny it! And another thing," Bodie warmed to his theme, feeling free for the first time in ages to reveal a little of his true feelings and hurt. "I could have stayed in town and had a row with anyone I damn well wanted to." He advanced on Doyle, who retreated from a finger that threatened to bruise his ribs. "If you want a fucking argument, say so! I am just about fed up with all this pussyfooting around. I have had it to my back teeth with being careful when I talk to you and I'm more than fed up with you treating me like a lump of fucking dirt." Bodie had Ray backed against the bedroom wall and he was pleased to see a different emotion in the green eyes. At least fear was an improvement on apathy and misery. "Now, if you're not in the mood for visitors, say so and I'll go. You know my telephone number--when you feel up to being civil just let me know." Their faces only inches apart, Bodie could almost smell Doyle's fear. "Well, do you want me to stay?" he demanded to know.

There was no answer immediately forthcoming; the moment stretched, the room silent save the sound of Doyle's rapid pants for breath as he stared into his partner's eyes.

Temper rapidly being dulled into a crushing disappointment, Bodie pulled back, stepping forward again quickly when it appeared that Doyle was about to slide bonelessly down the wall--but he recovered quickly and side-stepped the helping hands. Taking Doyle's instinctive movement as another sign of rejection, Bodie backed away.

He'd failed. Losing his temper had not been his intention and now he had only made things worse. "Like I said," he offered quietly as he walked towards the door. "You know how to get in touch." Outside in the corridor he waited for a few minutes, hoping even now that Doyle would come after him. Eventually, disappointed and totally dejected, he continued towards the stairs and the way out to the car.

Back in the room, Doyle remained against the wall, too scared to move or call out. He knew what he had done; he'd driven Bodie away. He wanted to call out to him, to call him back, he wanted to run after him and force him to come back but he couldn't. Inside his head he screamed out after Bodie, begging him to return, pleading not to be abandoned there again--but his body would not respond to his commands.

Minutes ticked by and the desperate urgency to run after Bodie faded. Moving from the wall, he turned to the window and stared blindly out, concentrating on keeping calm and not breaking down. He knew that the camera pointing into his room had seen everything and hoped that it would now see him being perfectly calm. He couldn't afford not to be calm and he concentrated on giving a good performance for the all-seeing, ever-vigilant camera. When he knew he was in control, he turned away from the window and retrieved the book he'd earlier thrown across the room. He sat in the armchair, facing the camera, and opened the book.

Upstairs in his office, Hardy sighed and switched the monitor off. For a moment he had thought they were getting through to him.

Back in the room, Doyle stared blindly at the open pages. If Hardy had been able to focus the camera more precisely he would have seen the book was upside down.

---

The orderly had to knock on the door three times before gaining the attention of the man sitting staring out of the window.

"Mr Doyle?" he asked when the man finally acknowledged him. "There's a visitor for you down in the day room. Would you like me to bring him up here?"

"A visitor?" Perhaps Bodie had come back, Doyle thought hopefully. "I'll come down, thank you." His heart hammering against his ribs, Doyle hurried down to the day room. His hopeful elation was cruelly crushed, though, as soon as he saw who was waiting for him.

"Hello, Ray," Bob Craig said cheerfully, his smile slipping fractionally when he saw the wild, wide-eyed man before him. "How are you doing, you're looking..." His voice tailed away as he guessed that truth might not be very tactful.

Doyle had no idea his disappointment was so obvious. He was mentally kicking himself for being so stupid event o think Bodie would come back after the morning's argument. It seemed he could do nothing right; whatever he tried, whatever he did, nothing seemed to work out the way he intended.

Trying to do the right thing had lost him everything. It had started years ago when he tried to rid himself of the painful, hurtful feelings of loneliness and isolation by seeking a solution in marriage to Ann. He'd hoped a future with her beside him would make everything wrong feel right it hadn't. No matter how hard he tried, nothing had gone right. When everyone else had deserted him he really believed that she would stay--but she hadn't; like all the others she left him alone--even more alone than before. Meeting up with her had been a god-given second chance he'd clutched at frantically but even then it had still gone wrong.

He knew now that he had lost her forever but, deep inside he'd known he wasn't really alone, not now; he had Bodie. Even when things had been going wrong between him and Ann, Bodie had been there and he had grown used to it. He had begun to believe that whatever happened, whatever he did, Bodie would always be there--but now he knew he had lost him too. He had pushed Bodie too far this time and Doyle knew he wouldn't come back, not this time.

"Ray?" Craig said nervously, looking around for an attendant. "Are you okay, do you feel faint?"

"No," Doyle said, snapping himself out of it. "Sorry, I was expecting...someone else."

"Bodie," Craig said. "Bloke on the gate mistook me for him on the way in. I hadn't realised visitors had to book in or I would have called before leaving London. The security here is pretty tight--I thought they wouldn't let me in if I wasn't on the list so I let them think I was your partner--I hope Bodie won't have any trouble getting in," he added, worried suddenly at the implications of his actions.

"He was here this morning," Doyle said woodenly, only half listening to Craig. "I expect they forgot to alter the list."

"Well, the reason I'm here," Craig said, pleased that Doyle seemed more alert now, "is because I guessed you'd want the good news. You've certainly been kept waiting long enough."

"Good news?"

"Your compensation payment has finally been agreed. Full settlement will be paid into your account just as soon as you sign these papers and I pass them back to the Home Office."

"The full settlement," Doyle said slowly. "Why now after all the delays--why now?"

"Well," Craig said uncertainly. "I did warn you that it would take some time--though I must confess even I hadn't expected it to take this long."

"So, after everything that's happened, after all this time," Doyle said icily, "they suddenly decide to settle now. I wonder why." It wasn't really a question, Doyle already knew the answer.

"Would you just sign here," Craig indicated the place, "and here, and finally here."

Doyle signed the papers in silence.

"That is your copy, I'll take these back to London with me."

Back to London. Craig's words hit Doyle like a brick, sending his sense reeling. Back to London. He could find Bodie in London and apologise. He had to get back to London to find Bodie, he had to get out of The Beeches and away from the doctors and the prying cameras.

Planning his escape even before he consciously acknowledged the thought, Doyle watched Craig refasten his briefcase and stand up. The security had already made one cock-up and it was clear to Doyle that Craig had no idea what sort of place The Beeches really was. "I was planning on taking a ride into town myself," he said. "Do you mind giving me a lift in?"

Slightly unnerved by the sudden switch from icy control to friendly casualness, Craig was unwilling to go anywhere with Doyle but found himself reluctant to say so. "Well..." Craig knew he was sweating but the composed, perfectly calm young man standing before him was terrifying him without doing anything more menacing than smile. "If it's all right with the staff here...I suppose so. Will you need a warmer jacket?" Maybe, he thought quickly, he could get help when Doyle left to get a coat.

"No, it's not raining is it? Looks quite mild out--nice day for a drive. Let's go shall we?"

Unable to refuse, Craig allowed Doyle to steer him out to the visitors' car park. They passed several people but to Craig's dismay, not one gave them a second look.

Answering the urgent call, Dr Hardy reached the monitor room just in time to see Doyle and his visitor moving across the entrance hall near the way out.

"Who is he?" Hardy asked.

"Security passed a Mr Bodie through an hour ago," the technician answered. "But he was here earlier this morning and left over three hours ago. I've no idea who this one is."

Hardy rang the security box by the car park. "Don't let the car through," he ordered. "If possible, separate Doyle from the driver but don't panic him--just keep them there until I arrive with some help."

When the car was flagged down by the stout uniformed guard, Craig knew he would probably only have one chance to get away.

"Afternoon, sirs," the security man said cheerfully. "If you'd like to step inside the booth and sign out," he asked, already opening the driver's door for Craig.

Before Doyle could react, Craig removed the ignition key and got out of the car.

Although there was nothing in the guard's behaviour to alarm him, Doyle recognised the delaying tactics. Nervously looking around, he couldn't see anyone coming towards him. He saw the keys dangling form Craig's hand.

He needed the keys.

As soon as Doyle opened the car door, Craig knew what he was after and stumbled in his haste to get inside the security booth. The guard saw him coming also. "Now then, lad," he said in a friendly voice. "You just hold your horses there--you don't want to do nothing daft now, do you?" He stepped sideways to block Doyle's access to Craig. "Don't go alarming yourself. We'll all just wait here for a bit, shall we?"

"Give me the keys," Doyle demanded.

"Ray," Craig said, shrinking back into the booth. "I'm so sorry, Ray. I just didn't realise..."

"Give me the fucking keys!" Doyle all but screamed as he tried to force himself past the older man.

The guard put his hands on Doyle's shoulders and tried to push him back gently.

"Get out of my way," yelled Doyle furiously. "And you, give me those fucking keys!" He could see Hardy and some male nurses pouring out of the house. "Just hand them over!"

"Come on, son," the guard tried to reason with Doyle. "There's no cause to go getting uptight--just calm down and everything will be just fine." He was forced to push his full weight against the smaller man to keep him out of the booth.

Doyle's mind registered the hard bulge under the man's armpit and reacted even before he was conscious of what it implied. Pulling the man's jacket open his hand closed on the gun, yanking it free of the shoulder holster.

"Give me the keys!" Doyle ordered, pointing the gun first at the guard and then at the horrified Bob Craig. The keys landed on the floor at Doyle's feet and, keeping both men covered, he stooped to pick them up.

On the pat outside, Hardy and the other men saw what had happened and came to an abrupt standstill.

Acting smoothly, keeping everyone covered, Doyle backed towards the car and climbed in, igniting the engine, slamming the door and roaring off in a screech of tyres before anyone had a chance to stop him.

Hardy ran to the booth and called the outer perimeter security. "Close the gates and don't let him through. Let him see that you're armed but do not, I repeat, do not do anything that will panic him into shooting."

Driving through the parkland, Doyle thought he had escaped until the heavy iron gates at the out wall appeared before him. He saw at once that the guards standing before the gates were armed; they were each holding their guns over their heads. He stopped the car fifty yards away.

He wound the window down and leant out; pointing the handgun towards them, he shouted, "Move away from the gate!" No-one moved and he shouted again. "Open the gates and move away." He revved the engine, showing them he meant business, but they stayed staring back at him, unmoving.

The sound of vehicles approaching from behind got louder. Spinning the wheel, he turned his car and took off over the grass, away from the road and the blocked exit.

Following behind, Hardy was relieved that so far Doyle had not fired. If they were careful they would be able to disarm him without anyone getting hurt. He had no idea what had finally sparked Doyle into such a violent reaction but hoped that they would all remain intact long enough to reap some benefit from it.

Doyle knew he was running out of options when he passed the third gate with guards holding their guns above their heads. His confused mind recognised their non-threatening stance even as it saw his exit was barred. Short of running the men over and shooting his way out he knew there was no escape.

The building that housed the swimming pool loomed up before Doyle and he drove towards it. The open parkland offered no cover at all and he knew that eventually they would catch up with him. All thoughts of getting away from Beeches were gone; his prime concern now was getting away from the men chasing him. He had to get himself some time to think of another way out.

Running, he left the car and dashed into the building. From the pool area he could hear shouts and splashing and so he turned left and ran up the stairs away from the voices. Behind him the shouts changed and he knew his followers had reached the building too. At the end of the corridor a door was half open; he ran through it and found himself in a stairwell.

Up or down. Undecided, he hovered. He moved to go down but below a door crashed open and heavy footsteps began coming upwards. Behind him in the corridor were more people rushing towards him and, left with no other option, he went up. At the very top he pushed open a door and found himself on the roof. He ran first to one edge and then another and saw the people running around down below. They looked up and saw him, immediately men began scaling the external fire escape.

Trapped, Doyle ran back to the stairwell and closed the access to the roof behind him, pulling the bolts across securely. He could hear them running up the stairs below him. Cornered, his eyes darted from the roof access and back to the stairwell.

"Stay back!" he cried at the top of his voice. "Stay back--don't come up any higher--don't come up here or I'll shoot!"

On the stairs the footsteps halted. In the sudden silence Doyle heard them running across the roof. "Stay away from the door!" he screamed, the note of hysteria adding to the fear and horror of all that was happening. "Get away from me! Go away! Go away!"

On the roof and on the stairs they heard the hysteria in Doyle's voice and backed off. At the bottom of the stairs Hardy called everyone back. Doyle had cornered himself safely.

All they had to do now was persuade him to surrender the gun.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Turner was already backing out of the smoke-filled room and regretting the impulse that had caused him to open the door when he caught sight of Bodie. Taking a final breath of fresh air in the corridor, he stepped into the room and made his way over to the money-laden table.

"I'll see your five and raise you...ten," an American voice drawled.

"Don't listen to him," the black man snorted. "He ain't never gonna bluff no Limey!"

"You hush your mouth," the first man scolded good-naturedly. "What's it to be, Bodie--it'll cost you fifteen to see me?"

"Not yet," Bodie replied, smoothly pushing the limp blue notes to the pile in the middle. "I'll see your fifteen and raise you...twenty."

"Twenty! Shit! What are you trying to do? Pay off the national debt?"

"Was that a request to see my cards?" Bodie asked politely. "It'll cost you thirty-five if it was."

Moving around behind his colleague, Turner could only marvel at Bodie's nerve when he saw the hand he held--it would lose even a game of Snap. The American obviously thought otherwise and after grinding another cigarette into the already full ashtray he gave in.

"Screw you, Bodie," he swore, handing the money over. "Show us what you've got."

Face bland, Bodie showed them.

Deciding to grab Bodie before the Americans could lynch him, Turner tapped him on the shoulder. "Message for you from the Old Man," he whispered. "Come outside and I'll fill you in."

Leaving Bodie to pocket his winnings and salvage Anglo-American relations, Turner retreated to the corridor.

"Bloody Yanks," Bodie said cheerfully as he merged from the room. "Anyone would think they had world rights to the game. What's up?"

"Cowley's sent me in to cover for you," Turner explained. "I thought it was a protection job--where's Colhouon?"

"Colhouon is the black feller--hopeless at cards. The other feller is Marty King, CIA. Why are you here?" Bodie asked again, a prickle of unease running down his spine.

"You're to get out to The Beeches now. A helicopter is waiting for you at Battersea," Turner said.

"Has something happened to Doyle?"

"All I know is what Control relayed over the radio. Apparently your other half is squatting in a stairwell at the hospital holding everyone off with a gun."

"He's what?" Bodie gasped.

"There's a car waiting outside now," Turner said as they ran towards the exit. "Dr Hardy will fill you in with the full details when you arrive--" he ended as Bodie threw himself into the car and it sped off.

Turning to re-enter the hotel, Turner made a mental review of his wallet. If they were that bad maybe he could carry on where Bodie left off.

---

A white sheet over the grass served as a landing marker for the helicopter; Bodie jumped out of the machine and ran towards the group of men the second it touched down.

"What's going on?" he yelled over the roar of the chopper blades. He was hurried into the back of a small car which then shot across the lawns and around the house.

"What is going on?" he asked urgently.

Hardy answered him this time. "I'm pleased you've arrived so fast. Doyle is all right physically," he said quickly. "So far we've managed to avoid any bloodshed and no one has been hurt. He has a gun but he hasn't fired it."

"Where the fuck did he get a gun?" Bodie asked angrily.

"There was a scuffle with one of the exterior guards. Doyle took his gun when he was trying to leave the grounds." Hardy explained quickly and then went on to fill him in with the rest of the details.

"And what was Bob Craig doing here?" Bodie asked when the doctor had finished. "How come no one was expecting him and what did he want with Ray?"

"It appears that Bob was mistaken for you--a mistake that he made no attempt to rectify. As to his reason for visiting, well," Hardy sighed heavily, "he came to give Doyle his final papers regarding the compensation claim."

"He what?"

"All he needed was Doyle's signature for the payment to be cleared."

"Jesus Christ!" Bodie swore.

"Precisely," Hardy echoed the sentiment if not the words. "It could hardly have come at a worse time. Mr Craig is, of course, very sorry. He had no idea that Doyle would react like this."

The car pulled up near to the poolhouse and Hardy took Bodie indoors. Outside the door leading to the stairs they stopped.

"He's right at the top, level with the roof. He's locked the roof access and gets very nervous if anyone attempts to touch the door. I've tried talking to him but as soon as I start moving up the stairs he gets very agitated," Hardy told Bodie. "He might let you near, he knows and trusts you."

"Is the gun loaded?"

"Of course!" said Hardy, irritated by the question. "Why else would the guard have been carrying it? This is a top security establishment, Mr Bodie. All the guards are armed."

Duly chastened, Bodie moved towards the door but hesitated at the last moment. "He might not let me close," he said slowly. "You must have seen what happened this morning--I lost my temper with him."

"So," Hardy said. "You're only human. It might even have done him some good to see that even you're not perfect all the time."

"But--"

"Bodie, listen to me," Hardy spoke earnestly. "That young man at the top of these stairs is balanced on a knife's edge waiting to fall. Maybe he doesn't have a choice anymore over what happens to him but you do. You're his friend, his partner, you care for him and he knows that. You can bring him back from the edge or you can let him fall--"

"Why should he trust me?" Bodie asked. "As far as he's concerned I'm as bad as everyone else--last time he asked me for help I left him here and now look what's happened!"

"Maybe now is the time to show him how much he can trust you," Hardy said. "So what if you argued this morning--why do you think he was so keen to break out this afternoon?"

"Why?"

"To find you? Perhaps your reaction to his moodiness this morning did more good than we thought. It could be that Mr Craig arriving as he did was just the final straw." Hardy spoke with such conviction that Bodie found himself wanting to believe. "It's up to you now, Bodie. Go to him; take the gun away from him and help him." A firm hand placed in the middle of Bodie's back pushed him towards to door. "Off you go, Bodie. Take care."

Bodie opened the door and moved onto the stairwell. For a minute or two he hesitated but then he moved upwards; soft footed and almost silent he moved past the first landing. He was two steps away from the second landing, the one below Doyle, when a voice rang out, echoing in the stone building.

"Don't come up here!" Doyle warned. "Keep away!"

Bodie hesitated. Doyle's voice sounded breathless, his voice uncertain and tremulous.

"It's only me, Ray," he called out. "Bodie. I'm coming up...okay?"

"No!" Doyle cried out. "No...go away...go...go away."

Slowly Bodie moved up one step at a time, his back pressed against the wall and his eyes alert for any movement his partner might make.

"Don't come up here...go away...I've got a gun..."

"I'm not armed, Ray," Bodie called out. "I'm not armed." By the time Doyle discovered the lie, Bodie prayed that the worst would be over. "I'm still coming, Ray," he called. "I'm on the landing just below you. Can you see me?"

"No...go...back... I'll shoot, I'll shoot."

"No you won't, Ray," Bodie said in an even voice. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man."

"Go back! Go back down!"

"And what will happen if I do?" Bodie asked. "How long are you going to sit up here?" There was no answer; straining his ears, Bodie could hear the harsh breathing of his cornered partner. "How long are you going to sit here, Ray?" Turning the final corner, Bodie got his first sight of him. Crouched in a corner with his legs curled up beneath him and clutching at the gun with both hands, face strained and tear-streaked, Doyle stared back at him with wide, panicked, desperate eyes.

"I'll shoot...go...back..." he panted. He seemed unaware that he was crying.

"Ray, it's me. Bodie...you know me, don't you? It's Bodie." The gun was centred on his middle and Bodie could see no sign of recognition in the wide eyes.

"Come on Ray; this is me, Bodie. You're not going to shoot me, I'm your partner."

The gun dipped as Doyle looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Bodie?" he whispered.

"Hello, mate," Bodie said softly.

"'s 'at really you, Bodie?"

"It's really me, sunshine," Bodie said with as much warmth as he could. "How's things--"

"Don't!" Doyle shouted as he climbed another step. "I've got a gun..."

"I can see that, sunshine," said Bodie, halting only three steps from the top landing. "Are you sure it's loaded though?"

Doyle looked uncertain for a moment and his eyes left Bodie to look at the gun.

"NO!" Doyle screamed, leaping to his feet as Bodie made a lunge for the gun. Bodie froze. Doyle had stopped trembling and crying and for a split second Bodie knew he was looking down a barrel of death.

"NO!" Doyle cried out again and stepped away into the opposite corner, furthest from Bodie. Eyes stricken with fear, he glanced from Bodie to the gun and back to Bodie. "No. No." Shaking his head and crying once more he pressed himself into the corner and sank down, his legs folding beneath him. His eyes fixed on Bodie, he turned the gun until the barrel was snug against his left breast.

Appalled, Bodie could only watch as Doyle's blank stare dropped to look at the gun.

"No, Ray," he begged. "No!" Oh, sweet Jesus no, Bodie's mind screamed. "That's no answer, Ray," he cried out, his instinctive movement forward aborted as the muscles in the hand clasping the gun tensed. "Okay, sunshine," he said shakily. "I won't come any closer...look, I'll sit right here...I won't make any sudden moves, I promise."

"Don't..." Ray whispered.

"I won't, I'll just sit here," Bodie said, making himself comfortable. There was no way he could get to Ray before those slim, elegant fingers could tighten around the trigger.

And so they sat, four feet and worlds apart; for how long Bodie neither knew nor cared. At first they didn't talk, Bodie concentrating on forcing every muscle in his body to relax to give Doyle the impression that he wasn't about to be jumped. For his part, Doyle stared at the man opposite him as if he were a total stranger. Gradually, though, as he began to realise the man posed no threat and he relaxed a little, his breathing became regular, and he stopped crying.

Bodie noticed the tension leaving the fingers resting on the trigger. "Don't tell me you came out without a hanky," Bodie said softly.

Startled at the sound, Doyle tensed up again.

"You're sniffing," Bodie told him. "You're always bloody sniffing," he moaned in a friendly voice. "Have you got a hanky?"

Doyle sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

"I think I've got one somewhere," Bodie said without moving. "Do you want to borrow it?"

Doyle sniffed again and looked uncomfortable. After a second or two of thought, he moved his free hand to pat his jeans pocket. He sniffed and cuffed his nose again.

"God, you look about seven years old doing that," Bodie told him.

"Haven't got one," Doyle said, confused by the laughing tone and the affectionate smile.

"Do you want to borrow mine?" With quick fingers, Bodie tugged his hanky free and held it at arm's length. When Doyle made no move to take it he leant forward as far as he could. He stayed there, white hanky dangling like a flag of surrender from outstretched fingers for an age. Then, slowly, Doyle moved forward and gently took hold of it, his fingers brushing the tips of Bodie's fingers.

They both leant back into their corners and Doyle used the cotton square, blowing vigorously without taking his eyes from his partner. Finished, he held it out.

"Nah, you keep it," Bodie said.

"Thanks," Doyle said slowly as he pocketed it.

"Well," Bodie said gently, cautiously. "This is another fine mess you got me into, Stanley." Pulling a stupid face and scratching his head, Bodie was rewarded by a snort of amusement from Doyle. "So, how's life treating you, Ray?" he carried on quickly. "I know you've always said you wanted to go up in the world, but I hardly think this is what you had in mind." He gazed around at the stark bare walls. "Couldn't you have picked somewhere with a few home comforts?"

Doyle gave a short laugh. "This is the way my luck goes," he said. "Just be grateful it's dry--I could have picked a damp cellar."

"That's true," Bodie agreed lightly, relieved that he was at last talking. "So, what went wrong today, Ray? Why did this happen now and not yesterday?"

"Dunno," Doyle answered, his body tensing up again.

"I'm sorry about this morning," Bodie said. "I was taking my bad temper out on you and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry--"

"No." Doyle shook his head. "Wasn't your fault. I was...I was in a bad mood too. I thought you were coming this afternoon," he explained. "I would have been better then--I always feel...I don't like myself very much after...it would have been better this afternoon..."

"Where had you been this morning?" asked Bodie.

"With him," Doyle said. "With that...shrink...it's plain stupid...I don't need him to tell me why I feel so bad," he cried out. "I know why! I bloody know why!"

Bodie saw the hysteria threaten to break through the shallow calm they had achieved so far. "Shrinks are all the same, how can they justify getting paid if they can't convince you you've got problems?" he said. "They're all the same, aren't they? Were you breast-fed? Did you suck your thumb? How old were you when you first masturbated? Did you wet the bed? Tell me, does this ink blot look like a squashed butterfly to you?" Bodie was pleased to see Doyle relax again and breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's all so pointless," Doyle told him. "What good can talking do--I know what he wants to hear but I don't want to talk about that, so we spend hours talking about the stupid dog Mum used to have and bloody awful family holidays at Scarborough!"

"Scarborough?" Bodie picked up quickly. "I remember going to Scarborough once when I was with the Paras. We'd spent a week on manoeuvres and were given a weekend pass. Had a great time--I found a little ice-cream parlour on the front that made the most incredible knickerbocker glories, really pigged myself on them," he said reminiscently.

"You would!" Doyle said with a laugh.

"Meaning you wouldn't, I suppose?" Bodie challenged.

"I never made a pig of myself," replied Doyle. "Anyway, we always had ice-cream on holidays--that's what holidays are for."

By degrees, Doyle's mood altered and he became more relaxed but his hold on the gun remained steady and his eyes were alert to every move Bodie made.

"What's happened to Craig?" Doyle asked unexpectedly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Doyle explained, "not used to all this excitement, is he? I must 'ave given the poor old sod a coronary."

"I think he experienced one or two hairy moments," admitted Bodie in an off-hand manner. "Still, serves him right for pretending to be me."

"He deserved it," said Doyle, his mood suddenly taking a downward swing. "Breezing in here like he's something special dishing out favours. Some people think money is everything, but they're wrong, Bodie, so wrong. He believes, he really believes that money will make everything all right again. What's a life worth?" he asked bitterly. "One life, two, Ann, Mum, D.I. Taylor...how much for their lives? What's it for? Am I supposed to go out and buy a new bunch of memories and throw out all the old ones? What difference will having a few thousand in the bank mean? Is it so I can pretend nothing ever happened? Does everyone really expect me to take the money and pretend all's well that ends well? Next time someone asks me what the truth is, do I show them my bank balance and say that proves I'm innocent?" He raged, his face twisting as his anger and hurt poured forth. "Oh, they all want to help me now--everyone wants to be friendly now. It doesn't matter that I've been telling everyone for the past five years that I didn't know what was happening; now they've all read Charles-Fucking-Holly's diary, everyone wants to help me!" Doyle's grip in the gun tightened and Bodie felt his insides churn and twist sickeningly. "If I'm such a wonderful person, how come no one believed me when I said I was innocent? They're all ready to listen to someone else, so why wouldn't anyone believe me?" Doyle asked angrily. "No-one believed me, no-one! Even those who said they did--I could see they were lying, they wanted to believe in me but they couldn't, no-one did. Even my mum didn't believe me. Did I ever tell you what she said to me when she came to see me at Ford Prison? She asked me why," he said, voice cracking as he remembered it. "She believed in the system and because they found me guilty, she knew I had to be." He was crying again, tears streaming unchecked down his face. "Even Ann, it was the same for her, it was the same with everyone, no-one believed ME!"

"I believed you, Ray," Bodie said helplessly. "Once I knew you, really knew you, I believed you."

But Doyle carried on as if he hadn't heard. "Do you have any idea what it's been like having to face people day after day who treat you like dirt? Even inside it was just as bad, the other prisoners can't abide a bent policeman. The screws acted like I was invisible and the others treated me like I had the plague. It was like I didn't exist. The only people who took any notice of me were people who thought they could use me. When they realised I wasn't playing their stupid games I even began to wish I didn't exist. I began to dream up ways of getting out of there and away from them, away from everyone. Do you know how long a piece of towel has to be to tie one end round your neck and the other to a window bar? I even started tearing strips off my sheets to make a rope!"

Stunned, Bodie was forced to listen to it all pouring out and to watch as Doyle flexed his fingers around the gun. He wondered if any of the doctors had realised that this wasn't the first time Doyle had considered suicide. "Thinking about it isn't the same as doing it, Ray," Bodie said carefully. "The fact that you're here talking about it proves you were strong enough to get through. Despite being on your own, you survived, they didn't beat you down and you're here to prove it. If you give in now, all that effort will have been wasted--"

"I've wasted five years," Doyle spat out. "They've wasted five years of my life because they didn't believe--"

"I believed you," Bodie said firmly. "I believed you and so did Cowley--why else would he take you on in the first place? Why else would he keep you on when Day started poking around?"

"No..." Doyle shook his head, too scared to give in and believe even now. "No...no-one believed me..."

"I did, Ray," Bodie told him, voice thick with emotion. "Please believe that, you must believe that."

Doyle was still shaking his head in denial of Bodie's words but his eyes were looking at him as if he were trying to see the truth written somewhere.

"I've always believed, Ray, right from the beginning. Cowley believed in you and...I trusted him."

"B...Bodie?" Doyle's head sank down onto his chest as if he were too weak to hold it up and he slumped against the wall.

Holding his breath, Bodie inched towards him; he still couldn't afford to alarm Doyle.

Only inches away, Doyle suddenly lifted his head and Bodie froze, expecting the fingers to tighten on the trigger. Instead, Doyle looked at him, wide-eyed, confused and frightened. "What's happening to me, Bodie?" he asked brokenly. "Please...help me...please..."

Responding to the plea for help, Bodie reached out instinctively and gathered Doyle into a protective embrace. Almost crushing the exhausted man to him, he could feel the cold hard metal of the gun pressing against his own chest. Pulling Doyle into a more comfortable position, Bodie slid a hand between their close-pressed bodies and gently withdrew the gun from the lax grip. Pushing the gun out of reach, Bodie felt the relief wash over him and he held his partner tight, safe in the protection of his arms and soothed him as he wept. "Shh," he said softly. "It's all over now, all over."

Downstairs in the corridor, the group straining to hear the sounds emanating from the speaker breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Bring them down off the roof and clear the area--we don't want too many people milling around when Bodie brings him down," Ross said, taking charge. Ceding authority, Hardy issued the necessary orders and soon only the two doctors and Cowley remained.

Upstairs, the two men sat clinging together, talking in hushed whispers.

"Bodie?" Ray spoke hesitantly. "I don't know what happened, I can't remember...did I hurt that man? I didn't mean to but he had a gun. Why do they have guns? It was just there in my hand," he said anxiously. "I didn't mean to use it--it was just there."

"You haven't hurt anyone," Bodie said firmly. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Why was he armed, Bodie? What sort of hospital has armed guards?" Doyle asked as he gave a little wriggle and burrowed into his partner's embrace.

"This sort of hospital," Bodie answered wryly. "You must have noticed that this place was different from your normal run-of-the-mill place."

"Is it a prison--am I a prisoner?" Doyle's voice had a catch in it and he clung tightly as if afraid of the answer.

"You're not a prisoner," Bodie said firmly, willing Doyle to believe him. "You've done nothing wrong and you're not here to be punished; you're here because..." Bodie faltered.

"Because it's a safe place to go bonkers?" Doyle asked astutely.

"Well...yes," he said honestly. "It's a secure establishment, patients are safe from the outside world and..."

"And the public are safe from dangerous nutters?"

"I think there's more to this place than that," Bodie admitted, "but basically that's it."

"Thought so," Doyle said, his voice flat and unemotional. He sniffed once, twice, and then pulled away from the embrace and tugged the borrowed hanky from his pocket. After blowing his nose and rubbing the wetness from his face, he turned to peer down the stairwell. "I expect there's a reception committee waiting down there."

"I expect there is," Bodie agreed.

Doyle made no move to get up and Bodie also stayed put. "What's going to happen to me now?" he asked, turning to look at Bodie.

Almost drowning in the frighteningly vulnerable green-eyed stare, Bodie felt his mouth dry up and his heart beat faster. "They only want to help you, Ray," he said.

"I know that," he said, "but..." Doyle shook his head and slumped back against the wall, pulling free of the encircling arms.

"But what?" asked Bodie quickly, seeing Doyle retreating into himself again.

"This place..." Doyle said softly as he wrapped his own arms around himself, "they won't let me leave, will they? They're going to keep me here, they're going to force me to stay here."

Seeing the hysteria threatening to rise again, Bodie clambered to his knees and moved closer, resting one hand around the back of Doyle's neck under the heavy curls and tipping the downbent face upwards with an insistent touch of his other hand under his chin. He waited until Doyle opened his eyes before he spoke. "No-one is going to force you to do anything," he said forcefully. "You're not a prisoner and this is not a prison."

"Then why can't I leave?" Doyle cried out. "Why won't they let me go?"

"Because they want to help you, Ray," Bodie said helplessly. "No-one wants to hurt you--"

"Christ knows I need help," Doyle admitted raggedly, fresh tears spilling over his cheeks. "But not here--don't leave me here," he begged.

"Ray--"

"It is a prison," Doyle cried. "It is. I can't live like this, Bodie, not any more. I want to get out, I want to leave here... I can't stay here, I can't."

"The doctors are here, let them help you--"

"No!" Doyle said fiercely. "Not here, I can't. They lock all the doors, Bodie. And the windows. There aren't any bars but it's just as bad. I can't go outside unless someone is with me. Even if they leave me alone someone is watching me, they've got cameras all over and they watch me all the time. I can't ever relax because they're always there--always."

"Only because they're worried about you. I'm worried for you, as well," Bodie said. "We've known you needed help but we couldn't make you see it--"

"It's like living under a microscope," Doyle said, trying desperately to make Bodie understand. "I know they are watching me, watching everything I do. I know they only want to help, I know that--I know I need help, everything is all so...mixed up, I know that, I'm not stupid, but...this place, it is a prison and they're going to keep me here, locked away until I'm all right again, I can't...I just can't..."

Too exhausted to fight anymore, Doyle allowed Bodie to pull him into another embrace as he cried softly, lacking the energy to do anything else.

Holding him there, Bodie rubbed his hands over Doyle's back, soothing the tension he found there, rubbing with circular motions up and down the taut spine from neck to waist. By degrees, he felt the stiff body relax until it became supple and soft under his hands.

Exhausted, Doyle had fallen asleep. Bodie carried on holding him as he considered his next course of action. At least Doyle had finally admitted he needed help--which was a start, but he still seemed desperate to leave The Beeches. In his partner's confused mind it was a prison, as much of one as Maidstone had been. Until he was settled and relaxed, Bodie guessed the doctors would be unable to help him. But where else could he go? Bodie didn't know; but there had to be an answer somewhere.

Doyle awoke from his short slumber with a start; disoriented and lost, he looked around with wide eyes and clutched at Bodie. "'S okay," Bodie said hurriedly. "I'm still here, I'm not leaving you anywhere."

Focussing on him at last, Doyle just stared bleakly, clearly not believing him.

"When I leave here so will you," Bodie promised. "There are other places that can help you. Places with fewer locked doors that you can go to from home, as a day patient perhaps," he suggested. "Would you feel happier doing that?"

"You'll help me get away from here?" Doyle asked, amazed.

"You're coming back with me tonight," Bodie told him, praying he was doing the right thing. "If this place bothers you so much, it's not going to do you any good to stay here. As long as you get help in London you'll be okay, won't you?"

"Will they let me go?" Doyle asked doubtfully.

"We won't ask them," he said defiantly, knowing 'they' had been listening to all that had happened. "We'll tell them--they can fix up something in London."

Doyle looked relieved at his partner's confidence; if Bodie said he could leave, it would happen.

"Are you ready to go down yet?" Bodie asked gently.

Doyle looked uncertain, his fear returning despite his belief in Bodie. "You won't let them keep me here?"

"Not if you want to leave."

"I do," Doyle said quickly. "But they might..."

"We're both leaving here tonight," Bodie said firmly. "Regardless of what they think, I'm taking you home."

Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Bodie rose to his feet, then held out a hand for Doyle. Ray looked up at him anxiously; for a long time neither man moved but Bodie waited patiently. At last Doyle seemed to reach a decision and he took the offered hand to lift himself up. Unsteady on his feet and feeling cramped, he clung to the hand for support as well as comfort.

"Ready?" Bodie asked softly, prepared to wait until he was.

After another worried glance down the stairwell, Doyle seemed to pull himself together; he nodded, unable actually to say the words.

Giving the hand resting in his a reassuring squeeze, Bodie turned to lead the way down. Even as he saw Doyle move, he knew what he was reaching for and Bodie's heart missed a beat. Picking the forgotten gun up from the floor, Doyle tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and then turned to meet a pair of stunned blue eyes.

He had completely forgotten the gun!

"What's wrong?" Doyle asked worriedly. "Bodie?"

"Er..." Bodie floundered, his brain choosing that moment to shut down. "Ray...let me take that..." he managed to get out.

"This?" Doyle took the gun from his belt. "Okay," he said, handing it over.

"Er...thanks," Bodie said, shocked that he could have been so stupid.

"It's okay, Bodie," Doyle said with a soft smile. "I wasn't going to use it."

Bodie believed him. Still weak from relief, though, he pocketed the gun and turned to take them both down the stairs. Meek as a lamb, Doyle followed.

On the bottom landing, just before opening the door to the corridor, Bodie paused to check Doyle was all right, the grip on his hand almost painfully tight.

"Don't leave me behind," Doyle pleaded. "Don't let them make you leave me!"

"You're coming home with me tonight," Bodie promised yet again.

They opened the door and stepped into the corridor. A few yards away Cowley, Ross and Hardy were sitting by a desk. Ross stood up as they approached. "Hello, Ray, Bodie," she said, voice neutral.

"I'm taking Ray out of here and back to London to my place tonight," Bodie said in a voice that told him he wasn't prepared to discuss the subject. The grip on his left hand tightened even more and Doyle moved closer to stand half behind him, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

"It's very late, why not sleep here tonight and go back in the morning?" Ross suggested.

"No!" Doyle shouted. "Now--not in the morning. Bodie?"

"We're leaving now," Bodie responded.

"All right," she agreed. "I'll have a driver take you."

"Just us, Bodie--no-one else!" Doyle said urgently.

"I'll drive," Bodie told her.

"My car is just outside, Bodie," Cowley told him. "The keys are here," he dropped them onto the table.

Ross returned to the desk as the two men moved to get the keys. "We will return in the helicopter. When you've arrived in London, call me at headquarters tonight if you can, but leave it until the morning if not, and we'll talk about tomorrow," she said to Bodie. "Ray, I have some tablets here for you, they will help you to sleep properly. Will you take them?"

Expecting trickery, Doyle didn't answer her; instead, he clung tighter to Bodie.

"I'll give them to him later," Bodie said, reaching for them. "When we're in London." The keys and tablets in his hand, he turned to move away, heading for the exit.

"Bodie," Cowley called out from where he sat, "hadn't you better leave your gun behind?" Although voiced as a suggestion, Bodie knew better. They still couldn't afford to take risks. Ignoring Doyle's whispered, frantic urging, he left the two guns on the desk top.

"Come on, Ray, let's go."

Outside was deserted; the whole area was floodlit, though, and at the corner of the building he saw Cowley's car. Tugging Doyle along, he walked over to it and opened the passenger door.

Eyes frantically looking all around him, starting at every little noise, Doyle was trembling violently and he refused to let go of Bodie's hand. "Bodie?" he said, alarmed when he felt him trying to ease out of the tight grip. "Don't leave me here! Don't leave me Bodie!"

"Just get in the car, Ray," Bodie said. "Sit in there and then we'll be off."

"No!" Doyle cried. "Don't leave me please."

"Ray..." Exasperated, Bodie looked around them. He only wanted Doyle to let go while he got in the car but clearly he was too scared to. "Okay, let me get in first then," he said, resigned to the fact he had lost possession of his left arm. Struggling over the passenger seat, gear stick and hand brake he managed to get the key in the ignition. Beside him Ray slammed the door and locked it.

"I can't drive with one hand, Ray," he told him gently.

Doyle reluctantly released the tight-held hand but not before looking all round the car--even behind them in the back seats.

Driving slowly, they made their way to the main gates. They were wide open and no guards were visible. Doyle spent the first twenty miles looking backwards, unable to believe they were not being followed.

Bodie tried to talk during the long drive but eventually gave up; Doyle just wasn't listening.

Pulling up outside the tall building in which he lived, Bodie switched off the engine, the sudden silence breaking into Doyle's introspection.

"What? Why have you stopped? Where are we, Bodie?"

"Home," he replied. "Out you get."

"Bodie!"

"There's no one here except us, Ray," he said calmly as he opened his door and climbed out. By the time his second foot touched the pavement Doyle was there with him, clutching his arm again.

With Doyle still jumping at shadows, they entered the building. Inside the flat they inspected every empty room before Doyle could be persuaded to release his grip.

With his partner a consistent two steps behind him, Bodie moved around the kitchen making them something to eat. It was almost midnight; he'd eaten nothing since breakfast and he guessed Doyle had missed as many meals.

Forcing Doyle to sit down with a bowl of soup and some bread, he raided the fridge and pulled the cheese out. But although both men were hungry neither ate much.

"You look half asleep already," Bodie said, taking the unwanted food away. "Why don't you go and have a bath while I clear this up?"

"Okay," Doyle agreed tiredly and, to Bodie's surprise, he got up and walked away to the bathroom.

After clearing up the kitchen Bodie pulled sheets and blankets from the airing cupboard and went into the spare room to make up the bed there. That done, he tapped lightly on the bathroom door.

"It's open," Doyle called out. Inside the steamy room, Doyle was wrapped in a huge bathsheet and was just brushing his hair.

"Bed's ready when you are," Bodie told him. "Do you want one of those tablets Ross gave me?"

Doyle thought about it for a moment. "I suppose so," he decided finally. "I expect they'll do me some good--can't make me feel any worse than I already do."

Pleased to see a spark of humour reappearing, Bodie went to get the tablets. Returning only a few minutes later he saw the bathroom light was off and so went straight to Doyle's room.

It was empty.

Heart thudding, Bodie almost ran to the front door, which he found was still locked, all the security locks in place. Puzzled, he went back along the hall and stepped into his own room just in time to see Doyle, naked slipping into his bed.

Relief coursed through him and Bodie slumped back onto the door frame. In the warm glow of the bedside lamps Doyle, oblivious to the man standing in the doorway, made himself comfortable. His heartrate slowing back to normal, Bodie just watched, drinking in the sight of him, pleased beyond measure to have found him safe and only just beginning to understand what he had very nearly lost earlier in the day. The picture of Doyle staring at the gun pressed to his chest was one that was going to haunt him for a very long time.

In control now, he stepped into the room, putting the water tumbler onto the bedside table; he perched on the edge of the bed and passed the tablets over. Doyle swallowed them without demur and lay back down. Bodie tugged the duvet up and smoothed it out under his chin.

"You get some sleep now," he ordered gently.

"Mm..." Doyle mumbled, already more asleep than awake. "You too..."

"I won't be long," Bodie answered.

"Hurry up..." Doyle ordered sleepily.

Leaving the bed, Bodie went round the flat turning off the lights and closing the door to the spare room. After a quick shower he padded barefoot into the bedroom. Out of habit he went to close the curtains but remembered just in time. Slipping out of his robe, he switched off the lamp on his side and knelt on the bed, stretching over to turn off Doyle's light.

"Don't!" Doyle said loudly.

Bodie froze as he leant over Doyle--he had thought he was fast asleep. "I'm only turning the lamp off," he explained, reaching out for the switch again.

"No, don't--leave it on, please!" Doyle held Bodie's arm, stopping him from completing his action. Caught off balance, Bodie fell against him; he could feel Doyle's heart racing and he gave in.

"Okay, sunshine," he said mildly. "The light stays on."

Relaxing his grip, Doyle slid his hand down until he caught Bodie's hand then, holding it snugly, he closed his eyes and rolled away, pulling both their hands under the covers and resting them on his belly. Bending his knees slightly, he inched backwards across the bed until he made contact with Bodie's naked warmth, gave a final little wriggle, a mumble of contentment and went back to sleep.

Overwhelmed by the unconscious display of trust Doyle had just given, Bodie shook his head in amazement and settled himself down to sleep. The light was a nuisance he would have preferred to have done without but he wasn't prepared to make an issue of it. Giving Doyle's legs a nudge with his own knees, Bodie eased himself into a more comfortable position wrapped snugly around his partner and was rapidly overtaken by a blanketing sleep that was not entirely dreamless...

---

...Sheltering from the rain, Bodie glanced at his stopwatch. Any minute now he expected to see Doyle appear round the corner--sure enough, there he was, running easily, breathing hard but not ragged.

"Your best time yet," he told him with a smile.

"Why are you hiding in there?" Doyle asked as he ran on the spot to keep himself warm. "Scared of getting wet, are you?" his voice light and teasing.

"No. But you're soaked. You should come in and get changed, have a shower," Bodie suggested.

"Sounds great," Doyle agreed and together they trotted off towards the shower room.

Once inside Doyle started peeling off his wet things; Bodie sat down with his charts and filled them in. He was very aware of the slender body making sensuous pirouettes under the jets of hot water. He put the clipboard down, the charts forgotten.

"Pass me my towel?" Doyle asked as he completed another slow turn.

Bodie picked the towel up and walked towards the shower. Turning the jets off, Doyle opened his eyes and pushed the heavy wet curls back off his forehead.

"Dry my back?" Doyle asked softly, turning away.

Bodie patted the shoulders dry but the saturated hair only dripped on them, making them wet again. He lifted the towel up and rubbed it over Doyle's head, returning then to the damp shoulders and lower over shoulder blades and finally moving down his back to the upward curve of muscular buttocks. His hands slowed as the towel lingered there, rubbing, pressing as Doyle leant backwards with a murmur of soft pleasure.

"Now my front," he ordered seductively.

Obedient, Bodie patted the moisture away from his face, leaning forward to kiss each part as he dried it, eyes, nose, cheeks and finally the full lips. The towel hung between them but through its folds, Bodie could feel Doyle's heat and the rising hardness that matched his own. He released the towel and pulled Doyle towards him, capturing the open mouth with a deep, lingering kiss. Hot, damp fingers reached for the zipper of Bodie's tracksuit and he pulled back far enough for them to open the jacket and slip it back off his shoulders, his trousers and pants soon joining the towel and jacket on the shower floor.

Breaking their kiss, Doyle pulled away slightly and turned, presenting his back, smiling; his eyes slitted with anticipation, he tipped his head back to rest it on Bodie's shoulder, turning slightly so his tongue could steal out and capture the salt sweet taste of his lover.

Bodie was forced to endure the sensations of Doyle licking a swathe along his throat while his hands were imprisoned and pulled down to capture their own prize. His cock, hard and hot, was trapped in the crevice of Doyle's buttocks and he moved his hips to increase the exquisite pleasure. Beneath his hands he felt his partner throb and grow in response and he pushed again and again.

As the heat inside him grew, Bodie became desperate for more and he rubbed his face against Doyle's hair, forcing the curly head sideways so he could latch onto some bare skin. Compliant, Doyle let his head roll and offered his throat, only making a small moan as sharp teeth bit too hard, but Bodie was too far gone to hear it, intent now only on his need and his heat...

---

..."Bodie?" Doyle mumbled sleepily as he tried to escape the sharp teeth.

As climax tore through him Bodie heard the soft protest but ignored it and pulled the warm body closer as the final convulsions swept over him and the hot silky wetness poured over their skin.

"Bodie..." Another mumble followed by a wriggle pulled Bodie back to awareness. On a cloud of elation and well being, he nuzzled at Doyle's neck and slid his hips back and forth, enjoying the sensual pleasure of the simple movement. He slid his hands down to complete Doyle's pleasure but encountered a limp softness; smiling languidly, he kissed the offered throat again.

"Bodie..."

Doyle's voice filtered through his sense of well being; it sounded...odd and he wondered what was wrong. Rousing himself, Bodie pulled away from the semen-slick buttocks and removed his hands from the lax genitals.

Realisation hit like a cold shower.

"Bodie...too hot...hot, Bodie..." Doyle complained sleepily.

Bodie was out of the bed and staring at the evidence of his crime with a growing, sick horror. Exposed by Bodie's hasty exit, Doyle's buttocks were glistening with a sheen of semen, his eyes darting around under closed eyelids.

"Bodie..."

Shaking, Bodie managed to drape the duvet around the restless sleeper, praying the whole time that he would continue to sleep, that he would never know what had just happened.

Waiting until Doyle was sleeping restfully again, Bodie backed out of the bedroom.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Doyle awoke with a start, snapped from a dream by a sudden commotion in the street outside the bedroom window. At first, disoriented and befuddled with sleep, he panicked--but then he remembered and sagged back down, sighing with relief. The bed beside him was empty and he wondered where Bodie was. His mouth felt dry and his head thick and muzzy. Sitting up, he took a mouthful of room temperature water from the glass on the bedside table. It tasted awful.

Pushing the duvet back, he swung his legs out of bed and then considered the wisdom of getting up. Upright, his head was more than muzzy, and a steady throb began behind his eyes. A shower, he decided, then something to drink. Feeling at least a hundred years old, he forced his stiff muscles to get him into the bathroom and under a refreshing shower of water.

Clean and dry, he wandered back into the bedroom; his clothes were still in the untidy heap he had left them in last night. He picked up his shirt, wrinkled his nose in disgust, dropped it again and then opened Bodie's wardrobe.

In the kitchen Bodie heard him approach but couldn't make himself turn around to face him.

"Good afternoon. Sleep well, did you?" he said in a carefully controlled voice.

"Like a log," Doyle replied, "or rather, like someone hit me over the head with a log. What the hell's in those tablets?"

"Just a strong sedative," Bodie said. "I rang Ross when you hadn't woken up at lunchtime. She said you'd probably sleep the clock round."

"What time...is it?" Doyle asked around an enormous yawn.

"Half three. Coffee? Something to eat?"

"Coffee," Doyle said. "Don't think I could face food."

"Later then," Bodie said, pouring a cup out and passing it over.

Doyle had helped himself to one of his shirts and it swamped the damp, tousled, jeanclad figure that was wearing it. Unbuttoned, the shirt gaped, exposing Doyle to the snug band of his jeans. Always slim, he now looked gaunt, his ribs clearly visible as were the lines of strain and dark circles around his eyes. Even so, Bodie had never seen anything more desirable in his whole life.

Doyle caught the surprised look.

"Borrowed your shirt," he confessed. "Don't mind, do you?"

"No," Bodie managed to force out.

"Good--helped myself to your underpants as well," then with a wicked gleam said, "I'd never have taken you for a g-string man."

Bodie could feel the blush rising from his toes as he remembered the posing pouches someone had given him for Christmas.

"Just goes to prove that old saying--never judge a book by its cover," he covered quickly.

"You can say that again," Doyle agreed, taking a sip of scalding coffee. "I had you pegged as a Y-fronts or maybe boxer shorts bloke."

"Oh really," Bodie choked, finding the whole subject a bit much. "What sort do you favour then?"

"Whatever's comfortable, but generally as little as possible.

"Oh," Bodie managed, not entirely surprised.

"Went through a wild phase once though," Doyle admitted. "Didn't wear anything at all."

"Like living dangerously, do you?" Bodie said.

"No--which was why I stopped. I remember years ago, just after I moved out of uniform, there was a siege in a shopping centre in the next division. The blokes holed up only agreed to talk to police they could see weren't armed. Made them strip to their underpants and socks. Made the front page of all the nationals. One of them was a Y-front man, but I remember his sidekick--little briefs with kittens all over them. After that every shop for miles around the station was sold out of boxer shorts. We were all terrified we'd get caught by a copy-cat siege."

Bodie had a vague memory of seeing the press photographs and managed to raise a smile. "Could have been very embarrassing," he agreed.

"Well," Doyle said, pushing the cup aside, the light suddenly leaving his eyes, "what did Ross have to say for herself? Expecting you to take me back, are they?"

"No," Bodie said quietly. "You're not going back to Beeches."

"Somewhere else, then?" Doyle's eyes were staring at the coffee cup.

"She wants to know if you would be willing to visit another doctor at a place called Repton."

"Another nuthouse, is it?"

"No. I've stayed at Repton. It's an MoD place, a lot of blokes who've served in Ireland go there for convalescence. It's got a hospital wing, and a psychiatric wing, but mainly it's like a big hotel. It's not a bad place, and it's only just off the north circular road, wouldn't take us more than thirty minutes to get there."

"What does she mean when she says visit? Wouldn't I have to stay there?"

"No. You can go in each day. If you agree, they'd like you there every day for a while--but later you'd only have to go a few times a week. It'll be up to you to go when you want as often as you want." Bodie told him what Ross had explained.

"What's the catch?" Doyle asked, wary of the unexpected freedom.

"There's no catch," Bodie assured him.

"So I don't have to go at all?" Doyle asked disbelievingly.

"Ah...well," Bodie hedged. "Regardless of whether you want to stay on the squad, you admit you could do with some help, don't you?" Bodie said, relieved when Doyle gave a cautious nod. It was a start, he told himself. "If you'd rather get that help on your own, they'll help you, but if you want to stay with...with the squad you have to go to Repton."

Receiving the ultimatum without comment, Doyle finished drinking his coffee and left the kitchen. Buttoning up the shirt and tucking it in his jeans, he wandered through to the bay window in the lounge and peered down into the street below. Some choice, he thought sourly. It was no choice at all.

In the kitchen, Bodie sank into the chair vacated by his partner. Doyle hadn't looked too happy with his choice and Bodie couldn't blame him. Why on earth would he want to stay with CI5; or with him, his inner voice chipped in. What had the department done for him except continue to make him feel isolated? Too few voices had spoken up against Day's accusations. Some choice, he thought bitterly. It was no choice at all.

"Do I have to go to Repton today?" Doyle asked softly from his position by the kitchen door.

Bodie's heart leapt. He was surprised and didn't mind Doyle seeing it.

"Well," the smaller man said defensively, "what else am I going to do--sell bloody encyclopaedias?"

"I'll ring Ross and tell her but I doubt they'll want you today. How do you feel about tomorrow?"

"Will you go with me?"

"I'll take you there if you want."

"Only as a day patient, though--I won't stay there," Doyle warned.

"I'll be your own personal escort," Bodie promised. "I'll take you and I'll bring you home when you're ready."

"Have you been assigned nursemaid duties?" Doyle asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Had to be someone," Bodie replied in an offhand manner, shrugging his shoulders. "Why--would you prefer someone else?"

"Hell, no," Doyle said firmly. "It's taken me all this time to train you right!" He smiled affectionately as he spoke.

Bodie's insides flipped and churned under the impact of the lazy smile and he struggled to return it. Doyle must never know, must never guess how he felt about him. He knew Doyle trusted him. Bodie knew that if his partner ever suspected the truth it would end everything.

"Am I confined to barracks or am I allowed out?" Doyle asked, wondering what had caused his friend to look so worried.

"You can go anywhere you want," Bodie answered quickly, "as long as you don't object to my company."

Never, Doyle thought suddenly, fiercely, never; without his noticing it happen, Bodie had become very important to him and he wondered if Bodie realised how much. From nowhere a flash of last night's dream returned; in the obsidian, suffocating world he'd found himself, he was trying to escape the calling, crying, crowing voices that beckoned him toward the harsh light. He wanted to escape but the voices and the light scared him and he'd clung to the blanket of dark. One voice, louder yet softer than the others, had called out to him, pulling him forwards. Then Bodie had been there, so close that even in the dark he had known him, recognised him and trusted him. Together they had walked towards the light.

"Course I don't object to your company," Doyle said gruffly, the feeling of being protected and loved by the man in front of him still lingering from his dream.

---

As the evening got later Bodie was careful not to let Doyle see how nervous he was about the prospect of sharing a bed with him. He let Ray use the bathroom first and took an age on his own turn, hoping that the sleeping tablet would have worked by the time he got into bed.

He saw Doyle swallow the tablet as he tiptoed into the bedroom. Determined that last night wouldn't happen again, he climbed into bed, turned the light on his side out, and rolled onto his side facing away from Doyle.

He wondered if he imagined Doyle's surprised sound.

On the edge of drug-induced sleep, Doyle felt unaccountably lonely and he turned over to face towards Bodie.

"You awake?" he mumbled.

"No!" Bodie said, sounding very far from sleep.

"Will you..."

"Will I what?" he asked without turning over.

"Will you be able to stay with me tomorrow?" Doyle asked hesitantly.

"You really don't need me there, Ray," Bodie told him. "I'll collect you when you're ready to come home."

"Oh," Ray said unhappily.

Bodie sighed. Give him whatever he wants, Ross had told him. "Okay, I'll clear it with Cowley and I'll stay with you all day."

"Thanks, Bodie," Doyle said, a lot more cheerful. "Just for tomorrow...just while I see what...the place...is...'

Bodie was caught by surprise when Doyle suddenly shifted across the bed and slipped one arm securely across his waist. Asleep in seconds, Doyle was unaware of the tension of the body in his arms. From the feel of the soft, hot breaths fanning his shoulder and the unusual prickle of chest hair pressed along his spine right down to the lax genitals nestling along his buttocks, Bodie had never been so aware of his own body.

Bodie tried to inch away but succeeded only in dislodging the relaxed arm resting on his belly to slip down, the back of Doyle's fingers brushing the burgeoning hopefulness of his cock.

He closed his lips on the moan of frustration that rose up from the centre of his being and carefully, reluctantly, lifted the hand away.

Sleep now the furthest thing from his mind, Bodie suffered the agony of Doyle's closeness. Unable to ignore his erect cock a moment longer, he took hold of himself and pumped hard; he tried unsuccessfully to keep his movements shallow so as not to disturb Doyle, but his hips rose and fell in response to his hand's work.

The shock of feeling the hardening pulse against his buttocks delayed his search for release, leaving him erect and throbbing, his balls hard and tight. Hardly able to believe his senses, Bodie lifted his hip experimentally--and was rewarded by another pulse against his buttocks as Doyle, stimulated by the gentle rocking, grew erect. Doyle mumbled and pulled on Bodie's hips, drawing him closer and increasing the pressure.

"Ray?" Bodie whispered breathlessly. There was no answer and Bodie turned over expectantly.

Doyle was still fast asleep. The drug pumping around his system was giving him the rest he desperately needed.

"Jesus!" Bodie swore, sinking back onto the bed.

Robbed of the source of its pleasure, Doyle's body relaxed back into a deeper sleep, the arousal fading swiftly--leaving Bodie aroused, alone and with his balls in knots.

---

The short drive to Repton was completed in an uneasy silence. Bodie, tired edgy and tense, was concentrating on acting normally, ignoring the dull, unsatisfied ache at his centre.

Doyle, his mind still fogged by the effects of the sleeping pills, didn't notice his partner's odd behaviour; he was more concerned about what waited for him at Repton. He still wasn't entirely convinced that Bodie wasn't going to leave him there. He believed Bodie when he said he intended them to return home together--he just couldn't see them letting Bodie keep his promise.

Turning off the main road and up the short drive, Bodie parked the car and switched the engine off. Beside him, tense and ill at ease, Doyle made no move to get out. Bodie sat quietly as his passenger looked around them, at the building in front of them. Somewhere, someone was playing tennis and the thump, thwack of a ball hitting the racket sounded very loud.

When Doyle finished looking at everything, he sat very still, eyes fixed on the dashboard. Bodie opened the door on his side and climbed out, walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger side.

It took a few minutes but eventually Doyle swung his legs out and moved aside. Bodie slammed the door shut and moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with him.

"Ready?" he asked quietly, prepared to wait until he was.

"No," croaked Doyle, unaware that his fear was visible.

"Take your time," Bodie said gently. "No one's going to force you to do anything, or stay where you don't want to be."

"Is that a promise?" Doyle asked in a quiet voice, finally taking his eyes away from the main door to look at Bodie.

"Yes," Bodie said and Doyle knew he meant it.

"Okay," he sighed and took the first step. "Let's get it over with."

They entered the building together.

---

Pushing himself up off the sofa, Doyle stretched, yawning widely and arching his back.

"Umph!" he grunted noisily. "I'm off to bed," he said and shuffled towards the bedroom.

From under hooded eyes, Bodie watched him. "I want to see the next programme," he said, pretending not to look up. "See you in the morning."

"'Kay. Goodnight," Doyle said happily and trotted out.

"Don't forget to have one of those tablets," reminded Bodie.

Doyle's head reappeared around the door. "Think I'll give 'em a miss," he told him. "I can't wake up properly in the morning--"

"Take them," Bodie ordered, then more gently added, "You need the sleep, Ray."

Doyle wrinkled his nose in disgust but gave in. "Hate taking sleeping pills," he mumbled. "Suppose you're right, though."

Bodie sat through the unremarkable American import that was nowhere near as funny as the studio audience led one to believe. Resigned to another night of torture, he padded quietly into the bedroom to collect his robe.

Not quite asleep, Doyle opened heavy eyes to see him standing in the doorway. "Hurry up," he ordered thickly. "Thought you'd fallen asleep in the other room. Hurry up and get in," he said.

"Just going to have a shower," Bodie told him, retreating to the safety of the bathroom.

Shutting the door, Bodie leant back on it, and closing his eyes in despair, groaned his frustration. All that he wanted, all he most desired from life at that moment, was lying in his bed, urging him to hurry up and join him there. Never before had Bodie suffered the agonies of such prolonged, unrelieved sexual frustration. Throughout the previous night he had warred with his body's demands over his conscience. His efforts at furtive masturbation had served to stimulate the man lying trustingly along his back and his one desperate attempt to escape the torture had failed when Doyle had refused to release him, instinctively keeping the source of his comfort close--too close for Bodie's peace of mind.

"Bodie! Hurry up!" Doyle's voice tinged with irritation, drifted into the bathroom.

"Won't be long," Bodie called out. Doyle, he knew, was waiting until he was in bed before allowing himself to fall asleep. From painful past experience, both men knew it was unwise for Bodie to attempt to get in beside him if he was already asleep.

Stripping slowly, almost dreamily, Bodie's thoughts returned to the previous night. Dropping his shirt into the laundry bin, he remembered the prickly softness of Doyle's chest hair as it brushed across his back. Trousers and pants were shed unnoticed as he felt anew the lax warmth of Doyle's cock against his bare buttocks. Unthinking, his hand slipped behind him and he touched the spot where they had nestled; he remembered the gentle pules as the softness had changed, responding to the rise and fall of his own hips.

He closed his hand on his new hardness to relieve the rising heat, remembering how it had been last night and, even better, how it had been the night before when he had first responded to the siren's song. The dream refused to fade as dreams ought and had haunted his waking hours as well as his sleep. Closing his eyes, Bodie surrendered to the sensations; leaning against the bathroom door, he began a hard beat with one hand whilst fondling the furry sacs with the other, and on his closed lids he pictured the man sleeping, naked and trusting, in his bed.

He felt the tightness in his balls and knew it was too soon, too quick, and he tried to stop it but his body ruled his hand at that moment, not his mind, and with a final beat and caress, he came, joylessly, reluctantly and with no pleasure.

Reality was a cold door, a metal handle digging into his hip, a harsh light and sticky fingers. Disgusted with himself, Bodie rinsed his hands clean and turned the shower full on. Picking up the soap, he cleaned his body by rubbing his hands over himself, over face, chest, arms and finally, movements slowing and becoming less clinical as they touched, his belly. Lower, the touch changed again as he brushed still sensitive nerves and his fingers closed on a cock that was still half-hard and demanding its own special treatment and care.

Looking down as he handled himself, Bodie felt his resolve falter, then vanish without regret. Stroking himself to attention, Bodie smiled; a few harmless fantasies, he though, what harm could they do? As long as Ray never found out, never guessed what he dreamt about, it would never matter. Only he would know.

He turned the water on harder and turned toward the fierce jets, letting them hit his unprotected penis, each little jolt of hard, hot heat adding to the pleasure that grew. If only Doyle were here with him it would be very different, he thought, very different; then it would be Doyle's touch on his cock, Doyle squeezing and fondling his balls. Closing his eyes once more, Bodie took himself into his hands and imagined they were Doyle's. He filled his hand with water then cupped it around the glistening, seeking cock-head and imagined it was Doyle's mouth, the fingernail scratching the exposed glans his teeth. His other hand roamed over the base of his cock and testicles, pressing and rolling them, his fingers delving down and under them and he parted his legs further, squatting to give himself greater access. Another hand, cupped full of water, enclosed his cock-head just as his first finger touched the tight closed sphincter and he groaned aloud as the sensations ripped through him. Clamping his hand tightly over his spurting penis, he just managed to keep his balance and lock his knees. Even now it was Doyle's hand that rubbed him gently, that held him whilst the tremors shook him; it was Doyle's hand that cleaned him and draped the towel around him. All the time it was Doyle--until he opened his eyes.

In the bedroom he looked at his sleepy partner with a lover's look and managed to smile. Doyle need never knew, he told himself as, satisfied and relaxed from his loving, he slid into bed beside him.

"'bout bloody time, too!" Doyle mumbled sleepily as he inched across the bed and wrapped himself around the warm, clean freshness of his partner.

Tonight, Bodie was able to accept the touches without the ache of frustration. His daydreams fully satisfied, contented and untroubled, he accepted the embrace of his dream-lover and slept.

---

The journey to Repton on the second morning was only a slight improvement on the first visit. Doyle managed to open the car door without being prompted, although his eyes made sure Bodie was at his side as he walked through the main door. But from there on, Bodie counted the day a success. Doyle emerged from one of the small consulting rooms after a two-hour session, bright and cheerful and with more visible energy than he'd shown for a long time. Apart from an appointment with Willis, the CI5 doctor, later that day at headquarters, the day was theirs.

The previous day, while Doyle had been having his first session with the real psychologist, Bodie had been briefed by Ross on his partner's treatment; the mornings would consist of individual sessions and the afternoons would be free for recreation and relaxation. It was explained that whilst they wouldn't force Doyle to stay at the centre in the afternoons, it was hoped he would make use of the facilities.

"His remaining here for the whole day is necessary to enable the team to assess his recovery," Ross had told him. "Because of what took place at Beeches, I am reluctant to make this a requirement of his treatment. Therefore I am relying on you, 3.7, to convince him it would be to his advantage."

"He's still not happy about coming here for the session with the doctor, I don't know if I'll be able to get him to stay once that's finished," Bodie said worriedly.

"You must," Ross told him insistently. "Until he's emotionally stable we can't risk forcing him to do anything."

And so yesterday when Doyle had emerged, quiet and tired from his first session, Bodie had shown him all the facilities Repton had to offer, taking care to note which areas caused a spark of interest in the anxious eyes. They had left only an hour after lunch but today Bodie had come prepared. Once Doyle had pushed his food around his plate, until Bodie had despaired of ever seeing him eat a decent meal again, they had left to walk down to the gym, the swimming pool and from there, to Dr Willis for a thorough medical.

Whenever he thought he was to be separated from Bodie, Doyle's eyes would catch his partner's, silently imploring him to stay close, still not utterly convinced there were no plans to whisk him away from the safety of his protection. Apart from the hours spent with the psychologist, they remained together all the time. Doyle had wanted Bodie to enter the consulting room with him but had been forced to accept the exclusion; even so, Bodie knew he had to be there waiting for him the moment he emerged from the session. Dr Willis, although known to Doyle, was no more to be trusted than any of the other medical staff at Repton and he had silently asked Bodie to remain in the room throughout the examination.

Watching Doyle being put through his paces brought home to Bodie how close he had come to losing him. Willis--always quick to belabour Doyle on the problems of being underweight--was seriously concerned and told his patient so in no uncertain terms.

"There is no way I will clear you fit for return to any kind of duty before your weight reaches ten stone," the doctor told him, leaving Doyle in no doubt that he meant it. "You must follow the diet sheet--use diet supplements if you must--but I expect you to gain a minimum of fourteen pounds."

Doyle opened his mouth to protest but closed it without saying anything; he knew Willis was right.

Apart from his weight loss, though, there were no other serious problems; both the fractured arm and head injury had healed well.

"Are you still taking the sleeping tablets?" Willis asked. Doyle nodded. "Try and reduce it to one tablet a night, then in a week reduce it to a half or even stop them altogether. You should be able to judge whether or not you need them," he said.

Watching the examination through clinical eyes, Bodie was shocked to see how the past two months had turned Doyle into a thin, almost haggard spectre of his former self. Under the harsh neon light it was almost possible to see every bone clearly delineated against tight-drawn flesh. His hair, cut severely short now to compensate for the rapidly growing shaved area, only served to emphasis the gaunt, sallow complexion and dark-ringed eyes. Doyle looked about fit to drop--the gentle exercises in the gym and the few short widths of the swimming pool exhausting his reserves of strength.

Once released by the doctor, Bodie wasted no time getting his charge home.

"What the hell's that?" Doyle asked in disgust, sniffing cautiously at the bright pink concoction Bodie thrust under his nose.

"A drink," Bodie said patiently, "so drink it, it'll do you good."

"Smells revolting!" Doyle said, pushing it away.

"It's full of protein and vitamins and things. It's especially for people who need to boost their energy levels or put on a bit of weight."

"Smells revolting!" Doyle said again.

"Hold your breath!"

"No!"

"Will you drink the damn stuff!" Bodie said, his patience slipping. "It's good for you."

"You drink it then!"

"I don't need to gain any weight," said Bodie, his temper slipping another notch.

"You can say that again," Doyle muttered. "Oh, all right, pass it over. Strewth, what's it supposed to be?" He took an experimental sip.

"Strawberry," Bodie informed him as he licked some of the spilt liquid from his fingers.

"Tastes fuckin' 'orrible," Doyle said forcefully and Bodie had to agree with him.

"Finish it all up or I'll set Willis on to you," he threatened.

A compromise was reached when, having drunk half the tumbler, Doyle threatened to throw up over Bodie's living room carpet; the remaining liquid was thrown away.

Bodie, determined that Doyle was going to regain his lost weight quickly almost brought them to blows when he served dinner. £8.50 worth of sweet and sour pork, egg fried rice, pork chow mein and chicken with mushrooms and curry sauce almost found its way down Doyle's unwilling throat a forkful at a time with Bodie holding the reluctant diner's nose and shoving it into him.

"I'm not hungry," Doyle protested.

"Well you bloody well should be!" Bodie exploded, furious that he was refusing to co-operate. "How do you expect to get well if you don't eat!"

"I'm eating!" Doyle shouted back.

"Three grains of rice and two nibbles of chow mein are not a meal!"

"I--am--not--hungry!" Doyle said finally and threw the remainder of his meal into the wastebin.

"You stand there looking as healthy as a fucking skeleton and then tell me you're not hungry," Bodie yelled, all patience gone. "Your stomach's probably forgotten what a decent meal feels like--that's why you're not hungry!"

"I'm not stupid, Bodie," Doyle said angrily. "I'll eat when I'm hungry but right now I'm not, okay!"

No, it wasn't okay, Bodie thought moodily. They both knew Doyle was seriously underweight and regardless of what the psychologists at Repton said or thought, they knew Willis was adamant about not signing Doyle fit for work until he was satisfied with his weight.

"You think you're fooling everyone," Bodie raged at him, all Ross's advice on staying calm and being patient thrown aside, "but you're not! It's all a game to you, isn't it? Follow the rules, go through the motions--isn't that what you're doing?" he demanded.

"I suppose you know what you're pratting on about," Doyle said, refusing to look at him.

"Don't play games with me, Ray!" Bodie warned. "If you want out, say so. Personally, I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I'd like to think you could be honest with me, at least!"

Backed up against one of the kitchen cupboards, Doyle flinched under the force of Bodie's anger. "I'm doing what they want. I'm seeing their stupid shrinks, psychologists, or whatever they want to call them. What more do they want from me? What do you want--tell me, please because I really don't know!" Doyle had no idea where it had gone so wrong. It had been a good day--even the two hours in the sterile consulting room had been undemanding and he'd happily gone along with Bodie's plans to use the gym and the pool. Was it his fault he was too tired to be hungry? he wondered, miserably aware he was letting Bodie down again.

Bodie saw misery replace the baffled look in the expressive eyes and gave a resigned sigh. He was pushing too hard, he told himself. Patience was what Doyle needed; time and lots of patience. If going through the motions and pretending was all Doyle thought himself capable of, it would have to be enough; the rest would follow, it had to if he wanted to return to CI5. And to me, he thought fiercely.

"Do you want to stay with the squad?" he asked, needing to know the answer.

"Of course I do," Doyle snapped back, wary of Bodie's sudden, unexpected mildness.

"There's no 'of course' about it," Bodie said calmly, perhaps too calmly. "You do have a choice. If you want out, Cowley will let you go. You'd get retraining, they wouldn't just push you out onto the streets."

"What are you on about now?" Doyle asked, his heart sinking because he thought he knew already.

"If you want a complete change--no CI5, no police--they'll help you. You could start a new career, find a new life somewhere." Bodie's heart sank as he realised Doyle was listening intently. "You mentioned a while back that before the police you'd wanted to be a chef--maybe it's not too late. Besides," Bodie added without thinking, "you've even got the money to start your own restaurant now if you--"

"You bastard!" Doyle yelled, lashing out at him, catching him hard just under the ribs. "Do you really think I'm going to touch that money?"

Catching him easily, Bodie held it still. "Money is money, Doyle. And that is your money. You earned it, you deserve it--maybe," he struggled as Doyle lashed out again but managed to hold the squirming, kicking man. "Maybe you'd rather not have it, maybe it would be nice if there was no need for you to have it, but it's there, it's yours. If you need it to start fresh somewhere where you can forget all this, put it all behind you, you should use it!"

"I'm not going to touch it!" Doyle hissed, furious with Bodie, the world and himself. He should have known he wouldn't make it back to the squad, should have known Bodie wouldn't want to be teamed with him anymore.

"Great," Bodie said, relaxing his grip and stepping back. "That's wonderful. If you don't use the money and you won't accept retraining, then you'll have to work harder to get back on the squad, won't you?"

"What?" Doyle said, dazed. Had he missed something or was Bodie genuine, he wondered. "You want me on the squad?" he asked, unable to keep the words in.

"Of course I do."

Doyle was even more dazed by his partner's positive assurance, his almost arrogant assumption that Doyle should know he wanted him on the squad.

"Oh." Deflated, his anger gone, Doyle wondered what they had been arguing about.

"So," Bodie said, equally puzzled, "are you staying?" He had the impression Doyle was, but he still needed to hear it.

"Might as well," Doyle said, relaxing. "Someone's got to look after you."

The cheek of it, Bodie thought, affectionately cuffing his partner around the ear. "Go to bed," he ordered, "and get some sleep. Let's see if we can't get rid of those black bags under your eyes!"

Smiling, tousled, unbelievably weary, but happy, Doyle obediently shuffled toward the door. "Are you coming?" he said, turning back when he reached the door.

Staring into the siren's eyes, Bodie felt his pulse quicken, his body changing gear. You try stopping me, he thought fiercely; aloud he replied, "In a while. I'll tidy up and then take a shower first."

"Okay--but don't be too long."

Ignoring that innocent sensuality, Bodie turned his mind toward practical matters as he cleared the unwanted meal away.

Elsewhere, Doyle pottered around in the bathroom and bedroom, getting ready for bed and much-needed sleep. In the kitchen, hands and arms scalded by hot, soapy water, Bodie did the dishes and thought about his own dream-Doyle; the heavy-eyed practicality of the man replaced by a teasing flirt with come-hither eyes who drifted naked between bathroom and bed.

"Bodie!" Tired and impatient for sleep, Doyle called for his partner as a petulant child calls for something comfortingly familiar.

In the bathroom, the call was woven into a breathy gasp from his demanding lover as Bodie surrendered again to his daydream.

Emerging pink and glowing from hot water and an inner contentment, Bodie didn't notice that Doyle was less sleepy than on previous nights. Worn out physically and mentally, he slipped into bed, his body and mind still singing from the careful, solitary loving, eager to be reunited with his dream. He curled around Doyle, pulling him tightly to his chest, and pressed his face into the soft curls.

More surprised than anything else, Doyle felt Bodie's arms slide around him and went easily into the familiar embrace. He'd grown used to having Bodie wrapped around him whenever they shared a bed and had felt unaccountably lonely when, three nights ago, Bodie had turned his back towards him. Unable to bear the thought of being so alone that night, he'd cautiously inched over to Bodie, pretending to be asleep; he hadn't been pushed away that night or the next.

Twisting slightly more onto his side and pulling Bodie's heavy arm tightly around his waist, he snuggled down until he was comfortable.

Tired, but not that sleepy, he wondered whether he ought to take a sleeping tablet, but after a moment's indecision, decided not to. Maybe, he reasoned, with no drugs pumping around his system, he would shake off the awful out-of-touch feeling that clung to him day in and day out.

An hour later he prised himself out of Bodie's octopus-like arms and padded, naked and chilly, into the kitchen where he drank some cold orange juice straight out of the jug stored in the fridge. Restless and very tired, he was unable to sleep. After wandering through the flat and visiting the bathroom, he returned to bed. On the table, sitting in the soft lamplight, was the phial of sleeping tablets. His hand reached out to pick it up but closed and withdrew empty. No, he thought, he'd never get his head straight if he started relying on pills.

Lifting the duvet, he slid under the covers and quickly snuggled back into the warmth. Bodie protested sleepily at the sudden cold flesh touching his comfortable heat and for a moment Doyle thought he'd woken him up. Muttering something incomprehensible about cold feet, Bodie merely pulled the chilled body towards him.

Smiling at the way his partner accepted his presence in bed, Doyle allowed Bodie to smother him in warmth and tried to relax into the embracing arms. But even though he was soon warm, comfortable and desperately tired, sleep wouldn't come. Giving in, he just lay in the soft glow of the lamplight as Bodie gusted hot breaths into his left ear.

The gentle pulse pressing on his hip had been there for a while before Doyle identified what it was. When he realised, he was amused to discover that even the smallest wriggle on his part resulted in another growing pulse.

"Bodie," he whispered, laughing at the hopeful wriggle Bodie made as he tried to move away. "Oi! Wake up, Romeo, this is me, you know."

But Bodie, lost in dreamland, didn't wake up. Doyle, wide awake now and very conscious of the growing hardness being pressed against him, made another attempt to withdraw gracefully. "If you don't...let me go, Bodie, you are going to be very embarrassed in the morning," he said, greatly amused. "Bodie!"

"Mmgh..." Bodie responded eloquently.

"Will you stop that!"

"Mmmgh...here...'s nice...Ray," Bodie said, pulling the slender body hard against his and thrusting powerfully.

"Bodie..." Doyle chuckled. "Oh boy...you are really going to hate yourself for this."

"Mmg...love you..."

"And I love you too, mate," Doyle said cheerfully. But you're going to regret this."

"Love you... Mmgh...love you...Ray."

"Bodie!" Doyle said sharply as a hot hand unexpectedly skimmed over his belly and gently grasped his own lax member. "Oh my god!"

"Mmgh...love you..."

"Christ! Bodie! Pack it in!" Doyle wriggled in earnest now and tried to pull his partner's busy fingers away from his cock. "Wake up, mate...for Christ's sake, wake up... Oh!" he gasped as Bodie squeezed and pulled, drawing an unbelievable response from his stunned body.

Behind him, he could hear Bodie's breathing becoming rapid, urgent and suddenly the hand deserted him, leaving him half hard and desperate. The hand moved to his hip and pulled hard, forcing the pressure onto the rigid cock that was slipping easily across skin lubricated with pre-ejaculate.

"Oh god...Bodie... Wake up, Bodie!"

The urgency reached a peak and with one final pull and thrust, Doyle felt the ripple of pleasure that tore through Bodie erupting over his hip. Frozen in climax, Bodie hung on and Doyle felt the hot jets cool then run, cold and uncomfortable, across his back.

"Jesus!" he swore quietly. "Bodie?"

Lost in the haze of his dream and the beautiful climax, Bodie pulled his lover into his arms and kissed the smooth shoulderblade. "Mm...beautiful..."

"Bodie?"

''s okay..." Bodie mumbled contentedly, "beautiful...how about you?"

Doyle felt the hot hand snake over his hip again but managed to deflect it this time.

"Bodie!" he said sharply, slapping the hand away and kicking backwards. "Wake up!"

"Mmph...wha'... Ray?" Bodie said blearily. "Wha's 'appening?"

"You, you great cretin!" Doyle said sarcastically.

"What?" Bodie came awake with a sickening jump. Pulling away from Doyle, he immediately felt the tell-tale cooling wetness on his belly and remembered everything. "Oh...Christ!" he said in horror, retreating to the edge of the bed.

Released, Doyle also moved, swinging his legs out and sitting up, presenting his back to Bodie and his flushed face to the unseeing wall.

The soft lighting glistened on the pearly traces of semen smeared across Doyle's back and Bodie wanted to die. He reached over to wipe the wetness away but withdrew his hand before it made contact. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, shame flooding through him. "Oh Christ, Ray, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Doyle said quietly without turning around. "It's just...one of those things, I suppose. Happens to all of us," he went on, struggling to keep in control. "Wet dreams are a fact of life...good one, was it?" he managed to add, desperate to keep it light. Bodie was clearly embarrassed enough without him getting uptight over it.

"I don't know... I'm sorry," Bodie said helplessly, staring at the rigid back. He felt cold to his core when the full shock of what he had done hit him.

"Look, it's... It's no big thing," Doyle said quietly, one quick glance over his shoulder enough to see how horrified Bodie was feeling. "There's no need to make a song and dance about it," he said, trying to joke and failing miserably. "Any old port in a storm and all that," he added bleakly.

"Ray..." Bodie was too ashamed to speak, he knew he had betrayed his partner's trust.

"Look," Doyle said firmly, standing up and glancing down at Bodie before looking away again, "it happened. I know you didn't mean it to and I know it doesn't mean anything, so let's just forget it." The semen smeared across his back had become cold and uncomfortable and he rubbed it away with his hand. He saw the way Bodie looked at him as the evidence was transferred. Unsettled by the whole business and Bodie's obvious shame, Doyle needed to get out of the room. "I'm just going...to clean up...be back in a minute," he said, diving for the door and the bathroom beyond.

Bodie watched him go. He didn't move for a few minutes and only then when he heard the shower start up in the bathroom. Numb with the realisation of what he had allowed to happen, he threw himself back onto the pillows.

"Fuck it!" he swore viciously. How could he have been so stupid as to believe he would be able to cope with sleeping in the same bed? Why on earth had he allowed the insidious cuddling to continue after he had recognised the danger? His hands moved down his belly and he squeezed his still sensitive genitals. "Wasn't twice enough for you?" he demanded of his offending organ. "I'll have to spend all fucking night wanking in the fucking shower at this rate!" he hissed angrily.

"What was that?" Doyle asked, emerging from the shower, bathrobe firmly wrapped around his nakedness.

"I said leave me some water, I'd like a shower," he replied quickly, ducking through the doorway and into the bathroom without catching Doyle's eye.

Viewing the wrecked bed, Doyle turned away and headed for the kitchen. Working without conscious thought, he filled the kettle and set it to boil, busying himself with mugs and teabags, preparing the universal remedy: a nice cup of tea.

Shivering slightly because the central heating had switched itself off, Doyle stood beside the over-filled kettle and watched as it slowly came to the boil. Behind him, along the hallway, he heard Bodie emerge from the bathroom and released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding when Bodie returned to the bedroom. He knew that Bodie was even more embarrassed about what had happened than he was. Christ, he though, fancy waking up to find yourself humping your best mate. He shuddered. Bodie would have killed him if it had been the other way around. Or would he? Doyle mused. He could almost picture the lazy, sardonic grin. "Getting a bit desperate, were we?" Bodie would probably say. "Any time you find you're past reeling them in, just let me know."

No, Doyle realised as the kettle clicked off and he lifted it to pour water over the teabags, Bodie wouldn't dive for the bathroom like and anxious virgin. Bodie, he knew, would be very blasé about the whole thing and tease him endlessly.

In the bedroom, Bodie tidied the bed, removed his robe and got under the covers. He could hear the noises from the kitchen and hoped Doyle would have the sense to stay there. During his second shower that night he had got himself under control again. Fantasies, he'd decided, were fine when left to the unobtainable; dreams about Bo Derek or Sylvia Krystal were fine because there was no danger he would ever be so lucky as to turn them into reality. Dreams about Raymond Doyle were something else entirely!

It was no problem working with the man--or being close to him all day, except for the odd wayward daydream, he amended truthfully; it was sleeping with him, sharing the same bed, that was causing the problem.

Doyle padded softly, mug of tea in each hand, into the bedroom.

"Jesus, if the three minute warning went off, I bet you'd rush off to brew a pot of tea!" Bodie said ungraciously as he took one mug.

"Sort the world out over a cup of tea," Doyle said knowledgeably.

"It's hot!" Bodie yelped.

"Of course it's hot--only just made it, haven't I!" Doyle responded, taking smaller, more cautious sips than his partner.

For a while the room was quiet save for the slurping, sipping noises of two men determinedly drinking tea that was far too hot.

Bodie spoke first. "If you feel more comfortable sleeping in the spare room, I'll understand," he offered, face heating again as his shame returned.

Doyle sipped at his tea and considered what had been said. Bodie's embarrassment was almost tangible.

"I'm sorry that it happened, I'm sorry if it...disturbed you," Bodie went on in the silence. "After what happened to you...before, I realise that this was very unpleasant..."

Sipping his tea, Doyle was shocked to hear Bodie refer to the abuse he'd received in Maidstone; he hadn't even thought about that. Suddenly, he realised that Bodie thought what had just happened had been similar to his treatment by Kingsley. "Don't worry about it," he reassured him awkwardly. "It's hardly the same sort of thing."

"Not much!" Bodie snorted in disbelief.

Over his own embarrassment now, Doyle was beginning to see how badly Bodie was taking it. He thought about the bed in the spare room; if he went to sleep in there now, Bodie would assume it was because he didn't trust him.

"The spare bed's already made up. You'll probably be more comfortable in there," Bodie told him, hoping to any god listening that Doyle would go.

"No," Doyle said, coming to a decision. "Like I said earlier, these things happen, there's no need to make a song and dance about it. I know you didn't mean anything by it. I do trust you, Bodie," he said smiling fondly at him.

Bodie knew he was lost when Doyle unfastened the bathrobe and lifted the corner of the duvet to slip into bed. He watched as his trusting, foolish partner made himself comfortable, lying on his side. Not trusting himself to say or do anything, he put his empty tea mug down on the table with a heavy clunk and slid beneath the covers.

An hour later he was still pretending to be asleep and knew Doyle was in a similar state. As always when struck with insomnia, Bodie was constantly fighting the urge to fidget. No position was comfortable for very long and the large mug of tea solicitously provided by his bed-partner was making itself felt in his bladder--but to give in to his bodily needs he would have to admit to being awake, so he suffered in ungracious, grudging silence.

Eighteen inches away, Doyle was suffering less discreetly but held no one to blame for his predicament--a solution was available within arm's reach but he chose not to take the tablets. Eventually, when his body was tired enough, he would sleep--eventually. In the meantime he counted sheep and tried not to notice the restless fidgeting on the other side of the bed.

When his left arm and hip began to feel as if they were developing bed sores, Bodie gave in and turned over. The relief obtained was immediately negated by the flare of light on eyes determinedly shut. Opening them was almost painful, the soft glow from Doyle's light seemingly as bright as a magnesium flare. "Bleeding Blackpool illuminations," he muttered, forgetting he was supposed to be asleep.

"What?"

"Huh?" responded Bodie to the soft-voiced query.

"Pardon?"

"You what?"

"Nothing... Sorry," said Doyle quietly. "I thought you said something... Sorry."

The hurt in the soft voice only served to fuel Bodie's irritation.

"Oh for...can't you turn that off!"

"Do what?"

"That fucking light!" Bodie snapped.

"Oh."

"It does have an off switch, you know," he said, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Is it bothering you?"

"Since you asked, yes!"

"Oh."

Doyle didn't move. Eyes wide, he stared at the light and traced the flex down to the small rocker switch.

"Jesus!" Bodie swore, levering himself up onto an elbow and stretching over the motionless man. "Like this," he said forcefully, snuffing the light out.

"Bodie!" Instantly Doyle strong-armed him away and turned the light back on.

"Turn the fucking thing off and leave it off!" Bodie said nastily, pushing him back into the pillows with ease and plunging them into darkness again.

"No!" Doyle cried out and struggled to get his arms free to reach for the switch. For a moment they threshed together in a tangle of arms and legs until Doyle managed to get hold of the flex. He pulled at it and the lamp crashed onto the floor.

"Now see what you've done," snarled Bodie.

"No!"

In the back of his mind, Bodie understood Doyle's need to keep the dark at bay and even sympathised with his fear. Even before the days of Ann Holly and her father, Doyle disliked the blanketing darkness provided by the thick lined curtains hanging at the window. But now, even the amber glow of London's streetlights weren't enough to keep Doyle's spectres away.

"Turn it on!" Doyle panted hoarsely as he struggled with his partner. "Please...turn it on...it's dark...too dark..."

"It's not that dark," Bodie shouted into a nearby ear as he fought to pin him down on the mattress.

"Is... It is... Bodie!"

"Just calm down, let your eyes get used to it--it's not that dark," Bodie persisted. "I can see you so it can't be that dark."

"No...no...let me out...Bodie...don't...please don't...please..."

Hot and breathless with the effort required to keep Doyle pinned under him, Bodie managed to draw back a little and he realised that it wasn't the dark in the bedroom his partner was trapped in.

"Ray? It's okay, Ray...just try to relax a bit."

"No...no...get out...can't get out... Bodie, please...help me...help me." The last cry was almost a scream and Bodie knew he had to turn the light back on if he wanted to pacify him. When he tried to let go to reach for the lamp on his side of the bed, Doyle clutched at him like a drowning man.

"No...don't leave me...don't...please don't...dark, too dark..."

"Ray, let me go--I'll put my light on."

"Don't leave me!"

"Okay, okay, I'm still here," he soothed, returning the desperate embrace. "Just hold in tight, I'm still here."

"Don't leave me," Doyle wept, his voice cracking, and his tears made Bodie's shoulder and neck damp.

"Okay...breathe deeply...in...and out...in and out...that's it," he encouraged. "You can do it...in...and out..."

It took a long time but at last the tears stopped flowing, Doyle's breathing took on a gentler rhythm and the desperate grip around Bodie's shoulders eased. Pressed tight together, Bodie could still feel the rapid heartbeat, though, and he continued to offer comfort, willing the fear to leave Doyle alone. But, finally, with a heavy heart he stretched out and flicked his own lamp back on. "Better now?" he asked.

"Mm," Doyle mumbled shakily. "Sorry..."

"Shh." Bodie squeezed him gently. "Why are you sorry--I should be saying sorry for doing that to you."

"No," Doyle insisted. "I know that I've been...stupid...wanted to turn it off weeks ago--but I couldn't. I tried...but I couldn't..."

"Didn't have me to chase the bogeyman away then, did you?" said Bodie lightly, anxious to keep him talking.

"Suppose not," Doyle agreed, sniffing moistly in Bodie's ear.

"Better now?" Bodie asked again, pulling away slightly and looking down at Doyle as he lay against the pillows. "There was plenty of light coming in from the street."

"I know that," Doyle said evasively and pulled away to retrieve the fallen lamp. "Bulb's gone," he announced after clicking the switch on without any result a few times. "I know the street light's there...but...when you first switch the light off...it's so dark--too dark."

"It takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust," Bodie guessed.

"Yes. A few minutes too many," he said ruefully. "I just can't...I don't know... It's okay now I can see a bit. It's just at first... I'm sorry," he ended lamely.

"Why does it bother you so much?" asked Bodie, slipping to lie beside Doyle, who was disinclined to let him move far.

"Don't know," Doyle answered quickly.

"Yes you do."

Neither man spoke for a while, Bodie keen to get his partner to face his fear and Doyle equally reluctant to do so.

"Well?" Bodie said eventually.

"Worse than the flippin' shrink, you are," Doyle grumbled.

"And?" he prompted.

"And I don't suppose you're going to let me sleep until you've had your tuppence worth," said Doyle lightly, but Bodie heard the note of tension.

"I really don't remember very much about what happened," he started slowly. "Maybe that's why I'm having trouble accepting everything. I keep expecting her to walk through the door...still can't accept that she won't--ever. I know she's dead...but..."

"It's only natural, Ray," Bodie said quietly.

"Because I haven't seen her body, you mean... Maybe it is, I don't know any more. When Constance talked about the funeral, it was like she was talking about some television programme she'd seen but I'd missed...do you know what I mean?

"Nothing's clear about the whole mess. The last memory I have is of her getting dressed to go shopping on Saturday morning... It was a lovely morning...pissing with rain--but good... We were good together, the best for a long time...everything had been sorted out and we were both so happy..." Doyle's anguish broke through and he cried softly into Bodie's shoulder. "She wasn't...you know...there was no baby. It was such a relief...made us both realise what a mistake we were making." He sniffed and carried on. "She was going to America in January to a new job, a better job--she would've been making twice my salary. I was going to go and see you on Sunday and let you know...but she went shopping... I thought it was her coming home but it wasn't."

Bodie felt Doyle's grip tighten as the memories grew darker.

"He was an old man, Bodie... I should have known as soon as I opened the door. His eyes were so... I knew he was going to kill me...I just knew...and then it was so dark...so dark. I thought I was blind...told myself I was blind...knew I...wasn't. It was so dark...heard something...sounds...thought he was still there...thought I was dreaming...knew I wasn't...knew it...was real but I couldn't...believe. I thought he was there...tried to move but...hurt...all hurt so much...and then I did move and the ceiling was there...and the walls...so close...everything was so close and I though he was there...and it was so dark I wanted to...wake up but I knew I was awake...and it was so dark...so dark..."

"Shh," Bodie said softly, ignoring the hands that were gripping him painfully. "It's okay now, it's all over."

"I knew I was awake," Doyle wept, "but I couldn't see. I couldn't see anything. Nothing!"

"You're safe now." Bodie pulled the shaking man close, pressing the tear-streaked face into his shoulder and rubbing soothing strokes across bare skin.

"I kept dreaming...dreamt of the dark...even in my dreams it was dark...couldn't tell the difference...then I dreamt of...then there was a light...I wanted to reach the light but as I got closer it was...so bright...it scared me even more than the dark...still dream that now... I'm in the dark and there's a light coming closer and closer... I don't like the dark but I'm even more scared of the light... Christ, what a mess," Doyle whispered wretchedly into Bodie's shoulder. "I've not dared say anything...they'll chuck me out if they find out the mess my head's in."

"Come on, Ray," Bodie said softly. "Do you really think you're fooling them? They know more about what goes on inside your head than you do."

"They think I'm just...upset over Ann, over what her father did, they don't know anything else."

"They know everything, Ray," said Bodie, realising too late that Doyle had no idea exactly how much the doctors knew. "They know about your claustrophobia and...your dislike of confined, dark spaces."

"Who told them?" Doyle demanded, pulling himself away from Bodie. "How did they find out, did you tell them?"

Bodie tried to keep hold of him but Doyle got out of the bed and reached for his bathrobe. "In a way you could say that you told them," he answered flatly. "They were very concerned that you took so long to regain consciousness; you kept nearly waking up but then falling into a coma again, almost as if you didn't want to come to--"

"You told them!"

"Ray, I had no choice--"

"How could you do that, how could you be so stupid--"

"I didn't have much choice," Bodie snapped back, stung by the accusing voice.

"I trusted you," Doyle yelled at him from the other side of the bedroom. "I trusted you when I told you about that! I've never talked about it anyone else and you told them! Well thank you very--ouch!" The outpouring was suddenly halted by Bodie's open hand hitting the side of Doyle's face hard.

"What was I supposed to do," Bodie shouted into the shocked silence following the stinging slap. "You'd been damn near buried alive for nearly a week and I knew you were claustrophobic. I had no idea how much you knew about what had happened to you, I didn't even know if you were aware you'd been found and were safe. I was so bloody relieved when we found you alive and then you wouldn't wake up--I was scared I was going to lose you. Of course I told them--I'd have told them anything if I thought it would help."

Holding his burning cheek, Doyle was stunned by his partner's outburst; Bodie was shaking with emotion and his face was taut and hard. "I'm sorry," he apologised lamely.

Bodie took a calming breath and subsided back onto the bed, drawing his knees up and hugging the duvet to his chest. "So am I," he said wearily. "Jesus Christ--what the fuck have you been talking to the doctors about if you had no idea they knew about the claustrophobia?"

"This and that," Doyle said, shrugging his shoulders and moving to sit on the bed. "They're a funny lot--keep asking me what I want to talk about...which is anything except what I suppose I really need to talk about..."

"Such as?"

"I dunno...just...things. I keep expecting them to ask me things but they don't... I've talked about...well, nothing in particular...just...things." Doyle gave a rueful snort of laughter and turned around to lie down on top of the covers across the foot of the bed in a pool of amber light pouring in from outside. "I just rabbit on about...anything...it's that or sit in total silence for two hours. I've come to the conclusion that it's some new interrogation technique. They just sit there for hours not speaking, only making notes every time you open your mouth and say something. I did a little experiment the other day," Doyle said, his voice almost relaxed. "I talked for almost an hour non-stop about a holiday I went on when I was a kid with my family. I made the whole thing up, none of it was true--you'd never get Dad to leave the business for a trip to the seaside, but the doctor took pages of notes--pages! And it was all rubbish."

"You've never talked about what Holly did to you--framing you, ending up inside; what he did to you and Ann?"

"What do they know about anything?" Doyle said bitterly.

"Have you?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Why the hell should I?"

"Don't you want to get back on the squad?"

"You know I do!"

"So?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Why?"

"Aren't you tired, don't you want to get some sleep?"

"Don't evade the question," persisted Bodie, careful this time not to lose his temper.

"What question?"

"Why are you refusing to talk to the doctors properly?"

"I talk to them!"

"Ray!"

"Because it hurts!" Doyle yelled at the top of his voice. "Because to talk about it I have to think about it and I can't do it. I can't. It hurts...it's too... I can't think about it, Bodie... I can't."

Bodie reached down to the end of the bed and pulled Doyle up, drawing him into a tight embrace and pulling him under the covers. He waited for the storm to subside before speaking. "You've got to talk it out, Ray," he said. "Talk it out and then you'll be able to lock it all away. Can't you talk to me? I'll listen."

"No... I can't... I'm sorry," Doyle hiccuped.

"Talk to the doctor, then. He's a stranger, Ray. You can talk to him, tell him things you wouldn't want anyone else to know and get them out of your system. You'll never meet him socially and he'd never reveal what you talk about. You can talk to him safely."

"Ross would know--"

"No, she wouldn't. Medical ethics. He can't tell her. All he can report is your mental state, nothing else."

"But...she knows about the claustrophobia?"

"Yes," Bodie admitted. "But she also thinks that providing you co-operate with this therapy, you'll make it back to the squad."

"Really?" a hopeful voice said. "She really thinks I'll make it back?"

"She does," Bodie said, conveniently forgetting the woman's loudly voiced predictions on the possibility.

"Can't see me suddenly being cured of going nuts in dark holes--that's been happening for as long as I can remember."

"You must remember not being scared," Bodie said in disbelief.

"No," Doyle answered more cheerfully. "I've never been too keen--I can still remember my brother getting all irate because Mum used to let me have a nightlight in the bedroom. We had to share until we moved to the new house."

"How old were you?"

"When we moved? Oh, about twelve, thirteen. Had a nightlight until I left home to go to police training," he confessed. "Good job the dormitory was never that dark."

"I can see a nightlight wouldn't have gone down too well in a dormitory," Bodie said.

"I've been all right since then, except for just recently... Still don't care for the dark but as long as I can see something, it's not too bad," Doyle said quietly. "They really know about it and don't want to chuck me out?"

"They know," Bodie reassured him, "and they won't chuck you out--provided you co-operate with the doctors."

"Co-operate with the bloody shrinks, you mean," Doyle said with little heat. "Christ, I'm hot--let go a sec. I want to take this off." Wriggling from Bodie's grasp, Doyle climbed out of bed, removed his robe and then got back in. "Bin one hell of a night, hasn't it," he said around a jaw-breaking yawn.

"One way to describe it," Bodie said, slightly disgruntled by the way Doyle rearranged the bed, plumping up pillows and fluffing the duvet.

"Feel tired now," Doyle remarked, turning onto his side and pulling Bodie's arm to rest over his waist.

"You didn't take any sleeping pills," Bodie accused.

"No...they make me too sleepy," Doyle replied drowsily.

"You don't say!" Bodie replied sarcastically as he realised that Doyle had every intention of curling up and falling asleep.

"Shurrup an' go to sleep."

"Doyle!"

"Mm?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"Mmm."

"Ray? Ray!" There was no answer save for a little wriggle and a tug on Bodie's arm, both movements ensuring Bodie was firmly and comfortably wrapped around the sleeping man. With little choice but to give in, Bodie gave a wriggle of his own, tucked his knees behind Doyle and planted one careful, chaste kiss on the back of the curly head.

"Night, love," he whispered and snuggled down to sleep, secure in the knowledge that it had been several years since the one occasion he'd managed four successful hard-ons in one night.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bodie stared at the screen with intense dislike and punched furiously at the keys; again the machine bleeped at him.

"Bloody thing. Do something!" he said, all patience lost. "Sitting there bleeping at me--"

"First sign of madness, Bodie," an amused voice called from the doorway.

"Bloody machine won't do anything," Bodie complained.

"What are you doing?" Lake asked, coming over to the cramped desk.

"I'm trying to do my report!" Bodie said heatedly. "But all the fucking thing does is bleep at me--I don't know why we can't get the girls downstairs to type this stuff like we did before these bloody things arrived!"

"Progress," Lake said cheerfully. "This is supposed to make us more efficient; cheaper too, in the long run," he added while helpfully bashing a few keys; the machine bleeped furiously at him as well.

"Penny pinching Scotsman--he's got an arse tighter than a fucking hamster!"

"Have you tried...oh, see what you mean... How about this one and this one?" The machine bleeped loudly. "Have you tried turning the whole thing off and starting again? That sometimes works," Lake finished helpfully.

"Turn it off--it took me half an hour to turn the bloody thing on!"

"When's the report got to be in?"

"Last Monday," Bodie said, pushing himself away from the terminal. "It's an assessment report on those new handguns the MoD are trying to fob off on us."

"How did they test out?"

"They didn't. Of the three I was given to test, one had a loose handle, one had a faulty spring and the third one's balance was off centre. They're cheap crap. If that's a sample of their quality, forget it."

"I wondered what you were doing on the range last week. I though you were still assigned to Doyle."

"I am, sort of," Bodie shrugged. "He doesn't need me around twenty-four hours a day any more, besides which, the doctors want him to stand alone for a while, get his feet back and all that."

"How's he doing--no-one's said anything about him for weeks, not since he left Beeches."

"He's doing...okay. He'll make it," Bodie said distractedly, suddenly leaning forward and hitting a different key. The machine bleeped at him again.

"You've not said much," Lake pushed cautiously. Everyone knew how close Ray Doyle had come to being pushed right over the edge, but since the call to The Beeches, they'd heard nothing further. "I hear he's living at your place. I would have thought he'd be safer if they kept him in."

"Safer?"

"Well, safer..." Lake hedged. "Especially after what he tried at Beeches."

"What have you heard about that?" Bodie asked, only his eyes revealing the question wasn't as casual as it sounded.

"I heard he cracked up."

"I think a person who went through what he did is entitled to crack up--don't you?"

"Suppose so," Lake answered. "What's he going to do next, when he's finished at Repton?"

"Do?"

"Where's he going to go?"

"He'll be allocated a new flat soon, but he'll be off the squad for another month at least, then retraining and back to the grindstone."

"He's coming back!"

"You think he shouldn't?"

"No, no, it's just-- I'm surprised. I thought he was..."

"Finished?" Bodie supplied, his voice hard. "I suppose it would make life for some people a lot easier if that was the case."

"Bodie--I didn't mean--"

"No, he's not finished. He's coming back--if only to prove that he can."

"Don't take it out on me, Bodie," Lake warned. "You know me better than that. I'll be as pleased as you are to see him make it back."

Bodie sighed and slumped back into his chair. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "It's been a bloody awful couple of months."

"You can say that again," Lake said easily. "But the worst's over now, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah, the worst's over. He'll be back at HQ after next week, on office duties. The Cow's got something lined up for him. I'll be back on full duties by then as well so things will, hopefully, soon be back to normal."

"Normal?" Lake queried.

"Normal for this place, anyway." Bodie laughed and threw the computer manual at Lake's retreating back.

---

After finishing off his last length of the pool, Doyle rested a while on the bars at the deep end, letting the water take his weight. Beside him his new friend turned to begin another length, the powerful body cleaving its way through the water with regular, even strokes.

Later on in the changing room, Doyle was nearly dressed when the man came in.

"You looked like you were going to keep on all day," Doyle said lightly.

"No, I always do a hundred lengths. A regular hundred," the soft Welsh voice said. "I like swimming."

"Me too," Doyle agreed. "Makes me hungry though--you fancy coming up to the cafeteria?"

"The cafeteria?"

"Yeah. Coming?"

"I...er...I always go to the lounge...they'll be waiting for me in the lounge."

"Who?" asked Doyle, curious about this quiet man. "Are you expecting visitors?"

"Visitors?"

"Are you expecting someone today?"

"Who?" the Welshman asked, puzzled.

Doyle finally realised that all was not as he first assumed.

"Have you been here long?" he asked.

"Long," Quinn said thoughtfully. "Oh yes, a long time."

"When do you go home?"

"Home?"

"When will you leave here and go home?"

"I'm not leaving, am I? Am I leaving here?" Quinn asked anxiously.

"Do you live here?" Doyle asked in disbelief.

"Here? Yes, I live here, my home is here--am I leaving here--are they taking me away again?"

"No, it's okay. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. No-one is taking you anywhere; you're safe here, aren't you," Doyle reassured the man.

"Safe here," Quinn said, still a little nervous. "Here is safe. I feel safe here."

"That's nice," Doyle said awkwardly. He'd seen the tall man moving confidently around the rooms at Repton several times over the past few week but had never spoken to him before. He hadn't realised that the man wasn't what he seemed.

"You can get tea...and biscuits in the lounge."

"You can?" Doyle said, surprised. He'd never seen them provided there.

"Mrs Collier always makes me tea every afternoon...sometimes she even brings in cakes...makes a lovely cherry cake does Mrs Collier."

"Cherry cake, well, might be worth giving the cafeteria a miss," Doyle said cheerfully. He waited quietly while his new friend got dressed and then they left to go in search of tea and cherry cake.

The lounge was empty when they arrived but Quinn walked straight through and into a small side room.

"Hello, Mrs Collier, got any cake, have we?"

Mrs Collier, a short, incredibly plump and cheerful looking woman, smiled brightly. "Of course, bach, fresh baked this morning, see, it's still warm." The soft lilt of her voice carried easily past the bulk that was Quinn to Doyle. "There's enough for your friend, too, if he wants some," she offered generously.

Leaving Mrs Collier and Quinn to sort out the cake and tea, Doyle wandered over to the large bay window and watched the less than agile antics of the men outside on the tennis courts. The four men, one on crutches, one in a wheelchair, were playing a simple knockabout and their shouts and groans rang out loud in the quiet grounds. He would enjoy a game of tennis or even squash himself, but there were few people he could play against, most of the patients apparently recovering from injuries of one kind or another. At first, he had thought the blond Welshman might partner him in a game, but now he realised that wouldn't happen; though fit and strong, Quinn was obviously not a fast thinker.

Accepting a generous slab of home-made cherry cake, Doyle sat and watched as his new friend and Mrs Collier began a board game on the table in front of him. It still struck Doyle as odd that such a powerful looking man would find snakes and ladders so taxing. Declining to join the game, Doyle helped himself to another smaller slab of cake and sat back to watch.

He was bored stiff. Having finally found the reason for his discontent made little difference though. It was a shame that Bodie had to report to headquarters for duty, Doyle thought miserably. It wouldn't be so boring if Bodie were here.

Repton had turned out better than he hoped but even so Doyle found himself wishing he wasn't there. It would be good to get back to work, even if he was going to be tied to the office for a while. But, if what Cowley had told him was right, work could prove very interesting: it had been a long time since he'd worked with computers. Working out the training programme for the rest of the squad could prove to be rewarding.

Provided, of course, that the squad hadn't thrown the computers, hardware, software and programmers and all through the nearest window before he got there. Every night for the last week Bodie had come home moaning and complaining about computers and Doyle had been hard put not to explain Cowley's strategy to him.

George Cowley was no-one's fool and he knew that none of the men felt they needed or wanted to learn now to use the terminals cluttering their overcrowded rooms and cramped desks. For all reports (except the important, most urgent ones) the facilities of the typing pool had ceased to exist. Each agent was required to make use of the terminals at their desks to compile and log their reports. For a whole week the agents had pored over incomprehensible computer texts in an effort to produce their reports. So far only a few had met with any degree of success. Cowley gauged that by the time Doyle began to run the training programme, the whole squad would be aware of the need to attend the training course they had all previously shunned. Even Bodie.

Bodie.

Doyle found his thoughts drifting on to his partner. Bodie was often in his thoughts. Bodie was...Bodie, Doyle decided. But recently Bodie had been...different. Watching the game of snakes and ladders, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his wandering thoughts uncovered the cause of that difference; ever since that night Bodie had been more than just different--he had become distant, remote--even though he was always there when he was needed. In the morning Bodie would begin making their breakfast whilst Doyle showered off the sweat produced by their run around the park, then they would change over; Doyle, clean and dressed, would finish the breakfast and put it all on hot plates and pour the coffee out. After breakfast, Bodie would drive to headquarters, dropping Doyle off at the gates leading to Repton. At night, he would collect Doyle from those same gates and they would travel home together. They took it in turns to cook an evening meal or, if neither felt like cooking, they visited the nearest takeaway; together. But totally separate.

Sometimes Doyle felt that if he took his eyes off Bodie for even a single second he would vanish. He was always there beside him--but sometimes it was as if he was completely alone and Bodie had never been there for him.

At first he thought they had got away with it and Bodie's unfortunate dream and its consequences had been dealt with, but Doyle soon realised how wrong he had been.

Bodie no longer touched him. Until that contact had been withdrawn, Doyle hadn't realised how much he had accepted, even wanted and expected it from his friend. Now even a casual brush of their bodies, an accidental meeting of arms or legs under cover of darkness and duvet were met with muttered apologies and instant withdrawal. Bodie no longer touched him, no longer welcomed Doyle's touch either. Being used to having Bodie pressed close behind him in bed, Doyle felt unaccountably lonely when the lights were turned out and they settled down to sleep. Now, as soon as Doyle's eyes became accustomed to the dark, Bodie would pull away to his own side of the bed and turn his back.

The first night after Bodie's mishap, Doyle wanted badly to comfort the man lying tense and uncomfortable a scant six inches away, but Bodie had radiated a 'do not touch' sign and so he stayed alone, turned towards his source of comfort and tried to remember when he hadn't had to ask for it.

Since then things hadn't improved much. He had tried to move back into the spare room to save him further embarrassment, but Bodie wouldn't hear of it, insisting that until Doyle was much better he had to stay where he was, just in case. In case of what, Doyle wasn't sure; his sleep had been untroubled for the most part since he left off taking the sleeping tablets. He didn't remember having any bad drams but, even so, Bodie was walking around with dark rings under his eyes and was definitely not his normal, suave self.

Maybe he should insist on moving into the spare room, at least that way he knew Bodie would get a decent night's sleep. Besides which, Doyle reasoned, he would be moving into his new flat soon and returning to work--he could hardly expect Bodie to want to share his home and his bed for much longer. Then again, Doyle considered, the spare bed wasn't that comfortable, the mattress had seen better days and Bodie's bed was just...perfect: it was a shame that one night had spoiled it all. Remembering the embarrassment, his own as well as poor Bodie's, Doyle wondered whether they would be having these problems if he had reacted differently. It wasn't as if anything terrible had happened--wet dreams were a fact of life--they happened. Maybe, Doyle considered, if had behaved differently afterwards, if he had pretended not to have been so shocked or surprised, Bodie's embarrassment would have been less. If it happened again, he decided he would try to be a bit more blasé. Unbidden, the memories of how that throbbing, thickening hardness felt against his buttocks returned and, unconsciously, Doyle was swept along on the sensations. It had felt...surprisingly pleasant, he thought, especially when Bodie had pulled him backwards to rub himself harder, the firm circular motion spreading a warm silkiness over his skin, making the movements easier...more pleasurable. The sure grip around his own rising penis had been...shocking but not unwelcome, and Doyle remembered, more vividly in retrospect, the disappointment and unvoiced protest when the tight grip released him, left him...

Doyle drew a deep breath as a jolt of sexual heat flared through his body, centring on his groin. He fidgeted in the now uncomfortable armchair as he tried to ease the restricting tightness over his arousal.

"You all right, dearie?" Mrs Collier asked suddenly as she looked up from a successful climb up a ladder and into the last row of nineties. "You've gone quite pink."

"I'm fine," Doyle recovered quickly. "A bit warm in here, isn't it?"

"Warm enough when the sun's out, but a bit nippy when it goes behind the clouds," Mrs Collier said. "You mind you don't catch a chill."

"I'll be careful," Doyle said, smiling. "But I think I'll make a move. Bye, Quinn, bye, Mrs Collier."

"Bye, love."

"Goodbye, Ray," Quinn called out as Doyle reached the door.

Grateful to have escaped so easily, Doyle checked that the corridor outside was clear and then made a few adjustments to his clothing to make himself more comfortable.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered under his breath. What a way to discover your libido was in working order, he thought in amazement.

It was still too early for Bodie to come and pick him up and Doyle decided it would be quicker if he met him at headquarters and then went home from there.

However, his arrival at headquarters did not pass unnoticed and it was an irritable, defensive Doyle that finally found his erstwhile partner bent over a keyboard in their small office.

"What's up, how did you get here?" Bodie greeted him anxiously.

"Nothing's wrong and I came on a bus--all right!" Doyle snapped in response.

"A bus?"

"Yeah--one of those big red things," Doyle said, slumping heavily down onto his chair. "So this is the new computer then. How's it going?"

"Don't ask," Bodie sighed. Why have you come in? Everything's okay at Repton, isn't it?"

"Give over, Bodie, please!" Doyle flashed a poisonous look across the desk. "I'm fine, Repton's fine; I just got fed up hanging around waiting for you. What's up with everyone here?" he asked, leaning over to look at the work Bodie was trying to input.

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone I've met has looked at me like I was a ghost or something. I had one hell of a job getting past the front security too--I've still got to collect my ID and stuff from the duty officer."

"How did you get in, then?"

"Cowley was on his way out as I was arguing the toss with Security. He told them it was okay. What are you supposed to be doing with this?" Doyle asked, pointing at the screen.

"It's a report," Bodie replied.

"In what language?"

"There's something wrong with the keyboard," Bodie said heatedly. "Look, I touch the letter A and that thing appears, it's the same with all the letters. I keep getting funny symbols."

"Maybe it automatically codes the text," suggested Doyle, his face barely keeping its deadpan expression when he realised Bodie was taking him seriously.

"That's plain daft!" he complained. "How the hell am I supposed to know what I've typed if I can't read it!"

"Why don't you try releasing the control lock?" Doyle leant over and hit a key. "See, it works now."

"How did you do that?" Bodie demanded to know.

"Easy when you know how. Are you ready to come home yet?"

"What?" Bodie tested a few more keys to check. "Might as well. I can start this tomorrow. It's working properly now."

"Well, leave your new toy alone and come on," Doyle said tiredly. "It'll still be there tomorrow."

"Worse luck," Bodie muttered, slipping his jacket on.

Walking out to the car, Bodie saw what Doyle had meant about people's reactions to him. They were crossing the front hall when Bodie saw Lake and Wilson do a double-take at seeing Doyle. One look at the glowering face beside him made Bodie discreetly wave the two men away.

"Why do I get the feeling that not too many people were expecting to see me back here?" Doyle asked sourly as the car sped away towards home.

"You're still on sick leave," Bodie countered mildly. "They were surprised to see you, that's all."

"Hmpgh!" Doyle grunted, keeping his opinions to himself.

Bodie was relieved that his partner let the matter drop there. His unexpected arrival at HQ had been a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Ross had suggested that the agent might experience some difficulty in returning to the buildings that were CI5 and meeting his workmates, but Doyle had just proved otherwise.

From the passenger seat, Doyle cast a surreptitious look at Bodie's profile. Rarely ever rosy-cheeked, Doyle decided his partner was exceptionally pale and tired looking, the bags and darker rings under the blue eyes confirming his suspicious. As he watched, Bodie yawned widely and flexed his shoulders as much as he could and still drive. Bodie was tired, overtired in fact, Doyle decided, and he knew why. It all stemmed from that one stupid night when he should have had the sense to pretend he was asleep as Bodie came all over his back.

Could he have pretended, Doyle found himself wondering. Probably not, he decided, not unless he was genuinely doped up and out for the count with sleeping pills.

"You didn't take your sleeping pills."

From the recess of his mind, Bodie's accusation burst out from his subconscious. Why on earth was Bodie so angry he'd not taken the tablets, Doyle wondered. Had something happened before when he had taken the tablets and hadn't woken up, he thought, giving a sudden suspicious sideways glance at Bodie. No, he told himself. Bodie would never do anything like that. He'd trusted Bodie with his life before, so he certainly trusted him in bed. Bodie would never take advantage of him like that.

Not without good reason, anyway, Doyle thought a heartbeat later. He turned sideways in the seat to get a better look at his partner without being too obvious. Eyeing the strong hands gripping the steering wheel and gearstick, Doyle remembered the heat of the same hands pulling on the bare skin at his hips, pulling and rubbing his own body against the throbbing member. Travelling down Bodie's chest on to cord-covered thighs, Doyle remembered how smooth the almost hairless body had felt along his back. Unlike himself, Bodie had neither a hairy chest nor hairy legs and they always felt cool and smooth, like a woman's skin and yet so very, very different. The memory was so clear Doyle could almost feel the bulk pressing against the cheeks of his arse, the hard heat with its moist, seeping head and the prickly hair and bulky softness at its root. It had felt...big.

Shuddering under the impact of the memory, Doyle couldn't help but look into the cloth-covered groin of his partner: Bodie didn't look like he was hung like a carthorse, he decided, trying and failing to be objective. Masculine pride coming to the fore, Doyle wondered if Bodie was bigger than he was and a fleeting mental image of two cocks standing erect side by side, his and Bodie's left him reeling and looking anywhere but in his partner's direction.

"What's up?" Bodie asked in a concerned voice when he noticed the flushed and troubled expression.

"Nothing!" mumbled Doyle. Oh, Christ, he thought furiously, not again. What's wrong with me--all I have to do is think about sex and I nearly burst my pants!

"If you say so," Bodie retorted, stung by the obvious lie.

"Sorry," apologised Doyle, rapidly thinking up an excuse. "It's been a pretty rotten day, that's all."

"Shrink give you a hard time?" Bodie asked cautiously. They had an unspoken rule: Doyle never talked about his morning sessions with the psychologist and Bodie never asked.

"Not too bad," Doyle said after a few minutes during which time he stared out of the window and got his errant body back under control. "I'm cutting the sessions down as from next week. I only have to go to Repton a couple of mornings so I can start back at work soon."

"Willis will clear you for duty?"

"Office duties, day shifts," Doyle replied. "I've still got a way to go before the shrinks and the quacks let me loose on the streets," he joked.

"You'll make it," Bodie said cheerfully.

"I know I will," Doyle said confidently.

---

All that evening, Doyle was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was mentally assessing his partner's sexual attributes. From his armchair he could watch Bodie as easily as the television, without being noticed, and did so unashamedly. Every movement drew his attention to the region of Bodie's groin. While his head and upper body were hidden behind the Daily Telegraph, Bodie's groin was clearly visible and Doyle found his eyes drawn time and again to the revealing bulge resting on one thigh. Later, as Bodie sprawled out along the sofa, the definition of his sex became even clearer and Doyle found it almost impossible to look away.

Apart from noticing that Doyle seemed a little edgy during the evening, Bodie was unaware anything was wrong. A couple of times after dinner he'd surfaced from behind the newspaper or from the television to find a stern green-eyed Doyle almost glaring at him. He'd asked what was wrong but each time his question fell on deaf ears, Doyle clearly in a world of his own.

He greeted Doyle's departure into the bathroom with relief much later in the evening. Whatever thoughts were churning through the troubled mind were only adding to Bodie's own problems. He was tired: he was exhausted. Not sleeping properly night after night was taking a heavy toll. It would, he knew, be better for him if Doyle were to move into the spare room--but not better for Doyle. Although they could now sleep with only the streetlights showing through uncurtained windows, Doyle's sleep was still restless and at times uneasy. Bodie knew part of the blame was his. As soon as Doyle relaxed into sleep, safe in the reassuring pool of lamplight, Bodie retreated to the other side of the bed and turned his back. Sleep was next to impossible because of Doyle's nearness; Bodie was afraid to relax too much just in case he forgot the man beside him was not his fantasy partner. Doyle's restlessness often drew Bodie back from the brink of sleep and he would have to turn over and attempt to soothe him. It still surprised him that Doyle rarely tried to punch him out whenever their bodies touched once he was asleep; a few moments' gentling and Doyle's demons would be banished until the next time--and Bodie would be wide awake.

While waiting for Doyle to emerge from his shower, Bodie strolled casually through into the bedroom, switching on both bedside lights and collecting his bathrobe from the hook behind the door. Normally quick, Doyle took an unusually long time in the shower tonight and Bodie found himself looking for things to do to fill in the time: finishing off the few bits of washing up in the kitchen, locking up and switching everything off. But still Doyle didn't leave the bathroom, the sound of the shower obviously drowning out Bodie's requests that he hurry up and leave him some hot water.

Tired and impatient to get into bed for what would probably be another sleepless night, Bodie stripped off, throwing his clothes in a heap by the door, donned his robe and lay down on top of the bedcovers. The constant noise of the shower reassuring him, Bodie stretched out on the bed, easing kinks and knotted muscles. Conscious of a dull ache in the small of his back, he rolled to lie on his face and arch his back into a taut bow for a few seconds. His muscles protested at the abuse and he collapsed face down into the pillows. He had pulled at it, pressing his face into it and inhaling the lingering scent for several minutes before he realised what he was doing with Doyle's pillow. Shocked, at first he pushed the pillow away and rolled onto his back...but then slowly, almost against his will, he tugged it back into his arms, squeezing it against his body and pressing his face into it. He knew what he was doing, knew it was dangerous, but was unable to stop himself. One ear cocked, listening to the shower, Bodie undid his robe and pushed the material away. He twisted to lean slightly on the firm pillow and took a grip on his painfully distended cock; the pressure of his own hand and the heady scent of Doyle was almost his undoing and he fought desperately to hold back.

---

...His face turned upwards, eyes blind with lust, Doyle gasped aloud as the sure hands teased him further and higher than he'd ever been before. Not yet, he thought desperately, too soon...not yet...let it last...please god let it last...

The knowing hands released him and the pressure eased a little. It was enough; leaving the urgent thrusting member, Doyle's hands, Bodie's hands roamed freely over the planes of belly and chest. This, he thought with shock from some sane, safe distance, is what it would feel like; Bodie's hands would be just like this. Unable to delay the inevitable a second longer, Doyle moved his hands--Bodie's hands--back down his body, back arching, forcing his urgent erection upwards toward the relief it needed and closing his eyes with a grateful sigh when it was enclosed in the hard, hot tunnel that drew him up to climax.

Sagging back against the shower wall, Doyle gave a groan that was a mixture of relief, horror and despair. What had he done; wondering about Bodie, thinking about might have happened was one thing, but to do what he'd just done, deliberately to build up a sexual fantasy about his best friend was unforgivable.

Sick to his stomach and disgusted with himself, Doyle sluiced away the evidence of his terrible sin and switched the shower off. Refusing to give in to his body's demands, that he be gentle with his over-sensitive skin, he rubbed fiercely at himself with a towel.

Dry and clean but feeling unaccountably hot and dirty, he sank down onto the edge of the bath and held his head in his hands. Christ, what a mess, he thought angrily. What the hell was he supposed to do now? How could he possibly climb into bed beside Bodie now, after that?

---

In the bedroom, Bodie was surfacing to a slightly different problem. Already resigned to the hold his fantasy lover had over him, he no longer berated himself for his weakness, only for the stupidity of allowing himself to ejaculate all over Doyle's pillow and the duvet cover.

The sudden silence from the bathroom galvanised Bodie into action, sending him scrambling for a wad of tissues, but dabbing at the damp patches made little difference; dark brown cotton turned almost black when it was wet and even the soft lighting did little to disguise the damp circles.

Praying to whatever gods might be listening to keep Doyle in the bathroom a bit longer, Bodie made a dash into the kitchen. He was back in the bedroom, glass of water in hand, just in time to hear the bathroom door creak open.

"Bathroom's all yours," Doyle called out before turning down the hall away from the bedroom.

Although puzzled as to where Doyle went to, Bodie stayed where he was, ready to set the scene when he came back. It was a few minutes before Ray appeared at the door to find Bodie mopping at the bedcovers.

"Had a bit of an accident, spilt some water--but don't worry, you can have my pillow," Bodie said cheerfully.

"When did you make up the bed in the spare room?" Doyle asked without even noticing what his partner was doing.

"What?" Thrown completely, Bodie couldn't produce an answer.

"Thanks, anyway, it's a good idea. We'll probably both sleep better now. You look like you could do with a good night's sleep."

"What's a good idea?" Bodie asked, only just seeing the shuttered expression on the solemn face.

"I should have used the spare bed from the start," Doyle said flatly. "Can't think why I didn't."

"Oh!" Bodie said lamely. "I suppose if you want to you can. It's up to you." He couldn't detect any embarrassment in Doyle, no hint that he'd realised what had been happening, but he'd learnt over the last few years that Doyle never revealed what was hurting him.

"See you in the morning, then. Goodnight."

"Night," Bodie answered numbly.

Doyle turned and walked down the small hall, closing his bedroom door behind him. Forcing himself to move smoothly, he turned the bedcover down, switched the small side lamp and the overhead light off. Dropping his robe over the foot of the bed, he slid under the crisp cotton sheet and layers of blankets.

For a while he lay in the soft glow of the lamp, listening to the sounds Bodie made banging around in the bathroom, but refusing to allow himself to think. Finally, he drew a deep breath and stretched out a hand to the light switch and turned it off. But the expected dark and wash of panic never materialised and he gave a relieved sigh. The spare room had a portlight over the door and the light from the hallway spilled into the little room. The bathroom door opened and the other bedroom door slammed shut but, more importantly, the hall light stayed on. Hardly able to believe his luck and sleep still a long way off, Doyle listened to the sounds of the flat, the refilling cistern and soft tick of his alarm clock all he could hear. The quietness was oddly unsettling as he had grown used to the breathing rhythm of another person beside him, the warm presence a few inches away and the comforting dip in the mattress that meant someone was there. He had grown used to Bodie.

Along the hall, Bodie was no nearer sleep; the king-size bed had never felt so empty--nor so cold. Apart from his feet, which were never less than chilling, Doyle was always hot. Whilst he would never entertain an electric blanket, Bodie was always grateful for a hot water bottle of the human variety. A bed that contained Ray Doyle was never cold and Bodie had decided a long time ago that Doyle could warm his bed anytime.

In the end, Bodie gave in and pulled Doyle's scent laden pillow into his arms and wrapped himself around it. It was no substitute but he consoled himself with the thought that it was probably the nearest he would ever get to the real thing.

---

Feeling uncomfortably hot and restricted in the smart, expensively cut suit he had donned to attend the meeting at the MoD, Bodie was much relieved to find the relatively cool sanctuary of CI5 headquarters. Removing his jacket and undoing his waistcoat, he helped himself to a glass of cold fruit juice and slumped down into one of the armchairs. He was finishing his second glass of juice when Day, looking as miserable as always, sauntered in and totally ignored Bodie until he found someone had emptied the carton of juice he'd bought only that afternoon.

"Bloody typical, that is!" he moaned loudly. "No respect for other people's property. Why can't they buy their own supplies."

"Oh, was that your juice?" Bodie enquired and drained the last mouthful. "Very nice."

"Was it--I wouldn't bloody well know. I haven't had a drop of it."

"You leave things in the fridge, people will take them, you ought to know that by now," Bodie lectured sternly.

Murphy walked in just then, jacket suspended by one long finger over his shoulder, and looking as hot as Bodie felt.

"Wish it would rain, might clear the air a bit," he said, bending over to open the small fridge. "Any of that juice left?"

"No, there bloody isn't," Day snorted in disgust and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Such a friendly chap," Murphy remarked. "How'd you get on with the MoD bods?"

"Fucking awful," Bodie said mournfully, loosening another button. "I told them what I thought of the guns and they weren't amused--they'd have liked it even less if I hadn't made such an effort to be polite!"

"Your report didn't go down too well then?"

"Like a lead balloon. Still, with Cowley backing me up, they won't get away with fobbing that load of crap onto CI5." Bodie was still fuming over the mercenary, uncaring attitude of the men from the Ministry--just because the guns were less expensive and easier to repair, the men who depended on them were expected to risk their lives using weapons that were poorly made--all for a few pennies!

"I notice Ray's making a rapid recovery," Murphy said.

Not understanding the reason for the amused glint in Murphy's eyes, Bodie looked up, curious.

"How do you mean?"

"Getting on very nicely with Ann-Marie, he was, last time I saw him."

"Ann-Marie?"

"Come on, Bodie! You must have noticed her, about five-four, nicely stacked, smashing legs up to her armpits, auburn hair down to here," he drew a line across his chest.

"Silk blouse and a split up the side of her skirt?" Bodie asked.

"Knew you'd seen her," Murphy confirmed. "I've been looking hopeful ever since she arrived, but no luck... We've all tried our damnedest but she's blanked us all--except for your mate, of course," he added in disgust. "He's got her eating out of his hand."

"Ray?"

"It's obscene. I keep telling myself it's because he still looks peaky, but personally, I don't think it's her maternal instincts he's arousing."

"Who is she, anyway?" Bodie asked, ignoring the prickle of irritation he was feeling.

"One of the computer programmers. I think she's going to run the training programme for us. She can teach me everything she knows anytime," Murphy said suggestively.

"Where is Doyle, anyway?"

"In the ops room--talking to Ann-Marie."

Leaving Murphy slightly stunned by his abrupt departure, Bodie walked quickly to the operations room. The section had been transformed by the installation of the new computer system and he was obliged to rap on the security glass to get his partner's attention.

Looking up from the paper-strewn desk, Doyle's face lit up with a smile of welcome before turning his attention back to the woman sitting beside him.

Looking at her, Bodie realised he had seen her around over the last month but this was the first time he had really looked at her. What he saw made his heart sink and he guessed why Doyle was attracted to her. She was from the same mould as Ann Holly, that much was obvious straightaway; fine-boned elegance and immaculate poise went hand in hand with expensive haute couture. Beauty, brains and class--just what Doyle liked.

Rapping sharply on the glass and gaining Doyle's attention again, Bodie tapped meaningfully on his wrist watch. It had been a long day and he wanted to go home.

Doyle signalled five minutes and turned back to the woman, who hadn't even bothered to see what had distracted her companion.

Half an hour later, Doyle climbed into the car that shot away from the pavement even before the door was properly closed.

"Where's the fire?" he asked, curious.

Bodie didn't bother to answer and drove them home in a determined, icy silence.

"Bad day at the office?" Doyle ventured once they were safely indoors.

"What?" Bodie snapped.

"Don't bite my head off, Bodie," he said quietly. "You've been like a bear with a sore head ever since you picked me up."

"You can say that again!" Bodie mumbled under his breath, remembering the uncomplicated days before he ever knew Ray Doyle.

"What?"

"Yes, I had a bad day!" he snapped. "I think I'm allowed to have one now and again, aren't I?"

"'Course you are," Doyle agreed, deciding to retreat. "Pardon me for breathing."

Alone in the kitchen, Bodie fought to regain control. It wasn't Doyle's fault he was pissed off, the MoD bods had a lot to do with...and Miss Ann-Marie, of course. Taking a deep, calming breath, he walked through into the lounge. "Sorry," he apologised, smiling in response to Doyle's relieved grin. "It has been one of those days. I think, given a choice, I'd take a week with Macklin and Towser rather than one day, suited up, talking economics, politics and stupid, friggin' budgetary control with that lot of pin-striped dinosaurs!"

"But you did convince them you were right?"

"Of course," Bodie replied in mock indignation. "Wouldn't let them out of the room until they promised to drop the whole lot on CI4 and let us have the West German stuff as soon as it's available."

"Well done. What did Cowley say?"

"Bastard that he is. I might 'ave known he had a reason for wanting me to report in person. He'd just about talked himself hoarse trying to convince them the guns are useless--he only wanted me there to give a few demonstrations--I swear old Ponsonby-Clarke crapped his pants when that round jammed in the barrel!"

"You took a risk."

"Nah...shoved a piece of wadding down the barrel before the meeting started."

---

The rest of the evening passed smoothly until Doyle dozed off on the sofa. Dead to the world, he looked very comfortable, but Bodie knew the sofa was in reality too short, too hard and a bit too narrow to be suitable for a night's rest.

"Wakey, wakey, sunshine," he called out. "Time to go to bed."

"'uck off."

"Same to you with knobs, sunshine," countered Bodie. "Come on, you'll be more comfortable in bed."

"Okay...okay... I'm moving."

"That's better," Bodie said. "You'd hate me in the morning if I left you there all night.

More asleep than awake, Doyle padded along the hallway to his bedroom. Watching him go, Bodie prayed for a decent night's sleep for both of them. Ever since Doyle had moved into the spare room a week ago, neither of them had slept well. Too conscious of the empty space beside him, Bodie had been alert to every sound Doyle had made in the spare room. There hadn't been any screaming nightmares but even so he knew Doyle's sleep had been uneasy and restless, particularly if the trips to the kitchen and bathroom at irregular intervals were anything to go by.

By the early hours of the morning, as he listened to Doyle closing his bedroom door after another walk around the flat, Bodie realised his prayers had been wasted. It was almost daylight when he was roused from a shallow, unrewarding sleep when he heard Doyle's door creak open again. Tired and angry, Bodie pushed back the covers and left his room.

"What bloody time do you call this?" he bellowed from the doorway into the lounge.

Peering through the curtains into the empty street below, Doyle hadn't heard Bodie's approach and he started in surprise. "Oh...it's five past six."

"Five past six!" Bodie shouted. "What the hell are you doing up at this bloody hour for?"

"Sorry...did I wake you up?" Doyle answered apologetically.

"Yes, you flaming well did, just like you did at four thirty, quarter to three and one o'clock tonight, last night, the night before that AND the bloody night before that!"

"Sorry."

"Sorry! Is that all you can say, sorry!"

"What do you want me to say?" Doyle retorted, on the defensive. "I'm not doing it on purpose. Is it my fault I can't sleep?"

"Have I said you're doing it on purpose--no, I haven't. I knew you were going to find sleeping difficult, that's why I keep on about the pills."

"I'm not taking any more sleeping pills!"

"Why not?"

"Because they make me feel...rotten, like my head's full of cotton wool. Besides, it's not healthy to take them for too long."

"Not healthy for you or me?" Bodie asked sarcastically. "Why not take them, just one--or at least half of one so I can get some sleep."

"No!" Doyle refused and Bodie knew he wouldn't give in.

"Well...what's the trouble then?" he asked irritably, too tired to be diplomatic. "Nightmares again?"

"No."

"Well, what, then?"

"Nothing... I don't know...nothing... I just can't sleep."

"Why not, what's keeping you awake?"

Doyle turned back to look down into the street while he considered which answer he ought to give, a truthful one...or a lie. I can't sleep because the bed's too cold without you in it; I can't sleep because when I do you're there in my dreams, in my nightmares, even, but when I wake up you're not there anymore.

"I don't know...just dreams...feelings...nothing specific. I just can't sleep, and I can't spend all night staring at the ceiling, counting sheep. I'm sorry if I keep disturbing you." The drooping shoulders and low voice told Bodie a lot more and he felt his anger fade away.

"You'll get over it, things will soon be back to normal," he offered gently, crossing the floor to stand behind Doyle's shoulder.

Although he felt the warmth of Bodie's body so close behind him, he still jumped when a hand rested on his shoulder. "What's normal?" Doyle asked, hoping Bodie hadn't noticed the movement. "Can't remember when I last had a decent night's sleep."

"What sort of dreams are you having?" Bodie enquired, already imagining any number of horrors, death, violence, being trapped, feeling helpless.

"Just...feelings," Doyle replied helplessly. "Sometimes I just...feel...bad...sometimes frightened...sometimes though, just for a few minutes, it's like I can remember everything and it's terrifying--but then I lose it all and I'm just left with the fear. Sometimes I just don't want to go to sleep in case I do dream." And sometimes I dream about you, he thought, not daring to say the words aloud, but I can't guarantee that I will, almost wish I could. Dreams about Bodie were preferable to the other dreams he usually had.

Looking at the dejected slump of his partner, Bodie felt guilty that he had given in to his own selfish, greedy desires and allowed Doyle to leave his bed. Apart from the odd night when they first returned from Beeches and he began visiting Repton, Doyle had slept safely, although restlessly, in the bed beside him. His sexual awareness of Doyle was, for the moment anyway, superseded by his desire to comfort him and keep him safe and happy, and Bodie was sure he would be able to control his sexual responses to him even better now he knew his limitations. "Look," he said gently. "Come back to bed, my bed. You were always a bit restless but I think because I was there I managed to quieten you down, stop the bad dreams from taking hold of you. It'll pass, Ray, I'm sure of it--but meanwhile we both need to sleep properly. Come to bed with me?"

"No!" Doyle said abruptly, knowing there was no way he could accept Bodie's offer even though he knew it made sense. Until he got himself over the ridiculous juvenile crush he'd suddenly developed on his partner, Doyle knew there was no way he could share Bodie's bed without his partner realising something was seriously wrong.

Bodie only heard the vehement rejection. Face flushing, he withdrew his hand and retreated a few steps. The disgust on Doyle's face could only mean one thing, he decided. Doyle had realised that his wet dream had been a lot more than just an unfortunate accident. Remembering that night he'd masturbated until he ejaculated over the bed and pillow, Bodie suddenly wondered why Doyle had taken so long in the bathroom; perhaps, Bodie thought, cringing inwardly, he had only seen Doyle emerge for the second time! Had he seen him wanking in the bedroom? Probably, his guilty conscience told him.

"You know best, I suppose," he said quietly. "Perhaps you'd do better to ask Dr Willis for some different tablets then, ones that will help you sleep and not affect you during the day."

"Perhaps I should," Doyle agreed, aware that his withdrawal had hurt Bodie. "I'll get on to accommodation about that new flat tomorrow as well. I want to be settled in the new place before I get back to active duty."

"You want to move out?"

"Well, I can't stay here forever, can I?" Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "The accommodation blokes have already crated my stuff up and moved it to the store...there's nothing left at the old flat now."

"When was this done?" Bodie asked. "I knew you had to move but I thought they were leaving it until you felt better?"

"I saw the officer on Monday. The lads went round and packed everything up--there was no need for me to go over. You've already moved my clothes here, and I won't need anything else until I'm in the new place."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission," Doyle responded to Bodie's angry question.

"I suppose you would have got around to telling me you're moving out at sometime!"

"What's got into you? I meant to tell you on Monday but things happened and I forgot. I've not seen that much of you since and I've had other things on my mind--"

"You've forgotten to tell me for a week that you're leaving here?"

"I've been busy. I've been running all over the place, Repton, headquarters, the gym, home, and who the hell do you think's been doing the shopping and the cleaning for the past week or so--you've either been too busy or snoozing on the sofa--"

"If I've been snoozing on the sofa it's because you've been keeping me awake half the bloody night!"

"Well, sorry, I'm sure," Doyle said, sneering. "If that's the case, I should think you'll be glad when I do move out!"

"Well, at least then one of us will be able to get some sleep!" Bodie shouted over his shoulder as he stormed out of the room.

"Bodie--" Doyle called after him, sorry too late for the argument that had erupted from nowhere. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" A bedroom door slammed shut on his apology. "Well, screw you too!" he said without any heat as he threw himself onto the couch, realising that he was unlikely to get any more sleep after that little scene.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Both breakfast and the drive out to Repton were conducted in stony silence, Bodie determined to wait for Doyle to make the first move and apologise. But having had his first attempted apology ignored, Doyle was not feeling especially forgiving.

Dropping Doyle off in the main road just outside the hospital wall, Bodie unbent a little. "Will I see you later?" he asked.

"You're in the office all day?"

"Unless something breaks, yeah," Bodie answered.

"I'll see you later, then," confirmed Doyle with a weak smile that grew stronger when he saw it returned.

"I'm sorry about last night," they both said at once, then broke off, laughing.

"I am sorry," Bodie said.

"So am I," Doyle echoed. "You're right--as bloody usual. I'll see Willis this afternoon, see if he can't prescribe something--I'll tell him you need your beauty sleep."

"You do that, sunshine," Bodie called as he revved the engine. "Catch you later."

Doyle waved once and then turned into the hospital grounds.

---

Bodie's good mood lasted until the court papers landed in his lap. The ensuing meeting with Cowley and Ross only served to worsen his mood. His first encounter with Clive Greerson, three years ago, had been enough to make Bodie determined that however long it took, he'd put him away--if not permanently then at least for a very long time.

Greerson was a clever man, though, and until recently had always managed to protect himself from the full weight of the law. For a prosperous, charming, spirited bank manager, Clive Greerson had an ugly hobby. He bought and sold secrets: industrial, commercial, political, military and even sexual secrets.

Bodie had first known about the darker side of this paragon of public life shortly after joining CI5, when an operation had been a spectacular failure and Tom King's body had been found washed up on the French coast some months later.

This time, they had been better prepared and deliberately lulled Greerson into a false sense of security; but even so, their plans had not gone smoothly. They had manipulated events to force the aide from the Cabinet Office to meet face to face with Greerson, but events conspired against them. A burst watermain in Trafalgar Square and a small fire in Tottenham Court Road brought London traffic to a complete standstill--the CI5 backup being right in the middle of it.

Outside the plush Indian restaurant, Bodie had fumed silently as he watched Greerson, flanked by his goons, enter the premises. Inside, Doyle, a camera hidden in his briefcase, was watching and waiting for the backup which never came.

The meeting over, secrets touted and bought, the Cabinet aide and Greerson left at five minute intervals. It had taken Doyle five minutes to realise that the camera had been faulty and the photographs were useless.

And now Greerson's trial had been brought forward. Scheduled for October, it was to start at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

"Do you think he knows that 4.5 has been...off the active list?" Bodie asked, as troubled as Cowley was at the sudden turn of events.

"I don't see how," Cowley said thoughtfully. "I think we've been successful in keeping the lid on things. Doyle's state of health, mental and physical, has only been the concern of this department. No, I think his counsel is merely hoping to catch us unprepared."

"Well, they've miscalculated then, haven't they?" Bodie said silkily.

"You think so?" Cowley said, arching one eyebrow. "You are certain of a conviction? I was under the impression that the charges are shaky, to say the least. With Francis Lafontaine acting for the defence, I hope your confidence is justified."

"Lafontaine?" Bodie exclaimed. "Where's he sprung from?"

"Greerson engaged his services last week--it would appear he's wasted no time."

"Getting the trial shifted forward five months was no mean feat!" Bodie said in grudging admiration.

"Which brings us to why I have called yourself and Dr Ross in," Cowley said brusquely. "Owing to the lack of physical evidence, it is obvious that our strongest material is 4.5's eyewitness account of the meeting between Greerson and Matthew Woodrough. Is Doyle fit to appear in front of Lafontaine as a hostile witness?"

"Yes."

"No."

The two voices spoke together and Bodie glared at Ross as she calmly informed George Cowley that, in her professional opinion, Raymond Doyle was not ready to be put through a harrowing ordeal in court.

"He's given evidence in court hundreds of times," Bodie protested. "Of course he can do it."

"I'm not saying he can't," Ross said, unruffled by the hostility emanating from the man sitting beside her. "It is my considered opinion that mentally and emotionally, he is not ready to be thrown to the wolves."

"I know Lafontaine has a reputation for being fierce, but--"

"I have observed Lafontaine in action," Cowley interrupted. "He will make sure to give both you and especially Doyle a hard ride."

"Why Doyle especially?" asked Bodie.

"Because the basis of Greerson's defence is that he has never met and does not know Matthew Woodrough. Given the lack of photographic evidence," Bodie grimaced at the sour reminder, "4.5's eyewitness account of the meeting is all we have. I have little doubt that Lafontaine will be able to discredit and ruin what little else we have on his client."

"Then Doyle has to testify," said Bodie.

"Not necessarily," countered Ross. "If I declare him unfit to appear, his written statement of the meeting can be read out in court."

"How can the cross-examine a written statement? Lafontaine will laugh his way to an acquittal!" Bodie said in disgust. "Doyle has to appear--we don't stand a chance of a conviction if he doesn't."

"I do not understand the reasons for your decision any more than 3.7," Dr Ross," Cowley said, disappointed at her decision but understanding she must have a perfectly valid explanation.

"4.5 is recovering," Ross began. "However, we must make allowances for the enormous stress he has lived with for the past five years. Firstly prison, and then a move into CI5--hardly what he was expecting and, I suspect, a great disappointment. His efforts to renew his relationship with Miss Holly were an attempt to pretend nothing had ever happened. Ever since recovering consciousness in hospital he has refused to discuss Miss Holly, even to the point that he won't say her name. He is co-operating better now than at first, but he is still unwilling to be drawn and has become quite adept at circumventing discussions he finds threatening. His self-confidence is growing but is still very shaky. I feel strongly that if Lafontaine were to detect a weakness, he would attack 4.5 and could possibly destroy him."

"Rubbish!" snorted Bodie, unable to keep quiet.

"Not so," snapped Ross. "4.5 knows that the case rests on his evidence. If he falls to pieces in the witness box and the case is lost, he will feel guilty. Ordinarily, he would be able to carry that--but not now, not on top of everything else that has happened."

"But if he doesn't appear, we'll lose the case and Greerson will walk!" Bodie protested, even though deep inside he could see Ross was speaking the truth.

"There will be other times for the likes of Clive Greerson," Ross said, implying that it was not so for Ray Doyle.

"Very well, then," Cowley agreed reluctantly. "Bodie, you'll be in court next Monday; I don't expect it will take more than a day for Lafontaine to move for an acquittal. There's no point in telling 4.5 the trial has been brought forward--he'll find out as soon as Fleet Street run the story and that will be soon enough."

"Sir," Bodie agreed with poor grace. He wanted Greerson--badly. But if there was a risk to Doyle, perhaps it would be better to wait until a conviction was more promising.

"Bodie," Cowley called out just as he was about to follow Ross as she left the office. "How are the trials on the new sights and handguns going?"

Bodie only just restrained himself and managed to answer politely. "Slowly, sir. Very slowly. They are marginally better than the last lot."

"I'll expect your report by Friday," Cowley said, his attention already moving on to the next piece of business.

"Sir," Bodie called him back from his work. "With due respect, sir," he began, "this is the third set of trials you've set me to do. Now I know it makes sense to have one of us do the tests, but even so--this is the third set in as many weeks!"

"I am aware of that, 3.7. Are you telling me you are unable to evaluate the working potential of the equipment?" he enquired frostily.

"No, sir," Bodie answered. "It's just...this is the third time. I don't mind the trials, but it's getting bloody difficult to write reports twenty pages long and be polite about shitty equipment and workmanship that quite frankly stinks!"

"Your reports have been what I would expect from you, 3.7."

Bodie wasn't sure whether Cowley was congratulating him or not.

"Dr Ross informs me that Doyle has significantly reduced his dependence on you and that it is time for you to resume normal duties."

"Thank you, sir," Bodie responded, surprised at the sudden change of topic.

"So, after you have completed your third twenty-page report, you will resume full duty status."

"After the weekend, sir?" Bodie asked hopefully.

Cowley outstared him with ease but then relented. "As if you have na' had it easy enough the last few weeks," he scoffed. "Aye, since you've the cheek to ask, I'll see you on Monday when you've finished at the court. You'll finish here once the report on the latest weapons batch is on my desk," Cowley added generously. "Monday morning, mind."

---

A trip to the armoury took up the rest of the morning and when Bodie arrived back at HQ, around one o'clock, he looked for Doyle, who he knew would have arrived from Repton by now.

He finally tracked him down in a quiet corner of the sprawling canteen. He walked right up to the table and stood unnoticed until he rapped his knuckles on the Formica topped table.

"Oh...hello, Bodie," said Doyle, looking up from his companion and seeing him for the first time.

"Hello, yourself--what's got you so engrossed--could 'ave had a chorus of Tiller girls prancing down the aisle for all you would have noticed just then."

"Nothing special, just some outlines we're working on."

Bodie looked at the other half of Doyle's exclusive 'we.' "I'm Bodie. This ignorant lout is my partner. Nice to meet you," he introduced himself formally as he pulled up a chair to sit beside Doyle.

"Marie, this is Bodie," Doyle said, pantomiming a grand introduction. "Bodie, this is Marie Hellman, who is going to design and run the programme which will hopefully enable you to do more than play Space Invaders on your computer."

"You mean she'll make it show Channel 4 and colour?" Bodie said excitedly.

"Pillock!" Doyle scolded, casting an apologetic look towards the woman. "Excuse the idiot, please," he said, giving Bodie a mock glare that was more affection than anger.

"What's on offer today, then?" Bodie asked cheerfully, looking about at the plates of other diners. "Anything worth having?"

"I dunno why he bothers with the menu--he always has the same thing," Doyle said, rising to his feet and picking up the sheets of notepaper from the tabletop.

"Where are you going?" Bodie asked as Ann-Marie also collected her things and rose from her seat.

"We're off," Doyle said as he passed over the small ladies' briefcase to Ann-Marie. "Got a meeting with Cowley in...five minutes."

"What happened to lunch?"

"It was lovely--I recommend the cheese omelette. See you tonight."

"Doyle!" Bodie called out, annoyance warring with disappointment. "Where?" Where shall we meet, what time?"

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm collecting a car from the garage later this afternoon--I'll see you at home later tonight. Bye."

Speechless, Bodie watched him go, his feelings ambivalent; part of him was pleased to see Doyle so cheerfully independent, but only a small part: underneath the pleasure he was already missing the air of vulnerability that had been firmly wrapped around his partner. Doyle didn't need him anymore.

Yes, he does, Bodie thought fiercely as he watched his friend leave the canteen with the attractive programmer. Or, maybe I need him? He knew he should be pleased at Doyle's re-established confidence, knew it was wrong--even a little sick--to want Doyle that dependent on him. If a meal with an attractive woman and a new set of wheels were part of his new independence, Bodie was pleased for him. If it was what Doyle truly wanted.

The computer programmer? Bodie wondered how true the gossip was; Doyle and Ann-Marie had seemed very thick...and he had approached accommodation about a new flat earlier in the week, Bodie realised.

Wandering back down to the armoury to wind up the final trials, Bodie wondered how much longer he would have his house guest.

---

The meeting with the section heads and George Cowley over with, Doyle was feeling very pleased with himself.

"You handled Mr Cowley very nicely," Ann-Marie commented as she helped him put the papers and equipment away. "You seemed to know just the right level of technical jargon to use without baffling them all."

"Get too technical with that lot and they'll all fall asleep. They still think pocket calculators are high technology," he said, laughing easily.

"No, there's more to it than that. Mr Cowley was right in getting you to help me design the training programme. You've got the knack of breaking complicated concepts into understandable examples. Where did you get your training?"

"Initially when I was with the police, six or seven years ago now. I did a couple of courses then, only basic stuff. I learnt about programming...a few years back. Never got around to completing the course, though, only managed two and a half years out of the four-year course."

"Why did you drop it after so long, you were over halfway through?" Ann-Marie asked curiously.

"Didn't have much choice, really," Doyle said, wishing the conversation had never started. "I only started it for something to do, anyway. I thought it might be useful when I started job-hunting...but then things happened and I wound up here with CI5." He didn't bother telling her the reason why his studies were terminated so abruptly; further education in prison was considered a privilege--and privileges were withdrawn from uncooperative prisoners as punishment: prisoners in solitary confinement were denied access to the education complex.

"You ought to finish the course," Ann-Marie said, not noticing the dark mood sweeping over her companion. "You're a natural with computers, you have a logical mind. The work you've done on this training programme has been excellent--it would have taken me twice as long on my own."

"Maybe I will, one day," Doyle said thoughtfully. "If I leave CI5 I'd need something to fall back on."

Ann-Marie caught the wistful note in Doyle's voice and wondered at its cause. For the most part she recognised her companion was as arrogantly chauvinistic as his colleagues, but at times she could see how different he was. Always controlled and faultlessly polite, Doyle occasionally struck her as being incredibly vulnerable, particularly since his recent visit to a barber's had left him with a short crop of curls that clung to his head, emphasising its paleness and high cheekbones. The hairstyle--necessary because of some recent injury--only heightened the impression that he was too gentle to survive the type of work she knew he usually did. He seemed genuinely interested in helping her design the training programme and her original doubts at his enthusiasm to work with her had faded as time passed and he still made no attempt to take advantage of her or to seduce her as his colleagues had tried. Almost regretful, Ann-Marie realised that it was the work he was doing that Doyle found so captivating, not who he was working with. Still, she thought cheerfully, perhaps when the programme was running and the demands on their time were less...

---

The keys to his new car in his hip pocket, Doyle sauntered around to the armoury, hoping that they hadn't already locked up for the night.

"Hello, Jack," he greeted the armourer chirpily. "Glad I caught you. I've been meaning to get down here all week, just never had a moment."

"Afternoon, Ray," the older man said, covering his surprise. "What can I do for you? You've missed Bodie by half an hour if it's him you want?"

"No, I wanted to see you. I want my gun back. Bodie said it had all been checked in here a while ago," Doyle said awkwardly. "When I was...missing. Someone picked it up from the place in Eastbourne."

"Oh yea, I remember," Jack Craine said, wondering how to handle the situation. As far as he knew, Doyle was still off the active list. "The Major send you down, did he? Got your chit?"

"What?"

"Allocation chit," Jack explained. "No chit--no gun. Sorry, but rules are rules."

"It's my gun, Jack," Doyle said. "It's already been issued to me--I just want it back, I don't need a chit."

"I'm afraid you do, sorry," Jack said firmly.

"Look, someone picked it up and brought it in," Doyle explained. "It's already in the records, I don't need a bloody chit!"

"I'm sorry, but--"

"Why the fuck do I suddenly need a piece of paper to get my gun back?" Doyle demanded.

"Look, why don't you go and see the Major?"

"I need Cowley's permission to get my own gun?" said Doyle, bemused.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but you should have known--"

"Known what?"

"Where have you been the last two months, Doyle?"

"Off sick, you know that!"

"But where? I can't give you a gun without authorisation." The older man looked at Doyle warily, unsure of how he would respond.

All of a sudden, Doyle understood. They would not give him a gun because he had been in a psychiatric hospital: he was still considered too dangerous to be let out on the streets with a gun.

Not saying another word, he spun on his heel and left the armoury. He found his car and drove away from the building, looking for somewhere safe to release his temper.

He drove automatically, mindlessly, for a couple of hours. It was only when he realised he needed to buy some petrol that he actually began to think clearly again.

Forking out for a full tank, Doyle made a note to bend the mechanic's ear next time he saw him. Leaving the forecourt, he realised he was only a short drive from The Brewers and on the spur of the moment decided to drop by.

Ivy's greeting was loud and enthusiastic, ensuring that the whole pub knew he was there. "I was so worried about you," she moaned as she pulled him into a big hug. "You looked like death warmed up last time you were here, and then you didn't come back! What happened to you--are you better now? Poor love, you still look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine, Ivy," Doyle managed to reassure her. "I'm sorry you were so worried--but thanks for thinking about me," and he meant it. Ivy's welcome and the friendly reception he received from the few regulars he recognised was warm and genuine. It felt good to be on the receiving end of such uncomplicated goodwill.

"What on earth 'ad you been up to that day you came in here?" Thomas Mahone asked as he served Doyle a drink.

"I'd been having a few...problems," Doyle answered discreetly, knowing he could safely leave it to Tom to manufacture his own story.

"Trouble with the law?" Tom asked quietly. Doyle nodded truthfully but refused to be drawn.

"Bleedin' pigs, once they've had you they never bleedin' let you go," Tom snarled. "You looked like you'd been done over pretty good. Was it one of them?"

Them and us, Doyle thought. It was still strange knowing Tom and the other regulars thought of him as 'one of us' and not 'one of them.'

"No, wasn't one of them...was someone who had it in for me from a long time ago," Doyle said, suddenly very tired.

"He sure as 'ell done you proper. If you need any help getting 'im back, just say the word, Ray, mate. Round these parts we 'elp our friends," Tom offered, sincerity written in his face, and Doyle know he meant it.

"Nah...thanks for the offer, though."

"Shouldn't let him walk, Ray. If you change your mind, just say."

"Oh...he won't walk," Doyle said harshly. "I won't have to worry about him anymore. He won't be troubling anyone again. Ever." The harsh voice made Tom Mahone look up sharply and he just glimpsed the glimmer of raging fury in the expressive green eyes. Doyle's smile was at odds with his words and Tom knew that Doyle had spoken the truth. He didn't need anyone's help to deal with his attacker--not any more. Remembering the stories he'd heard about Doyle, Tom suddenly believed them. It had been hard to identify the quiet, gentle man with the hardened ex-cop who had taken on the likes of Albert Kingsley and Ward. No-one knew where Doyle had gone to after Maidstone, but rumours had him on Broadmoor.

Moving away to serve another punter, Tom wondered if it was wise to encourage Doyle to keep returning--there was no knowing what might send him back over the edge into insanity.

Drinking alone, Doyle sensed Tom's withdrawal and smiled to himself. With the landlord's imagination, there was little need for him to reveal or even pretend very much. He knew they thought he'd been transferred to a psychiatric prison hospital but it didn't bother him. What really bothered him was Jack Craine refusing to give him his gun because he had been in a top-security psychiatric hospital wing! What did he have to do to prove he was safe, he wondered. Would they never let him carry a gun, did they mean to keep him inside forever? The questions rattled around inside his head without finding any answers and eventually he left the problem alone and turned his attention to what was happening in the pub.

The darts tournament took up most of the evening, Doyle taking over for a team member who failed to arrive. His scoring impressed his team-mates but not the opposition and the friendly bickering was loud but harmless.

One of the last to leave that night, Doyle found Tom walking out with him to put some traffic cones on the road.

"Bleedin' buggers from the factory come round the corner fill the bleedin' road up by seven. When the brewery lorry comes they can't get close unless I put these things out," he said as he placed the cones in front of the cellar entrance. He looked across the road to the one remaining car. "That's never yours?"

"Who else do you think it belongs to?" Doyle asked, pulling the keys from his pocket.

"Don't come cheap, cars like that don't," Tom observed shrewdly. "Flash, ain't it."

"It's a nice car," Doyle agreed.

"Bet it cost a packet?"

"Wouldn't know," Doyle answered carelessly as they crossed over to the car.

"You're working then?" Mahone said in surprise; not many of his regulars did.

"In a fashion," he answered vaguely as he opened the door and climbed in.

"What do you do?" asked Mahone, unable to contain his curiosity.

"I make a living," Doyle answered with an evil little laugh.

"Doing?" It was an impolite question and Mahone knew Doyle would only answer it if he wanted to.

"It depends," Doyle answered as he keyed the ignition. "Changes all the time...bit difficult to say really."

"But it pays well," Mahone said with a sly smile as he ran a hand over the smooth bodywork. "It's a nice car."

"It's a nice car," Doyle agreed for the second time before revving the engine and leaving Mahone standing alone in the darkened road with his overactive imagination working double-time.

---

Bodie heard the key turn in the front door but didn't move from his position in front of the television--although he did glance angrily at his wristwatch.

"Evening," Doyle called from the lounge door. "I'm going to make some coffee--want some?"

"No," Bodie answered tonelessly, still without turning.

Doyle heard the annoyance in his partner's voice and grimaced as he went through into the kitchen. Coffee made, he drifted back into the lounge and sat on the arm of the sofa. He noticed that Bodie didn't even look at him and sighed. "I meant to ring and say I was going to be out all evening, but I forgot." Bodie still didn't say anything and Doyle knew that he was really in the doghouse. "What are you watching?"

"The last fifteen minutes of a film--so belt up or go to bed," Bodie snapped.

"I'll go to bed then," Doyle said, feeling guilty and angry at the same time. "Goodnight." Bodie didn't reply.

Alone in his bedroom, Doyle put his coffee mug down and moved to open the small window. It was very hot and humid with scarcely a breeze to move the air around and the room felt stuffy and closed in. He stood by the open window, trying to cool down, until he heard the television being switched off and Bodie moving around in the kitchen. Draining his mug, Doyle went to find him.

"Film finished?" he asked.

"Obviously," Bodie replied.

"Oh...any good, was it?"

"Passed a few hours," came the toneless response. "Got fed up talking to myself. Have you eaten?"

"What? Oh, er...had a cheese roll," Doyle said quickly.

"You been drinking?" Bodie asked suddenly as Doyle moved closer to rest his mug on the drainingboard.

"Only a couple of halves," Doyle replied, irritated at the presumptuous question. "Why, what's it to you?"

"Nothing," Bodie said as he picked up the mug and washed it. "Have a nice time, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I did. It's been a good night, I've enjoyed myself."

Bodie rinsed the mug and slammed it down for Doyle to dry.

"I just missed you this afternoon," Doyle ventured quietly as he watched Bodie's shuttered face. "At the armoury, missed you by half an hour, so Jack said."

"Were you looking for me?"

"Not really, I went down there to collect my gun." He watched the momentary stillness in Bodie's face and waited to see if he would say anything but he didn't. "He wouldn't hand it over, said I had to have a chit from Cowley."

"Did he?" Bodie said carefully."

"Did you know anything about that?"

"Like what?"

"Why can't I have my gun back?"

"If you think about, the reasons should be obvious, even to you," Bodie said mildly.

"What's obvious?"

Doyle's outraged innocence irritated Bodie. "God, you can be thick sometimes, Doyle," he said harshly. "You force a man to help you escape from a secure hospital. You attack a guard and steal his gun, you barricade yourself in and threaten to shoot anyone who comes near you, you even pull a gun on your own partner before turning the fucking thing on yourself, and then you wonder why they won't give you your gun back. You're unbelievable, Doyle! For an intelligent man you can be so bloody stupid sometimes!"

"I wasn't really going to shoot anyone!" Doyle said indignantly. "Hell, I didn't even realise they were armed until the gun was in my hand. I wouldn't have shot anyone."

"Well, at the time, sunshine, we weren't too sure of that; from where we were it looked like you had every intention of going through with it!"

"Don't be so stupid!" Doyle retorted scathingly.

"Who's being stupid, Doyle?" Bodie raged. "You were off your bloody trolley and didn't even know which end was up. You had the gun on me for several minutes before you even recognised me--"

"No!" Doyle cried out in denial. "I knew what was happening...everything just got a bit out of control... I wouldn't have shot you...I wouldn't."

Although the memory of what had happened had always been there in his mind, he had managed to push it aside. Now, for the first time, he pulled the memories out and examined them. "I wouldn't have hurt anyone..." he whispered. "Not anyone..."

"What about yourself?" Bodie asked in a quieter voice. "What about you?"

"What about me?" asked Doyle, confused.

"It wasn't just ourselves we were concerned about--we were scared you would...hurt yourself."

"With the gun?" Doyle said. "You thought I meant to kill myself?"

"Didn't you?"

Doyle sat down onto one of the kitchen stools, eyes wide as he recalled the confusion and fear of that night. "I don't know...perhaps...can't really remember now...but I don't think so." One memory, clearer than all the others, suddenly sprang into his thoughts; he saw Bodie appearing on the stairs below him, saw himself train the gun on him; that split second when Bodie made the mistake of reaching for the gun lasted forever and he saw himself take aim and knew that if Bodie had twitched he would have fired. He could have killed Bodie that night. Almost six weeks later, the shock of what he'd nearly done hit him hard. "I could have killed you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I could have killed you!"

"But you didn't," Bodie said softly, realising that only now did Doyle understand how close to disaster they had come that night.

"God...what a mess," Doyle said wretchedly. "And then I wonder why they won't let me have a gun... God, I've been so stupid!"

Moving to stand closer to the dejected man, Bodie put his hands on Doyle's shoulder and was surprised to feel them trembling. "Hey, don't take on so," he offered, fingers attempting to massage the tenseness beneath them. "You've been under one hell of a strain... We do understand, no-one blames you. You've got to be patient, Ray. They can't afford to take chances--you'll be active and armed as soon as they think you're ready."

"They'll clear me for duty?" Doyle asked in surprise. "I thought I'd got it all wrong and I wouldn't get back on the squad--"

"Of course you'll get back--and soon," Bodie said. "You're getting better, stronger, all the time. Another month and we'll be working together again."

"You reckon?" Doyle asked, hardly daring to believe it. He stood to face Bodie. "Really?"

"I'll want to know why, if we're not," Bodie said sternly. "Just think back to a month ago and you'll see how far you've come. Another month and you'll be in the clear--providing you put some more meat on these bones!" He pulled Doyle into a bearhug, squeezing and tickling the ridges of his ribs.

"Gerroff! Bodie--get off--ouch--ooff," Doyle fought back with burrowing fingers.

"Ouch!" Bodie cried out and pulled back a little. Laughing and flushed from the exertion, Doyle looked a lot happier. "Even your fingers are bony," he complained.

The beautiful sensation of being enfolded by Bodie's warmth swept over Doyle, leaving him breathless and excited; he felt his heart rate quicken even as his awareness of his partner suddenly increased. He could feel the way one of Bodie's legs was positioned between his own, the hard rub of his thigh caressing the sensitive inner region of his own legs; through the thin cotton T shirt he was wearing he could feel the heat and dampness of Bodie as they tussled. He could even smell Bodie, a rich tangy scent that filled his senses and almost made him dizzy with excitement. The desire to stop the game, to stop tickling Bodie and to let that man do whatever he wanted to him, caught him unawares and completely by surprise.

Bodie only say the sudden withdrawal and retreated to protect himself. Anxious that he may have let his control slip, he swiftly ran through all his actions of the past few minutes. Had he done anything wrong? No, he decided, relieved, it had been a game, just a silly game to pull Doyle out of his despondent mood.

"It's...it's getting late, Doyle said awkwardly. "I think I'll turn in."

"Okay--did you see Willis about some new sleeping pills?"

"Forgot," replied Doyle. "I'd prefer to do without them... I'll see how it goes for a while longer. Goodnight," he called over his shoulder as he made his escape.

Alone in the kitchen, Bodie was left with the feeling he'd been hit by a steamroller--dealing with Doyle's mood changes often left him feeling that way. Tired but knowing he probably wouldn't get a decent night's sleep, he fiddled around with a few tasks until he heard Doyle had finished in the bathroom. A while later, duvet tucked under his chin, he was roused from a heavy doze by the sounds of someone moving along the hall toward the kitchen. He glanced at the bedside clock: it read one forty-three a.m. And so it begins again, he thought wearily, another sleepless night to get through!

---

On reaching the kitchen, Doyle made straight for the sink where he turned the cold tap full on and stuck his face under the icy flow. The cold made him gasp and then he stood up straight, the water dripping from his face and hair while he filled a cup with water and then drank it down.

The water droplets fell onto his chest, making him shiver and he stretched for the towel. Dry and feeling cooler, he slumped down onto the stool and rested his head in his hands, his despair obvious. The dream he had woken from minutes ago still held him in thrall, his senses reeling and nerves smouldering with banked-down need and energy. Christ, he thought, what a dream! It had begun like countless others: he was hot, it was dark and he was alone. Then the light, cold and harsh, had come into his sanctuary: Bodie had been there and the light hadn't been so frightening...then it had changed. He had known that with Bodie beside him he could walk into the light and be safe--but he also knew that once he reached the light, Bodie would be gone, and so he tricked him into staying in the comfortable darkness. He preyed on his partner's protectiveness and, feigning his own weakness and paralysing fear, kept Bodie by his side.

In the dream-dark they huddled together with Bodie protecting him from the cold light. He felt Bodie's arousal instantly and deliberately fed it, knowing it would keep him close by, but he now faced another dilemma: if he teased him to satisfaction, they would resume their journey towards the light.

No matter what he did, he knew he was going to lose Bodie and he had woken up with that thought paramount in his mind as his dream-self failed to stop him reaching completion.

In the kitchen, Doyle wondered whether Bodie would think he was going mad if he told him what had been going on in his mind. Awake and fully aware of his actions, he finally understood what he had been doing. He had first realised he might lose Bodie when Ann arrived on the scene; for a while things between them had been strained until they had settled into a comfortable routine. When she was in London, he spent his free time with her; when she wasn't, he went to Bodie. Once they'd had the good news, Doyle had been eager to pass it on to his partner and impatient to get the weekend with Ann over and behind him.

Waking up in the hospital, he quickly understood how important he had become to Bodie and resented anyone that forced them to be apart. Whatever he did or said, Bodie always came back and Doyle knew he liked that, wanted or even expected it. Bodie cared in a way that was different to anyone else and he revelled in that difference, enjoyed being the centre of Bodie's universe. But then he began to get better and found Bodie slipping away from him.

And the sex? Doyle wondered about that too. Over the last two months he'd had neither the inclination, time, energy, nor, come to that, opportunity to indulge himself. Maybe, he thought, I'm just getting a bit...desperate, and he's handy? Why else would Bodie figure so prominently in his fantasies? And what about Bodie, he thought? What had he been dreaming about that night when he came all over my back? Who had he been dreaming about?

Under the harsh kitchen light, Doyle suddenly sat bolt upright as he remembered the words his partner had mumbled as he came. He said my name, Doyle realised, mouth dropping open in shock. He was dreaming about me! Me!

No, he told himself, he was mistaken, he was seeing what he wanted to see. That single thought ripped through Doyle like an electric shock. I want him to dream about making love to me? He shook his head in amazement, unable to believe his own thoughts. Was that what he wanted? Yes! Really? Yes!

"Oh my god," Doyle groaned aloud, sinking his head into his hands again. "Now what do I do?"

Only silence answered him. Getting to his feet, he padded quietly along the hallway and peered cautiously through the half-open door into Bodie's bedroom. At first he didn't understand why the room was so dark but then he noticed the closed curtains. The kitchen light and the light from his room overspilled into the hallway and into a corner of Bodie's room. He could just see the curved shape of the sleeper. Doyle noticed that his side of the bed had a pillow lying lengthways beside Bodie. He backed out of the room without realising Bodie had been awake throughout his visit, and went into the kitchen, switched the light off, and then returned to his own room.

He lay in bed, flat on his back, staring with wide-open eyes at the ceiling. Bodie, he thought incredulously. Bodie? He knew it was impossible, that he was stupid even to imagine...

Why would Bodie want him? What did he have that Bodie could possibly want? The answer came quickly. Nothing. He had nothing for anyone. He didn't even like himself very much anymore. How could he have fooled himself into thinking he needed to depend on Bodie? He didn't need Bodie, not in that way: he only pretended so as to hide behind his real reason for wanting Bodie to stay close. No, he finally acknowledged, he didn't need Bodie--he wanted him!

Homosexuality. The word flashed into his mind. Homosexuality with Albert Kingsley, with any number of other hopefuls...or with Bodie? The memories of Kingsley's hot eyes, burning, hurting hands, the raspy, obscene whispers across a dark cell and the knowing, leering looks of his companions tumbled into being and he pushed them aside easily. It would be different with Bodie, Doyle told himself, it would have to be different. But it was hopeless. Whatever Bodie felt for him, Doyle knew it wouldn't extend to that! It simply couldn't because Bodie was not like that.

Doyle closed his eyes, cursing himself for even considering such a stupidly dangerous thing. Bodie would kill him if he ever found out.

---

Along the hallway, Bodie pounded a clenched fist into the pillow, Doyle's pillow, and swore. For a moment he had thought Doyle was going to come into the room and climb into bed beside him. He hoped his stupidly stubborn partner had finally acknowledged that, for whatever reason, they slept better together than apart.

"God knows we both need a decent night's sleep!" Bodie muttered angrily. He heard Doyle's bedroom door click shut and punched the pillow again.

Enough, he decided, was enough. He slid out of bed and pulled on his robe without bothering to fasten it and strode purposefully along the hall towards the closed door.

"What that--" Doyle nearly fell out of bed, he jumped so much as the door was flung open.

"I have taken as much of your pratting around as I can. I have had enough!" thundered Bodie from the foot of Doyle's bed.

Heart in his mouth and his burgeoning erection shrinking beneath his fingers, Doyle gaped, open-mouthed, in shock as his fantasy appeared from nowhere.

"You're spending the rest of tonight in my bed," Bodie told him. "And every bloody night after that until you can sleep like normal people!"

"I can't get in your bed!" Doyle said in horror.

"I'm not asking," Bodie said, "I'm bloody telling you. Move!" He took hold of Doyle's bare arm and tugged hard.

Doyle snatched himself free and pulled the covers up to his chin. "You're mad," he said, inching away from the outstretched hands. "I'm not moving from here!"

"That's what you think." Bodie lunged towards Doyle and yanked him up off the bed and over the edge.

"Bodie!"

"Move!" Bodie ordered, but Doyle pulled away and made to crawl over the mattress to safety. "I want you where I can keep an eye on you--you know you'll sleep better in with me. I don't know why you insisted on coming in here in the--ouch!" Struggling to pull Doyle back across the bed, Bodie stubbed his toe painfully on one of the wooden legs. "Will you stop fighting--" he said, smarting from the hot pain in his foot and a glancing elbow in his ribs.

"Put me down!" Doyle yelled in outrage. Bodie had picked him up along with half the bed covers, causing his arms and legs to be tangled in acres of strong cotton. "Put me down!"

Bodie ignored him and turned towards the door, catching Doyle's ankle bone hard on the corner of the bedside cabinet. The howl of pain was covered by his own loud groan of complaint at how heavy Doyle was.

Kicking and fighting, Doyle was carried in Bodie's arms out of his bedroom. He managed to grab hold of the door but only succeeded in catching them both between door and lintel, Bodie fetching up hard with his back and Doyle getting caught on his hip by the sharp edge.

"If you don't...put me down this instant I am going to kill you!" Doyle yelled as he tried to free his arm from the sheet's folds.

"Jesus..." puffed Bodie as he finally prised Doyle's fingers away from the door, "thought Willis...said you were under...weight!"

"Huh!" Doyle crowed. "Can't take the strain, eh?"

"Pack it in and stop messing around!"

"Put me down, then." Doyle finally freed his other arm and tried to lever himself away from Bodie's chest. The knowledge that if he succeeded he would fall to the floor did not influence his efforts.

Staggering under his burden, Bodie reached his bedroom door, where he tripped on the trailing sheet. Trying to recover, he slammed his elbow into the door frame and Doyle was granted his wish. Free from the tight grip he landed painfully on the floor at the foot of Bodie's bed.

"Ow!"

"Ouch!"

Hot, sweaty and exhausted, they each rubbed their hurts; Doyle had a cloth burn on his arm, a sore behind and back from where he hit the floor, and a sore spot over his ankle. Bodie had a pulled muscle in his shoulder, a sore toe and what felt like a broken arm.

"You could have put me on the bed!" Doyle complained as soon as he could catch his breath.

"I'll remember next time," Bodie answered, trying to bend his arm around to check the damage.

"Next time?" Doyle squeaked incredulously. "What do you mean, next time?"

"Give over, Ray," Bodie said without heat as he stepped over him to collapse on the bed. "I've hurt my bloody arm!"

"Hope it's broken," came the ungracious response. "Give me a hand up, will you? I think I've dislocated me bum...ow, take it easy." Assisted by his partner, Doyle finally made it onto the bed, where they lay panting like beached whales.

Lying flat on his back with his feet still resting on the floor, Bodie was painfully aware of all his sore spots. "You're bloody hard work sometimes, Doyle," he informed the panting body beside him.

"But I'm worth the effort?" responded Doyle, his voice bubbly and cheerful.

"I'm beginning to wonder about that," Bodie answered as he drew his leg up in an attempt to examine his foot. "I think I've broken my little toe." Hands clutching his ankle, Bodie rolled until he was sitting upright and then curled over the injured toe to examine it closely. It was a stupid thing to do considering how close he was to the edge of the bed, and he fell to the floor. Still prone on the bed, Doyle saw him go and made one futile grab to save him.

By the time he stopped swearing and discovered that while he might well have broken his toe, he hadn't broken his back after all, Bodie recognised the odd noises coming from Doyle.

"Well, I'm pleased one of us finds this amusing," Bodie grumbled as he lifted his aching bones back onto the bed and tried once more to examine his injured toe.

For Doyle, the sight of Bodie examining his toe with such painful concentration was exquisitely funny--and the fact that Bodie didn't find it amusing made it even funnier.

"It bloody hurts!" Bodie said defensively in the face of such mirth. The look of hurt indignation result in Doyle dissolving into gales of laughter. "I don't see what there is to laugh about."

Doyle howled and clutched his stomach.

"Doyle!" Bodie said, totally bewildered. "Ray?" Helpless in the face of his partner's laughter, Bodie felt a smile tugging at his own lips. He reached out and pulled Doyle around to face him, his face lighting up with a wide smile as he did so. "Ray...will you please tell me what's so bloody funny?"

Doyle opened his eyes long enough to see Bodie's confusion and collapsed totally.

"Ray? You're nuts...d'you know that? You're nuts!" It was impossible not to get swept along with the high emotions and Bodie soon found himself equally helpless with laughter, though what he was laughing at he couldn't say. It just felt good.

Slowly, eventually, their laughter slowed and stopped and they recovered where they had fallen, side by side on top of the bed.

"Have you really hurt your toe?" Doyle asked solicitously a long time later.

"No, not really. It really hurt when I bashed it, though," Bodie admitted.

"Serves you right."

"Very probably," agreed Bodie.

For a while there was silence, warm and comfortable, but as the silence continued it became tense and their awareness of each other's discomfort grew until Doyle, suddenly self-conscious and very aware of his own nakedness and Bodie's easy sprawl so close by, sat up and forced himself to look away from the gaping robe his partner was wearing.

"Ray?" Bodie sat up and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Doyle lied. "I'm sorry...sorry for making such a fuss..."

"Ray..." Bodie could feel the withdrawal and tried to stop it before it got too far.

"I keep on messing things up, don't I?" Doyle said bitterly. "I'm never satisfied with what I've got--I've always got to have that little bit more."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bodie said.

"Maybe I should leave, get out of the department...start again somewhere new."

"Leave? What are you on about?"

"Why should I stay--no-one really wants me in CI5. What's the point in staying where--"

"Don't talk daft!"

"It always happens to me," Doyle went on, talking to himself more than Bodie. "I always want more than I've got--and then I end up with nothing."

"Ray, I--"

"Is there something wrong with me, Bodie-- Am I so selfish that I don't give enough in return? What can't I make people want me?"

"Ray..." Bodie felt like he was drowning as he struggled to get the words out. "I want you, Ray," he whispered.

"No-one wants me," Doyle continued without hearing the quiet statement. "At first it seems that they do, but then when they find the real me they back off. What's wrong with me?"

"I want you, Ray," Bodie said a little louder.

Doyle ignored his words and continued to wallow in self pity. Bodie pulled him around to face him and forced the downbent head up with unsteady fingers beneath his chin.

"I want you, Ray."

"No, not the real me, no-one wants that."

"I do," Bodie insisted.

"No--no-one does, no-one ever does."

"But I do!"

"But you're different, Bodie," Doyle said miserably. "You don't really want me, you only work with me, that's different, that's not wanting," he explained.

Confusion stumped Bodie for a moment. Doyle wanted to be wanted. Hope flared unbelievably inside Bodie and he forced Doyle to look at him.

"I want you, Ray," he insisted, hoping Doyle would understand, still reluctant to say the whole truth out loud.

"No, Bodie...it's not that--"

"No, Ray...please listen...I want you, really I do."

"You don't, you can't," Doyle protested, still thinking Bodie didn't understand.

"Ray--"

"Bodie..." Doyle pulled away and tried to get up from the bed but Bodie pulled him back.

"Ray... I love you, Ray." There, Bodie thought desperately, he'd said it.

"No, you don't," Doyle said with a tired smile, knowing that what his partner meant by love was very different to what he meant.

"Yes, I do."

"Bodie...you don't, you can't possibly."

"Ray, will you listen to me. I'm telling you that I love you--"

"I know you mean well, Bodie, and I'm sorry. I really never meant for you to find out but you don't have to pretend--it's okay."

"I'm not pretending," Bodie said, getting angry that Doyle wouldn't believe him. "I love you!"

"No, you don't, Bodie," Ray said with another tired smile.

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"I do!"

"Bodie, you don't."

"I bloody well do!" Bodie yelled in a furious voice. "When I tell you I love you, the least you can fucking well do is believe me!"

"Bodie--" Doyle stopped dead, blinked twice and opened his mouth.

Bodie snatched him into his arms, crushed him against his chest and took possession of his mouth. Doyle was too stunned to fight and Bodie so angry that even if he had fought, he wouldn't get away.

When Bodie released his mouth and relaxed his hold, he was prepared to counter any move Doyle might make to escape--but found it was only his arms that were holding the smaller man up. "Ray?" he said softly, every trace of anger vanished as if it had never existed.

Doyle's eyes opened slowly and he looked at Bodie as if he had never seen him before. "What did you say?" he asked, breathless, a pink tongue licking out and feeling his lips where they felt bruised and tender and still moist from his partner's mouth.

"When?" Bodie said softly, feeling safe enough to tease.

"Just now...before...before--"

"Before I kissed you?"

"Yeah...before you kissed me," Doyle agreed.

"I was trying to convince you that I love you. How am I doing so far?" He smiled and pressed two fingers against Doyle's lips; the pink tongue darted out to touch them and Bodie felt a shiver run all the way down to his still throbbing little toe.

"Passable," Doyle said shyly, dropping his eyes from Bodie's. "Don't go a bundle on your technique, though."

"What?" Concern and disappointment threatened to crash down but then he saw the upturned mouth. "What do you mean?"

"Do you make a habit of carrying 'em kicking and screaming over the threshold, then?"

"You weren't screaming," Bodie said, lifting Doyle's chin up and re-establishing eye contact. "Swearing, shouting and kicking--but not screaming. Besides, I didn't bring you here to seduce, a good night's sleep was more of what I had in mind then," he said wryly.

"And now?" Doyle asked, voice husky and eyes growing bolder. "Are you still looking for a good night's sleep?" He lowered his eyes a few inches to look at the full mouth that had only minutes before kissed him; he did not notice that he licked his own lips and tilted his mouth expectantly towards Bodie.

Seeing the movement, Bodie knew that everything was going to work out all right and lowered his head to take possession of what he had regarded as his for a long time.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The instant Bodie's mouth closed over his, Doyle's bravado deserted him. Too stunned to protest and too scared to resist he felt his body become leaden and uncooperative, allowing no resistance as Bodie pulled him into a tight embrace and a hot, wet tongue pushed past his open lips.

The only movements he made brought him even closer to Bodie, his unvoiced cry of denial opening his mouth further to the probing invader. In the midst of his panic, though, he knew exactly where Bodie's hands were and shivered uncontrollably as they swept across his back, moving downwards until two hot palms neatly cupped his buttocks.

A sudden movement and he was flat on his back, Bodie's weight settling over him, pinning him to the rumpled sheet, his mouth captured in another deep oral exploration. The sensations assaulting his body began to make sense and he became aware of different things at the same time; he could taste whisky on Bodie's lips; the hair at the nape of Bodie's neck was soft and silky and too short for his fingers to grip; and Bodie, normally so cool, was incredibly hot, his skin moist and slippery under searching fingers in a line down the solid back, and between them their skin was wet where chests and bellies were close-pressed. Another shift of bodies and Doyle gasped aloud as he felt the first near-electric shock as two rock-hard erections clashed together in painful ecstasy.

Bodie swallowed the startled gasp into himself and adjusted their positions another fraction, lifting his hips and pulling Doyle a little further down the bed so their cocks nestled snugly against soft, firm bellies. Initiating a slow rocking motion he pulled his mouth away from Doyle's as the heat tore through him. "Fuckin' 'ell!" he groaned, thrusting down harder. "Oh my god...oh god..."

The words broke into Doyle's dazed state and he looked up at Bodie's face, the intensity of the larger man's passion breaking through his own sexual haze. "Bodie?" he whispered.

"Oh Jesus--Ray!" Bodie groaned as he thrust hard, rocking the man beneath him. "Oh...god...I--I-love-you," he cried out with eyes still blind as he captured the delicious mouth again.

A hand burrowing beneath them found Doyle's erection and grasped it confidently, setting an immediate rhythm that silenced any objections.

His body responding eagerly to the pleasures being given, Doyle's resistance faded to nothing and he knew he would accept whatever Bodie wanted to do with him. As the hand withdrew and Bodie rolled them to lie on their sides he moaned an inarticulate protest and then became boneless and compliant as Bodie pushed his legs apart, cupping tight-drawn testicles into the palm of one large capable hand, and manipulated them, rolling them carefully, feeling their size and shape and weight with gentle fingers.

When his mouth was finally released Doyle could only gasp for air, coherent speech and reasoned argument beyond him. When the cool mouth unexpectedly latched onto his nipple the sudden sensation made him scream and buck against Bodie.

"Like that, do you?" Bodie asked breathlessly. "How about this?" Twisting around on the bed, he laved a wet trail across the heaving chest, dipping over the rib cage and into the deep navel before swirling even lower down across the upthrust hip.

Eyes following the pink tongue tip, Doyle cried out and thrust forward even before it reached out to lick and then engulf him. His senses alight, Bodie rode him, his mouth taking the member with ease. Hearing the cry Doyle gave, Bodie concentrated on pleasuring him even more, his lips closing over the rosy crown and his tongue teasing the small opening, pressing against it and holding the bucking hips immobile.

Control stripped from him, Doyle felt himself hurtling towards climax with an intensity of desire and need that he had never encountered before and he found the experience frightening. Wanting to prolong the sensations and control them to make them more bearable, he pushed at Bodie's shoulders, gently at first but then with more strength.

"Bodie...Bodie..." he gasped, trying to gain his partner's attention.

Bodie allowed himself to be pulled away but immediately positioned himself on top of the smaller man and claimed the open mouth once again, his tongue pushing past Doyle's timid attempt to block him.

Doyle tried to pull away to escape long enough to break into the determined seduction. "Bodie...don't," he managed to get out as the other paused to draw deep, ragged breaths. "Please...don't...slower...please, Bodie..." he urged him to understand. His nervousness, however, returned in full force when he realised Bodie was not listening and his own need faltered and became less urgent.

But Bodie was beyond noticing anymore and Doyle had to struggle to get through to him, his fingers slipping uselessly as he tried to grip too-short hair and pull his head away. He twisted, drawing his knees up and pushing against Bodie's legs and midriff.

"Ray!" gasped Bodie. "Ray?"

"Please Bodie," Doyle begged, his voice catching. "Slowly, please slow down..."

"Ray?" Confused, Bodie pulled back a little. "What's wrong?" he asked when he saw the anxious face looking up at him. "I'm sorry...I thought..." Disappointment warring with sick dread, Bodie withdrew further; certain by the look on Doyle's face and the tense body that somehow he'd got it all wrong.

"No! Bodie," Doyle whispered shyly, understanding the change of expressions flitting across his face. "Just...take it slow, okay?" he said softly, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "This is all a bit new to me...not quite how I imagined..."

"Oh..." Relief coursed through Bodie and he collapsed back down onto the bed, his head resting on the pillow only inches from Doyle's. "For an awful moment I thought..."

"No, I haven't changed my mind," said Doyle softly, his fingers reaching out to trace one thick blue vein that lay beneath the pale skin on Bodie's arm. "I just wanted to...slow down...I'd like to...I'd like to feel it all properly."

"I wouldn't want you to miss a thing," teased Bodie lightly, squirming away from the tickling finger.

"Neither would I," Doyle confirmed, eyes firmly fixed on one tightly budded nipple. Almost objectively he noticed how little pressure he needed to apply before Bodie's cock gave a responsive twitch. "Funny, isn't it," he said vaguely and bent down to touch the bud with his tongue.

"What's funny?" Bodie asked a few moments later when the inquisitive tongue withdrew.

"This. These--they're not the same as mine..." Doyle's voice, muffled and indistinct, tailed off.

"What?" gasped Bodie as his second nipple received its own exploration.

"These," Doyle explained patiently when he lifted his head. "Not the same as mine, are they?"

Bodie had a quick look to see what he had missed. "I can't see anything different," he said, bewildered.

"You blind, or what," Doyle asked, withdrawing slightly. "Look at mine...yours are...different."

"How do you come to that conclusion?" demanded Bodie, thrown completely off balance by his partner's embarrassed insistence.

"Well--look at mine," Doyle ordered, brushing his hand across his own chest. "Look. And then look at yours...yours are bigger, almost half as big again as mine, and they're darker, they're almost black...mine are sort of lighter and yours, well, well they're..."

"They're what?" Bodie asked worriedly. "What's wrong with them, for christ's sake!"

"They're...naked," Doyle revealed in a hushed whisper.

"Naked!" Bodie sat up in the bed and regarded his partner in complete amazement. "I am naked," he pointed out. "And so are you!"

"No!" Doyle said, refusing to meet his eye. "You've got it all wrong...what I meant was--"

"What?"

"You haven't got any of this!" Doyle pulled a small handful of hair on his chest.

"Hair!" Bodie said. "You're upset I don't have a hairy chest!"

"No!"

"Ray?"

"It's not that," Doyle said, sitting up quickly. "I don't care that you don't."

"I don't what?" asked Bodie, totally confused now.

"Have a hairy chest," explained Doyle none too clearly.

"So you're upset because you have a hairy chest! Well...it doesn't bother me one way or the other--but I sort of like yours. It doesn't bother me if that's what you're worried about."

"No," Doyle said, desperate to make Bodie understand. "It's just that..."

"What?" Bodie yelled in frustration.

"It's just that...well, without all this lot," he brushed the pelt of hair on his own chest once more. "Without this your nipples are...sort of--naked. All on their own...and I like them like that. They feel nice," he explained as his fingers traced the upraised chocolate coloured nub.

"Oh." Feeling incredibly deflated yet pleased at the same time, Bodie sank back down onto the bed.

"You're so...white," Doyle whispered as he ran his fingers over warm skin that had a tendency to shiver at his touch. "I can feel your heart beating," he said quietly and rested his hand over a curve of chest muscle. His exploration soon continued.

"What's this?"

"Chickenpox," supplied Bodie after a quick look at the scar in question. "And that was the way out for my appendix."

"How old were you?"

"Chickenpox--about eight. Appendix...about seven years ago."

"Had my appendix out about seven years ago," Doyle informed him, sharing the knowledge. "Looks painful this one, what was it?" he asked, running his finger tips along a silvered line over one round hip.

"Piece of barbed wire three years ago."

"And this?"

Bodie lifted his left leg to inspect the indicated kneecap.

"Enforced dismount of my bike at sixty miles an hour on the north circular about...ten years ago."

"Nasty," commented Doyle as he covered the scar tissue with his hand, smoothing the skin.

"It was," agreed Bodie reminiscently. "Ruined a brand new set of leathers and wrote off the bike."

"And what's this one?" Doyle twisted Bodie's left foot around to reveal the back of the calf.

"A birthmark."

"Funny place for a birthmark."

"Why, where's yours?"

"Haven't got one. Bloody 'ell--how do you manage to walk with feet like these?" Doyle ran his hands over the prominent bunions and red, knobbly toes, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

"I put one foot in front of the other one like most normal people do," Bodie responded defensively. "Leave my feet alone...no, don't...don't...I'm--Ray! Don't, please don't tickle me...I'm ticklish. Ray! RAY!"

Amazed at how easily Bodie succumbed and became helpless under the onslaught of tickling fingers, Doyle released the foot and moved to lie face-to-face once more, his hand returning to rest on the smooth hairless chest. "It's still beating," he observed across the pillow.

"Let me know if it stops," Bodie said huskily.

"It's getting faster."

"I'm not surprised," responded Bodie, his breathing becoming slightly more ragged.

Sensing that somehow it was now his turn to explore, Bodie lifted his fingers to the fascinating bump on Ray's cheekbone. He saw the withdrawal in the expressive eyes and leant over to trace the contours with his tongue. Doyle tried to turn his head to escape the touch but Bodie persisted, pressing his lips to the old injury before reclaiming the open, hungry mouth.

Pulling away slightly, Bodie leant up on one elbow and regarded his prize carefully.

"How did this happen?" he asked cautiously, hoping that the small scar on Doyle's chin was old enough to hold no terrible memories.

"Fell over on my roller-skates when I was about six. It took four stitches," Doyle boasted proudly.

"Six, eh! Needle and thread job, was it? Nasty."

"I don't think I enjoyed it very much," Doyle agreed, his grave voice at odds with his bright eyes.

"And how about this one, here?" Bodie fingered the small oval indentation on the fleshy shoulder muscle.

"Dunno." Doyle peered at the scar and frowned. "It looks a bit like your chickenpox spot."

They compared scars and decided they were indeed both from chickenpox. "Bloody hell," exclaimed Bodie as he bent to examine Doyle's appendix scar. "Didn't believe in keyhole surgery, did he!"

"'S only a bit bigger 'n yours."

"Now don't start boasting, Ray," Bodie said seriously. "Doesn't look much bigger to me."

Laughing, Doyle examined himself critically and then Bodie. "I'd say we were pretty evenly matched," he said, a subtle blush staining his cheeks at the teasing.

Seeing the blush and the air of embarrassment hanging over Doyle, Bodie continued his exploration of his lover's body. "Your knees are as bad as mine," he exclaimed. "How did you get all this lot?"

In complete innocence, Doyle lifted both knees up to his chest so he could look at them. Beside him, a little further down the bed, Bodie was presented with the totally unexpected sight of Doyle completely open to his eyes. The sight of the exposed anus, the most private part of his lover's body, was fully revealed to him as Doyle examined the scars on his knees.

From a distance he heard Ray telling of childhood pranks and mischief but he was unable to absorb the information. Unnoticed, he closed his eyes and took hold of his throbbing sex, gripping it tightly and willing himself into calmness. But he had already waited too long. One finger stretched out and stroked the tender underside of Ray's leg in a smooth line down into the next of slightly damp public hair. At the touch Doyle gasped in shock and let his legs fall back onto the bed, knocking the searching hand away.

Undeterred, Bodie immediately burrowed into the warm nest, roughly fondling the furry sacs and stimulating Doyle's erection. Bodie gave a deep-throated growl of pleasure and settled himself on top of Doyle, surrendering to his need to finish.

Taken by surprise, Doyle felt himself being overwhelmed again; the gentleness of the last few minutes gone and the fierceness of Bodie's touch frightening. He didn't want it to be like this. Not the first time.

"Bodie!" he cried out, desperate to stop it before everything was ruined. "Not like this Bodie!" but his pleas for gentleness fell on deaf ears as Bodie handled him with a rough deftness seeking his own satisfaction. He knew that he could fight--but he couldn't hurt Bodie--didn't want to hurt him. His decision made, Doyle allowed Bodie to position him as he wanted and even tried to help by wriggling further down the bed to get them both comfortable, but his responses were automatic and his own pleasure dwindled and he felt something deep in himself wither as only moments before it had blossomed.

The reluctance in Doyle's co-operation burst into Bodie's rush toward climax with the effect of a cold shower and he pulled away, horrified at what he had nearly done--for the second time that night.

"Ray--I'm sorry, sweetheart," he apologised breathlessly. "I'm so sorry...didn't meant to...god, you're so beautiful and I've wanted you for so long...can't believe we're really... Oh christ, Ray!" gasped Bodie. "I want this to be so good for you!" Pulling himself away from the pleasure of fulfilment, Bodie ran his hands gently over Ray's body, finally cupping the tense anxious face with both hands. "Anytime you want me to stop," he said raggedly, "you say so. Just say the word, Ray, and I'll stop. Even now. Do you want me to stop?" It would kill him if Doyle said yes; Bodie knew without a doubt that it would take every ounce of willpower to leave the bed and Ray now--but if he had to he could. He would.

Sensing the change in mood, Doyle managed to speak. "'S okay...don't...don't stop...just..." his voice faded into nothing but Bodie heard the unvoiced plea.

"Don't worry," he reassured him. "Just lie back and enjoy it. Remember--anytime you want me to stop..."

"Do it, Bodie!" urged Doyle, nerves and impatience mixing with frustration, making him sound angry.

"Your wish," said Bodie, bending to tongue one pale nipple, "is my command." Concentrating only on Doyle's pleasure, Bodie eased himself back down the bed. A quick glance upwards showed him Doyle's closed eyes and rapt, painfully hopeful expression and he took pity on him, obeying the directives of the hands gripping his shoulders so tightly. As his mouth closed on the taut member, the hands increased their pressure and for a second Bodie paused, wondering whether to proceed--another squeeze and downward push clarified the situation. Doyle screamed aloud Bodie's name as the shocking sensations closed over his cock, his hips bucked, driving himself deeper into the hot cavern engulfing him.

Trying to pin the threshing body down so as to avoid being choked, Bodie struggled to ride the heaving body and initiate a sucking rhythm that would bring release. The sudden stillness warned him and he pulled away scant seconds before Doyle's ejaculation burst from him, jets so strong that they arced across the bed before splashing onto bare skin as the explosion lessened.

In the silence that followed Bodie bent his head to Doyle's belly and lapped at the droplets caught on whorls of soft body hair. The first licks were tentative as he considered the texture and flavour but he was soon lapping across belly and chest, cleaning and loving Doyle at the same time.

Surfacing to the feel of silky wet tongue circling his nipples, Doyle squirmed away from the tickling overload of pleasure.

"About time too," Bodie observed raggedly. "Was beginning to think you'd died."

"That was..." Doyle lifted one heavy hand and dropped uselessly to his side, lacking the strength to wave it around. "It really felt...never felt that good before," he whispered in wonder.

"Do you feel up to returning the favour?" asked Bodie.

"Mmm," agreed Doyle sleepily and pulled Bodie down into a gentle kiss, all urgency and immediacy gone from his movements Feeling the gentleness, Bodie almost groaned in despair. What he needed most right now was not gentleness. On the brink of completion for the third time in quick succession, his balls were in painful knots and his erection hard and demanding release.

"Ray--please--" Bodie begged, pushing Doyle's hands down and folding them around his burgeoning sex. "Oh god!" he cried out, bucking hard into the relaxed grip and knocking Doyle down onto his back. The pressure of hands wasn't enough, though, and Bodie covered them with his own, squeezing and pumping in a hard beat; but four hands were still not enough to ease the painful pressure building up in taut balls. Pushing Doyle's hands away, Bodie moulded himself against him, hips snapping sharply, desperately, as he strained to reach completion.

Aware now that Bodie was struggling, Doyle tried to help but his hands were slapped away. The rejection stung a little but he tried again by running his hands over Bodie's back and pulling the bucking, thrusting body even harder against him. But Bodie only gave an impatient hiss and pushed the helping hands away, rolled onto his back away from Doyle and wrapped his own hands around himself, pumping furiously, blindly and almost frantically for release. It came with an explosive shudder that forced a cry of near rage from Bodie's throat; a joyless climax that had been denied too long to be enjoyed.

It was some time before Bodie felt capable of speech or movement and when he opened his eyes it was to see a very unhappy Doyle regarding him with unnerving intensity.

"I'm sorry," offered Doyle in a hushed whisper before Bodie could say anything. "You didn't enjoy that very much, did you?"

"I'm sure it'll get better," Bodie said lightly. "It'll teach me to be more patient."

"I wanted to make it good for you, too. I'm sorry."

"Shut up, Ray!" ordered Bodie gruffly. "It was just me getting my stupid balls in knots. Looks like you were right for once--you're always telling me that my brains are in my balls!" he joked easily, willing, praying for Doyle to relax. "First times aren't supposed to be perfect--just gives us the incentive to want to practise more."

"You reckon?" asked a dubious and not entirely convinced Doyle.

"I promise. Just you wait..." Bodie yawned. "Wait until next time. It'll be better."

"How long will I have to wait?"

"Don't...don't be so impatient," Bodie mumbled as they shuffled around into their usual sleeping positions, arranging knees and elbows comfortably.

"What time have you got to be in tomorrow?" Doyle asked suddenly as Bodie nestled even more snugly than usual against his bare back.

"What...umm. Ten o'clock. Get a lie in."

"Set the alarm early," ordered Doyle.

"What?"

"For the morning," Doyle said sleepily. "So we can have time for--you know."

"Time for what?" Already more than half asleep, Bodie struggled with the conversation but then realised. "Oh." Grinning he rolled away slightly and groped for the alarm, setting it for an early call. That done, he took Doyle back into his arms and nuzzled the back of his neck in a way he had long dreamt of doing. "Night, Ray," he whispered. "Love you."

"Night, Bodie."

Bodie waited for the words he wanted most to hear--but they didn't come.

---

Bodie's hand hit the button on the electronic buzzer with more force than was strictly necessary, silencing it on the second attempt. Doyle wriggled in response to the noise but didn't wake up.

During the night they had changed positions slightly; Doyle had pulled away and was now lying flat on his back, his head turned away from Bodie, who was sprawled out next to him on his stomach with one arm draped over Doyle's flat tummy and the other dangling over the edge of the bed where it had fallen after attaching the alarm clock.

After a few minutes to collect his thoughts, Bodie turned his head on the pillow to face his partner. Fast asleep, mouth slightly open and his face blue with stubble, Bodie knew he had never woken up to such a sexy sight before.

"Ray. You awake?" he asked hopefully, inching across the sheet to press a kiss on one smooth shoulder.

Doyle's eyes darted around under closed lids; he licked his lips, making a small sound, and turned his head on the pillow to face Bodie--but he didn't wake up.

"Ray!" Bodie called out a bit louder, tugging on the arm Doyle was still holding on to. "You awake?"

Doyle released his grip and mumbled something in response that Bodie couldn't quite make out.

"You what?" Bodie asked, frowning and smiling at the same time. "What was that? Ray?"

"'Course...I'm...wake."

Bodie understood the words the second time but still doubted the truth of them as the eyes stayed closed and the steady breathing remained slow and regular.

"How about a nice cup of tea and a kiss for the one you love?"

"'n a double...f'me."

"I beg your pardon?" Bodie asked, amused at the unconscious response.

"You c'n 'ave a double too..."

"That's what I thought you said." Bodie smiled affectionately and left the bed. "Sleep on Sleeping Beauty--I'll come back and claim my kiss in a few minutes."

The few minutes turned into half an hour as he took the time to prepare a mountain of buttered toast before loading the breakfast tray up and returning to his somnolent partner in the bedroom.

Setting the tray down on the edge of the bed, Bodie knelt carefully on the mattress and leant over the sleeper. Bodie's absence from the bed must have penetrated Doyle' subconscious because he was now sprawled, face down on the pillows, across the bed where his partner had been lying. Holding on to the tray with one hand, Bodie pulled the duvet down the last few inches to expose a beautifully proportioned pair of buttocks.

"Wakey, wakey, lover!" said Bodie loudly. "Rise and shine, breakfast's here and so am I." There was no immediate response and so Bodie ran the tip of his index finger lightly along the line of Doyle's spine, all the way from the curls at the nape of his neck to the secret tantalising crevice.

It was several shockingly painful seconds before Bodie began to grasp what happened next; the consequences of his loving caress leaving him with legs tangled in the duvet, his back and head impacting hard on the bedroom floor; two mugs of tea and a china plate with slices of stickily buttered toast and Ray Doyle plastered on top of him. Quite apart from suddenly, belatedly, remembering how stupid it was to try and touch his partner when he was asleep, Bodie also realised that the tea was bloody hot, he'd hurt his back and one of Ray's elbows was embedded in his belly.

"Bodie! Oh christ! Ouch!" yelled Doyle. "That's hot!"

"Will you--ouch! Shit! Move your bloody elbow! Mind the other mug!" he yelled uselessly and watched it slide off the lopsided tray onto the floor beside them.

"Ow!"

"Move! Will you...shift up." Bodie pushed Doyle off him and managed to untangle his legs from the bedding. Rivers of hot tea ran across his chest and belly, cascading onto the cream coloured carpet. Trying to right himself, Bodie put his hand unwittingly on a pile of soggy, tea soaked, buttered toast.

On the bed, more or less upright, Doyle dabbed at the tea splashed over his chest and picked up some of the toast, placing the slices neatly on the plate. He avoided looking at how well Bodie coped with the mess on the floor.

By the time Bodie regained his feet, Doyle had dashed into the kitchen for some towels and passed a damp one over for Bodie to mop up his scalded skin. Slowly order was restored; the bed was a mess and Bodie knew that sadly the carpet would probably never recover. Throughout the entire cleaning-up procedure neither man spoke; Doyle refused to meet his partner's eye and Bodie decided they each needed time and distance to deal with the shocking awakening.

Eventually, when the room was clean and the bed linen had been pushed into the washing machine, Doyle found his voice. Embarrassed, his words were harsh and he flung them at Bodie.

"I'd 'ave thought by now that you would have learnt not to do stupid things like that! You know I don't like being touched!

"After last night I thought things would be different," retorted Bodie.

"Well now you know better, don't you!"

"Too bloody right," Bodie answered, aggrieved and rubbing at his tender skin. "How stupid of me to have forgotten--even more stupid of me to imagine that things would change--"

"Bodie..." Doyle started but then hesitated, his anger and hurt vanishing as he saw the depth of Bodie's pain.

"So now I know. I'm just like everyone else, aren't I? You think I'm no different to some ageing pervert--"

"Bodie don't!" Doyle cried harshly, turning away from his partner's anger. "I'm sorry. I can't help it--I know you're not...I know you're not like--other people, but--"

"Ray?" Doyle's distress cut through the hurt outrage like a knife.

"Bodie, I'm so sorry." Doyle tried to pull away from the arms that encircled him. "I wish I could stop myself--but I can't. I just can't--and I'm so sorry. It's going to keep happening--over and over and over. It's never going to stop--"

"Hey, it's okay sunshine," soothed Bodie. "It's my fault too. You're right. I should have remembered. I'm the one who should be sorry. But," he added quietly, "if anyone's to blame it's that pervert, Kingsley, isn't it!"

Doyle froze at the sound of the name but then gave a small sigh and wriggled even closer to his lover. "Bloody Bert Kingsley," he muttered. "What I wouldn't give for five minutes alone with him."

"Revenge?"

"I think I've earned it," Doyle replied wryly. "Christ, him and his bloody games! I'll still be having nightmares about him years from now!"

"You'll get over it, Ray. Even the bad memories will fade in time."

"How much time?" Doyle asked, snatching himself out of the comforting arms. "I haven't set eyes on the man in nearly three years and I still leap a bloody mile when someone touches me!"

"What did he do to you that was so terrible?" Bodie asked quietly.

"I've told you before; ages ago," replied Doyle, refusing to look at him. "Just games. Stupid, perverted little games."

"What sort of games?" Bodie asked, not liking the shuttered look on the half hidden face one bit.

"What's up?" Doyle asked, his voice biting and contemptuous. "Haven't you got any imagination. You want me to spell it out for you? No--don't do that--don't touch me--leave me alone!" Doyle backed away from the reaching hands but Bodie refused to be put off.

"I've got plenty of imagination, Ray. Maybe too much. Just what did that bastard do to you?"

"I've already told you," Doyle said, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

"You've told me that he tried to wank you, that he liked groping you and wanking himself silly while talking dirty to you. That's not the reason why you still jump out of your skin every time I touch you when you're sleeping--not three years on. There's something else, isn't there. Something you've not told me." Bodie took a firm hold of the trembling shoulders and pulled Doyle towards him. "Can't you tell me?" he asked softly, sadly, holding the reluctant man close. "I love you, Ray. I only want to help you but I can't unless I know what I'm up against. Can't you talk to me--tell me?"

Doyle burrowed into the embrace, burying his flaming face and threatening tears of shame in the soft towelling robe Bodie was wearing.

"Ray?"

"No--" he managed to gasp out. "I... I can't--"

"Did he rape you?"

The question fell between them and Bodie felt Ray become rigid in his arms and feared the worst.

"I know the ones that attacked you after Kingsley's release tried--but now you know that they didn't succeed. You weren't gang raped but--"

"No," cut in a quiet voice. "Not--not really, but then it depends on your definition of rape, doesn't it."

The cryptic answer did little to reassure Bodie and he knew that he had to discover what had gone on between his lover and Albert Kingsley, however ugly or painful the tale.

He manoeuvred Ray into the lounge and settled them both on the settee. Doyle was reluctant to let him go and was clinging on to him with a desperate grip but still refusing to lift his head and look him in the eye.

Settled and finally comfortable, Bodie let the silence go on until Doyle felt ready to talk.

"He tried." The words were mumbled into the comforting blue towelling covering Bodie's shoulder. "Lots of times. But he couldn't because...he said I was too tight. It hurt him as much as it hurt me and so he gave up on trying to fuck me." It went quiet while Doyle allowed the memories to flow past the walls he had spent so long reinforcing. "He'd wait until I was asleep and then he'd tie my wrists with--dunno, bits of string; nylon stuff that was really strong. Then he'd tie the string to the metal frame of the bed. At first I always woke up...but he got better at doing it and then I didn't realise what was happening until it was too late and he was already turning me.

"He'd turn me over once my wrists were secure and push my face into the pillow. Sometimes--sometimes he'd gag me with things...clothes, a towel...and then he'd lie on top of me--on my back, flattening me. He's a big bloke, must be fifteen or sixteen stone easily. Once I was tied and turned over and he got on top of me I was helpless. The screws never came no matter how much noise I made.

"Once I was stretched out underneath him he could do almost anything he wanted to do--he tried to fuck me...but like I said, it would have hurt him just as much as me...so...so he used his fingers--suppose I should be grateful he never rammed anything too big or too sharp up me--"

"Jesus!" Bodie swore and pulled Ray into a fierce embrace. "Surely the screws, the authorities could have done something, stopped him and helped you?"

"They thought I was willing," Doyle replied in a toneless voice. "They don't like admitting homosexual practices go on in the cells--once they acknowledge it they'll have to do something about it."

"But he raped you!"

"Wasn't rape--there's no such thing as homosexual rape."

"What?"

"'S true. Buggery is illegal if you're under 21 but not otherwise. It's not called rape; it's common sexual assault--"

"It's bloody rape!" Bodie exclaimed angrily.

"It's history!" Doyle replied forcefully. "Or at least it should be."

"How often did he try it on?"

"All the bloody time. Most nights I'd wake up as soon as he moved or touched me and I'd make him back off. But I couldn't stay awake all night every night. He chose his moments and then I'd wake up too late to stop it happening."

Having pulled his worst memories out into the open and talked about them Doyle felt inexplicably better and snuggled up against the warm bulk of his partner--but the story had the opposite effect on Bodie. Knowing more of what Doyle had suffered, he wondered how on earth Ray could ever want a sexual relationship with a man. He finally managed to voice his question but Doyle just shrugged it off.

"It's not the same, is it?" Doyle replied. "With Bert and the others it was a power game. Domination with me underneath. This is different, I hadn't even thought about...before, when I thought about us," Doyle admitted quietly, lifting his head and meeting Bodie's troubled eyes for the first time since the disaster in the bedroom. "You're not into domination and bondage, are you Bodie?" he teased, secure in his knowledge of his partner.

"I love you," replied Bodie helplessly. "I'll never do anything you don't like. Last night was...I've wanted that for so long but I never dreamt it would ever happen--"

"Last night was pretty good, I enjoyed it and it all felt...so right. I wasn't expecting anything like that to happen--"

"You mean you expected it to be better or worse?" asked Bodie, teasing his lover affectionately.

"It should have been better for you, at least. I didn't do much for you, did I?" Doyle answered, dropping his eyes once more.

Remembering the fierce need ignited by the man in his arms and the tentative loving he had been offered and been forced to reject--tenderness and gentleness being the last thing he'd needed at that time--Bodie felt ashamed of himself. "Last night I was suffering very badly from lover's knots. I'm just not used to denying myself," he joked weakly. "I wanted you so bad it hurt--but there was no way I could let myself hurt you. It won't be like that next time," he promised fiercely.

"Speaking of next time," Doyle said smoothly as he twisted round to lie half across Bodie's lap, "what time did you say you had to be at work?"

Bodie looked at mantel clock and groaned. "Shit! I've got to be at the armoury for ten o'clock."

"Still gives us...an hour, providing you don't want any breakfast."

"An hour--what can we do in an hour?" snorted Bodie in disgust.

"Improvise!" suggested Doyle coyly.

Deciding he could survive without breakfast, Bodie was faced with another choice; he also needed a shower.

Doyle resolved that for him by pulling him into the bathroom and helping him strip off his robe. The small shower cubicle was cramped with both of them fetching up against cold tiles or clinging chilly plastic curtain, but the minor discomforts were unnoticed by both men.

For Bodie it was a dream come true and the whole experience was tinged with a strong sense of déjà vu as Doyle smiled at him and pressed against him under the hot jets of steaming water. It was his favourite fantasy and again it wasn't; his dream lover's seductive, tantalising smile replaced with a nervous, hungry look; the elegant, practised sensuality gone but a more alluring and desirable air of vulnerability and willingness to learn in its place. Bodie ran his hands through Doyle's short, thick growth that allowed him little purchase. It would soon grow again, he consoled himself.

Doyle's hands moved slowly across Bodie's back, touching him, tracing the line and shape of muscle in shoulders, arms and in between their bodies over chest and belly. Making his own exploration, Bodie didn't fail to notice that Ray's hands didn't pass below his waist. Slowly he realised that Doyle was mirroring his movements and so began to lower his own hands to caress the arch of lower back and the rise of tense buttocks. Hands cupping Ray's arse, he pulled them together, closer, grinding their bellies and urgent erections together. As the arousal surged through Doyle, Bodie felt him suddenly sag in his arms as his knees buckled and nearly gave out.

Eyes close, mouth parted and gasping for air, Doyle hung, helpless in Bodie's arms, and Bodie groaned in frustration; he was so close and needed only a little more friction, a little more pressure. But then it would be over too soon and he wanted to make it last. Easing them apart, Bodie made sure Doyle's legs were strong enough to support him but Doyle protested with leaden arms and fought to keep Bodie close. Slowly but surely, though, Bodie won out and Doyle found himself turned around.

He tried to resist the guiding hands resting on his hips but Bodie nuzzled his neck, sucking on the tender skin beneath his ear, making him weak and helpless, and then suddenly he was facing the shower wall and Bodie was pressed up behind him, rubbing against him and all the while his throat and ears were being assaulted by a hot, darting tongue. He was aware of the snub, hard bulk of Bodie's cock nestled against the crack of his arse, rubbing and pushing against him; in his ears Bodie's breathing had become ragged and harsh and Doyle's own erection faded to nothing, leaving him aching and frightened, his heart pounding furiously. "Bodie--"

"Nearly there..." Bodie panted into his ear. "Just a bit...a bit more--"

Doyle twisted desperately in the strong grip and pulled away from the grip on his hips.

"Ray--" Bodie, fiercely aroused to too far gone to be able to react to the fear in the wide eyes, grabbed at Doyle, pulling him closer. Face to face now he captured the open mouth and tugged the slim hips towards him, thrusting strongly into the soft belly.

Opening his mouth wider, Doyle pushed the invading tongue back and plundered Bodie's mouth forcefully for the first time. Their tongues met and for a moment they fought for supremacy but Doyle refused to concede and forced past, plunging deep into Bodie's mouth. After a brief hesitation Bodie gave in and allowed the exploration to go unchallenged. Feeling as if he had somehow gained an advantage, Doyle pressed hard with his body and felt Bodie bending to his will, his desire; the feel of power was wonderful and his arousal flared again.

Eyes open throughout, barely blinking, he watched as Bodie stiffened and groaned his release, his own climax following a few heartbeats after. Propped up by Bodie who was leaning on the wall, they regained their senses gradually; their bodies still sensitive and nerves singing with excitement, their cocks twitching as they brushed together, sending little jolts of pleasure through both of them.

But time was against them and, without breaking the spell by speaking, they stepped from the shower and patted each other dry with soft towels, touching and smiling often. In the bedroom they dressed themselves but found they were stopping in the middle of mundane everyday acts of putting on socks and buttoning up shirts to look at each other and smile.

Dressed and ready to face the outside world once again, Bodie finally broke the silence.

"I love you, Ray," he said, preparing to leave the flat to go to work and needing to hear the once response he still longed for.

Doyle looked at him, blinked, flushed, and dropped his eyes, sighing heavily before stepping forward to press his lips to Bodie's in a light, unbearably tender caress, stepping back when Bodie tried to deepen the kiss.

Eyes falling away again and a flush creeping up his neck and face, Doyle turned away to open the front door. "I know," he said and began to walk away.

As his bubble of inner euphoria burst unexpectedly, Bodie watched the retreating back and downbent head and guessed he still had a long way to go.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ann-Marie allowed her concentration to waver once more as she looked through carefully lowered eyes at her colleague. Lost in a daydream, Ray Doyle was totally unaware that he had doodled a multitude of crazy, geometric designs across two pages of test material.

"Ray! Ray, are you feeling all right?" she enquired.

Her voice jolting him into some sense of awareness, Doyle give her a blinding smile, blinked lazily at her and then returned to his daydream.

Five feet away, Ann-Marie felt scorched by the warmth of the smile. The sexual contentment so tangible and obvious, she felt like an intruder. So, she thought sadly, now she knew why he hadn't made a play for her and a strong sense of regret and envy swept over her. "Ray?" She had to call his name three times before gaining his attention. "Didn't you say you had an appointment in the medical section this afternoon?"

"Yes, that's right," Doyle agreed sunnily.

"It's getting late--you don't have to miss your check-up because of these papers. We've still got a week before the training programme takes off."

"Don't worry. Willis said sometime this afternoon, I'll go later on," Doyle said vaguely.

"Ray. It's quarter to five."

"Oh," Doyle responded, unfazed. "Expect he'll 'ave gone home then. Have we finished for today?" he asked, perking up and packing away pens and paper and switching off his terminal.

Together they tidied away the work, Doyle's gentle air of distraction oddly endearing and amusing. Eager to be off, Doyle was holding her jacket up for her to slip on when Bodie barrelled in through the door.

"Willis is looking for you," he announced gruffly, scowling at the pair of them. "You should have been up there two bloody hours ago--he's doing his nut."

"I forgot the time," Doyle answered casually, his fingers automatically straightening the girl's collar and picking a few strands of stray hair from the beautifully styled linen suit she was wearing.

Seeing the soft smile and air of distraction with which Ray moved around the woman, Bodie felt his insides knot uncomfortably. "Well come on--he's waiting for you now!" he finished, voice sharp.

"Okay." Doyle turned and smiled at him, oblivious of the puzzled look Ann-Marie threw Bodie. "Are you going to wait for me?"

At first Bodie thought he was talking to Ann-Marie but before he could recover his wits Doyle turned to her and said, "Good night, Marie. Have a nice weekend."

"See you Monday morning. Goodnight, Bodie," she called out as she slipped through the door.

"Night," Bodie called after her belatedly. He turned back to Doyle. "Why do you call her that?"

"Call her what?"

"Marie. Her name's Ann-Marie," replied Bodie as they walked up the two flights to the medical suite.

"It's her name, isn't it?" responded Doyle sharply. "I thought Miss Hellman was a bit too formal."

Bodie let the comment go but was troubled by the defensive answer. Everyone else in the building called her Ann if not Ann-Marie.

They were just about to turn the final corner when someone hidden from sight back down the corridor called out Bodie's name.

"Damn," muttered Bodie. "You go ahead, Ray. If this turns into anything I'll meet you later at home."

"Is there anything on at the moment?" Doyle asked, curious only so far as he wanted to know if Bodie was about to vanish for any length of time.

"Dunno. You know how it goes. There are several ops simmering, something bound to blow sooner or later."

"I thought you were still on reserve status?"

"I am--unless something crops up."

Down the hall-way the voice shouted for Bodie even louder. "I'm coming!" Bodie shouted back. Turning to Ray, he smiled and giving into the temptation, reached out and ruffled the thick curls. "I expect they just want to know where I hid the chocolate biscuits--I bloody hope it's nothing else, I've got plans for tonight and Cowley promised me a weekend off."

"Plans?" enquired Doyle, a pink tinge rushing to colour his cheeks. "Am I included in these plans?"

"Be bloody pointless doing it if you're not there, sunshine!" Bodie said breathlessly.

The corridor was hardly the place to talk but they each knew what the other was thinking without using words. When Doyle finally entered the medical suite a furiously disgruntled doctor did a double-take when he saw his rosy cheeked, hot looking patient stumble backwards in through the door.

"Finally!" he sapped at Doyle when his presence was eventually acknowledged. "Only two hours late, I suppose I should be grateful you managed to turn up at all," he said sourly but the sarcasm was completely wasted on Doyle.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," he responded with no trace of regret in his voice. "Forgot the time," he explained casually.

With a great deal of 'hurumphing', Willis conducted a ruthless examination and then he reached his finale. "Don't bother getting dressed just yet," he said with a steely glint in his eye. "I want to check your weight."

"I've been following the diet," Doyle protested but was unable to meet his doctor's eye as he spoke.

"Properly?" Willis enquired knowingly.

"Well...Bodie's been ramming best steak and potatoes down my throat every bloody day."

"There's more to a balanced diet than steak and potatoes!" retorted Willis. "And how have you been sleeping?"

The innocent question hit Doyle like an electric shock. "Why?"

Sensing a sensitive nerve, Willis pushed harder. "Have you been taking those pills I prescribed?"

"I don't need them," Doyle replied, eyes dropping to examine the stiletto marked tiles. "Bodie says that I'm better off without them."

"Do you still suffer from nightmares?"

"A bit," replied Doyle, remembering the previous night. A smile transformed his face. "But I don't think they'll be much bother now," he finished dreamily.

"You've been working a full day for nearly two weeks, you're not feeling overtired? The travelling between home, Repton and here doesn't cause any problems?"

"I could do without tramping up to Repton twice a week, but it's no problem. Bodie reckons the rest is doing me a lot of good."

"How do you feel about continuing at Repton?"

"I think it's a bloody waste of time," Doyle said with little real hope of turning Willis around to his way of thinking. "That doctor--whatever his name is, is still wet behind his ears. He's years younger than me--how the hell can he know anything useful?"

"So why keep going?" Willis asked quietly.

Doyle shrugged and continued dressing, hoping to escape. "Bodie says I should co-operate, plus I don't suppose I stand a chance of getting back to full status if I don't bloody well go!"

"The treatment at Repton is your choice entirely. If you no longer wish to avail yourself of the facilities you're not obliged to. Of course, you do still have to convince Dr Ross and myself that you are fit both mentally and physically. Speaking of which," Willis said, pointing at fully dressed, about-to-exit-the-room patient, "I did say I wished to check your weight.

"No, don't bother getting undressed again; just slip your shoes off. Now, where's your weight chart?"

Willis turned to sort through the thick medical file and Doyle quickly delved deep into his pocket, palming something black and small.

"Right, just step up here," Willis ordered as he grasped the chart with one hand and balanced his spectacles on the end of his nose with the other.

Standing on the wobbly step, Doyle made a grab for the end of the metal bar--supposedly to keep his balance. "Oops," he said loudly as the magnet clocked onto the covering of the T-bar. At first it wouldn't stick and he was forced to move his target but then he found the right spot and withdrew his hand.

Bending to check the reading, Willis re-positioned his glasses ever more firmly on his nose. Glancing up from the weight bar he looked suspiciously into Doyle's innocent face before scowling and returning his attention to the bar once he had also double checked that all his test weights were still displayed on the adjoining table.

"How am I doing?" asked Ray Doyle in a very smug voice.

"Well," Willis straightened his back and maintained his scowl, "according to these scales you have a most serious weight problem, Mr Doyle. Most serious indeed." He shook his head and sighed heavily.

"I really must have words with our Mr Bodie; the steak and potatoes will have to come off the menu at once!"

"Why?"

"Because, Mr Doyle, you have--thanks to Mr Bodie's culinary efforts gained some weight--but I fear his enthusiasm for the problem has gone too far. You weigh fifteen stone and four pounds--although I must say, I really don't know where you've put it!" The last said with difficulty as he fought to keep his expression sombre and forbidding but finding his unintended double entendre too amusing to ignore.

"How much!" Doyle gasped in shock.

"Goodness me," exclaimed Willis as he stooped down to examine the bar more closely. "What have we here?" He detached the small object and held it out for Doyle to see.

"Looks like a magnet to me," Doyle said in a resigned voice.

"Wonders will never cease. Your weight has suddenly dropped back down to...ten stone three pounds. That magnet must have been affecting the balance!" he said in amazement.

"Yes. It must," Doyle agreed glumly.

"Well, I suppose it's an improvement, but I still expect you to gain a further half stone."

"But am I cleared for duty?"

"Office bound for a bit longer I'm afraid 4.5," Willis said briskly. "But you're well on the road to return to full status."

"How much longer?"

"Another six weeks or so, perhaps sooner," the doctor said, relenting a little in the face of such dismay.

---

After searching in vain throughout the building for his partner, Doyle finally thought to check the car park. His descent into depression was made complete when he saw the empty bay. Driving himself home, he wondered if another month or so would make much difference; he knew he still had to endure endless sessions with Ross and pass all her stupid tests and games before resuming work as 3.7's partner.

Parking up and wandering slowly into the building, he wondered when Bodie would get home; his morose thoughts, however, were cut short as soon as he pushed the front door open.

"Bodie!" he yelled thankfully as he kicked the door shut behind him and automatically reset the locks. "You're home!" He ran down the hall and burst into the kitchen, a huge grin splitting his face.

Bodie was standing with his back to the door pouring something into the sink and the rigidity of his back caused Doyle to freeze his instinctive urge to enfolded the man in his arms. "You're home," he repeated tonelessly. "I thought you had been called out. I'm glad you weren't." Staring at the broad shirt-clad back he remained by the kitchen door.

Hands shaking, Bodie struggled not to scald himself again as he fought with the colander, ten thumbs and far too much slippery spaghetti. Scooping up the strands he'd spilt onto the worktop, he managed to return the greeting.

"Hello sunshine. Thought I'd come on ahead and start dinner. It won't be long." In truth he'd come home alone because it had been so hard trying to act normal around his partner when other people were about. The spaghetti safely contained, he turned to find Doyle still standing by the door. With his short curls blown into confusion, green eyes that were wider than ever and sparkling with life and a mouth that was an invitation all of its own, Bodie wanted to pull him into his arms, drag him into bed and love him to exhaustion. But all he said was, "Why don't you go and wash up. Dinner'll be ready when you get back."

Doyle blinked at the quiet words. For a moment he had thought--but maybe he had only seen what he wanted to see. "Okay," he replied, swallowing his disappointment, his arms aching from the effort not to reach out and grab Bodie and kiss him. He wanted to kiss him, wanted more than anything else to hold him, smell his warmth and closeness. The desire to take what he wanted washed over him, leaving him hot and weak and aching. "Can I do anything to help?" he offered.

Oh yes, sunshine. Please! Bodie begged silently. He managed to drag his eyes away from Doyle and turned back to the cooker. "It's ready now. I'll dish it up while you're getting sorted out."

Feeling incredibly high and yet terribly deflated, Doyle left the kitchen to dispose of his jacket and freshen up. By the time he returned Bodie and the dinner were already in the lounge. The arrangement of the dinner trays was like a slap in the face; Bodie was sitting in the armchair by the stereo unit and his own tray on the other side of the room by the window. Doyle picked the tray up and moved to the sofa, deciding only at the last minute to sit on the middle cushion; the end cushion was suddenly too close to Bodie.

Apart from the noise of the television the room was quiet as they ate their meal, the distance and strain between them getting worse by the minute.

"How did you get on with Willis?" asked Bodie eventually.

"Fine--except for the magnet. I told you it wouldn't work!" Doyle replied awkwardly, groping for the right words.

"All you had to do was stick it on one end of the bar."

"It's a precision instrument, Bodie!" Your little magnet had me weighing in at fifteen bloody stone!" he retorted indignantly.

"Ah. Willis guessed you'd fixed it then," Bodie said. "I keep telling you he isn't stupid. If you'd only eat decent, regular meals he wouldn't have to bother you--"

"There is nothing wrong with my weight. I'm the same now as before...before everything happened. We can't all be muscle-bound hulks!" he said sharply, glaring meaningfully at Bodie's greater bulk.

"I see," Bodie replied quietly.

Doyle knew his barb had hit a sensitive spot. While not obsessed with his weight, Bodie did not like being too heavy and unlike himself, suffered from a slower metabolic rate which meant he had to eat less to stay slim and almost perish from starvation to lose excess weight.

"Oh please!" Doyle sighed, rolling his eyes upwards. "Spare me the pathos. I don't mean you're a muscle bound hulk. God, do you have any idea what you look like when you pout like that?"

"I," Bodie said, mustering his dignity. "I do not pout. Why, what do I look like?"

Doyle grinned and looked at his partner carefully, examining the dark eyes and full, pouting mouth that still held traces of tomato sauce. "Beautiful," he said, slowly drawing the word out and delighting in the blush that crept up the pale neck and cheeks. "You're blushing! I didn't even know you could blush!"

Bodie felt his face burn even hotter and, anxious to do something, anything, he got up from his seat to take the trays out into the kitchen. Doyle stood at the same time and removed the trays from his hands, setting them both aside on the small table.

"I'll put them outside to soak," Bodie said, trying to grab them back only to have his hands brushed away.

"What's wrong?" Doyle asked softly, his face only inches away from Bodie's. "Don't you want me to say that I think you're beautiful?"

"It's...it's not that," Bodie struggled to get the words out. "It feels...odd to hear you saying it to me. I...I want to say the same things to you...I wanted to say something when you came home--but I wasn't sure you'd want me to."

Doyle placed his hands on the broad shoulders, sliding them up Bodie's neck and cupping the downbent face, lifting it up to look at him. "What did you want to say to me when I came home?" he asked softly as the pad of one thumb rubbed away the traces of tomato sauce.

"Dunno, can't remember now," Bodie lied, remembering very well the wave of love and lust that had swept over him. "Just, hello, I suppose."

"You've said hello to me hundreds of times. What was so difficult about saying it tonight?" Doyle echoed his partner's nervous gesture of licking his lips.

Seeing the pink tongue darting out, Bodie felt as if a great weight settled on him making breathing almost impossible. "I wanted it to be different," he admitted, his voice dropping to a deep huskiness. "I wanted to make it a special hello...but when you walked in...I just couldn't...all of a sudden I wasn't sure if you'd want me to do it."

"Do what?" Doyle asked excitedly, knowing now that Bodie had felt just as hot and confused as he had. Tilting his head at an angle, he leaned into the embrace and found his mouth claimed as Bodie demonstrated his way of saying hello.

An endless time later it was Doyle who pulled away, his mouth damp and shiny where Bodie's lips had covered his. "Been looking forward to that since morning," he said breathlessly. "Today's been impossible, couldn't think of anything except you; wondering where you were, what you were doing."

"I've been on the ranges all day. My ears are still ringing from it," Bodie complained lightly.

"You sure it's not us making the bells ring?" teased Doyle and he gave a little push with his hips.

"Only wish it had been," Bodie replied sorrowfully. Made a right fool of myself this afternoon 'cos I was thinking about you." At Doyle's questioning look, he elaborated. "Had to demonstrate one of the new guns to some ministry cretin; I've been complaining endlessly about the quality, how they keep jamming, so he came down to see for himself.

"Had everything lined up ready to go and first of all I forgot to load the bloody thing, then I went and used the gun I've spent five bloody hours re-sighting and balancing; of course the fucking thing worked like a dream!"

"Oh dear." Doyle made sympathetic noises as he tongued, hotly and gustily, the skin behind Bodie's ear. "Does this mean we're going to get lumbered with the bloody things?"

"I hope not," Bodie said decisively. "But..." he gasped as the exploring tongue flicked around his sensitive earlobe. "But you looked like you were getting on well with Ann-Marie," the words escaped before he had a chance to stop them.

"She's okay," Doyle replied easily. "She knows her stuff."

"How come you get to spend so much time with her?" Bodie asked a little while later as they made themselves comfortable on the sofa.

"Jealous?" Doyle asked, laughing.

"No!" retorted Bodie defensively. He wasn't jealous, not any more he was forced to admit.

"Sorry, didn't mean to tease. I'm only working with her until the end of June, another couple of weeks. Just until the new training programme gets off the ground."

"I still don't understand what you're doing though."

"Blame Cowley, it's all his idea," Doyle said. "He thinks that my computer training and my knowledge of how CI5 systems work will help Marie put the right sort of training programme together.

"None of you lot have been very enthusiastic about using the new system so everyone's going to get a chance to learn properly. I've been helping write a program you lot will be able to understand and learn from."

"You're writing a program!" Bodie said in amazement. "I thought that was high-level stuff, you can't program a computer!" he ended in disbelief."

"Ta very much for the vote of confidence," Doyle said tartly, and more than a little hurt.

"Whoa!" Bodie held on tight to stop Doyle pulling away. "I'm sorry but I had no idea you knew any more about computers than I do--"

"Which isn't much!" Doyle added dryly.

"I've never needed to use them until now. So, you know a bit about computers do you?"

"A bit more than a bit," Doyle replied, still irritated by the condescending tone. "I've got a BTECH diploma in computer studies. Well," he hesitated. "Not exactly a diploma as I never sat the final exams. But I would have passed if I had," he added confidentially. "Marie thinks I ought to go back and finish it and perhaps move on to the next level."

"Why didn't you do the final exam?"

"I was in hospital recovering from that last fight in Maidstone, and then I missed the re-takes because I was in solitary on extended punishment," Doyle answered quietly but without hesitation.

"You studied while you were in prison?"

Irritated even more by the continuing disbelief, Doyle pulled himself out of the encircling arms, straightened his disordered clothing and glowered at Bodie. "What's so difficult to believe? Do you really think I peeled potatoes and stitched fucking mail bags for three years! Or maybe you think I spent my time smashing rocks in some fucking quarry!"

"Ray--" Bodie struggled to his feet and tried to pacify his lover.

"Honest to god Bodie," Doyle stormed. "What do you think I did all day?"

"Well--" Bodie's mind went blank.

"I'll tell you. Some long-term prisoners like I was, get the option of further education or work--if they're lucky. I chose education because I bloody knew I wasn't going to walk through those gates back into my old job!" His anger genuine, Doyle's voice was harsh.

"Ray, I know all that, I just never thought about what you'd done and you've never said so I didn't like to ask."

"Well now you know. I spent four evenings a week in class and a couple of days a week in the machine shop." Anger abating, Doyle allowed himself to be pulled back into an embrace.

"What did you do in the machine shop?" asked Bodie a considerable time later as they rearranged themselves on the sofa. "What was that--I didn't catch it?"

"I said," Doyle repeated reluctantly, "that I sat on a machine that stitched buttons onto shirts."

"You what?"

"All the prison uniforms, even the screws' stuff, are made in the workshops. At Maidstone we had to do shirts, T-shirts and pyjama jackets. I suppose the rest of the stuff is made by other prisons."

"So you stitched buttons on!"

"I don't think it's very funny," Doyle said, pretending to be upset.

"Just buttons? Nothing else?"

"Just bloody buttons! Stupid little plastic buttons with five fucking holes onto millions of bloody shirts!"

"Just buttons! For three years!" repeated Bodie, trying, and failing dismally, to be serious.

"No. Not for three years. For a while I machined cuffs, then collars and then buttons."

"Ray?"

"What?" Doyle asked, suspicious of the rumbles of suppressed mirth coming from his partner.

"How come you've never even offered to sew a button on my shirt when one's popped; you know I'm hopeless with a needle and thread?"

Doyle twisted around and tussled furiously trying to pin Bodie down onto the cushions. They wrestled, falling off the sofa and landing heavily on the floor with Bodie underneath taking the full impact of their weights. "I will never, I repeat never sew another fucking button on anyone's shirt for as long as I live!" he yelled.

"Okay, okay," Bodie shouted back. I give in, I surrender--and get off my bloody stomach!"

Doyle rolled sideways to lie on the carpet and found himself wedged between Bodie and the sofa and unable to move. Suddenly the mood between them changed, the air crackling with sexual electricity. Eyes wide, breathless and excited they stared at one another for long moments before Doyle, closing his eyes, slowly bent forward, inclining his mouth towards Bodie's whereby he took gentle possession of the open lips.

Rolling onto his back, Bodie lifted his head for a supporting arm to slip underneath it and relaxed into the kiss, closing his eyes and sighing heavily as the hot little body settled firmly over him.

At first they only kissed, eyes shut, savouring the taste and closeness, but the level of intimacy soon escalated and fingers unfastened buttons and zips and pushed restricting material aside to expose straining bodies.

Unable to remove Ray's T-shirt without breaking their own kiss, Bodie settled for leaving it bunched around his chest, his own shirt still wrapped around one arm and their trousers and pants pushed down their legs only as far as eager hands could get them. Naked from armpit to upper thigh, Bodie ran his hands along Ray's length, stroking, rubbing, tickling and arousing every exposed inch.

Fiercely aroused, the scent of Doyle's musk rising and filling his senses, Bodie pulled their bodies closer, grinding their lower bodies together, adjusting positions so their cocks fitted snugly into each other's soft belly. Pulling Doyle hard against him, he cupped soft buttocks in his hands, massaging the muscular globes, enjoying the pleasure of touching as much as the resulting squirms his touch instigated. Deepening the kiss, forcing Doyle's tongue to give way to his, Bodie rocked them together in a fierce rhythm, his arousal peaking but Doyle's movements suddenly breaking the pattern, preventing his climax. Fighting to re-establish the steady rhythm, Bodie tightened his grip on the clenched buttocks, forcing their bodies even closer with one hand while the other continued to knead tense muscle, his fingers slipping into the dark crevice as they moved.

Bucking against the probing, bruising grip, Doyle managed to break free and roll right over with Bodie to land on the other side of him; gripping tightly with his legs and pulling hard as he twisted, he manoeuvred his eager lover on top of him.

After a surprised 'ooff' Bodie, anxious to take them both to climax, claimed the open mouth beneath him and pushed gently against one bony hip. He felt an answering throb as Doyle's cock lying snug between their bodies indicated its own need for completion. It took a moment or two for them to work out a method where Doyle wouldn't be squashed flat against the hard floor but shortly Bodie, weight taken on his knees and forearms as he straddled Doyle, managed to re-establish the rhythm that took the bottom man to climax. Swallowing his own frustration as Doyle stiffened and then slumped boneless into the carpet, Bodie waited for the shuddering spasms to pass. Slipping sideways, Doyle's seed thick and slippery on their bellies, Bodie pulled one lax hand and wrapped it around his painfully erect sex. It was a moment or two before Ray pushed the covering hand away and shoved Bodie to lie on his back. With his own cock still sending delightful tremors throughout his body, he concentrated on bringing his lover the same pleasure, his hands tracing the purple cock from tip to root, squeezing the taut sacs and then brushing the shiny glans with the pad of his thumb, spreading the seeping moisture he found there along the hot, urgent organ.

"Ray!" Bodie cried out in near agony as the thumb grazed over the sensitive head again pulling along the foreskin. Once more, and then again and he exploded with such force Doyle jerked back in surprise, a jet of semen arcing across their bodies and splashing them both with a heat that immediately became cool.

Panting heavily, Doyle lay down beside Bodie and snuggled up close to him. The whole thing hadn't taken long, no more than a few minutes from unexpected beginning to shattering conclusion, but it left them both exhausted, numb and pleasurably sated.

"Do you want to know something?" Bodie asked in a hushed voice once their breathing had slowed.

"What?" asked Doyle, twisting his head to look into a pair of almost unbelievably blue eyes.

"Carpet burns hurt!"

"What?"

Hands rubbing his sore elbows and knees, Bodie complained in an aggrieved voice. "I knew there was a reason I'd given up making love on the floor--my bloody knees!"

"Well," smiled Doyle easily. "It's all your fault so don't blame me."

"I seem to recall you starting all this when you kissed me!" retorted Bodie without any real heat as he rearranged his clothes.

"You wanted to be kissed as I remember it," said Doyle. "Not going to pretend otherwise, are you?"

"'Course not," said Bodie as he passed over a handful of tissues to Doyle for him to clean himself. "Did it feel as if I objected? No? Well then--just next time I'd rather we had a bit more comfort. It's been a long time since I had to settle for a quick grope on the floor."

Doyle felt his insides freeze at the teasing words. Was that all it was to Bodie, he wondered. No more than a 'grope on the floor'?

Scrambling up from the carpet, they each dealt with the messier aspects of homosexual love, cleaning cold drying semen from their bodies and re-adjusting their clothing. Clean and tidy once more, Bodie fell back onto the sofa and patted the cushion next to him in invitation. Awkwardly, and more embarrassed than he cared to admit, Doyle sat down and found himself pulled into a strong-armed embrace.

"Shift your head, sunshine," ordered Bodie gently as he made them both comfortable. "Okay?" he checked, smiling into the flushed face resting against his shoulder.

"Fine," Doyle responded. It was only a half truth; he was comfortable but his mind was far from easy still troubled by his partner's casual off-hand words. A quick grope; he looked up at the averted face searching for an answer. Was that all it meant to Bodie, he wondered fearfully; was it really little more than just sex--for all his easy declarations of love. Words were too easy, cheap and rarely meant much, a fact Bodie knew only too well.

As if sensing the uneasy thought, Bodie glanced down and saw the pensive expression on Doyle's face. "All right, Ray?" he asked, ruffling the short curls with one hand, the silky cool feel of the thick growth sending shivers along his arm.

"Fine," Doyle replied, only just managing not to jerk his head away from the affectionate touch and he pretended to watch the television. After a moment Bodie's hand slid down to rest against his bare throat, one finger absentmindedly stroking the soft, warm skin. Every time Bodie touched his hair in that way Doyle had to fight the impulse to jerk away from the seemingly innocent touch; but that very same touch had been one of the more public demonstrations of ownership he had been forced to endure from Albert Kingsley and it was almost impossible to accept that touch from Bodie without remembering all it entailed. But Bodie didn't know that, he didn't understand everything that Albert had done to him--he only thought he did and Doyle knew he could never tell him the whole truth.

Unaware of the turmoil going on beside him Bodie gave a contented wriggle and settled down more comfortably to watch the film, his fingers caressing the warm skin at Doyle's throat as if reluctant to break the contact. Slowly, though, he began to realise something was missing; there was little of the loving contentment that usually followed lovemaking and he knew he was unsatisfied with the hurried tussle they had shared on the floor. He wanted more, a lot more. He wanted to tilt Doyle backwards over his lap, kiss him and touch him all over, arouse him again and tell him he was beautiful and loved, yet the words remained unspoken. Ray's non-committal response to his declaration of love that morning as they left home had rocked his certainty; he had meant the words deeply and sincerely and had expected to hear them returned. It had not been the first time Ray had refused to respond to him and he began to wonder if they really wanted the same things from their relationship.

Bodie knew that they should talk but lacked the courage to ask the questions. 'Could you ever love me, Ray? Could you ever love me the way I love you? Do you want to love me?'

Unknown to Bodie the object of his thoughts was suffering similar agonies. 'You say you love me and then laugh about a quick grope on the floor.' Doyle suppressed a shiver as one finger slid under the edge of his tee-shirt and he leant towards the warm pressure against his throat, the feel of Bodie's fingers resting against his pulse point almost melting him. 'I've heard it all before, Bodie. You're very good with words--do you really mean what you say? How could you? Why should you be any different to the rest of the world. Do you love me?'

The television chattered away to its unseeing audience of two, the film ending and the late news fading away to a dreary weather forecast and then to an uninteresting exposé of something terribly important. The late night film was over halfway through before they admitted they weren't watching it. Withdrawing his arm from around Doyle's shoulders and massaging the numbness away, Bodie said curtly, "Lift up, Ray. I need to take a leak."

Levering himself away from his human cushion, Doyle righted himself and sat back watching through gritty eyes as Bodie left the room. Alone in the lounge he stretched and yawned widely then dragged his hands over his face and through his hair. He was tired. Any other night there would be no problem with that simple fact; but tonight, tonight he thought wearily it was a problem. Last night, last week, last month even he would simply have said 'I'm tired,' and gone to bed.

Bodie's bed.

The bed he shared with Bodie countless times over the last two years.

He wanted to go to bed. With Bodie. Nothing all that different to the nights they had gone to bed together before.

Except nothing was the same anymore. Not since last night.

In the bathroom Bodie flushed the loo and padded out heading for the bedroom. He left the curtains open half-way and turned the small lamp on on his side of the bed. He was tired and wanted to go to bed. Apart from last night Doyle had spent the last week sleeping alone in the spare room. Where would he sleep tonight, he wondered.

In their bed or in his own.

Soft footed he padded back to the lounge and found Doyle still sitting on the sofa; he looked up as he entered. For several minutes the remained motionless, Doyle sitting on the sofa and Bodie by the door, each too scared to make the first move. Doyle was aware his breathing was becoming ragged and noted Bodie likewise was having similar problems. Without breaking eye contact Doyle slowly stood up and hit the switch to silence the television. Expectant and edgy at the same time, he was relieved when Bodie took the initiative and, smiling gently, his eyes twinkling with tender amusement, held out one hand inviting Doyle to join him.

They didn't speak until long after fingers that had a tendency to tremble had stripped them both naked and they slid under the covers, their hands still gripped tightly together.

"Now's where we have to make a choice," Bodie said, his voice hitting the lowest register as he whispered across the pillow.

Uncomprehending but prepared to trust him completely, Doyle smiled tentatively and asked, "What choice?"

Bodie pulled the smaller man towards him, moulding them together. "Well," he began hesitantly. "It's up to you what happens now but I'd like to make a couple of suggestions."

Something of Bodie's caution seeped through to Doyle and his voice was tight when he enquired what the suggestions were.

"It's the light. We can leave it on for now and we can...make love until we're both sleepy and relaxed before turning it off and risk spoiling everything. Or," he said, stroking the stiff back, "or we can turn it off now; I'll be here for you and we can both just hold on tight and see what happens. It's up to you."

Doyle went rigid as soon as he understood what Bodie was trying to do. "Why can't we leave it on?" he asked, already knowing he had to face the problem sooner or later. Bodie didn't answer him. "I think..." struggled Doyle, "I think we should..." his mind raced around the problem. What should he do. How could he relax enough to make love to Bodie if he knew that at any minute the light was going to be switched off. "Turn it off now," he said firmly, hands already gripping the strong shoulders and bracing himself for the darkness.

He couldn't breathe. The walls closed in; the duvet pressed heavily, weighing him down. He tried to drag air into his lungs and claw his way out of the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest and a great roaring filled his ears. He still couldn't breathe, couldn't see and it seemed to last forever. Gradually, though, the roaring in his ears lessened and he could hear Bodie's voice. Little by little the weight lifted, his breathing became easier and the dark more bearable. Turning his head slight and pulling back from the limpet-like grip he had on his partner's reassuring bulk he realised he could see him, the amber streetlights casting a soft glow though the partially open curtains.

"Okay now?" Bodie asked as the punishing grip on his arms weakened.

"Mmnn," Doyle murmured, unable yet to vocalise.

Now the worst was over Bodie ran firm, knowing hands across the taut muscles, massaging the fear-induced tension from them, willing him to calm down and all the time speaking soft words of encouragement. It took time, a long time for the racing heartbeat that even Bodie could feel thundering against Doyle's chest to slow down; slowly, gradually, the touches became more intimate, intended to arouse rather than relax. Concentrating solely on soothing his lover, Bodie ignored his own needs, the burning urgency of their earlier loving almost forgotten as he sought Doyle's pleasure. Pausing often simply to cuddle or kiss, it took forever until the undemanding rhythm and the pressure of their bodies tumbled them into an easy, unhurried climax totally unlike anything they had previously shared.

The sleepy contentment that had eluded them earlier that evening now washed over them, barely leaving them the time or energy to untangle limbs before falling asleep.

---

It was an annoying shaft of sunlight inching over his face that awoke him next morning. Screwing his eyes tight shut against the hated intrusion, Bodie buried his face in the pillow.

Beside him Ray stirred and remembering the previous morning Bodie froze. As usual, Ray was holding his left arm firmly and was lying mostly on his back turned towards the centre of the bed, his face only inches away across the pillow. Bodie wanted to kiss him but carefully considered the risks involved and decided it wasn't worth it. Moving carefully, he lifted his right arm onto the pillow below his head to prop him up, the slight movement causing the sleeper's grip on his arm to tighten and Bodie saw the sudden darting movements of eyes behind closed lids. "Ray," he called softly, blowing gently onto the sleeper's face. "Raymond," again a little louder a few seconds later but still gained no response. He tugged his left arm and caused Doyle's whole body to tense up but not waken. "Raymond! Wake up, sunshine." But all to no avail.

Sighing with exasperation, Bodie pulled himself up the bed a little further and almost free of the death-grip on his arm. Cautiously--and wondering why such a light tough the previous morning had caused such a disaster when his efforts this morning were so far unsuccessful--he pulled his arm free. Murmuring a protest, Doyle rolled onto his side and inched across the mattress towards Bodie but still didn't wake up.

Sitting up now, Bodie glared in amusement at the graceful curl. "Ray," he asked in a loud voice. "You awake yet?" There was no answer. "Ray! Ray! Raymond-bloody-Doyle will you please wake up!" But apart from Doyle inching closer to him there was no response. Desperate to touch but still scared of the consequences he backed away, slid out of bed and left the room. In the kitchen he washed up the previous night's dishes and prepared breakfast, just as he had yesterday morning, returning to the bedside with a loaded tray. Setting it down carefully on the floor, he stood uncertainly before the bed. "Ray?" he called loudly, still hoping for an answer.

There was none forthcoming.

Resigned, Bodie planted his knees firmly on the mattress and placed his hands on Doyle's bare shoulders, his strength and weight straining against the convulsive heave that resulted. "It's only me, sunshine," he said quickly as the eyes snapped open. "'S okay Ray, it's only me, Bodie." The tension remained for several heartbeats until Doyle's mind caught up with his body and stopped fighting the strong grip pinning him to the bed.

"Mornin'," Doyle mumbled thickly, subsiding back onto the bed and sliding his hands over the restraining arms. "Good morning," he repeated a little clearer.

"Morning," responded a smiling Bodie. "Didn't think you were ever going to wake up, proper little sleeping Beauty you were," he grumbled good naturedly and pretending not to notice the automatic struggle.

"Should 'ave kissed me, I'd 'ave woken up then," Doyle said once his mouth closed on a jaw-breaking yawn.

"Might 'ave turned into a toad," retorted Bodie, "or knocked me into the middle of next week," he added truthfully in a wry voice.

"Ah!" Doyle conceded, pulling a face. "You have a point there."

"Have a cup of tea," offered Bodie. "I took the precaution of leaving the tray at a safe distance this morning."

Laughing unselfconsciously, Doyle accepted the tray onto his lap. Saturday mornings spent lounging in bed were a luxury not often encountered in CI5 and Bodie was shameless in his enjoyment, making Doyle, who had spent far too many mornings of his extended sick leave lounging around, laugh. "Born to live a life of leisure and pleasure, you were," he joked. "Parents let you down did they?"

"Obviously," was Bodie's abrupt answer and Doyle realised too late he had trespassed on forbidden ground; Bodie never discussed his family and had even ignored pointed questions about them in the past.

The strained atmosphere such a direct contrast to the sunny cheerfulness of moments ago was obvious. Pushing the tray aside, Doyle brushed the crumbs out of the bed and turned towards Bodie, his face solemn and eyes serious. "You know almost everything there is to know about me; what makes me laugh and cry; what makes me happy or sad. You know my worst secrets and fears and you've accepted them all, accepted me despite everything." He rubbed his thumb across the corner of Bodie's mouth, trying to ease the sign of tension there. "I really don't know that I could have coped without you at my back. You've been beside me every inch of the way since I walked out of Maidstone and I know that you've helped me in ways that I don't even know about.

"When I talk about things that hurt me...you listen. There isn't much I couldn't tell you, but you've never talked to me the same way--you've never let me share what hurts you. If you have any family you've never mentioned them. Oh, I've heard rumours from the squad but you've never said anything about your past.

"I don't know anything about you, the real you except..." he faltered as Bodie lifted his face to meet his gaze. "Except...I'd trust you with my life..." Doyle's voice dropped to a whisper at that last comment.

Bodie closed his eyes again so Ray wouldn't see the pain in them. 'He'd trust me with his life but he won't say he loves me,' he thought sadly.

"Tell me who you are, Bodie?" Doyle asked. "I need to know who you are."

"I'm me," responded Bodie, his face averted and unable to meet the over bright eyes. "This is it, there's nothing else, nothing that's worth anything or worth telling."

"You're William Andrew Phillip Bodie," Doyle said quietly. "And I only know that because it's printed on the cover of your file. You're two years younger than me; you've spent a few years running with a smuggling ring in Europe and then saw the light and joined the army. You served five years with the regulars and then moved into the SAS and from there to CI5. That's all I know about you, Bodie, and it's not enough!"

"Not much else to tell," Bodie evaded but not unmoved by the quiet desperation in Doyle's voice.

"Are your parents alive?"

"Last I heard."

"Mother, father, brothers and sisters?"

"No sisters," Bodie admitted.

"Do you ever visit your family?

"You don't visit yours," Bodie pointed out, unhappy with the questions but unwilling to tell Doyle to shut up.

"You know why I don't see my family--I'm asking you about yours."

"No!"

"Why not?" pushed Doyle.

"Because, that's why. Just because," Bodie answered, almost childish in his reluctance to reply properly.

"Why won't you talk to me?" Doyle asked quietly, badly hurt by the belief that Bodie could not--or would not--share his pain.

The questions stirred up memories in Bodie's mind that he had thought safely locked away. "I can't," he said harshly, brushing away the tentative hand reaching out to him. "Just leave it, Doyle. We can't all go around baring our souls to people!" He would have gained the same response from Doyle had he slapped him in the face and the recoil drew Bodie back from his own mental horrors. "I'm sorry Ray. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean that...but...I still can't." He pulled Doyle back into the bed and clung to him. "I didn't mean to hurt you and I am sorry...it's just--I've never been able to. No-one's ever asked me to explain things before and I can't...not right now, not today."

Returning the frantic grasp and offering his own comfort, Doyle was pleased with the concession and grateful Bodie accepted his embrace. "I'm sorry as well," he whispered. "I should have realised...I don't suppose there's many people on the squad who have conventional backgrounds--wouldn't be able to do the jobs we do if we did, would we? Sorry I pushed--but maybe one day you'll be able to tell me. I'd really like to know all of you, Bodie, the same as you know me--warts 'n all," he ended with a shaky laugh.

"Warts 'n all, I'll remember that when the time comes. Later," Bodie promised, relaxing under the warmth of Doyle's body as it pressed him into the mattress. Today or next year, it didn't seem to matter anymore.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Relieved to reach the cooler sanctuary of home, Bodie gratefully slipped his jacket off.

"Want a beer from the fridge?" Doyle asked, helping himself to one, the hiss of the ring pull making Bodie's mouth water.

"Thought we'd finished the last of them last night?"

"I picked up another six-pack when I went out for the papers this morning," replied Doyle as he passed over an icy cold can.

"Mmmn," Bodie murmured appreciatively. "It's bloody hot out there!" he said between great gulps.

"Shut up--you want it to snow?"

"You're not expecting it to last like this for long, are you?" asked Bodie. "This is the summer, probably all we're going to get, at any rate. It'll be autumn tomorrow and winter the day after."

"Pessimist!"

"Optimist," countered Bodie.

"You just don't like the sun, admit it. I can't understand why you agreed to go to the park if you were determined to sit in the shade all afternoon."

"We can't all be sunfish," Bodie said, collapsing with undisguised relief onto the sofa. "'Sides which I never go brown anyway. I've got two colours, beetroot red and pasty white. Look at you, it's disgusting--two hours in the sun and you're already three shades darker!" he complained good naturedly. But, on reflection, he decided it had been a lovely way to spend their Sunday afternoon; sitting under an enormous, sprawling oak tree doing nothing more energetic than counting clouds and soaking up the peace and tranquillity of the area and enjoying watching the malicious glee with which Doyle had stripped off his shirt to sun bathe in his shorts--leaving Bodie, armed and hot, sweltering in his jacket. "I think I need a shower," he added, tugging at the damp cotton in an effort to cool off.

Doyle walked over to him, sniffed the air loudly and agreed, only narrowly escaping the retaliatory swipe. "If you're going to behave like that I won't offer to wash your back for you," he laughed.

The jump from comfortable companionship to instant arousal took both of them by surprise, the events of the past two days not lessening their urgency nor their desire for more.

In the bathroom they stripped slowly, pausing here and there to kiss and fondle; when naked, there was still no hurry to enter the shower and they held each other gently, prolonging each kiss. But it was Bodie, uncomfortably hot and sweaty, who finally steered them into the shower. As the cleansing jets washed over them, Bodie found his mind drifting away from the promised pleasures, his thoughts settling on what he feared was going to prove a problem.

Experimentally he pulled Doyle closer to him and ran his hands down the wet back to cup taut buttocks. He waited for the movement he knew Ray would make and countered the sudden twist of hips by gripping the rounded arse a bit harder. Still kissing, he felt the tension building in the man in his arms but still continued to rub his hands in powerful circular motions over Doyle's flanks, skimming the cheeks of his arse.

As one finger dipped lightly into the crack of his buttocks, Doyle broke the kiss and pushed hard against Bodie's chest, separating them, and twisted his body slightly to dislodge the gentle intruder; he then lifted wide eyes to Bodie, smiled nervously and slid his hands down the smooth white belly to grasp the rising sex in deft hands.

Having confirmed his suspicions, Bodie gave in to the pleasure his partner was prepared to offer. "Ray," he said, holding the other man's hands to halt their actions. "Let's wait until we get to the bedroom...please?"

Doyle agreed, nodding mutely, and a few moments later, skin still slightly damp from a hurried rub down with the towel, Bodie slid between the covers, his hands eagerly stretching out to draw Doyle down beside him. Within moments his arousal was as hot and urgent as before and he guided Doyle's hands down to resume their task. He moaned aloud as fingers held him confidently, cupping the taut sacs and teasing through the this mass of public hair; he pushed his legs further apart and lifted his hips, pushing against the teasing pressure. Twisting around, he threw one leg over Ray's hip, opening himself even more, and wrapped his arms around Doyle's shoulders, tugging him even closer and trapping the hand grasping him so deliciously between their bodies.

At first surprised but then delighted at the uninhibited action, Doyle returned the bruising kiss, forcing his tongue past the would-be invader to seek out the taste that was Bodie. Wriggling his trapped arm a little, he found he could still manipulate the furry balls and with his fingertips traced the intriguing ruck of skin along their centre, back and down to where the skin was firmer and less hairy. As his fingers moved and explored the different textures he heard the moans Bodie made and felt the tremors that shook him.

Canting his hips further forward in encouragement, Bodie groaned a mixture of relief and frustration as Doyle's fingers traced lightly along the path to his anus. Holding his breath as the fingers slid easily along the sweat slick channel he was unable to contain his delight as they reached their target and his body convulsed with an overload of pleasure.

"Sorry," Doyle said, quickly snatching his fingers back in alarm and trying to withdraw his arm from between their bodies, but Bodie clutched him tighter than ever and tried to move his body to find the fingers again.

"Ray!" he cried out desperately.

"Well move then!" responded Doyle, equally desperate though not for the same reason. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you--"

"Ray!"

Doyle finally managed to pull his arm free. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he apologised.

"Hurt me?" said Bodie, puzzled. "You weren't!"

"Bodie, please!" Doyle cried out in anguish, trying to withdraw from the enveloping arms and legs.

"Don't," begged Bodie when he realised Ray had mistaken his moans of pleasure for ones of pain. "It felt good, you weren't hurting me. It felt great...really good."

"Do you think I'm stupid!" Doyle snapped angrily. "There's no need to lie, Bodie. I'm sorry if I hurt you--only my arm was caught and I couldn't move any other way--"

"You don't understand," said Bodie, a sad smile on his face as he recognised the mixture of disgust and embarrassment in Doyle's voice. "I liked it--"

"You liked me touching your arsehole!" Doyle said, his disgust overcoming his shame. "You can't possibly enjoy that--it's... I'm sorry."

"Ray, listen to me please. You weren't hurting and I honestly liked it, it felt wonderful!"

"What? Having someone shove a finger up your arse!" Doyle said crudely.

"It wasn't the first time it's been done to me, I like it," Bodie said quietly. "I enjoy the sensation."

"But it hurts! I know it does! You can't seriously expect me to believe you enjoy being hurt?"

"It doesn't have to."

"Don't be stupid! I know it hurts, I've had it done to me enough times to know that; it always hurts."

"Only if you fight. Only if you're tense. Didn't anyone ever touch you there before Kingsley?"

"No!" yelled Doyle in outrage. "Of course not."

Having enjoyed the caress from several of his girlfriends over the years, Bodie was surprised at the prudish outrage. "Never?" he asked disbelievingly.

Doyle surged up in the bed, breaking free of Bodie's grip totally before turning on him angrily to confront him. "Have I given you any reason to think I enjoy being hurt to get my rocks off?" he demanded to know. "I didn't realise you liked that sort of sex but I won't do it to you, I can't."

"I'm no masochist, Ray," said Bodie, only just managing to grab a wrist and pull Doyle back onto the bed. "Neither am I a sadist. So what if I like you touching my arse or even pushing a finger or two inside me? When it's done right it can feel incredible. If that bastard Kingsley was the first person ever to finger-fuck you I can understand why you feel like this but please believe me, it doesn't have to hurt."

Disbelief written all over his face, Doyle turned towards him. "You want to do it to me, don't you? You keep on trying to touch me there. Is that what you want...to...to fuck me with your fingers like Kingsley did?"

"No! Not like him at all. I'm nothing like him--Christ, I love you Ray, I don't want to make you feel bad--"

"But you still want to shove your fingers up me arse," Doyle said coldly.

"Not if you don't want me to--"

"I bloody don't!"

"Then I won't," Bodie said firmly. "But now that I've told you how much I like it would you mind doing it to me?"

"Now?" Doyle asked in alarm.

"No," Bodie replied tiredly. "Not now, I doubt either of us would enjoy it very much right now."

"I won't hurt you, Bodie."

"You wouldn't, believe me. But if you prefer, whenever you're ready to try there's some Vaseline in the drawer there. You could put some on your fingers and some on me; then you'd know you couldn't possibly hurt me."

Doyle's eyes went to the bedside drawer before glancing back, a little of the coldness leaving his eyes. "I don't know, it's hard to believe it could feel..."

"Some other time perhaps," Bodie said softly as he pulled him to lie down beside him again. "But for now--where were we?"

Still tense and nervous every time Bodie's hands skimmed open palmed across his buttocks, Doyle was difficult to arouse again but Bodie persevered until urgency and need overtook conscious thought and they both moved freely towards a shattering climax, Bodie first, followed a few heartbeats later by Doyle.

Wrung out and exhausted, Bodie tugged some tissues free of the box and passed them over. "Better get some sleep, sunshine," he suggested. "Work tomorrow."

"What's Cowley got lined up for you now you've finished the weapons assessments?" Doyle asked sleepily as they curled into their usual sleeping positions.

"Expect I'll find out soon enough," Bodie responded vaguely, knowing full well he was due in court in the morning. "You're at Repton first thing tomorrow, aren't you?"

"Supposed to be," mumbled Doyle. "Might give it a miss though."

"Can you do that?" asked Bodie.

"'S up to me if I go or not--at least that's what they keep on telling me. Shift your arm a bit, that's better. I'll go on Thursday instead. Night, Bodie."

"Night, love," whispered Bodie softly across the pillow.

---

As soon as the sunlight began to creep over the windowsill Doyle was wide awake. Turning gently and lifting Bodie's arm away he lay beside him, propped up on one elbow watching. His sleep, though sound, had not been relaxing and he still felt gritty-eyed and tired. Looking at the easy sprawl of his partner, he envied him his sleeping oblivion. Lying on his belly, face turned away, only Bodie's back and a little of his face was visible to Doyle; and, stretched out across the bed like a starfish he looked very comfortable. Pushing the duvet down carefully, Doyle exposed some more of the naked back and then, when the sleeper still didn't wake, the defenceless arse. The white mounds drew Doyle like magnets and he barely contained the impulse to reach out and touch.

What, he wondered, was so fascinating about someone's arse? The globes of muscle, relaxed in sleep, looked smooth and soft. Can an arse be sexy? Pondering the answer to the question, he sat up and twisted around on the bed to kneel carefully beside the object of his attention. The discovery of a small but fierce looking pimple on the underside of one of the cheeks cheered Doyle immensely; the simple discovery suddenly making Bodie human. On closer inspection he was surprised to realise he could see between the slightly parted legs and see Bodie's balls, the hairy sacs squashed almost flat under his weight. But, even has he looked, Bodie stirred. The muscles in the strong back tensed and rippled and he clenched his buttocks tightly together, inhaled sharply and finally snapped to instant awareness.

"Ray!" He was alarmed to discover the pillow beside him empty and the covers missing.

"I'm here," replied Doyle and he brushed his hand over the tense shoulders, feeling them relax.

Turning over, Bodie opened his eyes. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Do you always wake up like that?" Doyle asked bluntly, pointing at the hard upthrust sex.

Still sluggish, Bodie stretched and automatically wrapped a hand around himself, waking himself up properly as every nerve in his body responded to the touch. "Yes," he said and then, his eyes pinning Doyle with a lecherous look asked, "Don't you?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Used to think it was overactive hormones or something. Ann..." his voice cut off abruptly and then he continued in a hard voice. "Not everyone likes being confronted with one of these first thing in the morning. Puts some people right off."

Some people meaning Ann-Bloody-Holly, thought Bodie grimly. "Does it put you off?" he asked. Doyle shook his head slowly and then brushed Bodie's hand away and began his own gentle rhythm of push and pull. "Mmmmm," groaned Bodie as the pleasure grew and pleased that there were few limits to his partner's inhibitions.

"Feels good," murmured Bodie has he closed his eyes again. "Yeah...oh yes...harder, a bit harder. There...and my balls," he ordered breathlessly. "Harder...squeeze...that's it...just a bit...oh yes...that's..." With a final lush sigh Bodie spilled his seed over the hand that gripped him and collapsed back onto the mattress.

Leaning forward to kiss him, Doyle tugged the duvet back over their bodies and cuddled up close.

"Gimme a minute," Bodie said, almost asleep once more. "Then I'll return the favour."

"No need," said Doyle. "I think you must have worn me out over the weekend," he quipped lightly. "Don't go back to sleep, the alarm'll be going off in a few minutes."

"Give us a quick cuddle then," Bodie said, collecting his lover in a scoop of arms and legs.

"Don't start anything, Bodie," warned Doyle sternly. Because you don't have time to finish it!"

Warned off, Bodie subsided and made do with an extra ten minutes in bed cuddling his partner.

---

Doyle really thought he was going to go ahead with his usual session in the sterile room at Repton right up until the doctor appeared in the waiting room and greeted him in his normal aggravating cheerful manner. "I'd rather miss this morning out if it's all the same to you," he suddenly heard himself saying.

The youthful face of the doctor barely registered a flicker of surprise. "If that's what you'd rather do," he answered evenly.

"I would," Doyle said firmly. "It's a smashing day, I thought I'd rather go out on the track, have a go in the gym perhaps.

"If that's what you want to do."

"You're sure you don't mind?" Doyle asked hesitantly, surprised at how easy it had been and wondering if there was some catch he hadn't though of.

"There's no point us sitting down together if you're wishing you were somewhere else. I agree, it's a lovely day for using the track--and a bit of fresh air and sunshine will do you good."

"Well," Doyle said, awkward now his escape was assured. "If you're sure it's no problem then?"

"It's completely up to you, Ray. You come when you want to. Will you be there next Tuesday or will you want to give that one a miss too?"

Poised for flight, the question aroused his suspicions once more; it was all too easy--he'd expected some resistance to his missing a session. "No, I'll come on Tuesday as usual," he said cautiously.

"See you on Tuesday then," the doctors smiled and waved a farewell.

Resisting the urge to wipe the smirk from the acne-covered face, Doyle exited from the clinic with as much decorum and speed as he could muster.

---

Adjusting his position on the hard, polished bench once more, Bodie checked his watch for the hundredth time; he could hardly believe it was still only just after two o'clock. 'You'll be first in', the prosecution barrister had told him plummily earlier that morning. That was four long hours ago and they hadn't even broken for lunch.

But, sitting in the corridor waiting to be called gave him plenty of time to think. Unfortunately though, his thoughts were not ones best enjoyed sitting on solid wooden benches in cold corridors outside one of the highest courts of law in the land.

He had been forced to dash across the road to buy a newspaper when it became obvious his jacket was not long enough to hide the physical reaction his thoughts produced. Maybe I'm just oversexed, Bodie thought miserably at one point; the suggestion had been made to him by more than one person in the past. Re-adjusting himself discreetly once more he stood up and walked back and forth along the corridor. The Court Usher didn't take her eyes off him once. Over-eager? he wondered, footsteps echoing hollowly in the great hall, 'not oversexed; just keen. Hot. Desperate.' The adjectives tumbled through his mind as he catalogued his responses to Doyle's loving. On several occasions he knew he had gone too far too fast for him and had frightened him. All the time he'd had to be aware of what he was doing, what he was saying just in case it was the wrong thing.

He decided he hated Albert Kingsley with a vengeance. The harm done to Doyle could take a lifetime for him to recover from completely--if ever. There were so many innocent gestures and touches as well as the more intimate ones that Kingsley's games had deprived them both of and Bodie found himself wondering if Doyle would ever be able to participate fully in their love-making. The weekend had already shown Bodie that he wanted a lot more than he was ever likely to be offered.

Doyle's disgust at the suggestion of touching such a private place was strong, too strong perhaps for him to overcome. Ever. Bodie sighed heavily as he realised the consequences of Ray's refusal; if fingers weren't allowed it was a sure bet that nothing else would be either. Just the thought of sinking into the taut, perfect arse caused a surge of helpless lust to wash over Bodie. From across the hallway the Court Usher peered at him with disapproval and suspicion.

Turning his back on the woman, Bodie walked slowly to the opposite end of the long hall. Would Doyle ever let him fuck him? Did it really matter if the answer was no? Bodie knew that it shouldn't matter--but unfortunately he also knew his own nature and knew that it did.

He could be careful; he knew it would take time--a long time for Ray to put all the bad memories away but, in the meantime it was hard. Ever since Thursday night he had been suffering the agony of holding back, going slow, so as not to alarm his lover and it was proving more and more difficult each time--but at the same time Bodie felt Ray was gaining in confidence. Providing he didn't spoil things by rushing them too fast Bodie felt there was still some hope.

---

Sitting back in his chair, Cowley wondered why Doyle had requested the interview and when the polite knock came he was surprised to see the young man in question looking so fit: the drawn face, dark shadowed eyes and tense body language replaced by a more relaxed openness; the almost regimental haircut, while severe, improved the overall effect no end. He was pleased to see Doyle was pulling himself together. "Good afternoon 4.5. You wished to see me?" He indicated the armchair to one side of the desk.

Shunning the informal chair, Doyle remained standing, momentarily at a loss for where to start.

Seeing the confusion and realising that the young agent was still not as sure of himself as he appeared, Cowley deliberately softened his voice and face. "How are you managing?"

"I'm all right," Doyle said defensively but then tried to sound less emphatic. "I'm fine." He sat down in the armchair and tried to relax.

"And what was it that you wanted to see me about?" Cowley prompted gently, all too aware of the hundred and one other pressing matters he had waiting for his attention.

"Jack Crane says I have to have your permission before he can return my gun to me," Doyle blurted out and then instantly wished he had sounded less like a kid asking for his ball back.

It wasn't what Cowley had been expecting but he didn't let any surprise show on his face and continued to look at the young man.

"And so, that's why I'm here," Doyle explained into the silence. "I'd like my gun back.

"Do you indeed," Cowley said slowly. "May I ask why?"

"I want to use the ranges. I've been cleared by the physio., my arm's healed okay but it still feels a little stiff. The practice and the exercise will do me good."

Cowley stared at Doyle, the icy-blue gaze pinning him to his chair. "I see no reason why not. I'll see to it that Jack issues you your gun for range practice." He said when Doyle had all but given up hope of an answer; Cowley did not miss the way the young man flushed and bristled with embarrassment.

"Restricted access! Why?" he demanded to know.

"Until such time as you have been cleared for a return to full duty you will not be issued with a gun," Cowley stated calmly.

"And when will that be?" raged Doyle. "If ever!"

"I have not been led to believe that you will not return to full status," Cowley replied kindly, understanding the helplessness Doyle felt. "But, until such time you will have no need for a gun. It will be returned to you when you are ready."

"When Ross thinks I'm ready, you mean!"

"Her opinion in the matter will be a factor of some importance," Cowley agreed.

"So," Doyle sighed. "You'll clear it with the armoury to let me shoot?"

"On the ranges, yes." With the agreement barely out of his mouth Cowley found he was talking to himself and the door slammed shut behind Doyle. He suppressed a little smile; Doyle, he decided, was getting more like Bodie every day.

Sitting up straight at his desk he put Ray Doyle from his mind and turned to the next problem, leafing through the intelligence reports and considering which agent would be best suited to this particular undercover operation. Who on his squad might look like a killer out for hire?

---

Wasting an entire day sitting idle outside a courtroom when all he wanted was to be too busy to think, Bodie did not count the day a success--and that was before the flushed, harassed Crown Prosecutor emerged at 3 pm to deliver his bombshell.

"How the fuck can the judge direct the case to close?" he demanded angrily as the cheerful defendant strolled past them. "No witnesses were called. I've been stuck out here all bloody day!"

"Then I strongly suggest you inform the arresting officer in this case to take a refresher course, Mr Bodie," the prosecutor said wearily. "It would appear that Mr Greerson was never formally cautioned or arrested."

"What?" Unable to believe his ears, Bodie's temper rose another notch.

"The local police who handled the arrest after CI5's efforts were, it seems, somewhat overawed by the exalted company of CI5, members of the Prime Minister's staff and such a well-known personality as Mr Greerson."

"I don't believe it!" Bodie was already imagining Cowley's reaction.

"You have little choice, Mr Bodie. Plus," the prosecutor added in a confidential whisper, "they knew Mr Doyle was not going to appear to give evidence. We never even got that far but I overheard the defendant referring to the fact. I doubt Mr Doyle's evidence would have helped but--"

"Now we'll never know!" Bodie snorted in disgust.

---

Ear defenders firmly in place, Doyle aimed carefully. His right arm ached from the recoil as he fired but he reloaded and fired again. And again. Only slightly down on his usual scores, he was satisfied, but handing the gun back in to an expressionless Jack Crane destroyed any sense of achievement. By the time he returned to his care parked in a nearby sidestreet, his mood was even grimmer; being forced to sign his gun in and out was akin to rubbing salt in a sore wound. What, he wondered, did they think he was going to do with the damn thing anyway? Kill himself? Locking his gun away was no safeguard against that, he reasoned; if he wanted a bullet in his brain he could use Bodie's gun...couldn't he? Without warning he finally identified something that had been puzzling him for weeks. Whenever Bodie arrived home he would usually head straight for the bedroom for a minute or two; nothing strange in that except that later, during the evening when he removed his jacket, his gun and shoulder holster would already be gone. Bodie, realised Doyle in a sudden, blinding flash, only wore his gun when he was on duty: at home with his mentally unstable partner his weapon was mysteriously absent.

Arriving home, Doyle walked slowly into the bedroom, scanning the walls and furniture for the hiding place. It wouldn't be obvious, he knew Bodie too well to think finding it would be easy. By the time he'd discreetly checked all possible places Doyle's temper was simmering just below boiling point. A search of the entire flat revealed Bodie had even removed the spare weapons they had secreted away for emergencies.

This discovery of how far they had gone to 'protect' him made Doyle even angrier; the stupidity of allowing Bodie to be defenceless in an emergency at home was so great he couldn't believe it was true and so a spare weapon had to be hidden somewhere.

Somewhere Ray Doyle wouldn't be able to find it. He began looking.

---

Parking behind Doyle's car, Bodie sighed; less than pleased with the shambles the police had made of Greerson's trial, Cowley had not spared his wrath. Already weary emotionally, mentally and physically, Bodie had found the criticism heaped on his shoulders hard to bear. And, the worst of it all was if Doyle hadn't fiddled around with the cameras trying to pretend he was David Bailey the focus would have been okay and their evidence on film for the judge and jury to see. At least then they might have been able to move for a re-trial instead of it being thrown out of court.

Letting himself in, he called out a greeting and went to put his gun away. The mess that greeted him stopped him dead as he pushed open the bedroom door. "Ray?" he called out anxiously, his finger automatically releasing the safety catch.

"What?" the soft response came from behind him.

Spinning around, Bodie could see no sign of alarm in Doyle and so he relaxed, thumbed the safety back on and turned to wave an arm over the room. "What happened?"

"I was looking for something."

Hearing the mild voice, Bodie knew something was very wrong. "Did you find it?" he asked in a very level voice.

"No."

"I see," he said, conscious of the icy green eyes following his movements. "Maybe I know where it is, why don't you ask me?"

"If I thought I'd get an honest answer I would," returned Doyle, his expression giving lie to the even voice.

Slipping his jacket and holster off then wrapping the leather straps around the heavy gun, Bodie turned to face him. "I won't lie to you. Ask your question."

"Why don't you finish putting that away first," Doyle said nastily. "Then maybe we can talk."

It was then Bodie realised what his partner had been searching for and he mentally cursed Ross and Cowley for their insistence on keeping all weapons away from Doyle. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at his angry partner. "You seem to want to talk now," he said quietly. "So why don't we?"

"Put your gun away first. You wouldn't want to run the risk of me getting hold of it, would you? Who knows what crazy games I might get up to with a loaded gun!"

"Ray," Bodie tried to placate him. "This wasn't my idea, it was the only way they agreed to let you stay here. It was this or forcing you to stay at The Beeches."

"Who the fuck are 'they'--as if I couldn't guess! And what good does forcing you to lock your gun away do me? All they've done is put your safety at risk--how the hell are you supposed to protect yourself if you're not allowed to wear a gun because I'm in the same house as you?"

"They had perfectly good reasons," Bodie said slowly and then, looking Doyle square in the face added, "and I'm not so sure they were wrong."

"You what!" yelled Doyle, even more outraged.

"It's taken you this long to notice what should have been obvious weeks ago. I would have been out of my mind to leave you within reach of a loaded gun those first few weeks. And, just in case you didn't notice, even your sleeping tablets were kept out of your reach; there was never more than two nights' worth in the bottle just in case you decided to swallow the whole lot!

"Yes, I hid my gun, and your tablets. Do you really believe we would be so stupid as to leave them around for you to get hold of?"

"I wouldn't have done anything like that!" Doyle said, shocked out of his anger by the fury in Bodie's voice. "I wasn't going to kill myself."

"Well no-one was prepared to take bets on it!" retorted Bodie. "You didn't seem to know where you were or what you were doing half the time!"

"I wouldn't have tried...suicide," Doyle said hollowly.

"How was I supposed to know that?" replied Bodie. "All I knew was you'd considered it before. Not five minutes after I saw you turn the gun on yourself you told me how you'd torn up sheets to make a noose for your neck--"

"Maybe I have thought about it. Before." White faced and perspiring heavily, Doyle didn't recognise how shocked he was by what he was hearing. "Okay, I thought about it; I even tried saving my drugs when I was in the hospital--it would have been easy taking an overdose when I was in the General Hospital, or I could have hung myself while I was in solitary. So what if I considered that as a way out? So bloody what--did I do it? No, I didn't, of course I didn't, I never even tried, not seriously. But wouldn't you consider death as an option in some circumstances? But thinking about it, working out ways and means isn't the same as doing, is it!"

Bodie looked hard at Doyle, his face set. "I have never considered suicide as a way out."

"That's probably because you always jump in feet first and leave worrying about the consequences to others!" Doyle snarled.

"That's--"

"You tell me what I had to look forward to when I was in Maidstone. Go on, tell me! Nothing! I had absolutely nothing except another two or three years of the same life in front of me before finding myself out on the streets, homeless, unemployed and on my own.

"Yes, there were days when it just didn't seem worth the effort but then slowly, I realised it wasn't the end of the world--it only felt like it. I was surviving and I knew I could survive the rest of it. By the time you pulled me out of there like some bleedin' knight who'd lost his horse I'd already decided that I could make it.

"As for what happened at The Beeches..." Doyle faltered, his eyes dropped to stare blindly at the floor. "I really don't know. Maybe I was a bit crazy then, but all I really wanted was to get back to London. When they told me I had a visitor I thought it was you--but then Bob Craig turned up. After that stupid argument we'd had that morning I was scared that I'd pushed you too far. I only wanted to come and find you--but then it all went wrong." Doyle didn't realise he was crying, that big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks. "I didn't mean to take the gun, it was just there and I wasn't going to shoot anyone, but everything just went wrong and then they were chasing me.

"When you came up those stairs...I dunno...I was so scared. Couldn't believe it was really you. You're right, I could have shot you...I nearly did--but I couldn't... I couldn't shoot you, that's why I turned the gun away from you...because I couldn't shoot you--not because I was going to shoot myself...don't think I even thought of doing myself--oh shit!" Suddenly discovering his face was wet, Doyle wiped off the tears and spun on his heel, trying to hide himself away until he could regain some control, but Bodie leapt up from the bed and caught him.

"I didn't know all that--how could I? You wouldn't tell me, you've never explained what you felt that day." But now he did know the cause, Bodie was stunned; the whole thing had been his fault entirely--if he hadn't lost his temper with him that morning nothing would have happened.

"Leave me alone!" Ray snarled, breaking the grip on his arms.

"I only want to help--"

"Then leave me alone! Let me go!" Doyle yelled at him, tears of anger mixing with despair. "Christ, I don't know how you manage it but whenever you're about I start blubbering like a baby." He wiped his hand across his face once more. "I can count on one hand the number of times I've cried since I was a kid and you've been around poking your bloody nose in practically every time!"

"There's nothing wrong with crying."

"So how come you don't do it?" Doyle snapped back.

Bodie just stood there, looking at him for a long moment before answering quietly. "Just because no-one sees any tears doesn't mean I don't cry. Tears just come easier to some people than others--it's supposed to be healthy; bottling it all up inside is bad for you."

"Well once, just once I'd like to bottle it all up--I hate doing this!" Doyle said in disgust, scrubbing away the last of the moisture with his hand.

Tentatively, Bodie moved closer and when he met no resistance wrapped his arms around the trim waist and pulled him into an embrace that, after a moment's hesitation, was fiercely reciprocated. Realising the mood had changed, Bodie steered them both towards the bed. Doyle remained passive and unresisting as their clothes were peeled away and pushed onto the floor with the gun. Pulling back from a long open-mouthed kiss, Bodie found Doyle's solemn eyes watching him intently; the wide eyed gaze was disconcerting and so he pulled the warm body even closer, his cock pressing hard against Doyle's partial erection. Deliberately, Bodie ran his hands down the hairy chest and body seeking him out, relieved when Doyle's eyes closed and the curly head dropped back and the soft cock began to thicken and lengthen.

One hand cupping the rising cock, Bodie tugged Doyle around to lie on his side and pulled them face to face. Panting, mouth open slightly, Doyle allowed himself to be moved into position. As one hand slid off his hip to settle over his bum, though, Bodie saw the eyes open wide to watch him, but although he stilled beneath the searching hand, Doyle made no move to brush it off.

Withdrawing from the forbidden territory, Bodie swallowed a groan of disappointment but then, surprisingly, felt Doyle's hand sneaking over his hip and light fingers skimming over the crack in his arse. Looking at Doyle and seeing the wide, nervous eyes and feeling the slow sexual response to his careful handling, Bodie felt his hopes shatter. "You don't have to, sunshine," he said quietly.

"It's what you want, isn't it?" Doyle responded harshly, his hand lying still on the curve of Bodie's arse.

Feeling the tips of Doyle's fingers resting so close to that most secret of places, Bodie shivered. "You know I do," he whispered, only scant seconds away from begging. "But you don't."

"Different people like different things," replied Doyle and Bodie shivered at the cold, detached voice. "Open your legs then so I can get to it."

The order made Bodie's toes curl and even though he knew he shouldn't allow it to continue he rolled over onto his belly and parted his legs, lifting his hips enough to let him position his cock more comfortably. There was movement, a dip and sway of this mattress and then, all down one side he could feel the heat from Doyle's body--scant inches away, not touching him but close, so close. He jumped when a hand settled on the small of his back and hot, dry fingers rubbed the patch of downy hair found there the wrong way, tickling and arousing, and at the unspoken pleasure of what was to follow he groan aloud his pleasure and squirmed against the sheet, rubbing his cock and bringing himself closer to the brink.

Propped up on one elbow, Doyle heard the groan and saw the undulating body try to bring itself off on the sheet and exerted a little more pressure on the vulnerable arse, observing the reaction with near clinical detachment--although his own cock gave a hopeful twitch at the lush, rich groan that Bodie gave. He really did like it, Doyle realised bleakly, still not understanding how anyone could like what he knew was ugly and painful. But, if Bodie liked it...face grave, Doyle continued his movements over the squirming arse, noting how Bodie shuddered each time his fingers slid over the dark crease splitting the white cheeks in two. But Bodie's enjoyment and pleasure was so obvious that slowly the bleak expression left Doyle's face, a surprised, delighted smile replacing it. "You really do like this, don't you," he said in wonder as another pass over the dark crease resulted in more groans and wriggles.

"Ray!" Bodie gasped. "Don't tease...for god's sake...don't tease!"

The painful urgency in his partner's voice drew Doyle out of his childlike amazement. Looking down at the strung out body beneath his hands he was suddenly lost for what to do next.

"Touch me, please touch me." Strung out and helpless, Bodie begged into the pillow; his hand wrapped around his cock was pumping furiously but it wasn't enough. "Touch me...please!"

Swallowing hard, Doyle swept his hand across the clenched buttocks to the beginning of the crease.

"Ray!" Bodie shouted in desperation, the weight of the fingers driving him insane.

Reluctant even now to hurt Bodie but anxious to give him whatever he wanted, Doyle took a deep breath and then swept down the enticing crack forcefully, driving his fingers into the pucker of muscle and pressing against the resistance he encountered. Bodie jumped and then howled; heart hamming against his ribs, Doyle withdrew his fingers and then pushed in again hard, only two fingers this time. Bodie bucked again, his voice muffled in the pillow as the intruders were twisted sharply and withdrawn.

His hand was suddenly taken in a steely grip and Doyle found himself flat on his back with Bodie's furious face inches from his own.

"You little cunt!" Bodie spat. "You had to do that, didn't you! I thought you said hurting people wasn't how you got your fucking rocks off!"

"Bodie?" Stunned, Doyle had no idea what he had done to so enrage his partner.

"Do I disgust you that much?" Bodie demanded. "Do I? Is that why you did it? Christ!" he spat out, pushing himself off the bed and away from Doyle. "I don't know why I fucking bother!" Giving Doyle a final venomous look he stalked out of the room and then slammed the bathroom door behind him.

Alone in the suddenly too quiet bedroom, naked and dazed, Doyle swung his legs over the edge of the bed and went to follow him but found the door locked. Shivering with cold, he picked up his clothes and pulled them on. Dressed but barefoot he sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and waited for Bodie to return and explain what he had don wrong. The minutes ticked away and Bodie remained behind the locked door, the sound of the shower drowning out Doyle's calls to him.

Looking around the room that was still showing the evidence of his furious search for Bodie's spare gun, Doyle bent down to pick up a shirt, a shoe, a robe, and put them away, his movements, stiff and mechanical. Then he saw the small, squat tub of Vaseline on the floor beside the bed. It had been resting on Bodie's side table and the reassuring words of the previous night flooded back to him. 'It doesn't have to hurt. You put some on your fingers and some in me...it doesn't have to hurt.' His eyes went from the still locked door to the tub of Vaseline and he remembered how Bodie had bucked and howled as the dry fingers had been forced in to the tight anus.

He had hurt Bodie exactly the same way Kingsley had hurt him, the only difference being that Bodie hadn't been tied down and forced to endure it. No, Bodie had trusted him not to hurt; he had been expecting something loving and gentle; something totally unlike the pain and humiliation Kingsley had forced on his victim.

Dipping his finger into the cold gel, Doyle rubbed his thumb and forefinger together feeling the easy glide; would it have made so much difference? Of course it would, and he berated himself for his stupidity and blindness. It didn't have to hurt, even Kingsley had known that much and had pleaded with his victim to relax and enjoy it. Remembering the hot, tight feel of Bodie clamped around his fingertips Doyle shuddered and knew it should have been very different.

Standing outside the bathroom door he knocked and called out in the silence after the shower had been turned off. "Bodie? Bodie? I'm...I'm sorry, really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Bodie? Can you hear me? Answer me...please, Bodie." But the silence remained unbroken and Doyle realised he would have his work cut out to convince him he was genuinely sorry. He padded back into the bedroom and continued to tidy away the mess he'd made earlier. He picked up the gun from where it had fallen onto the floor and carried it through to the living room with him. Absent-mindedly holding onto the weapon, he continued to repair the damage he'd done to the flat, stuffing papers and books back onto shelves and into drawers. He heard the bathroom door open but then the door to the bedroom slammed shut and he continued to tidy the flat.

Unable to bear the silence in the flat a moment longer, Doyle turned the television on and stood in front of the screen, not really watching it but unable to think of doing anything else and needing something else to focus on. It was the familiar name that snapped him back to awareness although it was a few minutes before he began to grasp what the newsreader was talking about.

Back in the bedroom Bodie bent down to retrieve his shoes when he saw the empty shoulder holster. Snatching it up, he dropped to hands and knees to peer under the bed looking for the missing gun. It took several seconds for him to believe that it wasn't there and another second for him to realise that Doyle had it. The sickness that had settled heavily in his stomach contracted as he wondered how much Doyle could possibly despise him. His abused anus still smarting from the shock of several fingers being rammed into him with no preparation, Bodie knew he had no idea what his erratic partner might do next and he ran along the hallway to the lounge. The sight that greeted him silenced any outburst he might have made.

Hearing Bodie's arrival, Doyle swung around to face him, the gun clenched in his white-knuckled grip forgotten, and his face twisted into an ugly snarl as he confronted his so-called partner. "Hiding guns and pills isn't all you've been doing, is it? You've no intention of letting me work with you again, have you? All those fucking lies you've fed me--'See the doctors, Ray. Talk to me, Ray. Co-operate, Ray, talk to the shrinks, Ray. Talk to me, Ray'--You've been lying to me haven't you!" he accused. "You're just edging me out a bit at a time hoping I won't notice--"

"What the hell are you--" Bodie tried to interrupt but Doyle didn't seem to hear him.

"Are they so fucking scared I'm going to fall to pieces when they finally chuck me out? How much longer were you going to leave it before telling me I'm out? How much longer, Bodie? How much longer?" Shouting, furiously angry at his own blindness and Bodie's apparent deceit, Doyle shook the gun in his hand, waving it around carelessly.

His eyes on the gun, Bodie shouted back at him. "I haven't a clue what you're raving about--and be careful with that thing!"

"What? Oh, this." Doyle seemed surprised to find the gun in his grip. "Your gun. Oh, you've really slipped up this time, 3.7. The Cow'll have your guts for this. Naughty boy, 3.7. Leaving your gun lying around so any old nutter can get hold of it. Careless, 3.7. Very careless. Thing is," Doyle said, his voice suddenly becoming quiet, controlled. "What do I do with it now I've got it?" He smiled, his lips drawn in a grimace which cut an ugly line across his face causing a shiver to run down Bodie's spine; he looked hard, distant and insane; frighteningly so. "Do I blow my head off...or yours?"

Bodie didn't dare breathe, not sure whether Doyle was serious or not.

"I'm spoilt for choice, aren't I. Oh, and let's not forget Old George--Oh--fuck it! Fuck the lot of you!" Screwing his face up in disgust, Doyle thumbed the safety catch back on and tossed the cold, black metal toward the cushioned chair in front of Bodie.

Snatching the gun up, Bodie felt himself relax a fraction. "I suppose you know what that little outburst was all about?" he asked as Doyle turned round and switched the television off.

"Oh please! Spare me the outraged innocence. That was our case and you let them throw it out of court. We spent weeks trailing that bastard and you let him walk away--"

"Greerson," Bodie said hollowly.

"So you do remember," Doyle snapped back. "When was it decided that I wasn't fit to appear as a witness? How long have you known they don't trust me to appear in court? When did they decide I was finished, Bodie? When?"

"It wasn't like that--"

"No? So tell me how it was then. Tell me how hard you've been working to get me back on the squad. Tell me that you've not been acting on orders. Tell me that you've not been ordered to look after me, to keep me happy and quiet. How far did those orders go, Bodie?" Doyle walked over until he was only inches away but made no move to touch. "Give him anything he wants. Is that what they told you? Be his friend, give him a shoulder to cry on, be nice to him. Is that what they told you, is it?"

Bodie flinched under the onslaught, the abuse and hostility being projected at him flaying already sensitive, raw nerves. "Would you rather I'd left you at The Beeches?" he flung out.

"Why didn't you? You were happy enough to the first time--even pinned me down while that fucking doctor stuck a hypo in me!" retorted Doyle.

"Well I'm sorry I didn't just hold you down the last time," countered Bodie, his shame at having deserted Doyle that first time still painful to remember.

"Oh, I bet you're sorry. Would have saved you a whole heap of trouble. But I still don't understand something; why did you go so far? Did Ross tell you to take me to bed or did you think that one up all by yourself? Maybe you believe all those fucking stories about me and Old Bert. I bet you had a great time with Day, swapping stories. That sort of thing turns you on, does it?"

Doyle's attack was laying Bodie bare; all the loving protectiveness of the last few months turned into something calculated and ugly.

"Don't you think the tea and sympathy got a little out of hand though," Doyle continued harshly. "Have you told them what you've had to do to get me to open up and talk to you? I've got to hand it to you, 3.7, you certain know how to loosen a bloke's tongue. One or two tumbles between the sheets and you get me opening myself wide don't you. I bet you're really pleased with yourself."

Bodie backed away, his own temper flaring out in self defence. "I'm beginning to understand why no-one laid out the welcome mat when you got out of prison," he said harshly when Doyle paused in his own angry tirade. "In fact, I'll bet everyone in that place cheered when they realised you were going; they were glad to see the back of you! Listen to you," he said in a voice that trembled slightly. "Just listen to yourself for once. It's a wonder you've never done yourself an injury with a tongue that sharp. Do you ever stop to think about anyone except number one?

"For your information, Doyle, I am not here for your sake. I'm not here to pander to your whims and your tantrums or to be your whipping boy. If you want to think I've helped you because of orders then go right ahead. I don't care anymore. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder why I ever cared in the first place. You're a selfish, spoilt little cunt who wants the whole fucking world served to him on a platter.

"Christ--I must be slipping to have even thought you could ever care for me--for anyone! You make me sick!" he said in a quietly venomous voice, then turned on his heel and collected his jacket from the bedroom. He almost made it to the front door.

"Where are you going?" demanded Doyle, one hand on the door catch stopping Bodie from storming out.

"Out! Where is none of your fucking business!"

"Bodie, will you hold on..." Doyle called out. "Just hold on..." barefooted he stepped onto the cold stone landing. "Bodie...Bodie, come back...I'm... Bodie!"

His final shout was eclipsed by the loud slam of the street door.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Checking through the night book on his arrival early Tuesday morning, Cowley was surprised to find 3.7's presence logged in just after midnight. Calling the duty officer briefly before the man went home to bed, he had a quick word with him and then went in search of Bodie.

Looking less than bright after an uncomfortable night on the army style camp-bed, Bodie was in no mood to confront George Cowley.

"Problems, 3.7?" he asked directly.

Taking his time to finish the final strokes of his shave, Bodie splashed water over his face before answering. "No, sir," he lied smoothly.

"You just...happened to be passing and decided to sleep over?" Cowley enquired mildly, the steely glint in his eye sharpening at the obvious evasion.

"Didn't fancy getting breathalysed, sir. Thought it best to stay put." Half the truth was better than a complete lie, Bodie decided at the last moment and finding himself unable to think of any better excuse.

"Drinking while on standby, 3.7," Cowley said smartly. "Hardly to be commended."

"No, sir," agreed Bodie with less than his usual military precision.

"And Doyle?" asked Cowley, already trying to guess what the problem really was.

"Sir?" Bodie seemed puzzled by the question.

"Where is 4.5--or did you misplace him during your drinking session?"

"He doesn't live in my pocket!" Bodie snapped irritably. "He's quite capable of amusing himself for one night!"

Cowley merely looked thoughtful and refrained from commenting on the unusual response. "I daresay he is," he said quietly and then turned to leave. At the door he paused and turned back. "My office in half an hour 3.7--and don't be late."

---

Waking up in the overlarge bed with a sudden jump as the alarm burst into life, Doyle knew instantly that he was alone, that Bodie had not returned home during the night. Rolling across the sheet he silenced the voice of the disgustingly cheerful DJ. It was odd that he had never noticed before how quiet Bodie's flat was.

Pushing himself out of bed, he quickly washed and dressed and set the coffee pot to boil. After waiting until the early hours of the morning for Bodie to come home he needed the stimulant badly. In the cold light of morning he was still angry with his partner; as the hour had ticked by last night his fury had waned and then grown strong again when he finally accepted that no-one was going to come home and hear the wonderful apology he'd composed.

Bodie had been uncomfortably accurate in his description of his personality, thought Doyle during a period when his anger subsided enough for him to be honest with himself. When, he wondered, was the last time he had had ever seriously considered someone else's feelings before his own? Bodie had been right: He was a selfish little bastard. The self knowledge was as bitter as the too-strong coffee--but where he could pour the coffee down the drain there was no easy solution for himself. Bodie wasn't a liar, Doyle knew that, believed it--but that knowledge hadn't stopped him from accusing him of a host of deceit and lies. During his fruitless wait for Bodie to come home, around three o'clock in the morning, Doyle had managed to work out that voices other than his partner's had prevented him from appearing in court. Sensible decision really, he had finally conceded, they had all known it was likely to be thrown out of court. With him or without him he knew that the outcome would have been the same.

Probably.

Looking impatiently at his watch, Doyle swore. "Come on, Bodie--if you don't get back soon you're going to be late for work." Come home, he urged silently. Wherever you are, please come home. "Okay, I'm a selfish prat--I know it, you know it and the whole bloody world probably knows it too," he shouted angrily at his reflection in the hall mirror. "But I am sorry--so bloody well come home and let me prove it!" In the silent flat his voice sounded harsh. Leaning his forehead on the cold glass, Doyle closed his eyes, tiredness and anxiety adding to the weight of self-pitying misery that clung to him. "Come home, mate. Please."

---

Looking across his desk at the bland mask on the young agent's face, Cowley wondered if Ross would enjoy being proved right. "How is Doyle shaping up, Bodie?" he asked softly.

"I'm not his doctor, Willis can answer that better than I can," was the polite, clipped reply.

"But I'm asking you," Cowley, returned, demanding an answer.

Bodie looked up from clenched hands. "He seems fit enough. He's been using the gym, working out, running. He doesn't appear to be having any problems."

"That is not what I'm asking. How is he...emotionally?"

Remembering the deliberate way Doyle had lulled him into believing his feelings were wanted and reciprocated before turning on him so viciously last night, Bodie answered unhesitatingly. "Back to normal," he said flatly. "Nothing much wrong with him now."

"I see," Cowley responded, not liking the hidden anger in the flat voice one bit. "Is he ready to move into his own flat yet?"

"Probably got his bags packed already!"

Cowley didn't blink. Have the two of you had some...disagreement?" when Bodie remained silent he pressed harder for a response. "I realise that Doyle has suffered a great deal over the past few months--not to say the last few years--but I am not blind to the fact recent events have been trying for you also, 3.7," he said in a gruff voice. "Being Doyle's partner--and his friend--can't have been an easy task--"

"It hasn't," interjected a vehement voice.

"...and I can understand if relations between you have become a little...strained."

Bodie snorted at that, causing Cowley to halt. "Strained is one way of describing it, I suppose," he said.

"Dr Ross predicted as much," Cowley said, noting carefully the guilty start of surprise Bodie gave. "I may have been wrong but I thought teaming you with 4.5 would be beneficial to both of you--"

"Not to the department?" Bodie asked in disbelief.

"And to the department," added Cowley frostily, then, softening his tone again he continued. "You've always been a loner, 3.7, but I thought you well matched with Doyle. Right from the first I thought I saw the makings of a first rate pairing. And to some extent I was right--you were good--although never perfect," he added, never liking to give too much praise. "But Ross warned me against it; she knew that Doyle's dependence on you would prove too much in the long run--is she right?"

The harsh question almost caught Bodie by surprise and his denial was instinctive, but even so he wasn't unable to silence his doubts. "Doyle's just fine. There's nothing wrong with the partnership--it's just--just we've--the last few months haven't been easy. We've been living in each other's pockets for too long. I need--I need a bit of space...some time to myself...that's all." Bodie found he didn't like the direction the interview was taking; was the Old Man considering breaking the partnership after all? Perhaps Doyle had been right--they were trying to ease him out. "Ray is going to make it back to the squad, isn't he?" he was forced to ask.

Cowley took his time answering, watching the anxious man all the time. "I see no reason why not. The reports I have received have been favourable although I am reluctant to return him to full service precipitately." He noted the sigh of relief that escaped the younger man. "Which brings us to yourself," he continued. "Is Doyle is managing so well you feel he can cope without your assistance? Are you ready to resume normal duties?"

Bodie looked up hopefully; if he returned to full shifts again he wouldn't have to spend so much time with Doyle.

Cowley noted the hurried affirmative. "And if I put you undercover--is he able to cope with living alone?"

"Yes," Bodie agreed without hesitation. "He's fine."

Cowley considered the matter carefully for a few more minutes before deciding finally, then the benevolent mannerisms vanished and he turned to business and pulled the buff file from the locked drawer. He slid the photographs of two glum looking men across the desk towards Bodie. "Jeffrey James Twigg and Herbert John Ferris," he said crisply. "They appear to be developing a new line in employment agencies--they are seeking to hire men prepared to kill to order."

"Mercenaries?" Bodie asked, looking at the picture.

"Apparently not. Your contacts with the--shall we say import and export trade, 3.7," Cowley said, referring discreetly to Bodie's unsalubrious history. "Do they include one Francis King?" Bodie nodded mutely, wondering how the hell Cowley had ever found out about him and Frankie but not daring to ask such a stupid question. "Arrange to meet him...accidentally. Let him know you're looking for work."

"Frankie won't be easy to find--I haven't even seen him for over three years."

But Cowley was prepared for the evasion. "Here is his current address, current that is as of last Friday. And this," he passed over the sheet of paper, "is the address of a public house he occasionally frequents. Ferris is known to use the same bar."

Reading the information from the computer printout, Bodie listened to the cover Cowley outlined for him. An hour later he carefully let himself into the flat and was both relieved and disappointed to find it empty. In the bedroom he packed a suitcase with all the necessities for a long undercover job--surprisingly little--his identification already stored away at headquarters until his return. He packed methodically, refusing to look at the rumpled, unmade bed or even thinking about the man he shared it with. Locking the case shut he left the flat behind him knowing that when he returned next month Doyle would have moved out.

In no mood to withstand the soul-searching required of a morning at Repton, Doyle skipped the session completely, leaving the clinic to discover for themselves he was not coming. With the day promising to be as hot as the previous weekend, he took himself into Hyde Park and found a comfortable, quiet spot on the lush grass overlooking the lake. Balling his jacket and shirt up to use as a pillow, he stretched out under the blue sky and blazing sun but, although his eyes were shut his mind refused to co-operate and allow him to fall into an unconscious doze--Bodie's angry voice playing over and over again making him re-live the scenes of the previous night.

Now that it was too late he knew that Bodie had not been expecting the painful and brutal touches Kingsley had forced on him--for which a small part of him was extremely grateful--throughout those long nights in prison Bert had kept trying to tell him that it didn't have to be like that, only he had never believed him--never wanted to believe anyone could find enjoyment in such games; but maybe Bert had been right all along. All those rasping, husky entreaties to join in with the pleasure were beginning to make sense: imprisoned for over ten years, Kingsley was old and lonely, for all his power and iron control.

Would his co-operation really have made so much difference?

Recalling the sight of Bodie grinding himself into the bed trying for release and the quivering muscles each time a hand brushed across his buttocks, Doyle guessed that it would have. The sudden penetration of the unprepared anus by Doyle's hard, dry fingers had not been what he had been expecting at all.

Suddenly uncomfortable lying on his back, Doyle rolled onto his belly, the rising hardness of a growing erection eased slightly by the firm ground beneath him. It was all Bodie's fault, he decided unfairly. He'd known what his experiences with Kingsley had been, he'd known how much he disliked even the thought of being touched there--he should have expected him to be ignorant of the required subtleties of anal sex.

The thought of Bodie showing him how to do it properly sent a shiver down the length of Doyle's spine, the tingling sensation running through him and centring not as usual in his groin, but unexpectedly several inches further round, his buttocks clenching tight against the imaginary invader, his cock throbbing and growing in response to this shiver of combined fear and arousal. Maybe next time, he thought as he struggled against the desire to rub himself on the ground. Next time it will be different, he promised.

---

During the afternoon Doyle managed to look for his partner without letting on to anyone what he was doing, but by the end of the day shift his patience was wearing thin and his annoyance at Bodie flared up again.

Still unwilling to actually ask anyone where Bodie was, he had deliberately avoided the squad rooms since arriving at headquarters halfway through the afternoon. So far he had managed to avoid seeing too many of his fellow agents but, eventually as the day shift ended he was forced to enter the squad rooms and give the impression that he wanted to be there and wasn't just passing through or looking for someone. He drew a blank in the offices and locker rooms and finally braced himself to enter the rest room. He wasn't surprised to find Bodie not there and was grateful to see that he barely knew the few men and women who were lounging around drinking, smoking and chatting.

Returning a nod by way of greeting, Doyle acted out his charade by collecting a beaker of coffee. The machine hadn't finished delivering the strong-smelling brew when he noticed one of the men break away from the group around the table and come over to him. Not wanting to be drawn into conversation, he concentrated on the slowly filling beaker.

"Nice to have you back," the man said in a friendly voice. Unable to ignore the man without being obviously rude, Doyle turned to look at him. "The name's Kelly, Pat Kelly. I don't often get up here," he cast his eyes around the sparsely furnished rest room. "I work with Henderson's mob and we work for the Albany Street offices." He extended his hand and smiled in a friendly if vaguely embarrassed fashion. The explanation meant even less to Doyle than the introduction. Henderson's section he knew dealt with surveillance operations and the man in front of him was a complete stranger but he returned the handshake. Seeing the puzzled look, Kelly smiled and continued talking, helping himself to a cup of coffee once the machine had finally delivered Doyle's cup.

"You should'ave heard the sigh of relief that went round when they found you out at Holly's place--bleedin' load of tight-fisted misers. The collection for the wreath had already started the rounds--I hear one or two people went and demanded their money back! Still, I'm sure most of us would rather have you alive and well rather than 'aving to stand over another grave in our best suits in the pouring rain...well, I mean all of us would prefer--" At the look in Doyle's eye's Kelly stumbled to a halt, the joke, which had never been funny in the first place, coming out all wrong. Embarrassed and angry with himself for being so thoughtless, Kelly tried to make amends. "I hope that partner of yours has forgiven me," he continued. "I admit I overstepped the mark but it was as much his fault...well, I suppose I can't really blame him for being so strung out--we all thought you were either dead or running for Argentina--but I'm sorry he took the rap for the fight. Cowley was a bit hard suspending him on top of everything else that happened. Still...all's well that ends well--and we did a pretty good repair job on your flat once the dust had settled. The place was okay by the time you arrived home, wasn't it?" asked Kelly, aware that he was digging himself in deeper and deeper each time he opened his mouth.

Barely comprehending what he was hearing, Doyle managed to dredge up some response. "I've moved out," he managed to say, the mess at his flat the only thing he'd successfully understood.

"Oh...well... Tell Bodie when you see him that...I'm really sorry. I'll make it up though--you tell him I owe him a favour, a big one."

"Kel!" One of the men called out as the group he'd been with made to leave the room. "We're on, so shift it."

Doyle let him go without revealing his confusion. Running for Argentina...suspension--Bodie? He was sipping at his coffee, thoughts whirling around inside his head when the door opened suddenly and another group spilled in from the corridor; they all greeted Doyle cheerfully enough but only Lake attempted to speak to him, the others moving away with casual deliberation and poorly concealed embarrassment.

"I gather you've been helping our lovely Ann-Marie with this training course that starts for some of us unlucky people next week. The Cow's got me down for the first group--so 'fess up and tell me what I'm in for," Lake demanded with friendly menace.

Comfortable with the topic of conversation, Doyle managed to answer all of Lake's questions with ease and confidence and, one by one, the others joined in the discussion until the rest room was buzzing with talk on computers and training programmes. Eventually, when Doyle had answered most of their questions and put their minds at rest over what they could expect in the coming weeks, the talk turned to more general matters and he was able to draw Lake to one side to ask some burning questions of his own.

"I've just met a bloke from Henderson's lot, Pat, Pat Kelly. He was telling me something he obviously thought I knew--something about everyone thinking I'd run off to Argentina and Bodie being on suspension--what the hell was he talking about?"

Lake disguised his surprise with an effort and considered his reply carefully. "It was one theory and yes, Bodie was suspended, just for the one week."

"What theory and why?" asked Doyle, puzzled.

"No-one's told you about it?" hedged Lake, still worried about how much the other man ought to know.

"Puddle!" Doyle glared at him, daring him to delay any more.

"All right," he conceded, deciding that Doyle deserved to know everything and hoping to heaven and George Cowley that he was doing the right thing. "Incidentally, what I'm going to tell you isn't public knowledge--apart from Bodie's suspension--and we all thought the Cow was wrong on that score.

"Bodie told me that when the notification of the car bomb came through he was being shown some photographs of you that Day's team had unearthed; they showed you with Conroy, who we now know to have been Holly's right-hand man operating within the drug syndicate, and they were taken about three months before you were arrested six years ago." Lake held up a hand to stop Doyle from interrupting. "Conroy was Ann's uncle and the photographs were taken at a family party--until a few months ago no-one even suspected Conroy and no-one believes your links with him are more than coincidental--but at the time, before Holly...before he killed Ann and everything else happened it looked very bad for you.

"Day was convinced he had proof that you were involved with the syndicate--then, when the news of the bomb came through and we heard there was only the one body, a woman's, it was...suggested that you'd done a runner." From the waxy, colourless expression staring blankly at him, Lake knew that all this was news to Doyle and he mentally cursed Bodie for keeping him in the dark for so long--he was bound to have found out sooner or later. "Bodie wouldn't accept you were involved with the syndicate even when all the evidence seemed to point that way, he refused to believe you had murdered Ann but, as the days went by without finding any trace...I think he began to believe you were dead--even though the theory that you were running was being checked out. There was an all-ports watch for you...then, Cowley ordered your flat to be turned over by Henderson's lot. He told Bodie to witness it--" Lake broke off as Doyle tried to protest. "He had no choice, Ray. But they didn't find anything and it all went smoothly until the team found some old suitcases," he carried on repeating what he had heard from the surveillance team after the incident. "Bodie and one of the men started arguing; he didn't want them to touch the cases and tried to stop them. Bodie...Bodie lost his temper and ended up on the floor with Pat Kelly. When Cowley found out he suspended Bodie and let Kelly off with a reprimand." Lake shrugged. "By that time I don't think Bodie cared what Cowley did or thought. He was convinced you were dead. When we found out about Holly we all thought maybe...but then when we found his body no-one expected to...we--we carried on looking for you but--but we all thought we were looking for a body. I don't think anyone expected to find you alive..." Lake ground to a halt. Doyle was staring at him, shock robbing him of any coherent response. "Look," Lake said quietly, placing his body between Doyle and the others in the room, shielding him from prying eyes. "I'm sorry if this is the first you've heard of all this but...I'd 'ave thought Bodie would have--"

"No," Doyle said, pulling himself together with an effort. "He hasn't said a word--no-one has. I had no idea..."

"The whole thing hit Bodie pretty hard," Lake added quietly. "By the time you were found everyone knew Holly had framed you...and then you weren't in any state to be told what had been happening. I expect he was just waiting until you felt--until you were up to hearing about it."

"Yes. You're right," Doyle agreed numbly. "I expect Bodie will get around to telling me one day." When he thinks I'm stable enough, he thought bitterly. "Speaking of Bodie--have you seen him this afternoon?" he asked in a carefully casual voice.

"You don't know?" Lake asked in surprise.

Doyle blinked at the tone, the assumption that he ought to know irritated him. "If I knew I wouldn't be asking would I?" he replied acidly.

"Sorry," said Lake. "But I thought--he's gone on an op. Undercover. Surprised he didn't let you know."

"What operation? Where's he gone?" demanded Doyle.

"4.5," admonished Lake. "If you don't already know you should know better than to ask--and don't try asking me--I only know what I've just told you."

"How come you know that much?"

"Bumped into him this morning and he asked me if I'd give you a hand when you move."

"Move? Move where?"

"He said accommodation have a new flat ready for you--didn't you know?" It was Lake's turn to be surprised. "I hadn't realised you were still staying at Bodie's place," he added, "but I'll help you when you're ready to move--he said most of your stuff is in storage so it shouldn't take us long to get the rest shifted."

Leaving a bewildered and bemused Lake standing staring after him in the rest room, Doyle hurried down to the admin office and caught the accommodation officer just as he was leaving for the night. Within half an hour the disgruntled officer ran down the corridor hoping to catch the later train and still make it home in time to catch his favourite early evening television programme, and Doyle had the keys and address of his new flat neatly tucked inside his pocket, his possessions held in CI5 storage arranged to be delivered next Thursday.

He found himself out in the car park standing beside his car and wondering where he should go next. He had no enthusiasm to see the new flat, not really, and so he went home and found Bodie's flat to be as quiet and empty as it had been when he'd woken up that morning. He looked for a note even though he knew he wouldn't find one and then pretended that the hurt he felt when he found he was right wasn't that bad. No more than he'd expected.

With the prospect of a long empty evening ahead he decided staying at home alone and brooding was probably not a good idea but, as the door snapped shut behind him realised that there was nowhere he could take his bad mood. He sat at the wheel of his car staring blankly down the road for a long time. Slowly it dawned on him that it wasn't that he didn't know what to do that was the problem; for the first time in an age there was no-one in his life telling him what to do. There was no-one making demands on his time; no-one anywhere in London waiting for him. There was no-one anywhere. Not even Bodie.

He was in complete control of his life. The realisation was shocking and caused Doyle to look at the street he was in with new eyes. He could go anywhere. Anywhere he wanted.

The keyring to his newly allocated flat weighed heavily in his pocket and he pulled it out to check the address tag. It was as far north of headquarters as Bodie's flat was west. The area, as he quickly found out, was unfamiliar to him, and he took several wrong turns before he found the building tucked neatly down a mews backstreet behind a busy high road. In contrast to the wide pavements that were probably crammed with shoppers during the day, Wyndham Mews was quiet and secured.

Already impressed that the flat had its own parking bay, Doyle opened the door and stepped inside. Although old, the building had been extensively and beautifully renovated and the decorations and furnishing were quietly elegant. He walked through the rooms, his fingers trailing over polished wood and plush velvet upholstery, finding the place to be on the small side but perfectly comfortable for a bachelor with no intention of becoming a housewife in his spare time. Spirits lifting, he began planning where he would place his own belongings and it was then he discovered he hadn't yet found any bedrooms.

Walking through the small lounge and even smaller dining room once again he took a closer look at what he had thought to be a wall cupboard, opened the door and found a narrow spiral staircase at the top of which he discovered a second lavatory and the bedroom. Small, like the other rooms, but cheerfully decorated, the room immediately struck him as colder and darker than the others. Crossing to the one small window he discovered why.

The row of mews cottages backed onto the high street shops, a narrow road giving access for delivery vehicles, only the shadowed side street giving perfect cover for potential cat-burglars and opportunists, and so the window was heavily barred. The security grill on the inside of the room was neatly disguised behind heavy net curtains and the keys to unlock it in an emergency were held in a quaint porcelain dish in a small niche in the wall.

The need for security was obvious, but Doyle could barely grasp that; the room became even smaller and darker as he stared in disbelief at the thick, wrought iron bars. It was a cell. A beautifully furnished cell.

He'd never sleep in that room.

Locking the mews behind him, he decided that he couldn't very well turn the flat down without giving a reason--and he wasn't prepared to do that. He would have to think of something else.

---

A small celebration marked the completion of the first week of the training course, students and tutors alike unwinding with a well-earned and much-needed drink. The group took over one end of the bar in a social club the various security departments had made their own--Ann-Marie and Ray Doyle sharing the praise being heaped on them by their first bunch of unwilling students.

"I still think it's a bloody shame we can't play games on it," Lake complained good naturedly.

Ann-Marie and Doyle shared a secret smile. "Just wait until all the higher-ups have finished checking the system," the attractive programmer said. "Once the system is running properly there's no reason why one or two games can't be loaded in--the system engineers have more than likely already set a few up, they usually do in a system this big."

The party continued with the new converts spouting computerese at anyone who would listen to them. During the evening Doyle found himself in a small group with Lake, Jax and McWilliams.

"Are you going to stay with the training section, Ray?" asked McWilliams in all innocence.

"I thought it was only a temporary thing," said Jax in surprise. "You're not off the squad, are you?"

"It is only temporary," Doyle said with a genuine smile. "I'm with the section for one more week just to make sure it all comes together as planned and then I'm back to office-based day shifts."

"And when will you get back to full status?" Lake asked. Any idea yet?"

"God knows--and Cowley, of course. But hopefully not much longer. Maybe another month. I've still got to get past Macklin yet!" And Ross, he added silently.

Lake saw the sudden moodiness and guessed its cause. "You'll make it, Sunshine, don't worry," he said in a quiet voice the others didn't hear.

The use of the affectionate nickname caused a sudden lump to develop in Doyle's throat, it had been a long three weeks since Bodie had vanished into deep cover: three weeks without so much as a single word.

"You used to shoot for the Met. in the Inter-Constabulary Competitions, didn't you, Doyle?" Pat Kelly had joined the group unnoticed by Doyle.

"That's right," he answered warily, knowing precisely how the man had come by his knowledge.

"Team or individual?" Kelly asked, choosing to ignore the closed expression on Doyle's face.

"Both. Why?"

"Just wondered," replied Kelly easily. "Was wondering why you've never joined our team, we're pretty good; we've beaten the Home Office and the Joint Services three times in the last five years," he boasted, neatly skipping the last two years when they'd not taken a single trophy.

"I wouldn't have thought you would be short of members," Doyle replied, feeling uncomfortable at suddenly finding himself in the limelight.

"I wouldn't have this lot in my team," Kelly said scathingly, dismissing a good portion of CI5's complement of staff. "Any old fool can shoot, but competition--that requires true marksmanship and only a few of us have that skill, don't we Ray." Even though he agreed, Doyle felt it could have been said with more tact but a quick glance at the faces of his companions showed they hadn't been offended by the slur on their abilities. "Come on Ray, don't let the side down. First round in the competition is next week and we're still a man short--will you shoot with us?"

His practise on the ranges had been useful and Doyle knew his skills were equal to the challenge but there remained one problem. Kelly had the answer to that too. "Don't worry about old Jack Crane," the team captain said cheerfully. "He's the team armourer and he's been watching you. He reckons with you on our side we'll wipe the floor with those Home Office bastards."

Doyle almost choked on his drink in amazement. He'd seen Jack watching him the past few weeks and had felt resentful at what he'd considered a lack of trust. "Well," he said, clearing his throat. "If Jack says it's all right, I suppose it must be. Where's the first round being held?"

Delighted, Kelly told him the details and the times of the team practise sessions, the first of which was being held the coming Sunday afternoon on the army ranges in North London.

Driving home that night, Doyle felt more at ease with himself than he had for a long time. The evening had been surprisingly pleasant, starting from nowhere and ending in a party-like atmosphere. For the first time he was actually pleased to arrive home to the peace and quiet of Bodie's empty flat instead of dreading the silent oppressiveness that usually greeted him.

Securing the front door for the night, he cheerfully helped himself to a generous amount of Bodie's whisky, making a silent toast to his absent host. Apart from checking that the packing cases were safely delivered from the storage warehouse to the new flat on the other side of town, Doyle had made no other attempt to move in. Control knew to switch any calls for him over to Bodie's flat if there was no answer but so far, not being on duty, there had been no calls. Not even from Bodie.

On Sunday night Doyle understood why he had been invited to join the team. The names on the individual trophies and team lists decorating the walls of the clubroom looked more like a list of dead and retired agents, Mathieson, Williams and King featuring prominently. But he was genuinely honoured that he had been invited onto the new, fledgling team and the first practise showed them that they stood a good chance of winning at least a few of the old trophies back--next time round if not this year.

Driving back into town following the afternoon's shooting, Doyle felt hot and thirsty and in need of something wet and refreshing. On impulse he decided to pay a visit to The Brewers and leaving his identification locked in his car, entered the unusually crowded bar.

His arrival was greeted with no great show of ceremony but his usual drink was waiting for him by the time he managed to reach the bar.

"Where's the crowd come from, Ivy?" he asked the bubbly landlady. "I came in here looking for a quiet drink."

"Get off with you!" scolded Ivy. "This place needs a bit of life--not to mention a bit of money in the old till," she said chirpily. "It's only temporary, though, the Kings Head on the corner of Queen Street was burnt out last week and the Seven Bells on the High Road has been closed for refurbishment--they're turning it into some fancy cocktail bar, if you don't mind!" she said, screwing her face up at the thought. "I can't see one of those places fitting into this neighbourhood," she said disdainfully. "But as long as we get some more customers I don't much care!"

"You can't beat an old-fashioned public house," Doyle agreed gravely, sipping at his drink. "Beats me why some people want pink umbrellas and lumps of fruits floating in their drinks--'sides which, they usually cost the earth."

"Ray!" The loud greeting rang out over the hub-bub of conversation. "Just the bloke we need--get over here and make a team up. Kevin's got some arrows for you." Thomas Mahone, landlord and manager of the Brewers Arms Darts Team, organised his customers ruthlessly.

Finding himself roped into filling in for an absent team member, Doyle helped the pub to a hard won victory over the displaced team from the King's Head.

"Shame you don't call in more often, Ray," Mahone said sadly. "We could do with you in the team all the time."

"Sorry," said Doyle easily. "I'm not always able to get here, it's difficult to let you know when I'll call in next."

Mahone said nothing as he pushed through the crowd back to the bar with his strange customer. It had been many years since his national service days but the smell of cordite and gun oils was one he would never forget. A discreet rub over the arm of the scruffy old jacket Doyle was wearing confirmed his suspicions. There was so much cordite on Doyle it was rubbing off on everything he touched. "How's work?" he asked casually, knowing better than to ask specific questions. Doyle's moods and appearance altered so drastically between visits it wasn't wise to question his means of living too closely and Mahone thought himself clever enough to guess his friend's occupation as something out of the ordinary and not entirely legal.

"Not bad," Doyle replied. "Can't grumble I suppose but I'll be glad to get my teeth into something profitable--living's not free," he said grimly, deliberately giving the impression life was costing more than he had.

"Times are hard," Mahone agreed readily. Work was hard enough to find if a man had conventional skills--and he guessed his friend wouldn't be able to pick up any old job at the local job centre. "Times are hard, but there's always work out there for them as what wants it," he added with a sly smile.

Returning the smile, Doyle didn't say anything. He knew exactly what Mahone thought of him and was only mildly surprised to discover that it didn't bother him any more. It suited his purpose.

---

From the observation gallery the men on the floor could be seen clearly as they worked through their exercises. Although there were several people on the mats, the two watchers were concentrating on one solitary figure warning up before taking his place on the apparatus.

"He's looking fit," Cowley said in a pleased voice. "Willis is still carping on about the weight problem but then he always does. Doyle's weight may be less than average but it's normal for him. I'm pleased with his progress. And you, Doctor Ross?" he turned to his companion on the balcony.

"I agree he's looking very fit," the department psychologist said in carefully measured tones. "But I feel his behaviour is still too calculated. He knows what is expected of him and he's providing it. The effort is taxing and at times it shows.

"You know that he only attends the clinic for one hour a week now?" Cowley simply nodded and she went on. "He certainly appears more stable--"

"You are implying that his behaviour is no more than an act?" Cowley asked.

"His actions are not spontaneous. Everything he has done since 3.7 went undercover has been carefully thought out. The only inconsistency appears to be his reluctance to move in to the new flat." Ross frowned over the problem. Short of confronting Doyle with evidence that he was still being closely monitored there was no way for them to discuss the situation with him openly.

"He's clearly comfortable at 3.7's flat. He'll probably move out when the undercover operation closes." Cowley shrugged off the matter as inconsequential. "He's done extremely well with the shooting team--with him on our side we'll beat the pants off the Home Office this year," he said in a burst of departmental pride.

"A little macho-ego trip is probably the best medicine," agreed Ross in a snooty voice. "His marksmanship skills have certainly eased his passage into the department's social circles."

"As you predicted it would," Cowley commented dryly.

"As I suggested it might," Ross corrected with a smile, recalling how Cowley had at first refused to even consider her recommendation.

"He's ready for Macklin," Cowley decided finally as Doyle joined a group on the mat for a friendly free for all.

"I agree--but with reservations. A physical refresher course and grading exercise is not sufficient. Once he's cleared by Macklin I want him for two days to run through a full psychological profile. I'll not agree to him returning to full status until I am satisfied with the results.

Cowley nodded. He had expected no less. "I'll tell Macklin to expect him next week."

Unaware that his future was being decided, Doyle was thoroughly enjoying the physical exertion demanded by the unarmed combat with Lake and McWilliams. Pinning the larger framed and two stone heavier McWilliams to the mat until he agreed to submit was the ideal end to a pretty good week.

---

The celebrations after they won the second leg of the tournament went on long after the bar should have closed but, considering the army barracks were off-limits to the local constabulary and the camp's C.O. was drinking with them, they knew they were safe. The only sober faces belonged to the drivers of the visiting teams' mini-buses and Ray Doyle. Not in the mood for a drinking binge, he watched his teammates get steadily drunk. Perched on a high bar stool with his back resting against the wall, he watched as they all cavorted around, playing as hard as they worked, and tried to work out why he didn't feel like joining in. Scanning the room, a dispassionate observer, he saw that everyone else was talking or drinking in groups of two or three or more; the three teams calling a truce on the rivalry as they enjoyed themselves, exchanging crude jokes and laughing about their scheming department controllers, politics, the way of the world, life in general and nothing in particular. He was not excluded from any group and could join any drunken huddle he wished but found himself reluctant to do so. There was only one person he especially wanted to talk to and Bodie wasn't there.

A whole month without a word, except for occasional references via Cowley to the fact that the operation--whatever it was--was moving very slowly, had done little to ease the hurtful separation. No matter how deep the cover, he told himself time and time again, surely Bodie could have got the briefest of messages through to him--a few words passed through Control would have been sufficient--but there had been nothing.

But, without Bodie's hindrance in those first few weeks, he had been able to uncover everything that had happened while he was Holly's prisoner; initially he had been angry with his partner for not telling him the truth but, gradually, he came to understand and accept his reasons for not having done so. Faced with the prospect of living alone with his own moods and misery, he had also accepted that he had to attempt to socialise with his colleagues; Ross he knew expected it of him and so he had tried.

It had proved surprisingly difficult.

His efforts at approaching people socially caused them surprise that had been blatantly obvious and he slowly began to realise how distant he must have appeared to them all. The invitation to join the shooting team had been regarded with suspicion until he accepted that they truly wanted someone with his level of skill--if not him personally!

Arriving outside Bodie's block of flats Doyle squeezed past the snoring, snuffling drunkards that called themselves CI5's Hot Shots, grateful to breathe the cold refreshing night air and relieved that only the driver was sober enough to know the address. No-one else realised it was Bodie's address he had given.

Collapsing into bed, still damp from the shower, he groaned as he groped for the clock and set it to rouse him in less than five hours. His pleasure at starting his refresher course with the burly instructor was destroyed by the knowledge that he was going to die the first time Macklin pushed him too hard. At least when Bodie was with him he could hope to suffer a little less as Bodie always deflected some of the Scotsman's temper. 'Sod you, Bodie, wherever you are,' was his last coherent thought before falling asleep...

---

...Even though the dream was familiar and unwelcome he knew something was different and he was curious to discover what. It was a while before he realised he wasn't afraid, that the usual gut-wrenching, cringing terror was missing; the burning tightness around his wrists was also strangely absent but he knew not to move and he waited patiently for whatever was going to happen.

From nowhere a hard, heavy warmth pressed him down onto the bed but, try as he might, he couldn't see who it was. A moist silky touch on his neck and a brush of warm breath on his ear made him shiver but still he made no attempt to struggle. The comforting presence lifted off him and he cried out in protest but was silenced as a hand brushed across his naked back, sweeping low down over the curve of spine and pressing firmly in response to the instinctive uplift of his hips.

But, even in this dream he suddenly knew he should be afraid of the hands causing such strange and unusual feelings and he tried to move away. He expected the hands to become cruel and grasping but they let him go without a struggle, leaving him confused and sorry he'd moved. Unable to bring himself to move back into the warm touch he could only wait until he was sought out again. Wait and hope.

As tentative fingers brushed over him a second time he tried desperately not to squirm although his heart hammered against his ribs; but the owner of the gently exploring hands seemed to share his fear and he was pulled into a gentle protective embrace, his wrists held in lax fingers that wanted only to hold and share and not hurt and restrain.

As the expected hurting failed to happen he slowly began to realise that it was gone forever and this comfortable warmth had taken its place. The knowledge was understood, absorbed and believed.

The hurting was gone.

But what was he left with...

---

The alarm rang out loudly, wrenching him from his dream, leaving his heart hammering in his chest and sweat running in rivers from his overheated body. Silencing the alarm, Doyle sank back onto the pillow, his hands automatically reaching for his painfully erect sex. In the first moments of waking the dream was still vivid and he knew who the comforting warmth in his dream had been. The tenderness and love he'd received had been Bodie's offering and he knew at once how close he was to losing it forever.

Closing his eyes and relaxing into the sensations coursing through his body he allowed himself to remember the way it had been that first weekend, only drawing out the memories of the gentleness Bodie had offered him and ignoring the times when it had been too fierce, too hard. At a safe distance from the painful confusion he was now able to remember other fumbling, clumsy first times and know that it would get better. It had to. It always did when you loved someone.

Increasing the pace a little to take him over the peak, Ray lifted his hips, pushing even harder into his hands and straining his muscles as he fought for release. The mental image of Bodie loving him was so strong that he opened his mouth blindly seeking a kiss.

Muscles relaxing, he sank back onto the bed, his cock still twitching hopefully in lax and sticky fingers. Lying back to enjoy the afterglow, he glanced at the clock--he still had time for another five minutes in bed--and smiled dreamily, and wondered how Bodie was coping with frustrating, lonely mornings. Forty-five minutes later he awoke with a jolting awareness that he had a scant fifteen minutes before he would be late to meet Macklin.

---

As comfortable in his vest and track suit as George Cowley was in his suit and tie, Brian Macklin finished off his report on 4.5's grading. "He's angry, George. At what I'm not sure; himself mostly I think. He's young--hot-headed and he's got good reason to be angry. He's ready to go to work but I'd be careful where you put him for a while."

"Careful in what way?" Cowley asked.

"Like I said, he's angry. Let him use that anger to suit the department; don't keep him inside bottling it up. He's been away a long time and he needs to get back before it's too late."

"His responses are the required standard?" Cowley asked, checking. "I can't afford to nursemaid him once he's on the street."

"His responses are fine--better than before I'd say. There's more aggression in him now, I found him easier to provoke but still cautious. He's changed, he's...harder somehow."

George Cowley had observed the difference for himself and was not convinced the changes in Doyle were all to the good. Being hard and aggressive was not a requirement of CI5--although measures of those qualities were necessary. He made the arrangements for Ross to have her two days with Doyle. They would soon see whether 4.5 was going to be of any real use to them in the future.

---

Arriving at The Brewers just in time for the match to start, Doyle chose his darts, collected his drink and joined the rest of the team.

"Thanks for coming, Ray," Mahone said, patting him on the back. "You keep this up and you can take Old Tom's place permanently--he can play reserve in your place when he's up and around again."

"Don't bank on it, Tommy," Doyle replied, laughing. "With any luck I'll get a job soon and I won't have the time to hang around here--besides, I thought you said Old Tom was home from the hospital now? I'm surprised he's not already here creating hell because that lot from the Kings Head 'ave taken over his corner of the bar!" Even the prospect of two whole days locked up with Kate Ross and her games and trick questions couldn't dampen Doyle's high spirits.

"He was in at lunchtime," answered Mahone, his eyes twinkling brightly with amusement. "He managed to down half a pint before his daughter in law, Rita, came barging in and dragged him back home to bed. She's not going to let him out of her sights for at least the next week--poor old sod. Job prospects looking up then?" he enquired with a casual air that didn't fool Doyle for one second. "Only," Mahone looked over his shoulder before continuing and lowered his voice. "Only, I've heard of something that might be of interest to a man like yourself--if you're interested, that is." Intrigued by the conspiratorial whisper, Doyle asked for more information. "See me after the match," Mahone said, winking and tapping the tip of his nose with one finger. "Don't rush off at closing time."

As the match began, Doyle wondered what on earth the publican had lined up for him.

---

George Cowley had waited impatiently for Doyle to arrive at the hastily arranged meeting and snapped at him irritably the moment the door closed behind him as he entered the inner office. "You're to see Ross whether you like it or not, 4.5," he said testily without waiting for the expected protests. "The matter is not open for discussion."

"I know that sir, and I'm not here to argue about that," replied Doyle, more than slightly peeved at the assumption that he was. "You have asked me to keep you informed of what happens at The Brewers."

Understanding that the young man was not about to make a final plea for release from Ross's ministrations as he had first thought, Cowley nevertheless snapped at him to get on with his report.

Unaware that he was clearly irritated and embarrassed by the suggestion that he was still trying to escape the psychologist's clutches, Doyle snapped out his report in crisp, concise words, intending Cowley to have to ask for all the minor details. "The landlord, Mahone, gave the name and phone number of a man he says is looking for people with particular skills. He seems to think that I might be the kind of person this man Twigg is looking for."

"Twigg?" Cowley repeated the name, a totally different note in his voice, the half interested, half irritated tone gone completely. "What kind of person exactly is this Mr Twigg looking for?"

"Tommy wouldn't say but he insisted that the job is right up my street and considering he thinks I'm a closet psychopath I'd guess something pretty heavy," Doyle said wryly.

"Have you been in contact with 3.7?" Cowley demanded to know.

"No sir."

"Are you familiar with the case he is working on?" Doyle frowned at the intensity of Cowley's expression and denied any knowledge of his partner's whereabouts or the job he was working on. "How are you supposed to contact this Mr Twigg?"

"Tommy said he'd give me the number to ring if I was interested. I said I'd think about it and call him back this morning."

"And you know nothing of the job 3.7 has spent the last six weeks on?" Cowley asked again.

"No sir!" Doyle repeated, puzzled at the man's insistence and tone.

"And this...Mahone," Cowley said thoughtfully. He thinks you're capable of murder?"

Realising that something was happening that he wasn't aware of, Doyle nodded. "He thinks so."

Cowley thought for another few minutes, leaving Doyle to stand in confused silence. "Call Mahone now, tell him you're interested," Cowley ordered, deciding it was worth the risk. He pushed the phone across the desk towards the startled young man.

Dialling the pub's number, he spoke briefly to Tommy, who had been expecting his call. He jotted down the number the publican gave him then hung up. A swift check with the operator proved the second number to be a telephone box in the Whitechapel area. He dialled it and found it was continuously engaged.

"Must be an exceedingly busy call box," Cowley said, recognising it instantly as the number Bodie had been given a week ago.

At last the line was free and the ringing tone finally answered. "Hello," said a gruff uncultured voice with a distinctive London accent. "And who might this be?"

"The name's Doyle. A mate of mine gave me this number--said I was to ring it if I wanted a job that paid well."

"And who was this helpful mate?"

"Landlord of a pub in Kilburn, Tommy Mahone," replied Doyle.

"Tommy's still goin' is he," the man at the end of the line cackled into the phone. "And you think you're what we're looking for, do you?"

"Tommy seems to think so," Doyle said casually.

"Well known are you?"

"What?"

"Got any form?" the man clarified with poorly concealed boredom.

"None of your fucking business if I have!" Doyle swore hotly. "You're not recruiting for the League of Light and Purity are you!"

"Where'd you do your time?"

"Maidstone," Doyle growled down the phone.

"Which wing?"

"The Governors quarters, of course," Doyle snarled. "Look mate, if you know Tommy so well why don't you ask him for a fucking reference!"

"I might just do that," the voice said cheerfully. "Ring this number again in twenty minutes." The line went dead.

Cowley took the receiver from Doyle's grasp and switched off the tape recorder. "Was it necessary to be so abrasive?" he asked, annoyed at Doyle's attitude throughout the brief conversation.

"He'll call Tommy," Doyle said confidently. "Whatever I tell him wouldn't impress him as much as what Tommy'll say."

"Well," said Cowley quietly, he leaned back in his chair and regarded the young man standing in front of his desk with shrewd eyes. "It would appear that your involvement at The Brewers has not been such an idle exercise, after all."

Doyle felt himself twitch at that. He had never seriously thought anything would ever come of his foray into the criminal society at The Brewers but he hadn't realised Cowley had shared his feelings; he'd used the tatty old pub to try out the image he knew Cowley had wanted him to adopt--but as time had passed he'd simply enjoyed visiting the pub and playing games with the landlord's perception of him. And he genuinely liked Tommy, his wife Ivy and most of the customers and found himself hoping he hadn't unearthed a nasty can of worms. "You've heard of Twigg before," Doyle decided eventually. "What do you know about him? Is this a police job or CI5?"

Electing to ignore the presumptuous question Cowley glared briefly at Doyle before speaking. "It took 3.7 several weeks of careful, painstaking preparation to get hold of that very number your tame landlord gave you just now and even longer to make contact with Mr Twigg. After six weeks he has still only scratched at the surface of this whole operation." Noting the surprise in the wide eyes with satisfaction, Cowley continued to explain how Bodie was setting himself up to be recruited by Twigg and his sidekick, Ferris, who were collecting an impressive list of ruthless men and that a number of unexplained accidents had recently caused an alarming increase in the mortality rate of ex-government employees, suggesting that someone was executing their own euthanasia plan.

By the time Doyle was up to date with the operation it was time to make the next call.

"Dead on the nose," the man cackled loudly. "Raymond, I presume?"

"You've talked to Tommy?" Doyle said.

"He gave you a very impressive reference, Mr Doyle," the man said. "Are you willing to...shall we say, attend a little interview?"

"An interview?" repeated Doyle in amazement.

"Where are you right now?" the voice asked.

"Near Vauxhall," Doyle answered, purposefully vague.

"Vauxhall...right, there's a telephone kiosk by the railway bridge off Blackfriars Circus. Be there in...twenty minutes if you really want the job."

The line went dead, cutting of Doyle's protest.

"It's their check-up procedure," Cowley said quickly. "They'll be watching to see you arrive. Take a car as far as Waterloo Bridge and then start running--a car will pick you up downstairs."

Moving towards the office door Doyle protested. "From here to Blackfriars in twenty minutes!"

"Eighteen minutes!" Cowley said urgently. "Go!"

Halfway out of the door Doyle remembered why he had arrived at headquarters so early that morning. "But what about Ross?"

"Move it, 4.5," barked Cowley. "Miss that call and Ross will be the least of your worries!"

Doyle ran.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY

The first inkling Cowley had that the operation was not progressing as smoothly as he had hoped was when computer control informed him someone had called up Doyle's criminal record file within an hour of his abrupt departure form the building. The fact that the source of the request had been an unidentifiable Whitehall terminal, while confirming his suspicions, alarmed him due to the speed things were moving. He only hoped that Doyle's carefully doctored file would hold up to close examination and when he phoned later on that morning to report, Cowley took the call.

"I think I'm in," he said, his voice barely audible over the crackling line and thundering noise of traffic outside the call box. "It's killers they want. To kill nobodies, so they said. The money they're offering is big--and they'll provide the guns."

"Describe your contact," Cowley shouted down the phone.

"What? I can't hear--oh, describe them. Two men, Caucasian, thirty-five'ish, one's five eight, stocky, dark hair, moustache, other fella's a bit taller and heavier, auburn hair, full beard, bald--and he's got a sweet tooth--"

"Ferris and Twigg," Cowley confirmed.

"What--can't hear."

"Ferris and--oh, for heaven's sake!" Cowley said in exasperation when it became clear that a fleet of fire-engines and ambulances were passing Doyle's call box.

"They've gone--oh, hang on, here comes another one." Doyle waited for the noise to abate. "That's it, they're gone. Right--I've got to meet Twigg at The Brewers in two hours. I think they're going to give me a job right away."

"Be careful, 4.5," warned Cowley and he told him that his criminal record had been accessed. "We can only assume it's related to this operation."

"It should only back up whatever Mahone's told them...damn," Doyle swore as the pips sounded. "Slot won't take my money--we're going to be cut off--"

"Doyle!" Cowley shouted into the receiver. "Check in when you--damn!" He barely had time to replace the handset when 3.2 radioed in to report that Bodie had met up with the partner allotted to him by Ferris and Twigg and was on his way to a left luggage place. He was still waiting for Henderson to report on who Bodie's targeted nobody was when his office door opened immediately after a brief, perfunctory knock; he looked up and saw Kate Ross entering, a triumphant smile on her face.

"4.5 did not arrive for his assessment," she announced. "I can't say I am altogether surprised--he has been resistant to all formal procedures from the outset. I gather he was told of the importance of this assessment?"

Caught up in the urgency of the morning, Cowley had completely forgotten 4.5's appointment. As usual when he found he'd unwittingly overlooked something, Cowley shrugged the matter away as unimportant. "I'll be sure to send him to you the moment he's free, excuse me." He turned away as he spoke and hit the intercom connecting him to the control room. "Has 3.2 called in yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Not yet, sir--but 3.7 and his contact have just arrived at the building--"

"Keep me informed--and send 4.1 and 6.2 to me immediately."

"Mr Cowley," Ross said loudly, reminding him she was still there. "Do you know where Doyle is? I cannot emphasise the importance of these psychological studies enough--"

"Dr Ross, while I appreciate that your work is undoubtedly valuable and your time precious, you must also appreciate the importance of what I am trying to do here," Cowley said politely before turning back to the intercom a second time and demanding to know what was keeping 4.1 and 6.2.

"If Doyle is hoping to escape from these tests he must accept that you will be forced to drop him from CI5."

"Doyle is working in a current assignment," Cowley snapped at her. "When he has the time to spend two days on your procedures I'll be sure to send him to you--"

"You've already re-activated him?" asked Ross hollowly.

"What kept you?" Cowley all but snarled at the unfortunate 6.2 and 4.1. "I want you at The Brewers Arms in Kilburn right now," he told them. "Observe--but keep a low profile on 4.5. Liaise with Control and Henderson's team and give Doyle whatever support he needs but do not approach him. When he meets his contacts, tail them and report immediately." Dismissing the two men, he re-opened the link with Control. "What's the position?"

"The locker contained information on the target, Elizabeth Walsh, Deneside Cottage, Fordington, Berkshire. Photograph, gun and car keys provided plus bank notes estimated value of four thousand pounds."

"Elizabeth Walsh!" Cowley said in surprise. "And Bodie is going directly there?"

"Looks like it," reported Control.

"Keep me posted." Clicking the intercom off, Cowley looked up and was surprised to discover Kate Ross was still there, her face pinched white in anger. "Was there something else?" he asked mildly.

"You have re-activated 4.5 without my official recommendation on the matter. I am responsible for the psychological welfare on the agents in this--"

"I do not doubt your credentials, doctor," Cowley said soothingly. "But as you can see I am rather--"

"It is a matter of record that I have withdrawn 4.5's access to weapons and you have re-armed him without reference to--"

"4.5 has not been re-armed," Cowley said bluntly, neatly disguising the fact that he had only realised the omission for himself.

"But you have placed him in an ongoing operation without waiting to discover that he is mentally fit to cope!" Ross said in a loud voice, just short of shouting.

"Customs dictate that on occasion decisions are made without time being available to inform and consider all the options or other people," Cowley retorted sharply. "The opportunity to place Doyle into the operation was neither looked for nor expected. It simply happened and we have taken advantage of that fact."

"Mr Cowley, I protest most strongly at your actions. Doyle was to come to me before any decisions regarding his future in CI5 were made--"

"4.5 is perfectly able to cope with any situation he may find himself in--"

"I do not share your confidence," Ross said icily. "4.5 has continued to be evasive and uncooperative with the staff at Repton; he has consistently missed his sessions there even though they were considerably reduced on his request. My assessment of his mental state is not only necessary for the department's sake but for Ray Doyle as an individual--"

"Dr Ross," Cowley cut across her protestations and he collected briefcase, jacket and hat on his way to the door. "I admit I was at fault not notifying you 4.5 was unable to attend your assessment and will take steps to ensure you see him as soon as possible--but right now I have other matters of greater importance to contend with. Good day." He swept out of his office leaving her standing beside his desk.

---

Flying out to Berkshire in an air-force helicopter, Cowley managed to arrive at his old friend's quiet cottage well ahead of Bodie and his new companion.

"George!" Elizabeth Walsh exclaimed on opening her front door.

"Good afternoon, Elizabeth," replied Cowley, smiling and looking as if he made a habit of dropping in unannounced on old colleagues.

"Whatever brings you to my door--I presume that was your helicopter making all that noise a few minutes ago--but first, do come in, leave your hat and coat just there and I'll make us a pot of tea." Totally unfazed by the appearance of the Controller of CI5 on her doorstep on a sunny autumn afternoon, Miss Walsh laid a tray of elegant bone china tea cups and saucers and a selection of home-made cakes. "The tea I can vouch for, the cakes--eat them at your own risk, George. I never had the time, nor, I'm afraid, the inclination to discover the intricacies of baking," she said matter of factly. Just as she set the loaded tray down the phone rang and, excusing herself, she answered it. She was not surprised to discover the call was for her visitor. "George," she called, holding the receiver out for him. "I'll pour the tea while you're talking and then you can explain what is happening."

Pouring the tea, she made no effort to pretend she wasn't listening or watching the worry lines, already etched deep into his face, become more pronounced. When the call ended she passed a brimming cup over. "So, one of your lads has gone missing, George. Do try the chocolate sponge, it has been one of my more successful efforts. Is he working on whatever has brought you to my door?"

Cowley smiled: despite the implications of the disturbing phone call Elizabeth Walsh had always taken even the most bizarre crises in her stride--which was why she had been so good at her job.

"Not so much missing as misplaced, Elizabeth. 4.5 has simply...failed to make a rendezvous--there could be any number of perfectly reasonable explanations why he didn't turn up," Cowley said, the frown and worry lines deepening even as he spoke, betraying his concern.

"You don't have to convince me, George," Miss Walsh said, her crisp tones softening marginally as she saw truth behind the casual answer.

"No, I don't," Cowley agreed, shaking the problem aside for the moment. "As to why I am here; I have two reasons: one, to ask for your assistance with a certain matter and two, to warn you that two men are on their way here to kill you."

"Really!" Miss Walsh said, not able to contain all her amazement. "Another cup of tea, George?"

"Most kind, Elizabeth, thank you," Cowley passed his cup over.

"Well," she said once their cups had been refilled. "I was rather wondering what to do with myself this afternoon. Tell me, do I run and hide in the potting shed or should I lash myself to the front door in readiness to meet the end?" she asked, her face alive with suppressed excitement.

"One of the men on his way here is my man, Bodie. A young man I think you'll find interesting."

"Only one of them belongs to you," Miss Walsh said slowly. "Should I be overly concerned about the second gentleman?"

"I have every confidence in 3.7, Elizabeth," assured Cowley.

"In that case I shall go and make a fresh pot of tea--I daresay the young man will in need of some refreshment when he arrives. The weather has been absolutely glorious just recently, hasn't it? Brings back memories of some long hot summers of years past, doesn't it, George," she said.

Cowley smiled as he recalled those same summers. "Indeed it does."

The sound of a car coming up the secluded drive some time later interrupted an afternoon of pleasant reminiscences. His faith in Bodie rendering harmless any possible threat, Cowley sat waiting for his entrance into the quiet cottage. Sipping her tea in the armchair beside him, Miss Walsh waited with him.

The noise of the window latch being lifted caused Cowley to turn his head slightly and he saw Bodie climb in through the window alone. He gave a slight nod to Miss Walsh.

"Good afternoon Mr Bodie," she said quietly. "Ah, I see you're admiring a memento of the old days. Wonderful man, Mr Churchill--inclined to be rather abrupt when he thought he was dealing with fools but fair, quite fair. Would you care for tea and perhaps a slice of cake?"

Blinking to get his eyes used to the dark shady interior of the house, Bodie knew he was in trouble for allowing his surprise at seeing the cosy tea party show through. "Oh...um...--thank you, milk and one sugar please," he replied politely and tucked the bulky handgun deep into his jacket pocket.

"Where is your associate?" Cowley asked, not rising from his armchair.

"Suffering first night nerves in the car, sir," Bodie replied as he drank down his tea, the fine china decorated with dainty roses looking strangely incongruous in his hands.

"We must not keep him waiting," Miss Walsh said. "Finished your tea? Right, well then, I suppose you had better get on with it." She opened the window. "Would you mind aiming for the far end of the lawn--and please do be careful, the cat's out there somewhere."

"One moment, Bodie," called out Cowley as the gun was aimed out of the window. "4.5 has made contact with Ferris and Twigg--"

"What?" Lowering the gun, Bodie spun round.

"He was approached and asked if he wanted a job; his contacts at The Brewers have proved unexpectedly fruitful but he was due to meet up with Ferris a few hours ago. Ferris failed to show up--and so did 4.5."

"Well, where is he then?" Bodie asked, wondering where The Brewers was and why Cowley seemed to think he knew about it.

"I have no idea," Cowley said, the words sounding effortless and uncaring, Miss Walsh, and not Bodie, the only person to see the deepening lines etched on the older man's forehead.

"Doyle's undercover and you don't know where?"

"I've no doubt he'll turn up," Cowley said. "But in the meantime, keep your eyes peeled, he could well turn up inside this operation."

"But he's not been cleared for--"

"Your colleague will be getting anxious, 3.7. You'd best be getting on with the business in hand," Cowley said sharply.

Bodie dearly wanted to ask more questions but knew the set look on Cowley's face from old; he'd get no more from the Old Man while he was in this mood. Checking there were no cats in sight he fired two shots into the lawn, then thanking Miss Walsh for the cup of tea, he climbed back through the window and ran out to the waiting car. "Move it!" he shouted urgently as his so-called 'partner' peered anxiously in the direction of the silent house. "Now!"

Wheels spinning, the car went backwards down the drive, spun around at the end and then roared off towards London. The two men didn't talk much once they had agreed to stay together until their next meeting with Ferris and Twigg and made their way to the modestly comfortable hotel room booked for them by their employers in the names of Mr Caine and Mr Carter. Bodie's joke about spies and secret agents made no impact on his nervous partner and so he claimed Carter for himself and called his fair-haired companion Caine--quietly telling himself that all 'Caine' needed was to lose his posh accent and wear a pair of black rimmed spectacles to be perfect for the part.

As the evening dragged on Bodie drew on his reserves of patience and experience and tried to ignore the edgy, restless man. Concerned about Doyle and wondering where the hell he was and what he was up to, he surfaced from his introspection in time to stop Caine leaving the room.

"I need some fresh air," Caine said defensively as the door was pushed shut and locked.

"We don't split up," Bodie repeated for the umpteenth time that evening. "We stay together until we get the payoff tomorrow."

"I'm only going down to see if the bar is open--I could use a drink!" Caine persisted.

"If you're thirsty call room service," Bodie ordered, tossing the hotel tariff sheet across to him.

But Caine ignored the sheet and turned away from the door, pacing to the window and turning back to Bodie, who had once again sprawled across his bed. "What the hell do you think I'm going to do--I want the rest of my money, I'm hardly going to run out at this stage of the game, am I?"

Bodie was surprised at the man's perseverance; he was doing his best to be intimidating but the sweaty-palmed Caine seemed determined to irritate him: Bodie was forced to credit the man with having more balls than he'd first thought. "I don't think anything," he said mildly. "But I know you're going nowhere. I'll call room service for you shall I? What do you want?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are telling me what to do?" Caine demanded, enraged by the cool authority Bodie was exuding.

"I'm the man who shot some old biddy as she fed her cat this afternoon while you sat outside pretending to be Stirling Moss and pissin' in your pants!" Bodie said in a dangerously quiet voice. "Tomorrow we report to Ferris and Twigg for the payoff--we may even get a second job out of it, who knows." Bodie continued speaking in a placid, chilling tone. "If they do offer a second job I'm willing to take it--how about you? There's always one person in a team more willing to a certain kind of job. I'm prepared to do the real work if you're ready to watch my back and keep the way out clear. I can do this kind of work blindfolded but I don't trust those two, they haven't got the brains to be responsible for this type of setup--I need to know there's someone at my back I can trust--even if that person is you. You may have convinced them you can kill but they didn't see your face when I came out of the house." Bodie saw the reminder caused Caine to wince and knew he was on safe ground: Caine was no threat.

"So, if you think I'm going to let you out of my sight you've got another think coming, old son. If I'm a murderer--you're an accessory."

"I only wanted a drink," Caine mumbled as he settled back down in the one armchair. "I've no intention of vanishing--"

"'Course not," Bodie agreed smoothly but thinking his role would be easier if the man could vanish--but then Ferris and Twigg might not be so happy to accept one man on his own.

The television made the only sounds in the small hotel room for a long time. Eventually the telly was switched off and they both retired for the night. Having determinedly refused to think about him for the last few hours, Bodie found his dreams full of Ray Doyle.

---

The telephone was already ringing as he opened his office door first thing in the morning and George Cowley picked it up as he threw briefcase and hat down onto the desk. His face registered surprise at hearing the Minister's crisp tones at such an early hour. "I hear you've lost one of your lads, George," the voice said cheerfully.

Cowley immediately knew to whom he was referring and guessed that Kate Ross's angry words had not been as hollow as he had thought. "I daresay he'll show up, Minister, like the proverbial penny," he said shortly, angry at himself for not anticipating the woman's actions.

"Sincerely hope so George--for your sake," the Minister went on. "I trust there won't be any--shall we say...ripples? I hear the young man was due for some special evaluation. Be a damn shame if anything has happened to him."

"4.5 was ready to return to duty--"

"Not quite what I heard, old boy. I do hope you've not made a mistake."

"He'll not let me down," Cowley said, trying to keep the anger he felt from showing in his voice.

"As I've already said, sincerely hope so George," the breezy voice continued. "In the event that something...unpleasant has happened to him or, heaven forbid, that he should do something foolish...outlandish even, there will be a price to pay."

"4.5 is highly trained and one of my best men, I have every faith in him," Cowley said.

"You've been given a lot of rope, some people would say too much. Don't hang yourself."

"Minister--"

"Enough said, George," the friendly voice cut across his protestations. "Keep me posted, oh, and a word of warning; next time a little bird cheeps in your ear at least pretend to listen. You'll never make a diplomat, George," the Minister revealed sadly and then hung up before Cowley could respond.

Replacing the receiver, Cowley allowed himself a rare luxury. "Damn woman!" he snarled. Hitting the control room link, he demanded to be updated on the operation and then stalked down to the small suite of offices Elizabeth Walsh had been installed in. Despite the early hour he did not bother to knock on the closed door; he knew she would be awake and working.

"Good morning, George," she said, glancing up from the cluttered desk. "Or is it? Why such a glum face?"

"That...bloody woman!" Cowley raged, slamming a manila file down forcefully on the desk.

Miss Walsh allowed the shock to register on her face. "Really--she sounds absolutely delightful."

"Damn psychologists and psychiatrists!"

"Ah," Miss Walsh said, understanding the nature of the problem immediately. "I do hear that Kate is well thought of in some circles; she must be invaluable to the department."

"Did we ever need that kind of help before? Bah!" he said in disgust. "Computers and fancy doctors can't replace what you feel in here!" He hit his fist hard into his own midriff.

"Times do have a habit of changing, George. And Kate really is quite astute--perhaps you should listen to what she says occasionally," scolded Miss Walsh.

Perhaps he should at that, Cowley thought bleakly. If anything had happened to Doyle it was obviously going to cause no end of trouble. But his instincts, trained and polished over a lifetime, had told him Doyle was ready to go out on the streets. But what if Ross was right and his instinct let him down; it wouldn't only be Raymond Doyle paying the price. The politely worded threat had been only too clear.

---

Caine drove the car out to the untidy warehouse to collect their payment and possibly details of a second job. Ferris, jovial as ever, grinning widely and still sucking his sweets, greeted them and listened to the account of their first job. "Witnesses?" he asked.

"No. Made it look like a botched up burglary," Bodie said nonchalantly.

"Where's the gun?"

"In the river," replied Caine, making his first contribution to the tale--his unease and frayed nerves blatantly obvious.

"Old girl give you any trouble, did she?" Ferris asked, looking directly at the sweating man.

"No," Bodie answered. "Dead easy."

Ferris looked hard at Bodie before speaking again. "Well done," he said slowly. "Ready for another job? Without waiting for an answer he told them to follow him inside, shouting up to his associate as he went. "Bring him down, Twigg."

Following a little way behind the two men, Bodie saw the sudden tension in Caine's back before seeing what was in the cramped room. Gun pressed to his temple, sweat staining his tee-shirt, Doyle didn't even blink as Bodie stepped into sight.

"Job number two," Ferris said, his voice loud in the deathly quiet room. "Kill him," he ordered. "Now." He held a gun out; after a moment's hesitation Bodie moved to take it but Ferris snatched it away. "No. Not you. I'll bet it was you who shot the old girl. Him, Mr Nervous, he can do it."

Bodie watched Caine take the gun and check it was loaded, and knew that backed into a corner he would do it, he would carry the order out: his heart thudding, his mouth dry, Bodie scanned the room for some solution. Then, at last, he saw the camera mounted on the wall and saw the red light gleaming on the casing. "I wouldn't, not if I were you," his voice sounded breathless and harsh but he managed to keep his alarm out of his facial expression. "Not with candid camera recording the whole show."

Caine looked up and Bodie saw the relief wash over the pinched face. He knew the man didn't really have the stomach for it.

"Fair enough," said Ferris, only slightly disgruntled. "Mr Careful and Mr Nervous can take our little visitor off and do the deed somewhere else, somewhere more private. But you do it." He pointed at Caine. "You, not him. Understand?"

Ferris watched them leave, Bodie driving and the blond man with his gun turned on Doyle, who had been shoved in the back seat and ordered to keep his hands on his head.

Throughout the long drive Doyle waited anxiously for the signal that Bodie was going to act. At each crossroad and set of traffic lights he tensed in readiness but nothing happened. As the traffic on the road became less and the town opened up into countryside and the relative safety of busy roads full of cars and pedestrians and witnesses were left behind, Bodie continued to drive following the blond man's instructions to turn right, or left or keep driving straight. But Doyle kept calm, he tried to think himself into Bodie's mind; maybe he was waiting until there were no witnesses so they could disarm the man without any fuss or risk to the public.

Turning off the main road onto a poorly made up lane which was flanked by overgrown bushes and low hanging trees that scratched against the side of the car as they continued deeper into the wood, Doyle braced himself for the moment Bodie would slam the brakes on--but he parked smoothly, Bodie climbing out first, leaving Blondie to get Doyle out.

Holding his hands up high, Doyle climbed out, his eyes meeting Bodie's over the roof of the car, the unspoken 'when?' hanging between them. But Bodie ignored him. Totally. Playing the role of the impassive assassin to such perfection that Doyle felt himself go cold and a nasty suspicion began to solidify. Quite how his cover had been blown was still a mystery but clearly Bodie's was watertight and Doyle began to doubt whether his former partner was prepared to risk blowing everything just to save him. His gut instinct on seeing the blank, cold eyes told him no.

Bodie was going to watch him die.

The fear that had receded when he recognised his would-be executioner returned full force, his heart thumping so loud he thought Bodie would hear it. But the disappointment was almost as bad, the betrayal of what they had shared hurting as much as the fear. The manner of their parting flashed through Doyle's mind, the anger and near hate in Bodie's voice, the speed that Bodie had arranged for him to be re-housed giving him no comfort as he stared at the gun trained on his heart.

"Move into the wood," the stranger ordered.

His instinct was to refuse; to go deeper into the woods with this man was to invite death and he didn't want to die. He turned frantic eyes to Bodie but found no support or recognition there and with no other option backed towards the trees, suddenly scared to turn his back on the two men.

Bodie watched as Doyle backed towards the trees; throughout the long drive he had been conscious of Doyle carefully ignoring him while waiting for some sign. He was confident that 'Caine' would balk at the final moment and knew there was no real danger but he still felt angry enough to want to make Doyle suffer as he had suffered. The troubled look he had caught over the roof of the car had pleased him greatly as he realised that finally Doyle was beginning to wonder if help was at hand after all, the thought acting like a balm to his wounded pride. A little suffering might teach Raymond Doyle a lesson, he thought sourly.

As Caine forced him back into the trees, Bodie saw the beginning of true panic in the wide green eyes and felt like laughing but, even at this moment he could see that Doyle still expected to be saved. He stared back, his eyes cold, disguising the thrill of power that coursed through him when he saw the shocked eyes fall and defeat wash over the grey face.

Standing alone in the sunny glade, Doyle felt the world slow down; time become irrelevant and no longer held any meaning. His senses were overwhelmed by the sound of birdsong, rustling leaves and creaking branches; beneath his feet the ground felt spongy and a whisper of a breeze was making the sweat pouring off his body chilly and uncomfortable. The sweet fragrance of the surrounding bushes masked the smell of fear. He could see the cold hate in Bodie's eyes that seemed so very blue and the black eye of the gun pointed unerringly at his chest. Beyond the gun he could see white, clenched fingers tensing around the trigger and he knew it was going to happen.

His whole world shrank to the sight of those white fingers and the peculiar buzzing sound in his ears. Then the world went dark.

Enjoying the thrill of Doyle's belief he had been deserted, Bodie missed the infinitesimal changes in the man standing beside him. He never saw the haunted look replaced by hard confidence or the stiffening of spine and arm as the man took aim. He was just beginning to wonder why Doyle's flushed face should suddenly look so pale when he heard the faint metallic click that happens a split second before a gun fires.

"NO!" he roared, lunging at Caine and knocking him down, one hand chopping at a vulnerable neck instinctively. The gunshot deafened them and shocked all the local wildlife, sending it flapping, shrieking and tweeting into the air and then deeper into the woods.

Then it was quiet. A deathly, unearthly hush descended on the sunny glade and Bodie had to force himself to look over at the sprawled body of his lover. "Ray?" he whispered fearfully. Automatically checking that Caine was still out of action, he stumbled across the clearing and fell to his knees beside the still body. "Oh no...dear god, no...Ray? Ray!" he exclaimed as Doyle moved slightly and groaned. "Don't move, let me check you out...lie still, don't move," he urged as Doyle rolled onto his back and tried to lift his head. Bodie pushed him to lie flat on the ground and searched gently but anxiously for the entry wound. Face deathly white, eyes clearly not quite focussed, Doyle didn't protest at the examination. "I can't see where you were hit," Bodie said after a moment's frantic fumbling. "Where do you hurt? No...lie still you fool--"

"I'm gonna...be..." Doyle tried to roll onto his side but found a hand pinning his shoulder to the ground. "Gonna be...sick--"

Bodie managed to escape the sudden flow by throwing himself backwards. With a final last-ditch effort, Doyle managed to get hands and knees under him and lifted himself up while he threw up.

Trying not to look or breathe too deeply, Bodie took the time to check on Caine before returning to his partner. "Okay now? Where are you hurt?"

"Shut up, Bodie," Doyle mumbled, fumbling through empty pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his face on; giving up, he wiped his face with his sleeve--the jacket was already ruined.

"Where did he hit you?" Bodie said, realising with relief that it obviously wasn't serious.

"I think...oh god," Doyle groaned and rolled away from the mess he'd made on the ground, slumped back down and covered his face with his arms. "I must 'ave..."

"What was that?" Bodie asked, pulling the concealing arms away from Doyle's mouth. "I couldn't--what?"

"Fainted!" Doyle said irritably, wanting to be left alone for a few minutes to recover his thoughts and scattered senses; Bodie's enveloping anxiety was only making him feel even worse.

"You what?" Bodie yelled as the words finally sank in.

"And don't fucking well start shouting at me!"

"I thought he'd shot you!"

"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you but he didn't--remind me to stand still next time, won't you," Doyle retorted sourly.

"You really fainted?" Bodie asked, his tone changing as relief took over from shock.

"Yes. I really fainted," Doyle snapped back, a little colour returning to his face. "Gave up waiting for me knight in shining armour to come to me rescue," he said acidly. "An' don't look now but James Bond's coming back to life."

A moan from behind them returned Bodie's attention to Caine, who was beginning to regain his senses. "What the--" he said groggily as he suddenly discovered the small gun was thrust hard against his throat.

"Move and you're dead!" Bodie said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Wisely Caine didn't struggle. He looked over at Doyle, who was struggling to his feet, and then up at the man who had hit him so expertly. "Who the hell are you?" he asked warily.

"CI5," Bodie replied arrogantly.

"Prove it," the man demanded, clearly unimpressed by the revelation.

"You don't seriously think I'd be carrying ID on a job, do you?" Bodie said viciously.

The blond man looked at them both with hard, probing eyes. "You're both CI5?"

Bodie nodded but was distracted by a groan of pain from Doyle. "What's wrong?" he asked anxiously, seeing the smear of blood on Doyle's fingers.

"Dunno," replied Doyle, wincing as he gingerly probed the tender spot on the back of his head. "Must 'ave 'it me head when I went down," he grumbled.

Relieved that the small cut was not serious, Bodie's voice was tart. "Just duck next time--there's no need to get a fit of the vapours!"

"Fuck off, Bodie!"

Watching the two agents the blond man chuckled.

"Want to share the joke? I wouldn't 'ave thought you'd have much to laugh about," Bodie enquired, sensing somehow that the danger was past. But the blond man only laughed harder, finally falling to lie flat on his back. Bodie and Doyle exchanged puzzled glances and then shrugged; whatever the joke was they both seemed to have missed the point.

Finally, sensing Bodie's patience was reaching its limit, the man sobered up and introduced himself. "Clive Williams," he said. "MI6."

"Prove it!" responded Bodie, somehow unsurprised at the news.

Williams only laughed harder. "Oh Lord," he croaked between paroxysms of giggles. "What's the odds on all Ferris and Twigg's other recruits working for D2 or Special Services!" Clambering to his feet, accepting Bodie's helping hand, Williams rubbed his sore neck. "Next time I meet Macklin I'll give him your regards," he said ruefully. "You okay?" he asked Doyle.

Doyle merely stared at him, he was still trembling from shock. "You were going to kill me, weren't you?"

The smile vanished from Williams's face. "Yes," he replied. "Yes, I was."

"Why?"

"It's all part of the job," he shrugged. "I'm under orders not to blow my cover." He turned to face Bodie, his face hardened. "You took your time stopping me--you could have disarmed me easily several times--why leave it so late? He's right, I was going to kill him."

Bodie felt two pair of eyes turn on him, one pair mildly curious but the other furious and burning into his back. "I didn't think you'd do it," he said offhandedly, trying to sound casual.

Raising a disbelieving eyebrow, Williams decided to let the matter drop. "Who the hell are you anyway...Bodie and--?"

"I'm Bodie and he's my partner, Ray Doyle."

The news that the two men were partners surprised the MI6 man; they didn't even appear to be friends.

---

Once in the car, Bodie driving and Williams finding himself relegated to the back seat, they headed toward London. "Been in CI5 long?" he asked.

"Almost five years--he's been with us for two," Bodie answered, ignoring the glare Doyle gave him.

"How do you rate George Cowley?"

The question could have been a simple 'what's your boss like?' from a colleague but both CI5 men heard something else in the quiet question. Bodie answered cautiously, alert for the reason behind the enquiry. "He's okay. Inclined to come the bastard when it suits him bar fair."

"You trust him?"

"In this job we don't have much choice...but yes, I trust him."

Williams was quiet after that until they reached central London and began the slow drag through traffic. Doyle twisted round in his seat to talk to him. "You've had some changes in your lot recently, got a new top man haven't you?"

"Dawson," Williams said. "But he's only acting Head. There's no guarantee it will become a permanent post."

"Is that in doubt?" Bodie asked in surprise. The didn't usually appoint an Acting Head without considering them for the final position.

Williams shrugged his shoulders and sat back refusing to be drawn any further.

Puzzled, Bodie asked where they should go to report, CI5 or MI6 headquarters.

"Well," Williams said in a flat monotone. "It's two to one isn't it. If you two insist on reporting to George Cowley I won't have much choice, will I?"

The two men exchanged worried looks; something was definitely very wrong.

The moment George Cowley saw the three men he felt an enormous weight lift off his shoulders; his relief at seeing Doyle alive and well restoring his faith in his instincts--a faith that had been sorely tested since his disappearance twenty-four hours previously.

"What the hell happened to you?" he demanded angrily once the were safely in his office.

"My cover was blown," Doyle answered, surprised at the older man's obvious anger. "They picked me up before I reached The Brewers, I don't think they know I'm CI5 though--Ferris said something about my being an informant. I was shoved into a room and left there until this afternoon when these two were told to take me out. He was going to kill me," Doyle indicated Williams with a nod of his head. "In cold blood."

"Just be grateful it was me," Williams snapped back impassively. "Me and your partner here aren't the only assassins those goons have hired." The reminder of how lucky he had been effectively silenced Doyle.

Cowley regarded the MI6 man with interest. "How long have you been undercover on this particular job?"

"A week."

The easy reply shook Bodie; he had sweated for a month before making contact with Ferris--Doyle had received an invitation to join up and now the lanky MI6 man had worked for one week. There was simply no justice in some jobs, he decided.

Once Doyle reported the few facts he knew about the case Cowley dismissed him. "Report to Dr Ross," he ordered. "Your evaluation will start immediately--"

"But that'll take two days--what about this job?"

"You mean you haven't been cleared by Ross?" Bodie exclaimed.

"Report to Ross, 4.5," Cowley ordered again.

"What the fuck were you doing undercover without clearance?" Bodie demanded to know of Doyle, then he turned on his superior. "And what in blazes were you doing putting him in?"

Williams watched the whole scene with growing amazement.

"There is nothing wrong with me--"

"4.5, you have been dismissed. Go to--"

"What the hell has been going on here?" Bodie demanded to know.

"3.7, will you kindly control yourself!"

"And I don't need Kate Ross to tell me I'm all right!"

"Of all the fucking, stupid, brainless things to do--and why the hell are you wearing one of my shirts?" Bodie asked, the sudden change setting Cowley and Williams blinking.

"Because I didn't have a clean one left!" Doyle replied.

"You stand there and tell me you've thrown up and bled all over one of my shirts--"

"Well I'd hardly do it to one of mine, would I!"

"3.7 and 4.5!" Cowley bellowed, drawing the protagonists' attention to the fact that this was not the time nor the place for such a discussion. "Thank you," he said sarcastically once order was restored. "Doyle, you've been injured?" he asked solicitously, only now seeing the obvious stains on the shirt and jacket.

"No, he only fainted," Bodie said. "Must have hit his head on a stone on the ground."

"I did not faint!" Doyle denied the accusation hotly, his face flaming red.

"Sorry, sir," Bodie apologised in a saccharine sweet voice. "He did a swan dive into the ground--and very elegant it was too," he added, grinning wickedly at the embarrassed man.

Doyle glared at him.

"Well," Cowley said, lips twitching at the two men's behaviour and seeing Williams's despairing look. "Have Willis check you over before you see Ross. That will be all, 4.5."

Thoroughly dismissed, his dignity in tatters, Doyle left the room, Bodie's muttered "And make sure you iron it before you give it back!" ringing in his ears.

---

In under an hour Ray Doyle found himself dismissed by several people; George Cowley, Dr Willis and Kate Ross--the latter, on seeing his dishevelled and malodorous state, told him to go home, clean himself up, catch up on some sleep and present himself at her office at nine o'clock sharp the next morning. But with the adrenalin of the past few days singing through his veins he was reluctant to take himself home; grabbing a cleanish T-shirt from his locker, he wandered towards the control room in the hope of discovering what was happening to Bodie and the MI6 man.

"Ray! I've been looking for you for days."

Looking up, Doyle saw his team captain. "Sorry Kel, but I've been out of the building--what was it you wanted?"

"I didn't think you were operational yet," Kelly said in surprise.

"Ah...well," Doyle said wryly. "I'm not--but Cowley managed to overlook minor details when it suits him."

A snort of amusement greeted that statement. "Are you free tonight? Only we want a team meeting to work out tactics and training schedules for the tournament in November."

"Not really," Doyle said in dismay, he didn't want to miss a training session with the final round so close. "I'm sort of confined to barracks. I won't be able to get to the range."

"How about the pub?"

"Sorry, got to keep my head down."

Kelly accepted the explanation without question. Then, smiling broadly he slapped Doyle on the back. "Brilliant idea--we'll all come round to your place tonight. What's your new address and I'll pass it on to the others?"

He gave him Bodie's address before he had a chance to think about it.

"Great, we'll be there around eight. See you later, Ray." And then he was gone, leaving Doyle gaping after him and wondering how on earth he was going to explain to Bodie the sudden appearance of the entire CI5 shooting team at his flat.

"Still here, 4.5?"

Cowley's voice took Doyle by surprise and he spun around to face him. "Just on my way home, sir," he said.

"You've seen Ross, I presume?"

"Oh yes, I'm to report back to her at nine tomorrow."

"Very well, off home with you then--and...good luck tomorrow," Cowley added in a voice that was not as stern as usual.

Doyle turned to leave but then looked back, a question forming. "Sir--Bodie and Williams, what's happening there?" he asked.

Cowley regarded the scruffy looking young man with lines of tiredness and tension highlighted in the bright neon corridor light; about to reply that the operation was none of his concern now he relented; Doyle had handled himself extremely well in the circumstances and it was hardly his fault that his cover had been blown so quickly. "In here," Cowley moved them out of the public corridor into a small office and closed the door behind them. "3.7 and Williams have returned to the operation. There is no reason for Ferris and Twigg to suspect they are other than what they appear."

"How the hell did they tumble me so fast?" Doyle asked curiously.

"You're sure you did nothing to alert them yourself?"

"No!" said Doyle forcefully. "And they didn't seem to know I was CI5 anyway--Twigg said something about me being an informant."

"I see," Cowley replied. He was silent for a few minutes, considering how much he could safely tell Doyle. Throughout, Doyle waited patiently. "It is my belief," Cowley began quietly, "that a certain individual in MI6 has...divided loyalties. It is something I have suspected for a number of years but only recently been able to find evidence of.

"This...individual would have access to all police files and, I regret to say, certain CI5 material. He is in a position to know your name is linked in some way with CI5--this material is available to very few persons other than myself and so by recognising your name he has incriminated himself," Cowley said quietly accepting that the young man might need to know his own actions did not betray him. "Williams has also provided some very interesting insights into the matter." Cowley's voice grew tight with anger as he recalled the MI6 man's awkward report. Reluctant to be disloyal, Williams was clearly unhappy at divulging information about his new controller, but now Cowley knew his suspicions about Nigel Dawson had been right and the man had to be stopped. "So, 4.5--your efforts in this case have not been wasted. 3.7 and Williams will be able to wrap everything up in another day or so."

Relieved that he had not jeopardised the case, Doyle left headquarters and made for home looking forward to a shower, food and some sleep.

On reaching Bodie's quiet flat he decided that two out of three wasn't so bad. There was no food in the house because over the last few weeks, his time taken up with Macklin, the shooting team and his efforts on behalf of The Brewers darts team, he'd been too busy to spend time shopping.

Clean but hungry, he collapsed into bed.

It only seemed like minutes before the persistent ringing of the doorbell pulled him from sleep. Slipping Bodie's dressing gown on he padded to the door, groaning as he heard the braying laugh of Turner outside and realising the entire team were about to descend on him.

"Hello, Rip Van Winkle," Turner said cheerfully. "Caught up on your beauty sleep yet?"

"Doesn't look like it," added Jack Crane as he elbowed his way through, carrier bags full of cans and bottles threatening to spill out onto the floor. "Another hundred years or so should fix the damage though," he said kindly.

Stepping back to let them file past, Doyle followed them through and watched as they made themselves comfortable in the lounge. Seeing that they needed no help from him on that score he returned to the bedroom to dress. Rummaging around in wardrobes and drawers for clean clothes, he made a mental note to himself to get the washing machine fixed before Bodie came home.

Re-entering the lounge, he discovered Jack had already found the glasses and was pouring drinks out. "What's your poison, Ray," called out Kelly. "We've got it all here."

Looking at the bottles lined up on the coffee table, Doyle didn't doubt it. Knowing he was probably going to regret drinking on an empty stomach, he gave in. "Gin and tonic, thanks Pat."

"Here you go," Kelly passed the brimming tumbler over. "Macklin and the others will be here soon."

Of all the team, Macklin had been the biggest surprise to Doyle. The burly instructor that seemed to delight in torturing him during training sessions was a totally different man socially. Friendly, relaxed and unreserved, Macklin was good company--he was also a bloody good shot and had been a member of the team for five years.

The seven man team was drawn from different sections within CI5; Jack Crane acted as armsmaster for the team as well as the department, he also arranged the shooting schedules, fixed up the tournaments and occasionally drove the white minibus they hired to get out to the competitions. Pat Kelly, who was also the team captain, Dave Turner, Macklin and Crane were all that was left of the original team. Peter Ellis and Colin Ferguson had joined only shortly before Doyle; Ellis worked in electronic surveillance and Ferguson worked alongside Kelly on Henderson's observation squad. Only Doyle and Turner were active agents: as Kelly and Crane explained to Doyle, having too many team members on the active list made training schedules and tournaments bloody difficult to arrange.

Doyle's gin and tonic was filled up to the brim a second time when Peter Ellis, Macklin and Fergie arrived. When food was suggested he thought it might be a good idea but then realised he had a confession to make. "Sorry lads," Doyle said sorrowfully. "Forgot to get shome--shome--forgot to...go shopping," he finally got the words out.

The announcement, instead of damping the party, only caused more excitement as they tried to decide which local take-away to visit.

"Chicken and chips."

"Chinese--I fancy some prawn balls."

"Indian."

"Got a kebab place anywhere near here, Ray?"

"Did I see an Indonesian curry house back on the main road?"

"By the traffic lights? No, that's a Thai restaurant."

"No you're wrong, I know the place you mean and it's some fancy Chinese place."

"Can't stand curry anyway!"

"...Donar kebab, a large one with chilli sauce."

"...and I'll have pickled onions and a gherkin with mine."

"Someone should get some more tonic and some whisky--whisky goes well with chips."

"Prefer vinegar myself."

"Three Indians, one Chinese, one large donar with chilli, prawn balls for Macklin--" Crane tried to organise the meal.

"I'll have a pissa."

"A piece of what?" Kelly asked, mopping up the liquid Doyle splashed all over him.

"Pissa!" Doyle said louder. "With essra scheese and...cheese." He hiccuped.

"And one pizza for the drunken bum in the corner," Kelly yelled across to Crane.

"Right," Crane wrote out a list. "That's three Indians, two Chinese, one kebab and one pizza. I'll get the Indians and the drink, Turner, you get the Chinese and the kebab--"

"What about my pissa?" Doyle demanded to know. "Haven't e'tn...e'tn...had somfink to eat shince...dunno--agesago."

Crane sighed and pushed Doyle back into the armchair. "I'll pick it up on the way back. Right, how about some money, people?" Everyone except Doyle dug into their pockets and a pile of money grew on the coffee table.

"Ray," Turner said. "Cough up, mate."

"Pockets are...all empty," Doyle said, smiling. "Forgot to go to the bank."

"Bloody hell, you said that last time!"

"It's the truth!" Doyle said, deeply offended that his friend thought he was lying. "I'll pay you back, honest."

"You said that last time as well!" Turner complained. "You owe me fifteen quid already, five quid for the drinks tonight and whatever your bloody pizza costs!"

"An' essra scheese...don' forget the essra scheese!" Doyle called out as the men left to get the food.

Hours later, leaving Crane snoring at one end of the sofa, Ellis and Fergie arguing hotly at the other end, Macklin, Turner and Kelly half carried, half dragged Doyle into his bedroom and dumped him on the double bed.

"No need to get vio...vio...vilent...nasty!" Doyle mumbled thickly.

"Shut up, Doyle," Macklin said, breathing heavily.

"Do we just leave him there?" asked Kelly.

"Yes," said Turner immediately.

"No," contradicted Macklin. "Get his clothes off."

"Don' you dare!" Doyle said, struggling up onto his elbows trying to focus on them. "No...don't...don't tickle me feet!" he begged and Macklin and Kelly each whipped off one shoe and sock. "Do you mind?" Doyle asked primly, glaring in outrage at Kelly, who was attempting to undo the button of his jeans.

"Just shut up, Doyle," Kelly pushed him back on the bed and undid the tight jeans, allowing Macklin and Turner to yank them off his legs.

"Go back to sleep, Ray," ordered Macklin. "You've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Goin' to see...Katie--K-K-K-Katie--" Doyle tried to sing.

"Got to be your best for Old Iron Britches!" said Turner.

"Katie Iron Britches!" Doyle repeated, obviously enjoying the sound. Then he frowned. But she's not old is she--not really old...is she?"

"No, she's not old, sunshine," said Kelly as he tugged the shirt out from under Doyle.

"No, she's quite young really..." Doyle pulled the duvet up a bit higher under his chin. "Pretty too..."

"Yes, she's pretty," Kelly agreed, a soft smile appearing on his face.

"What--Old Iron Britches?" Turner exclaimed. "When did you last have your eyes tested?" he asked Kelly.

"Anyone would think she was some old hag the way you lot talk about her!" Kelly said, bending down to push Doyle's shoes under the bed and to hid his own flushed face.

"She isn't?" asked Turner.

"Pretty..." Doyle mumbled sleepily.

"Shut up, Doyle!" Macklin said.

"I'm...shutting up," Doyle said obediently.

"You don't fancy Old Katie, do you?" asked Turner with sudden insight.

Kelly flushed furiously and refused to deny it. "I think she's a very attractive woman," he said. "Intelligent--"

"Like brainy sex, do you?" Turner said crudely.

"Wha's brainy sex?" Doyle asked, eyes opening and he tried to sit up.

"Shut up, Doyle," Turner and Kelly's voices sounded together and they both pushed him back onto the bed.

"I...like...sex...Bodie likes...sex. I like sex with--"

"Shut up, Doyle!" said Macklin firmly and he pulled the two men out of the bedroom, leaving Doyle to sleep in peace.

"Don't forget his alarm clock!" Turner said suddenly as they reached the hall. "What time's his appointment with Ross?"

Crossing back to the bedside, Macklin adjusted the alarm clock. "I hope you can wake up in the morning, sunshine," he said, setting the clock on the table beside the sleeping man.

"Pat can come by in the morning and take him in--that way he can get to see Katie himself," Turner sniggered.

"Will you shut up!"

"You don't really fancy her, do you? Seriously?"

"And what's it to you if I do?" Kelly demanded to know. "Just 'cos your women wouldn't know an intelligent thought if they had one!"

"Let's face it," said Macklin as they joined the others in the lounge. "If his girlfriends were intelligent they wouldn't go out with him, would they?"

Hotly defending his taste in women, Turner forgot about Doyle and Kelly wisely returned the torch he carried for Kate Ross to the closet.

---

Arriving outside Doyle's block of flats early next morning, Pat Kelly was unaccountably disappointed to see Ray Doyle, pale but otherwise upright, climb into his car and drive off for his meeting with the department's psychologist. Oh well, Kelly thought dejectedly, he'd have to work out some other way of gaining her attention.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The debriefing took so long that Bodie's voice was hoarse by the time he finished and only then did Cowley offer him a drink.

"So," he asked as he sipped at the smooth, fiery liquid. "What will happen to Dawson now?"

"That, 3.7," said Cowley tiredly, "remains to be seen. He is, potentially, a major embarrassment to the government. There have been too many scandals of late and one more could well prove one too many."

"You think the government will fall?"

"It will probably end in an election," Cowley said. "But then one has been in the wind a while now. The facts of Nigel Dawson's fall from grace will be easily lost in the furore of a general election." Bodie almost groaned aloud. An election would involve all the security services for months on end. "But you did well, Bodie. As did Williams and 4.5. Once you finish your reports you may commence two days' leave," he said generously.

"Thank you, sir." Bodie swallowed the last of his drink and stood up.

"Good night, Bodie," Cowley said, making no move to follow, he had far too much work to even think about going home just yet.

Once Bodie had closed the door, Cowley poured another small measure into his glass and slumped back into his chair. There was little joy in proving that a man he had known for over thirty years was a double agent, and, worst of all, he thought grimly, Dawson was not alone. There were others; men and women at various stages of their careers just waiting to get high enough up the ladder to be of use to their other masters.

The whole operation had been sensitive and dangerous, personally as well as professionally. The risk he had taken placing Doyle undercover had proved worthwhile, but it could just as easily have turned sour. The Minister's politely worded warning proved that even George Cowley was not invulnerable. If anything had gone wrong; if Doyle had been killed or had cracked under the pressure, it would have been George Cowley in person, not Doyle or CI5, that would have had to answer for it.

Rolling the smooth malt around in his mouth, Cowley savoured the taste and the texture before swallowing, draining the glass. His intuition had never failed him--when it did it would be time for him to quit CI5 anyway. Putting the bottle and the glass aside, he pushed Dawson's file away and pulled the next bundle forward.

If a general election was on the calendar, he had better check on one or two things.

---

Bodie leant on the doorbell for a third time then opened the letterbox and yelled through the opening his partner's name. But still there was no answer.

Stepping back into the narrow street, he looked up at the dark windows of Doyle's flat. It had taken half an hour to convince the bespectacled clerk in the accommodations office to give him Doyle's new address. Finishing the reports had taken him until ten o'clock and so here he was, knocking on Doyle's door, trying to get in.

Checking his watch again, Bodie found it hard to believe that his partner had already gone to bed. "Come on, Ray," he muttered as he leant on the doorbell again. He wanted to see Ray. Badly. Nearly two months of working very hard not to think about the man had been ruined the moment he saw the wide-eyed white-faced man with a gun held to his head in the storeroom. For one split second he had nearly blown his cover and got them both killed, but common sense and training had taken over in time.

Then he had become over-confident. Seeing the moment of realisation dawning in Doyle's eyes had pleased him no end; it had made him feel omnipotent. For a few heartbeats, there was little doubt that Doyle knew exactly who controlled his life; and so Bodie had nearly killed him. So full of his need for revenge, he had nearly let Williams kill him in cold blood. The fact that Doyle had fainted from sheer fright, Bodie knew only too well, was the only reason he was still alive. Bodie had acted too late...far too late.

Giving the doorbell a final ring, Bodie stepped back to the road and returned to his car. There was no way Doyle could sleep through the din he had been making; either he knew who was at his door and was refusing to open it, or he wasn't home. Either way, Bodie knew he was going to get in. Tonight.

The night duty officer was a little surprised by the request and was unwise enough to attempt to refuse.

"Look," Bodie growled, "I'm his partner. I want a key to his flat. If I hadn't just spent the last two months undercover, he would already have given me the key."

"It's not normal procedure...."

"Fuck normal...." Bodie calmed down, realising it would not be to his advantage to upset the man too much. "Check the records and you'll see that 4.5 holds a key to my flat. Stands to reason he'll agree to me having a key to his place."

The officer did check the records and was forced to agree. "Can't you call back in the morning when the accommodations officer is here?" he asked.

"No!" Bodie almost shouted. "I need the key tonight."

"Well...," the man hesitated.

"I'll come by in the morning and clear the paperwork with the accommodations officer," Bodie offered.

The man passed the key over, but his request for Bodie to sign for it echoed down the empty corridor.

---

Bodie found the lightswitch in the narrow hallway as he banged his shin hard on what turned out to be a tea chest.

"Ray? It's only me," he called out. Stepping past the packing cases, he moved into the lounge. Everywhere stood cardboard boxes and tea chests; the very boxes and chests Bodie himself had packed when Doyle was still in hospital.

Eventually discovering the staircase, he tiptoed up. If Doyle really was asleep, he wouldn't disturb him. Cautiously, he peered into the bedroom. It was too dark to see anything. "Ray?" he called softly. "Are you awake?" he asked in a louder voice.

When still there came no sound or movement, Bodie turned the passage light on and pushed the bedroom door open--revealing an empty bedroom and bare mattress.

"What the...." He looked for the second bedroom and when he couldn't find it he returned to the empty room. Switching the light on, he opened the wardrobe and drawers and found them empty.

He went back downstairs and searched the rest of the flat. Like the bedroom, the kitchen was empty, only a cup and plate standing on the draining board and a packet of biscuits open on the worktop indicating anyone had ever been there. On top of the fridge was a newspaper, Doyle's scrawling script all over the margin on the crossword page. It was almost two months old.

Turning all the lights off, Bodie left the empty flat, locking it up behind him. Maybe, he reasoned, it was an old paper that Doyle had left lying around. Not knowing where else to look, he drove straight home, puzzling over where Doyle could be. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he failed to notice the Capri he parked behind.

As soon as he opened the front door, he realised that the hall light was on. Stepping inside and drawing his gun, he moved silently down the passage. He knew it couldn't be anyone else, but he still had to check. Quietly he pushed the door open a little wider, allowing the light to spill into the room.

Doyle's only reaction to the light was to hug the pillow he was holding even tighter.

Feeling weak with relief, Bodie re-holstered his gun and went back to the front door to set the locks. Returning to the bedroom, he stood beside the bed looking down at the sleeping man.

"Ray?" he whispered, at first softly but then louder as he gained no response. Looking at the way Doyle was sleeping so soundly in his bed, Bodie felt all the hurt, all the bitterness and pain wash away, leaving him weak at the knees and sure he was grinning from ear to ear like a lovesick fool.

"Enough to try the patience of a bloody saint, you are, Ray Doyle," he muttered, wanting more than anything to reach out and touch the soft, bare skin. His hand was only a hair's breadth away when he snatched it back, unwilling to destroy the peace of the moment.

"What," Bodie asked softly as he silently undressed, throwing his clothes down on the floor, "what the hell am I going to do with you?"

Naked, he stood by the bed, trying to work out how to get in without disturbing Doyle, waking up the entire building and committing suicide in the process. Smiling, he carefully lifted the rolled up quilt Doyle had placed on top of the covers on the empty half of the bed--Bodie's half--then, lifting the sheet, he slid between the covers; taking care not to rock the bed too much.

He didn't risk breathing until he was settled and lying comfortably on his back with Doyle's warmth scant inches away. Listening to the easy rhythm of Doyle's breathing was the only lullaby Bodie needed, the exhaustion and strain of two months swiftly overtaking him. He was shocked back from the brink of sleep by a minor earthquake in the bed. When, without warning, Doyle was there, curly head pillowed on his chest, one arm looped across a flat belly and one leg, warm and slightly damp, hooked comfortably across his thigh.

Bodie held his breath and waited for Doyle to wake up. He fell asleep himself, waiting.

---

Bodie had been aware of the street noises on a subliminal level for a while before Doyle's restless movements finally woke him up. During the night, they had curled around each other even more and now Doyle's head was neatly tucked beneath Bodie's chin, they each had an arm looped around the other's waist and, as Bodie soon discovered, if he wriggled his hips, Doyle's leg brushed the tip of his cock. Pressed snugly against his leg, Bodie felt his partner's cock pulse in time to his subtle movements.

One second he was fast asleep and the next Doyle was sitting up, eyes wide and a huge smile on his face as he realised what his pillow had turned into overnight. "Bodie!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"It is my bed!" Bodie said peevishly, pointedly rubbing the spot on his rib cage that Doyle had levered himself up on.

"When did you get home? I didn't hear you come in? Why didn't you wake me up?" Doyle demanded to know as he snuggled back down under the covers and again cuddled up to his lover. "Is the job over? Did you get Cowley's double agent? Who is he--can you tell me?"

"Ray...."

"Why the hell didn't you wake me?" What time did you get home?"

"Ray...," Bodie tried again, but there was no stopping Doyle now he was awake.

"I've been dying to see you, Bodie," he said, rubbing his face against the smooth chest, being careful not to scrape the tender skin with his beard. "I couldn't get you on your own before, there was Cowley or that MI6 bloke and, before that, I didn't have a clue where you were.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, Bodie, I'm so sorry. I just didn't understand. I'd no idea that it didn't have to be like that--I know I should have, but I didn't. I thought you wanted it like that. I didn't mean to hurt you, really I didn't. You do believe me, don't you?" Doyle pulled away to look at Bodie, trying to gauge his reaction. "I am sorry, Bodie, really I am."

"Ray," Bodie said, swept away by the torrent of words and emotion. "I don't--"

"I know you're not kinky, Bodie. I know you didn't mean to do it like that, and I promise I'll never--"

"Ray." Bodie clamped a hand across his mouth, smothering the words. "What the hell are you on about?" he asked.

"I know you're not kinky, Bodie," Doyle said when his mouth was uncovered and then smiled as if he thought his explanation would clarify everything.

Bodie blinked. "How did you come to that conclusion?" he asked, deciding to take it one step at a time.

"When I realised you aren't into pain--about five seconds after you ran out of that door."

"I see," said Bodie, finding that the strange logic somehow made sense.

"I forgot about the Vaseline," Doyle said, eyes lowering as he remembered his stupidity. "I only saw it after you'd left--but it was too late then. I never meant to hurt you, Bodie--honest, I didn't!"

"I believe you," Bodie said, pulling Doyle back when he tried to get away. "And...I'm sorry, too, for getting it so wrong." He tapped Doyle's cheek to get his attention. "Stupid me thought you were doing it just to get back at me...I thought you'd been playing games with me and so...."

"No!" Doyle cried. "I wasn't...."

"Know that now, don't I?" Bodie cut in, pulling Doyle closer and running his hands across the smooth back, sighing as the caress was returned in full. "But it's me that needs to apologise."

"What for?" Doyle asked, arching his back against the searching fingers.

"Nearly getting you killed. I was so mad with you."

"My own fault," Doyle conceded.

"Probably," purred Bodie. "Oh...yes...just there...but...harder, oh...but I never thought...oh, yes...thought he...had...mmmn."

"Had what?" Doyle asked, breaking off from loving a small, button nipple.

"What?" Eyes glazed, Bodie found the conversation difficult to follow.

"Never thought," Doyle moved to the other nipple, "who had what?"

"Balls!" gasped Bodie.

Doyle obliged and moved further down the bed, pushing the duvet away.

"Williams...balls!" Bodie struggled on.

"What?"

"Nearly got...you killed...oh...yes...no...no don't...oh, yes...just like...oh, Ray...that feels so..."

Shifting to a more comfortable position, Doyle tried to twist round far enough for Bodie to be able to reach him. Lifting his head, he smiled wickedly as he saw the tightly closed eyes and expectant face, and trying to watch Bodie's expression as his mouth closed over the thrusting cock, he caught sight of the alarm clock. "Fucking 'ell," he cried, throwing himself backwards off the bed. "It's half past eight!"

"Wha'?" Bodie asked in a daze.

"It's half past eight!" Doyle yelled, already on the run for the bathroom. "I'm due to see Ross in half an hour--if I'm late she'll kill me!"

"Ray!" The haze was beginning to fade, the powerful climax receding to a painful knot somewhere just behind his balls when Doyle re-entered the bedroom.

"Don't mind if I borrow some of your stuff, do you--thanks," Doyle said as he pulled open drawers and wardrobe doors. "Damn," he swore, fumbling through the top drawer of the unit. "Must get some washing done," he muttered to himself.

"Ray!" Bodie called out with a little more strength.

"Oh, Christ, fifteen minutes--if the traffic's bad I've 'ad it," Doyle muttered as he heeled and toed his way into a pair of trainers. "Have you got the day off?"

Bodie nodded.

"Lucky bugger--don't spend all day in bed," came the parting shot as Doyle ran out of the bedroom.

Hearing the rattle of keys at the front door, Bodie sat up in bed, numb and aching, one hand curling around his throbbing, urgent member.

Then, Doyle was back, taking Bodie completely by surprise. Knocking him back onto the pillows, taking possession of his mouth, one hand closing tightly over Bodie's, squeezing his cock, sending delicious signals rushing through him. "Welcome home, Bodie. See you tonight." And then he really was gone.

Left lying like a beached starfish, one hand wrapped around his cock, Bodie heard the slam of a car door and urgent revving of an engine, followed by the squeal of tyres. The noise finally merging into the distance, joining other traffic. Beneath his fingers, his flesh throbbed, re-asserting the need for action. Closing his eyes, Bodie pictured what he would like to do to his partner--nothing particularly gentle or loving--he was beyond that. As he jetted, joylessly, into his hand, Bodie decided that it was perhaps for the best that Doyle hadn't come back. He would have enjoyed the experience, but somehow he doubted that Doyle would share his feelings.

The homecoming that had started out with such promise left Bodie feeling emotionally bewildered, physically numb, and his sole consolation a limp prick, a sticky hand and a cold bed. It was also his first day off in ages, it was the wrong side of nine o'clock and he was wide awake.

Picking up the shirt he'd thrown on the floor the previous night, he wiped his hand clean and rubbed at his belly. Balling the dirty shirt up, he tossed it into the corner where the washing basket stood.

Stretching and relieving all the knots and kinks out of his spine, he ambled slowly into the bathroom. After flushing the loo, he bent down to turn the bath taps on and swore when he discovered his shirt soaking in a few inches of grubby looking water. Lifting the sodden mass up, he pulled the plug, wrung the shirt out and then rinsed it under the cold tap. A faint blood stain was still visible on the collar, but Bodie hoped the washing machine would be able to shift it. Dropping the garment in the wash basin, he ran his bath, nice and hot and deep, and enjoyed a leisurely soak, his mood becoming more peaceful as the hot water eased into his tired bones.

Emerging from the bathroom pink and glowing, Bodie padded into the bedroom to dress. He opened first one drawer, and then another...and then went back to the first one again. "Where the hell...." He bent down and peered into the deep drawer as he rummaged through a collection of vests and winter combinations.

"What's he done with them?" he asked in a confused but slightly indulgent tone. A visit to the airing cupboard to discover no clean pants or socks were stored there soon got rid of his goodwill. Pulling yesterday's pants and socks, Bodie pulled a clean pair of trousers from the wardrobe and searched for a shirt...and then for a tee-shirt that he could wear. He finally settled on an old army, winter weight, short-sleeved vest and slammed the wardrobe and unit drawers shut. He'd thought the laundry basket looked rather full.

Tipping the linen basket upside down, he soon discovered where all his clothes had gone. The bottom of the basket contained Doyle's clothes; the top half and two foot high pile on the floor beside it consisted of his. Not one to make a crisis of a domestic hiccup, Bodie sorted the washing into piles of stales socks and underpants, shirts, towels, and Doyle's jeans; then carried the most urgently needed pile into the kitchen, shoving pants and socks into the drum.

He didn't notice the state of the kitchen until he realised he couldn't find any washing powder. Refusing to look at the pile of dirty dishes, he hunted through the cupboards. When he saw the packet he cheered, but then noticed the large blue laundry bag. Why, he wondered as he tipped the powder into the machine, did Doyle have a laundromat bag in the cupboard.

He soon found out.

Pulling the pants and socks back out of the machine, he shoved them all into the blue bag, wedging the powder packet down the side of it. He'd visit the laundromat after breakfast.

The empty fridge and half a stale loaf failing to tempt him, he decided that perhaps today was the right day to check out the new cafe in the high street; the one just down from the laundromat. By the time he entered the lounge, Bodie was simmering nicely.

It was the smell that hit him first. In the dark room, the stink of cigarettes was unmistakable, but beneath that was something even worse. Face twisting in distaste, Bodie opened the curtains and pushed the windows wide open.

The bathroom and the kitchen had only prepared him for the lounge.

"What the...," he gasped, looking at the devastation in amazement. He had thought the pizza box and fried chicken boxes in the kitchen were bad enough; here every surface was covered with tinfoil cartons--some empty, some still holding smelly, congealed food. Glasses, plates, beer cans, bottles and ashtrays were everywhere. "Jesus!" Bodie felt too stunned to say anything else. He sat down heavily on the arm of the chair, scarcely able to believe the wreckage of his lounge.

His first thought was that Doyle had truly cracked up; that the man had not washed a single cup, plate or glass in the two moths he'd obviously been living here on his own. But then he realised Doyle didn't smoke. Cigarettes or cigars, he thought numbly as he tossed the empty packet of Castellas onto the coffee table.

But even the flies crawling over the stained coffee table and dirty plates didn't cause Bodie's temper to break. What finally did it was his discovery, after a really good crap, that there was only one tiny, useless sheet of pink loo paper stuck on the roll and on seeing the neat row of naked loo rolls on the shelf where the spares were usually kept he blew up.

For a slob, Bodie decided, Doyle could, on occasion, be quite tidy sometimes. The naked loo rolls were thrown across the bathroom where, like missiles, they knocked over the shampoo bottle which then neatly poured bright blue, anti-dandruff liquid all over the shirt sitting in the basin. Doyle had left the cap off.

---

Checking that Doyle was in the small room on his own, the man quietly backtracked to the swing doors he had crept through moments ago. Knocking them open noisily, he then walked, heavy-footed, past the open door.

"Pat," Doyle called out as he saw his friend walk past. "Pat!"

"Oh, hell, Ray, didn't see you there," Kelly lied. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for Ross to come by."

Hearing the gloomy answer, Kelly felt his spirits lift. He'd hoped he had timed it nicely. "Oh...well, I'll see you around then," he said, making no move to leave.

"Not in a hurry, are you?" Doyle asked. "Hang on a bit, will you?"

"Why, what's up?" Kelly asked casually.

"I'm waiting for the final results. She looked okay and said she would telephone me in the morning," Doyle said. "But I can't wait until then, if she says no...she won't, I know she won't. She can't...but if she does...." Doyle's nerves showed themselves. The evaluations over the last one and a half days had been exhausting and even though he felt confident he was scared to expect too much.

"I'll wait with you, if you like," Kelly offered gallantly. "Kate bringing the report here herself is she?" he asked, trying to damp down his own fluttering nerves.

"Yes!" Doyle said in a despairing voice. "I've been waiting all afternoon."

"Oh, well, she can't be much longer then," Kelly said brightly, checking his reflection in the small mirror.

"She's doing it deliberately," Doyle complained. "She bloody knows I'm sitting here waiting."

"Now then, Ray, just calm down. How do you think you did?"

"I did okay!" Doyle shot back defensively.

"I only asked. Kate's not a bad sort, she knows her stuff. She's not going to push you out for no reason is she?" he said reasonably.

"It's all right for you lot," Doyle grumbled. "You don't have to put up with her bloody stupid games for hours on end!"

"I know," Kelly sighed. "Bloody shame," he added softly.

"4.5?" A crisp, feminine voice drew Kelly out of his reverie, and he turned to see Dr Ross.

"Well?" Doyle asked anxiously, jumping to his feet.

"Good afternoon, Doctor...Kate...Dr Ross...nice afternoon," Kelly muttered as Doyle pushed past him.

"Well?" Doyle asked a second time.

"I haven't had a chance to study your reaction times fully," she started to say.

Doyle groaned. "You're not going to keep me hangin' on any longer," he protested, "or else I will bloody crack up!"

Kelly tried to pull Doyle back and laid a restraining hand on one shoulder. "He's a bit edgy," he said, "understandable really...given the circumstances...." He grinned and blushed beetroot as Ross raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I suppose it is being unfair to keep you in suspense any longer, 4.5," Ross said as she smiled in response to the huge beam Kelly was giving her. "Going by the provisional figures, I can see nothing to suggest I ought to advise Alpha One to permanently reduce your status."

"What?" Doyle blinked.

"She's not going to tell the Cow to kick you out!" Kelly explained.

"I couldn't have explained it better myself, Mr...?"

"Kelly." He drew himself up to his full height and beamed at her. "Patrick Kelly."

"Are you new to the Squad. I've not seen you before, have I?" Ross enquired.

"Good lord no," Kelly said. "I work with Tim Henderson--don't get the opportunity to come over this side very often. I was just passing when I saw Ray...thought he looked a bit anxious--"

"I can have my gun back then?" Doyle interrupted.

Kelly raised his voice and pulled Doyle back away from Kate Ross. "So I thought I'd come and keep him company. He's been a bit anxious about these tests," he confided.

"And you'll tell Cowley I can work with Bodie again?"

"Well...," said the doctor, smiling again at the cheerful, handsome agent, "er...yes, 4.5, I'll inform Mr Cowley."

"Terrific--come on, Pat, let's go." Doyle shot out the door. "Pat, come on!"

"Well...," Kelly paused by the door, "goodbye...it was a pleasure meeting you...Kate."

Kate Ross smiled. "Yes...nice to meet you, too."

"Pat, are you coming?" Doyle yelled along the corridor.

"Goodbye, then...see you around perhaps," Kelly said, suddenly unsure of himself.

"That...might be nice," Kate agreed, surprising even herself with her answer.

"Oh," taken aback, Kelly ignored Doyle's loud calls. "Do you ever go to the Roundhouse?" he asked, naming the favourite lunchtime venue of some of the technical support staff.

"Occasionally...on Fridays," she replied.

"Fridays?" Kelly repeated. "I...might see you there then...buy you a drink perhaps?"

Amazed at herself, Kate Ross nodded and smiled again, her eyes twinkling.

"Pat!" Doyle's voice echoed along the corridor.

"I'm coming!" Kelly yelled. "See you Friday then. Bye."

The two men burst into the carpark with so much enthusiasm it was hard to tell who had received the best news.

---

Bodie met Lake on his way home from the laundromat and supermarket. "Here you go, Puddle," he said. "Cop hold of that."

Taking two of the bulging carrier bags, Lake struggled into the front hall and dumped the bags on the floor of the lift. Dumping his own bags beside them, Bodie told him to hold the lift while he ran back out to the car.

"It's not Christmas for months!" Lake exclaimed when he saw the armful of bags Bodie staggered into the lift with.

"Ha, bloody ha!" he snorted and punched the button to take them up. "For wisecracks like that you can help me carry them all through to the kitchen."

It took a while, but finally everything was taken into the kitchen, Lake even helping by shoving the laundry bags into the bedroom.

"Thanks, Puddle," Bodie said once the bags had been unpacked. "God, I'm knackered!"

"You look it, fancy a cuppa?"

"Oh, yeah...."

"Would you like me to make it for you?" Lake asked dryly when Bodie made no effort to move.

"Oh, yeah...."

"Hard job was it?" he asked as he arranged the kettle, cups and coffee jar.

"Exhausting," Bodie agreed. "Haven't stopped since I woke up. Cleaning, washing, hoovering, shopping...fucking launderette...."

"I meant the job you've just finished," Lake said, laughing at the image of Bodie as a housewife.

"Job was a fucking doddle!" Bodie said exasperatedly. "It's this flat-sharing lark that's hard work!"

"Pardon?"

"It's that fuckin' toad I'm teamed with. God knows what he's been up to while I've been away, but this place was in a right mess!" complained Bodie.

"Doyle's been living here?" Lake asked, surprised.

"Living it up, more like!" Bodie said forcefully. "I come home after two months to find he's pinched all my clothes, eaten all my food, and not washed a bloody thing since I left. I don't know what's come over him--he used to make hardly any mess...never even knew he was staying here...and then this morning...it's like a bomb's hit the place, and he runs out on me to meet Kate Ross."

Lake peered into the lounge and then waved a hand around the neat kitchen. "Place looks okay to me."

"You should have seen it this morning!"

Keeping his amusement firmly in check, Lake wandered through into the lounge with his coffee. Sitting on the sofa, his hand fell onto something and he lifted it up to examine it.

Bodie saw the card. "And how the hell did that get here?" he wanted to know. "What the hell has Doyle been up to for Macklin's score card to turn up in my lounge!"

A flash of pain crossed Lake's face as he read over the card. He had seen one before. "Macklin's in the shooting team," he explained in a quiet voice.

"Shooting team?" Bodie said, puzzled.

"The department team. I heard something about Doyle joining them."

"Joining what? Who?"

Lake smiled as more enjoyable memories flooded back. "I've not kept up with them, they broke up after the Wakeman business." He looked up and waited for Bodie to remember. "Williams, Mathieson and King were part of the team. With them gone...the team fell apart. I heard Crane and Macklin were trying to get it going again. Apart from Pat Kelly and Doyle, I don't know who else is in it, oh yes, and John Turner." Lake paused and then leant over to pass the score card to Bodie. "Now I think about it, I remember Turner saying something about the team keeping Doyle occupied the other night." He laughed as he remembered what they had planned. "Doyle was really strung out about the evaluations with Ross--really sweating, he was. Turner said the whole team were going to keep him occupied so he wouldn't have time to worry...and I've seen the way Macklin and Crane operate," he said, laughing out loud. "I used to get roped in with Williams when they celebrated a win or sank their sorrows when they lost. Knows how to organise a good piss-up does Macklin and Crane."

"They were here?" Bodie asked. "In my house!"

"I remember seeing Williams's place after a night of team celebration--christ, it was bad. And he was usually so hung over he couldn't see to tidy the mess up so I had to do it."

Although he was less than delighted at the idea of Macklin, Crane, and, particularly, Pat Kelly living it up in his house, Bodie was pleased that Doyle had had someone to keep him occupied.

"Well," Lake said, draining the rest of his coffee. "What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Do you know anything about washing machines?"

---

As cheerful as he was, Doyle was eager to get home and break the good news to Bodie; Kelly, unfortunately, had ideas of his own.

"Why not ring the rest of the fellas and meet up at Ray's place again. Have a repeat of the night before last?" Kelly said to Turner, who immediately agreed.

"But, Bodie--"

"Nah," frowned Kelly. "We won't bother asking him. Last time I met Bodie I ended up with bruised bollocks and he got a black eye and a week's suspension!" Under cover of Turner's roar of laughter, Doyle gulped. "Miserable old git, your partner," continued Kelly. "Can't you get Cowley to re-team you--oh, there's Peter and Colin." He ran over to intercept them.

Hoping Turner would be sympathetic, Doyle spoke quickly. "You know Bodie's been undercover for two months. He only got back last night. We're planning to...to have a quiet drink," he said lamely.

"Bodie needs brightening up," Turner said heartlessly. "Anyway, have you been to the bank yet?"

"When have I had time to go to the bank?" Doyle said irritably.

"It's all fixed, Ray," Kelly said as he rejoined them. "Colin's going to ring Macklin and Jack and tell 'em the party's at your place."

"John--"

"Lord, is that the time," Turner said, checking his watch. "If I don't put in an appearance, the wife'll sue for divorce on grounds of desertion. See you at your place later tonight, Ray."

"John!" But Turner was gone, leaving Doyle with Kelly; he turned to him in a last ditch attempt.

"Look," Kelly cut in before he could speak. "Invite Bodie over as well," he suggested helpfully. "I'm sure he'll have a great time. See you about eight."

Driving home, Doyle wondered how on earth he was going to explain away a surprise party. He was still struggling to get the right dialogue when he inserted the key in the front door. "Bodie?" he called out as he let himself in.

There was no answer, but he thought he heard voices coming form the kitchen. He walked in and found Bodie and Lake sitting beside the upturned washing machine.

"Okay," Lake was saying, "now try it," and Bodie pushed a screwdriver into the machinery.

"What are you doing?"

The two men looked up in surprise, Bodie's face mirroring the same silly grin on Doyle's face.

"Hi, Ray," Lake said, looking up from the innards of the machine for a brief moment. "I don't suppose you've any idea why this thing won't work. I can't find anything wrong with the motor, the drive belt or the switches."

"His brother works for Hotpoint," Bodie explained.

Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "No, not a clue. I just plugged it in, it went fizz-bang and then nothing."

"What went fizz-bang?" Lake asked curiously.

"Dunno," Doyle said, peering into the machine, "but I thought it was the plug." The three men turned to look at the plug still inserted into the wall socket. "It looks sort of burnt--so I just switched it off."

"The plug blew!"

"I think so--but I don't know much about electrics," Doyle admitted.

"Did you check the fuse?" Lake asked.

"In the washing machine?"

"No," said Bodie slowly, "in the plug."

"Ah," said Doyle thoughtfully. "I never thought of that."

Bodie closed his eyes and tried to remember a breathing routine reputed to guarantee a calm disposition.

Lake threw the screwdriver down and swore. "Three fucking hours we've been fart-arsing around inside this poxy, bloody machine and then Lord Fauntleroy wanders in and says the fuse in the fucking, poxy plug blew!"

"Sorry," Doyle apologised.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Bodie asked quietly.

"Well, when it happened you weren't here...and then this morning...." Their eyes met and for a moment they forgot all about the washing machine and Lake. "Sorry about this morning," Doyle said softly, a rosy heat staining his cheeks and darkening his eyes, "and then...well, I forgot."

"Anything else you've forgotten to tell me," Bodie asked, eyes smouldering and already making plans to send Lake off home.

"Ah," Doyle said, eyes widening in remembered horror, "a few of the lads said...they might drop by tonight."

"What?" Bodie asked, surprised.

"The rest of the team...I've joined the Squad team," Doyle admitted.

"Oh, no!" Lake cried, scrambling to his feet. "I'm not getting mixed up with that lot again--I had enough of being a Shooting Team groupie when Ken was one of them!"

"Puddle!" exclaimed Bodie.

"They're bloody parasites," Bodie," warned Lake. "If I were you I'd barricade the front door and pretend you're not home. When are they coming?"

Doyle looked at his watch just as the doorbell rang. "That'll probably be them now," he said.

"Has this place got a fire escape?" asked Lake.

"I'd better go and...open the door," Doyle said, backing out of the kitchen. He never broke eye contact with Bodie until he received a weary smile and a small nod of consent. Realising Bodie understood, Doyle opened the front door with an easier heart.

Turning a deaf ear to the noise coming from the hallway, Lake asked Bodie to pass the plug over.

"I'll shove a new fuse in it, and if it still doesn't work, I'll ask my brother to come by and have a look at it when he's got time."

"Thanks, Puddle," Bodie said gratefully as he sorted through the small tool box for the packet of fuses.

Once the machine was upright again, Bodie left Lake fiddling with the plug and wandered into the hall to discover what all the noise was about.

He could hardly see Ray for the men milling about in the narrow area. They were all slapping him on the back, ruffling his hair and--to Bodie's surprise--Macklin had picked him up and was swinging him around. Doyle was cheerfully accepting it all. The sounds of congratulations slowly became clearer, and Bodie realised what they had come to celebrate.

Managing to break away from the group, Doyle pushed towards Bodie, a huge smile threatening to split his face in two. "I meant to tell you as soon as I got in," he said softly under all the noise. "Ross has passed me fit for duty."

Bodie knew he had never doubted that she would.

The doorbell rang again and, as Doyle pushed everyone through into the lounge, Bodie opened the door.

"Ta, Ray--oh, it's you," Kelly said in dismay. "Er...pleased you could make it," he said lamely, side-stepping past a glowering Bodie. "Don't...shut the door," he said just as Bodie was about to. "There's two more coming up the stairs."

When Turner and Fergie arrived with the bags of bottles and cans, Bodie began to understand how his lounge had got into such a mess.

Leaving the other men to set up the drinks and sort themselves out, Bodie caught Doyle's attention and nodded towards the bedroom.

Sitting on the bed in the oasis of quiet, Bodie only had to wait for a few minutes before Doyle, flushed and bright-eyed, joined him and carefully closed the door.

"Ray...," Bodie began.

"Bodie, I'm really sorry," Doyle cut in. "They sort of invited themselves," he apologised.

"Well, un-invite them!"

"You try!" Doyle said, exasperated. "I already have and look where it's got me."

About to lose his temper, Bodie saw and heard Doyle's despair and suddenly everything was all right. "Oh, god," he groaned, falling backwards to lie on the bed. "One day I'm going to be able to see the funny side of all this."

"Bodie?" Cautious, Doyle moved towards the bed and knelt on the edge, looking at Bodie's closed face. "You okay?" he asked worriedly.

Bodie opened his eyes and smiled up at the anxious face. "So, Kate's cleared you for duty, has she?"

"Yeah...Jack's brought my gun round, too. Cowley okayed it this afternoon." He sat down, knees touching Bodie's shoulders.

"So everything's all right now, is it?" asked Bodie quietly.

"Nearly everything," Doyle whispered.

"What's left?"

The question hung between them, the air crackling with expectancy, the party in the lounge suddenly in another world.

Time stopped.

Doyle bent down, touched his lips to Bodie's, his tongue flicking out to trace lower lip before darting into the dark warmth. In the lounge, a huge cheer went up, causing the lovers to jump nervously.

Reluctantly, Bodie pushed Doyle away and sat up. "You've got a party to go to, Cinderella."

"If they're not gone by midnight, they'll all get a surprise," Doyle said, backing away.

"What's going to happen at midnight?" Bodie asked, teasing him as they straightened their clothes.

"First stroke of midnight and all me clothes'll fall off," and with that the door was opened and they joined the party.

At first, Bodie found it difficult to relax; he had never met Peter Ellis before and only barely knew his friend, Fergie. Turner he had worked with only once before and had found the man to be stroppy and inconsiderate. Kelly spent most of the evening careful to keep some distance between them, but it was Macklin and Crane that were the biggest shock. Usually frosty and sour tempered, Jack Crane treated all his team as if they were harmless juveniles, scolding, teasing, and cuffing their ears when he thought it necessary. As for Macklin, Bodie had never realised the man had such a wickedly dry sense of humour and found his sides tender from laughing so much at the instructor's jokes and incredibly accurate, hilarious impersonations of George Cowley.

At one point during the evening, Bodie found himself sitting next to Doyle on the sofa. They were in the middle with Macklin on Bodie's left and Kelly on Doyle's right. It was about the time Bodie realised how little it took Ray to get drunk.

"Nice party, isn't it, Bodie?" Doyle had said, leaning on a well-padded shoulder.

Bodie agreed and hoped no-one would see how Doyle was snuggling up to him.

"Welcome...hic...home, Bodie."

"Go to sleep, Ray," Bodie whispered.

"Can't," Doyle said mournfully. "Me trousers are too tight...and I need a pee...."

Bodie sighed and tried to elbow Doyle away. Doyle sat up straight for a moment and then slid sideways to lean on his other friend.

"Bony shoulders," he complained and pulled Kelly's arm up, draping it around his neck and settling it on the man's chest. "Not 'alf as comfortable as him," Doyle told Kelly. "Have you met Bodie before," he asked, suddenly waking up to his responsibilities as host. "He's my...my partner."

Smiling weakly from relief, Bodie suffered the introductions.

"We have met," Kelly told Doyle.

"Really?" Doyle asked, wide awake and curious. "Where?"

"Have another drink, Ray," Kelly said, lifting the bottle to the empty glass.

"Watch it, Pat," Macklin warned from the other end of the sofa. "Much more and we'll have to carry him to bed again."

Bodie looked at Macklin in surprise, then back at Kelly, who was prising the glass out of Doyle's fingers.

"I'd forgotten," he said. "Christ, Doyle, two sniffs of booze and you're anybody's aren't you."

"No," Doyle said, outraged. "Not anybody's...only Bo--"

"Why don't you turn in, Ray," Bodie said quickly.

"He looks fucked," Turner observed from his spot on the carpet.

"I am not!" Doyle said angrily, struggling to get up. "Who said that?"

Jack Crane cuffed Turner hard and pushed Doyle back onto the sofa. "He's right though, Ray, a good night's sleep'll do you good."

"Can't sleep," Doyle told them all. "Me trousers are too tight...need to 'ave a piss, but...every time I get to the loo--someone's in there...," he complained.

Jack tugged Doyle upright.

"Come on, Sunshine," he said gruffly. "Beddie-byes."

"Need to...piss," Doyle said, stumbling over everybody's legs and feet, "and me legs 'ave gone...all numb."

"How much has he drunk?" Fergie asked as Bodie hovered uncertainly behind Crane and Doyle.

"Not much," Turner reported.

"You sure he wasn't teetotal before joining the squad?" asked Kelly. Doyle's capacity for drink had amazed them all the first night they had got together, Doyle ending up under the table before the evening was half over, and all the team felt it was their responsibility to increase his alcohol threshold to a point where he wouldn't be an embarrassment in the bar after a tournament.

Bodie was forced to watch Crane and Macklin take Doyle in hand, steer him into the bathroom, strip him and tumble him into bed.

Throwing the duvet over him, Macklin looked up and saw Bodie. "Look after him, 3.7, he's had a rough ride," he said quietly, all traces of drunken merriment gone. "It's about time we remembered to look after our own."

Leaving Bodie standing just inside the bedroom, Crane and Macklin walked out, calling for someone to start organising taxis.

Stepping over to the bed, Bodie picked up the discarded clothes and tugged the duvet over the sleeper's shoulders before backing quietly out of the room.

The party wound up pretty quickly after that, Lake and Macklin helping to clear up before the taxis arrived. One of the last to leave, Kelly, only slightly inebriated but feeling a little braver for it, offered to share his taxi with Bodie. The offer was politely declined, and Bodie finally closed the front door, locked and bolted it, turned the lights off and climbed into the bed beside the gently snoring Doyle.

Home, was Bodie's last thought as he fell asleep.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

An annoying shaft of sunlight was what woke Bodie up. It was so bright it was painful, and he was forced to slide out from under Doyle's easy sprawl to close the curtains. The strong light forced its way through the dark brown fabric, turning everything in the room different tones of gold.

Still sleepy, Bodie crept back into bed and reached out to pull Ray closer. He sensed, rather than felt, the relaxed body tense up and gripped Doyle's arms hard, holding him down as he tried to back away violently.

"It's only me...Ray. It's only me...'s okay."

Opening wild eyes and focusing on Bodie, Doyle relaxed immediately, allowing the strong grip to pull him close.

"Mornin'," he mumbled sleepily, eyes drooping shut again, still only half awake.

"Morning," Bodie responded, planting a light kiss on Doyle's forehead.

Doyle sighed and eased himself closer, sliding one leg in between Bodie's and rubbing his rising erection against muscled thigh.

Not wanting him to fall back to sleep, Bodie tugged on a thick curl that threatened to tickle his face.

"Your hair's really grown," he said conversationally. "You need a haircut."

Doyle grunted, whether in agreement or rejection Bodie wasn't sure.

"And you're brown, so brown. What have you been up to to get a tan like this? Had a quick holiday in Spain while I was away, did you?" Bodie ran his white hands across the tanned back.

"In the park," Doyle mumbled, shivering under the sweeping caresses.

"Stripped off in the park?" Bodie asked, faintly scandalised.

"No," Doyle snorted, wriggling up a few inches in the bed so he could touch his mouth to the strong throat. "Swimming in the Serpentine in Hyde Park. I've got a lovely white bum."

Peering over the tanned shoulder and smooth back, Bodie pushed the covers down further to check, his hands following his eyes. "So you have."

He saw Doyle's eyes open wide as his hands closed over the white cheeks, he felt them tense under his fingers and continued to make gentle stroking motions. The effort to relax was visible, but Bodie was pleased that he made no move to brush the hands away.

Sliding his hands up to cup Doyle's face, Bodie drew him into a long, searching kiss, pulling away only when breathing became necessary.

"How's your head?" asked Bodie.

Doyle smiled. "Fine, never seem to get headaches, usually just get an upset stomach if anything."

"Lucky sod," Bodie complained without heat.

In the peace and quiet of the flat, there was no urgency and they were content to lie, cuddled together, exchanging kisses and soft, undemanding touches. But it couldn't last for ever, and Bodie still had a lot of questions.

"Why haven't you moved into your new flat?"

Doyle pulled away a little, resting his head on the pillow next to Bodie's. "Do you want me to?"

"I want to know why you haven't," corrected Bodie.

Doyle shrugged and refused to look him straight in the eye. "I'd rather stay here."

"I'd rather have you here, but you should have moved in--what have you told Control?"

"It hasn't been a problem so far. I've been working day shifts, and I've not been on call. I've not told anyone--I won't live there!"

Bodie saw the unhappy expression in the lowered eyes and wondered at its cause. "What's wrong with the place?"

"Nothing," Doyle answered quickly. "I just...I don't want to live there. I don't want to live on my own, I really don't like living alone."

"It never bothered you before."

"Yes, it did," admitted Doyle quietly. "I just never said anything. It was okay at first...but then I didn't like it--that's one of the reasons why I stayed over at Ann's place, or here."

"You were happy enough to move out of here last time," Bodie said, puzzled. "Couldn't wait, if I remember right."

"Only because it was something new," Doyle said, still refusing to look at Bodie properly, and clearly embarrassed. "Never said anything before, but that flat was the first time I'd ever lived on my own--really on my own." Feeling Bodie's astonishment, he explained, "When I lived at home I had to share a room with my brother, then at training school it was six to a dormitory; after that it was a Police section house. I had my own room but about thirty of us lived there. Then I moved in with Ann; there was a bed-sit for a few months before the trial, but even then there were other people in the house. After that it was...prison, and then you. See, I've never had to live alone before, and I don't want to start now!" he finished, angry and defensive at the same time.

"And that's why you won't move in?" Bodie asked, guessing there was more to come.

"Mostly...and I'd rather be with you...and...."

"And what?" prompted Bodie gently. "What?" he asked again, unable to hear the muffled mumble. "It's got what?"

"Bars on the bedroom window!" Doyle shouted out and pulled himself out of the encircling arms.

"Bars?"

"Burglar bars," Doyle said coldly. "I can't live in a place with bars on the window, Bodie. Go on, laugh...don't you think it's funny?" he said viciously, face twisting.

Bodie didn't feel in the least like laughing and said so. "You don't have to take the flat. Turn it down."

"And give what reason--besides, it's too late now," Doyle said in disgust. "If I'd said anything at the time it would have gone straight to those...nerds at Repton and then to Ross."

"You're not going to get rid of claustrophobia after a few sessions with a doctor, Ray," said Bodie patiently. "No one is expecting you to suddenly recover from something like that."

"Why not?" Doyle demanded to know, tugging a towelling robe on and knotting it fiercely around his waist. "I do!"

"As long as they know you can control it, you're okay. It's something that will probably be with you for the rest of your life--the only thing that's likely to change is how you react to it. Ray!" Bodie followed him as he strode through to the kitchen.

"The accommodation people ballsed up offering up a place like that. Turn it down--it's not too late."

"You want me to move out?" Doyle stopped throwing things into the washing up bowl and turned round.

"No!"

"Well...why keep on about it, then?"

"Because...," Bodie floundered, wondering why himself, "...you can't stay here."

"Why can't we share? Susie Fisher and Karen Livesley do, why can't we?"

"They aren't sleeping together are they!" Bodie blurted out.

"I've been sleeping in your bed almost from the beginning of our teaming--it's never bothered you before."

"But then it was different," Bodie said weakly. "That was before...."

"Bodie," Doyle said softly, crossing the space between them and touching him gently. "Susie and Karen share a house in West Kensington, it's a huge place, there's two bedrooms and a massive lounge. Everyone knows they share, and there's no gossip, no-one sniggers about them; if anything happens in that house it's private between the two of them.

"Everyone knows I've stayed at your place for a while, would it make it so awkward if I lived here permanently?"

"Well," said Bodie, considering it. "I had thought about us sharing ages ago, well before..."

"Before what?"

"Before I realised how much I loved you," Bodie finished, smiling at the rosy flush that swept over the downbent face. "I suppose we could always tell accommodation to put you here."

"Not here," Doyle said quickly. "There's an empty flat in Susie's block--I've already seen it. It's huge and it's already secure because they live upstairs."

"What?"

"Peter Ellis is going out with Karen and I called in there with him a few weeks back after a training session...."

"Ray," Bodie held a hand up to quiet him down. "Slow down; you mean you've already found us somewhere to live?"

"As long as the accommodation office will agree to four operatives living in one building."

"You were rather sure of yourself, weren't you. I mean, we didn't exactly part company the best of friends, did we?"

"No," Doyle agreed solemnly, "but once I figured out what I'd done wrong I knew...I hoped it would still be okay between us."

Bodie stared at his partner for so long without speaking that Doyle began to feel uncomfortable.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Have you got any appointments today," Bodie enquired. "Got to go in to work?"

"No," replied Doyle, worried at the quiet question. "Why, what did you want?"

Bodie smiled. "Breakfast," he said abruptly, "and then we've got the rest of the day to ourselves."

---

The outcome of the day was inevitable. Knowing that though, each man enjoyed playing a game that delayed it. Breakfast, a visit to the shops, lunch in a pub full of business men and secretaries, a walk through the park before going home.

Spreading butter over the toasted tea-cakes, Bodie watched through hooded eyes as Doyle finished straightening the living room after last night's visitors. Eating the food it was impossible not to notice the silences between them growing longer and longer. When they did speak, neither finished a sentence, the other guessing what was about to be said and each knowing it.

It was late afternoon before they allowed each other the luxury of touch. Knowing that once they started, it was going to be different. They were both nervous, Doyle perhaps a little more than Bodie--but both were eager.

In their bedroom, the afternoon sun, tinged red, cast an eerie light on them. Making them, the room, and even the feelings they shared seem faintly unreal as if not of the normal world.

A gentle push sent Doyle down onto the bed, his back arching and eyes closing as Bodie swept both hands over the tense torso before cupping his face, following him down and claiming his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Bodie easily opened the front of the cream shirt, pushing it aside to reveal the dark-downed chest and eager, erect nipples. Licking one with his tongue, Doyle's hands holding his head in place, Bodie heard himself groaning softly, deep in his throat. Lifting up, Bodie pulled the hands away and pressed them to the mattress above Doyle's head.

"Don't move," he whispered, pressing his weight on the lax hands to emphasise his order.

Eyes closed, Doyle remained as Bodie positioned him, his body shivering as he sensed where the cool lips would touch next, the fabric of Bodie's T-shirt feeling coarse against his sensitive skin.

As the shocking, silky wetness of a tongue laved a path to his belly button, Doyle cried out, hands moving to still the teasing touch.

Bodie caught his hands and kissed them, then turned his attention to the snap and zip of Doyle's jeans. The unyielding fabric defeated him, though, and with an impatient snort, Doyle pushed him aside, undid the waistband and pushed the cloth down over his hips. Jeans and briefs slipping off together, leaving him bare, open to Bodie's eyes.

Suddenly impatient, Doyle tugged at Bodie's T-shirt, almost tearing its seams, eager for them both to be naked.

Running his hands over Bodie's bare back, Doyle smiled as he felt his partner arch into the caress and lift his hips--inviting him to touch the rounded arse.

Twisting so they both lay on their sides, Bodie returned the touch, careful to keep his fingers light and non-threatening as he cupped the white buttocks in his hands.

Their erections brushed together, making them twitch and pulse. Bodie felt something grow tight inside himself when he felt the first silky wetness from Doyle's cock against his belly.

For a while, they simply rubbed against each other, but Bodie knew it wasn't going to be enough. He pushed Doyle to lie on his back, repositioning himself with care so as not squash him and beginning a stronger rhythm.

As the need to thrust grew greater, Bodie tore his mouth away from Doyle's, arching his back and tensing all his muscles. Nearing his own climax, Doyle's head tossed from side to side. His mouth open in a soundless scream as he dragged Bodie's hips down and ground their bodies together.

Doyle came first. His fingers clamping painfully over Bodie's arse, semen spreading between their bodies, and becoming rigid just when Bodie most wanted him to move and keep moving. Desire threatening to knot in his balls, Bodie growled when Doyle finally went limp and then thrust forcefully against the slippery skin, the strength of his movements shaking Doyle out of his stupor.

Afterwards, when Bodie made as if to move away, Doyle held him in place. "Stay," he said breathlessly. "I like it--feels nice. You're nice and warm...."

"I'm too heavy," Bodie breathed into a head full of tickling, irritating, beautiful curls.

"You're just right," insisted Doyle, stroking the broad back. He traced the lines of muscle, prominent shoulder blades and knobby spine that continued down past the triangle of soft hair in the small of Bodie's back. They both felt the throb of arousal that hit Bodie's prick when searching fingers brushed the division of his buttocks.

"Can't keep a good man down," Bodie joked. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Doyle, and he wriggled a little, allowing Bodie to slip off him. "Must mean I was doing something right."

Bodie snorted. "He doesn't need much encouragement!"

"Are you telling me you're easy?" asked Doyle, eyes alight, twinkling with mischief and something else--Bodie wasn't sure what exactly.

---

Turning his back to the shower jets, Doyle ran his soapy hands across Bodie's chest; diving unexpectedly into the thick thatch at his groin and soaping the soft genitals; making Bodie gasp and sag at the knees.

Almost slipping on the shower floor, Bodie retaliated by grabbing hold of Doyle's waist and pulling the two soapy, wet bodies crashing together.

"Turn around, Ray," Bodie said, pushing him into position.

"What are you doing?"

Hearing the note of uncertainty, Bodie kissed the back of Doyle's neck in reassurance. "It's okay, just lean your arms on the wall," he instructed.

"Bodie?"

Already pressing against the taut buttocks, Bodie didn't recognise the extent of Doyle's unease. Closing his eyes and undulating gently, he felt his erection grow and groaned his pleasure into Doyle's throat.

"Bodie?"

Seeking only to share his private fantasy come true, Bodie snaked his hand around the narrow hips but in doing so lost his grip, and Doyle twisted around.

"Like this, Bodie," he said urgently, scared without knowing why and wanting only to make Bodie feel good. Taking hold of the thick organ, Doyle squeezed it firmly, causing Bodie to swear and throw his head back.

Before long, they both wanted more than was possible in the shower. They continued in the bedroom, towels being dropped by the bed.

Seeing the little flat tin of Vaseline, Doyle knew what he wanted to do and eased Bodie over onto his stomach.

"I'll do it right this time," he promised quietly as Bodie watched him take the lid off.

"No," Bodie stopped him. "Not just one finger--these ones as well."

Doyle gulped as he looked at the three fingers. "I won't hurt you, Bodie," he said.

"You won't," came the soft reply. "Just go slowly, one at a time. I'll tell you when if you can't guess."

Lying flat on his stomach, Bodie opened his legs and wriggled his arse, encouraging his partner to get on with it. "Just like last time--only slowly," he urged, breathless with excitement. The small towel was positioned under his hips, its rough texture stimulating his erection.

Still not entirely convinced, Doyle took a deep breath and stroked the exposed arse with his dry hand, rubbing hard when Bodie arched up off the bed to meet him.

"Ray?" Bodie called out, wondering when--if--the touch he was waiting for was ever going to come. "Just touch me there; gently. You'll feel it relax...that's it...just press gently."

Heart hammering inside his chest, Doyle followed the instructions, rimming the tiny pink anus with one finger and spreading the shiny jelly into the puckered hole. Concentrating as fiercely as he was on Bodie's pleasure, he barely noticed his own rising hardness.

"Now...push in a bit more...that's fine...."

"I can feel you relaxing," Doyle said in wonder. "Shall I use another finger?"

"Yeah...slowly...that's it...push a bit more."

Doyle slid his fingers in and out, marvelling at the way the slightest movement of his hand caused Bodie to moan and shiver. Gaining in confidence, he thrust forward a little harder, twisting his fingers and rubbing against the silky interior wall.

Bodie gave a cry and shuddered violently, causing Doyle to freeze. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...did that hurt?" he asked, terrified to move in case he did even more damage.

"No...," Bodie managed to say, "feels...great...do it again...."

"What?" Doyle asked frantically.

"Like...you just did...move like that again."

Doyle flexed his fingers but withdrew them hurriedly when Bodie cried out once more. "What is it? What did I do? I'm sorry." Pulling Bodie over onto his back, Doyle begged for forgiveness.

His body still quivering from the sensations and shock of withdrawal, it was a moment or two before Bodie was able to talk and convince Doyle he hadn't been in pain.

"It was my prostate, that's what you touched. It felt...wonderful, I thought I was going to come."

"Your what?" Doyle asked blankly.

"Inside me, you touched it and it's very sensitive."

"Touched what? I thought I'd hurt you," Doyle said.

Seeing the blank expression, Bodie suddenly had an incredible thought. "Ray, have you heard of a prostate gland?"

"Yes," Doyle said, his surprise evident, "but I don't understand...."

"What do you know about it?"

"Prostate glands? Well," Doyle shrugged. "My dad had one--gave him a lot of bother--and finally they gave 'im some operations. I think it's something to do with your waterworks, but I don't see...."

"Do you know where it is?" Despite the sexual tension, Bodie found Doyle's puzzled naiveté curiously endearing.

"Bodie?"

"It's just where you touched me a few moments ago. That's what made me jump."

"I'm sorry...."

"Don't be," Bodie laughed. "Don't you have any idea what you just did? Touching a bloke's prostate is the most sure way of getting him to climax, Ray," Bodie explained to the baffled man. "It has to be the most erotic thing you can do to a bloke. I can't describe how good it feels."

"I didn't hurt you," Doyle said, relieved. "When you jumped like that I thought...."

"Believe--it doesn't hurt!"

Doyle looked at him with curious eyes. "Just touching it like that can make you...you know--without anything else? Really?"

Bodie laughed and rolled back onto his stomach. "Have another go and find out--just work up to it slowly, though," he warned.

Alight with curiosity, Doyle carefully rimmed the puckered anus once more, his fingers slipping inside easier this time. A second finger joined the first, and he twisted them slightly, pushing in and searching. Bodie's first shudder caught him by surprise, and he concentrated fiercely on his fingers--on what they could feel.

He slid over the bulge again and felt the shudder run through Bodie.

"Is that it?" he asked excitedly.

"Yeah...," Bodie groaned and lifted his hips.

"It feels...."

"Wonderful!" said Bodie, sliding a hand under his belly to grasp his urgent sex.

"It's a little lump," Doyle announced.

Was it, thought Bodie, not really caring at that moment how big it was.

"I can feel it. Every time I press it...you do that."

Bodie chewed on the corner of the pillow to stop himself screaming.

"It's not really hard--more...spongy, and it moves," Doyle informed Bodie. "If I do this...it's like a sort of ball. Bodie...do women have them?"

Bodie exploded. Every muscle in his body froze, locking Doyle's fingers deep inside him, before he shook with each spasm that burst along the length of his cock.

As he watched Bodie collapse onto the bed, Doyle withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the corner of the towel. He really couldn't believe that he had caused that simply by touching some unseen spot deep inside his partner's body. Withdrawing into himself, he curled up, hugging his knees into his chest, and waited for Bodie to recover. For the first time since adolescence, he wondered about the mysteries of his own body.

---

Struggling through the front door with the last of the tea-chests, Bodie called out, "Here's the last one. Hope you've finished with the others!"

Emerging from the bedroom, barefoot and looking incredibly scruffy and grubby, Doyle grinned cheerfully. "Shove it in your room for now and then you can start unpacking in the kitchen. I've already sorted the food and the fridge out."

"Yes, sir, right away, sir." Bodie touched a hand to his forehead and moved to obey. "Anything else you'd like me to do for you, sir?"

"Yes," Doyle answered, laughing. "When you find the kettle and some mugs, make some coffee. I'm dying of thirst."

The flat wasn't the one they had wanted, the security officer refusing to permit two teams to live in the same building. It would, however, suit them just as well. The building was modern, the individual flats spacious and well lit. It had huge picture windows--not that the view was worth bothering about, just another faceless, modern development and some clinical, regimented flower beds.

Once their request had been filed and the accommodation officer stopped complaining about them, the move had not taken too long. They each had a bedroom with their own bed. Bodie's was a normal double, but Doyle ended up with the king sized and en suite bathroom. Bodie consoled himself with the fact that the shower stall, large enough for two at a time, was next to his room.

"Can't see why we need a room each," Doyle had grumbled until Bodie had explained that it was stupid to take unnecessary risks.

"I'm fed up with getting a shirt half-on before discovering it's one of yours," Bodie had complained. "Besides, just because we put our stuff in different rooms, it doesn't mean we'll sleep in different beds. Except when you have a cold," Bodie added, meaning every word, "then you can cough and splutter in isolation and keep your germs to yourself."

They only had one day to settle in, Cowley generously telling them not to bother reporting in until seven-thirty the next morning. Shifting Doyle's stuff had been easy. All they had to do was collect the boxes and chests from the little mews, but Bodie's had been shoved into packing cases at every spare moment they had during the days before the move. Now all they had to do was squeeze the contents of two flats into one.

Shoving all the things they seemed to have two of into an empty chest, Bodie emptied the last box and put the contents into a cupboard. He didn't even notice Doyle had entered the room until a pair of filthy hands sneaked around his waist.

"All finished?" Doyle asked, pressing up against his partner's back and nuzzling the back of his neck.

"Except for this lot--what are we going to do with it all?"

Peering round the solid bulk, Doyle glanced over the box. "Susie said to let her know what we don't want any more. Apparently, her sister's just left her husband and is starting up on her own. I don't expect she's got much."

"Puddle wants the vacuum cleaner. His one's just about died. Yours is the best one so I'll give him mine. It's got a bit of life left in it. Have you finished the bedrooms?"

"Yep," Doyle said, tugging Bodie's hips backward. "Made the beds up, too."

"Really," Bodie said, enjoying the feel of the hard erection against his arse. "Did you remember to turn the water heater on?"

"Damn!" swore Doyle.

"I'll do it. You can finish the lounge. There's still that box of books to go up on the shelf."

"In a minute," purred Doyle. "Which room do we christen first?"

Bodie only thought for a moment. "Both--we can start in mine, when we get out of the shower. Then, when you've got your second wind, we can move into your room. Besides, there's more room in your bed."

"More room for what?" asked Doyle suggestively.

"Sleeping," Bodie said, firmly disengaging himself from Doyle's grip. "Now go and finish unpacking, or we'll be reporting to Cowley without celebrating anything!"

"Spoilsport," Doyle sighed, but went to put away his books.

---

Bodie found him kneeling in front of the bookcase an hour later, the box still untouched, staring out of the window with miserable, unseeing eyes. Not knowing what was causing such obvious distress, Bodie crouched beside him and tapped him lightly on his cheek. "Penny for your thoughts?" he asked quietly.

Slowly, Doyle turned to look at him, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears before hurriedly looking away. "Not worth a penny," he said harshly, "not worth anything."

Seeing the crumpled piece of paper in Doyle's hand, Bodie reached out to take it. At first Doyle was reluctant to let it go but then released it and, sniffing loudly, turned to start putting the books on the shelves.

Opening the printed sheet, Bodie saw the explanatory notes that went with home pregnancy-test kits.

"I'd forgotten it was there," Doyle said in a subdued voice. "It was tucked inside the book."

Bodie was lost for words.

"Life's strange, isn't it?" Doyle continued. "If things had been different, I could have been a father about now. If there had been a baby, she wouldn't have gone shopping that morning...we'd be married and...there would be a baby. I would still be moving into a new house...but with my wife and my baby...our baby...mine and Ann's...."

"Ray...." For some strange reason Bodie had never expected this to happen, but now it had he wasn't surprised. "I'm sorry...."

"Why did it have to be like that, Bodie?" asked Doyle, his downbent head and shaking shoulders revealing his grief. "Why did it have to happen this way, why did she have to die?"

Bodie pulled him into his arms and held him close. "I don't know, Ray," he admitted, not realising there were tears on his face as well. "And I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...."

"When we first thought there was a baby...oh god, I was so scared, and so happy at the same time." Doyle spoke slowly, needing to let Bodie know his feelings. "Then, as I realised what a baby would mean...to us, you and me...I felt...I don't know, more angry than scared. Everything would have been so different...nothing would be the same anymore.

"That's when I first realised I didn't really love her...I did in a way...my way--but with a baby coming it all changed. It wasn't until after her doctor said the test was negative I realised she felt the same as me. I would have married her, Bodie, but once I didn't have to...you should have seen us. We were both crying and laughing from relief. She didn't want to get married...it would have spoilt everything for her. We were going to have one last night together--something special to say goodbye...and then I was going to come and find you and tell you...and so she went shopping. I went back to bed--if I'd gone with her...," Doyle ended abruptly, unable to continue.

"Ray...you can't change what happened," Bodie said helplessly.

"I know...I know...."

Their first night in their new home started differently to how they had both imagined it would. Emotional and overwrought, they had curled up on the huge bed to comfort each other. Comfort soon turned to loving and, with soft words and gentle touches, they calmed, soothed and aroused each other.

Letting Doyle set the pace because he seemed to need to, Bodie became quiescent; compliant beneath hands that stroked and probed him, setting his nerves alight and his body screaming for release.

When Doyle pulled away, Bodie looked over his shoulder, saw the despairing need and agreed instantly. "Yes," he breathed, lifting his hips in invitation. "Oh, yes," and groaning as he was filled, stretched wide by a burning hardness that pierced him.

It hurt, more than Bodie remembered, but beneath the pain he knew there was pleasure for Doyle and would soon be for him. It was so unlike anything that had happened to him before he wondered why it had taken him so long--but then he heard the harsh, tight groan Doyle always made as he climaxed and knew why--Doyle had never been there before.

---

At work, things were different and it was weeks before Bodie discovered the reason. At first, oversensitive of their new relationship, he thought everyone could see the change in him, see the way he loved Ray Doyle and how his eyes followed him everywhere.

But, slowly, he realised he had not changed at all. No-one on the squad treated him differently or looked twice at him. Doyle was the one who had changed.

Relaxed, friendly and approachable, Doyle no longer retreated when conversations became social exchanges. He joined in, listening to and sharing the outrageous, scandalous and often untrue gossip, enjoying it as much as the next person.

Even though Bodie had never been as reserved as Doyle, the informal, casual friendships his partner was making had the effect of drawing them both--linked as they were--into the social stream of CI5. But Doyle was only human, he had not been transformed overnight into the department mascot to be petted, loved and liked by all. There were those who kept their distance; either because they still couldn't trust Doyle completely or those Doyle himself made quite clear he had no wish to--Day the most obvious among the admittedly small group.

Having had Doyle's almost exclusive company for the past two years, Bodie found himself resenting the demands on their time by these new friendships, just when he wanted Doyle to him--as often as possible.

---

Hearing the key turning in the lock, Doyle hurriedly glanced around the kitchen, checking that everything was ready.

"Ray?"

"I'm through here. What kept you?"

Throwing his jacket onto the small rack, Bodie picked up his armful of packages and went through into the lounge, just as Doyle entered from the kitchen. "Had to call in somewhere on my way," he said, tossing everything down onto the couch. "Come here and give me my birthday kiss," he demanded arrogantly.

"Too late, sunshine, your birthday was yesterday," protested Doyle but he allowed himself to be soundly kissed and groped.

"Well, I could hardly ask for it yesterday surrounded by that lot!" moaned Bodie, remembering the small, musty room crowded with men. "Bloody security scare--I've not had you to myself for weeks!"

"Bloody short memory you've got--what about last Tuesday?"

"All night--one week. Be glad when things calm down a bit," Bodie said before delving into the open mouth, exploring it. "Mmm...what have you been eating...tastes very sweet."

Breaking away, Doyle grinned. "It's a special treat for your birthday. You should have had it last night but seeing as neither of us got home you'd better have it now."

"You've made me a cake!" Bodie exclaimed in delight.

"No!" Doyle said forcefully. "When have I had time to make you a bloody birthday cake?" Disengaging himself from the other man's hands, he tugged Bodie through to the kitchen.

Bodie stared at the small table decorated with a Mr Men paper tablecloth and plates covered with fairy cakes, buns and sandwiches.

"There's a jelly in the fridge," Doyle told him, "but it won't be set for hours yet."

"What's that?" Bodie asked, gaping at the lopsided offering in the centre of the table with its single candle tilting at a precarious angle. Doyle bent forward, struck a match, lit a candle and began an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday to You."

Watching the unlikely birthday cake being showered with melting wax, Bodie asked what on earth it really was.

"Lemon meringue pie," replied Doyle, his voice implying he had thought it obvious. Seeing the puzzled expression on his partner's face, he explained, "I was going to make you a cake but when the new duties were posted I didn't have time. So I thought I'd buy one from the shop on the corner. Only trouble was I got there so late all they had left was a lemon tart." He shrugged. "It was that or nothing. So, I bought it and shoved a meringue on top. Looks okay, doesn't it," he said, proud of his ingenuity.

"Best birthday cake ever," Bodie agreed, rescuing the candle before it sank through the burned meringue crust.

"We can always have the jelly tomorrow," Doyle added as they sat down to the tea party.

---

As they cleaned up the evening's dishes before going to bed, Doyle saw the discarded packages on the couch. Addressed to Bodie care of a post office box number, they drew his attention. Among the official looking letters, there were envelopes obviously containing birthday cards. Propped against the stereo unit was the joky Mr Man card Doyle had given him, all the flowery, poetic, slush shop offerings rejected in favour of a plain simple wish to "Have a nice day" with love from Ray.

Curious, and also unreservedly nosy, Doyle pulled the cards out and read them. The first was a flashy, gilt, colourful thing for a 'loving son', with fondest wishes to William, from your loving mother. Doyle's eyebrows shot even further into his hair when he saw the second card, a rural scene that merely wished Bodie a happy birthday, love and kisses from Mum. A five pound Marks and Spencer voucher was tucked inside it.

The postmarks on both cards were unfortunately too faint to read, but it was obvious they were from two different women. Putting the envelopes together with the rest, Doyle left them on the couch.

Entering his bedroom, he found Bodie already towelling dry his hair and combing it. Somehow, they always seemed to end up in the king-sized bed and, as yet, Doyle had not realised it was because the sun rarely managed to enter the room, huge shadows from the opposite block shielding that side of the building for most of the morning; whereas Bodie's room, the kitchen and the small dining room were usually like greenhouses. The slatted blinds on Doyle's windows hid them from their neighbours, but let in sufficient light from the street to enable the occupants to see throughout the night.

Bodie looked over at him as he entered. "All locked up?"

Nodding, Doyle yawned widely then stretched. "God, I'm tired," he said.

"Me, too," agreed Bodie quietly as he slid into bed and watched as Doyle undid his robe, slipped it off and joined him between the sheets. "Are you really tired?"

Laughing at the disappointed voice, Doyle rolled onto his side and slipped an arm across his partner. "Not that tired," he said, closing his eyes and touching his mouth to Bodie's. He gasped when a wet tip darted out, tracing his lower lip.

"Good."

Opening his eyes at the forceful tone, Doyle was shocked to see a fierce heat in the smouldering blue eyes. He felt a shiver run through him that owed more to trepidation than exhilaration.

Seeing the nervousness, Bodie suppressed his disappointment and reached out to reassure his skittish mate. Since that night he had been fucked, he had encouraged Doyle to explore his body as much as he wanted to. The tentative fingers, learning fast, soon manipulated him expertly; leaving him writhing, gasping and willing to let him do anything and everything.

He hoped that discovering how much pleasure his hands and body could give might allow Doyle to let him reciprocate, but so far it had not happened that way. Although eager for Bodie's hands and mouth or just his weight pressing against him, Doyle still deflected any touches to his arse, allowing only the briefest of caresses before he shied away or distracted his partner.

Sensing that waiting patiently for Doyle to realise he was in no danger was likely to become a lifelong occupation, Bodied decided to try and bring it out in the open. Deliberately letting his hands settle over the rounded cheeks, he pulled Ray over and up to lie, full length, on top of him, the hands cupping the taut arse pulling their groins together.

"What's wrong?" Bodie asked softly once Doyle realised his wriggles were not dislodging the hot hands.

Wide-eyed, Doyle looked down at the solemn face. "Nothing," he said, his heart hammering out its own truth against Bodie's chest.

"Do you still think it has to hurt? Do you think I'm pretending to enjoy it when you touch me there?" Bodie's fingers dipped into the crevice, stopping immediately the cheeks clamped tight against them, barring his progress.

"No," Doyle said in a hushed whisper.

"Then why do you freeze up every time I touch you?"

"I know you won't hurt...but," Doyle broke off but made no further move to retreat or relax.

"But?" prompted Bodie.

"In my head I know you won't hurt...but my body seems to have different ideas. I can't help it, Bodie. I'm sorry." Ashamed of his lack of trust, Doyle lowered his eyes.

"Let me prove it, Ray?" Bodie asked softly, one hand coming up to tilt up the downbent face so he could see it. "Just let me try--you trust me, don't you?"

Doyle nodded tightly.

Taking the tight nod as a sign of consent, Bodie allowed the tense body to slide down onto his side as he twisted to reach the Vaseline tin. Removing the lid, he put the tin down on the table and pulled Ray closer. "Relax," he urged, softly nibbling the full lower lip. "Anyone would think I'm going to torture you, not love you."

Using hands and mouth, he worked hard to distract Doyle from what was to follow by arousing him, stroking trembling flanks and licking and sucking his way down the furry body. Bodie watched until the bright eyes were squeezed shut and the dark head tossing from side to side in excitement and frustration before dipping one finger in the cold jelly. Inching down the bed, he laid one arm across the flat belly and nudged the upraised knees apart. He positioned himself carefully so he could both lean on Doyle and take the straining sex in his mouth.

The thick crown in his mouth and Doyle's hands twisting, trying to gain purchase in his sleek hair, Bodie judged the time right and slid the hand teasing the heavy testicles down and back.

Doyle froze, not even breathing, but made no attempt to pull away. Bodie continued, his fingertip spreading the cool salve around the tightly clenched anus. Skimming along the insides of the cheeks, pressing lightly over the muscle before gliding smoothly on, Bodie played with the entrance to Doyle's body, willing it to relax and accept him.

In his mouth, he felt the taut erection subside. He began sucking strongly, laving the cockhead with saliva and pressing his tongue tip into the dark hole as his finger pressed against the strong muscle. As the erection throbbed under his tongue, Bodie began to believe it might work and redoubled his efforts.

The dual stimulation worked, overloading his senses, and Doyle thrust up to meet the delving tongue; not realising for a moment or two that his movement had allowed the finger rimming him access. Feeling the pressure against his muscle he froze, fear stilling the desire to move and, again, he felt his climax retreat, leaving him half erect and aching.

"Relax, Ray," Bodie urged as he turned the slick finger in the tight channel, rubbing against the walls but not pressing in further than the second knuckle. "Is it hurting you?"

Unable to speak, Doyle managed to shake his head.

"Tighten your muscles against my finger," ordered Bodie quietly. "You can do it, tense your muscles."

Doyle obeyed, and Bodie smiled encouragingly. "Now, relax them...that's it. Now tighten them again...and now relax. See, doesn't hurt, does it?"

Doyle shook his head mutely.

"Can you feel my finger?" asked Bodie, and as Doyle nodded, asked what it felt like.

"Hard!" was the short, harsh answer.

"But not hurting?"

"No...doesn't hurt."

"Needn't sound so surprised," Bodie snorted, carefully withdrew his fingers, and then cupped the trim buttocks in his hands. "I keep on telling you it feels nice--if only you could believe me."

"I do believe you," Doyle said quietly, not liking the unhappy note in the rich voice. "It's just hard...I keep expecting it to...it's difficult to forget."

Lying down beside him once more, Bodie pulled him close, Doyle snuggling eagerly into his arms. "It's going to take a long time to forget what that bastard did to you, but you'll do it, Ray. We've just got to take it slow, that's all."

It had been a start, and at least he hadn't been kicked out of the bed, Bodie consoled himself. If he managed to get Doyle to accept his touch gradually, he knew he would be able to teach him to relax enough to enjoy it. Part of his strategy was easy and already Doyle participated fully on that score; showing his own pleasure at being loved so intimately. Bodie found submitting and being passive under his partner's loving all too easy.

Eager to make up for his reticence, Doyle was easily seduced into sixty-nining, his mouth and hands mirroring whatever Bodie did to him.

Deliberately guiding their lovemaking, Bodie rested his head on one well muscled thigh. He sighed out loud as Doyle invented a few touches of his own, then pushed the heavy sacs presented to him to one side with his nose and tongued the moist, rosy skin.

Doyle felt the fingers travelling up the inside of his leg and knew their target. To distract himself, he drew one of Bodie's sacs into his mouth, sucking on it and rolling his tongue over it. Delighting in the tremor that shook Bodie, he scarcely noticed the fingers reaching their target and pressing against his exposed anus.

Feeling the moment the hot body rocked back onto his finger, Bodie doubled his attentions on the straining cock, only just sensing the sudden tightness in Doyle seconds later. At first, he thought Ray was trying to reject the probing finger; but, as the man gave a husky cry and his own cock was released from the hot suction, he realised what was happening. The cock ripped and burst into his mouth, almost scalding the roof of his mouth with its intensity. It was with difficulty he managed to swallow most of the seminal fluid down, some escaping from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down onto the bed.

Twisting around to rejoin Doyle, Bodie wiped his chin on his hand and ran one finger along the heaving rib cage.

Doyle didn't even shudder, his climax having totally wiped him out. He could only just open his eyes and look at his tormentor. "Bastard!" he breathed.

Smiling, Bodie plundered the offered mouth. Moulding himself against the relaxed body, he rubbed hard to provide the necessary friction to bring himself off.

---

Life settled down into an easy rhythm that Bodie knew wouldn't last. On the surface, Doyle seemed happy and more than content with their relationship. At work, in bed or just spending time together, he appeared settled; but there were times when he tried to hide his restlessness. It was during those times when Bodie wondered what was going to happen to them.

As they entered the third month of their relationship, Bodie began to believe he would never hear Doyle say the words he needed to hear. Doyle's anguish at the death of his hopes for a family the afternoon they moved into their new home haunted Bodie and made him wonder if he wasn't taking advantage of Doyle's need for someone to care for him.

Happy and more than willing to accept what Doyle could offer, Bodie knew he needed more. He wanted Ray to love him--not just need him as a buffer against the rest of the world.

Unfortunately, a conversation with Lake only served to confirm Bodie's fears for the true reason behind Doyle's acceptance of their new roles.

"Psychological castration," Lake said bitterly. "It's a good job Holly is dead because if he wasn't I'd have a fucking go at him myself."

Lake's reaction to the carefully worded observation on his partner's behaviour surprised Bodie.

"That's a bit strong. I only meant he doesn't seem interested in getting involved with girls."

"I don't blame the poor sod," Lake replied forcefully. "What Holly did to him was evil--let alone what he did to his own daughter. Not satisfied with destroying everything Ray believed in once, he had to go and do it a second time. I should think it'll be years before he gets the nerve to get serious about a girl again. He'll be forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for Daddy to crawl out of the woodwork!"

"So you don't think I should encourage him to--"

"Bloody hell, no," Lake exclaimed. "Look, I'm no expert, maybe he should see someone about it if it's a problem...."

I'm not saying it's a problem," cut in Bodie anxiously. "I just thought it was a bit...odd."

Lake considered that for a moment before reaching out to pour himself another beer. "No...even before Ann he wasn't what I'd call promiscuous. Sure he had a few girlfriends, but none of them seemed to last very long.

"We can't all be tom-cats!" Puddle joked, flashing a cheeky, knowing grin at Bodie.

"Don't look at me--my tom-cat days are over," Bodie snorted. "No, I'm getting too old for the dating game."

"Give over, you're a year younger than me!" Lake exclaimed.

Moving carefully through his rehearsed script, Bodie spoke slowly, watching his companion all the time. "Seriously...when did I last have a relationship with a woman that really meant something? Years ago, that's when. What do I get now if I go out? Either some old dog that drinks like a fish, a cosy mum with three kids and no husband looking for a meal ticket, or something so gorgeous she's bound to be illegal!"

Lake nodded in sympathy. "I know just what you mean."

"And just supposing you do find someone halfway decent, you explain about the lousy hours and shifts. Everything's wonderful until the first time you miss Sunday dinner or send her home in a taxi just as they serve the soup!"

Lake laughed. "I thought it was only me who felt like that!"

"And I thought it was just me," Bodie said, relieved at the reaction. "Maybe half of Ray's problem is the same sort of thing?"

Lake thought about it for a minute before answering. "It's probably got something to do with it. Let's face it, on the marriage front none of us are good prospects. Who'd have us? There's probably a very good reason why so few of us get married--and stay married.

"We're all doomed to be eternal bachelors, Bodie," he said glumly. "It's just as well you and Doyle have shacked up together--'cos no-one else will have you."

Looking up sharply, Bodie realised Lake's comment had been a general one and not implying anything else.

"I hear Murphy and Hetherington have put in for joint tenancy. I must admit it makes more sense--saves on one lot of housework, especially if you can con your partner into doing it all," Lake joked, remembering Bodie's complaints about Doyle's standard of housekeeping.

"When's the next tournament, then?" Lake asked.

"God knows," grumbled Bodie. "He never tells me--just always manages to have a training session or event to prepare for when it's his turn to do anything."

"Ken was just the same," Lake consoled his friend. "Used to drive me nuts. What time will he be home?"

"I expect they'll pour him through the door sometime after eleven."

Lake laughed and the conversation changed track, Bodie satisfied that no-one thought it strange he and Doyle shared a flat and puzzled about Lake's comment on castration; he'd think about that more later, he decided.

---

Bodie was surprised to find Doyle home and sober well before Lake went home. Looking up and preparing for bed, he asked why he'd left the rest of the shooting team at the pub.

"Didn't fancy getting smashed. You know as well as they do I only have to have a few drinks and I'm under the table. They all drink more than me and enjoy it--I don't particularly. Besides, there were a bunch of women having a hen-night there and it was all getting a bit complicated."

Bodie looked up sharply at the last comment, a fresh twinge of guilt hitting hard.

"I didn't know Puddle was coming over--what did he want?" Doyle asked.

"Nothing--a chat, that's all," replied Bodie from his position propped up against the bedroom door where he was watching Doyle with dark, hooded eyes. "We had quite an interesting chat; seems our flat-sharing has sparked off a new trend. Murphy and Hetherington have applied to share."

"That'll please Cowley," Doyle agreed as he continued to undress, dropping clothes on the bed, chair and carpet before padding, comfortably naked, past Bodie towards the shower room.

"You should have stayed out later, enjoyed yourself," Bodie said, a hollow pit yawning in his stomach. "Had some fun with the girls."

"What?" In the process of setting out towels and turning the water on, Doyle spun round. "What are you on about?" he asked, all colour draining from his face.

Bodie looked down at the floor. "I thought you might want some female company...."

"Is that what you really think?" There was no anger in Doyle's voice, only a raw, painful hurt that brought Bodie's head up to see the pale face.

"I thought that's what you might want," Bodie confessed softly. "I know that this isn't what you'd imagined for yourself." He waved a hand around, encompassing all and nothing. "Not exactly a typical family, are we? I know I can't give you what you really want and...and when you...when you want to--"

"Bodie!" Doyle said sharply. "What the hell are you on about? What's wrong--tell me, damn you?" he said angrily, shaking the larger man; but suddenly Bodie's words made sense to him, and his anger died as quickly as it had been born, leaving him shaken. "Is this because of what I said the day we moved in?" he demanded to know. When Bodie nodded, he sighed and wrapped his arms around him. Numb, Bodie returned the embrace.

"I don't want to change anything, Bodie. Not what we have. If I could change anything it would be the way it all happened." He tried to explain his feelings. "I've known how important you were to me for ages...don't ask me how long--I think you sort of grew on me. One minute I hated you and the next I knew I was depending on you for almost everything.

"When...Ann and I got together, I thought things between us would change--but they didn't. I kept telling myself I shouldn't rely on you so much, but...I couldn't keep away.

"I should never have become involved with Ann again. Looking back I can see it was a mistake--it never felt right, but somehow...I don't know, I kept telling myself things would change. Then we thought there was a baby." Doyle's voice became hushed and he pulled away from Bodie to look at him as he spoke. "I can't explain how I felt then. Ten feet tall...and proud as if I'd achieved something really wonderful. But it didn't last. It didn't take me long to realise that a baby would change my whole life and I finally accepted that I quite liked life as it was. I had CI5 and...you. I wanted to be with you.

"Yes, I'd like to be a father, but I wouldn't mind being a millionaire and I don't see that as very likely." Doyle laughed, breaking the serious mood.

"Don't ever think I don't want this, or you. I don't have any regrets about us," he continued, almost pleading with Bodie to believe him. "If I have any regrets about anything, it's...."

"It's what?" pushed Bodie gently, knowing there was more that needed to be said.

"The morning it...she died had been so...different, Bodie. It was almost like the first time before everything went wrong. As soon as we heard there was no baby, we just knew we wouldn't get married and then everything was so...easy."

Bodie began tugging his shirt off and pushed Doyle into the shower before all the hot water was wasted.

"We talked about the future," Doyle said as Bodie soaped his back and shoulders. "She was going to America, and I talked about you...nothing specific. I don't think I had even realised what I really wanted then--but she seemed to understand.

"It was going to be our last night together, a really passionate farewell before going in different directions. Then, she decided to go shopping, and I went back to bed to catch up on my sleep...I didn't even say goodbye, Bodie," Doyle whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise of the shower. "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

Turning the shower off, Bodie wrapped them both in towels and then put Doyle to bed.

Cradling the restless sleeper protectively in his arms, Bodie felt helpless and scared that even now he might still lose Ray Doyle; as he had feared that day he attended her funeral, as a ghost, Ann Holly might prove unbeatable.

Six months after her death, she was still between them, her presence seeming to grow stronger rather than weaker, stunting the relationship blossoming between the two men.

Feeling suddenly frightened, Bodie held his lover tighter, too tight, causing Doyle to protest and squirm uneasily under his hands. Releasing his grip and soothing him, Bodie's fear was replaced by a burning resentment. Ann Holly had had her chance and lost him; if things had been different, the would-be couple would have had their final night of love and gone in different directions, Ann in search of her career and Ray--Bodie tightened his hold again--Ray would have come looking for him. The relationship between the couple had been over--bar the final goodbye--only her death had prevented that from taking place, and now Ray was suffering the consequences.

How long was her ghost going to lie between them, Bodie wondered, hating her even more in death than in life. You're dead and buried--you're history--leave him alone! The thoughts reverberated round and round his head, making sleep impossible.

Inching away from Doyle's sleeping form, Bodie crept out of bed and quietly took himself into the lounge, wrapping a warm robe around him as protection against he cold. Pouring himself a drink, he sat by the window and looked down at the neatly trimmed lawn, with its covering of autumn leaves. The ground looked frosty, the lights reflecting off shiny stonework, making the area glow in the peculiar combination of electric light and moonlight.

Almost six months, Bodie thought tiredly. A period of mourning was only to be expected, but surely, he asked himself, Doyle should be able to put the past behind him.

"I didn't even say goodbye." Doyle's broken whisper hit Bodie like a blow, and he wondered if that wasn't the cause of the problem.

By the time Ray had discovered Ann's fate, she had been dead for some time, her funeral taking place as he had fought for his own life in the sterile isolation of hospital. After the shock of the news, there had been The Beeches, followed by the terrible, almost complete, mental breakdown, and then Repton and the slow return to normal.

There had been no time for Doyle to mourn; no time for anything except fight to preserve his sanity and recover his health.

Sitting in the dark lounge, whisky glass halfway to his lips, Bodie suddenly remembered the priest delivering his words to the congregation. "Funerals," the nasal monotone said, "are not only for the dead--they are for the living. We are here today to join with each other to share our distress, to lessen our own pain, and to say farewell to someone we loved."

But Doyle, wired up to various lifesaving devices in hospital, had not been at the funeral to add his farewell.

Knocking back the last of the alcohol, he found himself wondering if Ray even knew where her grave was.

Returning to their bedroom, cold and unhappy, he knew what he had to do. Forcing Doyle to confront the reality of Ann's death could help him put the past where it belonged, putting him further along the road to a complete recovery.

And what then? Whole once more, would he still need the protective love of his partner? By helping Ray would he destroy the relationship that had grown between them?

Carefully sliding into bed, Bodie took the sleeping man in his arms, his voice and hands calming the instinctive withdrawal and lulling him back to sleep before he properly woke up. Feeling the frantic racing of Doyle's heart slowing to a more gentle rhythm, Bodie kissed the warm throat and settled himself to sleep.

He'd take the risk and sort out the consequences later.

---

Not telling Doyle where they were going until they drove through the cemetery gates, Bodie parked beside the gardener's hut and said quietly, "I'll just take you over to the grave and then I'll wait here for you."

Doyle had nodded and followed his partner through the rows of beautifully kept graves.

Walking back to the car, Bodie looked up at the grey sky and hoped the rain would keep off until they got home. Before turning the last corner in the path, he looked back and watched Doyle as he stood motionless, head bowed, beside Ann's grave.

He had a long wait for Doyle to return to the car, and he made no comment about the red-rimmed eyes before driving them both home.

---

Quiet all evening, Doyle made no reference to the unexpected visit to the cemetery, but in bed he pulled Bodie into a fierce hug, burrowing his face into the warm throat and shoulder before initiating a demanding rhythm that swept them both to a shattering climax.

In the moments of quiet that followed, Bodie thought he was hearing things when a wet face rubbed against his own and a soft voice quietly said, "Love you so much, Bodie," and his mouth was covered, forestalling any comment.

And Bodie knew that Ann Holly had finally been laid to rest.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

His heart racing and body screaming for release, Bodie held the rigid man until, with one final convulsive tremor, he relaxed and slumped bonelessly back onto the bed, the movement pushing the probing fingers deeper into his body causing him to moan aloud as stimulated nerves were overloaded with even more sensation.

Feeling the muscles clamped around his two fingers relax, Bodie withdrew them, then pulled Doyle's hand down and wrapped it tightly around his own straining cock. Doyle revived enough to squeeze his hand and take over the steady beat helping him to completion.

It was quiet as they regained scrambled senses; Bodie glowing with pleasure as he had finally been able to prove to his sceptical lover that a prostate had more uses than merely making grouchy old men grouchier. "Well?" he asked, voice full of smugness and contentment as they rearranged their positions and used tissues to clean themselves. "Was I right?"

"You were right," agreed Doyle, still a little overwhelmed by the feelings the thick fingers had produced inside his own body. "I just hadn't expected it to be so...so--"

"Wonderful, terrific, great, bloody marvellous?" prompted Bodie, grinning stupidly but not caring that much. That Ray had allowed him to touch him so intimately was such a new thing he could still hardly believe it. Ever since Doyle had discovered the pleasures of Bodie's prostate gland he had been keen to play and explore--but had remained reluctant to experience the same touches, the painful memory of Albert Kingsley's ugly games too vivid to forget. But, even when his reluctance was obvious, Bodie's willingness to be touched there, and even to be fucked, had aroused his curiosity. And, as Bodie had gambled, Ray Doyle was rarely slow in investigating anything that made him curious. "Well?" Bodie asked, impatient to hear the obvious. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah." Drawn out, the single word spoke volumes.

"Ray." Like a child eager to know what his best friend thought of his newest toy, Bodie shook his partner out of the doze he was slipping into. "Ray!"

"Wha'?"

"Told you you'd like it."

Opening eyes that felt weighed down, Doyle focussed on the hazy shadow lying beside him in bed. "You told me," he agreed, then closed his eyes and fell asleep.

---

Through out the next day Doyle was conscious of a strange feeling in one particular part of his body; though not in any pain, he was aware of every movement he made. It must have shown in his face because when they had five minutes to themselves Bodie was quick to ask what was wrong.

"I feel sort of--strange," Doyle said in a low voice. "You know--there!"

The sudden flush on Dole's face told Bodie were 'there' was and he grinned. "Does it hurt?" he asked solicitously.

"No," replied Doyle, giving a little wriggle as if to check. "It's not sore--I can just feel it...like...like your fingers are still there."

Bodie looked down at the highly polished floor under his feet and grinned.

"Do you feel like this," Doyle wanted to know a while later as the man they were protecting and shepherding around London disappeared behind yet another set of huge, government-built doors.

"Only when you fuck me," Bodie said in a low voice even the most sophisticated bugging device would not have picked up. Doyle closed his eyes and swallowed as the words reached his ears, Bodie enjoyed the helpless shudder that ran through his mate. "I can usually feel that for most of the next day," he added wickedly, perfectly aware of what his words were doing. "The first time I was a bit sore but now it just feels...it feels," he ended, not quite knowing how to describe the sensation. "Like I've been fucked!" Doyle merely groaned and turned away to face a wall, his tense body revealing clearer than words his state.

When their charge emerged from his meeting he was met by his escort. If he noticed one of the men seemed ill at ease he put it down to the nervous strain felt by security personnel detailed to protect important personages as himself.

---

Typing out the last section of his report and setting the machine to store and print it, Bodie sat back pleased with himself for a job well done. Ever since he had been forced to sit through the three day computer course on the new system he had appreciated how simple it was to produce a report that previously would have taken hours, sore fingers and two bottles of tippex. All they had to do now, he thought cheerfully as he collected the printout and dropped it in Cowley's tray, was to invent a machine that typed as you dictated.

Eager to escape from the office and begin his weekend, Bodie swore as the duty officer saw him and called out after him.

"Bodie! I've just set out the rosters for Christmas--you and 4.5 are on the duty desk--just thought I'd let you know before you make any plans."

Less than delighted with the news, Bodie was relieved to discover he was still free to go home. Being stuck with the duty desk at Christmas was no joke, he thought sourly. Unlike standby, operatives were not meant to leave the building unless to deal with an emergency situation. It usually meant a boring few days without even the comforts or pleasures usually associated with Christmas--even the kitchens would be closed.

When Doyle heard the news he was neither surprised nor dismayed. "I've been expecting it," he said when Bodie asked. "One Christmas in three isn't bad going. My first year we were off all Christmas, last year we were off on Christmas day but on standby for the rest of it--and we didn't get called in. It must be our turn--I'm surprised you thought we'd get it off," he added as he sorted out the few items of shopping Bodie had brought home with him.

Finding no ally in his partner, Bodie left him in the kitchen preparing dinner and wandered into the lounge.

"Oh well, Christmas is still a couple of months away--at least we've got this weekend to ourselves," Bodie shouted through to his partner. "I reckon the duty officer has slipped a nut--we're not due another weekend for a while yet."

In the kitchen Doyle heard the amused observation and with a twinge of conscience realised that he had forgotten to tell Bodie what was happening over the next two days. He decided to wait until they had a good meal inside them before breaking the less than welcome news. But, as the evening progressed and it became clear that Bodie had some very definite ideas on what he felt they could do over the weekend, Doyle began to realise he was in a very difficult situation.

A full stomach inside him, Ray Doyle lying along the sofa curled against him and the whole weekend stretched out in front of them Bodie wondered if heaven could be any different. It was a while before he noticed that Ray was not as excited about his plans as he ought to be. "Don't look so worried," he said, rubbing away the faint lines around the green eyes. "We don't have to stay in bed all the time--I'll let you get up to cook me meals!"

Doyle smiled but didn't laugh and Bodie began to wonder what was wrong. Pushing himself up, Doyle withdrew from the encircling arms and moved away. "I'd forgotten to tell you about the new date," he started. "You remember when the tournament was cancelled last month?"

Bodie nodded, he remembered because it had been there first full weekend together in the new flat.

"Well, it was postponed until Sunday. This Sunday."

Bodie blinked. "This Sunday?" Doyle nodded. "That's how come we've got the weekend off. Just so's you can shoot in the tournament?" Again Doyle nodded. "And that last weekend--that was because of the tournament?"

"Yes--it wasn't called off until the Friday before--and by then Harry had altered the rosters."

The simple explanation of their apparent good fortune rocked Bodie. "You mean--every time you shoot in a tournament we get the weekend off?"

"Well," Doyle hedged. "The tournament is fixed for when the most competitors can make it. All the duty officers of the various Departments agree a date between them and then fix the schedules to fit."

"You mean they fiddle them!" Bodie exclaimed. "Does Cowley know this?"

"Of course--he wants as many of us to make it as possible."

"And all the departments, MI5, MI6, CI4--they all fiddle the rosters?"

"It's not fiddling," Doyle defended the system. "It's just ensuring as many as possible make it on the day. It's why it was cancelled last month--because of the election flap everyone was too busy to make the day."

"So why wait until now to tell me?" Bodie asked angrily.

"I forgot," Doyle said with a shrug of his shoulders. "I meant to say something and then--"

"You forgot!" sneered Bodie, hurt by Doyle's inconsiderate behaviour. "So what am I supposed to do while you're off winning gold medals for the department. I'm damned if I'm going to follow you around like--like--" All of a sudden Lake's bitter words returned to him, the meaning and the sentiment behind them now abundantly clear. "Like some shooting team groupie!"

"Bodie--"

"So you've got this weekend all planned out have you? And where, may I ask, do I fit into your plans? Was this supposed to be my share of the weekend?" he demanded harshly pushing Doyle away from him and standing upright. "Friday night is Bodie's night--give him a good meal, bottle or two of nice wine and then take him to bed and fuck him! Is that my share of this weekend?"

"You're being stupid--" Doyle started, embarrassed that his thoughtlessness had been so cruelly exposed. "It's not like that."

"Too right it's not," said Bodie. "Well, it was a great meal and I hope you bet the pants off them at the tournament, but if you don't mind I'll skip the fuck. Good night."

"Bodie? Bodie wait!" Running after him, Doyle was in time to see him disappear into his own room and to have the door slammed in his face. Undeterred, he opened it and stepped inside.

"I didn't hear you knock," Bodie said coldly. "Didn't anyone ever teach you any manners--it's considered polite to knock on a door before entering."

"Bodie--"

"I'm tired and I want to go to bed. Good night." Deliberately turning his back on him, Bodie closed the curtains and moved to turn the cover down on the bed.

"You're going to sleep in here?" asked Doyle quietly.

"It is my bedroom," Bodie reminded him.

"But we--we usually sleep in the other bed...in our bed."

"That's your bed, this is my bed. Good night." Bodie stared back at Doyle with feigned ease.

"This is stupid. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about the tournament--"

"You didn't forget anything!" Bodie hissed, his face red with anger. "You just assumed that I would fall in with your plans. You could have told me about the time off last month but you didn't. Did it ever occur to you that I might have plans of my own?" he asked. "Christ, Doyle--I work with you, I live with you, I even sleep with you--aren't I allowed any time to myself? Do you really think I want to spend every fucking minute of every day with you!" Seeing the stricken look on Doyle's face, Bodie relented a little, retracting some of his harsh words. "Look, I don't mind being with you--hell, I want to be. All the time, but--couldn't you have asked? Why couldn't you ask me to join you at this stupid tournament instead of assuming I'd want to waste my weekend there?"

Acknowledging his mistake, Doyle had no answer--at least none he thought Bodie would accept. Quite simply it had never occurred to him that Bodie wouldn't want to be with him. The fault was his entirely. "I'm sorry. Good night," he said and he turned away, closing the door to Bodie's room behind him.

---

Separated by two closed doors and several yards of carpeted floor, neither man slept long or well. Waking from a shallow sleep to the sound of a door slamming, Doyle got out of bed and quickly moved to his own door. Clad only in T-shirt and pants, he padded uncertainly towards the other bedroom pausing, his heart plummeting and mouth drying, as he saw it was empty, the bed neatly made.

"Bodie?" he called out not expecting an answer. In the kitchen he found a note scribbled on the back of a discarded envelope. 'Gone out. Be back late tonight so don't wait up. Bodie.'

Crumpling the envelope in one hand, Doyle tossed it into the bin. The message was clear enough. By the time Pat Kelly called round later that morning Doyle was in no mood to notice the relaxation of the man once he realised Bodie was not home. "Is he going to come tomorrow?"

"I doubt it," Doyle replied as he collected his gear together.

"Oh good," Kelly said and then saw the sharp look Doyle threw his way and reminded himself to be more careful. The two-man teaming Cowley put together were known to be fiercely protective of each other. "How about using just one car today," Kelly suggested, eager to change the subject. "Jack wants us to try out the new team groups on the ranges--it's pointless taking out both cars."

"I thought we were hiring the minibus again?" Doyle answered, shouldering his bag and locking the street door behind him.

"That's tomorrow. Today we're on our own. Macklin and Ellis can't make today's session and Fergie's on duty until this afternoon. Use my car, shall we?"

"If you like."

"I hope you show a bit more enthusiasm when we get to the ranges," Kelly said, his Captain's hat firmly on his head. "That CI4 lot are bloody good and we'll have our work cut out to beat them."

"Had a rough night," admitted Doyle. "But I'll be okay--do you seriously think we'll beat CI4?" he asked as they reached the street level and walked along towards Kelly's rather aged and battered Ford Escort.

"Stand a better chance than we did three months ago--but it'll still be tough. That's why me and Jack want this training session today. Individual scores are improving but as a team...we've still got a lot of work to put in to get back to where we were two years ago." And on that note they climbed into the car and left for the ranges.

---

After a morning of doing little of any importance, Bodie was relieved to find his friend home and pleased to have some company. "Cheers Puddle," he said, taking the cup of coffee and helping himself to another biscuit.

"Leave some for me," complained Lake and he grabbed the packet back out of Bodie's grasp. "Where's Doyle this afternoon then, I thought you two had the weekend off?"

"How the bloody hell should I know, not his keeper am I!" was the unexpectedly belligerent answer.

Raising one surprised eyebrow, Lake made no further comment. "At a loose end, are we?" he enquired mildly.

Agreeing that he was, Bodie smiled apologetically at his friend. "Ray's off at some training session for some tournament he's in tomorrow."

"Which one?"

"Pardon?" Bodie asked around a mouthful of too hot coffee and crumbling biscuit.

"Which tournament? Security Services or mixed?"

"Dunno," Bodie replied vaguely. "He's not said."

Lake drank some of his coffee, thinking hard. This time of year I expect it's Security Services. MI5, MI6 and CI4--but then I suppose it could be the one against the armed forces--I expect the General Election mucked all the schedules up," Lake said thoughtfully.

"What on earth are you prattling on about?"

"Ken used to be the Team Captain," Lake said, a fond smile on his lips, and Bodie was pleased to see there was no evidence of grief in the grey eyes. "The biggest event of the year is the Security Services Cup. The team that takes the trophy gets a lot of kudos for the department. I swear Cowley even smiled the years we won--three years on the trot."

"Hadn't realised you were so keen on tournament shooting," Bodie commented in a sour voice.

"I'm not--well, not as a competitor, but I used to go and watch Ken and the team. They were bloody good," Lake said proudly. "Bloody good, I hear Pat Kelly's doing a great job as team captain now."

"So flamin' well what!" muttered Bodie.

Recognising the petulant tone and frown on his friend's brow of old, Lake decided a change of topic might be a good idea. "So--what do you want to do this afternoon. And before you get carried away, I'm on standby so forget anything that includes loose women, physical exertion or alcohol," he said.

Bodie sighed and reached for the newspaper. "What's on telly?"

---

Lying in bed listening to the rain that had continued to pour all afternoon, Bodie checked his watch once more. It was well after midnight and he had expected Doyle home hours ago. Patience gave way to worry at about one o'clock and he was about to telephone Control to see if they could track him down when he heard a key turn in the front door lock. The sound of Doyle talking to someone halted his intention to open his bedroom door and demand to know why he was home so late.

"Take your wet things off and I'll shove them in the airing cupboard. There are some towels in the bathroom, help yourself," Doyle was saying almost right outside the closed bedroom door.

"Ta mate, christ, but I'm soaked to the skin!"

Hearing Kelly's voice, Bodie's temper threatened to flare up again.

"Do you want a drink? Something alcoholic or something hot?" Doyle was asking, his voice moving away up the corridor and then coming back again as he obviously collected dry towels from the bathroom.

"How about something hot with something alcoholic in it?" suggested Kelly.

"Brilliant idea. Help yourself to a dressing gown, you'll find a spare one on the back of my bedroom door, I'll just switch the heating back on."

Realising it was his dressing gown that was hanging on Doyle's door, Bodie was about to object when Kelly spoke again.

"Is Bodie home yet?"

In the hallway Doyle looked to the bottom of the closed door and saw the faint crack of light suddenly disappear. "Haven't a clue, Pat. Just because I work with him and live with him it doesn't mean I have to spend every fucking minute of the day with him."

Only a few feet away and standing in darkness behind the closed door Bodie winced at the burning scorn in the other man's voice, the words hurting more than he had thought possible; outside the bedroom door the two men continued to chat about their day, oblivious to and unconcerned about his presence.

Drier, warmer and clad in Bodie's dressing gown which fit him nicely, Kelly gratefully accepted a mug of hot coffee liberally laced with whisky. Taking a long appreciative sip he relaxed back into the arm chair and stretched out his toes to warm them on the fire that Doyle had switched full on. "That Tommy Mahone's a weird one, isn't he," Kelly said. "I got the impression he thought you were...." his voice tailed off as he tried to find the right words, ones that wouldn't offend his friend.

"Cuckoo?" asked Doyle, grateful to be warm and dry once more.

"Well, some kind of psycho at the least. I reckon he even had me lined up as the Axe Man of Hackney!"

"Tommy's okay. Most of the regulars at The Brewers are safe enough--I like it there. What did you think of the place?" Doyle asked quietly. Driving home from the ranges they had been close to the pub and, Doyle being reluctant to arrive home too early and end up having another row with Bodie, had asked his friend to visit the place with him. It was his first visit since the business with MI6's turncoat Controller and he had wanted to check his cover was still intact. A few words to Kelly had been enough to brief him on how to act.

"How long have you been going there? They all seemed to know you."

Doyle thought back to that first visit with Bodie. "About eighteen months, maybe a bit longer. I never expected anything to come out of it--just used it as practise to establish a cover. It worked pretty well."

"And Mahone thinks you're a genuine article?" Kelly asked, remembering the way the landlord had questioned Doyle none too subtly almost as soon as he reached the bar.

"Oh yes, he thinks I'm a 24-carat nutter. Just the type he likes--has some surprising contacts does Tommy."

"How often do you go--they were pretty disappointed you couldn't make that darts match?"

"Not often. Depends really on what I'm doing." Or, he added silently, what Bodie's doing; he only went to The Brewers when he wanted some congenial company and Bodie wasn't around.

"Does Bodie go there?"

"No. He doesn't like slumming," answered Doyle abruptly. "More coffee?"

"Wouldn't say no to a drop of whisky--don't bother with a glass, just tip it in the mug." Taking the bottle from Doyle's outstretched hand he poured a generous slug into his coffee cup and then handed it back for Doyle to copy his example. "It's in a bloody awful neighbourhood though," he grumbled and sipped at his new drink.

Doyle just laughed, remembering Kelly's face when they had emerged from The Brewers at closing time to find his car tyres slashed, his aerial ripped off, the radio ripped from its casing and the windscreen scattered over bodywork, upholstery and the surrounding pavement and half a housebrick sitting on one of the front seats. "Look on the bright side--at least they didn't steal the car!"

"Wouldn't have caused half as much damage if they had. There goes my no claims bonus!" Kelly said in a depressed tone.

"I'll log the damage in my report to Cowley--maybe the department will foot the bill," offered Doyle once he realised that the car was Kelly's and not owned by the department.

"No," said Kelly morosely. "It's all right for you lucky sods. Department flat, department car--some of us have to sort out the basics for ourselves!"

"Goes with the rest of the job, Pat," Doyle pointed out.

"Suppose so--and I wouldn't want your job no matter what the perks were--too bloody dangerous by half!" retorted Kelly; he was content with his role in the department even if it did mean the vandalism to his car would be met from his own pocket.

"If Cowley won't fork out," promised Doyle, "I'll make it up--I'll fiddle it back off the Cow on my expenses," he added. "Another drink?"

"Better not, state the car's in the police are bound to pull me up--if I'm breathalysed the Cow will do his nut."

"Oh," Doyle considered the problem. "Stay here the rest of the night. You can't go out in that again. Besides--your clothes are still wet."

Helping himself to another generous slug, Kelly agreed he would be better off staying the night.

When Doyle returned to the lounge with an armful of blankets he found Kelly had topped his drink up as well. "Ta very much--it's a nice drop of stuff, isn't it?" he said.

"It's Bodie's--but he won't mind," Doyle added generously, not really caring whether he would or not. As the two men continued to sit in the lounge, Kelly once more reciting the former glories and feats of the CI5 shooting team, Doyle paid him scant notice. Exhausted after a long tiring day following a virtually sleepless night, he was almost asleep. Throwing Kelly a careful glance, he wondered if the man would notice his slipping into Bodie's bedroom. Probably, eyes like a bloody hawk, he decided unkindly.

Seeing the heavy eyes Kelly had to smother a grin. Doyle's minimal capacity for alcohol still surprised him; barely two half mugs of whisky and he was nearly out for the count. Still, he conceded, it wasn't that important a man had a lead-lined stomach. "Up you get, Sunshine--we've got the tournament tomorrow and you need your beauty sleep."

Hearing the familiar endearment, Doyle thought Bodie had come into the room and he looked around searching for him, blinking like a sleepy owl. A helping hand under his elbow and Kelly's whisky-laden breath in his face revealed the truth.

"I can manage myself!" Ray snapped, brushing the helping hand away.

"Okay," said Kelly, backing off. "If you say so," he viewed the swaying figure with suspicion, "mind the table--and those shoes!" he called out as Doyle tottered unsteadily towards the door.

"Night. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight," returned Kelly as he began sorting the blankets and pillows and arranging them on the sofa. His temporary bed was soon as comfortable as he could get it on the hard narrow couch that was at least eighteen inches too short. He stripped off his borrowed robe and then, at the last minute, decided to pay a final visit to the bathroom.

He found Doyle leaning on the wall outside the closed bedroom door. "Legs given up, have they?" he asked quietly, seeing the sudden start his appearance gave the tired man.

"Thought you'd gone to bed," Doyle said wearily wishing he'd had the courage to open the door in front of him.

"Come on, Sunshine--it's just a bit further," Kelly slipped his arm around the drooping shoulders and began to steer Doyle towards the bedroom at the end of the hall.

"I can manage!" protested Doyle, wishing fervently that Kelly would go away.

"Of course you can, Sunshine," agreed Kelly mildly as he opened the bedroom door.

"Don't call me that!" Doyle snapped waspishly. "Everyone calls me that--Bodie always calls me that--don't like people using that name...every bloody Tom, Dick n' 'arry calls me Sunshine. Me name's Ray, not Sunshine, Ray!!"

"Into bed, Ray," Kelly said smoothly. "That's the lad. Go to sleep mate, see you in the morning." Tugging the covers up over the motionless body he saw that Doyle was already fast asleep. "'Night, Sunshine," he repeated, a laugh in his voice. "Sweet dreams."

About to switch off the light and leave the room, Kelly's searching glance swept over the small huddle lying neatly on one side of the huge bed. Without further ado he returned to the lounge to switch off the lights, paid his visit to the bathroom and then padded back to the room at the end of the hall. Doyle didn't stir as Kelly lifted the corner of the duvet and slid underneath it. In moments the only sounds in the flat was of the regular breathing of three sleeping men.

---

As usual on mornings when he had no reason to get up early Bodie woke just after seven o'clock. As on the previous morning his first conscious thought was to wonder where Doyle had gone. But memory soon returned and he rolled over burying his face in the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. But sleep evaded him and he found it impossible to remain lounging in bed. Listening at the door he found the flat to be quiet and he stepped into the hall.

Through the half open door leading to the lounge, Bodie saw the foot of the sofa draped with blankets and realised Kelly had stayed the night. The knowledge did little to improve his mood.

Helping himself to some coffee, Bodie reconsidered Friday's argument. It had undoubtedly been the worst so far but he was now uncertain exactly why it had started. He was pleased that Ray was making more friends and building a life for himself that consisted of more than simply work and Bodie; but he had to admit that he had not been prepared for the demands the team would make on their newest recruit. Just lately it had felt that every spare evening, afternoon or day they had, Doyle would take off with Pat Kelly or Fergie and vanish to the ranges. Even a quiet drink in the bar of the sports centre would turn into another pre-tournament discussion with Bodie being pushed to the edge as one or more members of the team passed by their table and then joined them.

Bodie knew that he should have enquired why they received such an unexpected weekend off a month ago but, delighted to get Doyle to himself for a full forty-eight hours, the notion to question his good fortune was forgotten. But, hardening his resolve not to give in, Bodie decided that Doyle still should have asked him if he wanted to go along to the tournament--even if he did want to see his partner and lover competing for the first time the man had no right to assume he would follow him blindly.

Checking his watch, he wondered what time Ray would wake up. Moving silently to the lounge door he listened for any sounds indicating Kelly was awake or about to wake up but heard nothing. Once outside Doyle's bedroom door, though, he reconsidered his actions. Doyle, he knew from experience, woke like a sleepy dormouse: fluffy, cuddly, happy and none too bright. The argument had gone on long enough, though; two nights sleeping alone would, Bodie was sure, be enough to make Doyle eager to make up. Smiling a smug little smile, Bodie knew he was willing to accept any apology his lover wanted to make. Making up was the only good part of having an argument, he decided. Looking back over his shoulder once last time to the silent, darkened lounge, Bodie decided it was worth the risk; besides, he could always gag Doyle if he made too much noise.

Pushing the door open, Bodie quickly slipped inside and closed it behind him. Then he turned towards the bed, and his words of greeting froze on his lips. Unable to believe his eyes he took two more steps closer to the bed. Through a red haze he saw two heads resting together on the same pillow; Kelly and Doyle snuggled together cosily like two spoons. Fists clenching, Bodie moved to strip the cover back and expose the sleeping lovers but a saner, practical part of his mind took over, stopping the action. Too angry to move, Bode stared down, taking in every little detail, the way Kelly's body curved so precisely around Doyle's; the way Ray was holding Kelly's arm around his waist--just the way he usually held Bodie.

Knowing that if he took one more step towards the two men he would injure them seriously, his fury too strong to control, he managed to back towards the door. Finding the handle with numb fingers, he managed to lever it open and make his escape into the empty hall. The door closed behind him with a sharp click.

He could barely comprehend what his eyes had seen: Ray sleeping in their bed with another man. How could he, Bodie thought in a sick daze. It had taken him over two years to coax Doyle into his bed and now, after one stupid little argument he was able to take a new lover into the bed they shared. Had the row meant that much to Doyle, he wondered bleakly. Had he underestimated his partner's recovery and developing personality that much?

The sound of movement from inside the bedroom sent Bodie running into the kitchen from where he watched the bedroom door open.

---

Awakening with a sudden jump, Kelly felt disoriented, the bed and unfamiliar room puzzling until he discovered he was wrapped snugly around Ray Doyle. Remembering where he was, he snuggled back down, moving closer to the warm body pressed close along his length, smiling as he felt Doyle react to his movement and wriggle a little as he tugged Kelly's arm more securely over his body. If it hadn't been for one thick curl brushing the end of his nose in a most irritating fashion Kelly knew he could easily fall back to sleep; but then he began to notice other things, he felt hot and sticky where his chest, belly and legs were touching Doyle's bare skin and, not surprisingly his bladder was making itself felt. Once noticed, the desire to pee would not be ignored and so, reluctantly, he withdrew from the snug nest.

Upright beside the bed, Pat Kelly yawned and scratched belly and bum before stretching to relieve his cramped limbs. He could, he decided, do with a nice shower and wondered whether Doyle would mind if he just helped himself to a few things. Turning to look once more at the sleeping man, he opened the chest of drawers and helped himself to some clean pants and socks, guessing that as he wasn't that much bigger than his host they were bound to fit. More awake now, he realised that the waistband of his briefs felt damp and uncomfortable. Deciding to invite Doyle round for the night the next time his central heating and electric blanket died on him, Kelly slipped the damp cotton down his legs and tossed them onto the end of the bed before stepping naked into the hallway to find the shower. Stumbling bleary-eyed into the hall he saw Bodie standing, framed against the bright morning sunlight in the kitchen doorway. "Morning, Bodie," he mumbled around a huge yawn and then disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

---

Opening his eyes in time to see the door being pulled shut, Doyle heard the mumbled greeting. At first he thought he was dreaming as he could still feel the solid bulk of Bodie along his back and the weight of an arm draped protectively over him. Rolling over, eyes opening fully, he felt the warmth in the vacant space beside him and saw the dent another head had made in the pillow.

Relieved that Bodie had seen sense and come to join him, Doyle couldn't help but think of the risk he'd taken with Kelly sleeping in the other room. Awake now, he knew that the sound that roused him had been Bodie going to meet Kelly. Satisfied that there was no danger, he snuggled sleepily back under the duvet and wondered whether Bodie would reappear with a large breakfast tray as he usually did when they had lazy mornings.

As the minutes ticked by he grudgingly acknowledge that with Kelly wandering about it had been pretty daft to expect breakfast--or anything else--in bed. He got up and went to find Bodie.

---

The sight of Pat Kelly emerging, naked and tousled from Ray's bedroom, rooted Bodie to the spot, his instinct to grab the man and throw him through the nearest wall held back only because he had no wish to get put away for murder. The fact that Kelly locked the bathroom door probably saved his life.

By degrees, though, the red hot blazing rage consuming Bodie calmed until he was still furious but now cold and detached, his anger directed towards Ray as he wondered over and over again how the man had the gall to deliberately flaunt his affair. A worm of jealousy crawled through Bodie making him question whether this really was the first time Doyle had deceived him. How long had he and Kelly been sleeping together?

Numb, Bodie turned back into the kitchen and sat down on one of the chairs. He should have known, he told himself. He had seen Doyle's growing self-confidence over the past two years, why should he be so surprised to discover he was also developing sexual confidence--hadn't that been what he had been working so hard to achieve, Bodie asked himself. He should have known Doyle would want to move on to newer more exciting relationships once his sexuality had been awakened.

A noise from behind him sent him spinning around to discover Doyle entering the room.

"Mornin' lover," whispered Doyle huskily as he bent down to kiss the open mouth.

Reeling under the impact of Doyle's closeness and the tender kiss, Bodie couldn't formulate an answer.

"Is Pat in the shower?"

Bodie managed a tight nod.

"You took one hell of a risk last night," Doyle said, not noticing the blank expression. "But I'm so pleased you did. I'm sorry about Friday--you're right. It's wrong of me to assume you're going to follow me around everywhere. I won't do it again, I promise." Looking away briefly to check the bathroom door was still closed, Doyle risked another swift kiss. "I hate sleeping alone. Thanks, for coming in last night--I wanted to get in with you only Pat came out and found me at your door just as I was plucking up the courage to go in," he confessed cheerfully.

The bathroom door opened just then and Bodie was unable to answer. Pat Kelly, dressed only in borrowed pants and socks, padded unselfconsciously into the kitchen.

"Morning everyone," he said. "Anything to drink--I'm dying of thirst--hungry too, anything to eat? Oh Ray, I've checked the airing cupboard, my shirt's dry but my jeans are still wet--got anything I can borrow?"

"Not that would fit you--you're nearer to Bodie's size," replied Doyle as he sized up the nearly naked man before him. "Bodie?"

"What?" Startled out of his bewilderment, Bodie just looked askance at his partner.

"Can Pat borrow a pair of your cords?" Doyle repeated patiently.

Looking at the man helping himself to milk from the fridge, Bodie wondered why the hell not--Kelly was already wearing his underpants and socks. "Sure," he agreed sullenly.

"Ta, Bodie mate. Tea or coffee anyone?" Kelly asked politely.

Frostily declining, Bodie returned to his bedroom on the pretext of getting some clothes for their guest. Alone he sank down onto the bed as the shock and relief hit him; if Ray ever found out how quick he had been to believe the worst he would go mad. His suspicions returned to haunt him though as he thought of how cosily Kelly had snuggled up to his partner; even if Ray had truly believed he was sleeping with his lover--and he didn't doubt the guileless, open expression on Doyle's face--what had Kelly done to make him believe he was Bodie!

The sound of laughter from the kitchen drew his attention, grating on his nerves. He had never liked Pat Kelly and couldn't for the life of him see what Ray found so interesting in the man. Sorting through his wardrobe he pulled an old pair of cords out and decided they would do; he re-entered the kitchen in time to see the two men--both clad in underpants and socks--standing shoulder to shoulder and peering out of the window.

"See, I said it wouldn't look so bad in the morning," Ray was saying.

"I'd better not hang about too long--if I leave it there the local vandals will think it's been dumped!" Kelly said miserably aware of the sorry looking condition of his car.

"Leave it to me, Pat," Doyle consoled. "I'll tell Cowley about it when I give him my report. I'll claim for the damages, you shouldn't be out of pocket on my account."

"Bloody right I shouldn't. Next time you visit The Brewers you can bloody well take your own car there!"

"I don't bother taking the car, usually go by tube--I've got more sense than to park in that area!"

Hearing the pub's name Bodie's ears pricked up. He'd heard something about The Brewers before.

Seeing Bodie arrive, Doyle changed the subject abruptly, asking if he wanted any breakfast; puzzled but not unduly worried by the sharp 'no' he received, he returned to the table and finished off the toast he'd made for himself and Pat. Confident a little while later that Kelly's attention was elsewhere, he smiled encouragingly in Bodie's direction, but when that met with no response decided that whilst his lover had given up sleeping in lonely comfort, he hadn't been forgiven completely. Sighing heavily, Doyle munched through the last piece of toast. In a way it was a pity Kelly was there, for he would have liked to get the row patched up properly before he left to go to the tournament--but there was no time and, as Doyle noticed, Bodie seemed determined to give him no opportunity to speak privately.

As they dressed and tidied the place up, Doyle's resentment at Bodie's distant detachment grew to the point where, even if they had found five minutes to be alone together he was damned if he was going to make the first move.

It wasn't until the two men left the flat, Doyle only just bothering to call out a vague, "Goodbye, see you tonight sometime," that Bodie knew he was going to go and watch them shoot. It wasn't that he didn't trust Doyle, he told himself, because he did. It was Kelly he wanted to keep an eye on; Doyle was just far too trusting, he thought--and then realised he had forgotten to ask either man where the damn tournament was taking place!

---

Keeping himself out of sight in the observation deck, Bodie peered through the crowd of figures milling about for his partner. He actually saw Kelly first and then the slighter figure standing alongside him. From the scoreboard Bodie could understand why the men looked so glum; the tournament was half over and CI5 was trailing a weak third with CI4 limping twenty points behind keeping them out of last place. MI6 was way out in front with MI5 fifty points behind the leaders but thirty points ahead of CI5. Pride in his own department surfaced and Bodie found himself quietly cheering the team on--if they were beaten by MI5 or MI6 they would never hear the last of it.

Then the scores of the individual participants were chalked up, the new results sending a ripple of excitement through the small audience and competitors. The gap between MI5 and CI5 had closed and, with only the doubles left to go, there was now only ten points between second and third place.

Watching Doyle approach his mark, don ear defenders and take aim was a new experience for Bodie. He was familiar with indoor ranges and practised a fair amount himself but not, he knew, to the same standard as the men shooting here today. The precision and careful aim of these marksmen had no place in the world he worked in; targets that were inclined to shoot back gave you little time for pinpoint accuracy. Stopping a living target before it could kill you was all that was required.

Doyle and Kelly shot alternately at three distances; to Bodie's eye Doyle appearing to be more confident but Kelly firing faster. When the scores for the CI5 men were totalled another buzz ran round the enclose area and two grim-faced MI5 men took their places on their marks.

The appalled expression on one of the MI5 men's face and the way Macklin grabbed Doyle and Kelly into a bearhug told Bodie as much as he needed to know about the score. As the final two pairs stood to their marks it seemed as if the whole range was holding its collective breath.

When the last of the shots rang out no-one moved or spoke, everyone waiting for the CI4 and MI6 scores to be totalled. Pandemonium broke out as the adjudicator started speaking and Bodie strained to see the final scores being chalked up. MI6 was in first place with CI5, boosted by the almost perfect doubles score, in a good second, CI4 who also scored well in the doubles coming third and MI5 bringing up the rear, missing even a face-saving third position by a mere five points.

Leaving the observation deck, Bodie walked down to the CI5 team, who were too busy hugging and slapping each other in congratulations to notice him at first.

"Next year," Kelly was yelling above all the noise. "We'll get 'em next year!"

It was Peter Ellis, flushed with his own excitement at scoring a personal best at his first tournament, who saw Bodie and pointed him out to Ray.

Disentangling himself from his team mates, Doyle crossed over to the barrier separating the audience and competitors.

"Well done," Bodie said.

"Didn't win," Doyle replied, pulling a face.

"What's wrong with second place--didn't really expect to beat MI6 did you? Those buggers are bloody good." Bodie had been quietly impressed by the team's efforts.

"Maybe next year, we'll have had more chance to work as a team then," Doyle was saying, eyes sparking and alive with excitement. "This was just a trial run--you wait and see."

"You did okay this year," Bodie said, his voice becoming quieter as they found they could speak underneath all the other noises.

"How long were you watching, when did you arrive?" asked Doyle, his face softening to reveal his pleasure at Bodie's presence.

"I got here just as the singles were finishing. I saw you and Pat shoot. You were good, both of you," he added, pride forcing him to be honest.

Doyle flushed at the praise. "Thanks to Pat. I'm still a bit rusty at tournament shooting. It's been nearly six years since my last competition. That's a long time," he added, his expression darkening at the memory of those wasted years.

"Have you..." Bodie floundered, suddenly uncertain of his welcome. He knew now that he had no reason to be jealous of Kelly, and that his ugly suspicions were totally without foundation, but he did wonder if he had lost the right to expect Doyle's company.

"Have I what?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"Do you want to--I mean, are you going celebrating with your friends...or would you like to come home with me," he finished then quickly added, "I'd like to go home. Just us...."

"Well," Doyle hesitated, looking from Bodie's downbent head and back to his team mates before deciding. "I can't just vanish. How about one quick drink with the rabble and then you can take me home?"

Looking up and smiling at the intimate tone, Bodie agreed immediately. "Just one drink," he added, knowing how that lot could drink when they set their minds to it.

Understanding what Bodie meant, Doyle grinned and agreed, just one.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It didn't prove too difficult to escape from the team's celebrations; feigning a headache and the prospect of a heavy day at work in the morning, Doyle managed to escape the party fairly early. But the tension caused by the argument had not vanished completely and both men still felt they were right in some aspects if wrong in others and neither was willing to concede totally to the other.

Once home, though, they began to relax but by unspoken consent chose not to talk about Friday night; the argument was ignored if not forgotten. It wasn't until he saw Ray struggling to put the extra blankets away that Bodie decided to tell him exactly where Pat Kelly had spent the night.

"What!" Doyle asked, mouth agape and his arms fill of bedding as he fought with the cupboard door. "But it was you--wasn't it?"

"Nope," replied Bodie, enjoying the shock and dawning outrage on his partner's expressive face.

"All night!"

"I expect so," laughed Bodie. "He certainly looked cosy enough all snuggled up to you when I looked in on you both." He leant forward and helped push the final blanket onto the shelf and shut the door before pulling Doyle into his arms.

"I thought he slept on the sofa--when I woke up I thought it was you going out of the door!" Doyle shivered and turned around to return the strong embrace. "You mean you came into the room and saw him...saw him and me in bed together--why the hell didn't you say something? Bodie?" he asked sharply, suddenly realising that the discovery must have been a terrible shock to his lover.

"Didn't trust myself," Bodie confessed, his voice thick with remembered shame. "Didn't dare go near you--either of you--in case I...in case I did something--hurt you. I didn't dare do anything!"

"Hurt me?" Pushing himself free of the embrace Doyle looked up, his eyes suddenly hard. "You really thought I knew it wasn't you. That I--that I'd deliberately gone to bed with Pat--that me and him--that we'd had sex in our bed!" Bodie nodded. "You thought I'd brought him home to our flat, to our bed just to spite you!" Doyle's voice caught Bodie by surprise, the icy scorn and anger not what he had been expecting. "It's so nice to know how little faith you have in me--let go of me!"

"No, listen, please listen to me--it wasn't like that!" Bodie said quickly.

"Then how was it, Bodie?" Doyle asked as he twisted out of the tight grasp and sent a chair crashing to the floor as he backed away.

"It was only for a few minutes--until you came out of the bedroom and I realised you thought Pat had been me."

Doyle just looked at him, a hard unrelenting stare that burned through Bodie then, eyes glittering brightly and with an ugly smile growing on his lips he said, "And how do you know for sure that I wasn't lying?"

For a moment, for one terrible, awful moment the possibility flared in Bodie's mind but then he knew Doyle was not and never could be that calculating--but already it was too late, his momentary doubt revealed itself on his face. "Ray! Ray wait--come back a minute...Ray!"

"Go fuck yourself," Doyle hissed at him. "If you have so little trust in me, it's not worth trying, is it?"

Bodie let him go to the bedroom and flinched as the door slammed shut in his face as he tried to follow. Christ, what a mess, he thought as he sank down onto a chair back in the quiet lounge. It was all his fault. If only he knew for sure that Ray was as content in their relationship as he was; if only he didn't feel that as soon as Ray was fully recovered mentally as well as physically, he would leave. When it came down to it he found it hard to accept that Ray Doyle would want to continue their affair once he found his feet again. What, Bodie asked himself grimly, could he offer his lover? Less than six months ago Ray had been looking forward to becoming a husband and a father--even though he denied still holding those dreams and said he was content to be with him, Bodie couldn't accept that. There were still parts of Ray Doyle he had no access to; Ray kept holding him off, refusing to let him get too close and each failure, each rejection was like a slap in the face, another reminder that he wasn't quite what Doyle was searching for.

Returning to the firmly closed door, Bodie knew that if he wanted to keep Doyle he was going to have to reveal the depth of his feelings. Remembering his own angry words of Friday night, he knocked on the door and waited patiently until he was finally answered.

"Come in," Doyle called out quietly: he didn't look up from the magazine that was spread out on the bed in front of him. "What do you want?" he asked without enthusiasm when Bodie made no move to come closer to the bed or to speak.

"I--I want to tell you something," he began hesitantly.

"Such as?" enquire Doyle archly, licking his thumb and turning a page.

"Do you..." Bodie coughed and cleared his throat. "Do you have any idea how long I've--I've loved you?"

Doyle looked up then, his expression softening as he saw the extent of his partner's unhappiness. "No," he replied in a softer voice.

Encouraged, Bodie cleared his throat, focussed on one shabby trainer that was lying under the small chest of drawers and began to open his heart. "At first, in the beginning when Cowley first teamed us I thought you wouldn't last more than a week. But I was wrong, and I soon realised that you had guts. From then it wasn't too long before I began to realise--before I let myself realise how much I cared about you. I hated seeing you hurting or unhappy--and then when you told me about Kingsley--Christ, but I wanted to go out, find the bastard and kill him.

"Once you were officially on the squad, as soon as we started working together I trusted you...with my life. Did you know that you are my first partner? Cowley knows I prefer working solo--I thought he'd flipped when he assigned me to you but he was right, we're a good team." He coughed and cleared his throat and risked a quick glance towards Doyle. He found a pair of disconcerting green eyes regarding him intently, one page of the magazine still held between thumb and forefinger. "Caring about you--keeping you safe...it became important to me that you were happy as well. Then Ann came along and I was scared that I was going to lose you. It was then I realised that I loved you--but I couldn't say anything. You loved Ann--I was just someone you worked with--" he broke off as Doyle gave a small gasp. "But like I said, by then it was too late and I already loved you. I only wanted you to be happy and after hearing what you'd gone through in prison--I knew you'd never want me--not in the way I want you to--and so I was pleased for you. After all that happened it was only right that you should have some happiness with Ann.

"I'm sorry--sorry that it didn't work out how you wanted it--but...that's life," Bodie shrugged. "Then, once Ann was...gone...you needed me more than before and I--god help me, I'm sorry but I liked that, I liked having you need me, depending on me. It made me feel...good. Wanted.

"But even then I never believed you would want the same things I did...do. Until that night you let me kiss you and we ended up in bed together--I thought I'd died and gone to heaven," he said, not noticing his voice had broken and he was crying. "Since then...every time we make love I still think it's...unreal. I can't believe you're going to keep on wanting me...I know I was taking advantage of you, you were depending on me to keep you safe. And I--I abused that...I used you when you were vulnerable. The last month or so, since we moved here and since you came back to work with me...you've changed. Everyone's noticed--you're much stronger--you don't need me anymore...and I'm scared of losing you--I don't want that to happen--I don't want to lose you!"

During the halting monologue Doyle had remained motionless, at first not really listening but then listening to each word, seeing the way Bodie meant everything he said and beginning to understand why he'd behaved as he had. But, the words were nothing when he saw the strain speaking them was having on Bodie; he had never seen him cry before and the stream of big, fat tears rolling unnoticed down his face were all the proof Doyle needed of his sincerity.

"Ah...Bodie," he sighed, rose from the bed and crossed the room to the door, pulling his lover into a hard, crushing embrace. "You...you bloody great idiot, Bodie," he said, burying his face in the warm throat and shoulder. "How many times do I have to tell you I love you, I bloody love you, you great fool you!"

"I'm sorry, Ray."

"Shh," soothed Doyle, rubbing his hands over the tense back. "I do love you, Bodie, and I'm going nowhere. Of course I still need you--what the hell would I do without you?"

"Don't know," Bodie said, sniffing loudly.

"Just because it took me a bit longer to realise how fucking loveable you are doesn't mean I love you any less, you stupid great--cretin!"

"I love you too," Bodie said, sniffing again and trying to wriggle free.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a bloody hankie!" retorted Bodie as he cuffed the revealing tears away on the back of his sleeve and hoping that whatever god was listening that Doyle hadn't seen them.

Doyle pulled the sleeve away and dabbed at the damp cheeks with the edge of his own sleeve. "That's okay then. Have you really loved me since...since I met up with Ann again?" Bodie looked straight at him and nodded. "What if things had been different," he asked quietly. "What then?"

"I'd have made a bloody good best man and a terrific godfather," Bodie replied, a weak smile on his face.

Doyle didn't say anything, he just looked at him, his face serious and his own eyes suspiciously bright. "For what it's worth I'm pleased to have you as my lover; you'd 'ave been a great best man but...that's probably because you are the best man, and I'm glad you're mine," he ended fiercely, his hands gripping Bodie's arms tightly as if he would never let him go again.

Later that night they held each other in bed like children seeking comfort; arms wrapped around each other, both held and holding the other securely, holding, touching and loving, needing to know that the other was there; safe and sound and there.

---

In the morning it was Doyle who woke up first, twisting in the loose grasp to check on the time and subsiding gratefully next to Bodie when he saw they had hours to spare before reporting to George Cowley.

Usually it was Bodie who woke first and so Doyle was able to indulge in a rare pleasure and watch his lover sleep. He found it strange to see the familiar face, normally guarded, so open and relaxed and decided it made Bodie look impossibly young, the dark blue shadow on his cheeks and around his slightly open mouth doing little to detract from the illusion.

In the quiet bedroom he remembered every word that passed between them yesterday and felt his heart twist painfully at the pressure his partner must have been under to have spoken so frankly. Of the two of them Doyle knew he was the lucky one; all he'd had to do was wait to be loved while Bodie had been forced to watch him almost throw himself away into an affair doomed to fail even without Charles Holly's assistance.

Bodie had given him everything; time, patience, love and himself totally and without reservation. So far Doyle knew all he had done was take what had been offered. Maybe, he thought pressing his mouth to Bodie's, it was time to change all that.

Waking up to the feel of hands roaming over his body was enough of a shock without having his mouth taken in a deep searching kiss. Pulling away from the warm body pressed so hard against him, Bodie opened his eyes and found Doyle wide awake and staring at him with a new intensity and purpose. "Ray?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep and confusion.

"Didn't think you were ever going to wake up," a sultry voice replied.

"Ray--"

"What do you want?" breathed Ray.

"Ray? Get off for a sec...let me wake up!" He protested weakly as hands burrowed under the covers and sought him out.

"You're already up, sweetheart," said Doyle, a giggle bubbling up in his throat.

"Ray! Give over!" admonished Bodie. "Let me wake up first--christ, I'm hot!"

"So am I," purred Doyle and he bent his head to lick the spot where soft skin became bristly with whiskers.

"What?" Bodie did a double take as he finally surfaced enough to see the state his partner was in. "What's got into you?"

"Nothing--yet," smiled Doyle. "How about it?"

"What--you mean..." Bodie gasped as he understood the breathy invitation. "Now?"

"No time like the present."

"Oh my god," groaned Bodie. "Ray, I can't--not right now!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Give us a chance, love--I need to be wide awake for that and...and besides--I need to pee," he ended plaintively.

Subsiding onto the bed, all guile and seductive manner gone, Doyle groaned. "God preserve us from insistent bladders!"

"I'm sorry," Bodie apologised. "Just...keep it going 'til I get back."

"Forget it mate, me pot's just gone off the boil," Doyle said in a resigned voice. "Bloody typical, this is," he called out as Bodie headed for the bathroom. "I finally decide to surrender my virginity and you're desperate for a bleedin' piss!"

The shouted complaint did little to alleviate the problem Bodie was having in the bathroom; it was very difficult, no matter how near to bursting your bladder felt, to wee with a full-size morning erection. Even the cold floor tiles failed to help and in desperation Bodie was forced to turn the basin tap on and concentrate on pure thoughts. Relief was slow to arrive.

"Need any help?" Doyle asked sweetly, appearing at his elbow as he moved to flush the loo.

"No thank you," he replied politely.

"Thought you'd vanished down the S-bend."

Bodie smiled affectionately and ruffled the tangled, unkempt curls.

"I do hope you've already washed your hands," Doyle said, enjoying the feel of Bodie touching him.

"I can still smell the ranges on you," Bodie said, breathing in the scent of the man in his arms. "Sweat, cordite...and Ray Doyle, heady stuff."

"Is that a polite way of telling me I stink?" asked an aggrieved voice. Last night a shower had been the last thing on either man's mind.

"No. No more than usual--ouch!" Bodie doubled over as a sharp jab caught him in his middle.

"And you can stop looking for the sympathy vote--I didn't hit you that hard. We've got time for a shower now, haven't we?" Doyle was already pulling Bodie down the hall towards the shower room.

"Oh--but I thought we were going to--" Bodie began, his disappointment all too clear.

"We will," promised Doyle. "And then we can have another shower."

Unable to believe what he thought Doyle was offering him, Bodie allowed himself to be pushed under the shower where he stood passive under hands that soaped his body, touching, cleansing and arousing him at the same time.

The aggressor from the beginning, Doyle set the pace, teasing and exciting Bodie but refusing to take it through to its conclusion, hands and mouth backing away at the last minute over and over again until, desperate for it to end, Bodie knocked the teasing hands away.

Still waiting for Doyle to stop him at any moment, Bodie became more demanding, his excitement growing even more as he felt Doyle become pliant and accepting of his needs. Turning him slowly under the shower jet, Bodie pressed him hard against the wall as he took possession of his mouth in a kiss that left them both dizzy and gasping for air. Hands fondling the upthrust sex and heavy sensitive sacs, Bodie sank to his knees to take Doyle's cock into his mouth, his elbows pushing the strong legs further apart as his fingers sought and found the entrance to Doyle's body.

Helplessly aroused by his own submission and the expert mouth, Doyle almost screamed as first one, then two fingers entered him and he opened his legs further, inviting them to discover and touch even more of him.

Feeling the trembling body shudder violently, Bodie pressed against the inner gland again, prepared this time when Doyle's knees gave out and he slid down the wall.

"Ray?" Bodie asked breathlessly. "Ray?"

Opening his eyes, Doyle knew that the moment had come and felt his heart beat a little faster. "Here?"

"Can't wait... Please?"

Seeing the desperate heat in the blue eyes, Doyle knew he had made him wait too long already and so gave a tight nod. As he was kissed again and probing fingers slid across his buttocks delving into him, he flinched but tried to relax.

Reaching up to cut the shower off, Bodie grabbed at the tube of jelly he'd been keeping for this occasion and squeezed some onto his fingers, claiming the hot mouth and tight arse at the same time.

Losing himself in the rhythm of the fingers inside him, Doyle felt their sudden loss keenly and was about to voice his complaint when Bodie turned him around, strong deft hands spinning him to face the wall.

"Kneel down, Ray." Bodie tugged on his hips, dragging him down and pulling him into position. Doyle did as he was told but tried to turn around to face the man who was manipulating him so precisely. "Turn back," Bodie ordered, one hand pushing on the twisting shoulders as slick fingers pierced his centre again. A second finger joined the first and then, for the first time a third, pressing in and opening him up; he tried again to turn round to see Bodie, to share the new sensations with him but an impatient voice told him to keep still.

"Bodie," he whispered, his face only inches from the stark white-tiled wall. "Let me turn round, please Bodie. I want to turn round..." The need to face him, to watch as these new things were done to his body grew stronger until it overwhelmed the pleasure rising in him. He hardly felt the fingers disappear, feeling only that now there was another anchor on his hip holding him down. The pressure against his anus became painful and he cried out.

"Okay...okay sunshine," Bodie rasped, moving as slowly as he could, then remaining motionless a while to allow Doyle to adjust to the invader. "Stay still--don't move," he said, holding him tightly. "You'll only...hurt yourself...don't move," and then he pushed in a little further, rocking his hips slightly, retreating before going on, pressing in.

Doyle felt as if he were suffocating, his heart thudding so hard and so loud in his chest he felt sure Bodie would hear it and feel it and stop--but the pressure inside him grew harder and hotter and the grip holding him down became tighter and tighter and, all at once he knew he had to see Bodie, he had to watch as his lover did this to him.

"Keep still!" Bodie hissed, pushing the squirming body back round. "You'll hurt yourself!" he said, feeling the struggling body impale itself, sinking almost to the hilt in Doyle's body, and he collapsed heavily onto the twisting, heaving body, his arms locking around his lover as he braced to begin the final slow thrusts that would take him to the edge and over.

The sudden unexpected weight settling on his back sent Doyle crashing, face first, onto the bathroom floor, his right cheek catching the raised lip of the shower stall, the flare of pain, the sudden weight of the faceless invader sending him spiralling back through time to another cold tile floor, the grunts of arousal, the painful grip of bruising fingers and the terrifying knowledge of what was happening to him.

Lost in the haze that still engulfed him, Bodie did not notice that the bucking, squirming body beneath him was fighting to get away from him and not closer, each movement only adding to his own pleasure and growing excitement.

"Don't--no, please don't...don't... No, stop--stop! Please..."

The harsh words barely penetrated Bodie's consciousness as he swept headlong toward a shattering climax, only on the final, forceful thrust before he froze, feeling his balls tighten the second before they erupted did he actually hear the words.

"No... No--don't! Please...don't!"

As climax ripped through him Bodie was sickeningly aware of the scream of denial that burst from Doyle's throat. "Ray? Ray!" Withdrawing even before the final spasm drained his cock, sending a burst of semen across the exposed buttocks, Bodie tried to turn Doyle over and discovered that even now he was still fighting.

"No! No! Don't do it...please don't...no...no..."

"Ray! It's over--it's all over-- Oh christ! Ray, I'm sorry," he cried out, fighting against the flailing arms to pull Doyle towards him.

"Don't touch me! Don't--don't touch me!" Doyle screamed in his face. "Someone's coming--they'll hear--they'll stop you--you can't do this to me...can't...mustn't...please don't.."

Puzzled, Bodie sat back and watched as Doyle tried to crawl away from him. "Ray--there's no one else here--just you and me," he said slowly. "Let me help you--" but Doyle backed away into the corner, crying and hitting the outstretched hands away.

"Screw's coming...you can't do this...screw'll stop it--he'll stop you...can't...can't..." Doyle gasped between huge gulping great breaths.

It was like a light going on inside Bodie's head. Hearing the garbled words and seeing the unfocussed eyes he understood--Doyle was trapped in a waking nightmare and thought he was back in Maidstone at the mercy of his would-be rapists. "Ray--"

"No!" Doyle screamed furiously, huddling into a ball in the corner of the shower.

Confused and frightened himself, Bodie didn't know what to do for the best. Backing away, he ran to the bedroom and grabbed his dressing gown, thinking that perhaps his nudity was only adding to the problem. On his way back to the shower room he grabbed a huge bathsheet out of the airing cupboard. Doyle was still pressed hard into the corner of the cold, tiled wall, trembling violently, and he flinched away from the offered towel and turned his face into the wall.

"Sweetheart...it's...it's me, Bodie...it's only me, love," Bodie said softly and he tried to wrap the towel around the naked man but Doyle seemed intent on burrowing through the wall. Realising Doyle was no longer aware of his surroundings and was still lost in his terror, Bodie closed the gap between them, ignoring the whimpering wounded animal Ray had become and tried to break down the barriers between him and reality.

Once his nakedness was covered Doyle seemed more conscious of his actions but the petrified fear remained on his face and in his eyes, the image burning through Bodie's self control and forcing him to accept that he had brought Doyle to this. Everything he had done for his partner since their very first meeting had been ruined by his impatience, his need to possess all Doyle had. He had seen the same desperate fear in Ray's eyes once before--and that had been his fault as well--when he had pinned him to the wall, held him down to be forcibly sedated, tranquillised and imprisoned.

Half carrying, half dragging him, Bodie struggled to get his precious burden out of the shower room, steering him into the nearest bedroom and settling him on the double bed. Not trusting himself to speak, not possessing the words that could make everything right again, Bodie patted the damp, shaking body with a corner of the enveloping towel--Doyle passive under his hands but still flinching if he moved too fast.

Shock, Bodie thought numbly when he saw the wide open eyes that watched his every move, the grey face and continuous shudders that racked the lean frame--not aware that he was exhibiting the same symptoms himself. Shock, it was only to be expected, he thought, a distant and far removed part of his mind continuing to function normally; rape would cause shock.

Rape.

For over two years he had fooled himself into thinking he was Doyle's protector and now he knew the truth; even Albert Kingsley, for all his evil games, had never managed to rape Doyle.

But he had. He could remember feeling the wriggling, squirming body trying to get free of him; trying to get away. He remembered holding the bony hips even tighter and thrusting into the gloriously tight channel as he forced himself into Doyle.

He could remember raping him. Very clearly.

Backing away from the curled figure on the bed Bodie knew that he had destroyed everything with his selfishness. Unable to bear the evidence of his crime, he fled from the room.

---

For a long time he just felt cold. Cold to his bones and then even deeper. Impossibly cold. And then he began to wonder where Bodie was. After a while the cold lessened but he felt no warmer and still he wondered about Bodie. Looking around, blinking at the morning sunshine that crept into the room warming his face, he wondered why everything looked so unfamiliar. Then he realised--he was in Bodie's room, on the spare bed. He lifted his head and looked around. "Bodie? Where are you? Bodie?"

But there was no answer. Puzzled, he sat up, wincing at the dull ache and sharp twinge of pain low in his back and then the reason why flooded back. But what had happened? The thought ran around inside his head. He recalled everything, every touch as the slick fingers manipulated him so cleverly, the heat burning his senses, the memory--even now--still warming him. But then Bodie had left him, he hadn't been there and all of a sudden the cold threatened to engulf him again but he slammed a door on the memory--Bodie had been there, of course he had been there--Bodie would make it all right--Bodie would explain everything and make it right. But where was he, Doyle thought, and how the hell did he wind up in Bodie's room? Pulling the big towel around himself and holding it closed he rose to his feet and walked stiffly toward the door. "Bodie--where are you?" On legs that were decidedly shaky he walked unsteadily into the hall. A soft noise caught his attention and he listened. He followed the direction of the soft repeated sounds to the bathroom where he found Bodie sitting on the floor, knees hugged to his chest and his face buried in his arms crying, his whole body shaking as he wept.

"Bodie?" Hearing the quiet voice Bodie looked up and Doyle gasped when he saw the red swollen eyes and blotch stained face. "What's wrong, love?" he asked, too stunned by the unexpected sight to move.

"Just--go away," Bodie said brokenly. "Go away."

"What?" Really concerned now, Doyle stepped into the bathroom but froze when Bodie's attitude suddenly changed.

"Didn't you hear me," Bodie shouted at him, his face contorted into a twisted parody of its usual good looks. "Don't you understand plain English? Go away. Get out and leave me alone. Just leave me alone!"

"But why?" asked Doyle, bewildered by his partner's behaviour. "What's wrong, tell me what's wrong."

"I said get out!" Bodie yelled and struggled to his feet. "Just...get the fuck out of here--get away from me!"

Doyle was unable to miss the loathing and hatred in the harsh voice and knew that Bodie meant every word. But what on earth had he done to hurt him so badly--and the realisation came crashing down. "Oh Bodie, I'm so sorry," he started, knowing that mere words could never repair the damage he'd done. "I don't know why I did that--I couldn't help it. It just...happened. I know I should have trusted you--but I couldn't--I'm sorry--"

"You're sorry!" Bodie repeated harshly, his voice thick with shame. "Oh god, you're sorry!" Fresh tears welled up in the already swollen eyes and he turned away to face the wall.

Seeing that Bodie was shutting him out Doyle panicked and crossed the few feet separating him to grab the broad shoulders and pull him around to face him. "I couldn't see you, Bodie--I knew it was you--but I couldn't see you," he shouted, he didn't even hear what he was saying, fear of losing Bodie and anger at himself for being so weak forcing the words out of him.

"What did you want to see, for christ's sake?" asked Bodie, his voice cracking again as huge sobs rose up from his chest. "You really wanted to see me fucking you--oh really! Well you didn't miss much. It wasn't very pretty...pretty ugly in fact. I'm sorry--I'm so sorry--"

Doyle refused to be shut out and pulled him into his arms, wrapping them both in the large towel. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said, steering them back towards his own room. Their room.

Pushing Bodie to sit down on the bed, Doyle dropped the towel and grabbed at his robe quickly, tugging it on before sitting down beside him, seating himself carefully and remembering again why he felt so sore; he smiled and wished he had been able to enjoy it. Next time, he thought, once I've sorted Bodie out.

But, as he tried to slip his arms around Bodie to offer whatever comfort he could, he suddenly stood up; Bodie seemed calmer and more in control but clearly tense and very agitated.

"It won't happen again," Bodie said, the words sounding like a very solemn promise. "I'll not touch you again, it'll never happen again--"

"Why?"

The question surprised Bodie and he seemed lost for words. Doyle had to repeat his question. "I'm not like...like him," Bodie said, his face twisting at the thought of the man.

"Like who?" asked Doyle, now even more puzzled.

"Kingsley! I'm not like him--I won't...I can't treat you like that...didn't mean to hurt--oh christ, go away, Doyle, just get away from me," he tried to push Doyle away but his arms were caught and held in a firm grip.

"Bert? Bert Kingsley?" repeated Doyle. "I know you're not like Bert--I don't understand what's wrong--"

"I'm not like him!" Bodie shouted. "And I won't treat you like he did--I won't--I can't treat you like some...animal!"

"Fine," Doyle said softly. "I never thought you would. Slowly, things were making sense; he now recognised the hatred and loathing in Bodie's face for what it was--Bodie didn't hate him, he hated himself. He glanced over at the clock and wondered how the hell he was going to sort the mess out before reporting to Cowley's office. Bodie saw him look at the time and thought he knew what Doyle was thinking.

"I'll ring in and tell them you're sick," he said in a hollow voice. "Do you--are you...you should see the doctor--"

"What for?" asked Doyle.

"You can't go in--I'll say you're sick."

"There's nothing wrong with me and I don't need a doctor."

"You must," Bodie insisted. "You could be--I hurt you--"

"I am not seeing a doctor," Doyle said flatly. "Bodie--will you please just calm down for a minute and listen to me--"

"But you must-- We can work out some story--he shouldn't make any report to Cowley--"

Doyle listened in amazement as Bodie began concocting an elaborate tale to tell the doctor that wouldn't reveal the true nature of their relationship. Bodie was insistent about the doctor but it was more than him just feeling protective and Doyle was at a loss as to why he felt a visit to the doctor was necessary. "Because you...fucked me?" he asked, the coarse word ugly and out of place in the quiet bedroom. When Bodie nodded he relaxed slightly. "I didn't notice you running off to see the doc the times I've done it to you. Hell, if every bloke who got himself screwed ran to the doctor the queue would go from--Lands End to John O'Groats!"

"Rape's different," Bodie said softly, so softly in fact that Doyle almost missed the words.

"Rape!" He felt his heart miss a beat. Was that what Bodie had thought? "Love, you didn't rape me."

"No?" Bodie's head snapped up, his eyes suddenly blazing. "Don't give me that--I know what I did."

"But it wasn't rape," Doyle repeated helplessly.

"Oh no--do you often get your jollies whimpering and cowering in the corner when someone tries to fuck you?" Bodie asked scornfully, furious with Doyle for trying to pretend he'd no objections to what had happened.

"But I wanted it--I wanted you, Bodie--you can't rape someone who's willing--"

"You like it like that?" Bodie snorted in disgust, it was impossible to believe and he wouldn't--couldn't--believe it, but he took in the assurances, twisted them around in his angry, hate-filled mind and threw them back out. "You must have been really disappointed then when that screw broke up your little party--or maybe you hoped he'd want a piece of your arse too--" Doyle's hand connected hard with Bodie's cheek, the slap loud in the stunned silence.

For a few minutes neither man moved nor spoke, the room silent save the sound of their rapid, hard breathing as they each fought for control. Eventually it was Doyle who broke the silence.

"I know you don't really believe that," he said quietly. "I'm not exactly sure what went wrong just now but one thing I do know--you did not rape me. I knew exactly what I wanted you to do to me this morning. I wanted you--all of you--to make love to me properly. To fuck me, screw me, bugger me--choose which ever words you want--but I wanted you to love me. Okay, I'll be the first to admit that I didn't...enjoy everything that happened in there--but whatever went wrong, whatever the reason, it was me; something inside me. I wanted you--but suddenly--oh, I don't know...I only remember feeling scared. Maybe I did freak out--I can't remember too clearly, but it wasn't you, Bodie." Doyle head his breath, willing his partner to believe him and sagging, his knees suddenly turning to jelly when he saw Bodie give a heavy sigh and turn to him, all the anger drained away leaving him looking tired and pale.

"Ray?" Bodie opened his arms, inviting but not expecting, and then holding on to him tightly.

---

Fully aware of the outcome of the shooting tournament, Cowley was not surprised to see a pale, drawn face sitting opposite him at the briefing; he had, however, expected the face to belong to Ray Doyle--it was rare to see Bodie looking so subdued. "Are you ill, 3.7?" he asked abruptly when it became obvious the man was barely paying attention.

"He's got a touch of something, sir," Doyle volunteered.

"Laryngitis I presume," replied Cowley and he glared at Doyle.

"I'm fine sir--just...had a rough night," Bodie offered, hoping to deflect Cowley's wrath.

"If this is what happens when the squad comes second--"

"I'll keep my eye on him when we win, sir, don't worry about that," Doyle interrupted, earning another baleful glare. "You were saying something about the Home Secretary, sir," he prompted his boss.

With a stare that would have had most men squirming in their seats, Cowley picked up his report and scanned it once more before resuming the briefing. It wasn't until he caught sight of the two men hours later in the small area that served as a canteen that Cowley realised he was seeing something different about the pair--but he was hard pressed to identify the difference.

Bodie still looked subdued, although the grey tinge had left his face and he moved easily, following Doyle, who was carrying a small tray with both their late dinners on it. As Cowley watched they settled at a table and Doyle leant across to whisper something to his partner; too far away to hear, he only knew that Doyle's words had the effect of making Bodie smile. He knew he was watching something unusual happening but still could not say what and not knowing annoyed him. Doyle leant forward and whispered something else which made Bodie laugh a little, the smile making his face light up from the inside.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Cowley felt as if he were spying on something intensely personal and private; unbidden, the pushed away memory of his discovery of the two men curled up together, sleeping on the old stained mattress in the warehouse, came back to him. Those two were close--but how close he didn't know. He thought he knew Doyle's history well enough to know that the Albert Kingsleys of the world had ensured he would never voluntarily adopt the role forced on him in prison--but seeing the two men as they ate and talked unaware they were being observed, George Cowley began to wonder.

---

Accepting the plate and mug, Bodie grinned at his partner. "Ta, me stomach thinks me throat's been cut."

"Your own fault, sunshine, should have eaten something this morning," responded Doyle with a told-you-so expression on his face. The reminder of the morning wiped the smile off Bodie's face. "Don't look like that. It'll be all right, you'll see," Doyle promised.

"Oh yeah--sure it will," Bodie replied, clearly unimpressed.

"Be fun working at it," Doyle said as he took a bite of his cheese roll.

"You think so?"

"Well, let's face it," Doyle said, fighting with a bit of tomato that was trying to escape onto his lap. "After this morning's fiasco you've got to admit that things can only get better."

"Be a bit hard to get any worse!" Bodie said glumly.

"Fuckin' impossible," agreed Doyle cheerfully and choosing his words with care.

Bodie grinned, his spirits lifting in the face of such persistent optimism. "Okay--but if it's all right with you I'd rather we didn't try again just yet--let's leave it for a while, shall we?"

Thinking about how very tender he was in one particular area, Doyle was forced to agree.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Macklin tied the final lace on his trainers and checked the time once more. They were cutting it a bit fine, he thought irritably. He viewed his allotted task for that day with a jaundiced eye; despite what the men thought otherwise, he enjoyed the inevitable refresher courses as little as his 'victims'. If they were operating at peak efficiency, they wouldn't need to come to him; therefore, their very names appearing on his work schedule meant they were lacking the fine cutting edge and it was his job to sharpen the blades once more. Failure to do any less could mean another unnecessary accident or death.

Macklin knew he could deal with Bodie; it was only Doyle who might now prove to be problem. A certain level of antagonism was necessary--crucial even--if he was to force the right response from the agents. Sometimes it was easy to provoke them into a serious attack or defence; at other times it was less so. It was never easy with Doyle, who remained a determinedly defensive fighter and, following their recent social contact, Macklin was seriously worried that the man might refuse, both consciously and subconsciously, to fight with any real aggression.

Sounds from the far end of the warehouse drew his attention and he watched them enter. The sight of Doyle ambling in relaxed and loose-limbed through the huge doors slightly ahead of his partner caused Macklin to suck in a breath and he knew he had been right to worry.

The session began with the partners being forced to fight each other on the mats; immediately Macklin saw the reason why George Cowley had sent them for re-training. "Go for it, Bodie--he's not made of china!"

Hearing the order shouted across the floor, Bodie braced himself to release even more power against the slighter man; Doyle, already tiring and no longer fresh, could only continue to defend himself and prepare to attack if his opponent made a mistake.

The end was inevitable.

"Break!" At the command Bodie levered himself off Doyle and collapsed onto the mat. "Right then," Macklin said briskly. "Doyle, it's my turn now. Sit on the bench, Bodie," he ordered.

Exchanging wry glances, the two agents re-positioned themselves, Bodie watching carefully as Macklin wiped the floor with his partner. Then it was his turn.

During the afternoon as he continued to evaluate their performance, the burly instructor found himself watching Bodie carefully and was pleased to see the punishing attack he dealt out to the other instructor who was fresher by several hours. Doyle's efforts were less spectacular but still impressive. Shorter and lighter than his opponent, it was obvious he was going to lose the battle eventually--but he was still managing to hit and hurt and was capable of taking advantage of a mistake.

When a halt was finally called, Macklin eyed the four panting men with a detached, frosty glare. "Colin, Towser--you've finished for today. You two," he nodded at Bodie and Doyle who glanced at the departing men with envy, "you've got five minutes to get your second wind and then you've got me. All to yourselves. And, unless you show me a reason why you don't need it I'm going to tell George to send you back here tomorrow. You're slack. You're both too slow and too sure of yourselves. Five minutes--and then you've got me."

Watching Macklin leave the vast room, vanishing into the small box-room that served as his office/rest room, Bodie turned to Doyle. "Do you remember," he said when he had the breath to spare. "Do you remember a time in the not-so-distant past when you actually thought that Macklin was a nice bloke?"

"He's okay," Doyle said, lying back on the cold, hard mat, eyes closed and chest heaving. "It's his job. That's all."

"To kill us?" Bodie asked, his voice pitched higher than usual.

"He won't kill us--not intentionally, anyway," Doyle amended truthfully. "Mack's all right."

"Just because he's on the shooting team doesn't mean he isn't a sadist!" said Bodie emphatically.

"Give over, Bodie. Save your breath because I think you're going to need it."

"If he thinks he's coming over to our place again to drink my bloody booze after treating me--us--like this, he's got another thought coming!"

"Maybe that's why he's coming so heavy," Doyle said in a thoughtful voice.

"Eh?"

"Well...think about it. This must be as difficult for him as it is for us. One minute we're the best of friends whooping it up together and then the next it's his job to whip us into shape to make sure we're not killed next time we go out on a job."

"Balls!" Bodie replied in a sour voice. "The man's a sadist."

"It's a job--that's all. Nothing personal." Doyle calm tone was almost blocked out by a harsh bark from the doorway to Macklin's office.

"On your feet, 4.5. And you, 3.7. Time's up. Now the real work is going to begin." Macklin's whole stance was one of the controlled menace and he was pleased to see the wariness return to the two men's eyes as they got to their feet and stood, legs braced, ready for his move. He had overheard the whispered conversation and Doyle's words had confirmed his suspicions. "You don't seem to be taking me seriously, 4.5," he said coolly, deliberately allowing the light to play on the blade of the knife. He didn't pull back when he aimed at Doyle's belly and was pleased at the speedy withdrawal; keeping one eye on Bodie, he forced Doyle to dance around the mat just ahead of the lethal blade.

Watching every movement, Bodie's eyes followed the two men as they feinted and attacked, saw Doyle discover a knife of his own embedded in a wall form an earlier session. There was blood oozing from tiny cuts on both men by the time they finished, Macklin's knee on Doyle's chest and a blade resting on his exposed throat.

Curling onto his side once he was released, Doyle drew great gulps of air into his lungs and tried to ease the ache in his back.

"Okay, sunshine?" whispered Bodie.

"No," panted Doyle. "He's a fucking sadist!"

"Told-you-so," Bodie replied smugly. "An' look out 'cos it's my turn now."

"Go get the bastard, Bodie!" Rolling over until he managed to get his knees under him, Doyle pushed himself upright to watch Bodie and Macklin fight, his eyes widening in shock as he saw the vicious black rods and chain the instructor had picked up.

Macklin saw the widening eyes and knew he was on the right track. It had taken a threat to his partner during the last session to get a serious attack from the smaller man. Primarily a defensive fighter, Doyle had to be forced to use the deadly skills he learnt on the mats and it was important that he get the techniques right before employing them in a life-threatening situation on the streets. Antiseptic, emotionless, technical perfection was acceptable for the gymnasium; adrenalin surges and controlled rage coupled with the same technical perfection was what Macklin tried to force into his sometimes unwilling pupils. Some, like Bodie, found the lessons easier than others. Doyle always struggled.

Moving closer to Bodie, Macklin remained aware of Doyle sitting to one side of the mat; a few attacks on Bodie to convince him he meant business and then he'd set about convincing 4.5 of the same thing.

Rising slowly to his feet, Doyle watched anxiously as Bodie dodged the flailing sticks, the warehouse reverberating with bangs and crashes as they smashed against stone walls and floor--if they touched fragile flesh and bone the damage would be too terrible to even think about.

Colin and Towser, dressed in fresh tracksuits, returned to stand on the opposite side of the mat to Doyle. Intent on the fight already in progress, Doyle didn't notice Towser step onto the mat until the knife in his hand flashed in the light. Without hesitation Doyle stepped towards him, his own knife gripped tightly, dodging and attacking, weaving in and out; Doyle and Bodie found their attackers would change over without warning, the knife useless against the extended reach of the flailing sticks.

Suddenly, with a choked groan, Towser sank to the mat clutching his balls in obvious agony and Bodie moved to assist his partner.

Watching the way the two agents communicated with their eyes and minute changes of expression on their faces, Macklin began to get a glimpse of how they operated and survived on the street. Together they were good--and yet he still found it hard to believe that Doyle did not rely on his partner's strength and skill to watch his back. Doyle, Macklin decided, needed to harness some of his partner's aggression.

Judging the distance to a hair's breadth, Macklin cracked the flail towards Bodie's rib cage, his shout, triumphant and vicious, aimed solely at Doyle.

Crouched low to avoid the swing of bone-smashing wood Doyle saw the swing that only just missed Bodie's ribs. The attack had been deliberate and he retaliated, knowing only that he had to prevent another blow.

Rocking on his heels where he had leant back to miss the flail, Bodie only just looked up in time to see the blur of movement and see Macklin crash backwards to lie flat, arms outstretched and unmoving.

The warehouse was suddenly silent as three pairs of shocked eyes watched Doyle stand over the fallen man.

"Jesus!" whispered Towser, his voice still husky as he recovered from the blow to his groin.

"Mack?" Standing over the instructor ready to retreat if he should be faking it, Doyle looked down at the relaxed face. "Mack...are you all right?" Unwilling to show too much concern in case the other man was still faking, Doyle was unable to mask his concern.

"He's out cold!" Bodie whispered.

Colin pushed Doyle asked and felt for a pulse, one hand resting on the throat and lifting the closed eyelids with the other. They watched in silence as he checked the body over and all saw the reddening burst of colour on the white throat that was already turning blue.

"Towser, call an ambulance," Colin said after he'd completed his examination. "His heart and respiration are okay but he's really out. Look at his throat--he's lucky not to have a crushed windpipe!"

"He didn't move." Doyle finally moved from his statue-like position. "I was so sure he'd move, but he didn't--I had to pull back at the last second. Why the hell didn't he move?"

Colin's fingers touched the bruised throat carefully. "It feels okay. His colour is good and he's breathing fine--but if you hadn't pulled that blow...." his voice trailed off.

"I could have killed him. Christ...why the hell didn't he move? He was watching me--why didn't he move?" Doyle asked the silent men.

Laying a blanket over Macklin after Colin had turned him onto his side into the recovery position, Bodie put a hand on Doyle's shoulder. "He'll be okay, it'll take more than you to put Macklin down." But Doyle refused to be comforted or reassured.

---

Within minutes the ambulance was there and Macklin, still unconscious, was loaded into it and rushed away to hospital. The session clearly over, Bodie and Doyle quickly freshened up and then took off for the hospital to check on Macklin's progress.

Conscious, Macklin saw Doyle's worried face and managed a wry grin. "My own stupid fault," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "And don't worry about Cowley. Colin will give him my report stating...you're not to blame--I got what I asked for, exactly what I asked for."

His own throat feeling sore in sympathy, Bodie stood back as his partner approached the bed; even during their drive to the hospital Doyle had still been furious with the burly instructor for taking what he considered to be dangerous risks. Sorry Doyle might be--but apologetic he certainly was not.

"Why the hell didn't you move?" he demanded, his voice belligerent and face set in a grim mask. "You should have moved--I expected you to move!"

"Wanted...to push your buttons," croaked Macklin. "And they're working...just fine. And that's what I'll tell Cowley--my fault...I under-estimated you...wasn't expecting you...so fast...or so bloody hard..."

With Macklin's voice no more than a thready whisper by this point, Bodie stepped in and told him to shut up. "We'll catch you tomorrow when they send you home," offered Bodie generously. "Buy you a drink to ease your throat."

Even the thought of swallowing was sufficient to make the patient go grey and Bodie tugged on his partner's shoulder drawing him out of the room. But, hanging back at the door Doyle stopped dead, unwilling to leave before he could have his say. "Look," he began awkwardly. "I am sorry you're laid up and hurt but...but I'm not sorry I went for you--you bloody well asked for it!" he ended, his expression betraying his anger.

"I agree," said Macklin. "And...I promise...you that you'll...never catch me out again!"

Uncertain whether Macklin was seriously threatening or merely stating a fact, Bodie finally managed to extricate his bristling partner out into the corridor--and smack into the patient's next visitor. George Cowley.

"Sir--" began Bodie quickly.

"Not now, 3.7," Cowley cut in. "I do not have time to listen to your version of this afternoon's events. I have enough to do without discovering my senior instructor has been incapacitated by one of his pupils!"

"He asked for it!" snapped Doyle, his bad mood getting steadily worse.

"I don't doubt that, 4.5," rapped Cowley. "It is his job after all!" and he glared at Doyle almost daring him to enter into an argument.

"It was an accident--he provoked an attack and then wasn't prepared for my response--"

"I have seen the preliminary report, 4.5. There is no need to be so defensive."

"I'm sorry he's hurt but he should--"

"4.5, will you stop this now," Cowley cut across Doyle's protests. "According to Colin Mason's report, there is nothing further to be said. Macklin made an error of judgement and is paying the price."

"Too bloody right he is!" said Doyle, who by now was beyond seeing the wary face of his Controller. "It wasn't a wild punch--I aimed at what I hit--he should have seen it coming. I was perfectly in control."

"4.5, that is enough!" Cowley barked, his patience exceeded. "There is no case to answer to. Macklin has already admitted to an error of judgement and Mason agrees that you were in no way at fault. There is no need to concern yourself with this matter."

Deciding to drag his partner forcibly from the hospital if he had to, Bodie said a swift goodbye and then pulled Doyle along with him. "Leave it out, Doyle," he hissed once out of Cowley's earshot.

"Don't tell me to leave it," Doyle jerked free and glared at Bodie. "That stupid idiot lets me half kill him because I'm better than he thinks and they could throw me to the wolves! I could have killed him--don't you understand that. With my bare hands! If I hadn't pulled back at the last...Jesus Christ, Bodie. I could have killed him. Smashed his windpipe and killed him. And then what? They say I'm too dangerous to be let out on the streets! They'd have me under lock and key at the Beeches so fast...Jesus Christ--can't you see what might have happened?"

Bodie was stunned. Shocked by Macklin's sudden and unexpected downfall he had been only mildly surprised by Doyle's anger; he had thought Ray was over-reacting but now understood the reason why. "Come on, sunshine," he said, the inadequate words the best he could manage when he finally realised how upset his partner was. "Let's go home," the warm smile on his face and that very special tone in his letting Doyle know that he did understand and once they were safely home and away from prying eyes he would make everything all right again.

"There is one bright side to all this," Doyle ventured as they arrived outside the block of flats that was home. "This should prove to the disbelievers on the squad that I don't hide in the corner and let you fight my battles."

Locking the car door and walking back into the block Bodie replied in a casual voice. "Nah--they'll just think he slipped on some freshly spilled blood and knocked himself out." Recognising the truth of the observation did little to improve Doyle's mood.

---

Feeling Doyle slip into the bed and move across to wrap one strong arm around his shoulders, Bodie felt himself tense up but managed to roll over to face his lover.

"How's the headache?" Doyle asked softly, his finger tracing a line over Bodie's eyebrows before rubbing in smooth circular motions over one temple.

"Not so bad."

"Good," said Doyle as he settled down beside him, easing his body even closer so that Bodie felt the hot, dry skin against his own. "You smell so good." Doyle inhaled the scent of soap, shampoo and Bodie, the fragrance he had grown to love.

"It's your stuff--I thought it a bit fragrant myself," Bodie joked weakly, knowing Doyle wouldn't fail to notice how he jumped every time the sure hands touched him in a sensitive spot.

"Knew I had good taste," Doyle said arrogantly before taking possession of the open mouth. They kissed for a long time but when they pulled apart Doyle looked into a pair of worried blue eyes. "Tell me what's wrong," he ordered gently.

"Nothing...I'm must tired, that's all. Being chucked around a gym all day is hard work."

"That's all?" asked Doyle, shifting position to be able to look down at his partner. "And last night? And the night before that?" he pushed gently. "Oh, Bodie...you've not touched me since that morning. I keep telling you it wasn't rape, why won't you believe me?" Closing his eyes, Bodie turned his head away. "Bodie? Bodie listen to me," urged Doyle. "I know you won't hurt me; you couldn't. Don't do this to yourself. You can't really believe that you raped me. You just can't!"

"I do know...I know that--in here." Bodie tapped his head but then placed his hand over his heart. "But in here, inside me, I...I could never hurt you like that again. I just can't treat you like that--so don't ask me to try it again."

"Okay," said Doyle quickly realising that words were never going to reassure Bodie--particularly when they didn't seem to reassure him either. "I won't ask you again--just come here and let me hold you. Please. I need to hold you."

Bodie could hear the need in the husky voice and turned his head on the pillow; seeing the expectant look he moved into the open arms but immediately felt himself tense up again. "I can't, Ray. I'm sorry but I don't feel like--"

"Shut up and give us a cuddle, that's all I want. Just a cuddle." He eased Bodie into his arms and settled them down, fully aware of the tension in the strong body that slowly faded as Bodie finally accepted that a cuddle was all he was being asked for.

Later, holding the sleeping man in his arms, Doyle remained awake for most of the night, his mind going back over the past week starting from the fiasco in the shower; from there things had gone from bad to worse. Bodie had been very shocked by what he thought he had done and had been subdued ever since, the looks and comments from various people they knew proving that Cowley had not been the only person to notice something different about them.

At work everything had been business as usual, but once off duty Bodie returned to his strange mood and seemed prepared to follow Doyle's every whim--except when they were in bed. The first night he had been tired; the next it was very late and they had an early start in the morning, then it was tiredness followed by another early night before facing Macklin and now tonight, it had been the standard put-down. A headache.

Glancing up at the darkened ceiling Doyle felt his inside knot. After the attack in Maidstone he had suffered the agony of impotence for almost a year and he could still remember the dreadful fear that he was somehow incomplete. Turning his head slightly he could just make out the dark shadow beside him; he could only hope that whatever Bodie's problem was it didn't take so long to resolve. The only cure, the best cure was already in his grasp. Love and patience in equal measure freely administered as and when necessary. Squeezing his arms tighter around the broad frame, Doyle closed his eyes and tried to sleep...

---

...The stained tiles gleamed under the harsh naked light and the shower heads dripped continuously, the pitter patter splashes loud in the otherwise quiet room. Voices, distant and indistinct, sounded at intervals and heavy footsteps on endless metal staircases came closer and closer, the sound growing louder the closer they came. The sounds changed as the footsteps moved from the stairs to the stone balcony and walked towards the room he was in.

He knew who was there. The deceptively gentle voice with its Welsh lilt called him again. He knew, from the confident tone, that this time was different.

"Come on, Doyle. You know what I want so why not make it easier on yourself? Come over here and be friendly."

He stared hard at the tiled walls, refusing to turn around, hoping and praying they would go away. But they didn't and then they had him; hurting and hitting and touching. Stripping him, one large meaty hand silencing his cries for help and almost suffocating him.

More footsteps and someone else arrived but not to join the others and take his turn. The black boots and trousers belonged to the screw who was pulling the men off, throwing them out of the room.

"Don't fret, sunshine," said a familiar voice. "Everything's going to be all right. It's all over, sunshine."

Bodie. Bodie had made them go away. The relief washed over him and at first he didn't notice that the helping hands finished stripping him until he was pushed back down on the floor.

"Bodie?"

Hands, hard and bruising, pushed his shoulders down and pulled him up onto his knees.

"Don't fight me, sunshine," said Bodie.

The familiar voice pushed his fear away; Bodie wouldn't hurt him. But then the hands held him even tighter and something blunt, hard, and hot pushed at the entrance to his body forcing its way in. "No... No...don't..." he cried and tried to break free.

"Ray--hold still. You'll hurt yourself."

"No. No!" He struggled furiously, kicking and hitting out in an effort to escape and all the time he could hear Bodie, feel him. At last he managed to break free of the restraining hands and started to turn around to face his tormentor.

"Ray--don't--don't fight me please."

Staring in the face of his tormentor Doyle felt the screams building up inside him. The voice belonged to Bodie but the mouth, the face and loathsome, hurting hands and body belonged to Albert Kingsley.

"No! No!" Doyle screamed out. "Don't...don't...no more...please...no more..."

---

"Ray!" Bodie struggled to get a better grip on his terrified partner. "You're dreaming. It's just a dream--just a dream."

"Bastard! You bastard...let me go...let me go."

"Ray! Wake up--for Christ's sake--it's only a dream." Finally managing to pin the struggling man down and cover him with his own body Bodie cupped the tear-streaked face in his hands and forced the wide open eyes to look at him. "You're awake, love. It was just a dream, you're safe. There's no-one here except you and me. You're safe. It's all over now. It's all over." He carried on talking until he saw the eyes focus on him and felt the body beneath him relax.

"A...dream... Just a dream?" His voice shaking and his whole body still trembling, Doyle still looked frightened.

"Just a dream, Sunsine," Bodie said softly. He watched as the green eyes darted around the bedroom seeking reassurance from what he found there.

"A dream-- Oh God! It was so real..." Doyle closed his eyes, covering his face with his arm.

"Was it your usual dream...nightmare?" Bodie asked quietly.

"What usual dream?"

"I don't know. Whatever it is you have nightmares about. Is it always the same one?" Bodie asked, guessing that if only Doyle could be made to talk the dream through it may not be such a problem in the future.

"Don't know," Doyle mumbled. "Never remember that much about them as a rule."

"Can you remember what this one was about? I had a hell of a job waking you up," Bodie said, reluctant to admit how frightening he found Doyle's nightmares. "You kept fighting me."

"I was fighting them...him...you," the words tumbled out as unwanted fragments of the dream returned to him. He opened his eyes and looked at Bodie. "At first it was...can't remember...Ward and his gang, I think. Then," he screwed his eyes shut to catch the dream before it vanished. "A screw was there...but I thought it was--he sounded like you. And then you--he--started...he wanted me...like Ward--but I thought it was you until you hurt me and then," Doyle's eyes remained open but Bodie could tell he wasn't seeing the bedroom or him. "I turned round and it wasn't you. He had your voice but he wasn't you. It was..."

"Who?" pushed Bodie.

"He had your voice but was Kingsley...pretending to be you."

Mentally cursing Albert Kingsley to hell for all eternity, Bodie slid off Doyle and lay beside him, easing him into an embrace and rubbing his hands up and down the sweat-slick body calming and reassuring him. It was the first nightmare since they had begun their relationship and Bodie realised they should both have expected it after the mess in the shower last week.

"What time is it?" asked Doyle.

"Early, we've got another hour or so before we have to get up. Go back to sleep--alarm's set," said Bodie, voice smooth and calm.

"Can't," said Doyle.

"Just lie quietly then," replied Bodie. "Get some rest."

Neither of them slept but they remained unmoving and quiet until the alarm jolted them both from a light doze.

It was fortunate that they were on standby duties that day, for neither had the inclination nor energy for anything else, Doyle even too tired to respond to the grudging congratulations delivered by other squad members who had heard about 4.5's 'spot of bother' with Macklin. Even mild suggestions of foul play and embroidered truth fell on deaf ears.

He felt only slightly fresher than his partner who, Bodie gathered from the heavy eyes and dark rings, had slept very little before the nightmare had gripped him. "Put your head down," he suggested midway through the afternoon. "It's quiet now, you never know when you'll get the chance otherwise."

"I can't sleep in here," replied Doyle, longing to do just that.

"Make yourself comfortable in the armchair. No one'll see you in the corner--and I'll wake you if anything comes up."

"Well," Doyle looked at the armchair. "While it's quiet. You sure you don't mind?" he asked as he made himself cosy, his eyes closing the moment he was seated.

Bodie smiled at the speed that his partner accepted his suggestion. "Go on. Promise I'll wake you if you start getting twitchy," he added with an understanding grin.

The rest room was fairly peaceful for the next hour, little of the noise from the Ops room intruding. For most of the time only the two of them were in there, Bodie taking the opportunity to catch up on some long overdue reading while Doyle slept on in the chair.

Immersed in the final report of on particularly gruelling operation completed during the summer, Bodie didn't notice anyone enter until a cup of tea was thrust under his nose.

"It's like the reading room at the British Library in here!" Lake said quietly. "Rip Van Winkle looks nice and comfy--hectic day?" he asked, one eyebrow climbing into his hairline, eyes twinkling with good humour.

"Seen more excitement at a mortuary," replied Bodie, accepting the tea gratefully. "How about you?"

"Eyeballs at the house belonging to the boyfriend of the Iranian Ambassador's wife--or is it the Iranian Ambassador's boyfriend's wife? Whichever it is no one's doing anything worth watching."

"What--not even an exotic belly dancer or two? Sounds about as exciting as watching Doyle sleep the afternoon away. I could do with some excitement."

"Don't tempt fate," warned Lake. "Personally, I don't mind a quiet spell now and again; you must admit it's been hell all summer."

Grunting reluctant agreement, Bodie returned to his reading, grinning to himself when he saw Lake pick up a spare file to read. The door flew open a short while later, the wood banging hard against the wall as Murphy all but bounced into the room at a gallop.

"Afternoon. Any hot water in the kettle?"

"Yes--and keep the noise down," replied Lake as, he pointed out the sleeper who hadn't stirred.

"Oops. Sorry," whispered Murphy. "Anyone else for tea, coffee?"

Two more agents arrived in time to add their cups to the tray and the place began to buzz with different conversations being struck up around the room, yet everyone keeping their voices down without prompting from Lake or Bodie in consideration of the sleeping man.

When George Cowley entered, he was almost stopped dead in his tracks at the quiet scene before him. The rest room was usually the noisiest in the building with arguments and conversation happening on various levels; the peaceful sanctuary he suddenly found himself in was almost unnerving.

"Bodie?" he snapped out, searching the room.

On the far side, sitting near to Doyle, Lake muttered irreverently to Murphy. "Typical, he sits in here all bloody afternoon and the second he nips out for a slash the Old Man yells for 'im."

"Where is Bodie?" Cowley demanded of the whole room.

"Little boys' room, sir," piped up a voice from the back.

"Typical," snorted Cowley unfairly. "And Doyle?"

"Over there, sir." Bill Jamieson politely pointed out the man who was sleeping the sleep of innocence in the tatty armchair.

Clicking his teeth in exasperation at the sight of the relaxed sprawl, Cowley moved further into the room. "Doyle! 4.5!" he barked. When the call had no effect he crossed the room and bent down to shake him awake.

Murphy was on his feet before he even thought of the consequences, his arm reaching out to intercept Cowley's. "Sir, I wouldn't do that if I were--" His words of warning came too late and the whole room watched in shocked silence at what happened next.

As soon as George Cowley's hand touched his shoulder Doyle erupted out of the chair, shook the hand off and swung out with a closed fist catching the older man right in the face--sending him flying backwards. By the time Ray Doyle woke up, Cowley was already flat on his back on the floor.

"Wha'? Who the hell... Jesus! What did you go and do that for?" Shaking the sleep off Doyle regarded his audience with wide eyes. Then he looked--really looked--at the man lying at his feet and his mouth dropped open. "Sir?"

No one moved and in the stunned silence Cowley climbed rather unsteadily to his feet.

"Sir?" Horrified at the implications of what he had done, Doyle could barely speak.

One hand held to his face, Cowley struggled to regain composure and dignity and it was Murphy who finally came to the rescue.

"You should get that seen to, sir," he said respectfully. "Have a seat and get your breath back." The mention of a chair got all the men moving and Cowley had a choice of half a dozen thrust towards him for his use.

"I'm...fine," he managed to say, his face muscles already stiffening in protest.

"Sit down, sir--and you," Murphy pushed a hand against Doyle's chest topping him back into the armchair.

"What happened?" came the loud query from the doorway as Bodie returned.

"Mr Cowley," said Lake in a properly respectful tone that bore only the slightest hint of suppressed laughter, "Mr Cowley woke Ray up."

His eyes darting from Ray's dazed expression to Cowley who was sitting on one of the chairs and holding his face, the swelling and glowing redness already visible, Bodie guessed what had been left unsaid.

"What the hell did you think you were playing at?"

Hearing the vicious tone and undisguised sarcasm Cowley lifted his head to defend Doyle--only to find himself the recipient of Bodie's anger. For the second time in as many minutes Cowley was clearly speechless, the remarkable fact did not go unnoticed by the men gathered in the room. The initial shock gone, the men exchanged broad grins and began to really enjoy the spectacle.

Oblivious to the by-play between his colleagues, Doyle stood up and moved towards Cowley, the enormity of his actions all too clear, shame, embarrassment and cold dread warring for first place inside him. "Mr Cowley... Sir... I'm really sorry."

Murphy took another look at Doyle's stricken face, saw the way Bodie was glowering at Cowley as if prepared to hit him as well and decided that for the three men the incident was no laughing matter. "I think a cold compress is what you need, sir," he said smoothly, one hand tucking under Cowley's armpit and pulling him upright. "That was one hell of a risk you took sir, trying to wake 4.5 up like that. I thought everyone knew better than to touch him when he's asleep." Murphy allowed a touch of surprise to colour his tone, clearly implying that the fault lay with the older man.

Halfway to the door they passed by Lake, who was purple in the face from lack of oxygen, just as he let out a breathless snort. Cowley stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at him and then the others; he saw the barely restrained hysteria present in all of them with the exception of 4.5 and 3.7. Unfortunately, his usual icy glare failed to have its normal impact; his left eye was already closed, the swelling taking on a wonderful rosy-blue tone which made the baleful glare from the normal ice-blue eye all the more ridiculous.

"Is something amusing you?" Cowley enquired stiffly.

"Er... No...sir!" A high pitched, strangulated squeak all the unfortunate agent Cowley had picked on could muster.

"I'm pleased to hear it," Cowley said and turned his head to glare again at the rest of the men--but his action revealed the left side of his face even more clearly to the struggling Lake.

It was the last straw and Lake gave in to the inevitable, his collapse setting the others off, and snorts of muffled, choked laughter erupted behind hands, newspapers and carefully turned backs throughout the room.

Pulling his shattered dignity around himself Cowley lifted his bruised face, squared his shoulders and left the room smartly--not so much a retreat as an orderly withdrawal. Following closely behind him, Murphy thoughtfully closed the door as they left.

For thirty seconds the noise in the rest room remained subdued giving Cowley time to move away--when it came the eruption was loud and prolonged, Bodie and Doyle the only ones oblivious to it.

"What the hell happened, Ray?" he asked under the roars of laughter.

"I don't know," replied a very worried Doyle. "I was asleep and I think he tried to wake me up--I don't even remember hitting him."

His eyes still watering but his breathing more or less under control, Lake draped a companionable arm around Doyle's shoulders. "Don't look so worried, sunshine," he hiccuped. "Serves the old bastard right--everyone knows not to touch you when you're sleeping."

"They do?" Bodie and Doyle both asked at once.

"Course we do," Lake told them. "We've seen how he does it." He pointed at Bodie. "He practically sits on you, holds you down until you're properly awake. If Bodie had been in the room Cowley wouldn't have had the chance to touch you!"

Doyle looked at his partner in amazement. "Bodie?" He could hardly believe what Lake was saying; he had never realised that his unconscious dislike of being touched was known to the squad.

Bodie responded with a shrug of his shoulders, he had no idea how the others managed to notice something which even they had rarely spoken about.

"3.7. Why are you still hanging around up here?" The loud voice cut through the noise and confusion in the room and Bodie turned to see Don Henry, the day's Duty Officer, standing in the doorway, hands on hips and a disgruntled expression on his face. "You've had your orders so get moving," he rapped out.

"What orders?" Bodie enquired, only mildly interested.

"Didn't Cowley tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"You're to relieve McCafferty in the Box. His wife's gone into labour and he's waiting to join her at the hospital."

"The Box! But that's down to Henderson's lot to deal with," protested Bodie.

"They're short-staffed right now," said the Duty Officer irritably. And McCafferty is waiting for you to get down there before he can leave--so move it!"

"How long am I there for?"

"Until you're relieved!" Henry said, his voice implying it could be until Hell froze over.

"My shift ends in half an hour," Bodie pointed out in a plaintive voice.

"Until you are relieved, 3.7," Henry repeated. "You are on stand-by duty--that means you go where you are needed."

"But the Box!"

"If McCafferty Junior arrives without McCafferty Senior present you are not going to be very popular--move it, 3.7!" At times it was fairly obvious to everyone that Don Henry had joined CI5 via the army parade ground. The soldier that remained in Bodie stood to attention and moved smartly out of the room.

"What about me?" Doyle asked, calling out as Henry and Bodie moved away.

Henry paused to look through the sheets on the clipboard he habitually carried. "You may as well sign off and go home. Cowley doesn't seem to want you for anything."

The Duty Officer's word echoing around in his head, Doyle followed his partner blindly down the staircase leading to the second-level basement.

McCafferty was waiting for them, his impatience to be gone obvious. "Thought you'd never get here! It's all yours. Keep your eye on thirty-seven, it keeps coming up but it's usually a false alarm. Forty-two's got builders on the premises so the alarms are out but the cameras are working."

"When's your relief due?" Bodie called out as the man began to run off up the corridor.

"2 am--I've only just come on--stupid cow waits until I leave home before she starts the bloody contractions!" the prospective father grumbled.

"Two o'clock!"

"Oh, just one thing before I go," McCafferty stopped at the door to the stairs and called back. "The armoury system has been playing up. Jack Crane will want to test it before he locks up so don't panic when the bells go off--just ring him and he'll clear it. Right--I'm gone."

It was as quiet as the grave down in the basement, all the hustle and bustle of CI5 taking place several floors above them. It was the first time Doyle had even realised there was a second basement level and he looked around curiously. This level was clearly much smaller than the basement he was familiar with upstairs; behind locked doors equipment could be heard humming away, keeping CI5 in operation night and day.

"What is this place?" he asked when he'd finished checking the locked doors and dark corridors, and peered into the small room Bodie had entered. "Can see why they call it The Box."

"It's the main security terminal for all CI5 premises outside of this building. All the alarms are wired up to this lot," Bodie waved a hand over the impressive display of screens lights, and switches. "When you open your window without dealing with the alarm first this place goes nuts--lights and bells go off all over the place."

Doyle flicked an uninterested eye over the electronic equipment; he had too much on his mind to listen to the explanation. "Bodie--why has Cowley ordered you down here and me to sign off?"

"'Cos he bloody well hates me," Bodie complained, throwing himself into the only chair in the pokey room.

"What do you think he'll do about me hitting him?"

"Duck next time he tries to wake you up!" Bodie said, too angry to notice how worried Doyle really was.

"I think I really hurt him."

"He deserves it," Bodie said sourly. "Deserved everything he got. Sticking me down here, I shouldn't have to waste my time vegetating in this hole--"

"What do you think Ross will do when she hears?"

"Cheer!" Bodie guessed. "She's getting right pissed off with the way he mucks her about. Next time you hit him, Ray, try a bit more power; maybe you'll get lucky and knock his head off. Sending me...me, down here! Who the bloody hell does he think he is?" A light on one of the boards flashed on and a bell above their heads rang loudly, making Doyle jump and Bodie swear. Checking the clipboard hanging on a hook beside the console Bodie picked up the telephone and dialled out. The person who picked it up at the other end gave an explanation that did not amuse Bodie. "Yeah, well next time open the fucking window after you deal with the alarm.... So, is that my problem? Well go and buy yourself a can of air freshener and stop eating Indian takeaways!" Bodie slammed the handset down and re-set the alarm.

Doyle ignored the by-play and continued his depressing train of thoughts. "First Macklin, now Cowley--Ross'll start wondering who I'm going to lay out next!"

"Well if she's got half as much intelligence as she pretends to have she'll have the sense to keep out of your way, won't she."

"But Cowley--"

"You didn't hit the Old Man hard enough--if I'd known he put me down for Box duty I would have landed one on him as well. Christ, I can't believe this, seven hours sitting on my backside counting flies and watching you snore the afternoon away and then he sticks me down here for another seven hours! Fourteen bloody hours of non-stop, unrelieved, tedious, mind-boggling boredom!"

Bodie continued to bemoan his lot, complaining at length about the Box, George Cowley, CI5 and the unfairness of life in general without pausing for breath. In fact it was some time before he even noticed that Ray was no longer there at all.

---

Lost in thought, Doyle wandered back towards the day room which was now empty. Absentmindedly pouring himself a cup of coffee and then putting it to one side and instantly forgetting all about it, he wondered how long it would be before they got around to looking for him.

The sudden clatter of feet passing the door made him spin on his heels, eyes wide and tensed in readiness; but the steps passed on by without even pausing. Slowly he relaxed; not just yet then, he thought. It would, he reasoned calmly, take Cowley a while to call Ross and discuss the situation. He already knew the conclusion that would come, too; first Macklin and now George Cowley, he would have to be put where he couldn't cause harm to anyone.

Or harm to himself.

The thought of returning to The Beeches or another place like it filled Doyle with dread. The security fences, ever vigilant cameras and placid, persuasive doctors with their tranquillisers and needles...already he could feel the doors bolting shut behind him.

But it wasn't his fault! The thought, in his mind from the very beginning surged forward and demanded recognition. It wasn't his fault. Macklin had been inattentive and Cowley had failed to notice what apparently was common knowledge amongst the rest of the squad. Even Macklin knew better than to touch him when he was asleep.

The knowledge that he was not in the wrong fuelled a slow burning anger that pushed his fear aside. He wouldn't let them put him away again--and he wasn't going to hang around headquarters waiting for them to come and get him either.

He was halfway across the car park when his anger faltered at the unexpected sight of Kate Ross running towards him, he stopped, held immobile as his fear returned in full force. She was coming to stop him from getting away.

"Ooff--" Kate staggered off balance as she ran headlong to the man standing in the shadows. "Oh--I'm sorry, didn't see you there. Good night, Ray." Stopping only long enough to apologise, she neatly side-stepped him and moved towards the car behind him. She already had the car door open and her briefcase stashed inside before noticing he hadn't moved.

"Ray, is something wrong?" Flustered and aware that she was going to be late for her evening appointment she did not pick up on the way he jumped at her question.

"Er...no...nothing's wrong." Doyle managed to return her good night greeting and gathered his scattered wits together before moving over to his own vehicle.

Pausing at the red light a few hundred yards away from the CI5 building, Doyle sagged against the wheel, weak and dizzy from relief. Calmer now he laughed at his attack of paranoia, finding it easier to ridicule his fears than accept the reasons behind them. The driver of the car behind him honked his horn furiously and Doyle put the car in gear and got going again. Were CI5 agents allowed to be paranoid? he wondered. No-one seemed to object to his being claustrophobic--maybe one more mental hiccup would go unnoticed. By the time he arrived home he was laughing, giggling to himself every time he recalled the wave of sheer terror he'd experienced when he'd seen Ross running towards him.

Anyone seeing him humming to himself as he punched the buttons on the lift might have thought he was slightly drunk.

---

Just before midnight Bodie had an unexpected visitor. Even in the soft light of the desk lamp the bruising on the older man's face was spectacular. Unable to contain it, Bodie's comment shattered the expectant silence. "Very nice, sir. Best I've seen in a long time--be even better when the colour comes out tomorrow."

"Thank you 3.7," said Cowley, his tone resigned, a trace of amusement poorly hidden in the sarcasm. "If one has to have a black eye, I suppose the least one can do is have a really decent one."

"When do you see the Minister next?"

"Tomorrow morning--or should I say, later on this morning. No doubt it will give us a starting point for our talk. The issue of the new gymnasium is on the agenda--I keep telling the Minister that you men need the training, exercise and recreation space, perhaps now he will believe me." Cowley touched the side of his face with gentle fingers. "And of course, the matter of dormitory accommodation has been swept aside long enough. It is time stand-by agents had a bed to rest in."

"Even in a bed he would still have landed you one," Bodie said, his voice amused even as he tried to puzzle out why he was being honoured with the late night visit.

"I daresay," Cowley agreed. "Your relief will be here in another hour or so. Doyle went home, I presume?"

"Yes." Bodie answered cautiously, he was beginning to get worried; George Cowley never indulged in idle chat and he was taking an uncommonly long time to get to the point.

"How is the flat sharing working out?" Cowley enquired.

"No problems, apart from Doyle pinching my socks and leaving the lid off the toothpaste," Bodie responded.

"It would appear to be a new trend, I have received three more requests for similar arrangements. The accommodation office is hoping the trend continues as it saves them work and the department a lot of money. Pausing, Cowley looked across at the young man, turning his head to see him better with his one, open eye. "Whose idea was it for you and 4.5 to share?"

The diminutive Cyclops still managed to be as powerful and intimidating as a regular two-eyed Cowley and Bodie fought the impulse to squirm in his seat. "It was a mutual decision sir," he said, then knew he had to explain further. "The flat accommodation gave him a few months back was hopeless. Just when he felt he was ready to go it alone they dumped him in a place that had burglar bars at the bedroom window." Cowley's start of surprise told Bodie that he had not been aware of the mistake. "There was no way Ray was going to move in there--but he was reluctant to turn it down giving his...claustrophobia as a reason."

"He continued to live at your flat when you were undercover. We did wonder why he chose not to move out." Cowley's observation enforced Bodie's long-held suspicion that his partner's movements and behaviour was still closely monitored.

"It was big enough for both of us, then it was time for me to move and we decided to go in together," Bodie said casually, wondering how much they had got away with. He knew from experience that very little escaped George Cowley; Ray was convinced that providing they didn't do anything daft no-one would ever discover their true relationship. Bodie wasn't so sure.

"I would have thought that working together the hours that you do, you would welcome a break from each other's company."

Bodie was sure that he knew. "We get on okay," he said, choosing his words with care. If Cowley wanted to know something he asked. Beating around the bush simply wasn't his style--it was as if he wanted to reassure himself of the facts without actually being told anything. "We don't exactly live in each other's pockets, he goes off with the shooting team every chance he gets and I've got my friends. The flat's big enough for us to give each other space if we need it."

"I'm sure it is," Cowley said nodding his head and then wincing as the movement set up the painful throbbing once more. "Doyle appears..." he hunted for the right word. "Happy. Is he happy?"

Bodie was taken aback by the real concern in Cowley's voice and manner and replied honestly. "Most of the time he's happy enough. Every now and then he remembers something...gets a bit blue, but not for too long. I don't think he'll ever forget everything."

"He certainly seems more settled--apart from the last day or so; I feel that Macklin and I are both guilty of not paying sufficient attention--"

"You can say that again," said Bodie emphatically. "You both asked for it."

Cowley blinked with one eye, the fervour of the young man surprising him a second time. Bodie was as fiercely protective of Ray Doyle as that young man was of him. "I daresay we did--and we have both learnt our lessons. Also," Cowley gave a conspiratorial grin. "I seem to recall you sporting an equally colourful eye during the first few months of your teaming."

Bodie grinned, remembering the painful whack his new partner had delivered to his poor nose.

"Why does he react so violently? It was observed at The Beeches but he refused to discuss it--or if he did it was, of course, in medical confidence," Cowley's voice trailed off and he looked at Bodie obviously wanting to understand but unwilling to pry where he was not welcome.

Guessing the man's reasons Bodie knew he could trust him, knew it would go no further.

"You know about Albert Kingsley and the rumours about the relationship they supposedly shared?" Bodie's face twisted as he spoke. "It was partly true, not that Ray was ever willing. The bastard would wait until he was asleep and then he'd try to tie him down. Sometimes he succeeded and then...I don't think he ever managed to rape Ray--not properly anyway--but even so the bastard managed to hurt him." Bodie's memories of how he had hurt Ray, how he had succeeded where Kingsley had failed caused him to dry up, the words sticking in his throat.

Neither man spoke for a while, their own thoughts of Doyle's ordeal wrapped around them. Later, once Cowley had left and Bodie's replacement finally arrived he realised that he had never found out why Cowley had sought him out.

Driving home, eyes dry and gritty with fatigue, he went over the conversation again; surely the Cow hadn't found him just to ask him if Ray was happy? He was still puzzling over the problem when he opened the front door to the flat. A noise from the bedroom at the end of the hall drew his attention. At first he thought Ray had heard him arrive and was calling out to him, but then the noise came again, a cry wordless but full of fear, which sent Bodie running into the darkened bedroom. The light from the uncurtained windows spilled over the man lying in a huddled ball in the centre of the rumpled bed.

Trapped in a nightmare, the noise of Bodie's arrival twisted itself into the fabric of his dream, causing Doyle to curl even tighter into a foetal ball.

"Ray?" Bodie spoke softly, his voice full of concern and tenderness. "Wake up, sunshine--it's only a dream." He wanted desperately to touch him but knew that it would be stupid; as soon as his weight disturbed the mattress Doyle would lash out. "Ray--wake up, love. You're safe. You're safe now."

Doyle became motionless, his body went rigid and he seemed to stop breathing. Bodie repeated the words again, willing Doyle to hear him and wake up.

Eventually Doyle's eyes opened, and focussing quickly, he scanned the room, settling finally on Bodie's worried face.

"Bodie," he said thickly and then released the breath he had been holding. "You're home." Not a question, more of a statement, he seemed to accept Bodie's presence. Wiping the beads of perspiration off his face with one hand, he uncurled and pushed himself upright, reaching over to turn the bedside light on.

"Ray," Bodie began, puzzled by the abrupt change. Doyle usually seemed upset by his nightmares, this calmness was unnerving. "You didn't hear me come in, you were having a dream...another nightmare?"

Rolling away from the light Doyle turned his back on Bodie. "How long have you been home? What time is ?"

"Nearly three o'clock--"

"What!" Doyle grabbed his wristwatch from the bedside table and checked the time. "What on earth did you wake me up for?" he said waspishly and hunched back down under the covers.

Unaware until now how much he had enjoyed having Doyle turn to him for comfort after a bad dream, Bodie felt rather disgruntled. Stripping efficiently, Bodie rolled back over and cuddled up to him. "Sorry that I woke you--but you were dreaming, looked like another bad one."

Doyle wriggled around a little, scratching at an irritation on his leg and then rubbing his nose on Bodie's shoulder and giving Bodie a noseful of thick, tickly curls. Smoothing the curls away, and settling himself more comfortably, pulling Doyle's arms more securely across his stomach so that the bony elbow didn't stick into him the way it usually did. "Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

For a long time he didn't think Ray was going to answer and when he finally did, his voice was hushed. "I remember...sort of."

"Want to talk about it?" Bodie whispered, his lips brushing the slightly damp forehead.

"Just a stupid dream--all mixed up," Ray said, reluctant or unable to put the images into words.

"Talking about it might help. Was it your usual one?"

"Yes...no...yes and no. Like I said, it was all mixed up. I can't really remember it all now, just bits and pieces. People and places and things happening...all mixed up."

"What sort of things?" Bodie prompted gently.

Beside him, Doyle shifted to lie on his back, the sudden rush of cool air making Bodie shiver.

"It was strange, it wasn't real, none of it. All the people were mixed up as well, Bert, my mum, you, George Cowley, the doctors out at The Beeches, the staff from Repton, screws from Maidstone. All mixed up. Like something out of Colditz; I was trying to get away from this place I was in and my mum was helping me--but the people I thought were on my side weren't, only Mum didn't know that. People were chasing me with syringes as big as rifles."

"What was I doing in your dream?" Bodie asked when Doyle became quiet.

"Can't remember now...it's all gone." Doyle shifted again, cuddling up close to Bodie once more. "It was odd dreaming about my mum," his voice sounded sad. "I can hardly remember what she looked like any more."

"Were you close to her, to your parents?" Bodie asked.

"Mum, yes, not really close to Dad, though. All we ever did was ever did was argue. He favoured John and I suppose Mum always backed me against them. Dad and John got on really well, two of a kind I suppose," Doyle told him easily, the tension leaving his voice. "But I suppose it must have been hard for Dad to suddenly have another kid when I came along. He was used to John who always did what he was told."

"Big age gap between you and your brother, is there?"

"He's thirteen years older than me. We've the same dad but different mothers," he explained. "My mum was Dad's second wife. John's mum died during the war."

Bodie almost groaned as he took in the quiet words. He knew from bitter experience what the trauma of a second marriage could do to a child. "It must have been hard for your brother to accept a new mum and baby."

"No. John loved my mum--it was just me he hated. We've never really seen eye to eye on anything. But he always complained that Mum took my side in any arguments. He wasn't that wrong either, because she mostly did.

"Dad was a real tyrant sometimes, laying the law down about what we could or couldn't do. When it came time for me to leave school, she helped me to stand up to him. If it hadn't been for her I would never have got away."

"Away from what?"

"I've told you before, Dad wanted me to join him and John in the business. But I wasn't having any of that and so I left home as quick as I could." Doyle managed to get the words out around a jaw-breaking yawn.

"Ray--"

"For crying out loud, Bodie, go to sleep. I've got to be up in three hours."

"I only wanted to know what business--"

"Go to sleep!" Doyle silenced him with a wet kiss. "Good night, lover."

"'Night sunshine," Bodie gave in. "Sweet dreams."

---

As soon as he saw his partner enter the room Bodie poured him an extra coffee and called him over. "Where did you vanish to?" he asked. Doyle had arrived at headquarters with him and then mysteriously disappeared a few hours ago.

"Thought I'd better go and find Kate Ross before she came looking for me," Doyle said, sipping at the coffee.

Concerned as to why his partner had felt the need to seek out the psychologist, Bodie took in the relaxed attitude of his partner and told himself there was nothing to worry about. "What did she have to say for herself?"

"She reminded me that I've got an open option to visit the clinic at Repton any time I want and that I don't have to talk things out with her any more," Doyle smiled as he recalled the tactful way she had told him that he was officially off the 'dangerous' list. "But I'd rather talk to her than to that nerd at Repton. I told her that I've been having some bad dreams again, went through what I can remember with her. We had a good talk." He leant forward to rest his arms on the grimy table top. "Then I told her how I felt about walloping Macklin and George Cowley. How I had just about managed to convince myself that the men in white coats were going to leap out and cart me off to The Beeches!" Doyle smiled at Bodie. "Yes, over-reacting I know, but it's what I thought at the time. For a while I was really scared, thought I'd blown it."

Bodie was aghast. He hadn't realised that Doyle had been so frightened by what had happened, and berated himself for his thoughtlessness. He should have known. "And what did she say?"

"Kate said that I've nothing to worry about. Macklin and Cowley were at fault and no-one--except me--expects me to be able to change my reactions overnight."

"So she's not going to pack you off back to the shrinks or have you stood down."

"No. As far as she's concerned they both got what they deserved. Said I needed a holiday, that I ought to get away from London for a while but you know what the duty situation is like. We're not due any leave for a few months at least.

"Obviously I can't go around slugging everyone but in these two instances my responses were justified. Macklin has admitted he overstepped the mark and Cowley was...just unlucky. Speaking of Cowley, have you seen him today?"

"Not yet, why?"

"I bumped into Puddle on my way in, he says the Cow's eye is pretty spectacular."

"Serves him bloody well right," Bodie said, still angry at being sent down into the Box for a seven-hour shift. "The mood he's been in lately I'm surprised no-one's hit him before."

"I think I know what's been bugging him," Doyle said conspiratorially, leaning forward to share his news. "You know how much fuss he makes about accepting Kate Ross's recommendations; how he's always saying how little he needs someone like her?" Intrigued, Bodie leant forward. "Seems like he's got his wish. She's leaving the department. Moving to that new Ministry of Defence place out in Essex."

"Well what's he so bloody miserable about--he's got rid of her, hasn't he?"

"He doesn't want her to go. Not because he wants her but because he'd rather have her than someone else."

Bodie laughed. "So now he's going to have to break in a new one. Any ideas who it is?"

"She wouldn't say; just said that she had made her recommendations. I think she only told me because she's obviously going to pass all my papers over to her successor." He pulled a face. "Don't much fancy that--took me long enough to convince her that I'm not likely to crack up when I find myself in a spot. Mind you--" he gave an embarrassed twitch. "After this little session of dream analysis she's probably not so sure about that now!"

"You told her about your dreams?"

"Why not--what I do remember is pretty vague, just the feelings I'm left with really. She said it was mostly just anxiety; me worrying myself about the consequences of blacking Cowley's eye and half killing Macklin." A movement over by the door caught Doyle's attention and he saw his friend Pat Kelly enter the room. Cowley wouldn't be the only person in CI5 to miss Kate Ross when she left the department.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Twisting round carefully, Doyle faced his still sleeping partner and smiled affectionately at the gormless, dead-to-the-world expression on the usually controlled features. His face squashed on one side by a pillow and his mouth slightly open, Bodie's image as a hard man was difficult to credit. As he watched, though, Bodie began to stir; a tongue tip, all pink and glistening slid out from between dry lips to moisten them and Bodie made a small noise in his throat.

Waiting until the second heavy eyelid rose to reveal two unfocussed blue eyes, Doyle leant forward and claimed the open mouth, his tongue slipping past lips and teeth, muffling the surprised sounds, "Morning," he said softly, his fingers smoothing one wayward short curl back into place behind Bodie's ear.

"Mornin'," was the husky response.

"Sleep well?"

Bodie prised one eye open again before shutting it quickly--it didn't feel like time to get up yet. "Wassa time?"

"Seven. Haven't got to be in until nine'ish," Doyle announced brightly.

"What you bin' eatin'?" Bodie asked, his voice as peeved as he could manage this close to waking up.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," replied Doyle, his concentration shifting from the wayward curl to the smooth skin covering Bodie's shoulders and chest.

"You feelin' fruity?" Bodie asked, his sleepy reluctance obvious but unable to prevent a shiver as warm hands touched him. Doyle withdrew his fingers and pulled away slightly, his disappointment making Bodie feel guilty. "Don't look like that, it's just--give me a few minutes to wake up, that's all."

"Don't look now, love," chortled Doyle evilly his hands burrowing under he covers once more, "but I think you're already up!"

As a familiar hand curled around an erection he hadn't realised he had, Bodie groaned, his head falling back onto the pillow and closing his eyes as Doyle squeezed and pumped him expertly. "Yes--but that's not...me, is it? That's just...just nature-oh-my-god! Not so fast-please-I-don't-want-to...oh yeah...that's lovely...just like...oh...mmmm."

Slowing the rhythm, Doyle bent his head to reclaim the parted mouth, pressing his own erect sex against Bodie, a circular motion of his hips ensuring the pressure and friction he needed.

"You awake yet?" asked Doyle a while later, his voice husky and breathless and he had to tap Bodie's face twice before gaining his attention.

"'M awake! Don't stop!"

Smiling at the urgency he had created, Doyle pushed the covers further down the bed; the room nice and warm thanks to the central heating, comfortable enough not to distract either of them.

"Ouch!" protested Bodie as teeth grazed over the sensitive head of his penis. "Watch it!" he cautioned.

"Sorry," apologised Doyle, "How's this?" Teasing the eye in the glistening head with his tongue, Doyle took the groan coming from somewhere above his head to be permission to continue.

Wide awake now, Bodie was helpless to do anything other than respond to the skilful, pleasure-giving hands and mouth--Doyle out of reach of more than desperate fingers tangled in his hair. As other fingers pierced him, soothing him with a cool slipperiness, he opened his body even wider, draping one leg over Ray's shoulders to give more access. Boneless with pleasure, he barely had the energy to roll over onto his stomach, and it was his lover's strength that lifted him to his knees.

For the first time there was no pain at all, only the sense of being stretched and filled, his muscles accepting the welcome invader. Pushing himself up off the mattress, Bodie straightened up, leaning backwards until he met Doyle's chest. Awkward at first, it took a few moments to get their weight balanced on their knees.

"Careful," Doyle warned in a breathless whisper.

"You...worry about your...self," gasped Bodie in return, the pressure and angle of Doyle's cock inside him feeling so different and even more pleasurable. He flexed his hips pulling himself away and then pushing back hard making Doyle gasp and wrap his arms tightly around his waist.

"O-my-god!"

"How does that feel?" Bodie asked.

Doyle's response was to tilt his pelvis back and forth, gently at first and then with a sudden, forceful thrust which caused Bodie to groan and sag in his arms, the dark head falling back to rest on his shoulder. "How does that feel?"

"Think...I've...died and gone to heaven..."

"That good," chuckled Doyle, his tongue licking a path along the corded neck muscle as his hands slid down the taut abdomen into the bush of thick pubic hair. Closing his fingers around the rigid shaft and snapping his hips powerfully, the tempo increased.

Bracing himself with both hands gripping the headboard, Bodie allowed Doyle to do all the work needed to take them both to completion. Afterwards, when time began to have some meaning again, he tugged the covers back up the bed and wriggled across the mattress, taking Doyle's lax, heavy body with him as he tried to get off a patch of cold, wet cotton sheet.

"Whatcha' doin', Bodie?" Doyle grumbled in protest.

"The bed's wet."

"Your bit of wet, isn't it?"

"That is beside the point," Bodie said but stopped wriggling and settled down to doze again.

It was quiet then until Doyle stirred and shifted up onto an elbow and flicked the tip of Bodie's nose with one finger. "You asleep?"

"Yes," came the hopeful response.

"Thought so," replied Doyle. "Guess what."

Wondering how on earth he could have been stupid enough to fix himself up with a partner that on occasions had a nasty habit of waking up bright and breezy, Bodie summoned the strength to respond. "What should I guess?"

"Do you know what I really fancy right now?" Doyle ran one hand lightly over Bodie's chest and belly, skimming over the still sensitive genitals.

"Again!" Bodie was shocked to hear how horrified he sounded.

"Don't you ever think of anything else?" admonished Doyle. "No, what I really fancy is--have we got any bacon?"

"What?" His mind still on sexual lines, the reference to food threw Bodie.

"Any of those mushrooms left? I'm starving hungry--could really enjoy one of your fry-ups; bacon, egg, mushrooms, tomatoes and a couple of fried slices." Doyle's mouth was watering at the thought of his meal. "We've still got time if we're quick. It's only just gone eight. You go and start the cooking while I use the shower first."

Before Bodie had a chance to protest, Doyle was already out of the bed and diving towards the bathroom. It wasn't long before he emerged clean, if still a bit damp around the edges, and took over the frying pan, telling Bodie to hurry up.

Stepping under the shower and letting the water wash over him, Bodie rubbed soapy hands over his body, a dreamy smile returning to his face as he washed away the last traces of their loving. Practise and experience had taught Ray to be a generous lover and he was well satisfied--this morning's loving had, Bodie knew, finally obliterated all his own painful memories associated with being fucked; the gentleness and erotic tenderness Doyle gave was all he needed to forget what had happened in childhood.

Turning under the shower, he knew that his body was undamaged; even the strong thrusts that had taken Doyle over the peak had caused him no discomfort. Touching himself with his fingertips, Bodie discovered he was a little tender but not sore, the ring muscle still relaxed enough to accept his exploring digit. It was a shame that he could never share these feeling with Ray.

The stray thought burst though the glowing aura of well-being without warning. His mood suddenly shifting, he rinsed the last of the soap off and stepped out of the shower.

It was no good wishing for something he could never have, he told himself harshly. Drying and dressing himself with sharp economical actions, Bodie reminded himself that he had to accept what they had and stop wishing for more; it was enough that Ray was able to accept his loving and offer what he could in return. And if he wanted more... Bodie squashed the hope firmly.

There was no more.

---

Stumbling through the outer office and into the deserted corridor the two men looked at each other in wide-eyed amazement.

"He's bloody cracked!" Bodie said first. "I'm not sick--neither are you--how the hell can he put us on the sick list if we're not sick?"

"Well," Doyle shrugged his shoulders, not really wanting to question their good fortune. "I suppose if Ross says we need a break I suppose we must do."

"Since when did George Cowley start taking notice of that frigid bitch?"

"Dunno."

"You don't suppose..." Bodie stopped, a wicked gleam appearing in his eyes.

"Don't suppose what?"

"Neither of us are due any leave until January are we?" Doyle shook his head, agreeing with him. "And when you saw Kate yesterday she told you you were just a bit anxious."

"So?"

"So she's told Cowley you need a break--and as I'm your partner and you need a nursemaid--I get time off too!"

"That still doesn't explain why the Cow's followed her recommendation--he's never agreed with her over me."

"Perhaps he's realised that," said Bodie. "Maybe he thinks that if he'd followed her recommendations in the past she wouldn't be leaving the department."

"She recommended that he kick me off the squad!" Doyle reminded his partner sourly.

"I didn't say he should have followed all her suggestions, only a few of the more harmless ones," Bodie corrected, soothing the ruffled feathers of his mate.

"She's still leaving though--isn't she?" asked Doyle, suddenly doubtful.

"I don't think our Kate would resign just to force George to accept her idea--no, she's going, but I reckon he's just woken up to the fact that there are worse things in life than Kate Ross."

"What?"

"Better the devil you know, as they say," recited Bodie cheerfully.

"That's all well and good," Doyle said, shock having now given way to irritation. "What the hell are we going to do for four days in the middle of November--and no I don't want to start Christmas shopping early! It's hardly worth going away for a few days and it'll be wasted just 'anging around at home."

"I'm sure we could think of something to do," Bodie said waggling his eyebrows. "Why not go home now--we could do the first thing that...pops up!" he leered.

"For four days!" Doyle retorted, disbelief clearly written over his face.

"Hmm...know what you mean. You never did have any stamina." He dodged the lethal sideswipe expertly.

They were home and making half-hearted preparations for an unexpected leisurely mid-day meal in their own place when Bodie suddenly had a brainwave.

"You any good at stripping?"

Skinning his knuckles on the cheese grater, Doyle blinked in surprise, then swore as the pain started. "Fuck it!" He sucked his bloody knuckles.

"And you complain about me having a one-track mind--and don't bleed all over the cheese!" Bodie pulled the plate and grater out of Doyle's hands. "Oh well, add a splash of tomato sauce and we won't be able to tell the difference. No, not stripping as in s.e.x.--stripping as in painting and decorating."

"Decorating?" Doyle couldn't believe his ears. "You're serious," he realised in dismay.

"I promised I'd do it for her months ago but..." Bodie hesitated. "With one thing and another I never had time. Come on, Ray. If you come with me and help we'll get it done in half the time.

Doyle felt himself go cold inside. Bodie couldn't seriously expect him to help decorate some girl's flat.

"Please," Bodie asked softly. "It's only two rooms, a tiny kitchen she wants re-painting and the living room done out. We could book into a nice hotel just down the road and she'd be so pleased. If I don't go up and do it for her soon she'll pay someone to do it and they'll rip her off something chronic."

Bodie was serious--but the mention of a hotel revealed that all might not be lost. "Okay," Doyle agreed, resigned to four days of hard graft. "Whose place is it, then?"

"My mum's," Bodie said, grinning broadly from ear to ear.

"Your what?" asked Dole.

"My mum--I do have one you know--I wasn't hatched in an incubator!" Bodie said defensively, his partner's surprise at the revelation rather more than he thought necessary.

"I know that," Doyle said weakly. He only just managed to stop himself from asking which mum it was--the Marks and Spencer gift voucher 'mum' or 'William's loving mother'. The fact that his partner had two mothers floating around somewhere suddenly struck Doyle as being unaccountably greedy--particularly in view of the fact that he didn't even have one. As a fresh wave of memories rose up to swamp him, Doyle became angry with his partner. "What makes you think I want to waste four days sick leave decorating your mother's house?" he demanded to know.

Bodie's grin vanished. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"But you're still going to go--without me if I say so?"

Bodie felt his heart sink. He'd been so sure Doyle would agree. "Yes. I'll still go. I've been promising to get up there since Easter. I'd planned going up there during our leave after the Parsali business..."

Doyle looked away as his partner's voice faded. "But then I went and got myself half-killed and kidnapped and you've not had the chance since then," he guessed. "Well...if she's been expecting you that long I suppose you ought to go."

"Come with me, Ray," Bodie asked quietly, his eyes begging him to agree. "You'll like her, and she'll like you--she's always had a soft spot for stray dogs," he finished ruffling the head of curls.

Doyle briefly considered the alternative--four days without Bodie. "We can stay in a hotel?"

---

Leaving their bags at the hotel Bodie had chosen for them, Doyle looked through the car window at the streets they were driving through, as faceless, characterless and tatty as some of the bleaker parts of the East End of London. Fifteen minutes away from their hotel they left the grimy town behind them and hit open country, the green lanes soon making way for a pretty very rural-looking village. Turning off the main road through the village into a side street, Doyle guessed their destination was close.

"What sort of place has your mum got then?" he asked. Since leaving London six hours ago, Bodie had not talked about her nor allowed Doyle to force him to open up about his family. Somehow understanding that his partner's family was not a topic for casual discussion, Doyle had managed to refrain from asking direct questions, and any indirect ones were either ignored or evaded.

"The council gave her a sheltered flat five years ago, it's small but she likes it. She's got some nice neighbours and the warden and his wife are really good, they keep an eye on her."

Doyle wondered at the reason for sheltered accommodation, he thought only really old or frail people got that. "What about your dad?"

"He died five years ago--he'd had a good innings, was over eighty. Here we are," Bodie announced and he parked in front of a modern block of flats surrounded by lush gardens.

Following his partner into the entrance hall, Doyle did some quick arithmetic--Bodie's father must have been in his sixties when he was born--he had thought his own father old at half that age. He stood behind Bodie as he talked into the smart entryphone. After a short exchange the door opened and he followed him through; ignoring the lift, Bodie ran up the stairs to the first floor. Dawdling behind Doyle caught his first glimpse of the woman he presumed was Bodie's mother.

Tall, almost as tall as her son, and skinny with the frailness of age, the woman stood still as Bodie swept her into his arms and gave her a smacking great kiss. Feeling strangely left out, Doyle waited to be introduced, unwilling to look away but wishing he was somewhere else.

"And you must be Ray," she said once Bodie had released her.

Unable to speak, a huge lump in his throat threatening to choke him, Doyle could only nod, unaware that his eyes were over-bright and his misery obvious to all.

Seeing her visitor's distress, she smiled knowingly at Bodie and then extended a gnarled, arthritic hand towards Doyle. "Come on in, if you've driven all the way from London you must be parched. There's a pot of tea waiting and dinner in the oven."

Hearing the welcome in the soft Merseyside lilt and with Bodie's arm curved around his back steering him in, Doyle entered the flat. The photographs which covered the entire length of the longest wall in the living room drew his attention immediately.

"My children," she said proudly. "And of course their children and even one or two grandchildren."

Bodie enjoyed the look of total bewilderment on his partner's face, the unhappiness banished by this new puzzle. He had known she would be good for Doyle; an injection of motherly love was well overdue.

"Where's my picture?" Bodie asked, knowing exactly what Ray was looking for.

"And when did you ever stand still long enough to be photographed?" she asked laughing. "I think you're over here...yes, here next to Angela and Colin--Angela's daughter was married last month, it was a lovely wedding--another picture for the wall."

Doyle bent down to look at the framed black and white snapshot of a very young but unmistakable Bodie.

"Here you are dear, your tea."

Accepting the cup and saucer, Doyle moved to sit on the sofa--but was unable to look away from the amazing wall of photographs.

"Thanks...Mrs Bodie," he added awkwardly as he took a biscuit from the proffered plate.

"Oh dear no," she said laughing, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'm not Mrs Bodie--just call me Betty--or Mum; most people call me Mum, some of my children even called me Mrs Mum."

"They can't all be yours!" Doyle said, then blushed as he realised how rude he sounded.

"Oh yes, they were, all mine and my dear husband's for a short while, some longer than others. We took in one hundred and thirty seven children at one time or another. Lots of lovely children--even now I keep in touch with a lot of them and I've seen their own families growing up."

"Mum is my foster-mother," Bodie explained taking pity on his bemused partner. "I lived with her and Jack for years."

"This one was number one hundred and thirty seven--"

"They ran out of energy once they'd had me for a few years," Bodie joked easily.

"Get away with you," she laughed. "We were just too tired and too old to keep on taking in young ragamuffins like you. I was already fifty-five and my Jack was near sixty when this one was delivered to our doorstep by the Welfare woman. Just a few weeks she said--"

"And I stayed for eight years."

Listening to the banter, Doyle guessed that the story had been laughed about many times before.

"Not that we minded," said, Bodie's foster-mother. "He was such a lovely, sweet boy--I can still remember all those beautiful blond curls--you'd never think that to look at him now though. Keeps it so short he's nearly bald."

"Mum!" Bodie protested. Plagued all her life with dead straight hair, she had always nagged him for hiding the fact he had curly hair; he also knew that the way the conversation was going she was just as likely to drag the albums out and prove to his wide-eyed partner how blond and curly his hair had been.

"Oh don't look so worried, lovie," she said. "We won't get the albums out--not yet anyway. Now, who's for dinner. I do hope you've got good appetites both of you."

"I'm starving, do you need any help?" offered Bodie, following her into the small kitchen.

Watching them go, Doyle set his cup and saucer down on the table and looked around the flat. Apart from the photographs most of the furniture was fairly modern and of reasonable quality, only the old-fashioned framed photos and intricate lace chair back covers and mats on the sideboard revealing the age of the flat's occupant. Walking over to the pictures standing on the sideboard he picked one up--recognising the posed formality. A similar picture had stood on his mother's dressing table; his grandparent's wedding day with sombre faces, stiff collars and shapeless high fashion wedding gowns. The picture had stood beside one of his parent's, dressed in their war-time best, the windows of the registry office marked out with white crosses behind them and his brother John, a grim-faced five-year-old glaring furiously at the photographer and holding tightly to one of his father's large hands.

"Penny for 'em, sunshine?"

The quiet voice so close behind him made Doyle jump. He replaced the wedding picture and turned round. "Food ready?"

"Nearly. After dinner we're taking Mum into town to pick up the paper and paint and stuff. There should be time before the shops shut--she's already picked out what she wants and then we can get the rooms ready this evening to start in the morning. She's packed most of the kitchen stuff into boxes so there's only really this room to sort out."

"It'll be fun taking all those pictures down and then rehanging them when we're done," Doyle pointed out with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "Most people are happy with just one or two pictures--what the hell does she want wallpaper for with all that lot to cover it up?"

Bodie had already realised the photo-wall was going to be difficult. "She never used to have them all out. The old house was a lot bigger and they were spread through the rooms on mantelpieces and shelves. It's only since moving here that she had to put them together--I suppose it's that or hide them away in a box."

"Can't she choose a few special ones and put the rest away?"

"All her children were special," Bodie explained softly. "They could never have kids of their own and so they looked after other people's. Ever since Dad died she's been lonely--that's why the photos are out where she can see them."

"You really liked living with...with Betty and Jack?" Doyle asked stumbling over the couple's name. He simply couldn't call the woman Mum as she'd suggested; not even Mrs Mum--it was impossible--she wasn't his mum.

"The best parents ever--if I could've chosen my mum and dad they would have been them."

"How old were you when you came to them?"

"About four or five--I'm not too sure."

"And you stayed with them for eight years so you were...thirteen when you left," Doyle said, remembering the few personal details he'd read about his partner's history. "So you weren't here when you ran away at fifteen."

Bodie's expression changed abruptly, the light in his eyes going out. "No, I didn't run from Mum and Dad--that was from another place. I think dinner's ready."

"Bodie--" Doyle started to pull him back but hesitated when he saw the guarded look on his lover's face.

Turning in time to see Doyle change his mind, Bodie knew he was being unfair. He had already decided that bringing Doyle face to face with his past would bring all sorts of questions out. "Later, Ray," he said quietly. "When we're back at the hotel." He smiled gently and was relieved to see some of the tension leave his partner's face.

---

It was very late by the time they arrived back at their hotel room, tired and grubby from washing paintwork down and beginning to scrape the old wallpaper away.

"Toss you for the shower," Doyle suggested, a coin already spinning through the air.

"Tails."

"It's heads, I'll take the shower first," said Doyle, his shirt already off.

"Fancy a bath myself," replied Bodie as he peeled off the overalls, an old pair of Jack's that Betty had produced for him.

"A bit kinky that--fancying a bath," teased Doyle as he tossed his last remaining garment in the general direction of the chair.

"Well I suppose I must be a bit kinky--fancy you, don't I?" retorted Bodie.

"Do you still want to go down to the bar for that drink when we've cleaned up?'

Bodie thought about it as he threw himself to lie full length on one of the room's twin beds. "No. Do you?"

"Not really--especially as your mum's expecting us so early in the morning."

"Might as well have an early night then," replied Bodie, his gaze slipping to the empty bed.

"Have a cold shower and think pure thoughts," Doyle suggested guessing what was going on inside his partner's head.

"I am--pure lust," Bodie replied and licked his lips as Doyle collected his towel and washbag and vanished into the small bathroom.

---

His arms aching as he cleared the last patch of old wallpaper, Doyle gratefully sank down onto the old stool and took the mug of tea from Bodie's mum. "Thanks, Betty, you're an angel. Where's Bodie vanished off to?" he asked when he noticed that the kitchen was empty.

"He's just gone down to the chippy in the high street to fetch us some hot dinner. It was chips or cold sandwiches because I can't get to the cooker," she explained apologetically.

"Chips are fine by me--and Bodie doesn't need an excuse to eat them," he reassured her.

She laughed at that. "He always did have a good appetite. I can still remember the day he tricked my Jack into giving him a second dinner. Hollow legs, that boy."

"Still has," Doyle added. "You and your husband were very good to him," he said hesitantly uncertain how far to probe. "It must have been quite a wrench when he left you after so long."

Betty's eyes clouded over slightly and her expression became more subdued. "Well...we never expected to have him so long. A few weeks, maybe a month or so, but we'd decided years before he came never to keep a child for too long. It's too painful you see," she explained. "If they stay too long you stop just caring and start loving them--and then when they leave it just breaks your heart. After a while it just hurt too much and so we stopped taking in the long-term children--just took them in for a few weeks, maybe a few months, and then they sent us young William Bodie...apart from Edgar and Albert years before, our William stayed the longest." She smiled remembering her first meeting with the little boy.

"He was so excited the day he came to us," she told Doyle. "The Welfare woman brought him in her car you see. Caused quite a stir it did, the first car in our street it was, all the neighbours were on their doorsteps looking at what was going on. And our William--he'd never been in a car before. Oh dear, I can still remember the fuss he made when they first arrived and he had to get out of that car--he cried and cried and carried on so bad the woman had to promise he could go around the block once more before getting out. So round the block we went. Me, my Jack, the Welfare woman and that little scrap all squeezed inside that posh car and him waving at the neighbours and poking his tongue out at the other kids."

Doyle smiled as he pictured the scene--Bodie had always known how to get his own way.

Bodie's foster-mother's face became sad again as she continued. "Poor lamb--he thought he was having the best day of his life that day in the car. When he first saw me, he thought I was his gran come to take him home, and he really took to me. Sometimes it takes the little ones a while to settle into a strange home but not our William, treated me and my Jack as if we belonged to him right from the start."

"He's never spoken very much about his other mum," Doyle ventured carefully trying to give the impression he knew more than he did.

"That doesn't surprise me," said Betty, her voice tart. "That stupid woman doesn't have a clue about how to be a mother. It's a mystery to me why she keeps trying to make the poor lad like her."

"He still gets birthday cards from her."

"Huh--silly bitch she is. You can't buy a child's love, but she wouldn't learn. No, not that one, too hoity-toity for her own good, that one. Ah, here's our William--oops, better not let him hear me call him that though goodness knows why--it was good enough for him while he lived with us before." So saying, she went into the kitchen to hunt for the box that held the salt and vinegar.

Juggling the hot packets of food, Bodie tossed one over to Doyle, who fielded it expertly. The end of the first full day saw the kitchen half done and the living room walls stripped bare with the ceiling whitewashed and the undercoat already on the skirting boards and doors. Back at the hotel, even more tired than they had been the night before, they managed to visit the hotel bar for a brief half hour before climbing into separate beds.

Hanging wallpaper was a new experience for Doyle and one he found difficult to master. After hanging one piece upside down, saturating another to the point of disintegration and tearing three strips in a row, he finally conceded defeat and allowed his smug partner to demonstrate his perfected technique.

Betty was not best pleased when during the fight that followed, a bucket of wallpaper paste was spilled, the messy liquid oozing through the protective sheets of newspaper to the carpet. "Don't just stand there gaping!" hissed Bodie. "Mop it up."

"You kicked the bloody bucket over!"

"Only because you were pissing around!"

"Give over, the pair of you, before I knock your heads together!" said Betty in a no-nonsense voice. "Bodie, put the paper on the wall before the paste dries--Ray, go fetch the cloth from under the bathroom basin."

"Yes, Mum!" two voices echoed in unison. Betty and Bodie shared a secret smile as Doyle went in search of the floor cloth. Bodie had known she would be good for his partner; she was well used to dealing with emotionally scarred children in need of a little mothering and she never failed to get people to respond to her.

After three days of hard work everything was done, the debris cleared away and the photographs installed onto the newly papered wall.

"Well done, boys," mum said looking around her new-look home. "It's grand, just grand, thank you."

"Sorry it took me so long to get up here and do it," apologised Bodie, pulling her into a gentle hug and kissing her.

Pulling herself away from her foster-son's arms, she turned to Doyle, who was watching them enviously. "And thank you, lovie," she said giving him a kiss on the side of his mouth. "It's been really wonderful of you both to spend your holiday decorating this old girl's house."

Accepting the kiss, Doyle caught her up in his arms and squeezed her gently. "It's been a pleasure," he said throatily.

They spent the remainder of the evening at a quiet restaurant, lingering over their meal and talking about everything and nothing; friends, families and memories with Betty telling them both stories of the many children that had been lucky enough to spend some time in her care.

After seeing her home safely they returned to the hotel, the evening's warmth still affecting them, making them easy and relaxed with each other.

Pushing the bulk of Bodie's weight off him but holding on tightly just in case one of them should fall out of the narrow single bed, Doyle reached for the wadge of toilet tissue he had thoughtfully placed beside the bed, and wiped them both clean.

"I'll be glad to get 'ome," Bodie mumbled, his grip around Ray's waist tightening as the bed dipped and swayed as they cleaned themselves.

"Why?"

"You and me do not fit in a single bed!"

"You've been spoilt," Doyle said, his voice sleepy and affectionate. "We won't always have a king-sized bed. The next time we get moved we might end up with two regular doubles."

"I shall tell Cowley," said Bodie firmly, "that we need a king-size."

"Oh yeah," snorted Doyle, tongue darting out to trace the curve of throat up to the indentation behind one ticklish ear. "And when he asks why?"

"You'll think of an answer," Bodie replied confidently.

It was quiet as they lay together, too replete to move, yet too uncomfortable to sleep in such a cramped space.

"I like your mum," Doyle said quietly, his breath tickling bare skin near his lips and making Bodie shiver. "She's lovely."

"I knew you'd like her--everyone does. She likes you, too--but then, there's no accounting for taste," he joked.

Doyle laughed and gave Bodie the dig in his ribs he was expecting after such a comment. "She's easy to talk to, after five minutes I felt as if I'd known her for years."

"Well," Bodie said quietly. "She does know quite a bit about you. Every time I ring her she wants to know how you're getting on."

"You've talked about me with her?"

"She's always asking me what I'm up to," Bodie said defensively. "She doesn't know much about CI5 and she knows I can't talk about my work, so she wants to know everything else. She's known about you from the first month you joined us. She rang up one night and asked me what sort of day I'd had--you know, just for a chat--and it was the day after we'd had that row about your training programme. After half an hour of me bleating on about how bloody-minded you were, she always made a point of asking how you were progressing. And then this past year...well, she knows the bare bones of it because I kept postponing when I could get up here." Bodie felt Doyle stiffen in his arms and wondered whether he had been wise to speak so freely.

"I thought she knew," Doyle said finally. "She never said anything but--but I knew she knew." He pulled away from the encircling arms, Bodie letting him go reluctantly. "She's a lot like my mum is--was," he corrected. "I didn't have to explain much to her either; she always seemed to know." Slipping out of Bodie's bed and climbing into his own a few feet away in the dimly lit room, he added quietly, "If there was just one thing I could change in this fucking mess it would be for Mum to really know beyond any doubt that I wasn't lying."

A few feet away, the bed already growing cold, Bodie had nothing to say. Ray's mother had believed in the system that had found her son guilty and had died still believing in it.

"She did love you, Ray."

A heavy sigh and rustle of bedding was the only reply. Suddenly, too cold and lonely in the narrow single bed, Bodie crossed over to join a surprised Doyle.

"Bodie--"

"Shift over," he ordered gruffly. "I'm wide awake and freezing so give us a cuddle."

"Your hands are cold!"

"So warm them up."

Although neither of them would admit it, they were still both too wound up to sleep, the pleasure of being so close in the small bed not enough to compensate for the cramped insecurity.

"Tell me about your other mum," Doyle asked quietly a while later.

For a minute or two there was no answer, but then, just as he was beginning to think he was being ignored, Doyle found himself suddenly pulled and pushed into a different position to finish up lying full length on top of Bodie, his head resting on the smooth chest and strong arms wrapped around him holding him in place. A few wriggles and minor adjustment of arms and legs and they were both comfortable.

"She's alive," Bodie said finally.

"I know, I saw the birthday card she sent you," Doyle said.

"Nosy bugger," said Bodie tugging hard on a handful of thick curls. "She's never missed a birthday or Christmas yet."

The sarcasm wasn't missed and Doyle wanted to know more, to understand why his partner was so bitter.

"All it means sunshine, is that she uses a diary. Even I can remember birthdays if they're in the diary--and who the hell can miss Christmas?"

"You've never remembered my birthday," Doyle pointed out.

In the darkness Bodie pulled a face; the first year he hadn't known Ray's birthday; the second year the happy couple were courting and had celebrated the event with a romantic meal for two somewhere in the West End--gooseberries not invited--and this year his birthday had passed unnoticed as CI5 searched for his body, thinking him already dead. He sighed and pushed the memories away; what was past was gone and best forgotten. "She doesn't live very far from here, only a few miles. I don't see her and we never really got on--I hardly know her."

Still mourning his own mother, Doyle couldn't understand how his partner could sound so cold. "How come you went to foster-parents?"

"My gran died," Bodie said, his voice little more than a thread of sound in the gloom, his voice deep and echoing where Doyle's ear was pressed to his chest. "I lived with her, and when she died no-one knew where my mother was. I was only about four or five...not very old. The Welfare people put me with the Melias. I wasn't supposed to stay very long, but when they couldn't find my mother they left me there. She went round to Gran's place and found out what had happened. The Welfare brought her to the Melias' house. That visit is the first real memory I have of her." Hearing the poorly concealed hurt and bewilderment of the child Bodie had been, Doyle wrapped himself around his partner even tighter, blanketing him as if protecting him from the world. Bodie wriggled into the encircling arms and went on.

"She always turned up just before my birthday or at Christmas, with a great big box all done up with daft ribbons and bows. I had to open the bloody thing and pretend to like whatever stupid thing was in it and then kiss her--Jack would give me a belt round the ear if I didn't pretend to be pleased once she'd gone. They said I had to pretend because it made her happy. Jesus--I hated kissing her, she used to stink of make-up and perfume, I think she's why I hate getting stuck with girls who plaster it on and bathe in perfume, just that smell brings it all back--every bloody time!"

Hearing the harsh whisper Doyle's heart went out to the child-Bodie.

"Mum and Dad, my foster parents, were my real parents--she was just someone who came by twice a year to deliver a box and get a kiss. It was years before I realised who she really was. And before you ask--yes, I am a bastard," Bodie added tonelessly. "I stayed with Mum and Dad for so long they even thought of themselves as my parents and then eventually asked the Welfare people if they could legally adopt me. My mother refused permission."

"Why?" Doyle asked.

"Because she considered me her property--and, around then she got married. Her husband was divorced and already had a child, a boy a few years older then me, who lived with his first wife. As soon as she was respectably married the Welfare people let her have me back."

"What--just like that?"

"I came home from school one day and found the Welfare lady...can't remember her name now...my clothes and things were already packed and in her car. There hadn't been any warning, not that I know of, Mum and Dad were crying but trying not to--even the neighbours; the whole street was watching. I wouldn't go and the Welfare lady had to drag me into the car. I stayed with them for one day and then ran home--it was only a few miles away, but the Welfare lady came and took me away again.

"The second time I ran home she turned up with a policeman," Bodie's voice grew harder, all emotion gone.

"Jesus!" Doyle exclaimed. He had heard of similar stories and didn't doubt the truth of what he was hearing. Is that when you ran away for good--when you went to the coast and started on the ships?"

"No, not right away. I was still only about 12 or 13 then. I ended up staying with her and my step-father for a year or so. Every time it got too much I ran back to Mum and Dad's house. But it caused a lot of trouble. My mother got really angry and said Mum and Dad were enticing me away from her and the last time I ran to them dad was arrested--they tried to say he had kidnapped me.

"I can remember the headmistress at my school explained it all to me--how my natural mother had the law on her side and how Mum and Dad could end up in prison if I kept on running back to them. So I had no choice then, I had to stay."

"So that's why you finally ran away to sea?"

"No," said Bodie. "I was still too young. I managed to hold on for a bit longer until I was nearly 15." The story ended abruptly.

Pressed so close to him, Doyle felt him shiver and realised that the story had ended at the worst part. What had happened in the new home he wondered. "So," he probed cautiously. pretty sure he knew what was coming next. "You've got a step-father and step-brother. Any half brothers and sisters?"

"No."

"It must have been nice having a big brother though--wasn't it?" Doyle asked, he'd always felt that if he and John had been closer in ages they would have got on better.

"No."

"Didn't you like him?"

"No."

"How about your step-father?" Doyle held his breath expecting some kind of reaction but he was disappointed.

"No," Bodie answered calmly.

"Was he...was he okay? He was good to you?"

"He was okay, I suppose. He didn't bother with me very much," came the controlled reply.

Doyle was puzzled. He'd been sure it would have been problems with the step-father--he had come across cases similar when in the police force. "What was your brother like?" he asked, playing for time as he re-organised his suspicions.

"I hated him!" The placid front shattered and real, undisguised hate coloured the previously cool tones.

Doyle winced as strong fingers gripped his upper arms, biting into him painfully. "Bodie!" he protested.

"Christ, but how I hated him!" Bodie growled, his mind slipping backwards into a past he'd hoped was long forgotten.

"Why, what did he do?"

And Bodie remembered...

---

...He remembered how he had looked forward to that first weekend the boy, four years older than himself, was due to visit. The truth about his own visit to his mother's house had finally been explained to him but with a child's trust he still hadn't accepted that they could force him to stay where he didn't want to be. His new brother coming on a regular monthly access visit was an exciting diversion from his own problems, and for a while young William Bodie had forgotten he was supposed to be unhappy.

His new brother soon reminded him.

The co-incidence of the two boys sharing the same Christian name was a source of great amusement to the newly-wed couple; neither of the boys found it so funny. William Fowler, his whole world shattered by the ugly divorce, had been tossed around by his parents like a shuttlecock as they each tried to prove to him how much they each loved and cared for him more than the other parent. William's mother had finally won the custody battle and now they lived in a council flat in the heart of an ugly estate on Kirby. His father still lived in their old home with his new wife--the reason for the divorce--and, if that were not enough, his stepmother had brought her own son and placed him in his room.

Poor William Fowler--William Bodie had his father, his bedroom, and his bed--he even had his name. Every time he heard his father call 'William' he would look up and discover his puny little step-brother being spoken to and the knife inside him would twist painfully.

Older and craftier, Fowler was careful not to let his father see how much he hated the newcomers. In front of other people he was always affectionate and considerate towards his new 'brother' and visitors and friends commented on how well the family fitted together.

But alone, especially at night in the large bed the boys shared, William Fowler made sure William Bodie paid for every second of phony kindness. At first pinches, kicks and pulled hair to make the young boy cry satisfied William but not for long. Just turned sixteen, his voice deepening and his body halfway between boy and man, he discovered the wonders of sex. Denied the opportunity of experimenting with girls and finding himself thrown into bed with an available body once a month William Fowler practised his newly learned skills on his unwilling subject. At first fumbling and awkward he soon discovered the heady delights of being able to force his will on a quaking and tearful body.

It was not long before Fowler realised how much he enjoyed his visits to his father's house and he pleaded with his mother to be allowed to stay more often.

Young William Bodie had soon learnt not to speak of the painful pinches and bites his brother delivered under the blankets in their bedroom and when the touches changed into something else entirely the pattern was already established and he never spoke out. As his older brother became more inventive and demanding the young Bodie would break away and run home to Mum and Dad--but even there he never spoke out.

Each time the Welfare people or the police brought the young boy back, William Fowler would hold back a little as if afraid he had talked--but as time passed his confidence grew and his treatment of his victim became even more demanding. By the time he bedded his first girl at the age of seventeen, he was already screwing his brother regularly.

Discovering girls only made things worse for the younger boy; girls expected to be wooed and petted endlessly for the slightest touch or promise and, as Fowler soon found out, girls didn't like to be rushed or handled roughly. It was therefore easier and much more enjoyable to force himself into his little brother's tight hole and the fight to make the boy cry grew harder and more pleasurable every time.

But Bodie did eventually break away. One night, quite by accident, he discovered he could hit just as hard as his tormentor and he had won his freedom. His brother's cries for help had woken their mother and she had come into the bedroom to tell them to be quiet lest they wake father. Angry, with two and a half years of fear and frustration welling up inside him, Bodie told her everything, every single ugly detail while Fowler cried and snivelled in the corner of the bedroom. At the end of his story, Bodie waited for her to judge his brother, to pay him back for what he had done but the room had remained quiet and, in the corner, Fowler stopped crying and lifted his head.

"Well, say something!" Bodie had demanded.

And so she did: she refused to look at either of the boys as she said, "I know."

The truth hit the young boy hard. She had known all the time. She had always known, right from the start and she had never done anything to stop it.

The next day he left for the last time. He called Mum and Dad from a call-box to let them know he was going but still not why. All his life he had only ever told one person--and she had known the truth the whole time.

---

"Why, what did he do?"

And Bodie remembered. Everything. Every little thing.

"What did he do that was so bad?" Doyle repeated the question softly, his fingers rubbing away the harsh lines that had formed around his lover's mouth.

Inhaling deeply, Bodie sighed and pushed all the memories away. They were gone forever. "I suppose he was just jealous of me--I was living with his father, after all. It must have been hard for him to accept the way things changed."

"He didn't live with you?"

"No," Bodie said, setting the lock on the memories forever. "He just visited now and again--he lived with his mother."

"Oh," Doyle said thoughtfully, he'd been so sure he was right and the calm words only confused him more. "I think my brother John found me hard to accept for much the same reason. He was only about five when Mum and Dad married. His mum died when he was a baby but it was my mum that brought him up. She was dad's housekeeper at first," Doyle revealed.

Bodie raised an eyebrow and smiled down at him. "Hanky-panky below stairs?"

"It was all very respectable!" Doyle said indignantly. "And they were married for years before I arrived. Maybe that's why John never took to me--he'd had them to himself all his life--a baby brother when you're thirteen must be a bit of a shock."

"I'm surprised he had anything to do with you at all," Bodie said remembering his own feelings about squealing babies when he had been a thirteen year old.

"I don't think he had much choice. Once I was walking around dad would be in the workshop or out on a job and Mum was usually in the office. John was stuck with me; had to take me to school, look after me until Mum closed the office at night. I even had to tag along with him when he went out with his friends. The bastard used to make me sit in the foyer of the local cinema on Saturday mornings because he was too mean to buy me a ticket when he went in with his friends!"

Bodie laughed aloud at the hurt indignation.

"It wasn't funny," Doyle retaliated by clamping sharp teeth around one protruding nipple. "I used to run away and hide from him and then Dad would take the belt to him for not watching me properly."

"You enjoyed getting him into trouble, did you?"

"Served him right," Doyle said with no trace of guilt in his voice. "He was always sucking up to Dad--made a change for him to get the belt--it was usually me that got it."

"A bit heavy-handed was he, your dad?" Bodie asked gruffly.

"Only when he thought it would do some good. He never went over the top--but even so, he could really whack hard. He used to hang it on a hook behind the kitchen door--christ, the number of times he'd make me fetch the bloody thing so he could use it on me!" Doyle shivered, his buttocks tensing as he remembered the long-past but deserved beatings.

Bodie rubbed a hand over the taut globes, stroking them until they relaxed.

"Bodie--"

"Shut up an' go to sleep," Bodie ordered gruffly.

"But--"

"Shh!"

"Bodie you're--"

"Go to sleep!" Bodie muttered, irritated at the way his partner always seemed to wake up at the wrong moment.

"You're bloody squashing me!"

"Well, you're no featherweight yourself--and your hips are bloody bony!" grumbled Bodie as he managed to shuffle backwards half and inch. "Anymore and I'll be on the floor."

"Bodie--"

"I'm asleep so shut up," he lied.

"I love you too, mate," Doyle sighed and gave in.

"Night, sunshine."

And then they were both asleep.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Doyle's first port of call on his return to duty after his unexpected four-day sick leave was to the medical section. Willis smiled unexpectedly as he entered the room and found his patient waiting for him. "I've been looking forward to seeing you," he said brightly.

"Why?" enquired Doyle, immediately suspicious, and he thought the doctor seemed uncommonly cheerful.

"No...particular reason," evaded the doctor, the smile on his face becoming impossibly wider and more smug. "And how are we feeling?"

"We," replied Doyle, his eyes turning to see if Bodie found the doctor's behaviour as strange as he did, "are feeling fine, thank you."

"Well, you certainly look nice and healthy, bit of colour in your cheeks, and your eyes are nice and bright--it was Kate's idea for a few days off, wasn't it? She thought you were a little tense...uptight. Have you been sleeping better? No problems? Eating all right, are we?"

Willis ignored the patient and looked directly at Bodie for his answers, knowing from experience he would get more truthful responses from that direction.

Trying desperately to keep a straight face in response to his partner's growing outrage, Bodie shrugged his shoulders helplessly and answered that Doyle seemed fine to him and that he was eating and sleeping well.

"That's what I like to hear." The doctor gave his patient a swift but thorough once over. "Yes, you're fine. Back to work and no more malingering, 4.5."

Malingering indeed, Doyle thought indignantly. His arms and back would take days to recover from the strain of decorating mum's flat.

"Just slip your shoes off and climb on the scales before you go, 4.5." Willis said in a carefully nonchalant voice.

"My weight is fine," Doyle protested.

"On the scales, 4.5," ordered Willis.

Ignoring the mumbled comments about bony hips from his partner, Doyle heeled his trainers off and stood on the scales the frown on his face enough to warn Bodie not to say a word.

"When did you last pass water?" Willis asked bluntly as he bent to peer at the scale.

Doyle raised his eyes to the ceiling, took a deep breath and answered politely. "About half an hour ago."

"When did you last open your bowels?"

"What?"

"I said, when did you last--"

"I heard you the first time," Doyle cut in, his face scarlet. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bodie going puce in an effort not to laugh out loud.

"Well?" Willis asked impatiently.

"Yesterday!"

"Morning or evening?"

"About ten thirty last night--I'd 'ave kept a note of it in my diary if I'd known you were so interested in my movements!"

"Have you eaten this morning?"

"Yes!" Doyle shouted.

"What exactly and when?"

In the corner, Bodie gave up and almost fell off his chair in an explosion of mirth.

"What precisely do you think is so bloody funny?" Doyle demanded of his partner.

"What did you eat and when did you eat it, 4.5?" Willis asked again, clearly not to be deflected by Bodie's behaviour nor Doyle's outrage.

"I don't believe this--some toast, two slices with butter and marmite and one, no two cups of tea about," he looked at his watch, "an hour ago."

Willis peered at the reading oh the scale, frowned and wrote a note on his pad.

"Is that it? Can I get dressed now?" Doyle asked belligerently.

Looking up from his pad, Willis smiled again, almost gleefully. "No, I want you to come through here," he said leading the way to a smaller room. "Don't bother with your shoes."

With Bodie close on his heels, Doyle padded barefoot after the doctor into the room next door.

"Right. Now I want you to strip off and stand on the scales please, 4.5," Willis ordered crisply.

"What?"

"Perhaps you need a hearing test, you seem to be experiencing some trouble--"

"There is nothing wrong with my hearing!" Doyle said hotly.

"I don't have all day, 4.5--onto the scales please. No, everything off, underpants as well."

"Everything?"

"Yes," Willis smiled and nodded.

"You want me to take--all my clothes off?" Doyle queried the order.

"Yes."

"And stand on the scales. Naked."

"That is correct. Do you like these scales? They're brand new, they were only delivered last night; and you are going to be the very first member of the department to use them. They are accurate to 0.0648 of a gramme. It's got a digital, quartz LED display, a totally new design. Isn't it beautiful?" Willis ran his hands over the cream coloured plastic moulding. "Naked, Doyle, that means without a stitch on. No pockets, no weights, no magnets--just you--naked as the good Lord made you."

Sighing in defeat, Doyle stripped and tossed his clothes in the general direction of Bodie.

"And the underpants, 4.5," Willis reminded him.

"Naked," Doyle growled.

"Naked," echoed Bodie and the doctor.

Determined to be no more embarrassed than he had to be, Doyle slid his pants down his legs and stepped onto the square base of the scale.

The doctor bent down to read the display, he frowned and pushed a few buttons before checking the display once more, then he jotted some figures down on his pad and produced a small calculator from his jacket pocket.

"Well?" Doyle asked, his patience running out.

Willis glared at him, suspicion written in every line on his face. "Show me your hands," he ordered. Surprised at the abrupt tone, Doyle did as he was told. "Hold your arms out straight at your sides. Now lift your right foot. Put it down--now the left." Doyle did everything he was told in stunned silence and as Willis checked and re-checked the display his smile vanished completely. "Open your legs and lean forward," he said briskly and moved to stand behind his patient his intention all too clear.

"No, you bloody don't!" Doyle shouted and almost fell off the small platform as he dodged the doctors hands.

Bodie stepped forward to back his outraged partner up but he wasn't needed. Willis gave in, realising that he had to accept the evidence on the display even if he didn't believe it. "Oh, all right," he snapped crossly. I don't know how you've done it but according to these scales you weigh the precise equivalent of ten and a half stone."

"But I thought that was what you wanted him to weigh in at?" Bodie asked as he passed Doyle his clothes. The sight of his own briefs sliding up Doyle's legs to cover the bare rump reminding him how lucky he was to have such a gorgeous partner--Pat Kelly didn't look anywhere near as sexy in them, all arse and no style, he decided.

"These scales, 3.7, are guaranteed to be accurate to 0.0648 of a gramme. Having previously informed your partner that I expected him to attain the gross weight of ten and a half stone I did not therefore expect to discover he weights in at 66.738 kilogrammes--which in imperial weights is exactly ten and a half bloody stone!" Willis slammed the note pad down on the desk and stormed back into the other room with Bodie following and Doyle hopping along as fast as he could with one leg in his jeans and his shirt on inside out.

"You don't really think we've been able to fiddle your new scales?" Doyle asked, his mouth agape in astonishment.

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least," Willis fumed. "You've managed to sabotage all the others!"

"Give over," Bodie said in an attempt to defuse the situation--Willis was really angry-- "You just can't bear the thought that your favourite patient has finally beaten you at your own game. Keeping an eye on his weight and the games he's pulled over the last few years has kept you on your toes," Bodie guessed.

Willis had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Well, do you honestly blame me? The games you two have tried in the past I had given up hope of him ever attaining an acceptable weight," he admitted, a rueful smile beginning to appear on his face.

Bodie tactfully pulled his not quite dressed but wholly outraged, exactly ten and a half stone, partner out of the medical section before he found something, preferably blunt and heavy, with which to hit the good doctor.

"See--I told you it was good for you," he whispered once Doyle was decently dressed, shirt on the right way round and both shoes properly laced up.

"What is?"

"Me," Bodie said, a huge grin threatening to split him ear from ear. "Quite apart from the extra protein you get when you--" he checked that the corridor was clear, "--when you suck me off. You're always hungry after you fuck me. Must be all those aggressive male hormones rushing around in your bloodstream--"

They might have got away with it if Cowley hadn't tried to come in through the door they were going out of at the same moment Bodie tried to escape.

Their punishment for such unseemly behaviour was to interrogate an informer of one of the agents killed in the Wakeman business, Doyle's good mood completely destroyed by the news that the man was currently being detained at Her Majesty's leisure in Wormwood Scrubs.

Driving the car while Bodie tried to read through the slim file Cowley had all but thrown at them, Doyle tried to tell himself he was still upset and angry with the way he had been treated by the doctor.

"How the hell was I supposed to know about the new scales?" he raged for about the tenth time in as many minutes.

Engrossed in the file, Bodie gave a small grunt of consolation.

"And you weren't much help--get a good eyeful, did you? The bloody cheek of it--I bet he doesn't ask anyone else to strip stark-bollock naked just to be weighed!"

"Mmm," Bodie looked up from the file. "You'd better turn right here. Right here...here, right there--you've missed it!"

"I know the way--I have interrogated prisoners at the Scrubs before, you know!" Doyle snapped back clearly irritated by the unlooked for directions as he kept on driving straight down the road.

"Yes, but that was how long ago--not since you've been with CI5--must be all of five or six years now?"

"Don't tell me," Doyle cut in, his voice dripping sarcasm. "They've moved the bloody prison, have they?"

"No," Bodie said calmly then pointed out what his partner could now see for himself. "But they have changed the roads. You've got to drive on for another mile and a half before you can turn right."

Looking across the dual carriageway that had replaced the previously busy and often congested road at the prison gates, Doyle swore. Loudly and profusely. "When the fuck did they do this?" he demanded to know once he ran out of expletives.

"Oh...it's been all finished for about three years now. Was hell while they were doing it." Bodie struggled to smother the humour in his voice. "Just keep going straight on--there's a roundabout at the end of the road."

They navigated the roundabout and returned along the dual carriageway turning left into the prison in silence.

"So," Doyle asked as he locked the car and followed his partner towards the main gate. "Why is Cowley so interested in this bloke?"

"He used to be Mathieson's grass. Since Mat died he's contacted the Control room twice with odd bits of information, useful stuff but nothing brilliant. He doesn't think very big--only ever asks for twenty quid and'll take less if that's all that's offered--"

"I'd heard Mathieson was tight."

"Not as bad as his partner. I'm surprised either of them were able to keep a grass happy," Bodie added. "He's been working in a pub in Kilburn, The Seven Bells, just off the High Road. Picked up driving a stolen car two nights ago, found in possession of some hard drugs and they've got him for pushing."

"Not drugs," interrupted Bodie. "He wants to deal. Our help in return for information; he mentioned a name Cowley's been after for years. If he's telling the truth, the Seven Bells is the recruiting and paymaster's office for Saad Al Mahak's little lot."

"Mahak! In England--I don't believe it," Doyle whistled appreciatively. "And this bloke Andrews, he recognised him?"

"No--but the name he knows the Arab by is one of Mahak's aliases--that plus the description, seems Mahak's right hand is very badly scarred and missing two fingers--the same as Andrews' suspicious Arab."

Doyle was still thinking over the implications of pulling one of the world's leading terrorists in when the guard admitted them and slammed the first gate shut and locked it securely behind them.

The uniformed guard checked their credentials and then escorted them towards another huge door, his keys rattling loudly on the end of a length of chain as he walked. "Authorised visitors to interview Michael Andrews," the man called through a small grill in the door. More keys rattled and the door opened to reveal another uniformed man who watched them carefully as they stepped through into the building.

The second time, he was expecting the bang and rattling keys as the door was secured behind them, but even so, Doyle barely restrained the impulse to flinch at the sounds. Taking a deep calming breath was a serious mistake, though, as the never-to-be-forgotten rank stench of prison filled his senses. To avoid the smell he tried breathing through his mouth, but the air even tasted foul on the back of his throat, making him gag.

Blindly following the black leather jacket his partner was wearing, Doyle concentrated on the coming interview. If Mahak was in England, in London, it could only mean one thing; he was either buying or selling arms and Arab expertise. An Arab arms master in an Irish pub could be the link between the IRA and the Middle East they all knew existed but so far had been unable to prove conclusively.

By the time they passed through miles of bare corridors and several more locked doors to reach the interview room, Doyle was just holding his own, Mahak's importance barely keeping the lid down in his own rising dread.

"Just think, Ray," Bodie said, eyeing the room and waiting with poorly suppressed excitement for Andrews to appear. "Mahak! It'll be a real feather in CI5's cap if we can bag him." He didn't see anything unusual in the way his partner was leaning against the wall, and continued talking. "Andrews should be easy enough; according to the screw, he was begging them to contact us. We shouldn't have to lean on him too much."

Beyond the stout-looking door on the other side of the room loud voices could be heard shouting, a mixture of verbal abuse and gruff orders echoing hollowly around the room. The sounds and the bleak surroundings reminded Bodie of a similar room in another prison when he had been waiting to escort another prisoner to CI5 headquarters. He turned to look at his partner, realising that this was probably Doyle's first return visit to a prison since that morning, but was unable to catch his eye, Doyle staring determinedly at the floor. "Ray--"

Doyle heard his name being called but was unable to answer; his shirt was wet under his arms and clinging to his back, he felt dizzy from where he was trying not to breathe in the foul stench, and Bodie's voice just merged in with all the sounds he could hear buzzing in his ears: the rattle of keys, the steel-capped shoes ringing on the stone floors. Bile, acrid and burning, flooded his mouth and he struggled to swallow it back down.

"Ray--I'll talk to Andrews and you can...Ray--are you okay, mate?" Bodie asked in concern when he caught a glimpse of the sweat-sheened face.

"Bodie--" Doyle gulped down another rush of bile. I can't--I'm sorry," and as he spoke he turned and banged on the door calling to the guard outside to open it. As the door swung open he looked back over his shoulder before he made his escape. "I'm sorry--I've got to get some fresh air...I'm really sorry."

As one door closed behind Doyle, the prisoner was escorted through the opposite entrance and Bodie was forced to stay and begin the interview. Emerging into the fresh, sweet-smelling air an hour or so later, he scanned the wide expanse of flat ground outside the gates. Several hundred yards away a solitary figure was sitting on the raised wall of a sorry-looking flower bed. He went and joined his partner.

Watching Bodie's progress across the car park, Doyle made no attempt to meet him. "What did Andrews have to say for himself?" he asked as soon as his partner was in earshot.

"I think it's worth following up," replied Bodie as he perched beside Doyle on the narrow wall. "Certainly sounds like Mahak. He calls at the pub every seven or eight weeks, meets about four or five Irish people, men and woman, people Andrews knows aren't regular customers. They always have small suitcases, bags and so on with them. He saw the Arab slap one of them down because they were flashing an Irish passport around in the bar."

"Every two months," Doyle said thoughtfully. "Sounds like he takes a batch over, waits to bring them back and then takes over the next batch. How long does he say it's been going on?"

"He didn't notice the pattern until six months ago but he's been working the Seven Bells on and off for the last few years; he thinks the Arab's been around for about a year."

"How the fuck has he been getting past port security?"

"Andrews even had an idea about that--he overheard one of the Irish lot talking about buying some sea-sick pills. If they mix in with day trippers it could be easy enough."

They sat in silence and watched the traffic roaring past on the new dual carriageway until a coach slowed down and turned into the main entrance coming to a halt near the main gate; the passengers, mothers, girlfriends, wives and children all spilled off it and filed towards the visitor's entrance.

Doyle jumped to his feet and walked briskly towards the car without waiting to see if Bodie was following. The prison was several miles behind them before he voiced his thoughts. "If the outgoing bunch mingle with a coach load of day trippers, all they have to do is change places with the homecoming lot. A day out--lots of strangers on a bus--who's going to notice if some of the faces change?"

It sounded simple enough to be plausible. The passport control staff at Dover and Ramsgate were notoriously overworked and undermanned. It was acknowledged to be the weakest link in the system; coach parties full of shoppers rushing over to France to raid the local supermarkets for cheap wine and duty free would be the ideal cover.

"Cowley'll want to set up a surveillance routine at the Kent ports," Bodie said gloomily. "And at the Seven Bells. Christ, some bloody Christmas this is going to be!"

"Just pray we don't get the ferry run," Doyle said as he manoeuvred the car through the city traffic.

"Why not--we could pick up some duty free for ourselves," said Bodie.

"The English Channel! In December and January--are you kidding?" said Doyle in undisguised horror. "I get sea-sick on the Woolwich Ferry!"

Bodie laughed. "How about some lunch before we report to the Cow--I'm starving."

"Sounds great--I lost my breakfast and I'm feeling a bit peckish myself," said Doyle, his eyes meeting Bodie's momentarily before sliding away again.

"Did you manage to get outside in time?" Bodie asked casually, grateful that Doyle had brought the subject into the open first.

"Just about. The screw gave me a funny look though, I mumbled something about a British Rail sandwich and he seemed happy enough." Bodie listened to the tightly controlled voice but kept quiet.

"I wasn't expecting it," Doyle said into the prolonged silence. "It wasn't until that first door slammed shut behind us that I even thought about it--and that smell!" White knuckles gripped the steering wheel as they turned towards headquarters. "And the keys rattling--I swear there's no sound like it on earth. Jangling keys and stone floors and that...that stink in your nose and throat so bad you can taste it." Doyle parked and switched the engine off. "I'm really sorry I ran out on you but--I knew I was going to be sick. I'm sorry."

Looking at the averted face, Bodie couldn't mistake his partner's regret nor the lingering horror of the visit. "I should have--no, we should have realised it might happen like that," said Bodie quietly. "All things considered, it's no surprise. I've escorted several prisoners into one prison or another--first timers and old lags--and they've thrown a wobbly once we've got inside sometimes. Crying, throwing up, fainting. Affects them all in some way. Some get used to it and others don't."

Doyle nodded remembering his own experiences. "When they moved me from Ford to Maidstone I couldn't take it in at first. All that noise...and that smell...the first night I had to bury my face in the pillow to stop myself crying like a baby.

"Sometimes you'd hear the newcomers crying and screaming to be let out. The rest of the men would run them ragged. But not always though," he paused lost in thought for a moment and Bodie didn't dare interrupt or make a move to leave the car. It was rare for Doyle to offer an insight onto what his life had been like inside. "A young lad came in once. Christ knows why they put him on my wing. He was only 18 and mentally retarded, was nearer 7 for all he was twice my size. He didn't stop crying for a week, but no-one hurt him, everyone tried their best to keep him happy; the kid just needed affection and he cuddled anyone who would let him. No-one minded, no-one took advantage of him either--not...not in that way. I even caught Bert giving him a cuddle when something frightened him once." Bodie was surprised to see him smile at the memory and said so, hoping even as he did that Doyle wouldn't suddenly clam up like he usually did.

"Human nature is surprising, Bodie," he said, a gentle smile on his face. "Even that lot, animals most of them, knew that Tony was just a frightened overgrown kid. They would have killed anyone who tried to hurt him. He was like the kid some of them had outside and they enjoyed looking after him. Keeping him happy made them feel good." Doyle sighed heavily.

Entering the building together and heading off towards the canteen, Doyle suddenly caught hold of Bodie's arm.

"What's up?" asked Bodie, concerned at the frown on Doyle's face.

"You'll probably need to speak to Andrews again."

"Yes--but there's no problem, I can manage him--"

"That's not the point and you know it," snapped Doyle. "I'll go in with you next time."

"There's no need--"

"There's every need!" Doyle said angrily. "This morning--it just took me by surprise. I wasn't ready." He took a deep breath. "I didn't get much out of all those hours with the shrinks but I did learn one thing, avoiding problems is no way to overcome them. I've got to go back. The first time will be the worst--let's hope it was the worst--but now it should be easier...I hope."

Bodie listened and realised he was talking sense. Interviewing prisoners was, at times, a major part of an investigation. They had been lucky that they hadn't been sent into a prison before now.

"Okay then, sunshine. Next time you can do the talking--Andrews is a sucker for a pretty face. You'll have him eating out of your hand in no time."

"What do you mean?" asked Doyle warily not liking the sudden glint in his partner's eye.

"Andrews is as bent as a nine-bob note. Very sweet, if you get my drift," Bodie wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. "The only thing I want to know is how a prude like Mathieson got himself tied up with such an exotic little blossom like Andrews."

Lunch was little more than a fond memory by the time they were able to give their reports to Cowley. Doyle let Bodie do most of the talking, contributing only on their speculation about the coach party trips from Dover and the Sealink.

The possibility of snaring Mahak brought a gleam to Cowley's eyes; not usually a head-hunter, the elusive Arab would be a substantial coup for the organisation. "I want everything we have on Mahak. Bodie--get onto Interpol, the European agencies and the American networks. I want all sightings, substantiated or otherwise, and every known or suspected associate. If he's running the trainees through our borders he must be feeling very secure and I want to know why." He turned to look at Doyle. "I want a discreet check on all customs officers on duty at Dover and Ramsgate. If Mahak's moving in and out of the country freely I need to know how."

"If Mahak sticks to the pattern, his next trip will be between Christmas and New Year--"

"Mingling with the crowd shopping for cheap booze to celebrate the New Year," added Doyle.

"Which means he should be returning to England with the current lot of trainees within the next three weeks; he'll aim to mix with the pre-Christmas crowds if the Sealink theory pans out," Cowley said thoughtfully.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged wry glances and wondered if they were destined to spend the next few weeks shivering at the Kent coast or chewing sea-sick tablets on the ferries.

"I'll call a briefing tomorrow morning, Henderson's team, yourselves, Lake, Day, Turner and Jax," Cowley decided. "I want all the information on Mahak and his associates, and the customs routines and staffing, by eight in the morning." Hearing the note of finality in the dry voice both men rose to leave, their minds already searching ways and means of gathering the information Cowley wanted. "Doyle," the voice called him back just as he was about to leave the room. He grabbed Bodie's jacket to prevent him from racing off. "Are you familiar with the Seven Bells?" asked Cowley.

"No sir, but I do know the area--it's at the end of the same street as The Brewers--I think I've met some of the regulars though, they've played against the Brewers in the darts league."

"And the landlord at The Brewers--what is his name?"

"Mahone. Thomas Mahone," supplied Doyle.

"Has he any links with the Seven Bells?"

"Probably--if only as a rival. It can't be more than half a mile away."

In the hallway Bodie listened to the dialogue with surprise, it wasn't the first time he'd heard of The Brewers but he still didn't know Doyle's connection with the place.

"Leave the customs angle to 3.7," ordered Cowley. "Go and sound Mahone out about the Seven Bells--"

"They'll probably have a vacancy for a barman with Andrews in custody," Doyle cut in, already thinking along the same lines as his boss.

"And in that area they will no doubt find it difficult to fill the position."

"I'm sure Tommy would put in a word for me--I'd get it easily with a reference from him."

Bodie opened his mouth to protest at the idea of Doyle going undercover but Doyle saw the look on his face and guessed his intent. "I'll get on it right away, sir." Spinning on his heels and ducking around his partner he made off down the corridor. "I'll catch you later, Bodie."

"Ray--wait up," Bodie called out after him. "The Brewers. What's so special about The Brewers?"

"It's just a pub," Doyle said in a surprised voice.

"I'd gathered that--where is it though?"

"You know where it is--it was you that took me there first."

"I did?" Bodie managed to jump in the lift just before the door closed in his face. "When?"

"Oh hell, I can't remember now--sometime after I came operational. It's in Kilburn," he added helpfully seeing the puzzled expression on Bodie's face. The lift stopped at the next floor and Pat Kelly stepped in. "You must remember it," Doyle continued after a nod of greeting to his friend. "It's a real little dump, full of old men and road-sweepers from the council yard--just up past the traffic lights on the High Road."

"The Brewers," guessed Kelly. "It's not a dump, it's what all the old pubs used to be like."

"Yeah, rough and ready--all that's missing are spittoons and some sawdust," laughed Doyle.

Already annoyed with Kelly for being in the lift with them and butting in on a private conversation, Bodie was furious to hear the two men laughing together so easily.

"You must remember it," Doyle was saying to Bodie. "We had a game of darts and you burned your tongue on a meat pie and complained that the beer was warm," he tried to remind his forgetful partner of the one occasion they had visited the pub together.

Memory returned to Bodie with a sudden flash. "That place! After the Miller op?"

"Er...yes, I think so," Doyle said struggling to remember himself.

"It's a tip!" Bodie said remembering the place properly now.

"I agree--to a point, but the people are okay. Some are a bit strange but the landlord and his missis are nice enough," chipped in Kelly--who suddenly realised how cramped the lift was when Bodie scowled at him even harder than usual.

Oblivious to the by play between the two men, Doyle continued on happily. "It was Tommy Mahone who put me in touch with Ferris and Twigg. He's been quite useful--and if he knows the landlord at the Seven Bells--"

"Mahone knows you're in CI5?" Bodie asked.

Both Doyle and Kelly laughed at that. "No, he thinks I'm his tame psychopath. He's heard all the inside gossip on me from his contacts and reckons I'm a pretty safe bet." The lift stopped again at the floor the computer section was on. "Your floor, Bodie," Doyle said holding his finger on the open door button. "I'll see you when I've finished at The Brewers."

"You off there now?" asked Kelly. "If you want some company I'll tag along--I could go a bit of slumming right now."

Bodie just caught Doyle's pleased acceptance as the door slid shut. Feeling the rage building inside him but not sure what he was so angry about, he stalked off in the general direction of the computer terminals.

---

For all its yellowing paintwork and aged decorations that were more likely to be junk than antiques, both Kelly and Doyle found the Brewers a pleasant enough place to spend a few hours in. If the other punters accepted you, you were okay, but on the other hand if you wandered in there by mistake they didn't encourage you to stay long. A regular customer of over two years' standing, Doyle was a friendly face and Kelly, who had been there several times, was accepted by the punters and bar staff because he was Doyle's friend.

So early in the evening, apart from the usual three old men with less than half a full set of teeth between them all huddled near the fire with their glasses of Guinness, Doyle and Kelly had the bar to themselves. Perched comfortably on his usual stool, his back resting against the wall and leaning on one elbow Doyle took another mouthful of his drink and listened sympathetically as Tommy complained about his long-suffering wife, Ivy.

"Honestly, Ray--most men come to the pub to escape their nagging wives. They listen to my Ivy going on at me for a night and then go home grateful she's mine and not theirs!" Doyle and Kelly made suitable noises of condolence. "Are you two married?" asked Tommy unexpectedly when he returned from pouring three more halves of Guinness for the old boys. He didn't miss the strange look that passed between the two men.

"Nah--we're just good friends," Doyle quipped winking at Pat who laughed good naturedly.

"No, it just never seemed to work out like that for me," said Kelly, not looking too unhappy about the lack.

"I don't believe in marriage either," said Tommy soulfully. "It was her idea. Still, I expect you've both got some little crackers stacked away somewhere, handsome fellas like yourselves." Again Tommy was aware of Doyle and Kelly looking at each other in an awkward, half embarrassed fashion; not romantically inclined nor particularly lucky in certain aspects of love, Tommy was nevertheless aware of the look of wistful longing on both men's faces.

The subject of women obviously putting a damper on the conversation, Tommy pulled the next topic from his hat; women, politics and money were always good bets but he had a feeling that these two would not share his views on politicians and so fell back on the general area of money--or, more likely, the lack of it. "How's work?" he asked.

Kelly snorted and gave the impression he could take it or leave it, but Doyle seized the opportunity. "Dunno, what's work other than a four-letter word?" he asked in a sour voice.

"Not fixed up with anything?" Tommy asked, knowing not to get too nosy. Doyle had been duly grateful for the introduction to that strange customer with the ginger hair and sweet tooth but had refused to discuss the job he had landed.

"Nothing I could admit to," Doyle said draining his glass. "Your shout, Pat."

"I got the last one!"

"So I owe you one, I'll buy next time me pockets are full." Doyle pulled Kelly into the act, knowing he could rely on him to pad out the background of the disgraced ex-policeman. "The way the Bill are sitting on my back it's a wonder I can cash my giro these days!"

"I thought that last job had you well fixed," said Tommy, curiosity overcoming his common-sense.

"Expensive life-style," said Kelly.

"Fuck off," Doyle said crudely. "What's wrong with wanting a bit of comfort?"

"Nothing," said Tommy. "I could always--you know--" he said slyly, "put a word in an ear or two for you, like last time," he offered.

"Thanks Tommy," Doyle sighed heavily. "But the way things are at the moment I need to be strictly legit. I can't afford a wrong move until--" he looked up, his eyes sharp and hard pinning the landlord to the spot. "Well, let's say I've got to be careful for a while," he finished smoothly, the smile on his face not touching the ice of his eyes.

"Oh--what sort of work are you after?" Tommy asked.

"Oh, I don't know--fifteen thousand a year, company car, private medical insurance--BUPA, of course, expense account. Anything like that'll do. Providing of course the little fact that I did time for-- Shit, don't ask bloody stupid questions. How many people are going to offer me a decent job?" Doyle raged.

Mahone backed off a little to escape the fury being projected his way; he'd always known Doyle was a nutter. "I'll keep my ears open. There's always work for them that wants it," he offered. "Especially in this area--let's face it, who'd work around here if they had the choice not to?" He responded to the shout for service from the other end of the bar with more speed than usual, leaving Doyle and Kelly to share a knowing smile between themselves.

"Do you really think he'll put you up for Andrews job?"

"If I drop enough hints," replied Doyle quietly. "I can always tell him I've gone for the job and ask him to give me a reference but I'd prefer him to think it was his idea."

"He may not know Andrews has been pulled in yet."

It was a possibility but not a problem. "I've still got to check the Seven Bells out. I'll wait for the all clear from Cowley then visit the place, see if there is a job going."

Kelly listened to the casual way Doyle spoke about setting up his undercover role with no sense of envy; that aspect of the agent's work had never appealed to him--the prospect of having to do two jobs simultaneously while keeping one eye looking over your shoulder to protect your rear not one he found particularly attractive--but on the other hand, there was the perk of getting an extra salary.

"You've been very quiet the last few weeks," Doyle said quietly cutting across his thoughts. "What's up?"

Pat gave a wry smile and leaned on the bar. "Women," he said wearily.

"Too many or not enough?"

"If only it were that simple," Pat replied sighing. "You've heard that Kate's leaving the department?"

"I'd heard," answered Doyle cheerfully.

"No need to sound so bleedin' happy," said a morose Kelly. "She's moving out to Colchester, that's miles away."

"You're really sweet on her, aren't you?" Doyle realised and immediately attempted to dampen his elation.

"What is it with you lot?" Kelly asked angrily. "You talk about her like she's a cross between an ice bitch and an unfeeling robot!"

"Sorry," apologised Doyle. "I suppose she's okay really, it's just her job. On the A squad she tends to...to...push her nose into things--things some of us feel shouldn't concern her. She makes us feel uncomfortable," he explained lamely.

"Well I hope her replacement is twice as bad!" growled Pat. "God knows you lot deserve it."

Guessing the reason behind his friend's outburst to be a case of unrequited love, Doyle was careful to change the conversation and buy another round of drinks.

---

Rubbing one hand across tired eyes, Bodie arched his back against the so-called back-rest, stretching and flexing stiff muscles. The screen cleared and the next set of information flashed up for him to view. Behind him, at other terminals, others worked in a similar fashion, conversation desultory and rarely consisting of more than resigned curses and swearing. Concentrating on the cross-links between the customs officers and various Irish and Arab organisations, Bodie paid little attention to the sudden buzz of conversation; if it hadn't been for the casual reference to his partner he would not have paid any notice at all. Turning in his chair he saw Henderson standing at the door. "'With Doyle' is hardly much help," he was saying, an angry expression on his face.

"At The Brewers," offered a fair haired man whose name Bodie didn't know.

"Again?" asked Henderson. "What's with that place that he's always hopping over there?"

"God knows, I dropped Pat off there one night a few weeks back--he said he was playing darts with Ray--"

"Get Control to buzz him," ordered Henderson as he turned to leave only to be stopped by the fair-haired man.

"I can't. Doyle's operational when he's at The Brewers."

Bodie's eyebrows rose at the easy way the man spoke--how come Henderson's men knew more about his partner's duty status than he did? "And what the hell is Kelly doing out on the piss with an operational agent?" Henderson demanded, stalking towards the terminal at which Bodie sat.

"Why don't you ask him yourself," Bodie replied shortly.

"And have your partner on my neck for breaking a cover he's worked two years to build?" asked the surveillance chief in an icy voice.

Two years? Bodie thought and then wondered how many other people knew of The Brewers. Deciding that the customs men could wait a while longer, he switched off his terminal and brushed past Henderson. "If I see him I'll tell him you're looking for him," he said over his shoulder as he headed for the car-park only narrowly missing a grey-faced and weary looking Lake also heading towards his car.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked Lake on seeing the grim face of his friend.

"To pass a message to Pat Kelly--I've been demoted to messenger boy for Henderson."

Lake yawned and delved into his pocket for his car keys. "Try not to scowl at him, Bodie-mate, I swear the poor sod develops a nervous tic and ten thumbs every time you look at him."

"If I find him I'll bear that in mind," said Bodie, completely unaware of how grim he looked.

"You'll probably find him at The Brewers with Ray," offered Lake helpfully. "Try not to ruffle his feathers too much, good night, Bodie."

Once again the casual reference to The Brewers dumbfounded Bodie--how many people knew about the blasted place--and why the hell was he the last one to know? He parked within sight of the pub and then remembered the place, vaguely recalling the one time he and Ray had visited it. He could think of no reason why his partner should have wanted to return to the place voluntarily; once by accident had been enough for Bodie.

Carefully locking away his ID but keeping his gun, he left the car and after a thorough scan of the quiet street opened the door of the bar. Once inside the smoky, dimly lit room he immediately saw his partner and Pat Kelly sitting knee to knee on stools at one end of the bar.

The sight of Doyle lounging, relaxed and laughing, obviously enjoying Kelly's company and the unsavoury atmosphere of the pub was enough to send Bodie's temper towards flash point. How often had Ray come here to be this relaxed, he wondered. Aware of the fact that several people had noticed his entrance, Bodie ignored them and walked through the tables to his partner. Then he saw the carelessly flung jacket draped over a chair back and realised Doyle was unarmed, the green T-shirt and tight jeans leaving no room to hide any armoury.

Doyle saw Bodie as he reached the centre of the room, surprise turning into pleasure and he slipped off the stool standing to meet him and alerting Kelly to his arrival.

When Kelly glanced over his shoulder and saw who the visitor was his face froze for a second, a wariness then settling in; like Doyle, he also got his feet under him--being perched on a high stool not being the best of defensive positions.

Ignoring Kelly completely, Bodie confronted his partner, nose to nose almost and demanded to know in an angry hiss what the fuck was going on.

"I'm just having a quiet drink," Doyle answered helplessly, confused by the angry voice and realising that his first thought that some emergency had arisen was wrong.

"With him?"

Doyle blinked at the possessive tone but managed to control his explosive response. "Well, you were busy and he wanted to come."

"What's the attraction for this place? How come you've never asked me to come here with you? How come half the bloody department knows about this place except me? You've been coming here ever since we were partnered and you've never said a work to me!" Heedless of the turning heads and silence in the room, Bodie's stored up grievances tumbled out.

Pinned up against the wall, Bodie's hands clutching his T-shirt and a pair of fierce blue eyes boring into him, Doyle fought the impulse to laugh. Over Bodie's shoulder he could see the roomful of spectators, a nervous looking Kelly and Tommy Mahone edging towards the heavy cricket bat kept under the bar to subdue aggressive patrons.

"Bodie--you're making a right prat of yourself," Kelly hissed at him conscious that Doyle's cover was close to being blown and amazed that the burly agent could be so reckless.

"And who the fuck rattled your cage?" Bodie demanded to know, his grip on Doyle relaxing a little but not releasing him entirely. "And what the fuck are you doing here anyway?" he shouted, almost beyond caution, jealousy and anger magnifying the strength of friendship between his lover and Kelly.

"Bodie..." Doyle attempted to calm things down.

"And as for you--you're not even armed!" Bodie whispered, his face scant inches from Doyle's. "What the hell are you doing in a place like this without a gun or me to watch your back?"

"I never carry a gun in here because the police make odd visits and I could get pulled in. The local CID bloke knows me, knows my record and is a nasty piece of work--finding me tooled up would make his day--"

"Cowley's told you to come in here without back-up?"

"No--well, sort of--"

"This place is a dump--it's a breeding ground for--"

"Bodie," Doyle interrupted in a quiet voice. He relaxed deliberately under the bruising strength that was still pinning him up against the wall, and with the powerful body pressing against him, he felt the thick shaft press against his leg and realised that in his jealous anger, Bodie was aroused. "If you really want to screw me through the floor, do you think we could go home first--I'd rather not have an audience," he said softly, his eyes gentle and serious.

The quiet words hit Bodie like a bucket of cold water, forcing his awareness to their nervous audience. Releasing the grip he had on his partner, he stepped back a pace and bumped into Kelly, who had been wondering how best to prise the two men apart without getting killed in the process.

Seeing the worried concern on the faces of the other customers and particularly Tommy and Ivy, Doyle smiled at everyone. "It's okay, we're friends. His bark's worse than his bite. Everything's okay."

Bodie spun round and glared at everyone, staring them down with ease until they all returned to their drinks. When order was more or less restored he turned to Kelly, his face hardening fractionally.

Kelly saw the look. "Well, Ray... I'll be off then...see you in the morning," he said obliquely referring to the briefing.

"Okay, Pat, but don't you want a lift?"

"No--I'll get a cab."

"Fine--I'll see you tomorrow," Doyle said to his friend. "I suppose we'd best go too, we've upset the place enough for one night," Doyle said to Bodie and tugged on his jacket sleeve, pulling him towards the door. He smiled at Tommy and Ivy in reassurance as they still looked as if they were about to come to his rescue with the cricket bat.

Glowering at anyone who dared to look at him, Bodie allowed himself to be led outside but once the door closed behind them he snatched his arm free and grabbed hold of Doyle again, pinning him up against the outside wall.

"Bodie! Leave it out," said Kelly as he tried to pull Bodie away.

"What's with the caveman act, for christ's sake, anyway?"

"And what the fucking hell are you doing with an operational agent under cover when you're supposed to be on standby?" Bodie hissed in a voice meant to go no further than their little group.

"Control knows where I am," defended Kelly, ignoring Doyle's start of surprise.

"And how are they supposed to contact you in an emergency?" Bodie asked.

Kelly's face lost it's colour. "Oh shit! What's happened?"

"You'd better get back to HQ and find out," Bodie said.

"You fucking idiot, Pat!" Doyle shook himself free from his partner's grip. "I had no idea you were on standby."

"It's been as quiet as the grave, there's nothing on until the briefing in the morning."

"That's not the point," Doyle said, his voice tart as he made his opinion of his friend's behaviour obvious. "Come on, I'll give you a lift back to HQ."

"Ray--" Bodie began but was interrupted.

"Bodie, thanks for pulling this idiot out of there. I'll see you at home in half an hour, okay?" With a brief smile, Doyle ushered the now repentant Kelly along the road to where he'd parked his car out of sight and leaving Bodie standing on the pavement outside the Brewers.

---

Setting the deadlocks, Doyle pocketed the keys and turned towards the kitchen.

"In here," Bodie called out from the lounge. Stepping into the dimly lit room, Doyle waited as his partner rose from his sprawl on the couch to stand in front of him. "Why have you never bothered to tell me about The Brewers?" Bodie asked in a dangerously quiet voice. Looking at the expressionless face, Doyle knew he was angry, furious even but was at a loss to explain why. "How come everyone in CI5, from Cowley, through Control and even Henderson and his mob knows about the Brewers but I don't?" the calm facade cracked a little as Bodie's voice rose.

Shrugging his shoulders and guessing that whatever he said he was bound to be in the wrong, Doyle replied, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything!" Bodie yelled. "Every-bloody-thing that you should have told me already."

"Why should I have to tell you anything?" Doyle shouted back, irritated by the domineering possessiveness. "How come it's taken you so long to discover there are still some things you don't know about me?"

Bodie stilled in the process of reaching for Doyle's shoulders. His hands closed on nothing and he lowered them slowly to his side. "Of course you don't have to tell me anything," he agreed stiffly.

"Bodie--" Unable to stand the closed-off hurt in Bodie's eyes, Doyle reached out and pulled him the final few inches. "I didn't mean...I'm sorry, it just never occurred to me that you didn't know. I've been going there so long now--I forgot that I've only been there with you that once." Fighting the resistance he felt in the slightly taller body until it melted away, Doyle rubbed his hands under the loose jacket, smoothing out the soft cotton that was damp here and there.

Burrowing his face into the soft curls and wrapping himself around the welcoming body of his love, Bodie heard the words from a distance, his awareness of the scent and warmth and closeness of Doyle overwhelming him.

Jackets and shoes were quickly, wordlessly discarded and hands fumbled with buttons, belts and zips as mouths duelled, tongues seeking the exclusive taste and warmth they each regarded as theirs. The bedroom and its comfortable bed was at the wrong end of the hall and they found themselves pulling and pushing each other down onto the soft carpet in front of the gas fire.

Slowly, Doyle became aware that their roles had altered; from taking the initiative and setting the frantic pace that stripped them and laid them down on the carpet, breathless, aroused and gasping for completion, Bodie changed and had tugged Doyle to lie on top of him. From his new position Doyle looked down at the closed eyes, open mouth that was damp and shiny from his kisses and the white-knuckled fingers that gripped his arms, saw the aggression being held back and the submission being offered.

"Touch me, Ray," Bodie begged harshly. "Please touch me."

His hesitation was only momentary and, responding to the need in the voice, Doyle settled down beside him and claimed the open mouth forcefully, seeking out the sensitive places on the body he had learnt so well with gentle fingers. A little later when Bodie stopped him from pulling out of the embrace, Doyle looked anxiously over his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom and the tube of cream kept on the bedside shelf. As strong fingers dug deeper into his arms he knew he would be bruised in the morning and with a regretful sigh turned his attention back to Bodie. Wetting two fingers in his mouth he quickly slid them down towards the tightly guarded entrance. At the first hint of pressure on his anal bud, Bodie groaned and arched up to meet the probe.

Fiercely aroused, the cool rough friction of the carpet fibres under his bare skin a counter balance to the smooth silky warmth of the body pressing onto him, Bodie drew his legs up, opening them wide and tucking them loosely behind Doyle's back. Bearing down on the fingers moving inside him he cried out as they finally touched the right spot. From a long distance he heard Doyle chuckle and knew that his partner was aware he'd found the sensitive prostate gland.

"Don't...tease," Bodie panted. "I need more--harder...push in a bit more..." Sliding a third finger into the relaxed muscle, Doyle tried to oblige. "Oh my lord...a bit more...more," Bodie demanded.

"I can't shove my whole hand in!" Doyle protested, trying vainly to satisfy Bodie.

"Use your bloody head!"

"My--what?" Shocked and convinced he'd misheard Doyle froze.

"Fuck me, you idiot! Fuck me."

"But the stuff's in the bedroom--"

"Fuck the stuff--just fuck me. Now!"

"Are you sure?" Doyle asked doubtfully but even as he hesitated his cock pulsed in response to the gruff order.

"I'm bloody sure--will you just do it. For crying out loud--what does a fella have to do to get fucked in this place?"

But, even desperate to be fucked, Bodie still clenched his muscles around the invading fingers, holding them there and experiencing every millimetre of their slow withdrawal.

As they finally slipped free, Bodie opened his eyes and found Doyle watching him. "Over you go then," Doyle said softly after claiming one last kiss.

"No," whispered Bodie. "Like this," and he drew his legs up onto his chest before resting them over Doyle's shoulders.

"On your back?" asked Doyle in a surprised voice.

"I'm too comfortable to move," replied Bodie. "'sides, I hate kneeling on this carpet." As he smiled innocently up into puzzled green eyes one hand crept unnoticed to grasp the taut, weeping cock jutting out from Doyle's groin. "Go on--stick it in," he urged crudely.

The images conjured by the husky voice and the teasing hand pulling at his cock, Doyle sighed and gave in, pushing Bodie's knees further onto his chest and revealing the tiny pucker of flesh. The vulnerability of Bodie's position, his exposure and willingness melted any hesitation and released his own held-back need to thrust in and push for completion.

But there were problems; fiercely aroused, Doyle had to strain to hold back to allow Bodie's body to accept him in this new position. The angle was wrong; the straining muscles quickly cramped, spoiling the pleasure, but a hastily grabbed cushion wedged into the small of Bodie's back helped and, as the pain eased and tension lessened, the pleasure began to take over.

"That's better," gasped Bodie. "Let me put my legs round...round your waist." Crossing his ankles behind Doyle's back, Bodie pulled him forwards off-balance to lie on top of him.

"Careful," Doyle managed to gasp out as he became used to the wonderful feeling of being sunk fully inside his lover's body; the familiar feeling of a pubic bone pressing against him and the feel of soft breasts moulded to his chest replaced by the exciting hardness of Bodie's cock at his belly and the muscled chest providing a cushion familiar yet so very different.

"Don't move...for a minute...stay still--stay like this forever," Bodie whispered, lifting his head to claim a kiss, but that simple action caused his body to shift on the impaling cock and a wash of sensation overwhelmed him.

Guessing what had happened, Doyle rocked his hips experimentally, the resulting flood of sensation sending them both gasping. Within seconds, the gentle undulations became slow thrusts which quickly increased in speed and power with Bodie's legs pulling Doyle into him, forcing him back again and again until he froze, his head snapping back, a groan of animal-like pleasure leaving his throat as the spasms shook his body, but not enough to take Bodie over the edge with him.

Collapsing boneless and almost unconscious across his partner, Doyle barely noticed the hand that burrowed between them to grasp the urgent cock pressed against their bellies, the contractions of Bodie's climax almost painful to his own soft maleness as it slipped from its tight sheath.

The urgency gone, Doyle began to feel cold and snuggled up close, too sated and sleepy to concern himself with covers. For a while they lay together dozing and recovering, Bodie nearer sleep and the fire, Doyle drowsy but restless and growing steadily colder and more uncomfortable.

"Bodie--are you awake?"

"No--I mean yes."

"Bodie--"

"Shh."

"But--"

"Go to sleep."

"But I'm--"

"Shut up and go to sleep," said Bodie.

"But I'm cold," complained Doyle. "And my knees are sore!" In fact, he was pretty sure he was bleeding.

"Ray..." Bodie sighed. "If I so much as twitch I'm going to leak all over the carpet," he said in a wry voice.

"Dunno how to break this to you sweetheart--but you've already leaked," Doyle quipped brightly.

"Oh Jesus!" groaned Bodie as his fingers encountered a silky cold wet patch just beneath his bum.

"It was worth it though, wasn't it?" Doyle asked, unaware he sounded so hopeful.

"I trust you'll still think so when you're down on your hands and knees wearing the marigolds and scrubbing the carpets tomorrow!" Bodie replied in a matter of fact voice.

Clambering to his knees and reaching for the tissue box, Doyle groaned. "My knees are bloody sore!"

"So's my arse--but I'm not complaining. "It was worth it--not that I want to make a habit of having it off on the living room floor, I might add," he finished truthfully as he struggled stiffly to his feet and unselfconsciously wiped himself with a wad of tissues while pressing one hand to the small of his back when he thought Ray wasn't looking. "Now I know why they call 'em man-sized tissues," he said quietly as he finished dabbing at the damp spots on the carpet. Later, curled up in bed in their usual sleeping positions, Doyle's back pressed against Bodie's chest, the Brewers was mentioned again. "I just don't understand why you keep going back there?" Bodie asked, still trying to work it out.

"I like the place and besides, like I've already said, Tommy's been surprisingly useful, he put me onto Twigg and if I'm lucky he'll give me an intro to the Seven Bells."

"But you've been going there for over two years--how often do you go?" The knowledge that he had been unaware of these visits still rankled Bodie.

"Depends," Doyle mumbled sleepily. "Only when I feel like some company. 'part from the Cow thinkin' it was useful for my cover, I really like the place. The people are friendly enough; they seem to like me. No-one bothers me there, they all know I used to be a policeman, that I've done time...they accept me. To them I'm, just one of them."

Lying close to his partner, Bodie heard the husky words and the truth of them hurt. 'Only when I feel like some company, they like me, I'm one of them'. Remembering the dingy run-down pub and its dubious customers, Bodie wondered why Doyle felt he had to go so far before he felt welcome. "Do you still feel an outsider on the squad?" he asked, half dreading the answer.

Doyle wriggled around in his arms, the movement dislodging the bedcovers and releasing a cloud of maleness that washed over them both. "Not as much as before," he replied. "It depends who I'm with really, some of them still treat me like Typhoid Mary but they're easier to ignore now."

"Who treats you like that?" Bodie demanded indignantly. "You tell me who and I'll--"

"Shut up, Bodie. I can fight my own battles." His voice light and teasing, Doyle placed a wet kiss on the side of Bodie's mouth. "Now go to sleep," he ordered.

"Okay, night, sunshine."

"Night, lover."

"Ray."

"What now?" Doyle asked in a resigned voice as he turned back over, wriggling until Bodie's chest and legs were pressed against his own body.

"You know that I love you, don't you?"

"Why do I get the feelin' I'm not gonna like this," Doyle said in a resigned voice. "Yeah--you love me--but?"

"Why the fuck are your feet always so bloody cold!"

"'Cos I know you like feeling useful," replied Doyle and he deliberately ran his cold feet up and down the bristly warmth of his lover's legs. "You make 'em nice and warm for me, darlin', then I can get some sleep."

Smiling, Bodie did just that.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Schooling his expression so as not to reveal how worried he was, Bodie manoeuvred around the people filing out of the briefing room and hurried after his partner finally catching up with him in the car park. "Where the hell are you going?"

"You heard Cowley--to see Andrews and get some more information on the Seven Bells," replied Doyle, his face as bleak as Bodie's.

"You can't be serious?" he whispered, conscious of people nearby.

"Why not--you heard him. What was I supposed to say? 'Sorry, sir but I can't. The stench of the place makes me throw up'?"

Bodie grabbed him by the arm to prevent him from climbing into his car. "Isn't it better he hears it from you rather than someone else?"

"Like who?" snarled Doyle. "You going to tell him?"

"If I have to, you stupid little fool!" Bodie hissed.

"I'm surprised you haven't already if that's how you feel about it," Doyle shot back and tugged his arm free.

"Ray--" Bodie bit off what he was going to say. He'd seen the blood drain from his partner's face when Cowley had given them their orders and guessed what he must be going through. "Look...let's forget it. I'll go and see Andrews--"

"And what do we tell Cowley? What am I supposed to do next time he sends me to interrogate someone inside? Do I come running to you to save me again? No. I'll go. I have to. I have to!"

He was right, of course, and they both knew it. "Okay," Bodie said eventually. "But I'll come with you...if you want me to?"

Doyle smiled weakly. "You going to hold my hand?"

"Nah--just your head if you throw up." The weak joke brought a glimmer of a smile to Doyle's face.

The drive to the prison took half an hour during which time neither man spoke. Pulling up outside the main entrance they stared at the black gates. "You wait here," Doyle said suddenly, and Bodie knew better than to argue with him. "I'll see you later." Not giving Bodie the chance to object, his nerves tightly under control, he left the car and walked towards the gates. In the car, Bodie waited, his stomach knotted in anticipation and sympathy for Doyle's ordeal, desperately wanting to be with him but realising that the problem had to faced and dealt with.

The wait was the longest two hours of Bodie's life.

When Doyle finally re-appeared walking slowly towards the car, Bodie got out and went to meet him. Pale and drawn, Doyle nevertheless looked pleased and grinned when he saw his partner. "Sorry I was longer than I expected. Andrews is quite a conversationalist."

"How as it?" Bodie asked.

"Fine," Doyle deliberately misinterpreted the question. "He's told me a fair bit about the pub, the layout, what the rooms are used for. He's seen Mahak often enough to know a good deal about him--he was happy enough to chat about his Arab friend..."

"I meant how were you?" Bodie didn't really give a damn about Andrews or Mahak right then.

"Well...I didn't disgrace myself. It went...okay." Doyle grinned briefly. "Can't say I enjoyed the experience but I didn't crack up...although I have to admit I did cheat a bit." His face became serious. "As soon as they locked the first gate behind me I knew I'd never make it to the interview rooms--all those gates and locks and corridors..." He shuddered and closed his eyes, forcing the surge of panic back down. "So I told them to bring him to me in the exercise yard. Flash a CI5 card in their faces and they'll do anything. There were still gates and keys and the smell--but at least we were in the fresh air." Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "I think Andrews was just as relieved to be outside. That's why he kept talking, he didn't want to go back indoors."

"So there were no problems? You saw Andrews and then left?" Bodie asked, wondering why Doyle's face had become even grimmer as he finished speaking.

"Not immediately. I saw the Governor; told him to put Andrews in isolation."

"Why?" Bodie was shocked. Doyle had suffered months in solitary and had not enjoyed the treatment.

"Protection," was the bald reply. "Two visits from CI5 will soon leak to the other inmates. It won't take them long to realise he's dealing with the authorities. Besides," and Doyle's face twisted. "Like you said, he's pretty exotic."

"You mean--" Bodie swallowed his words.

"He's covered in marks. I asked if the screws had been rough with him and he said no. He wouldn't name any names but when I offered to get him shifted to isolation he started crying and thanking me."

"I thought gays were segregated anyway."

"Only admitted homosexuals. He's never 'come out', least never openly. Not that it would make that much difference in there. The other prisoners always manage to latch on to the pretty ones."

"Ray--"

"Let's get out of here--this place makes me sick." Walking back to the car in long strides, Doyle refused to discuss the matter further.

---

Arriving home early evening and finding the flat in darkness, Bodie still not home from his journey to the Kent ports, Doyle set himself in front of the television to watch something--anything providing it was mindless and kept his thoughts occupied. Andrews' distress and then his gratitude for promising to get him away from the other remand prisoners had awakened too many memories, and the sure fate awaiting the young man if he were eventually convicted and sent down left an unpleasant taste in Doyle's mouth.

He was sure Cowley had seen behind his casual observation that perhaps CI5 could ask the courts to be lenient with the young man. It was unfortunate that Andrews was still on a suspended sentence for another drugs-related offence--but Cowley had promised to speak in Andrews' favour, thus earning Doyle's gratitude and respect.

Calling Control and discovering Bodie was still held up in Kent, Doyle switched off the television and lights and went to bed. Sleep took ages to overtake him as, curled into a defensive ball he tried unconsciously to resist the drag into oblivion, the memories of his own time inside and the bruised misery on Andrews face too fresh for comfort. Forcing his mind in another direction, Doyle concentrated instead on Bodie, filling his mind with images of his lover, trying desperately to force the inevitable ugly memories away.

Bodie's moods were always changing these days, thought Doyle as his body began finally to slip towards sleep; one moment teasing and affectionate; another deeply serious and single minded--then loving and playful and surprisingly passionate but then even more surprising, soft and submissive when Doyle expected him to be aggressive and dominant. Like last night. As memories became dreams, Doyle uncurled and turned in his sleep reaching for his absent partner--and in his dreams he found him. Hot and hard and demanding. Bodie forced submission from him, stripping him bare of clothing and defences and seeing all that he had, all that he was, taking everything offered. His back prickling from the rough carpet fibres as a far greater weight pressed down on him, he groaned as hands caressed his nakedness, teasing and manipulating. Then, without warming, the hands left him aching and unsatisfied and instead stroked the soft skin behind his knees, pushing them up onto his chest, lifting and parting them until his legs were wrapped securely around a naked back.

He waited breathless with anticipation for that one particular touch he knew he wanted but lacked the courage to ask for and then he heard a sound that caused his racing heart to freeze--the unforgettable sound of keys rattling on a chain and then turning a lock.

Deserted by his confidence and terrified of the implications of those sounds, Doyle waited to hear the heavy footsteps moving closer along ancient iron landings. But his body refused to heed the warnings of mind and heart and ached for completion, his balls lifting and knotting painfully.

He tried opening eyes that moments before had closed as his excitement grew when he had thought he was safe; when he had known that all he had to do to see his lover was to open them, when he had known it was Bodie who was loving him and keeping him safe--when he had known he was safe and that it was all over, it was all behind him. But all that was gone now; the sound of a key jangling on a chain and the never-forgotten sound of a key turning a lock had shattered his security and destroyed the belief that it was all over.

His eyes refused to open, he remained pinned to the floor, like a butterfly to a board, helpless and terrified. He knew he was safe, that all the bad things were only left-over dreams, but then the worst thought of all crept into his nightmare. He knew he was dreaming, that all he had to do was wake up and be safe--but supposing the love and security Bodie gave him was the real dream and reality was the world of jangling keys, echoing corridors and fear. What if all the good things were hopeless fantasies and reality was a dark cell with two narrow beds and Bert Kingsley? He felt a draught of air as a door opened and sensed someone moving closer to him, he wanted to open his eyes but was terrified to discover which was dream and which was reality and when cold hands gripped his arms he bucked wildly fighting to get away.

---

Arriving home, cold and tired, Bodie had been disappointed to find all the lights out; he had hoped Ray would wait up for him--he was also starving hungry and thought his partner might at least have left him a meal out. Disgruntled to discover himself not only alone but forced to fend for himself in the kitchen, he attacked the huge doorstep sandwich with little enjoyment. The wedge of bread and cheese was half eaten when he heard the first sounds from the bedroom and at first he thought Ray had got up to greet him. The first whimper of distress quickly dispelled that illusion and he left the forgotten sandwich on the unit and almost ran to the bedroom. It was obvious that Ray was caught in the grip of a nightmare and Bodie cursed himself for not having expected it. Although aware what his touch would do to Doyle, he was left with no option but to try rousing him physically, and he gripped tightly, preventing both of them from being injured. "Wake up, Ray--it's only me, it's Bodie. Wake up sunshine."

Caught up in his dream, Doyle didn't hear the words or recognise the voice. In his nightmare world he heard different voices, different sounds, different accents but always, always the same loathsome, ugly need.

Concerned because Ray didn't snap out of it as he usually did, Bodie settled his weight on top of the struggling body, crushing the resistance there--the only sure way of keeping them both unharmed--but his voice kept up a steady stream of reassurance that he knew Doyle would hear eventually.

Resigned to the fact that he had to see the worst, Doyle managed to open his eyes--and found a pair of beautifully familiar worried blue eyes looking into his. "Bodie? Oh Bodie--I knew it was you! I knew it!"

Doyle's obvious relief and the garbled words he uttered only worried Bodie even more and he tried to pull away from the fierce grip that now held him in place. "Are you awake?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm awake," confirmed Doyle before pulling the dark head down and taking possession of Bodie's mouth. Skin and clothes icy and damp from the night air, Bodie's mouth felt beautiful to Doyle and he forced his tongue deep into the warm haven. Now that the nightmare had been dispelled, Doyle's body reasserted its needs and feverish hands stripped a surprised Bodie with almost brutal strength. Clothes and bedcovers pushed away, Doyle fought to complete his delayed climax, unaware that he was still guilty of mixing fantasy with reality and oblivious to Bodie's unresponsive, halting movements. Relieved that the dream had not appeared to upset his lover too much, Bodie was pleased to strip off his clothes and wrap his chilly self around the naked heat of his partner, the fierce erection that jutted into his belly causing Doyle to give an animal-like groan and writhe helplessly beneath him, taking him completely by surprise.

Opening his legs and lifting them as he had in his dream, his eyes glinting feverishly, Doyle smiled at him, the look on his face more an order than an invitation. The memory of what had happened the last time he had responded to Doyle's need like this still haunted Bodie and he drew away.

A puzzled look replacing the hazy lust, Doyle tried to pull him closer, canting his hips upwards and hooking a leg over one broad shoulder, Bodie slapped it away angrily.

"Bodie?" His skin stinging from the slap, Doyle's face fell at the refusal. "What's wrong?"

""Don't--" Bodie backed away from the reaching hands. "Don't do that--just don't!" and he scrambled off the bed with little dignity.

"I don't understand," said Doyle in bewilderment, his head clearing a little. "What's wrong?"

"You! You're what's wrong--it's you!" Bodie yelled at him.

Already half out of bed following his partner's retreat, Doyle stopped dead. "Me?" he whispered, heart twisting inside.

"I can't do it Ray--I can't keep doing it! Don't force me--" Backing out of the bedroom Bodie turned at the door and vanished into the dark hall.

Kneeling in the bed, Doyle stared after him, the sound of the other bedroom door slamming shut making him flinch. He remained motionless on the wrecked bed listening to the silence--too numb to do anything else. Finally, cold and stiff with tension, he moved off the bed to pick up the clothes he'd taken off his lover only minutes before and folded them neatly across the chair. Still numb with disbelief, he straightened the bedcovers and climbed back into bed.

---

Feeling utterly drained, Doyle gulped down the second mug of black coffee and checked the time. Sighing heavily, he moved to the hall and listened for any sounds of life from Bodie's room. The phone rang, the sudden noise loud and jarring in the quiet flat. Waiting outside Bodie's bedroom he wondered if the extension beside the bed would be picked up, knowing full well that Bodie would be awake now. It rang unanswered.

"Fuck you too, mate," Doyle swore and moved to pick up the hall extension. "4.5," he barked down the direct line.

"What took you so long?" demanded Cowley irritably.

"In the shower, sir," lied Doyle easily.

"And Bodie?"

Squashing the impulse to say "in the shower too, sir," Doyle dropped his partner in it in a different way. "Land of Nod, sir."

"Tell him to move the phone nearer the bed," retorted Cowley. "Have you contacted the landlord at the Seven Bells?"

"I've got an interview at 10.30 this morning. Mahone's already given me a reference."

"Report back to me immediately. Providing you're successful you'll move into a safe house this afternoon."

"A safe house--"

"We can't afford to take risks until we're sure Mahak isn't connected to the publican in any way. Henderson's already got three possible locations for you, the final choice will be made this morning. Once O'Connell employs you--"

"If he does," interrupted Doyle.

"With Mahone's reference there's not likely to be any trouble. Before moving into the safe house you'll attend a squad briefing and then Dr Michaels will see you--"

"Dr who?" asked Doyle but then recalled the name with dismay. "Ross's replacement!"

"Tell 3.7 to report to Henderson at ten. I will see you in my office after your appointment with Dr Michaels."

"But sir, why Michaels--" But he was talking to the purr of a disconnected line. Slamming the phone down, Doyle crossed the hall to the closed bedroom door and pounded on the wood. "Cowley. You're to see Henderson at ten," he shouted before storming back into his own room to finish dressing.

Wide awake, Bodie had been straining to hear the conversation and wondered what Cowley could have said to annoy Doyle so much. His eyes gritty and still feeling tired after a virtually sleepless night, Bodie remained in bed listening to his lover slamming what sounded like every door in the flat before deciding that he may as well go and face him--not that he had any explanations to offer for his behaviour last night but he was ill-prepared for the sudden lurch his heart gave when he saw the piles of clothes and half filled cases sitting on their bed. Shocked, he turned to see Doyle emerging from the bathroom with an arm full of toiletries and shaving gear. "Ray!" Still furious with George Cowley, Doyle didn't see the shocked expression as he threw his things into the open case. "What on earth are you doing?"

Looking up Doyle scowled even harder. "What the fuck does it look like!"

Disbelief that his behaviour could have so disgusted Doyle, Bodie struggled to find the words to make everything all right.

It took a moment or two for the garbled stuttering to make sense, but when it did Doyle was quick to set things straight--his anger making his words sound tart and only vaguely reassuring to Bodie. "Don't be so stupid," he said. "I'm moving into a safe house if the job goes ahead. I may as well pack a few things while I've got the time."

"You're moving out?" Bodie had managed to grasp that it was a job and not last night, but even so he was still shocked.

"Wake up, 3.7," Doyle said sharply. "It's standard procedure when an agent goes undercover. I can hardly come back here to a CI5 place if O'Connell takes me on, can I?"

"Is that what Cowley rang about?"

"Among other things," Doyle agreed softly. "You forgot to collect the washing from the laundry again," he accused as he slammed the empty drawer shut. "We've got to get that bloody washing machine fixed--can I take some of your socks?" he asked helping himself to all but two pairs of Bodie's black ankle socks."

"Puddle's cousin is going to have a look at it."

"Who's looking at what?" Doyle asked, struggling to close the zip on one of his bags.

"His cousin, the one who works for Hoover, is coming over to fix the machine."

"Oh--thought it was his brother who worked for Hotpoint?" queried Doyle, more concerned at that moment with getting the case shut. "Ta--just sit on the corner for me."

"Brother, cousin, Hoover or Hotpoint--I don't care if he's a little green man from Zannussu as long as he fixes the bloody thing!" Bodie said forcefully as he sat on the case and nearly trapped Doyle's fingers in the side as he tried to push the contents back in.

"After you and--shift over this way a bit more, that's better--after you and Puddle pulled all its guts out it's probably only fit to be dumped."

"Well if you'd thought to mention the sodding fuse in the first place we wouldn't have taken the damn thing to bits!"

"Oh, I see--it's all my fault is it!" He shoved Bodie off the case. "Just like I expect last night was my fault as well!" Bags packed, Doyle turned to leave the room.

Grabbing hold and spinning him round Bodie called him back. "You can't just...you can't just walk out like this!"

"Oh fucking hell!" Doyle swore impatiently. "I'm not walking out--I'm moving into a safe house. You're the one that does all the 'walking out' in this house."

"Ray--"

"I've got to go," Doyle said coldly. "Will you take my stuff to headquarters for me? I'm leaving my car here."

"Where are you going?"

"The Seven Bells. I'm taking the tube and if I don't shift it I'm going to be late--and you're supposed to be seeing Henderson in fifteen minutes."

"Ray," Bodie released his grip on the tense shoulders. "Look...about last night--"

"What about it?" Doyle flashed back, his eyes glinting furiously.

"I don't know--I don't understand what happened--"

"It all seemed pretty straight forward to me," Doyle moved towards the door.

"Well I wish it bloody well did to me!" snapped Bodie. "Please, Ray, we've got to talk--I really don't understand why I reacted like that...only wish I did. We need to talk."

Doyle sagged back against the wall and closed his eyes; Bodie sounded as frightened and confused as he felt. "You're right, we do need to talk--but not right now. Later?" he offered, his voice softening and a tired smile tugging at his lips.

Relieved, Bodie returned the smile. "Later," he agreed.

---

Cowley glanced up briefly as Doyle entered the small office and waved him towards a chair before returning his attention to the typed sheet in his hand, an old report that had no relevance to the operation about to get underway but it served his purpose as he observed the younger man. He was pleased with what he saw. Still bristling with poorly suppressed indignation over his encounter with the new departmental psychologist, Doyle was ready for anything George Cowley chose to throw at him. "When does O'Connell want you to start?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Doyle answered crisply, only briefly pausing to wonder what Cowley would do if he had been unable to secure Andrews' old job.

"Will 3.7 have any problems getting into the pub?"

"No sir, afternoon customers are mostly workers from the surrounding offices and shops, evenings it's mostly locals and occasional passing trade."

"Good. 3.7 will be your back-up. You will remain unarmed unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"Yes, sir," Doyle responded, vaguely surprised that everything was going ahead so smoothly. His interview with Ross' replacement had been more uncomfortable than his worst with Ross herself. Knowing that the man had read his file made it hard to face him impassively in the sterile yet-to-be-personalised office. Doyle knew that if he ever came across another agent with his history of phobias, monumental cock-ups and mental breakdowns he would never trust him. Thankfully, Michaels, Cowley and Bodie did not appear to share his views.

"You're both off all other assignments until Mahak is under wraps," Cowley continued, indicating to Bodie, who had just arrived to be seated. "Make sure your cover is secure, 4.5."

"Deep cover, sir?" asked Bodie. "Only there's the bash tonight at the barracks."

Cowley frowned and Doyle ducked his head to hide the grin on his face. "Och!" Cowley produced an amused snort that only Bodie ever seemed able to make him utter. "You'll be telling me it's Christmas next!"

"I'll make sure he's sober and fit for duty at the Seven Bells tomorrow, sir," promised Bodie in a syrupy smooth voice.

"Well...I doubt you'll have much time for Christmas," conceded Cowley. "But from tomorrow afternoon, 4.5, you're under deep cover and 3.7 is your only contact with headquarters."

Once the two men left the office, Cowley walked up to the next floor and entered Dr Michaels' office without knocking. "I have authorised the undercover operation involving 4.5 to proceed," he said, going straight to the point.

"I have already made my reservations on the issue quite clear," Michaels replied not letting Cowley browbeat him. "He needs constant monitoring and must have access to full back-up."

"3.7 is his contact. He will also monitor 4.5 and provide whatever back-up is necessary."

"I feel it unwise to put 4.5 under the pressure of deep cover without first observing him under less pressured operations."

"Deep cover in this instance is only a precaution. We have no reason to suspect Mahak uses the premises for anything more than a meeting point."

"The pressure on 4.5 will come from his being forced to live with an identity he finds intolerable. He will have to keep his cover for a minimum of two weeks--more if the suspect breaks his routine and fails to turn up."

"We expect the suspect to appear on the 29th of December. I am confident 4.5 will manage."

"Manage at what cost, Mr Cowley?" asked Michaels.

"Do you think he won't?"

"Oh--he'll manage," said Michaels slowly. "But the cost of the strain required to live as ex-Detective Constable Doyle--everybody's pet convict--could prove higher than you think."

"He'll survive," Cowley said confidently.

"He'll have to," added Michaels wryly. "And you say he'll have 3.7 as back-up--that could be enough, I suppose."

Cowley looked up at the sudden thoughtful tone of the doctor's voice.

Catching sight of the eyebrow raised in query, Michaels explained. "Kate has, of course, discussed all the current pairings with me. She expressed a feeling of...uncertainty over 3.7 and 4.5's teaming."

"They work extremely well together," said Cowley.

"Against all predicted odds," responded Michaels. "3.7 is a loner, resistant to emotional involvement and attachments. In team situations he only functions if he is alpha. Put a man like that with 4.5 who needs and desires companionship and who also thrives in an alpha position and you should have a disaster on your hands. Quite apart from 3.7 resisting overtures of friendship and any attempt on 4.5's part for them to trust and depend on each other in times of stress or danger, they should also be fighting constantly for the alpha position." Michaels shook his head over the problem but consoled himself with the fact that even Kate Ross had been unable to explain neither the success of the pairing nor the obvious growing emotional dependency the two men shared.

Unseen by the new psychologist, Cowley allowed himself a brief smile. It wasn't the first time he had seen men acting and reacting in ways that made a mockery of medical and scientific theories. Whatever it was that Bodie and Doyle shared, it worked. And that was all George Cowley was interested in.

---

Finally discovering a corner that wasn't full of Special Branch, MI5 or officers from the barracks, Bodie guarded their seats and sent Doyle to fight at the bar for their drinks. "See the other side--get the customers' perspective," he'd told him cheerfully and pushed him in the right direction. After an increasingly dry half hour, Bodie surrendered their seats and went to look for him. He found him perching on a low bar stool, Doyle and Macklin sharing one buttock-worth of stool each. "Thanks for getting my drink, Ray," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, there you are--wondered where you'd got to," Doyle looked up and smiled broadly. "Here's your drink."

"Merry Christmas, Bodie." The chorus of voices turned out to be Macklin, Crane and Fergie. Returning the greeting, Bodie looked around the corner of the room they had appropriated and to his dismay saw the rest of the team; on the packed dance floor he caught sight of Turner moving slowly from side to side wrapped round a leggy blonde, and Peter Ellis manoeuvring through the crush with a tray of drinks. Turning his back on the relative peace of the corner he'd just left, Bodie tipped Fergie off his chair and quickly sat down. Flushed with Christmas spirit and several double vodkas, Fergie smiled sweetly and promptly sat on Bodie's lap to a chorus of wolf whistles and loud if somewhat ribald approval.

It was Doyle who first noticed Kelly and waved him and his date over. The DJ chose that moment to see how loud he could make his equipment play a string of rock and roll oldies and no-one even bothered to attempt to introduce themselves. As Kelly went to the bar, Macklin, by dint of pushing Doyle onto the floor, offered Kelly's date the now vacant stool.

Accepting the seat, she sat down and said something which made Macklin laugh and then turned to smile and say 'hello' to the rest of the men gathered around the small table. At least Doyle gathered it was hello, lip reading in dim discos not a talent he'd had occasion to practise much.

Thankfully, the DJ soon switched moods to give the dancers and everyone's eardrums a rest, and Kelly pulled his date onto the dance floor. Sliding onto a spare bit of bench seat beside Bodie, Doyle turned to him. "Who's the girl?" he asked, looking over to where Pat was dancing, eyes closed and holding on tightly to his girlfriend. "I didn't catch her name, but she looks sort of familiar," he said frowning as he tried to place her.

Bodie looked sideways at Doyle as if expecting him to crack up. "I'm not bloody surprised she looks familiar!"

Hearing the surprise in his partner's voice, Doyle looked at her again; maybe she was one of the office girls.

"You really don't recognise her, do you?" Bodie said in amazement.

Doyle looked harder at the pair and, as they danced, saw Kelly kissing the bared white skin at the girl's throat, making her laugh and shiver. As the dancers turned in time to the music, he saw Kelly's hand slide down her back to rest on the shapely, satin-covered rump in a familiar way. "What did he say her name was?" asked Doyle. It was as if he knew her and yet didn't at the same time. Leaning forward Bodie whispered a name into his ear. "Kate? Kate who--not Kate!" Doyle almost shouted, his shocked face turning to identify the sultry woman smooching with his friend as the frigid, starchy bitch he disliked so much. "That's never Kate Ross!" But it was.

The rest of the evening was uneventful if not predictable. The jokes became bawdier, laughter louder, music slower and the dancers less energetic and more romantic. Throughout the evening Bodie couldn't help but notice how quiet his partner was and when he asked why he didn't go and ask Kate for a dance was totally unprepared for the sharp, painful kick his shins received. "I thought it would be a good idea," he protested huffily, "considering you haven't taken your eyes off her since she arrived."

Doyle's head snapped around and he turned his full attention onto his partner. "You saying I've been eyeing her up?"

"What else am I supposed to think," Bodie replied defensively, already regretting opening his mouth.

"Well..." Doyle said thoughtfully as his gaze returned to follow Pat and Kate as they moved slowly around the other couples on the floor. "I just can't believe it's her--I mean...I know it's her but I never dreamt she could look so..."

"Sexy," suggested Bodie.

"Downright bloody gorgeous," concluded Doyle. "Why couldn't she 'ave looked like that all those hours I spent with her?" he asked in a disgruntled tone of voice.

"Bad for your concentration--plus, of course, you're nothing like Pat Kelly--whatever it is he's got it's done wonders for her!"

"I bet she even wears silk knickers--had her pegged for white cotton aertex from Marks and Spencer's, you know, plain and comfortable and nothing fancy." He sighed as the realisation of lost opportunity hit hard. "Just think, me and Kate Ross in her Janet Reger fancy silk knickers playing doctors behind closed doors for hours an' hours on end. I'd 'ave enjoyed those sessions a lot more if I'd known what a little raver she was."

Watching the way Kate and Pat manoeuvred around the other dancers, obviously in love and oblivious to the crowd or the noise of the party, Bodie joined Doyle in a heartfelt sigh for what could never happen. "Oh well, come on Cinders, I promised Uncle George I'd get you home by midnight," he said a while later. "Are you going back to the safe house or coming home with me?" he asked casually as they left the barracks behind them and walked towards Victoria Street in the hope of flagging down a passing taxi.

Pulling his jacket collar up to keep the cold air out, Doyle heard the doubt behind the question. "Doesn't seem much point in going home," he answered quietly, last night's rejection still a painful memory.

"Don't you want to?"

"Go home with you and get into an empty bed, or go to the safe house and an empty bed there. Doesn't sound like much of a choice to me," said Doyle, his voice tart to cover his hurt feelings.

"Why should the bed be empty? I can just as easily go back to the safe house with you," Bodie said, trying to ignore the fear that perhaps he wasn't wanted.

"There's only a single bed there--no spare bedroom for you to run off to when you get the hump!"

A black cab, its 'for hire' light glowing brightly, turned the corner and Bodie stepped into the road to flag it down, using the distraction to decide how best to deal with the problem. Doyle reached the driver first and gave the address of the small bedsit he'd moved into that afternoon.

"Scratch that," Bodie told the driver and gave their home address.

"Holland Lane please," Doyle repeated, giving Bodie a filthy look.

"Berwick Crescent," corrected Bodie. "You're coming home with me."

"I'm going to the flat," Doyle snapped back and climbed into the back of the cab, throwing himself onto the rear seat.

"How the hell do we both get into a three-foot bed. We're going home!" Bodie slammed the door shut and ignoring the irate glare sat down next to him on the rear seat.

"It's two feet six inches and I'm going to the flat--you can sleep on a park bench for all I care!"

"Two feet six!" exclaimed Bodie. "That's it, we're going home to sleep in our bed. Berwick Crescent!" he snapped through the driver's window.

"Holland Lane! Bodie, listen and listen good, there is no way I want a repeat of last night--"

"Berwick Crescent. Shut up, Ray--"

"You shut up--I want a decent night's sleep and I can do without you tying my balls in knots--"

"You want... What about me, what about what I want? You're a fine one to talk," retorted Bodie angrily. "Every time things start getting interesting, you go all coy and back away or change direction."

"Well at least I don't hang about all night too scared to start anything--if we waited for you we'd wait all bloody night!"

"I don't like rushing you--"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't want to scare you."

"What am I supposed to be scared of?"

"Me... Us...you know," Bodie said his voice faltering.

"Sex or screwing?" asked Doyle crudely, too angry to be cautious.

"All right, damn you, screwing!"

"But it's what I want--"

"No, you don't--"

"Don't tell me what I want, Bodie. Last night I wanted you to--"

"Excuse me, gents," the cab driver interrupted, coughing loudly twice before gaining the full attention of his passengers. "But are we going to Holland Lane or Berwick Crescent--and my clock's already running," he added, only barely keeping a straight face as his passengers suddenly remembered he was there.

"Er..." Bodie sank back onto the seat going hot and cold with embarrassment. "Berwick Crescent?" he asked Doyle softly. Unable to get his mouth to work, Doyle just nodded. "Berwick Crescent," Bodie said a little more authoritatively to the driver.

"Right you are, gents," said the cabbie. "We'll have you 'ome and tucked up in bed in no time." In his fifteen years as a cab driver Stan had seen and heard it all. The seat behind him had been the site of many business transactions, financial and sexual; marriages had begun and ended there and the many variations of love had long since ceased to amaze him. As long as the fares paid up at journey's end the stories just made his work more enjoyable and the tea break with the lads at three in the morning more fun.

The silence in the back of the cab lasted until they arrived outside the block where they lived. His face flushed and burning, Bodie shoved Doyle out of the door and thrust a ten pound note through the cabbie's window before following him in--not even waiting for his change.

The cabbie's 'Happy Christmas' ringing in their ears, the two men reached the front door before daring to look at each other and bursting into fits of near-hysterical giggles. Fumbling with the security locks, Bodie managed to get them both safely indoors. As the giggles subsided, their mood changed and became serious, their expressions both serious, bordering on grave.

"What you said in the cab," Bodie began hesitantly.

"I rather think we both said too much, don't you?" responded Doyle, his eyes glinting like a cat's in the soft lighting.

"Wasn't exactly the ideal spot for a few home truths to be aired."

"You can say that again," exclaimed Doyle as he threw his jacket over the back of an armchair and heeled his way out of shoes that had been pinching the little toe on his left foot all night.

"But what's said in the heat of the moment is often true," Bodie continued. "What you said about me not...never starting..." he tailed off, unable to utter the words.

"You used to," responded Doyle softly, with accusation. "But ever since that morning in the shower room you won't touch me until I touch you."

"I don't want to--"

"Scare me, I know," Doyle smiled. "But I don't scare that easily."

Responding to the promise and warmth in the husky voice, Bodie relaxed into a welcome, hard embrace. "I love you. You know that, don't you?" he whispered into the riot of curls pressed against his face like cold silk. "I don't ever want to hurt you or make you back away from me again," the fierce whisper made Doyle shiver.

"I know--and you won't. All we have to do is be careful. I don't know what went wrong that time," Doyle said. "Maybe we were just moving too fast and I wasn't ready. But...now I am," the husky voice continued. "Last night I was even dreaming about you fucking me. It was so real, so real--"

"Ray--!"

"Please, Bodie," whispered Doyle urgently, his eyes downcast as if hiding the odd mixture of longing and fear. "Show me how it feels--please, I want it so much."

Bodie could feel him trembling, feel the urgent hardness that was confined in the smart black trousers. "Okay," he said. "But let's take it slowly. No rushing things this time."

"Not too slow," cried Doyle as he was pushed away.

"We don't have to rush, let's not ruin it by going too fast," said Bodie with a great deal more calmness than he felt.

"Okay--anything you say," Doyle agreed, closing his eyes and taking some deep breaths. "Think I'll have a quick shower first."

"I'll join you."

"No--let's...save it for later?"

Bodie smiled and pushed him towards the shower room. In the bedroom he turned the heating up and the bed covers down; by the time Doyle emerged, still damp from his hasty shower, the room was prepared, the Vaseline jar and small towels all ready beside the bed.

Patting himself dry after his own shower, Bodie jumped when a pair of arms sneaked round his waist. "Hurry up or I'll start without you," said Doyle softly.

"I'm just coming."

"Really! I'm impressed," Doyle exclaimed playfully and felt for the hard cock.

"I meant--"

"I know what you meant, stupid!" Doyle cut off the patient voice with a kiss. "Are you going to take me to bed and fuck me, or what?"

"Dunno--what's the 'or what'?" joked Bodie, then in a deep voice. "If you really want me to?'

Taking his time convincing Bodie that he really wanted to be taken that way, Doyle never actually noticed the exact moment they reached the bed.

---

His breath coming in short, harsh pants, Doyle groaned aloud his pleasure as the slick fingers opened him and pressed further inside. Bodie covered the open mouth with his lips, kissing him deeply but being careful not to touch the hot writhing body anywhere else; the only reality Doyle was aware of being the tongue tasting him and the fingers opening his body for another deeper, harder probe. Strung out on tension and anticipation Doyle was close to pain when he tore his mouth free. "Please.... Bodie, please," he begged.

"Slower, lover," gasped Bodie who was holding back with difficulty. "We can't...mustn't rush."

"Bodie!" Impatient and hurting with need, Doyle reached down to grasp his neglected sex.

"No," Bodie pushed his hands away. "Don't bring...yourself off," he panted. "It'll be easier if you're still hot for it...honest..."

"Well, get on with it then!" Doyle groaned as the slick fingers twisted and pushed into him harder. "I'm ready... I'm ready... God, how ready do I have to be?"

Hearing the desperate voice, Bodie chuckled and bent his head to nuzzle one tightly budded nipple. "Okay, sunshine. Over you go then," and he withdrew his fingers before rolling the quivering body over.

"Bodie!"

"'s okay, love," Bodie kissed the side of his face as he pressed against the smooth body. "Just relax... I'll take it nice and slow," and he set about encouraging the suddenly tense muscles to relax again.

"Can't I turn over?" asked Doyle, twisting to look back over his shoulder to see Bodie kneeling astride him and kissing down the line of his spine.

"Lie down and relax...it's easier this way," replied Bodie softly. "Take your weight on your arms and kneel up," he said positioning him. "That's it, open your legs...wider...that's better."

Positioned and held in place by Bodie's hands, Doyle felt himself getting colder and colder, the reassuring words coming in breathy whispers from somewhere above and behind him. He felt more cold jelly being eased into him and tightened instinctively around the invader. Relax, he told himself, just relax. But the thought was little comfort and slowly the pressure increased.

Feeling the muscles clamping down on his fingers, Bodie forced himself to slow down, easing the jelly into the tight opening with circular movements, willing the muscles to accept him. "Keep still," he urged as Doyle tried again to twist round. "Just keep still, you'll hurt yourself if you turn around."

"It hurts," Doyle panted, groaning as the head of the huge shaft began to pierce him. "It hurts!"

"Don't move," Bodie said. "Just relax and it'll get easier." He slid his hand around Doyle's hip, searching for his cock to ease his way by pleasuring him but found limp genitals. Dismayed but not really surprised, Bodie cradled the unresponsive cock and bent forward to kiss the cool skin of Ray's back.

The unexpected shift of weight on his back sent Doyle sprawling, and he landed heavily on the mattress, his body covered by Bodie's and the hard cock plunging deep into him.

The second Doyle moved, Bodie knew he was fighting to get free but his own body refused to co-operate; buried in the hot channel, he wanted only to move towards the completion that had been denied too long already, and Doyle's struggles were adding to the sensations building to a climax in his groin.

Only just managing to find the willpower from somewhere, Bodie got his weight balanced on hands and knees and withdrew from the shivering body. The second he was free Doyle curled away from him into a tight ball, that sight alone sufficient to cause all desire in Bodie to die stillborn.

On unsteady legs Bodie left the bedroom and, feeling unaccountably dirty, stepped into the shower, turning the water temperature to almost scalding, and washed away the sweat and scent of sex. Tying his bathrobe firmly around his waist and then finding the bedroom deserted he continued on into the lounge and found Doyle, his own robe knotted firmly around him, glass of whisky in his hand and a miserable expression on his face.

"There's a drink for you on the unit," said Doyle without looking up.

Sitting in the armchair facing him, Bodie nursed his drink in silence for a while, conscious that something needed to be said and that one wrong word would be disastrous. "I'm sorry," he said finally, grimacing at how trite and meaningless those words really were.

"What for?" Doyle asked in a subdued voice. "You didn't do anything I didn't ask you to--quite the opposite in fact!" he gave a dry, mirthless laugh and drained the glass, coughing as the liquid burned his throat. "Hell, I was practically begging you to do it."

"But why?" Bodie asked, draining his own glass and then topping them both up with another generous measure. "Why were you begging me--was it because you really wanted it or because you thought it was what I wanted?" There was no answer, Doyle taking the drink and giving it all his concentration and ignoring both the question and Bodie. Moving to sit next to his lover on the settee, Bodie wasn't surprised--he doubted if Doyle even knew himself whether he wanted to experience anal intercourse to please his lover, who obviously wanted to love him that way, or because he wanted it himself. Sometimes just giving what you knew your lover wanted gave far more pleasure than anything else might. He could feel Doyle shaking and knew that however much Doyle wanted to please him there were obviously limits on what he could do and knew he had been wrong to accept the generous offer. "It's my fault, I shouldn't--"

"No," Doyle said quickly, twisting round to look him straight in the face. "I just said--you did exactly what I wanted you to do--"

"No--it was what you thought I wanted--"

"No--"

"I rushed you and I shouldn't have. We should have learnt by now that we just can't rush some things--we've got to take it slower."

"Love," Doyle said affectionately, and relaxed against him, "if you'd gone any slower we'd both have turned into statues. Hell, I don't think I could have been as patient or as careful as you were. It would have served me right if you'd ignored me and just kept going--pulling back like you did must have hurt something chronic. Are you all right?"

The soft concern and light touch of cold fingers seeking him out under the concealing bathrobe was all the encouragement Bodie's cock needed. "Ray--don't--you mustn't."

"There's no need for you to suffer lover's knots because of me. I'm no prick tease."

"I never thought you were," Bodie said as quick fingers dealt with the belt tie and bared him.

"No?" Doyle said doubtfully. "I just ask you to fuck me, get you all hot and bothered and then run away at the crucial moment."

"But it's not your fault..." gasped Bodie. "Your body and your balls want...oh, Jesus, that's good," he gasped as a hot tongue laved his cock-head. As his body was pleasured, Bodie struggled to maintain the conversation. "You want it...me, but your head...inside your head it's still something wrong...something ugly...it's not you...it's that bastard Kingsley...not you..."

Pausing in his attentions to his lover, Doyle considered it. "You could be right. I do want you, I'm not just pretending. I've even started dreaming about it--you fucking me--it just goes all wrong when we try it for real. Suddenly I'm terrified and can't think straight--it's like I'm not even with you... Will it always be like that?" he asked, sitting back on his heels and deserting Bodie as he worried over the problem. "No matter how much I say I want you like that, am I never going to be able to let you take me?"

Desire receding to a more comfortable, less urgent level, Bodie slid off the settee and sat next to his partner on the floor, lifting the downbent head with one finger under his chin. He waited until Ray opened his eyes and looked at him. "I'm a firm believer in where there's a will there's a way. We'll manage, but in the meantime, maybe we should stop trying so hard, so stop worrying about it or even thinking about it," Bodie said, his voice serious and willing Ray to accept what he was saying. "After what you've been through I'm still surprised that you can bear to let me--let any man anywhere near you. It's going to take a long time, maybe years before you'll be able to enjoy that kind of loving with me--and," he stopped the interruption with a kiss. "And if you never can there are other ways for two men to make love. There's no law that says we have to fuck each other. I'm not about to chuck you out into the streets because I can't have you like that--you can still take me so what's the problem?"

Dropping his eyes, Doyle looked away and mumbled something.

"I didn't catch that," said Bodie.

"I said, it's a bit one-sided isn't it," he repeated in an unhappy voice.

"What, you fucking me and me not doing you? Didn't you hear me--there are more ways to make love than just screwing. So what if I enjoy feeling you fuck me--I like it and you don't--so what?"

"You really don't mind, do you," said Doyle, slowly beginning to believe. "And if I can never let you do me--"

"I'll love you in other ways. But I'm sure things will work out eventually. But it won't if we keep worrying about it. Let's just forget it and stick to what we both know we enjoy."

"Such as?"

"You fucking me for instance," Bodie said lightly. "All this talk about it has made me feel...itchy."

"Itchy? Where?" Doyle asked, his eyes lighting up playfully.

"Why don't you try and find out?"

---

Plunging in one more time until he was buried in the tight body, Doyle stopped, muscles quivering with the need to go on. "Tell me what it feels like," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Tell me," he repeated and bit Bodie's shoulder making him squirm to escape the painful teeth. "I want to know what it feels like."

Bodie opened his mouth but no words came out, his throat and mouth dry and sharp teeth bit down even harder. "Hard," he gasped.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Not even a bit?" hissed Doyle, his disbelief obvious.

"Ouch--bloody cannibal!" swore Bodie. "Okay, okay--a bit, hurts a bit--but only at first. Feels...hard...pressure...but good, especially...when you--yeah--when you do that!"

"Wish I could change places," whispered Doyle harshly. "Wish I was you right now....wish I could feel you deep inside me... I want it Bodie--I want it so bad." The need was so strong that Doyle was almost weeping in frustration

"Oh Jesus, Ray--move! Please move!" begged Bodie and he wriggled his buttocks pushing against the body pressed along his back. It was enough to send Ray over the edge and he thrust hard once, twice more and then froze before crying out, almost screaming and then collapsing heavily across the man sprawled beneath him. Impatient for his own release, Bodie twisted round, tipping Doyle to one side and covering the spent body, Doyle recovering sufficiently to reach between their bodies and help him to his own exhausting climax.

The room was quiet while their ragged breathing evened out. As they cooled off, they tugged the duvet up to cover themselves and curled together as much for warmth as comfort.

"Love you," Bodie said quietly when it seemed as if Ray was prepared to drift off to sleep without saying another word. "We'll get there, sunshine, just give us time."

"You reckon?" came the soft response from somewhere in the region of his shoulder.

Bodie could feel him as he blinked, the soft tickle of eyelashes on his breast as Doyle opened and closed his eyes. "I reckon," he said confidentially. "When have you ever known me to be wrong about anything?"

Doyle gave a snort of laughter. "You're a hopeless romantic, William Bodie--I must be mad to have fallen in love with you."

Bodie felt him fall asleep but remained awake for a long time, savouring the warm presence and filling his senses with the feel and scents of Ray Doyle. The knowledge that it could be their last night together until after the Mahak operation was over made the night more precious.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Climbing the bare stairs as quietly as possible, Doyle turned the key in the lock and entered his room. Easing shoes off aching feet and throwing the bow tie onto the scratched, aged sideboard, he collapsed onto the rickety sofa. His r/t went off and he groaned as he struggled to his feet to retrieve it. "4.5."

"Nice day at the office?" Bodie's voice sounded raspy through the receiver.

"My feet are killing me and I stink of stale beer and cigarettes," Doyle complained, sinking back onto the sofa and rubbing the painful corn on his left foot.

"You were late getting out tonight."

"Had a party stay on for after-hours drinks--O'Connell asked me to help out."

"Any sign of Teacher?" Bodie asked, referring to Mahak.

"No show. Any word when the new term starts?"

"The 29th is still the favourite. Stay with it, 4.5, I'll be calling in to see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay, oh and 3.7--one joke about the dickie bow, just one, and you'll be out on your ear, warned Doyle as he signed off. Tossing the r/t aside, he wondered if the 50p he'd put in the meter that afternoon would last long enough for him to boil the kettle since once again he had forgotten to raid the till for coins to bring home.

The electricity lasted just long enough for a cup of tea and a few slices of toast but not long enough to take the damp chill off the room. Climbing into the narrow bed with his supper, he carefully arranged the blankets and his heaviest coat to give maximum warmth--his self-esteem already dented by his concession to cold feet with a pair of thick woolly bedsocks--reduced even more by the blue hot water bottle clutched to his chest.

He was almost warm enough to sleep when the noise from the upstairs flat began, the rhythmic creaking of the floor boards and the muffled yet unmistakable groans of the couple upstairs waking him up. It had been a long time since he'd been forced to sleep in such a noisy place, his ability to sleep through the groans and shouts inside prison eroded by the peaceful nights he'd spent with Bodie. He tugged the pillow over his head and forced his mind to better times.

---

Sipping at his drink, Bodie sat back on the bar stool and looked around at the Seven Bells' other patrons; a mixed bunch of suited businessmen and their secretaries and just a few local people who persevered with the new style bar out of habit. It was little more than a tarted-up gin-palace--all stainless steel, chrome and tortoiseshell lampshades and an expansive, not to say expensive, selection of fancy cocktails on offer. From his vantage point he watched Doyle serve a bunch of young, loud, over-jolly businessmen an array of multi-coloured drinks decorated with gaily coloured umbrellas and fruit salad; no common ice and slice of lemon for them.

"Good afternoon sir," Doyle said politely to Bodie once he was free of customers. "Can I offer you one of our speciality cocktails?" and in a lower voice, out of earshot of the other bar staff. "Shot of arsenic, cup of hemlock--and one crack about the outfit and I swear I'll do you," he said, smiling politely throughout.

"Another half of bitter, thanks," Bodie said, deliberately eyeing the tight black trousers, fitted emerald shirt and neat black dickie-bow as Doyle pulled the pump handles to serve him. "Tastes better from the old fashioned pumps, none of that gas," he said. "And pulling on those all night must do wonders for your muscles," he added in a lower voice.

Doyle felt O'Connell's double-take and decided to reply in kind, giving Bodie a little of his own medicine. "Well, they do say only real men," he emphasised the word and smiled invitingly, fluttering his eyelashes at Bodie, "only real men like Real Ale. I must say, I prefer a bit of the Real stuff myself."

It was, Bodie acknowledged ruefully, bloody difficult to sound macho and camp at the same moment but with his use of body language and his husky voice, Doyle managed it beautifully. Three men suddenly called for him to serve them drinks and the petite blond man behind the bar almost fell over himself in his haste to help. Having cast his lure for one man only, Doyle was disconcerted to find himself the centre of attraction and it was some time before he dared look Bodie's way or meet the eyes of a customer more than fleetingly.

At closing time for the afternoon session, Bodie was one of the last to leave, deliberately hanging around to speak to O'Connell's newest barman.

"Can you get away for a few hours?"

Knowing that O'Connell heard the indiscreet question and guessing how he would interpret the invitation, Doyle felt like kicking his partner somewhere painful. "I've only got a short break before this evening's session," he replied.

"You can go off now if you want, Ray, providing you're back by five. Johnny and Richard can help me clear up," O'Connell offered helpfully.

Grabbing his jacket and ignoring Richard's leery face and the pathetic hopelessness of Johnny, Doyle escaped. "Jesus, Bodie--you said you'd make contact--not make a bloody pass at me in front of the whole fucking pub!" he hissed furiously as they walked along the street.

"Sorry," apologised Bodie. "Really I am, I didn't mean it to come out like that--and you didn't exactly help by giving me the big come-on. Christ, I thought Old Baldy next to me was going to cream his boxer shorts."

"Forget it," snapped Doyle. "Where are we going, and don't forget I've got to get back here in a few hours; I'm starving hungry and my feet are killing me."

"Your place?" suggested Bodie.

"Okay--only you can pay for a cab, I'm not walking there--the first thing I'm going to do once this job is over is find a decent chiropodist!"

Climbing up the scruffy staircase of the safe house, Bodie frowned at the dilapidated state of the building. "Is this the best...you could find?" he said, remembering at the last minute to stay in character.

"It's not that bad. At least it's reasonably clean--and I only have to share the bog and bathroom with seven others. It could be worse," he said wryly opening the door to his room.

Stepping inside, Bodie looked around in amazement. "I thought they said it was a flat," he exclaimed eyeing the one room and its shabby furniture.

"The word is 'flatlet'. And it is furnished with all the comforts of home; a bed, a chair, a table, it's even got a sofa and all mod cons in the kitchen. Running water," he wiped the condensation off the wall, "even in the taps--but only cold, got to boil the kettle for hot water. And here is the fridge--very economical to run, doesn't use electricity."

Shivering as Doyle opened the window to retrieve a bottle of milk resting outside on the sill, Bodie decided it was the worst safe house he had ever seen.

"Tea or coffee?" Doyle asked politely.

The tightly controlled voice didn't fool Bodie for a moment. "Coffee, please," he replied and wandered around the room checking on the personal bric-a-brac that the department provided for jobs like these. "Christ, I hope Teacher arrives on time. You'll get pneumonia if you have to spend much more time in this dump!"

"It could be worse," Doyle repeated.

"How?"

Doyle shrugged and refused to meet Bodie's eyes. "It could be for real."

The bleak statement revealed the true reason for Doyle's moodiness. At one time, before joining CI5, this had been his future. "It's only because I know it's not for real I can take it. I don't know how people can live like this, Bodie--and it's not even that bad--I've known people even worse off with no hope of a way out." He turned into Bodie's outstretched arms eagerly, holding tight and burrowing into the warmth and offered comfort, a sense of desperation alloyed to fear of what might have been overcoming his earlier reticence.

Later, with a cup of whisky-scented coffee and all three bars of the electric fire burning, the chill seemed to go away. Rubbing the warm skin of Ray's throat with the back of his hand Bodie smiled as he leant into the caress. "So, you think that the pub is clear?"

"I'm as sure as I can be after five days. O'Connell's a bit like Mahone, talks big but doesn't amount to much. The drug squad should take more notice of the place though, there's all kinds of hard and soft stuff being peddled. O'Connell knows about it but providing they're not obvious he turns a blind eye. He's receiving stolen goods as well, there's boxes of bonded stuff in the store that hasn't come from the brewery."

"How about politics and his cousins from across the Irish Sea?"

"I've not heard him talk politics, nor his wife. They're Irish, Belfast born and bred from the sound of them both, Didn't records show them as moving to London after their pub in the Falls Road was gutted in the 6o's?"

"That's right--IRA bombed the police station next door to the pub. His place wasn't the target--just got caught by mistake."

"I don't know about O'Connell. I'd say he wasn't political at all, he's a small time publican with big ideas who's not averse to a bit of wheeling and dealing to improve his income."

"Irish crime and politics have got a bit confused the last few years, it's hard to tell if they're criminal politicals or political criminals. We'd best play safe and assume he's political," Bodie decided.

Conversation lapsed for a while until Bodie discovered Ray had fallen asleep and let him sleep on, waking him only when it was time to return for his evening shift.

Groaning, Doyle turned off the fire and raided Bodie's pockets for fifty pence pieces before locking up and clattering down the stairs and out into the dark street.

"You coming in this evening?"

"I'm not spending another night shivering in the car," replied Bodie. "I think I've...staked my claim. No-one's going to think it strange if I sit up one end of the bar all night eyeing up your arse. And," he said quickly before Doyle could butt in, "it'll leave me free to watch out for Teacher. The bar is so busy you wouldn't notice if half the squad's most wanted list trooped two abreast through the doors."

Doyle was forced to agree; he was also relieved to know Bodie would be close on hand just to remind him that it was only make believe.

---

Christmas Eve at the Seven Bells was both a pleasure and a trial. The bar was packed, which meant they barely had time to speak, all the staff busy serving continuously and the customers on Bodie's side getting merrier and drunker as the night wore on; as their alcohol intake increased the sober-suited businessmen became more affable, talking to anyone and everyone. The bar's other patrons were also doing a roaring trade as little bags were carelessly handed around, money passing swiftly into deep pockets.

Intrigued by one man who looked like a refugee from some sixties squat, Bodie peered at the contents of a bag; seeing Bodie's interest, the ageing hippie spoke to him in a surprisingly cultured voice that was at odds with his appearance. "Want to buy some...organic mushrooms?" the man asked softly.

"Organic mushrooms?" Bodie repeated, disappointed, he'd been expecting something far more exotic.

"Organic," the man agreed. "Or perhaps--orgasmic." He laughed at his joke. "But what's in a word?"

From the ripple of amusement that passed around the table Bodie realised he had missed the point. "Special, are they?"

"Special, he asks." The man turned back to the people at the table.

"What's so special about them?" Bodie asked, his curiosity well and truly aroused.

"They're magic--not special--magic," the man said, smirking. "You clearly never encountered this little delicacy before." Bodie admitted his ignorance and, sensing he had a buyer, the man reeled him in. "A rare and...expensive delicacy, sir. These delightful mushrooms are a natural, home grown remedy for all life's ills. Stress, tension, unhappiness...a few magic mushrooms and suddenly you'll find the world a much brighter, happier place to live in."

As the spiel continued Bodie began to remember reading something about hallucinogenic mushrooms grown and used by Welsh hippies; used in small quantities they were harmless unless, of course, they were only an introduction to the drug scene. "How much?" he heard himself asking, cutting across the sales pitch. Exchanging money for the small bag, he was already trying to work out ways of getting Doyle to eat them. A cure for stress and tension, he told himself, was just what the doctor would order.

---

Putting the file to one side, Cowley looked at Bodie and Henderson. "The local coach-operators have only this one trip organised?"

"Yes, sir. There are National Express coaches running from Victoria on the same day but this firm, Beadles, has two pick-up points: their own garage and the Post Office, which is about twenty yards from the Seven Bells."

"Doyle's reported that a few regulars are going on the 29th but there's no list. Seems they just take whoever wants to go on the day. The December trip over the Channel is an annual event--a bunch from the pub go every year."

"And Andrews, he claims that Mahak only uses the Beadles coaches--"

"Not for sure but the pub only ever goes as a group on Beadles. National Express require passengers to book and pay in advance. Beadles picks up customers and takes fares on the day. There's no paperwork, no records kept and the coach drivers only do head counts--they don't check passports or identities. Providing they come back with as many passengers as they left with they don't care."

"Which suits Mahak perfectly," chipped in Henderson. "I've got a team watching Beadles and an observation point will be established for the pub on the 29th. Williams is co-ordinating Dover harbour and the French authorities."

"So," said Cowley. "Providing Mahak shows, the question is when do we take him?'

Henderson leant forward. "I suggest we leave the Irish students alone for a while; the man we want as priority is Mahak. Let him leave on the coach in the morning; Williams can watch the procedure during the crossing and Interpol can take over when they dock at Boulogne and follow the outward route through to the Middle East.

"Then Williams follows the incoming bunch of students and Mahak back here to London. If he follows his usual routine the group will go into the Seven Bells until closing time when everyone except Mahak is driven off towards Liverpool on a mini-bus. One team follows the mini-bus over the water to Northern Ireland and we grab Mahak. If we time it right, only Mahak will know we've been watching and it will be a while before the routes are closed down--"

"Thus giving Interpol and the Security forces in Ireland the time to follow the route through and trap as many as possible." Cowley liked the plan. "Do you foresee any problems with the Seven Bells operation, 3.7?"

Bodie considered everything before replying. "How do you propose to jump Mahak without alarming him or having a shoot-out? The bar is usually pretty crowded but the second we move he'll know what we are."

"Wire 4.5 up. He can tell us the second the Irish group leave. He can create a diversion, something noisy to distract Mahak and we should have him cuffed easily," said Henderson confidently.

Bodie frowned. Mahak was the top of his class and it all sounded too easy. Cowley saw the frown and guessed its cause but could see no other solution. "Inform 4.5," he ordered Bodie crisply. "From now until Mahak shows you'll only have r/t contact with the support teams. Keep close to 4.5 and both of you stay under cover 24 ours a day until the operation is over."

"And if Mahak doesn't show on the 29th?" asked Bodie.

"The situation will be reviewed, 3.7, but the opportunity to pull Mahak from the system cannot be ignored," said Cowley. "Keep your heads down, and 3.7," he called just as the man reached the door, "Merry Christmas."

With all that had been happening, headquarters buzzing with suppressed excitement for the brewing operation, Bodie found it difficult to feel in a Christmas mood. At half past one on Christmas morning when Christmas Eve had started at the unsocial hour of 6 am, he even found himself longing for the boring Christmas he had been expecting--all those long hours stuck in the Duty Office with only Ray Doyle for company by comparison not as bad as he had once thought.

---

Midday on Christmas morning saw Bodie, slightly refreshed after a few hours' sleep, parking his car in the street next to the dilapidated building that was his partner's temporary home. He carried the heavy bags into the little flat and dropped them with a sigh of relief onto the threadbare carpet. Christmas in the shabby room was not going to be luxurious but at least he could try to improve it a little, and he set about brightening the place up with a few streamers and bits of tinsel.

The drinks and tins of mince pies and sausage rolls were put on the sideboard next to the tub of peanuts, chocolates and fruit bowl. In the tiny kitchen area he frowned at the controls of the antique Baby Belling cooker; as Doyle had sourly pointed out the oven was far too small to roast anything larger than a skinny pigeon and so Bodie eased the brimming casserole dish he'd brought from home into the tiny oven. It only needed re-heating. After fiddling with the aged knobs until he found what he hoped was the right setting, he lifted the lid of the dish to give the contents a final stir.

He still thought the mushrooms looked a little different and, not for the first time, debated the wisdom of adding them to the pot. Oh well, he decided, unless all they wanted to eat was mince pies and sausage rolls they'd have to eat it now--and, he reasoned with himself as he closed the oven door--he hadn't put that many in, only an ounce or two.

Giving the transformed room a quick survey to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Bodie deposited the heavy bag of fifty-pence pieces on the top of the hungry meter and left for the pub.

While the bar wasn't overcrowded, all the staff were busy. He saw Ray immediately, pulling pints at the end of the bar and waved a greeting, smiling when he realised that, like everyone else behind the bar, the uniform emerald shirt and black trousers had been adapted for the day. Tinsel belts and headbands were being worn and everyone had a sprig of mistletoe in place of the hated bow ties.

Eventually Doyle managed to get down to Bodie's end of the bar. "Afternoon sir, Merry Christmas and what can I get you--half a bitter and one for myself? Thank you, don't mind if I do." The patter tripped off Doyle's tongue like a professional. Holding his hand out for his change, Bodie did a double-take when he saw the coins placed there. "Prices gone up have they?"

"Cocktails are expensive," said Doyle grinning cheekily.

"What are you drinking?'

"Harvey Wallbangers--delicious," replied Doyle sipping appreciatively at his glass. "Had one or two already if you must know--I think I'm hooked on them."

Knowing how little it took to get his partner worse for drink, Bodie realised the flushed cheeks had little to do with the room's temperature and he grabbed hold of the glass to taste it himself, discovering his suspicions to be wrong and pulling a face at the undiluted orange juice.

"We're not usually allowed to drink on duty," Doyle said grinning broadly. "But as it's Christmas Mr O'Connell has given us permission--providing, of course, we don't overdo it." The last being said in broad Belfast brogue made Bodie smile.

Watching his partner being called away to serve other customers, Bodie settled back to wait until the pub closed. It would then remain shut until the evening session on Boxing Day which meant, thanks to Cowley's insistence they remain under cover, they would be free from closing time at two-thirty this afternoon until five in the afternoon on Boxing Day. They would have had less time to themselves if they had kept their usual duty over the holiday period.

Free of the pub, Doyle informed headquarters via Bodie's r/t that O'Connell was holding a private party at the pub that night and he had no way of knowing who would be present. Once Control acknowledged the information they were both free until the next evening--unless, of course, Mahak showed up at the party.

Clattering up the staircase, Bodie remarked on how quiet the building was.

"There's only the old couple in the basement and the fella on the top floor here. The couple upstairs and the girl on my landing have gone away for Christmas," Doyle informed him between verses of 'O little town of Bethlehem'. Pushing open the door to his room Doyle sniffed appreciatively. "It smells good." He looked around at the changes Bodie had made earlier that morning. "All looks very cosy--what the hell is that?" he asked pointing at the large gold bag propped behind the table leg.

Picking it up, Bodie held it out for inspection. "It's a bed. A double bed," he explained, waggling his eyebrows and leering at his mate. "Your bed's far too small and I'm not doing anything except walk on this carpet. It's an air bed--all we need is a vacuum cleaner--or a hair drier."

Doyle eyed the length of unrolled gold vinyl. "Where's the vacuum then--or did you bring your hair drier?"

Bodie felt his chin drop. "You haven't got one?" he asked weakly, guessing the answer from the innocent expression on Doyle's face. Doyle shook his head. "Well, in that case, how much puff have you got?"

Leaving Bodie to think the problem out, Doyle changed out of his work clothes, donning a soft grey sweatshirt and comfortable jeans before checking on the dinner. He gave the casserole a stir and glanced over his shoulder to check Bodie was still busy unrolling the bed; acting on impulse and deciding to worry about the consequences later, he pulled the brown bag from his jacket pocket and tipped the contents into the bubbling liquid, stirring the mushrooms in quickly.

"There's no panic," Bodie said in a relieved tone once he found the instruction leaflet. "I can use the foot pump that's in the boot of the car."

"You go and get it while I stick the vegetables on, we can eat in about half an hour."

When Bodie arrived back with the pump, his mouth started watering as soon as the door opened, the aroma of the casserole as inviting as any traditional turkey dinner. Grabbing Doyle round the waist and pulling him into a fierce embrace, he kissed him deeply. "Smells good."

"Dinner or me?"

"Both," Bodie replied quickly and bent forward to claim the open mouth again.

"Let's eat first--you can have me after dinner," Doyle laughed wriggling free.

Giving in gracefully, Bodie backed off and opened a bottle of wine as Doyle served the meal. For the first few mouthfuls he carefully avoided the soft black mushrooms until he glanced across the table and saw Doyle was doing likewise, a pile of the things on the edge of the chipped plate. With a nonchalance he didn't feel, he stabbed several pieces with his fork and lifted them to his mouth. Soft and slippery they tasted of nothing and he smiled across at Doyle. "Good casserole this isn't it--shame it's not a proper Christmas dinner though."

Cautiously tasting a few of his own mushrooms Doyle grinned in relief when he discovered there was no strange taste. The remainder of the meal was lingered over, each helping the other to generous seconds and taking care to deliver a few extra mushrooms to the other's plate.

Feeling decidedly mellow, Bodie cleared the table of empty dishes and pulled the fruit bowl and chocolates over. "No Christmas pudding," he complained and sunk his teeth into an overripe nectarine.

"With one bog between five flats I'm not sorry!" Doyle said vehemently.

Grinning, Bodie said innocently, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh yes--I know what Christmas pud does to your digestive system, mate," Doyle replied forcefully as he took a clementine from the bowl and began chucking bits of peel across the table aiming at Bodie's wine glass. "Bloody smelt it too!"

"There's no need to be personal--chuck us an orange." Catching the large orange thrown with some strength straight at his face, Bodie managed a polite thank you.

"Shame--I missed--black eyes suit you, brings out the blue in them."

"Enjoy giving people shiners, do you?" Bodie asked as he scored a direct hit with a bit of peel in Doyle's drink, the resulting splash staining the grey sweatshirt.

"Prat," Doyle swore without any real heat and removed the chunk of peel and tossed it back across the table, missing the target because Bodie covered the glass with his hand. Thwarted, he dipped his fingers in his own drink and then flicked them at Bodie, making a pattern of red splotches down the previously immaculate white shirt. The battle began in earnest, ending only when the bottle of wine got knocked over, causing a sudden flood to pour into both their laps. Somewhat chastened but still giggling helplessly, they straightened the table and mopped up the wine, Doyle using a conventional cloth and Bodie determined not to waste the expensive vintage by licking the Formica-covered table with his tongue. The table cleared, Bodie turned his attention to mopping Doyle up.

"I'm not wet there!" Doyle protested in mock outrage as a hand persisted in dabbing at his groin.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure!"

"You sure you're sure?"

"I'm bloody sure I'm sure now back off before I do black your eye!"

"God--you're beautiful when you're mad, Raymond--so…macho and…manly--"

"You're nuts!" Doyle gasped as one persistent hand managed to undo the snap on his jeans and tease the zip down and he retaliated with a sharp karate chop.

"Ouch--Jesus, you're always so bloody violent, always beating me up--I feel like escaping into one of those battered lovers' refugees--

"Battered wives, sweetheart," Doyle said, giving up and allowing the hand to completely undo his jeans and tug them down over his hips. "And you wouldn't get a foot over the front door in one of those places. And I'm not always beating you up," he protested.

"Yes you are--always giving people black eyes, you are."

"Some people ask for them!" Doyle said, his tone menacing as warm fingers teased him.

"Cowley didn't," Bodie pointed out, pausing in his ministrations. "Neither did Macklin."

"No," Doyle agreed, closing his eyes as the grip around his sex tightened and Bodie initiated a steady pumping. "But they looked pretty good. Probably did wonders for Cowley's reputation in Whitehall."

"He probably told the Minister he got it 'defending Queen and Country'," Bode mimicked the Scots voice to perfection.

"Oh, that was good," said Doyle, his eyes wide open and guileless. "Can you do a Scots accent as well--no don't…don't tickle me… I'm sorry-- Pax… Pax…me fingers are crossed… PAX!"

Breathless, they collapsed onto the sofa and promptly froze as it groaned alarmingly and the wooden supports gave a loud crack.

"Oops--mustn't break the furniture," said Doyle.

"Tell you what," said Bodie.

"What?"

"I'll tell you--"

"Tell me what?" interrupted Doyle again.

"Shut up and I'll tell you!"

"Tell me what?" Doyle demanded impatiently.

"Shut…up!" Bodie kissed him between words. "And…I'll...tell…you… Why don't you clear this mess away--"

"While you sit on your arse and watch me?" Doyle said scathingly.

"While I blow up the bed!" Bodie retorted and made a mad lunge for Doyle, who tried to make a dash for freedom.

"Pax!" Doyle cried out as fended the tickling fingers off. "PAX--me fingers are crossed…you can't tickle me when me fingers are--ouch--and you call me a bloody cannibal--that's not fair… I said me fingers are crossed, that means you mustn't… Pax…get off, get off me you great…lummox…don't…pax…I said pax…oh, what the hell," subsiding into a willing heap Doyle gave in gracefully.

---

"I thought you said something about blowing the bed up?" Doyle asked a while later.

"Hardly seems worth it now," said Bodie, only just getting his breath back after an annihilating climax.

"Huh! What was that you said the other night about stamina?" Doyle retorted scornfully. "You mean that's it--you've blown the lot?"

"No," Bodie said, deeply offended. Just give me a few minutes."

"Well, you can blow the bed up while you're waiting," said Doyle, wriggling out of his grasp and pulling on his clothes. "That floor's bloody hard and there's one hell of a draught coming in under that door."

---

The sudden increase in volume and quantity of foul language drew Doyle out of the kitchen alcove to discover the problem.

"The bloody pump won't fit onto the fucking valve!" Bodie complained. "We're going to have to blow it up ourselves."

"We?" asked Doyle innocently. "I thought the agreement was I wash up while you get the bed ready?"

"We," Bodie said firmly. "You can start on that side."

Plumping himself down on the floor, the unrolled deflated mattress separating them, Doyle watched in amazement as Bodie, his cheeks puffed and his face almost blue from his efforts, blew into the valve. "Bodie," he began, his voice so serious that Bodie paused mid-blow to look at him. "Why are they called blow jobs when you mostly suck or--" The lungful of air intended for the bed was wasted as Bodie burst out laughing. "I only asked," Doyle said huffily when it became clear his question wasn't being taken seriously.

The sound of crackling plastic and gusty blowing continued uninterrupted until Bodie saw his partner sealing his valve. "You can't finish there, it's still soft. It won't be much good like this--we need it nice and hard."

Doyle just looked at him in disbelief. "You don't say."

"Yes, you…foul-minded cretin--hard," Bodie laughed, but Doyle uncapped the valve and resumed blowing.

"Phew--dunno about you," Doyle admitted a few breathless minutes later, "but I'm going to be too exhausted to do anything interesting once this bed's ready! I feel all dizzy--and the colour's awful!" he prodded the gaudy gold covering with one finger, scowling at it.

"It is a bit bright," Bodie admitted. "But we can cover it up with a sheet--I bought some double sheets and blankets along--they're in the black bag behind the door."

"I always knew I didn't love you for your body," Doyle said and leant over the inflated bed to deliver a kiss.

"Oh," said Bodie in a carefree manner, "and why do you love me then?"

"Your common sense and eternal optimism--only you could turn up at a secure safe house on an undercover operation with an inflatable double bed!"

"It's called forward thinking--had special classes in forward thinking when I was in the army." Bodie gave a final blow and then sealed the valve.

"Forward," Doyle queried, looking at his partner's groin. "I'd have said downward myself."

"Oh no, sunshine. Forward and upward…and rising steadily actually." Under the heavy, green-eyed stare, Bodie covered his burgeoning erection, closing his eyes as a particularly strong pulse under his hand made him shiver.

"Have to do something about that then, won't we," whispered Doyle as he gingerly crawled across the unstable bed.

The sheet to cover the awful, glaring gold colour forgotten, they met in the centre and, struggling to unfasten the belt around Bodie'' waist, Doyle pushed Bodie him (?) on his back and sat astride the strong legs. "Bodie," he said, his eyes glittering with sexual heat and something else Bodie couldn't place as slim fingers finally released the stiff buckle and moved to open the button and zip. His voice sultry and husky, Doyle leant forward and licked at the beads of perspiration beginning to form on Bodie's forehead. "What did the baby earwig say to the daddy earwig on their way to the football match?"

Strung out on anticipation and desperate to be released from his restricting clothes, Bodie only barely heard the odd question but realised when Doyle froze that he had to make some response. "Don't know--what did he say?"

"Earwigo-earwigo-earwigo," Doyle laughed and teased the zip down in time to the familiar chant, bending forward and delivering tantalising, tickling kisses to the white throat.

Recovering, Bodie tumbled him over and quickly got rid of his jacket and shirt, tossing them across the room to hang where they fell. Ignoring Doyle's giggles and mock outrage that he should suddenly develop such untidy habits, Bodie set about removing all Doyle's clothes as well.

"No, no," Doyle slapped his hands away. "A joke first, it's your turn."

"What?"

"No joke--no strip. It's a new game, I just invented it. It's called strip joker--you'll enjoy it," he promised as he politely but firmly extracted Bodie's hand from inside his trousers and pulled his jumper back down to cover his exposed chest.

Giving in gracefully because he couldn't be bothered to fight, Bodie racked his brains for a joke. "Okay--knock, knock," he said in a resigned voice.

"Who's there?" chuckled Doyle deflecting a groping hand.

"Doctor."

"That's an old one--doesn't count. You've got to do better than that," Doyle protested.

"Bloody hell, Ray--oh...shit. Okay. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Nicholas."

Doyle thought about it for a moment, obviously trying to work out the punchline and finally gave in. "Nicholas who?" he asked.

"Knickerless girls shouldn't climb trees," Bodie quoted as he grabbed the sweatshirt and tugged it off over Doyle's head.

"Okay--my turn--"

"This isn't fair," Bodie complained. "I'm half undressed already," pointing out the fact that while Doyle had only lost his shirt he was starting out clad only in his briefs and socks.

"If you want the game to last longer you could always get dressed and we can start again," Doyle offered solicitously knowing full well what the answer would be. "It was only a thought--my turn now. Knock, knock."

"Who's there? And you can have one sock!"

"Isabel--I rather thought I'd go for the pants myself," Doyle flipped the elastic with his fingers.

"You mean you'd leave me here like a right bloody wally, starkers except for me socks? Isobel who?"

"Is a bell really necessary when you've got a knocker?" Doyle slipped the pants down over Bodie's hips and slapped the erection that sprung free with a gentle hand. "Knock, knock," he said, teasing the hard urgency before ringing it with his fingers and pumping gently before releasing it completely. "Your turn," he pointed out when Bodie opened his eyes and asked him to get on with it.

Sighing, Bodie dragged another awful joke from his repertoire. At last they were both completely naked but Bodie's relief was short lived as Doyle insisted that they continue. "But you've nothing left to take off!" he protested.

"Party-pooper. What's black and white and red all over?" Doyle asked bounding gleefully on Bodie's stomach.

"Ray!"

"Wrong, try again," cried Doyle as he teased the erection nudging at him, deliberately limiting the amount of skin contact it had.

"Umm...I don't know--oh Ray, please...I give in!" Bodie gasped and Doyle began to realise how close to breaking point he really was.

"A newspaper," he announced.

"What?"

"It's black and white and it's read all over, isn't it? Dummy." It was Doyle's turn to gasp as he was tumbled onto his back and his legs parted for Bodie to kneel between them. Bending his legs, he peered between his knees at Bodie who was licking the inside of his thigh, the tickling sensation making him squirm. "You're cheating," he accused half-heartedly.

"No I'm not. What's this?" Bodie asked and his fingers crawled along the sensitive inner thigh and stopped just short of the taut sacs.

"Dunno," came the hoarse whisper.

"Neither do I--but here comes another one!" This time the creeping fingers landed on the sacs, cupping them and measuring their weight.

"What did the chocolate bar say to the lollipop?" asked Bodie, his teeth nipping the white skin when no answer seemed forthcoming.

"God knows!" groaned Doyle, genuinely sorry he had ever started the stupid game in the first place.

Bodie smiled and guessed it would be a long time before he insisted they play strip joker again. "Hello, sucker!" he answered and he took the engorged organ deep into his mouth withdrawing for a few seconds only to wet his fingers with saliva, then taking the urgent sex back into his mouth laved the sensitive head with his tongue and probed the tightly guarded entrance to Doyle's body.

Fiercely aroused, Doyle arched back onto the probing finger groaning aloud and gripping tightly to Bodie's head. "Don't stop," he begged.

Hearing the harsh whisper, Bodie sucked harder, taking as much into his mouth as he could and slipping a second finger inside the tight arse. Shifting his position slightly he managed to move his hand, the probing fingers finding the soft swell of the hidden pleasure gland. Doyle sighed and went limp, his legs falling apart and canting his hips upwards to give the invaders greater access.

"Harder," his harsh voice ordered. "Do it harder."

Obeying the command, Bodie slid a third finger in and released the rigid cock from his mouth his free hand cradling the taut balls. The hands in his hair tugged him upwards until they were able to kiss, Doyle bucking all the time as the fingers moved continuously, opening him up and the delicious weight of Bodie pressing against his cock.

His wrist and fingers cramping, Bodie tried to move to a more comfortable angle but Doyle wrapped his arms and legs around him holding him prisoner and unable to move. "Don't stop," pleaded Doyle between kisses. "More...harder...please...Bodie." But another painful cramp forced Bodie to withdraw his hand from the straining body and Doyle groaned in disappointment. "Please don't stop--" he begged, arching his back, searching for the fingers.

Struggling to relieve the cramp and help Doyle, Bodie moved down the bed slightly and was unprepared for the way arms and legs wrapped themselves even tighter around him. Falling forwards, pulled off balance, his cock grazed the crease between Doyle's cheeks, pre-ejaculate easing the way and sliding him directly towards the tight anus.

Doyle's reaction to the touch was to pull Bodie to guide the erect cock back to the opening. "Please," he whispered.

Unable to resist the quiet plea, Bodie pressed forward, allowing Doyle to guide him, the head of his cock disappearing into the trembling body easily. At the first hint of resistance he stopped, waiting until the wide eyes looking up at him gave permission to continue. Doyle blinked, closed his eyes and canted his hips slightly, the movement making Bodie gasp as he was accepted a little more.

"That's it," breathed Doyle. "Nice and slow."

Withdrawing a little and then pressing forward again, Bodie lifted the long legs wrapped around his waist a little higher. As the tight heat sheathed him he almost screamed, the desire to push on and take his pleasure overwhelming but even now he was waiting for the second his mate would take fright and panic. He pushed on carefully, rocking his hips and easing in until he was almost resting his legs against the uplifted buttocks. "Ray?" he called quietly, holding back the imperative to thrust. "Are you okay?"

"'m fine," came the whispered reply. "Feels...great."

"You're not..." Bodie hesitated to remind him of his previous fears. "You're not scared of me, are you?" he asked fearfully knowing that it would be almost impossible for him to stop now he was this close.

"No," said Doyle easily, and there was no tension in his face or voice as he looked up and extended one slightly shaky finger to brush away the beads of perspiration forming above the black brows. "I can see it's you. I'm not scared of you--love you."

Bodie felt as if he had been hit with something hard. Why on earth had it taken him, taken them, so long to see what the problem had been. All this wasted time--all that suffering. 'I can see it's you'. Was it really all it had been? Could the answer really be that simple? The shock made him go rigid even though he could see that Doyle had no idea what he had just revealed, the tension in his back passing into his body where it possessed his lover, impaling him on the hard shaft.

"Love you, Bodie," whispered Doyle, so softly that Bodie lip-read more than heard the words, the love in Doyle's face, the eyes bright with unshed tears leaving no room for anything other than love. The immediate desire for completion was overtaken by a tenderness and a need to show how much they each loved the other; they melted together and kissed, and touched, hands trailing across their joined bodies until Doyle freed his mouth long enough to speak. He had to clear his throat twice before a sound came out. "Well, now you're in there," he said, "hadn't you better get on and finish it," the crude words softened by the love on the expressive face.

Giving the bruised mouth a final kiss, Bodie drew back, pulled the encircling legs higher around his waist and balanced himself on his knees. "Ready?" he checked.

"Oh yeah," breathed Doyle.

Slowly at first, gently and lovingly, wide-eyed and silent they moved, Bodie rocking his hips in a rhythm that steadily increased in tempo and force until he froze, eyes blind and head thrown back as if suddenly turned to stone and then Doyle gasped as he felt the first pulsing contraction of the balls pressed hard against his buttocks.

It was ages before Bodie managed to pull his senses together. "Ray?" he heard a liquid sniff and felt a wet cheek rub against his shoulder. "You're crying," he discovered and his heart plummeted.

"No I'm not--it's just me eyes watering," Doyle joked in a decidedly shaky voice.

"Are you okay? Christ I, don't remember what happened, last I remember is you wriggling and sending me over the edge--I haven't come like that in years."

"I couldn't tell if you'd passed out or just collapsed."

"I'm sorry," said Bodie, truly appalled at his behaviour. "I didn't even do anything to help you--"

"Well this mess isn't all yours, you know!" laughed Doyle and he smeared a trail of cold wetness across Bodie's belly.

"I'm sorry--"

"Shut up, Bodie."

"Are you all right? You're not sore, I didn't hurt you--Jesus, I didn't even use any jelly!"

"Didn't need any," said Doyle. "I feel fine...a bit tender...but not sore. You didn't hurt me, so stop fussing--you must have magic fingers."

Bodie jumped guiltily as he heard the word 'magic'. Their relaxed juvenile behaviour after dinner leading to their actions in the bed was suddenly taking on a different light. "Er...Ray," he started to say. "What you just said...about magic..."

And Doyle suddenly remembered the extra ingredient he had added to the casserole. "Just Christmas magic," he amended experiencing his own twinge of guilt.

"Ray--I've got a confession to make," Bodie tried again. "What you just said about magic--"

"So have I," said Doyle deciding to come clean; he really hadn't expected the mushrooms to be so successful.

"About the mushrooms in the dinner--" Bodie started.

"I know," cut in Doyle. "And I'm really sorry--hell, no I'm not," he corrected truthfully. "They were worth it."

"You knew about them?" asked Bodie in surprise.

"I didn't put many in, only about an ounce or so...well, maybe two ounces."

"You put them in?" Bodie asked puzzled. "Put what in where?"

Face downcast, Doyle confessed everything. "But you've been so tense lately. Greg said they were great for relaxation and they're harmless if you don't use them too often."

"You bought some magic mushrooms from the geriatric hippie in the pub?" Bodie checked, his own guilty feeling fading by the second. Glumly, Doyle admitted that he had. "So did I," announced Bodie, only now recognising what it was about the widely dilated pupils in his lover's eyes that he thought strange--beautiful but strange.

"Well," said Doyle once he'd absorbed the information. "They worked, didn't they--reckon we'll need them every time I want you to take me?"

And then Bodie explained what he had finally realised as they were making love. Doyle's eyes grew wide as he understood what Bodie was telling him. "You mean all this time--all this fuss I've been making is simply because I couldn't see who was taking me?"

"I should have realised," said Bodie. "You've never liked me jumping you from behind when you're wide awake let alone when you're asleep. Providing you can see me you're okay."

The explanation was so simple, Doyle had trouble believing it and so Bodie demonstrated to test the theory. With deft fingers and hot lips they teased and aroused each other, Bodie taking them to the edge before deliberately turning his lover over to lie face down in the bed. Almost immediately, Doyle tensed up and lost his erection, turning back over gratefully into his lover's arms.

The point made, their loving continued until it was Bodie who lay with his legs hooked over his partner's shoulders as they thrust towards completion.

---

CHAPTER FORTY

Bodie woke up and found himself alone, the blankets only just covering him, and his feet freezing where they were completely uncovered. He turned his head slowly, respecting the need for unhurried movements as a painful and steady pulsing began behind his eyes; from the depths of the house he heard a toilet flush and a door bang, the sound of feet moving up the stairs and guessed where Ray was. He burrowed back under the covers, pulling his feet up under the covers in an effort to warm them. When he woke up the second time it was to find Ray sitting on the sofa dressed in his warmest clothes and wearing his heavy overcoat. "Where you going?" he asked.

"Nowhere," replied Doyle without moving or even opening his eyes.

Sitting up carefully and trying not to make any sudden moves that would cause his head to fall off his shoulders, Bodie peered at him with a worried frown. "You look terrible, what's wrong?"

"I'm dying," came the unhelpful response. "While you've been snoring away like a bleedin' pregnant cow I've been throwing up all night, or worse!"

"Bad tummy?" Bodie asked and quickly reviewed his own physical state; while decidedly fragile, he didn't feel that ill.

"Bad everything, my head's killing me, my guts hurt and I'm bloody freezing. You kept on pinching all the covers!"

"Why didn't you get back into bed, I would have warmed you up." Bodie crawled across the unsteady airbed and shivered as the cold touched his bare skin. He quickly grabbed a sweater and pulled a pair of trousers on before crouching down in front of Doyle. "You're as white as a sheet," he said deciding this was no ordinary hangover, they hadn't drunk that much. "Something you ate?"

"Only an ounce or two of magic mushrooms," Doyle replied sourly. "Give me time and I'll be grateful I haven't turned into a gnome or died of food poisoning during the night."

"I feel okay," said Bodie. "Bit of a headache but my stomach's fine."

"Always said you had an iron stomach," Doyle replied with little heat.

"You've got a temperature too," said Bodie, touching a hand to the hot forehead. "Come back to bed and get properly warm, your hands are freezing."

"The window in the bog's broken. It's like an ice box down there," complained Doyle.

Fussing around him, Bodie coaxed the patient back to bed and piled all the blankets on top of him. With all three bars of the electric fire keeping the damp chill out of the room, Doyle soon fell asleep again, not even waking up as Bodie called in on the r/t checking that all was ready at Dover and that Mahak hadn't shown his face.

It was gone mid-afternoon before Doyle awoke, struggling to get his legs under him and down to the bathroom to be ill again. When he arrived back at the room, pale and sweating, Bodie looked at him anxiously. "Are you sure you're going to be able to work this evening?" he asked dubiously.

"I think so. There's nothing left to come up now--providing I don't eat or drink I should be okay."

"Fair enough," agreed Bodie; he wasn't happy with the situation but he trusted Doyle enough not to jeopardise the operation. "How do you feel now?"

"Not as bad as first thing this morning," Doyle replied with a weak smile. "Feels more like a cold coming out, throat's sore and my nose is itchy. Knowing my luck it's probably that bug that's been going round the pub--those mushrooms just finished me off."

The explanation of a blossoming cold eased Bodie's growing guilt at poisoning his mate but he was still not happy; you couldn't afford to be under par when on a sensitive operation but he knew not to make too much fuss--Doyle knew the risks just as well as he did.

By the time he was due to leave for the evening session at the pub, Doyle did look a bit brighter, his face had lost that bleached white look and he did his best to look cheerful.

"Do you want me to walk down with you?" asked Bodie offering support.

Doyle paused and considered the offer. "No, you shouldn't come in too much. You'd best keep watch outside or even maintain radio contact from here. We can't afford to alert O'Connell or anyone else at the pub. We've been lucky so far, let's not push it."

Bodie was forced to agree. He had served two full tours of duty in Northern Ireland, one as a regular soldier in the paras and a second with the elite SAS; recognition was always possible and there was no way of knowing who Mahak's Irish contacts were. "Okay. Only another three days to go," said Bodie as they zipped and buttoned their coats in preparation for the cold day outside. "Did I tell you that Cowley said we could have some leave after this?"

"How much, a weekend?" Doyle asked suspiciously.

"Longer than that."

"A long weekend," guessed Doyle, unimpressed by Cowley's generosity.

"A long fortnight," announced Bodie gleefully. "A whole two weeks."

"He actually said that? He's really promised us two weeks--two consecutive weeks. No standby? No office duties? Did you get it in writing?" Doyle's scepticism was obvious, he'd heard Cowley's promises before.

"Well," Bodie hedged. "Not in so many words--but he did say we could have the time owing us and that is two weeks."

"God--I bet you still believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy!" Doyle said in a scathing voice.

"Well, if we go far enough away he won't be able to call us back," Bodie said, unperturbed by his partner's disbelief and already making plans for their holiday. "You just leave it to me, sunshine."

Shaking his head at Bodie's faith in George Cowley's promises, Doyle breathed in a lungful of cold, damp air and coughed as it hit the back of his throat. The coughing started his headache up again and eleven o'clock seemed a long way off.

---

On the eve of the 29th of December, Doyle managed a smile as he heard a familiar voice asking for a drink. "I thought you said you'd be in earlier this evening?" he said quietly as he poured the drink and passed it over.

Taking a long swallow and almost emptying the glass in one go, Bodie sighed tiredly. "Got held up."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Doyle asked carefully, hoping that the operation was still on for the next day, but before they could speak anymore the publican called Doyle over. "You live local, don't you?" he asked in a friendly manner.

"Yes, about a mile or so up the road. Why?" Doyle asked cautiously.

"Was wondering if you could see your way to doing me a little favour," O'Connell said in a very thick brogue. "I'm going on this coach trip tomorrow with Harry and the lads, only we're leaving at six in the morning and the brewery were supposed to make a delivery today and they haven't. I've just phoned them and they'll be here first think--only trouble is I'll be half-way to Dover when they arrive and with Patrick and Richard off with this flu--"

"You want me to come in and take the delivery?" Doyle guessed.

"I'll make it worth your while, an extra session in your pay at the end of the week," O'Connell added persuasively.

"What time tomorrow?"

"You'd best be here for eight, they can call any time after that."

"Isn't your missus here? Can't she deal with them?"

"She's staying with her sister in Dartford. She'll be coming back tomorrow morning but the brewer's lorry will have been and gone by then."

"I thought Richard was the deputy manager--" Doyle's mind was already sorting out how to get the surveillance team in to wire the conveniently empty pub up in the morning.

"He won't be out of bed until after New Year. His girlfriend say's he's really ill. I'll make it a session and a half extra." Desperate, O'Connell upped the rate. "And you can leave early tonight."

"I'm not a picture of health myself," Doyle grouched, careful not to seem too eager. "Patrick and Richard didn't exactly keep their bloody germs to themselves."

"All right--a double session and you can go home now--I'll give you the keys to open up in the morning before you go," said the publican.

Doyle appeared to consider it. "Okay, give us the keys then--hang about, if Patrick and Richard are sick and you're bumming off to France for the day, who's behind the bar tomorrow?"

"You, my missis and her sister--when they get back from Dartford--and Johnny. If it gets busy ask Debbie to help out, she often does a session for me."

After being shown around the cellar and getting instructions about dealing with the brewery men, Doyle grabbed his coat and joined Bodie on the other side of the bar.

"What's up?" Bodie asked.

"Nothing--I've been given the rest of the night off."

"You're feeling okay, aren't you--your cold isn't too bad, is it?" Draining his glass and fastening his coat, Bodie followed his partner out the door. "Trouble?" he asked as soon as they reached the street.

"I'm not sure. O'Connell's going on the trip tomorrow and he's asked me to open up in the morning and take delivery from the brewery," he rattled the bundle of keys under Bodie's nose, "The whole building will be empty, his wife's away until late morning at least."

"Henderson can get his boys in and wire the place up--that'll make it easier for us to keep an eye on what's happening," Bodie said delightedly. "That's the best news I've had all day. Let's get back to your flat and I'll radio Cowley."

George Cowley's reaction to the news was muted and he asked Doyle to re-consider his opinion of O'Connells's non-political stance. "It could just be a co-incidence," he said after a few moment's careful thought. "And then again there is possibly some connection between O'Connell and Mahak."

It was decided to plant two agents on the coach in addition to the following cars and the CI5 and Interpol units waiting at Dover.

Ending the radio link, Bodie tossed the r/t aside, emptied his pockets of fifty pence pieces, and bent down to turn on all three bars of the small fire. "How are you feeling today?" he asked when he saw Doyle rubbing the side of his face.

"Fine, better than yesterday anyway. My face isn't hurting so much."

Bodie rubbed the misshapen cheek with fingers he'd toasted by the fire. "I hadn't realised it was painful--can't they fix it for you?"

Wrapping his arms around his lover and leaning against the fingers massaging away the pain from his broken cheekbone, Doyle closed his eyes. "Only hurts when I get cold, it's a bit like a nagging toothache and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

Bodie touched his lips to the injured spot. "Can hardly see the scar now," he murmured.

"Pull the other one," Doyle snorted in obvious disbelief and tried to pull away.

"Compared to when I first saw you it's almost invisible," Bodie insisted holding him securely in place. "Can't imagine you without it now, make you look...interesting."

"It looks downright bloody ugly so stop patronising me, there's no need," Doyle said, anger and embarrassment making him want to hide his face from the all seeing eyes.

"Who said it was ugly?" Bodie demanded to know.

"Look, forget it," Doyle finally broke free. "I want a cup of coffee, how about you?"

Accepting the unspoken plea to change the subject, Bodie turned his attention towards food; his last meal had been a toasted sandwich in a dock canteen over eight hours ago.

As the evening drew to a close it became obvious that Ray was still far from well; his temperature rose steadily and the pain from his aching face made him snappy and irritable. Bodie bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut, knowing that one wrong word and they would end up having an argument.

Hurrying back into the warm haven of Ray's room after braving the elements in the bathroom, Bodie pulled the air mattress out from behind the sofa and began making the bed up. "You keep your head down when it all starts tomorrow," Bodie said firmly having come to a decision to speak his mind. "And no buts, Doyle. Even a blind man can see you're not well. All you have to do is let Henderson's lad fix the place and then give the word when Mahak is about to leave.

Having already come to the same conclusion himself, Doyle didn't object. "If he turns up," he said sourly and bent down to tuck the sheet in on his side of the bed.

"Interpol are watching a group in Paris, we think it's the incoming lot so it looks good for tomorrow."

Although he wanted to be in on the sweep that picked Mahak off the street, Doyle knew Bodie was right; his cold was dragging his reaction times right down and in a difficult situation he could be more of a liability than a help. "So, how am I supposed to distract everyone when you lot move on Mahak--leap up on the bar starkers and sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?" he asked and blew furiously into his handkerchief.

Tapping the red and sore looking nose with his finger, Bodie laughed. "Now that I'd love to see."

"Really?" Doyle raised one eyebrow. "Or is it just the idea of me starkers that turns you on?"

"Haven't seen you starkers for weeks," Bodie added in a gloomy voice. "I'll be glad to get you back home to decent central heating and our bed. All this groping about under a mountain of blankets is a real pain."

"It's had its moments," Doyle said with a fond smile--and then sneezed violently. "Oh, hell!" he moaned, his hand returning to cup his broken cheekbone.

"Let me," Bodie offered and leant over, rubbing the aching cheek in firm circular movements. "Taken anything for it?"

"Some tablets, they should start working soon," Doyle mumbled.

"You need to sleep," Bodie said firmly, "if you're going to keep on your feet until closing time tomorrow night. We can't have them sending you home sick."

"I should be so lucky," Doyle bemoaned his lot in life. "There's only me, the missus, her sister and Johnny working the place tomorrow." Quickly stripping and getting into bed, he burrowed down into the warmth. "Leave the fire on until we've warmed the bed up," he told Bodie.

Pausing in the middle of removing his trousers, Bodie left one bar of the fire on and looked down at the huddled body. "Feeling any better?" he asked hopefully.

"No, I feel bloody 'orrible but I could do with a cuddle. The way I feel anything else will be a miracle!"

"Never mind, we'll be home tomorrow and then off on our holiday," Bodie promised as Doyle curled onto his side and snuggled against him, back to chest, one arm held lightly around the trim waist. "Do you want to know where we're going?" Bodie asked, excited at the prospect of the holiday he had planned for them.

"As long as we won't be expected to do any decorating and the place has a bed that doesn't need blowing up and has blankets that tuck in around the sides, I don't much care," Doyle said sleepily.

In the glow of the fire, Bodie grinned; only a few more days and they'd be off to the sun--providing Mahak or George Cowley didn't put a spanner in the works. "Are you warm enough, only I want to turn this fire off?" he asked. Taking the muffled grunt to be assent, he turned the switch off and snuggled down under the cover.

---

After letting Bodie and two electronics men in the side door of the otherwise empty pub, Doyle went around the front to watch the brewery men off-load the casks and crates. The coach carrying Mahak and his five companions as well as O'Connell and two CI5 agents had left the quiet street several hours before.

Signing the delivery forms and waving goodbye to the brewer's driver and his mate, Doyle saw the electronics men walking away from the pub. Inside the bar Bodie was waiting for him. "They've put two cameras covering both the exits. Unless the Missus decides to take the Christmas decorations down they shouldn't be noticed."

Doyle looked at the small gadgets cleverly concealed high up on the ornate decorations. "Wired for sound?"

"No. Colin reckons there will be too much background noise, the juke box, conversations and so forth. Here's your wire; you know how to put it on, don't you?" Bodie handed over the plastic bag.

Pushing it into his jacket pocket, Doyle said, "Yes, I know. I'll put it on just before the evening session, there won't be much point before then. When's the coach due to arrive back here?"

"Around nine thirty, depending on the traffic--could be earlier or later."

"What about a gun?"

"For you? Where will you hide it in your uniform?" Bodie asked; the close fitting black trousers and fitted emerald shirt left no room to hide anything.

"I don't like the idea of being unarmed," Doyle said with a frown on his face. "I know we're going to try and take him without any gunfire but he's a wily bastard--has to be or he wouldn't have survived for this long."

"I think he's had it easy so long he's become lax, he's taking stupid risks like using the same place for a jump off point. 2.6 even saw him parking his car in the street round the back of here earlier this morning."

"I still don't like it--and what's Day doing on this op? I'd heard a rumour he was leaving the squad." He had seen the man driving the white surveillance van.

"He has," grinned Bodie. "He's transferred to Henderson's mob. He's replaced Ben Hollbright as second in charge."

"Spying on people's private lives is what he's good at!" Doyle shot back. "I hope he gets lumbered with all the boring unrewarding observation jobs--serve him bloody right if he dies of bloody boredom!" Doyle's dislike of and constant irritation over Day's misguided persecution of himself was as strong as ever. "But I still want a gun for tonight."

"In that uniform--"

"I'll get round it, I'll...wear a jumper or something and tuck it in my waistband. If Mrs O'Connell starts moaning I'll tell her my cold's getting worse and I need to keep warm."

"Just make sure she doesn't pack you off home early," Bodie gave in and handed over his own gun. "I'll collect yours from the armoury this afternoon."

"Who is going to be in here tonight?"

"Karen and the new bloke, Nick Jamieson, and me. But we're strictly back-up for emergencies. Cowley wants Mahak taken from the street as soon as he walks out through those doors. If we're quick we should be able to keep him away from any members of the public when we grab him." Bodie pointed up at the cameras; they were positioned to cover the doors and could give plenty of warning to the observation detail; the two public exits from the bar required patrons to use doors that led to a small entrance hall, barely big enough for one person at a time, before exiting through the door to the street. In the summer the inner door would be wedged open but in the winter both doors were closed against the seasonal chill.

"And what about the group that arrives back from Dover?"

"Providing they stick to their normal routine they'll leave in a minibus for Liverpool Docks around closing time. Mahak usually lets them get away before leaving the pub alone." Going over the final details had the dual effect of calming taut nerves as well as hyping them up in readiness for action. "Day and his team will be a few streets away in the Buggy-boo, they'll be watching the two exits ready to give the others outside the doors a shout when he makes for the exit. If anything goes wrong it's down to the four of us inside the pub to put him down."

Doyle pulled a face at that. "In a crowded bar. Let's hope nothing scares him because we know he won't think twice about innocent Joe Public!"

Agreeing with his partner, Bodie's face became grim. So far everything had gone well, almost too well. Expecting a peaceful end to such a sensitive operation was perhaps asking for too much. He watched Doyle hide the wire device and gun in a small locker and then turn to the little hand basin in a cubby hole behind the bar to wash away the grime he had collected from the casks and crates. He leant forward and ruffled a handful of hair in a burst of affection and smiled indulgently at the snort of annoyance that resulted. He wished he knew why Doyle got so rattled every time he did that. "It's got nice and long again. I didn't like it short; long suits you much better."

Ducking away from the hand playing with the silky curls lying against the back of his neck, Doyle dried his hands and wished once again that the touch, which obviously gave so much pleasure to Bodie, didn't disturb him so much. "It's too long, needs a cut."

"Maybe a trim, not too much off," Bodie stretched out his hand to ruffle the thick curls again but Doyle ducked away and so he caught hold of him by his arm and pulled him forwards to claim a kiss instead.

"Not in here, you fool!" Doyle hissed angrily. "Day can get his job satisfaction at someone else's expense, not mine!"

Bodie laughed and pulled Doyle even harder, succeeding in tugging him off balance and closer to him. "The cameras are pointing at the doors and you're not wired up yet--no-one can see or hear us."

Peering up at the cameras, Doyle double-checked that they were only covering the doors but he was still stiff and very tense when Bodie leant forward to claim a kiss.

"Well I hope you're going to be more demonstrative when this is all over," Bodie moaned, but his smile softened the complaint. They had only made love once since Christmas night, Doyle at first too ill and recovering from his stomach upset and then because he went down fast with a stinking cold.

"Sorry--it's just...I know Day's behind those cameras and wouldn't he just love to get something like this on me--on us. Besides," he added, "me cold's making my lips all dry and my nose is so bunged up kissing for more than a few seconds isn't on anyway."

"Don't worry about Day--and don't worry about your cold, the worst is over now and you'll be fine for our holiday."

"Are you sure Cowley's going to let us have two weeks--"

"I'm sure--and I've got to dash," Bodie said checking the time. "I've got a briefing at HQ in twenty minutes about tonight's little bash. I'll telephone you if anything crops up."

"Bodie--" Doyle called after the retreating back but he was gone and fortunately just in time as Mrs O'Connell and her sister arrived home a few moments later and quickly disappeared to the upstairs flat, leaving Doyle to open the bar up.

---

By the time the day trippers arrived back at the pub with their shopping trolleys full of beer and spirits, wines, cheeses and French sticks, the bar was pleasantly busy. The day's operation continued to run smoothly when Mahak and his weary sun-browned party sat down at a table immediately in front of 3.4 and her companion, 5.1.

In the large white delivery van parked a few streets away, Day and the two electronics men watched the flickering monitors and listened to the babble of noise coming from 4.5's wire, the only clearly audible sounds being Doyle's voice as he spoke to the customers. "Good night gents!" The pre-arranged code boomed around the van as Doyle let them know that Mahak's group were leaving.

"Alpha Delta to Sea Watch One. Group leaving via exit two; repeat, group leaving via exit two."

In the street outside the Seven Bells several pairs of eyes watched the five men climb into the battered mini-bus, pulling away after them and keeping them within range of the bugging device secured to the bus's bodywork.

Now, with only Mahak left, everyone's attention was concentrated on the pub; Day leant forward and increased the volume on 4.5's wire.

"What the hell--"

Doyle's surprised voice came through clearly.

"Ray," another voice was heard, softer and more distant that 4.5's and in the van the men peered at the monitors, swearing when they realised that neither Doyle nor his companion were visible.

"What the hell do you want?" Doyle's voice was hard and sounded angry.

"I wanted to talk with you--"

"Whatever it is you've come here to say you can fuck off--I don't want to hear it."

Day frowned at the viciousness of Doyle's response; something was clearly wrong and he thumbed open his r/t. "Alpha Delta to Sea Watch Two. 4.5 has engaged conversation with unknown male, no description at this time. Tone of conversation hostile."

Over the speakers the conversation in the bar continued. "How the hell did you know where to find me?" Doyle was asking. "Who told you to come here?"

"I saw you this morning. I was parked at the traffic lights outside when I saw you talking to the driver of a brewery lorry."

"So why didn't you call in this morning--why drag yourself back tonight?"

In the bar, 5.1 touched one finger to the hard lump of plastic wedged inside his ear and frowned. He nudged 3.4 and leant towards her. "Trouble. Who's that talking to Ray at the bar?"

Scanning the bar with a deliberate vagueness, she saw the tall, thickset man who was frowning and talking to 4.5. "I've no idea," she murmured quietly. As they watched, Doyle tried to turn away from his visitor but was grabbed by his arm, the bigger man leaning across the counter to hold him. One or two other customers were beginning to notice something was going on. In the Buggy-boo the three men listening with worried frowns.

"Carole told me to come and see you--I didn't want to, couldn't see why I damn well should."

"Well you shouldn't have bothered. Since when have you taken orders from your wife--things must 'ave changed a lot if Carole's giving the orders nowadays."

"I don't see why I should have to put myself out for you--you never came back to see us. If you had asked we could have helped you--"

"I don't remember you rolling out the fucking welcome mat the first time--I didn't exactly get the feeling that a repeat visit was encouraged or expected!"

"That was your own fault. Turning up out of the blue like that without any warning--not even a phone call. What was I supposed to think--"

"You thought I'd broken out and you even reported me to the police, you bastard! Oh, don't look so surprised--I know what you did--your concern for my well-being was so touching."

"Look, Ray. I've come a long way tonight and I need to talk to you--"

"I've already heard everything you're going to throw at me and I don't need to hear it again."

"Look, I just want to help you--"

"Then fuck off, get out of here and leave me alone!"

"Ray, will you be sensible--"

"Can't you see I'm working, I'm busy--so fuck off and go home."

In the pub, 5.1 saw Doyle pull away and walk to the opposite end of the bar and begin serving another customer. The tall man looked undecided for a minute but then walked purposefully towards Doyle, pushing his way through the other customers, who let him pass with curious eyes. He waited beside the man Doyle was serving with cool deliberation, waiting until the transaction was completed. "I'll have a whisky and soda," the man said, daring Doyle to refuse to serve him.

In the room conversation had become quieter as several people, Mahak amongst them, watched the two obviously angry men. Doyle slammed the drink down and took the note held out in payment. Turning back from dealing with the till and handing the man's change over, Doyle realised they were causing a scene and tried to cool down; this was not the diversion he had expected to be making. "Look, drink up and then go. Please, just go. This is where I work--if it's a row you want we can meet another time." The humble words almost choked Doyle but he forced them out.

As if sensing he was winning the bigger man took one small sip and placed his glass down on the wet bar top. "How long have you worked here?" he asked, his lips curling in distaste as he looked around.

"Not long--are you going to leave? Don't make any trouble for me, not in here. Just go."

The sound of Doyle almost pleading with him not to cause any trouble which might cost him his job clearly pleased the bigger man and he pulled an empty bar stool closer and perched on it. "Is this what you've sunk to?" the stranger asked in a sneering tone as Doyle finished serving a drink to an old man beside him. "What happened to all your airy-fairy notions? I might have known you'd never amount to anything--"

"If you've quite finished--" Doyle started fiercely but then choked his anger back down, his hold on his temper slipping.

"I don't suppose you can get a decent job, though. Don't they have lists of people willing to employ so-called ex-criminals? Anyone who'd employ one of your sort must be a bloody fool!"

From his position beside one of the two doors, Bodie heard the loud comment as did half the people in the room. He wanted to go over and find out what was happening and who the man was but he had to stay in place and cover Mahak.

At the bar the man was continuing, playing up to his audience and making no attempt to be discreet. "But I suppose I might be able to make an exception in your case. Though I don't see why I should, especially after all the trouble you've caused. After all your posturing and preaching and whinging about the police force being the life for you--"

Bodie saw Mahak tense at the reference to the police and watched in alarm as the Arab glanced around the room checking the exits.

At the bar Doyle's visitor was growing angrier and louder. "It wasn't enough that you were too selfish to help me and Dad with the business; you know that you killed him, don't you. He would have retired if you'd joined us--but oh no, we weren't good enough for you--"

"John, will you belt up, this is hardly the place--"

"So you joined the police and then what...you proved you were no better than those you said you despised. Eight years in prison--you broke Mum's heart--"

"John, just shut up!" Behind his brother, Doyle could see all eyes watching them and could see the sudden wariness in Mahak's body language.

"And even in prison you still managed to shame us--you nearly killed that guard--"

"Will you go home? Just go home!"

"You're rotten through and through," John Doyle raged at his young half-brother. "Mum worried herself sick over you and all you did was to keep on lying. She wore herself out worrying about you. You killed her the same way you killed Dad, with your bloody selfishness. You wouldn't even admit it when you were caught out--you had to keep on lying, keep on upsetting her."

As all eyes watched the two men, Mahak made his move seemingly unperturbed by the commotion at the bar. As soon as the monitors picked up his movements Day shouted out the message. "Alpha Delta to Sea Watch Two. Teacher moving to exit one, repeat exit one."

As the Arab passed his table, Bodie signalled to 5.1 and 3.4 and they moved to follow him through the door and into the arms of the group waiting for him outside. Mahak's hand was on the door catch when Bodie saw the sudden tensing of muscles and knew it was going wrong; on the other side of the screen door the outlines of three men showed in the headlights of a passing car. Mahak turned and made eye contact with Bodie.

For a split second nothing happened and then all hell broke lose. From nowhere a large black handgun appeared in the Arab's hand, and a sideways leap sent people and chairs tumbling as he made a dash for the door to the private rooms behind the bar.

Forgetting his brother, Doyle pulled the gun from his waistband where it had been hidden by his loose jumper and pushed Mrs O'Connell, who had been listening to the family argument with great relish, to one side to get a clear shot as the Arab jumped over the bar to land awkwardly on a crate of dry ginger bottles. A bottle at Mahak's shoulder exploded as the first bullet narrowly missed him but the second caught him high on his right shoulder sending him reeling--but not before he loosed off a couple of shots himself--firing into the ceiling and causing plaster to fall down and adding to the confusion and destruction.

On Bodie's side of the bar it was pandemonium. The three agents waiting outside for Mahak burst in at the first gunshot, their own guns drawn and the customers were falling over themselves in panic to get out of their way; glasses, tables and chairs were thrown every way amid screams of fright and cries for help. Vaulting the bar and landing evenly on the balls of his feet, Bodie grabbed Mahak and knocked the gun away from his hand. "I've got him," Bodie's cry to the other agents was echoed from the other end of the bar but, busy searching the Arab, Bodie didn't hear it.

Keeping his gun trained on Mahak while Bodie disarmed him, Doyle didn't see the look of horror on his brother's face nor the look of resolve that quickly replaced it. The blow to the side of his head sent Doyle crashing to the floor, a wall of pain making him helpless as he lay on the floor in a puddle of spilt beer; through a red mist he saw a pair of black trouser legs come into view and he tried to turn over, his move blocked instantly when his arms were pulled back and a great weight settled on him.

"I've got him, I've got his gun!" John Doyle shouted triumphantly.

Looking up from securing Mahak's wrists into a pair of stout handcuffs, Bodie was in time to see Day yanking the big man off Doyle and throwing him hard against the wall before thrusting a CI5 identification card into his face. On the floor, Ray sagged back down, clearly hurting.

"Doyle?" Bodie left Mahak to Lake to deal with and ran to his partner's side. Only barely conscious, Doyle was soaking wet from lying on the puddled floor and Bodie helped him to a sitting position before feeling the head wound with gently fingers, blood smearing them.

"Who the fuck is he?" Bodie hissed at Day who was still holding the surprised man against the wall.

"A relative, I think," Day replied tersely. "Christ, with relatives like this one Doyle doesn't need enemies!"

"Get him out of here!" Bodie snapped and watched as the stunned John Doyle was dragged from behind the bar by Day and 5.1.

"Bodie..." Doyle spoke with difficulty, his mouth not wanting to co-ordinate with his brain. "My brother...he's my...brother.

"You little runt!" John Doyle broke away from the stunned agents as they heard Doyle's announcement. Glowering over the bar counter at his little brother who was still only half conscious, John Doyle demanded to know what he was up to this time.

"I said get him out of here!" Bodie shouted. Turning his back on the men as they hustled the still-blustering man away, Bodie turned back to Doyle; hidden from sight below the level of the counter they were allowed some privacy. "Okay, sunshine, you've copped one hell of a wallop on your head but I think you'll live," he said softly. "How do you feel?"

In answer Doyle looked up at him, smiled sweetly, blinked once and then passed out cold.

Order was slowly restored. Mrs O'Connell proved she was made of stern stuff and helped pacify and calm her terrified customers; across the bar the drink flowed freely. Mahak was whisked away with a fully armed escort to get medical attention and the 'D' notice blanking out all media coverage was in full force, the promise of the full story when the operation was successfully closed sufficient to placate the eager news hounds.

In a quiet corner Cowley viewed the scene with barely concealed anger. "A quiet and easy lift from the street and look at this mess! What happened?"

Day, his loyalties divided between his former colleagues and the observation crew chewed on his lip. "It was just one of those things; he moved for the door and the shadows of the team outside showed up on the glass--"

"He wasn't alerted by the disturbance between 4.5 and his brother?" Cowley asked having already received a full report on that particular hiccup.

"I think he was enjoying the distraction along with everyone else," Bodie said. "Until the brother said something about Ray being in the force; that's when he moved. He saw the team outside and turned back. We made eye contact. I'm sorry, sir," Bodie didn't attempt to cover up the truth. "He knew exactly what was going on and reacted very fast. There were members of the public between us and I couldn't fire. He vaulted the bar--probably looking for the back exit and Doyle had a clear shot at him."

"And then got belted by his brother for his pains," added Day. "The stupid git...the man thought he was doing something heroic!"

"He had no reason at that time to believe otherwise," Cowley said acidly. "He was unaware of 4.5's changed circumstances--he no doubt thought he had seen his own brother shoot a man in cold blood."

"Well perhaps it's time that he was told the truth!" Bodie retorted angrily. "Where is he?"

"I will deal with John Doyle. I take it 4.5 has been taken to hospital?" At Bodie's nod Cowley took a final glance around the pub. "At least Mahak is alive," he said, and then walked out.

"And so, no thanks to you, is Ray Doyle," muttered Day under his breath.

Leaving the pub behind them and walking towards their vehicle Bodie referred to Day's untypical comment. "Do I detect a change of heart regarding your opinion of 4.5?" he asked mildly.

"You couldn't hear all that he was saying to Ray, could you?" At Bodie's wary shake of his head, Day continued. "It was how he was saying it that was as bad as what he was saying. Christ, he was talking to...to his own brother like Ray was so much dirt under his shoes. And Doyle had to stand there and take it--had to stand there and let that bastard rant on at him in front of everyone knowing full well that he was wired up and we were listening to every bloody word."

"He couldn't deny anything or he would have blown his cover--"

"I know that," snapped Day. "But even so--christ, but I hope Cowley puts the bastard straight!"

Driving over to the hospital, Bodie wondered whether hearing Day's change of heart would cheer his partner up much; the animosity between the two men had been more than obvious to everyone who knew them, and even though Day was no longer on the same squad, a lessening of tension between them would enable the whole squad to relax.

He was forced to wait for over an hour when he reached the hospital as Doyle was still being seen by doctors and having X-rays taken. When he finally gained access to the private room he found his partner looking well despite the dark rings around his eyes.

"Why are they keeping you in for a few days--what's wrong?" he asked immediately.

"Just for observation, don't worry," Doyle reassured him. "Seems John packs one hell of a wallop and he managed to hit that same spot I had the skull fracture in the spring last year." He rubbed the spot over his ear gently.

"But you're okay?"

"More or less--got a hell of a headache but I think half of that is from my cold."

Relieved it was nothing more serious, Bodie pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Turning onto his side, Doyle slid down the bed a little until his face was level with Bodie's "What's happened to Mahak?" he asked quietly, his eyes looking soft and drowsy.

Bodie placed his forearms flat on the bed and leant forward until his face was only inches from Doyle's. "He's here, they're operating on him to remove your bullet. We've got him so don't worry."

"Good," Doyle said softly.

"Good," echoed Bodie in a whisper.

"You know," Doyle said, his eyes closing slowly and Bodie wondered if he had been given a sedative. "I wish we were back home."

"So do I, sunshine," replied Bodie bending forwards the last inch or so to touch the dry lips briefly.

"Do you think anyone...anyone would notice if you climbed in here with me?" Doyle smiled at him, his eyes dark and sultry, promising everything.

At that moment Bodie was quite prepared to barricade the door against intruders and do just that but then the unmistakable voice of George Cowley was heard and he hurriedly sat up straight.

"Chicken," teased Doyle.

"Too bloody right, sweetheart!" said Bodie and then Cowley entered the room.

---

Bodie climbed the steps into the hospital on the second morning with a definite spring in his step. Disdaining to use the lift he ran up the three flights to Doyle's floor, produced his ID card to the security man on duty and pushed through the swing doors only narrowly missing colliding with the couple exiting.

"Good morning, Mr Doyle," Bodie said politely but with no hint of welcome in his face or voice.

John Doyle nodded to the CI5 man and hurried the woman with him through the door without replying further.

Opening the door to Doyle's room, Bodie stuck his head inside and checked it was all right to enter. "All clear?"

Glancing up from attacking the hospital identification bracelet around his wrist with a pair of scissors, Doyle gave a tight, tense smile. "Just about."

Seeing the strain and guessing that the visit from the family had been as difficult as they'd both thought it would be, Bodie asked carefully. "What did they have to say?'

Doyle shrugged and threw the bracelet into the bin. "Not much. Lots of awkward silences. Carole tried her best but John's never been much for polite conversation. Still, thanks to Cowley at least I didn't have to go into a long explanation of everything."

Doyle looked and sounded dejected, as if the meeting with his brother had only re-opened old wounds instead of healing them. Closing the door to the corridor and leaning on it, Bodie opened his arms, inviting Ray into the protective circle. "At least they know the whole truth now," he said quietly as Doyle burrowed into the embrace. "Are you going to keep in touch with them?"

"Suppose so," Doyle sighed. "I've got to see the family solicitors at some time. There's something for me from Mum's will--and her shares in the business apparently. I thought she would have left them all for John, or John's children at least. But it seems that even though she believed I'd lied to her she still felt they ought to come to me. I suppose she figured I'd really need them once I got out."

"Shares?" Bodie asked, puzzled at the words. "You mean, company shares?"

"Yes. The family business. J.D. Doyle and Sons," chanted Doyle. "Funeral Directors." His eyes sparkling he watched Bodie for a reaction.

"Funeral..." Bodie gulped. "Undertakers. Your family are..."

"Undertakers. Yes." Doyle was resigned to the inevitable. "And please, don't bother with the jokes. I've heard them all; it's a dying trade, a dead boring job..."

"Undertakers!" Bodie could hardly believe his ears.

"Why are people always so bloody surprised when I tell them. It's just a job--someone has to do it!" Doyle said in exasperation. All his life it had been the same, at school it had been real hell once the other kids found out and he had quickly learnt not to talk about it. "My father, his father, and his father. My uncles even have their own businesses; me cousins work with them, two of my cousins work with John. There aren't many in my generation who don't work for the family. Only me and a cousin, only met her once when I was a kid. She married a vicar so I suppose you could say she was still involved in the business in some way."

"Your father wanted you to become..." Bodie tried to picture his partner as one of the grey-faced, sombre, suited pall-bearers seen at funerals and failed.

"I hated it, hated the whole business. It used to be my job when I was at school to polish the brass handles; every weekend and after school Dad expected me to help out in the workshop. Just being down there used to make me feel sick--"

"I'm not surprised!" Bodie said. "Expecting a kid to work with...with dead bodies!"

"Give over, Bodie," Doyle laughed. "I was only a kid. I never saw the bodies. Mum and Dad were always careful about things like that. It was just the workshop. I hated the place, especially if John was with me," he gave a shudder and buried his face in Bodie's throat, his tongue licking the pulse point.

Pressed against the door with Doyle plastered down his front, Bodie was struggling to come to terms with the new information; John Doyle was very different to his half brother; tall and heavily built with a mop of thick black hair and pale skin, the short meeting Bodie had with him had not left a favourable impression. Now that he knew the man was an undertaker, Bodie understood why he had found him so unsettling.

"You've never got on very well with John, have you?'

"No. Don't really know why but I suppose he resented getting landed with me when Mum and Dad were working. He always found some reason to wallop me or shove me in a box," Doyle touched the side of his head. "He hasn't changed that much!"

"What do you mean, shove you in a box?" Bodie asked.

"What? Oh, years and years ago, if he hit me and made me cry he knew Mum would go for him if she heard me; so, every time I cried he'd put me in a box, sometimes in one of the coffins in the workshop and then sit on the lid until I'd stopped crying and promised not to tell."

The mumbled story made Bodie go cold as the implications hit him. In his arms Doyle seemed unconcerned at telling the tale but Bodie wondered whether his fear of the dark had begun before or after big brother had forced him into the coffins. "Ray--" he began but got no further.

"Cowley was here last night; we can still have our two weeks' leave starting from today."

"I know, I've got the cases in the car--"

"Then what are we waiting for? Come on, Bodie. My head's fine and my cold is all gone--"

"You've probably given it to me," Bodie said gloomily, predicting the worst. "Come on then, Cinders. Your carriage awaits!" He gave Doyle a brief kiss before pushing him away and turning to open the door.

In the car park Doyle saw the suitcases already packed on the back seat. "Where to first?" he asked.

"Back home, we need to pick up one more thing and I couldn't find it--"

Doyle cut in, excited at the prospect of a holiday. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Haven't got a lot of choice, sunshine," Bodie said wryly as they left the hospital carpark behind them.

"Oh, why's that?"

"Well," Bodie was temporarily distracted by the heavy traffic. "Well, Cowley's given us two weeks, right?"

"Twelve days to be more precise," Doyle corrected.

"And we've had extended leave before, haven't we?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So, how often have we been called back from a nice cushy holiday or a promising moment by Cowley to Save-Civilisation-As-We-Know-It?"

"It has been known to happen," Doyle agreed, wondering what the hell his crazy partner was planning.

"So," grinned Bodie, obviously pleased with himself. "I've booked us in somewhere right out of Cowley's reach and packed our cases--"

"Where the hell are we going?" Doyle tried to imagine a place that could possibly be out of George Cowley's reach.

"Abroad," Bodie said, enjoying the sound of the word as it rolled off his tongue.

"The Isle of Wight?"

"No."

"The Channel Isles?"

"No."

"I've got it--the Scilly Isles?"

"No! Good Lord, Doyle, can't you think any further than that? Try somewhere hot and sunny," he suggested.

"You really mean...abroad. As in foreign abroad?" Doyle asked, in surprise.

"Yes, you fool--foreign abroad!"

"Where, for heaven's sake?"

"You'll find that out when we get there. Everything is arranged, all you have to do is sit back and leave everything to me." Bodie patted Doyle's leg, lingering briefly before reluctantly removing his hand. "But there is just one small problem. Like I said, everything's arranged. The flight, a hire car waiting for us at the other end, somewhere very nice and...very private for us to stay. Everything you're likely to need is in your case--"

"We can't go," Doyle said suddenly his voice very definite.

"Of course we can, it's all arranged. Like I said, there's only one little problem--"

"What have you put in my case? I've seen how you pack a suitcase before." Doyle was half over the front seat and grappling at his case when Bodie yanked him back down.

"Leave your case alone, you fool. You'll make me smash the car up if you do that again." Bodie tugged hard on the thick jacket, holding him in place, letting him go only when it was clear he wasn't going to attempt climbing into the back of the car again. "If I've forgotten anything important I'll buy it for you when we get there," he promised with a disarming grin and another lingering caress over an upper thigh.

"Well," the warm hand threatened to drive all Doyle's objections out of his mind. "What about...money?" he gasped eventually as Bodie's fingers stroked him through the straining fabric.

"You've got your bank card on you, haven't you? You can get some currency either at Heathrow or when we get there, that's no problem."

"Yes, but--"

"But nothing," Bodie said firmly.

"Bodie, I can't just get on a plane and fly off somewhere--"

"We're going!" Bodie shouted and braked hard at a set of traffic lights that had turned red. On the kerbside a pedestrian scowled at him and walked around the front of the car that was blocking the walkway. Bodie ignored the pedestrian and turned to his partner. "We've got two whole weeks--"

"Twelve days."

"Twelve fucking days so far away Cowley wouldn't even consider pulling us back early. Two weeks...twelve days away from London, England, CI5 and the bloody rain. The bags are packed, the flight takes off in just under four hours. I've told you not to worry about the money so what the fuck are you so worried about?"

When the angry tirade finally stopped Doyle told him.

---

It only took them three hours to sort Doyle's little problem out. Three hours; one urgent telephone call to George Cowley who listened in disbelief as they informed him of the nature of the problem and called in all the favours they felt the man owed them and asking, nearly begging him to use his influence to speed the usual slow cogs of bureaucracy along a little faster.

They left Central London with less than an hour to spare, Bodie driving towards Heathrow with the car's two tone blaring all the way. He didn't turn it off until they reached the tunnel entrance to the airport. Dumping Doyle and the suitcases at the terminal to check the luggage in, he tore around to the long-stay car park and parked in the first available space and then ran back to the terminal. He found Doyle waiting for him at the entrance to the departure lounge.

"Our flight is already boarding at Gate Six," Doyle informed him. "The woman at the desk said she would call through and tell them we're on our way."

As they hurried through passport control, neither of them merited a second look and they walked quickly through the lounge to Gate 6. When they arrived they joined the end of a queue of people waiting to board the plane and found they had time to get their breath back.

"Oh--what was the little problem you were trying to tell me about in the car?" Doyle asked as he leafed through the ticket. Their destination was Lanzarote and he was still trying to remember his geography lessons and locate the place; he didn't dare tell Bodie he didn't have a clue where it was.

"Oh, my little problem," Bodie repeated and tucked his passport safely away before twitching Doyle's out of his hand and opening it. "I couldn't find your passport," he said. "I looked everywhere for it. It just never occurred to me that you could have reached the grand old age of thirty without ever leaving the country--"

"It's not that unusual--and I have been to Holland. Twice. Had a special Visitors Passport, or something. It never seemed worth all the fuss of getting a full British Passport."

"Well you've got one now!" Bodie hit him with it. "Thanks to George Cowley pulling strings right left and bleedin' centre. And as for that prissy bitch at the Home Office and that stupid clerk at the Passport Office..."

Doyle decided it might be prudent to change the subject and asked about Lanzarote. "Hot and sunny there this time of year, is it? Isn't it somewhere off the coast of Spain... In the Med or somewhere like that, isn't it?"

Still unable to believe they had succeeded in getting Doyle issued with a full passport in less than three hours--most people were lucky to get it back in under three months, Bodie almost mussed the question. "Spain? Spain?" he asked in horror. "Do you really think I'd waste two weeks--"

"Twelve days," Doyle chipped in.

"Twelve days in poxy-bloody-Spain!"

"Well...where is it then?" Doyle asked when he finally believed that Spain wasn't their destination. Hot and sunny to him had always meant Spain. But Bodie wouldn't be drawn any further, and realising that their fellow passengers in nearby seats were enjoying their conversation, Doyle decided to stop asking. Instead he read the brochure stuck in the pocket of the seat in front of him, read the emergency escape instructions and tested all the buttons and knobs surrounding his chair. He had been on board lots of planes, collecting prisoners and depositing them on board, but he'd never actually flown anywhere before. Even his two trips to Holland had been in a state of total inebriation on board Sealink Ferries.

As they taxied towards the runway, Bodie looked at his partner's face and enquired. "You feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Why?"

"You've gone a bit white, your head giving you trouble?" Bodie was concerned. The hospital had said Ray was fit enough to travel. "And you're sweating."

"I'm fine," Doyle insisted, wishing Bodie would just shut up.

"Are you sure you don't want the window seat? There's still time to switch over."

"I'm sure."

"Only as you've never flown before I'd 'ave thought you'd want to see--"

"I don't want to look out of the window--okay!"

"Here we go then," Bodie said. The plane began to pick up speed as it moved down the runway. "Let's hope the wing doesn't fall off!"

"Shut up!"

Bodie looked at Doyle, really looked at him. Not only was he as white as a sheet and sweating freely, he had his eyes shut tight and his lips pressed together in a hard line. Just then the engine sound increased in volume as the plane lifted up from the ground and the front of the plane tipped upwards at a sharp angle. Doyle gripped the offered hand like a drowning man. Smiling, Bodie leant across the seat and whispered into Doyle's ear. "Cheer up, sweetheart. It's like most first times--a bit scary, but worth trying again."

Doyle opened his eyes at the sexy whisper, his fear receding a little with Bodie's comforting presence. Ever since Christmas night, sleeping together had been just that. Too full of cold, and too tired to make love properly, they had just curled up together, perhaps rubbing against each other to a lazy undemanding climax. It had been a long time since they had made love properly. "Do they have mushrooms in Lanzarote?'

Delighted at the reference to that wonderful night when Doyle had managed another 'first', Bodie whispered back "No, but then who needs mushrooms. There will be you, me, a swimming pool and a luxurious villa all to ourselves. We can take our time and do it again without mushrooms."

"Oh yes. Who needs mushrooms," Doyle said huskily.

Bodie swallowed hard as Doyle's voice and eyes promised him everything. "Unless you want to join the Five-Mile-High Club, sunshine, don't look at me like that."

"What's the Five-Mile-High Club?" Doyle asked, all innocence,

Bodie began to explain.

-- THE END --

The end, finally. Thanks to everyone for being so patient, especially to HG who was so disappointed with 'A Different Beginning' and to O.Yardley for her encouragement.

'ROB'
30 July 1989

---

Typist's Note: This version of the book was very lightly edited with the permission of the author. Any resulting infelicities are mine, with my apologies.

Jan Levine
22 February 2006