The Lych-Wake Dirge

by and


dedicated to the author of "Ghosts", from whom we have stolen so much

It was a cold autumn day in England, a stiff wind blowing across the airfield. The Minister, a nondescript man in his fifties, fading sandy hair balding a little in the middle, stood midway between the car and the plane, his bodyguard at his shoulder. Four other people, armed, guns trained on them, stood in a group between them and the plane. The exchange, so far, had gone smoothly; the representatives of the Ruritanian Liberation Army, or whatever they called themselves, had left the building where they had been holding their hostages, in exchange for the Minister's company to the small aerodrome where the plane they had demanded would be, fuelled and ready to go.

The four of them - three men, one woman - were standing arguing fast in accented German, which neither of their prisoners spoke fluently. A few minutes ago one of the men had shrugged violently and turned away to the plane, presumably to run pre-flight checks. At last one of the other men came towards the Minister and his bodyguard. It wasn't until he was almost at them that either of them realised that the gun in his hand was not pointed at the politician.

They meant to kill the bodyguard. The expendable, valueless, dangerous one; they meant to take the politician with them, to prevent the plane being shot down before they could get out of British airspace.

The Minister took one quick pace forward and knocked the man's arm down, intending to prevent the first shot at least and try to argue them out of the second. The man's finger was already on the trigger. The bullet hit him in the leg, at point-blank range.

Cowley went to his knees with a cry of pain, and sagged to one side. The bodyguard dived forward - not to grab the gun, he wasn't that stupid - Bodie's hands moved faster than he thought; he had confirmed that the bone wasn't broken, God the man was bleeding badly, though the artery hadn't been hit, when Cowley opened his eyes and looked straight at him. He was white with shock and terror. "Bodie, I won't be a cripple," voice rough with panic, " - I won't be a cripple - "

"You'll be OK, sir," Bodie assured him, terrified. Bloody hell, it would be that leg. The bullet couldn't have stayed in, but it had ripped out some muscle with it, it looked like, and Christ he was bleeding - Bodie's hands clenched on the pressure point of the leg above the wound and he looked up. The gunman had been joined by the other two, and they all looked scared. This plainly hadn't been part of the plan. All that was clear to him now was that if they tried to take Cowley away, they'd have to shoot him first. One of them prodded him in the back with a gun. "Get moving," she said in German.

They put Cowley down at the back of the plane, and one of the terrorists chucked Bodie some bandages from the first aid kit. The pilot took off as Bodie was completing his makeshift bandaging. Cowley's eyes were closed; he was hardly breathing, still and white and sweating heavily. The two watching them (the third man had gone back up to join the pilot) let him finish, and pillow Cowley's head on his jacket. Then they tied his hands behind his back and let him sit down on the floor beside Cowley.

It was some time before Bodie realised that the angle of light was all wrong. They weren't going east. The terrorists had demanded a plane fuelled for three thousand miles, and from that, and their political affiliations, all the likely destinations were eastwards. But the plane was definitely headed north. What the hell was north?

Scandinavia? Greenland?

Bloody hell, and there was only fuel for six hundred miles... that might dump them right in the middle of the sea. Christ, if only Cowley was awake. They hadn't tied him up; one half-dead, unconscious politician wasn't dangerous.

Just as Bodie thought that, he felt a touch on the back of one wrist, a dry fingertip. He didn't react at all, but inwardly he felt a rising flare of savage pride and amusement; let them think the old bastard was harmless!

Between them, very carefully and slowly, Bodie holding his arms and shoulders as still as was consistant with a man whose wrists are tied firmly together behind his back, they worked his bonds loose. The plane was moving in the rising winds, that made it easier to cover any slip. Anyway, the two left on guard had settled down now, and were only keeping half an eye on them.

Bodie turned, his hands still firmly held together behind his back, and glanced down at Cowley. His heart jolted. If it had not been for the intelligence in the hands that had helped him, he would have sworn Cowley really was half-dead. The older man lay still and grey, breathing shallowly, sweat beading his face. One hand lay, as if helplessly, over his chest. Of course. He's fucking hard to kill, Bodie told himself fiercely, and turned, letting the panic he really felt come through in his voice. "Hey!" The plane was noisy, with the engine and the gale, and he had to shout louder to make himself heard. "He's dying, you've got to let me help him!"

The woman stood up, and came towards them, warily. She looked at Cowley and frowned, then gestured Bodie to get up and sit down again across the plane from him, well out of reach. Bodie obeyed, clumsily, without using his hands.

The gun Cowley kept concealed was very small, and not particularly accurate over long distances, but it didn't need to be this time. And it was quiet. The terrorist only seemed to slump forward. One down. The other guard stood up, startled, but Bodie was on him almost before he had time to draw his knife, and broke his neck. Two down.

The co-pilot had heard something. God knew what, through the weather and the engine, but enough to make him come out of the cockpit, and watchfully. But though he was armed, he'd have more sense than to fire inside a plane in flight. Bodie felt his face twisting in the rictus of a grin. This man had shot Cowley. The plane was now no more steady to walk on than a see-saw, and when Bodie moved, he was slammed into the other man with force enough to knock both of them breathless. But Bodie was still holding the knife; he stabbed the terrorist, twice, clumsily but effectively.

The weather had already worsened. The plane was being flung about in the midst of clouds, rain lashing savagely at the window. Bodie clung to the edge of the door, watching, and seeing that no threat he could make could possibly move the pilot more than the present danger of the storm. Where were they headed? It was dark outside now, but from the lack of lights below they might well be over the sea.

Wherever they were going, they were going to run out of fuel before too long, and in this weather, Bodie profoundly hoped they had a really good pilot. And he'd better get back to help Cowley.

Wedged against the wall, holding the unconscious man in his arms, Bodie felt the plane start to lose altitude. The engine was still running. Was this as far as they'd meant to go? What the hell was going to happen after they landed?

Then the engine cut out, choked, and died. The sound of the storm crashed against them, and the pilot must be fighting to keep the plane up in the air. Was that the sound of waves against rocks he could hear - ?

The plane almost landed. Afterwards, long afterwards, Bodie could credit the pilot whose name he never knew with everything he deserved. At the time he only grabbed Cowley and dragged him out through the broken door. He could smell fuel, and wasn't about to stop for anyone.

It was pouring with rain outside, and shrieking a gale; Bodie tugged Cowley over rocky bare soil what felt like a long way, on to heather, and went on till he realised they were passing an overhanging rock that was probably the best shelter they'd find right this minute.

The plane went up in flames with a dull soft whoomph and Bodie dropped, trying to shelter Cowley with his own body, feeling the warmth on his back even through the rain. But when he risked a look, it was clear they were safe enough from the fire; he'd headed straight into the wind, instincts on full blast, and the plane had landed on the rocks at the edge of the water. It had gone up like a beacon, but it shouldn't fire the heather. In fact it might even help somebody find them, assuming anyone was looking and assuming anyone could get to them. They were probably on an island, but anyway he couldn't leave Cowley to investigate till the weather cleared. The older man was cold as ice, shivering violently and sweating heavily. Not really surprising.

What shelter there was, was the rock, and a stand of bracken, a double-armful of which Bodie pulled to pack round both of them. He pulled his jersey off and put it on Cowley, then shrugging back into his jacket, lay down and put his arms around him, pulling the other man in close. Shared body-warmth and shelter - they were out of the main force of the wind here. They might make it. Bodie would probably make it. Cowley - Cowley would make it, he was tough as an old root... Cowley would survive. If the storm blew itself out soon. If they were found. If he hadn't lost too much blood. If.

Though still apparently unconscious, Cowley had slid his arms inside Bodie's jacket when Bodie put his arms round him, and they were now lying in a mutual hug. All the better, Bodie thought. He could feel how thin the older man was, worn down to the bare wire.

"Where are the others?" Cowley asked him. Bodie's eyes blinked open. Christ, he mustn't go to sleep. It was a moment before he understood the question; Cowley's accent seemed stronger, less clipped. It was a moment before he realised that though the other man's eyes were wide open, he wasn't seeing Bodie.

"They're fine," he said, hoping that was what Cowley expected to hear.

"Where are they? Have they found shelter?"

"Yeah, yeah, they've found shelter, they're fine."

Cowley's eyes were still wide open and staring. "What about you?"

"I'm fine. I'm OK."

"Mark, for God's sake," Cowley whispered fiercely, right in Bodie's ear, "I know you were hit, let me look at it - "

"I wasn't hit. I'm fine," Bodie repeated, but Cowley didn't seem to hear him. Afterwards Bodie was to wonder if Cowley had heard anything Bodie had said to him all that night, or only his own memories.

Cowley started to swear to himself, heavily, in a Glaswegian accent stronger than ever. Bodie lay still and listened. At least while Cowley was talking he wouldn't go to sleep. Cowley was abusing himself, the man - Mark - he was talking to, the weather, the enemy, the mud, all and everything he could think of. He sounded oddly young, and very tired.

"Hey, slow down," Bodie said at last.

"You bloody fool," Cowley said angrily, with a break in his voice. "Don't you leave me, Mark, you've got to hold on. They'll send us relief soon. You'll be all right. Hold on, Mark."

His voice died away, and Bodie held him more tightly. He could feel the older man's heart beating, too fast, too weakly. "I'm not going to die. You stupid bastard, I'm not going to die - "

"Mark, hold on. Hold on." Cowley's hands stroked up and down his back, saying in a bitter desperate mutter, "Oh, God, no morphine, nothing, I doubt they could do anything even back at the base camp, and it's five hours away by jeep. He'll not last five hours. He will, he must. Mark."

"I'm here. I'm OK."

"Hold on," Cowley repeated bleakly. "For God's sake, don't leave me. Hold on."

"I'm not going anywhere. Come on, you brave old bastard, don't give up now. Hold on."

For a minute Bodie had been really worried; Cowley's voice had dropped away to a weak, almost incoherent, murmur. Then his eyes opened sharply. "The relief's not coming. Retreat." He sounded disbelieving. "We've got to retreat, Christ, you'll never make it - " Cowley's voice seemed to be shivering towards a break, but then he stopped, and his voice when he went on was quite quiet and very level. "You'd never make it. And I cannot stay with you. I'm in command, with you gone." He swallowed convulsively. Bodie felt a long shudder go through him. Bodie had had to do that, a couple of times; kill a wounded comrade, because you couldn't take them along on a quick retreat and you couldn't leave them behind for a slower death. It was one of the things you never forgot. Never.

Then Cowley kissed him, dry lips brushing against Bodie's cheek. "Oh, God," Bodie heard him whisper, "You wouldn't let me live with him, could you not let me die with him?"

Bodie froze. "Jesus Christ," he said helplessly. Cowley had gone slack in his arms, all the fight gone out of him. It was as if he had left, just walked away from himself.

If it was like that, if Cowley had already retreated, then he'd be dead for sure before the storm blew itself out. Instinctively, Bodie clutched at him, pulling him closer. "Come on, wake up, you bastard, don't just lie there and bloody die - " Unthinkingly, he licked his lips. He could still feel the touch of Cowley's mouth. Well, the worst that could happen would be Cowley would realise who it was and wake up properly and start cursing him out. And anything that woke him up wasn't all bad. Hell, if Cowley was alive to give him the boot in the morning, it wouldn't be all bad. Bodie kissed him, lips meeting lips almost cautiously. "George."

He felt Cowley stir, and after a moment, say roughly, breathlessly, "Mark?"

"Yeah, it's me. Don't go to sleep."

"Mark? I thought - " Cowley's voice cracked " - you were dead."

"No, I'm alive, we're both alive. You've got to stay awake if we're going to stay that way."

Cowley moved his head minutely, kissed him again. It didn't seem so strange. "Stay awake," he agreed, and then after a moment, "Mark." Not a question, just a statement.

"George," Bodie said, trying to make it an answer. Oddly enough, it seemed easier just to kiss him, so he did.

Every five minutes, it sometimes seemed, Cowley would stir and say "Mark," or sometimes "Still awake," and Bodie would have to answer him. He grew more restless and less coherent as the night drew on; sometimes Bodie could hardly make out what he was muttering over the sound of the wind. He seemed to be back in the war with Mark. It was eerie, being a ghost.

A grey light, false dawn, came so slowly that Bodie was hardly aware that the night was ending until he realised that he could see Cowley's face. The other man's eyes were shut, and his lips were moving, but no words. Over the wind, Bodie heard something new; the roar of an engine. He looked up and saw a Sea King copter, coming in to land. The night was over. Cowley was still alive.

The copter had picked them up and taken them back to the hospital in Aberdeen. Beyond scrapes and bruises, there was nothing much wrong with Bodie that a lot of sleep wouldn't cure. They said they were keeping him in for "observation". They wouldn't tell him about Cowley at all.

He expected to see Doyle there when he woke up, but instead there was Doctor Ross. She was sitting in the chair beside the bed, a half-drunk cup of coffee next to her hand on the bedside table, writing something on a notepad. "Ah, you're awake."

"Where's Doyle?"

"Outside," Ross said without surprise. "You can see him as soon as you've answered a few questions."

Bodie glared at her. She stared back, unmoved, and switched on the tape recorder. "Sunday the 15th of November. 11:45 am. Kate Ross speaking; interviewing agent 3.7, operation Switch."

It was a fairly routine interview; Ross listened without comment to Bodie's undetailed account of killing the three terrorists, how the plane had crashed, and how he and Cowley had managed to stay alive till rescued. At the end of the story, she hesitated a moment, then concluded the interview and switched off the tape.

"Mr Cowley was feverish when he was brought in," she said mildly, not looking at him, "delirious. He's a very repressed character, and in delirium, what's been kept repressed frequently surfaces." Now she did look at him, a remarkably penetrating glance. "Did he talk much while you were keeping him awake?"

"Yeah," Bodie said casually, "re-fighting old wars, I think. He was pretty incoherent. Couldn't understand much. Wasn't even sure what war it was."

Ross looked unconvinced. But she picked up the tape recorder and her notepad and went to the door, letting herself out and Doyle in, a moment later. (+)

Bodie found out where Cowley was on Monday morning. Doyle had, greatly annoyed, already gone back to London by that time. Bodie had another three days sick leave coming after he was discharged, and Doyle was on stakeout duty for four nights. He'd had another chat with Ross, who still looked remarkably unconvinced by his story, but who had let out a couple of details that Bodie was mentally examining.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, Bodie knew he could depend on twenty minutes at least undisturbed. He felt fine; a bit dizzy, but that would soon pass off. Doyle had brought along a fresh set of his clothes, so he could even get dressed. Cowley was in a private room on the floor above. Bodie took the stairs. He found the room without anyone challenging him, knocked quietly, and went in.

Cowley was lying so quietly on the bed that Bodie wondered for a moment if he were asleep; lying still with his arms tucked neatly under the blankets, his granite-like face expressionless. Then his eyes flickered open.

Bodie sketched a wave. "Hello, sir."

"Bodie." Cowley took in his street clothes. "Are they discharging you already?"

"Well, tomorrow morning," Bodie admitted cheerfully. "Thought I'd just wander up and see you. How are you, sir? Sorry I couldn't bring grapes. Or Scotch." He grinned.

Cowley eyed him, unsmiling. "Thanks. Doyle was in yesterday evening." There was a bunch of grapes, completely untouched, on the table beside the bed.

"That tightwad. Never bought me anything. Mind if I sit down, sir?" He sat down without waiting for a response, dragging the chair around a little so that he could still see Cowley's face. "They're a close-mouthed lot up here," he told Cowley. "We were brought in Saturday morning, and it took me till this morning to find out where they'd put you. Have they told you anything?"

Cowley frowned. "No. Nothing." With forced politeness, he added, "I'm glad to have seen you before you went back. I don't remember much about the plane trip."

Bodie shrugged. "Not much to remember. We knocked out three of the terrorists between us, and then the plane crashed. Once it was daylight, the RAF came and picked us up. I think the terrorists must have a base up there; it's all in my report anyway." Cowley was looking up at the ceiling again.

"How's the leg, sir?"

"Still there," said Cowley unguardedly, and covered it up with a glare.

Bodie took a deep breath, said abruptly, "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

"What?" Cowley stared at him.

"OK. The bad news is, you've lost a large chunk of muscle on that leg, so you'll be lame for the rest of your life." He grinned suddenly at Cowley. "The good news is when they operated, they took that old bullet out."

Cowley still stared, fighting a grin, until suddenly an irrepressible hoot of laughter broke out of him, and Bodie, let off the leash, let himself laugh.

"That was what they didn't want to tell me?" Cowley said finally, struggling down laughter. "Didn't think I could take it?" He snorted.

Bodie grinned again and stole a grape. Cowley reached out and shoved the dish towards him. "Ach, take the lot, Bodie. I've never liked grapes."

Bodie helped himself to a handful. He was still smiling. He could still remember what it had been like to kiss Cowley. One of these days, he promised himself, I'm going to ask him "Who's Mark?"

This ae night, this ae night, every night and alle
Fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy saule


-- THE END --



AUTHOR'S NOTEThe lines quoted are form the Lych-Wake Dirge, author Anon, which I have on tape to Benjamin Brittain's music. It sounds very oddly like lying awake and deathly scared in a howling gale.

(+) (In another story we would now have about three pages of emotional and quasi-sexual reunion, but if you want another story go and read one; in this story take it as read that they swopped their usual insults and Doyle told Bodie they'd be letting him out Tuesday morning. He didn't know anything about Cowley either.)

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