Say what you mean and mean what you say.
-The Red Queen.

Bodie was wakened from a deep sleep by a sharp crack on the head as the ancient British Rail rolling stock halted abruptly. For a few moments he was completely disoriented: the heat, darkness, and stale air all combined with the low light gave him the impression of still being in one of those disgusting Angolan tents. He looked at his watch.., it was 2.47 in the morning.

Curr-oo! This is Curr-oo station. Passengers for . . .lington, 'ardling... and issingham alight here.

He jammed on his coat and grabbed his case, splitting the side of his thumb nail as he wrestled with the door. Jumping for the snow-covered platform as the train gave a sudden lurch to the right he landed on his knees in four inches of the stuff. The cold hit him with all the tact and discretion of a sand-filled sock. He struggled upright and glanced up at the indicator - it was out of order... so was he. He crunched his way across to a dark corner where he could just make out the wet, peeling time-table; there was nothing romantic about snow at this time of night. A cutting east wind bit and nibbled where it could. Bodie shivered; a real macho guy would have stuck it Out on the platform but he made for the waiting room. He was past needing that kind of reassurance, bound as he was for Bognor. There was a story circulating at the time of the death of Edward the Seventh that to reassure the rapidly sinking monarch, the doctor said, "Never mind, Sire, you'll soon be well enough to visit Bognor," to which His Gracious Majesty was reported to have said, "Bugger Bognor!" These were the exact sentiments of 3.7 as he shook the early--morning sleet from his eyes and slopped his way into the waiting room. Any port in a storm: this port was dark, dank, and muggy, but like the last of Portia's caskets it contained a real prize. As he opened the door he was confronted by an arse he would have known anywhere in the world. Doyle was giving a creditable impression of a threatened ostrich as he rummaged in his duffle bag. Cowley's separation of the pair had done nothing to lessen Bodie's appetite for 4.5 and it was almost a reflex action for him to run his hand over what he now considered his personal property.

Doyle was tired out; one way and another he had been ceaselessly on the move for the past twenty-eight hours. He was closing in for the kill; the next four days would wind up the whole affair. He hated B.R., it might be great for rocking tough mercs off to sleep, he reflected bitterly, but all he felt was seasick. Nothing 'they' could come up with could match rocketing round corners in the Capri! His last trip had been made all the more exhausting by the incessant screams of a purple-faced three year old, and an adolescent with A-level acne and a leaking transistor. Doyle's temper (never good) was decidedly short by the time he had sought the haven of the waiting room. All he was doing was taking Fairfax's advice and searching for something sensational to read on the next train --when he felt it! There was no mistake, he was being interfered with AGAIN! Why me? Why? I hate this kind of thing!

The over-familiar hand showed no signs of leaving. Doyle's memory summoned up countless incidents of a similar nature he had endured in the past and suddenly, he snapped. All his current account of bad temper and frustration joined up with the sum collected over many years. He moved with lightning speed and uncontrollable fury. His moves were made with fluid ease; he grabbed the lecher's wrist, turned, twisted and pulled; as his victim fell forward he landed a vicious hack in the groin and a sledgehammer blow to the bridge of the nose. His assailant crashed, winded, to the litter-strewn floor. Not content with the damage he had already inflicted, Doyle now held the wrist captive with both hands as he planted one foot on Bodie's neck, the other on his ribcage and threw himself backwards, pulling and twisting with all his might.

"You fucking bastard, I'll bloody well kill you!"

Whatever reaction Bodie had expected this was hardly the welcome he had envisaged after an absence of ten days.

"Let go, Doyle, it's me, you nutcase," he bellowed, more in pain than anger.

For the first time since he started defending his honour Doyle looked down at his ravisher. He suddenly let go and landed on a sharp, hard bench, letting his arms fall limply at his sides; all his pent-up anger and resentment had left him drained.

"Sorry, mate.., thought you were someone else," he muttered.

Bodie was speechless for the moment -- he left his arm where it had been dropped and pulled his knees up. It helped a little. Doyle sniffed loudly and shot a guilty look at the straight -haired operative. He had now convinced himself that this sorry state of affairs was more than half Bodie's fault for creeping up on him like that. He must have had much rougher treatment handed out playing that ridiculous game of his in Africa.

Anyway, it's supposed to be the same as pleasure," he added, still on the defensive.

"You're perverted, Doyle, that's your trouble," gasped Bodie.

Ray knew in his heart of hearts he had over -reacted, just as he knew he would never even if he lived to be fifty have the social polish to ignore the casual sexual pass. It was not in his nature.

Bodie groaned and rolled over to face his partner; while the peeling, stained ceiling could well have held an abstract art freak in ecstasies, he wanted to look at Doyle. With the first move all he could see was as high as knee level. He managed to rise to a kneeling position in front of his partner. Doyle gazed into those 'heart -breakers' and saw the look of pained surprise. Bodie was shocked to see a single tear meander down the 'bad' side of 4.5's face and splash-land on the tight jeans that were the toast of C15.

"There's no need to cry..."

"I'm not crying." Doyle was still hotly defensive and countered with the inspired lie: "got something in my eye, didn't I! I was looking for something to get it out when you... "

"When I made myself known to you."

"'S all right, Bodie, I shouldn't have been so physical."

"Nor should I. Should have known you better by now."

Doyle laughed, the first laugh he had had in nearly a week. There were always at least two ways to take everything Bodie said.

"Not in the Biblical sense -- go and wash your mind out."

There was a pause as Bodie tried to accommodate the thin trickle of blood that filled the back of his throat, then overflowed to ooze down from nose to mouth.

Conscience stricken, Doyle pressed his tartan scarf over the centre of Bodie's face. "Never meant to give you a nose job... honest!"

"I'll have to play Hamlet now, no option... I'm drowning down here."

"Let me give you a hand up."

It was 3.7's turn to laugh (as best he could). "Up where, Doyle?"

"What you on about?"

"Doesn't matter. Thanks, Goldilocks."

"Hate you calling me that."

"Really? OK, Golly."

"And that."

There was another long pause as eye contact was lost and re-established. From platform four there was a mournful whistle as the train took the strain; Bodie gave a tight, sad little smile he was not sure he could.

"Truce?" he asked hopefully.

"Pax," murmured Doyle.

"What?"

"Thought you were the posh one with all the culture, Philip Andrew - "Don't call me that. This pax is better than truce, is it, Doyle?"

"Much better, I think. I trust you, Bodie." Doyle glared at a coke tin in the far corner.

Bodie slipped his hand round the back of Doyle's neck and stroked the tangled mass of curls. Doyle coloured slightly, then jumped violently as an icy blast shook the window behind him.

"Sorry, mate, I've only got ten minutes left."

"Don't make it sound like a life sentence."

"Gotta make that connexion, Bodie, matter of life and death."

"I know the 'connexion' I would like to make, it would take a lot longer than ten minutes. You're still flushed, you know."

"Don't know how you can tell in this light, Bodie."

"The dark would be light enough for what I have in mind, sunshine."

Doyle was looking at the bruise that had started to surface on Bodie's neck; he ran an experimental forefinger across it. Bodie swallowed and shivered as he made to pull back.

"Stay still and I'll be very gentle.. ." whispered 4.5. "That's why he separated us for a month, all this hurt and comfort."

"Never, Bodie! He thought we were gay."

"Course we're not, we are just passionately in love with each other."

"Sounds like a Victorian novel."

Bodie pulled out a handkerchief and started to wipe Doyle's eye. The lie was coming home with a vengeance.

"What the 'ell d'you think you're doing?"

"Stop talking, can't you, gotta concentrate. It's impossible with you nettering on like that."

"Yeah, I had noticed... from time to time."

"I think you might have got an eyelash in there somewhere, sunshine."

"Sure it's not one of yours, Bodie?"

"Ought really to wind your eyelid back over a match stick, but this is all I have. Sorry."

All Bodie could find was one of those spills of white plastic the railway gave out to stir their sludge with. Doyle remained rigid as Bodie went to work; it felt as if his eye was being poked about with an iron railing. At last 3.7 was confident order was restored and withdrew. Doyle was shocked at how small the invader was.., tiny in fact.

"Story of me life," he sniffed.

"What you on about now, Doyle?" enquired Bodie earnestly. "You all right? It was the only way, sunshine."

"Sounds even more like a Victorian novel."

Doyle looked pale and shaken in the unsteady neon lighting, the strip light was dying and set up fluttering shadows everywhere. He rewarded his partner by reaching for Bodie's hands and pulling his arms round him; he wished they could stay like that forever.

"'ere, I could die in your arms.., know that, Bodie?"

"You're going to die on the National Health like everyone else!" Bodie gave him an affectionate hug as tightly as his aching wrist would permit.

"Great idea that 'connexion' idea of yours, Bodie, but I gotta get to

G.C.E.H.Q. Cheltenham."

"Thought it was too tenuous to hold."

"I must put a boot in that mole."

"Thought you were a vegetarian?"

"No. Only a couple of minutes left. You will write, won't you? I love those letters of yours." He stood up and collected his bag - he looked like a candidate for the Stepney Causeway philanthropist. "Connexions... connexions..." He smiled wistfully across at Bodie. 3.7 got up and felt for his case; he slipped his free hand round his partner's waist as he walked him to the-door. For the first time he saw the high tide mark left by the snow on Doyle's trainers. Poor little toad! his feet must be like ice.

"Love to shorten your life by three minutes!"

"No time, Bodie, must get to platform two."

"I'll see you off."

They plodded together down the stinking, graffitied underpass and Bodie bundled Doyle into the carriage as the train started to move off; he ran alongside the open window, skidding as he went.

"Watch out for that mole of yours, they can be pretty vicious, you know... couldn't bear to lose you, Ray."

Doyle looked backwards towards Bodie, his hair was being blown back across his face as the train picked up speed. "Give my love to Bognor."

The last place on earth Bodie wanted to be was Bognor, still that leak had to be plugged and the Cow had convinced himself that the only man to do it was Bodie. Bognor in January! The night life would be all support -- hose and careful lighting. God! he wished he was going with Doyle.

"When will I see you again?"

"Victoria next Tuesday. I'll be finished by then."

"Me, too. Great! What time?"

The train was now pulling away from the end of the platform, the wind and noise from the engine was drowning Doyle's voice. He must have known; he held up... five fingers and 'signed' drinking a cup of tea. Bodie smiled and waved to show he understood.

Doyle threw himself back into his seat releasing a cloud of smoke- laden dust, and stared at the large guy munching on a chicken leg and burping on canned lager. Maybe he should become a vegetarian after all; suddenly Bognor and Cheltenham seemed poles apart; he would have given anything to be staggering along a blasted beach with Bodie. He had got it bad; by now the poor bugger would be back in that waiting room waiting for the Bognor special

Bodie sat down on the cold wooden seat; the only thing special about the train was that although it had been retimed it was still going to be an hour and fifty-eight minutes late. He should have known! He pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, pulled out a couple of sheets of crumpled paper and started to write. He was acutely aware of the pain in his wrist as it started to stiffen.

Written in dejection on Crewe station.

Dear Doyle,

I miss you like hell. We can't go on meeting like this on deserted railway stations. Gotta have more of you. You are the most liberating influence I have ever known...

As Bodie continued to write he did indeed feel strangely free. Looking down he noticed that his jacket had been split from the armhole to the waist. Expensive, he sighed deeply, but worth every penny.

-- THE END --