Mr Sandman
by Anna Parrish
Part 1
Doyle watched the fog overtake London, wrapping it in a thick, soft blanket of grey and swirling white. As he stood at the window, he took a sip of his tea, grimaced at it's lack of heat, at its definite coolness, and then sighed. He had waited too long to drink it, had stood at the panes of glass, looking out, day dreaming. He moved away from the window, walking slowly toward the sink.
Ray Doyle groaned to himself, oh, no, not that again!
The woman next door belonged to a trio that fancied itself a great singing group. They had fallen in love with the songs of the fifties and had entered a contest, so of course, they had to practice their entry song...over...and over...and over...and....
The only trouble was, Doyle was beginning to sing that song in the shower, on the way to work. It played repeatedly in his brain, morning and night, becoming a vexatin to his soul. Sometimes, he even woke in the middle of the night and those words were there, serenading him until he thought he would scream.
Desolation surged through Ray Doyle. There was no one special in his life...he was all alone. That blasted song had brought it to the surface, forced him to look at the truth. He didn't like that, he didn't like it at all.
Curse that song!
He slammed the cup into the tiny sink. It broke, splintering into fragments of white and red. He swallowed the profanity that lingered at the back of his throat and slowly removed the pieces of china.
Cute? Doyle thought as he stood frozen, staring blindly down at the shards in his hand. A vision of the man he could love lingered hauntingly at the back of his mind. Shaking the image away, he finished removing the segments of cup from the sink.
A dream? Doyle thought as he chucked the broken cup into the garbage. What good is a dream? Giving up, he went to take a shower, but even under the water, that song tormented him:
Doyle wanted to yell, shut up! He wanted to bang on the wall and tell them to turn that stupid music down, but he didn't. He was going to work anyway. Seething, he finished his shower and dressed. Cowley awaited.
That song went with him, riding at the back of his mind, waiting...waiting....
Doyle sat on the credenza in Cowley's office, leafing through a magazine. It was an American publication. Doyle closed his eyes for a moment.Seemed to him, he was surrounded by things from the United States...that song, this magazine. Shrugging, he continued to go through the magazine, stopping at an ad for gin. Napoleon Bonaparte was the image in the printed display. Doyle grinned. A French leader...a dead, French leader, he corrected , in a yank advertisement. Well, why not? The American magazine was in a British government office.
Harriet, Cowley's secretary, came out. "He's just leaving the hospital now, Mr Doyle. Shouldn't be long."
"Thank you."
"Would you like a nice cuppa?"
"That sounds like a good idea. I could go with a strong cup."
"Will bring it right in, then. Cream?"
"Black." The woman smiled and left him. Doyle's attention went back to Napoleon. Old Boney...the agent studied the picture and the stupid song came back....
Curly hair? Doyle mused. No, he should look like Nappy here, just like him, only taller, the agent laughed to himself. Don't want one that comes up to my belly button. And buns...he had to have great buns....
Irritation flung through his body, his mind. He threw the publication down on Cowley's desk and scowled at the picture of Napoleon Bonaparte who stood in the illustration, smugly smiling back, with not a care in the world.
What good is wanting? he demanded of himself. Would it invent such a man from thin air? Doyle knew he would have no trouble finding a lover, for a night, a week, a month or two...but just having a lover wasn't what he wanted.
He wanted someone permanent in his life, someone he could trust and believe in and love, and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that his lover would trust and believe and love him just as much.
The image teased him...the song tormented....
Passionate, solid arms around him, a warm body to give him comfort, take away the loneliness...someone to lie beside him...someone to make him moan in passion and tremble in desire.
Sometimes the feeling of seclusion, the knowledge that he may never have anyone to share his life with, grew so strong, he could not sleep.
Shaking the thoughts away, he took the few steps from the credenza and Cowley's desk, and picked up the magazine once more. Napoleon Bonaparte stared back, that Mona Lisa smile on his calm, knowing face.
The image appeared once more at the back of his mind, only now, it was clearer. He was an awful lot like Nappy here. He was strong and quiet, a leader who was not afraid to follow when the need arose...someone to stand at his side or his back to guard and protect and be safeguarded in turn.
Harriet returned with the tea and then left him to the quiet of Cowley's office. He drank the hot liquid, trying not to look at the photo, but his eyes kept constantly returning to the print. He sat there, holding the publication, fantasizing. The time passed in a haze.
About fifteen minutes later, Cowley arrived, looking harried, disquieted. "Ah, Doyle. Sorry to keep you waiting."
"I kept myself busy." He lifted the American periodical and motioned once toward his boss.
"Reading?" Cowley was pleased.
"Yeah." Doyle laid the magazine down and settled back against the credenza once more.
"Reading improves the mind." Cowley sat, folded his hands and looked in interest at his young agent. "You've never worked with a partner, have you?" He knew the answer of course but waited until Doyle shook his head. "One of my best men has just lost his. I want you to work with him when he gets out of hospital."
"Hospital?"
"They were caught in cross fire. He was injured but Adams was killed outright. I'd like you to go tomorrow and see him, get aquainted." Cowley hesitated but admitted, "You might find him against taking you on. He and Adams have been working together for five years. I...he doesn't want a young partner, Doyle. He's made that quite clear."
"Then give him someone older. I don't mind working alone."
Cowley agreed gravely. "No, I know you don't but I think you two will serve well together. Give it a try. If it doesn't work out, I'll separate you two."
"He know I'm gay?"
"No. If you want him to know, you'll have to tell him...or remain mum...do as you see fit; I'll not interfere."
"He anti-gay? Homophobic?"
Cowley smiled, his eyes lighting up in delight. Doyle wondered why. "No."
"What's his name?"
"Bodie, William. Well?"
Bodie? He had heard of him, and the things he had heard, one bird after another, one night stands.... "Don't have much choice, now do I?" He didn't like the idea; that showed on the thinness of his lips.
The boss of CI5 nodded. "No, afraid you don't, Doyle."
"Then I'll go and see him."
"And work with him."
Doyle's face closed up. "And work with him."
He kept his face impassive as he left, but his mind, his heart, protested the idea. He knew Bodie's kind...if he ever found out Ray Doyle was a homosexual, Bodie would be against him, maybe not openly, but.... No, he'd have to keep his private life thoroughly private, which would be a problem. Good partners shared after hours as well as work time together. In a good team, it was hard to labour and private life separate...birthdays, Christmas, births of children, problems in marriages. No, it was next to impossible to keep them apart unless the team had the vital spark missing. How could you stand beside someone, waiting to kill or be killed, and trust them if they couldn't be trusted in the confidential things in a man's life? How could Cowley have forgotten something that important? Maybe Murphy was correct; maybe the old man was losing it. Damn.... Sighing, Doyle left.
Part 2
Miss O'Reilly, the woman who lived in the apartment next to Doyle, was standing outside her apartment with two other women. They were all dressed in huge, felt skirts of different colours, white poodles sewn on the front of each one. White blouses, with crisp, peter pan collars, topped the outfits, saddle shoes and bobby sox shod their feet. Their hair was worn up in tight ponytails. It looked odd, that style, on their salt and pepper hair. The neighbour stopped him from entering his apartment by calling out to him, by stepping forward. She held out a small box.
"Mr Doyle," she said a little breathlessly, and then smiled hugely. "We want to thank you. You're the only one who hasn't complained to the super about our singing. This is our way of acknowledging you being so nice."
"There's no need," Doyle said quickly, not reaching for the gift.
"Oh, do take it, please. It's a magic medallion...." She waited but when he did not take it, she gushed, "It's from the gypsies! It's a iltgard...a sandman...."
Sandman.... He thought that if he ever heard that word again, he'd upchuck. "There's no need, Miss O'Reilly."
She hurriedly argued, "But it'll show you your secret dream and then give it to you."
"Oh, but really...." Honestly! Magic?
"It brought us three together, and we're going to win the contest tonight. We were promised."
"Were you?" Doyle inquired gently.
"Yes! We went to the gypsies and they sold it to us. Now, we don't need it and the rules say we must pass it on to a nice person or the magic it gave us will vanish...so we're passing it onto you."
"That's a very nice gesture but..." Doyle began.
"This is real and we want to share it with you." A hurt look appeared when Doyle's hand remained by his side. Taking pity on her, he accepted it. Her smile of gladness and gratitude was his reward. "You put it under your pillow...."
"And wish," the woman on the other end added quickly.
"Oh, my yes, don't forget that," the third woman agreed, blushing when Doyle turned his eyes toward her.
"What did I wish?" Doyle asked.
"You ask it to show you your heart's desire...."
Napoleon, he thought, a far away look in his eyes.
"And then put it under your pillow..." the third woman butted in once more in eager tones.
"Yes, Yolanda. She's right, Mr Doyle, you put it under your pillow and that night, you'll dream a special dream. If you accept it, you must say it out loud. It'll come true."
Doyle didn't believe it but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. He simply smiled and promised her he'd give it a try.
"Do let us celebrate your wish with you when it comes true," the one called Yolanda pleaded, batting her eyes at him.
Doyle was kept from answering by the appearance of the cab driver. He watched them running off, giggling, talking in excited tones. Later, ready for bed, he held the strange pendant in his hand. It was gold and quite old, the figure carved into it had nearly been rubbed away. 'Q Lirium gyv opom' was etched on the back. It did not sound Latin or Greek. Doyle wondered what language it was. He dropped it back in the box and went to bed. The moonlight shone brightly into the room. It hit the medallion. Slowly and eerie light flooded the area around it. Doyle sat up. An icy shivering washed over him. Something felt alive, waiting in the room. Shaking his head, he watched the glow turn pale blue then fade away. Telling himself, he was being foolish, he rose and went to the bright piece of gold, took it into his hands. It began to glow once again, and it felt warm, alive. He berated himself, but he brought it back to his bed, whispered to it, "Show me my true love," and placed it beneath his bed. He felt like an idiot, but he left it there.
He dreamed that night. It was semi-dark in his room. He was lying nude on his bed, and he could feel his beginning erection. A man left the bathroom, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked like Napoleon, but taller, firmer, and a lot more beautiful. The man stopped, looked at Doyle and smiled seductively. He dropped his towel and moved forward. Doyle's throat closed. His whole being responded to that body, to the look in the blue eyes. Napoleon bent down, kissed him. Doyle moaned as tongue touched tongue. Hot, knowing hands soothed an erotic path over the slim, shivering body as the dream figure made love to him.
Part 3
The sun woke Ray Doyle. He lay still for a moment, blinking before stretching in delicious restfulness. The dream returned full force and he felt his shaft thickening as the feelings it had evoked returned as well.
("You must tell it you accept the dream," Miss O'Reilly had said.")
What the heck, Doyle thought. He reached under the pillow, took the bit of gold into his hand and said, "I accept my dream." When nothing happened, he stood up. That was some dream, he thought as he hurried to the shower where he stood under cold water until his shaft reverted back to its normal shape. If I get nothing else out of this, I got that.
The memory of Cowley's order to visit his new partner came back. He dressed, fighting back irritation. He didn't want to go to the hospital; he didn't want to be William Bodie's partner...he didn't want to face the man's rejection over his sexual inclination.
I'm gay, he thought as he zipped up his jeans. There's no shame in that but so many people can't accept us. If Bodie goes after birds, he could very well be anti-gay. I can't work with someone like that. Doyle scowled at his reflection; I won't work with someone like that. I won't tell him I'm homosexual, but I swear, the first time he makes a fairy joke, I'll drop him so fast, he'll feel like a whirlwind has been around him and then I'll go to old Cow and demand a release.
Doyle drove to the hospital, displeasure and vexation eating away at his usual calm self. He checked in with the staff sister, went to the proper room and entered. He froze in the doorway.
Bodie looked up, a bored, restless expression on his handsome face. "If you're the doctor, get me out of here!"
Doyle smiled hugely, his whole face lighting up in beautiful joy. Bodie eyed him in puzzlement. "I'm Ray Doyle, your new partner."
Bodie scowled. "Told Cowley I didn't want you. Want you to know that right off the bat."
"I know." Doyle thought in jubilation, but you will, William Bodie, you will. He walked slowly towards the man of his dreams. Oh yes, his mind, his soul, his heart, repeated, you will.
A line sang in Doyle's mind:
Doyle grinned in real pleasure at the man in the bed. It was hard for him to keep from laughing in exhilaration, in satisfied rapture, in anticipated elation.
Bodie stared at him in perplexity. He didn't know why this young slim man was so happy at being teamed with him, and...he added quickly...obviously glad at being with him tonight, but it was catching. Bodie felt himself relax, returning the infectious smile. He reached out to shake Doyle's hand and found it enclosed in warm, welcoming fingers, fingers that gave him a feeling of security, of belonging, something he had never had with any other partner. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't going to argue with it.
Maybe, he thought, this new relationship wasn't going to be so bad after all.
-- THE END --
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