The Professionals Circuit Archive - Episode 58       Episode 58

 

by Brenda K

  
 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:*A very, very silly story featuring Mary Sue, courgettes,
feather dusters, Cowley's office, Fiat Pandas and the ubiquitous
warehouse. Oh, and Gavin (bless 'is cotton socks).. As for the beta-reader
(the one in the story, not Birgit), any resemblance to living persons is -
er - purely intentional. I'm taking the piss out of myself, OK?
Particularly of my story "Observation" - another piece of sheer genius
although perhaps not one to read with your boss looking over your
shoulder. 

The ending? Think 'pure of mind'. Or don't. Your choice. 

And no, it's not a "Doyle dies" story. Not... really but I reserve the
right to call it one if I feel like it, just to be included in lots of
categories and win awards and be utterly insufferable and go on to be the
next Hemingway (but you all know that).

Disclaimer: I only borrow these people and hope Brian Clemens, the other
scriptwriters, the actors and the guy who wrote the theme tune have a
sense of humour. I even apologise to David Wickes about any perfectly
coincidental things that might recall another series involving CI5 that
are mentioned in passing. Oh, and gerbils. Yes. Sorry, gerbils. The elf
reference is for Elaine, with fondest love. 

Read on, intrepid Pros fan. I shall send flames back with the grammar and
spelling corrected, 'cos I can see mistakes that other people make if not
my own. Beta readers rule OK, right? Gushing praise, however, is always
welcome. *

******

George Cowley cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen," he started.

"Can't be talkin' to us, then," Bodie remarked airily to Doyle, in an
undertone. "Or it's bad news. It usually starts with 'now then, you two'.
Or 'lads' if 'e's feelin' mellow."

"Och, stop it," Cowley sighed. "I have something of importance to tell
you."

Both gentlemen attempted to look interested.

"CI5 is going international," Cowley said, with a very slight hint of what
could be triumph, sarcasm, or surprise. Or indigestion.

"Eh?" Doyle said. "Now? Wasn't that planned for a bit later? When you're
retired and we can quit fieldwork gracefully and eventually co-control CI5
while remaining devastatingly fit and handsome as we get older?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Bodie said, pulling in his stomach.
"Although I've also heard rumours that they're thinking about having some
weirdos with our call signs wearing Armani suits and Boss shirts and
stuff. They wouldn't do that, though. Too expensive."

Cowley peered at Doyle's attire. 

"Indeed. Marks & Spencer wouldn't hurt though, Doyle. Thrift, remember. No
unnecessary trimmings. Good use of resources. And I'm damn sure your
salary runs to jeans without patches."

"And there was talk about Japanese cars," Doyle put in suavely, fending
off the familiar 'clothing' lecture. "I'm sure that was mentioned as
well."

"Never," Cowley said firmly. "There are limits, and believe me there will
never be one of those monstrosities used in CI5 as long as I'm here. But
stop getting off the subject. We have hired our first agent from beyond
this sceptred isle."

"Sceptred isle?" Doyle chuckled. "Who said *that*?"

"I did," Cowley said. "Or it was in one of the scripts anyway - can't
remember if I said it or forgot that bit. Sounds nice. Now are you
listening?"

"Always," Bodie nodded. "So who is it? We got somebody from the CIA? The
Yanks are always good at co-financing. Or France? Ze exotic accent and ze
Gallic charm. That could do wonders for the ratings."

"Argentina," Cowley told him. "Up and coming country, that."

Two pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief.

"But we had a war with 'em only last year." Bodie stated the obvious.

"That may be, but their television industry is booming. Unlike some. Now,
Miss... whatever her name was... is waiting to meet you."

"Miss? It's a bird?" Bodie displayed his remarkable talents of deduction
but brightened up a little.

"Miss Maria Susanna Haefliger," Cowley nodded, opening a buff file on his
desk.

"Good Argentinean name, that," Doyle remarked. 

"Germans like the place," Bodie informed him. "Full of Krauts, Argentina."

"I knew that," Doyle protested. "Didn't."

"Did."

"They could have called her Inge or Inger or Inga, just for a change while
they were at it," Doyle muttered testily. "Thank goodness for small
mercies."

"Och, stop it," Cowley said and then stabbed at one of the buttons on his
telephone. "Tell her to come in, please."

The door swung open.

"Phoarr," Doyle said under his breath. He very nearly did the
cheek-kissing thing, but appeared to decide that sort of thing was for
foreign poofters. He gave her a stunning, chip-toothed grin. Trademarks
were trademarks, after all. 

"'Ello, love."

Bodie's eyebrows shot up, and he hauled out the 'posh' accent and said
'how do you do'.

"Creep," Doyle muttered.

"Peasant," Bodie retorted.

Miss Haefliger acknowledged the greeting with a graceful toss of glossy
dark hair and the tiniest of smiles. She was definitely attractive, and
she knew it. The tight-fitting scarlet suit clung in all the right places,
and was a whole lot more interesting than the wardrobe department for most
female leads. Things were certainly changing from frilly blouses, full
skirts and soft pastel colours, *ergo* not all changes were bad, Doyle
decided. 

"Delighted to meet you," a deep, husky voice said politely before its
owner struck a casual poise - even more casual than Doyle's carefully
practised one - against the nearest filing cabinet."

"I'll leave you to get acquainted," Cowley said dryly. "And tomorrow, you
begin your new assignment together. It will be an operation Jennifer."

"Not Susie?" Bodie asked.

"Too complicated," Miss Haefliger gave her hair another toss. "Risk of
confusion with my name if - as I hope will not be the case - you take to
calling me by abbreviated versions of my name. Such as Mary Sue."

"Wouldn't dare," Doyle assured her. "C'mon darlin'. Fancy a cuppa?"

"Only if you have Broken Orange Pekoe," she said, turning on one extremely
high heel. "No sugar. And not in those horrible mugs."

"Fancy stuff," Bodie said gloomily as Maria Susanna shimmied out of the
room. "Think props do that, and some dinky little porcelain cups? Or will
it be Tetley's in cracked freebies from the petrol station as usual?"

"Never know," Doyle said. "And if you ask me, those are bloody stupid
shoes she's wearing for running after baddies with. Worse than those
leather-soled numbers you used to wear with suits."

"At least I didn't slip up and change out of me plimsolls and into cowboy
boots mid-scene," Bodie snorted. "And you're only jealous because it makes
her taller than you. Without yer heels, anyway."

"Does not. And I've never stooped to wearing shirts with little hearts
on."

"Does. And we'll have to cut that bit," Bodie informed him. "We were
supposed to do more 'phoarr' stuff and say something about good legs? I
mean she *does* have good legs. Got to give her that."

"I improvised," Doyle sighed. "We overran on the bit about the Japanese
cars anyway, when the Cow nearly went apoplectic. Oh, and she's got good
tits as well. And that suit she was wearing *definitely* didn't come from
Marks and Sparks, product placement or not. Besides, even M isn't that
British these days. Says "made in Brazil" on me underpants."

"What d'you want?" Bodie sighed. "He could have said Woollies. Or a
charity shop. And you can actually *get* underpants under those jeans?"

Doyle just smirked. Bodie tried very hard not to investigate Doyle's rump
for signs of the dreaded Visible Panty Line. 

*
 "Not bad, this," Doyle peered around the cocktail bar. "Improvement on
the VIP lounge anyway."

"They're using that in Coronation Street this week," Bodie told him. "Just
hope they've remembered *not* to fill the glasses with cold tea again. Ah,
here she comes."

Maria Susanna arrived, still elegant from her immaculate coiffure to the
tips of another pair of high heels, and was now dressed in extremely tight
jeans without a panty line to be seen, plus a clingy sweater.

"So," said Bodie, trying hard to remember the mass of information and
clearly trying to look at her face and not at other parts of her anatomy.
"You've got three PhDs..."

"Four. Everybody forgets the one in Forensic Pathology."

"Sorry. Maybe they're too gobsmacked by those in Criminal Psychology,
Higher Math and Anthropology, love," Doyle said sympathetically. "And
we've got that Yank on the scriptwriters again. It's Maths. With an S.
We'll be saying 'gotten' and 'elevators' next."

Bodie ignored that, and placed a cocktail on the table in front of the
vision of loveliness. 

"And of course you're a former Olympic marathon champion, speak 19
languages without an accent, and excel in undercover work as a Sardinian
shepherd or a Russian boxer," Doyle added helpfully.

"You've done your homework, Mr. Doyle."

"Always," Doyle lied, keeping the hastily written crib sheet in his hand
out of sight. "But I was particularly impressed about your... other
skills. Not the cunning linguist stuff but..."

"Oh, you mean sex?" She smiled prettily, the dimple showing. "Nothing to
it, really."

"I can imagine," Bodie agreed. "D'you specialise?"

"If necessary. Why, what were you thinking? I should give a
demonstration?"

"Have to be careful about that, love," Bodie said. "We've got rules here,
y'know. It's a family show. We can have quick arse shots of Doyle getting
out of bed or see my bellybutton when I'm doing the fancy exercises, but
that was just because we needed to keep the fans happy."

Doyle muttered something darkly which seemed to include the word 'paunch',
which Bodie pretended not to hear, but pulled in his stomach again. 

"Censorship. Right," Maria Susanna nodded knowingly. "Strange habits, you
British. In Argentina, we..."

"Fight over small, sparsely-populated islands." The soldier in Bodie
reared its head. 

"We are a little more liberal," she continued, ignoring the taunt with
consummate skill. 

"Look, love, with Maggie Thatcher and Barbara Whitehouse around, it's not
difficult to be '*more*' liberal", Doyle said, demonstrating his in-depth
knowledge of British politics.

"Exactly," CI5's newest agent nodded. "Although for the sake of not having
to choose, I personally thought the best solution would be a thr..."

"Shhhhh," Bodie's eyes widened in horror. "You can't say threesomes. Don't
even *think* threesomes. Not with two men anyway. People might think all
the wrong things about me 'n Doyle."

"Absolutely," Doyle nodded. "Got to be very, very careful about that.
Avoid it at all costs. Subtle references to our undying devotion to each
other - Bodie and I, that is - are OK. We can cry when each other gets
hurt, or we can risk our lives for each other and get frantic when one of
us goes missing or stuff like that. But it can't be... well... "

"Although there'll always be some people who insist that we're a lot more
than just mates," Bodie added ruefully. "Funny that, really. Don't all men
pat each other on the bum now and then?"

"Need to think about that," Doyle frowned. "But as we've not had any
complaints yet..."

"Shall we get down to business?" Maria Susanna interrupted. "We have an
international ring of pornography writers to catch, remember."

"We still haven't sorted out who gets to... y'know," Bodie complained.
"With you. And if I'm counting right, Doyle's out ahead. He's had the one
with too much makeup, the Chinese one, the air hostess..."

"Wrong," Doyle waggled a finger. "You got Marikka, Inger, and several
frilly-bloused ones if I remember. So it's my turn again."

"Is not."

"Is."

"Hola! Stop it."

"*Hola*?" Doyle said. "Doesn't that mean hello? I mean even *I* know that.
What sort of language advisers have we got *this* time?"

"Well it *sounds* Portuguese," she pouted. 

"They speak Spanish in Argentina," Doyle pointed out haughtily. "Or
German..."

"Oh for cryin' out loud," Maria Susanna's accent mutated to broad Cockney.
"Same difference, mate. You honestly think yer average viewer gives a
flying..."

"Careful," Bodie warned. 

"Of course." Maria Susanna once again adopted her efficient pose and
dubious Latin accent. "So, where shall we start?"

"At the warehouse, of course," Bodie said wearily. "Let's face it - it was
a choice between that and the water tower. And just in case they ever *do*
get to show the episode about the spades..."

"Bodie!" Doyle's eyes flashed.

"About the coloured gentlemen, I mean, we can't use that again. So it's
back to the warehouse with different camera angles."

"Fine, fine. We can take my car. I am of course an excellent driver."

"No way, love" Doyle said firmly. "Besides, they've repaired mine now
after we messed up on that 'how many inches' thing. And I haven't lost it
for weeks."

"It ran out of petrol," Bodie murmured. "And they forgot to fill it. But
apparently one of the lads in the camera crew have something suitable, as
long as we don't do any handbrake turns, he says. Italian, even."

"Right then," Doyle said, grinning suddenly. "Lamborghini? Maserati?
Ferrari?"

"Fiat Panda," Maria Susanna said calmly. "But don't worry. I'm a fully
qualified mechanic, by the way. Including making fan belts out of my
tights - better than head gaskets out of lino, that."

"Amazing," Doyle shook his head. "Was that before or after the black belt
in judo?"

"After judo, but before karate and feng shui."

"Feng shui?" Bodie said. "Never heard of that one."

"Interior decorating, Chink style," Doyle said laconically.

"Isn't."

"Is. Who's the expert on everything Chinese, then? Remember the yellow
plastic mac and you not having to shave... that give you a clue? What was
her name again?"

"Esther," Bodie nodded. "And that was Hong Kong, which isn't China - or
not yet anyway. But she was from Clapham, remember. Spent *hours* trying
to get that bit of Chinese out without all the extras who were real Chinks
cracking up..."

"She did 'er best," Doyle argued. "Can't all be naturals like me an the
Sath Effrican accent."

"Oh, I know that, my lad," Bodie said with a huge wink. "Quite the little
raver, you said, that girl from Cape Town you practised it with. And I do
remember Esther had her merits as well. Very creative with all that fruit
from the stall, right? Not to mention courgettes and that feather
duster..."

"Good gracious!" A pair of brown eyes widened. "You mean it's all right to
make dodgy references to kinky stuff, yet no threesomes?"

"We meant she made lovely fruit salads, steamed courgettes like a dream,
and kept the place spotless," Doyle said airily.

"Like hell," Maria Susanna said.

"You've just got a dirty mind, love," Bodie said cheerfully. "I tell you,
the way people interpret stuff..."

"Basta!" Maria Susanna said, with a ladylike trace of irritation. "And sod
it if that's Italian. Sounds nice. And actually, to get back onto my
qualifications, which are extremely important, feng shui has a huge future
ahead of it. I mean, if you don't have your bed in the right place..."

"Have a drink, love," Bodie prompted wickedly. "Or we'll stray back on to
sex again."

Slender fingers picked up the glass, and glossy red lips took a ladylike
sip.

"What the *fuck* is that?"

"I'd say Harvey Wallbanger, but that has all the wrong connotations and I
strongly suspect it's cold tea. Mind, we'll have to do that bit again
anyway. You're supposed to say 'here's to us, boys' and bat your
eyelashes."

*
 Doyle sighed gustily, not even cheered up by the sight of Maria Susanna
in elegantly tailored combats. 

"I tell you, I never want to see this warehouse again. Enough to turn you
into a television surgeon or something."

"Picky, aren't we. And in ten seconds from now, you get to utter that
immortal phrase 'cover me'."

"Same old, same old. But I'm glad she changed her shoes. Wouldn't like 'er
to break a leg or anything."

"C'mon, it would give you a bit more practice in the hospital stuff.
Right, we ready?"

"Ready," Doyle nodded. 

"And no jogging slowly just because they can speed up the film a bit
later. That's cheating."

"It's not *me* that got out of breath running for a grenade and then
missing the bin you were supposed to throw it in five times in a row, now
is it?"

"Run," Bodie said darkly. "Sooner we get this bit over with we should be
able to cut to the next bit - and my money's still on me being the one to
get 'er out of those clothes and into a little international *entente*.
Unless you've been bribing the scriptwriters."

Doyle's eyes widened in innocence.

"Would I? 

"Yeah. You got out of the chimney climb like that..."

"Only because you got wardrobe to insist on the checked jacket with the
rugby shirt."

Bodie grinned.

Sighing, Doyle took a deep breath and ran. 

A shot rang out, followed by several more.

Maria Susanna emerged from a pile of crates, swinging her hips and
smiling.

"I got all three."

"Did not," Bodie protested as he went over there. "How about one each?"

"Doyle was at the wrong angle. And besides..."

"You're a superb marksman... woman... person. Whatever," Bodie snapped.
"Just as long as you left one of them alive."

"But naturally. I need to demonstrate my outstanding interrogation
techniques."

"That before you hit the sack with me, or after?" 

Doyle had sauntered over, and casually pointed at her gun. "And let's hope
nobody noticed you forgot to take the safety catch off if you're supposed
to be the one that shot 'em."

"Sarky. And we should celebrate this, Maria," Bodie said smoothly. "Posh
restaurant, no expenses spared."

"I'm afraid not," Maria Susanna said airily. "I asked Mr. Cowley..."

"*Cowley*?" both voices expressed horrified shock.

"If it could be Mr. Murphy. Not to do it with dear old George, don't be
silly. Perish the thought. He's busy with that Walsh woman anyway."

"*Murphy!*" The choral speaking continued. 

"Murphy. I mean he's got such *class*. And he's taking me out to dinner."

"Bloody hell," Doyle said. "Nothing for it then, Bodie - we'll have to hit
the chippy and watch the footie."

"That's your problem," Maria Susanna said condescendingly. "You need
more... *je ne sais quoi*."

"Bollocks," Bodie said pleasantly. "And take it from me, Murph might come
over all glamorous, but if Ruthie ever finds out, watch your back, love."

"I would make mincemeat of her," Maria Susanna retorted. 

"Not with the safety catch on, although you could do a bit of damage with
those heels, I suppose. And she might not be good at feng shui, but she's
a tad possessive about our Murph. You need somebody footloose and fancy
free," Doyle informed her. "And I have something you can't resist cooked
up for you at home."

"Spaghetti la Benny again," Bodie warned her. "You can bet your bottom
dollar."

"Spaghetti?" Maria Susanna's eyes lit up. "I *love* spaghetti. How did you
*know*? I'll just re-schedule Murphy."

Bodie groaned. Then had a final thought.

"Who were the guys anyway?"

"No idea," Doyle shrugged. "What do you expect? A plot that makes sense?"

*
 Doyle opened the door to Bodie wearing his dressing gown.

"Mornin'" Bodie said mock-cheerfully, scanning the flat and scowling as he
identified high-heeled satin slippers on the rug.

"Coffee?" Doyle said. "Maria made it. Jamaica Blue Mountain, medium
ground. And there must be a croissant or two left and some French unsalted
butter..."

Bodie sniffed contemptuously but the cholesterol urge was obviously still
governing his reactions.

"Good, was she?" he managed between mouthfuls while watching Doyle teasing
his hair into place.

"Amazin', ta. She'll be right with us. Just finishin' 'er early mornin'
yoga and we can be off once I've nipped off to put me jeans on. That look
all right?"

"Perm's growing out," Bodie said casually. 

"Shaggy's in. Maria said so. 'Lo darlin!"

This time, the vision of loveliness was wearing a severe black suit and
her hair was swept into an equally severe chignon. 

"Nice," Doyle grinned. "But nicer out of it."

"Rub it in, why don't you," Bodie muttered, snatching the last croissant.
"Go on then. Get yer togs on. Do the usual stuff of lying on the floor
so's you can pull the zip up."

"At least I *can* pull the zip up..."

"Boys, boys," Maria purred. "Don't fight. Although it really does a girl's
ego good. Now let's get going. We have to check out the baddies' boss.
Some snarky woman who insists that writing porn is in the national
interest."

"Can't have that," Bodie agreed. "Off you go, sunshine. What's with the
suit, Maria?"

"I am posing as the Inland Revenue to infiltrate the organisation. You
will be my backup."

"We don't do backup," Doyle protested. "That's for girls. Susan, or Ruthie
at a pinch."

"Times will change. Mark my words. Backup indeed - they'll be actually
*calling* somebody Backup next instead of giving the poor cow a name!"
Maria Susanna said with irritation, tapping her fingernails on the
counter. 

"Can't win 'em all," Doyle said thoughtfully. "Although you can't
complain. Thanks to you, love, we've got extra glamour, so just leave it
up to Bodie 'n me to chuck a few powerful emotions in, and Bob's yer
uncle."

"UNCLE?" Bodie said. "Now that was something. As in 'Man From'.
Remember..."

"UNCLE was ridiculous," Maria snapped, throwing Doyle a strange look. "If
you want a role model, think of the Champions with that blonde girl who
actually *did* something. And you think I'm only here for the *glamour*?"

"Oops," Bodie said, smugly. "Don't worry darlin'. I'm sure he'll see the
error of his ways. C'mon Doyle, you going to get dressed or not today?"

Doyle frowned, aware he might have made something of a mistake just
before. Bodie's eyes had the rather irritating twinkle they always had
when he was up to no good.

*
 "Freeze," Maria Susanna commanded.

"Don't move, please," Murphy added, for the sake of politeness and because
it sounded more British. 

The middle-aged woman looked up from her desk in sheer astonishment.

"Is this one of those 'This is your life' things? You're not from the
Inland Revenue after all?"

"Afraid not," Maria Susanna said, settling herself on the desk and
crossing her legs. "It's all over. Hand us your manuscripts and nobody'll
get hurt."

"The... *my* manuscripts? You must be mistaken! I'm not the brains behind
all this - I'm just a humble beta reader in my spare time, when I'm not
working on the till at Sainsburys!"

"Trite," Doyle muttered from his hiding place outside the window. "Very
trite, although they're obviously still working on getting product
placement in."

"Talk!" Maria Susanna snapped.

"I'm talking, all right? Give me a chance. So which manuscripts are you
looking for? The ones from the woman who writes sentimental crap, those
from the one who can't spell, the ones who use long words but not always
in the right place, or the bits by the woman who never finishes anything?
Or the one who's guilty of the whole lot? Oh, but of course. Silly me. You
must be after the ones who write gay porn! "

"That's them," Murphy said grimly and ungrammatically. "Hand 'em over. And
I shall need to read 'em to make a full assessment and trace 'em back to
the perpetrator."

"*Perpetrator?*" Bodie's eyes rolled. "Blood and sand. Big words are
catching."

"'Pervert' would be more appropriate," Doyle added. Perpetrator is also
*American*. I tell you..."

"Shut it, both of you," Murphy glared. "This is my bit, and God knows I
don't get many."

"Give 'im a chance, Bodie," Doyle sighed. "Sorry, Murph. Where were we?"

"... and trace it back to the pervert. *Perpetrator*. Damn. And as for the
reading, somebody's got to do it."

"So selfless," Doyle sneered, fortunately outside Murphy's earshot.

"Absolutely." Maria Susanna laid a well-manicured hand on Murphy's arm.
"But don't worry, Gavin, we can do dinner on Friday."

Bodie grinned. Doyle frowned. 

"*Gavin?*"

"She thought the poor guy should have a first name," Bodie said. "And she
says Gavin sounds sexy."

"Jesus wept," Doyle moaned. "Maybe he should be lucky she's not turned on
by Torquil. Or Jos. Or... Albert. Or Ernest. Or..."

"Shhh," Bodie scolded. "Listen."

"Only Friday?" Murphy said, obviously confused.

"After the funeral."

"Funeral?" Doyle said to Bodie in a furious half-whisper. "Whose funeral?"

"Ah." Bodie hesitated. "I was going to talk to you about that. But it was
your idea - all the powerful emotions and stuff you were talking about."

"Go on." Doyle glared. "And?"

"Be patient, old son."

"*WHOSE FUNERAL?*" Doyle insisted. "I mean it's not her or Murphy, and it
can't be you or me, because..."

Then the shot rang out. Bodie whirled, returned fire, and then slowly
dropped his arm.

"What the *fuck* is going on?" Doyle snapped. 

"You're dead. So's the author who was lurking around hassling her beta
reader. Serves her right. We'll have to do slo-mos of the impact later,
like we did with the milk bottle, by the way," Maria Susanna said
cheerfully, strolling outside. "And cut and paste the funeral bit
afterwards, but that shouldn't be a problem.

"*DEAD?*"

"Dead," Bodie said, trying to look mournful but failing miserably. "You
did want out of the contract, remember."

"I am *not dead*."

"Are."

"Stop it," Maria Susanna shouted. "I'm rather afraid you are, Doyle.
Powerful emotions, see. And it's a very, very clever idea and fits in with
the plot beautifully so far. I'll be heartbroken, remembering our one
brief night of passion. Bodie and Murphy can console me. Bodie will
manfully hold back the tears..."

"You are *joking*. And this was your idea, right?" Doyle jabbed Bodie in
the chest. "And *she's* in on it as well, I bet. Even Murph. Or should I
say *Gavin.*"

"Killed two birds with one stone," Bodie said glibly. "You move on to new
and better and infinitely more serious things beyond the wonderful world
of CI5. And of course you go out as a hero - we'll put that bit in later -
might even have you throwing yourself in front of me..."

"*NO* way would I..."

"Let me finish, right? And if we get to do another series, we can have a
torrid love triangle with Mary Sue and Murph and me."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Doyle moaned. "It sounds like a bloody soap
opera, not an all-action extravaganza."

"Have to move with the times. And it could be worse - they could bring in
a couple of poofters in to play Cowley's finest *and* drive Japanese cars.
Mind, 'e's threatening to get out of it as well. I think the idea of
Nissans and Toyotas hit him hard."

From furious, Doyle thought about all this for a bit, then chuckled
softly. 

"Bloody 'ell. I do hope they've got extra staff in to deal with 'alf of
England's female population sobbing their 'earts out 'cause I've snuffed
it."

"Never know your luck," Bodie nodded as the suddenly forgotten keeper of
manuscripts approached with a beatific smile. 

"I've got quite a few writers into death stories. I'll get some of them
onto some new, post-episode stuff right away. It's been done a couple of
times before though. Doyle dying, that is. Lots of really syrupy hospital
scenes..."

"Don't I get one of those?" Doyle asked. "I mean that's the least they
could do..."

"Nope," Bodie sighed. "Too expensive to film in intensive care units these
days. I think we'll just use some old footage - me having flashbacks to
the good old days during your funeral."

Doyle sighed deeply.

"I reserve the right to choose scenes where the angles are good though,
right?"

Maria Susanna rolled her eyes.

"Not only that, but an audition for some Shakespeare stuff and for some
bizarre, offbeat but incredibly arty films," Bodie said helpfully.
"Serious stuff."

"Fair enough," Doyle said eventually. "Shall I just go over there and die,
then?"

"Sounds like a plan," Bodie nodded. "Head and shoulders only, I think.
Somebody forgot the fake blood."

"Typical. You going to hold my hand, Maria? Do I get a few last words?"

"Could be arranged, I suppose."

"Right."

"Ready?"

"Yep, but do it quick as we're running out of film," a disembodied voice
called. 

Doyle took a deep breath and staggered, falling bonelessly to the floor,
deciding that opportunities - even last ones - should not be missed. Few,
very few, did bonelessly like he did.

"And a certain channel had *better* not snip this bit when they do
re-runs," Doyle opened his eyes again briefly. "OK... here we go..."

"DAMN!" Maria Susanna cursed as she darted forward and then stumbled.
"I've broken my bloody *heel*. These shoes cost a bloody *fortune...*"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Doyle sighed. "What a bloody fuck-up."

"That'll do," Bodie nodded. "Very much in character, although they'll have
to replace fuck-up with fiasco when they work on the sound, I think.
Anybody for a beer?"

"Champagne," Maria Susanna said firmly. "Definitely. And we have lots of
things to talk about. We need to soup up the theme tune, by the way. And
as for you boys," she pointed at Bodie and Murphy, "you both need a
revamp. Murphy needs a haircut and narrower lapels. Bodie needs to lose
that paunch and the horrible mustard cardigan thing. Or maybe you should
just retire gracefully. Get some new blood in..."

"Eh?" Bodie stared. "For heaven's sake... that wasn't the idea..."

"Should have thought about that earlier," Maria Susanna said brightly.
"And that'll teach you to underestimate somebody of my calibre. Did I say
I was currently studying for a PhD in advanced media trends?"

"Stuff it where you put the feng-shui," Doyle muttered darkly. "Give you
half a chance and they'll be turning it all into a historical drama next."

"Ooooh," said the beta-reader. "That's been done as well. And starship
captains. And elves. Lots of those. Personally, I'm not that fond of
seeing you both as gerbils, but..."

"Gerbils?" Bodie's eyes widened. "As in..."

"Long tails, twitchy noses. Oversexed gerbils for that matter," Murphy
looked up from the manuscript he was leafing through. "Fascinating stuff,
mind, and I'm an extraordinarily handsome gerbil too. And personally I'd
rather have than than the ones where I'm shacked up with Bodie -
apparently there's a few of those around as well. Nothing personal, mate
but I do prefer Ruthie..."

"Drink," Bodie said weakly. "I need a *drink*. Not cold tea. Not tea of
any sort, whether it's Broken Orange Pekoe or anything else. And then I'm
going to wring your scrawny neck, Mary Sue. You're a bloody steamroller."

"'Course I am," Maria Susanna said cheerfully. "That's the whole idea,
innit?"

"It is?" Doyle said bleakly. 

"Definitely. Now, I wonder if we can get Robert Redford in for the next
series? Or that *hunk* that does those boxing films? Think he could do a
British accent?"

"No," Doyle shook his head, but she wasn't listening.

"And I need to get a new wardrobe designer. And a full-time hairdresser.
Oh, and..."

"Much more," Bodie said acidly, "and I'll set one of the syrupy writers
onto you. And you'll have to marry me. Or Murph. Or Cowley."

"You wouldn't!" Maria Susanna squeaked.

"Try us," Doyle said primly, turning to the beta reader. "Could it be
done?"

"Definitely. You want the bad spelling, lousy plot...?"

"The works," Bodie said. "Definitely the works. You can resurrect
Doyle..."

"Lose Bodie's paunch..." Doyle said generously.

"... give me a sensible name..." Murphy chipped in.

"And throw in a threesome," Doyle said. 

"With... *her*?" The woman looked over at a sadly deflated Maria Susanna.

Doyle's eyes flickered over to Bodie and Murphy.

"I'll leave that one up to the author, love. Just make sure I get a copy."

-- THE END --

*May 2003*

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