The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Curse of Drink       The Curse
of Drink

 

by PJ 

 
 With slow, weary steps, the exhausted trio plodded toward Whitehall.
Fatigue hung from them like a tattered shroud but there was a firmness to
their jaws, an unswerving conviction in their eyes. Or it might have been
the sun. The older of the trio was a middle-aged gentleman of average
height, portly and balding. His two younger companions shuffled tiredly
along beside him. A lovely, slender girl with dark red hair and pale
complexion, whose large, over-wide blue eyes gave her the permanent look
of a startled sparrow; next to her, a lanky, dark-haired youth whose
earnest brown eyes held a clear message...'Space for Rent'. Onward they
trudged, ignoring the glory of a newly reborn day; the high-pitched
giggles of a group of young school children running past them; the
majestic, centuries old buildings lining the streets; the derelict
throwing up in the gutter...

 When he had initially come across the notation in one of Lewis Vendredi's
sales books, Jack Marshak's concern had been tempered by cautious
optimism. This time, they not only had the full name of the purchaser of
the cursed antique, but also his address and whom to contact in case of
emergency. Some of Marshak's elation had died a nasty death when he'd
discovered the address was a bunker along the Falls Road in Belfast. But,
persevering in spite of it all, Jack had decided to go to Northern Ireland
and contact the poor soldier who had, all unknowingly, bought the demonic
brew.

 The older man's first intimation that this retrieval would be more
difficult that he'd originally thought came as he was attempting to sneak
out of his office at Curious Goods. Unfortunately waylaid by Micki Foster
and Ryan Dallion, the two disaster-prone heirs to Vendredi's dubious
legacy had pleaded, begged and whined to accompany him. Micki had been
particularly strident, pouting and complaining that Marshak never let her
go anywhere or help him at all. Other memorable occasions of when Micki
had `helped' came quickly to mind and Marshak had opened his mouth to
pithily remind her of those when Ryan had jumped in, flat feet and all. If
Micki was going along to help, then he was, too. After all, Uncle Lewis
had left the shop to both of them; this made Ryan as equally responsible
for finding and retrieving Vendredi's satanic goods. Remembering all the
times Ryan had been `responsible', Marshak had been hard pressed not to
cry. Caving under the pressure, he'd consoled himself there was not much
chance of the Terrible Twosome coming to grief this time. After all, not
even Micki and Ryan would be stupid enough to wander off in battle-torn
Belfast...he devoutly hoped.

 After very little difficulty, the rescue team from Curious Goods had
found themselves before the C.O. of the British troops. Things had started
to go slightly downhill from there. Dreadfully sorry, old chap, but
Sergeant Latimer was no longer in Belfast. Yes, he'd been alive when his
3rd Para Unit was transferred back to Britain. After some tenacious
prodding -- and Micki batting her eyelashes until a Force Six gale was
produced -- the commanding Colonel Blimp admitted that Latimer's unit had
returned to a base in Northamptonshire. Perhaps personnel at the base
could assist Mr. Marshak in locating the sergeant.

 Marshak's hopes had risen when, after arriving at the base, he had found
himself before a career soldier who had clearly remembered the elusive
Sergeant Latimer. Stunned into silence, Marshak had learnt that the bottle
of malt had been purchased by Latimer as the reward in a tontine. Nine men
-- three sergeants and six enlisted men -- had bartered their lives
against a bottle of single malt scotch. Old Sergeant Major Beckerman had
then gone on to blandly say that the bottle had been an effing poor good
luck charm. Of the original nine, seven were now dead from one reason or
another. The two surviving members of the ill-fated group were currently
in civvy street. When pressed, Beckerman had -- after much searching and
blaspheming -- produced an old address for one of them.

 Three hours after that, Marshak and Co. were on their way to London. It
had taken that long to find the younger members of the team. While some
effort had been needed to produce Ryan -- discovered in the arsenal
earnestly endeavouring to find out if a bomb really would explode if you
banged on it with a hammer like Wile E. Coyote -- Micki's whereabouts were
more easily ascertained. A Marshak-induced surprise barracks inspection
had soon flushed out the missing nympho. The redhead had bounced out of
`D' Barracks smiling, cheerfully assuring the puce-faced sergeant major
that she had merely been testing the readiness of his troops.

 Shortly thereafter, Marshak had found that his luck had gone from bad to
worse. The man he was looking for was no longer at the address he'd been
given. Bored with three days of fruitless searching, Micki and Ryan had
started complaining and demanding that they wanted to go home. Only when
Marshak had bribed them with the promise that they could go sight-seeing,
did the tantrums stop. Both juveniles enthusiastically boarded a coach the
next day, with Marshak sending good-byes -- and fervent Heavenward prayers
-- from the kerb.

 Two days later, Marshak had finally struck pay dirt...of a sort. Running
to ground the sister of the soldier's girlfriend, he found her
baby-sitting her cousin's four screaming kids. Only too willing to have an
excuse to pack the brats off to the park, she'd invited the tired Canadian
in and chattered non-stop for the next three hours. Emerging with a
massive headache and moderate hearing loss, Marshak had glumly
acknowledged that his quest was far from over. Time was running perilously
short...Williams was dead; there was now only one man left standing.
Marshak had to run William Bodie to earth and fast, before the poor soul
opened the damned bottle. It had already been five months since he'd come
into full possession of it.

 It had proven strangely difficult to get an official confirmation that
CI5 actually existed. Helpful answers were only given after Ryan had
innocently let the cat out of the bag during another fruitless encounter.
The official's manner had changed dramatically after he'd stopped
giggling. Ever helpful, Willis had apologised and then told them where to
find their elusive quarry -- he'd even gone so far as to draw a map. A
trifle surprised at the abrupt about-face, Marshak had nonetheless
shrugged it off. After all, one should never look a gift horse in the
mouth.

 Marshak's thoughts were returned to the present as Ryan tugged
plaintively at his jacket sleeve.

 "Isn't this the place, Jack?" the youngster asked impatiently. Any
glamour this trip might have once held for him was long gone. Still
smarting from Micki accidentally locking him in the dungeon at the Tower
of London, Ryan only wanted to go home.

 Looking up, Marshak eyed the disreputable building with some chagrin.
Reminding himself that Willis had said the building was not fashionable,
Marshak responded slowly, "It looks like it, Ryan." Stopping in his
tracks, he sighed, "Now, if only Fate will be kind enough to let William
Bodie be present."

 "Yeah," agreed Micki, absently tugging her skirt upward and smoothing her
hair. She was having a much better time in London than her cousin,
managing to pick up several offers from the yeomen and guards at the
Tower.

 As the trio started up the steps of the unprepossessing structure, they
had to execute a smart sidestep to avoid being flattened by two men
barreling out the door. Running pell-mell down the stairs, the two men
only realised at the last minute that there was traffic in their way.
Proving himself an expert at broken field running, the thinner man mumbled
something an optimist might have taken for an apology, and kept going.

 Halting briefly, the larger man said, "So sorry," in a deep voice and
gave them all a brilliant smile. He caught up with his companion after
only a few steps.

 Next to Ryan, Micki stood, poleaxed, staring down the street after the
retreating men. Gradually becoming aware of his sock feeling damp, Ryan
glanced at the sky. *No, it's not raining...* As another drop found its
way down his sock, Ryan's eyes narrowed suspiciously and he glared
irritably at his cousin.

 "For Christ's sake, Micki," he hissed. "Pack in the drooling, will ya?
Jeez, it's worse than having a baby along!"

 Recalled to herself, Micki shot him a withering look but did get her
mouth closed.

 Inwardly sighing, the older man continued up the steps and into the
building. Sometimes he wished Micki were a cat -- he had just the cure for
her... Without checking to see if his charges were with him, Marshak went
up to the man behind the glassed-in enclosure.

 Leisurely getting to his feet, the guard politely enquired, "May I help
you, sir?"

 "I certainly hope so," replied Marshak in all sincerity. "I need to speak
with Mr. William Bodie concerning a matter of greatest urgency. Is he in?"

 "Is he expecting you?"

 "No, he isn't," broke in Ryan, "but he'll see us if he wants to live much
longer. Time's running out, y'know!"

 Taking in the obviously agitated young man, the muted anxiety in the
older man and Micki standing quietly to one side, her eyes demurely
downcast, the CI5 guard came to an understandable -- if erroneous --
conclusion. So Bodie had at last come to grief! Knowing that Cowley would
murder him if he let this sort of nastiness erupt in the building, Anson
maintained a neutral facade as he blandly informed them, "Sorry, sirs.
Bodie isn't here at the present."

 "Damn!" exclaimed Marshak in heart-felt tones. Running a hand over his
balding pate, he asked desperately, "Do you know when he'll be back? Or
where I might find him?"

 Successfully hiding his glee, Anson volunteered, "He and his partner just
left; you might be able to catch them up if you hurry." His eyebrows
climbed into his fringe when Marshak bellowed in disbelief, "One of those
two was Bodie?!" and took off at a dead run.

 Tripping on his heels, Ryan and Micki followed, the girl squealing in
delight. Shaking his head -- *Bodie used to have better taste* -- Anson
sat back down inside the security cubicle. Maybe it wasn't so bad that he
had to fill in while poor Bill was out sick; you certainly saw Life this
way. He lit a cigar before reaching for the phone to call the Rest Room.

 ******

Outside, Marshak was frantically searching up and down the street. It
hadn't been that long; surely the men couldn't have gone too far... But,
alas, there was no sign of the elusive duo. Marshak stood there,
indecisively biting his lip; he barely heard the other two come up beside
him.

 "Now, what, Jack?" whined Ryan in frustration. "We just gonna hang around
this dump until they come back? Jeez, we almost had him!" He shook his
head disgustedly. For one brief, shining moment, things had started to
look up.

 "No," responded Marshak slowly. Squaring his shoulders, he made his
decision. "I'm going to do something I swore I would never do..."

 Fascinated, Ryan queried, "What's that?" *This sounded promising*...

 Sighing, the older man half-shrugged. "Let Micki off her leash." Turning
to the girl, whose eyes had widened in glee, Marshak snapped, "Find them!
Quickly!"

 Preening, Micki made a good show of it; turning this way and that, her
vapid face screwed up in concentration.

 "Will you kindly cut the comedy?" ground out Marshak between tightly
clenched teeth.

 Giving an indignant flounce, Micki started down the path as fast as her
six-inch heels would carry her. The two men followed faithfully. Ten
minutes later, after several twists and turns, she stopped in front of
wide, smoked-glass doors and pointed.

 "Are you sure?" Ryan asked doubtfully.

 "Of course I am!" Micki pouted, wounded by her cousin's lack of faith.

 "Of course you're sure, Micki," soothed Marshak. As the girl perked up,
he went on, "You may not always be right, but you're always sure..."

 Smile slipping somewhat, the young woman followed Marshak and Ryan into
the pub.

 Pausing just inside the doors, Marshak peered through the slight smoky
haze in an attempt to spot his prey. He had only seen the men very
briefly, so he'd better check the room carefully. Spirits dropping to his
shoes, Marshak was turning to castigate Micki when movement caught the
corner of his eye. *Thank Christ, there they were!* Muttering apologies,
Marshak pushed through the crowd, heading determinedly toward the back
booths.

 He was spotted before he was halfway across the room. The smaller,
thinner man glanced up and saw his purposeful progress. Watching the
Canadian's approach with intent eyes, he said something in a quiet aside
to his partner. As he drew alongside the booth, Marshak was speared by two
pairs of suspicious eyes.

 Not knowing which man was his target, Marshak announced into the air,
"Sorry to bother you gentlemen, but I need to speak with Mr. Bodie rather
urgently."

 "Oh?" Raising a lazily enquiring eyebrow, the larger man leant back
against the booth. "Do I know you, mate?"

 Aware that he was under close scrutiny, Marshak took the time to also
study the men before him.

 Tall, wide-shouldered and powerfully built, William Bodie continued to
assess him coolly. No expression showed on his classically handsome face
or in his dark sapphire eyes. As he reached for his drink, the muted pub
light caught the bright glints in the smoothly cropped sable hair. His
companion was diametrically opposite -- while slender to the point of
thinness, the broadness of the man's shoulders was startling. Long,
tumbled mahogany curls cascaded onto an exotic face. Capricious pub light
threw the left side of his face into shadow, while highlighting an uneven
right cheekbone and narrowed, slanting jade eyes. Eyes which continued to
gaze steadily at Marshak, making no attempt to mask their continued
suspicion.

 Finding it somewhat difficult to concentrate -- with Ryan's adenoidal
breathing in one ear, and Micki's excited panting in the other -- Marshak
said quietly, "No, we're not acquainted, Mr. Bodie; but I do need to speak
with you sir. It's concerning your bottle of malt."

 "Eh?" Bodie replied blankly, staring at the bottle sitting in the middle
of the table. His bemused expression was mirrored on his partner's face.

 "Not that bottle. The bottle of malt from the tontine."

 "Oh. Why d'you want it, then?" Intent on Marshak, Bodie failed to notice
his partner's flinch.

 "Because it's not what it appears to be." Ignoring Ryan's muttered, "You
can say that again!", Marshak went on, "Look, Mr. Bodie, the explanation
is quite involved. Is there somewhere more private we can speak?"

 Looking over at his partner, Bodie caught the other man's shrug. Decision
made, he drained his glass and stood. "Yeah. C'mon, then." With the trio
in tow, Bodie led the small procession outside to where a small gold Capri
Ghia stood at the kerb.

 "Sorry," apologised the curly-haired man, a smile twitching at his lips.
"You're going to be a mite crowded back there."

 "We'll manage," Marshak said shortly, shoving Micki and Ryan into the car
over their nascent protests.

 ******

Once inside the flat, the older CI5 agent headed straight for the kitchen,
leaving Bodie to deal with the locks and their peculiar guests.

 "I'll put the kettle on," he called, vanishing through the swinging door.

 When Doyle returned to the lounge a few minutes later, he instantly noted
the strained atmosphere. "By the by, I'm Bodie's partner, Ray Doyle."
Putting the tray containing the tea service and cakes down on the small
coffee table, he frowned slightly at his lover. *What the bloody hell is
Bodie doing; hiding behind me chair like a wally?* Sinking into the
over-stuffed chair the dark-haired man was cowering behind, Doyle placidly
asked, "Anyone care for a cuppa?"

 Feeling considerably safer now that his mate was in the room, Bodie edged
out from behind the chair. Keeping a wary eye on Micki, the ex-SAS
sergeant gingerly sat on the chair arm. While mentally giving the redhead
high marks in both stealth and ingenuity (Back to the room as he was
pulling the drapes, he had been completely unaware of being stalked until
the first grope had landed), Bodie was not prepared to give her the
slightest encouragement. It was going to be difficult enough, explaining
to his lover what had caused those bruises he felt developing on his arse.
Just back in town after ten days solo in Brighton, Doyle was probably
already angry enough about this interruption to their precious days off.
No need to further fan the flames by giving this bird an opportunity to
paw at him.

 Seeing that Doyle had finished pouring out -- and resolutely refusing to
acknowledge the invitation written large in the vacant blue eyes -- Bodie
pleasantly asked, "As everyone now has their cuppa...would someone mind
telling me what the bloody hell is going on?"

 "I'm sorry, Mr. Bodie. I know how strange this all must seem." Putting
his cup down, Marshak said, "Perhaps we'd best start by introducing
ourselves. My name is Jack Marshak; this is Micki Foster and Ryan
Dallion."

 As Bodie and Doyle gave a brief nod to each youngster, Marshak continued,
"We're from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Micki and Ryan are co-owners of an
antique shop called Curious Goods. They inherited the store from their
uncle, Lewis Vendredi. Some years ago, while Mr. Vendredi was still
managing the store, a Sergeant Neil Latimer purchased a bottle of single
malt scotch. The malt had purportedly been bottled in 1781 but,
unfortunately, this is not true. Not quite two weeks ago, I learnt of this
transaction; it's taken me this long to run the bottle to ground. Although
I realise you are deservedly entitled to the bottle as the sole survivor
of your tontine, I devoutly hope you will sell it back to me."

 "Just a bloody minute here, mate," broke in Doyle as Bodie opened his
mouth to speak. "What's with this `me' business? I thought the kids owned
the place. And why d'you want it back, then?"

 Hoping to avoid the latter question, the older man gave his usual vague
response. "I was an...acquaintance...of Vendredi's. Now I assist Micki and
Ryan in the retrieval of certain artifacts."

 "That's right," piped up Ryan, having finished stuffing himself with
cake. He directed a beam at Marshak. "Don't know what Micki and I would do
without Jack's help." On Marshak's other side, Micki was bobbing her head
dutifully.

 "Innit that just special?" mumbled Doyle, then let out a yelp as Bodie's
elbow caught him neatly on the third rib.

 After giving his lover a quelling glare, Bodie turned back to their
guests. "Always did wonder where old Latimer got that bottle. Particularly
since he didn't know a bottle of malt from his arse." He shook his head
reminiscently.

 Holding his breath, Marshak asked cautiously, "Will you sell it back?"

 To the Canadian trio's mutual chagrin, Bodie shook his head again. "No.
Not even if I still had it." Feeling Doyle tense, he shot his partner a
puzzled look. The jade eyes avoided his, making Bodie even more curious.

 "What about..." began Ryan.

 Interrupting, Bodie put paid to that hope. "No good asking if my friend
would sell it. I gave it to him four months ago to celebrate a very
special occasion, and he would never part with it. Not even for a million
pounds."

 Recalling that Marshak had evaded his question -- and desperately wanting
to change the subject -- Doyle asked hastily, "Just why are you three so
ruddy intent on getting that bloody bottle back?" He added a scowl for
good measure.

 Not really caring what their reasons might be, Bodie nonetheless added
his scowl to Doyle's. Deciding to indulge his partner's `copper's nose',
he demanded, "Yeah. What's in the bottle? The bloody Elixir of Life?"

 Seeing their faces, Micki whimpered and huddled closer to Marshak, while
Ryan swallowed convulsively. Pinned by the twin scowls, and nervously
aware it might not be healthy to be caught lying to these men, Marshak
tried an last-ditch evasion. "You really wouldn't believe me." He smiled
weakly.

 Returning the insincere smile, Bodie folded his arms across his chest and
leant against the chair back, waiting patiently.

 Sighing, Marshak figuratively threw up his hands. "All right," he
conceded. "You asked for it." Several quiet seconds elapsed as he worked
out what he was going to say. "The whole trouble was, Lewis Vendredi
wanted to live forever." Catching their impatient looks, Marshak growled,
"It's pertinent, believe me."

 Eyeing the perplexed agents, he said, "Vendredi decided there was only
one way to achieve his desire. For years, he studied the Black Arts and
when he'd acquired enough knowledge, he summoned a demon to him. To this
demon, he offered all his worldly goods and immortal soul to Satan in
exchange for that one wish." Disregarding the dropped jaws and
flabbergasted looks, Marshak went on with the bizarre story. "Lewis was
told his wish would be granted if he would sell certain items through his
store. Each item seemed innocuous: an antique porcelain doll, an ancient
watch fob, a decorative ladies' compact, an old-time radio and so on...
But these items were much more dangerous than they appeared; not only did
they bring death and destruction to those people who had purchased and
used them, they also stole those poor unfortunates' souls.

 "Those demonic sales went on for far too many years. Toward the end,
Lewis' conscience began to prey on him." Marshak sighed once more. "Or so
he told me. Perhaps he was only trying to cheat the Devil out of his end
of the bargain. He wrote and told me everything. By the time I could get
to him, it was too late. Although his body was never found, the police
assumed he'd been brutally murdered...the shop's storeroom was discovered
awash in blood."

 Marshak took a sip of his now-cold tea and nodded once each at Micki and
Ryan. "When his Will was read, it was found that Vendredi had left his
shop to his niece and nephew. I introduced myself to them, and informed
them of their other legacy: to help me retrieve all those cursed antiques
and to lock them away where they will never again destroy innocent lives."

 Face incredibly white and strained, Bodie glanced down at his
stunned-into-silence lover. "Go get the bottle, Ray," he ordered harshly.

 Nonplused, Doyle stared at him. *Surely Bodie doesn't believe this
bullshit?* He was struggling to form coherent words when Bodie spoke
again.

 "Get the bottle, Ray," he repeated. Voice softening, he laid an
apologetic hand on the bony shoulder. "I know I gave it to you, but I want
that thing out of our lives. Now."

 "I can't!" Doyle ground out.

 Bodie's own temper was only precariously reined in. "Look, mate," he said
tightly, "just give the man the bloody bottle and we'll fight about it
later, all right?"

 "I can't do that, Bodie!" Doyle was panicking. Armageddon was to hand.

 "Why the bloody hell not?!" shouted Bodie.

 "Because I don't sodding well have it, do I!" shot back Doyle, angered to
the point of recklessness.

 His heated words fell into a deep well of silence.

 Watching his lover apprehensively, Doyle waited for Bodie to say
something. There was no explosion, however, when brain, tongue and mouth
finally re-connected and let Bodie speak.

 Shocked past any attempt at discretion, Bodie simply asked, "You gave
away my wedding present to you?"

 Flinching away from the naked pain in the incredulous lapis eyes, Doyle
could only nod and lower his head to stare sullenly at the floor. He knew
it was as bad as he'd feared when Bodie said evenly, "We will discuss this
later." The tone was deadly for all its calm. "For now, I want to know
where that bottle is."

 Marshak, Ryan and Micki seemed to realise that something was seriously
amiss. Nerves taut, they sat tensely on the settee, barely daring to
breathe.

 Through sheer bloody-mindedness, Doyle brought his eyes up to meet
Bodie's. Although he'd been expecting it, the cold, closed-off look hurt
badly. Taking in a large, steadying breath, he answered quietly, "Old mate
of mine on the Drugs Squad retired a couple of weeks ago. Gave it to him."

 "You gave my bottle of malt to a fucking copper."

 Temper flaring, Doyle caught himself just in time. Bodie was right -- now
was not the time to air their dirty laundry. Contenting himself with a
simple, "Yeah.", Doyle waited for the next act in the farce.

 Bodie had seen the flash in the emerald eyes which usually foretold the
loss of his partner's formidable temper. Feeling unbearably hurt and
betrayed, however, he was past caring. It took several minutes, but when
he felt he finally had himself under control, he stated crisply, "Then I
guess we'd best go get it back, hadn't we?"

 He headed out the door.

 Squeezing his eyes shut, Doyle let out a long, weary sigh. "Oh, shit," he
exhaled. A deep breath later, he opened his eyes and gestured abruptly at
the shell-shocked occupants of the settee. "C'mon, then," he ordered
curtly. "No need to piss him off any further."

 He waited impatiently at the door as they gingerly filed past. Slamming
the door resoundingly behind him, he set the locks.

 ******

Exhausted beyond thought, Doyle slowly got out of the gold Capri once he'd
parked it in front of the flat. Already over-stressed and over-tired from
a tedious op in Brighton, he'd only been able to manage the long drive
back to London earlier in the day by reminding himself he was going home
and that Bodie would be waiting. Sure enough, his partner had somehow
contrived to be right outside Cowley's office when Doyle had arrived to
give his report. Shackled by the knowledge of where they were, Doyle had
been forced to exchange bland, everyday greetings when all he'd wanted to
do was fling himself bodily at his lover. Not surprised to find the
ex-merc still loitering about the outer office when he'd emerged, Doyle
had instantly suggested home and a meal. Plans were only slightly delayed
when Bodie had sheepishly informed him that their fridge was bare; Doyle
had settled for a pub lunch and several shots of malt -- on Bodie's
expense, of course. Had he known then the trouble Marshak would bring,
Doyle had decided he would have shot the older man the minute he saw him
headed toward their booth.

 The journey to the home of his old colleague had been horrible; although,
in all honesty, he couldn't blame Marshak or his young friends. Wisely,
all three had held their tongues unless directly spoken to. All through
that interminable drive, Bodie had maintained an icy silence which seemed
to freeze the very marrow of Doyle's bones. Whenever the lithe agent had
glanced at him, Bodie was studiously gazing out his window, hands clenched
white-knuckled in his lap.

 Matters had soon thereafter gone from bad to worse. Marshak had broken
the tense silence as they pulled up to Jamie Whitelock's terraced to
announce that he and the others would remain in the car. After knocking at
the front door, the two CI5 men had been graciously invited in by the
ex-copper. Shame-faced, and very much aware of the hovering thundercloud
at his side, Doyle had asked if he might have the bottle of malt back.

 Astonished when Doyle had stumbled out his garbled explanation, Whitelock
had then looked regretful. Of course Ray could have the malt -- that is,
he could have it if only Whitelock still possessed it.

 Somehow not surprised, Doyle had listened fatalistically as the older man
explained that, while he'd appreciated the obviously expensive gift, his
wife didn't allow spirits in the house. Never expecting to see Doyle, the
ex-Drug Squad man had therefore given the bottle to his old colleagues to
remember him by. Well knowing that drunken lot, Whitelock had said
cynically, the bottle had probably been emptied before the sun had set
that night. Belatedly remembering his manners, Doyle had thanked the
retiree and left, shadowed by the still-silent Bodie.

 By the furious look on Doyle's face, Marshak had immediately known their
quest had been futile. He had been able to offer a small glimmer of hope,
however: There was no way the malt could have been imbibed. The effects of
the demon-cursed brew on one man were quite spectacular, and if a whole
group of people -- particularly an entire shift of police officers -- had
been infected, well, Doyle would have heard about it by now. Not as
reassured by that knowledge as he should have been, Doyle had then
proceeded to drive the trio of malt-hunters back to their hotel. Decanting
them on the kerb, he'd promised to ring them in the morning after he had
contacted some of his old mates.

 Rousing from his exhausted stupor, the jade eyes widened when Doyle
looked around and was unable to find his lover. *Where the bloody
hell...?* Whirling, he frantically searched up and down the quiet street,
finally spotting the broad back propped up against a sign post
three-quarters of the way up the road. Jogging over to him, Doyle's relief
was short-lived when he discovered that Bodie was standing at a bus stop.

 "Bodie..." he began tentatively, reaching out a hand, but stopping just
shy of touching. He swallowed to clear a suddenly dry throat. "Where're
you going, mate?"

 Not looking at him, Bodie shrugged. "Whichever hotel I happen to find
first."

 "H-Hotel?" squeaked Doyle, staring at him, flummoxed.

 Bodie continued as though he'd hadn't spoken. "Since we both have the
next two days off, I'll send for my things tomorrow. That'll give you
plenty of time to rearrange your flat before you have to report in on
Sunday."

 Doyle finally managed to whisper, "Y-You're leaving me?" 

 The concept was unthinkable. God, he'd known that Bodie was angrier than
he'd ever seen him, that it was going to take considerable time and effort
to convince the ex-merc that he hadn't meant to hurt him so, but never, in
his worst imaginings, had Doyle thought it would come to this.

 "Why, love? Won't you even let me explain?" This time, Doyle did touch
his partner; unwanted tears filled his eyes when the hand was brusquely
shook off.

 "Nothing to explain," Bodie refuted woodenly. "I was wrong, that's all."

 "No, oh, Christ, no, you weren't. Please, Bodie..." Blinking rapidly,
Doyle attempted to clear his vision. He couldn't cause a scene; not in
public. Struggling to compose himself, he almost missed Bodie's barely
audible question.

 "Why, Ray? Why'd you lie to me?"

 Doyle vowed shakily, "I didn't, not ever. I love you, sunshine -- more
than words could ever tell."

 An eternity later, Bodie finally turned to face him. The raw pain in the
cobalt eyes found an outlet in the strained voice. "Then why did you give
away what I gave you on our wedding night? I meant what I said then --
that I needed my future to be with you. Didn't you believe me?"

 "Of course, I believed you," Doyle declared intensely. "I believed you
then, and I haven't doubted you since."

 Bewilderment showed plainly on the too-pale face. "Then why, for god's
sake?"

 "I'll tell you, honestly, love; but could we go back to the flat first?"
pleaded Doyle. "I can't talk to you out here."

 When Bodie nodded, albeit reluctantly, Doyle released the breath he'd
been unconsciously holding and led the way up to their flat. Motioning for
Bodie to sit, Doyle waited until he had done so before joining him on the
settee. Taking both of the capable hands in his, Doyle looked Bodie
straight in the eye as he said earnestly, "Didn't mean to hurt you,
mate...as God is my witness; that's the truth. I honestly didn't realise
the bottle was that important to you."

 As Bodie started to protest, Doyle over-rode him. "Let me finish. Do you
remember what you said that night?" As Bodie nodded, his partner quoted,
"'Here's the past, sunshine. I'm giving it over to the future.'"

 "So?"

 "You didn't tell me it was a symbol of your past!" Doyle burst out
passionately. "You didn't tell me it marked you as the sole survivor of
your old unit, that so many memories were locked inside. Christ, Bodie; if
I had known that, I would've put the sodding thing on the mantle where
everyone could have seen it!"

 As he watched, the last of the hurt and anger drained from Bodie's face.
"Oh."

 "Yeah. Oh." Doyle mock-scowled at him. "As it was, I'd thought you'd just
gone out and bought the ruddy bottle. Didn't reckon it could be all that
good of scotch, what with you being able to afford that old of bottle on
our salary. So when I ran into Ted Little and he told me they were giving
Jamie a party that afternoon, I gave it to him to give to Jamie as a
gift."

 Now smiling faintly, Bodie queried, "You reckoned to give an old mate a
bottle of scotch you'd decided was worthless?"

 "Yeah," Doyle agreed. "Was the perfect gift. Jamie was always as useful
as piss in the wind."

 Unable to stop himself, Bodie began chuckling. It soon turned into
full-blown laughter, somewhat hysterical in nature, as he washed away the
tensions of the preceding few hours. Watching his lover with an
affectionate smile, Doyle was swamped by a tidal wave of relief and love,
the intensity of which left him feeling mentally and physically drained.

 A short time later, Bodie's laughter died away. Wiping his eyes, he
looked over to where his mate sat slumped against the settee arm, watching
him out of slightly glassy eyes with a fatuous smile on the full lips. A
bolt of guilt shot through the younger man, recalling how fatigued his
partner had been before all the drama had begun. As he rose, he reached
out a hand and pulled Doyle up with him, supporting the slighter man as he
swayed from sheer weariness. Slipping an arm around the slim waist, Bodie
firmly steered the over-tired agent into the bedroom.

 "C'mon, then, sunshine," he urged gently. "Time for sleepies."

 Content with the larger man's tender dominance, Doyle closed his eyes and
stood there passively, letting Bodie undress him and tip him into the wide
bed. As the duvet was pulled up, however, the malachite eyes flew open and
Bodie found himself held captive by both the hand locked around his wrist
and the renewed fear in the over-wide eyes. He had no difficulty correctly
interpreting the unspoken question.

 "Just going to take a shower," he soothed, easily pulling his wrist free
so he could tuck the duvet around the bony shoulders. Brushing back limp
curls, he bent over and gave Doyle a small kiss on the forehead. "Be back
before you know it," he promised.

 As his heavy eyelids started downward once more, Doyle gave him a sweet,
sleepy smile and was asleep before his eyes had completely closed. Some
small portion of his brain remained alert, however; for when the bed
dipped beside him, Doyle instinctively rolled over and plastered himself
against the accommodating warmth next to him. He wiggled once, to get
comfortable, and then went limp, letting out a tiny sigh.

 ******

As they watched Doyle's Capri round the corner, Micki and Ryan announced
it was too early to return to their rooms. Underground passes firmly in
hand, the two cousins headed off to see London. Secretly relieved that he
wouldn't have to try and contrive some amusement for them, Marshak went up
to his room, intending to do some heavy thinking. Four hours later, he had
been forced to admit that all the thinking in the world wouldn't help at
this juncture. There was nothing to be done until the bottle of malt was
found.

 Standing at his hotel window, Marshak watched the passing traffic. It was
a constant here, for the Hotel Dexham stood at the corner of two main
thorough-fares. Used to the quiet side streets Curious Goods was situated
on, Marshak found the ever-present noise somewhat nerve-wracking. Turning
away from the window with a sigh, he went over to the in-room kettle and
made another mug of tea. Sinking into the over-stuffed chair, he absently
sipped at the hot fluid, his thoughts elsewhere. He prayed with all his
soul that Doyle was as good as his word. For all his instinctive trust of
the CI5 agent, Marshak was uncertain how much effort the doubting man
would actually put into the search. Bodie believed, however, and the
Canadian could only hope that he was capable of spurring on his partner. A
frown crossed his brow as he remembered his last view of the two Britons:
sitting side by side in a small car, they had still been as far apart as
the moon and the stars. It hadn't been his intention to start an argument
between them. For all his ignorance of the hidden details, Marshak knew it
wasn't a petty disagreement. He'd realised, almost immediately, that those
men were partners in every sense of the word. Praying that Bodie and Doyle
would be able to fight the tug of the demon drink's curse, Marshak sat
staring into space.

 As intensely as he was concentrating, he was considerably startled when
the phone at his side let out a sharp buzz. Figuring it was either Micki
or Ryan letting him know they were back, he picked up the handpiece. 

 "Marshak here. 

 He listened with growing astonishment to the prim, officious voice at the
other end of the line. Slamming the handpiece into the cradle, he dashed
out of the room.

 ******

Rolling over, Doyle gave a contented stretch. By the wan light peeking
through the curtains, it was still very early. *The simple pleasures of
Life are best,* he mused drowsily; *cool sheets, warm flat and hot
lover...that just about says it all*. Yawning widely, he turned to look at
his still-sleeping mate. Bodie, per his usual wont, lay face down, one
hand clutching his pillow, the other placed above his lover's heart.

 Sometime during the night, the duvet had slipped, leaving Bodie open to
his partner's lustful sight. With immense satisfaction, Doyle allowed his
gaze to wander slowly over the peaceful body. If he lived to be a hundred,
he knew he would never grow tired of Bodie's powerful form. The broad
shoulders whose sheer strength made him feel like a child whenever his
lover hugged him; the smoothly muscled back and chest, so like that of a
Greek statue; the firm, unblemished roundness of buttocks...

 A growing frown stole across the sleepily placid face. *What the bloody
hell are those marks on Bodie's bum? If I didn't know better...*

 Seconds later, an enraged Doyle was furiously shaking his somnolent
partner. "C'mon, Bodie, god damn it!"

 As the cerulean eyes blinked and attempted to focus on him, Doyle sprang
out of bed and began pacing. He didn't trust himself to get too close to
his lover, not at this moment. "Of all the two-faced, double-dealing
sods!" he snarled. "And only yesterday you had the balls to accuse me! You
self-righteous son of a bitch!"

 By now completely awake, Bodie could only gape at the raging man, unable
to fathom just what had angered him so. Breaking into the non-stop flow of
invective, Bodie patiently enquired, "Ray, what the bloody hell are you
talking about?"

 Spinning, Doyle glared down at him through stormy emerald eyes, hands
clutched into taut fists at his side. "Don't fucking well play the
innocent with me; you know damn well what I'm talking about! Where did
they come from, sunshine?" This time, the endearment was anything but.
"Who did it?"

 Still totally at sea, Bodie frowned up at him. "Where did what come
from?" he questioned.

 "Those sodding finger bruises on your bum!" spat out Doyle. "I'm going to
fucking well kill both of you!"

 The penny dropped with an audible clang.

 "Oh, yeah...those," Bodie said reflectively. "My bum is a mite sore this
morning. As much as I appreciate the offer, mate, you don't have to kill
her. Breaking her fingers will do nicely."

 Caught off guard, Doyle blinked at him. "What the ruddy hell are you on
about, Bodie?" he demanded finally.

 "The person who bruised me," explained Bodie. "I wasn't best pleased
meself, y'know."

 His jealous rage draining away, Doyle gave a faint "Oh.", and dropped
onto the bed. Several intensely thought-out minutes later, he asked
softly, "So what happened, then?"

 Giving the downbent shaggy head a fond smile, Bodie replied, "Was that
bird, Micki Foster. Turned my back on her yesterday to close the drapes
and the next thing I knew, me poor arse feels like Charmin -- pinched and
squeezed.

 "Oh," repeated his embarrassed and chastised lover. "So that's why..."
Letting his voice trail off, Doyle glanced up ruefully. "Decided to
protect your virtue by hiding behind my favourite chair, did you?"

 "Yeah." Slinging an arm around the slumped shoulders, Bodie pulled his
lover tightly against him. "Sorry about all this, sunshine," he apologised
sincerely. "Was going to tell you yesterday `cause I knew you'd get upset,
but it slipped my mind, what with one thing and the other." 

 If Bodie had entertained any continuing doubts about his lover's
feelings, they had been completely laid to rest by this stormy scene.
Doyle's fine fury had been both instantaneous and incandescent, requiring
only a small set of bruises to spark the conflagration.

 Somewhat diffidently, Doyle raised his head from the wide shoulder. "Not
mad at me, then?"

 "Nah." Bodie shook his head. "Reckon it was owed after what I put you
through yesterday."

 "Whatever." Doyle lazily leant over and nuzzled the sensuous mouth.
"Mmm," he drawled huskily, "been missing that for ten whole days. `Bout to
go into withdrawal."

 "Can't have that, now can we?" Falling back against the pillows, Bodie
pulled his lover on top of him. "That's better," he decided, nibbling on a
full lower lip. "Ready for your fix, sunshine?"

 "More than ready," announced his lover and proved it by putting on a
liplock that soon had Bodie gasping for breath.

 Peeling himself loose from tenacious lips and tongue, Bodie paused long
enough to drag some oxygen into his lungs before flipping the other man
onto his back. Staging his own strategic assault, he targeted the furry
chest and both plum-brown nipples. Doyle moaned deep in his throat, and
wound arms and legs, limpet-like, around the strong body. Nibbling and
nipping his way southward, Bodie felt his own body reacting
enthusiastically. The inevitable and longed-for cataclysm left them sweaty
and breathless, panting into each other's mouths and considerably tangled
in the sheets.

 When next they were capable of noticing such things, the bright morning
sun had already claimed the bedroom. Rolling a bleary eye toward the
bedside clock, Bodie hazily noted it was only going on eight o'clock.
*Lots of time to lie abed; not scheduled for any shifts for the next two
days, thank god.* Comfortably drowsing, Bodie suddenly came awake when his
memory jolted loose a fact.

 Giving his dozing companion a look compounded of hope and trepidation, he
said hesitantly, "Uh, Ray?"

 The mumbled "Yeah," was barely intelligible as Doyle's face was buried in
his pillow.

 "Time to be moving, mate. `S almost eight," Bodie informed him solemnly.

 One irritated malachite eye opened and perused him. "So? We don't have to
get up today, remember? I, for one, am going to sleep until the crack of
noon." The eye shut.

 "Ray, we need to talk to your old mates."

 "Huh? Since when have you wanted to talk to coppers..." Light dawned, and
Doyle reluctantly pushed himself upright. "Shit," he sighed. Running a
thin hand through already tousled curls, he looked over at Bodie and asked
curiously, "Do you honestly believe this Marshak bloke, then?"

 On the brink of fabricating something his sharp partner would buy, Bodie
glanced over and abruptly changed his mind. There was no derision or
mocking in the jade eyes, just curiosity and bafflement. "Yeah. I think I
do."

 "Why? Or have you always felt like that about the bottle?"

 "Christ, no!" Bodie refuted emphatically. "If I'd felt a bit off about
the bloody thing, I never would've given it to you." When Doyle had nodded
his understanding, the ex-SAS sergeant continued, "Marshak just got me to
thinking, that's all. I know he said you have to drink the stuff before
the curse took effect, but maybe there's a certain...aura...to the ruddy
thing?"

 "Aura?"

 "Yeah. What if this aura -- or whatever -- if not as evil as the true
curse, carries its own tendency to cause trouble? Nothing went right for
my mates since Latimer fetched it back from Canada that time he was
visiting his sister. The rest of us didn't even know about the bloody
bottle until after we'd left Belfast. Once we'd gotten back to base,
that's when he told us -- said it would give our little pact that bit more
spice."

 "Some spice," snorted Doyle. "Eight of `em dead within the next six
years."

 "'S what I mean! Not just those of us in the pact, either...my entire
squad! Ray, the whole thing, not just the drink inside, could be bad
juju." Bodie was deadly serious. "It's already caused enough trouble for
you and me. I don't want some old mate of yours -- or any other innocent
-- getting hurt simply because some old bastard decided he couldn't face
the inevitable."

 "That's my Bodie," Doyle said gravely, valiantly controlling his grin.
"Cool and uninvolved until the bitter end." Avoiding the swat aimed his
way, he bounced out of bed and headed toward the loo. "C'mon, then, mate;
get the lead out. We just might be able to hand Marshak the bloody bottle
this morning. Then it's a whole day and a half for you and me."

 Accepting his partner's reasoning with alacrity, Bodie bounded after him.

 ******

"Now what?" Bodie asked despondently, giving the crowded and noisy squad
room a jaundiced look. "If this Mason bloke took the ruddy bottle with him
on holiday, it's too late. `S been a fortnight, for god's sake!"

 Doyle wasn't much happier. "Yeah. Leave it to that bastard," he stated
gloomily. "Always did enjoy throwing his weight around."

 Scuffing the toe of his trainer over the squad room lino, Doyle reflected
morosely on his current run of bad luck. Arriving at eight-thirty, the two
agents had been gladdened to find the squad room filled to the brim with
coppers. Bodie had pursed his lips disdainfully at the noise and clutter,
but once he'd been introduced, had unbent sufficiently to chat and joke
with several of Doyle's old colleagues. Having kept a wary eye on his
unpredictable partner out of the corner of his eye, Doyle had soon relaxed
and become deeply enmeshed in a game of `Do you remember when?'

 Besides enjoying the re-living of old times, Doyle had used the
reminiscent mood to steer talk around to Jamie Whitelock and his
retirement party. The knowing looks had told their own story. Genuinely
regretful that he had been forced to miss such an epic bash (Cowley had
kept both him and Bodie searching through dusty, eons-old records for one,
insignificant piece of information. His gratitude when it was finally
produced had been overwhelming -- Bodie had been sentenced back to Records
and Doyle had ended up in Brighton for the next week and a half), Doyle
listened enviously to a spirited recounting of the affair.

 Several minutes into the glowing description of the girl who'd popped out
of the cake, the curly-haired man brought up the subject of the bottle of
malt. Was it true, he demanded fiercely; had Whitelock actually given his
expensive gift to a bunch of such notorious alcoholics?

 The two ex-colleagues merely grinned, long-inured to such outbursts from
the mercurial Doyle. His smile soon fading, Pete Timmons had told a
depressing tale. As the party was winding down, DCI Mason had wandered
into the still-noisy room. In the midst of giving them all a hearty
dressing-down for their unprofessional behaviour, the bellicose Mason had
noticed the unopened bottle sitting on Whitelock's former desk. Harumphing
and muttering snide comments about everyone being drunk on duty, he had
picked up the bottle to examine it. In seconds, his expression and manner
had changed. Slipping the bottle into his suit jacket pocket, Mason had
loftily informed the coppers that a malt of such age and smoothness was
wasted on layabouts like themselves. Presumably, he had taken the bottle
of spirits home, for it was not in his office -- they had looked. Five
days after the party, Mason and his wife had left for a holiday in
Majorca. They were not due back for another week.

 "How the bloody hell can a copper afford such a long holiday in Majorca?"
complained Bodie, bringing Doyle back to the present. "Unless...he's
bent?" His face brightened at the thought.

 Unfortunately for Bodie's happy idea, his partner soon put paid to the
notion.

 "Nah," dismissed Doyle, tossing his curls. "Can't be bent...the witless
bugger's too stupid to know anything of value." Flicking a glance at a
downcast Bodie, he went on, "Wife's on a good income -- she writes romance
novels. Me and the other blokes always reckoned she was getting hers the
only way she could."

 Absorbing this slanderous statement with narrowed eyes, Bodie nodded
thoughtfully. Seconds later, he gave a deep sigh and headed out the door.

 "Sounds as if he, at least, deserves the curse," he commented in an aside
to Doyle. "Sure hope his missus is a teetotaler, though."

 "Yeah," agreed Doyle whole-heartedly, and promptly cannoned into someone
coming around the corner. A gasping `woof' was heard and papers flew
everywhere.

 Automatically stooping to begin gathering up the scattered sheets of
paper, Doyle glanced up at his victim and froze. *Sodding hell,* he
groaned silently, *why did it have to be WPC Stedman?*

 Bodie realised from the frigid glare directed downward and the pugnacious
look on his partner's face that this was not a meeting made in Heaven. As
he eyed the irate woman who waited with barely concealed impatience, Bodie
decided his sympathies were entirely with his partner. Tall, bony and
emphatically middle-aged, WPC Stedman viewed the world through perpetually
narrowed porcine brown eyes set in a cold, stony visage. As the
dark-haired man started to look away, something caught the corner of his
eye. Frowning, Bodie ran his eyes once more over the skinny body, trying
to pinpoint what had captured his interest.

 There...her name badge!

 When Bodie had an objective, he let nothing stand in his way...not even
the decidedly unlovely WPC Stedman. His practiced charm and urbanity to
the fore, he soon had the woman steered into a chair before she quite knew
what had hit her.

 Finished with the gathering of dislodged reports, Doyle stood and held
them out -- to empty air. Eyebrows climbing into his ragged fringe, his
astonishment was complete when, hearing a familiar voice, he tracked both
his missing partner and the WPC to a small canteen off the corridor. His
eyes widened in shock as he took in the mind-numbing sight of his macho
partner fussing about Doyle's old nemesis like a hen with a newly-hatched
chick. The recipient of the effortless charm was blushing rosily and
preening under the unusual attention. Bemused and nauseous, Doyle could
only prop himself against the canteen door jamb and wonder if he would
find Rod Serling under the sagging old settee.

 At long last, Bodie glanced up and spotted his partner. Rescuing the
reports before they could fall from a limp hand, he ceremoniously handed
them over to the female police officer.

 "Here you are, then, luv," reassured Bodie. "All accounted for, and in
proper order."

 "Thank you so much, Mr. Bodie," gushed the older woman, getting to her
feet. "It's so refreshing to discover that courtesy and kindness are not
entirely absent from the younger generation." Stedman bent a meaningful
glare at the slouching Doyle.

 Biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood, Doyle recalled himself
sufficiently to move out of the doorway as Bodie suavely ushered the old
battle-ax out.

 Bidding the woman farewell, Bodie started to turn away, then turned back.
"You're positive those reports aren't too much for you?" he checked
anxiously.

 Doyle felt his stomach flip over again, and gave it a strong
admonishment.

 "Oh, you men!" giggled Stedman, her flushed cheeks giving her the
appearance of a dyspeptic clown. "Get on with you, and let a body tend to
her duties." A final simpering look, and WPC Stedman was hipping her way
down the corridor in her sensible square heels.

 "Booodieee," groaned Doyle, feeling his nausea rising again. Giving his
partner a pitiful look, he saw a huge Bodie-smirk plastered across the
handsome face. "Why'd you go and do that, mate? Getting senile in your old
age?"

 Extending the smirk to include his lover, Bodie put a hand in the small
of Doyle's back and gave a gentle push to start him moving. "Now, now --
mustn't be like that, sunshine," he scolded, guiding Doyle around a
corner. "Haven't you heard that no kindness shall go unrewarded?"

 "No such thing as kindness with that old cow," grumbled Doyle
resentfully. "When she became head of the typing pool, she used to check
our reports with a fine-toothed comb. You misspell something or make a
mistake in grammar or punctuation, and she'd make you write it all over
again until you got everything right. Made all us coppers feel as though
we were still in Infant School."

 Chin quivering, Bodie made the tactical mistake of looking at Doyle. One
glance at the woebegone, aggrieved face and his laughter could not be
contained. Propping himself up against a convenient wall, the curly-haired
man waited with scant patience. When the giggles and snorts had died down
and Bodie seemed more in control, Doyle repeated, "Why did you do it?'

 A hand at his aching middle, the ex-merc replied somewhat obscurely,
"She's not head of the typing pool now."

 "So?" Doyle frowned at his exasperating partner. "Who cares what bloody
duties she has now?"

 "You should."

 Fighting the urge to savagely thump his infuriating lover, Doyle took a
deep breath and asked through clenched teeth, "What are her current
duties, then?"

 Recognising that his partner was at the end of his never-very-long
tether, Bodie slung an companionable arm around the tense shoulders and
got them moving again.

 "Guess who is DCI Mason's administrative secretary?" he asked in a
conspiratorial whisper.

 Stopping dead in his tracks, the other man turned hopeful eyes on him.
"Does she have the keys to his house?"

 "Bottle's not at his place." At Doyle's crestfallen look, Bodie gave his
shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "In fact, our grabby little inspector never
managed to get it out of the building."

 "Eh?" The bemused expression was not feigned.

 "She spotted the bottle sitting on his desk when he took himself off to
the loo," Bodie explained gleefully, "and handed it off to passing copper
with stern orders to dispose of it properly."

 A wide grin threatened to split Doyle's face in two. "Oh, boy," he
breathed blissfully. "Wish I'd been there for that one." He gave a happy
sigh. "Did she say which copper she gave it to?" He clattered down the few
steps to the front path.

 Following at a more dignified pace, Bodie fished his keys out of his
jacket pocket as they came up on his silver Capri. "Yeah. A DC by the name
of Weaver."

 Doyle threw himself into the passenger seat as soon as the door was
unlocked. "Don't know him."

 "According to our WPC Stedman, he works out of Vice." Slamming his car
door, Bodie started the motor.

 Sucking thoughtfully on a tooth, Doyle watched as Bodie skillfully guided
the car into traffic. "He not on duty, then?" Bodie shook his head. "We
going to his flat?"

 Another shake of the dark head. "Nah. The old trout doesn't know where he
lives. According to her, though -- god, that woman is a fount of gossip
and innuendo!--he's been up at his folks' place on holiday and is due back
on duty this afternoon. Reckon we're just going to have to wait."

 "Fucking great," Doyle moaned in disgust. Gnawing agitatedly on his
knuckles, he turned to stare out the window at the passing traffic.

 ******

Doyle bounced up the stairs to his and Bodie's flat, feeling more at peace
with the world. After leaving the station house, Bodie had sprung for a
sumptuous breakfast at a well-known restaurant. Delighted when he'd
discovered fresh melon and citrus on the menu, the curly-haired agent had
grimaced when he'd noticed the price, prompting Bodie to ask what was
amiss. Glumly pointing out the unattainable, Doyle's jaw had dropped to
his feet when Bodie had smiled blithely and proceeded to give their orders
to the waiter, complete with fresh fruit.

 Although he had enjoyed every bite of that expensive delicacy, Doyle's
conscience had stabbed at him painfully. There were times when Bodie's
motivations were transparently clear, and this was one of them. Feeling
guilty over his lack of faith concerning Doyle's love, blaming himself for
his lover becoming jealous and upset that morning, and knowing that Doyle
had had something else in mind for their rare days off, Bodie was doing
his best to make amends. Well aware that his lover, in this sort of mood,
would deny him nothing, Doyle vowed silently to do his best to curb
Bodie's excesses and to cater to his wishes as well. When they had
finished their meal, he had therefore suggested a stop at one of Bodie's
favourite places -- the London Zoo.

 The light that had appeared in the cobalt eyes had more than compensated
for a boring morning. (Doyle had nothing against zoos in principle -- he
just didn't find the odour of unwashed animals and mucky cages to be all
that thrilling.) Reluctant at first when Doyle had suggested leaving the
attraction, Bodie's enthusiasm had returned when his partner hinted at
returning to the flat for some nosh and horizontal R & R. The larger man
practically threw Doyle into the Capri in his eagerness to get going.

 Unfortunately, the partners' happy and horny plans were due for a
setback. Upon ascending the stairs and turning in the direction of their
flat, a decidedly unhappy trio was discovered littering the hall in front
of their door. Firmly keeping his face neutral, Doyle heard Bodie's
bit-off expletive.

 Cheered by this sign of solidarity, Doyle was able to say politely,
"Sorry. Been waiting long?" as he keyed open the door.

 Relieved to find the partners seemed to have settled their differences,
Marshak failed to note the suddenly-knowing looks Micki and Ryan
exchanged. It was probably for the best, as his tolerance with the cousins
was at a low ebb at the present. Following Doyle into the flat, the
Canadian responded, "We've only been waiting a few minutes." Peripherally
seeing Bodie gluing himself to his partner, he turned an admonishing glare
on Micki. Lips pursed in a sullen pout, the redhead flopped onto the
settee.

 "Have you retrieved the bottle?" the older man asked eagerly. "I know you
were going to call me at the hotel, but I thought I'd save you the time
and trouble. Also, as I was unexpectedly called away last evening, I
didn't know if the hotel had forgotten to pass on a message."

 "What happened?" asked Bodie, positioning his assets against a wall and
ignoring his lover's rude snicker as Doyle dropped into his usual chair.

 "It wasn't my fault! Honest!" burst out Ryan, startling the CI5 agents.
"It was a mistake anyone could've made!"

 Eyebrows climbing, Bodie looked first at his equally puzzled partner
before turning a questioning eye on young Dallion. "What the bloody hell
are you on about, son?"

 There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ryan jammed his hands into his
jeans pockets and refused to meet their eyes.

 "Why, what's the matter, Ryan?" There was a distinctly malicious
undertone in Marshak's voice. "If it could've happened to anyone, there's
no reason not to tell Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle."

 Ryan's pleading look bounced off his mentor without leaving a dent.

 "Well, you see..." Ryan began haltingly, shuffling his feet on the
sitting room carpet, "after you dropped us off yesterday, Micki and me
decided we'd do a little sight-seeing." Emboldened by Bodie's look of
understanding, he rushed on, "We were just walking down the street when
Micki saw this coat in a store window. I need some new gloves, so I
thought I'd look around while she was busy."

 "Perfectly understandable," put in Doyle, deadpan.

 "The men's department was on the same floor as the women's, so while
Micki was trying on the coat, I decided to look around. That's
all...honest." By this time, Ryan was tearful. "There was this old man
behind the counter and he looked just awful. Kept grabbing at himself and
saying, `I have to spend a penny.'"

 An audible click was heard as Doyle's and Bodie's jaws dropped
simultaneously. Marshak just looked at them, shaking his head in pity.

 "Every time the old man came back, he looked worse." Between the sniffles
and snorts, the sad tale was barely intelligible. "He kept his hand in one
suit pocket so I just wondered, y'know, what he had in it. Guessed it must
have been some possessed penny, the way he wouldn't let go of it and it
seemed to be eating him alive."

 Teary-eyed, Ryan gazed at his flummoxed hosts. "Uncle Lewis sold some
pretty weird stuff, y'know," he defended himself. "How do we know...?
Anyway, I was only trying to help." Past the tears, Dallion was now in his
usual sullen state.

 Gathering his wits, Doyle queried faintly, "How did you help?" Bodie
seemed incapable of speech.

 "He threw the old man to the ground and tore his trousers off," Marshak
stated baldly, "in the middle of Men's Wear at Grace Brothers' Department
Store."

 "HE DID WHAT?!" The partners sounded like a chorus.

 "You heard me," the older man said glumly. "I received a phone call at
approximately seven o'clock yesterday evening asking me to come down to
the police station house immediately. My god, the place was absolute
bedlam! The old man was stretched out on a bench, being fanned by an older
woman with green hair; a young blonde was screeching at Ryan at the top of
her voice; Micki had some other poor young man backed into a corner near
the file cabinets; and a silver-haired gentleman, in a pin-striped suit,
was loudly declaring the old man was ruined for life. Just as I had found
out that Ryan had been accused of assaulting a senior sales clerk, in
walks this retired-military type gentleman, and some man with big ears.
They only added to the din as the military man kept insisting to Big Ears
that `This never would have happened if I hadn't been stuck in some absurd
meeting.'"

 "Christ, what a circus," acknowledged Bodie. He looked admiringly at the
Canadian. "How long did it take you to get it straightened out?"

 "When I could finally be heard above all the hysterics -- Ryan's,
included -- I promised Mr. Rumbold (Big Ears -- floor manager) that Ryan
would never step foot in Grace Brothers' again. Then I had Ryan publicly
apologise to Mr. Grainger, the senior sales clerk. Mr. Rumbold was kind
enough after that to refuse to press any charges, and Mr. Grainger
declared he would go along with whatever Mr. Rumbold decided."

 "How was I supposed to know the old man only meant he had to use the
bathroom?" snapped Ryan, feeling very ill-used.

 Sighing, Marshak told the fascinated agents, "According to Captain
Peacock (military-type man -- floor walker), Mr. Grainger often gets these
`spells' after eating a spicy meal the evening before." Shaking his head,
Marshak favoured both cousins with a stern look. "By the time we got back
to the hotel, it was after eleven."

 "You definitely need more than a cuppa after all that," declared Doyle.
He went over to the spirits cupboard and poured out a generous portion of
malt scotch. Handing the drink over to Marshak, he enquired
sympathetically, "This sort of thing happen often, does it?"

 "Too often for my peace of mind, yes," agreed the Canadian, knocking back
the liquid in one gulp. "Where do you suppose all the grey in my hair and
beard came from? Not that there's all that much left on top anymore."
Handing back the glass, he nodded gratefully at Doyle then asked, "Were
you able to find the bottle this morning?"

 "Uh, not exactly," hedged the slender agent. "But we know who has it. He
just doesn't come on duty until this afternoon."

 "No one's drank it, then." Marshak almost fainted with relief.

 "Unless DC Weaver enjoyed himself on holiday," Bodie mumbled. Seeing
Marshak's apprehension, he smiled and assured, "I doubt it, really.
According to our source, he's been up at his mum's, visiting. Doubt she'd
let him drink a whole bottle of malt, don't you?"

 Glancing at his watch, Marshak moved to the door as he said, "It's only
one o'clock now; we'll return to the hotel." Gathering up the sulky
cousins with a glance, he let them precede him out the door. "When you've
retrieved the bottle, would it be possible to bring it to the Hotel Dexham
in Bayswater Road? My room is Number Five."

 "No problem," Doyle said heartily, visions of an erotic afternoon
resurfacing. "We can have it there by six or so."

 "Thank you. Until then, good-bye."

 Leering boldly at Doyle as he shut the door behind their visitors, Bodie
took great pains to ensure all the locks were soundly engaged.

 ******

Unimaginable as it might have seemed, the Vice Squad Room was even noisier
and dirtier than the Drug Squad's. Gazing around in appalled disbelief,
Bodie watched with curled lip as Doyle approached the copper at the
nearest desk then, at an impatient gesture, closed in on a battered wooden
desk in the far corner. Leaning over, the curly-haired agent must have
made some comment, for the blond cop gave a startled jump and quickly hung
up his phone. A frown covered the lean face for just a moment before
Weaver turned to look across the room at Bodie. Giving what he hoped was
an encouraging smile, Bodie saw the young detective constable rise and
follow his partner, curiosity written large on his face.

 Drawing level with the ex-merc, Weaver said, "Even allowing for my mum's
delusions of grandeur, I didn't think I'd done anything to attract the
notice of CI5." He waited expectantly, alternating his gaze between the
two agents.

 Surprised to discover that CI5 was interested in the bottle of malt,
Bodie gave the copper a brilliant smile and shrugged. "We're everywhere,"
he allowed. *Doyle can carry the damn ball on this one -- he's the one who
brought CI5 into this mess!*

 Steely jade eyes acknowledged the ploy, but Doyle was all affability when
he turned to Weaver. "You'll find us mixed up in almost anything," he
stated carelessly. "Sometimes for the most balmy of reasons."

 Giving a half-shrug, Weaver recognised the stupidly of bureaucracy. "Tell
me about it," he said, sighing deeply. "So...what I can do for the Thunder
and Lightening Brigade?"

 Never having cared for the nickname, Bodie had to clamp down hard on his
urge to commit mayhem. His smile became a trifle fixed.

 Quite aware of his partner's views on the matter, Doyle hurriedly said,
"This is going to sound a bit strange, mate. Is there somewhere more
private we can go and talk? Don't want the whole squad room knowing our
business, do we."

 Even more puzzled, the young DC stared at them for several minutes before
saying slowly, "Yeah, there's a conference room just around the corner --
should be empty."

 The last one into the conference room, Bodie shut the door behind him and
then leant against it, arms folded. By now, Weaver was becoming seriously
alarmed and Bodie's manner was obviously not helping matters.

 Catching on to the younger man's anxiety, Doyle hastened to reassure the
nervous man. "Ignore him, mate," he advised cheerfully. "That's his normal
behaviour."

 Fears somewhat allayed, Weaver still kept a wary eye on the broody man at
the door as he asked, "What's this all about, then?"

 "Christ, I feel like a berk just saying it," Doyle said abruptly, eyes
going to the ceiling. Bringing them back down, he caught the stern warning
in sapphire eyes: Don't overdo it, pillock! Mentally sticking his tongue
out at his partner, Doyle brought his attention back to Weaver. "Oh,
well...nothing to do but get on with it."

 Thoroughly hooked by this time, the younger man was almost dancing with
impatience.

 Swallowing his smug smile, the CI5 agent stated, "I hear that a fortnight
ago, WPC Stedman gave you a bottle of malt to throw away. Did you?"

 Astonishment evident in every line of his body, Weaver had to swallow
several times before he could answer. It was obvious that this was the
last question in the world he had ever expected to hear. "M-Malt?" he
sputtered. "What the bloody hell has that bottle of malt got to do with
CI5?"

 Motioning him closer, Doyle flung a friendly arm around his shoulders.
"Bureaucracy, mate," he informed the other man sadly. Certain how Mason
was regarded around the station house, he wasted no time in defaming the
senior police official.

 "A fortnight ago, DCI Mason had a meeting with the Commissioner but the
prior meeting was running long, so he had to wait in the outer office. It
seems he noticed a certain bottle of malt on a file cabinet, and after
taking a look at its label, he nicks it. I don't know if Mason thought the
bottle belonged to the Commissioner's secretary or what."

 Seeing that he had the copper spellbound, Doyle carried on with his
fable. "Only trouble with that, y'see, is the bottle belonged to certain
personage meeting with the Commissioner."

 Weaver's bemused expression gradually gave way to one of stunned horror.
"Not the...?" 

 "Yeah." Placidly confirming the man's worst fears, the CI5 agent said,
"Boy, did she raise a fuss! Came straight to our guv and demanded we find
the `blasted low-life' who had taken her husband's anniversary pressie."
Weaver gave a groan at the small confidence. "We've been leaning on the
secretary and the rest of the office staff but they've checked out clean,
so we decided to go through the Commissioner's appointment book for that
day. We found out that Mason was alone in the outer office for almost an
hour. Now, imagine our surprise when, arriving to have a little chat with
Mason, WPC Stedman tells us that he did have that bottle of malt, but that
she found it on his desk and gave it to you to throw away. Did you
now...or did you drink it? C'mon, mate -- you can tell us." Doyle's
affable camaraderie had undergone a marked change.

 Too intimidated to wonder why it had taken the elite CI5 a whole two
weeks to check on Mason, the beleaguered Weaver shivered at the barely
concealed menace in the cool jade eyes. He had heard that CI5 consisted of
psychos and armed services rejects -- there was no joy in being able to
confirm that rumour.

 Stuttering, he made an effort at self-defense. "I-I never touched a drop
of the stuff!" he protested, voice squeaking. "Malt's not my tipple...you
can ask anyone!"

 "We believe you, mate," Doyle assured him kindly. "Don't we, Bodie?"

 "Sure thing, Doyle," drawled the dark-haired man in his smoothest tones.
He gave another brilliant smile.

 Already dripping with cold sweat, Weaver turned an odd shade of
chartreuse when he saw that smile. "Listen," he said desperately, "I
really did not drink that malt!" Pinned by twin approving beams, Weaver
seemed almost physically ill. Goaded, he blurted, "Hell, I don't even have
that bloody bottle!"

 Keeping his sinking feeling well-hidden, Doyle casually asked, "Well,
then, who does?"

 "Binty," was the sullen reply.

 Feeling it was time he contributed to the conversation, Bodie growled,
"Who the sodding hell is Binty?"

 "H-He's my grass." Weaver was pathetically eager to sic the two
psychopaths on an old and trusted informant. "He gave me some really good
info last week; was able to make a huge bust in porn films. I owed him
big, and since Binty loves a good malt, I gave him the bottle. It was just
cluttering my desk drawer."

 Several quiet minutes passed, then after exchanging a look with his
partner, Doyle asked, "What's this Binty's full name and where can we find
him?"

 "Binty Dundee." Weaver's tongue was practically tripping over itself in
its hurry to deliver the wanted information. "He generally hangs out at
The Scarlet Cockerel in Wapping."

 Giving Weaver's shoulder one last friendly squeeze, Doyle ambled over to
his partner. Halfway out the door, Bodie turned back and gave the young
copper a warm smile. 

 "Now, don't go feeling you have to ring Binty and announce us," he
mock-scolded. "We just love to surprise people."

 Staring fixedly at the closed door, Weaver gradually became aware of an
urgent personal need. He bolted, fervently praying that the loo was
unoccupied.

 ******

Slouched in the passenger seat, Doyle abruptly put an irritated fist into
the car panel. "Bloody hell, Bodie," he complained furiously. "Are we
never going to find that fucking bottle? We're just going around in
circles!"

 "You put a hole in the panel, sunshine; Cowley will have you going in
more than circles," his partner advised. Bodie pulled over to the kerb in
front of a phone box. Giving Doyle no time to question, the dark-haired
man hopped out of the vehicle, saying, "Need to tell Marshak there's going
to be a slight delay."

 Doyle threw himself back against his seat and sulked. Brows lowered, he
watched through the windscreen as Bodie made a brief phone call. Once back
inside the car, he gunned the powerful engine and tore out into the early
afternoon traffic.

 Tossed against the door, Doyle grabbed for a hand-hold. "Where the fuck
is the bloody fire?!" he snarled as he was once again pitched about as the
Capri squealed through a roundabout.

 "Those ruddy kids!" shouted back Bodie, apparently thinking that
explained everything.

 "Bodie, I'm going to count to three; and if you don't tell me..."

 Screeching to a last-minute halt at a red light, Bodie took the time to
glare at his infuriated partner. "Those damn kids must've been listening
when I called Marshak! I tell him what's what, and the next thing I know,
he's yelling the kids have scarpered after hearing where to find Dundee.
They want to `help'...God save us all." The Capri rocketed off once more.

 "Shit!" Doyle swore feelingly.

 "Yeah," grunted the ex-merc, continuing to win friends and influence
people with his driving. "The only thing we've got going for us is the
fact they're tourists -- won't know their way around."

 "I wouldn't count on that, sunshine," warned Doyle. "That Micki bird can
probably find a bloke faster than you can say Jack Robinson."

 Although Bodie didn't comment on the terse assertion, it was evident he
agreed...the Capri soon passed Mach Three and steadily gained
acceleration.

 ******

Blinking reddened, tear-filled eyes, Doyle once more tried to pierce the
low-lying smoke bank. From the tone of the expletives and harsh coughing
next to him, Bodie was not faring much better. Trying to wave the stuff
away was useless; the WHO was probably using this pub as a control for
experiments on lung cancer and emphysema.

 A yelp erupted from Doyle as Bodie abruptly grabbed his arm. "Look,
there's Ryan!"

 Following the pointing finger, Doyle saw the youngster propped up against
a wall. With a shared glance, the CI5 agents began closing in on the
Canadian. Ryan was so intent on the killer darts match going on in front
of him that he didn't realise he'd been flanked until he felt a heavy hand
on his shoulder. Always easily startled, the young man let out a high
shriek. Luckily for Bodie and Doyle, such goings-on were not unusual at
The Scarlet Cockerel and, consequently, no one even so much as glanced
their way.

 Stilling the din by the simple means of placing a hand over Ryan's mouth,
Bodie hissed, "It's us, you ruddy prat!"

 "Oh," sighed Ryan, collapsing against the wall. A quick recoverer, the
normal vacuous beam was soon back in place. "Hi, fellas!" he chirped.
"Finally got here, huh?"

 As Doyle seemed to be having quiet hysterics, it was up to Bodie to field
the inane sally. Long out of patience with the whole mess, it was all he
could do to say in a half-civilised tone, "So it appears. Where's your
cousin?"

 "Over there." Ryan pointed to a secluded table. Preening, he proudly
announced, "That's Binty Dundee with her."

 Doyle's scepticism metre went through the roof. "How did she find him so
quickly?" It should've been fairly difficult to trap Dundee into serious
conversation with a total stranger. Grasses were a notoriously shy breed
with anyone but their special contact.

 "Oh, she just walked in and yelled out that she wanted to talk with Binty
Dundee." Ryan's smirk was unbearably smug, although it soon faded to a
small frown. "At least, I think that's Binty Dundee. He's the fourth Binty
since we got here."

 Manfully quelling the urge to pound his head against the nearest wall,
Doyle mumbled, "An' down the rabbit hole we go, Alice."

 On the other side of Ryan, Bodie seemed in complete agreement with this
bit of wisdom. 

 The Dynamic Duo's misery was broken by a cheerful, "Come on over,
everyone!"

 Glancing up, they saw Micki gesturing at them. She was smiling happily at
one and all, although Dundee appeared less than enamoured at the sudden
influx of male bodies. He sat and scowled impartially at all three of them
as they sank onto the rickety wooden chairs.

 "Isn't this just the most amazing thing ever?" gushed Micki. Giving the
agents a coy look, she batted her eyelashes at them by way of afters.
"Here was Binty and I talking about CI5, and you two walk in!"

 Rendered speechless by this happy bit of coincidence, Bodie mentally
contemplated the relative merits of stroke versus heart attack. However,
his partner was made of sterner stuff.

 Beyond shock at this point, Doyle just regarded the grass calmly as he
asked, "You've had dealings with CI5, then?"

 Well-knowing CI5's reputation, Dundee had been braced for an explosion of
mammoth proportions. Nonplused by this quiet enquiry, it was several
minutes before the pint-sized informant could reply, "Uh, y-yeah," he
stammered. Collecting himself, Dundee drew himself up proudly and informed
them, "Jus' you ask Davy Stuart `bout Binty Dundee! `M a regular o' `is, I
am!"

 Since he and Stuart were in a mutual loathing society, that information
was not well-received by Bodie.

 Doyle jumped in swiftly, forestalling the blistering comment poised on
the sensual lips. "That's fantastic!" he exclaimed with feigned
enthusiasm. "Imagine meeting you like this! You blokes are invaluable to
CI5, y'know."

 Doyle shot a hasty glance over at his partner, but the warning look was
not necessary. Overcome by the sweetness of it all, Bodie appeared to be
in a diabetic coma. The table's other three occupants were sublimely
unaware of the sarcastic undercurrents.

 Exchanging beams with the two cousins, Dundee turned back to Doyle. "'Ear
you blokes are askin' after that bottle wot Weaver gives me."

 "That's right," Doyle admitted cautiously. "Did Micki tell you why we
were curious?" He held his breath. *Knowing this dingaling, anything is
possible...*

 "Yeah." Dundee nodded like a drunken owl. "Good fing I did wot I did,
innit? Wot with that bottle bein' a state secret, an' all." He looked at
them wisely and tapped his nose. Unfortunately, due to all the alcohol
awash in his system, his nose moved and Binty ended up tapping himself in
one bleary brown eye.

 Coming out of his stupefaction, Bodie queried, "What did you do with it?"
A suspicious, watery eye swiveled his way, so he pinned on what he hoped
was a reassuring smile.

 Not entirely convinced, Dundee gave a huge sniff and aimed his answer at
Doyle. "Knew t'wasn't right, copper like Weaver `avin' a bottle of malt
that good. Figgered he nicked it or summat, an' if there's one fing I
can't stand, `s a bent copper." Giving a self-righteous nod, Dundee
grabbed up his pint and drained it. Wiping the froth on his filthy shirt,
he belched. "So I gives it ta Davy when I's seen `im this mornin'."

 "You gave the bottle of malt to Dave Stuart?" Doyle repeated in hushed
tones. At long last, the bottle was in their grasp... Stuart hated the
stuff; he'd either stuff it into his locker at HQ or dump it down the
nearest drain.

 Bodie was not so sanguine. "What did he have to say about it?"

 "Well, `e did give me this queer look," admitted the under-the-weather
Cockney. "Then, `e says `e knows jus' the fing ta do wit it." Giving them
all another happy beam, Dundee proceeded to slide under the table.

 "Well, that's that," sighed Doyle.

 "Will it be hard getting it back, Mr. Doyle?" Ryan questioned fearfully.

 Shaking his head, Doyle stood up and stretched. "Nah. Stuart hates the
stuff. If it's not in his locker at HQ; he's already dumped it."

 "Could we go with you?"

 About to issue an emphatic "No!", Doyle forced himself to reconsider.
Micki had gotten Binty to tell them where the bottle was, and her story
had been ingenuous. Besides, they could just call Marshak and have the
older man meet them at HQ. Mellowed or not, there was no way in hell Doyle
was going to hand that bottle of malt over to the Bobbsey cousins. Only
then becoming aware of Bodie's continued silence, he looked over at his
partner and froze; his spine chilling at the look of dawning horror on the
classically handsome face.

 "B-Bodie?" Speaking through lips that suddenly felt numb, the
curly-haired man quavered, "W-What's wrong, mate?"

 Shaking himself roughly, Bodie met his partner's apprehensive emerald
eyes. "Didn't you hear what Stuart said, Ray?" There was open terror in
the cobalt eyes. "Didn't you hear?!" As the curls shook slowly, Bodie
rose, his entire body taut with foreboding. "He said he knew just the
thing to do with it...just the thing!"

 Holding his lover's eyes, Doyle abruptly blanched. "Oh, god...no!" he
breathed. 

 He and Bodie almost got themselves stuck in the pub door as they both
tried to exit at the same time.

 ******

Tyres squealing, the silver Capri rocked around a corner and into the CI5
carpark. As Bodie and Doyle piled out, a mini-cab drew up and disgorged
Jack Marshak. The older Canadian was there courtesy of a terse call sent
through the CI5 dispatcher. Scrambling out behind the partners, Micki and
Ryan offered Marshak a rambling, excited account of their expedition.
Catching the gist of the trouble, Marshak broke into a run in order to
catch up with the agents. Bursting into CI5 HQ, Marshak had to brake hard
to avoid skidding into the breathless Bodie and Doyle. Close behind, Micki
and Ryan were not so lucky, and pained yelps were heard as they met the
lift cage...hard.

 Only a new trainee, the guard on the security desk was not equipped to
deal with the sudden onslaught. Flustered when his officious demands for
ID were ignored, he paled and backpedaled rapidly when Bodie turned a
coldly furious eye on him.

 "Just answer the bloody fucking question!" he snarled between gritted
teeth. Not caring that he was demonstrating popular squad opinion of his
sanity, he grasped the hapless recruit by the lapels and lifted
effortlessly. "Is Stuart in the bloody building?!"

 Standing on tiptoes, all dignity hopelessly lost and shaking violently,
the terrified guard stuttered, "Y-Yes..."

 "How long ago?"

 Unable to endure the delay a moment longer, Doyle snapped, "C'mon,
Bodie!" and dashed up the stairs. Bodie drew even before the slender agent
had gone three paces and the Canadians were only a few feet behind.

 Attempting to straighten his suit with hands that shook like leaves in a
hurricane, the young guard stared, open-mouthed, after them. So that was
the legendary Bodie and Doyle: Yep, the guys in the locker room were right
for once. Picking his chair off the floor, he brushed the seat off before
he sat. Taking pen in hand, the promising new recruit began writing out
his resignation.

 Taking the corner at the top of the stairs at Warp Ten, Bodie and Doyle
pelted down the corridor. Abruptly, and frightening in its suddenness, a
low, off-key humming sound filled the hallway. The two CI5 agents skidded
to a halt as though they had hit a brick wall, faces tense and bemused.
Marshak, however, had no cushion of ignorance to comfort him.

 "Oh, my god," he whispered piously. Brushing past the stunned men, he
slowly headed for the door at the end of the corridor. "We're too late...
Dear merciful God in Heaven -- we're too late!"

 As his voice died away, the far door creaked open and two shattered men
staggered out. CI5 agents were well-known for their tungsten steel nerves
and ability to adapt to any situation. The broken men cowering together
against the wall of the outer office were too incongruous for the mind to
absorb. The door only partially closed behind them, the truly dreadful
caterwauling from the inner office echoed eerily through the deserted
halls.

 Taking two giant steps, Bodie grabbed Stuart and threw him against the
opposite wall. "You bloody, fucking idiot!" he yelled, beyond all
civilised restraint. "What have you done? Answer me!" He dealt the
helpless man a harsh shake with each word.

 Reaching out with trembling hands, Doyle gently turned Murphy's face away
from the wall. "W-What's happened, Murph?" Although terrified, he had to
know.

 Recognising a familiar face, the tall agent clutched at him with
desperate hands as he buried his face in Doyle's tee-shirt.

 "I-I couldn't stop it, Ray -- honest! H-He t-took a d-drink and I saw
right away s-something was wrong, b-but I-I c-couldn't stop it!" sobbed
Murphy. "Oh, the horror...the horror..."

 Wearying of torturing a catatonic Stuart, Bodie stalked over to Marshak
as Doyle also turned to him. The incoherent, grating noises rose in
intensity; a few fragmented, growling sounds ripped into their protesting
ears: "...nothing...all...caught..."

 "What is it?" shrieked Doyle, clamping his hands over his ears. "What is
the curse?!"

 The harsh noise reached a high crescendo, then fell silent. An unnatural
calm settled over the corridor...broken moments later by shrill screams.
Spinning, Bodie and Doyle were in time to see Micki collapsing in a dead
faint just inside the inner office door. Bursting in, they knocked aside a
plainly paralysed Ryan before coming to dead stop.

 Eyes preternaturally wide, jaws hanging, the seasoned agents battled with
their senses, unable to come to grips with the diabolic change wrought by
the demon's curse.

 "It can't be...it just can't be!" refuted Bodie, rejecting the capering
image in front of him.

 At his side, Doyle let out an anguished moan.

 "It's true, all right." Ruthlessly denying the stricken men their
illusions, Marshak spoke grimly from behind them. His narrowed eyes never
left the writhing, gyrating form standing on Cowley's desk.

 Catching sight of his audience, the Thing that had once been George
Cowley -- the most feared and respected man in the entire British security
forces -- threw back its head and yowled in maniacal triumph.

 "Yeahhhh," screeched the Thing, giving another obscene wiggle of its
hips. Tie askew, starched white shirt open to its waist, It belted out
full throttle (if completely off-key), "You shoulda heard that jailbird
sing...!"

 "Another Elvis impersonator," Marshak confirmed dully.

 Over the sounds of Ryan's retching and Cowley giving it his all, Bodie
and Doyle locked eyes...their screams echoing in the lonely halls.

 -- THE END --

 *January 1995
 Originally published in *English Gothic*, 1995

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