The Professionals Circuit Archive - Waiting to Fall	    Waiting to
Fall

 

by Rob 

 
 *CHAPTER ONE*

 As yet another heavy door clanged shut behind him, Bodie barely managed
to suppress a shiver. Down the bare corridor an unseen man could be heard
shouting orders. Prison. Even the sound of the word was depressing. The
uniformed warder opened the final door into a small room, bare except for
one scrubbed table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs.

 A door on the opposite side of the room opened and a prisoner escorted by
two uniformed men entered.

 "Prisoner for transfer, sir," shouted the larger of the two men. Bodie
saw the eyes in the gaunt face widen.

 "Transfer? Where to?"

 "Shut up, Doyle. Speak when you're spoken to."

 "This is the first I've--"

 "I'm warning you, Doyle, belt up."

 The door behind the prisoner opened again and a fourth warder appeared
carrying a tatty holdall and brown paper carrier bag. Doyle snatched the
bags from him.

 "That's my stuff!"

 "Check the contents, Doyle, then sign this." The officer who had
accompanied Bodie put the official form down on the table. In silence
Doyle diligently checked each bag and box, not hurrying and totally
ignoring the irate glares and snorts from the four burly, uniformed men.

 Bodie saw the quick glance that raked him from head to foot but did not
say anything.

 Satisfied that all his possessions were there, Doyle straightened up and
turned to the man who had shouted at him, handing over a bar of slippery
soap with a hard smile.

 "This isn't mine. Wouldn't want to get done for thievin' Her Majesty's
property, would I!" He turned back to the table. "Now, where do you want
me to autograph?"

 The form signed, Doyle picked up his bags and looked expectantly towards
Bodie's escort.

 "Right, sir." The warder moved towards the door, indicating that Bodie
should precede him. "We've a few forms for you to sign at the office and
he's all yours. Milton, bring Doyle." And the procession moved towards the
other office.

 Watching discreetly through the glass partition as he completed the
paperwork, Bodie looked his new acquisition over. The washed-out, baggy
prison issue clothing swamped the frail-looking figure, his size
diminished even more by the sheer bulk of the guards that flanked him.
Again he wondered what Cowley was up to. This was hardly normal procedure.

 Prisoners' interviews were usually carried out within their place of
abode; to be released into the custody of a lone CI5 agent without even an
escort was, to Bodie's knowledge, unheard of.

 What was so special about Raymond Doyle, he wondered.

 "I can't say I'm going to miss the bugger," the warder confided as Bodie
asked about his prisoner. "Sometimes I reckon it's a shame they stopped
transporting 'em to Australia. Real bundle of trouble, he is."

 "What's he in for?"

 "Bent copper." The man pulled a face. "Nothin' I hate more than a bent
copper."

 Paperwork over, Bodie collected his prisoner and the procession continued
in silence to the outer gate. Before opening the final lock in the door,
the guard with the loud voice stopped Bodie.

 "Shouldn't you cuff 'im?"

 Doyle glared at the guard but remained silent. Bodie assessed the skinny
man.

 "Nah. Not going to do a runner, are you," he said brightly, confident of
his own abilities if the smaller man should risk it.

 The door opened and the two men stepped into the free world. Bodie
started to move towards his car but then stopped. Doyle wasn't following.

 "Come on, Doyle. The car's that way." He pointed to the solitary vehicle.

 "Where are you taking me?"

 "You'll find out when you get there."

 "Who are you? This isn't normal procedure. I want to know where I'm being
taken." Doyle stood his ground.

 Annoyed by the stubbornness, Bodie grabbed hold of a surprisingly
well-muscled arm and pulled.

 "You're going where I'm taking you." He manhandled Doyle across the empty
space, unlocked the car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Ingrained
caution made him lock the door before walking around to his own seat.

 The drive into town took nearly an hour and the journey was conducted in
silence.

 As they pulled into the CI5 car park Doyle peered up at the drab
building. "What is this place?"

 Bodie ignored him and got out to unlock Doyle's door. An hour ago the man
hadn't wanted to get in the car, now he didn't want to get out.

 "I'm not moving until I know where I am and why I'm here."

 "Look, mate," Bodie growled, "you're here because I was told to bring you
here."

 "Doesn't answer my question," Doyle answered belligerently. "I've been
stitched up once too often. I'm not moving until I know what's going on."

 Bodie knew that it would take very little effort on his part to get the
little toad into the building, but it had been a tough week, he was
wearing a good suit of clothes, and, quite frankly, he couldn't be
bothered.

 "I'm CI5." He flashed his I.D. before the brittle gaze. "That is CI5
headquarters." He pointed towards the building. "My boss, who is not known
for his generous nature and kind heart, is in there waiting to see you. If
you shift your arse out of my car and get it over there you might find out
what's going down because I neither know or care. Okay?"

 It obviously was because Doyle gathered his belongings and followed him
through the doors. The bags were left at the security office and the two
men walked into the building. Coming towards them, his attention on a file
in his hands, was a sandy-haired, middle-aged man. Bodie called out to
him.

 "Sir."

 The man looked up and removed his glasses.

 "At last. I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you. No problems at
the prison, Bodie?"

 "No, sir."

 The man turned his attention to Doyle.

 "Well, Mr Doyle. If you would come with me, my office is just here."

 The man opened a door bearing the nameplate of George Cowley, Controller
CI5. Doyle did not know whether to be worried or impressed.

 "Bodie, there's no need for you to remain, but stay in the building,
please. Once I have spoken with Mr Doyle I'll want to see you again."

 "Sir." Bodie acknowledged the order and the dismissal as he left the
office.

 Ray Doyle watched the door close and turned his attention to the man
seated at the desk. Any minute now, he thought, I'm going to wake up and
find it's all been a dream.

 "Sit down, Mr Doyle, make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you a drink?"

 He must have nodded because the man stood up and crossed the room to
remove glasses and a whisky bottle from the filing cabinet. He took the
offered glass and sipped the golden liquid. The burning sensation spread
like wildfire down his throat and into his stomach.

 "Now," Cowley reseated himself behind his desk, "down to business. How
much did the Governor tell you?"

 The whisky had caused his vocal cords to seize up and even his second
attempt was not too clear.

 "Not much." Doyle cleared his throat and told Cowley all he knew. "I was
called to the Governor's office yesterday afternoon and told that new
evidence had come to light. He wouldn't tell me anything else. Said he
didn't want to get my hopes up."

 Cowley was unsurprised by the bewildered voice. Governor Bryant had not
been too pleased when his ordered routine had been disrupted by CI5's
demands. Events had occurred so fast it was surprising that Doyle looked
as confident as he did.

 "You are not in my custody, Mr Doyle. You are perfectly free to leave as
and when you like."

 "Free?"

 "Free," confirmed the Scots brogue softly, the sharp blue eyes missing
none of the effect his announcement had caused.

 "I don't understand. I don't understand any of this, do you mean I'm
getting a retrial?"

 "Let me explain from the beginning. Your defence at the trial, your only
defence, was that you were setting yourself up as a plant in the drug ring
in the hopes of snaring the other police officers whose identity you
didn't know but were sure were involved. Now, you claimed that on the
night in question you told your senior officer, Detective Inspector
Taylor, of your plan. What was Taylor's reaction?"

 "He told me not to go ahead, said that he didn't think it was a good idea
for me to go undercover alone."

 "Did you obey his order not to proceed?"

 "You know I didn't. If I had I wouldn't have got myself in this mess,
would I?"

 "The prosecution's main evidence was your total lack of official orders;
there was no record of your informing the squad of your intentions."

 "Of course there wasn't. It wasn't until the next day when I was arrested
that I heard about the accident."

 "Yes. D.I. Taylor's death was most unfortunate, especially for you."

 "Most unfortunate," Doyle repeated, his voice bitter. "That's one way of
putting it, I suppose."

 "I have examined the reports; the crash was, beyond any doubt, an
accident."

 "What made you think it might be otherwise?" Doyle asked, the wariness in
his voice being replaced by curiosity.

 "D.I. Taylor did make a report on your plan to infiltrate the group. It
seems he guessed that you would ignore his instructions to leave things
alone--"

 "Where's the report? Why didn't anyone find it at the time?" Three years,
three lousy years, all because of one missing report, the last report of a
dead man.

 "He handed it over to D.I. Behan."

 "Mike? Mike Behan?" Doyle couldn't believe his ears. Mike had been one of
the few friends who believed his claims of innocence.

 "D.I. Behan was the police presence within the ring. He knew you had to
be stopped. Taylor's death provided him the ideal opportunity. No one else
knew of your intentions. Behan arranged your entrapment, planted the
evidence and destroyed Taylor's report."

 "I'll kill him!" Doyle leapt to his feet, ready to find his former friend
and carry out his threat.

 "He's already dead; he died four days ago. Cancer."

 Doyle slumped back down into the chair, disappointed to have been robbed
of his chance to wreak revenge.

 "Amongst his papers was a letter addressed to the Home Secretary. It
seems he wished to die with a clear conscience. The original report was
destroyed but the letter is thought to be an accurate record of his
involvement with the suppliers and dealers and, of course, a statement
declaring your complete innocence and the way he framed you. Here," Cowley
passed over several sheets of paper, "is a copy of the letter. I'm sure
you'll want to read it."

 Doyle took the document in shaking fingers and forced himself to
concentrate on the scrawling, spidery writing. The letter was dated only a
few weeks previously.

 At last he folded the papers and handed them back.

 "So I'll get a retrial?"

 "That is what I want to discuss with you. A retrial would become a very
public affair. The media would have a field day--a young policeman framed
by his senior officer, all those wasted years you've spent locked away,
broken dreams, personal heartache, only to be cleared by the testimony of
a dying man. The film companies would be queuing at your door for
exclusive script rights. Is that what you want?"

 "Well...no, but--"

 "I can use you, Doyle. I had already noted your name before the charges
arose. I was sure I wasn't wrong about you but, as you know only too well,
there was no proof. I want you in CI5. What I don't want is someone whose
face has been plastered across every newspaper in the country."

 "Well... I don't--"

 "If you agree to my proposals, your innocence in this matter will become
a matter of record and you will, of course, be financially compensated for
your loss of earnings and the hardship you've suffered."

 "What proposals?"

 "You have every right to request a public retrial, I am suggesting that
you forgo that right."

 "Why?"

 "As I said a few moments ago, Mr Doyle, I can use you. Three years ago I
would have welcomed you on your professional abilities alone. Though a
trifle rebellious you were a good policeman. Now, after your recent
experiences, you have a wealth of contact with those on the other side of
the fence. As an ex-prisoner your face is known and you'll be able to gain
easy admittance to circles that undercover agents would have to work
months to achieve." Cowley paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink
in. "But, as a publicly affirmed, upright, honest citizen you'd be back to
square one. If you agree, your criminal and prison records will be
destroyed, you'll be free to tell friends and family about your innocence.
All I ask is that you consider it. I have a feeling you will find working
for CI5 an...experience. Well?"

 "How long do I have to decide?"

 "I need your answer now. I'm sorry to rush you, but D.I. Behan's letter
has stirred up a regular hornet's nest and the D.P.P. is eager to get
started on it. How he deals with it depends on your answer."

 "If I agree, my name will be left out of new investigations into that
little lot." Doyle pointed to the letter. Cowley nodded.

 "How can I avoid the retrial? It's a formal procedure, how could I get
out of that and the attendant publicity?"

 "I have examined the implications of the letter. It clears you
completely. You were arrested before you uncovered anything that will be
of any assistance in the new enquiries. The Home Secretary has agreed to
leave your name out of the new investigating. D.I. Behan is dead. There is
no need to rake over old ground. Unless you feel the need to be publicly
exonerated. It is, of course, your right."

 Doyle's mind was in a whirl. Ever since the summons to the Governor's
office the day before, his thoughts had been a jumble of 'what ifs' and
hopes that kept insisting on struggling out from under the tight lid he
kept clamped down. It was happening too fast. He had only just begun to
accept his lot, and try to adapt more to the strange prison life. In less
than an hour this man, George Cowley, had turned his whole world upside
down. Mike, his friend, had betrayed him and left him to rot in jail, only
a guilty conscience releasing him, and now he was being asked not to
scream his freedom cry from the rooftops, but to keep the stain on his
name, to hide his innocence in a way others would hide their guilt? What
for?

 Because it would make him useful to CI5, because this Cowley person said
he could use him. Even three years ago Cowley had wanted him. Doyle knew
he would have jumped at the chance then, but a lot had happened since.
He'd changed.

 Cowley could see the indecision in the shockingly large eyes.

 "I know a little of what you've been through, Doyle. You'll be allowed
time to retrain and rehabilitate yourself."

 Time. Time to retrain and rehabilitate. Would there ever be enough time
for him to escape the past few years?

 "I don't think I could face going back inside. Not now."

 "I won't ask you to, not now. I can't promise you that I will never ask
you, though; as a CI5 agent, I frequently order my men to do unpleasant
duties."

 "All right, I waive my right to a retrial." Where had the words come
from? Doyle thought in amazement. Not from his brain, that was for sure.
Cowley was already moving into action, showering him with reams and reams
of paper, all requiring his signature. So much for reading everything
before you sign it, he thought ruefully.

 As the last of the papers were signed Cowley called someone on his desk
intercom and in response the door opened and an attractive woman entered.

 "Yes, sir?"

 "Ah, Betty. A small matter for you to attend to, more pleasure than duty
I hope, though. This is Ray Doyle, he has just agreed to join our
organisation. Our timetable has become a little behind and I'm sure that
he would welcome a break from business and a meal. Take him down to the
canteen and fix him up with something, bring him back here when he's
finished."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Before you go, call Bodie to my office."

 "Yes, sir." Betty turned to the latest addition to the family. "If you'll
follow me, Mr Doyle."

 "Yes, of course." For all the informality of the conversation, Doyle knew
he had been dismissed. Dutifully he followed Betty.

 "Where do you come from, Mr Doyle?"

 "Pardon?" Doyle's head snapped back to the woman, trying not to show his
surprise at the seeming abundance of men openly wearing shoulder holsters
that passed them going in the opposite direction.

 "Bodie, Mr Cowley wants you in his office."

 His escort from the prison came into the corridor from a side room; like
the others he was minus his jacket, his shoulder holster looking as if it
belonged to his body. Doyle saw the double take in the blue eyes and
waited for the inevitable comment, but all the man said was "Everything
okay?" to which Betty replied:

 "Fine. Just going to get some lunch. See you later."

 Bodie moved past them without another word.

 "I said where do you come from? Most of us were trawled from army, navy,
airforce or the police," Betty continued.

 "Oh, er...police." Doyle jumped on his impulse to say prison.

 "Met.?"

 "What?"

 "The Met., are you from the Met.?"

 "Yes."

 "What part?"

 "Drugs Squad."

 "I don't think we've got anyone else from there, a few Met. boys but
mostly the armed forces." Betty gamely struggled on but the conversation
was like wading up a muddy river against the current. Conversation clearly
wasn't one of the new boy's good points.

 Rather than eat in total silence Betty talked almost non-stop about CI5
while Doyle picked at his food.

 ******

Bodie entered the quiet office with trepidation, wondering if perhaps this
was how Daniel felt on entering the lion's den. He knew the old man was up
to something, he could feel it in his bones.

 "Come in, Bodie, stop hovering in the doorway. Sit down."

 Bodie stopped hovering and sat.

 "How's your back now?"

 "It's just fine, sir."

 "Dr Willis doesn't agree."

 "Now I've got rid of that bloody neck brace I feel much better, hardly so
much as a twinge."

 "Willis said you could stop wearing the brace?" asked Cowley. Everyone
who had come within range of Bodie's tongue over the past few weeks had
heard about his view on modern instruments of torture.

 "Yes, sir, providing I don't 'exert myself'," Bodie said meaningfully,
leaving Cowley in absolutely no doubt of his meaning.

 "Hardly a twinge is not 'fine', Bodie. Damaged vertebrae are not things
to be trifled with. You're damn lucky not to have been killed or
crippled--" Cowley broke off, realising that Bodie knew only too well how
lucky he had been.

 "Perhaps you don't need to be told that. Anyway, it will be some time
before you will be medically cleared for normal duties so I feel obliged
to keep you occupied in some way. You're causing havoc in the office,
you've got to divert some of that energy and I've just the job for you."

 Bodie managed to look wounded and cautiously interested at the same time.

 "I've decided it's time you were teamed up with a partner."

 "Oh no. I work solo, I always have," Bodie broke in. This was not what he
had been expecting.

 "You've worked alone because it suited me to let you, Bodie. It now suits
me to partner you," Cowley snapped back, the authority in his voice
quelling further protests. "The man I've selected is new to us. CI5's
facilities will be placed at your disposal and I want you to supervise his
training. Dr Willis feels another two months will be enough time for your
injury to heal properly. In ten weeks I want you and your partner ready
and fit for active duty. Macklin will run the last two weeks' training so
you can participate fully."

 In other words, thought Bodie with a sinking heart, the last two weeks
are to pummel me back into shape. Oh well, might as well know the worst,
find out who Cowley wants to saddle me with.

 "Who is he?"

 "Ray Doyle."

 The name hung in the air. Bodie couldn't believe his ears.

 "He's straight from the nick! He's still doing time, for christ's sake."

 "Kindly lower your voice, Bodie," Cowley ordered. "These files are for
your perusal; read them, familiarise yourself with their contents. They
will tell you all you need to know about Doyle. He can tell you his
personal details himself."

 "You're nuts!" Bodie stood up and paced the floor. "I really don't
believe you. You are teaming *me* with a bent copper!"

 Cowley ignored his operative's disrespectful attitude; he could quite
understand how it looked from Bodie's point of view.

 "Sit down, man. Doyle has been completely exonerated from all the drug
and corruption charges. As from today he is a free man without a stain on
his character."

 "I haven't heard about any retrials going on," said Bodie.

 "And you won't. Doyle has waived his right to retrial; he has agreed to
accept the Home Office decision and no public announcement will be made."

 "Why should he do that?"

 "Think, Bodie! Doyle has been inside the prison system for three years.
Think of the faces he knows, people he's met, the people who have met him.
When I send him undercover those same people are going to see a familiar
face, a kindred spirit, not a stranger who is to be mistrusted. Doyle and
everyone who matters to him, along with the authorities, will know he was
falsely accused. But everyone else will accept him for what they think
he's proved to be. A bent policeman, a criminal of the worst kind, someone
they can trust."

 Bodie could see the point behind Cowley's impassioned speech, but he
could also see one or two flaws.

 "So the past three years were a set-up then?"

 "No."

 "How do you mean? Was he really convicted or wasn't he?"

 "The case against him was sound, he had no defence to speak of and he was
convicted and sentenced to eight years. With good behaviour the earliest
release date he could have would be eighteen months from now."

 Bodie was really confused by this time. If the case was so good how come
Doyle was being released early? Why should the man forgo all public
declaration of his innocence? He had a hundred and one questions which all
demanded answers.

 They came in a shortened version of the Taylor/Behan report and letter
and the files listing Doyle's police and prison records. A swift scan of
the files told him a lot about his proposed partner. Detective Constable
Raymond Doyle had been quite a busy little bluebottle, and a police
marksman to boot. Reading between the lines Bodie could see why Cowley had
considered Doyle for CI5 even before the spell in prison. From the
comments written by his superiors it was clear that Doyle hadn't been
popular. Insubordination was a common complaint--his methods, though at
times unorthodox, got results.

 Moving on to the record of the prisoner Bodie found a very different
story.

 The arrogant, incorruptible D.C. Doyle had not reacted positively to
incarceration. There were pages of logged incidents in which Doyle was the
alleged instigator or the centre of disturbances and fights. His
aggressive behaviour had not endeared him to either the warders or his
fellow inmates and he had been subjected to the full gamut of official
punishments. A few sheets clipped to the front of the file turned out to
be medical notes from the prison hospital. The seemingly endless list of
cuts and contusions bore testimony to frequent fights. Not all the
injuries had been minor; a year ago Doyle had been seriously injured in a
fight and had been transferred to an outside hospital for treatment.
Fractured skull, shattered cheekbone, broken wrist and cracked ribs. It
had been some fight.

 The shattered cheekbone obviously accounted for the strange bump high
under the skinny man's eye. The medical notes were incomplete but Bodie
had read enough.

 "He spent three years in hell and you expect him to be sane enough to
work for CI5!"

 Cowley's answer was interrupted by a ringing telephone; he answered it
promptly. 

 "Just a moment, Betty," he said into the phone and then turned back to
Bodie.

 "It's up to you to see that he's got what it takes. You've got twelve
weeks to turn him into what you know I want." He pinned Bodie to the spot
with a glare, then without looking away spoke into the telephone again.
"All right, Betty, send Mr Doyle in, please."

 Crossing the room, Doyle felt his skin prickle as Bodie looked him over,
the dismay at what he saw all too clear.

 "Doyle, I know you've already met Bodie but from now on you're going to
be seeing a lot more of him. For the next twelve weeks he will be running
you through a training programme."

 Twelve weeks, Bodie thought with disgust as he looked at the frail,
green-eyed wraith, twelve months wouldn't do it. He came to the conclusion
that Cowley sometimes expected too much of his men.

 Everything still felt unreal to Doyle; his senses were still reeling from
the calmly delivered news that he was free. He knew he'd made a right prat
of himself with the woman. Lord knows what she thought of him, he knew he
hadn't managed to form sentences of more than two words over the whole
meal. He returned the wary look he was getting from this Bodie character.
Cowley was handing him over to that! It was as clear as the nose on his
face that Bodie didn't want anything to do with him. Cowley had said he
was free to leave any time he wished. All he wanted to do at that moment
was start running, to run and run until he found a quiet place where he
could be alone to think. Everything was moving too fast. Stop the world, I
want to get off, he thought to himself, and almost giggled aloud at the
cliché. Christ, now I'm getting hysterical!

 "Doyle."

 The voice cut through his confusion, but no one seemed to notice he
hadn't been paying attention.

 "...will of course be issued with your own car from the pool. It will
take a month or so for the allocations office to find you a flat; in the
meantime, Bodie, your present flat has a spare room I believe?"

 "Yes, sir," replied Bodie, not too sure he liked the way the conversation
was heading.

 "Unless either of you have any valid objections you can share. It
shouldn't take security too long to clear a place for Doyle."

 If either of the men had any objections they chose not to voice them.

 "Right then," Cowley looked at his wristwatch, "there isn't much more we
can do today. Doyle, I've arranged for you to attend a meeting at the Home
Office at 10 tomorrow morning. Bodie, make sure he gets there on time. It
will only be a formality, Doyle, so don't worry about anything." Cowley
broke off from his talk and watched the two men.

 It was clear that neither of them was happy with the arrangements but
that couldn't be helped. The young man's disorientation was all Dr Ross
had predicted. If Doyle was going to be of any use to CI5 they had to stop
him from falling into a mire of self-pity; Ross' advice was to keep the
new recruit moving at such a speed he could only react instinctively, he
shouldn't be allowed time to begin any self-doubts.

 Bodie was just what the doctor ordered. Cowley knew that the established
agent was going to try and run his unwanted partner into the ground. Doyle
would either go under or survive. Cowley only hoped there was enough
spirit left to survive!

 "Right, gentlemen, I've only a few more things to say. Firstly, Doyle,
I've told Bodie the bare facts leading up to your imprisonment and
subsequent release. He has also seen your police and prison records; once
you have completed your training period you will be given access to his
professional details--as partners it is only fair that you each know the
other's history and training. Any exchange of personal information is
completely up to the pair of you.

 "And finally, Doyle, you have been told you can inform anyone you care to
that your character has been cleared. I wish to caution you to use
discretion when telling people. Remember, however unpleasant, your 'prison
record' can be useful only as long as it is believable."

 "Yes, sir."

 "That is all, gentlemen." Cowley stood up and walked around his desk,
extending his hand to Doyle, who rose from his chair to take it.

 "Welcome to CI5, Mr Doyle."

 "Er...thank you, sir."

 "Bodie, there are a queue of people waiting for Mr Doyle in the
Administration Office, show him the way."

 ******

It was another few hours before Bodie led the way out of the building,
only to return immediately to retrieve Doyle's bags from the security
office.

 Doyle could feel the heat burning his cheeks as they emerged through the
doors for the second time. How was he supposed to have recognised where
they were? All day he had been dragged along corridors, into one office
after another, rarely being told where he was going or why. Every time
someone shoved a piece of paper under his nose he scribbled his name on
it; he had probably signed his life away a hundred times over. The
Incredible Hulk had glowered and snarled constantly and was letting
everyone know exactly how he felt about being lumbered with so much dead
weight.

 On top of his physical exhaustion, Doyle's mind was numb from the speed
of events and he was almost too tired to take anything else in. He was
feeling knackered, confused, a little frightened and more lonely than he
had ever believed possible. The Hulk clearly wanted nothing to do with him
and Cowley only wanted him because he could 'use' him. People had used him
before and he didn't like it.

 Glancing sideways at his silent shadow, Bodie gave a mental groan. The
poor sod was grey with exhaustion and clearly didn't know whether he was
coming or going. He could feel himself softening and jumped on the
reaction, squashing it firmly. Don't feel sorry for him, you fool, he told
himself sternly. You'll be offering to carry his bags next! He turned his
attention towards the evening he had planned--shit! Doyle.

 "Look," Bodie began, "I've already made arrangements for tonight and I
expect you've got things you want to do..." Doyle didn't say a word and
Bodie felt a nasty insidious feeling well up inside but squashed it before
he could recognise it. "I'll give you a spare key and I'll see you at my
place later, okay?" The emotion demanded to be recognised. Guilt.

 Doyle felt his heart sink a little further but schooled his voice and
features to hide how much yet another rejection was hurting him.

 "Suits me. The admin. bloke gave me your address. I'll see you later
then."

 Bodie winced at the tone of voice, deciding at the last minute to at
least try and be friendly. It was, all said and done, the bloke's first
day of freedom in three years. He stumbled, embarrassed over his
invitation.

 "Look, I've arranged a date with this girl, I can call her up, maybe she
would bring a friend."

 Doyle had received better invitations, but even so he was tempted. The
relaxed atmosphere of a pub and a few drinks could be what he needed to
unwind a little, but common-sense prevailed. Apart from the fact Bodie
obviously felt obliged to ask him, Doyle was suddenly aware of his meagre
funds. The solitary five-pound note in his pocket wouldn't last long and
he had no wish to impose on Bodie's begrudging charity.

 "Thanks, but no. Like you said, I've got things to do."

 A weight lifted off Bodie's shoulders and he began to move towards his
car.

 "Just in case I'm back late, you'll find sheets and blankets in the
airing cupboard in the hall, help yourself to anything you want, should be
something edible somewhere in the kitchen. See you," Bodie shouted across
the road as he climbed into the car. He was already manoeuvring out of the
car park when he looked back to see that Doyle was still standing where he
had left him. He pulled up alongside and wound the window down.

 "Can I drop you anywhere?" he asked politely.

 The question terrified Doyle. Panic welled up inside him. Did he want to
go anywhere? What a stupid question. What a bloody stupid question! Yes,
he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere away from here, from the drab building
filled with its energetic, lively happy people and the dour Scotsman who
wanted to use him, away from the piercing blue eyes that had already seen
right through him and despised him. Just away. Somebody please--come and
take me away! But he knew nobody would come--who was there left to care?
Only himself.

 "I said, can I drop you anywhere?"

 "No, thanks. It's all right."

 Relieved, Bodie shouted a farewell and accelerated out of the car park,
trying vainly to leave his feeling of unease behind with the solitary
figure standing clutching his bags on the pavement.

 Doyle watched the car roar down the road until it disappeared into the
traffic. He looked around at the surrounding buildings and tried to work
out where he was. No one had thought to tell him. In the distance and
through the hum of city traffic he heard a clock chime. Five o'clock. He
hadn't realised it was so late. His own watch had been stolen soon after
his arrival at the prison--so much for honour among thieves. He was
certain the clock was Big Ben and so made off to find the nearest tube
station that he knew could only be a few streets away. Once he found the
station he'd think about his next move.

 He turned the corner and stopped dead, the sudden mass of humanity taking
him by surprise. The rush hour! Endless streams of busy, hustling office
workers scurrying to catch busses and trains home after a hard day's work.

 Stepping into the flow of bodies he was swept along with the tide to the
Underground station; standing still in front of a map he was buffeted and
knocked aside by the constant movement of human traffic. His eyes traced
the coloured line; Bodie's address was Knightsbridge, practically a direct
line from Hounslow; he could go and collect his belongings from John's
house.

 Rejoining the flow of people, he bought a ticket and struggled onto a
packed train. He stood all the way and the journey took forever.

 He was already walking up the path to his brother's house before it
occurred to him that perhaps he should have telephoned. Too late now. He
reached out and rang the doorbell.

 The hall and porch light came on as the door was opened, the sudden
brilliance blinding after the dim street lighting.

 "Good lord!" Doyle recognised his brother's voice. "What are you doing
here?"

 Now he knew he should have telephoned.

 "'Lo, John," Doyle said calmly as he tried to gauge his brother's
reaction.

 "How did you get here? What do you want?"

 "Yes, well it's really great seeing you again too. Me? Oh, I'm fine, how
about you?" The sarcastic bite successfully hid shaky notes.

 "I suppose you'd better come in," his brother said ungraciously.

 "Why, don't you want the neighbours to see me?"

 John Doyle stepped back to let his troublesome brother inside and was
unable to prevent himself looking up and down the street to see if anyone
was watching his house.

 "I suppose you want a cup of tea."

 "Only if it's not too much trouble." Doyle knew that his brother had only
offered out of habit, but he suddenly realised how thirsty and hungry he
was.

 "Your face--what happened to it?" Standing under the bright kitchen
light, John got his first proper look at his brother's battle-scarred
face.

 "A fight. Thought you were told about it," he answered in a forced
attempt at nonchalance.

 "The one that put you in hospital."

 "Yeah, oh and thanks for the get well card and chocolates."

 "What...I never sent any card--"

 "No? Oh, sorry, my mistake." He had known that. A week in intensive care
and another month in a public hospital before being carted back to
prison...he knew the doctors had called his brother and told him about his
condition but nothing came of it. Not even a visit.

 Daft to have expected it really, he told himself.

 "What are you here for? You can't stay here y'know. I told you at the
funeral that you weren't welcome anymore."

 His mother's funeral. They'd let him out, with an escort of course, to
attend the service. Milton, the creep, had waited until the family were
all around them before removing the bright, shiny handcuffs. His brother
had told him right there outside the church before going in to the
service, exactly what he thought. Mum's death was entirely his fault. The
shame he'd brought on the family was what finished her. The cancer that
had slowly been destroying her for years had absolutely nothing to do with
it.

 "I just want the cases I left here."

 "You should have phoned, I could have sent them to you, you know I don't
want you here."

 "All right, I should've phoned but I didn't. Just give me my stuff and
I'll go."

 "Too right you'll go, Carole and the kids are due home soon and I don't
want them seeing you."

 John pushed past his brother and disappeared upstairs. After a few
minutes of banging around he came back struggling and sweating with the
effort of retrieving the heavy cases from the very back of a cupboard.

 He set them down and opened the front door.

 "Here's what you came for. Now you can go, can't you."

 "Thanks for looking after them--"

 "Don't mention it. Only reason I took 'em was because I didn't want you
going round Mum's upsetting her when you came out. If I'd had my way
I'd've chucked them on the council tip the day of the funeral. Get your
cases and get out, I don't ever want to set eyes on you again."

 ((line missing)) but his brother didn't want to hear.

 "No. Go on, get out."

 "Things have changed, John. I was released today because--"

 "If you don't move I'm going to kick you out and I don't care if the
bloody neighbours are watching!"

 "John, please listen to--"

 "Get going before I call the police."

 John pushed the cases out of the house, shoved his brother out with them
and shut the front door.

 It was a few minutes before Doyle looked away from the closed door. The
encounter had been even worse than he had imagined it. God only knew why
he'd come here today, perhaps just to get the inevitable over with. He
rearranged the holdall over a shoulder and tied the carrier bag to one of
the cases, then started up the path towards the station.

 He didn't look back.

 ******

He was shaking with exhaustion by the time he pushed open the door to
Bodie's flat, his arms and shoulders protesting fiercely at the strain of
lugging all his worldly possessions across London. It was a relief to find
the place empty.

 He placed the bags in the spare room and found the airing cupboard and
the kitchen. He made a cup of coffee but decided against eating anything.
His stomach was in a knot, the whole day had been one shock after another.
John's reaction, though expected, had been the last straw.

 Feeling uneasy about imposing on Bodie's privacy, he returned to the
spare room and collapsed onto the bare mattress. He did not lie there too
long though, only too aware he could easily fall asleep. He unlocked his
luggage and started to check through the contents.

 He had packed them the first night after the trial had started. It had
taken the court six days to find him guilty but he had known the outcome
already. Not much to show for twenty-nine years of life. After he had been
suspended from the force and released on bail to await his trial, Ann had
asked him to leave the flat. He hadn't even been able to convince her he
was innocent. She had believed all the lies and hadn't even tried to
believe or trust him. The cheap, furnished bedsit he had moved to had been
a long way from the cosy house the lovers had shared. He had agreed to let
her keep the furniture they had collected together; somehow even then he'd
known he wasn't going to need it. Good job they hadn't been married
really, Doyle thought as he carefully checked each item; Ann could be such
a snob at times. She would have hated being a felon's wife. And as for
prison visiting--she would have died of embarrassment. He put the last
item back, clicked the lid shut and moved on to the second case.

 She hadn't visited him once. There had been a few letters at first,
polite, stilted notes completely ignoring the fact that the recipient was
a recently abandoned lover who had fallen on desperately hard times. The
last letter had been over two years ago and had been full of information
about the 'really terrific job' that would be 'so tremendously fulfilling'
in America.

 He'd never had many visitors. One or two of his colleagues, his mother
once, just after his committal. She had cried the whole time. That had
been the last time he saw her.

 Satisfied that everything was all there, he locked the cases up again,
shutting from sight all the memories of his former life. They contained no
clothing, only personal treasures that he had found it impossible even to
consider parting with: photograph albums, a few special framed pictures
that had always been a part of his home, documents, certificates, records,
books and, somewhere wrapped in tissue, the picture of his class at Hendon
the day he had passed out. He knew it was there and had seen the white
tissue but he had not unwrapped it. He still couldn't touch it--not yet,
there were still some memories that were still too painful.

 He stood up and wandered through the flat until he found a clock. It was
just after eleven. Having had an enforced bedtime of ten o'clock for so
long, it seemed very late and he wondered what time Bodie would get in.

 Struggling against his tiredness, he made up the bed and then went in
search of the bathroom. The bath proved irresistible and before he could
stop himself he was up to his neck in hot water and thoroughly enjoying
his first totally private bath in a very long time. He only just managed
to find the strength to drag himself back into the bedroom where he sat on
the edge of the bed. About to lie down and give up the battle to stay
awake, his eyes caught sight of the closed door.

 He didn't have to close that, did he?

 Doyle knew he was being stupid, there wasn't even a lock on it, but he
did it anyway. Getting up, he re-opened the door, leaving it slightly
ajar; then, satisfied, he crept back to bed.

 ******

As he pushed the door shut and clicked the double lock over, Bodie
listened. The flat was quiet, but his sigh of relief was cut short as he
saw the pool of light spilling into the dark hallway.

 It was gone midnight; if the little toad was waiting up for him like some
Victorian maiden aunt, Bodie decided he wouldn't be answerable for the
consequences.

 His night out, like the day preceding it, had gone from bad to worse.
Marianne had been in a strange mood, alternating between sullen silences
and a nagging bitchiness which indicated, to Bodie's mind, she had just
about had enough of broken dates, phonecalls out of the blue, not to
mention being abandoned mid-date. He knew it was all over bar the shouting
but he had wanted to finish the affair on a high note--give the poor
creature something to remember him by.

 But Marianne was like a tiny china doll, incredibly beautiful miniature
perfection, and her under five feet in six-inch heels height had meant her
six feet in his two-inch heels escort had spent a great deal of time
stooping to hear her soft, genteel voice. By the time they adjourned to
her bedroom his back was killing him and the lure of lying on the
exquisite Marianne's bed had nothing whatsoever to do with the lady's
skills.

 But it was her bed, he was her date and she knew it would probably be the
last time and she felt she had earned it. Not wanting to disappoint her
and unwilling to appear ungentlemanly, Bodie tried to put his heart into
it. Things were moving along nicely when a pair of slender arms slid
around his neck and her soft, supple body arched up against him as she
stiffened beneath him. Bodie felt his own release building up, but as her
body jumped in a final orgasmic convulsion she tightened her grip around
his neck.

 The yell Bodie uttered was not one of triumph. Unwittingly, the luckless
Marianne had applied pressure directly over the injured vertebrae.

 His whole body, with one noticeable exception, went rigid as the pain
washed over him. It was left to Marianne to manoeuvre the pain-wracked
body off her and to try and comfort the sweating man.

 Unable to face the prospect of a repeat performance, Bodie had finally
managed to get away, only too aware that his swan song was not likely to
instil any feelings of regret or loss in Marianne.

 He peered into the bedroom, ready--even eager--to let rip. But even in
that he was thwarted. Doyle was asleep.

 Spoiling for a fight, Bodie walked right up to the bed, willing the man
to wake up. Doyle slept on.

 Bodie looked around the room. Over in the corner were two medium-sized
suitcases, a holdall and carrier bag. On top of the bags, neatly folded,
were Doyle's clothes. With a guilty start Bodie realised that Doyle had
still been wearing the prison issue when he'd left him outside
headquarters. Of course he had, Bodie told himself, no one at the prison
had realised he was going to be released.

 He looked at the cases again. Where had Doyle got them from? How had he
got there? The uneasy guilt magnified. Christ, he thought, he hadn't even
checked to see if the poor sod had any money! It was more than likely that
he hadn't. Fuckin' hell, he thought morosely, maybe I should have passed
the hat around at H.Q. He forced the uncomfortable feelings away with
practised ease.

 His gaze returned to the sleeping man. That's right, Doyle. You get your
beauty sleep because you're gonna need it.

 The gaunt face was softened into delicate planes and angles by sleep,
dark rings and the ugly mismatched cheekbones transformed by the gentle
lighting that also played on the smooth bare shoulders and arms. Doyle was
slim to the point of being skinny. There was no way this frail creature
was going to last the training period. Bodie cheerfully estimated the
inevitable collapse would happen in the first week.

 He clicked the light off and softly padded into his own bedroom. There
was no need to worry about Cowley teaming him with Doyle. His headache
forgotten, Bodie climbed into bed, already planning the first and last
week of Ray Doyle's career with CI5.

 ******

*CHAPTER TWO*

 Wrapped as he was, warm and comfortable within a cocoon of bedding,
dreams unremarkable and nearly forgotten, already fading away, it was the
silence that finally made him open his eyes.

 Being accustomed to a dawn chorus of heavy boots, clanking doors and
jangling keys, mingled with loud and often heated verbal exchanges, this
new stillness was almost frightening and he was still half afraid that any
sudden move on his part would wake him up only to find the whole thing
another cruel joke.

 He blinked against the brilliant sunshine that was pouring through the
uncurtained, unbarred window.

 It was a beautiful morning.

 He slid out of bed and crossed over to the window, grimacing a little as
his shoulders protested about the previous day's physical demands. Pushing
the window wide open, he leant out and peered into the street below.
Although bright, the sun gave little warmth, but the discomfort did not
interrupt his enjoyment of the new morning.

 Further down the road, three uniformed school boys, heads together, could
be seen making their unhurried way to school. As he watched, two of them
snatched something from the third and ran off, their victim running
shrieking after them, their war cries echoing up and down the quiet
street. As they vanished around a corner, a milk float rattled into view
and squeaked to a halt outside the next block of flats; the milkman
climbed from his cab and passed a few words with the postman emerging from
the same block. An old man out walking his dog completed the picture.

 Sounds from inside the flat drew his attention from the tranquil scene.
Doors opening and closing, somebody moving about. Bodie was awake. Doyle
was half dressed before he really looked at the clothes he was putting on.
The previous morning, like so many other mornings, he had dressed in the
standard prison gear; blue trousers and jacket, blue and white striped
shirt. Fashion and individuality were unheard of where he had been living,
and he had long since stopped caring about his appearance; to be different
meant you stood out. It had been a hard lesson but he had soon learnt to
blend into the drab 'sameness' and become just another blue uniformed
prisoner. Anonymity had its benefits.

 He suddenly went cold as he recalled the previous day. He hadn't given it
a single thought. All day he had been wearing the prison uniform--even
going out to his brother's house--he had thought himself a little paranoid
at the time and had convinced himself that he was imagining the strange
looks he had received from everyone; the women in the CI5 canteen, the
office staff, the ticket collector and the hard-looking man who had stared
at him from Hounslow to Knightsbridge. Nowadays the uniforms were not
decorated with brightly coloured, vile arrows, but they might just as well
have been.

 He tore the sleeve in his hurry to get the garment off. Never, ever again
would he wear a blue and white striped shirt. The only clothes he had were
all issued, courtesy of Her Majesty. He finally settled on the
short-sleeved white vest; it would do until he could get something more
suitable.

 Barefooted, he walked through to the kitchen. "Morning," he said, as
Bodie started in surprise.

 "Bloody Christ!" the other man swore as he recovered from the silent
entrance. He had almost forgotten about his visitor. "Do you always creep
about like that?"

 "I wasn't creepin' anywhere," Doyle retorted, immediately on the
defensive. Stooping to pick up the plastic bottle Bodie had dropped, he
read the label--the tablets were strong distalgesics--and handed them
over.

 They were taken with poor grace.

 "Kettle's just boiled, tea and coffee's over there, milk's in the fridge.
Bread's in the bin. Help yourself." Bodie tipped two tablets onto his hand
then swigged them down with some water.

 "I'll drop you off at the Home Office in time for your appointment, then
go on to HQ. I'll either see you there or here tonight as I don't know
what's going on just yet. I've got to arrange your training programme and
fuck knows what time you'll get out of your meeting."

 "Okay."

 Bodie watched as Doyle made himself a cup of coffee.

 "How did you get on yesterday?" he asked.

 "Pardon?"

 "Last night, I noticed you'd collected some cases from somewhere."

 Doyle spun round; the cases were in his room, the only way Bodie could
know about them would be if he had come into the room last night--while he
was asleep.

 Not understanding the troubled expression, Bodie pressed the question
again.

 "Pick them up from a friend, did you?"

 "No."

 "Family?"

 "Yes."

 "Pleased to see you were they?" Bodie asked politely. Those painkillers
were good, the sharp pain in his back was already ebbing away to a more
tolerable ache.

 "Surprised," was Doyle's answer.

 "I'll bet they were." Bodie chuckled. "How did they react to the good
news?"

 Doyle turned back, pointedly ignoring the question, and spooned some
sugar in his cup. "I've just used the last of this milk, you got any
more?"

 The flat voice and change of subject curtailed that particular
conversation. Once Doyle had drunk his coffee he left the kitchen, leaving
Bodie sitting there alone to finish his in peace. Finally Bodie rinsed his
breakfast things up and got ready to leave.

 Jacket on and car keys in his hand he tapped on the door to the spare
room. It swung open to reveal Doyle standing at the window.

 "You ready?" he asked.

 "Yes." Doyle followed him towards the front door.

 Bodie looked back at the T shirt-clad figure. "Haven't you got a jacket,
it's going to be cold out there."

 "I'll be okay."

 "I said it's cold, you'll need a jacket or something." Bloody hell, Bodie
thought, I'll be wiping his nose for him next.

 "I'll be okay," Doyle insisted.

 Suddenly Bodie caught on. Why on earth hadn't the daft sod said
something? Even he could understand why yesterday's jacket was no longer
acceptable.

 "Hang on a minute," he shouted over his shoulder as he dived into his own
bedroom. "Try this, it's bound to be a bit big but at least you won't get
cold." He held out his second best leather jacket.

 "No thanks, I don't--"

 "Wear it," Bodie snapped out. "The last thing I want right now is you
going down with bleeding flu." He thrust the jacket over and left the flat
without looking back. By the time he reached the car, Doyle, wearing the
coat, was right behind him.

 ******

By lunch time Doyle was beginning to wonder why he had ever wanted to
leave the quiet sanctuary of his cell. He had spent all morning determined
not to give in to the desire to apologise for all the trouble he was
causing as he was seen by a never-ending stream of bureaucrats who seemed
at a loss to know what to do with the man cluttering up their neat
offices. He had received an awkward handshake and garbled apology for the
inconvenience the mistrial had caused him from the Home Secretary's
secretary's assistant's secretary. At least he thought it had been an
apology. He had never seen so many embarrassed faces in one day before.
Oddly enough, it seemed to be his decision not to go for a retrial that
was causing the problems rather than the fact he had wasted three years of
his life in H.M. prisons.

 He was ushered into yet another office and braced himself for the next
round. The fact that he was clearly expected almost threw him off-balance.

 "Ah, Mr Doyle, I was expecting you hours ago, get lost did you?"

 The vigorous handshake and thump on shoulder were as genuinely friendly
as all the others had been false. "Come in, come in, have a seat, cup of
tea? Might even round up some chocolate biscuits if we're lucky." The
redheaded whirlwind pulled him into the wonderfully unregimented office,
while issuing orders to his secretary.

 "Two teas then, Bet, luv, and some biscuits; oh, and tell Mr Randall that
we'll be over to see him soon."

 Doyle removed some papers from a chair and sat down.

 "Right, now then, I'm Bob Craig. Let me see where you've been so far." He
took the file that Doyle had been carrying around with him and quickly
scanned the list of departments already visited. "Been around a bit this
morning. Any idea of exactly what's been going on, have you?" Craig's
cheerful face positively beamed across the desk at him and Doyle felt his
gloom lift a little.

 "To be honest--no."

 "Can't say I'm surprised. Gets right up their noses when they realise
that our wonderful Courts of Justice aren't all they're cracked up to be.
Don't suppose anyone's even apologised to you yet, have they."

 "Well, I think someone did earlier this morning."

 "Not that any apology is ever going to make up for what you've been
through." Craig looked the young man over; he had read the reports and had
no doubts at all that the man before him had been through a lot. "How's it
been since you were discharged from the hospital wing? No more trouble I
hope?"

 The green eyes widened as Doyle understood that Craig knew everything
that had happened to him.

 "No, no trouble," he answered flatly.

 Craig was wise enough not to press the point.

 "Mr Cowley is a formidable man, are you sure that he hasn't pressured you
into forgoing your right to a public retrial?"

 "Yes, I'm sure."

 "I can understand the reasons behind his desire to keep your good
character quiet but I'll give you the credit for knowing your own mind. I
believe that you are to start a training programme to qualify you for
CI5."

 "That's right."

 "If at the end you find you don't want to join Cowley's organisation or,
indeed, if CI5 decide they don't want you after all, you will still have
the right to ask for a public announcement of your innocence. This whole
affair is totally without precedent so I don't see that a delay of another
few months will hurt anyone."

 "Sounds fair enough."

 "Now, down to practicalities. Money. Do you have any?"

 "Er...some savings in a building society, not much though."

 "In time you will receive financial compensation, the amount will no
doubt be bickered over but when all's said and done it will amount to your
three years' loss of salary, taking into account any overtime and
increments you would have been entitled to plus, of course, what they call
'recompense for hardship endured'. Though how they agree on a total for
that defeats me. The Legal department will be in touch with you in due
course; my job right now is to make sure you've enough to be getting on
with. I understand Mr Cowley has provided you with a flat..."

 "Yes."

 "Again, should CI5 dispense with you in the near future you must come and
see me about accommodation. Can't have you dossing down under the arches,
can we?"

 Doyle's thoughts immediately went to his current flatmate--dossing under
the arches didn't seem such an unpleasant prospect.

 Bob Craig continued the interview at a brisk pace, speaking in plain,
everyday English that seemed to cut through reams of red tape and make the
effort of rejoining the free world seem a piece of cake.

 In under two hours, this very untypical civil servant had taken him to a
quiet pub garden for a beer and a ploughman's, introduced him to Mr
Randall, the local friendly bank manager, and arranged for an impressive
advance on his forthcoming compensation. Cheque book and card were
promised as soon as the ink was dry and Doyle now found himself at one end
of Oxford Street with enough money in his brand-new leather wallet to buy
a complete wardrobe.

 With a light heart and a spring in his step, Ray Doyle walked into the
first shop.

 ******

"Morning, Sid." Bodie nodded a greeting to the security man on the door
and made his way up the stairs, his mind already listing the things he had
to do when he reached his office.

 "Morning Bodie, where's your little friend?"

 Bodie looked at Connors, non-comprehension mingling with the scowl on his
face.

 "Huh?"

 "Rough night was it?" said Connors, whose main problem in life was
correctly assessing people's moods. "Showing our little jailbird the finer
things in life were we."

 "What?"

 "Doyle--took him out on the town, didn't you?"

 "No, I flaming well didn't!" Bodie's acid tone implied that his colleague
was mad to have even suggested the idea, and adequately covered the
uncomfortable suspicion that everyone--including Cowley--had expected him
to do just that. He glared at the unfortunate Connors and rounded the
corner, walking straight into one of the subjects of his thoughts. Cowley.

 "Oof!"

 Cowley reeled back under the impact and was only prevented from landing
in an ignominious heap by Bodie's restraining hands.

 "Ouch!" As he righted his boss, Bodie's hand went to the stabbing pain at
his neck, and he closed his eyes against the threatening black and white
spots.

 "Bodie? Are you all right, man?" Cowley asked, his voice full of concern.
Bodie had gone as white as a sheet.

 "Yeah...fine... I'm fine..." Bodie had to admit to himself that hadn't
sounded very convincing.

 "Are you sure Dr Willis said you could leave the neck brace off?"

 Recovering quickly, Bodie forced a pained smile. "Would I have taken it
off otherwise?"

 "I won't waste breath answering that, Bodie, but if you cause further
injury to yourself by your own neglect I advise you against--"

 "I'll be careful, sir. Promise. Scout's honour."

 "Huh." With a warning glare, Cowley continued along the corridor and
Bodie entered his own office without further mishap.

 Halfway through the morning, Bodie threw his pen down and allowed himself
his first smile of the day. Reading back through the timetable he had
compiled, the smile grew. It wasn't excessive, he told himself. He knew he
couldn't come down too hard on the man, but he was confident that Doyle
would be willing, even eager, to cry off the rest of the training.

 It wouldn't take much. After very little thought he had decided to stay
in town and concentrate on the facilities available at HQ and the nearby
gymnasium; a few runs around the building would kill Doyle off just as
well as the open spaces down at the army ranges they normally used, and
for a week or two it was hardly worth the effort of packing a suitcase.

 He suddenly remembered that he would have to book time on the indoor
ranges; he would have priority, of course, but it was still best to book.
What guns had Doyle been trained on, Bodie wondered thoughtfully, probably
something pretty basic. None of the so-called police marksmen he ever met
amounted to much in the way of skill and versatility. Doyle probably
thought he would be some kind of hot-shot, he decided disparagingly. That
would be another way to knock him down to size; after three years Doyle's
style was bound to be more than a little shaky, and there had been a lot
of innovations during that time. CI5's armoury was extensive. Blind the
little bugger with science, he thought cheerfully. First things first,
though, he had to check on Doyle's weaponry record.

 Walking slowly down towards the General Office, Bodie detoured via the
vending machine and, by dint of a powerful thump on the side of the
cabinet, persuaded it to cough one plastic beaker three-quarters full of a
dubious liquid that claimed to be water. He couldn't decide which taste
was worse, the sweet coffee/tea tasting water or the tablets which started
dissolving immediately they touched his tongue. As always, one of them
lodged in his throat and he had to repeat the manoeuvre to get a second
drink of water. He was still trying to get rid of the bitter taste when he
heard his name mentioned. Ever curious, he listened to the conversation
drifting into the corridor through the open door.

 "I thought he looked...cute."

 "Come off it, Cathy...cute hardly does him justice."

 Bodie's ears pricked up even more, it sounded like a good conversation.

 "Those eyes," Cathy said. "I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful
eyes on a man. I'd kill for eyes like that." The open envy drifted towards
Bodie who, if he had been a bird of the feathered variety, would no doubt
have preened the said feathers.

 "What about his bum! Have you ever seen one like--"

 A sudden commotion further down the corridor cut off the rest of the
other girl's sentence; Bodie thought it was Barbara, but a girl with taste
whoever she was. He knew he ought to move away but vanity made him stay.
It wasn't often he actually heard firsthand what the office girls thought
of him. The noise stopped as quickly as it had started.

 "...training programme."

 "Poor thing, fancy being stuck with that berk," said Cathy, and Bodie
agreed wholeheartedly.

 "If the department's so hard up for accommodation, I'll volunteer to let
him come and stay with me," Barbara offered. It wasn't often that one
could claim to hear a woman speak lecherously, but Barbara managed it
beautifully and Bodie made a mental note to have a quiet word with the
accommodation officer.

 "I saw him first."

 "Claws in, pussy cats," interrupted a third voice. "By the time Bodie has
finished grinding the little darling into the ground he won't have any
energy left for what you've got in mind."

 Raucous laughter rang out but Bodie wasn't listening any more. Doyle.
They had all got the hots for that pathetic weed that Cowley had dumped on
him.

 By the time he reached the counter in the office, the girls were a
picture of decorum.

 "I want a file. Ray Doyle," he snapped.

 "Sorry, Bodie," said Barbara sweetly. "All CI5 personnel records are kept
in Mr Cowley's office."

 "He's not in CI5 yet," he barked.

 "Mr Cowley holds his file though, you'll have to see him."

 Bodie did an about turn and left, his bad temper wrapped around him like
a visible cloak which people saw and avoided.

 On arriving outside Cowley's office, Bodie caught sight of the file he
was seeking--on Betty's desk. Naughty, Betty, he thought, the file should
have been under lock and key, not available for every Tom, Dick and Bodie
to have a look at.

 He flicked through to the relevant pages and whistled under his breath.
Not just a marksman, Doyle had been the top marksman for the two years
before his committal. He had wiped the board in competitions, taking top
prizes and honours in inter-constabulary competitions in handguns; he
hadn't trailed far behind the riflemarksman either. Even three years away
from the ranges would be unlikely to destroy that level of skill--a little
practice and Bodie suspected he might find himself bettered on the
handgun. It would be interesting to see how Doyle would progress with the
brand-new technology available to CI5. He snapped the file shut; he
wouldn't see it because Doyle was not going to last that long.

 "Bodie, I want a word with you in my office. Now."

 Bodie almost jumped in surprise; he hadn't heard Cowley come in. Taking
the folder with him, he followed Cowley, wondering as he went why the Old
Man was looking so disgruntled.

 "Shut the door."

 Bodie closed the door and moved across the room to sit down, only
stopping as he saw the stern expression and upraised brow that indicated
this was not an occasion to make himself comfortable. Wondering what the
hell he had done wrong now, Bodie stood, military style, at ease before
the desk.

 "Last night," Cowley snapped out. "Where did you go?"

 "Pardon, sir?" asked Bodie.

 "When you left here, where did you go? What's the matter, don't you
understand English anymore?"

 Bodie was at a loss to understand why Cowley should be so mad. That he
was furiously angry was obvious. It took a lot to get George Cowley this
riled.

 "Out, sir. To a pub--the Black Lion, on to a restaurant, another pub, and
then to a home in Richmond."

 "Who with?"

 Bodie began to get the sneaking suspicion that Cowley was not going to
like his answer. It seemed that Connors' assumption of who he should have
spent the evening with was shared by Cowley.

 "Marianne Phelby."

 "Who else?"

 "No one."

 "Where was Doyle while you were gadding about with Miss Phelby?"

 "Don't know, sir."

 "What did he use for transport?"

 "Don't know, sir."

 "Did you think to ask him if he had any money on him before you left him
to amuse yourself with Miss Phelby?"

 "No, sir."

 "What was he wearing when you parted company?"

 "Prison clothing, sir."

 "Where exactly did you leave him?"

 "Forecourt outside, sir."

 "What time did he arrive at your flat?"

 "Don't know, sir."

 "You don't know much, do you Bodie? It seems that the entire London
Transport Police, Prison Service and the Home Office have been informed
that there was an unescorted, possibly escaped prisoner travelling between
Westminster, Hounslow and Knightsbridge last night. There were half a
dozen telephone calls from retired prison officers, an ex-probation
officer and several ticket collectors to that effect. Last night, Governor
Bryant received a phone call from a Mr John Doyle who wanted to know if
the Governor knew his brother was roaming the streets, free as a bird, in
prison uniform." Cowley came to an abrupt halt. He had been perfectly
aware that Bodie had not welcomed the prospect of having Doyle as a
partner, but he had been sure that his agent's fair-mindedness and
cleverly concealed soft heart would prevent him from being too hard on the
man. Had he been wrong? Yesterday he hadn't thought so.

 "Did he tell you anything about what he did yesterday?" Cowley asked, his
voice a fraction less icy. He could only be thankful that none of the
people had attempted to apprehend the prisoner. God only knew what that
little scene would have done to Doyle's off-balance self-confidence.

 "Only that he had collected some cases from a member of his family."
Bodie's voice was very subdued. Listening to his own string of 'Don't
know, sirs', he finally admitted that his behaviour towards Doyle had not
been very benevolent.

 "His brother reported him to the Governor, sir?" he queried.

 "Aye, he did. It would seem that Doyle chose not to enlighten his brother
about his change of fortune." John Doyle's telephone call to the Governor
troubled Cowley. The next few months were going to be tough on his newest
recruit, and it seemed that he was going to be denied the respect and
understanding of his family as well as being run into the ground by a
hostile instructor. He knew that if they mollycoddled Doyle the chances of
losing him would double, but they didn't have the right to destroy him
completely.

 "Have you worked out a schedule for Doyle yet?" Cowley asked; at least he
would keep an eye on Bodie, make sure he did not go over the top.

 Bodie handed over the rough plan he had worked out and watched as his
boss examined the very untidily drawn outline.

 "It is only a rough draft, sir," he offered as Cowley peered at the
scribbled handwriting.

 "That much I *can* see, Bodie." He peered at the scrawling words a little
longer, then removed his glasses.

 "I'll want a decent copy of the working timetable."

 "Sir."

 "There are only two weeks here, what will be your plans from that time?"

 "Haven't worked them out yet, sir. I thought it best to see how he gets
on with that little lot first."

 Cowley pushed the timetable back across the desk. Bodie's answer hadn't
fooled him at all. It was plain that the younger man was not expecting
Doyle to last that long.

 "Very well. Before you start I want you to see Macklin, he will tell you
how to measure Doyle's heart rate, respiration and so forth. Bearing in
mind that Doyle has not had any strenuous exercise for a long time you
must be careful not to push him too hard too fast. If you have any cause
for concern over his physical condition you will consult Dr Willis
immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

 "As crystal, sir," Bodie said crisply.

 "I'll want a rough outline of the entire programme before tonight. You
will show it to Macklin when you see him, as well. You are in charge of
Doyle's training, Bodie, but Macklin will have my permission to change or
adapt anything he deems necessary. That will be all."

 Cowley dismissed Bodie from his office but not from his mind. The outline
had been what he had hoped for. Not easy but not excessive. Bodie clearly
did not have a very high opinion of Ray Doyle's resilience or stamina.

 This whole idea of teaming the two men had been more than a diversionary
tactic to keep the convalescent agent out of the office staff's hair.
Bodie had all the skills that CI5 needed at his fingertips, a true
professional; his military experience combined with his mercenary
experiences, gun running and slightly illegal youth, plus the hard-shelled
nature that he showed to the public was what made his presence so
advantageous to the department.

 But, and Cowley admitted that it was a big but, all that skill was in
danger of running wild and free. Bodie had no roots, nothing to hold him
down and Cowley was aware that if the occasion arose, he would move off.
Nothing would stop him; apart from himself, Cowley guessed that few people
would even care. The only reason Bodie remained now was because of his
personal loyalty to the head of CI5. Loyalty was hard-won and easily lost.
Cowley knew that there would have to be something else to hold Bodie back,
another binding loyalty. The two men were chalk and cheese, they had
little in common, practically nothing except comparable weaponry skills
and a seemingly ingrained sense of competitiveness. If the teaming worked,
Cowley suspected they would be unbeatable.

 Ifs and buts. That's what it all boiled down to in the end. Cowley sighed
and pulled out a file that had been out of sight in his desk drawer.

 Slowly he read through the medical reports. Was it really wise to put the
two men together, he asked himself. He had gained access to Bodie's
confidence only rarely, the young man's private life being a close-kept
secret; but the little he had gleaned of the horrific experiences Bodie
had endured in Africa said that he was right. If only Doyle would trust
Bodie enough he might find an understanding friend.

 ******

It took two trips from the taxi and four trips to the rubbish disposal
chute before he could begin to put his purchases away in the drawers and
wardrobe of his new temporary home.

 He had enjoyed the experience of spending money like it was going out of
fashion, had savoured the sensation of owning a wallet that, like Dozemary
Pool, was bottomless. Money had never been much of a problem before, but
the complete freedom of buying something just because he liked the feel of
the cloth and the vibrant colours of the fabric was new to him.

 Once everything was neatly packed away Doyle set about choosing something
to wear. He was spoilt for choice but eventually settled on a pair of
jeans and a soft cotton shirt that even with its starchy newness was more
comfortable than his much-washed prison clothes. Dressed, he fastened the
new watch around his wrist and began to attempt tidying up his tousled
hair. He frowned at his reflection as he watched the curls spring straight
back; next on the list was a decent haircut. The hand dragging the comb
through his hair stopped mid-motion, and the frown deepened. The small
shaving mirror he had used over the past year had been old and speckled,
reflecting enough for him to shave adequately. This mirror was as good as
new and situated in the correct position to reflect a perfectly clear,
well-illuminated image of its user.

 For a long time Doyle looked at himself. It was almost like seeing a
stranger. He had known he had lost weight but he'd never realised how
much; he had always been slim, but the wide-eyed waif in the mirror was a
complete surprise. He looked like a walking skeleton--no wonder The Hulk
(which he had adopted by way of name for his appointed trainer and flat
mate) had not looked overly impressed. D.C. Doyle of the Yard had vanished
and in his place stood--what--Ray Doyle, exonerated ex-con and CI5
hopeful. His gaze returned to the reflection of his face, and in
particular the protruding lump high on his cheekbone.

 "That'll teach you to be so bloody vain."

 A chill crept up his spine and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck
prickle as he heard that hateful, despicable, loathsome voice that haunted
his waking hours as well as his dreams.

 Had he been vain? he asked himself. Before what happened to him inside he
would have said not. He was what he was. He could not change the colour
and curls of his hair or alter his physical shape any more than he could
suddenly grow horns. He had never had any problems attracting the girls he
had wanted once he'd passed the puberty-pimply stage and it had never
occurred to him that he might attract fish from the other side of the
pond. Again he asked himself, Why me? But, as on the millions of other
occasions, he could not fathom an answer.

 He forced himself to turn away from the mirror. How long would it be, he
wondered, before he would be able to see that mark on his face without
remembering all that went with it?

 He consulted his watch; it was early evening and he wondered what time
The Hulk would arrive at the flat. There was no way of knowing without
calling HQ and he had no intention of doing that. Rummaging around in the
bedside cabinet, he came across a few technical manuals on basic firearms,
and for want of anything better to do, he settled down across his bed to
read.

 When Bodie arrived home he found Doyle still sprawled across the bed,
fast asleep, with the magazine still open at the first page.

 Bodie took stock of the new clothes; at least that was one worry settled,
he'd clearly got some money from somewhere. He looked at the time; it was
just gone 6.30 p.m., surely it was too early for Doyle to want to settle
down to sleep for the rest of the night--besides, he wanted to talk to him
about their plans for tomorrow. He crossed the room and laid a hand on the
sleeping man's shoulder.

 Doyle was standing upright on the opposite side of the bed almost before
his eyes were open.

 "Oh...it's you..." Doyle rubbed a hand across his face, wiping the sleep
from his eyes. "Startled me... What d'you want?"

 Bodie couldn't help but be amazed at the speed of Doyle's reactions. He
would have sworn that the man had been very deeply asleep.

 "Didn't mean to startle you, but I thought you'd want to know what's in
store for you tomorrow." Now that Doyle was fully awake, Bodie was
conscious of something in the cold glare he was receiving that was very
unsettling; for a brief moment he felt that Doyle was scared of him but
the aggressive stance denied that impression immediately. "Come through to
the other room when you're ready." Still puzzled by the mixture of
emotions, Bodie retreated to the living room.

 It was a few minutes before Doyle joined him and settled down in the
opposite armchair, perched on the edge, his eyes scanning the sheets of
paper Bodie had spread over the coffee table, preparing for the worst.

 "Right, first things first," said Bodie in a businesslike, impersonal
tone of voice. "From Dr Willis, the departmental quack; he's gone over
your medical files and will be seeing you for a thorough medical at
various stages during your training. He reckons you're about two stone
underweight so here's a special diet sheet--follow it."

 Doyle looked at the paper; it contained a list of high-protein,
high-carbohydrate foods, most of which he had always disliked intensely
and had no intention of eating now on anybody's say-so.

 "Next, you ever gone in for jogging?" Bodie asked, successfully making
the question sound as if jogging was a distasteful vice that no sane
person would ever consider.

 "Yes, I used to do a fair bit, it's a good way of keeping fit."

 "Oh." Somehow Bodie had guessed that would be the answer. "In that case
you can start first thing tomorrow, set your own pace and distance, then
after breakfast we'll go down to the gym and start on building up your
muscles." Bodie smiled as he spoke but the expression failed to reach his
eyes.

 "Okay," Doyle agreed quietly, already looking forward to a jog around the
peaceful streets the next morning.

 "Have you got any gear? Shoes, trainers, that sort of thing?" Bodie
asked. After this morning's encounter he could imagine Cowley's reaction
to discovering Doyle exercising in normal street clothes.

 "Yes." Doyle was pretty sure he had anticipated and prepared himself,
equipment- and clothing-wise, for everything The Hulk was going to throw
at him.

 "After the first week or so we'll start going over department policies
and tactics; your papers say you've done a bit of urban-guerrilla
training."

 "That's right."

 "Well, you can forget just about everything you learnt. In CI5 we have
our own way of handling things. I'll put you through all the ranges; as
you progress we'll move on to the next group and then the next. In CI5 you
will have to reach a specified level of accuracy and remain constant,
otherwise you'll be out on your ear."

 "How long will the testing go on for?"

 "Constantly. Everyone is checked regularly; if you get complacent you're
out."

 From the casual, offhand tone Doyle surmised the Bodie was sure he was
going to fail at the first hurdle. People had underestimated him before;
just because he wasn't built like a brick outhouse they assumed he was a
seven stone weakling. He had surprised his opponents on more than one
occasion and he would do his utmost to shock The Hulk out of his careless
judgement.

 The discussion of the training schedule was suddenly interrupted by a
very loud rumble. Embarrassed by his betraying stomach, Doyle forced
himself to look up.

 "Sorry, but I think my stomach's trying to tell me something."

 "Wouldn't say no to something to eat either. What do you fancy, there's
an Indian and Kebab's takeaway, a Kebab House or a chippy just around the
corner."

 Before Doyle could answer, though, Bodie said, "Shit, it's Wednesday, the
Indian and Kebab's shut so it's chips, unless you can cook," he added
without much hope.

 "I can cook. What have you got in the kitchen?"

 "Dunno, Marianne got a load of shopping at the weekend; it all cost
enough so there must be something out there."

 "Don't you cook?"

 "Not if I can help it. Do you want to see what's there?"

 "Okay."

 Once he had shown the new cook where to find everything, Bodie retreated
to the living room where he settled down in front of the telly with a can
of beer and Doyle's training programme, only half aware of the muted
clattering coming from the kitchen.

 It was nearly an hour before Doyle piled everything onto two plates and
carried Bodie's tray through to the living room. Trusting that Marianne
would have pandered to Bodie's tastes, he had chucked just about
everything he had found into the bolognaise sauce and poured it over a
pile of steaming spaghetti.

 Apart from the widening of his eyes and the undisguised eagerness with
which he reached for the tray, Bodie made no comment, but the speed at
which the meal vanished spoke for itself.

 "There's some more outside if you want it," Doyle offered.

 Bodie did, and helped himself to a second generous portion, offering some
to Doyle, who just shook his head. As he watched the second helping go the
way of the first, Doyle wondered why it seemed to be his lot in life to
end up with people who enjoyed good food but were unable or unwilling to
cook it. Ann had hated cooking; the very thought of peeling potatoes or
chopping meat would make her miserable for hours. She'd enjoyed his
cooking and he had always found pleasure in spending an hour or so in the
kitchen. Mind you, he admitted to himself, with Ann it was cook it
yourself or starve.

 Bodie leant back in the armchair and stretched. "That was really good.
Put you to work in the kitchens, did they?" It had been meant as a
compliment; he had enjoyed the meal, and a full stomach usually put him in
a very benevolent mood.

 "How did you guess!"

 The biting voice cut through Bodie's sated well-being and made him
realise that perhaps his comment had lacked tact. Before he could respond,
Doyle finished his meal and strode through to the kitchen.

 He really hadn't meant to offend the man and Bodie waited for him to
return so he could apologise, but an item on the news caught his attention
and by the time the programme had finished he realised that time had
passed and still Doyle had not returned. Walking through to the kitchen
with his own dinner tray, he found everything washed up and left to drain,
and the room empty. Adding his own things to the stack of pans and dishes
on the drainer, Bodie peered into the hallway; light was spilling out from
the half-open door to Doyle's room.

 So, he thought grimly, the little toad had decided to sulk in solitude.
Stuff him then, and he turned back to the living room and the film that
was just starting.

 Lounging across his bed with the gun magazine spread out in front of him,
Doyle lifted his head and listened as he heard the footsteps from the
living room to the kitchen and back. Through the doorway he could hear the
music heralding the start of the film. He refused to let himself dwell on
the stupid throwaway remark. It wasn't worth it, and it was, he
acknowledged sadly, probably only the first of many such comments. He
couldn't afford to let each one upset him, but pretending that they didn't
was proving to be harder than he had expected.

 The magazine was not particularly interesting and the noise from the
television eventually proved too distracting. Unable to settle, Doyle got
up from his lounging sprawl across the bed and walked quietly through to
the living room.

 On reaching the darkened room, though, his resolve to walk in and watch
the film faltered. Bodie looked very comfortable. The light from the
television fell upon a very cosy scene, with Bodie lying full length
across the sofa, his head propped up on a cushion.

 How long he stood in the door he was not sure. There was nothing to
prevent him from entering the room, absolutely nothing--except Bodie's
indifference. Unable to force himself to intrude on the man's privacy and
reluctant to experience any more hassle, Doyle returned to the friendly
isolation of his own room.

 ******

*CHAPTER THREE*

 Turning left into the quiet side road in which he lived, Bodie gave a
sideways glance at his flaked-out passenger who had been asleep since
before they left the car park.

 It was hardly surprising, though, Bodie admitted cheerfully, and he
allowed himself to smile properly for the first time in nearly a week.

 Today had been pretty tough for Doyle; standing on the sidelines the
gleeful convalescent had seen the confidence and cockiness of the previous
few days falter and fade. He had at first allowed Doyle to set his own
pace without letting him realise exactly what he was doing. It made sense
to know precisely what the little toad thought he was capable of, Bodie
had decided, and so for three days he watched as Doyle did his early
morning jogging, weight training and shooting practice. Doyle's level of
fitness, considering his undernourished state, was in fact a little above
average for his size and age--a fact which told Bodie that he had not
spent the past three years shackled to some dungeon wall.

 Ray Doyle had decided against informing his instructor about the series
of exercises Bill Hillyard had worked him through in the prison gymnasium,
deciding that it would be in his own best interest not to lay all his
cards on the table at once. His object, however, was completely and
utterly defeated by his wish *not* to fall flat on his face and show
himself up in front of the irritatingly superior agent.

 By the third day, Bodie knew exactly how far Doyle's strength and skill
could take him. The fourth and fifth days he had pushed Doyle to his limit
and beyond--and then on some more.

 Drawing up to the kerb, Bodie jerked on the handbrake and switched off
the engine. Doyle didn't so much as twitch. Bodie shook him roughly, then
even harder. The sleeper jumped and pulled away from his touch, then
mumbled something too softly for Bodie to hear, before settling down again
on the other side of the seat.

 "Oi!" Bodie leant over and shouted in his ear. "We're home. Wake up,
Sleeping Beauty!"

 A hand reached up to cover the ear nearest the noise and heavy lids
lifted to glare in sleepy annoyance.

 "We're home," Bodie repeated loudly, deciding there and then to leave
Doyle in the car all night if he didn't wake up soon.

 "Mmm--pardon? D'you say something... Oh, we're home..."

 Uncoordinated fingers fumbled with the catch and pushed the door open.
Recalling the agony last night's unthinking haste had caused, Doyle was
careful to move each leg slowly and ease himself out of the car gently. He
didn't care if he did look like an arthritic geriatric, he wasn't going to
give Bodie the pleasure of seeing him doubled in agony caught by a cramp
halfway between the car and the pavement again.

 Following Bodie into the flats, he glared first at the staircase and then
at the smug grin on the arrogant face. He dearly wanted to tell Bodie what
he could do with his bloody lift, but he knew he lacked the energy to do
it; he didn't even have the strength to crawl up the flaming stairs on his
hands and knees--and Bodie knew it.

 Angry with himself for being so weak, he raged mutely as Bodie
considerately opened and closed the lift gates. Once inside the flat he
flopped down in front of the television, prepared at least to try and take
an interest in the news and following current affairs programme.
Apparently--according to Bodie anyway--all self-respecting CI5 agents kept
on top of current affairs constantly. As well as the physical training,
Bodie had him reading all the daily newspapers, every day--cover to
cover--from the Court Diary in the *Times* to the gossip column in the
*Sun* and all points in between. If he wasn't being thrashed, pounded and
humiliated, he was stuck in a corner hidden behind piles of newsprint.

 Since the first disastrous evening Doyle had not offered to cook anything
more adventurous than toast or coffee, and it had been left to Bodie, with
half an eye on Dr Willis' diet sheet, to prepare the evening meals.

 The reason for Doyle's malnourished appearance swiftly became obvious to
Bodie. The man had the appetite of an anorexic sparrow! What Doyle had
eaten in the last week wouldn't keep Bodie satisfied for a day. Coaxing a
grown man to eat was not a skill that Bodie had ever acquired. His
culinary expertise was not extensive but he tried to tempt Doyle with the
few things that Willis recommended and he could cook. Steak and potatoes.
Oven chips, Bodie decided, were the next best thing.

 Carrying the dinner trays through to the lounge, Bodie was hard-pressed
not to laugh at Doyle's earnest attempt to look wide awake and alert as he
stared with glazed eyes in the general direction of the television,
looking for all the world as if the Andrex puppy was the hottest news of
the day.

 The weight of the tray on his lap drew Doyle back to the present and he
looked down, trying to hide his dismay.

 Steak and chips *again*! Couldn't Bodie cook anything else? He couldn't
even cook steak, Doyle decided as his stomach threatened to revolt; it was
raw--if it had even seen the base of a frying pan it hadn't stayed long
enough to make any impression, and if that wasn't bad enough, the blood
made the chips go soggy.

 Once he was sure Bodie had forgotten he was there, and he had eaten his
fill of the unbloodied chips and accompanying tomato, Doyle slipped
quietly into the kitchen and carefully disposed of the unwanted steak.

 Surfacing from his own preoccupation, Bodie was unsurprised to find
himself alone. Apart from the aggravation of preparing an extra meal and
the odd extra cup of coffee, he could almost forget he was sharing his
flat with anyone else. Even after five days there were no outward signs
that anyone other than Bodie lived there. He'd had girls stay over before
and even after only one day he would find things scattered about, an extra
toothbrush in the bathroom, a strange jacket in the hallway, an unfamiliar
book beside a chair, but so far nothing belonging to Ray Doyle had left
the small spare room that he occupied.

 It was still early, not even half past nine, but Bodie knew that if he
went into the hallway he would find the rest of the flat in darkness.
Early to bed, early to rise and all that, Bodie thought. At least the berk
didn't try to pretend he didn't need to sleep that much. Christ! if he had
to tuck him into bed at night as well as everything else he'd do his nut
next time Cowley asked how things were getting on.

 Cowley! Should he tell Cowley about last night? God, let's hope that's
not going to be repeated in a hurry, Bodie thought fervently. Doyle hadn't
mentioned it this morning. Not that there was any reason why he should, of
course. Nightmares were a perfectly normal thing to have; it was just your
subconscious showing you all the nasty, horrible things that your
conscious mind insisted on forgetting. A lot of perfectly normal people
had nightmares; Bodie even had them. High on his list of most embarrassing
memories was a recollection of the circle of twelve startled, sleepy faces
around his bed as he screamed and fought off the enemy, only to wake up in
his nice, safe bed in the middle of the barrack dormitory. One bad dream
could happen to anyone.

 It was the seventh night before the second dream disrupted the quiet
flat.

 Already reaching for his gun as sleep vanished, Bodie was on his feet
before the panicked cry faded. For a moment it was quiet, but he trusted
his senses enough to know he wasn't remembering a dream.

 Not his dream--Doyle's. In the dark the voice cried out again, louder and
more distressed. Slipping his gun back into its holster, Bodie relaxed a
little.

 Another cry came from the other room. More disturbed than he cared to
admit by the obvious terror behind the garbled cries, Bodie slipped on his
dressing gown and softly padded down the hall. The other night Doyle had
seemingly woken up after the first cry because there had only been the
one, blood-chilling scream that had frightened Bodie out of a year's
growth. Sleep was reluctant to loose its grip on the exhausted, terrified
man tonight, though. One more cry decided it for Bodie and he pushed open
the door and reached for the main light switch; in the same instant Doyle
jolted awake and hit the bedside light, the resulting brilliance blinding
both men.

 "What do you want?" Doyle asked in a breathless voice. "What's up?"

 "That's what I came here to ask you," Bodie replied, slightly annoyed
that he had to explain his presence. "Sleepwalking isn't something I go in
for--neither is waking the neighbours at three in the morning screaming my
head off."

 So he had been screaming then. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Doyle knew
that he would wake up before the screaming started, but like tonight, more
often than not he wouldn't. Instead of the screws banging the door down,
he now had to contend with Bodie also suffering broken nights.

 "Sorry if I disturbed you...it was just a dream." Might just as well warn
him of the worst, Doyle decided. "Get them every now and then. Seems I get
a bit...noisy."

 "I'd already worked that out for myself."

 Sharp eyes looked up at him in a silent question.

 "A few nights ago I heard you--guessed it was a bad dream."

 The eyes dropped and gazed intently at the sheets. He didn't remember
that one, they didn't always wake him up. Now that the recent nightmare
was fading and the icy fear that chilled him to the bone was thawing,
other emotions, mainly embarrassment, flooded in.

 Remembering his own humiliation in the wide-awake barrack room, Bodie
found himself trying to ease the tension. There was no shame attached to
having the odd nightmare.

 "Look, it's okay, don't worry about it," he said kindly. "All coming to
get you, were they?" he joked.

 The innocent words made Doyle freeze. Did Bodie know, he wondered. Surely
not. He wasn't even sure if Cowley knew. Stupid. Of course Cowley knew--it
was just easier to pretend that no one did. Was there anyone who didn't
know? He'd grown used to the change of expression, the flash of sympathy,
revulsion and in some cases excitement. Bob Craig, the doctors, the nurses
in the public hospital, Governor Bryant, the screws--everyone in 'B' wing
had known. Why should Bodie remain ignorant of the facts? But maybe he
didn't know; Doyle wanted to believe he didn't. Were CI5 agents allowed to
have nightmares, he asked himself--probably not. Would Bodie write
"unsuitable because of recurring nightmares" across his report? Time would
tell.

 "Something like that."

 The answer, when it finally came, was something of an anticlimax. Bodie
watched as the immobile figure had worked the intended joke through,
thought about it and spat it out. He would dearly love to know what had
been behind the changes of expression in the drawn face that, in only a
few seconds, had reflected shock, fear, disgust, despair and resignation.

 "Look," Doyle continued, his fingers plucking at a loose thread on the
pillow case, "like you said, this wasn't the first time...don't suppose
it'll be the last either. There's no point both of us being up half the
night--so next time, if there is a next time, I'd be grateful if you just
left me alone. There's nothing you can do...just ignore it."

 "If that's what you want."

 "It's what I want."

 "See you in the morning then."

 "Yeah."

 Giving him a stiff nod, Bodie switched off the main light and went back
to his own room. Doyle watched him go, breathing a sigh of relief as he
heard him returning to his own bed. Relaxing against the pillow, he closed
his eyes. He was wide awake now; not that he wished to go to sleep right
away, the dream always seemed to come back when he did that.

 Through the open door he heard Bodie cough as he snuggled back into his
bed, the noise sounding clearly through the quiet flat. Getting out of
bed, Doyle walked to the door and slowly shut it; he stayed there for a
few minutes with his hand resting on the handle. The small room grew
oppressive; a cold sweat broke out across his face and down his back and
his heart started pounding wildly. Suddenly terrified that he was going to
be trapped in the tiny room, he opened the door, the rush of cool air
dispelling the panic as swiftly as it had begun.

 He stood there, leaning on the doorframe, gulping at the air. CI5 might
well accept agents prone to nightmares but Doyle was certain that
claustrophobes wouldn't even get past the first interview.

 He closed the door and walked away, back to the other side of the room.
It wasn't locked; there wasn't even a lock on the door. Any time he wanted
to get out he could just walk over and open it. Any time.

 He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

 ******

With his jacket slung over his shoulder, Doyle sauntered out onto the
street, hoping that he looked more at ease than he felt. It was the first
time since being released that he had gone out alone of his own choice.
Although he enjoyed his solitary morning jog, he was always aware that
someone was awaiting his return and hoping that maybe this morning he
would collapse and refuse to go on.

 No, he thought, deciding to be fair, Bodie was starting to realise that
he meant business. Strolling along the sun-drenched, tree-lined avenue,
Doyle felt in a mood to be charitable. He really couldn't blame Bodie for
reacting to the proposed partnership without any enthusiasm. It must have
been a terrible blow to his ego when Cowley had informed him that, after
due consideration, he had decided that an ex-convict--albeit a wrongly
convicted one--who had done three years inside, suffered from nightmares
and various other psychological disorders and was two stone underweight
was the ideal partner for him. It would probably take a bit of getting
used to.

 He carried on walking slowly, just looking around him, soaking up the
easy atmosphere. Most of the office workers had gone home and the only
people on the streets seemed to be people like himself, just out enjoying
the summer evening: tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, couples
soaking up the sun and each other's company, a few families looking tired
but happy after a day in the big city.

 A little way down the road, a public house had set tables and chairs
outside on the pavement so people could drink and continue to watch the
gentle flow of life and London, and he made himself comfortable with a
cool beer at one of the tables. He was tired but not exhausted, today
having been slightly easier because of Bodie's distraction. Doyle felt
mildly guilty that he had used the other man's lack of attention to ease
up. For the past two weeks Bodie had been pushing him harder than
necessary, but he had an idea that he was going to be grateful for the
strict regime he had imposed. Today, in a different part of the gym,
another agent had been working out and Bodie had asked her to take Doyle
on the mats in hand-to-hand combat. Ruth had agreed and set to
enthusiastically; at first her degree of skill had floored Doyle--several
times--but Ruth calmly told him that the first rule was always--never
underestimate your opponent. He already knew that and was mad with himself
for having to be so forcibly reminded, especially in front of Bodie, and
by a woman who was certainly no taller or heavier than he was. He didn't
consider himself to have a chauvinist attitude but being defeated so
soundly by a mere woman was painful.

 At the end of the day Bodie had told him quietly that he wouldn't be
going straight home that night; the news had not surprised Doyle in the
least. Bodie had not been very discreet about who he had been
concentrating on all day, so after seeing Bodie and Ruth Pettifer slip
away together, he had decided to venture out on his own.

 There had been nothing to stop him going out at any time except his own
exhaustion. Another reason why he had put off going had been his total
lack of choice. An evening out with Bodie was something he was sure he
could live without; all day in the man's company was bad enough. He had
never really enjoyed drinking alone and he was very reluctant to call on
any of his old friends, none of whom had visited or kept in touch with
him--which really only left the cinema or a show, a meal in a
restaurant--table for one, cruellest sentence in the world, that.

 No. A quiet walk. Soak up the sunshine then go home, read that manual
Bodie'd given him, try to stay awake past ten o'clock and then with luck,
a dreamless sleep.

 "Hello, love, sitting all alone on a lovely night like this! Can I join
you?"

 The soft, lilting voice jolted him back to the present and he looked up
in time to see a slim, fair-haired young woman settle herself down at his
table and arrange her drink and bags neatly beside her. He looked around
them and saw that there were other empty tables she could have chosen and
found himself wishing she had.

 "Nice sitting out here like this, isn't it?" she said conversationally,
trapping Doyle instantly when he agreed that it was by launching into the
predictable make-talk by discussing the weather. Not in the mood for
talking, Doyle made another mistake by mutely agreeing with her
meteorological comments.

 "Come from around here, do you?" she asked, in a sudden change of
direction.

 "No, not from here."

 "Not a Londoner then?"

 "No." He wasn't, not a born one anyway, and before he could stop himself
he made his third mistake and began contributing to the so-far one-sided
conversation.

 "I was born in the Midlands but I've been mostly in London since I left
school."

 "I come from the sticks too, came to London for some excitement, I did.
My name's Carole, by the way."

 He couldn't have cared less but couldn't bring himself to be rude and so
introduced himself.

 "Ray." He returned her smile and tried to convince himself that he wasn't
seeing all the signals he thought he was. There was nothing blatant about
Carole; her personality was a little too powerful for his taste but she
was modestly dressed and somehow didn't look as if she was a working girl.

 "Are you meeting someone, Ray? I mean, I don't want to intrude."

 "No, I'm not."

 "All alone on a beautiful evening like this, criminal that is," said
Carole softly.

 Now he knew his first guess had been right. Up-market and classy but
still a scrubber. Doyle's first reaction was a strong wave of revulsion
but he kept in control long enough to stand up and make a reasonably civil
farewell.

 "Maybe it is but that's the way I prefer it. Goodbye."

 Abandoning his unfinished beer he left the table and walked away, heading
down towards the embankment, fighting the nausea that threatened to
overwhelm him. At last he reached the river and, oblivious to passers-by,
he leant against the wall, stared blindly out across the water and tried
to stop the terrible trembling that shook his body.

 The strength of his reaction frightened him. She was only a prostitute
after all. He had spoken with enough of her kind in the line of duty not
to be surprised or shocked by anything she might have said or done. She
had been quite attractive; any other red-blooded man who had spent three
years away from women would probably have jumped at what she was
selling--whatever her price, he knew he would have been able to afford it.

 Admit it, Doyle, he told himself harshly, she bloody terrified you!
You're shit-scared of getting involved in a sexual scene. *You're bloody
hopeless!* Inside his head the word echoed cruelly. Hopeless! Even if he
had gone somewhere with her, nothing would have happened. Nothing. Ever
since that last big fight when--his mind shied away from the thought,
practice making it almost a reflex action. For nearly a year now there had
been a whole lot of nothing. At first he hadn't bothered, hadn't cared,
but then as time went by he found he did care--but still a big, fat
nothing!

 Turning away from the river he began to walk more or less in the
direction of Bodie's flat. Not only claustrophobic but impotent as well.
He could imagine Bodie's horror if he ever discovered the *real* truth
about his new partner.

 ******

Summer ended abruptly and autumn began wetly; it rained constantly for the
next three days. Bodie, who liked getting caught in the rain about as much
as a cat did, hated it.

 Waiting huddled out of the wind and wet in the doorway, Bodie looked up
from his stopwatch in the direction that Doyle ought to be approaching
from. The rain-washed street was deserted. Still, Bodie conceded, it was a
bit premature to expect him just yet. The route he'd sent him on was at
least five miles and the longest yet. He'd give it another five minutes
then send out the hearse to bring back the body.

 He spent the time checking through Doyle's progress chart that he had
compiled over the last three weeks. For the first time he actually allowed
a glimmer of admiration to peek through. It must have been obvious to
Doyle that he had been put through the mill, that CI5 didn't really expect
him to have progressed so far quite so soon, but he hadn't complained
once. There had been the odd occasion when he'd seen Doyle close his mouth
over a quick, explosive retort, or when he'd seemed to question the
severity of a test, but each time he'd knuckled under and done what was
asked. Not always successfully and not always very well--but at least he'd
tried. Bodie had to give credit where it was due.

 So far, Doyle had been full of surprises, physically at least. The lean,
stringy body was surprisingly strong and had more staying power than first
impressions led one to believe. After only three weeks the results of
plenty of exercise, fresh air, sunshine and good food had banished the
haunted, hunted look from Doyle's face. If only the recurring dreams would
leave him alone Bodie was sure that Doyle's mental recovery would also
speed up. But it wasn't just the dreams, Bodie acknowledged; the
nightmares were only a symptom of a more serious condition and something
would have to be done about the root cause of Doyle's unease before he
could be considered for active duty with the department.

 Cowley had not mentioned anything about Doyle suffering from psychiatric
problems, and Bodie suspected that if he got a whiff of any mental trauma,
Doyle would swiftly find himself out of the section. Or would he? The
department had its own psychiatric specialist--Kate Ross; although Bodie
had a deep dislike for and mistrust of the profession that had little to
do with Dr Ross personally, he admitted that she seemed to serve a
purpose. One or two agents had been told to see her professionally after a
couple of very ugly operations had backfired with horrific results. Should
he involve Ross? Later perhaps--if no other solution presented itself.
Meantime, thought Bodie, what the hell can I do with a man who retreats
into his room at every opportunity and emerges only at feeding times and
for his scheduled exercises?

 Despite invitations from other members of the squad and the odd genuine
invitation from Bodie, Doyle had shunned all social contact, neither had
he made any arrangements to see his own friends. After three years locked
away from the finer things in life, Bodie was more than a little surprised
at Doyle's total lack of interest in women.

 The first time it happened he'd just thought that Doyle was too thick to
realise what he was being offered, but in the end the girls were being so
blatant even a Trappist monk would have at least suspected the motives
behind their interest.

 In an official situation he coped with the office staff and the few
female agents in a perfectly normal way, but once the business was over he
became distant and introverted, doing everything except melt into the wall
in an effort to become invisible. The more the girls pressed, the further
Doyle retreated. Wasn't just the girls though, Bodie realised in a sudden
flash of insight; in every social encounter Doyle had done his utmost to
remain in the background, retreating from any conversation as fast as he
could without drawing any more attention.

 Splashing feet drew him out of his thoughts and he looked up in time to
see Doyle on the last few yards of his run. Instead of being confronted by
a weary, bedraggled figure, though, Bodie saw a man almost bursting with
excitement and lit up with an inexplicable inner joy. Apart from being a
little breathless he didn't even seem to be tired.

 "What are you hiding in there for?" Doyle enquired, his eyes and face
transformed by a previously unseen smile. "Anyone would think you were
scared of getting wet!"

 Noting down Doyle's time, Bodie just shrugged. "Dunno what you're looking
so cheerful for--you must be soaked to the skin."

 "I am. Beautiful, isn't it! Love running in the rain--makes everything so
fresh, clean." He drew in a deep breath. "Just smell it, all that clean,
fresh air. How did I do?" he asked, peering over the top of the clipboard
Bodie was busily scribbling on.

 "Not bad, not bad." Actually, it was quite good and he had an idea Doyle
knew it, but Bodie refused to let him see that he was impressed. "Not
quite up to our standard yet but you're getting better."

 "Blimey, go easy with the praise, won't you!"

 Bodie responded to the teasing voice with a smile of his own. "Just
'cause you've managed to finish a little run on your own two feet rather
than on your hands and knees, don't go getting any ideas."

 "Hands and knees, Christ, I didn't even finish that first run."
Unconcerned by the dismal failure of his first long run, Doyle laughed at
the memory of Bodie having to scoop him up from the pavement where he
collapsed, sweating and exhausted.

 "Just goes to show what a decent bed and food can do for you. Prison
life's never won anyone competitions in the fitness stakes."

 Even as the words formed in his mouth Bodie knew he shouldn't say
them--but it was too late. Immediately the happy sparkle in the bright
eyes faded and the battered face turned to stone. Any mention of prison
caused this reaction and Bodie only knew he had destroyed Doyle's happy,
carefree mood with his remark. But even though he regretted breaking the
cheerful mood, Bodie was irritated by Doyle's excessive reaction to every
harmless comment.

 "Look," he began, unsuccessfully trying to keep his voice calm, "I'm
sorry if I'm thoughtless enough to keep making references to where you've
been for the past three years--" Doyle's face became even bleaker and
Bodie's patience snapped.

 "It's a fact of life, Doyle," he shouted. "You've been inside one of Her
Majesty's Institutions for three years. You know it and I know it. It was
very unfortunate and I don't expect you had the time of your life while
you were in there but neither of us can get away from it. *You*, Raymond
Doyle, have been in prison for three long years. I don't blame you for
wanting to forget about it but there's no call for you to get all twitchy
and miserable every time I or anyone else is bloody daft enough not to
cater for your delicate sensibilities. If you're going to act like Lot's
wife every time the subject comes up you might as well get out now! If
we're going to end up working together it's a fact we're *both* going to
have to accept. You can't pretend it didn't happen because it did."

 "A fact that we're *both* going to *have* to accept!" Doyle spat the
phrase back at him. "That's rich, that is. It's just a fact of life that
I'm gonna have to accept, is it?"

 Bodie was rooted to the spot by the venom in the smaller man's voice,
suddenly remembering his own hard-learned lesson that strength wasn't
directly related to size.

 "I haven't really got much choice, have I? Even if I did want to forget
it'd all come flooding back the next time I looked in a mirror. I'll tell
you something that'll make you laugh, you'll really love this, Bodie."
Doyle's face twisted with bitterness and anger and Bodie knew that
whatever he was going to hear, he wouldn't want to laugh.

 "I don't look in a mirror to shave any more. In fact I hardly ever look
at my reflection nowadays because every time I do see it..." A slim
white-knuckled hand rose and touched the protruding cheekbone. "Once upon
a time they used to brand criminals so everyone would know who they were
and what they'd done. This--" Bodie watched as a finger stroked over the
disfiguring bulge and the scarring that was still shiny pink. "This is a
brand as far as I'm concerned, because every time I see it I remember how
and where I got it. Forget! No chance!"

 As if he suddenly realised that he was revealing too much of his inner
torment, Doyle turned away and made a performance of picking up his track
suit jacket and sports bag that he'd left on the floor. The movement
didn't fool Bodie for a moment. He'd heard Doyle's voice waver and crack
and seen the over-bright eyes. It was the first time that Doyle had made
any reference to what had happened to him and Bodie guess there was a lot
of pain bottled up inside, pain that needed to be released if it wasn't
going to fester and warp his outlook, thereby destroying everything.

 "How did that happen anyway?" Bodie asked mildly, illustrating the point
by tapping his own, unflawed cheekbone. He knew that Doyle was going to
have to talk it out with someone eventually. It was perhaps unfortunate
that Doyle had not read the same psychology books, though--for he had
obviously decided that he most definitely was not going to discuss it.

 "It's none of your fucking business!" was Doyle's not wholly unexpected
retort before he headed off towards the shower room at a brisk trot.

 Unconcerned, Bodie watched him go, following behind at his own unhurried
pace.

 That's what you think, sunshine, he thought as Doyle disappeared through
the locker room door. Maybe what happened inside that prison was none of
his business but a little triviality like that was not going to stop him
from finding out a few things. Pushing through the swinging door, Bodie
saw that they had the shower room to themselves and Doyle was already
minus his rain- and sweat-soaked T shirt.

 As soon as he heard the protesting squeal of the door hinge, Doyle felt
an icy hand clutch at his entrails and he spun around.

 It was only Bodie.

 He wiped the fresh sweat from his face and tried to still his pounding
heart. He knew his hands were shaking but was powerless to prevent them.
Dropping the shirt onto the seat, he looked sideways at Bodie, who had
settled himself down on the opposite bench and was busily scribbling on
his clipboard.

 He's not even looking, Doyle told himself, but it was no good--the
shaking wouldn't cease. Don't just stand there, Doyle, get undressed and
get it over with before he does start looking, the voice inside his head
told him calmly, and he knew it was the sensible thing to do...if only he
could get his body to cooperate, he would.

 Not looking up from his sheet of times and schedule, Bodie suddenly
asked: "You met Macklin yet?"

 Peeling off his second wet sock, Doyle refused to look up, forcing
himself to keep calm and act naturally.

 "No. Heard of him though," he said stiffly as he stood up and forced
leaden fingers to slip his running shorts down.

 "Oh well, you'll get a nice surprise on Monday then. I've asked him to
run you through the department's fitness test. Want to see how much
further I've got to push you."

 Doyle had heard of Macklin's fitness exam from some of the other agents
and knew that Monday was going to be a real toughie, but all he was
worried about now was getting through the next ten minutes without
disgracing himself. As if from a great distance he heard himself talking,
his voice sounding tinny and unreal.

 "Do you think I'm up to it?"

 "No," Bodie said bluntly. "But it'll give a chance to see how much you've
progressed and how much further you've got to go."

 Unable to postpone the moment any longer, Doyle slipped off his briefs
and walked into the communal shower.

 "No one's expecting you to have reached the grade just yet," Bodie
continued, looking up in time to see Doyle's stiff-legged walk into the
shower. "You've come on pretty well--better than I expected, to be
honest--but I want Macklin to see you in action; this training thing is
more in his line than mine and he'll be able to see what needs working
on."

 The way Doyle was standing under the shower made Bodie look at the naked
man worriedly. Had he strained himself, Bodie wondered.

 "What's up?" he asked, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice.
"Have you pulled a muscle or something?"

 "No." Doyle could feel Bodie's eyes burning into his back and even though
the water was hot he felt icy prickles all over his skin.

 The abrupt 'no' did little to dispel Bodie's worry. Something was wrong
here, he knew that much--but what? Standing up, he walked across to
Doyle's towel, his eyes not missing the way the nude body jumped as he
knocked against the bench. He held the towel out for Doyle to take,
unprepared for the naked fear in the white face and wide-opened eyes, but
the hand that grasped the towel was steady. It was so unexpected that
Bodie found himself speechless, and he watched in stunned silence as Doyle
wrapped the cloth around his waist and moved to the bench where his dry
clothes were.

 Doyle was scared of him...no, terrified! Doyle was terrified, but why?
Bodie racked his brains trying to think what he had said or done to have
caused such a reaction, but found nothing. Instinctively knowing that his
closeness was contributing to Doyle's problem, Bodie moved back to his
clipboard on the other side of the room and felt the tension ease
fractionally as the physical distance between them increased.

 "I'll meet you in the cafeteria for a cup of tea. Okay?"

 "Okay," Doyle agreed, but Bodie had the feeling that he would have agreed
to anything if it meant he was going to be left alone.

 Musing over his cup of tea while he waited, Bodie tried to pinpoint what
was bothering him so much--or rather, what was bothering Doyle. There were
lots of little things that did not seem very important on their own but,
now he put them all together, began to take shape like a jigsaw. Going
backwards, Bodie mentally listed everything, starting with Doyle's very
obvious fear in the shower room. It wasn't the first time they'd been
alone together--so what was different, what had happened? He had never
been in the locker room with him before; all the other times, Doyle had
slipped away unnoticed or waited until Bodie had been involved with
someone else. So what was so different about being alone together in that
room? And the other day in the car...on several occasions Doyle had fallen
asleep on their way home and until now Bodie had taken no notice of the
physical jump Doyle gave each time he was woken up...that very first night
too, Bodie remembered suddenly, he had leapt off that bed as if he thought
Bodie was going to rape him or...

 The jigsaw was suddenly complete.

 God no, Bodie thought, surely not. But even as he sought to deny it, he
re-ran everything through his mind, his surprising explanation fitting
perfectly with Doyle's behaviour...the social withdrawal, his seemingly
untypical attitude towards sex, his dislike of being touched unexpectedly,
and his fear of being unclothed in front of someone.

 Bodie recalled the records he had seen; Doyle had been involved in an
extraordinary number of fights and 'incidents'. Having spent most of his
adult life in a predominantly male society, Bodie was only too painfully
aware of how some men, deprived of normal sexual outlets, could turn on
each other for release. Already an outcast, the former policeman would
have found few, if any, allies amongst the prison staff, and the inmates
would have had free rein over the unfortunate man who represented the
system that had put them there. The vulnerability of Doyle's position
combined with his looks would have made him the obvious target if what
Bodie suspected was true. How far would it have gone? His medical notes
were, Bodie now realised, incomplete. A broken wrist, cracked ribs and a
broken face said Doyle hadn't gone down without a fight...but that was
over a year ago. What had happened since then?

 Bodie pondered over Doyle's possible, no, probable reply if he questioned
him, and knew he would have to wait until Doyle wanted to talk; it was no
good trying to force out a confidence before it was ready. The problem
was, when would Doyle decide he was ready to talk?

 ******

Bodie rolled over onto his face and pulled the pillow over his head in a
vain attempt to block out the desperate cries that reverberated around the
quiet flat.

 "Come on, you bugger, wake up," he muttered through clenched teeth as he
waited for the choked-off scream that usually heralded the end of this
particular nightmare.

 Another wordless scream reached his buried ears.

 "Four bleedin' thirty in the morning," he groaned. "For chrissake, Doyle,
wake up so I can get to sleep. *Please*!"

 Being woken at all hours was fast becoming a habit.

 Doyle's mental state seemed to be deteriorating in relation to his
improving physical condition. At first, the dreams had only happened once
a night with two or three peaceful nights between them; then they'd come
every other night and now, for the second night in succession, they were
trapping their victim every time he settled back down to sleep.

 So far the nightmares had been a taboo subject; each morning Doyle had
eaten his breakfast with an unfriendly, distant expression which
discouraged any attempts on Bodie's part to discuss the cause of the
dreams.

 The training programme had been going very well up till now, but this
afternoon, Bodie had seen the troubled expression on Macklin's face as he
watched Doyle being defeated again and again because of his inattention
and carelessness. The charts Bodie had been keeping on Doyle's progress
were also beginning to reflect the downward trend--the impressive start
was turning into a dismal decline.

 Lack of sleep was the main problem. Doyle's reluctance to try and sleep
was caused by the fact that each time he did succumb he would wake up,
shouting and fighting and, not unnaturally, scared to drop off again.

 A routine medical check yesterday had revealed that Doyle was beginning
to lose weight again; the little he had gained on being released was being
eaten away by exhaustion and lack of sleep.

 Even through two closed doors and several inches of pillow, Doyle's
garbled shouts and cries reached Bodie's ears. Should he go and wake him
up, Bodie wondered. Did he really want to face a repeat of the previous
night's arguments? Monday night had been bad enough without trying for a
re-run. Doyle had made it quite plain weeks ago that he wanted to be left
alone, but his obvious distress had worried at Bodie until he'd been
compelled to go down the hall to Doyle's bedroom. His timing had been off
and Doyle had shuddered awake the moment before he reached there and was
already sitting up, rubbing the vestiges of whatever horrors had beset
him, when Bodie burst through the door.

 "What do you want?" Doyle had snapped out.

 "Nothing. Thought I might be able to help, that's all," Bodie muttered,
already regretting his impulse.

 "Don't you know how to knock?" Doyle enquired nastily, turning his fear
into anger because that way it was easier to handle. "I know this is your
flat but I'd expected to be granted a bit of privacy."

 "Pardon me for breathing," Bodie retaliated. "You can have all the
bleedin' privacy you want, mate--all I ask in return is a decent night's
sleep where I don't have to listen to you shrieking and hollering your
head off!"

 "I wouldn't say no to a decent night's sleep myself."

 Bodie heard Doyle's voice crack and tried to cool things down; he knew it
wasn't Doyle's fault.

 "Look, I'm...sorry," he said carefully. "I know you're not doing it on
purpose and I don't really mind--"

 "*I do!*" Doyle was still struggling to hold onto his anger; he had a
nasty suspicion that Bodie was building up to a good old all-men-together
heart-to-heart and right now that was the last thing he wanted.

 "Do you want to talk about it, get it off your chest?" Bodie offered.

 "It was just a dream. I've already told you that I get them sometimes.
I'm sorry they disturb you but--"

 "I'm not talking about tonight and you know it," Bodie pushed.

 "It was just a bad dream. What's wrong, are you going to tell me that CI5
agents aren't allowed to have bad dreams?" Doyle asked in a scathing
voice.

 "No," Bodie countered placidly. "Even the best of us get unpleasant
dreams. It's an occupational hazard. You stick around and one day you'll
get a front row seat on one of my screaming specials." Bodie stepped
further into the room and sat down at the foot of the bed. Doyle glared at
him with undisguised contempt.

 "Do make yourself comfortable."

 "The odd dream," Bodie continued, "is perfectly normal. I'm not sure that
Ross or Cowley will think your record over the past few weeks counts as
normal, though."

 "You're going to tell them?" Behind the I-don't-give-a-damn-if-you-do,
Bodie heard the note of worry.

 "You're going to have to talk to someone."

 "Fuck off!"

 "And if you won't talk to me it'll have to be someone else."

 "Talk about what?"

 "You tell me."

 "Nothing to tell. I just get a bad dream occasionally--I don't even
remember what they're about, it's just a bad dream," lied Doyle, not even
sounding as if he managed to convince himself of the untruth.

 "Come on, Doyle, loosen up, it's not as if I can't guess what's behind
all this. You're not the first bloke it ever happened to and I doubt very
much if you'll be the last. It's behind you now though, and it's time
to--"

 Doyle had gone white, every drop of colour vanished from his face and for
a second Bodie thought he was going to faint, his words dying unspoken as
he waited for Doyle to move, collapse or whatever.

 In a flash, Doyle was out of his bed and on him, heaving him bodily and
almost throwing him towards the door; stunned by the sudden, white rage
the smaller man had flown into, Bodie allowed himself to be pushed, a
small coherent part of his brain telling him that it would be safer and
less painful to cooperate.

 "What are you talking about?" Doyle yelled furiously. "What do you know
about anything? I'm not going to talk to you about *anything*. Do you hear
me? There's nothing to talk about. Nothing!"

 Doyle's voice was marginally below the point at which it would have been
hysterical, and he shoved Bodie out into the darkened hallway. "They
didn't do it. The doctors said they didn't do it so there's nothing to
talk about, is there. Now get out. Get out and leave me alone!"

 The door had been slammed in his face and Bodie had meekly returned to
his own bed, awed by the strength released by Doyle's temper. Shocked and
troubled, the remainder of the night had been passed in an uneasy but
undisturbed sleep from which he'd woken up tired and unrefreshed. Doyle
hadn't looked any better and Bodie accurately guessed that he hadn't
managed or dared to go back to sleep. The day had gone from bad to worse
and they had returned to the flat in the evening, tired and despondent.

 After the disturbance of the previous night, Bodie had turned in fairly
early but he had known that Doyle had probably fought against his
tiredness, unwilling to give in to a sleep that he knew was going to be
plagued by terror.

 Another bloodcurdling scream, by far the worst so far, reached through
the pillow.

 Unable to ignore it any longer--he wouldn't even leave a wild animal to
suffer so--Bodie snatched up his bathrobe and strode purposefully down the
hallway, disregarding totally all of Doyle's pleas to be left alone. It
had gone on long enough.

 Opening the door and switching on the light, Bodie's initial fury died as
he saw the curled-up ball tangled in the bedding. For a split second he
thought Doyle had woken up but then realised that although he had reacted
to the sudden light and noise he was still trapped, trembling and
terrified, in his nightmare.

 "Doyle," he called softly. "Doyle...Ray...come on, Ray, time to wake up."

 The trembling only increased and the hunched figure made a jerky movement
that looked as though he was trying to burrow into the mattress.

 "Come on, Ray, snap out of it." Bodie reached over and touched a bare
shoulder, intending only to shake the sleeper awake.

 "*No!*"

 Doyle uncurled and exploded into movement, throwing himself at Bodie and
launching an all-out attack with flying fists, knees and elbows, the wild,
uncoordinated frenzy taking them both down onto the floor where Bodie was
barely able to protect himself from serious injury.

 It was a few, painful seconds before Bodie realised that Doyle was still
trapped in his dream world and set out to wake him up without either of
them getting killed in the process. Hampered by his concern that Doyle
shouldn't be hurt any more, the only way left for Bodie to immobilise him
was to wrap himself octopus-fashion around the thrashing body and use his
greater weight to pin Doyle to the floor.

 Instinctively recognising the helplessness of his position, Doyle froze,
his whole body rigid, and Bodie heard a small, heart-rending whisper that
made him want to kill the bastards who had almost destroyed a young man.

 "No...please don't...no...no." Doyle's voice was pathetically tired,
almost as if he had given up hoping to be listened to, and he'd stopped
fighting.

 Cautiously, Bodie eased the vise-like grip, thinking again that Doyle was
awake, and pulled away slightly, propping himself up on an elbow to look
down on the trembling body he was still sprawled across.

 "Hey--you awake?" Bodie lightly touched the man's arm, half expecting to
be thrown off again, but not this time.

 As his fingers skimmed up the bare flesh, Doyle went rigid and inhaled
sharply, his eyes snapping open, finally awake. Seeing the confusion in
the brilliant jade eyes, Bodie spoke softly, reassurance flowing easily as
he sought to calm the trembling that was shaking Doyle's body.

 "You're awake now. It's all over...everything's gonna be just fine. 's
all right, no one's going to hurt you...just keep calm...relax...there's
nothing to get worried about, I'm not going to hurt you--no one is...are
you listening? Can you hear me?" Bodie asked, suddenly wondering if his
good intentions and words of comfort were getting beyond the glazed,
wide-eyed stare.

 There was still no reply, so Bodie eased himself off Doyle but remained
close by him on the floor, one hand cupping the warm skin on Doyle's
shoulder, squeezing and rubbing gently with soothing, relaxing movements,
touch reinforcing the protective and caring emotions that Bodie was
projecting.

 Watching as Doyle closed his eyes again, Bodie took hope from the fact
that neither his touch nor his presence had been rejected. He was unsure
of what to do for the best and racked his brains for any ideas. How should
he cope with this? One wrong move and he knew he would lose Doyle forever.

 The near-hysterical outburst of the previous night came to the fore of
his mind. Something that hadn't sounded right, sort of out of place. He'd
said that he hadn't been raped, that there was nothing to--no, he hadn't,
thought Bodie with amazement. Doyle had said nothing of the sort. The
*doctors* had said nothing had happened. Surely Ray would know if he had
or hadn't; after all, Bodie thought as he continued to gentle Doyle, it's
hardly the sort of thing you'd forget.

 Beneath his hand the trembling was reaching mammoth proportions and the
warm body shook spasmodically as Doyle drew in great gulps of air,
fighting against the inevitable breakdown. Unable to react to such
distress in any other way, Bodie drew Doyle into a loose hug, pressing the
curly head onto his shoulder.

 "Stop fighting, Ray...just let go...just let go..."

 Unable to hold back any longer, the dam broke and Doyle found himself
holding on to Bodie, sobbing his heart out, the concern the other man was
giving washing over him in waves. He could feel that Bodie didn't mind and
wasn't finding his loss of control demeaning, and finally allowed himself
to relax enough and give way to three years' worth of suppressed pain,
fear, loneliness and the overwhelming sense of betrayal.

 All the time Bodie just held him, rocking him and stroking firm hands
across his back and up his neck into his hair, talking softly all the
time, just a lot of reassuring, comforting nonsense that actually meant
nothing except that there's someone here, someone who cares.

 Patiently waiting for the storm to blow over, Bodie began planning what
was to happen next. There was no way Doyle was going to retreat back into
his shell this time. Tonight they were going to talk.

 Eventually the tears slowed down, the cries became soft hiccups and Doyle
made his first attempt to draw back. Bodie only let him go a little way,
holding him and turning him so they were sitting face to face on the
floor.

 "Here, it's clean, do you want to borrow it?"

 Bodie received a shaky smile and soft hiccup by way of answer, but Doyle
took the handkerchief and tried to repair the damage, not that a few
half-hearted dabs and blows could improve the ravaged face much, though.

 "I'm going to go and fix us both a drink. Come through to the living room
when you're ready."

 Bodie spoke softly, but there was no doubt in Doyle's mind--he hadn't
been given an invitation but a nicely worded order.

 Bodie waited until he received a nod of acknowledgement before getting to
his feet and leaving the room.

 Placing the coffees on the table, Bodie reached over for the whisky
bottle and poured a generous slug in each mug, then set the bottle down
onto the table. He had a feeling that they were going to need a little
spiritual help to get through what was left of the night.

 Another few minutes passed and still there was no sign of Doyle. Bodie
sighed and covered his face with his hands, he just didn't know what to
do. He didn't want to have to drag Doyle forcibly from his room, but he
couldn't take any more repeats of the past few nights; Doyle couldn't
either. If he didn't come out and start talking soon, Bodie knew that he
would have to involve Cowley and Ross.

 A movement in the doorway caught his eye; there was Doyle, dressed now in
jeans and T-shirt, standing nervously at the threshold of the room.

 "I'm not going to force you to come in and talk to me," Bodie said
reasonably. "If you come in *now* I'll expect to hear exactly what's been
bugging you. I don't want a fabricated story or a whole lot of 'nothing
happened'..." Bodie's voice hardened as he set down the rules, "...you
want to talk crap you can go see Ross and Cowley. For what it's worth I
think you and I can make a good team, but I'll tell you now, 'good' isn't
good enough. Take my lead and we'll be bloody good, the best Cowley's
got!" Bodie smiled as he knew that what he was saying would come true. "I
don't think the Old Man's gonna stand much of a chance when we start
letting rip; play our cards right and we can make him rue the day he ever
dreamt up partnering us two. But--" the smile vanished and Bodie became
serious, "--being partners starts from *now*. Maybe there's nothing I can
do to help, but I've got to know what I'm up against. I'll help you all I
can, Doyle, but you've got to tell me what's wrong. I may be brilliant at
most things but psychic I'm not."

 Bodie finally threw down a verbal gauntlet.

 "Come in and talk or walk out now--that's it."

 For a few agonising seconds Doyle remained hovering on the brink; it
wasn't until he stepped into the room and reached for his coffee cup that
Bodie realised he'd been holding his breath.

 ******

*CHAPTER FOUR*

 Sitting on the floor in the middle of his bedroom, Doyle watched Bodie's
retreating back and considered his options.

 Although Bodie hadn't said anything, Doyle knew the other man was
expecting to be told what the problem was. All things considered, Doyle
conceded his host had been remarkably restrained in not beating the truth
out of him weeks ago. The screws had never been so considerate, banging on
the heavy metal door and shouting abuse through the grille; one or twice
it sounded as if the entire population of 'E' wing had been airing their
none-too-polite sentiments in response to the screws' harsh orders to
'wake up and belt up'.

 He could just imagine how Milton and his crony, Mr Magill, would have
reacted to the past week's worth of nightmares. The night watch was
considered to be an easy number by the screws. Everyone was locked up and
expected to be asleep and it was an accepted thing that after the money
had dried up the cards would be put away and the duty officers would take
it in turns to get some sleep.

 The dreams hadn't been so frequent then; they might come one or two
nights in succession and then not reoccur for a week or two, but even so,
fate decreed that when Milton drew night duty Doyle would wake the whole
block with his shouts. There was only one thing Milton hated more than
having a winning poker hand stopped and that was being woken up from an
illicit sleep in the duty room because some inconsiderate prat--usually
Doyle--had woken the wing up.

 Climbing to his feet, Doyle tried to decide which fate he would prefer:
the irate Milton or the calm confidence of the man who was waiting for him
in the living room. Doyle came to the conclusion that Milton hadn't been
all that bad.

 His gaze fell upon the wreckage of his bed; sheets and blankets screwed
up and tangled in a heap on the floor. He didn't even remember getting out
of bed, let alone how he ended up on the floor, head buried into Bodie's
shoulder, crying his eyes out. As a few, disjointed memories returned he
became aware of various tender spots on his body: his left knee was aching
and he was slowly seeping blood onto his pyjama trousers. He reached down
to examine the injury and noticed that his knuckles on both hands were red
and bruised looking. In his dreams he knew exactly who he'd been fighting.
Memory of heavy weight pressing him down returned along with the feeling
of utter helplessness, and he suddenly realised that this time it had been
no dream, that the body had really been there, but instead of following
its normal course, this time he'd received comfort and kindness, the hands
that touched him only seeking to relax and calm.

 The whole thing flooded back now; Bodie's touch and voice had pulled him
out of the pit; shaken and puzzled to wake up in such a position he hadn't
been surprised when Bodie began to pull back--but he didn't move right
away, he'd stayed close, sprawled beside him on the floor with one warm,
comfortingly heavy hand resting on his shoulder, the simple touch
establishing a much-needed contact with a real, kind world.

 As he waited, Doyle had accepted that the withdrawal and disgust at his
behaviour wasn't forthcoming; Bodie was staying close in case he was
needed, because he wanted to help. Horrified by the tears he knew were
coming, he'd tried to fight them back, but Bodie had seen what was
happening and had taken over, unexpectedly drawing him into an embrace and
urging him to let go.

 Remembering how he had cried and how Bodie had accepted even that, fresh
tears blinded him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried like
that, and doubted if he ever had; even as a child he had seldom sought
refuge in tears. Only girls and cissies cry, his dad had told him. He
could still feel where Bodie's hands had rubbed over his back as he'd
tried to soothe him; he couldn't remember feeling that Bodie had been
embarrassed by his outburst, all he could recall was Bodie actively
encouraging him to cry, telling him how much better he would feel if he
just let go.

 In the bathroom he splashed cold water over his face, washing away the
tears, old and new, and dabbed at the small cut on his leg. From the
kitchen he heard the chinking of a spoon in a cup and sighed. He was going
to have to talk to Bodie; he knew that he wanted to be part of CI5 and
talking to Bodie was going to be his admission fee. But he didn't want to
talk about it and spent most of his time thinking about anything else; now
he was away from it, all the memories were growing grey and confused,
particular memories--even the few more pleasant ones--were becoming
elusive; the only things that were clear and growing more vivid and
detailed each time were his dreams. At times it felt as if the dreams were
true and his waking existence was nothing but bleak, colourless nightmare.

 Slipping into some clothes, Doyle padded barefoot down the hall and came
to a stop outside the partly open door. Sitting staring at the steaming
coffee cups was Bodie, unaware that he was being watched. Doyle heard him
give a loud sigh before he covered his face with his hands. Guilt flooded
through Doyle as he saw how tired and worn out Bodie looked and sounded.
The past month had been no easier on him; in many ways it had perhaps been
worse. Sometimes having to watch another suffer and find yourself unable
to help was worse than being the one who suffered.

 Doyle stepped into the room and Bodie threw down the gauntlet.

 "Come in and talk or walk out now. That's it."

 Still unhappy with both choices presented to him, Doyle sat down in an
armchair placed just on the edge of the soft pool of light and fussed
around with his coffee, the heavy whisky flavour warming him through to
his toes.

 "What do you want to know?" Doyle's quiet voice asked after a long,
uncomfortable silence.

 "Everything."

 "Why?"

 "Because I need to know what's going on inside your head. I have to know
if you're going to fall to pieces on me."

 "Oh!" They subsided into silence again. It was time for Doyle to start
talking.

 "What do you think happened to me?" asked Doyle, still trying to put off
the inevitable.

 "You tell me."

 "You must have some idea. I want to know what you know...or what you
think you know. I saw all my files on Cowley's desk, you've read them and
I haven't. What's in them?"

 "Okay," agreed Bodie. He couldn't blame Doyle for being curious about the
contents of the files. "You weren't anyone's idea of a model prisoner.
Your behaviour was reported to be overly aggressive and your attitude left
a lot to be desired. You got caught up in an inordinate amount of fights
and scraps." Bodie swigged back the last of his coffee and set the cup
back on the table with a thump. "There was nothing official logged, but
reading between the lines I'd say you were subjected to a lot
of...harassment. You never complained about it but I think I can work out
what path it took."

 Refusing to give in to the silent plea in the green eyes, Bodie would not
make it easier on Doyle and come right out with what he suspected had
really happened. He didn't want to be sadistic and he was gaining no
pleasure from the other man's discomfort but he really believed that it
would be better if the final, damning words came from Doyle himself.

 "You think you can work it out?" Doyle mocked him. "Expert on it, are
you?"

 "I've been around; it happens. Happens more often than everyone in their
nice, safe little homes realises, that's why it's such a hell of a shock
when it happens to you."

 "What do you know about it?" Doyle said, desperately trying to change the
focus of the conversation and completely missing the flash of remembered
pain and sorrow that passed across Bodie's face.

 Abruptly Bodie stood up and snatched Doyle's empty coffee mug, the sudden
movement making the smaller man flinch.

 "More than you'd guess," Bodie mumbled softly and inaudibly as he filled
up the tumblers with whisky.

 Once again as they each settled down with a drink, the room became very
quiet.

 Doyle stared into his glass. Everything, Bodie had said. Such an
insignificant word, everything--but then again, everything covered too
much and he really didn't want to talk about everything.

 "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.

 Watching the unfocussed gaze, Bodie understood Doyle's dilemma. Where on
earth would everything have started going so wrong...before his
arrest...after the trial?

 "From your committal," he suggested.

 "They found me guilty and I was committed. I wasn't surprised, don't
think anyone was really. I was sent to Ford--you know, the open prison
just outside London. I'd been there a few times to interview prisoners
myself--I always remember thinking it seemed a cushy life. Soon discovered
the difference between visiting and living there, though."

 "You made quite an impression on the place, didn't you?" Bodie ventured
cautiously, recalling the report on Doyle's short but troubled stay there.

 "Yeah, well...at the time I just wanted to hit something, hurt
someone--the daft prat just pushed me once too often and I went off the
deep end. If it hadn't been him it would have been someone else."

 Attacking a prison warder was a serious offence, and it was only because
the officer's injuries had not been too serious that Doyle had been let
off with a severe reprimand, loss of privileges and transferral to an
establishment that could cope with overly aggressive prisoners, instead of
facing further criminal charges.

 "What happened?" Bodie asked.

 "At Ford?" At Bodie's nod, Doyle elaborated.

 "I'd been warned to expect some pretty rough treatment. The screws tried
to be fair but no one likes a bent cop, least of all the other inmates. It
was pretty relaxed in the recreational rooms--you could come and go as you
pleased to a certain extent. About the only thing you couldn't have was
privacy."

 Bodie could understand feeling that particular loss keenly; he valued his
privacy and guessed Doyle did also.

 "Most of the treatment I got was pretty...juvenile: being tripped up,
knocked over, my dinner tray knocked off the table, someone's soup down my
neck, my clothes inexplicably ending up in a puddle in the shower
room--nothing serious but pretty hard to ignore week after week. After
about four months I decided enough was enough. I'd been there long enough
for the novelty to have worn off and I stopped being such a nice, quiet,
well-mannered little convict. Most of 'em took the hint and backed off but
there's always one, isn't there?"

 Bodie agreed, there was always someone stupid enough to stay the course.

 "Ben Johnson, pathetic little creep he was, a small-time embezzler who
dreamed of being Mr Big. One of the screws, the one I thumped, practically
encouraged him to keep coming down on me when I tried to get him to fuck
off. I just snapped in the end, can't even remember what he did but I went
for him. Mr Miles must've seen I'd cracked and tried to stop me but it was
too late by then; I was so mad I just went berserk. I think I'd been
wanting to hit something for a long time--he just happened to be it.

 "They had to call the doctor over to sedate me and I ended up strapped in
a body jacket in the padded cell. I ought to be grateful to that doctor, I
suppose. He said I was just having a serious, delayed reaction to the
pressure I was under while I was on trial."

 Doyle could hear the slightly off-key gaiety in his voice and knew it was
just nerves; if he thought it would throw Bodie off he would carry on
talking about Ford forever rather than progress to the next point in the
sordid tale.

 "Any more whisky left?" he asked, needing the warm blanket of alcohol to
cover his raw, bleeding nerves.

 Bodie filled Doyle's glass but made no attempt to top up his own barely
touched drink. He was not the one who needed Dutch courage.

 "So," he prompted, "what happened when you got to Maidstone?"

 "Wonderful place that. Every modern convenience that was around at the
time it was built. Didn't go in for creature comforts two hundred years
ago, did they! Should've been demolished before I was born."

 The current state of British penal institutions was not what Bodie wanted
to hear about and he said so. Doyle glared at him but refrained from
further discussion of the merits and demerits of Napoleonic architecture.

 "You ever heard of Bert Kingsley?"

 Was there anyone in London who hadn't? Bodie wondered. The Kingsley
brothers would no doubt find themselves immortalised in Madam Tussaud's
one day, alongside Crippen, the Drays and Jack the Ripper.

 "They put me in the same cell as him. The way his face lit up you'd've
thought it was Christmas. He'd been on his own for the last few years but
on account of the sudden upsurge in crime they'd run out of single, deluxe
rooms with en-suite bath, and so they shoved me in with him."

 Doyle took a long pull at his drink and drained the glass; he scarcely
noticed Bodie lean forward and refill it.

 "He was quite nice at first and I began to think all those stories about
him and his brother were a bit exaggerated. He even told the others in the
wing to lay off me. They all respected him, you see. He was The Man, as
they say inside. Bert Kingsley, King of 'B' wing."

 Bodie watched Doyle knock back the whisky and just hoped they'd get to
the crunch before he became too drunk to talk.

 "It was such a relief to be left alone I didn't see what was coming.
Yeah, I know, I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes." Distanced by the
alcohol, Doyle was able to look at his mistakes objectively. "Woke up one
night, right at the crucial moment of a really terrific dream, you know
what I mean?" he asked. "Christ knows who she was but she was really
something...anyway--woke up and couldn't work out what was happening; it
was pitch dark, couldn't see a fuckin' thing but I knew I was awake--thing
was, I could still feel her hands on me, took me right over the edge, they
did. But as soon as the bells stopped ringing I realised it was Kingsley.
He'd twigged that I was having a hot little dream and decided to get in on
the act. Nearly threw up over him as well, I was that furious, but he just
got back into bed and said something about being friends and helping each
other out. Sounded really hurt, he did, made me feel guilty as hell. He'd
been really good to me up till then, showing me the ropes, keeping the
others off my back, so I said I was sorry about yelling at him but I made
it plain that I didn't go in for taking friendship quite that far."

 The drink in the tumbler was going down steadily but Bodie could see that
the flush spreading across the drawn face and the glitter in the bright
eyes was anger--rather than drink-induced.

 "It was only a few weeks later the same thing happened again but that
time I woke up as soon as he touched me. He got very nasty when I told him
what he could do with himself, kept saying I owed it to him for looking
after my interests. From then on things just got worse, if I so much as
twitched in that bloody bed he was down there offering to lend a hand.
Then he took to lying in on his own bed and having his own little
fantasies and telling me what he wished he was doing to me in wonderful
detail...didn't leave much to the imagination. I decided to ignore the old
faggot 'cause the more uptight I got the hotter he got!"

 Doyle drained the bottle into his glass, then opened the second one that
had somehow materialised out of thin air, and filled the glass to the top.

 "'s not a bad drop of stuff, this, Bodie. Never really liked whisky
before but this is slippin' down a real treat."

 To illustrate the point, half a tumbler of the rich, brown liquid
disappeared down his throat.

 "What happened next?"

 "Patience, Bodie, have a little patience," Doyle chided, his voice
slightly thicker than usual. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, the old faggot
getting' hot..." He took another mouthful. "Right, now then, next thing I
know is everyone on the wing is being all horrible and unkind to me and
dear, dear, sweet Bert isn't doing his 'I shall protect you, Raymond' bit
any more. I'd got quite used to being treated like a human again so I
really didn't take to goin' back to bein' treated like a leper. Then dear
Bert drops his little bombshell and tells me that if I stop making such a
fuss and let him have his wicked way with me he'll tell everyone to leave
me alone again." Doyle's voice shifted upwards at least two octaves as he
let Bodie know how he felt about that little revelation.

 "I mean...what would you have done, Bodie? What would you have done? Me,
I told him to go fuck himself." A harsh laugh came from Doyle's throat
before being cut off abruptly as if in realisation that the story wasn't
funny.

 "It was downhill all the way after that. He kept the pressure up for a
couple of months but then he had a rethink. Everyone must've guessed why
he was telling them all to keep needling me, and he got to thinking that
being seen to fail wasn't good for his image. Bert Kingsley *always* gets
what he wants, and the fact that he wasn't must've been a severe blow to
his ego. So--all of a sudden, dear, sweet Bert tells everyone to lay off
his little Raymond and spends all day smiling at me and being horribly
nice and smarmy. Course, the whole fuckin' block thinks I've finally given
in and am letting the old faggot screw me senseless every night."

 Doyle's whole face suddenly darkened and Bodie realised that the worst
was still to come--if only the narrator was going to remain awake long
enough to relate it.

 "After a while I even got used to that. He'd have his little wanking
trips and tell me all about it, and every now and then he'd get
adventurous and start touching me up at night when I was asleep, and
everyone just took it for granted he was knocking me off. I sometimes
wonder if the old goat would have known what to do if I had said yes. So
life settled into a routine of sorts until I saw a light at the end of the
tunnel--or thought I did. Boy, was I ever wrong!"

 The second bottle had just hit the halfway mark and Bode spared a moment
to wonder what he'd do if Doyle ran out of drink before he ran out of
steam.

 "Why?" Bodie asked. "What were you so wrong about?"

 "Kingsley was released about--oh, I dunno, fifteen, sixteen months ago.
He'd done his nine years, told the parole board he was very sorry and
promised to be a good boy in the future. Couldn't wait to see the back of
him--fool that I was," said Doyle disparagingly.

 "What do you mean?"

 "Once he was gone the throne was up for grabs, wasn't it. It's not just a
story, you know, about there being a baron, a sort of top man, on each
wing. Even the screws don't mind, makes their job easier. A powerful baron
like Kingsley keeps the wing in order, keeps everyone in their place and
easier to control. Once Bert was gone there was one hell of a fight over
who was going to take his place."

 A premonition of what was coming next hit Bodie hard, and suddenly felt
very sick. He'd all but forced Doyle to open up to him but now he realised
that he really didn't want to hear. He wanted to say, 'Shut up, stop
talking, go to sleep--have another drink,' but he couldn't, and if he
could and did he suspected Doyle wouldn't even hear him.

 Although his whole outward demeanour showed the effects of downing so
much whiskey, his movements heavy and lethargic, speech thick and slurred,
Doyle's eyes were like mirrors reflecting his soul, the oblivion he was
seeking having not yet blanketed the ugly memories.

 "I was so fuckin' 'appy dear Bert had gone I never saw what was goin' on.
'parently there were a couple of blokes 'oo wanted to be The Man and they
were sloggin' it out between 'emselves. Opinion as to who should take over
was split down the middle, so in the end they decided whoever got the most
of old Bert's little businesses would win. Come as one 'ell of a shock to
discover I was one of Bert's assets!"

 Bodie decided that maybe he would have another drink after all and
grabbed the bottle; Doyle looked at the empty place on the table with
mournful eyes.

 "Oh, 's all gone, Bodie. Got another one 'ave you? 's nice stuff. Pity
it's all gone though."

 After all he'd gone through, Bodie thought that Doyle was going to cry
again simply because the bottle had disappeared.

 "I'll get you some more in a minute, mate. You were sayin' about who was
taking over from Kingsley," he prompted carefully.

 "What?" Doyle blinked at him. "Oh yeah, 'most forgot. 's almost funny
when I think 'bout it now...not at the time, though--wasn't funny then.
They both--Richardson and Ward--tried the friendly approach...you ever
been chatted up by two blokes before, Bodie?" He didn't wait for a reply
but went straight on, words tumbling out in a sudden rush as if he just
wanted to get to the end of the story and then hide away. "Scared me
shitless. Every time I turned round, one of 'em was there, showing
everyone 'ow friendly he was with me and trying to fool 'em all 'ow much I
like 'im. Richardson was all right but Ward...he's really sick...Bert was
twisted but Ward...kept on and on...always touching and hurting, trying to
scare me into it...then one day he really cracked...'e's mad, should be in
Broadmoor or Rampton, 'e should..."

 Doyle's voice tailed away as the memory drew closer. Bodie watched,
helpless to do anything to ease the pain. Doyle leant forward in the
armchair, rocking slightly, arms wrapped around himself, face bloodless
and eyes wide as he finally pushed the memory into being.

 "There was some sort of industrial dispute going on," Doyle said, his
voice no more than a hushed whisper, "so there were fewer screws than
normal on duty...we were in the shower room...was morning time, Monday
morning...he suddenly decided he wasn't going to wait any more and told
his friends to hold me down. I tried to fight them but there were too many
and no one would help me...or stop them...I tried, I really tried...I
didn't want it to happen but I couldn't fight them all...just couldn't."
The scene was so brilliantly vivid that Doyle experienced all over again
the growing terror as the men advanced, cornering him in the bleak,
white-tiled shower stall...

 He had looked around frantically for the duty officer but he was nowhere
to be seen. The other men--sensing what was about to happen--were almost
falling over themselves to escape the vicinity, no one, but no one was
trying to help him.

 "Come on, Doyle," Ward leered. "You know what I want so why not make it
easier on yourself?" Come over here and be friendly."

 The odds were five to one and Doyle knew his only chance was to make
enough noise to attract the guards' attention, but Freddie, Ward's
sidekick, jumped in and increased the odds even more by clamping a huge
hand over his mouth, almost smothering Doyle in his effort to silence his
cries for help.

 Lashing out, Doyle fought back with the ferocity of a cornered tiger,
biting, kicking, punching for all he was worth. He had surprised them at
first and he'd managed to hurt them, but not enough. Blow after blow to
his unprotected midriff made him fold over into a protective ball; unable
to fight back with any effect, he could barely summon the energy to resist
their attempts to pin him to the floor. A hand had grabbed hold of his
hair and tugged him down off balance and something very hard and very cold
impacted with the side of his head with a sickening crunch; a brilliant,
white-hot pain erupted and spread throughout his whole body. He knew he
was hurt, but it all hurt so much that he was beyond feeling
everything--except the cold floor beneath his bare skin and the heavy
pressure across his legs and shoulder. From a long way off he heard Ward's
voice, thickened with lust.

 "You've hurt your face, Raymond, hurt your pretty face. It's a pity, that
is, but never mind--maybe it'll teach you not to be so bloody vain."

 And another voice replied, laughing, "Not his face you're interested in!"

 There had been a whole lot of laughter then, it was the last sound he
remembered. As everything faded away he could only hear the laughter and
feel the hard fingers probing him and preparing him for the next,
inevitable stage...

 Bodie desperately wanted to do something to help but couldn't summon up
the strength to move, was too frightened to reach out and touch the
shaking man anyway in case it reminded him of another touch.

 "Next thing I remember is waking up in Maidstone Hospital about a week
later...everything hurt so much it was weeks before I could talk, my jaw
was all wired up and everything was so swollen...no one said anything
about what Ward had done to me, and I didn't even want to think about
it...it was some time before I could talk and then someone from the prison
came to take a statement from me...I pretended I couldn't remember...just
didn't want to talk about it...was ages before I managed to ask the
doctor...just couldn't understand why no one was saying anything. I really
want to believe what he said, I mean, there was no reason for him to lie,
was there?"

 The bleary green gaze was turned on Bodie, who suddenly realised that
Doyle wanted him to agree with him. No, Bodie thought, *needed* him to
agree--but with what? What had he missed?

 "Lie about what?"

 "He said that I wasn't...that Ward hadn't...that the screws got there
just in time to stop him...least that's what he said..."

 "Don't you believe him then?"

 "I don't know...just don't know...it was going to happen...after all that
time with Kingsley it was going to happen...jus' couldn't stop
'im...nothing left...to fight...with...nothing..."

 The halting voice whispered to a standstill, the alcohol finally winning
the battle. Doyle was asleep.

 Numb, Bodie watched empty tumbler slip from Doyle's slackened fingers and
fall to the floor.

 So, he thought, Doyle had been raped after all. Or had he? The confused,
disjointed sentences had showed quite clearly that even Doyle didn't
really know. He thought he had been, but the doctor said he hadn't. Maybe
the cavalry had arrived in time--and maybe they hadn't! Could the doctor
have acted on a misguided impulse and told Doyle a lie, believing Doyle's
own lie that he couldn't remember what had happened? Any injury caused by
Ward's penetration of the unconscious body would have healed before Doyle
had regained his senses a week later.

 Slowly, Bodie began to understand that it was the unsolved question of
whether or not he'd really been raped that was at the root of Doyle's
problems. He'd survived nearly two years of Kingsley's dubious and
apparently harmless attentions without cracking up. If Doyle could know
for a fact that he wasn't raped--or even that he was--maybe he could stop
agonising over it and begin to put the past where it belonged.

 Sighing quietly, Bodie eased himself upright and pulled the footstool
over towards the other chair, carefully lifting Doyle's legs up onto it,
then he propped a cushion under the sleepy head. Stretching cautiously,
Bodie reached around to the back of his neck and massaged the annoyingly
persistent ache. At least the rigours of the morning had not done too much
harm to his still-healing injury, but he knew he wouldn't be comfortable
if he tried to sleep in an armchair like Doyle was. Covering the sleeper
with a light blanket, Bodie [missing phrase] dressed and making himself
some breakfast.

 By nine o'clock he'd come to the conclusion that Doyle was probably going
to sleep for much of the day. In the last two hours he had only stirred
once, and that was to twist around on the chair and burrow down into the
soft blanket and cushion. Doyle looked so peaceful, his face free for the
first time of the perpetual worry lines around his eyes and mouth, that
Bodie didn't have the heart to disturb him.

 It was about time they had a day off anyway, Bodie decided, so he
telephoned the gymnasium and shooting range to let them know they wouldn't
be in today after all.

 Midday came and went and Bodie found himself wondering what the hell he
was going to do next. He had tidied up the flat as much as possible
without making a noise, read the papers, listened to the radio in the
bedroom--very quietly--and generally just pottered around his home feeling
very much at a loose end. How much longer was the little bugger going to
sleep, he wondered.

 It was nearly four o'clock before Doyle opened his eyes and saw Bodie,
who had finally managed to fall into an uncomfortable, restless doze on
the sofa. Very much aware of his pounding head, Doyle cautiously stood and
wove none too steadily towards the kitchen. He was so thirsty.

 "Stick the kettle on while you're out there," came a sleepy voice from
the sofa.

 "Didn't mean to wake you, sorry. Tea or coffee?"

 "Coffee. How do you feel?"

 In reply Doyle just pulled a face and continued his way to the kitchen,
emerging a few minutes later with two mugs, one containing very strong,
very black coffee.

 They sat in awkward silence until Bodie asked how much of the morning's
talk Doyle remembered.

 "I've never been blessed--or cursed--with alcohol-induced amnesia.
Remember everything except falling asleep." There was a quick flash of
teeth as Doyle gave a rueful, embarrassed laugh. "Sorry about getting you
up so early; what is the time anyway?" He looked up from his bare wrist to
the brilliant sunlight outside.

 "Four-thirty PM," Bodie said cheerfully. "Almost time to go back to bed
again."

 "Afternoon? Four-thirty in the afternoon? You mean I've slept..." Doyle
stopped, trying to get past his headache and calculated the time involved.

 "About nine hours all told. And," Bodie emphasised, "you needed every
minute of it. God knows how long it is since you slept that soundly. Apart
from which I decided it was about time we had a day off anyway." The glare
which accompanied the latter part of his speech defied Doyle even to think
that perhaps he was going soft.

 "So--what do you fancy doing for what's left of the day?" Bodie asked,
determined to spend some time with Doyle, having promised himself during
Doyle's sleep that he would at least try and get to know the man he was
beginning to accept was going to be his partner.

 ******

CI5's most hated man walked calmly into George Cowley's office.

 Macklin was the person responsible for getting and keeping the highly
trained personnel on their toes; he sharpened their reflexes and
fine-honed their deadly skills. To get the best from the men he worked
with, he had to force the worst out of them; he probably knew more about
what made a CI5 agent tick than anyone--except Cowley himself, of course.

 "Morning, sir, Dr Ross, Dr Willis," he acknowledged. "Sorry for being a
little tardy but I wanted to watch Doyle's training this morning before
coming over."

 "How is he coming on?" Cowley asked right away, going straight to the
reason for the meeting. They had all been watching Doyle's initial
progress and his apparent decline was causing some concern.

 "Well..." Macklin said reluctantly, "that's why I'm late. Doyle's
performance yesterday was so bad I wanted to see him in action today. I
didn't want to judge him by an off day. Bodie rang in about twenty minutes
ago and cancelled his booking of the gym and range facilities today."

 "What reason did he give?" asked Dr Ross.

 "I didn't take the call but I don't think any reason was given, he just
cancelled everything."

 "Well," Ross smiled the smile of one who has been proved right, "it's no
more than I warned you to expect."

 "One day does not signify the end of everything, Dr Ross," said Cowley
sharply.

 "Doyle's physical condition has been going down over the last week, his
lethargy and lack of interest in everything around him has been growing
more noticeable with each day that passes," Willis chipped in, supporting
his colleague.

 "Doyle's tired," said Macklin, ignoring the department's medical experts
and talking directly to Cowley. "I'll bet my life on it. He's out on his
feet he's so tired. Bodie's had him going everywhere at double time and
the man just doesn't know whether he's coming or going."

 "I did warn you that Doyle's chances of lasting the course were less than
favourable. There's a chance we can salvage something, develop his skills
to the department's benefit--but as an active agent he is going to be
useless," Ross insisted.

 "I still feel we should not judge Doyle too hastily. You told me he would
need time to readjust and I am still prepared to give him that time if I
think the end result is going to be worthwhile," Cowley said firmly.

 "I am also concerned about Bodie." Ross spoke earnestly, trying to
convince Cowley of the futility of his efforts. "He is also under
pressure; you've forced this pairing on him against my advice. Bodie is
not suited to one to one partnerships."

 "You said Doyle needed to be pushed, prodded into action and away from
apathy." Cowley waited for Ross to agree. "Bodie, to my mind, was the
ideal choice."

 "William Bodie is an insensitive, callous, immoral thug and surely no
one's idea of a perfect solution," Ross said forcefully, her eyes
glittering angrily.

 "There is no call for you to bring your personal feelings about Bodie
into this, Dr Ross," Cowley rapped out, putting the psychiatrist firmly in
her place. "I have the final word on these matters and I stand by what I
have previously stated. Until I say otherwise, Bodie and Doyle will remain
as a teamed pair. I still think it is too early to write Doyle off. On
your own advice, Dr Ross, we agreed a twelve-week training period. Any
final decision will wait until after that."

 "I think that's fair," said Macklin. "It's only reasonable to accept a
small backsliding. So far Doyle's doing exceptionally well."

 "But Bodie has cancelled today's training," persisted Ross. "That's not
backsliding, that's giving up. Bodie has pushed too hard, too fast, and
Doyle has gone under--"

 "It's quite obvious that as things stand today we cannot clearly judge
Doyle's future worth to CI5. I suggest we adjourn this meeting until next
Tuesday, a week from today. Then we will know whether Doyle has in fact
given up, or if today is merely a hiccup."

 "I disagree that the facts are not clear now, but I can't see that seven
days more will make much difference," Ross said sourly.

 "Sounds fair enough," Macklin agreed.

 "A week--long enough to show further decline, or improvement," said
Willis.

 ******

*CHAPTER FIVE*

 So late in the day Bodie had no trouble finding a space in the car park.

 "I was going to suggest it would be a good idea for you to do the driving
for the next few weeks," Bodie said as he switched off the ignition. "But
somehow I don't think you'd pass a breathalyser test right now. Perhaps
we'll start that tomorrow."

 A pair of bloodshot eyes and a very pale, pasty-looking face turned
towards him. "Tomorrow?" Doyle said softly. "You reckon I'm gonna live
that long?"

 "Still feeling bad?"

 "You could say that."

 "C'mon then," Bodie said cheerfully. "A walk round the park and some
fresh air in your lungs will soon blow the cobwebs away."

 Bodie, full of energy after being cooped indoors all day, set off at a
brisk pace, leaving Doyle no choice but to follow. Turning back to watch
his partner's unenthusiastic progress, Bodie shouted, "How about a go out
on the boats?"

 "No."

 "Spoilsport," replied Bodie. "Why not? Fancy a quick row around the lake,
I do."

 "No," said Doyle a little more firmly.

 "Why not?" persisted Bodie.

 "Because I feel sick enough already and I don't fancy bobbing about in a
wooden boat just so you can pretend you're Captain Bligh."

 "Bad sailor, huh?"

 "Yes," said Doyle shortly, then softened his tone slightly. "Get seasick
on the Woolwich Ferry, I do."

 "You always this ratty when you're hungover?" Bodie enquired cheekily,
the light in his eyes making it impossible for Doyle to think he was being
serious.

 "Dunno," Doyle replied, then laughed. "Can't remember ever drinking so
much so quickly before." His face twisted into a wry smile. "Can't
remember ever feeling this awful either." He rubbed a hand across his
stomach and shook his head--carefully.

 After two circuits of the lake and a wander through the deserted
children's play area, Bodie decided that even if Doyle hadn't had enough
fresh air, he had. The sun was rapidly going down and the little warmth
that the autumn day held was going with it.

 He looked across at Doyle, who was perched on the axis of the see-saw and
looking across the lawns at a couple of boys playing tag on their
bicycles. Since waking up, Doyle had been in a strange mood and Bodie
found he was not sure how to cope with him. Over the weeks he had grown
accustomed to the monosyllabic answers, and had almost given up hoping for
some friendly, two-way conversations; Doyle spoke when he was spoken to,
but today...Bodie struggled to pinpoint the difference. Doyle was still
quiet, still unwilling to initiate conversation but somehow he seemed
more...approachable, as if he was trying to let Bodie know that he wanted
to talk, wouldn't mind talking--but just didn't know where or how to
start.

 "How do you feel about a hair of the dog?" Bodie asked. "I know a nice
little boozer over the back of the park."

 "It's a bit early, won't be open yet, will it?"

 "Not far off opening time. Let's make an evening of it, grab a pizza
first and then go on to the pub if you feel up to it." Bodie was reluctant
to return to his flat, suddenly aware that once through the front door,
Doyle would make for his bolt-hole and this new openness would be lost.

 "A pizza?" Doyle thought about it. "Sounds more inviting than raw steak
and bloody chips." It wasn't until he heard Bodie's deep chuckle that he
realised he had voiced his thought.

 "You knockin' my cooking?" asked Bodie, his whole attitude showing that
he didn't really mind if Doyle was.

 "Well...no...yes, I bloody well am." Doyle finally discovered a little
bit of lost courage. "You're the worst cook I've ever met--and I've met
some bad ones in my time. Can't you cook anything else? Is raw steak and
oven chips all you can do?"

 "No," Bodie protested, trying to look wounded by Doyle's scathing
criticism and failing. "Rustle up a lovely sausage, egg and chips; bacon,
egg and chips; bacon sandwich; sausage sandwich--"

 "Okay, okay, I get the picture," laughed Doyle. "I thought Ann was bad
but you're even worse. Come on, then, where's this pizza house? My
stomach's beginning to remember what it's for."

 Bodie led the way--wondered who Ann was.

 In the restaurant, Bodie flirted shamelessly with the two waitresses. It
was still only early evening and apart from themselves and a young couple
in the opposite corner, the place was empty. As he joked and laughed with
the girls, Bodie couldn't help but notice Doyle's withdrawal. It was clear
that neither of the girls objected to Bodie's attentions but the younger,
smaller one of the two kept smiling invitingly at the silent half of the
handsome duo, almost begging him to join in the fun so she could respond
to him too.

 Bodie eked the meal out as long as he could, giving Doyle a chance to
thaw, but at last conceded defeat and paid the bill.

 As they left the restaurant, Doyle tried to avoid catching Bodie's eye.
He knew that the girl had been trying to flirt with him, and he knew Bodie
knew it too. Eventually the awkward silence became too much for him.

 "Okay," he said, finally looking at Bodie and acknowledging his failure,
"maybe my technique had got a little rusty. Hell!" Doyle said explosively,
kicking a crushed Coke tin along the pavement, "'s been so long since I
had to chat a girl up, think I've forgotten how. It's been longer than you
think, too," he said, looking sideways at Bodie. "Haven't pulled my, 'What
are you doing tonight, darling?' routine out of me bottom drawer for..."
he paused frowned as he tried to work out the time involved, "...bloody
hell, nearly four and a half years."

 "Oh. Go in for celibacy, do you?"

 "Nah. Fidelity...for all the good it did me." The tin received another,
harder, kick which sent it scuttering noisily along the pavement and into
the gutter.

 "Married?" Bodie asked, knowing full well that Doyle wasn't. He knew he
wouldn't have missed that bit of information.

 "Almost," Doyle replied quietly, his voice softened by remembered
sadness. "Didn't quite make it to the altar." The jaunty voice was at odds
with the sad eyes, and Bodie couldn't contain his curiosity.

 "What happened?"

 "I got arrested."

 There were times in his life that Bodie felt he could do without a brain,
his mouth seemed to get along just fine without one.

 They'd reached the pub by now and made themselves comfortable in a quiet
corner, Bodie filling the stiff lull with getting the drinks.

 "No thanks," said Doyle in response to Bodie's suggested refreshment,
"I'll have a lemonade...Coke...anything long and cool but not alcoholic."

 Returning with two pint jugs, one filled with beer and the other with
Coke, Bodie sat back on the bench seat, furious with himself for ruining
the smooth flow of conversation.

 "Wasn't Ann's fault," Doyle said into the quiet. "Can't really blame her,
she was only doing what she thought for the best. With her mother saying
one thing and all the evidence backing her up, I didn't stand a chance."

 "Ah," said Bodie cautiously, not wanting to break the reflective mood
Doyle was in, "up against her mother, were you?"

 "Fancied her as a mother-in-law about as much as she fancied me for a
son-in-law."

 "Bad, was she?"

 "Bad!" Doyle took a long pull at the Coke, then smiled at Bodie as he
remembered her. "Doesn't even begin to describe her." He laughed, a sharp
brittle sound. "Mrs Harrison felt that Ann had rather let the family down
when she got mixed up with me--if I'd been an inspector or something even
higher I would've been a little more acceptable, but a poor, lowly
detective constable was rather scraping the barrel. Bit on the high and
mighty side was dear old Constance. She thought the end of the world had
come when Ann and I started living together...just about cracked up when I
got arrested."

 "Where's Ann now, still around, is she?"

 "I didn't see her outside the gates ready to fall into my arms. Did you?"
Doyle said sourly. "Sunday matinee stuff--and not exactly Ann's style."

 For all the bitterness in Doyle's voice, Bodie was certain he detected a
hint of a crushed dream that just maybe Ann might have been there.

 "Couldn't have been, could she mate?" Bodie pointed out. "Even you didn't
know you were getting out."

 "She wouldn't have been there anyway." Doyle didn't look up from his
examination of the condensation on his jug. "Didn't exactly get the 'love
you forever' routine when I went down. Didn't go to the trial or even
visit me. I got a few letters...but that was all...couldn't even convince
her I was innocent."

 "How long were you together?"

 "'bout...eighteen months, actually lived together for about a year of
that."

 "And she didn't believe you?"

 "Had trouble convincing anyone, didn't I," Doyle said mockingly. "Judge
and jury included. There were even times when I wondered if I wasn't going
insane and forgetting that I really was guilty."

 "Didn't anyone believe you?"

 Doyle thought about it carefully, his face growing bleaker.

 "Oh yeah, Mike Behan believed me--but when you think about it that's not
so surprising--and my mum believed me. At least...she said she did...but
then I never had much trouble convincing her black was white..." Doyle's
voice trailed off and Bodie tried to imagine all the trauma Doyle had gone
through, cut off completely from all emotional support.

 "Must have been pretty rough," Bodie said, feeling hopelessly inadequate.

 "It got rougher." There was no bitterness in Doyle's voice. It was a
fact, not very pleasant and not very nice, but a fact nonetheless.

 "What happened to Ann then?"

 "Went to America with Mummy and her stepfather to recover from a broken
heart."

 Bodie knew that he didn't like Ann and fervently hoped that he'd never
meet her--or else she was likely to end up with more than just a broken
heart!

 "What about your Mum, told her the good news yet?" He didn't understand
the sudden anger that flared in the baleful green eyes.

 "No."

 "Why not? Should've told her weeks ago."

 "I didn't tell her because I don't care much for Spiritualism," Doyle
said flatly, his voice chillingly devoid of all emotion. "She's dead. Died
just after I was transferred to Maidstone." Across the small table Doyle
found he couldn't meet Bodie's probing gaze any more and dropped his eyes
to look at the bubbles in his drink. He could feel his helpless anger
welling up inside him and he desperately wanted to keep his mouth
shut--stop talking--but as it had earlier this morning, everything just
overflowed and all his hurt poured out. "My Dad died about ten years ago
and that leaves John, my brother. He hates my guts because he's always
hated my guts and because it's all my fault that Mum died. The shame," he
said bitterly. "To hear him talk you'd think I never brought anything but
shame on Mum and the family. It was bad enough that I broke Dad's heart
because I refused to join the family business, rejecting the last,
god-knows-how-many generations of Doyle traditions, *and* living in sin
with someone who was worth ten of his bloody stupid wife, Carole.
But--getting put away for something I didn't do and thumping hell out of
some stupid, pea-brained, jumped-up screw who had a down on me and half of
the bloody world was, according to the Book of John Doyle, the final
straw. The fact that she had a massive stroke and was dead before she hit
the ground had nothing to do with it. It's all *my* bloody fault!"

 Every head in the small bar turned their way and Doyle suddenly realised
he was shouting. The angry flush on his cheeks deepened and he quietly
subsided back down onto his stool, pointedly ignoring everyone.

 There really wasn't much more that Bodie could say after that and,
wisely, he didn't even try. He downed his drink and went back to the bar,
returning with half a pint for himself, a bottle of lemonade and two
packets of crisps; he dumped them down on the table hard, the noise waking
Doyle from his daydreams. "I'm going to play the fruit machines," he said,
jumping up.

 "Try the Space Invaders. You still need the target practice," Bodie
replied.

 In deference to the two elderly women seated at a nearby table, Doyle
used a graphic visual display rather than a verbal retort to convey his
reaction to Bodie's suggestion.

 Sitting himself down at their table, Bodie watched Doyle root around in
his pockets for some loose change, then slip a ten pence coin into the
slot. The metal clunk and soft whirr sounded loud in the early evening
lull in the pub; it would be another hour or so before the place began to
fill up. Bodie was feeling very tired, and his neck was beginning to ache.
Another coin was fed into the machine and he wondered how much longer
Doyle would want to stay here. Bodie leant back on the hard bench, arching
his spine and closing his eyes against the tiredness and painful tingles.
The continuous thunk-chunk-chink made him open his eyes again, and he
watched as coin after coin was spat out of the machine into the tray.

 "It's hit the jackpot! Hey, Bodie," Doyle shouted gleefully, "it's hit
the jackpot!"

 In the corner of the bar, the balding man who had only just walked away
from the machine hit his head on the bar-top and groaned aloud his
misfortune. The tray was almost full and Ray was scooping up handfuls of
ten pence pieces, shoving them into his pockets.

 "Here," he pushed a handful towards Bodie, "put some in your pockets, I'm
running out of room."

 The machine finally stopped regurgitating silver.

 "How much is it? No--no more," Bodie protested. "You'll make my pockets
go all baggy."

 "Dunno, let's see..." Doyle peered at the front of the machine. "Flippin'
'eck, it's thirty quid!"

 The bald man groaned even louder.

 "Have you got any room left for this?" Doyle asked, peering into Bodie's
already-full pockets. Pushing Doyle off, Bodie backed away, leaving about
ten pounds' worth of silver still sitting in the tray.

 "Barman," called Doyle, "a drink for everyone in the house. I'm payin'."

 Bodie winced at the terrible John Wayne impersonation, then smiled as he
saw the beaming faces scattered around the pub. The ten pounds quickly
vanished, but there was still enough to buy Doyle another lemonade and put
something in the charity box. Recalling Cowley's lecture on the terrible
life a breathalysed agent could expect, Bodie declined another drink but
attacked the crisps with relish.

 Once the fuss and excitement had died down, Doyle lifted his glass of
lemonade as if he was about to propose a toast.

 "I've played those machines for years and I've never won a jackpot
before. You know, Bodie, I think that maybe my luck's changing. Cheers!"

 Bodie smiled back into the animated, happy face.

 I dunno, mate, he thought, you've been shut away for three years,
persecuted, pestered and practically raped, your fiancee's emigrated, your
mother's died and your brother hates your guts--all things considered,
your luck couldn't get much worse!

 "Cheers!" said Bodie.

 ******

By two o'clock the next morning Bodie was beginning to wonder how he could
have been so wrong. He was so tired he hurt, every nerve and muscle in his
body was crying out for sleep, sleep that was made impossible as Doyle's
entreaties and pathetic cries wafted along the darkened hallway.

 After all the talking they had done Bodie had hoped that the dreams would
fade away--but it was not to be. The harsh voice reached a peak, then cut
off abruptly and he knew Doyle was awake. Bodie was too tired to talk any
more and he guessed that simply talking wasn't going to solve anything
just yet, but he had to get some sleep.

 Hauling himself out of bed, he made for the spare room, wondering what
Doyle was going to make of his suggestion.

 "Did I wake you again? Sorry," said Doyle quietly in response to Bodie's
perfunctory knock as he stuck his head around the door.

 "You okay?" Bodie asked, blinking against the brightness of the table
lamp.

 "Fine, just fine!" replied Doyle, his voice laden with heavy irony.

 "I've got an idea that might work," Bodie offered cautiously. "It's doing
neither of us any good being wide awake half the night, is it?"

 "No," agreed Doyle warily, half suspecting he was going to be told to go
and sleep on a park bench until morning.

 "If we could wake you up before the dream gets a proper hold on you, we
could both settle back down to sleep a lot easier, couldn't we?"

 "*If* I could wake up. Do you think I don't want to?" Doyle snapped back.
"I'd love to wake up if I could--but I can't."

 "I could wake you up as soon as you start moaning."

 "How?" Doyle asked incredulously. "You goin' to install one of those
two-way baby alarms and whisper soothing words into it every night?"

 "No."

 "How, then?"

 "I'll just lean over and dig you in the ribs."

 "Do you think you're Twizzle or something? Got an extendable arm shoved
up your sleeve, have you?"

 "No. You come into my room, share my bed--"

 "Get lost!" exploded Doyle.

 "It beats traipsing up and down the hall twice a night. If you've got a
better idea, let's hear it."

 "No way!"

 "Come on, Doyle," Bodie said calmly. "It's the best idea I've had in
ages, and who knows, it might even work."

 "I'm not gettin' in your bed!" Doyle's eyes were wide with alarm and he
hung on to the bedclothes as if he thought Bodie was going to drag him
forcibly to his bed.

 "Partners," Bodie said firmly, "have to help each other. You trust me,
don't you?" Doyle didn't answer and Bodie watched him carefully. "Look
mate, I've never had to force anyone to get into bed with me and I'm not
going to start now. The only reason I want you in my bed is so I can get a
decent night's sleep. Believe me, Raymond, you have absolutely none of the
qualities I look for in a friendly bedmate." Bodie looked over the parts
of Doyle not covered by the sheet. "You're too hairy by half, *and* too
skinny, apart from which you've got too much of the wrong equipment and
not enough of the right." Bodie laughed, relieved and pleased to see some
of the taut control in Doyle's body ease a little.

 "I'm pleased to hear that at least," Doyle said wryly. "Was beginning to
think I was irresistible."

 "I can resist you, don't worry your head about that. Now are you
coming--'cause I'm freezing my balls off out here," Bodie complained.

 There was a heavy sigh before he was answered.

 "Okay, but I can't see it's going to make any difference."

 "We'll see, we'll see," Bodie said encouragingly as Doyle slowly began to
get out of his bed. A sudden thought made Bodie shoot back along the hall
and into his bedroom and start pulling drawer after drawer before pouncing
on a pair of pyjamas. He usually slept in the raw but he supposed Doyle
would feel happier with two thicknesses of material between them.

 "Good lord, which hospital did you nick those from?"

 Doyle's voice made Bodie look down at his candy-striped, cotton trousers
before shrugging his shoulders.

 "Can't remember now, I've had them for years."

 "Looks like it."

 Doyle stood by the door and looked around the room, seeing it for the
first time. Like the rest of the flat it was tastefully luxurious, his
bare feet sinking into the soft pile carpet as his gaze fell on the
king-size bed that dominated the room.

 Trying to feel comfortable in the loose pyjama bottoms, Bodie climbed
back into the bed, snuggling down straight away.

 "Come on, Ray, I'm not going to bite you," he said softly.

 There was no reply, but Bodie heard Doyle cross the room and felt the bed
dip and sway as he got under the covers. After a few minutes Bodie broke
the silence.

 "Do you always sleep flat on your back as stiff as a board?"

 Again there was no answer but the bed shook as Doyle shifted his
position.

 "Will you do me a favour?" asked Bodie.

 "What?" Doyle's voice was tight and full of suspicion.

 "Turn the light off, please."

 Doyle reached out to click off the lamp on his side of the bed and the
room was plunged into darkness.

 The swift rise of panic was halted by near superhuman effort but Doyle
managed to force himself to talk normally.

 "It's a bit hot in here, do you mind if I open a window?"

 "Window's open already," Bodie mumbled into his pillow.

 "Open it a bit more then, 's awfully hot in here."

 The lamp was switched back on and Doyle was halfway to the window by the
time Bodie's sixth sense told him something was wrong. It was not that
hot.

 Throwing the heavy, lined curtains back, Doyle almost fainted with relief
when the light from the street lamps hit his face. Since that first attack
of claustrophobia in his own room a few weeks ago he had discovered that
blanket darkness was just as terrifying. All the time he could see, he was
all right. In the darkness he knew that every second could bring the first
groping touch of hot, sweaty, loathsome hands...

 "You all right?" asked Bodie from his propped-up position in the bed,
puzzled by Doyle's behaviour [missing line] not even attempting to open
the casement.

 "Yeah, fine. I'm fine." His relief at finding an outside light made Doyle
forget his initial excuse and he made his way back to the bed without
opening the window any further but leaving the drapes drawn back.

 This time when the light clicked off, the room remained dimly lit by an
amber glow from the street. Bodie opened his mouth to complain about the
irritating light but shut it again firmly, swallowing the words before he
uttered them.

 No, he told himself. He couldn't be--could he? Scared of the
dark--ridiculous! But what other explanation could there be? He was asleep
before he came up with another answer.

 The banging of a door woke him up next morning, and Bodie reluctantly
opened his eyes. He would have sworn before Cowley and God that he'd only
closed them seconds ago, but the bright sunlight pouring through the
uncurtained windows told him it would be a pointless exercise.

 The bed beside him was empty. That meant the sound he'd heard was
probably Doyle going for his morning jog...the new sound of running water
and unmistakable hiss/thunder from the shower made him alter that to
returning from his morning jog.

 They were in the car, with Doyle in the driving seat, before any mention
was made of the previous night.

 "You still look terrible," Bodie said. "How well did you sleep?"

 Not taking his eyes off the road, Doyle replied, "Not very," but then he
flicked a quick smile across the car. "Did you know you snore? I'm
surprised your neighbours don't complain."

 "That explains why I've never been invited onto the Residents' Committee.
Next time just dig me in the ribs to shut me up."

 Next time. The words had just slipped out but Bodie knew he meant it.

 "How were you last night--no more dreams?"

 "No."

 "Did you actually go to sleep?" Bodie asked doubtfully.

 "Off and on, just sort of dozed really."

 "Because of me?"

 "No...I don't know...perhaps... I always feel uneasy about going straight
to sleep after..." Doyle admitted quietly.

 "We'll try sharing a bit longer, it might help if I can wake you up
before you get too..."

 "I appreciate what you're trying to do but I don't want to start sleeping
in your bed every night. I know you didn't even want to share the flat
with me, so don't pretend you're happy about sharing your bed."

 "Cut it out, Doyle," Bodie barked irritably. "Don't try dodging out on
this. You'll be sleeping in my bed until I say otherwise. We both need
some decent sleep and you being within arm's reach so I can poke you in
the ribs is how we're going to get it. Okay?"

 Jerking the car to an abrupt emergency stop that would have delighted any
driving instructor, Doyle missed the suicidal dog and changed the subject.

 Under the watchful eyes of Jack Prescott, Doyle carefully snipped the red
wire.

 "No, no!" Prescott groaned. "With this type of detonator you must always
cut the wire leading from the timer to the detonator. If this was for real
we'd be scraping you up into a bucket right now. Try again."

 Another mock incendiary device was placed on the table and Prescott began
his commentary.

 "That's it...feel it with your fingertips. Unless you've got a date with
an angel never, never rush opening any device. Tease it. That's it. No!
No, gently--*gently*! That's better. Now check the detonator, identify the
type. Now the explosive. The casing, Doyle, check the casing! Remember
what I said about booby traps. Right, now choose your wire. Steady. Well
done!"

 Prescott glanced over the downbent head and caught sight of Bodie
loitering at the back of the room.

 "Come to take him away, have you?"

 "If you've taught him all you know, yes." Bodie smiled as Doyle looked
round at him.

 "Well, he's tried. Red wires, blue wires, trip wires--what the hell's the
Bomb Squad for?" Doyle asked peevishly.

 "No one expects you to be an expert, Doyle," Prescott said. "It's just
that you Glory Boys have a habit of getting to these little nasties first.
I'm here to make sure you can identify the type and immediate danger. On
the spot you'll have to decide whether you've time to evacuate the place
and call the bomb squad, but one day you just might have to defuse it
yourself--and you'll only get one chance."

 "Point taken," said Doyle seriously.

 "I'll want him back for another session, Bodie. He's still a bit shaky on
the smaller devices, nothing a bit of practice won't help though. I'll
give you a call in a few days and arrange a time, okay?" As he was
speaking, Prescott was gathering his tools and equipment together.

 "Oh, Doyle," he handed over a small metal object, "a present for you. The
ideal agent's kit: screwdriver, knife, scissors, tin opener and corkscrew.
The owner of one of these little gadgets is prepared for every
eventuality."

 Prescott dropped the shapeless piece of metal into Doyle's hand and then
picked up his holdall and left, pausing only long enough to acknowledge
Doyle's thanks.

 "Neat little thing, isn't it." The two men examined the device, testing
the various functions.

 "You feel fit?" Bodie asked as Doyle tested the scissors on a piece of
wire.

 "Yeah. Why?"

 "I've arranged a session in the gym, rounded up a couple of the lads to
give you a tryout."

 The new toy was folded up and they made for gymnasium.

 "Where are you going?" Bodie asked as Doyle went to turn down a corridor.

 "Changing room--to change!"

 "Not this time, street clothes, street situation. This time it's not just
an exercise."

 "What do you mean?" Doyle asked warily.

 "I know you're fit--well, fitter than you were to start with, and I know
you know the basics, in practice you're good, but fights rarely happen on
gym mats between people who really only want to test your strength. So
today, if you don't want to get hurt, you'll have to fight properly."

 They reached the door to the gym and the first thing Doyle saw was the
sudden flare of appraisal in the eyes of the three men waiting for him,
but none of them made a move towards him though they all greeted Bodie
warmly.

 "Wondered where you'd been hiding yourself," said the sleek black man.

 "Trust you to wangle a cushy little number, 3.7," joked the tall,
fair-haired one.

 "This it then?" The last man jerked his head in Doyle's direction. "All
three of us!" The richly even voice rose in astonishment as he looked
Doyle over. "You sure he's up to it? Get seven years for manslaughter, you
know!"

 Doyle's back stiffened at the ridicule and his temper rose a fraction.

 "Doyle, meet Murphy, Jax and Williams. He's all yours, lads."

 Bodie placed a hard hand in the middle of Doyle's back and shoved him
into the centre of the room.

 The relaxed languor vanished; suddenly the smiling men were gone,
replaced by stealthy, hard-muscled predators seeking their prey--Doyle!

 Circled by the men, Doyle kept on his toes, turning, checking, waiting
for them to make their move. At first they came one at a time, testing
him, his reflexes, his aggression, then they speeded up the pace, allowing
him less recovery time and then no recovery time.

 "Come on, Doyle," Bodie shouted from the sidelines. "Fight them. Hurt
them--they're hurting you! Stop holding back. Knee the bugger's balls.
Follow it through. You got him down, now keep him there. Show some
aggression. Hit him, you fool, don't tickle him--hit him! And again!
Harder..."

 Jax, Murphy and Williams kept coming; they were all sweating and showing
some damage and through it all Doyle kept hearing Bodie's voice, the
criticism and scathing comments steadily burning through his self-control.

 "Are you fighting or dancing? No--no! Hit him! Get up, you idiot, can't
fight flat on your back. Bloody well saw that coming! Surprise them,
surprise us all. Be unpredictable, you fool. No--unpredictable, I said.
Don't let them know...oh, I give up. Put some life into it, don't just lie
there--get up..."

 Doyle staggered to his feet, clutching at his stomach trying to hold the
pain in and blinking away the pinpoints of bright light. They weren't
playing, these friends of Bodie's. This was no technically perfect,
freefall bout--more of a free-for-all. He kicked out sharply, caught one
of his opponents dead centre, and was wholly satisfied with the softness
that folded around his foot. One down, two to go!

 "About time, too!" cheered Bodie. "Hurry up, they've only got half an
hour left before Cowley wants them in the briefing room. If you make 'em
late they won't like you, Doyle. Come on--move a bit faster. Get in first,
you prat, shove him down. That's better, Doyle! Attack! They'll keep
coming until you're down or they're down."

 The tall, fair-haired man was the next to go; a hard chop in the ribs
followed by a short, sharp kick made him stay down. Only the black man
remained and the two men circled each other, dancing on their toes,
watching, waiting for a wrong move and an opening.

 "Well done, you're learning! Now, forget all about the Marquis of
Queensbury, use anything to get an advantage--if you won't, he will!"

 Jax leapt forward and for a second there was a flurry of fists and swift
grunts as skin and bone met forcibly. Then they broke apart, neither
having gained any advantage.

 "Even a blind man would have seen that coming, Doyle. Be purposely
unpredictable! Don't let him outguess you. Surprise is nine-tenths of
winning. Attack him first. Don't wait--hit him. Stop backing off, go
forward!"

 Over a haze of exhaustion and pain the critical monologue continued. The
comments weren't a bit helpful--in fact they were a distraction; a bit
like a persistent fly buzzing in your ear, Doyle thought suddenly. What do
you do with a pesky fly, he asked himself--swat it, of course!

 When the end came it took Bodie completely unawares. He had been looking
over at Murphy and Williams, who were straightening themselves out at the
far side of the gym; he did not see the two men dancing closer and closer
as Doyle backed towards him, nor the light of anticipated victory in the
rich brown eyes of Jax, premature and unfulfilled anticipation as Doyle,
with the speed of light, changed the focus of his attack, grabbed the
unsuspecting Bodie by his arm and swung him around, using his hip as an
axis, lifting Bodie off his feet and throwing him bodily at Jax, diving in
and catching the winded man with a decisive neck chop which successfully
kept him down.

 "Well done, Doyle."

 The words of praise made him spin round ready to fight again, but the
other two men held up their hands.

 "No thanks, mate, enough is enough," said Murphy as he rubbed his
stomach.

 Williams extended a hand to help Jax up while Murphy assisted Bodie to
his feet. "You weren't exactly straight with us, Bodie, so I reckon you
deserved that."

 "Too bloody right! Next time you want someone to test Doyle out--don't
call us!"

 "Be purposely unpredictable--you sound as bad as Macklin," said Murphy.
"Are you sure you're not gunning for his job?"

 "Who's after my job?"

 Macklin's silent arrival took them all by surprise.

 "Er--Bodie here, Mac," said Murphy, "seeing as how he's doing such a good
job with Doyle..."

 "And bearing in mind that memo the Home Sec. put out about early
retirement," chipped in Williams.

 "We thought Bodie might be after a cushy number," finished Jax.

 "A cushy number, aye," said Macklin carefully. "Well, if any of you want
to apply for the post of my assistant I'll be only too happy to run
through a few training programmes with you."

 "Wouldn't want to put you to any bother, Mac."

 "I'll pass this time."

 "Thanks for the offer but I hear the Cow wants someone to sharpen his
pencils."

 It was a very hasty and inelegant retreat, but in seconds, only Bodie,
Doyle and Macklin were left in the room.

 "I hadn't heard that Willis had cleared you, Bodie," Macklin said,
concerned by the way Bodie was holding himself and massaging his neck.

 "Er...he hasn't," admitted Bodie, as he meekly submitted to Macklin's
order to sit down, while the beefy instructor began to manipulate the
tension Doyle's throw had caused in his healing and almost-forgotten
injury.

 "Then what the hell are you doing playing silly buggers in the gym? You
know as well as I do that the doctor has to clear you before recommending
training after a serious injury," snapped Macklin.

 Doyle listened to the exchange with growing guilt. Serious injury? He
hadn't known Bodie was hurt.

 "There's no harm done," Bodie said hurriedly as he recognised the dawning
expression in Doyle's eyes. "Doyle just took me by surprise, he was
just--"

 "Being purposely unpredictable," finished Macklin. "Don't go stealing my
lines, Bodie. Invent your own! And I saw what happened." Macklin turned
towards Doyle. "You're getting better but until you learn to attack,
you're not going anywhere. Forget the police, forget all about minimum
force for maximum effort. The people you'll be going after eat policemen
for breakfast. You've got to get in first, don't wait for the trouble to
start, get in first and finish it quick."

 Macklin's hard gaze bored straight through Doyle's uncertain defences;
this was no oft-repeated textbook lesson, this was the voice of
experience. Doyle had known that CI5 was very different from the police
but all his training up till this moment had held a slightly unreal air;
he had been taught to shoot, fight, defuse bombs, even make them, and he'd
been filled with hundreds and hundreds of relevant facts, names, places,
policies, politics, but it had been like adults' version of the spy game
he'd played with his friends all those years ago...suddenly, Macklin had
made it very, very real.

 Macklin saw the spark of awareness flicker into life in Doyle's eyes and
knew instinctively that the young man had finally woken up to reality.
Maybe *now* they would get somewhere.

 "That's enough for today, boys," was all he said though. "Bodie, if your
neck's bothering you, see Dr Willis, don't forget you've got your own
retraining period coming up in a few weeks and I don't want you back until
you're one hundred percent fit."

 Macklin's friendly but unrelenting gaze quashed any comments Bodie might
have wished to make.

 "Doyle," Macklin turned back to the other man, "you're to see Dr Willis
on Monday afternoon, aren't you?" Doyle nodded in agreement. "Well, keep
an eye on Bodie. If you think his injury is still causing him discomfort
make sure you tell the doctor. When it comes to the medical fraternity our
friend here becomes positively tongue-tied."

 Bodie denied it of course, at some length, but Doyle was left with the
impression that Macklin had not been lying. But a serious injury? Doyle
wondered exactly what was wrong with Bodie, and how badly he had been
hurt. How had he been hurt--and how come he hadn't noticed? Tagging along
behind Bodie and Macklin, Doyle followed them out of the gym and along the
corridors, down towards the private bar at the rear of the building. He
wasn't surprised to see his three opponents standing there, nor other
familiar faces he'd seen at HQ; this small, noisy little haven from the
rest of the world seemed to be exclusively for the use of CI5 personnel.

 Once the loud routine of, 'Hi, hellos' was over with and their drinks
were in front of them, Doyle managed to slip to the back of the crowd
where he sat, watching and listening.

 A sudden commotion at the door caused every head in the room to swing
around in time to catch the spectacular entrance of four vigorous and
energetic if slightly scruffy-looking young men.

 "The hero of the moment returns," one of them yelled at the top of his
voice.

 "Heroes," corrected one of the group as he playfully swatted his
companion on the back of his head. "We were all there as well."

 "All wrapped up is it," asked a voice from the crowd around the bar.

 "Go well, did it?" asked another voice.

 "Like a dream," answered one of the four.

 "Right, lads," announced a booming voice that any parade ground RSM would
be proud to possess, "anyone with any outstanding expense chits should
take advantage of the Cow's benevolent mood."

 "How'd the Old Man take the news?"

 The four men walked, unhampered, to the bar, puffing their chests up and
almost cooing with contentment.

 "Offered us all a drop of his best malt."

 In the shocked but respectful silence that followed that announcement
Bodie was heard to ask which drawer Cowley had removed the famous bottle
from.

 "Top drawer, of course!"

 "Sorry, mate," Bodie said as he broke the news gently, "but he keeps the
*really* good stuff in the third drawer down."

 The room erupted into good-humoured uproar as the newcomers were welcomed
into the crowd and the details of their successful job were pored over
with great interest. The post mortem carried on for an hour or so and
Doyle used the relaxed, free and easy atmosphere to good advantage. A
subtle question here, a delicate manoeuvring of conversation there, and he
managed to learn quite a bit about his partner. He took it all in, filing
all the little comments and anecdotes away until he had time to go over
them properly. After nearly six weeks he was surprised that there was so
much he didn't know about Bodie.

 Driving home, he thought over what he had learned. Bodie was well-liked
and respected, though more than one person had hinted at some unpleasant
sides to his nature. Good for a laugh and a great one for the girls,
apparently--not that either trait had shown itself in the last six weeks;
apart from that one night out with Ruth Pettifer, Bodie had stayed in
every night. Because of me, Doyle thought guiltily.

 The most important facts Doyle had learned, though, were quite
interesting. Without asking direct questions--because he had not wanted to
appear obviously curious or concerned--Doyle discovered that he was the
first person Cowley had tried teaming with Bodie. For the last two years,
Bodie had been a solo agent--and by all accounts, one of the best Cowley
had--until four months ago when he had taken a fall through a skylight and
come close to breaking his neck. For a few days there had been a big
question hanging over Bodie's future; CI5 had no room for cripples. But
with the luck of the devil, Bodie had apparently bounced back and was as
good as new--almost!

 Watching the traffic up ahead, Doyle managed to catch Bodie stealthily
rubbing his neck when he thought he couldn't be seen.

 "I'm sorry about aggravating it. You should've told me, though, I'd no
idea you weren't fit."

 Realising he had been caught out, Bodie stopped pretending and gave his
neck a proper, hard rub.

 "Nah, 's not your fault. Hardly feel it all now except when I'm tired.
I'll be okay by the time Macklin's ready for me."

 "When will that be?"

 "Another four weeks. We'll both be ready for him then."

 The certainty in Bodie's voice made Doyle look round, smiling.

 "You think I'm going to make the grade, then?"

 "With me teaching you, you can't fail."

 Doyle was beginning to recognise that smug, superior tone.

 "You don't mind being lumbered with a partner then?" Doyle parked the car
and switched the ignition off. "...or with me?" he added quietly.

 "How d'you mean?"

 "Someone said that you'd told Cowley you had no intention of being
partnered by anyone--that you work best solo."

 "Someone's got a slack mouth," said Bodie slowly as he digested what
Doyle was asking him.

 Ever since he'd looked up from his talk with Lucas and McCabe about the
operation and seen Doyle joining in with the conversation and relaxed
atmosphere of the clubroom, he'd known something was coming up. It was the
first time he'd seen Doyle initiate a conversation with anyone--when he'd
heard his name mentioned once or twice he had suspected that at long last
Doyle had begun to be curious about him.

 It had pleased him to see Doyle was finally taking notice of other people
and he wasn't bothered at what any of his colleagues might say about
him--they only knew what he wanted them to know anyway--but he hadn't
considered how his initial loud and indiscreet reluctance to take on a
partner could undermine Doyle's slowly awakening self-confidence. There
was nothing like knowing you were unwanted to make you feel even more
unwanted than you already thought you were.

 "But after all the time and trouble I've taken gettin' you this far I'll
be buggered if I'm letting someone else step in and reap the benefit!"

 As they walked into the building, Bodie wondered how something just said
out loud on the spur of the moment could possibly be so true. He really
meant it! Doyle was going to be his partner whether he liked it or not.
Apart from appearing rather unimpressed by Bodie's ambiguous answer to his
question, Doyle made no comment and, as Bodie had suspected he would,
vanished into his own bedroom at the earliest opportunity.

 Much later that evening Bodie showered in readiness for bed and then
donned the awful, candy-striped trousers again before padding down the
hall to Doyle's bedroom. He knocked and walked in to find Doyle already
sitting up in bed reading a book.

 "I'm ready," Bodie said firmly, "and I don't like being disturbed once
I'm comfortable."

 "So?" said Doyle, unhelpfully.

 "So--you're in the wrong bed, aren't you!" Bodie knew Doyle had not
forgotten and guessed that he was probably hoping Bodie would.

 "Don't you think you're carrying this 'partners' thing a bit too far?"

 "No."

 "For christ's sake, we're working partners, I'm not married to you or
anything, there's nothing in the contract that says I have to sleep with
you!" Doyle protested.

 "I'm not suggesting you're to love, honour and obey me--just obey and
trust me. Now, come on!"

 It was a complaining and reluctant man that followed Bodie back along the
hallway to the dimly lit bedroom.

 "Make yourself comfortable," Bodie instructed. "I'll be back in a sec,"
then he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

 Doyle took advantage of his absence to open the curtains, hoping that if
Bodie noticed, he wouldn't think it strange.

 When he returned Bodie saw the opened curtains immediately but chose not
to comment, trusting his own ability to wheedle the truth from his
close-mouthed companion in time.

 The second night started out quite promisingly as Doyle, worn out by
successive interrupted, disturbed nights and prolonged sessions in the
gymnasium and class rooms, fell asleep almost immediately. For some time
Bodie found himself lying in the semi-darkness listening to the soft
breathing beside him; a relaxing, hypnotic sound which gradually eased
him, unknowing, into sleep.

 He awoke from a wonderfully deep, dreamless slumber to an uncomfortable
physical sensation.

 "Get off me, you great lump!" Doyle hissed in his ear. "Get on your own
side, will you? Move over!"

 Strong hands and a bony knee emphasised the point by pushing his heavy
sleeping body across the bed onto a bit of cold sheet.

 "...got bony knees..." Bodie managed to mumble before slipping back to
sleep, only to be woken again seemingly minutes later by Doyle's outraged
whisper:

 "Fuck off!"

 "Mmmm, wha'?" Disentangling himself from the irate bundle of warmth,
Bodie withdrew to the cold sheet.

 "Keep your flaming hands to yourself!"

 "Sorry," Bodie whispered as he realised what was happening. "I can't help
it--I'm used to cuddling who I sleep with--"

 "Well, if you think you're gonna start cuddling me I'm going back to my
own bed--"

 Bodie grabbed hold and pulled Doyle back into the bed.

 "Whoa, not so fast! It's nothing personal, mate, it's not *you* I'm
after, it's just...well, you know...I usually get to cuddle what I sleep
with. There's no need to get uptight...after all, I'm bound to wake up
before I get to the good bits, aren't I?" Bodie joked. "Now, lie back
down, shut up and go to sleep...and I'll try to remember you're 5'8",
skinny, hairy and male. Okay?"

 They settled down again and for a while the room was silent except for
the soft, rhythmic breathing from the two exhausted men.

 The first glow of the new sun was painting the sky when the easy rhythm
was disturbed as Doyle became restless, his breathing quickening as the
dream took hold; trapped in his nightmare, he struggled to get free, his
body twitching and shifting restlessly.

 On the other side of the bed, still wrapped in his own peaceful oblivion,
Bodie sensed the silent struggle going on beside him and reached across
the bed to offer his own sleepy comfort.

 The instant Doyle's fist connected with Bodie's nose both men were wide
awake and sitting up, Doyle reaching for the light switch and Bodie
holding his injured face with both hands.

 "By dose, you broke my dose!"

 "I'm sorry. You touched me and I just hit out... I'm sorry. Oh christ,
you're bleeding over everything. Got any hankies?"

 "In der ches' of 'rawers, 'op 'rawer."

 Handing the hankies over, Doyle stood helplessly by the side of the bed
apologising over and over.

 "I'm sorry, I thought you were...I forgot where I was, I'm sorry...I just
got used to hitting him every time he touched me...I'm sorry...I knew this
would happen..."

 "'s all right, jus' bel' up. Know you didn' mean it," Bodie mumbled
through the wad of bloodstained cotton. "Oh, gob, I fink it's broken."

 "I'll get you a cold flannel," Doyle said as he ran for the bathroom,
emerging seconds later and replacing the useless handkerchief with a
freezing cold, wet cloth.

 "Have you got any ice cubes in your fridge?" he asked.

 "'uckin 'annel's 'old enough," Bodie protested nasally, flinching as the
icy water dripped onto his bare chest.

 "'ink ith's 'opped now anyway." Carefully, he pulled the flannel away.
Yes, it had stopped.

 "Is it broken?"

 "Nah, don't 'ink so," Bodie said as he gingerly touched his nose; it was
very painful but he didn't think it was seriously damaged. "'s all right,
jus' a bit tender. What time is it?"

 Doyle turned the clock around to se. "Nearly six."

 "'aven't got to be at the range till ten so get back into bed. Maybe we
can still get some sleep."

 "After what I just did?" Doyle asked incredulously. "I probably will
break it next time."

 "Won't be a next time."

 Lulled into a sense of security by Bodie's confident voice, Doyle climbed
back into bed--only to try and leap straight back out again.

 "What the hell are you playing at?" he demanded to know as he pulled away
from a pair of octopus-like arms.

 "Got it all figured out, haven't I!" Bodie said. "You get all twitchy
every time you're asleep and someone touches you. So, you're going to go
to sleep with me holding you so you're used to me being here, an' I'm
going to be wrapped round you so fuckin' tightly you aren't going to be
able to twitch without me knowing about the second you do!"

 Bodie pulled Doyle back into his arms and made sure they were snuggled up
nice and tight, Doyle's back pressed hard against his own chest, and his
arms secure around the trim waist, holding him there.

 "And relax! Neither of us is going to sleep if you're as stiff as a
board," Bodie whispered into Doyle's hair. "All I want to do is sleep, so
don't worry...this way I know where you are and you know where I am,
neither of us gets any nasty surprises. Now, go to sleep!"

 It was not a very comfortable position, so Bodie made his reluctant
companion move to accommodate him.

 "Bend your knee...that's better. Now lift your arm up a bit. There, 's
more comfy, innit!"

 "No."

 "Shut up and go to sleep."

 "How can I with you plastered down me back? You're making me too hot,"
Doyle complained.

 Bodie released him only for as long as it took to throw the top bedspread
off.

 "*Now* will you go to sleep?"

 "Your elbow's digging in my side."

 Bodie sighed and shifted his elbow.

 "How am I supposed to sleep with you blowin' a flippin' gale in me ear?"

 Bodie pulled back a fraction so they were almost, but not quite touching,
back to chest, but still kept an arm resting around the trim waist with
his hand loosely circling Doyle's wrist, ready to grab hold should he
start getting jumpy again.

 "Do we really have to sleep holding bloody hands?"

 "Yes! Now shut up!" Bodie's tone clearly showed the limits of his
patience were almost exceeded, and Doyle finally gave in. Too tense
himself to sleep, Bodie was relieved to feel Doyle slowly slip into
unconsciousness.

 Again, Doyle's soft, rhythmic breathing had a soporific effect and Bodie
felt himself falling asleep.

 There was only one dodgy moment in what remained of the night, and that
was when, for a few seconds, Bodie's fingers automatically began light,
stroking caresses along the warm skin beneath them, but Bodie snapped back
to full awareness and stilled his errant fingers as soon as Doyle began to
fidget and pull away, the light touch obviously weaving itself into the
fabric of his dreams and becoming something sinister.

 "Ssh...ssh..." Bodie whispered, holding his breath. "It's all
right...just go back to sleep...'s all right now..."

 Holding the restless sleeper firmly, Bodie felt the tension sliding away,
and breathed out.

 Maybe his idea was going to work after all.

 ******

*CHAPTER SIX*

 "Are you coming, then?" Doyle asked quietly.

 "Might as well," Bodie replied as he rose from his desk. "Get it over
with."

 "You gonna tell him how you got that?"

 There was no need for Bodie to ask what 'that' was supposed to be. Since
his painful awakening in the early hours of Friday morning he had been
sporting a beautiful black eye.

 "I never could understand why they call 'em black eyes," Bodie said as he
pulled a face at himself in the mirror while studying his injury. "Blue,
green, yellow, mauve and every other colour in the rainbow, but there's
not a single spot of black."

 "Now the green's fading it doesn't look quite so bad."

 "No, it doesn't--maybe I can just tell him I've got jaundice," said Bodie
mournfully.

 "In one eye?" Doyle asked.

 After a final grimace at his reflection Bodie turned to follow Doyle down
to the medical room where Dr Willis was waiting to give him another
check-up and make sure Bodie was fit enough to begin his own training
schedule in preparation for Macklin's fitness tests.

 The medical section was like a very small, compact casualty hospital
where the department doctors could treat a wide range of injuries from
splinters through to broken bones. It saved a lot of time having the
facility on the premises and, with the dangerous nature of the
department's work, the section was well used.

 Willis mmm'd and aah'd and fussed a lot, but he was a good doctor and he
took his task of keeping his patients healthy very seriously. In a job
where a pulled muscle or an ignored minor illness could lead to slower
reaction times, injury and even death, he had to stay on his toes.

 He lingered over Bodie's X-rays and poked and prodded his silently
suffering patient.

 "Are you sure you feel no discomfort when I do this?" Willis pushed
firmly on the back of Bodie's neck.

 "It feels okay, there's no pain at all."

 "Hmmm." Willis flexed his fingers and probed an inch or so further down.
"How about here?"

 "No. Nothing."

 Willis hmm'd to himself once more then moved away to his desk.

 "All right, Bodie, you can put your shirt back on. Now, you can start a
slow build-up, you've got another three weeks before Macklin can start on
you but I want you back here the minute your neck starts paining you."

 Bodie looked across the room to Doyle and smiled, making no pretence of
listening to Willis' well-meant advice and never-ending list of dos and
don'ts.

 Then it was Doyle's turn. Bodie settled himself down in one of the chairs
and concentrated half-heartedly on an old magazine lying there. Across the
room it was Doyle's turn to be measured, poked, prodded and examined. The
quietly spoken instructions to 'do that,' 'move this,' bend that,'
'breathe in' and 'blow out' and a smattering of 'hmms,' 'aahs,' and 'very
goods' were the only sounds.

 "Right, Doyle, if you would just step up on the scales for me."

 Sensing that the end of the examination was looming, Bodie looked up from
the article he'd been reading in time to see Doyle palming something and
holding it behind his back as he stepped over to the scales.

 Intrigued, Bodie got up and wandered over.

 "Well done, Mr Doyle. You're gaining weight nicely, we'll soon have you
up to par. I'm pleased that someone in this organisation appreciates the
value of a properly balanced diet. Mind you," and Willis turned from the
scales to glare at Bodie, "you are the first underweight patient I've had
since I joined the section. Most of your colleagues' problems tend to lean
in the opposite direction."

 Bodie looked distinctly uncomfortable under the piercing glare and Willis
tried to be fair.

 "But then I suppose it's easier to gain weight than to lose it, isn't it,
Bodie?"

 By now, Bodie had moved close enough to see the object Doyle had hidden
behind his back.

 "Oh yes," he agreed, "much easier."

 Especially when you're holding an eight-pound weight in your hand, Bodie
thought. He looked up into Doyle's worried eyes. So, the little sod knew
he'd been caught out, did he.

 Just then the telephone rang and Willis moved away to answer it, leaving
the two men standing by the scales whispering to each other.

 "You say anything, Bodie, and so help me I'll hit you with it," Doyle
hissed.

 "Keep your hair on," answered Bodie, judging from the angry glitter in
Doyle's eyes that he really meant it. "Dunno what you want to cheat for--I
wish I had your problem," Bodie said earnestly. Willis was always nagging
at him over his weight; had a weight fixation, did Dr Willis.

 Standing by the desk, Willis was listening to the lab technician's voice
while trying to work out what was happening over in the corner of the
room. For a moment he'd thought Doyle was going to thump his partner with
whatever he was holding behind his back. Willis's eyes opened wider as he
identified the object; he looked over to table and checked which weight
was missing.

 "Yes, right, thank you," Willis said rather distractedly as the phone
call drew to a close. "Well, I'll get back to you about it later on then,
good-bye." He placed the receiver down and walked back to the scales.

 "If you'd just get back on for a moment, Mr Doyle, I'd just like to check
your weight again."

 Bodie moved away as Doyle stepped back onto the scales.

 "Oh, and just put the weight back over on the table, please. We don't
want to get the wrong reading do we, Mr Doyle." Willis smiled, Bodie
choked back a snort of laughter and Doyle sighed as he did as he was told.

 "That's better," said Willis. "Amazing the difference a small lump of
lead can make, isn't it? Nine stone seven pounds. You're still over a
stone underweight. Have you looked at that diet sheet properly?"

 "Yes, of course I have," Doyle answered.

 "Are you following it?"

 "Yes...well, sort of," Doyle finally admitted.

 "Sort of isn't good enough. Your ideal weight is ten stone twelve pounds,
but I'm not fussy, I'll settle for ten and half stone. Now," Willis
indicated the chastened but unrepentant Doyle could get off the scales,
"I'm due to see you both when Macklin has finished with you. Doyle, I'll
want your weight to be at least ten stone and Bodie, we'll try for about
eight pounds off yours, shall we?"

 Feeling like naughty schoolboys escaping from a classroom, they left and
took themselves off to the canteen to get their long-overdue lunch.

 Standing in the queue, Bodie finally broke the silence with a mumbled
threat about what he'd like to do with Willis's scales.

 "Yeah," Doyle laughingly agreed. "And if I ever get my hands on the berk
who compiled those bloody ideal weight lists I'll kill him."

 "At least your problem's easier to handle, just keep eating. Me--he
expects me to starve! Only eight pounds, he says. Only!" Bodie moaned. "I
feel perfectly all right and I'm not overweight, just well developed."

 "I've never been ten and a half stone in my life," Doyle added his moan.
"About ten or ten four is my limit. Every time he sees me he makes some
comment about how peaky and thin I look. I know I was a bit underweight--"

 "Only a bit?" Bodie questioned the understatement.

 "--but I've always been slim," Doyle continued, trying to ignore the
sarcasm. "This is all muscle, you know, not an ounce of fat on me," he
said, patting his enviably flat stomach.

 Selecting their meals, Bodie carried the tray over to the table, leaving
Doyle to pay and collect the cutlery. Just as they were sorting themselves
out Dr Willis walked by, his look of approval fading as Bodie, with a
devilish grin, took the plate of meat pie, chips and beans, and pushed the
ham salad towards Doyle.

 ******

As the door closed behind Macklin and Dr Willis, Cowley summoned up the
dregs of his patience and turned to Dr Ross.

 "I would be grateful, Doctor, if you would enlighten me on this
'confidential' problem." Cowley's irritation was plainly obvious to the
psychiatrist, and she calmly gathered her arguments.

 "I was given to understand that my assessment of our agents' mental
states was to be confidential except in circumstances where--"

 "Yes, yes," Cowley snapped. "I'm perfectly aware of your brief, Dr Ross,
could you get to the point. What have you to say that you felt you were
unable to bring up in front of Macklin and Dr Willis? And please," Cowley
begged ungraciously, "speak in layman's terms, otherwise we'll both still
be here tomorrow."

 "I always endeavour to speak plainly, Mr Cowley," Ross assured him in
sugar-coated tones. "The problem is quite simple. Bodie."

 "Bodie?"

 "I have been observing them during training and study periods and it is
my opinion, my professional opinion," she stressed, "that a working
partnership between the two of them is doomed to failure."

 "Macklin is of the opinion that Doyle is shaping up well."

 "I agree, he has done much better than I initially expected but I doubt
his progress is going to advance much more; in fact it's highly likely
that he will backslide."

 "Why?"

 "Bodie is why, Mr Cowley."

 "You keep saying 'Bodie'," Cowley replied, completely exasperated by
Ross's confident, complacent and incomprehensible arguments. "I ask again,
why Bodie?"

 "There is no one answer, Mr Cowley, but I will try to explain the
problem."

 The psychiatrist ignored the heavily whispered, 'please do' and
continued:

 "Because of Doyle's treatment in Maidstone prison we knew he was probably
going to suffer from some degree of trauma and we knew he would need a
great deal of emotional support." Ross paused and waited for some
indication that her audience of one was still with her. "We know that
Doyle has had no satisfactory contact with his family and discreet
observation has indicated that he has made no move to renew old
friendships or strike up new ones. So far he has spent all day, every day
with Bodie. The only social contacts he's made have come through Bodie."

 It became clear to Cowley that he was obviously missing something Ross
felt to be terribly important.

 "So far I see nothing wrong with what you said. Doyle is leaning on
Bodie--what is wrong with that? The man's still disoriented and Bodie is
the only steady constant in his life--"

 "Precisely."

 Cowley was totally thrown by the doctor's triumphant exclamation. It
appeared he had found the crux of the matter without recognising it.

 "Please, Dr Ross, explain yourself."

 "Bodie is the stabilising factor in Doyle's life. *That* is the problem."

 Cowley almost gave up. Had he been given a choice between five minutes
with Dr Ross or twenty-four hours with a hostile, rabid mass-murderer, the
murderer would have won--every time!

 "Doyle is leaning *too* heavily. Throwing them into such close contact is
forcing Doyle to turn to Bodie for the emotional support he needs. We know
that Doyle was suffering from nightmares while in prison and Dr Willis
confirmed that he has not been sleeping well."

 "But Willis said that the problem appears to be getting better. Both
Bodie and Doyle have been looking more relaxed and refreshed of a
morning--"

 "Which means Bodie is also coping with Doyle's nightmares as well as the
daytime problems."

 "I still don't see the problem, if Bodie is coping." Cowley shrugged his
shoulders.

 "How long can he go on meeting Doyle's emotional demands? However you
look at it, Doyle is demanding a lot from Bodie, he still needs a great
deal of support."

 "A need that Bodie is, apparently, meeting."

 "For the moment, yes," agreed Ross, "but not for much longer. I was
against this pairing from the start because Bodie is a loner. His personal
records show quite clearly that he consistently shuns emotional
involvement. He has friends, colleagues, acquaintances and a plethora of
girlfriends, but no one who makes or is allowed to make any emotional
demands. Bodie can work as part of a larger team, and he has on occasion
worked in two-man teams but those pairings were always short-lived and
always terminated by special request by Bodie."

 The room fell silent as Cowley digested what he was hearing.
Unfortunately, it did seem to be making sense.

 "So," said Cowley slowly, "in your professional opinion, you are sure
Doyle is eventually going to ask too much from Bodie and destroy the
partnership."

 "In essence, yes."

 "And the end result...in your professional opinion?"

 "The break could well be the final rejection for Doyle, the ultimate
failure. I think we would lose him and possibly Bodie too."

 "And Bodie?" asked Cowley. Doyle had been a risk from the beginning but
he did not want to lose Bodie as well. The main reason behind teaming them
had been an attempt to bind Bodie more securely to CI5.

 "I am not unaware of your reasons for initiating this pairing and I won't
repeat my thoughts on the matter, you already know them, but I suspect
your plan to tie Bodie to CI5 with more than personal loyalty to yourself
has backfired." Seeing that she had Cowley's complete attention she
continued:

 "Considering his dislike for involvement, Bodie has allowed himself to
respond to Doyle's needs. Surprisingly, once the initial introduction
period was over they got on extremely well and Bodie has taken the
training programme very seriously; he's bullied and coaxed every inch of
Doyle's progress and he's become very...protective." Ross struggled to
find the right words. "He's looked after him...fussed over him...kept the
other agents from trying all the usual new-boy tricks...he's allowed
himself to...care."

 "Is that so very wrong, Dr Ross?" Cowley asked quietly.

 "In Bodie's book, yes. Caring means involvement and sooner or later he
always shuns involvement. When he breaks away from Doyle, I think he'll
know that as far as CI5 goes Doyle'll be finished. The combination of
caring, involvement and guilt will probably make Bodie break away from CI5
as well."

 It could happen. Even Cowley could see that. To lose Doyle would be a
great pity--but to lose Bodie as well would be much, much worse.

 Cowley dismissed Ross and told his secretary to hold all his calls; he
needed time to think over Ross's damning prediction.

 "Mr Cowley, Bodie is waiting to see you on a personal matter. Shall I ask
him to call back?"

 Bodie? What personal matter did he wish to discuss, Cowley wondered.

 "It's all right, Betty, send him through now."

 The door opened and Cowley got his first good look at the black eye
everyone had been talking about. It would well be the most spectacular
bruising he had seen in a very long time. It was rumoured that Doyle,
tiring of his instructor's training methods and pushed beyond his limit
had finally laid one on him. So far, Bodie had not denied the story and
Macklin and Willis had only just finished reporting that the compatibility
of the two men was becoming as obvious as the bruising--so if the story
was true, it hadn't damaged the partnership. Unless, of course, Bodie
wanted to talk about dissolving the team.

 "A personal matter, Bodie?" Cowley prompted after he had stood awkwardly
in front of the desk seemingly at a loss for words.

 "Yes, sir. But not me--Doyle."

 "Doyle has a problem?" Cowley was determined not to make the way easier;
if Bodie wanted out he was going to have to say so.

 "Well, yes and no...it isn't really a problem, it's just..." Bodie
foundered helplessly. "It seems that Doyle was involved in a spot of
bother, a nasty fight, about a year or so ago and he's troubled
by...memories of the fight...apparently he was quite badly hurt and he
doesn't really know for sure what happened. I just wondered if it would be
possible for Doyle to see the reports regarding the incident."

 It wasn't the problem Cowley had been anticipating and he felt himself
relax a little.

 "Which reports?"

 "There must have been some kind of internal enquiry...and I think he
would like to see his medical reports as well."

 "I can't hand over Doyle's medical notes to you, Bodie, they're
confidential."

 "I don't want to see them, sir, but I think Doyle has every right to."

 "So why are you asking for them and not Doyle?"

 Bodie wouldn't--or couldn't--reply, but Cowley, a shrewd man, was sure he
knew the answer. So, the thought, Ross was right. Bodie was learning to
care.

 "All right, Bodie," he said. "I will get the reports I think Doyle needs
to see and I'll give them to you in confidence. Once Doyle has seen them
I'll want them back. Call by my office before you leave tonight and I'll
have them ready for you."

 "Thank you, sir."

 Bodie let himself out, his mind whirling with fresh doubts. Cowley had
agreed very quickly to his rather strange request. He knew for a certainty
that Cowley had already seen the reports and would of course know exactly
what the outcome of the fight had been--was that why he was so unsurprised
at the request, had he, in fact, been expecting it?

 "Wanna watch it, Bodie, I can almost hear your cogs struggling into
action." Doyle's voice, right behind, took Bodie by surprise. "That or
you've taken to sleeping with your eyes open."

 "Didn't see you, mate. Where're you off to now?"

 "Jack Prescott, remember, he's going to have another go at teaching me
how not to blow myself up."

 "Course, I remember now, he's actually going to give you a live one to
defuse, isn't he?" Bodie said seriously.

 "Oh, yeah!" Doyle laughed. "You're kidding, aren't you. Aren't you?" he
asked, as he was assailed by a sudden doubt.

 "Of course, mate," Bodie replied to the anxious voice with a forced
joviality. "Not going to let you near a real one, is he! Stands to reason.
Course it'll only be dummy ones. Don't worry about it." Bodie threw an arm
around the lean frame and gave it a quick hug. "There's nothing to worry
about, just take your time. You're not nervous, are you? Steady hands and
all that!"

 "Of course I'm not nervous. Why should I be?" Doyle was suspicious of the
overbright camaraderie. Bodie was just winding him up--wasn't he!

 "No reason at all, sunshine."

 ******

Later that evening Bodie tapped lightly on the doorway to Doyle's
sanctuary, for once waiting to hear permission to enter before walking in.

 "Just wondered what you were doing," Bodie said, to excuse his intrusion.

 "Nothing special," Doyle replied as he folded the newspaper away. "Just
catching up with what Fleet Street's saying about the world."

 "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the living room?" asked Bodie. The
spare room was very basic, only a bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers
graced the small room, and Doyle had a choice of his bed or the floor on
which to sit.

 "I'm okay," Doyle assured him, and Bodie saw the wariness in the clear
wide-eyed gaze that was warning him not to encroach too far into his
territory.

 "I was just going to make a drink, do you want one?" As an excuse, it was
as good as any other; Doyle didn't appear to be overly suspicious,
replying that yes, he would like a drink--coffee.

 "Fine," replied Bodie. He turned to leave only to turn back, seemingly as
an afterthought and tossed a squat, document-sized envelope through the
air to land with a loud spat on top of the newspapers. "I managed to get
hold of these for you...thought that you might like...want to read
them...that they might help you come to terms with what happened to
you...give you your answer one way or the other..."

 Untypically, for the second time in one day, Bodie found himself waffling
on like an idiot.

 "Oh, hell," he said finally, "I'm going to put the kettle on. It's up to
you whether you read what's in there or not."

 Utterly confused, Doyle watched Bodie's hurried exit, then picked up the
envelope, broke the seal and tipped the papers out.

 His amusement at seeing Bodie behaving so ruffled and ill at ease died as
a cold, sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. There were three
reports: the internal enquiry, Officer Magill's statement and the
admission notes from Maidstone General Hospital.

 He stared at them blindly; his first reaction, once the shock receded,
was to tear them up, burn them, destroy them completely. Why, he asked,
had Bodie given them to him, what possible good did the stupid idiot think
reading about it was going to do him? What possible good?

 Unbidden, the embarrassed look on Bodie's face as he had thrown them over
came back to him.

 "...give you your answer...one way or the other..."

 One way or the other.

 Did he really want to know, Doyle wondered.

 Of course he bloody well did a voice screamed from inside, and a smaller
voice also demanded to be heard--but supposing the worst really did
happen--could he accept that? Not really knowing, he could always tell
himself that Ward had been stopped in time--but to discover, for an
absolute certainty, that he hadn't--could he face knowing that?

 He was sweating so much that his fingers, already stained by the
newsprint, left smudgy marks on the pristine white paper the hospital
notes were photocopied on. Suddenly, unable to read on, Doyle switched to
Magill's report, the stark, clinical description of his injuries proving
too much for him right now. If they went into as much detail as they had
over his broken wrist, the first injury listed, he dreaded to think what
he might find described in explicit, cold medical terms over the page.

 Taking a deep breath and mentally bracing himself against what he might
discover, Doyle began to read.

 ******

Alone in the kitchen, Bodie clattered about, keeping one ear tuned in to
whatever might happen further down the hall. Because he wanted to take his
time, the kettle boiled quickly of course, sod's law that is, Bodie told
himself. How long should he leave it before going back? Would Doyle want
him to go back? He had no way of knowing.

 The envelope had not been bulky, so it shouldn't take Doyle long to read
the reports.

 Unable to settle, Bodie drank his coffee as he moved restlessly between
the living room and kitchen. Before long, though, he had finished his, and
Doyle's was growing cold as it sat on the draining board. Bodie tipped it
away.

 Back in the living room he poured himself a small whisky; as he rolled
the smooth, fiery liquid around in his mouth he looked at the clock, then
gulped it down. Twenty minutes. Surely Doyle had read it all by now.

 In the bedroom Doyle shoved the papers away, tearing the envelope in his
hurry to get rid of the distasteful reports--then tossing the package down
to the end of the bed.

 So--now he knew.

 Cowley had read those reports.

 So had a lot of other people. Bodie? Doyle didn't know. Even knowing that
the reports had been one-sided--the Establishment's view and opinions were
there, in black and white, for anyone with the right authorisation to
see--did not ease the sense of injustice. Had everyone in that
godforsaken, so-called House of Correction gone around wearing blinkers?
Even admitting to himself that he had not been anyone's idea of a model
prisoner, Doyle found it hard to understand how everyone from the Governor
to the lowest-ranking screw could have misjudged him so. He hadn't been
that bad--had he, he asked himself. Maybe he had. Once dear, sweet Bert
had spread his malicious, mouth-watering gossip, there had been plenty of
opportunity for Doyle to display his aggressive, antagonistic and
anti-authority behaviour that the reports made so much of.

 What the hell should he have done; lain down and let them take turns, for
god's sake?

 "Do you want that coffee yet?"

 Bodie's quiet voice intruded on Doyle's very private, very bitter
thoughts.

 "You can shove your fuckin' coffee up your fuckin' arse!" Doyle shouted.

 Immediately cursing the impulse that had forced him to see if Doyle was
all right, Bodie withdrew, only to be called back.

 "Oy!" Doyle leapt from the bed, snatching the envelope up and throwing it
at Bodie. "You can shove this up there too!"

 The anger that was burning through Doyle gave Bodie his answer. Well--at
least now Doyle knew.

 "Shout all you want, mate," Bodie said quietly, prepared to take the full
brunt of Doyle's anger if he had to. "I don't blame you for being mad but
if you really want to hit someone, we'll go down to the gym--Cowley isn't
too keen on allowing us to wreck the furniture."

 "Hit you...why'd you think I want to hit you?"

 So used to fighting fire with fire, Doyle was thrown by the placid
acceptance of his rage. He had always had a quick temper but his time on
the Force had helped him to control it; but in Ford and Maidstone,
everyone's tempers were quick off the mark. Two sparks could start an
uncontrollable blaze among the closely confined prisoners. Inside, to back
down meant losing--and there was no way Doyle was going to lose--ever.

 "I don't want to fight you," said Doyle in a slightly bewildered voice.
Puzzled, he had walked back to his bed and sat down slowly. Where had all
his anger gone, he asked himself. He had been all set to wipe the floor
with Bodie: and why--just because he gave him the reports that he had
known existed somewhere but was too scared to look for?

 "I'm...sorry...there's no reason to take it out on you...'s not your
fault," Doyle apologised awkwardly.

 "Come on, Doyle...you look like you could do with a drink--and no, I
don't mean coffee."

 "I'm gonna end up an alcoholic if you start pouring alcohol down me
throat every time I lose my rag!"

 "There's only about two inches left in the bottom of the bottle, mate, so
I doubt if either of us is going to wind up drunk and incapable tonight.
Come on."

 Grateful that Doyle had calmed down, Bodie led the way into the living
room and poured each of them a drink, draining the bottle into Doyle's
glass.

 For a while they sat in silence, only the television chattering away
softly in the corner. Bodie started talking first, and Doyle found he
didn't quite understand what was prompting the cautious speech, that is
until he mentioned something about time healing most hurts, then he
realised with a shock how Bodie must have interpreted his anger over the
reports.

 "Have you read that?" Doyle asked and pointed to the crumpled envelope
that lay on the arm of Bodie's chair.

 "It's confidential," Bodie replied. "Of course I haven't. It was given to
me sealed. I didn't open it."

 "Do you want to read it?"

 "No." Bodie's answer was expressionless and definite.

 "Aren't you curious?"

 "No."

 "Not even a little bit?" Were their positions reversed, Doyle wasn't sure
he would be able to contain his curiosity.

 "Should I be?" Bodie responded to the irritatingly teasing voice with icy
sarcasm.

 Immediately, Doyle regretted his teasing. Bodie really didn't deserve
that sort of treatment.

 "Do you think Cowley's read it?"

 "I expect so. Why--does that bother you?"

 "No," Doyle answered thoughtfully, "but after seeing what the Governor
thought of me, I'm surprised Cowley ever considered me for CI5. According
to Bryant," Doyle explained, "I was the most undisciplined, troublesome,
warped individual who invited trouble, thrived on violence and deserved
everything I got, which by the way," he added, "was not as bad as I
thought. My virtue is still intact and my body still pure--despite
Kingsley and Ward's efforts to the contrary."

 "So you weren't..." Bodie only just managed to regain control of his
tongue but, apparently unconcerned by such indelicacies, Doyle finished
the sentence for him.

 "Raped. 's almost enough to make a person believe in miracles, isn't it!
According to that," the envelope received another look, "even the
bumbling, cack-handed Mr Magill has his uses, he actually managed to get
to the right place, a little late but still in time to stop the
fireworks."

 "What happened to Ward and his cronies?"

 "Nothing."

 "What?" Bodie exclaimed. "They half kill you and are allowed to get away
with it?"

 "Maidstone is full of very blind, very deaf, very stupid people, Bodie.
By the time Magill clonked along the landing in his size twelve regulation
boots the only person left in the shower-room was me. The way I was lying
and the fact my trousers were somewhere around my ankles apparently
aroused *some* suspicion but, by the time I came around and worked out
what I thought had happened and developed a nasty case of traumatic
amnesia, there wasn't much they could do."

 "Surely there was an enquiry?" Bodie was quietly appalled that such a
vicious and serious attack could happen in a secure institution without
there being repercussions of some kind.

 "Oh yeah, there's a report on that too in there." The envelope received
another cold look. "There was some criticism of the screws fouling up the
rota system and letting the fight happen in the first place, but most of
the blame came down on my head," Doyle said bitterly.

 "On you?" Bodie asked. "How did they work that out?"

 "Being as how me and dear Bert were such bosom buddies--" Doyle saw the
look of disbelief on his partner's face. "Oh yeah, according to the
screws--who of course know everything about everyone--"

 "Says who!" sneered Bodie.

 "Says the screws, of course--you'll never catch them admitting otherwise.
Anyway, I've already told you what happened after dear Bert left, haven't
I? Well, they thought that I was in the running to take control, there was
a lot of tension in the wing and they knew something was brewing. They
decided the fight was the climax of the struggle for the top...and that I
was the loser."

 "So nothing was done?"

 "I was put...somewhere else after being discharged from the prison
hospital. Ward took over from Bert and peace was restored. Ward was happy,
the screws were happy, Bryant was happy and I was out of it."

 But not happy. The unspoken words hung between them, making Bodie wonder
exactly where the 'somewhere else' was. He asked.

 "'E' wing," was Doyle's unenlightening and reluctant answer.

 "'E' wing?" Bodie asked. "What's that?"

 "Maximum security."

 "Solitary confinement!" Bodie said, horrified. "How long for?"

 "The last eight months or so."

 All at once Bodie understood Doyle's reluctance to mingle with crowds of
people, his reticence when drawn into a group's conversation. Eight
months' maximum security could do that to you, spending at least
twenty-two hours out of twenty-four locked away in isolation, month after
month; a person could easily forget how to converse freely with others.

 Bodie knew that long-term inmates in maximum security wings were allowed
to make their cells comfy with radios and televisions, pictures and other
small luxuries--if there was someone outside to bring them in for you, but
being completely alone, cut off--Bodie shuddered at the thought. He was a
loner by choice--to be forced into isolation was an idea that sickened
him.

 "How did you cope with that?" he asked eventually.

 "It was...okay. I soon got used to it. Was nice, being alone, no one
bothered me, pestered me; even when I did see the others on the wing at
exercise time we all kept to ourselves--everyone had their own reasons for
keeping apart and the screws didn't encourage friendly conversation. After
Bert and everything...being ignored was a nice change. I made the best of
it."

 Doyle knew he had glossed over the misery he had felt every date of each
month that passed, but there was no point wallowing. Although unpleasant,
'E' wing had been a lot better than his first introduction to Maidstone.
He could see that Bodie had been shocked by what he had heard, his
indignation that Ward had got off scot-free somehow warmed Doyle; it was
good to know that someone cared. He drained his glass and stole a quick
look across the room to see what Bodie was doing. Unaware that he was
being watched, Bodie was fiddling with the envelope, bending the corners,
then rolling it into a tube, flattening it out and then rolling it the
other way. That his hands were acting without conscious thought was
obvious to Doyle. Bodie's eyes and face were guarded and shuttered,
blocking out what his thoughts might be.

 Bodie tried to imagine the enforced isolation; Doyle's voice had revealed
only a glimmer of the loneliness he must have felt--'I soon got used to
it...being ignored was a nice change'. Shuddering with horror, Bodie
wondered how many times a day Doyle had had to tell himself that being
alone was what he preferred.

 Not for the first time, Bodie began to re-evaluate his opinion of the man
Cowley had all but dumped on him.

 ******

"How much longer are you going to be?" Bodie demanded crossly. He had been
in bed for nearly a quarter of an hour and Doyle was still fiddling
around, flitting between his room down the hall and the bathroom.

 "I'm just cleaning my teeth," the voice answered.

 "Just leave 'em to soak, they'll be safe in the bathroom! Hurry up, I
want this light out," Bodie yelled as he thumped a fist into his pillow
then switched off the lamp on his side of the bed, leaving only the lamp
on Doyle's side. The shade must have been knocked at some time, because
instead of a soft, cosy glow a beam of brilliant white light poured
unhindered straight from the bulb and into Bodie's face; even with his
eyes shut the light was still annoying.

 He heard Doyle enter the bedroom, heard the sound of the curtain being
drawn back, then, just as Bodie thought he was about to get into bed, the
soft footsteps left the room.

 "Now where are you goin'?"

 "I'm putting something away."

 "Hurry up!" Bodie complained. This nightly ritual was becoming
exceedingly irritating. Every night Bodie had to make a point of reminding
his house guest where he was sleeping; left to his own devices Bodie knew
that Doyle would slip into his own bed and hope against hope that his
absence wouldn't be noticed. Once he had agreed that yes, tonight he would
sleep in the double bed, Doyle would take his time getting there, just
finish reading this, or I want to watch the end of that, cleaning his
teeth, washing his hair--and then taking hours to dry it--anything to put
off the inevitable--and then once actually in bed the rigmarole of
settling down to sleep would start. Ever since giving Bodie the nosebleed
and subsequent black eye, Doyle had not refused to let Bodie hold him--he
protested at some length every night, but he didn't refuse the restraining
embrace.

 Tomorrow night, Bodie decided grimly, they would start going to bed as
soon as dinner was over, that way they might get the light off before
midnight.

 The footsteps returned and moved towards the bed...and then away again.

 Now what's he doing? Bodie thought desperately.

 Resigned to another stalling tactic, he opened his eyes to see Doyle
removing his bathrobe and draping it around a chair but still making no
move towards the bed.

 "What are you fiddling with now?" Bodie demanded, his temper finally
getting the better of his desire not to get mad with the infuriating
little bugger. "I want this fucking light off so's I can get some sleep!"

 "All right, all right," Doyle answered rather distractedly, Bodie's tone
of voice only barely penetrating the cloud of thoughts swamping him at
that particular moment.

 Unable to wait patiently a second longer, Bodie surged across the empty
half of the bed and switched the light off.

 "Bodie!" a surprised voice cried out, "can't see a bleedin'--ouch!"

 A muffled thump and a stream of extremely coarse expletives poured from
Doyle's mouth.

 "You all right?" Bodie asked, quite unconcerned at first, no one could be
that voluble if he was seriously injured, but then the swearing tailed off
to be replace by a series of choked-off hisses and sniffs, and he repeated
his question. The only reply was an increase in volume and frequency of
the strange, strangulated noises Doyle was producing. Alarmed, Bodie
turned the light back on.

 Doyle was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, only his shaking
shoulders and the back of his downbent head visible.

 "Doyle?" Bodie called softly.

 There was no answer, no indication he had even heard his name.

 Bodie slipped out of bed and moved to where Doyle was sitting, crumpled,
shaking and holding his left foot with both hands, his face hidden by his
arms and upraised knees.

 "What's wrong?"

 The shaking only increased. Bodie was really concerned now and he moved
to crouch beside Doyle, reaching out to touch the curly head gently.

 "Hey, come on, what's up? What's wrong? Have you really hurt yourself?"

 For a few seconds Bodie thought Doyle was crying and cursed himself for
having given him the reports to read. For the last few days Doyle had
wandered around in a very strange mood, not appearing at all relieved to
know, finally, that Ward had not achieved his object. He had instead
seemed more angry over what the Governor and screws had written about
him--angry and hurt, very hurt, that anyone could have apparently
prejudged and misunderstood him so badly.

 The wheezes and shakes were reaching mammoth proportions when Doyle
finally gave in to Bodie's coaxing hand and lifted his head up. For a
second their eyes met--then Doyle threw his head back and roared with
laughter, helpless, uncontrollable laughter.

 So relieved not to have found tears, Bodie found himself breaking into a
smile and soft chuckles, eventually laughing outright in response to
Doyle's unrestrained mirth.

 In the end, after several long minutes during which Doyle ended up
sprawled, helpless and weak on the floor, the laughter subsided. Wiping
away the tears from his eyes, Doyle took hold of the offered hand and
allowed Bodie to help him up and steer him towards the bed.

 "Oh god!" Doyle gasped, "'aven't laughed like that for years...stomach's
killin' me...oh god, dunno what hurts more, me stomach or me foot!"

 Sitting down heavily on the bed, Doyle twisted his foot round to examine
its underside.

 "Not even a mark--felt like a ten inch bleedin' nail!"

 "What's so funny about treading on something sharp?" Bodie also checked
the sole of Doyle's foot for injury and then turned to scan the carpet for
the offending object.

 "Nothing," Doyle answered, a fresh bubble of laughter making further
speech temporarily impossible.

 Bodie found the small silver shirt pin that had embedded itself, point
upwards, in the carpet pile. "Come on--share the joke," he begged, setting
the pin safely aside and returning to his own side of the bed.

 His breathing still ragged, Doyle tried to explain. He collapsed back
onto the pillows and allowed Bodie to flick the duvet across him.

 "I was just thinking, see," he began, "about what I enjoy most about
being free, outside. Just the little things, you know," he turned his head
on the pillow to look at Bodie as he tried to make him understand,
"like...I dunno, 'aving a bath at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon
just because I want one and not because it's my turn and I won't be able
to for another day or so, and being the first person to read today's
newspaper--not the twentieth to read the day before yesterday's. But what
really cracked me up was thinking..." the green eyes sparkled anew and
Doyle broke off with a fresh bout of giggles; Bodie waited patiently,
"was...thinking how nice it was to get into bed...and then turn the light
off...myself..." The explanation continued disjointedly as Doyle struggled
against the wild desire to laugh again at what he knew was coming next.
"...luxury of turning a light on and off...from your own bed...'s
wonderful...never...never realised how wonderful until I couldn't do
it...inside, screws turn the lights off...every night...always on the
wrong side of the cell when it happened...bleedin' Bert always left his
boots sticking out...and I always tripped over the damn things...was just
thinking about...that when you turned the light out...and then I trod
on...and it just...struck me...as being a...bit...oh gawd, it's...bringing
tears...to me...eyes..."

 Laughter being infectious anyway, Bodie couldn't stop himself from
responding to Doyle's enveloping good humour, and they lay side by side,
giggling like schoolboys in a dormitory, until they were laughed out.
Finally and with a sense of ceremony, Doyle switched the light off and
rolled onto his side, accepting with no discernible restraint Bodie's
covering arm.

 Hardly able to believe how things were turning out, Bodie carefully made
himself comfortable, tucking his knees behind Doyle and resting his arm
around the trim waist. Doyle's laughter had so relaxed him that he didn't
tense up or raise his normal objections when his wrist was taken in a firm
grip but instead relaxed into Bodie's protective embrace and slipped into
sleep.

 Even waking the next morning was a pleasurable experience. Bodie awoke
first and was slightly surprised to find Doyle still sleeping soundly.
Neither of them could have moved much during the night, and they were
still cuddled up closely. Not only was it the first morning Bodie had
woken to find Doyle still in bed, but it was also the first completely
undisturbed night they had both had. It had been nearly a week since the
last big nightmare that had so rudely and painfully woken them both up,
but every night since then, Doyle's sleep had still been troubled and
restless; only Bodie's soothing grip and sleepy reassurance had prevented
the dreams from gaining a hold on the helpless sleeper.

 Doyle's breathing changed rhythm as he slid, easily, from sleep to
waking. Curious as to what he would do, Bodie remained still, but Doyle
knew he was awake and uncurled himself, releasing his grip on the hand
that was resting on his stomach, and stretching.

 "Ummgh!" he grunted.

 "Morning to you too!" Bodie replied, then asked, "Are you going running
this morning?" when Doyle finished his bone-popping stretch.

 "Mmm," Doyle answered. "When I've woken up properly." He yawned and
rubbed his eyes then looked at the time--seven o'clock. "Why?"

 "Thought I'd join you." Bodie's voice wasn't very enthusiastic.

 "How come?"

 "Macklin in two weeks is how come," Bodie said gloomily. "Gotta be nearly
fit before I go near him or else he'll kill me on the first day."

 "He seemed a nice bloke to me," Doyle said, not understanding the reason
for the depth of Bodie's gloom.

 "Do you think I could have that in writing?" Bodie asked as he slipped
from the bed. "Then when he's finished hammering us to death I can show
you what a fool you were. A nice bloke! Macklin?"

 Hoisting his pyjamas to a more secure position on his hips, Bodie gave
Doyle a final, disbelieving look and vanished into the bathroom, shaking
his head and muttering, "Macklin! A nice bloke! Macklin!"

 ******

*CHAPTER SEVEN*

 Feeling comfortable and relaxed, Bodie leaned back in the plush leather
armchair and took a slow pull at his drink. The huge, ornate clock out in
the lobby chimed out half past seven, and Bodie's forehead creased into a
slight frown.

 "Don't look so impatient, Bodie, I'll be with you as soon as I've
finished with these breakfast menus."

 The tall, elegant woman blew him a kiss as she glided across the bar and
out into reception. Joanna was the sort of person who glided, Bodie
decided appreciatively, never walked, always a sexy, sensuous glide.

 But it hadn't been Joanna that had caused him to frown. It was taking
Doyle one heck of a long time to finish dressing and come down to the bar.
If he didn't hurry up the girls would arrive first.

 "There you are," Bodie said. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

 "Sorry," Doyle replied quietly. "Didn't realise you were waiting
specially. Are they serving dinner?"

 "Yes, but we can't go in yet, the girls aren't here."

 "Girls? What girls?" Doyle's head swung around sharply.

 "Joanna and...whatsername...Jo's friend...Terry. I did tell you," Bodie
said defensively, because of the look of startled surprise in Doyle's
eyes.

 "You've mentioned a Joanna but this is the first I've heard about her
friend."

 "Sorry," Bodie said. "Must have forgotten to mention her. When I told Jo
I was coming down here she said that her friend was spending her holiday
here so I thought we could double date."

 "Double date?" asked Doyle.

 "Yeah. I've booked a table in the restaurant for eight o'clock. You don't
mind, do you?" Bodie asked belatedly.

 "It's a bit late to ask now, isn't it!" Doyle said irritably.

 "Sorry if I've upset any plans you had but I thought that a good meal,
and drink and a couple of nice girls would relax us nicely before Macklin
tries to kill us off tomorrow."

 "A light meal and an early night would be more sensible."

 "So? Be sensible and go to bed early." Bodie winked and grinned lewdly.
"I have every intention of going to bed early. I've also seen Terry and
she looks like she might be agreeable to an early night if you play your
cards right!"

 Any answer Doyle might have wished to make remained unspoken as Joanna
and her friend arrived and the conversation became dominated by
introductions and the organising of predinner drinks for everyone.

 Joanna and Bodie controlled the conversation, talking to each other and
drawing the other two into a friendly, animated circle.

 It was the first time Doyle had seen Bodie so relaxed, his quiet,
unfamiliar laughter adding to the sense of cheerful well-being. That Bodie
and the elegant Joanna had known each other some time was revealed by a
few amusing anecdotes told mainly for Doyle and Terry's benefit.

 The meal progressed slowly and Doyle was surprised to find he was
enjoying himself. Terry came across as a very pleasant, intelligent woman
and once they found a common interest they got on pretty well.

 Managing to divert Joanna's attentions for a few moments by getting her
to choose a liqueur coffee, Bodie glanced across the table to see how
Doyle was getting on. At first, Doyle's usual stiffness and reserve had
proved a little awkward but by degrees throughout the meal he had thawed
and was now talking earnestly to Terry, looking more relaxed and at ease
than when they had first sat down.

 The drinks Doyle had consumed before and during the meal had no doubt
helped considerably, Bodie decided. A snippet of the other pair's
conversation drifted across the table... He hadn't known Doyle knew
anything about art.

 The coffees arrived and were duly drunk, rounding off an enjoyable meal.

 "Did you know that we have a disco down in the basement, Bodie?" Joanna
asked as they left the restaurant.

 "Didn't have one last time, did you?"

 "Not quite, it was still being converted then, but," as Joanna pointed
out, "that was nearly nine months ago."

 "As long ago as that!" Bodie exclaimed dramatically. "Seems like only
yesterday."

 "Liar!" Joanna laughed. "I suppose you're going to try and kid me that
you've thought of me every day."

 "Well..." Bodie smiled and then admitted, "not every day."

 "Come on then, Terry, Ray, do you fancy going down for a dance?"

 A hot, smoky, overcrowded disco was something Doyle wanted to avoid but
Terry was pulling on his arm.

 "Oh yes, I'd love to. Please come with us, Ray?" she asked sweetly.

 Under the combined silent persuasion of three pairs of eyes, he
capitulated and they entered the club.

 It was as bad as Doyle had expected. The dimly lit room was throbbing
with noise and bright lights and was packed to capacity. Most of the men
present were plainly from the army barracks further down the road, and all
seemed intent on having a wonderful time.

 There were no empty tables, but Doyle managed to collect two stools for
the girls to sit on while Bodie went to get them some drinks.

 As they were waiting for Bodie to weave his way back through the crowd,
Doyle could see Joanna was trying to talk to him and had to lean over and
place his ear almost on top of her mouth to hear what she was saying.
Through the heavy beat of a very energetic rock and roll number, he could
make out about one word in three but he managed to catch her drift.

 Apparently, so Joanna told him, the disco was usually closed midweek, but
the NAAFI from the barracks had hired the cellar to promote easier
relations with the local populace. Looking around the room, Doyle decided
that the fathers of the local girls had every right to be concerned.

 Bodie returned with a tray of drinks.

 "Double," he shouted. "Save going through that lot again."

 He had barely taken a sip of his, though, before Joanna was tugging him
towards the dance floor. Passing his drink and his jacket over to Doyle,
Bodie went. Having already removed his own jacket, Doyle spread them both
over their stools and pulled Terry towards the dance floor.

 In a perverse way Doyle was happier than he had been in the restaurant.
Terry was a nice girl and he'd enjoyed her company but she had been making
him increasingly uncomfortable. Everything about her revealed a
tantalising glimpse of the sensual nature smouldering beneath the veneer
of well-bred gentility. Down in the disco the noise completely stopped any
intelligent conversation, and mime was the best way of conversing. The
fact that the D.J. was a rock and roll fanatic and playing to a
sympathetic audience also prevented any slow dances where, Doyle was sure,
Terry would prove her ability to let her body talk for her. So, he danced
and enjoyed himself.

 Having decided that two dances at this pace were enough, Bodie pulled
Joanna back to the stools where they sat and watched Doyle and Terry.

 Bodie downed a good measure of his ice-cold lager. He should have guessed
that his partner was such a good dancer; Doyle and Terry complemented each
other and, looking around, Bodie noticed that he wasn't the only one
watching them. Their lively interpretation of the jive had earned them a
little more floor space, which they were using to good effect. The record
came to an end and Doyle and Terry collapsed, holding each other up.
Another record started and the space they'd worked so for was taken by
other dancers.

 Bodie held their drinks out for them as they made their way back to the
stools. Terry sat down, as Bodie pulled Doyle closer to shout in his ear.

 "All right?" he bellowed.

 Doyle just grinned and nodded. He was having a good time and managing to
quell his niggling doubts about Bodie's ulterior motives in arranging the
double date. For all Bodie's talk about the delectable Joanna, Doyle knew
that little if anything heavy was going to happen. Bodie had, after all,
booked them into a double room, and surely he didn't intend taking Joanna
to bed with them both!

 Never having been keen on cavorting around a dance floor, Bodie was only
too happy to let Doyle partner both the girls. There would be plenty of
time to dance with Joanna when the D.J. finally decided his audience were
tired, mellow and drunk enough to enjoy the inevitable smoochy numbers.

 ******

The first slow dance took Doyle by surprise; the way Terry melted into his
arms and rested her head on his shoulder threw him for a moment and he
stumbled, treading on her toes.

 As the second smooch faded away, Doyle looked around for Bodie. It was
past midnight and if they were going to face the assault course in the
morning with any chance of success, they really ought to be thinking of
turning in.

 The dancers parted, and he saw Bodie, moving slowly around the same piece
of floor, holding Joanna close and nuzzling lovingly at her neck.

 Another intimate number welled up through the loudspeakers, and Terry
shifted slightly, pressing herself so close that it was difficult to move
without losing balance. In time to the music, Terry moved her body in a
gentle, slip-sliding motion that made Doyle aware of every inch of his
body that was touching hers.

 Ever since his early teens, Doyle had always found it difficult to dance
that closely with a partner. The music and the slow movements were
hypnotically erotic and it was incredibly embarrassing to know that the
girl could feel every inch of his arousal. With someone special it was
different, it was almost a form of love-making, but with a stranger it
could ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening.

 By the end of the fourth dance Doyle didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Poor Terry had been giving it all she had, sliding, rubbing, nuzzling
around his neck but so far she hadn't had much response. In fact, she'd
had absolutely no response whatsoever, and a slightly bewildered look was
beginning to replace her previous smouldering sensuality.

 A bell rang behind the bar and the shout of 'last orders' went up. The
D.J. played the last waltz and the party finally came to a halt.

 Relieved that the end of the evening was in sight, Doyle was shattered
when Bodie said that he'd see him at breakfast. Joanna, it seemed, had her
own suite of rooms in the hotel, one of the perks of being the manager's
secretary.

 Doyle was speechless. It was now perfectly clear that this was what Bodie
had been planning all along. When he'd first seen the double bed in their
hotel room, Doyle had questioned whether the hotel staff wouldn't think it
a bit strange with the two of them sharing it, but Bodie had shrugged it
off, saying that all the twin bedded rooms were booked and as they were so
used to sleeping together what did it matter, and that the staff had seen
stranger things than two men sharing a bed.

 Joanna and Terry returned from their hurried confab in the ladies' room,
and latched onto the arms of their companions. Before Doyle could think of
any plausible delaying tactics, Bodie and his companion had bidden them a
cheerful goodnight and vanished.

 Doyle groaned inwardly and turned to look at Terry, who was waiting
expectantly at his side. She smiled and hugged his arm.

 "Do you fancy a cup of coffee? I expect we can still order one from
reception," Doyle stalled as his mind frantically searched for a way out.

 "Mmmm. Love one," replied Terry. "Shall we have it sent to my room or
yours?" she asked as they approached the reception desk.

 "Er..." Doyle floundered. There was no way he was going to wind up alone
in either room with Terry. "It's a bit daft asking for room service this
time of night. We'd be waiting forever."

 "I'm in no hurry," Terry informed him.

 "Can we have a couple of coffees in the lounge, please?" Doyle asked the
night porter, completely ignoring Terry's almost blatant invitation.

 The lounge was empty, and it was a rather disconcerted young lady who
watched her escort sit a respectable distance away from her on the elegant
sofa. Terry was a well-brought-up young lady who had her own strict
protocol. While she considered it permissible to indicate her warm and
loving nature to a desirable young man and show him a metaphoric green
light, actually to take the active role and press the starting button was
not how a lady should behave.

 The coffee arrived and was drunk in an uncomfortable silence. A few
stragglers from the disco were hanging around the lobby in a noisy group.
Some were waiting for taxis but two rather loud-mouthed squaddies were
each trying to persuade the night porter to let them book into the hotel,
while their girlfriends tried to hide their blushes and their faces behind
one of the huge green leafy displays decorating the reception area. The
church-going, upright citizen and father of three daughters was firmly
telling the drunken revellers that his hotel simply did not allow that
sort of thing to happen on the premises. Having put the squaddies firmly
in their place, the night porter called over to the girls.

 "Helen, Maria, would you like me to call a taxi for you? Your fathers
would never forgive me if they found out I let you walk home alone at this
time of night."

 The girls gave up pretending they weren't with the soldiers and stepped
out from behind the concealing greenery.

 "You know how your dads feel about you walking out past the barracks late
at night," the porter added for good measure.

 In the face of such opposition, the soldiers decided to cut their losses,
and headed back towards the barracks, drunk, alone and frustrated.

 Watching this by-play from the lounge, Doyle wondered what Terry's
reaction would be if he called one of the soldiers back and told the lucky
man that he had an available room and a girl who was raring to go but that
he just wasn't in the mood to satisfy her requirements. No! That wasn't
called for, Doyle told himself. Not called for at all. There was no reason
he should direct any bitterness towards Terry.

 "Ray?"

 The soft voice made him snap back to awareness. Terry was standing in
front of him.

 "Are you all right, Ray?" she asked, puzzled by the sad expression that
had settled across his features. "You're not ill, are you?"

 "Er..." Doyle's mind tried to shift into gear and catch up. Terry was
giving him a way out. "No...I just feel a bit...you know. The meal was
lovely but the dancing and beer on top of it might not have been such a
good idea..."

 At such short notice it was the best he could come up with, but it seemed
to work.

 "A bit of peace and rest will probably make you feel better. You're
leaving first thing tomorrow morning, aren't you?"

 "That's right. I suppose I ought to get some sleep. We've got a heavy day
tomorrow."

 "I'll say goodbye now, then, you'll be gone by the time I come down in
the morning," Terry said brightly.

 Relieved that everything wasn't going to get horribly complicated, Doyle
stood up and gave her a brief hug and kiss on the side of her mouth.

 "Goodnight and goodbye. It's been a lovely evening, it was nice meeting
you," he said, and was surprised to realise that he meant it.

 The quick embrace and sudden change of mood took Terry by surprise. Maybe
he really was just feeling a bit off colour. Perfect gentlemen were so
rarely come across that she found it hard to judge. Being of a naturally
generous and unbegrudging nature, Terry decided to give him the benefit of
the doubt.

 "Perhaps we'll meet again. Joanna said that Bodie comes here from time to
time."

 "Perhaps we will," Doyle agreed, thinking of the army assault course only
a few miles away. In the next few years he was going to be seeing quite a
bit of this part of England--if Macklin had his way.

 "I hope so," he added.

 Terry returned a chaste kiss of her own and smiled. "So do I." Then she
was gone, leaving Doyle alone in the quiet lounge.

 Reaching his room, Doyle noticed, with no surprise whatsoever, that all
of Bodie's things were gone.

 Wearily, Doyle sank down onto the bed and pulled his shoes off, kicking
them away, and tugging off the rest of his clothes, leaving them in an
untidy heap beside the bed. Remembering to set his alarm for the next
morning he fell back onto the bed and pulled the covers over his
nakedness. Too tired to think about the way the evening had ended, he
switched off the light and rolled onto his side to sleep.

 But he couldn't get comfortable. He rolled onto his back, then onto his
side again before turning to lie flat on his stomach. Doyle wondered if
something was wrong with the bed, but discounted that; it was no softer
for firmer than the one he'd been sleeping in for the last month. The bed
was all right, it was just...so big. The root of the problem suddenly
became clear. He couldn't get comfortable because he couldn't get warm
enough. It had been ages since he'd last slept alone in a double bed, and
the last few weeks he had grown used to sleeping with a warm-blooded
living blanket wrapped around him.

 Turning the light back on, Doyle padded to the wardrobe and pulled out a
spare blanket which he folded double and spread over his side of the bed;
then, taking the spare pillows he placed them on top of the covers down
the centre. Satisfied, he climbed back into bed where, comforted by the
heaviness along his back and warmed by the extra blanket, he slept.

 Waking up was a bit of a shock.

 One second he was fast asleep and the next wide-awake and grasping at
thin air. Puzzled, Doyle blinked and looked around the pre-dawn gloom in
the bedroom. Surely someone had been there, he had felt...something...a
presence. The room was empty, though, no one but himself there.

 Still puzzled, Doyle snuggled back down under the covers. It was strange,
he thought sleepily; although he'd been sure someone was there the
presence had not been disturbing like it usually was, in fact, it had been
quite...nice.

 Curling up to go back to sleep, Doyle's warm hand found something it
hadn't come across for a long, long time. Hardly able to believe that his
senses weren't deceiving him, Doyle threw back the covers to look. The
sudden exposure to the cooler bedroom air caused the appendage to shrink
back even more.

 Barely remembering to breathe, Doyle touched himself gently, memory
guiding his hand through familiar motions. Instead of the erection
growing, though, the pleasurable sensations faded into nothing and the
more familiar limp, sexless flesh rested in his hand.

 Disappointed and frustrated, Doyle punched his fist into the mattress.
This was ridiculous, he told himself, there was absolutely no reason why
he couldn't get an erection. Of course there wasn't, the small quiet voice
of common-sense told him, you just did! It had been so long since it last
happened that he'd almost forgotten how it felt.

 Forcing himself to be calm, Doyle rolled over to lie on his back, closed
his eyes and took a series of regular, deep breaths. Waiting until he felt
the last of the tension leaving his body, he moved his left hand to slide
over his lower belly, stroking himself, touching the soft indentation
under his hips where memory told his wandering hands that he liked to be
caressed.

 Enjoying the simple touch, Doyle eased his right hand over his belly to
mirror the actions of his other hand, sliding them down until his
fingertips brushed against the tangle of pubic hair. A gentle throb
rewarded the careful touch. Another, stronger pulse encouraged him to
reach further into the nest of hair and touch the heavy balls resting
there. Beneath his fingers he felt himself tighten, pulse and grow.

 Frightened to open his eyes just in case it was all happening in a dream,
Doyle continued touching himself, revelling in the very real pleasure of
pleasuring himself.

 As his excitement grew he tried to recall the elusive dream that had
first woken him up. Was it Ann, he wondered, had he been imagining her
touch? But time had eroded Ann's image from his mind and he couldn't
conjure up anything, her face, her scent or her hands to feed his fantasy.

 Terry then? As his hands worked on his cock, Doyle recalled how Terry had
danced with him, the feel of her breasts rubbing against his chest through
the soft, silky material of her dress, her nipples brushing against him,
little hard buttons of flesh rubbing...her scent, her voice, and the hard
press of her as she danced against him...

 Considering that he had waited almost a year, Doyle felt that perhaps it
would have been nicer if it had lasted just a bit longer. All that fuss,
all those months of worrying and wondering and then it was up and down
again quicker than it took Roger Bannister to run a mile!

 Stamina's what you need, Doyle! he told himself, stamina--and a bit of
practice.

 Peering at the alarm, Doyle could just see he had another few hours
before he had to get up. Time for a bit more sleep--and who knows, he
thought as he rolled onto his side, on hand still curled around his
sensitive, sated penis, maybe even a bit more practice!

 ******

With a final, lingering caress, Bodie eased himself out of the warm bed,
fending off a pair of silky, warm arms that sought to pull him back down
again.

 "Sorry, love, but it's time I wasn't here."

 "Just five more minutes?" Joanna's sultry voice pleaded.

 He was sorely tempted but the thought of what Macklin was going to throw
at him for the next four days gave him the strength to fight off the
temptation.

 "Sorry, petal," he whispered regretfully, "but I'm gonna need some energy
to get through the next few days."

 "Spoilsport!" Joanna complained as she blew her lover a kiss. "You've got
no stamina, Bodie; come on." She followed him from the bed and slipped her
arms around him, pressing her naked body against his as she continued her
efforts to tempt him back to her bed. "Just for a few minutes, please."

 It was rather difficult walking into the bathroom with Joanna so firmly
wrapped around him but he coped--just! Stretching out an arm, he managed
to turned the shower on.

 "I'm going to be late, Jo. Will you please let go so I can get in the
shower?"

 "No."

 Short of prising her off with a crowbar there was little Bodie could do.
So he decided on a compromise. Pulling her under the shower with him, he
twisted around and took the warm, inviting mouth in a bruising kiss and
allowed her expert hands to coax his far from reluctant flesh into life
once more.

 ******

By the time Bodie finally reached the main lobby, they had only ten
minutes to get to the training centre that was a good fifteen minute drive
away.

 Doyle wasn't there, neither was he in the restaurant having breakfast.
Through the reception windows he could see their car where they had parked
last night.

 Taking the stairs at a run, Bodie hurried up to Doyle's room only to meet
Doyle as he came charging around the corner, holdall gripped between his
teeth as he struggled to finish dressing himself.

 "Shorry 'f I've 'ept you waitin'," Doyle mumbled around the thick strap.

 Bodie took the bag off him and they headed back down the stairs.

 "What kept you?" Bodie asked, blithely omitting to mention that he too
had been late.

 "Sorry," Doyle muttered as he finished struggling into his jacket and
patted his hair into place, "but I forgot the time..." Blushing furiously,
Doyle kept his head down and grabbed his holdall back.

 Delighted that his plan had worked, Bodie slapped his partner on the back
and chuckled.

 "Good morning is it--or was it?" he asked, grinning lewdly.

 By now they had reached the car, Doyle having tossed his room key onto
the reception desk as they shot past it. He knew exactly what Bodie was
thinking and didn't feel in the least bit inclined to enlighten him.
Waking up the second time this morning, Doyle had gone back over the
arrangements Bodie had made and realised that the whole thing had been
pre-planned. The unnecessary overnight stay at the hotel--they could just
as easily have stayed at the barracks--and Joanna with her conveniently
available 'friend,' the meal--which Bodie had insisted on paying for--and
the sleeping arrangements. Doyle knew that Bodie had been quietly
concerned about his reluctance to rejoin the social mainstream and had got
used to the way Bodie always seemed to make a point of chatting up girls
in twos and then feigning uninterest in both girls when Doyle hadn't taken
the bait.

 It wasn't that he didn't understand or appreciate what Bodie had been up
to--because he did--but Doyle had, not unsurprisingly, found himself
unable to confide in him and reveal that it was his fear of falling flat
on his face when the final clinch came that held him back. To have to
admit to Bodie that, on top of everything else, he was impotent had been
too embarrassing even to contemplate--but now it didn't matter! Once he
had thought everything through this morning Doyle had deliberately relaxed
and slowly, patiently and lovingly repeated the carefully erotic actions
that had sent him into the relaxed, sated sleep he had just awoken from.

 Just thinking about the delicious loving he had given himself twice this
morning caused a fresh hopeful sensation in the pit of his stomach--and
brought a new rush of colour to his cheeks. Now that body had remembered
how to operate it didn't seem to want to stop!

 Recognising the cloudy, heavy-lidded eyes and rosy sheen on the freshly
shaven cheeks for the rising sexual heat it was, Bodie laughed again, then
pushed his foot down on the accelerator. They had five minutes left in
which to try to keep in Macklin's good books.

 ******

Leaving his driver to park the car, Cowley carefully stepped over the
debris to where Macklin was watching the proceedings out on the site
through a pair of powerful binoculars.

 "How are they shaping up?" Cowley asked.

 Without taking his eyes from the scene before him, Macklin answered:

 "Bodie's in good form, you can have him back on active service as soon as
you want."

 "And Doyle?"

 Macklin lowered the glasses and turned to look at the man beside him,
then handed the binoculars over.

 "Technically he's good--bloody good."

 "Practically?" Cowley asked as he watched his newest recruit completely
obliterate his target.

 "Practically..." Macklin said slowly. "We both know that only the real
thing will show us that. In the mock-up, the trials, in the gym--he's all
right."

 "As good as Bodie?"

 "Different."

 "How different?"

 Macklin didn't answer straight away, and Cowley dropped the glasses and
turned his back on the simulated street battle. Against the backdrop of
rapid rifle shots and distant explosions, Cowley repeated his question.

 "How different? I need to know if he's going to hold Bodie up, slow him
down, are they so different they won't work together?"

 "In a way they're almost...opposites," Macklin said thoughtfully. "Once,
twice in the mock-ups Bodie was 'shot' because Doyle didn't cover him
adequately and, vice versa, Doyle's been 'shot' because he didn't
anticipate the line of action Bodie took."

 Cowley knew the training routine; after each run an inquest into what
happened and why was held, and the agents would be faced with their
mistakes or victories on film. Frame by frame they would analyse,
criticise or justify their actions.

 "The discussions showed that Doyle can be impulsive but on the whole is
more cautious, takes a more defensive stance whereas Bodie, as we know, is
more aggressive and more inclined to jump in both feet first and with his
eyes shut."

 Macklin paused and frowned slightly. "But I feel they're good together.
Different--but good. Bodie needs a little of Doyle's caution and
Doyle...well, he could use a bit of Bodie's forcefulness."

 "Doyle is no good to me if he needs Bodie to nursemaid him."

 "A nursemaid is something Doyle doesn't need," Macklin said, his face
breaking into a smile. "Put Doyle into a position where he is being
threatened and you'll see what I mean. He's a bit like one of those
sixpenny bangers you buy for Guy Fawkes night. Small and doesn't look like
much but, oh boy! light the blue paper and stand well back!" Macklin
laughed outright. "There aren't many people who catch me out or manage to
hurt me but he managed it--only once, mind you, but he did it. Knows how
to fight dirty does our little Ray of sunshine."

 Cowley raised an eyebrow at the strange nickname, but Macklin forestalled
any comment by continuing: "Doyle's problem is that he thinks like a
policeman."

 "Time will cure that," said Cowley.

 "*If* he survives long enough." Macklin's sombre comment was a chilling
reminder of the possible fate awaiting any new agent.

 ******

Slumped, sweating and exhausted on his makeshift sandbag armchair, Doyle
watched the informal meeting that was taking place on the other side of
the butts. His ears were burning and the cold sweat had nothing to do with
the exercise he had just completed. Macklin and the range sergeant were
talking about him to Cowley--he knew it! Sergeant Blowers was no doubt
reciting the list of blunders starting with how he blew his own safe house
and shot the innocent passer-by and ending up with getting Bodie shot
three times. At least he'd only got himself shot once. A head shot. Dead
was dead; the thought didn't help to make him feel better.

 It hadn't started too badly the first week; back at HQ Doyle felt he'd
coped with Macklin's demands. Bodie had prepared him well. Halfway through
their second week, though, he had begun to understand why Bodie had
laughed when he'd said he though Macklin was a nice bloke.

 Macklin was a sadist.

 A bloodthirsty, merciless, ruthless, unmitigated bastard.

 *And* a sadist!

 Unaware that he was scowling, Doyle turned away from the three men.

 "Don't worry, sunshine," Bodie said reassuringly; he had seen the little
group as well and could guess what was going through Doyle's mind, "you'll
be all right."

 "Ta very much," Doyle replied sourly. "I suppose they'll overlook the
fact that I blew all the wrong things up and shot the wrong targets."

 "And got me shot and yourself killed," Bodie finished for him.

 "Thanks for reminding me!"

 "Look, Doyle." Bodie leant forward and rested a hand on a bony knee,
shaking it until Doyle looked at him. "You've done all right. Macklin
knows it and so does Cowley--and shape up, mate, 'cause God is coming over
to talk to us."

 Doyle scrambled to his feet and braced himself to hear the worst. If the
last two weeks had been his final trial he knew it was hopeless to hope--

 "My office, eight o'clock Monday morning," Cowley barked at them, and
Doyle's heart sank; the whole weekend to wait before hearing the final
inevitable decision. The head of CI5 had already turned away from them,
towards his waiting car when he turned back and snapped at them:

 "And may I remind you, 4.5, 3.7, that I demand punctuality as well as
obedience from all my men." Then he was gone, his car fast disappearing
away up the road.

 Slightly puzzled, Doyle turned to Bodie.

 "What was that all about?" he asked, hardly daring to think what he hoped
it was.

 "Really, 4.5," Bodie chided, "I would have thought it was obvious."

 "Well done, 4.5," said Macklin as he gave Doyle a congratulatory thump on
his back that knocked him even more off balance than he already was.

 "4.5," Doyle repeated, testing the sound and deciding that he quite liked
it. "I'm in," he announced in a breathless whisper, then shouted it. "I'm
bloody well *in*!"

 "Don't exactly pick 'em for their quick thinking, do you?" asked Sergeant
Blowers.

 "Or for their brawn!" Macklin gripped Doyle's upper arm and examined the
muscle there before sighing sorrowfully.

 "Nah--it's his face. Sucker for a pretty face, is Cowley--ouch!" Bodie
cried out as the full force of Raymond Doyle, alias 4.5 and the newly
authorised, card-carrying member of CI5 threw himself at him, toppling
them both to the ground.

 Macklin and Sergeant Blowers walked off, leaving them scrabbling and
scuffling in the dirt, talking of the demerits of allowing such juvenile
behaviour on army property.

 ******

Eventually, Bodie began to steer the elated, shocked, scruffy, worn-out
bundle of clothes that was his new partner back to the barracks. On the
way back to their room, though, they met up with another of Macklin's
victims who were intent on finding something in the NAAFI bar to deaden
their pain. Once they discovered that Doyle had just officially been
accepted into their ranks they put their hearts and souls--not to mention
a good portion of their wallets--into giving him a welcome none of them
would forget in a hurry.

 The drinking session ended when the bar steward threw them out an hour
and a half after closing time. Accepting that all good things must come to
an end sometime, the agents all weaved their way through the dark-windowed
Nissen huts to their beds.

 Almost falling through the doorway of the cupboard that was their room,
Bodie and Doyle struggled to undress and climbed into their beds, sleep
coming almost before their eyes were shut.

 Bodie woke up once during the night to find himself whispering softly and
stretching across the eighteen inches that separated them to pat a chilly
shoulder.

 "Ssh...ssh...'sall right, Ray...everythin's all right. I'm here.
Ssh...ssh..."

 Reassured, Doyle stopped fidgeting and settled down into a deeper sleep,
trapping the palm on his shoulder by covering it with one of his own. When
Bodie withdrew his hand Doyle murmured a sleepy protest but then accepted
the blanket that was tugged up in its place.

 They arrived back at the Royal Arms Hotel just in time to treat the girls
to lunch before braving the windswept, deserted promenade and throwing
stones into the crashing surf. Out of season, Hythe had very little to
offer four young people out for a day's excitement, and it only took a few
hours of the bracing sea breeze to convince them that a return to the
hotel was their best option.

 Without discussing it with Bodie, Doyle booked them back into the same
double room and invited both girls to join them for dinner, just as they'd
arranged a week ago.

 The girls accepted, not that Doyle had thought they were likely to
refuse, and made their excuses to take their leave to go and get ready.
Dinner was still three hours away, but Doyle could already feel a rising
bubbly excitement starting up inside him. Terry's little smile and
expectant, burning gaze served to heighten his anticipation.

 Not by a turn of a single hair did Bodie let on that he was quite frankly
surprised by Doyle's behaviour. They had returned to the hotel on Doyle's
suggestion and Bodie had had to agree that another evening--and
night--with Joanna would be rather pleasant. Their reception had been
rather cool, though, and although he knew Joanna was okay, Bodie got the
distinct impression that Terry wasn't exactly overwhelmed that Doyle had
wanted a return match--at first that is. After about thirty seconds,
though, Terry's cool melted under the charm and undiluted personality of
Ray Doyle, even Joanna had gone soft at the edges and Bodie found himself
having to make an extra effort to keep her attention.

 Watching Doyle throughout the meal, Bodie found himself wondering if they
should have requested a more secluded table; the way the main course was
going down it looked as if Terry was going to be dessert!

 The D.J. of the previous week was thankfully having a night off, and his
relief played a well-balanced mixture of old, new, funky and smoochy
numbers; not that Ray and Terry seemed to notice, they danced slowly,
holding each other close through everything. By ten o'clock, when Bodie
looked up from investigating the smooth perfumed skin behind Joanna's left
ear, the lovers had gone. Bodie waited until ten-thirty and then escorted
Joanna back to the privacy of their bedroom for the night.

 ******

The slight movement beside him jolted Doyle out of his light almost-sleep.
Turning over until she came up against the naked warmth, Terry gave a
murmur of sated contentment and slipped back into a deeper sleep. Waiting
until he heard her breathing deepen and even out, Doyle carefully shifted
sideways, moving even closer to the edge of the bed than he already
was--another inch would tip him onto the floor, though.

 Sleep just would not come tonight. Even though everything had gone all
right and he and Terry had played, explored and loved each other to the
point of exhaustion, sleep just refused to claim him. Each time his body
tried to slip over the edge of awareness into thankful oblivion, Terry
would move and he would wake up with his heart hammering inside his chest
and every muscle in his body tense and ready to lash out. It had finally
got to the point where he was too tense even to try and fall asleep just
in case he couldn't wake up in time to stop himself from hitting Terry the
way he'd hit Bodie.

 For the rest of the night he slept by snatching a few minutes whenever he
could, but never once falling into the deeper, relaxing sleep that could
be very dangerous for the restless Terry.

 Around dawn, Doyle finally arrived at the conclusion that at some point
in his life he must have been a very bad boy, because someone--up there in
heaven--really had it in for him. If it wasn't one thing it was
another--after three and half years of celibacy and a year of impotent
fantasies and nightmares, he'd finally got around to making love with a
girl only to find that he was too uptight to relax and unwind enough
afterwards to actually sleep with her.

 Life, he decided, just wasn't fair.

 ******

Switching the bathroom light off behind him, Bodie was surprised to see
that the only light left on in his flat appeared to be the small lamp on
his side of the bed. After his success with Terry, Bodie had half expected
Doyle to insist on being allowed to sleep alone in his own room. Not once
during the evening since they had returned to London had Doyle mentioned
altering their sleeping arrangements and when he'd said he was going to
have an early night, Bodie presumed he meant on his own. There was no
movement to indicate Doyle was awake and Bodie quietly placed his clothes
on a chair and slipped into bed.

 "Bodie?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

 "Who else?" Bodie asked jokingly.

 "Night."

 "Tired you out, did she?" Bodie whispered as he clicked off the light and
turned onto his side.

 "What?"

 "Terry."

 "What about Terry?"

 "Forget it, mate," Bodie said as he curled around his partner and tucked
his knees closely behind Doyle's.

 "Forget what?" Although his body was asleep, Doyle's brain still hadn't
shut up shop for the day.

 "Nothing, sunshine. Just go to sleep. Goodnight."

 "Goodnight."

 He was just about to drop off when Doyle began to get restless, but
before Bodie could do anything, Doyle snuggled backwards across the
mattress until he found the bare warmth of Bodie's chest and snaked an arm
behind himself to find Bodie's pulling it around to rest across his waist.
Then, holding Bodie's hand loosely, he muttered a contented sigh and
settled back into a deeper sleep.

 Hardly able to believe the change the last month had made, Bodie took the
unconscious movement as a token of Doyle's trust in him, and happily
settled down against the relaxed form to sleep soundly.

 ******

*CHAPTER EIGHT*

 The next morning Doyle was very much aware of a nervous, fluttery
'new-boy-at-school' feeling unsettling his stomach. In less than an hour
he was going to receive his first briefing as an active operative. Last
night and then even more so this morning he had listened intently to the
half-hourly radio news broadcasts, but so far this wintry morn there had
been no international scandals, outbreaks of terrorism or sudden, horrific
upsurges in major crime that might require him to leap into action and
save mankind. The closest incident of major crime mentioned in the seven
o'clock bulletin a few minutes earlier had been about an arms discovery in
a little Basque village somewhere in Spain--somehow he doubted that CI5
would be asked to assist in police enquiries--unless, of course, Interpol
decided there was a link with a British cell and asked CI5 to assist
them...

 Turning into the department car park, Doyle glumly acknowledged that the
most exciting task he had to look forward to would be chauffeuring Bodie
home again tonight. Thinking of Bodie, Doyle looked up to see the glum,
thoughtful expression that had been there ever since Bodie had woken up
this morning.

 Doyle couldn't think of anything he had said or done that might have
upset his partner, and so far all his attempts at trying to lighten the
atmosphere had fallen on deaf ears...not that he had tried all that hard,
though--he had enough problems of his own without taking on Bodie's as
well.

 During the shindig at the NAAFI club, Tom Blowers, who turned out to be
quite an amicable chap once he changed out of his sergeant's uniform into
civvies, had expressed some surprise when Doyle told him that so far no
one had tried any funny business, no practical jokes or such-like on him.
Some of the tales Blowers imparted to the new agent had almost turned his
hair grey and made him determined not to get caught out. No way was Ray
Doyle going to allow himself to become the laughing stock of CI5.

 "Once we've seen Cowley we'll have to go and sort the motor-pool out,"
Bodie said suddenly as they entered the building. "It's about time we got
your own car sorted out; now you're on the active list you'll need your
own wheels," he said tersely.

 "Have you any idea what Cowley'll have us doing today?" Doyle asked
hopefully.

 "Ready to save the world, are you?" said Bodie unkindly, completely
forgetting the burning enthusiasm with which he'd begun his first day.

 "Something like that," mumbled Doyle.

 "What did you do on your first day as a fully fledged copper?"

 "Watched the flies in the charge room get stuck to the fly paper hanging
from the ceiling," Doyle said, his prospects for this first day in CI5
looking even more gloomy.

 "That all?"

 "And carried the tray of tea and biscuits into the Chief Inspector's
office..."

 "Oh well, there was a bit of excitement then!"

 "...and tripped over the carpet and threw the whole lot over his desk."
Doyle laughed at the memory and his day suddenly began to look a little
more cheerful. "You know, I often wonder if that had anything to do with
my getting transferred to another section."

 "If you throw a tray of tea and biscuits over George Cowley the only
section you'll be transferred to is a bit of ground measuring six by two
and six feet under!" Bodie said cheerfully. "But seriously, don't worry
about today. You're not likely to die of excitement but at least you won't
have to watch the flies on a bit of fly paper. In CI5," Bodie said in a
confidently superior tone, "we shoot them--target practice, you know.
We've got to keep our hand in somehow!"

 Their arrival in the squad room did not go unnoticed and Doyle found
himself to be the focus of some good-humoured banter.

 "Tooled up, are you?" one of the men he'd fought in the gym asked him; he
thought it was Murphy.

 Already keyed up and with Sergeant Blowers' warning uppermost in his
mind, Doyle had successfully coped with all the double-meaning banter
thrown at him, but Murphy's question made him even more aware of the bulky
weapon on his ribs and stiff leather band across his shoulders. On
Macklin's and Bodie's insistence he'd worn the gun every day for the past
two weeks, taking it off only to go to bed and, because Bodie had done so,
when they had gone out with the girls. The one thing he'd noticed over the
last few weeks was that no one ever mentioned or alluded to the fact that
they were wearing a gun or knew that you were wearing one. To do so was
considered a social gaffe in CI5's book of Agents' Etiquette--a bit like
telling someone he's wearing smelly underpants.

 Something of Doyle's confusion must have shown on his face because Murphy
repeated the question and elaborated on it a bit more to Bodie.

 "Both loaded up and ready to go, are you? Revolving pencils loaded and
new cartridges in our rolled-gold Schaeffers!"

 "Sod off, Murph," said Bodie as he pulled a face. "But you're probably
right; paper-pushing and baby-sitting is going to be all I'm gonna see of
the action--watch it, Puddle, where's the fire?"

 Having only just caught up with the conversation, Doyle frowned at the
inappropriate name.

 "Loverly Lambeth! Seems the hot-shot Cowley's dumped on me's had a phone
call from his favourite snitch," Lake replied as he yanked his jacket out
from underneath Bodie. "Did you have to sit on it?" he grumbled, trying to
smooth out the creases.

 "*Puddle!*" yelled a loud voice from the doorway.

 "I'm coming, I'm coming!" Lake yelled back, pausing only long enough to
give Doyle a friendly punch to his shoulder. "Watch this loon," he said
quickly, meaning Bodie. "Before you know where you are he'll have a
nickname for you and soon no one'll ever remember you were ever called
anything else..."

 "*Puddle!*" Williams' cry was taken up by everyone present and with a
final grimace at Bodie, Lake answered his partner's call.

 After another five minutes or so of shop talk, Bodie decided it was about
time they made their way to Cowley's office, the tight, nervous expression
on Doyle's face telling him not to prolong his agony any longer.

 "Come on then, sunshine, let's go and see what Uncle George has got in
store for us today."

 Lake's parting shot suddenly became a lot clearer and Doyle smiled at the
name. His mother had been the last person to call him Sunshine, and before
that, his grandfather; "Little Ray of Sunshine"! At least it was better
than being called Puddle! All of a sudden it occurred to Doyle that he
didn't have a single clue as to what Bodie's forename was; he was opening
his mouth to ask when the swing door flew open, letting a blast of smoke
and flame erupt into the corridor, deafening and flattening him at the
same time.

 Bodie was the first to recover.

 "Cowley! That was Cowley's office!"

 Scrambling to his feet, his head still ringing from the shock-wave, Doyle
followed him.

 Confusion reigned for all of thirty seconds before Cowley appeared,
unharmed and barking orders, causing everyone to jump immediately to his
bidding. Everyone--except Doyle--seemed to have something terribly
important to do, and so he stood quietly to one side, still holding on to
the piece of charred wood that he'd picked up when he'd begun looking for
the body.

 "Yes, sir. Should I take Doyle?"

 Hearing his name, Doyle glanced up in time to see Cowley look at him.

 "Yes, it should be all right. Keep him occupied. Call in as soon as you
find Murray," Cowley replied eventually, and Doyle guessed that Bodie was
being sent out on a fairly unexciting task. Keep him occupied, Cowley had
said. Keep him out of the way was what he had meant.

 Feeling rather like a little boy tagging behind his big know-all brother,
Doyle tried to look as if he knew exactly what he was doing and resisted
the impulse to grab hold of Bodie's jacket as he rushed from office to
office and then down into the car park. Doyle had started the engine and
moved the car to the exit before he realised that he had absolutely no
idea of where he was going.

 "Carlisle Avenue, SE5," Bodie snapped back. "And put your foot down."

 With a cautious disregard for the speed limit, Doyle headed for
Westminster Bridge.

 "Am I going to be told why we're going there before or after we arrive?"
Doyle asked quietly, having told himself that it would be pointless to get
annoyed simply because Bodie knew what was happening and he didn't.

 "What?" Already intent on finding Murray and getting whatever information
there was to be had from him, Bodie had very nearly forgotten that his
chauffeur would also want to get in on the act.

 "Murray, Peter Andrew," Bodie said crisply. "He's GPO technician and he's
got a Grade A security pass. Log book shows he was in Cowley's office
yesterday. The bomb was in Cowley's telephone so--"

 "--we're going to get Murray who's in Carlisle Avenue," finished Doyle.

 "Under Carlisle Avenue," Bodie corrected with a small, hard smile.

 "Under?"

 "As in down a hole...fixing cables," Bodie explained.

 Doyle watched Bodie's conversation with Murray keenly. It was the first
time he'd seen Bodie 'in action' so to speak, and felt that his partner's
grim face and quick-fire questioning wasn't having the right effect. It
must be very difficult to get into a heavy interrogation routine when your
subject was a disembodied voice emanating from the depths of a dark hole
in a suburban side street, Doyle conceded.

 A tea cup emerged from the hole first, closely followed by the untroubled
Murray, who calmly handed over his ID and suggested that CI5's security
might not be all it was cracked up to be.

 Heading back towards HQ, Bodie passed the bad news back to a
none-too-pleased Cowley.

 "Ease up a bit, Doyle," Bodie said as he finished reporting in. "There's
no need to rush back. Our Leader is not very happy and security is going
to get a right kick in the arse over this little fiasco."

 "Because they didn't check the telephone man's ID properly?" Doyle asked.

 "Because they shouldn't have bloody well let him in the building in the
first place. Murray is the only bloke with the right clearance and has
been for over a year now."

 "Surely just having the one bloke is a bit limiting?"

 "It was done purposely to stop exactly what happened today happening!"
Bodie exclaimed.

 "All right, keep your hair on!" said Doyle. "I was only asking."

 "Sorry," apologised Bodie. "Well, a bit more than you were expecting for
your first morning, isn't it!"

 "Having a bomb go off in the boss's office wasn't the kind of excitement
I was looking for, though," Doyle said with a smile.

 "Baptism of fire," Bodie said grandly.

 "Eh?"

 "Took me two weeks to get out of HQ and another month before I got on a
Grade A assignment."

 "And here's me, new to the job, out on a Grade A before me ceremonial
handshake from George Cowley," laughed Doyle.

 "You've got high hopes, haven't you, mate? As far as I know no one gets
more than one handshake from our Leader and you've already had yours."

 "When?"

 "Months ago," replied Bodie. "You mean the momentous moment isn't
indelibly printed on your mind?"

 "No." Doyle shrugged. "When months ago?"

 "Your first visit to the building."

 "I don't remember. Are you sure? I've mean I've heard he doesn't exactly
give his handshakes away."

 "Saves 'em for special occasions," Bodie chipped in. "If he ever briefs
you and *then* shakes your hand as you leave--start worrying."

 "I'd already heard that--that's why I was sort of looking forward to my
first official one."

 "Sorry, mate, but you've already had it--I saw it," Bodie added quickly.
"Right after he introduced you to me and just before we went down to the
Admin office." Doyle frowned and then shook his head as he failed to find
the elusive memory. "Just after you came back from lunch with Betty,"
Bodie elaborated.

 "Who's Betty?"

 "Who's Betty!" Bodie said as he knocked his head against the car window
in mock anguish. "The first bloke in CI5 to take iron knickers to lunch
and he can't remember it! Just how much of that first day do you
remember?" he asked suddenly.

 Stopping the car to allow a neat, uniformed crocodile of juniors and
their teachers to walk over a zebra crossing, Doyle frowned as he tried,
for the first time, to recall that day.

 "Not much," he finally said slowly. "Funny, but...I hardly remember the
details at all."

 "What can you remember?" Bodie asked, all serious now.

 "Someone taking me from the prison in a car...without an escort..."

 "Any idea who?"

 "Dunno...all I remember is thinking it strange that there wasn't any
escort...then reading Mike's letter...Cowley telling...no, asking me to
waive my right to a public pardon...then John showing me into the
street...dragging the cases back to the underground station..." Doyle's
voice tailed away. Although the details were not clear, all the emotional
turmoil of the day flooded back, the heavy depression, his overwhelming
weariness and the swamping loneliness.

 Bodie too was quiet. Not once, that day or since, had he ever considered
the impact Doyle's sudden and unexpected liberation would have had on his
state of mind.

 "Units 3.7, 4.5, Situation Priority Grade 1. Newport Street Estate.
Explosion involving 3.4. Assist 5.1 on arrival. Back-up already underway."

 "3.7 responding," Bodie snapped into the radio phone. "Put your foot
down, sunshine, that's Lake and Williams."

 The order to drive faster was unnecessary as Doyle was already roaring
down the road, his own problems pushed away and his full concentration on
the job in hand.

 By the time they arrived, the fire brigade had already done their work
and the water hoses were lying idle. Pushing through the inevitable crowd,
they made their way up the stairway and picked a cautious pathway through
the fallen masonry and blackened wood.

 There wasn't much they could do in the devastated flat and so, when Susan
told Cowley about the telephone call in the caretaker's flat, they
followed him down there. Maybe the call would have some answers for them.

 Cowley's face became, if possible, even grimmer. The second bomb hadn't
been an ugly coincidence then, but a planned, cold-blooded attempt to
destroy CI5--and George Cowley.

 Leaving the caretaker's flat, Bodie and Susan walked over to the shocked
agent. Doyle watched them from a discreet distance; he had met Williams
only very briefly a few months ago in the gymnasium, but they hadn't
really talked, and Lake he had only seen for the first time a few hours
ago. Feeling rather useless and left out, Doyle wandered over to where the
car was parked and watched the firemen sorting out their equipment.

 What a way to start a new career--the first day on the job some nutter
tries to blow up the head of CI5 and succeeds in blowing an operative to
smithereens!

 Just at that moment a blanket-covered stretcher was carried from the
stairwell to the waiting ambulance. Still distanced by shock and the speed
of events, Doyle could only be amazed that they had found enough of
Williams to put on the stretcher. Out of the corner of his eye he saw
Bodie holding Lake back, stopping him from going over to the
blanket-covered remains. Once he had stopped fighting to get away, Lake
turned his face into Bodie's shoulder.

 The ambulance pulled away, the absence of any flashing lights or blaring
siren only emphasising the futility of its journey.

 "Come on, Puddle," Bodie said softly, "there's nothing you can do here.
I'll drive you home."

 Pulling himself together, Lake shrugged off the arm around his shoulder.

 "Home!" he shouted. "I'm going to find the creep that set this up! It
was...was his flaming Christopher that did this--I knew that bloke was no
good but would he listen--never gave him any good information, it's always
rubbish--I kept telling...him that Chris was no good--but would he listen?
Would he?" Shock and grief were replaced by anger and a desire for
revenge. Lake was a hardened agent and he had seen friends die before; he
would grieve later...in private...right now he wanted action--and revenge.

 "I'll come with you," Bodie said, and moved to get in the car.

 "No, you won't, Bodie," a hard Scots accent informed him. "Aren't you
forgetting something--or rather someone?"

 Doyle! Bodie thought. Yes, he had forgotten him.

 "I'll go with Lake, sir. 4.5 can take the car back to HQ. I'll be of more
use with Lake than baby-sitting Doyle."

 Bodie pulled the door open and slid into the seat. Lake had already
started the engine and was revving it impatiently.

 "No, you won't. Stay with Doyle," Cowley instructed. "Lake, you'll call
in if you find Chris Benton?"

 "*When* I find him."

 "You will report in *before* you approach him. Do I make myself clear?"

 "Yessir," Lake snapped back.

 The second Bodie slammed the passenger door shut, Lake was gone.

 "Mathieson and King, 3.7, Control can't raise them on r/t to warn them of
the current situation. They last reported in about forty minutes ago from
Station Road, N.5. You and 4.5 get out there and find out what's
happening," ordered Cowley. "Susan, you come back to HQ and start checking
through the computer files. Well," Cowley glared at Bodie, "what are you
still here for?"

 "With all due respect, sir, I think I'll be of more use on this
operation--"

 "You'll stay with Doyle, Bodie! Now, get going--and when you find
Mathieson and King tell them I'll want to know why they aren't wearing
their personal r/ts." Cowley turned away and beckoned for his car to come
over to him. "When Lake calls in Benton's location you and Doyle will be
his back-up."

 "Yes, sir," Bodie responded sulkily, still annoyed at not being allowed
to join Lake right away.

 From where Doyle had parked their car the whole scene had been clearly
visible if not audible. He hadn't been able to hear what his partner was
arguing about, but Doyle did not find it too hard to guess.

 The top-speed drive to Station Road was conducted in near-silence, Bodie
speaking the barest minimum to snap out directions. They were still two
streets away when they heard the explosion. Doyle pressed his foot to the
floor and their car nearly flew the last few hundred yards.

 The car was a ball of flame, but through the heat haze, in the driving
seat they could just make out the shape of a body.

 Doyle saw the other agent first and rushed over to help him, and although
barely alive, Mathieson managed to gasp out the name of the informant who
had sent them there. Billy.

 While Bodie notified HQ, Doyle pulled Mathieson's notebook from a pocket
in the torn and charred jacket.

 It took only a few minutes for the CI5 forensic team and George Cowley to
arrive, and Doyle took the time to decipher Mathieson's log. The dead man
had been an ex-policeman and his log was laid out in a familiar way, the
abbreviations making some sort of sense.

 Bodie had given up trying to make anything out in the log book and was
therefore surprised when his chauffeur told him he knew Billy's address.

 "We'll tell Cowley where we're going when we're on our way," Bodie said
as they hurried over to their car.

 As they pulled away, though, Cowley happened to look up. Bodie saw the
irritation on his face and the gesture for them to come back--but Doyle,
who was manoeuvring the car through the narrow space left between the
forensic team's cars, didn't.

 "Bodie!" crackled the r/t. "Where do you think you're going?"

 "Flat 15, Walcot House NW3, sir." Bodie repeated the address that Doyle
had found.

 "I take it there is some significance to the address?" Cowley asked, the
anger in his voice being overtaken by a more weary resignation.

 "Mathieson and King had an informant who lives there. Doyle deciphered
Mathieson's log book and reckons it was this Billy who tipped them off
about Station Road. Sir." Bodie added the 'sir' as an afterthought.

 "All right, but be careful. Remember Benton's flat was booby-trapped."
The r/t clicked off.

 "Put your foot down, Sherlock," Bodie said. "Let's see if we can't give
Billy the shock of his life."

 "Control to 3.7," crackled the r/t.

 "3.7 responding," replied Bodie promptly.

 "5.1 has reported a sighting of Christopher Benton's car at the railway
sidings, Thornton Fields. He is awaiting your back-up before moving in.
3.7, 4.5, respond."

 "3.7, 4.5 responding." Bodie clicked the handset off and logged down the
call. "Billy'll have to wait."

 "Lucky Billy," said Doyle as he slid into a controlled skid for a U-turn
before shooting off in the other direction.

 The sidings were huge, most of the buildings derelict shells, and an air
of desolate decay hung over the area.

 Doyle drove on past the empty sheds and alongside the railway track. Way
over on the other side of the vast open space two trains rattled and
clattered past each other and the drama that was unfolding.

 "Over there!" Bodie pointed out Lake's car.

 Once their car was parked they stepped out, careful to watch out for
anything untoward.

 A harshly whispered, "Over here," led them to Lake, who pointed out the
battered, rusting car parked haphazardly further down the dirt track.

 "That's Chris's car. It was spotted by the local police about half an
hour ago, so I reckon he's around here somewhere--probably hiding in one
of those carriages."

 "Where's the police now?" asked Doyle.

 "Told them to seal the area off and only let your car through. We can do
without them getting under our feet."

 Throughout the conversation, Bodie's and Lake's eyes never rested for
longer than a split second on any one place. They were continuously
searching, checking, evaluating, rechecking.

 "We'll work our way through from this end. Doyle, you come with me."
Bodie was already swinging up to climb into the first carriage.

 "Wouldn't it be quicker if I started on the next carriage?" Doyle
suggested, more than a little irked by Bodie's tone of voice.

 "Follow me or go and wait in the car," Bodie snapped back, not bothering
to look down on Doyle as he began checking the first corridor. Although
Doyle had reacted well in training, an agent's first experience of a Grade
A could be a very telling matter. He couldn't afford to spare the time or
concentration to wonder how Doyle was coping.

 "Well?" he demanded after a very brief pause.

 There was no verbal answer, but Doyle climbed in behind Bodie, drew his
gun and waited for his next instruction. He was very much aware that this
was the first time he had drawn his gun in a 'live' situation. A small
click drew his eyes to Bodie's gun. The insignificant noise had been Bodie
releasing the safety. Swallowing hard, Doyle did likewise.

 "Watch the other end and cover me as I go along." Bodie waited until
Doyle moved into position before setting off, checking each compartment.
Doyle kept his eyes alert for any movement that might pose a threat,
edging his way down the corridor, side-stepping into the empty
compartments, giving cover but staying safe--just like it said in all the
manuals.

 In a few minutes they were climbing into their second train and the
procedure was repeated. In the third, they took it in turns to cover each
other, alternating between checking the compartments and covering the
corridor.

 Doyle found Benton in the fourth train.

 The inelegant, graceless sprawl of death was covered in a blanket of
money.

 Lake was sickened by the presence of the money rather than the luckless
Benton.

 "That's inflation for you," Bodie said cryptically, once Lake had moved
away back to his car.

 "Huh?" asked Doyle.

 "Inflation," Bodie explained. "Used to be thirty pieces of silver.
Now..."

 "Close on to a thousand pounds, I reckon," finished Doyle as he watched a
young PC scoop all the money into a plastic bag.

 "Why do you think they left it behind--the money. It's genuine stuff,"
Doyle wondered out loud.

 "He can't have been dead more than an hour. Maybe the police car that
spotted Benton's motor in the first place frightened them off."

 "Possibly," agreed Doyle. "Unless of course we're dealing with a nutter."

 "A nutter with a thousand quid to chuck away!"

 "It could be revenge is more important than money, and it looks like this
is all some revenge trip. Someone's after blood, Cowley's blood--"

 "--and anyone else's they manage to drag along. Terrific!"

 Stepping past the department's forensic team, Bodie admitted to himself
that Doyle could well be right. A nutter. Unpredictable, unstable--and
bloody hard to outguess.

 "Bodie!" Lake called them over to his car where he was talking to Cowley
over the radio, his face a rigidly controlled mask that hid the anger and
anguish he was feeling. Replacing the handset in the car, Lake turned to
speak to them, but his attention was suddenly taken by a flurry of
activity over by the railway carriage. The policemen manhandling the dead
body had accidentally dropped Chris from the train doorway to land in a
heap by the siding.

 "With one thing and another, it's just not been his day, has it!" Bodie
remarked casually.

 Doyle thought the remark in rather bad taste, but Lake smiled briefly at
the black joke.

 "Cowley wants us to go to Billy's address; bearing in mind how he," Lake
jerked his head towards the stretcher bearing Chris's body away, "was
rewarded for his efforts, chances of Billy drawing his pension are pretty
slim."

 "Okay," Bodie agreed, already moving away to his car. "If you get there
first wait for us," he ordered.

 "Just don't be late!" Lake yelled back as he switched on the ignition and
roared away with a tremendous squeal of tyres amid a cloud of dirt and
dust.

 With Bodie in the driving seat this time, they arrived only seconds
behind Lake. For a few moments, three pairs of eyes subjected the
neighbouring buildings to an intense scrutiny, then:

 "All right," said Bodie as he began to move out of the car.

 In the entrance hall it was decided that Bodie would take the front way
to Billy's flat while Lake covered the back. It was not until Doyle made a
play of clearing his throat that the other two agents acknowledged his
presence. Bodie and Lake exchanged looks before Lake turned to take up his
position at the back.

 "Stick with me," Bodie said tersely as he moved towards the stairwell.

 They climbed the stairs in silence, each alert for the least indication
of danger, but they reached the fifth floor without incident.

 Pressed flat, one each side of the door, Bodie drew his gun and listened
to the sounds emanating from the flat. A radio, someone moving about...and
a hairdryer. Billy was still at home--or so it seemed.

 Ready, Bodie indicated to Doyle that he should announce their presence.
The first knock went unanswered; a second, harder knock followed by Doyle
calling Billy's name resulted in the dryer being switched off. Doyle
called out again.

 "I'm just coming," a voice finally replied. "I won't be a minute."

 All was quiet until the unmistakable sound of a sash window being opened
up broadcast Billy's intent to the men waiting outside.

 Bodie's shoulder charge made short work of the flimsy door and they burst
through just in time to see a jean-clad backside disappear through the
window out onto the maintenance scaffolding. Leaving Doyle to call Lake on
the r/t, Bodie climbed out after Billy.

 A swift look at the shaky boards on the scaffolding, and Doyle ran back
down the hallways and staircase, guesswork telling him that one of the
corridors must lead onto the fire escape that Billy was probably heading
for. The old building was like a rabbit warren, and it took three dead
ends before he managed to find the doorway onto the metal fire stairs. He
burst through the doors just in time to see Bodie and Lake corner a short,
fair-haired young man.

 The youth was easily subdued, and in fact offered no resistance at all;
he only cowered away from them all, clearly terrified and scared for his
life.

 Keyed up with grief and frustration and high on adrenalin released by the
excitement of the chase, Lake badly needed to let off some energy but, as
Billy didn't provide the opportunity, he turned his need for action into
scathing criticism of the late arrival.

 "Get lost, did you?" Lake sneered unpleasantly. "Lose your nerve when you
looked out of the window or something?" Turning his back on Doyle, Lake
pulled Billy to his feet. "Still, I suppose we ought to be grateful you
got here at all--looks like we might have needed you, seeing how tough
chummy here is. Come along, Billy," Lake said, his voice switching from
mocking derision to suspect amiability, "we just want to have a little
chat with you."

 "A chat!" squeaked Billy. "You've got no call to treat me like this if
all you want is a chat. Who are you?"

 "Who were you expecting?" Bodie asked.

 "Are you police?" Billy's quivering voice said that he had already
discounted that possibility.

 "No," Lake informed him, the grin on his face growing fractionally larger
as Billy's fear increased.

 The procession made its way back through the halls that Doyle had run
along. Once back in the cramped, untidy bedsit, Billy was thrown back onto
the unmade bed where he made a final attempt at bravado.

 "Look, who are you and what do you want from--"

 Lake's glare caused the rest of his sentence to remain unspoken.

 Bodie thrust his ID under Billy's nose and then indicated the other two
that were being held for inspection.

 "CI5," Billy gasped, "you're CI5!" The fear and tension drained away,
leaving him limp and weak.

 "Know many CI5 blokes, do you?" Bodie asked coldly.

 "One or two," Billy answered cheerfully.

 "One or two? How many exactly?" pushed Lake.

 "A few. Two, only two--Mathieson and King, that's who I know." The fear
had crept back into Billy's voice.

 "Knew," Bodie corrected.

 "Huh?" said Billy.

 "What he means, Billy," Lake explained crisply, "is that you *knew* two
agents. Knew as in 'did know' as in 'don't know any more'."

 From his vantage point by the door it became increasingly obvious to
Doyle that either Billy was an excellent actor or he didn't know what Lake
and Bodie were talking about--and he doubted that Billy was any good at
acting.

 While Bodie and Lake concentrated on grilling the hapless Billy, Doyle
continued to check out the flat. That Billy was still alive, though a
relief, was definitely worrying Doyle. Williams' informant had not been so
lucky. Was Billy in any immediate danger, Doyle wondered.

 At that moment Lake, finally losing his patience with the evasive
replies, dragged Billy to his feet and threw him across the room where he
landed heavily on an armchair.

 Bodie stepped in smoothly between the almost incoherent boy and Lake.

 "Now, come on, Billy. We're asking you nicely to give us some straight
answers. Where can we find this Parkes fella?" Bodie said as he tried to
cool the situation down.

 "I dunno, I dunno," squealed Billy. "No one place...anywhere--out in the
street, anywhere."

 Under the combined glares of two extremely powerful, intimidating
interrogators, Billy was fast becoming so scared Doyle guessed that before
long he wouldn't even be able to remember his own name. His interruption
was clearly not welcomed by the two established agents, but Billy turned
to Doyle as if he had been thrown a lifeline.

 "I really don't know," Billy repeated in a slightly calmer voice. "It's
like he always finds me."

 "Where are you when he finds you? Out shopping, walking to your local, in
the job centre, where?" Doyle asked gently.

 Much preferring the manner of the smaller, quiet man who looked to be in
a totally different class to the high-powered gorillas pinning him to the
armchair, Billy responded to the friendly prompt and tried again.

 "Around the High Street in the shopping centre and once, the time he told
me about Station Road, in the car park by those warehouses off the High
Street...yeah, that's where," Billy said with growing confidence. "I think
he works somewhere behind the High Street...got his own office, I think."

 Acknowledging that Doyle had won Billy's confidence, the two men backed
off, Lake just relieved to be finally getting somewhere and Bodie to watch
the clever way in which Doyle used his charm to guide Billy's memories
along the right tracks. DC Doyle had obviously had a lot of experience
with the Mr Nice and Mr Nasty method of interrogation. Content with his
role of Mr Nasty, Bodie merely watched Mr Nice play his part to the end.

 At last, Billy's memory had revealed all it could and he collapsed back
into the armchair and watched the whispered conference on the other side
of the room, his sense of impending doom not being lessened by the
glowering looks and barely audible references to himself.

 "No," Doyle said firmly, "it's a waste of time taking him in. Look what
happened to Chris," he reminded them. "Leave Billy on the street and maybe
Parkes will find Billy--who knows! Keep tabs on him and let him go."

 "And if whoever killed Chris gets to him first?" Lake asked sourly.

 "If we're watching Billy properly, we'll be there in time, won't we,"
Doyle answered quickly.

 "Okay," Bodie added. "First we'll take Billy in--get everything we can
from him checked out with computer control, then we put him back on the
street."

 "Okay," said Lake.

 "Fine," compromised Doyle easily.

 Once Billy had been handed over to their back-up, Lake left to handle the
unenviable task of visiting Williams' widowed mother, leaving the other
two men free until Billy had been dealt with at Headquarters.

 "Lunch?" Bodie asked as Doyle started the car up.

 "Good idea," Doyle replied and then looked at his watch. "More like
dinner. Lunch was over and done with hours ago."

 "Dinner!" exclaimed Bodie. "Shit!"

 "What's up?"

 "Dinner," Bodie explained. "Jo came up to town to see her sister today
and I'd arranged to take her out for a meal. Damn, she's not gonna like
being put off again."

 "Again?"

 "Yeah. We were supposed to go out to this place after the last time I met
her at the hotel. She wasn't too pleased then; can't see her being
overjoyed about tonight either." The vision of the only good thing about
Macklin's army-style weekends flickered and faded from view. The obliging
friendly Joanna was not the sort that took being stood up lying down!

 "Make a detour past my place. I've got her sister's number on the pad by
the phone," Bodie ordered crossly.

 Parked outside the building, Doyle shouted out for him to hurry up,
reminding him that they still hadn't had anything to eat.

 Alone for the first time since getting up that morning, Doyle took the
opportunity to relax a little. His first day was certainly turning out to
be very different from the one he had expected. Although Bodie had made it
quite clear at the start that he didn't relish being stuck with an
inexperienced, untried agent on such a difficult operation, he had at
least accepted and acted on the few pieces of information and advice that
Doyle had felt able to offer.

 Finally allowed the time to reflect on his actions, Doyle felt pleased
with the way he had handled Billy. Doubtless the other two men would have
extracted the small but not insignificant scraps Billy had to offer, but
Doyle was sure that his intervention had speeded things up a little.

 "Come on, Bodie," Doyle muttered under his breath as he drummed his
fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. All in all, he reflected
happily, day one was taking on a promising shape. None of Sergeant
Blowers' ghastly predictions had come about--yet! Suddenly, inexplicably,
the sergeant's dire warnings of horrible happenings crowded out all
Doyle's comfortable sense of well-being.

 The tale of how one poor, unwary agent was caught out unfolded as Doyle
sat, frozen at the steering wheel. They had tricked the poor man into
believing that the unsavoury youth trailing behind the visiting foreign
dignitary was a suicidal, left-wing activist determined to handcuff
himself to the dignitary at the first chance he got, and then detonate the
explosive hidden beneath his coat. Determined to make his mark in CI5, the
unsuspecting man grabbed the youth, knocked him out with a single,
powerful punch and then proceeded to rip the youth's clothes off to get at
the non-existent explosives. Apparently the dignitary didn't take too
kindly to the way Britain's fascist secret police brutally assaulted his
nephew. The young agent was, so Blowers informed Doyle, never seen in
CI5's hallowed halls again.

 "Doyle, get in here!"

 The r/t crackled unexpectedly. After a second's hesitation Doyle leapt
into action. Bodie's voice had been--strained; trouble, perhaps.

 Three steps from the front door to the flat, Sergeant Blowers' warning
flashed loud and clear through Doyle's mind. Anywhere...any time...

 The headlong dash slowed to a more cautious pace. Doyle was prepared to
meet anything. Murderers, robbers, terrorists--practical jokers. Anywhere.
Any time.

 His gun drawn, safety catch released, Doyle opened the door. The hallway
was empty, as was the kitchen. Through the open door he saw Bodie sitting
by the telephone, watching him. Doyle knew that had anyone else been in
the flat, the cautious blue eyes would have been firmly fixed on the
intruder. Even more certain the sergeant's prediction was coming true,
Doyle entered the room, gun ready to shot the balls off anything that
moved.

 Having pointedly ascertained that the only occupants of the flat were
Bodie and himself, Doyle calmly flicked the safety back on and moved away
from his position against the wall.

 "What's up then?" he asked, trying to and not quite succeeding in keeping
the knowing smile off his face. There was no point in letting Bodie know
he had already guessed what was happening. Let the children have their
little game.

 "Phone's got more plastic in it than it did this morning," Bodie said
rather too calmly.

 "That all!" Doyle said offhandedly, but then realised he would have to
alter his tome if he didn't want Bodie to know the game was over. "How
many numbers did you dial?"

 "How many d'you think? One."

 "Ah well." Doyle looked at the phone. "You want me to do it?" he asked
politely.

 "Wouldn't dream of it, no. Go to the pictures, go on."

 "Nah," Doyle said after he'd considered the idea for a second or two.
"I've seen everything that's on locally anyway." He reached for the phone
with one hand and fished out his pocket wonder-kit with the other.

 "Careful," Bodie warned. "Might be some kind of mechanism." A booby, he
mouthed silently.

 Doyle had to look away; one more second under that overly innocent gaze
and he knew he would burst out laughing.

 "Oh yeah--you mean that thing I always got wrong at bomb-disposal
school."

 Gently, Doyle unscrewed the phone and started to part the case from the
body. "Tripper's probably on the bell--or if we're really unlucky, on the
dial," he said, suddenly remembering that he never did quite manage to
defuse one of those properly. He lifted the case away. Surprise, surprise!
"It's on the dial. Don't mess about, do they? There's about a pound of
plastic explosive in here."

 "Let's have a look," Bodie said, and he carefully turned the phone around
without moving his finger.

 "Looks straightforward," Doyle said as he scrutinised the device and
identified it. "There's a miniature detonator." Confident that he could
remember all of Prescott's instructions, Doyle began to defuse it.

 "I feel like that kid with a finger in the dike."

 "That's just what you are, mate. You keep it stuck in there," replied
Doyle rather distractedly. He wished Bodie would shut up; he couldn't
remember which wire he should cut first. "Hold your breath, sunshine," he
muttered. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Doyle chose a wire and snipped.

 "You were very lucky, mate. It could have been the last cheap rate call
you ever made."

 With a relieved smile, Bodie released the dial, then immediately called
Cowley on his r/t and told him about the bomb Doyle had defused.

 Doyle only half heard the conversation. Now that he had cut the wiring
away he was getting his first proper look at the detonator. Across a
suddenly yawning void, Bodie's voice confirmed what Doyle's eyes were
showing him.

 The bomb had been live!

 Doyle's stomach dropped through to the building's basement and his heart
missed a beat or four. It was only when his ears started buzzing and the
lights flashed black and white in front of his eyes that he remembered to
breathe.

 Thankful that he was already on his knees, Doyle sat back on his haunches
so that the table top hid him from Bodie's eyes. He twirled the detonator
in decidedly shaky fingers, examining the dainty, precision device, barely
able to absorb that he had been *that* close to the end of everything. He
couldn't put it down to skill, though. Choosing the right wire had been
pure chance; he had been so sure it was a put-on.

 Christ! If he had cut the other wire...

 Returning to reality, against the background of a loud, tuneful,
chirruping bird and the gentle hum of city traffic, he heard Bodie finish
reporting in and knew that if he didn't snap out of it Bodie would realise
that something was up.

 "D'you wanna drink?" Doyle asked, his voice sounding distant and
breathless to his own ears.

 "Yeah, let's have a drop of the good stuff before I hide the bottle,"
Bodie replied.

 "Huh?"

 "Cowley, Phillips and half of CI5 forensics are about to descend on us,
so--"

 "We hide the good stuff." Doyle caught on.

 Hampered by legs that were still decidedly shaky, Doyle had only managed
to get as far as standing up by the time Bodie had poured the drinks out.

 "Cheers," said Bodie, then added, "To life!" and chinked glasses.

 "L'chaim!" Doyle returned, and then allowed the smooth malt to banish the
last of his shakes. "Did you get your number?" he suddenly asked.

 "That's a point. I'll have to call her later. We'd better not touch that
any more." The phone received a hard stare. "As much as she's going to
want me to go up in a puff of smoke when I cancel our date--I don't think
she'd want me to go *that* far!" The rest of the room came under another
searching glare. "I wonder if there are any more little surprises waiting
for us?"

 "How did they get in?" Doyle asked as they both began to check the doors
and windows. "I thought these places were supposed to be secure."

 "So did I," said Bodie grimly. "The alarms would have gone off if a
window or door had been forced."

 "Forensics will be able to tell if the wiring's been tampered with, won't
they?"

 "Should do," Bodie answered.

 A series of squealing brakes and slamming car doors announced the arrival
of the forensics team--and Cowley.

 "You go and let Cowley in while I tidy up."

 "What?"

 "The bedroom, dimwit," Bodie shouted back from the other room. "Didn't
have time to make the bed, did we. Can just see Cowley's face when he
claps eyes on the bathroom, too."

 "You were last up and last in the bathroom," Doyle responded virtuously.
"Should have left it how you found it, shouldn't you!"

 Leaving Bodie darting around the flat tidying away everything he didn't
care for Cowley and the massed ranks of CI5 to see, Doyle obligingly took
his time opening the front door.

 Once the forensics boys were all engaged checking out the rest of the
flat, Cowley asked for and got a more detailed report. When Bodie
described the competent manner in which his new partner had coped with the
bomb, Doyle felt a hot flush creep over his cheeks. Although Bodie had
taken getting his digits tangled up with a pound of plastic explosive in
his stride, he wasn't mean in handing out praise where he thought it was
due.

 Half expecting--hoping for--a few words of praise from the All-Powerful
Cowley, Doyle was rather disappointed when, at the end of Bodie's report,
Cowley dismissed both of them and promptly turned his back on them. A new,
hotter glow burned Doyle's cheeks as he crossly asked himself if he had
really been expecting a pat on his head and a lollipop! Defusing bombs
was, clearly, a part of everyday life for a CI5 agent.

 After being moved from his third seat in as many minutes by a busy
forensic man, Doyle joined his partner out in the kitchen.

 "Have a sausage," Bodie offered.

 "Ta. Got any potatoes, peas and gravy to go with it?"

 "Bread'n butter."

 "I'm starving," Doyle complained plaintively.

 "So am I but if you think I'm going to start cooking while those gannets
are still here you can think again, sunshine."

 "How much longer are they going to be?"

 "Not much," Bodie answered as he attacked the last sausage. "We're still
on standby, anyway."

 "And I still haven't had any dinner."

 "Well," Bodie said thoughtfully, "Cowley doesn't want us at HQ tonight,
and I doubt that Wakeman will be found much before tomorrow--"

 "Who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked, interrupting what Bodie had been about to
say.

 "Cowley was just telling me. Susan and Puddle found Billy's contact.
Parkes is only a wire man and a supplier. Said he was paid by a bloke
called Wakeman to do the phone in Cowley's office but that he didn't do
any of the others."

 "So who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked for the second time.

 "Cowley knows the name, but the big puzzle is that Wakeman and all of his
team are either dead or out of action."

 "What was his game then?"

 "Not too sure," Bodie said slowly. "Cowley knows but he's not saying
much. I get the feeling Wakeman was a sleeper--or that he turned, and
Cowley was involved in it."

 "And Wakeman's dead?"

 "Yes, but Intelligence reports have a listed sighting of one of his
'pals', a Philip Catrell, only a few months ago, so that's who we're
looking for."

 "We?"

 "Well, not us exactly. Cowley wants us ready as back-up."

 "Oh!"

 Once again Doyle realised with a thump that he was still very much the
untried agent.

 "Don't look so down," Bodie said as he playfully punched Doyle's arm.
"It's not been a very organised day but at least you've not made any
cock-ups."

 "That's what you think," Doyle said, and immediately wished he hadn't,
but rescue in the form of a busy forensic man burst into the small
kitchen.

 "You got anything to drink, Bodie? This is thirsty work."

 "Tea, coffee," Bodie offered generously. "Orange squash."

 "Plenty of milk in the fridge," said Doyle blandly.

 It was clearly not the answer the man had been hoping for and he left the
kitchen in a huff, muttering to himself and anyone within earshot, about a
particular tight-fisted workmate.

 "Anyway," Bodie said suddenly, "as I was about to say before you butted
in--seeing as how we've got some time on our hands this evening, how about
you putting on your chef's hat on and giving me a break, not to mention a
decent meal for a change," he added hastily with a cheerful grin on his
face.

 Doyle considered it. Ever since that first time he'd cooked a meal he had
pointedly refused to attempt anything apart from hot drinks and supper
snacks. At times he had felt a little guilty at letting Bodie do all of
their main meals and wondered if he shouldn't perhaps offer to try
again--but Bodie had accepted his silent reluctance to cook so well that
he'd found it difficult to offer his services.

 This was the first time Bodie had asked him for anything and Doyle
suspected that if he refused it would also be the last.

 "Why not--perhaps I could come up with a variation on flash-fried steak
and oven chips!"

 "Wouldn't be difficult."

 "Okay. What do you fancy then?"

 ******

The jarring clamour of the telephone bell jolted Bodie out of a beautiful
floating dream in which he was safe, warm, happy and loved. The dull
pre-dawn light was still cruel to his eyes and he struggled to get a hand
free to answer the phone. Still disoriented, he was puzzled by his
inability to reach the bedside phone. Not only was someone in the way, but
the arm that wasn't wedged between the two bodies was being held tightly,
the strong grip refusing to free him.

 Inured to the constant noise always present in prison, Doyle slept on,
waking only when Bodie shook him in an effort to free his arm--but then
erupting into sudden movement, curling into a protective ball while his
fists and muscles clenched in preparation for a fight.

 Having freed his arm, Bodie grabbed the phone and pinned Doyle to the
mattress by dint of leaning on him. The instant Doyle came fully awake,
though, the resistance melted away and Bodie relaxed his guard.

 "3.7...yeah...Chalmers Road Industrial Estate...got it." Bodie replaced
the receiver. "Morning, sunshine."

 "Is it?"

 "Rise and shine. Cowley's laying on breakfast for us the other side of
town."

 Realising that the call was to return them to duty, Doyle wasted no time
in pulling his clothes on.

 "They've found Catrell then?" he asked a few minutes later as they pulled
the front door shut behind them.

 "Maybe," Bodie replied as he slid into the driving seat. "Lake's found a
caravan he's thought to have been using, and it looks like someone's in
it."

 The speed with which Bodie tore through the deserted (and
not-so-deserted) streets made Doyle wonder if he would survive his second
day as an active agent.

 The industrial estate was discreetly busy. To an untrained eye all
appeared normal; the run-down buildings and gutted warehouses looked as
boringly uninteresting as normal but Doyle saw the armed rooftop observers
and perimeter security immediately. They were waved through the gasboard
road block without having to slow down.

 A few hundred yards further down the road they saw Cowley and Lake and
pulled up close by.

 Forestalling whatever Bodie had been about to say, Cowley snapped out his
orders without taking his eyes from the binoculars.

 "See Phillips over there," he said. "He's got some equipment for you."

 Doing an about turn, the two men walked quickly over to the department's
explosives expert.

 "At last," said Phillips. "What kept you?" he asked sarcastically but, on
seeing the glowering look Bodie sent him, changed his approach. "Have you
ever used either of these before?"

 Bodie reached out for the smaller of the two gadgets.

 "No, but I've seen this working."

 "This is a metal detector, isn't it?" Doyle asked, examining his gadget.

 "It's a bit more than just a metal detector." Phillips then quickly
explained the uses of the two sensors and the operating procedures.

 "But why us?" asked Bodie. "What's wrong with the Bomb Squad?"

 "Because, Bodie," Cowley suddenly appeared behind them and answered the
question, "if there is anyone in that caravan it's up to CI5 to get him
out and if there isn't then it's probably booby-trapped.

 "So?" Bodie asked, the logic behind Cowley's reasoning escaping him.

 "So, Bodie," Cowley continued, "you will give Doyle cover as he checks a
path to and around the caravan and, when you reach the caravan--"

 "*If* we reach the--sorry, sir," Bodie backed down under the icy glare.

 "*When* you reach the caravan, should it prove unoccupied you will check
it out or--"

 "Nab whoever's in it," finished Bodie.

 "Move off when you're ready," Cowley ordered in clipped tones before
returning to his observation of the solitary, sorry-looking caravan.

 ******

The first thing Doyle became aware of was the noise. A distant but
irritatingly pervasive clamour. Without warning his world tipped over to
one side and a solid object landed heavily on his legs.

 "Gettoff 'im, you great oaf!"

 "I'm trying, I'm trying."

 Doyle recognised Bodie's voice and realised who it was that was cutting
off the circulation to his feet--Bodie was no lightweight.

 "Tell your mate to slow down for Christ's sake," Bodie said, his voice
strangely distant. "He's only stunned--he's not dying or anything."

 "Not according to Cowley, old friend."

 Above the siren and Bodie's voice, Doyle identified Lake. "Doyle's
dead--and so are you. Official."

 Everything was becoming increasingly unreal to Doyle as he lay there
listening to Lake relating the manner of his apparent demise. Surely his
head wouldn't ache so much nor his legs protest so strongly at the painful
treatment Bodie's backside was still giving him. He wasn't dead--to prove
it he moved his legs in an effort to dislodge his partner.

 "Watch it, I think Sleeping Beauty's coming round," Bodie said as he
finally managed to get enough leverage to lift himself off the bed.

 Unable to do much else, though, he only shifted forward a few inches and
remained perched on the edge of the stretcher. Ambulances were not
designed to carry crowds, and even the ambulance man had been surprised at
the number of agents that had crowded into his vehicle.

 "Come on, sunshine." Bodie encouraged Doyle's progress to full awareness
by gently patting the side of his face.

 "'m'wake," Doyle mumbled thickly. His own voice, like Bodie's and Lake's,
had a peculiar, hollow ring to it. "I'm awake," he repeated a bit louder
and shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears.

 "I can see that, sunshine. Can you hear me?" Bodie asked.

 "What?"

 "Can you hear me?"

 "No...yes--but not properly."

 "It's the explosion," Bodie explained.

 "John who?"

 "*Explosion!*" Bodie shouted.

 "What explosion?"

 The ambulance came to an abrupt halt and the rear doors were wrenched
open. Bodie was pushed down onto the opposite stretcher and a red blanket
was placed over him, covering him from head to toe. Suddenly Lake was
holding a similar blanket all ready to place over Doyle's face. The alarm
must have shown in his eyes because Lake hesitated momentarily to explain.

 "Just play dead while we get the two of you inside. We'll explain
later--okay?"

 After receiving a rather unsure nod, the blanket was lowered and Doyle's
world became a red, stuffy place filled with a jumble of confused but
oddly familiar sounds.

 After what seemed like hours to Doyle but was only minutes later, the
blanket was removed and a pretty young Oriental nurse was there, asking if
he was all right.

 During the journey into the hospital Doyle remembered what had happened,
the mad dash away from the caravan--the crack of rifle shots and the wall
of air that had lifted and thrown him head over heels.

 "What happened to Cowley?" he asked Bodie.

 "Pardon?"

 "Cowley? What happened to him?"

 "Cowley?" Bodie shouted back.

 "Yeah?"

 "He's fine. They've taken him through to intensive care."

 Bodie's answer only confused Doyle. Maybe the explosion had shaken
Bodie's brains up as well as his ears.

 "What for?" Doyle asked. "Why take him there if he's all right?"

 "All part of the plan," Bodie said sagely. "Do you want the good news or
the bad news first?"

 "How bad's the bad?" asked Doyle, suddenly suspicious of the innocently
twinkling blue eyes.

 "The good news is that it won't affect your pension but the bad news
is--you're dead, mate, and so am I."

 "I don't feel dead," Doyle said after giving it a moment's thought. "I
just might die of thirst in the near future if I don't get a cup of tea
and a couple of aspirins--but I don't think I'm dead yet."

 As if on cue, the nurse returned with two cups of tea.

 "Here we are, gentlemen. Doctor will be through in a few minutes to check
you over."

 Once the tea had been sorted out, the doctor was there, checking out
their assorted bumps and bruises.

 "Your hearing will come back to full strength within a few hours," he
assured both of them. "It's only a distortion caused by the shockwave.
You're both lucky you weren't any closer or perforated eardrums would have
been the least of your worries!"

 Once the doctor had gone, Lake popped his head into the room.

 "Catrell's arrived," he announced. "He's on his way up."

 "Come on, Doyle." Bodie jumped up and yanked his partner off the bed.

 "What's going on?" Doyle asked, angry at being kept in the dark for so
long.

 "Cowley's laid a trap so Catrell will try to finish him off here in the
hospital," Bodie explained as he peered along the corridor through a
narrow crack in the door. "Here he comes." He drew back and pushed the
door to as Catrell walked on by. "Right, come on then."

 Quietly, the three men eased out into the deserted corridor. Outside the
ICU another agent was standing, gun drawn, peering through the window
blinds; without looking away from the window, he spoke to them, giving
them a running commentary on Catrell's actions.

 "He's inside. Cool as a bleedin' cucumber. Outside Cowley's room. Going
in. He's shut the door."

 "Move in!" ordered Bodie.

 Catrell didn't stand a chance. His confidence had been his downfall and
the combined forces of a not-so-ill Cowley and his minions soon
overpowered and subdued him.

 All the excitement was over and Catrell was being escorted to the waiting
cars. Lake and Bodie were in a quietly jubilant mood and held the
handcuffed man between them.

 Following behind, as he had been for most of the last two days, Doyle was
the only one who noticed the strange reaction of the tall, elegant woman
that walked past.

 Non-reaction would have been a better word, Doyle thought. Surely the
sight of an obviously bruised and somewhat battered, handcuffed man being
frog-marched along a busy hospital corridor would have aroused a little
curiosity or consternation.

 Puzzled, Doyle stopped and did an about turn to follow her, his intuition
alerting him to some as-yet-unidentified danger.

 The nearer they got to the ICU the more Doyle knew he was right to be
following her. Up ahead she paused; Doyle heard the voices coming from
around the corner--Cowley and Phillips.

 From her shoulder bag the woman drew a small handgun and calmly took aim.

 "Drop it!"

 Doyle's voice cracked out and the woman twisted suddenly, clearly
startled, her finger automatically completing the job it had been
instructed to do. Doyle's gun echoed the shot and the woman gave a
startled cry before crumpling to the floor, holding her shoulder.

 Behind him, Doyle heard the swing doors burst open as Bodie and Lake
arrived on the scene.

 "She's Wakeman's sister, Lisa Wakeman," Bodie announced into the sudden
quiet. "Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps by the look of
things," he added.

 Too numbed from the shock of the bullet lodged in her shoulder, Lisa
Wakeman was in no condition to present any problems and the second
clearing-up operation was set in motion.

 Now that the immediate panic was past, Doyle found that the expected
shock at shooting the woman didn't hit him. His system had clearly had as
many shocks as it could cope with in one day.

 Further down the corridor, Cowley was complaining, loudly, about the
bullet that had passed through the overcoat he'd had over his arm.

 "A perfectly good coat. Ruined," he said. "Ruined!"

 "Well," Doyle heard himself say. "Look on the bright side--at least you
haven't got blood on it as well."

 For a split second the hustle and bustle in the corridor stopped. No one
moved or spoke and Doyle began to wonder what happened to people unwise
enough to cheek George Cowley.

 "Hrmph!" Cowley vocalised, and after pinning Doyle to the spot with the
glare he normally reserved for Bodie's sometimes caustic comments, strode
away along the corridor, leaving Doyle wondering if the world was ever
going to start turning again.

 ******

Late in the night, Cowley was still working at his makeshift desk as he
finished checking the reports on Wakeman and Catrell.

 The more immediate work done and out of the way, he turned wearily to his
next task. From under a pile of papers he retrieved the red ink pad and
stamp that his secretary had placed there in readiness. Three times he
printed the damning word in luridly appropriate ink across each file.
Deceased. Deceased. Deceased.

 One and half operative units wiped out in a single morning. Two units
really, Cowley realised grimly. Today, Lake had been working purely on
momentum--automatic pilot--his training seeing to that; but now that the
action was all over, Lake would have time to think, time to grieve, time
to fall apart.

 Cowley sighed and pushed the files away. Some good had come from the
day's disaster, though; Doyle had more than proved his potential to the
Department. As first days go, Cowley had to admit that Doyle's had been
impressive. But even so he knew that the hoped-for partnership still had a
long way to go.

 It was standard practice for all established agents to prepare an
additional report, totally separate from the operations one, on the
actions of any newcomer to the squad. Reading through them, Cowley had
seen Lake and Bodie's opinions on Doyle's behaviour.

 Both men had clearly shown, without any resentment, that it had been
Doyle who had guided the path their actions had taken. Not only had he
deciphered Mathieson's log book after Bodie had discarded it as illegible,
but he had gained Billy's confidence at a crucial moment, as well as
recognising the danger in the elegantly dressed Lisa Wakeman. Admittedly
Bodie and Lake were right behind him following Susan's radio message, but
their arrival would have been too late.

 Foolishly off his guard and completely without protection, he had let
Wakeman have him in her sights; only Doyle's timely intervention had saved
his life.

 Doyle had worked well, but on his own--not part of a team.

 Cowley mentally reviewed the training period and came to the conclusion
that Bodie had achieved his task of turning Doyle into a useful
operative--but the bonding of two halves to make a working partnership had
not happened--yet.

 Pushing his chair back, Cowley got up from the desk and collected all the
papers that needed to be secured in the safe. Locking the paperwork away,
he finally switched off the light and left his office--his mind still
mulling over the intricacies of trying to match individuals into effective
teams. He had three good men, men with a wealth of experience and
potential. Lake's and Doyle's futures were predictably sound, the only
maverick was Bodie. Cowley knew that he had to find the right partner if
he stood any chance of keeping Bodie for much longer--if Doyle didn't work
out perhaps he ought to try Lake.

 Stepping out into the crisp night air, Cowley pulled his coat on and
walked across to his car. No, he decided as he slipped behind the steering
wheel. Bodie and Lake didn't 'feel' right in the way Bodie and Doyle did.
Time was all they needed, he was sure of that. Time for Doyle to learn how
to trust, and for Bodie to learn that to care need not be a recipe for
disaster.

 The problem resolved, Cowley drove out of the car park, heading for home
and peaceful, undisturbed sleep for what was left of the rest of the
night.

 ******

*CHAPTER NINE*

 The road leaving the airport was heavily congested, the heavy rain and
oncoming darkness not really helping. Tapping his fingers on the steering
wheel, Bodie made his bad mood perfectly clear. Unable to do anything,
Doyle sat still and watched the slow progress of the never-ending line of
cars.

 "Christ," Bodie mumbled. "How much longer are we gonna be stuck here?"

 Doyle didn't bother to answer.

 From behind them a blue flashing light and droning siren heralded the
imminent arrival of an ambulance. As if by magic, the jam of cars melted
sideways, up onto hard shoulder and pavements to create a path for the
vehicle.

 Watching the progress of the flashing light in his rear view mirror,
Bodie quickly steered his car to follow immediately behind the ambulance.

 With the help of their pathmaker, the car sped on down the road, leaving
all the other slow thinkers sitting in the rush hour traffic jam.

 Arriving eventually outside HQ, Bodie pondered aloud on the form their
next assignment was going to take.

 "Maybe the Minister's granddaughter needs collecting from school," he
said. "Or else we might be told to escort the post van to the sorting
office. Or--" he continued excitedly, "maybe it's our turn to lick the
stamps!"

 Again, Doyle didn't bother to answer. He had found the last few weeks
interesting if not exactly enjoyable. But protecting--or baby-sitting as
Bodie called it--fairly low-level ministers and foreign diplomats, or
observing the activities of particular addresses and people from a
discreet distance, was not the type of work his partner had any great love
for. Of that Doyle was in no doubt, because Bodie had told him so.
Repeatedly.

 "I want to see John in the armoury," Bodie said as they entered the
building. "Will you sign in for me upstairs?"

 Once Doyle had agreed, Bodie turned off to go down into the basement. The
squad room was almost packed, Doyle noticed as he slipped in to the room
next door to add his and Bodie's names to the list of 'operatives in
residence' board. Just about everyone was in, it seemed, because there
were only a few lines spare on the board, the rush of activity tailing off
with the departure of all the different heads of state and their
accompanying entourages.

 All of a sudden the congenial buzz of conversation was interrupted by
raised voices. For a moment the crowded room was quiet and then, into the
stillness, the indignant voice repeated its question to his audience.

 "I'd just like to know what Cowley's trying to achieve, that's all. I
mean--what possible good can come from recruiting that sort of bloke?"

 "If you can't beat 'em--join 'em," said one voice.

 "Cowley's got his reasons--maybe he means to use him as a plant,
undercover--that sort of thing." said another.

 "Set a thief to catch a thief, that's probably what the Cow's after."

 "I still don't like it," the original protester said firmly. "How can we
trust a bloke that's already proved he can't be trusted?"

 About to enter the room and find out what everyone was talking about,
Doyle was frozen to the spot just outside the door as another voice added
its contribution to the debate.

 "Doyle's all right. He's done his time, paid his dues to society and all
that crap. If Cowley sees fit to trust him I don't see that we can't."

 "All right, Puddle," said the angry voice. "You trust him--you work with
him--but I'm damned if I will!"

 The room was suddenly filled with clamouring voices, some agreeing with
Lake, but mostly with the other man.

 Outside, Doyle finally managed to get his feet to work and walked
woodenly, resisting the impulse to run, into the toilets, the nearest
place where he could be alone in private to absorb what he had overheard.

 He locked the cubicle door and leant on it, closing his eyes, screwing
them up tightly, angrily, refusing to let the moisture overspill and form
tears.

 Quite wrongly he had thought it was behind him. He should have known that
the stigma of prison would cling on to taint all he touched. For what
seemed to be a lifetime he had been protesting his innocence, refusing to
be forced into becoming what others believed he was; refusing to be beaten
by a pack of lies.

 Slowly the numbing rage receded and his thoughts moved along more
coherent, dispassionate lines. Why should they believe him to be innocent?
Hadn't he agreed to Cowley's suggestion that he waive his right to a
public retrial--hadn't he agreed not to tell too may people about his
change of fortune? Of course he had! No one had asked him about his
immediate past. Foolishly he had told himself that they didn't know--and
if they did they would realise that the judge and jury had got it all
wrong.

 Doyle, he told himself, you are a fool!

 Someone came into the toilets from the corridor, and he immediately
recognised one of the voices that had been raised against him.

 "...load of rubbish. I thought this was supposed to be a rigidly upright,
law-abiding incorruptible organisation." The unmistakable sound of two
zips being unfastened and the following noises were as audible as the
conversation which continued relentlessly.

 "It was bad enough when his partner joined the squad, but at least *he*
had the sense not to shit on his own doorstep."

 Whether the man had come to the end of his argument or merely noticed the
closed cubicle door and become aware of unknown ears, the conversation
stopped and the two men finally left the small room.

 After a few minutes, Doyle unlocked the door and crossed over to the wash
basins where he splashed a handful of cold water over his face.

 What, he wondered, had that last little comment meant? Although no names
had been mentioned, Doyle knew that *this* time they had been talking
about Bodie.

 Re-entering the corridor, Doyle turned away from the squad room. Quite by
accident he found himself outside the computer room. Peering around the
door, he found the place almost deserted, and only a few operators seated
at the odd terminal. One of the girls looked over at him.

 "Want any help?" she asked.

 "No. Is it okay if I do a couple of searches myself?"

 "Go ahead," the girl answered. "Just yell if you need any help."

 Without meaning to, Doyle found himself tapping out the names he had read
on his partner's ID: William Andrew Philip Bodie, gave a possible date of
birth, sat back and waited for the few minutes it took the computer to
check all the National Criminal Records Offices for any matches on the
names. One by one the answers flashed up on the screen. Nowhere in the
country was there any record of one William Andrew Philip Bodie.

 It had only been a thought after all, Doyle told himself. Again he tried
to work out what the man had meant--perhaps Bodie had been involved in
something abroad.

 "Excuse me, love," Doyle called to the girl. "Does this thing have access
to International Computer Banks?"

 "No, sorry. All international requests have to go through the duty
officer. Why, do you need something?" she asked.

 "No, it's all right. I just wondered."

 I just wanted to check my partner out, he thought quietly. About to leave
the room, a sudden burst of curiosity flared and Doyle returned to the
keyboard and tapped his own name out.

 In seconds his full record was flashing up on the screen. Every
meticulously recorded detail. His description. His age. His photographs. A
summary of his court case and its outcome. Everything was there. Not a
single word had been amended or deleted to show the reversal of the
conviction.

 Having been expecting a 'no trace' message, it took Doyle a while to see
the flashing strip across the top of the screen but it soon demanded his
attention. He read it: "This person is subject of a Home Office 'A'
notice. All enquiries on this file are automatically recorded. No action
is to be taken on the subject except the express permission of Home Office
Department Code XXX."

 Doyle cleared the screen and left the room. A flashing light on another
terminal attracted its operator's attention; the girl responded to the
message flashing across her screen by reach for a telephone.

 ******

Emerging from the overcrowded, overheated squad room, Bodie greeted his
partner warmly. "Thought you'd got lost, sunshine. I've just booked us off
duty until tomorrow--fancy coming down to The Three Kings for a pint and a
game of arrows?"

 "Fuck off!" Doyle growled as he shoved Bodie aside.

 "Oi!" Bodie protested, his good mood vanishing almost as fast as it had
come. "What's got into you?" he yelled after Doyle's retreating back.
"Doyle? Doyle!"

 Running to catch up, Bodie grabbed hold of an arm only to let go quickly
to block the retaliatory punch from the unrestrained arm. "What the hell's
got into you?"

 "Are you going to tell me you don't know?" Doyle hissed.

 "Don't know what?"

 "Ah--forget it!" Doyle twisted away and continued his way along the
corridor to Cowley's office. "Is he in?" he demanded of the secretary.

 "Unless you have an appointment--no."

 "Is he in?"

 "You can't see him now." Betty held her ground.

 "Come on, Doyle," Bodie said placatingly. "Can't go bargin' in on Cowley,
he'll have you scrubbing the ablutions for weeks."

 "I've already told you to sod off, Bodie, and I'm going to see him,"
Doyle insisted and moved towards the door.

 The phone on Betty's desk buzzed and, trusting Bodie to restrain his
partner's progress, she answered it.

 The room was quiet until Betty replaced the receiver.

 "Mr Cowley says to send Mr Doyle straight in," she said, her calm
exterior expressing absolutely no surprise that Mr Cowley was anticipating
the arrival of one rather agitated and disgruntled agent.

 Too angry to wonder how Cowley had known he was outside, Doyle walked
into the office.

 Uncertain of what was going on and only aware that something had happened
in the last half hour to make his new partner see red, Bodie followed. If
his presence was unwelcome no doubt someone would tell him so.

 "You have something you wish to discuss with me, 4.5?" Cowley asked
straight away.

 "I most certainly have," Doyle snapped back. "You..."

 "Sit down, 4.5," Cowley interrupted.

 His train of thought broken by Cowley's quiet order, the authority in the
soft voice was impossible to ignore. Doyle sat down.

 "Why have you--" he began again.

 "Bodie, either come in or get out," Cowley said. "Do you have any
objection to your partner's presence?" he asked Doyle.

 Biting back the vulgar response that leapt into his mouth, Doyle managed
to indicate that Bodie could stay if he wanted to. He drew breath to try
again.

 "Now then, 4.5," Cowley said smoothly, "what was it that was so urgent?"

 Realising that an incoherent babble was not going to impress Cowley,
Doyle tried to control his tongue and temper.

 "Why did you lie to me?"

 "Lie?" asked Cowley. "Could you try to be a little more specific?"

 "About my criminal record. You said it would be destroyed--but it hasn't.
It's still there for everyone to see!"

 "And you have just seen it yourself, I presume."

 "Yes."

 "It took you longer than I thought, to become curious," Cowley said.

 "You still haven't said why you lied," Doyle persisted angrily.

 "I lied to you because at that moment in time it was what you wanted to
hear."

 "What--why?" asked Doyle, his anger giving way to a bewildered jumble of
questions. "I don't understand why you--"

 "I have already told you why, Doyle. It was, quite simply, what you
wanted to hear. Surely your common sense would have shown you that a
'live' record is infinitely more precious than a false one. Unfortunately
there are far, far too many policemen who are not as incorrupt as
yourself."

 "So you've slapped an 'A' notice on it!"

 "Yes."

 "So as well as being a known convicted, bent copper you've also labelled
me a 'snitch,'" Doyle said, the disgust at the additional slur on his name
perfectly obvious, but Cowley remained unperturbed.

 "The 'A' notice is not exclusive to informers," he reminded the angry
young man, "and is the most effective way of placing a 'Hands off without
permission' notice on your file. It also allows this department to know
immediately if anyone anywhere in the country requests computer access to
your file."

 "I don't like it."

 "I'm not asking you to."

 "Why didn't you tell me what you intended doing?"

 "Because," Cowley replied, "I assumed you would realise how valuable your
record was and reach the obvious conclusion yourself." The lie sounded
convincing enough, and Cowley could see Doyle's anger ebbing away as the
inference that he had somehow disappointed his boss sank in. Sitting back
in his chair, Cowley rode the unexpected feelings of guilt with ease. The
Wakeman affair had caused a lot of upheaval and the loss of three seasoned
men had thrown everything a little out of synch. Doyle's first month on
the squad had hardly been conventional; there had been no easy step by
step progression to lead him up to the hectic and often dangerous way of
life in the squad. In at the deep end on his first day, and never once
within sight of shallows since, Cowley thought with grim amusement.

 It was inexcusable however, Cowley admitted, that Doyle should have been
left to discover his file on his own, but it had been one of the things he
had been about to discuss with Doyle the morning the Wakeman affair had
blown up, quite literally, in their faces. That, and of course, he
remembered suddenly, Bodie's professional records.

 "The others on the squad..." Doyle said quietly, breaking into the
silence that had settled over the room. "The others..." he started again
awkwardly. "They think my record is true, don't they?"

 "I have not discussed it with them."

 "If they think it's true...how can they...I mean, how do you expect me to
work with people who don't--can't trust me."

 "Who's said they don't trust you?" Bodie chipped in?

 "No one," Doyle answered. "Yet," he added. "At least, not to my
face...but I know some of them don't like it...that they don't want to
work with me."

 "Who?" demanded Bodie.

 "Who, is really irrelevant, Bodie," interrupted Cowley. "It was perhaps
remiss of me not to have foreseen this problem. It was my intention to
ensure the squad knew about Doyle's background as well as how important it
is to keep the information from becoming public knowledge, but...with
Wakeman and the Commonwealth Conference things have been pushed aside."

 Bodie listened to Cowley's rather stilted speech with amazement. It was
the nearest he had ever heard the Old Man come to making an apology! And
the experience was utterly wasted on Doyle, who was unaware that he was
listening to history in the making. But Bodie's happy mood was soon
shattered by Cowley's next topic.

 "There was one other matter that should have been attended to on your
first morning, Doyle." Cowley saw but ignored the sudden jerk Bodie gave
in realisation of what the 'other matter' might be. "As I said at your
first interview, once you are graded onto the squad you have the right to
see your partner's professional history; the copies that had been prepared
for you to read were destroyed in the explosion but a replacement file
will be ready for you by tomorrow morning."

 Bodie had completely forgotten about his file. Never having been
allocated a permanent partner before, he knew that no one except George
Cowley and probably that hard-nosed bitch, Ross, had ever read his
history. He had wondered why, on that fateful morning a month ago, his
black mood had cleared as fast as the smoke from Cowley's devastated
office; now he knew why--he'd known that his file had been part of the
crisp, black cinders that littered every crevice; each page burnt beyond
salvation. He should have known they would have only been copies!

 "The Drugs Squad," Cowley said suddenly, "have requested our co-operation
with certain aspects of the Behan Operation--"

 "Mike Behan?" asked Doyle.

 "Yes. The papers he left have shed some light on--"

 "I want in on it!" Doyle interrupted.

 Bodie was slow to make the mental connection between Behan and Doyle.

 "That is out of the question," Cowley answered flatly. "I have already
selected the teams and their first briefing is to be held tomorrow
morning. During the briefing I will--"

 "Why is it out of the question--after the way Mike stitched me up I want
to get everyone else--"

 "4.5!" Cowley barked. "Your involvement in the operation is *not* open
for discussion--I am merely attempting to let you know that at the
briefing tomorrow I shall give the others the background to Behan's
confessions. I will tell them that you were framed and wrongly convicted."

 "I know the drugs scene--the people Mike knew, his contacts--I can help!"
Doyle insisted.

 "But they'll know you, sunshine," Bodie added, having caught up with the
conversation. "That's why you can't go in."

 "Precisely," agreed Cowley. "If you become involved in the new enquiries
you might just as well tell your life story to one of the Sunday scandal
sheets--the cover we are trying to establish for you will be destroyed."

 "It'll be destroyed anyway at the briefing tomorrow."

 "No," said Cowley, "only *my* men, only CI5 agents will be told of
Behan's testimony about you--I can't risk revealing everything to the
Drugs Squad team--"

 "Behan might not have been the only one on the take," said Bodie.

 Doyle spun around ready to deny that anyone else could have been involved
in the corruption but his angry protest died in his throat as he realised
that he hadn't even suspected his so-called 'friend's' involvement. How
many of the awkward, embarrassed or horrified voices of his colleagues had
been hiding their relief at his removal from the squad?

 "Which is why neither of you will take any part in the operation--is that
understood?" Cowley waited until he received a begrudging affirmative from
Doyle.

 Outside Cowley's office the two men walked side by side in a thoughtful,
moody silence, Doyle inwardly fuming about the unfairness of life, and
Bodie already trying to guess what Doyle's reaction to reading his file
was going to be. Over the last four months or so he had discovered quite a
lot about Ray Doyle--and he knew that Doyle was not going to be favourably
impressed by his partner's history.

 They reached the main doors without speaking and it was Doyle who made
the first move as he tried to pull himself out of a well of self-pity he
knew he was in danger of falling into.

 "Who's treating who?" he asked.

 Bodie looked at him blankly, and he explained. "A pint, a game of darts,
the Three Kings--remember?" Doyle said brightly. "It was your suggestion,"
he reminded Bodie. "Oh, never mind--come on, I'll pay," and he moved off
in the direction of the pub.

 For a second or two Bodie stood and looked after the retreating back and
knew beyond any doubt that after tomorrow Doyle would never dream of
making such an offer.

 Already bracing himself for the forthcoming rejection, Bodie decided he
would make the first move.

 "No, thanks," he call out. "I've just remembered something I've got to
do--I'll catch you later." Turning away, he strode over to his car,
climbed in and roared away out of the car park before his amazed partner
had time to say anything.

 ******

As soon as he opened the door, Lake regretted the impulse that had made
him stop by for a drink. The bar was packed with hordes of revellers, all
of whom seemed to be full of more than just Christmas spirit. But the heat
of the smoky room was infinitely preferable to the crisp, cold night air.

 Fighting to gain the barmaid's attention, he suddenly saw a familiar
face. On the other side of the room, tucked away in a corner almost hidden
from view by the ten-foot Christmas tree, was Bodie.

 After ten minutes and about a hundred 'excuse mes' Lake arrived at the
alcove with two drinks.

 "Where's the lamb, then?" he asked as he placed the full glass down in
front of Bodie, causing him to start in surprise.

 "Who?" said Bodie as he thanked Lake for the drink.

 "The lamb," Lake explained. "You know, Mary had a little lamb, followed
her everywhere--" Bodie's face became a comical blank as he looked up at
Lake. "Oh, for god's sake--Doyle, bonehead! I was asking you where Doyle
is."

 The amusement on Bodie's face drained away and Lake knew that he had
misjudged his friend's mood yet again.

 "Dunno," Bodie said with polite formality. "I haven't got any pockets in
this jacket!"

 A loud burst of raucous hilarity from the other side of the room
prevented any further conversation for a few minutes and the tension
between the two men eased. Lake made himself comfortable on one of the
stools and the two men watched the merry goings on in the room. Slowly, as
their tension lessened, an air of depression took its place, and they
carried on, drinking companions in depression and silence.

 About half past ten, the largest party of noisy drinkers left to go on to
a night club, and signalled to the others that the evening was drawing to
a close. By the time 'last orders' was called, the room was nearly empty
by comparison.

 Bodie collected their last drinks and sat down heavily after having a
nasty experience with one of the prickly, needle-like fronds sticking out
at an odd angle from the Christmas tree.

 "Merry Christmas, Bodie!" Lake cheered, and raised his glass.

 "What's so bleedin' merry about it?" Bodie grumbled.

 "Come on," Lake smiled across the small table at him. "You've got to at
least make an effort."

 "Why?" Bodie demanded to know.

 "Because! That's why."

 "That's no answer."

 "Well at least I'm trying," Lake snapped back angrily.

 All at once Bodie remembered that he was not the only one in the world
with partner problems. Puddle and Williams had been partners for nearly
three years--

 "How's things going?" he asked gruffly.

 Lake didn't pretend to misunderstand and the well-hidden misery and
loneliness were suddenly all too visible in his eyes.

 "Everything's fine, everything is all going smoothly and then I turn
around to tell him something...and he isn't there," Lake said softly.
"Don't seem to be able to stop myself doing it. It's not as if I could
forget that he's...dead. But I keep expecting to turn a corner--open a
door--walk into a room and find him sitting there." Lake tipped the last
of his drink down and thumped the glass back down on the table. "I never
thought I'd miss the aggravating, vulgar-minded sod *this* much. I never
realised how much time we spent together--I had to clear my stuff out of
his flat today, took me two trips in the car, then there was the stuff
he'd left at my place--god only knows why we had two flats because he was
either staying with me or I was staying with him. His family have taken
everything, every--bloody--little--thing. I've got nothing, *nothing*! Not
even a photograph, a keepsake, nothing!"

 The depth of Lake's loss was a revelation to Bodie. He could still
remember Williams joining the squad a few months after himself and Lake,
and he had seen them knit together and become the polished, slick,
professional partnership that had been destroyed totally by Lisa Wakeman
and Philip Catrell.

 "Do you know what Cowley asked me when we arrived at Chris's flat?" Lake
demanded to know of Bodie. "Do you know what the first thing Ken's brother
asked me--do you?" he said angrily. "Did--he--have--a girl? That's what
they wanted to know. Was there anyone apart from his family that cared
about him?"

 Bodie couldn't see why such an enquiry about Ken's girlfriend should be
so upsetting.

 "Everyone went out of their way to tell Ken's family and Helen how sorry
they were--and what a waste, such a terrible waste of life his murder
was," Lake continued bitterly. "They tried to spare them all the messy
little details like identifying his body, his parents don't hold with
cremation so someone had to find an undertaker that was prepared to put
what was left into a decent coffin--"

 The publican chose that moment to give a belligerent cry of, "Glasses,
gentlemen, please!" He caught the glass thrown at him--just--and glared at
Bodie. "Why don't you take 'im home--he can chuck his own glasses around
as much as he likes there!"

 Bodie pushed Lake towards the door and out into the street. They stood,
breathing in the fresh, nicotine-free air; Bodie saw Lake sway and reach
out to steady himself on a lamppost.

 "How much have you had to drink?" he asked, realising that his companion
appeared more intoxicated than he should have been after what they had
just drunk.

 "A fair bit," Lake answered quietly.

 "You're pissed."

 "Probably," agreed Lake without any particular enthusiasm.

 "How much *have* you drunk?" Bodie asked again. Lake looked up at the
stars in the heavens for a few moments before finally turning his
attention back to Bodie.

 "Not that much really," he admitted. "Just haven't eaten all day--didn't
feel very hungry."

 "Christ, what the hell are we going to do with you?" Bodie muttered; he
had not intended Lake to hear him.

 "That's what Kenny used to say," Lake said brokenly. "What the hell am I
going to do with you, Puddle, he'd say. You know what happens when you get
drunk, Puddle--that's what he'd say. Guaranteed. Every time."

 "What does happen when you get drunk then?" Bodie asked gently, unsure
how close Lake was to breaking down completely.

 "Maudlin, Bodie. Very, very maudlin. Used to let me cry on his shoulder
when I got a bit down, he did." Lake sniffed. "He was a good bloke,
Bodie... Best friend I ever had. There's not many blokes who'll let
another bloke weep all over them. Partners...he was the...best partner..."

 Bodie took control and steered Lake towards his car. There was no protest
as keys were fished out of pockets and he was driven home. Numbly, Lake
allowed Bodie to let them into his flat and put him to bed.

 There was nothing else Bodie could do. He guessed Lake would sleep
through until morning and decided to go home himself; he could always
check on him early next day. About to leave, Bodie was almost through the
bedroom door when Lake called to him.

 "Thanks, Bodie... I'm sorry about getting so...thanks anyway," he
finished awkwardly.

 "That's all right, Puddle. You can do the same for me one day."

 "Christ, I hope not!"

 Bodie was halfway though the door before he worked out what Lake had
meant. He turned.

 ******

For a while Bodie drove without any destination in mind--around the centre
of London through the brightly lit streets that were never empty of cars
or people--past the lions and the fountains and on down past the offices
of government.

 None of the sights or sounds touched him. He drove mechanically, his
thoughts locked into the maelstrom of emotions that Lake had evoked. No
one had ever turned to him for such comfort before, and he had never seen
anyone, friend, colleague or even an enemy so vulnerable or defenceless.

 Lake had needed someone and he had been there; Bodie felt sure his
presence had helped--not that he had been able to do much except listen
and then pour Lake safely into bed--but he had helped, just a little. It
had felt strange to be in a position to offer comfort, even more strange
to have had it asked of him, and he had given what he could--all he had,
in fact--and Lake had quietly taken it. But it hadn't been enough.

 He was driving towards home now, his speed and consideration for
pedestrians and other drivers impeccably correct--and totally without
conscious thought.

 Feeling awkward and unusually tongue-tied, Bodie had made one mistake
with Lake and at first he had been unable to understand the anger that had
momentarily replaced the hurt in Lake's eyes. As he clocked off the
ignition after neatly parking outside his flat, Bodie was suddenly able to
place the reason for that anger.

 Even distanced by greater losses and disappointments, Bodie could still
remember the sense of outrage his mother had evoked when she offered to
replace his cat, Ginger, with a kitten; as if anything could ever replace
the love and affection that the unfortunate Ginger had both given and
received.

 A new cat could never have replaced the one that had died any more than a
new partner could ever replace Williams.

 Walking up the stairs, Bodie remembered something else; his mother had
bought another cat and he had grown to love the new Ginger just as much as
the old one--until he was put down because his new dad decided he was
allergic to cats.

 Letting himself into the flat, Bodie heeled his shoes off and walked
softly into his bedroom.

 Standing in the doorway, he looked for a long time at the man fast
asleep, the bright winter moonlight and amber streetlights pouring through
the uncurtained windows giving him a clear view.

 It felt...odd, Bodie decided as he continued to watch Doyle sleep, to
come home and find someone there. It wasn't something that happened very
often.

 In the street a taxi drew up and began to disgorge its noisy occupants
onto the pavement, the slamming doors, engine and party-bright voices
sounding loud. The men were almost shouting and, in the bed, Doyle began
to stir. The braying voices of his neighbours faded as they began to cross
the road into the flats but as the group finally entered the building all
the sounds died away. Doyle moved restlessly once more before settling
back down to sleep.

 Without really understanding why he did it, Bodie crossed over to the
window and drew the curtains. They were heavily lined to create darkness
at midday to enable him to sleep when his duties allowed. Until Doyle
moved in he had always slept in the dark.

 Almost at once Bodie heard Doyle begin to move in the bed.

 "Are you awake?" Bodie whispered.

 There was no answer except for another movement and a soft murmur.

 "Doyle? Don't piss about. If you're awake, say so." Bodie's voice was a
little louder; if Doyle was messing him about he'd wrap the curtain around
his neck.

 Feeling unaccountably guilty, Bodie opened the curtains. By comparison to
the darkness it was almost daylight now, and Bodie saw at once that Doyle
had turned to face where the light should have been and curled into a
ball, his face worried where it had been relaxed and peaceful only moments
ago.

 Moving to begin undressing, Bodie's shadow passed over Doyle's face. On a
shuddering intake of breath, Doyle jolted awake.

 "Bodie?" he asked urgently.

 "Nah--Santa Claus--go back to sleep, little boy."

 "What time is it?"

 "Quarter past two."

 "Where've you bin?"

 "Out!" Bodie replied shortly.

 "Sorry," Doyle apologised sheepishly. "I sound like my dad, don't I! I
used to dread getting home late and finding him sitting behind the back
door waiting to catch me out."

 Undressed, Bodie slipped in under the covers.

 "Been with Puddle," Bodie offered across the pillow as Doyle turned away
into his normal sleep position. "Bumped into him and...he wanted to talk,
needed to. You didn't wait up for me, did you?"

 "Course not," Doyle lied easily. "Now, belt up and go to sleep--and don't
you dare put your hands or feet near me until you've warmed them up."

 "This is my bed," Bodie said in an aggrieved voice."

 "Go to sleep!" Doyle ordered.

 The alarm was the next sound they both heard. After a few sleepy peaceful
minutes Doyle sat up and pushed the covers away as he climbed out of bed.
Bodie pulled them back up to his ears.

 "Rise and shine," Doyle said brightly.

 "Shuddup!"

 "Don't go back to sleep, Bodie. Come on--up!"

 "Umgh!" Bodie grunted and burrowed down under the covers.

 "Coming for a run?"

 "No."

 "Do you good."

 "So will another half hour's sleep--fuck off!" Bodie retrieved the duvet
that his aggravating partner had twitched away.

 "I'll be back in twenty minutes."

 "'bye!" Bodie said hopefully.

 "Coffee and toast."

 "Thanks, mate, I'll have a bowl of cereal as well."

 "You'll be lucky, I was hoping you'd have it ready for me."

 "Fat chance."

 Returning, sweating and breathless, Doyle was greeted by the pleasant
aroma of fresh coffee and burnt toast and his smug, shower-fresh,
clean-shaven, impeccably dressed partner.

 As he munched his way through his toast, Bodie found himself consciously
looking at Doyle as a long-term partner and possible friend for the first
time. Lake had talked until the early hours of the morning about his
partner and Bodie had listened. At first he'd told himself that he was
only supporting a colleague in distress, just being there for Lake to talk
to, but as the night had gone on he'd found himself listening for an
entirely different reason--almost a selfish one.

 Until last night, Bodie thought he had known Williams well. A good man,
sharp, on-the-ball, always reliable, great hand-to-hand combat technique
and a hit with the girls. But he hadn't known him at all, not really. Only
now, after listening to his closest friend talking non-stop for hours on
end, did Bodie feel he was close to really knowing the man.

 Bit by bit, anecdote after anecdote, one incident and disaster at a time,
Lake had slowly told the way in which their partnership had taken shape.
It had taken them years to become a unit, to act and know instinctively
that the other would be there to help, to laugh with or save each other.
Years of hard work, blood, sweat and even a few tears--all destroyed by
one ugly trick of fate.

 Never having been that closely involved with another person's life, Bodie
had been surprised at the depth of the ties between Lake and Williams.
More than friends, closer than brothers even, they had shared everything,
good times and bad--even girls as some of the light-hearted remembrances
had revealed.

 But the closeness was now demanding a price that Bodie wasn't sure he
ever wished to pay. CI5 was a dangerous business and he had already
contributed toward more wreaths than he cared to think about. He had
learnt a long time ago that caring only ever resulted in pain. Lake had
known this, though, and had told Bodie how he had fought against being
teamed with Williams, but had learnt to care and was prepared to pay the
cost--not that he had much choice not to do otherwise!

 "Anybody in there?"

 Bodie was jolted back to the present to find Doyle peering worriedly into
his face.

 "Huh?"

 "I said, is there anybody in there? I've asked you three times if you
want any more coffee and all you've done is look straight through me,"
Doyle explained. "I was beginning to think rigor mortis had set in."

 "Sorry, I was...thinking."

 "Did it hurt?" Doyle joked.

 "I will have another coffee, thanks," Bodie said abruptly.

 Puzzled, Doyle poured the coffee out and passed it over, all the time
wondering what was wrong.

 "What's up?" he asked as he decided to jump straight in.

 "Nothing."

 "Balls!"

 "There is nothing wrong," Bodie said patiently.

 "And I said, balls!" Doyle snapped out. "You're a moody bugger at the
best of times but even I can see something's really bugging you."

 Bodie opened his mouth to deny the allegation but the expression on
Doyle's face stopped him dead. Ray was really worried! He wasn't asking
just to be nosy, he was genuinely concerned.

 "Do you think we can make a go of this like Cowley wants us to?" Bodie
suddenly heard himself asking.

 "What?" The question was unexpected and shook Doyle a little. "A
partnership, you mean? Well, I don't see why not. We've managed all right
so far, haven't we?" he finally answered.

 "Do you know why Cowley has teamed *us*?" Bodie asked cryptically.

 "Because..." Doyle groped for an answer. "I suppose he thinks I'm so
green I need someone experienced to help me out."

 "But why *me*?"

 "You were...available, you didn't have a partner and I needed one--I
dunno, I've not given it much thought," Doyle said irritably, now even
more puzzled by Bodie's odd mood.

 "I have," said Bodie slowly. "I've been giving it a lot of thought."

 "Where were you last night?" asked Doyle; up until Bodie had vanished
from outside Cowley's office everything had been fine, he was sure of it.

 "Last night? I've already told you I met Puddle--but it doesn't really
matter where, except it gave me time to think," Bodie answered. "Cowley
knows me, probably better than anyone else, and he knows the type of
person I am--not that he's ever held it against me," he joked, lightening
the sombre mood momentarily. "I have strong suspicion that he's banking on
this partnership keeping me in CI5."

 "How?"

 "Personal loyalty and what it entails. All the partnerships on the squad,
if they last the training period they hold fast through everything. No one
wants to leave a partner behind," Bodie explained. "One man can resign or
get himself invalid out or killed without disrupting the organisation--but
if you lose half of a team you lose everything."

 "And you think you're so indispensable Cowley's trying to tie you to CI5
using me as the string." Doyle couldn't keep the note of derision from his
voice.

 "I don't think I'm indispensable--but I think Cowley reckons I am."

 "And what is so special about you then?"

 "What's special about you, sunshine?" Bodie returned. "We've all got
something Cowley wants--but you haven't answered my questions. Do you
think we're going to make a go of it?"

 Doyle realised that Bodie was being serious and that he was expecting a
truthful, considered answer.

 "Yes," he said confidently. "Don't ask me why but I think we can do it. I
can't see any reason why we won't--can you?"

 Bodie tried to think of one, just one valid reason--but he couldn't.

 "No. God help us both, but no, I can't think of any reason either."

 "Why do I get the impression that you're not exactly overwhelmed with the
prospect of working with me?" Doyle asked lightly, hiding his concern
about Bodie's all-too-apparent doubts about their future.

 Because I don't want to watch you die--Bodie only just managed to stop
himself saying it out loud, but his face must have betrayed him because
Doyle altered his voice, wiping away the sarcasm, the air of unconcern,
and repeated his question.

 "*Do* you want to work with me?" he asked. "Because now's the time to
speak up. However much Cowley wants us together I can't see him forcing
you to work with me if you really don't want to."

 Bodie knew that Doyle was right. If he refused outright there was no way
Cowley would be able to justify keeping them together.

 "Don't you have any doubts?" he asked Doyle.

 "No," was the prompt answer.

 "Why not?" Bodie was curious to know. Nothing that had happened to Doyle
in the past three years had encouraged him to trust people--friends or
strangers--but he seemed prepared to accept him at face value. "You don't
know the first thing about me and I practically know your life history."

 The conversation he had overheard came back and Doyle realised with a
shock that it was true. All he knew about Bodie was his name, address and
present occupation.

 "Well," he said consideringly, "if by the end of this conversation you're
still of a mind to make a go of it I'll be reading your papers later on
this morning, won't I!" He looked Bodie straight in the eye. "Am I going
to find any surprises?"

 "Depends on what you're expecting really, doesn't it?" Bodie replied.

 Doyle nodded in agreement. The way Bodie turned his attention back to his
breakfast gave Doyle the hint to leave the subject alone--for a while
anyway.

 Walking along the corridor towards Cowley's office, Bodie brought the
matter up again.

 "What are you expecting?" he asked, suddenly curious to know.

 "You've been CI5 for...three years, isn't it?" Bodie nodded. "Before
that...the way you enjoyed mucking about on the ranges...the army. You
came on the squad from the army." Doyle paused and looked Bodie over very
carefully from head to toe. "Probably a boy soldier or cadet or whatever
they call 'em nowadays. A career soldier," he summed up, then once more
recalled that cryptic reference to Bodie's past. "And here and there--a
few...surprises," he added carefully.

 "Close," Bodie said as he reached out and knocked on Cowley's door,
opening it on the command to 'Enter.' "But you're right about a few
surprises," said in a whispered, rueful voice as they crossed the room to
stand before Cowley's desk.

 The interview was brief. Doyle was handed a slim folder and told to
return it as soon as it had been read. If he had any questions he was to
ask Bodie. Dismissed, Doyle left the room alone with the folder tucked
under his arm.

 Once the door had closed behind Doyle, Cowley indicated that Bodie should
take a seat.

 "How is Doyle shaping up?" Cowley asked.

 "So far he's done all right, taken everything in his stride--but the work
we've been lumbered with the last few weeks has been pretty routine."
Bodie took the opportunity to voice his complaints over the duties they
had drawn. "Baby-sitting a bunch of dishwater diplomats didn't exactly
give him much scope to display his talent," Bodie finished sourly.

 "And off duty?" Cowley ignored the sarcasm in the young man's voice.

 "Off duty?"

 "Socially," Cowley elaborated. "How well has he...adapted to his new way
of life?"

 Bodie wondered why he should be so surprised that Cowley would want to
know about Doyle's social life. He knew that he was still being watched by
Ross and Dr Willis; over the last month or so Bodie had become quite used
to suddenly finding Ross's eagle-eyed, see-all gaze centred upon either
himself or Doyle. The woman unnerved him; she had a similar effect on
Doyle too, Bodie had noticed.

 "He hasn't exactly thrown himself into any kind of wild social whirl," he
finally answered. "As far as I know he's not made contact with any old
friends from the force or otherwise. He's not tried to contact his family
either."

 "What is he like to live with?"

 Bodie pondered on which answer he thought Cowley wanted to hear.

 "Quiet," he said slowly. "Keeps himself very much to himself. He's pretty
easy to get along with--so much so that it's easy to forget I'm sharing
the place with anyone."

 "Is he still troubled by nightmares?"

 Cowley watched the careful nonreaction with interest. Bodie knew what he
was talking about--that was clear enough--but any surprise was swiftly
replaced in the clear blue eyes by a cautious, appraising look.

 "This is a silly question, I know," Bodie said, "but I *know* Doyle never
told you or Ross about his nightmares--so how come you know?"

 "His medical report from Maidstone mentioned that he was prone to suffer
such dreams. There was a recommendation that he should receive some form
of counselling to help alleviate the problem."

 "Then why wasn't he?" Bodie asked angrily.

 "He was released from Maidstone and I suspected that once he was clear of
that environment he would be all right."

 "You suspected!" said Bodie disbelievingly.

 "Ross agree with me," Cowley replied. "Were we wrong?"

 "No!" Bodie shouted. "But you could've at least warned *me* what to
expect--"

 "You appear to have managed well enough," Cowley broke in. "After a few
initial problems Doyle's health and mental attitude appears to have made a
remarkable recovery."

 "Small thanks to you and Dr Ross!"

 "Indeed?" Cowley questioned quietly, but immediately switched the
conversation to a different topic. "In your opinion as the person who
probably knows more about Doyle than either Ross or I, do you consider him
ready to start living independently?"

 "There's been a flat available for months," Bodie suddenly accused.
"You've deliberately kept him in my flat so as to keep an eye on him."

 "A flat is available now," Cowley agreed, "but accommodation had been
instructed to put Doyle's allocation on 'hold' until I instructed them
otherwise.

 "So he could have moved out any time!"

 "I knew that you would let me know if you found living with Doyle to be
impossible," Cowley said placidly. "When neither of you pestered the
office or me I surmised that the situation was proving agreeable to you
both."

 Bodie was rather surprised to realise that not once had he questioned the
time it was taking the accommodation people to house Doyle, but Cowley's
question still had to be answered, though. Did he think Doyle was ready to
live on his own? He was undecided; half of him said no, but the other half
argued that alone Doyle would stand more chance of establishing himself,
in his own home he might feel freer to contact some of his own friends.

 "Yes," he finally replied, "I think he's ready."

 "You don't sound too sure, Bodie." Cowley had not missed the worried
expression that passed fleetingly across Bodie's face.

 "I'm not," he said honestly. "But I can't see that keeping him cooped up
with me day and night is going to help him much more. From a couple of
things he's told me I get the impression that he's not naturally
so...introverted...retiring; out on his own maybe he'll feel easier about
picking up on his old way of life."

 "You're probably right," Cowley agreed. Bodie had only confirmed what he
had suspected. "I'll get the office to inform Doyle about his flat then."

 ******

Further down the hall, Doyle was having a tough time trying to find
somewhere quiet so he could concentrate on Bodie's papers. The squad room,
duty office and all the smaller offices were full of men and women,
milling around. The briefing Cowley had arranged had resulted in just
about every available operative being in the building. The whole
department was buzzing with anticipation and the arrival of a bunch of
senior Scotland Yard drugs squad officers in the car park confirmed
everyone's suspicions.

 "I told you it was a drugs case," Doyle heard someone say--he glanced up
and identified John Day. "It's not often the Drugs Squad lads ask for our
help so it must be something big?" Day's voice held a questioning note and
Doyle suddenly found himself the centre of attention.

 "I've felt something bubbling under the surface for months now," Day said
to Doyle after checking that the whole room was watching the two of them.
"Been a lot of funny goings on, hasn't there?" Day crossed the room to
stand by the desk Doyle had sat at to read.

 "Has there?" Doyle returned mildly, then turned a page over, dismissing
Day casually.

 "I daresay we'll find out what's happening once the Cow gives us the
briefing," Day said smugly.

 Doyle suddenly identified Day's soft country accent as being the loud
voice he had heard being raised yesterday against his presence on the
squad.

 "I daresay you will," he said coldly, pleased to see a flicker of
apprehension on Day's face as he became aware of the icy glare and
underlying rage in the quiet reply.

 "Yeah..." Day stumbled and lost his train of thought but then remembered
their audience. "I expect we'll get some answers to some questions we've
all been wondering about."

 "What questions would they be, Day?"

 Bodie's voice matched Doyle's for temperature but it had more effect on
the room full of people because they all knew Bodie's temper--Doyle was
still little more than a stranger to them, still only a piece of hot
gossip.

 Bodie repeated the question but Day still failed to voice any
intelligible reply.

 "I will tell you one thing, Day," Doyle offered. "You're late for your
briefing--it's three minutes past nine!"

 Nearly half the people in the room checked their watches before mouthing
obscenities and moving towards the door.

 A safe distance away, Day turned back before he left the room.

 "Aren't you coming then?" he sneered.

 "Any reason why we should?" Bodie's voice covered Doyle's own, similar
reply.

 "Your little friend's the one with all the drug connections--isn't he?
Should have thought Cowley'd have him using his...shall we
say...expertise," Day said, snickering at his little joke. "Still, maybe
he thinks it's best to keep temptation out of--"

 Bodie's stance shifted fractionally and Day wisely beat a dignified if
somewhat hasty retreat. The few remaining people suddenly became occupied
with other more important matters and drifted away from the storm brewing
in their midst.

 "Read it yet?"

 "Not had much chance, have I?" Doyle snapped back and shrugged off the
warm hand that had gripped his shoulder, keeping him firmly but
unobtrusively in his seat. "And I'll thank you *not* to do that again."

 "Do what?" Oh," Bodie said and grinned sheepishly. "Well, Cowley doesn't
hold with brawling in the ranks."

 "I didn't intend *brawling* with anyone, I was just gonna lay 'im
out--period!"

 "Ah well, now if I'd known that I'd've let you hit him," Bodie
apologised. "Still," he added, "it's Cowley's fault for not spilling the
beans about your background or at least letting you do it yourself."

 "Well they're all going to find out now, aren't they?"

 "Look on the bright side--once the briefing is over the stain on your
wonderful, honest, clean-living, noble, law-abiding character will be gone
forever and you'll be at the top of everyone's social list."

 "How d'you work that out?"

 "Stands to reason," Bodie explained. "Such a nice bunch of lads, they'll
be tripping over themselves to show you that they don't hold the past that
you never had against you. Especially the women--be fighting over you,
they will--trying to make up for all your hardship."

 "You reckon?" Doyle said hopefully, caught up in Bodie's enthusiasm.

 "Any of them you find too much to handle--you know where I live," Bodie
offered. "Which reminds me--when you've read that lot you can go down to
the accommodation office; the keys to a flat are waiting for you and we've
got the day off to move you in."

 "A flat! Where?"

 "You read me life's story and I'll get the keys and address from the
office, then I'll give you a hand to pack your stuff and shift it, okay?"

 Without waiting for a reply Bodie was gone, leaving Doyle staring,
open-mouthed, behind him. His mind was full of things that needed to be
done if he was to move home today; vying with the thoughts of things to
buy and do were thoughts on the briefing room full of people. Now, instead
of treating him like a leper they would probably wonder how anyone stupid
enough to get himself so thoroughly stitched-up could get a job with CI5.

 He read Bodie's file automatically. He took everything in, but nothing
touched or amazed him. Maybe it would later--but there was too much
buzzing around in his head for Bodie's past history to bother him.

 Bodie re-entered the squad room in time to see Doyle close the folder and
lean back in his chair, stretching the kinks from his back. Doyle looked
up at him then at the bunch of keys swinging from his hand.

 "Fort Knox, is it?"

 "As good as, sunshine. This..." Bodie peered at the crumpled paper tag,
"is the key to the Yale lock on the front door." He held up the next key
on the ring. "Front door security lock...front door alarm lock...fire exit
security lock...kitchen window...bathroom...living room...study--that's
posh, I've never had a flat with a study...bedroom
door...wardrobe...security safe--security safe! I've never had one of them
either."

 "Where is this humble abode then?" Doyle asked as he took the tangled
knot of keys from Bodie's hand.

 "Off Kensington High Street, just round the corner from the park. Come
on, mate, let's get going--don't want to read it all again, do you?"
Over-conscious of the other people still left in the squad room, Bodie
felt uneasy about saying the address out loud. It would mean nothing to
Doyle, of course, but everyone else would still remember the previous
tenant.

 "Hyde Park?" Doyle asked as he followed him out of the room, causing
Bodie to pause a second at the tight quality at odds with the
expressionless face.

 "No--Holland Park--near the Commonwealth Institute," Bodie added.

 All Doyle's enthusiasm vanished as swiftly as it had come.

 "What's wrong?" Bodie asked. Doyle only shook his head and shouldered
past him, striding along the corridor to Cowley's office where he handed
the folder back into the care of Cowley's secretary.

 "Do I have any choice?" Doyle asked quietly as they crossed the tarmac to
the car.

 "Over what?"

 "Taking the flat--have I got to have this one?"

 "You haven't even seen it yet, it's a palace compared to mine--even got
your own balcony. It's got some great furniture in it, too--bleeding'
great pinball machine in the middle of the living room."

 "You sound like an estate agent, are you really that keen to get rid of
me?" Doyle said laughingly. "How do you know so much about it anyway?"

 Bodie swore quietly; he would have to tell Doyle before someone else did.
"I've been there a few times," he explained. "It used to be Williams'
place."

 The car was quiet until they arrived outside Bodie's flat.

 "That's not why I'm not keen on the place--I didn't know Williams, so
moving into his flat doesn't worry me...it's just the area. Used to live
near there--only a five-minute walk from the Institute."

 "With your bird?"

 "Ann? Yeah, with her," Doyle said quietly.

 "Thought you said she was in America, though."

 "Only went there for a holiday. To forget all about me--get it all out of
her system!"

 Feeling hopelessly inadequate, Bodie climbed out of the car and they
entered the building in a solemn silence.

 Within fifteen minutes Doyle had all his belongings packed into two of
Bodie's suitcases and stood them ready by the front door alongside the
cases he had collected all those months ago from his brother's house. The
speed with which Doyle was ready to go amazed Bodie. He had known women
take longer to pack their handbags.

 Doyle drove the car and Bodie was about to comment on their circuitous
route when he saw Doyle's eyes fix on a block of fashionably expensive
apartments. Following the line of Doyle's gaze, Bodie looked closely at
the third floor flat, the only one that had a light shining out on that
floor.

 "Nice place," he commented dryly.

 "Mmm..." Tearing his eyes away, Doyle looked back at the road and refused
to be drawn any further.

 Three minutes later they arrived outside Doyle's new home.

 Doyle gave the flat a good look over, investigating all the rooms and
cupboards, discovering what was hidden behind concealing doors and in
cupboards and drawers. Covering his territory.

 Bodie waited awkwardly in the lounge by the window. Without Williams'
personal belongings, the untidy piles of books and papers, photographs and
other ornaments and mementoes, the flat looked cold and uninviting. Aware
of what had once been there, he was only too conscious of what was
missing.

 "Where's the linen cupboard?" a rather breathless voice shouted down the
spiral staircase.

 "I think it's in the wall between the bathroom and bedroom," Bodie
shouted back as he recalled a dim memory of hunting for a dry towel on the
one occasion he'd used the upstairs shower; as the memory gained substance
Bodie looked at the settee with remembered disgust. After a long, tedious
observation in a frozen, muddy trench in the Kentish countryside the three
of them, Williams, Lake and Bodie, had returned to dry out, thaw out and
flake out here. Williams and Lake took the bed upstairs and left Bodie to
fight with the bed-settee. It had taken him a good ten minutes to work out
how to open the thing without severing his fingers and then he discovered
that a spring in the centre of the mattress was broken and had spent the
night jumping every time he speared his nether regions on the protruding
metal.

 "It's empty."

 "What?" Bodie jumped, he hadn't heard Doyle come back downstairs.

 "Linen cupboard--all the cupboards, come to that. I thought these places
were supposed to be furnished?"

 "What's all this then?" Bodie said, indicating the furniture in the room.

 "Furniture," Doyle agreed. "But nothing else; there's a bread knife and a
milk saucepan in the kitchen, a bald loo-brush and broken bog-roll holder
in the bathroom and not a blanket or pillow in sight--not even a dustpan
and brush."

 It had been three years since Bodie had moved into his first CI5 flat,
and that had been from a private place where he had already accumulated
most of the necessary domestic equipment.

 "Now you know what your wages are for, don't you," he said cheerfully.

 Several weary hours later Bodie deeply regretted his offer to help his
partner with his shopping. While Doyle piled the next load of parcels and
packages on the back seat of the car, Bodie rested his head on his aching
arms; he'd thought that the duvet box and bag of sheets had been awkward
enough to manoeuvre through the crowded shops but the last trip with the
vacuum cleaner had just about killed him. He hated shopping at the best of
times and always made a point of doing it only when it was really
necessary and he never but *never* ventured near any shopping precincts
the week before Christmas. It just wasn't safe!

 "Have you finished yet? You must have run out of cheques if not money by
now!" Bodie asked. "There is a law about deliberately writing rubber
cheques, you know." He didn't want to pry into Doyle's financial affairs
but, peering into the loaded car he began to calculate what Doyle had
spent. "Are you on a different rate of pay to me, or something?" he asked.
"Or do you have a rich relative hidden away somewhere?"

 "Let's just say I'm on to a good promise, shall we!" Doyle answered as he
set the front seat back and climbed in. "One more stop at a supermarket
and then we can get back to the flat."

 "You haven't got to buy everything today, Doyle. Give your cheque book a
rest, for god's sake. Tell you what, drive us home and I'll cook us some
dinner. We can take all this stuff back to your flat tomorrow."

 "We're on the Embassy job first thing tomorrow morning," Doyle reminded
him as they drove off in the direction of the supermarket. "If it takes
off like Cowley's predicting we're going to be too busy to fiddle around
getting the place straight. Makes sense to get it all done today while
we've got the day off, doesn't it."

 Bodie had to agree that it did, but it didn't stop him complaining when
he saw the length of the queues in the shops.

 Much, much later Bodie began to think life wasn't so bad after all. They
had ended the day with a celebratory meal which christened the pots, pans,
crockery and cutlery they had brought home from the shops. Settling back
on the settee that was much more comfortable as a settee than a bed, Bodie
listened to the bustling domesticity as Doyle cleared away the remnants of
their meal.

 "I'm going to miss you," Bodie said as his partner finally emerged from
the kitchen and slumped into an armchair.

 "Why's that? It's not as if I'm going anywhere."

 "I'll have to wash me own dishes now, won't I," he said plaintively.

 "Buy a dishwasher!"

 "Got a better idea--cheaper too. You come visiting regularly--I'll even
let you do all the other housework."

 Doyle responded by tossing a cushion to hit him square in the face, the
offending object was returned somewhat forcibly and a mock fight broke
out, only to be stopped when Doyle realised the coffee mugs were in danger
of being knocked over, and the room was restored to order.

 "I suppose I'll have to get going," Bodie said mournfully. "'s all right
for you, all cosy and snug in your little nest."

 "What are you on about?"

 "Going home!" Bodie moaned. "Listen to that wind howling--bet it's
raining too."

 "How're you getting there?" Doyle asked smoothly. Bodie smiled politely
and reminded his partner about the invention of the car.

 "You're not taking my car! How am I going to get to the Embassy tomorrow
if you drive off with it tonight?"

 Already halfway through buttoning his jacket in preparation for facing
the wintry elements, Bodie swore. Profusely.

 "You can walk to the tube or catch a bus," Doyle suggested, his face
creasing into an amused smile. This was the first time that sharing a car
had proved awkward.

 Once Doyle had rather rudely vetoed the suggestion that he should drive
Bodie home a solution was easily reached. Placing the phone back on the
hook, Bodie unbuttoned his coat and settled back down on the settee.

 "They'll be here in about ten minutes, so I've got time for another
drink, haven't I?" Bodie hinted.

 Once the ring pulls had been popped and disposed of, the two men relaxed
back and awaited the arrival of the taxi.

 His eyes roaming around the flat, Bodie assessed the difference the
fleeting tenancy had so far made. Chairs not quite straight, curtains
drawn and soft lights on, glasses and a few cans of beer about. Nothing
much really--but enough to make the place look lived in. Over by the front
door though, Bodie could see the cases that had sat on the floor of his
spare bedroom for the several months. Still locked; Doyle had made no
attempt to open them, although the other cases containing his clothes were
unlocked and half unpacked in the small bedroom upstairs.

 "It's going to be strange when you've gone," Doyle said quietly, almost
to himself, and when Bodie asked him what he meant he became embarrassed
and fidgeted in his seat. "This place...it's just... Oh, I dunno," he said
tiredly, running his fingers through his hair.

 "It's a nice place. You'll soon settle in," Bodie said.

 "Yeah," Doyle agreed. "We'll have to work something out with the cars
though," he suggested.

 "Sometimes we'll need both, the times we don't we can just pick each
other up and drop 'em off afterwards. It'll work itself out, don't worry
about it. Seeing as I live closer to the embassy than you, you can pick me
up tomorrow morning, okay?"

 Doyle agreed and an awkward silence descended on the room and they waited
for the minutes to tick by. Eventually, to the relief of both men, the
door buzzer went, announcing the arrival of Bodie's taxi.

 Doyle saw him out and then locked the door before walking back slowly to
the living room. The battered suitcases caught his eye and he dragged them
into the centre of the room, snapping the locks open and lifting the lid
to his old life.

 ******

It wasn't until he checked out the living room for the third time that
Bodie realised what he was looking for. He still didn't find it, though.
It was as if Doyle had never set foot in his flat--there was absolutely
nothing that had been left behind by his temporary lodger; no forgotten
book, toothbrush, toiletries or bits of clothing. Nothing to say he had
ever been there and nothing to say he was ever coming back.

 Getting into bed was another oddly unsettling experience. Through habit,
he did not close the curtains and it took him over an hour to remember
that there was no longer any reason why he should suffer the glare of the
street lights. Climbing back under the covers, Bodie found the room to be
terribly dark and the bed cold and empty.

 ******

*CHAPTER TEN*

 Full of the joys of spring, Bodie sprinted up the stairs, taking them two
and even three at a time, breezed along the corridor and burst into
the--for once--quiet sanctuary that was the squad room. The room's only
occupants, Doyle and Lake, eyed Bodie's noisy and overenthusiastic
entrance with sinking hearts.

 "Good morning!"

 Lake closed his eyes and fell back into the tatty, threadbare
waiting-room reject. Doyle just winced and covered his ears with his
hands.

 "I see that *The Times* has reported the first spring cuckoo." Bodie
refused to lower his voice.

 "You read *The Times*?" Lake said disbelievingly.

 "Nah," Bodie conceded, and then admitted wryly, "Heard it on the radio on
me way in."

 Taking possession of the chair next to Doyle, he leant over to take a
generous swig from Doyle's coffee cup. "By the way, thanks for last night,
mate." Bodie winked and then drained the last of the coffee. "I do wish
you'd remember that I like sugar in mine," he complained, as he pulled a
face.

 "Then I suggest you buy your own--and while you're at it you can get me
another one," Doyle said placidly.

 "Is this the thanks I get for getting you out of a sticky situation--some
people have no gratitude." Bodie's voice suggested that he was sorely
wounded by his friend's response but the smug grin on his face declared
that it was not so.

 "You enjoyed yourself then?" Doyle asked.

 For an answer Bodie collapsed back into his chair and sighed mightily.

 "I take it that means yes."

 "And then some," Bodie said happily. "Any time you get stuck in that sort
of situation I'll be only too pleased to help you out."

 "She didn't mind?"

 "Mind! Five minutes after I arrived she'd forgotten what you looked like.
How did it go with the delectable Delia?"

 Doyle echoed Bodie's own smug, satisfied sigh.

 When Doyle had asked him if he had any plans for last night he had been
both pleased and disappointed. It had been almost two months since Doyle
had moved into his own flat and in all that time he had only met his
partner socially once, and after having spent virtually every minute of
the preceding three months in his company, Bodie had felt the loss keenly.
But it wasn't Bodie's company Doyle had been asking for. It seemed that
Doyle had finally broken through his reserve and was making steady
progress through the lives of several young ladies simultaneously.

 Bodie recognised that he had been--temporarily anyway--dethroned as the
top Romeo in the department, but he was gracious in his defeat and when
Doyle requested his assistance was only too pleased to step in, thus the
tricky situation of two beautiful young ladies waiting to be escorted to
two different theatres at opposite ends of Shaftesbury Avenue at the same
time had been resolved.

 "What was the play like?"

 "Play?" Bodie frowned. "Dunno, wasn't really paying much attention to
what was happening on stage." He smiled as he remembered what he had been
paying attention to.

 "It wasn't the pink silk lacy dress with the rosebud bra?" Doyle demanded
to know.

 "Bra--what bra? She wasn't wearing one, mate. She doesn't need
one--anyone could see she doesn't need a bra, and no it wasn't pink...more
a backless, frontless mini diamante evening...strap. Beautiful," he
finished. Behind him, Bodie heard the door open and as soon as he saw the
look that flashed over Doyle's face he guessed who had come in. He was
right.

 After pointed saying good morning to Bodie and Lake, Day moved past
Doyle, knocking against his chair as he went to collect a drink from the
vending machine.

 "Anyone got any change--this bloody thing won't take fivers."

 Out of habit, Bodie and Lake dutifully checked their pockets and found
them lacking the correct coins.

 "Here you are," Doyle said silkily and slid the coins across the table.

 "Er...ta very much," Day mumbled ungraciously, and fed the money into the
slot. The machine still refused to produce anything and the reject button
was punched rather forcefully. It refused to refund the money as well.

 "One of the coins must have been bent," Doyle suggested, his face bland.

 Day flushed and thumped the side of the machine; Lake and Bodie were
unsuccessful in their attempts to keep their faces straight.

 As Lake moved to answer a ringing telephone Day continued his efforts to
make the machine cough up something.

 "Doyle--it's for you."

 Whilst Doyle talked on the phone, Day gave up the battle of man versus
machine and left the room in disgust.

 Bodie watched, a worried frown marring his face as Day slammed the door
shut behind him and then he looked over to where Doyle was still talking
quietly.

 Lake saw the frown and wondered if Bodie had heard any tales that Day had
been carefully repeating to selected ears throughout the department.

 "He hasn't taken to Doyle, has he," he ventured, unsure of how far he
should stick his own neck out.

 "What? Who?" Bodie dragged his attention back from watching his partner.

 "Day," Lake said. "He doesn't like Doyle very much, does he?"

 "Day's a prick!" was Bodie's bald statement.

 "Agreed," chuckled Lake, but then he sobered and decided to make sure
Bodie knew what was going on. "But he still doesn't like Doyle--and he's
making waves!"

 "What do you mean?" Bodie was suddenly intent on his answer, recognising
the carefully regulated voice and bland facial expression which meant that
Lake was deadly serious.

 "He's being very careful but he's chucking a lot of muck around and all
of it's hitting your mate." Lake hesitated. "I take it he's not said
anything to you?"

 "He's obviously got more sense than I credit him with," said Bodie
grimly. "What's he saying then?"

 "Nothing specific, just general shit-stirring. He's been a bit vocal on
how Cowley seems intent on ruining CI5's reputation by employing people
with dubious backgrounds and..."

 Lake hesitated again and Bodie had to prompt him to finish. "...and he's
been suggesting that Doyle got himself...involved...mixed up...sort
of...sort of..."

 "Sort of what?" Bodie asked, wondering what the hell was coming next.

 "Oh christ!" Lake stared down at the table top. "That Doyle put himself
about...that he made life easier for himself by letting some of the other
inmates..."

 "Letting some of the other inmates what?" Bodie demanded, his voice a
cold, chilling whisper of sound.

 "Fuck him!" Lake spat out, then shut his eyes and waited for the roof to
fall in. After a few minutes, during which the world continued turning and
Doyle's voice was the only sound in the room, Lake risked opening his eyes
and started breathing again.

 "Nothing specific!" Bodie repeated. "How specific was he, for fuck's
sake!"

 "Look, Bodie, I just thought that if you didn't know, you ought to--I
can't see either Cowley or Doyle being too pleased if they hear what's
being said," Lake said defensively.

 "Okay, okay." Bodie backed down, holding his temper in check. "How long's
this been going on and where's he getting his information from?"

 "Last few weeks he's been spouting off about Doyle's drug
connections--ever since he started on the big drugs caper. The blokes are
working quite close to some of Doyle's old drug squad colleagues."

 "Has he blown Doyle's cover? None of the Met. boys are supposed to know
that he's clean."

 "All right, he's a prick," Lake whispered back. "But he's not got that
much of a death-wish. He knows Cowley's orders over Doyle's record but
it's not stopped him from fishing for any more dirt on the man."

 Begrudgingly Bodie found himself agreeing; Day was not that stupid.

 "The rest of it--how does he know about that?"

 "It's true?" Lake's eyes widened in surprise and Bodie knew he had been
careless.

 "What do you think?"

 Lake's eyes swivelled around to watch as Doyle continued talking and
laughing into the phone.

 "With his looks he wouldn't've found it easy. Being an ex-copper they
would have jumped him every chance they got. Between the hard boys and the
faggots he wouldn't have much peace--but I don't think he would have given
in--not without one hell of a fight--"

 Just then Doyle turned towards the window and the sunlight shone directly
on his face, highlighting the misshapen cheekbone. Turning back, Lake saw
that Bodie had followed his eyes and his thoughts. "So it's not true. Not
Day's version of it anyway," he finally worked out. "So what did happen?"

 For a moment or two Bodie wondered whether he should tell Lake the whole
story, but quickly realised that it was not his story to tell; but he had
to counteract Day's malicious tongue, so he told Lake what Doyle's life
inside had been like, outlining only briefly the sexual harassment, the
anti-police antagonism and the final, attempted sexual attack that had
been very nearly murder.

 Listening to Bodie's cold recital of facts, Lake knew that a lot of the
story was missing but his own knowledge of prison society, learnt through
the years of contact with the dregs of humanity that populated the prisons
and criminal world, fleshed out the tale.

 "What's going on?" Doyle's voice took them both by surprise. Seeing the
startled and embarrassed looks he chuckled. "God, you two look like you
just got caught with your hands in the biscuit jar!"

 Lake and Bodie smiled awkwardly.

 "Look, mate," Doyle said eventually, when he realised the two men were
not going to let him in on their conversation, "are we doing anything?"

 "Now? No, just standby--why, what's up?"

 "Nothing much, just I've got to go somewhere. That was Bob Craig from the
Home Office; he wants to see me about something before he goes off on
leave tonight."

 "You might as well shoot off now. Take your r/t and if anything comes up
I'll collect you on the way."

 ******

Sod's Law, of course. Barely five minutes after arriving at Craig's office
the r/t crackled into life. Leaving the room at a trot, Doyle had a large
flat package thrust into his hands.

 "They're yours," Craig shouted down the corridor after him. "You left
them in your drawer in one of the recreational rooms."

 In the car, ignoring the puzzled look on Bodie's face, Doyle shoved the
portfolio onto the back seat and promptly forgot about it as they took off
from a standing start to 60 mph in thirty yards.

 ******

After a hectic start, though, the excitement quickly died down and a
monotonous surveillance routine started up.

 A simple toss of a coin won Bodie the opportunity of trying to get some
sleep in the back seat of the car.

 "One day," Bodie complained as he struggled to squeeze his length onto
the back seat, "the Cow is going to let us have state cars with
collapsible seats."

 "Or even reclining chairs with posture springs," Doyle chipped in,
flexing his back and shifting his own position.

 "Ah, the simple pleasures of life," Bodie said with feeling as he settled
onto his side, shoving the portfolio away from his face, its awkward shape
causing it to fall right back and hit him on his nose. "What's in this
thing anyway?" he snapped irritably as he pushed and shoved it sideways
where it finally came to rest on his knees.

 "Just some stuff Bob Craig gave me, that's all," Doyle said vaguely, his
attention suddenly taken by a movement at one of the windows as if someone
was trying to look out into the street. They were parked a safe distance
away, the house's occupants wouldn't be able to see them.

 "Come in, 4.3," Doyle spoke into the handset.

 "4.5," crackled back in response.

 "Anything moving back there?"

 "Upstairs bedroom light's just gone out, I reckon Sunny Jim's off to bed.
Why? What's up your end?"

 "Twitchy curtains in the front bedroom but no lights," Doyle said, his
attention still on the front of the house.

 "Okay, 4.5, we'll keep our eyes peeled. Out."

 The r/t clicked off and the car fell silent until Bodie's voice came from
the back seat.

 "Did you draw these?"

 "What?" Doyle spun round in his seat to find Bodie lifting sheets of
paper from the portfolio and holding them up to the dim street lighting.

 "They're not bad," Bodie said approvingly as he flicked through the
sketches.

 "Just put them back!" Doyle made a snatch for the sketch pad but missed
as Bodie held it just out of reach. Perhaps unwisely, Doyle lost his
temper. "Just leave them alone, they're nothing to do with you--now give
'em here!"

 "What's so special about a few little scribbles then?" his partner
taunted.

 Pride made Doyle speak out in defence of his work.

 "They're not scribbles and they're mine, now get your greasy mitts off
them!" Leaning right over into the back seat he managed to grab his
pictures and shove them untidily back into the case, swiftly tying the
cords, closing it.

 "4.5, 3.7, he's coming out the back way, over." Even before 4.3 had
finished speaking, Bodie was back in the driving seat, the engine was on
and they were pulling smoothly away from the kerb. The chase was on and
the sketches were forgotten.

 ******

Dawn was breaking as he dropped Doyle off outside his flat, the order from
Cowley being to get some sleep before reporting back for another hopefully
less hectic surveillance detail. As the door clicked shut, Bodie
remembered the sketches but managed to stop himself from jogging his
touchy companion's memory.

 ******

Fresher but still exhausted, Bodie dried himself off and shrugged into his
dressing gown. Pouring himself a drink, he carried it and the portfolio
over to the couch and sank down onto it. Undoing the ties, he carefully
tipped the contents onto the seat beside him. Looking at the water colours
and the one oil painting, Bodie could quite understand why Doyle hadn't
wanted anyone to see them. They were awful! Ugly blotches of wrong shades
in peculiar positions all over the paper. Next, he turned to the sketches
he had first seen in the car. There were three pads, two of which had
something drawn on every page and one of which was half full.

 Being unable to draw a straight line without the aid of a ruler, Bodie
found he was impressed with the fresh, vividly real pictures, the simple
style of lines and shading that filled each page.

 Turning the pages through, he found the pictures to be disturbing and
looked through the books a second and third time in an attempt to pin down
the reason for the odd, hauntingly lonely feel of the sketches.

 One of the last pictures really brought home to him how Doyle's isolation
had affected him. It was a sketch of a brick wall. It filled the page,
each brick shaded and shaped with such meticulous care that Bodie felt he
had only to touch the paper in order to feel the rough texture of bricks
on his fingers as easily as he could read the graffiti that adorned it.

 He tried to imagine staring at a wall so long he felt compelled to draw
it.

 The rest of sketches were an insight into prison life. Neat, cramped
cells, huge, heavy metal doors with each rivet, lock and hinge drawn in
fine detail, a view along the never-ending metal landing, winding
staircases, views of the outside world framed by ugly steel bars.

 The detail of inanimate objects was in striking contrast to the people
that were sometimes included. Always vague, always indistinct, always
unrecognisable. But then Bodie noted with surprise the small portrait
almost hidden away on the corner of a page. Flicking back through, Bodie
found more of them, each one tucked away on the edge of another picture as
if it were an afterthought, a doodle.

 Instinctively he knew that this was Ann. Turning the pages, he tried to
see the obvious attraction that the woman held for Doyle but the small
sketches revealed only a woman's face...not an unattractive face but
nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Paying closer attention,
because he was curious to find out all he could about the woman who had
turned her back on Doyle when her love and support was probably
desperately needed, Bodie discovered that each picture had a small flaw,
something the artist never quite managed to get right. Ann's eyes were
either totally lifeless, lacking in any expression or in some cases simply
not finished, that final touch never--quite--being applied with the same
attention to detail as appeared everywhere else.

 Returning the pictures and sketch pads to the portfolio, Bodie tied it up
and placed it to one side. In the morning he would put it back into the
car as if he had not touched it. For some reason he felt uneasy about
letting on that he had peeked. Looking through the drawings had, in a way,
been intruding on Doyle's privacy--rather like reading someone's personal
diary--and from the way Doyle had reacted in the car he obviously did not
want people looking at his work.

 With the images Doyle had committed to paper swirling through his mind,
Bodie feel into a restless slumber that was filled with a confusion of
hazy, mixed up not-quite-real troubling dreams...

 ******

The clanging doors and sound of heavy boots on metal walkways echoed back
and forth through the enormous building.

 He passed door after door, each one the same, each a doorway to apathy
and misery, until he reached his own.

 He opened it.

 The cell's occupant looked up at him uninterestedly then away again. A
brief flash of emerald and Bodie felt a tug of recognition.

 "What's your name?" he demanded to be told.

 "Doyle." The reply was begrudging and the speaker seemingly had little
interest in discovering who was asking.

 Swinging himself up onto the top bunk, Bodie felt tense and relaxed all
at the same time. Behind the closed door the screws were getting everybody
banged up. The final, loud and seemingly endless call of numbers and names
finally came to an end and the lights clicked off.

 In the darkness he heard Doyle climb into bed, but there was something he
wanted to know before he went to sleep.

 "What are you in for?" he asked. It was a bit like being in hospital,
after a few hours you always knew more than you really wanted to know
about the other bloke's ailments.

 "Nothing--I'm innocent," Doyle replied, a deep chuckle in his voice as he
said it.

 Bodie joined in with the joke.

 "Oh yeah--me too. It was this other bloke--honest!"

 The ice was broken and they both laughed. It was comfortable...easy.

 "This other bloke, see," Bodie felt the need to explain, "got himself
mixed up with the wrong sort of people."

 "This bloke who just happens to look, think and sound like you, do you
mean?"

 Bodie had known that Doyle would understand.

 "That's right."

 "So what did you...uh, I mean what did this *other* bloke do then?" Doyle
corrected himself.

 "This and that."

 "And the other?"

 "Oh, plenty of the other," Bodie chortled vulgarly. "Got himself caught
up with some smugglers."

 "What--contraband whisky and cigarettes?" Doyle asked; the romantic
notice of the noble historic smuggler clearly appealed to him.

 "No. Drugs and guns."

 All at once the warmth left the small, dark cell.

 "Disprins and pea-shooters, you mean?" Doyle asked coldly.

 "Heroin, cannabis and Armalites." The words fell like lead weights into
the silence.

 "A drug pusher and a gun runner," Doyle said in disgust. "What did you do
in your spare time--rape little girls?"

 "No! No!" Bodie cried out in protest. "It's not like that!"

 "Of course it is--you just said so. You were smuggling drugs and guns.
You knew what you were doing!" Doyle accused, then started banging on the
door, calling for a guard to come and let him out.

 Through the darkness Bodie tried to deny his guilt but Doyle wouldn't
listen, he just kept pounding on the door, demanding to be let out,
calling out to anyone who would listen that he was not going to share
anything with a drug pusher and gun runner, pounding and pounding until at
last a key was turned and the door began to open.

 "No!" Bodie shouted in desperation. "Don't go...please don't leave
me...you don't understand...don't go... Ray! Ray! *Ray!*" Archive Home