The Professionals Circuit Archive - Flowers in the Snow	Flowers in
the Snow

 

by Elizabeth O'Shea 

 
 *Written for "Discovered in the Mistletoe," on the discoveredinalj
livejournal community.*

 ******

"Dead?"

 Doyle stood arrested, the teaspoon in his hand poised halfway between
coffee jar and mug. Stray granules sprinkled the work-top unnoticed.

 "As a door nail." 

 Doyle said nothing, lifting his eyes to the dingy panorama of chimney
pots and TV aerials outside the window. Last night's snow was already
melting from the rooftops. *Dead...*

 Bodie reached across to relieve him of the forgotten spoon and finish
ladling coffee into both their mugs. "In his sleep, apparently. Heart
attack or something. He was stone cold when Sal went down to check on him
this morning." His fingers brushed Doyle's wrist. "Sorry, mate. I did say
you weren't going to like it."

 "No." Doyle shook his head. "No, no way. 'S gotta be a mistake. It's just
not... Months, we've..." He turned to stare wide-eyed at Bodie. *Please
tell me this is one of your awful wind-ups.* "He can't be."

 "'Fraid he can, sunshine." Bodie's eyes were sympathetic but wary,
waiting, Doyle thought with distant amusement, to see which way he'd jump.
"The FME confirmed it officially an hour ago. Paulson is very definitely
deceased. He has kicked the bucket, shuffled off his mortal coil, run down
the curtain. He is an ex --"

 Anger swept away the last of Doyle's stunned inertia. *For god's sake,
Bodie. Everything's a bloody joke to you, isn't it?*

 "You think it's funny, do you?"

 "No," Bodie said with careful patience, "I think it's frustrating as
hell, but there's no point --"

 "Oh, right," Doyle sneered, "Here we go..."

 Bodie's eyes flashed a warning. "Don't start, Doyle. Yeah, it's a pisser,
but you have to -- "

 "No." Doyle's finger jabbed the air for emphasis. "No, I don't, *mate.*
So just... Shut up, all right; I don't wanna hear it."

 He turned his back, fighting to contain the shuddering rage building in
him at the sheer monstrous unfairness of it all. The waste. Months of
painstaking, arduous, dangerous work; a violent, bloody conclusion that
had landed two good men in hospital, and none of it worth a damn without
Paulson's testimony. How many more lives would be ruined, how many
innocents used and discarded, before fate handed them another opportunity
like this? 

 The last six months of their lives had just gone up in smoke. Did Bodie
honestly think he could snap Doyle out of it with a shot of black humour
and a few tired platitudes about perspective?

 Doyle needed badly to move, to get away. He shoved past Bodie, wrenched
open the door and started down the corridor with long, angry strides.
Hearing voices on the next landing and in no mood to be civil to anyone
unlucky enough to cross his path, he swerved aside from the stairs,
punched in the code to bypass the alarm and took the emergency exit out
onto the fire escape instead. As the door swung to behind him, he braced
his arms on the railing and drew in deep, ragged lungfuls of crisp winter
air. He wanted to hit something, beat someone -- preferably Paulson -- to
a bloody pulp. Instead, he concentrated on slowing his breathing, calming
his pounding heart. *Come on, Doyle*, and it was Bodie's voice inside his
head, *Get a grip*.

 There was a grey Transit parked down below, its decorously tinted windows
and 'Private Ambulance' markings a blunt announcement of its calling to
anyone as familiar with the trappings of death as Doyle. Six months of
blood, sweat and sleepless nights to bring him in, and only a few hours
later, Paulson was leaving by the back door, an anonymous corpse in an
anonymous metal box. Doyle watched the men from the mortuary manoeuvre the
trolley into the van and sign for the body before driving off. And that
was that. One more operation down the drain, and nothing left to show for
it but some tyre tracks in the slush. 

 He sighed, wondering why he still felt ambushed every time it happened.
You'd think he might have learned better by now. Because that was life all
over, wasn't it? Built you up then, just when you thought you'd finally
found your feet, it whipped them right back out from under you again.
Always the same. He was sure he could remember a time when they'd come out
on top more often than they lost, but these days it felt like they were
barely breaking even. Too many ops ending in failure, too many deaths, too
many betrayals and too many bastards like Paulson slipping through the
net. Sometimes he felt about a hundred years old.

 Doyle clenched his fists. He had really wanted this one. Wanted the names
Paulson would have given them, and wanted the satisfaction of seeing
Paulson himself destroyed -- his sordid little empire scattered and his
precious reputation in ruins. Doyle had no doubt they'd have got him to
talk. He was the worst kind of bully; all brag and bounce on the surface
but nothing to back it up with once you got him alone. He'd already been
sweating when they brought him in. A night in the cells to think it over
and a day of their undivided attention down in the basement and they'd
have cracked him easily. He would have been going down for a very, very
long time. But no, he'd had the last laugh in the end, hadn't he? Got
clean away and left them with nothing. 

 Doyle aimed a savage, futile kick at the metal in front of him.

 *Bastard*.

 A loose clump of thawing snow dislodged itself from the overhang above
him and landed in his hair, melting as it slid coldly down his neck. He
shivered, hunching his shoulders, aware for the first time that it was
bloody freezing out here. Pity he hadn't thought to grab his coat before
storming out. He looked up at the greenish pallor of the sky. More snow to
come before the day was over by the looks of it. Perfect. The weather was
mirroring his mood and it felt like a vindication. Bodie had come up with
some fancy poetic name for that once. It had made them laugh at the time.
He could do with a laugh -- shame he couldn't for the life of him remember
what Bodie had said.

 A couple of the B Squad lads emerged from the same door Paulson had been
despatched through moments earlier. As Doyle watched, the blond one --
Carter? No, Carson -- dropped a few steps behind the other, scooped up a
handful of snow from a window sill and lobbed it at his mate, who swore
and leapt at him. There was a scuffle and then Carson broke away, crossing
the car park at a reckless slithering run, pursued by a barrage of
snowballs, thrown with more enthusiasm than accuracy by his laughing
colleague.

 Doyle smiled, distracted, remembering last night.

 They'd wanted to keep their heads clear for the morning's interrogation,
so they'd made their excuses early, leaving the boozy post-op celebration
to carry on without them. It had looked like turning into quite a party.
Even Cowley had made a brief appearance and stood the team a round in
recognition of a difficult job well done. Afterwards, Bodie had bought
them dinner at the little Italian place they'd adopted as their local, and
they'd come out onto the street at the end of their meal to find
themselves in another world. The scruffy little mews was transformed under
a pristine bloom of white, and heavy flakes were still swirling down in a
slow, hypnotic dance. The night was hushed with the expectant silence that
graces a new fall of snow, and the cold and the lateness of the hour had
driven almost everyone indoors, leaving them alone in their own private
wonderland. It had been magical.

 Bodie, the big kid, had said they should walk home, make the most of the
snow before it was spoiled by traffic and too many feet. They had been
tired, though, and they'd needed the car for the morning, so in the end
they'd driven back after all. But Doyle had stayed over, which they both
knew was what Bodie had really been after all along. And when they'd left
for work before dawn, Doyle had scraped a great wodge of snow off the
bonnet of the Capri and stuffed it down the back of Bodie's parka,
initiating a glorious battle that had left them soggy, dishevelled and
helpless with laughter. They'd had to waste another ten minutes changing
into dry clothes before breaking the speed limit all the way to HQ,
through slippery but, fortunately, still largely deserted streets. 

 Great night. Lousy morning. One step forward, two steps back. That was
the way it went these days. There were times he honestly wondered if all
this had really been worth coming back from the dead for.

 Doyle shivered again. It really was very cold out here. He was going to
have to swallow his pride and go back indoors in a minute or risk
hypothermia.

 Someone had wired a window-box to the railing where he was leaning. A
couple of scrawny miniature roses with no sense of timing were drooping
under the weight of last night's snow. Didn't they realise it was the
middle of winter? Daft place to try growing flowers anyway -- another
waste. They'd be in the shadow of the building for most of the day, and
who'd ever see them except the occasional secretary sneaking out for a
crafty smoke -- or agent taking refuge from his partner's ill-timed sense
of humour.

 Right on cue, the door mechanism buzzed as the catch was released from
the inside. Doyle didn't bother to look round. Only one person it could
be.

 "Brought your coat," Bodie said, as he draped it around Doyle's
shoulders.

 Doyle grunted his thanks and Bodie settled beside him, their elbows
resting side by side on the railing as they stared out over the car park.
In the office building opposite, someone with his back to the window was
gesturing at a flip-chart. Doyle wondered briefly what it would be like to
have a nine-to-five job in an office like that. Somewhere where the
biggest risk was sending your shiny new product to market too soon and the
biggest frustration a blip in the quarterly sales figures.

 It was like trying to imagine himself on a different planet.

 "They sure it was natural causes?"

 Bodie shrugged. "Sure as they can be. They'll know more after the PM."

 "Think there'll be an investigation?"

 "Death in custody? And a big shot like Paulson? Have to be, I should
think. They won't be able to pin this one on us, though."

 "Much as they'd like to."

 An amused snort from Bodie. "Right."

 Paulson had contacts. The lawyer he'd been shouting for last night
belonged to one of the City's leading firms. Doyle sighed at the prospect
of another day spent kicking their heels in the coroner's court. He and
Bodie would inevitably be called as witnesses. More paperwork, more
frustration. He'd thought he was putting all that behind him when he left
the Met. Still, and his stomach tightened even at the memory, he'd take
the witness stand over the dock any day of the week.

 He sensed Bodie darting a look at him and smothered a smile. Trying to
decide if the thaw was here to stay? Well, perhaps it was. It took too
much energy to remain angry with Bodie for long. Besides... *Don't shoot
the messenger*. It wasn't Bodie's fault Paulson was dead. Or that Cowley
had seen fit to land him with breaking the news to Doyle.

 "Pretty flowers," said Bodie.

 "Eh?"

 Bodie was pointing at the roses. "Them. Brave, aren't they? Dead of
winter, real brass monkey weather, and there they are still blooming away.
Wonder who planted them."

 "Dunno. One of the girls from the typing pool, probably. And that's not
brave, that's stupid. Next heavy frost they'll have had it. Should've
learned to keep their heads down."

 Bodie nudged him with a shoulder. "Nah, they're tougher than they look.
They may droop a bit, but they'll dig their little roots in under there
and pop back up in the spring, good as new. You'll see."

 Doyle's fading irritation surged back to life. What did Bodie think this
was? Bloody 'Thought for the Day'? And Doyle was no sodding rose.

 "Thank you, Pollyanna. God, what is it with you, Bodie? The glass is
always half full for you, isn't it?"

 "Only because my best mate's too mean to buy me the other half."

 Doyle's lip gave an involuntary twitch at that and Bodie leapt on it.

 "There. Now stop being a miserable git and come on down the pub and drown
your sorrows with the rest of us, eh?"

 "I'm not in the mood, Bodie. You go."

 "Yeah, well maybe this isn't all about how you feel. You're not the only
one gutted by this, you know."

 "It was my op, my contacts. I've wanted this one for years."

 "I know."

 "We did everything right!"

 "I know."

 "So how come it always ends up like this?"

 Bodie raised an eyebrow. "Always?"

 "Kroll," Doyle marked them off on his fingers, "Herzl." He turned an
ironic stare on Bodie. "Coogan. Want me to go on?"

 "Oh, for -- Manton, all right? Sangster. Rahad." Bodie's eyes hardened.
"Piet Van bloody Niekerk. Want some more?"

 Doyle shifted irritably. "Yeah, all right. All right. Not always, but...
How do you do it, Bodie? How do you stop it getting to you?"

 Bodie sighed. "Believe it or not, I count my blessings." 

 "Your --" Doyle looked up into Bodie's face, and understood. "Oh." 

 "Yeah."

 Doyle shook his head and his mouth quirked into a rueful answering smile.
"I don't deserve you, do I?"

 "Oh, I dunno." Bodie's hand came down warmly on his and stayed there.
"You pay your way on the whole. Seriously, though, Ray. Some you lose,
yeah. That's the way it is. But let the losing get to you and you're
finished. That's bad medicine, that is. You have to put it behind you and
concentrate on the next battle, because it's the only one you can win."

 "Sushai?"

 "Hereward the Wake. 1957 Christmas annual. Read it till it fell apart."

 "Idiot. Had a bit of a thing for men in tights, did you?"

 "Tights, no. Tight jeans," his free hand traced the curve of Doyle's
denim-clad buttock appreciatively, "definitely."

 Reluctant to spoil the newly tranquil mood, Doyle allowed the liberty for
a few seconds longer before planting an admonitory elbow in Bodie's ribs.
"All right, that's enough. Against the rules, that is. Knock it off."

 "Ow. Brute. Feel better now, though, don't you?"

 Doyle thought about it. He was still disappointed of course, still angry,
but...

 "Yes. Yes, you smug bastard, actually I do."

 "Thought so," said Bodie with satisfaction. "Could have sorted you out in
no time if we'd been at home, you know. It's all this 'hands off at work'
nonsense that throws me. Don't know what to say to you sometimes when you
get like this."

 "I know. Sorry."

 Bodie ruffled his hair. "Apology accepted." 

 There was a pause while they looked at each other, and Doyle found
himself wanting to smile again. It was nice to be reminded once in a while
that not everything in his life was doomed to failure.

 "I'd like to kiss you now," Bodie said. "But since that's out of the
question, you can take me to the pub instead and buy me that other half
you were on about."

 Doyle grinned, loving him very much. "You're on."

 Bodie started down the steps. Doyle went to follow, then hesitated and
turned back.

 "Hang on a sec." He leaned over the window-box and gently brushed the
snow from delicate frost-stiffened petals. "Give the poor buggers a
fighting chance, eh?"

 "That's the spirit. Oh, Doyle?"

 He looked up. "Yeah?"

 The snowball caught him full in the face.

 -- THE END --

 *January 2007*

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