The Professionals Circuit Archive - November	     November

 

by Sebastian 

 
 The day was dreary, a dark grey lowering, but the room assigned to them
in the small hotel was unexpectedly pleasant. Miss Parrish the proprietor
opened the door and a flood of rosy light permeated the interior as she
switched on a lamp here and there. 

 "I think you'll be all right here, gentlemen. Breakfast is from eight
till ten, or you can leave the card out for our Continental. If there's
anything you want in the meantime, just ring down for it to Reception." 

 Although it was many years since she had left MI-something and she was
now a typical old-lady old lady with steel grey hair and a Marks and
Sparks twinset, something about the gimlet eyes behind cold thick granny
glasses gave Doyle a definite chill. When she had shut the door leaving
them alone, Doyle gave a chuckle, throwing one case down onto the floor
and setting the larger one down more carefully, continuing the irreverent
conversation they had begun with their eyes behind her back: 

 "Nah, you're wrong, mate. Cowley never 'ad a thing going for *that* one.
She makes Annie Whatsername look softer than a marshmallow." Wandering
over to the dressing table he yawned widely, running a hand through his
hair and peering into the mirror as he did so. 

 "You reckon? Myself," Bodie said austerely, "I think the reverse. A
HevviFraym corset and cast-iron suspenders wouldn't put *Cowley* off." 

 "Nah, he'd rise excitedly to the challenge," said Doyle, and gave that
surprisingly lewd chuckle, rubbing his hands together. Bodie turned the
key in the lock and turned to survey the room, eyes swiftly delineating
its characteristics: two pink beds, wall-to-wall white carpet, some
tasteful mahogany furniture, a bedside light and a tall standard lamp both
shaded in deep pink velvet and heavily fringed, casting cosy shadows
across the room. Through the wide bay window could be seen the
rapidly-fading November dusk. It made Bodie sense fireworks, and Christmas
coming, and the thrill of being locked in and safe with siege provisions
against the encroaching dark winter. In the bathroom to one side Ray Doyle
hummed noisily as he did whatever he was doing in there, accompanied by
splashings. 

 All in all, this suddenly didn't seem such a bad place to be. 

 However, there was work to be done; Bodie heaved a resolute sigh and got
down to it, sleeves rolled up and mouth set in a determined line. It was a
matter of minutes before the two men, working quickly and together, had
the room set up for a weekend of surveillance over a nearby embassy: a pad
for notes and a pair of high res. binoculars on a tripod by the
net-curtained window, positioned out of the sightline of anyone passing
below. 

 "Reckon this'll take long?" Bodie asked, and Doyle's hand made a doubtful
'so-so' waggle. 

 "Depends where he's got to, dunnit?" He -leaned nearer Bodie confidingly.
"Personally, I reckon the old man's got it wrong this time. Soo's very
politically sensitive, very dodgy right now. He's never gonna be stupid
enough to come back here, now is he?" Bodie shrugged, for the very good
reason that he didn't really care. Hard to work up much interest and
involvement in a routine obs. job like this; however, he knew why they had
been given it and was in some sense grateful. He leaned back on one deep
rose counterpane and surveyed Doyle idly. -His partner was wearing grey
slacks and a soft sage v-necked sweater. He was leaning over affixing the
plug of his portable cassette recorder to a socket in the wall and
pressing the play button. The strains of Vivaldi's 'Autumn' filtered into
the room. Doyle's expression as he turned was one of transfixed bliss. 

 "You're so sensitive and artistic, Ray," Bodie said in his best thick
yob's voice. 

 Doyle growled and ruffled the cap of dark hair as he passed. "Watch it.
And that's my bed you're messing up," he added, opening the wardrobe door.


 "Who says?" Bodie squinted over at the other, identical one. 

 "I do. Can't sleep next to the window," Doyle explained seriously. "Makes
me feel insecure." 

 Bodie snorted. "You, insecure? Come off it." Nevertheless he swung both
legs off the bed and got up, glancing out of the window. The door to the
Embassy remained shut, the street empty. Not that Amun Soo, who had been
spotted at Tel Aviv three hours ago, could even be in the country as yet.
Short notice, this. Handy for Cowley, though. He'd probably been sweating
on where to place his newly-fit and ultra-sensitive pairing. 

 Staying there, Bodie reached for his gun and pressed back the barrel,
squinting down it. He reached for a cloth from his Gladstone bag, soaked
it in gun oil, and absently began to polish the mechanism, looking out all
the while without seeing anything. Not hearing Doyle come up, he felt
first the light insubstantial caress as two hands from behind briefly
covered his eyes and the warm breath of a voice in his ear: "Don't you
ever think of anything else?" 

 "Eh," Bodie said. Doyle, now beside him, grinned at him, cocking an eye
out of the window. There, across the street was a girl, a typist perhaps,
snatching a minute's break between documents to throw her sandwich crusts
to the pigeons; she had long dark hair, a pink blouse, and a narrow waist.
They watched her for a moment in silent, shared appreciation. After a
while Bodie put the forgotten gun down; his arm slipped around Doyle, his
fingers squeezing tight on the narrow shoulder-bone. The moment was quiet;
the urge pressed in on him to find something to say. 

 "You want to go out tonight?" he asked. 

 Doyle leaned against him easily, one trainer-shod foot turned sideways,
his thin brown fingers twining in a knot of curtain rope over and over. 

 "We'll 'ave to if we wanna eat." 

 Doyle was thinner than before the shooting, always-narrow hips sharp
inside taut skin, but any aura of fragility this might have lent him was,
however, quite false: he had trained extensively in the weeks of his
recovery, pushing himself to the limit over and over again. How impossible
for Bodie, Bodie who had found him lying there with his blood pumping out
too fast, his glazed eyes staring fixedly at the carpet, his breathing a
laboured struggle to catch, all images stained indelibly and horrifically
on Bodie's memory: how impossible, after that, to have him back and not
feel fiercely, dangerously protective towards him. Dangerous in many ways,
not least that it both enraged Doyle and upturned his fragile new
self-respect, regained at cost. 

 "Unless you *fancy* the Battleaxe Spinster's institution greens?" 

 Doyle was looking at him, quizzical. Bodie's eyes were shaded by a
dark-lashed droop; his mouth set in a little pensive pout which made him
look melancholy. Doyle wanted him cheerful: he nudged Bodie's ticklish
ribs and repeated his prediction on the menu. He was rewarded by the
return of Bodie's attention; the bigger man grinned down at Doyle with a
wry, funny quirk of the lips as he patted Doyle's hip and pushed him away.


 "We'll do better than that for you, sunshine. Two Big Macs and a large
fries more up your street?" 

 Oh, that smile. Bodie's peculiar gentleness with him frightened Doyle,
made him back off just a little bit: the darkest skeleton in his cupboard
opened the door and looked out, every time. Nor did it help to know that
Bodie tried not to do it. That made the skeleton loom darker, grin wider. 

 "Oi." Bodie snapped two fingers in front of his eyes. "Where have you
gone?" 

 There was warm, open friendship in Bodie's look: he was perhaps the only
person who, knowing him thoroughly, had ever liked Doyle whole-heartedly,
really liked him; no rose-coloured glasses could survive five years of
often gritty partnership. A partnership that had hung for a while on a
thin line between death and life, or indeed anything less than a return to
perfect fitness. Doyle had had to do a lot of thinking in the hospital and
it had troubled him, to think that if they could no longer work together
their friendship might simply fade away in the way of things, a card at
Christmas maybe, a drink together once a year. There were so many things;
you never gave them a thought from day to day, nor took them but for
granted; and then death brushed you close and left you seeing things in a
clearer perspective, your eyes sharpened by the foreclosure that
everything would come to an end. 

 Doyle remembered something else, and smiled. 

 Feeling himself left out of something private, Bodie turned away. "Let's
go, shall we? Unless you're planning on changing." 

 Doyle looked down at himself in surprise. "Don't need to change, do I?" 

 "Nah," Bodie assured him, softening; "You're perfect as you are." He
watched in faint disbelief as Doyle reached into his overnight case and
extracted a pair of sunglasses, hooking them unhurriedly over his nose.
"Ray. It's November." 

 "Might snow." 

 "And it's dark." 

 Doyle sucked in his cheeks and shook his head with worried wisdom. "Ah,
they can be very hazardous, those streetlights." 

 Bodie gave in. "Well, if you want to look like Medallion Man himself,
there's nothing I can do about it." And ducked as a pillow sailed his way.


 He followed his partner flying down the stairs, taking them himself at a
more sedate pace. Apparently Miss Parrish had taken note of the descent,
because she was waiting for them in the hall. 

 "Going out, I see?" 

 Doyle favoured her with his nicest charm; he had used it to good effect
in the past, his most notable success being Marge Harper. 

 -I could do with a bit of it coming my way sometimes, Bodie thought with
resignation: then, hard on the heels of that thought came another: at
least, whatever I get, good or 

 -bad, it's the real thing. Doyle collected a key to the door--"in case we
get held up"--it was locked, Miss Parrish informed them, promptly at ten:
and then the two agents set off into the grimy backstreets. Little Asian
kids out late played ball in the gutters, the girls in frail pretty
dresses trailing in the grime, the boys forcing unpainted swings upwards
to dizzying heights over cracked concrete. Tiny grey gardenless houses
backed onto the yards of more of the same. They passed several takeaways
of the fish-and-chip, Indian or Chinese variety, each emitting a tempting,
warm miasma, but kept walking. Bodie noticed Doyle's breathing, more
hurried than his own, and said unthinkingly, "This too far for you?" Doyle
whipped round and glared at him sinking Bodie's heart. "Don't fuss, for
chrissake." he snapped. "Just give it a rest, Bodie, will you?" Stung at
the unexpected viciousness, Bodie retorted: "Sometimes you can be a right
little nest of poison, can't you? Just a civil question." Doyle said
nothing for a moment. Then: "Sorry." "All right," Bodie said coolly. But
the moment had turned a cold edge to the evening. They kept on walking.
Determined not to risk another rebuff, Bodie offered no advice as to
direction and it was a relief when they came to a grim-looking pub which
promised 'Bar Snacks'. "Not exactly the Hilton, but it'll do." "'S all
right. I'm more at home in a joint where you can spit on the floor."
Doyle's rueful grimace made Bodie smile, but distantly: he was still
feeling the backlash of Doyle's sudden spite. Inside they ordered pie and
chips and settled to wait with a pint of beer. Round brown tables with
cork beer mats and hard wooden benches set the scene; a fruit machine spun
and jangled incessantly manned by a succession of scruffy youths, and two
elderly men threw darts at a board defaced with holes. The sweetish malty
smell of stale beer permeated, and the air was blue with smoke. 

 Altogether it was not particularly pleasant. 

 Doyle was acutely conscious that he did not want to be here: he didn't
like the surroundings, he was quite sure he wasn't going to like the food,
and most of all he didn't like the distance between Bodie and himself.
Lately, he knew, he had been relying more and more on the abstruse comfort
of Bodie's company: Bodie understood without any need of words what it was
like to die and against all the odds be brought back. It was expected by
outsiders that you would seize this extra gift of life gratefully and get
on with living it with three times the zest. Somehow it didn't seem to be
as easy as that. 

 The last thing Doyle wanted was to be estranged from Bodie. 

 He leaned nearer, meaning to try to restore things, but his companion had
his mind on something quite different. Catching Doyle's eye, "In with a
chance?" he nodded towards two buxom lasses at the bar. 

 Doyle inwardly winced. Women since Ann had been fleeting, and now he
wasn't even sure it was worth the effort. He had put everything into
loving Ann and it still hadn't been enough: all that, and it had come
nevertheless to cold pale tears in the street-- *you're one thing, Ray,
and I'm another*--he didn't think he had any more reserves to give. 

 And even if there *was* ever to be a longstanding love in his life, he
was damn sure he wasn't going to come across her in the Cock and Bull,
somewhere in this unsavoury north-west nook of London. 

 All the same, he mustered a smile when Bodie ushered the two ladies to
their table; they were cheerful-looking creatures who would uplift
anyone's spirits for a while. Rosa was brunette, with pretty dark eyes;
Sal had long red hair which, Siren-like, was attracting the attention of
every passing male. Both fell for Doyle instantly as many women did,
sensing something fey and complex about him which was probably false, but
he generally capitalised on it quite happily, opening wide green eyes and
flirting. Nor did they neglect Bodie who was perfect tonight; if he had a
darkly brutal air behind the blue-eyed charm they loved it, seeing a
sensual strength in the broad shoulders, a spice of danger behind the
humour and the promise. 

 Bodie was in rare sacrificial mood: he was doing his best to make the
evening work because he felt a little uncomplicated sex might be just what
Doyle needed: had he but known it, Doyle would not have agreed with him,
having found that sex was seldom uncomplicated, and an evening's sweaty
romp with Rosa and Sal was not what he wanted, on any count at all. But
since it seemed to be what *Bodie* wanted, he let himself slide along with
it; it was less trouble than to resist and they were nice girls, sweet
really. 

 "Doesn't anyone ever feed you boys?" Sally was asking, watching in
fascination Doyle shovel in great and speedy forkfuls of shepherd's pie.
Doyle widened his eyes at her, his mouth full, his eyebrows finely arched.


 "'E needs fattenin' up a bit." Bodie said at once. "Here, sunshine, have
some of mine." He tipped Doyle's head back with an easy hand in his curls
and popped a chip in his mouth. Doyle swallowed it happily. They were all
getting a little drunk. "And no, we're not married, if that's what you're
asking." 

 She flapped a limp wrist at him, deliberately misunderstanding. "Oh, I
never thought you were, duckies." This amused both girls, without sending
either Bodie or Doyle into raptures. Smiling vaguely down at his plate
Bodie thought, *you don't know how right you are,* for being partners in
CI5 was very much like a marriage. It wasn't even uncommon to fall a
little in love with your partner; most successful pairings were linked by
some small passion which sparked in odd manifestations: an overly-biting
tongue when the partner was missing, or in danger; a fury vented on them
when they returned safe; all the way to a withdrawn grief should they die.


 If they died... 

 Bodie ached, his guts clenching. The pain of it was actually physical: he
gazed at the mop of brown curls with a fierce hunger, every nerve tense
with worry and despair. 

 Doyle, pleasantly drowsy on a pint and three scotches, was leaning first
against one soft perfumed curve, then another. He caught Bodie's eye on
him, saw the odd expression. He reached out and tapped Bodie's hand.
"Hey." And when Bodie's gaze locked with his, hurt and angry and blazing
with some fierce and unseen passion, some odd flash of the intuition which
made them a good team alerted Doyle to what Bodie was remembering. What he
kept remembering. What he could not forget whenever Doyle was at his
side--or worse, away from it. 

 For the first time, Doyle's eyes opened to what Bodie had been through:
self-pity and shock had blinded him to all but his own struggle to regain
normality. Surprise, then pity overtook him; and a new resolve not to turn
Bodie's protective instincts away for reminding him that once he had
failed, and so, the talisman of invincibility destroyed, might fail again.


 *Why didn't you set the locks. Why, Ray? *

 "It's all right," he said. "We live to fight another day," and the simple
words did the trick, the shadow falling away. 

 "Amen to that. Another drink, ladies?" 

 Bodie's gallant charm as he leapt to his feet and leaned over them, his
eyes that deep nightsea blue, sent shivers down Rosa and Sal's susceptible
spines. 

 "Well, I don't know. Isn't it time we were thinking of moving on
somewhere?" Sally said with delicacy. 

 Bodie met Doyle's eyes, inclined his head slightly. For a moment Doyle
did nothing; then he gave a little nod. 

 Well, that's it then, Bodie thought fatalistically: no getting out of it
now. 

 "You got anywhere in mind?" Doyle was asking, with a little flirtatious
toss of the head, lip lifted to show a whitetoothed grin. It was something
he did rather well. Bodie had seen it many, many times. He could not
repress a smile, watching as Rosa and Sally melted. 

 "Well, now you come to mention it--" 

 Bodie offered an arm to each lady and, laughing, they swept along with
him, leaving Doyle behind to savour the very last mouthful of whisky. "Are
you sure we want the boy with us?" Bodie asked facetiously; with a very
telling glance Doyle materialised at his elbow and relieved him of Sally. 

 That left Bodie with Rosa who was the prettier of the two, velvet eyes
and a ripe melony bosom; not that Bodie would have minded, he liked any
feminine company if it was warm, friendly and amenable and Rosa certainly
fitted the bill. No, it was Doyle who had the taste for cool upper-class
bitches, and look where that had got him. 

 After a chilly but swift walk through dark streets they stopped outside
the door of a small terraced house and Sally fumbled for a key. Bodie drew
Rosa closer in the circle of his arm. 

 "Are you sure this is safe, sweetheart?" he murmured into her soft hair.
"Me and him, we don't much go for jealous husbands." 

 Rosa whispered in his ear, "Both divorced." 

 With his customary speed of attack Bodie it was who reached the bedroom,
a frilly ladies' boudoir, first, along with his all-too willing lady; she
leaned over him, tickling his face with the tips of her sweet-smelling
hair. Time passed pleasantly. As he surfaced from a perfumed kiss a low
chuckle from the doorway made Bodie's head turn; Doyle was propped there,
arms akimbo, shirt open to the waist, appraising him with a look of slow
languor. 

 "Don't waste much time, do you mate? I could spare you a few chat-up
lines if you like." 

 "Don't seem to need 'em," Bodie shrugged smugly. He turned back to Rosa's
plush lips, mumbling against them: "Besides, 'ad me mouth full, didn't I."


 "Mind if I join you?" 

 "Why--am I coming apart?" With amazement, Bodie kept one eye on Doyle,
throwing himself down on the bed beside them and making himself
comfortable. "Where's Sally?" he asked; his heart was behaving oddly. 

 "In the bathroom. And if she doesn't get a move on I'll have to start
without her." Doyle chuckled evilly, ran a quick, provocative hand down
himself, and closed his eyes. 

 Within a minute Sally was there, dressed in something green and silky
which didn't stay on long. Good: he could stop worrying about Doyle now.
He would, he really would. Firmly Bodie shut his eyes and threw himself
into his lady's embrace with fervour. Go to it, Ray. Enjoy yourself. 

 ******

Doyle lay there passively while Sal undressed him; he suddenly felt very
tired. "What's this?" She noticed his chest. 

 "Gunshot wound," he answered, and she laughed, clearly disbelieving him.
Turning his head to one side as she struggled to draw off his jeans in a
most unromantic fashion, he watched Bodie kissing Rosa; both naked
already, what a fast worker. Bodie had a good body: strong, muscular,
(perfect) skin. He was murmuring something to his girl with an amused
twist of his lips; whatever it was it made them both burst out laughing.
Sally had arrived at last at his underpants; he was now expected to show
some interest in the proceedings. 

 For a sick second of cold fear Doyle was gripped with uncertainty; but
then she touched him and he closed his eyes and it was (thank god) all
right after all, his cock awakening to her fondling. He felt more relief
than anything: what he would have liked was to get blown, just to lie back
and do nothing while the sweet feeling surged, but he supposed it would be
selfish to ask, some women didn't fancy it and who could blame them. So to
be friendly he stroked her in return, and soon he felt her settle above
him; he held her hips and thrust and was inside her, it was as sweet and
as simple as that. 

 Beside him Bodie was moaning, short little exhalations on a rising note.
Lost in his own fantasy, Doyle opened his eyes hazily--and was arrested by
the sight of him. 

 Christ but Bodie was putting more energy into this than he was, palms
pressing into the bed, the long strong muscles of back and thigh moving
strongly as he took her, his chest rearing up and his head thrust back.
The visual impact of this excited Doyle suddenly, the pleasures of
voyeurism not lost on him; Sally moved and moaned and he wanted to push
her aside; she was blocking his view. He clasped her to this chest, her
head beneath his chin; a move she interpreted as affection and kissed his
neck while he studied Bodie's face: dark tendrils of hair curled damply on
his brow and as he watched entranced, navy blue eyes opened and linked
with his. 

 At that moment Doyle poured himself upwards in a lightning bolt of glory
and it was all over. 

 ******

After a polite interval, Sally slipped off him and lay beside him. Doyle
put an arm around her and held her; she'd probably been disappointed,
definitely not one of his better performances. He felt vaguely miserable
and ridiculously tired. Sally kissed his shoulder in a comforting kind of
way, thereby confirming his impression that he had totally failed to
please her. 

 Bodie was getting his breath back. As Doyle looked over he met Rosa's eye
and she smiled at him. She looked pleased, flushed. Well, when they
compared notes after this no doubt as to who'd get the better write-up.
(Nor who deserved it.) Bodie's arm around her shoulder touched Doyle's: he
left it there, a warm and solid comfort. 

 ******

"Do you want some coffee?" 

 Bodie started; the whisper had aroused him from the doze he'd slipped
into. "Yeah, that would be great." 

 With a smile and a last kiss she slipped out of the bed and into a robe
she took from the back of the door. Bodie looked over at Sally and Doyle,
tangled up together, both fast asleep. Pity to wake him, but they'd have
to be on their way soon. Bodie's brows narrowed into a frown as he
surveyed Doyle; even asleep, little lines of stress showed around his
eyes. Silver glints in his hair, and on his chest the ugly brand of a
wound 

 most mortal. 

 Doyle was not yet thirty-five years old. 

 The familiar tight sensation hit Bodie, an expression of fierce brooding
twisting his face: 

 Doyle had nearly *died.* 

 It couldn't be right. Not that a young man, full of life and vibrance,
moods and feeling should be wiped out in a flash, just like that--all he
had to offer to the world gone, flung to the winds and lost. For no good
reason. 

 *For no good reason.* 

 And if he had died, Bodie asked himself reasonably, eyes dwelling on the
smooth honey of his skin, returning as if drawn to that black nightmarish
pucker over his heart: if he had died... What would that have done to you?


 He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the rising panic: to quell it, he
set about to be practical. To let his mind catalogue the options open to
him, to both of them: anything to screen the fearful view of the future
which had so nearly become the past. I will do it, he thought, I have to
do it; I'll ask him to get out with me, we've done our bit for the nation,
Cowley can find some other young hopefuls to do or die. 

 He touched Doyle's shoulder, found the skin moist, and cool; pulled up
the duvet over him. Then, Bodie got up, picked up his clothes from the
floor and padded to the bathroom to wash. 

 ******

Walking home through dark streets, Doyle was quiet. So many moods, Bodie
thought: so many areas of light and shade to make up the complexity of one
particular man. Doyle could be childish, distant, scrappy; infuriatingly
moral or surprisingly cold-blooded: caring and callous depending on the
day of the week. Most people were no better, many were worse. Bodie knew
plenty with sweeter tempers he loved a good deal less. 

 Warm puffs of breath smoked the freezing night air a little. Doyle
shivered and turned the fur collar of his leather jacket up, a little
comfort against the November chill. Bodie knew better, this time, than to
comment. 

 "Turn down here, yeh?" 

 Doyle's only reply was a noncommittal sort of sound. "Nice girls," Bodie
offered, not that he felt much about them one way or the other; they
turned into a side street. 

 "Yeah, they were. Too nice for us," Doyle's sour voice floated up from
his chest where he had buried his chin. 

 "Oh, I dunno. They got what they wanted, didn't they?" 

 "That was what they wanted, was it--a quick poke and a wave?" 

 Uh-oh. Obviously the blues had set in. Bodie felt defensive, as if Doyle
were blaming him for something unknown; he had the feeling of stiffness
between them, nothing specific, just that Doyle was very far away from him
right now. 

 "All right, all right," he muttered savagely. 

 "What's that supposed to mean?" Doyle deliberately, provokingly
challenging. Spoiling for a fight. 

 Bodie clenched his fists, thrust them deep and safe into his jacket
pockets. "Thought you'd enjoy it. For chrissake, Ray, you weren't exactly
slow on the boil. Didn't have to drag you to the bed kicking and
screaming, did she?" 

 He felt resentful, as people do who bear someone's troubles
uncomplainingly for years and never get their sacrifice seen. Doyle was
staring at him, with that ominously chilly look. 

 "*I* didn't? Hang on mate, *you* were the flash-eyed Jack. Top marks for
effort, sunshine. You really got your rocks off, didn't you? And you're
telling me you weren't keen!" He put his hands on his hips and sneered.
"I'd love to see it when you're *really* feelin' in the mood. Must move
mountains, does it?" 

 He said it very nastily. Had a viciousness to him, Doyle did; not often
Bodie standing in the way of it. On top of all the emotions raging in him,
Bodie was somewhere feeling a vast astonishment: that Doyle could really
*believe* he'd wanted nothing more from the evening than to screw his end
away in Rosa. 

 "Love to see it would you?" he said with a lacing of silky venom and a
very pleasant smile. "Yes, I just bet you would." 

 Doyle stopped dead still, and turned to face him. His eyes glittered in
the half-light; any sensible person would step back right now and in a
hurry. 

 "Quite the little voyeur, aren't we Doyle?" Bodie hissed, hot with his
own rage now, sick with his own blues. "Turns you on, does it, watching:
need it a bit kinky these days, do you? Third-hand thrills, watching
another bloke doing his stuff in bed--" 

 Blind with fury Doyle swung a punch at him with the full force of his
body weight behind it; Bodie blocked him, letting the hefty blow flash
harmlessly past his ear as he sidestepped and caught Doyle as he cannoned
into him, off-balance with impetus. 

 All textbook stuff. Macklin would be proud of them. What came next was in
no book ever written on the martial arts. Bodie took Doyle's arm and
pushed him to the rough brick wall behind. "Third-hand thrills? Try the
real thing, Doyle," he said and leaned into him, bringing his mouth down
onto the pout below and imposing on him the most savage, most brutal kiss
he was capable of. 

 He felt the bitter wind blow against their skin as the kiss went on for
uncounted time; Doyle's mouth hard, resisting his, then softening, growing
warm, his lips finally parting to Bodie's searching tongue. Tasting salt,
Bodie swallowed, and kissed him again with fire but no violence: his body
pressed against his partner's, and even through denim he could feel the
burning heat of Doyle's body, the driving need of his own. 

 Finally he drew his mouth away, resting his forehead for one brief moment
on Doyle's leatherclad shoulder, Doyle's hurried breath warm against his
ear. 

 Then he pulled himself away and stood there, looking at him, his hands
clenching into fists. 

 "So now we know," said Doyle, his voice odd, husky. 

 "Oh yeah?" Bodie said bitterly. "You think so?" 

 "Fancy me, do you?" 

 Bodie drew in a long ragged breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand. "Fancy you?" he repeated derisively. "Oh Christ no, Ray, *it's much
worse than that.*" 

 Without looking at his partner he set off, his steps brisk and
purposeful. Doyle came after him, conscious of a deep cold which reached
through his icy blood right to the heart of him; in five minutes they were
back at their hotel. He followed Bodie up the steps to the ugly
stained-glass front door; after all, there really was little else he could
do. 

 Inside he leaned against it for a scant second, starting upright when the
bone thin figure of Miss Parrish materialised. He slumped back and let
Bodie deal with her, eyes running over the broad back, the powerful lines
of Bodie's thighs in closecut cords, tuning into the conversation well
after it had begun-- 

 "--rather it didn't happen again--" 

 and Bodie's coolly polite, unhumble murmur of conciliation-- 

 "--doing our friend the Major a favour is one thing, but having men
treating the house like a transport cafe is something else entirely--" 

 "I'll pass on the message," Bodie promised, with a swift and charming
smile: and as she vanished back into her domain-- through the open door,
marked PRIVATE, a television screen flickered--Doyle came to with a blink,
realising Bodie's hard, dark gaze was piercing him to the bone as he told
him: 

 "We got company." 

 Bodie's eyes looked black in the dim light, glittering with the aftermath
of the madness which had seized them; Doyle did not know it but he looked
as wild, half-fey in the shadows which cast light on his odd cheek, lent a
green shine to his eye. They stared at each other for a moment without
speaking. 

 "Come on," Bodie said, and he turned and ran straightbacked up the
stairs. Doyle followed, taking them an easy three at a time. 

 In their room, a haven no longer, lounged two of their fellow agents. 

 "Well, well, now, if it isn't Butch and Sundance," Flaherty's soft Irish
drawl greeted them as Doyle kicked shut the door. "Dodie and Boyle,
Cowley's favourite calflings." An old foe, this: he and Doyle kindled one
another like flint against gun-metal, scratching then flaring. Bodie
groaned inwardly, watching Doyle's wary, feral stance as Flaherty uncurled
his lean six-foot-one frame and circled him slowly. 

 This is *all* we needed. 

 "And what have you been up to, Raymond me sweet?" Flaherty's long finger
flicked Doyle on the cheek, sharp summersky eyes searching, not missing
the bruised, swollen lips. "Looking a little *tired*, if I may say so.
Just a touch the worse for wear." 

 "Shut up, Spud," said Bodie shortly. "I hear you're hot tip number one
for the Cow's merit award this month: and a black eye just might ruin your
chances." He liked the Irishman, who was a brilliant shot and smart and
quick as mercury; also his placid partner Todman, but right now they were
nothing to him, they might as well be stones on the beach. "Bit late for a
party, innit? Todders needs his beauty sleep like no-one I know." 

 Burly agent 4.8, he of the crinkly brown hair and the best collection of
beer cans ever seen--due, he'd assured Bodie gravely, to a lifetime's
quietly joyful experimentation-- said from the depths of the pink
armchair: "George is worried about you two. Hopes you're eating well. He's
sent us to share the load, in fact, so you can have regular tea-breaks." 

 Doyle threw himself onto the bed, hands behind his head, dirty-soled
boots up on the counterpane. It was in fact Bodie's one, but Bodie
decided, looking at the tight set of his partner's mouth, that to remind
Doyle of this would not be prudent. 

 Oh Christ make them go. Or stay. 

 "We don't need bloody minders," Doyle was snarling at Flaherty, who
looked pleased, carefree and winning on points, as he sniffed the air with
delicacy. It was faintly rank--possibly boiled carrots? "That your dinner
I can smell? Lucky, lucky little laddies." 

 "We dined ite," Bodie said, "ectually." 

 The ridiculous remark broke the tension crackling through the room;
Bodie, sitting defensively on the fence, breathed again and they fell to
discussing the matters in hand. 

 "You takin' first watch?" Bodie addressed the other pairing. 

 "We fully intend to, Bodie me ol' mate," Flaherty responded. "Laid out
the sarnies already, for the midnight feast." 

 "Oh, and just look at the time," Bodie said, pointedly examining his
watch and leaping to open the door. "If you don't get going you'll miss
the deadline." 

 On his way out Flaherty couldn't resist one parting shot. "And you look
after that little leprechaun of yours, Bodie-boy. He's lookin' peaky, to
me." 

 Doyle sprang up and flew for the door. Bodie slammed it shut on
retreating Irish laughter and stood firm. 

 "Don't, Ray, it's not worth it. *Ray*," fending off Doyle with one hand.
"What's the bloody point, he's just a stirrer, that's all." 

 Doyle turned away from him and thumped both fists hard against the wall
in impotent fury, or despair. He stayed leaning there, head between his
arms, staring at the floor. 

 "You can see what they think. What they all think." 

 "No they don't. Look, Doyle, there's no real harm in Spud: can't you see
it's the very *last* thing he'd say if it was true?" 

 Doyle's head flew up and he glared at Bodie, green fire in his eye. "No,
I don't see that. I don't see that at all. Well, I'm damn well going to
prove everybody *wrong*, that's all." 

 Bodie grinned, preferring angry to maudlin any day of the week. "That's
my Ray. You do that." 

 Feeling better, Bodie wandered around having a yawn, drawing the
curtains, switching on the rose-pink standard lamp. 

 "Bodie." 

 "Yeh?" 

 "Do *you* think I'll come back?" 

 Bodie didn't look at him, banging his pillow into shape. "Yeh, no
problem." 

 "You're just saying that." 

 Bodie was brutal, swinging round and glaring. "Look, mate, I knew someone
in the Mercs had half an arm and a foot bitten off by a croc. Next I knew
he was in charge of a battalion making raids on weapon stores, and if he
could come back anyone could so stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself
and get on with the bloody job." 

 "I don't bloody well feel sorry for myself!" Doyle snapped. "Just as
well, since everyone else is more than makin' up for me." He stamped off
and slammed the door of the bathroom shut. There was a sound of taps being
wrenched around in angry jerks. Water shuddering and hissing into the bath
tub. A tank somewhere started to gurgle, noisily refilling from juddery
old pipes. 

 Bodie raised his eyes heavenwards. He marched to the bathroom, opened the
door and looked in. Doyle was stripping off; clouds of steam were rising
from the genteel pink tub. 

 "I'm sure Miss P," Bodie said acidly, "and all the other guests will be
thoroughly enjoying your midnight ablutions. They'll probably tell us,
just how much they enjoyed it, in the morning." 

 Doyle clearly cared as much about that as he did about the best knitting
patterns. The sage sweater came Bodie's way, followed by Doyle's trousers
and two flying socks. Bodie fielded them all neatly and tossed them into
the bedroom. 

 Doyle was stepping over the rim of the bath. "Tell her it's on the Cow's
statutes we go to bed clean every night." 

 "It could be, at that," Bodie agreed as Doyle, naked, slid wholly beneath
the water, then resurfaced, blurry-eyed and shaking his head of dripping
curls. Some brisk interplay with a bar of soap began. Bodie's gaze
darkened, drifting like debris on the tide: he said abruptly: "What about
resigning?" 

 Doyle opened wide eyes at him, totally still, the soap forgotten in his
hand. 

 "Not you," Bodie hastened to say. "Both of us." 

 Doyle's hand wandered to the ugly puckered snarl on his chest. "Because
of this?" 

 Bodie turned restlessly away. "Not just that. There comes a time, that's
all...playing cops and robbers all our lives." He stared unseeingly at
three ducks in tasteful ceramic winging their way up the wall, thinking it
out as he spoke, his voice rising and quickening as his urgency grew,
"We've had a good run, we've done it all, every damn thing Cowley's asked
us to do for our bloody country save lying down and dying for it: what
about getting out before that's top of the list?" 

 Doyle looked at him; he seemed totally stunned by the turn of the
conversation. "And do what?" 

 Bodie turned back towards him and looked down at him swishing gently,
rhythmically in the bath and said: "I dunno. Insurance salesmen. Couriers.
Open a shop. Who cares? We'd find something." 

 Doyle snorted suddenly with laughter and rinsed soap out of his ears.
"Shopkeepers!" Bodie's narrow leather holster encircled his broad back; he
was balanced on the balls of his feet and frowning into the steamed-up
mirror; a hard dark fighting man, every inch of him. Despite himself Doyle
felt a bleak erotic stab within; all that power, leashed back. Bodie had
the kind of dangerous beauty which women found compelling. Women--and some
men. Doyle knew only too well how attractive his partner was to gentlemen
that way inclined. 

 "I'm trying, but I just can't see you in a butcher's apron, mate," he
said, a delightfully incongruous image springing to his mind, Bodie in a
bloodstained apron, bare strong forearms revealed, wielding a mighty
chopper. 

 Bodie was not to be diverted. He returned and sat on the edge of the
bath, gazing broodingly down at Doyle, dark gaze raking him from top to
toe. Under the scrutiny Doyle winked, and kicked one foot lazily,
languishing like a basking seal. The water was clouded with soap; Doyle's
body hair lifted and settled, lifted, settled, like seaweed drifting
around rocks. 

 "I'm serious, Ray. Okay, it's been fun, it's been great, we got paid,
laid lead into a few blokes the world was better off without. But now--"
Bodie's voice sharpened with tension-- "you damn well nearly died, Ray. I
reckon we can call it a day, no sweat, no guilt. Let some other idiots
fall under Cowley's do-or-die spell." 

 Doyle sat up. One hell of an evening. He swung himself up and over the
edge of the bath, pulled a warmed rosepink towel off the rail, rubbed
himself vigorously and efficiently. Drops of water flew everywhere. He
threw the towel over his head and said from the depths: "Look mate. That's
a bit drastic, innit? Okay, it's been a weird night, and we've had some
hard times lately. It'll all look different in the morning." 

 His buttocks were thin, pale and muscular, a darkened cleft between.
"You're avoiding the issue, mate." And Doyle whirled to face him, eyes
blazing a question, a challenge: 

 "What *is* the issue, Bodie?" And they were there again, staring into the
abyss. 

 Bodie rubbed his hand over his eyes; he was conscious suddenly of a
gritty fatigue. 

 "You get to bed, Ray." He turned away and began to strip, boneweary. His
watch was the last thing to come off--12.30. Christ. For the sake of quiet
he used Doyle's water; it was still reasonably hot, if scummy with soap,
the odd curl of hair here and there. By the time he got to the soaping
stage Doyle was back, pulling a striped silk dressing gown around himself
and tying it deftly at the waist. His hair was damp and curling tightly,
his eyes heavy with fatigue. He stared at Bodie from the doorway. 

 "You think I've lost my edge, don't you. Don't fancy trusting me as a
partner, is that it?" 

 "No," Bodie said. "Christ no, Ray, of course not. I'd trust you with my
life tomorrow, you know that. I may have to." 

 "I dunno," Doyle said, "seems everyone's always looking over my shoulder
these days. Especially." 

 Of course it must seem like that to him. Touchy and sensitive as he was:
no wonder he took it the wrong way, seeing distrust where there was
only--something quite different. 

 "Look, Ray, if I do that it's only because--" 

 He stopped abruptly and hauled himself out of the bath, setting off quite
a tidal wave in the cool water as he bent over and wrenched out the plug.
A dreadful tumult began, loud sucking noises, shuddering pipes and
horrible gurglings. Bodie winced. This rate, they'd probably be booted out
in the morning by the Iron Lady. 

 "Because what?" Doyle asked. He hadn't moved, leaning easily on the
doorjamb, one slender fingered hand gripping the frame. 

 Bodie plucked another large towel off the rail, its soft thick pile a
noticeable contrast with the dry sandpaper rectangles which emerged from
*his* washing machine. 

 "Give it a rest, Ray." Dry enough, he folded the towel neatly, brushed
his teeth at speed and padded still naked to the bedroom, pushing past
Doyle. 

 "Look, if we don't get our heads down soon, we're gonna be in no fit
state for 24hour eyeballs tomorrow, so get to bed." 

 He put his gun within easy reach, switched off the main light and rolled
into bed. Too much had happened tonight, his mind whirling with a
difficult stir of thoughts; he supposed Doyle must be feeling much the
same. *Unfinished*, the tumult lamented, *lost chances, undone.* 

 In the sudden dark, memories burned with unwelcome clarity; Doyle turned
over, pressed his cheek into his hand, and remembered Bodie's kiss. 

 If you could call it that. 

 Assault, more like it. 

 And yet... 

 He remembered hard lips bruising fire onto sensitive skin, the lazy kiss
of Bodie's tongue with his own; shafts of dark and secret pleasure stabbed
him in the guts. 

 *Christ.* 

 More exhausted than he would wish Bodie to know, he fell asleep. 

 Bodie, not so fortunate, sweated on what to do, what to say, what he
wanted--he didn't know--what Doyle wanted--he didn't know that either--and
finally he turned his face onto a cool part of the pillow, closed his
eyes, and slept. 

 ******

Doyle jerked, and awoke with a shock to find Bodie looming over him in the
darkness. "What is it?" he slurred groggily, reaching out for his gun, for
the light, knocking something off the bedside with a clatter. Bodie
stopped him, pressing a hand down on his arm and pushing him back to the
bed. 

 "Okay, mate, it's okay. You were dreaming, that's all. Go back to sleep,
it's only five." 

 Doyle lay back, exhaling like a surfaced whale. "Sorry," he muttered.
Almost instantly he was asleep again. Bodie slid back between the sheets
gratefully--the air in the room had a chill dawn feel--and wondered what
would have happened if he had touched Ray, so warm. If-- 

 Next time he woke it was light. His eyes fell upon Doyle, sitting at the
window, back to him, a grey blanket slung round his shoulders as he warmed
both hands around a steaming mug and stared out at the horizon. 

 "Bit keen, aren't we?" Bodie's voice croaked with sleep. He always felt
terrible in the morning: and Doyle wasn't usually a ray of sunshine,
either. 

 "Don't want Soo to slip through our fingers. I may be farmed out to
babysitting jobs these days but that's all the more reason not to let the
baby die on me. 'Ave a coffee." 

 "Made it for me, have you?" Bodie asked hopefully. 

 "Kettle's still 'ot," Doyle said without a pause. Bodie grimaced, rolled
over and sat up, prising his eyelids apart. Doyle's blue unshaven jaw was
tilted in a determined set and his eyes raked the streets mercilessly. 

 "God," Bodie groaned, "Ray Doyle, supersleuth." He dragged himself out of
bed and came to stand behind his partner. "You been reading the *Boy's
Own* again?" 

 "Nah, just Cowley's motivation pamphlets." Bodie disappeared into the
bathroom and reappeared in precisely ten minutes, neat and shining with
virtue and efficiency. He narrowed his eyes and peered out at the deserted
streets. "I reckon we ought to take a look round the embassy. Just in
case." 

 In answer Doyle tossed him a piece of paper. "Map." Bodie unfolded it and
stared at the diagram. "Cowley said not to tread on any toes." 

 Bodie grinned, stretching and throwing his chest out, hands behind his
head. "You and me? Would we? My dancin' days are over, mate." 

 "'E meant it. Any trouble and we're on our own." 

 Bodie groaned in earnest, hefting his Magnum from one hand to another.
"Not that again." 

 Embassies were sensitive places: and especially this one, whose occupants
were enjoying themselves right now sitting on the fence between Britain,
the U.S., and Iran; the apprehension of one of their diplomats suspected
of terrorism on the politically neutral ground of an embassy by agents of
the host country's government would not weigh too well in Britain's
favour. 

 "That's if one of his own lot don't pick him off anyway," Bodie added
gloomily. "They 'ave about fifty branches of the royal family all with a
claim to the throne, you know. Die like flies in the swatting season." 

 Doyle twisted to look at him unblinkingly. "Did your homework, I see." 

 "Yeah. Riveting stuff." Bodie yawned, feeling a twinge of hunger gripping
his belly. "Shall I go down for breakfast first? Or you?" He leaned down
over his partner, very close, to catch his reply. Doyle had a large
picture of Amun Soo laid on his lap. 

 Unbearably and inexplicably moved by this, Bodie kissed him on the cheek.
Doyle squawked, "Gerroff, Bodie!" and dusted him away. 

 "Just my natural high spirits," Bodie said, stalking away smugly, "coming
out." 

 Doyle snorted. "Not the only thing comin' out, I reckon." 

 "Promises, promises," carolled Bodie, batting his eyelids roguishly and
heading for the door. 

 Doyle turned around to stare after him. "Oi. Where d'you think you're
going?" 

 "Breakfast. Don't worry. I'll save some for you." 

 "If it's black puddin'," Doyle's voice floated glumly through the open
door, "don't bother." 

 ******

Bodie felt good as he went down the stairs, better than for a good while
now; Ray seemed to be in a sunnier frame of mind, not feeling too
vengeful. Okay, so nothing was resolved: but things had a way of working
themselves out. One way or another. Take each day as it comes... 

 "Good morning," Miss Parrish's voice transfixed him from behind; her
smile this morning looked predatory, like a steel trap for animals. "I'd
just like, if you don't mind, to draw your attention to the House Rules,
and then if you'd like a table for breakfast--" 

 The rules began with 'Guests are requested not to smoke in their Rooms',
ended with 'Gratuities to the kitchen staff are NOT permitted'; somewhere
in the middle was 'Guests are requested not to draw hot water between the
hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m.' 

 Bodie handed them back, smiling with great charm and contriving a puzzled
air. All the way to breakfast he could feel her eyes boring grimly into
his back. 

 It was a bright, cheerful room containing several tables, each with a
vase of fresh flowers in the centre of a snow-white tablecloth, a stone
jar of chunky marmalade and a generous pat of butter in a glass dish--no
tiny foil-wrapped portions here, Bodie was glad to note. From somewhere
came the heartening smell of frying bacon, and the waitress who approached
him had a wide smile and a pleasantly large bottom. What more could be
hoped for? 

 "--with three sausages?" Bodie said winningly as she scribbled down his
order. "Need to keep my strength up." 

 She giggled at him and tossed her long blonde hair as she walked away,
and Bodie knew he would get his extra sausage. His lips wrinkled smugly:
if you were born beautiful, charming and irresistible, you might just as
well exploit it. 

 His stomach gurgled as he contemplated the three-artery-pileup of
cholesterol set before him; looked wonderful. Doyle, now he'd probably
munch his way through an identical plateful and then float up to the room
claiming he'd had a glass of spring water and a little Austrian muesli.
Bodie picked up his fork and dived in. 

 The door opened and in came a man, bald and wrinkled, who boomed out a
cheery excitable greeting as he spotted Bodie, who mumbled a muted
response. 

 "Mind if I share? Shame to dirty two tables. Nice girl, that Jane, far
enough to do as it is." 

 "Er--my mate'll be down in a minute," Bodie lied, but undeterred the man
sat across from him, beaming as he shook out a snowy napkin and stuffed it
inside his collar. 

 "Name's Fred. You?" 

 "Bill," Bodie said resignedly, shaking the proffered hand. 

 "Fred and Bill! Sounds like the Flowerpot Men, dunnit? Best breakfast in
all London, this," Fred carried on, "for the price, that is. You on
holiday then? Seeing the sights." 

 "No chance," said Bodie glumly. "Sales have been pretty low lately, my
boss wants a 30% rise in definite orders this month." He loaded a fork
with sausage, chunk of bacon, piece of fried bread, and dipped the lot in
his egg. 

 "Salesman, are you?" interpreted Fred, a man of lightning uptake. 

 "'S'right," Bodie agreed through a mouthful. 

 "Very interesting," Fred said valiantly. "Now what line of business would
that be, then?" 

 Bodie ran through half a dozen alternatives from Bugattis to cosmetics,
and said unexcitedly, "Vacuum cleaners." 

 "You don't say," Fred marvelled. "Now me, I'm retired. Coffee for me,
love, and two poached eggs." He winked at the waitress who smiled at him.
Then she smiled at Bodie, and whisked off under his admiring gaze. 

 When he returned it to his breakfast, his companion was peering with him
at his plate. 

 "Like a cooked breakfast, do you?" Fred said gloomily. "Doctor's orders,
me--lowfat diet." With a jaundiced eye he watched him use up most of the
butter on one half-slice of toast. 

 I do not want, I just do not want the company of this man at breakfast
tomorrow, Bodie thought, the taste of his sausage quite tarnished by
dislike; and he opened his mouth and began to tell Fred quite a lot more
than anyone would want to know about the sales, performance, and
technology of your average vacuum cleaner. 

 ******

Twenty minutes later he was closing the door of room 14 behind him. The
head of curls silhouetted in front of the window looked decidedly fed-up. 

 "Your turn," Bodie said, arriving beside him and staring out. "Anything?"


 "Nope," came the disgruntled reply. "Street's as bare as the parson's
nose." 

 "Bit early for your average international terrorist, probably." Bodie
plucked the binoculars out of Doyle's unresisting hand and displaced him
on the stool. "Go and get your juice, old son. You'll like the waitress.
Also a charming fellow guest, name of Fred." 

 "Bodie." 

 "What?" He didn't turn, being officially on-duty now, but something in
Doyle's voice tensed him. 

 "I *don't* want the waitress. Understand?" 

 "Okay, fine," Bodie said lightly. "Leave her for me." 

 Doyle snorted, eyes on the broad back of his partner. For a moment it
seemed as if he might say something more, but he turned on his heel and
left. 

 "Don't forget to look out for Fred," Bodie called after him. "Very good
conversationalist." 

 "Right." 

 "Oh, and Doyle--" 

 "What?" Doyle stuck his head back around the door, irritable. 

 "You're a salesman." 

 ******

Doyle breakfasted by himself, noted the charms of the waitress just as
Bodie had, then took his third cup of coffee into the bright lounge. As he
sank down into a very comfortable armchair, a lean and rangy figure
unfolded itself like a creaky spectral vision from a seat with its back to
the door. 

 "Hello there, hello. Fred's the name." The man bounded eagerly over, hand
outstretched. 

 "Ray Doyle," admitted Doyle sourly, having long ago decided that Bodie's
Fred was most likely one of Bodie's little fantasies. 

 "Raid Oil?" echoed Fred doubtfully, but shaking his hand nonetheless.
With gloom Doyle saw him take a seat beside him and decided this was going
to be a very quick cup of coffee indeed. He reached for it firmly. 

 "Havin' your coffee in the lounge then," Fred said, nodding approvingly. 

 "S'right," Doyle agreed, and took a large swallow. 

 "Then you'll be off on the beat, no doubt." 

 "No doubt at all." 

 "Business a bit slack, your mate tells me." 

 "Yep." 

 "Nice chap," Fred said clearly disappointed that Doyle was so different.
He chuckled. "I'd buy a Christmas tree in August off that one, all right."


 "Me too," Doyle agreed absently. Out of the window he saw a group of
businessmen, dark suited, very close to the Embassy doors. Every hair on
head prickled with tension: he catalogued the men rapidly. Oriental, yes;
suspicious looking--yes; and, ohmigod, one of them was actually reaching
inside his doublebreasted suit-- 

 Doyle leapt to his feet, diving inside his jacket for his gun--not
there--*damn* and *fuck* it to hell, every sense alert and ready to go, to
move, to run: and then the businessman drew out of his pocket a gold
lighter which he flicked as he talked rapidly and lit the cigarette of his
nearest colleague. 

 Doyle sank slowly back down onto the chair, puffing out his cheeks with
the gustiness of his sigh. 

 Watching him were two curious eyes. 

 "Sorry," Doyle said, and he sniffed. "Felt a sneeze coming on." 

 ******

Anything?" Bodie queried of his R/T, squinting out over the top of it with
one blue eye. 

 *"Naught but a word from Cowley,"* Flaherty's tinny voice reported.
*"Things are hotting up...so he says."* 

 Bodie groaned. "Well, tell him the only thing hotting up round here is--"


 *"--Doyle?"* Flaherty enquired, interested. 

 "My temper," Bodie told with equanimity. "This is a waste of time, and
don't we all know it." 

 ******

Doyle was on the last two inches of coffee. 

 "I expect it's your mate does the talking," Fred guessed. 

 "Yeah," Doyle agreed. "Me, I'm just there to discourage--late arrivals of
payment." With this, he smiled. Fred flinched. 

 "Well, it's not everyone gifted with the gab, is it," he comforted. "How
many would you say you sell a week, then?" 

 Doyle set his cup down, suddenly wary. How many *what?*--Wait a minute-- 

 "Well, season's coming up now, of course," he said elusively. 

 Fred stared at him. He had a peculiarly egg-shaped head, with
greasy-looking glasses. "Seasonal sort of trade then, you'd say?" 

 Doyle stared back. Naturally Christmas trees were seasonal--weren't they?


 "Yeah, I'd say so." 

 "Interesting," mused Fred excitedly. "People do more of it in the winter,
do they?" 

 Something was amiss here. 

 "Seems so," Doyle said floundering, but hoping for the best. He buried
his head in his cup--all gone but the dregs. 

 "Must be all the pine needles. Never get rid of 'em do you?" jested Fred
and Doyle's head snapped up suspiciously. Now they were back to Christmas
trees again! 

 Fed up with this, he decided to lay his cards on the line: placing both
hands flat on the table he faced Fred firmly. 

 "If you're interested, I could do you a nice Norwegian spruce. Special
price." 

 "A what?" Fred looked at him askew. "A what, son?" 

 Doyle pressed it home, smooth and sure and to the bone. "6-footer,
flame-resistant pine-o-tex in natural evergreen with a red leatherette
pot. Very," Doyle said, "natty." And he sat back. 

 "Ah well," Fred said after a pause. "Takes all types, dunnit?" 

 ******

Bodie was where Doyle had left him, leaning at ease against the wall, the
binoculars dangling from one square hand. 

 "Anything?" Doyle said, shutting the door behind him. 

 "Not even any street theatre." Bodie turned his way and glowered darkly.
"Looks like being a really thrilling day. Pack the dominoes, did you?" 

 Doyle chuckled as he walked across the room. "Thought you wanted it
borin'. Not twelve hours since you were all for us signing on with the Boy
Scouts, or somethin'" 

 Bodie turned to look at him, his eyes very blue indeed. Doyle stood stock
still; but Bodie said, mildly enough, "Yeah, well that's me, Doyle, always
prepared." 

 Doyle pursed his lips and peered out of the window. Bit of action, that's
what Bodie needed. He was too tough, too large a character to be cooped up
like this in a soft pink cage. 

 No action, however, was forthcoming. Only an old man, looking the other
way while beside him a mangy dog squatted. Bodie was incensed. He pushed
up the sash window and bawled: "Oi! There's a fifty quid fine for that,
you know!" 

 "Poor old geezer," Doyle said as the man jumped a mile and began a
haunted visual search for the source of the reprimand. The dog,
unconcerned, continued to perform. 

 "I'm fed up to here with dogshit on my shoes." The R/T bleeped and Bodie
angrily snatched it up. "3.7." 

 *"Just checking up on you,"* Flaherty's mechanised tones filtered from
the tiny metal grille. *"We'll leave the baby rockin' in your tree, then,
me mate an' I are off to the ball."* 

 "What baby," Doyle bemoaned, leaning over Bodie's shoulder. 

 *"You might well ask, me lovey: meself I think the Cow's tossed us an
empty bucket."* 

 The connection broken, Doyle was examining the carpet. Bodie glanced at
him. "Put some music on, eh? Might liven us up a bit. Even if it's only
that Mozart rubbish you were playing last night," he said to be wicked,
but Doyle didn't leap in and correct him haughtily, didn't even seem to
have heard. 

 "Do you think Spud and Todders--" 

 "No, I don't," Bodie said sharply, his spine tensing. 

 "Why not?" 

 Bodie grimaced. "Oh, look at Todman. Pipe and slippers chap if ever there
was one." 

 "There was Matheson and King," Doyle said almost defensively. 

 Bodie shrugged. "Well okay, we all knew about them." He added, half
panicking, a jeer: "What's the matter, Doyle? Planning a purge?" 

 Doyle took no notice of him. "Just wondering, that's all. What any of our
chances are--" He stopped, staring out, moody-eyed. 

 "Of what?" Bodie prompted, his heart pounding, pounding. 

 "--of living," Doyle said, into the remote distance. 

 Quietly spoken, terrible in aspect. 

 After a pause, Bodie said roughly, "You're not the only one has
nightmares, you know," and from nowhere the vision came: Doyle below him,
the view angled and slanted, his slit chest stretched open by a surgeon's
clamps, the bloody arch of his ribs shielding a ravaged heart which
trembled and refused to beat: the chink of a bleeding bullet in a dish. 

 Bodie drummed and tapped his fingers on and on and on. Doyle was silent.
"You see?" Bodie said, because he could not bear not to. "You know I'm
right. You *know* it. Let's get out, Doyle, before it's too bloody late." 

 Doyle shook his head. It was tempting, Bodie thought, to shake a bit more
of him, but his anger died away as Doyle said, chin tilted: 

 "Run away, you mean?" and Bodie understood with his gut diving helplessly
that now, more than ever, there was no chance for them. 

 He turned angrily away. "Make us a cuppa," he said, staring out of the
window. "Oh, unless it's against the bloody house rules, of course." 

 ******

The day passed slowly. People sauntered along the pavement, people went up
the Embassy steps. People left the Embassy: but none of them was Amun
Soo--unless, as Doyle pointed out, he'd had a foot of shin removed from
each leg; Soo was a tall man, and the Embassy visitors seemed one and all
to be midgets. 

 In the late afternoon Doyle snoozed on the bed while Bodie did the
watching; he must be feeling more like himself, a week ago he'd have
stayed up grim-eyed till midnight rather than give in. Bodie stayed at his
post, jettisoning a glance back towards the huddled form on the bed every
so often. Ray Doyle! Whether he was blessed or cursed to know him Bodie
had no idea. 

 Doyle twitched, and muttered, and dreamed. 

 A huge mirrored ballroom dazzled him, so that he could not quite see; he
glided about among people whose faces he did not quite know. Confusion and
a great weariness troubled him; just to lift one foot and put another down
seemed like something tremendous. He was worrying, too; he was late for
something important, he had to be somewhere, somewhere else, and how could
he get there quickly if he was so weighted down? 

 He had a partner in his arms, light as down; in the mirrored wall he kept
glimpsing the top of her head against his chest. She felt insubstantial,
barely real at all and he had no idea who she was. 

 A tap on his shoulder made him jump. Turning, he saw Bodie there, large
and vivid, but it was Bodie with a peculiar look in his eyes which made
his heart hammer and his legs turn weak. 

 "May I have the pleasure?" Bodie asked in his deepest voice, and Doyle
let go of his partner, never saw her again. He was enfolded into Bodie's
arms and swept off; and he knew with a vast sense of relief that it was
all right now: wherever he had to go Bodie would take him. And Bodie
whispered into his ear with the subtlest of charm, "Come with me, Ray." 

 Doyle felt himself tremble, life impossibly sweetened: he felt himself
hard and tight against Bodie and he knew he was going to have an orgasm. 

 "It's all right," Bodie murmured to him, very seriously, "No-one will
care..." 

 ******

Doyle awoke with a frightening jolt, heart pounding, skin tingling sickly
with shock. For a moment he simply stared up at the ceiling, closed his
eyes, opened them and stared again, exhaling as he tried to calm his
racing pulse. Bodie was by the window, gazing out; he didn't turn towards
the bed. Doyle watched him, saw the broad shoulders in leather, the dark
hair curling over his collar, the fine ends of it just beginning to curl.
Someone--Bodie of course--had laid a blanket over him while he dozed: with
the chills of the newly-awake he was glad of it. 

 Not yet wanting to face Bodie, he closed his eyes again. His body
thrummed with disappointment, threads of sweet delight still hovering,
waiting to be gathered. It brought a bitter smile to his lips: he needed
*something*, that was for sure. 

 The smile died, a hazy imperfect memory stealing into his mind; one
night, drunk, flicking beercaps at a spot on the wall, much hilarity. They
had had many good times like that, himself and Bodie, firing each other on
to new highs of energy, of humour, of wildness--excitement-- 

 And this night-- 

 The lights were low, the television flickered. 

 Bodie had suggested something, or he had. 

 He didn't remember the details; the next morning with a sour belly and an
aching head he had dispatched two empty Johnnie Walker bottles down the
rubbish chute to shatter at the bottom: old Cowley'd be proud of the
singleminded effort he and Bodie were making to boost the Highland
economy. 

 No, the details... 

 ...were unimportant, but he knew beyond doubt or self-delusion that
something had happened. Unmistakable, that guilty delight at something
secret shared, something intensely thrilling, a little wicked (dirty?)
maybe... Bodie had been nice to him for days, a softness in his eye when
he looked at him. 

 In one way he wished he could remember, and yet he didn't need to. Bodie
had touched him, and he had wanted Bodie to: they could turn on to one
another, it was no use denying it. 

 *Fancy me?* he had accused Bodie savagely last night; but Bodie had
turned the question aside, and answered quite a different one. 

 Doyle burned, and yet shivered: newly fragile, to invite Bodie's love was
surely to kill forever his chance of independence. He could just imagine
Bodie, stepping in solicitous, pinning a cloak around his shoulders to
protect him from the storm. 

 ******

With one sudden movement Doyle got up, flinging the blanket aside. Bodie
jumped, and turned to look at him. 

 He was not expecting anything, had no expression prepared: had no idea of
the sudden beauty of his eyes, a navy blue gleam under black silken
lashes, the handsome, tender line of his jaw. Staring at him, Doyle
narrowed his eyes, took a deep breath. 

 "What's the matter?" Bodie said, and after a moment Doyle came over to
him, rested his hand on Bodie's shoulder. What would that commit him to?
Nothing. He left it there, squeezing gently. "Seen anything?" He nodded at
the window. 

 "Course not," Bodie said lightly. "Beginning to think you're right, mate,
this is an oyster with no pearl." 

 Doyle leaned against him a little, stayed there. Together they looked out
at the grey streets in silence. 

 ******

The day stretched on: their watch ended at six. 

 "What shall we do?" Bodie asked idly; he stretched and yawned, all of his
joints clicking. 

 Near enough to notice, Doyle caught the scent of warm sweat; Bodie wore a
white shirt, the cuffs of which were rolled up to his elbows, the brown
leather of his holster softened and worn in places. The black magnum
gleamed, however: Bodie was an army man and you did not take short cuts.
"Get an early night, from the sound of you," Doyle growled. 

 "Need to eat." 

 "Takeaway?" Doyle suggested, reluctant to go back to the pub. *No more
Sals, no more. All that's over.*

 The thought came from nowhere; he felt more relief than anything. And
then he knew it meant he was getting older, that soon he would be looking
back on his youth. It took him by surprise: a chill ran through him, and
then another. 

 "Getting a cold?" Bodie asked, innocuously enough but it caught Doyle
right on the raw. He hunched his shoulders and snarled: 

 "For chrissake will you stop watching me all the fuckin' time?" 

 The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Bodie said
nothing; after a moment he went into the bathroom. 

 Doyle took off his gun, viciously. He began to unbutton his shirt. A door
slammed behind him and another opened. 

 "Where you going?" He whirled around to catch Bodie leaving, and Bodie
looked back at him, a dark, enigmatic look. 

 "Thought I'd go out. Since you're in one of your more charming moods." 

 Doyle crossed the space between them in two bounds. "*Don't.*"" He took
hold of the lapels of Bodie's jacket in two hands, and Bodie looked down
at them expressionless, not caught up with this. 

 "I know I'm hell to live with," Doyle said. "Don't give up on me." 

 Two beats of silence; then it broke. 

 A quirk of humour gleamed from Bodie's eye. "All right, Raymondo, you win
a second chance." He tapped Doyle's cheek with a firm finger. "But that's
your lot." 

 Making Bodie stay was easy enough. In fact, Doyle had the feeling that
making Bodie do anything at all might not be difficult. He found the
thought oddly disquieting. 

 They went down, in the end, to the second sitting of dinner in the hotel;
not having prebooked they weren't entirely welcome. But Miss Parrish,
obviously remembering some heady, long-ago nights with a dashing young
Cowley, bit down on disfavour and produced an unexpectedly good
steak-and-kidney pudding. Fred waved from across the room, clearly
disappointed to be on his caramel crème when they were only just starting
the soup (oxtail). 

 ******

Back in the room, fed and full, Doyle cast a venomous glance at his R/T.
"If Spuddy calls in with more sweet sympathy--" 

 "I'll take it," Bodie promised in a hurry; he put the television on.
There was a match on, Spurs v. Liverpool in a third-round Cup tie, so they
settled down to watch. 

 "Can you get a drink in this place?" Doyle muttered, feeling the
evening's thirst creep up on him. "Don't you just bet Miss P 'as Saudi
sympathies?" 

 Bodie made a face. "Yeh, bar's as dry as a--virgin's drawers--" He was
reaching over to his Gladstone bag, rummaging; came the right way up, with
a smug smile. "Fortunately, however--" and he produced a bottle of whisky
with a triumphant flourish. 

 "Good thinkin'," Doyle approved; but the strange mood of the evening was
still upon him. The stuff slid on a smooth and fiery track down his
throat; he shifted higher up the bed, leaned on the pillows with his glass
in hand and watched the football, though he couldn't have told you the
score. 

 The little room was cosy, glowing pinkly again. Rain drummed unceasingly
on the windowpanes and pattered on the roof; the cars swished by slickly
on the wet roads. It was not a night to be out. Bodie lay on his back, on
his comfortable bed with a rosy light beside it, contented enough, doing
the *Guardian* crossword. He did quite a lot of it out loud, speculating
and frowning and scribbling down anagrams. 

 "'Pointers to someone'," he read, "'without it'." 

 "'Aven't got a clue." 

 "Just gave you one. Too late. Person," Bodie said with satisfaction, and
his pen moved quickly and scratchily on the page. 

 Doyle's eyes flicked from side to side, following the little stick
footballers running and running this way and that while the voice of the
crowd rose and fell in the background, and the excitable commentator
squeaked on and on and on. 

 Finished, Bodie threw down the paper and the pen and stuffed his hands
behind his head, surveying the tensely curved shoulders of his partner,
the curls which lay on the collar of his white sweatshirt. Three coloured
stripes banded the midriff; as usual Doyle wore brown leather boots
tapping restlessly. Bodie considered him, lips pursed in thought. 

 Doyle was unsettled tonight; anxious, angry vibes filling the room. Bodie
took another swallow of his whisky and downed insanity with it. 

 "Ray." 

 "What." 

 "Come here a minute." 

 Bodie put out a hand. Doyle didn't turn his head, stared straight ahead
at the TV screen. 

 "Ray. Come over here." 

 Doyle turned, his expression bleak, his eyes a cold and wintry grey.
Bodie held his gaze steady, and his outstretched hand. After a moment
Doyle tipped back his chin and drank off the beaker of whisky in three or
four gulps. Then he set it aside and came over to the bed, perching his
hip beside Bodie on the pillow, looking down into Bodie's face, seeing the
trouble there, a reflection of his own. 

 Bodie's frown smoothed out, became instead a smile. His hand slid slowly
up Doyle's arm, then curved around the back of his neck. Doyle closed his
eyes as he allowed himself to be drawn down. *Maybe this is the answer,
after all.* Bodie's mouth was gentle, nuzzling at his then settling, his
tongue darting inside Doyle's lips. Little twinges of desire made up his
mind for him: he turned within the circle of Bodie's arms, pressing a palm
to Bodie's shoulder; and opened his mouth wholly to Bodie's kiss. 

 The comfort of it vanished as lust ignited in a blaze; Doyle's nerves
rang with shock. Disturbed, he opened his eyes to see Bodie's face;
unguarded. The vulnerability of it terrified Doyle unaccountably. He
thrust himself away from Bodie, breathing hard; stood up and flung himself
over to the window. Putting back the curtains he stared out, hard and
angry and unseeing, and gave imperfect voice to his thoughts: 

 "I hate feeling like this," and it hurt him savagely, just as he knew it
would have hurt Bodie. Even so, it only took Bodie a moment. 

 "Don't then, Doyle: simple as that," his voice arrogantly low, mocking,
and furious. 

 "Simple!" Doyle jeered, one foot up on the radiator pipe as he rocked
angrily and stared out to the night. 

 Bodie was angry too, swinging his feet off the bed and getting up in one
fluid surge. "Yes it is, bloody simple: don't think I'm goin' to be
beggin' to touch you again. You got a vicious streak, Doyle: people like
you should carry a health warning." 

 Doyle winced, believing this only too readily, it being in perfect step
with recent events. But he carried on, well-armed; his voice dangerously
low, "You've changed your tune. I wasn't that far gone in the hospital,
you know: Murph would've laughed himself sick if he'd come in a moment
earlier-- " Yet it hadn't been funny: Bodie, his eyes furious, desperate,
burying his mouth in Doyle's hair-- "Not to mention the little débâcle a
few weeks before." 

 Bodie heard him out; he had gone quite white, his eyes blazed fire. "You
were more than willing. But don't worry, *mate*." He was by the door,
snatching up his leather jacket, dragging it on. "S'funny, innit. There I
was, trying to work out a future for both of us. And now I find I'm on my
own. Well, believe it or not, that makes it a hell of a lot easier." 

 "Don't do anything stupid, Bodie," Doyle warned, watching his partner
with narrowed eyes. 

 Bodie was experiencing a curious lightheaded sensation, an overpowering
relief: he could go anywhere, do anything, he was answerable to no-one. He
no longer had to juggle Ray's sensibilities with his own, struggle with
dreams which refused to coincide: this was it. Ray, after due
consideration, had scratched it out. 

 He turned for the door. "That's sweet, coming from you," he said coolly.
"'Don't give up on you', didn't you say so touchingly? But the trouble is,
Ray, you've given up on yourself. And that's too much for anyone to live
with." 

 The door slammed, rocketing a gust of cool air into the room. 

 Bodie would be back, no doubt; he wasn't one to neglect his duty, not
Bodie, and their next shift began at six. Doyle gazed out of the window
with eyes that felt stretched open; a light was on in the embassy, just
one, high up, and the streetlights cast a haloed orange glow on the wet
pavements. Rain drizzled down endlessly onto the shining roads. The whole
fabric of the house shook a little, and there was Bodie running crisply
down the steps, hands shoved into his pockets, neck hunched against the
rain. 

 No further thought was necessary; Doyle snatched up his jacket and ran,
flying down the endless stairwell, grabbing open the frontdoor and
slamming it shut; vaulting the rail as his jacket flew out behind him like
leather wings, landing on the pavement and setting off at a run. 

 He could still see Bodie, just turning the corner. Running full pelt
Doyle caught him up in no time at all. Bodie had turned once to see who
was running; he faced forward again now, walking determinedly, head down
against the driving rain. 

 Doyle grabbed at his arm. "Bodie." 

 Bodie just looked at him stonily, as if he were a nightmare. Doyle's
heart lurched. Bodie was his mate, good for a laugh, a roustabout drinking
session; but he had another face, one Doyle had sussed out the moment they
met: he was dangerous, aggressive and chancy by nature, out on the edge
just the way you had to be to be a leader in their underworld, not a
victim. It was that face of Bodie Doyle was looking into now; the knife in
his eyes. 

 After a moment Bodie removed his gaze from Doyle's face and walked off.
Doyle followed. "Bodie?" 

 "Fuck off, Doyle." 

 He dragged on Bodie's arm again, all his weight behind it, fully prepared
to fight if he had to. 

 "Let me go," Bodie ground out, coming to a halt. 

 "Can't." 

 Bodie's eyes, haunted by devils, met his. 

 "*Christ*, Ray," he said violently, "how much more do you expect me to
take?" 

 Doyle didn't answer that. A bunch of teenagers holding beer cans and
larking about was approaching. Grabbing a handful of Doyle's jacket Bodie
pulled him into a dark alley, a yowling cat fleeing out from behind the
dustbins, and manhandled Doyle against the wall, Doyle tense in his hands.
But this was better: anything--anger, a fist in his guts--was better than
that dreadful, indifferent walk away. 

 "What am I supposed to do?" Bodie asked with some kind of anguish
twisting his face from the inside. "Stand still for all the filth you spit
at me and come up all rosy smiles?" He added more quietly, eyes travelling
all over Doyle's battered face, "Look, I know you've been through a hard
time lately. But whatever I do is wrong." 

 "I know what I want now," Doyle said, desperately. 

 Bodie stared back unsmilingly. "Yeah. And then what?" 

 They had something to lose, that was the trouble: not much, perhaps, a
dodgy friendship at times. But no-one saw clearer than Doyle, just how
risky this was going to be. Yet still he wanted it. 

 "It can't be worse than this," he said at last. Neither one thing nor the
other... 

 "What are you trying to do, Doyle?" Bodie wanted to know, a spark of
angry venom still there and feeding on itself, "Lead me on again? 'S
probably quite funny, is it, from where you're standing?" Doyle made a
gesture of exasperation, grimacing down at the ground. "I know, you want
me to say, 'Let me toss you off, Ray, you'll feel ever so much better',"
Bodie mimicked, flying out high on a line of anger, shocking Doyle and
dragging his gaze up to Bodie again. "Poor duped fool, on his knees to you
while you grant some obscene favour, and all in the name of therapy? Well,
listen to this, mate," and Doyle saw Bodie's Adam's apple move rapidly,
heard his voice change, "I cried for you. So help me God, it fucking tore
me up when I saw you there, like to die. And you make out it's some sort
of game. Well, I'll play, Doyle. We'll go back right now and play: you
like it a bit wild, don't you, a bit way out, and yeah, I'll give you
that. But don't expect me to walk away laughing when you hit me in the
guts afterwards with one of your charming little lines: *I hate feeling
like this, Bodie*," and he laughed savagely, a dangerous mockery shining
in his eyes. "Plenty more where that came from, I reckon; you seem to have
the bottom line in self-pity." 

 Doyle's head felt heavy with despair; Bodie would never, he knew, come
closer to saying the forbidden than that. As for himself he seemed unable
to say anything at all. Bodie looked at him intensely, and then looked
closer. 

 *"Oh Christ."* And Bodie's arms went around him, pulled him close,
cradled his head on one broad shoulder and rubbed his hair. "It's all
right, Ray. Don't. It's all right." 

 After a while, Bodie's hands slipped underneath his clothes and touched
him, the shock of them cold on his warm skin, but gentle. Shivering, he
let himself go with it: it was the only security there was left for him in
the world. Bodie's mouth settled against his, Bodie's lips warm, both a
comfort to him and a lure: again he felt that incredible, desperate diving
inside his guts and wanted only more. He wrapped his arms around Bodie and
gave himself up to the kiss, making a wild surrender of it, a challenge. 

 And when Bodie's ceaseless hands asked a question, Doyle himself
unbuckled his jeans, unzipped himself, desperate to be touched, and his
eyes fell shut at the pleasure of it. A few moments more and Bodie
half-laughed, half-sobbed into his ear, something incoherent; then he
dropped to his knees in a stinking alley out beneath the stars and the
cold and brought a little pleasure to Doyle, the first he had tasted for
so long it seemed like the sweetest of his life. 

 Afterward Bodie held him roughly in his arms until his breathing slowed
and his slumped legs straightened. Bodie's own legs ached and he scanned
right and left with his eyes, looking for passersby. Terraced houses
slanted unrelentingly to the skyline behind them and in front; here and
there a light shone out, but if anyone had seen the two dark figures in
the narrow alley, Bodie doubted they'd have seen what they were doing. Or
if they had, who cared? Probably not the first time. 

 Doyle's eyes, open now, were trailing over his face hazily. "Come on,"
Bodie said, not ungently. "Dunno about you but I'm cold." 

 They walked quickly; the rain had slowed to a sprinkle and wisps of
cloud, silver shining in drifting gauze. Doyle felt dazed and shivery,
cold to the marrow. But excitement threaded through his veins fast and
quick: he felt as if he was setting out on some tremendous adventure, his
bearer at his side: all the dangerous romance he could want, and secret
tender nights in the darkened tent to come. 

 Bodie walked just as he always did, hands in his pockets, brisk and sure,
head down against the drizzle; he looked the same, showed no outward signs
of what he had done. They passed the same group of drunken teenagers they
had seen before: nearing midnight now, a six-pack of beer inside each of
them, louchely aggressive and looking for a fight. Doyle watched Bodie
handle them, putting down hecklers goodhumouredly, calm with the sheer
assurance of being the best man there: which he undoubtedly was, no
question of it. The teenagers went on without trouble, and they didn't
even need to know, Doyle thought wryly, that beneath the armpit of his
partner reposed a high-calibre high velocity weapon; the sight of which
would disperse all that group male conceit at a stroke-- 

 "Bodie," he said urgently. 

 Bodie looked at him in surprise. "You okay?" 

 "No." 

 He felt confused, a weird elation, and still that excitement so intense
it sickened him: coming sweetly, fiercely in Bodie's mouth had not relaxed
him, only fired him further: he felt he would never have enough. 

 "What is it?" Bodie asked him, closer, concern in his eyes. "Soaked,
aren't you." 

 His curls hung limp and sodden and his face was wet. "Let's get back," he
said through chattering teeth. 

 ******

In the room they put no lights on; a streetlamp already cast a glow. Doyle
stood there, provocative, halfway between the bed and the bathroom. 

 "Shall I bath? Or stay dirty?" 

 Bodie surveyed him. "Oh, I think you'll do as you are," he said between
clenched teeth, and he snatched Doyle, pressing them together hard as his
lips slid around to Doyle's ear. "I'm not going to let you sleep tonight:
you know that, don't you?" 

 Doyle was sweating, with a twinge of fear. Bodie seemed like a stranger,
eyes and teeth gleaming in the half-light: and yet wasn't that just what
he had wanted? 

 Bodie's breathing was fast as he held him; laying his fingers along
Doyle's cheek he turned his mouth up to kiss. His hands slid beneath
Doyle's jacket, undid the buttons of his shirt and slipped inside, the
cold shock of his hands sending a shiver rippling across Doyle's skin. 

 "Let's go to bed," Doyle managed. 

 "No hurry," Bodie said; his hand cupped Doyle's neck, his fingers
stroking through a tangle of curls as he drew Doyle towards him again,
lapped languidly at his lips, then drove his tongue arrogantly into
Doyle's mouth. So unlike a woman, the strength of the arms around him like
chains to bind him and keep him: a delicious *tendresse* of fear ran up
Doyle's spine again as he tasted the alien tongue, his cock springing to
life; he grabbed Bodie hard, kissing him back with urgency, with fire in
his heart. 

 "Hey," Bodie murmured, drawing away, "don't rush," and Doyle, drawing in
great gulps of air, understood with a thrill which dizzied him: Bodie
wanted to stay in charge, even (perhaps) knew all about the darkness in
his soul. 

 Head bowed, he began to strip off his clothes. "You ever done this
before, Bodie?" 

 "Of course I have," Bodie said, lazily amused, eyes trailing over his
body, "and don't try pretending you haven't, corruption's written all over
you." His hand traced down Doyle's naked arm from his shoulder, over his
narrow strong forearms to the slender handsreleasing his cock from his
jeans, the touch lingering. Bodie laid his fingers atop Doyle's for a
moment, and watched him, and darkly smiled. "But it's a nice thought." 

 After a while Bodie threw off his last garment and joined Doyle on the
bed; his partner lay there face up, eyes closed. 

 "So, Ray," he murmured in a voice so low and soft it stroked Doyle's
nerves, "you want to play the virgin for me, is that right?" 

 It was so nearly true. Doyle simply said nothing, did not stir, lapped by
a desire so strong he felt weak. 

 "Or is it Sleeping Beauty?" Bodie's voice caressed him quietly, gentle
lips grazing the sensitive opening of his mouth as it quivered. "Oh yes,
Ray, I think I know what you want, all right." And Bodie's tender mouth,
all-knowing hands, absolved him of all blame, all guilt; and, submerged
beneath a black sweep of pleasure so intense he could die for it, a spice
of sweet tender pain. 

 When once he opened his eyes it was to see Bodie studying him through
eyes that glittered through the blackest of lashes, an unnerving hunger, a
curiosity which burned. After a moment Bodie smiled at him. Doyle saw that
he was shaking; stabbed by swift tenderness, he raised his hand to touch
Bodie's cheek, then his mouth, beautiful still; and held Bodie's look as
long as he could, before the terrible pulses of ecstasy racked him, swept
his whole body up and involved it so that even his fingertips felt it; and
then, when all he wanted to do was sleep, Bodie was quick with him. He
stayed with Bodie until he felt the brilliance of Bodie's desire for him
explode, and then he fell asleep. 

 ******

When he awoke it was again to Bodie's eyes caressing him, lingering on his
face. 

 "What time is it," Doyle croaked, limp and dazed with heavy, dreamless
sleep. 

 "'S only two. Sssh." Bodie stroked him, up and down, long and luxurious
and Doyle relaxed under the touch and the eyes until he no longer felt
sleepy at all. 

 He threw back the covers and leaned up on one elbow to look at Bodie,
stealing a swift kiss from his lips. 

 "My turn now, is it?" 

 Bodie gave it scant consideration, before lying down, his hands uncurling
at his sides. "Yeah, if that's what you want." 

 Doyle considered it for a while longer, while his hand searched slowly
over Bodie's body. 

 "Come on, Ray," Bodie said. "You can take me all right, you're tougher
than you look." 

 There was admiration in that, and something else. 

 "Yeah, but it worries you, doesn't it?" Doyle guessed. 

 Bodie sighed as Doyle's rubbing fingers found a sensitive spot. "What
does?" 

 "Losing control." 

 "I reckon it worries everyone. Even you. But I--" 

 Doyle pounced on the pause. "--you what?" 

 Bodie opened his eyes and smiled, a peculiarly sweet smile. "--I trust
you." 

 That and the smile stopped Doyle's breath, stabbed his heart. He said:
"So you do. But, you know, I reckon--it just might not be your thing--" He
arched an eyebrow at Bodie, waiting. 

 Bodie lay there, relaxed, unconcerned. "I'd do it for you." 

 "Yeah," Doyle said softly, "you would, wouldn't you?" And he moved, into
Bodie's arms with a little arrogance, a little possessiveness which made
Bodie smile. 

 "We've got time," Doyle said into his ear when another kiss was over. "No
need to rush things. You said so yourself." His hands probed Bodie,
pressing on the muscles beneath satin skin, the sharpness of bone; he had
forgotten that Time was Bodie's *bête noire*. 

 "Did I?" Bodie said harshly: "Well, that was rash of me; now I'd say get
on with it, Doyle, if I were you." Iron arms and legs locked around Doyle,
pulled him downwards; Doyle resisted, fighting free, extricating himself
finally and rubbing at his left arm where Bodie's grip had burned him. 

 "Jesus, Bodie," he spat, glaring. He knelt back on his heels, straddling
his partner, breathing hard and ignoring the painful glow of abused skin.
Bodie just laughed in his face. 

 "Hurt you, did I?" and his eyes flashed a mocking glint. "Sorry, mate.
Just trying to get you going." 

 Doyle's stare was icy. "What the hell's got into you? I thought you'd
be--" 

 Suicide. He knew it instantly, would have caught it back but Bodie leapt
at it like a trickster snatching bullets out of the air: "Did you, Doyle?
Should be happy, should I, now that you've so generously, given me
everything? Perhaps I should be on my knees to you kissing your bloody
arse in gratitude--?" Then he grinned, a slow delightful smile which
didn't touch the burn of his eyes. "I suppose anything's possible." 

 Doyle sat back, dragging a hand across his lips, a bitter taste in his
mouth. "I didn't mean that and you know it." But he lied. 

 "Oh, don't give me that, Doyle," Bodie drawled, looking up at him with
amusement. "Don't tell me you don't think it's everyone's lifetime
ambition to come on to you." His hands settled onto Doyle's hips, pinched
him lightly. 

 Trying to work this through, Doyle battled his rising temper, his sense
that all this was slipping out of his grasp. He placed a hand flat on
Bodie's broad chest. "If you wanna keep it just sex, Bodie... Safer that
way. Keep your options open..." 

 Surprised, Bodie opened his eyes wide; he pursed his lips. Then he
sighed, a warm gust Doyle felt like a caress on his naked skin, blowing
his fears away. 

 "Ah, no Ray..." A charming, perverse smile lifted his features into pure,
arrogant mischief. "I reckon I could make you happy, all right." 

 And it was suddenly there again: Doyle breathed hard, and looked down at
Bodie, and felt, after all, that they had slipped once more into that
curious intimacy so intense there was room for nothing else. They had felt
it before, out on the job together. Bodie lifted a hand to trace the curls
around his face, taking infinite care, the drift of his fingers exquisite.
"But as to time... remember old Marvell, bloody winged chariot and all.
Shouldn't hang about too much, old son." 

 "Gather ye rosebuds?" Doyle asked, amused. Then thinking lewdly about it,
"Sounds all right." He ducked his head, kissed Bodie's chest, tasted salt
on each nipple. Bodie sighed, and pulled up the bedclothes around them:
the bed smelt warm and sultry. A nice place to be on a cold November
night. Leaning over Bodie's warm skin, the yielding of his belly, the
sweet pressure of his thigh: Doyle basked in it. 

 "This may be the longest night of our lives," Bodie said into his ear; it
jarred Doyle out of his pleasant driftings, and he was tired anyway. 

 "Certainly feels like it," he snapped. Bodie's silence was a speaking
one. "Stop it, Bodie. Just bloody stop it, will you? Don't be so bloody
*Camille*. Okay, so you've got a touch of the shadows. Not been too 'appy
lately. Me, neither. But it's over now and it's time to start looking past
a funeral with full military honours, because I missed my chance. Geddit?"
He paused, looked down deeply into Bodie's eyes, darker than his own and
wilder. "Nobody died, Bodie. *Nobody died.*" 

 "Not for want of tryin'," Bodie drawled, with that bright edge of cheery
insanity, and looking at the terrible wound on Doyle's chest, tightly
stretched and ridging as it healed: he touched it. Doyle let him, closing
his eyes. "Don't worry, Doyle; keep at it. You'll make it one day." 

 A shining rill of anger trickled through Doyle; but it ebbed when he saw
Bodie's expression. "Ah, Bodie. What am I gonna do with you, hey?" he
murmured, fierce with love and despair. 

 "Whatever you like," Bodie said, and there was suddenly so much warmth
about him, so much attraction, that Doyle gave himself into it wholly and
fled the dark with him, at least for a while. 

 ******

Bodie whistled in the shower; he seemed happy, though reading Bodie was
never easy. Some people took Bodie as he appeared to be: a born fighter,
somewhat mindless, a gleeful, malicious sense of humour like a boy. Not
many saw, or cared to see, the twisted line of character which centred
Bodie: it didn't matter, anyway. If there was something not quite safe
about Bodie it was to CI5's advantage. Not to mention Bodie's lover. And
the strength Doyle had feared, he found he worshipped. 

 Doyle was only too happy to follow Bodie way out, right out to the
limits... 

 To the end. 

 He poked his head around the bathroom door to find Bodie shaving. Bodie
winked at him and carried on, tracing the shaver around his jawline with
concentrated care. 

 Doyle wandered back and checked with Todman, then with Cowley; the
latter, he was told, was out of the office and unable to speak to him.
Doyle wrinkled his brow and frowned and looked out of the window. A feeble
sun was shining this morning. Bodie came into the room behind him and he
didn't turn, only rested his head against the arm Bodie slung around him
as he leaned to look out beside Doyle. Bodie smelt freshly of soap and
manly scents; Doyle could feel the warmth of him beneath his shirt. 

 After a while he said, "Can you think of any reason the Cow wouldn't want
to talk to us?" 

 "Yeah," Bodie drawled, and ruffled his hair, but Doyle remained pensive.
"Operation bloody Susie," he said, remembering. 

 Bodie looked suddenly alert: "Do you think--?" Then relaxing, "Nah,
Doyle, 's just your guilty conscience." 

 "I dunno," Doyle muttered. 

 "Oh all right, all right," Bodie said goodhumouredly. "I've always had me
faith in you, ever since you picked that winner at Kempton Park." He knelt
down on the floor and pulled out the bag containing their armoury. 

 Doyle's face twisted with an agonised grimace as the cruel memory
surfaced. "I never bet on the bloody thing!" 

 Bodie's smile was smug as he ranged out their ammunition neatly, sorting
it. "Yeah, I did though, didn't I?" 

 No need to remind him. "What did you do with the money?" Doyle asked
sourly. "Fifty to one, wannit?" 

 "Look, Ray, you can't say I didn't treat you with the proceeds." 

 "Oh yeah, I remember. Nelly's caf--sausage sandwich--cup of tea and a
digestive. 

 "Should back your own hunches, sunshine. Can't leave everything to me." 

 Doyle knelt beside him, helped him pack it so it was ready for instant
use. His eyes flashed up, met Bodie's levelly. "I'm backin' this one." 

 "Ah, no need to worry," Bodie said easily. "Could fight off an army with
this lot." 

 "How about Towser and Macklin?" Doyle suggested, and Bodie made a face. 

 "Now that's optimistic." 

 ******

The day passed. Nothing. 

 By the end of their watch the room began to close in on them. 

 "--and this is the Big Bopper," Bodie droned into the handset, "signin'
off for today. After the pips--" Doyle blew the pips through his hand--
"the airways are yours, boys." He held out the R/T for Doyle's final,
flourishing pip: then thumbed it off. 

 "That's it for another action-packed day. But cheer up, sweetheart: word
is they'll call us off tomorrow night. Before athlete's foot sets in." He
rose and stretched, arms behind his head. 

 "Why does Cowley want Soo anyway?" Doyle idly asked. 

 Bodie shrugged. "Bit of third degree, no questions asked, I suppose." 

 "Sprat to catch a mackerel?" 

 "Yeah, I reckon." 

 "Been reading up on the political side," Doyle said distantly, "and it
looks like Soo's about the worst choice the Council could have made, from
our point of view, that is. Very traditionalist. Goes right with the
floggings in the street, no truck with these nasty corrupting Western
ideas, sort of thing. Bet Cowley's intending a lecture on the virtues of
reform." 

 "Maybe," Bodie shrugged. "But he's not payin' Soo's salary, is he? Only
so much you can do to poke about in the way they choose to run their
country." 

 "Does Cowley know that, though?" 

 "Yeah, I reckon. Ours not to reason why, Doyle." 

 Hearing the ring of unfinished poetry and waiting for the inevitable,
Doyle regarded him grimly. Bodie chuckled despite himself and kissed him
lightly, with the kind of presumptuous arrogance Doyle had expected to
resent. 

 Instead he found himself holding onto Bodie and fighting thirstily for
more of his kisses; his hands slid around him, under his armpits, and
discovered the hard snub weapon, warmed by Bodie's heat. On a whim his
fingers rubbed it gently, slid over it and held onto it as he thrust
himself, hard, against Bodie's thigh. 

 When Bodie released him his eyes were bright with with knowing, even with
respect. "Randy old toad you are. Pretty, isn't it?" 

 In answer Doyle slipped the weapon out of its snug leather holster: it
came smoothly, just as it should. His hand curled around it with the ease
of familiarity--after all, his own was identical--and he cradled it
between them, Bodie's thighs pressing against his own: he felt Bodie's
unease, the tensing of his hands behind Doyle's back, but Bodie stayed
with him, didn't move. 

 The smooth shining metal was warm to his touch, the black tunnel stared
up at them with its one bold eye. Light smacked off it smartly; it glinted
its arrogance. The ultimate symbol of power; anyone would bow to the one
who held it. 

 Bodie's breath stirred his hair as lips slid around to his ear. "Safety
on, is it?" 

 Doyle felt for it with his thumb and flicked it off. As he did so he felt
his loins flood with obscene pleasure and excitement. 

 Bodie's eyes were wary now, his grasp on Doyle loose but sure. "Gonna
kill us both, is that it?" 

 "So you keep on sayin'," Doyle replied, the lick of his tongue around his
half-smile slow. "Might as well be now as 'ang around waitin' for it." 

 "Never could stand in a queue, could you, Doyle?" Bodie drawled; he was
tensed with alarm, yet he held on. Doyle might be playing, he might be
serious: he had the character for it either way. And Bodie did not care to
take a chance on it. 

 "'S true," Doyle said, pressing closer. Bodie could feel how hot he was,
his body damp with sweat beneath the thin shirt. "You're so damn sure
we're gonna snuff it, Bonnie an' Clyde and all that, why not cheat and go
for it before it comes for us? Why not, Bodie, eh?" He jabbed the gun
upwards and Bodie recoiled grimly. 

 "Just bloody watch it, will you, 'cos I'm not sure a hole in the jaw is
the best way to go." 

 "Then what is?" Doyle asked. He pressed the gun to Bodie's belly, soft
muscle ridging to hard as the snub barrel probed. "Here?" He trawled it
upwards, settled it on a soft spot midway between the breastbone, over the
pulsing heart. "Or here? Do the job all right, this range." His eyes were
shining: no doubts. No fear. 

 One second away from death Bodie acted, seized the weapon from Doyle and
clicked the safety on as he jerked Doyle's wrist hard, and held him
harder, and thrust the gun straight for his genitals, caressing the
outline of his cock with an arrogant sweep of the weapon: "How about here,
since this is where all this is comin' from?" Tenderly, lingering, he eyed
the pale pinkness of his partner's mouth, a part of Doyle which always
featured in the occasional sweaty fantasy he had indulged himself with
when longing had seemed a far step from reality: gently, carefully, he
traced the Magnum around the sensuous curve of the mouth, then slipped it
between lips which parted for it. "There, Ray," he said, voice low, "it's
a substitute, innit? You suck on this--" he pressed it in a little
deeper-- "when what you really want is something else. Something that
won't blow away the back of your head when it goes off." He smiled, a
curve of arrogance. "Not quite, anyway." And then he snatched the gun
away, spun it in his hand. 

 Doyle tasted metal laced with corbomite and spat, wiping his mouth on his
hand, glaring at Bodie. Bodie took him in two hands again, gentle but
inexorable, a smooth course set in motion by Doyle's perversity and
unstoppable now. Doyle knew what was coming--indeed, he had courted
it--and fear laced his high excitement; his heart knocked in his ears and
he felt dizzy, his head ringing. 

 "Tastes nasty, eh?" Bodie whispered to him. "Let's see if we can chase it
away. Something sweeter--" 

 Doyle heard the rasp of a zipper; closed his eyes trembling; heard the
dark whisper: "Come on, Ray. Kneel for me." And, blind but sure, he knelt,
knowing that Bodie would not disappoint him. 

 He felt the caress of it over his ear, and the cold kiss of it at his
temple. 

 He said, muffled: "Keep it there." 

 "Of course," Bodie said above him, and smiled, and shut his eyes. 

 ******

In the night he woke, and found Bodie propped on one elbow, and watching
him again by the moonlight which cast a path through unshaded glass. The
room was silvery, Bodie's face pale; he met Doyle's wideopen eyes. Smiled:
briefly, then the smile died; he resumed his brooding, self-absorbed stare
at Doyle's body. 

 "A'right?" Doyle asked him, yawning. They were both rather short on
sleep, and nights in a single bed were cramped. He lay back on the pillow
and examined Bodie's face, stark and perfect in the pale purity of
moonshine, his eyes darkened by shadows. 

 "You're beautiful, Ray, you know that?" Bodie asked, in a strangely
detached, almost impersonal way. 

 Of all things... A gurgle arose in Doyle's throat. "You don't mean that."


 But the silence, even the intensity of Bodie's gaze had something
disturbing about it: the dark, melancholy sweep of Bodie's fears became
monstrous, filled the room from within, beating on the window. 

 "Don't you want this?" Doyle asked quietly; he slipped his hands into
Bodie's armpits for the delights of warmth, and silken hair damp to his
touch: "Don't you, Bodie?" 

 Bodie stared at him, aloof, almost aristocratic, an expression Doyle
would have laughed at outright under any other circumstances. 

 "Don't be bloody stupid." 

 Because love, when it turned this way, might free you from one kind of
misery even as it enslaved you with others; but you could never, having
once tasted it, spit it away in the wind. 

 "Bodie--I need you," Doyle said, panicking suddenly, snatching at time
the way Bodie did. And Bodie smiled at him, a little quirk of his cheek as
he touched Doyle's hand, lacing their fingers gently. "I know." 

 The comfort of it was immense; as he settled down to sleep again, near to
Bodie, he knew they would be all right. 

 The were both of them complex, unpredictable, with stardrive needs born
of the path they had taken; but together they would be all right. 

 *Wherever he needed to go, Bodie would take him* 

 He fell asleep. 

 ******

Bodie went down for breakfast, ate enormously, smiled sweetly at the
waitress and at Fred, and returned to call Cowley. 

 The old man was unavailable. 

 Bodie shook his head. "I dunno, Doyle. 'S odd." 

 "That's what I've been sayin', innit?" Doyle began with painstaking
earnestness, "I'm beginning to wonder--think we should confer with Spud 'n
Dud?" 

 "Nah, they'll just take your head off," Bodie disagreed. "Listen, today's
the deadline, right? Nothing happens today, we clear out, leaving, of
course, a tip for the maid." 

 "Payin' our bill?" Doyle wondered. 

 Bodie gave it his best concentration. "Nah. She can send it on to
Cowley." 

 Doyle was pushing past him as he spoke; Bodie tripped him, catching him
and tipping him back in his arms, Doyle instantly arching perilously,
tango-style. Bodie began to hum something Spanish. "We gotta stop meeting
like this," Doyle breathed, a centimetre away. 

 "Yeah: this any better?" Bodie agreed, crossing his eyes and leering. 

 Doyle came up from the impossible position in a fluid move, and he was
chuckling. Bodie sank onto the bed and watched him. 

 Bodie did not yet dare to believe in what had happened to them: it seemed
safest not to look it in the eye lest it bang in his face and vanish. He
was playing it by ear; Ray was difficult. Not easy to understand,
disturbingly sexual: not, most definitely, an easy ride. Keep him
guessing, that was the thing; keep him intrigued: look at the way Ray was
looking at him now, interest and appreciation livening his eyes. Bodie
blew him a kiss, and smiled. 

 He still had plenty of tricks up his sleeves; oh yes, Ray might surely
think he was the last word in brilliant sexual eccentricity, but Bodie
knew better, and more, and worse... 

 Then, when it was all passing, all that sexual rush and fury, perhaps
they might find out what they really had going for them. 

 If they got that far, of course. 

 He caught Doyle's hand, and pulled him towards him. Noting the darkening
shades of mood, Doyle said, "Now what?" 

 "Do you believe in premonition, Ray?" Bodie asked him, keeping him there
with easy strength, holding onto his hand. 

 Looking straight into his eyes, Doyle said, "Yes, I suppose I do." 

 Bodie nudged his knee against Doyle's thigh, a new and precious intimacy.
"Then take me seriously." 

 Doyle was quiet for a moment, staring down. Then he lifted his eyes and
said lightly, "I know what's the trouble with you. Don't suppose you were
too thrilled about the prospect of a new partner, just when you'd got me
trained." 

 Bodie picked up his cue, "Yeah, took long enough--" but his heart wasn't
in it and he continued, his voice dropping, "Listen, Ray--" and he saw the
irritation flash into Doyle's eyes, his unwillingness to go over and over
it. Bodie just said: "There's a little voice in my head keeps telling me
this is borrowed time, Ray. That's all." 

 Doyle politely retrieved his hand, squatting by the bed. He began to stir
around in the ammunition case, sticking clips into his pockets, sliding
them into the tight back pocket of his jeans. Bodie squatted too, watching
him very carefully, very seriously, eyes on the rounded curve of his
partner's cheek. He raised his hand to shape a caress around it, light as
a butterfly's wing. He said, consideringly: "I'd really hate, you know, to
lose you. So soon." 

 Perfectly still, Doyle watched him, his eyes a stony grey. Bodie smiled
at him, puffed out his cheeks and blew a straggling curl off his forehead,
hummed a few bars of 'Waltzing Matilda'; then breaking off, grinning at
Doyle's faraway expression. "Ah, don't look like that, Ray. Like your
budgie died and you'd just bought a new tin of seed." 

 "What do you *want*, Bodie?" Doyle asked with a kind of desperation,
brought up at last to stare Bodie's point in the face. "Set ourselves up
in a little glass case or something and look out at the world?" Bodie was
silent, his eyes dwelling on Doyle's face, eyes, mouth. After a moment
Doyle remembered to speak again; he said, more gently, "We couldn't live
that way, fella. Get bored in no time, we would." 

 "Can't do without this, is that it?" Angered now, Bodie reached out and
flipped Doyle's gun. "Feel less of a man without it, do you? You could
always take up killing birds." 

 A little stain of colour crept along Doyle's cheekbones: his head lifted
and he stared Bodie in the eye. "Comin' from you, that's sweet. You got a
licence in triplicate: didn't want to take any chances on losin' it, didja
Bodie?" 

 But Bodie had already repented. "Ah don't, Ray. Don't let's fight. Okay,
if that's what you want. We'll go on till Cowley retires us, gives us our
old age pension and the CI5 gold watch for distinguished service in the
field." 

 He winked at Doyle and got up, to ease cramping thighs. Doyle stayed
there a moment longer, thinking. "Waltzin' Matilda, Matilda, my darlin',"
Bodie sang quietly, looking out of the window. 

 "That's not the tune," Doyle said absently. 

 "Nah, it is," Bodie said loftily. "Proper, original tune that is." 

 Doyle looked up at him, momentarily diverted. "You're up the chute,
Bodie. It goes like this." And he la-laed unselfconsciously. 

 Bodie made a face. "Too bloody Rolf Harris, mate. *This* is the original.
As learnt in the Ozzie outback, in person." And he resumed his
performance. 

 Matilda, my darling. A strange sweet sinking filled Doyle's belly, as he
got up. He was thinking something quite ridiculous: that to be Bodie's
darling, to have the other man lay claim to him with just that endearment,
might just be his own personal price. A price above nations, above rubies;
above pride itself. 

 "Bodie." He sprang up and over to where his partner leaned forward, hands
on the sill. "Just had a thought." 

 Bodie mimed shock, arrest, disbelief. "Come here." His hand settled on
Doyle's forehead. "Take it easy now Ray, still comin' is it?" 

 "How about this. Ask the Cow to be taken off Active. Too old, lost our
bottle, got religion, whatever. Go into admin.--who knows, you might end
up in Cowley's spot, he's gotta die some time, 'asn't he? Or on the
trainin' side of things. You know--here's the shooter,
make-a-will-and-do-it-quick-sort of thing." 

 Bodie stared at him, unsure how to take this. "You serious?" Doyle
thought about it, lip caught between teeth, then he nodded. 

 "You'd do that?" 

 "Yeah, I reckon." 

 "Right now?" Bodie said. 

 Doyle shook his head. "Ah, no. See this one out, eh? Safe enough 'ere
even for you, innit? Go and practise your knots or somethin'." And Bodie
subsided to think it over; their whole lives on the brink of change. 

 It was perhaps ten minutes later when Doyle, his hands clasped moodily
around a mug of coffee, spotted a limousine drawing up outside the
embassy. "Bodie." His hand went out, grabbed his partner's sleeve. "Wha'?"
Bodie applied himself to the binoculars. The door of the car opened and
out got a tall man, flanked by two more. "Yeh, that's 'im," Bodie said
economically, grabbing the R/T and tossing it to Doyle, who was checking
his gun, swift and obsessive, stuffing it inside his jacket: "Better wake
up the Spud. This is it mate."

 The fire-escape was a rickety iron contraption. They flew down it five
steps at a time, Bodie addressing his R/T as he ran: "How long?"

 *"One minute,"* the R/T said. *"Get to it, laddo, meet you there."*

 Action. Adrenalin pumped through Doyle's veins, giving him a dizzying
rush of fear and excitement; he steadied, as he always did, tasted the
extra drive of it, the edge. The very air seemed stronger, keener around
him, he felt alive and ready to go. This was more like it. Swiftly and
unobtrusively he slipped around the rear of the small white building, gun
drawn, dragging on a black hood--absolute anonymity, that was in the
ground rules, but he momentarily hated it; and then he forgot it. Bodie,
ex-Para, looked at home in his as he scudded around the side of the
building at the identical moment to Doyle; he gestured to indicate that
Todman and Flaherty were in position at the front-- counting one, two,
three-- Doyle and Bodie charged the door, running, flying kick bashing it
down. Immediately the piercing whine of an alarm sounded; they ignored it.
If this was going to work at all it had to be fast: should be, Christ,
they'd planned it often enough, exactly this strike-and-run scenario. They
arrived in a pillared hall: empty. Looking up they could see a galleried
landing with two, three doors opening onto it, very dangerous, had to
watch it all the time. Keeping his eyes stretched wide Bodie motioned
Doyle in front of him, up the stairs, covering every angle except the rear
which was the job of their colleagues, no chance to check, just trust. 

 *Doyle was right out there in the bloody front line,* oh god the
thoughtless courage of him. The alarm wailed mournfully. Doyle reached the
top of the stairs. And at that moment a man burst out of one of the doors
and centred the gun he held on Doyle. 

 Instantly Bodie killed him, steadying the gun carefully on his other
hand: nerves did not affect him at all as he shot, not until he realised,
as the man cartwheeled over the banister and thudded to the floor, just
how close Doyle had come. His heart thudding and his guts diving Bodie was
up the last four stairs in a flash, ejecting spent cartridges and slipping
in others. "Cover me," he said tersely. "I'm goin' in." 

 Doyle spat and wiped his mouth. "The fuck you are." They had never, not
since the first days of training, played it that way. Doyle, faster and
smaller, had always gone in first, ably and expertly covered by his
partner, the better long-range shot. 

 In that second, looking into Doyle's dead, cold eyes, Bodie knew and
understood that there were harder ways of losing Doyle than seeing him
fall. 

 Eyes hard and bleak, he drew up his gun, gestured Doyle on his way. 

 Soo was there, in the first room, with the two men he had entered the
building with. Both had guns drawn, both loosed off shots as Doyle burst
in yelling and diving-- "Freeze!" 

 The shots whined past and smacked into the doorjamb, over the head of the
man rolling. Then there was Bodie, there behind him, the large Uzi up and
ready. 

 For a moment no-one moved. 

 A smile crossed Bodie's lips. The worst was over: Doyle was alive,
sitting up on the floor. "Come on, drop 'em. You can't argue with this,
can you?" And he lifted the black heavy machine-gun, ready, despite the
touch of humour to fire; resolute. 

 "Only sensible," Doyle added, catlike and watchful as he crouched on the
floor. "He won't hesitate, you know, 'e got out of bed the wrong side." 

 With a gesture to his companions, Soo raised his hands. With a mutter,
they dropped their guns. 

 Doyle darted in to pick them up. "Now you come nice an' quietly," he said
to Soo, "No-one'll get hurt. Someone just wants a little chat with you,
thass all." 

 "Maybe a cup of tea if you're lucky," Bodie chimed in poshly. 

 Doyle pursed his lips, sucked in his cheeks. "Ooh, that's pushin' it a
bit. Thursday, innit?" And they were off, clattering down the stairs, Soo
in front of them, cheerful in their satisfaction that the job had gone off
well, no bloodshed, Mission (stage one) Accomplished. 

 No sign of Spud and Dud. Bodie thrust Soo none too gently into the rear
of the Capri parked exactly where their fellow agents had promised; the
man was wearing a dark overcoat, had a certain nobility to his darkeyed
looks. He acquiesced to Bodie's manhandling with a kind of patience; it
occurred to Bodie that almost certainly he thought he was being taken to
his execution. So he winked at him and gave a grin. "Nothing to worry
about. Like 'e said, just a talk." 

 "I don't spik your language," Amun Soo said coldly. 

 "This language--? Universal," Doyle told him, looking in the rear mirror,
and they were off, gunning away from the kerb with a terrible screech of
tyres. Bodie winced delicately. Thank god it wasn't his car! 

 Ten yards down the road was a blueshirted bobby. Doyle whistled, uncouth
as ever. "Close, that." 

 "Nah, had a story ready," Bodie said unperturbed, as if explaining away
the abduction of a diplomat from the sacred ground of an embassy with a
submachine gun dangling form your arm was of small matter to a talented
liar. 

 Doyle had the R/T out, driving with one hand on the wheel, using a
prearranged code: "Baby's in the cradle. On our way to the nursery. ETA
ten minutes." 

 *"Message received and understood, Night-hawk."* 

 Doyle chucked the handset over the back of the seat to Bodie. "Think
we'll get our merit awards for this?" 

 "Nope," Bodie said gloomily, "more likely a fulltime post in this
department. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be too good, y'know." As he spoke
he spotted a brown van, which he had also spotted in the last street. 

 Doyle was looking in the rear mirror. "There's still a chance." 

 "You spotted it," Bodie said in admiration. "They don't call you
Nighthawk for nothing. Would you care for a little lie down?" This last
politely, to Soo: a flash of blue eyes and he had pressed the man, gently
enough, to the seat and covered him with a rug. 

 "Been with us since we started," Doyle said on a note of surprise;
because no-one should have got away from the Embassy in time to follow
them, that was what Flaherty and Todman were there for. Speaking of whom--
"I suppose it's not our little friends, is it? You know how they love a
party." 

 "They got a Capri, haven't they? Standard issue, innit?" 

 "Except 6.2. He got the 2CV." 

 "Yeh, but that's because he told Our Leader he was a cognac man." 

 Doyle swerved down a side street without signalling then doubled back
around the square. When the silver nose of the Capri slipped out onto the
road again, they could see the brown rear of the van a hundred yards in
front of them. 

 "That's beautiful, mate," Bodie said, impressed. A dark head could be
seen poking out of the van's rear window. "Look--" Bodie pulled Soo's head
up for a brief look-- "That a friend of yours, sunshine?" He patted the
head back down again, onto his lap. 

 The man looked up at him, cool and impassive. He had a certain
aristocracy to his looks; Bodie was fleetingly reminded of Persian
nobility, flying carpets and forty thieves. "I have no friends in this
country." 

 "I know the feeling," Bodie said with a grimace. *Poor bugger, doesn't
look like a terrorist. Probably got a photo of his kids in his pocket.*
"How long, Ray?" Still, an hour with 

 Cowley never killed anyone. Came pretty damn close at times, mind you.
But that was only if you worked for him. This fella'd be back home by
teatime, with a good story to tell--ABDUCTED by aliens! TAKEN in a strange
craft! INTERROGATED by a small green Scot with a limp!-- 

 Doyle's voice cut into his lightening thoughts: "Ten minutes if we're
lucky. Fifteen if there's bloody lights on the Finniston Road again." 

 "Who are you?" Soo asked suddenly; his dark eyes, open and big as
pansies, had never left Bodie's face. 

 Bodie looked down at him, saw the curl of his nostrils, the tint of his
skin brushed by a brighter sun than ever shone here. 

 "Nobody," he echoed softly. "Me and him--nobody at all." And Amun Soo met
his eyes for a moment in perfect understanding, for in the context of
duty, he too was nobody; a cypher to be moved by his country at will. 

 Bodie was to remember this afterwards, when it became important to him to
believe that the man understood, would not blame Bodie for what happened;
but instead what lingered to haunt him was a sense of his own treachery.
Quite unjustified. He no more than any of them knew what lay ahead as they
travelled along the wide London road, eyes shaded against the dazzle of
the low November sun. 

 The turned off the bypass at last, took narrow streets again. Doyle was
giving the insect-dotted windscreen a blast with antifreeze, the wipers
swishing this way and that; he was driving fast but not urgently. Postbox,
petshop, fish and chippie. Into an industrial backwater, bodyshops
littered with rusting tools. And here was the particular graveyard of
abandoned vehicles they sought; Doyle turned in. As he did so, Bodie's
"Wait a minute!" clashed with his own curse: "Christ, Bodie! That's not--"


 Turning in behind them was the little brown van. 

 "If there's anything you want to tell us," Doyle said. 

 "--now might be a good time," Bodie added, brighteyed. He was stashing
ammo into a belt, sorting it fast and furious. But Soo looked merely
blank. 

 "*Was* 'e behind?" Doyle said urgently, swinging their car along a
covering line of vehicles, bumping up and down on the rough terrain. 

 "No, no chance," Bodie said calmly. "No way both of us could have missed
him." 

 "Then someone somewhere's a bit leaky." He pulled the car to a scorching
halt behind the disused garage offices. "Where the *hell* is the old man?"
He pulled out his gun, checked it speedily. 

 Bodie gave him a slow smile beneath the burn of his eyes. "How does 'not
here' sound to you?" 

 "Very likely," Doyle said grimly, and thumped his hand onto the
dashboard: "*Damnit!* You beginning to get the feeling we've been set up?"


 "Or strung up." Bodie glanced over at the van, a hundred yards away, from
which two, three--too bloody many--brown figures were emerging. 

 Doyle cast him a swift glance, stuffing his pockets full of bullets,
clips, the lot. "I take it all back, 3.7, you're a bloody seer. *You* can
pick the Kempton Park runner next time." 

 "Never works on anything good," Bodie said glumly. Time was running out
on them. They dragged Soo out of the car and dashed around the back into
the office. They could see, all around them, little brown-overalled men
like crabs scuttling for cover, finding vantage points-- 

 "Safe House," Doyle said viciously. He dropped to one knee behind a
window, sighted his gun through it, grim and set and in a rage. 

 "These--are they your friends?" Soo asked, from where he lay on the
floor, pushed there by Bodie and snarled at to stay. 

 "Nope. Are they yours?" Bodie asked grimly, busy. 

 "No." 

 "Party's not going to be much fun then, is it?" Bodie said with sweet,
black temper, blue eyes gleaming and watchful, very very watchful as they
darted all around, front, back, sides, front. 

 "Where the *hell* is Cowley?" Doyle exploded as they crawled onto the
floor and examined the empty room for vantage points. 

 This seemed, at present, just about as dangerous as anything they had
ever done. Bodie was deeply troubled, searching his mind for something,
anything, which would get them out of here alive; but right now he just
had this grim feeling they'd get no takers at all on life insurance.
*Pity. Sorry, Auntie Sheila. Never mind. You'll like me African tusk
thing.* "Too many bloody windows," he muttered, savagely thrusting the
butt of his gun through the glass, recovering it and sighting it in
through the hole: little brown spiders, scuttling. "We're going to get
surrounded in here, Doyle." 

 Doyle snorted. "Thanks, Bodie. I hadn't noticed that." He was seething,
breathing quite hard: but he forced himself to slow down, calm his nerves,
set himself straight. "I don't like this. There's something wrong." 

 "Maybe we should just make our excuses and leave?" 

 "So where are Spud an' bloody Dud when we need 'em?" 

 Bodie didn't answer that. He was remembering Todman, taking up a position
at the front of the building. And a whisk of flying blond hair as his
partner circled the corner beyond. 

 And then--nothing. 

 "Yeah, I think we should be tryin' to make a run for it," Doyle decreed,
watching like a hawk for the first move, for any move at all. 

 "That's brilliant, mate. Trouble is, the Old Man wanted us here--" 

 "Old Man isn't here himself. And I thought he was the Star Guest." 

 "--other trouble is, I've got this feelin' that now we're 'ere, they may
just fancy a quick game before we leave," Bodie concluded with gritty
fatalism. 

 Actually, something was happening, but not the quick explosive start they
were tensed for. A man with a megaphone was approaching the ramshackle
building, one arm raised. 

 "That's brave," Bodie muttered, raising his rifle an inch, "I wouldn't
like his job." 

 "What makes you think we haven't got it?" Doyle growled; his mind was
working overtime on things he planned to say to Cowley when they got back.


 *"YOU KNOW WHAT WE'RE HERE FOR,"* boomed out the megaphone. *"LEAVE IT
AND GO AND THERE'LL BE NO TROUBLE."* 

 Bodie looked down at Soo, and back up at Doyle. Soo made no pleas for his
life, did not beg them to stay. "He doesn't look like a terrorist, does
'e?" Bodie said softly, to his partner, and Doyle just shook his head,
crouching on his haunches, whipcord thighs straining his tight and faded
jeans. 

 "I think we should take it back where we found it." 

 "Flying carpet?" Bodie suggested sarcastically, because clearly they
wouldn't even get as far as the road. 

 "In the Embassy, I was safe," Soo said. "Many people worked hard to bring
me there, where I might be protected. And you have undone all that." He
said it with no particular reproach, still calm, merely laying the facts
before them. 

 "Who's after you?" Doyle demanded, hard and direct. 

 Soo shrugged. "It could be many people...in my position, one has many
enemies. Particularly now, when the election is due." 

 "We've got to get him back there," Doyle said. "It's the only way to get
a chance--" 

 "Oh brilliant, Doyle," Bodie snapped, getting edgy. "I'll just pop out
and explain then, shall I?" Doyle was on the R/T now, picking up a crackle
of static; he flipped it, banged it. "Still no back-up." 

 "Trouble," Bodie muttered; all of this had an increasingly nasty look to
it, like something recovered from the back of the fridge. The man with the
megaphone was retreating, at a run; obviously they had decided enough lip
service had been paid to negotiation. "Well, if you're ready, mate, I
think they are." 

 And as the bangs and blasts began, Doyle said to Bodie: "You were right,
you know. Let's open a cafe together," but he was never sure if Bodie had
heard him, because by then they were in the thick of it. 

 ******

Soo died very early on, struck quickly and cleanly by a bullet in the
head. The two CI5 men lasted quite a long time, scooping and pressing and
aiming and firing, firing; the air was blue and the skies seemed to ring
with noise. There was so much blood and confusion that Doyle could not
decide, crawling hazily about the floor some time later, whether or not
Bodie was dead; he was silent, marble-white, and his right hand appeared
to be in bloody tatters. It didn't seem to matter a great deal, since
Doyle knew it was only a matter of time before they came in here and
finished everyone off, himself included; he couldn't shoot any more, too
damn tired, something wrong in his chest. 

 *Too many. Sorry, Bodie.* He laid his head down next to the dark one of
his mate. *Gave it our best shot.* 

 Only he had the feeling it had all been bloody futile. 

 ******

They met in the corridor outside Cowley's office. It had been a long time,
and each found the changes in the other unsettling, but then there were
bound to be changes. Bodie looked fit but for the sling and bandage he
wore on his right hand; he was thinner, grimmer. Doyle was quiet: still
thin, still greyish. He would pick up, no doubt, in warmer weather. 

 By now, some three weeks after the trouble, they had each of them pieced
it all together; and nothing they had learned predisposed them fondly
towards Cowley. And so the interview began. 

 "You wanted him dead," Doyle accused, eyes hard and stony, "so you set
him up. Someone else kills him, and *you* come out of it smelling of
roses." 

 Cowley eyed his surly operative coldly. "The British Government wanted
him dead, Doyle, and this way we've avoided any hint of an international
incident. You know quite well if you've read the papers that any number of
his own countrymen were out for his life before the election takes place.
Now the party he represents will be, in all likelihood, overthrown and
replaced by one--less *extreme* in its views. I tell you, the world's a
safer place today without him in it." 

 "Who's to judge that?" Doyle said, quiet, but in his eyes were depths of
violence. 

 Cowley said: "I did, Doyle. I judged that." 

 "Funny that," Bodie said, stirring from where he leaned against the wall.
"Then why do I feel as if his death's on my conscience?" 

 "And mine." Doyle's gaze never left Cowley for an instant. 

 "Not only that," Bodie said lightly, "but his death came rather
expensive, wouldn't you say?" The fingers of his one good hand tapped
unceasingly on the wall. "At the price of Todman, for example. And nearly
at the price of Doyle and me, as well." 

 "You've forgotten something, Bodie," Doyle said. "We're expendable. In
black and white on our contracts, that is." 

 Cowley made a noise, an exclamation. He pushed his chair away from the
desk and stood up, a small, irascible man who still had the power to chill
his operatives with a glance, a word--even these two. He met their eyes
unflinchingly, angry in his own right. "Ach, Doyle. You and Bright-Eyes
there were meant to dump Soo and run. No-one said you had to hang around
doing your Western Heroes act." 

 "Yeh, but we wouldn't have," Bodie burst out, stung, "if we'd had back-up
to cover us out, would we?" 

 That silenced them all for a moment, for these two, bruised and hurt and
altered as they were, had at least come back. Todman hadn't been so lucky.
Killed by some bodyguard's bullet before he ever left the Embassy, his
term of duty with George Cowley finished before its time. 

 And theirs? 

 Cowley did not mention the future. Nor did they. 

 In the circumstances, an astonishing omission. 

 ******

Bodie turned right outside the grey anonymous building which housed CI5,
head down, trudging along. Doyle kept up with him. 

 "Where you going?" 

 "Physio," Bodie said. He did not look at Doyle. 

 Doyle asked because he had to: "You gonna be able to shoot with that
thing?" Bodie's hand was a mess, shattered horrifically in crossfire:
ironic. They had delivered Soo to his execution, as per the (hush-hush)
behest of Her Majesty's Government who paid their salaries and required of
them to ask no questions even in the dirtiest wars: if they had been
knocked about a little in the process, so what? They had done their job.
Their wages were safe. 

 Bodie met his eyes then, and a chill swept across Doyle's skin, starting
at his cheeks and travelling quickly downwards so that he felt drenched
with cold all through. "Who knows?" Bodie shrugged: two words to dismiss
his livelihood, his life. 

 Doyle opened his mouth to speak, but could not. Bodie was turning, about
to go on his way; a separate entity now, encased in walls of grey
solitude. Doyle could scarcely believe that once they had-- 

 Shared something intolerably precious. Better to drift apart, now, like
this, than go the way they had been falling. 

 Not because what they had was not strong enough. 

 "Shall I come?" he heard himself ask, a last shot in the dark. 

 But because it was, as Bodie had seen, too strong by far for either of
them to survive the breaking of it. 

 Bodie was looking at him brusquely, ice in his eyes. "No, don't bother." 

 Better this way. He had seen Spud: ferociously dryeyed, burning up
within. It was not comfortable to be near him. 

 He watched Bodie go on his way. Something was breaking inside him, but it
was all for the best. Darkness was encroaching on the street; it was
November, the evenings started early. Soon it would be Christmas, buses
packed with shoppers, Santa everywhere you looked. He watched every step
of Bodie's, but Bodie did not get very far along the pavement, his pace
faltering, then bringing him to a halt. 

 He turned around, and faced Doyle. "Ray?" 

 Doyle could not answer, his throat choked. 

 "Come with me, will you?" Bodie asked, almost diffidently, and Doyle
nodded. Wherever they had to go-- 

 They would go together. 

 He began to run.

 -- THE END --

 *September 1991 
 Originally published in *...As Two £3 Notes*, Oblique Publications, 1991*

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