The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Cow's Tale: Doyle in the Manger 
     The Cow's Tale: Doyle in the Manger

 

by Dorinda

  
 These boys! Aye, I know, they're grown men when it comes right down to
it, but as far as I'm concerned, boys they are and boys they'll stay.
Especially my boy; for all he outstrips me by inches and outweighs me by
two stone, I still get an urge to turn him over my knee when he's been
particularly backward on the job.

Or off the job, come to think of it. That lad's got the stubbornest
nature. Can't think where he gets it from.

From the time I first brought Bodie into CI5, I had a partner picked out
for him. Not consciously; I don't have a computer stored away in my head,
despite my reputation. I seldom admit that, of course. It does me no end
of good to be thought omniscient. It's observation and intuition, nothing
magical about it, but it's taken a long, hard road to turn it into as fine
a skill as it's become. That's not an old man's ego speaking, it's nothing
but the truth--and not always a pleasant truth. Many's the day I wish I
didn't know so much about so many people. At the very least, my life would
be easier. But I've always said that life wasn't meant to be easy. And so
my deeper knowledge and my gut instincts told me that ex-copper Ray Doyle
was the one for my Bodie, the one that would turn him from a solid agent
into half of something greater.

Little did I know.

Or perhaps I did know the whole of it somehow, the same way I often know
what Bodie's thinking before he does himself. Perhaps I knew what he
needed to make him complete. Or perhaps that's nothing but a heap of
sentimental rubbish, it really doesn't matter one way or another in the
end. What matters is what happened. As I expected, Doyle and Bodie took to
one another with all the peacefulness of nitro and glycerine. It certainly
wasn't easy, not at first. But the energy there, the charge, eventually
soaked in and ran through them like electric current, fusing them over
time into a partnership the likes of which CI5 has seldom seen. I didn't
waste time congratulating myself when there was work to be done, but I was
pleased. I told them so, mostly when I was giving them a dressing down for
one thing or another. No sense in swelling their heads up so far they
forget to be careful. It only takes one moment of inattention. The leg
reminds me of that most days, even with the new physical therapy, and I
take care to pass that reminder on to the Squad. Forcefully.

After a time, the partnership turned into more than I had first intended.
Again, I think perhaps I saw it coming before either of them did...that's
intuition for you. I distinctly remember when they finally realised it
between themselves, because they returned from a week's leave spent
together and crept about the halls like a pair of schoolboys. On their
best behaviour--certainly not their usual manner. It made me laugh. What
were they expecting? Did they think I was blind? And if not blind, did
they think I was daft?

I'm no one's maiden auntie. I may be called the Cow (not to my face, of
course, unless it's out of my own mouth), but I'm not one, nor gelded
steer. I've known and served with different kinds of men all my life, and
there have always been those among them who paired up with each other.
They've called themselves different things over the generations, and
sometimes I can't be bothered to keep up. In fact, I can't be bothered,
full stop. What do I care where a man sleeps, as long as he's at my back
when I need him? I have better things to worry about.

I suppose a man of my background is expected to be a hidebound martinet.
It had certainly seemed that way to that lad Pellin. Poor boy made very
sure to insist that he "wasn't a homosexual himself"...as if he half
expected me to put him back in an armlock. And from the way Doyle and
Bodie suddenly became good as gold, I think they had a few visions of
armlocks and the like as well. Ridiculous.

I left it to them to sort themselves out, and time went on. Doyle stayed
wary, as he tends to do, but of course Bodie figured out there was nothing
to fear from me. He settled back into his trouble-making ways, and after a
bit, Doyle followed. And whatever instinct had led me to partner them, and
led them to pair even further with each other, it more than proved its
worth over the next few years. They read each other with uncanny skill,
and saw one another into and out of situations that would have killed
anyone else. If a change in sexual mores could guarantee that sort of
death-defying performance from the rest of the Squad, I'd consider making
personal involvement mandatory--no matter the gender of the
partners--rather than officially frowned on and unofficially overlooked. I
wouldn't have to order so many funeral wreaths. So many young lives. A man
gets tired.

Och, well. Time's getting on, mustn't get maudlin. As I was saying, 3.7
and 4.5 were living a charmed life, tied together body and soul as they
were. For three years they managed it, until even I found myself falling
into the habit of believing them immortal. Believing one of those cliches
about love conquering all and so forth. And then Doyle, damn the boy,
"changed his mind."

That's what Bodie told me, in any case, and believe me it took more than a
few stern scoldings backed with a few shared bottles of pure malt to get
that much out of him. Not his fault, sir, can't be helped, sir, no harm
done, sir. All the while his eyes telling me more than he wanted me to
know. More than I wanted to know.

The partnership continued. No reason for it not to, and they were still my
best. For the moment. But as Brian might say, the cracks slowly began to
show. No longer the easy give and take. No longer quite as telepathic as
they had been. Ideas about immortality, about amor vincit omnia, slipped
away. I briefly considered writing down the rules about personal
involvement in the small print, no longer overlooking anything officially
or unofficially, before I came to my senses. But this was putting lines of
strain in Bodie's face that years of danger and sacrifice hadn't been able
to do. One night after we had cleared away the better part of a bottle of
Cragganmore, I asked him straight out why he was so determined to suffer.
And the drink and the company had gotten in past his shell, it seemed,
because he told me that love doesn't mind being hurt. That was more than I
could stand. Hearing that patient resignation, for all the world like a
whipped dog, from Bodie of all people--! Well. It was becoming
intolerable. I made up my mind to put it right.

Doyle never has been quite as amenable to a lecture as my Bodie (blood is
thicker than water, they say). This called for a more subtle approach. The
first step was to uncover Doyle's reasons, if he had any. And to that end
I called Murphy in to my office for a quiet chat. A good lad, Murphy. Very
promising future. He's been learning to specialise in interrogation...but
it's much more than bright lights and handcuffs and what our American
colleagues call "the third degree." Rubber hoses and that James Cagney
nonsense. No indeed, Murphy was learning much more about how interrogation
really works, how it ought to work. What it's all about is gathering
information from someone whether they're willing or unwilling. Winkle it
out of them by hook or by crook...and it's always best if they believe
that it was their own idea to tell you what they're telling you. They feel
better for having confided in you.

And so Murphy, under my tutelage, lent himself to Doyle as a potential
confidant. Nothing obvious, not our Murphy. Simply being there, a familiar
face, willing to buy the next round and listen. Quite talented at helping
the conversation get onto the subject of Bodie. Doyle's never been one to
suffer in silence, that much I know well of him, and I trusted that sooner
or later he'd air his grievances. I wanted Murphy first in line to hear
them. And hear them he did.

As I half-suspected, the trouble had started with a bullet. The one that
had pierced Doyle's heart, in fact. Over a late-night pint, Doyle told
Murphy about his memories of being shot--seeing Bodie's face hovering over
him in the ambulance. That look, he said, I couldn't bear having Bodie
look like that ever again, not if I were the cause. The incredible
blankness there, barely suppressing fear and hopelessness. His eyes pinned
on Doyle, his life pinned on Doyle. And Doyle--always being one to hug
guilt to himself like a hot water bottle--felt responsible for that look
and the pain within it. So after a time, he decided that the best way to
protect Bodie was to put some distance in, to keep him from getting too
involved.

When Murphy finally came round and reported all of this, I poured him an
extra dram and sent him on his way. I had some thinking to do. Doyle was a
fool. Trying his best to be noble, aye, but a fool nevertheless.
Distancing Bodie for Bodie's own good, when it wasn't good at all. If I've
learned anything about my boy, it's that he wants to be free to choose his
own path, and with it his own pain. For all of his good intentions, Doyle
was denying Bodie that much. Something had to be done. And it had to be
Doyle making the decision--or thinking he was making the
decision--otherwise, none of this would work out properly in the end.

The next morning, then, I contacted Murphy and had him bring Doyle in for
a meeting. All very discreet, very hushed and important, the Old Man said
he needs to see you right away. And the strangest thing happened as they
were passing in the entranceway, now that I think back. Murphy went
through, then Doyle, and just as Doyle crossed from beneath the lintel, a
brick came loose from the angle of wall and ceiling and tumbled down on
him.

He didn't get out of the way in time (which reminds me, I'll be packing
him off to Brian next week or thereabouts for a bit of reflex work), and
the brick struck him solidly on the crown. Murphy saw him back to his feet
and brought him along.

Doyle entered, rubbing at his head, Murphy on his heels, and I went into
my part of the scene. Well, Doyle, you can rest easy now. Since I know you
want what's best for Bodie, and since your achievements as a team are no
longer up to par, I've decided to take him off your hands.

A wee pause to slip on my glasses and shuffle through the papers on my
desk; from the corner of my eye I saw Doyle beginning to frown.

I continued blithely--Bodie will be assigned a new partner of my own
choosing, someone who will look after him well. Someone like Murphy here,
for instance. I think there's real potential there. It was the same way I
partnered you and Bodie, after all, and that worked out rather well for a
good long time, didn't it now?

I settled on one particular document and tapped the signature line,
regarding Doyle with a satisfied air about me. And here's where I'll
always think I have that brick to thank. If he had been paying more
attention, I have no doubt that Doyle might very well have been a bit more
suspicious. He's seen enough triple-think in his time to know that I'm
seldom one to take the obvious path. But with his sore head, he was easily
made irritable, more than willing to give in to his temper. He turned into
the dog in the manger right before our very eyes; I could hardly have
hoped for better.

He rebelled, to put it bluntly. No, he said flatly, no you can't, Bodie's
mine. I know what's best for Bodie, and it's me. The more outraged his
tone became, the better I felt. He knew Bodie would never willingly leave
him, and so he had been secure in playing the noble role, supposedly
keeping Bodie safe by holding him at a distance. But once I threatened to
interrupt his little domestic drama...well, he took the bit in his teeth,
and ran away with it.

I argued with him, of course. Bodie always says there's nothing that makes
him more suspicious than when I'm being too agreeable. (Have to be careful
of that. It's not wise to become predictable at this late stage of the
game.) At first I was reasonable, and soothed Doyle while I lauded Murphy;
later I let it get to a shouting match. Let Doyle work up his energy, his
outrage. Played him like a river salmon, gave him enough line, set the
hook just so. The fishing trips with Andy Drake have served me well in
more than one capacity; I ought to tell him so next time I see him.

Doyle stormed out, eventually. Murphy and I had a quiet drink to
celebrate, and then I sent him after. Supposedly to chase Doyle down and
try to make him see reason, but really so I could see the results of my
fishing expedition.

Perhaps all that Doyle needed was a good excuse. Perhaps he was tired of
his noble decision already. I don't know. What I do know is that the way
he went back to Bodie was almost too perfect. Humbly, apologetically,
sincerely, he returned and offered himself up. Murphy chased after him and
did his token best to convince Doyle not to do it, which of course firmed
up Doyle's resolve all the more; Bodie, for his part, showed a bit more
wariness than I would have expected. He set some conditions, Murphy said.
I think that's best; it's bound to keep Doyle's attention, keep him alert,
at the very least.

Murphy lingered as long as he decently could, until the newly-reunited
partnership firmly showed him the door, and then he returned to give me
his final report. And he told me that Bodie seemed unaccountably concerned
about the matter of the brick, of all things. Bodie had set himself to
take care of Doyle's bruises and so forth as soon as he noticed them, and
upon hearing about the brick he began demanding to know if I had arranged
it. Have you ever heard the like? Good thing Doyle went back; perhaps he
can keep that boy sane for a bit longer.

When 4.5 and 3.7 came back to work the next day, they were rumpled and
without much sleep--will Bodie ever be able to teach Doyle how to dress
himself properly!--but the tensions had been erased. They were practically
living in each other's skin again, as they had been before. Comfortably
settled and on their toes, at one and the same time. And for the next
week, I'd catch Bodie watching me and glancing uneasily up at the ceiling;
I frowned and lectured a bit more than usual, to keep from laughing
outright. I suppose it's another useful addition to my reputation--if they
want to believe I can make stones fall from the sky, all the better.

Life's been back to normal. Not easy, not quiet, it never is...but it's
the best it can be. The best we can make it. I'm glad this whole bother is
behind us, because there's work to do. I'm a busy man.

All right, aye, I'm also glad to see the light back in my boy's eyes
again. Both of my boys' eyes. But let me tell you--when I was a young man,
if anyone had told me I'd be spending time playing Cupid for a pair of
oversized tearaways at my age, I'd never have believed it.

-- THE END --

*1997
 Published in *Virtual Pros*, Bovinity Press, 1997*

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