The Professionals Circuit Archive - Leftovers       Leftovers

 

by HG 

 
 Finally back at his flat, Doyle closed the front door by the simple
expedient of leaning against it. He remained there, eyes closed, letting
the quiet and warmth and smells of home seep into him a little at a time.

 It had been his unenviable task to drive down to Bristol to tell Mrs
Stevens that her only child was dead. Until he had seen the photographs
proudly displayed in her living-room he had not known what Karen had
looked like.

 He dragged open his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, dropped his car keys on
the side table and looked up to see Bodie at the other end of the hall.
With his navy towelling-robe unfastened, a night's worth of stubble, and
his hair tufting up, he was a less than heroic figure as he tucked his
Browning into the pocket of his dressing-gown, making the fabric sag under
its weight.

 Doyle could feel the locked muscles of his face begin to relax. "Hello,
Twinkle-toes."

 "That's no way to greet the less able-bodied," chided Bodie. "No point me
asking how it went."

 "None. I hung on until her best friend could get down from the Lake
District. What's this I hear about you working?"

 "Don't start," said Bodie mildly. "Debriefings and paperwork only. I even
had a minion getting my tea. I swear."

 "Someone should. You're the colour of putty under the stubble and I
notice you haven't tried to move while I'm watching you."

 "My knee's a bit sore," Bodie conceded. "I don't know why. I even took
taxis to headquarters and back."

 "So it's nothing to do with you leaping out of bed just now? I should
have rung first. Stupid to think I wouldn't wake you."

 Bodie waved that aside, his assessing gaze on the man in front of him.
"Have you eaten in living memory?"

 Doyle thought about it. "I can't remember. It doesn't matter. 'M not
hungry. I'll be fine after some sleep. Aaron's holding the fort. He'll
call, if need be."

 "I'll run you a bath. You'll sleep better for it."

 Doyle's frown lingered as he watched Bodie retrieve his second crutch
before heading for the bathroom. He was a dab hand with them now, with
only a couple of weeks until his broken ankle was out of plaster, but the
torn ligaments in his knee were taking longer due to the cast - and his
insistence on doing too much too soon.

 Though it had to be admitted, injuries were starting to take that little
bit longer to get over.

 Older than some of the people on the 'B' squad, Doyle was still in the
peak of physical condition but he had to work harder to stay that way.
Without making a song and dance about it, a few years ago he had cut back
on the drink, made time to exercise every day, and had kept an eye on what
he ate. It had been a while before he realised Bodie was doing the same
thing.

 One day, some day soon, they were going to have to talk about what they
did now the streets were no longer a realistic option.

 Cowley retired at the end of March.

 While the word 'deputy' had never been used, the hefty rise in pay and
accompanying level of responsibility had taken place several years ago.
Doyle's time was divided between the streets and a desk and he and Bodie
had both been initiating and running ops for years. They were even known
in Whitehall.

 Doyle had lost none of his ambition and his priorities were changing but
he was not convinced the change was for the better. Nearly sixteen years
on the 'A' squad had left him with few illusions and a wealth of
experience. Squad gossip saw him as a natural successor to Cowley, with
Bodie guarding his back, the same as always. Ambition hissed 'Yesss', but
he knew more about the corridors of power from the other side of the desk
now; he was not sure he wanted to spend the next twenty years making the
kind of decisions which had left Cowley drinking more than was good for
anyone.

 The point was probably moot. Times were changing. When Cowley retired
there might not even be a place for CI5 in this new world. It seemed to
Doyle that they spent more time stepping on the toes of the police, MI5,
M16 and various other, unnamed, branches of the security services,
resulting in duplication of work at best and total cock-ups like the
Weston debacle at worst. The services should be complimentary, not
competing. And more accountable. Unlike the police, CI5 had never had to
justify every shot fired. Maybe if they had...

 Doyle pushed himself away from the support of the front door and ambled
down the hall, shrugging off his jacket as he tried to work out when he
had last slept. It must have been some time Christmas Day. The steam
drifting through the bathroom doorway smelt of something sharp and lemony.
He tried to concentrate on that rather than Mrs Stevens, or the various
other ops still running, with all their attendant risks. Harder to order
others into the fray than to take the risks but not as hard as it had been
at the beginning.

 And that worried him more than anything.

 "Your bath, sir." Bodie propped a crutch against the wall to set out
clean towels. "I trust everything meets with your satisfaction?"

 Doyle stared at him, seeing not the lines around his mouth and eyes, or
the few extra pounds but the powerful shoulders and thighs, the steadfast
refusal to let him wallow, the support, the mischief, the *love*... And
the strain behind the smile. He should have noticed that before. Might
have done if he hadn't been so busy studying his own reflection for signs
of the reactionary he felt he was turning into.

 "Ray?"

 Doyle ignored the question and slid an arm around Bodie's waist, careful
to avoid jarring his knee. "You silly sod," he muttered gruffly, before he
tucked his face into Bodie's neck, soaking up the warm, breathing reality
of him. Without being aware of it, he tightened his grip.

 After all his years of risking life and limb in the danger zones, Bodie
had nearly got himself killed saving an OAP from a driver too drunk to
notice the elderly man in the middle of a well-lit zebra crossing.

 Doyle had been holding Karen's grief-stricken mother, more worried about
staying awake than her agony, when it had occurred to him that if Bodie
had been a split second slower he could have been in her shoes.

 "What've I done now?" asked Bodie, caressing the small of Doyle's back.
"Never mind, tell me later. Though if you're going to fall asleep, do it
in the bath rather than on me, eh?"

 "OK." More or less vertical, Doyle rubbed his face. "I had to stop for a
bit after I nearly dozed off at the wheel. Drove with all the windows open
after that."

 He began to discard clothing, treating his well-cut charcoal grey suit as
if it was his rattiest pair of jeans. He owned six suits now, even if he
didn't wear them as often as Cowley thought he should - although it took
more than a suit to disguise his honed edge and too-knowing eyes. The
years of increasing authority had taught him to school his expression and
keep his emotions in check.

 Finally naked, Doyle tossed his second sock in the direction of the
laundry basket, stepped into the bath and eased down into the blissfully
hot water. He leant his head back against a folded towel and closed his
eyes with a soft sigh, the water lapping around his upper chest.

 Home. Bodie. Same thing really, he mused, his drowsy satisfaction mixed
with gratitude.



 Doyle blinked awake to find Bodie smiling at him from where he was
perched on the edge of the bath. "I've washed all the bits I could reach
from here. You're turning into a prune. There's scrambled eggs and smoked
salmon before you catch up on some sleep. Out you come."

 As Doyle stepped from the bath, sloshing water everywhere with his usual
largesse, Bodie automatically assessed his physical condition, familiar
with the patterning of old scars. At least there had not been any new ones
for a while, or none that showed. Ray's hair was half-grey now, the
close-cropped beard he had grown a few years ago silver-flashed. The bags
under his eyes were turning into little suitcases and he had put on
several pounds but some days he only had to turn his head for Bodie to
feel hollow with lust. Of course, there were the other days, when Ray
turned his head and Bodie had to resist the temptation to knock him into
next week but that was par for the course.

 "What?" asked Doyle. One towel fastened low on his hips, another around
his shoulders, he was languidly towel-drying his wet hair. He wore it
shorter these days, but not short enough to subdue the curls.

 "I was just thinking how much I fancied you."

 Doyle gave one of those slow, warm smiles that seemed to stroke its way
around Bodie's prick like a silken ribbon tightening its hold. "Yeah? Me,
too."

 "Isn't that called vanity?" wondered Bodie.

 Doyle tossed one of the towels over his head. "If you weren't on
crutches... I'm keeping a list."

 "Not a surprise," Bodie assured him. "Do you know what day it is?"

 "Is this one of those trick questions?"

 "With you this sleepy? What would be the point?"

 "It's Thursday," said Doyle with certainty. "It must be about seven a. m.
by now. Give or take."

 "I meant what date?"

 Doyle squinted, having reached the level of fatigue where remembering his
own name was demanding. "They caught Riordan at the Kempton Park races on
Boxing Day and today's the day after."

 Bodie gave the trim backside a light slap. "Our anniversary, as it
happens. On this day, nine years ago, you and I became lovers."

 "As opposed to blokes who just shagged each other senseless whenever the
fancy took them?" Doyle shrugged into the towelling robe Bodie handed him.

 "Well, there is that. If you want to nit-pick. But as we could never
remember exactly when it started, we agreed on the twenty seventh, nine
years ago."

 "You did, you mean."

 "I didn't hear you objecting."

 Doyle remembered to walk slowly down the hall so Bodie would not be
tempted to walk too fast and jar his knee. "That's because I'm putty in
your hands."

 "I must've missed that part. Though we don't do so badly."

 "No," agreed Doyle, "we don't. You're not working up to casting me off
like a worn-out shoe, are you?"

 Bodie looked shocked. "Before I've had my Christmas presents?"

 "Optimist." Doyle sat at the kitchen table, fishing the pips out of the
orange juice Bodie had squeezed for him. He tried not to notice Bodie's
mouth compress when his knee gave him gyp as he saw to breakfast. Stoicism
gave way to violent swearing when Bodie burnt his fingers on the plates he
was keeping warm under the grill.

 "Teach you not to use the oven glove," said Doyle, unmoved. The time to
worry was when Bodie went quiet.

 "A bit of sympathy wouldn't go amiss, you know." Bodie slid a plate in
front of him. "Eat. As I was saying, our anniversary's definitely today.
The Rahad op. finished on the seventeenth December. Clearing up and odds
and sods saw us to Christmas Eve, which would have been our anniversary
but for the fact Anson and Stigwell pulled a fast one, which meant we
worked through Christmas. We were off on the twenty seventh, but you spent
most of it trying to find a dentist who was working over the holidays
because your new filling had fallen out and you had the kind of toothache
that makes men start wars. You looked bloody pathetic by the time you got
back, all eyes, drooping curls and drooling out of the side of your
mouth."

 "I remember that part," said Doyle, savouring his last mouthful of smoked
salmon. "What I still don't know is how I ended up face down over the
sofa, with your prick up my arse."

 "It made you forget your toothache, didn't it?"

 Doyle gave a genuine, if tired, grin. "There is that. The Bodie cure-all.
It was a noble tradition you started for celebrating our anniversary.
You're sure it's still only morning?"

 "Not even eight o'clock yet. Go to bed. I'd like you awake for the
finale. I hope you don't have any objections to being rogered by a bloke
with a crutch."



 While Doyle slept, Bodie got ready and set off to deal with the mundane
necessities of life. After the bone-numbing frosts and clammy fogs of
recent weeks it felt positively balmy out, the listless drizzle and grey
sky not enough to dampen his spirts. Because he could not drive yet, he
hired a taxi to take him to and from the laundrette, bank and supermarket,
marvelling at all those trawling the High Street for Sales bargains. His
knee disowning him by the time he got home, he made the mistake of
settling beside Doyle for ten minutes.



 Bodie awoke to the smell of bacon cooking but knew he couldn't be in
heaven because his knee hurt like hell. There was, however, the faint
possibility that Ray had decided to spoil him.

 While leaping out of bed was not an option, Bodie could be quite nippy
given sufficient inducement.

 His happiness was complete when he discovered not only bacon, but Doyle
wearing the dressing- gown he had bought him last year. The rich burgundy
gave his sallow skin the illusion of a tan even in mid-winter and the silk
glided intriguingly over the muscles of his back, the hollow of his flanks
and the curve of his arse.

 Bodie stroked the Doyle-warmed silk, before nuzzling the side of his
neck. "I thought you'd sleep the day through."

 "Me too but I needed to take a leak. I must've drunk too much coffee last
night, trying to stay awake. Then Cowley rang. We're off until the seventh
January."

 "What, both of us? He's obviously had a rush of blood to the head."

 "Don't you believe it. The miserly old bugger's converted your sick-leave
into annual leave, that's all." Doyle hooked out perfectly crisped rashers
to drain, then added brown sauce to the bread he had already cut.

 Brown bread, Bodie noted, with bits of bird seed in it, but a man had to
make a few sacrifices. Anyway, he had bought it himself, so he couldn't
complain. He helped himself the moment Doyle turned away to collect the
plates.

 "Gannet," said Doyle. He sat opposite Bodie and made inroads on his own
sandwich. "I was starving when I woke up. What sleep I had must have been
good, I'm feeling semi-human already. How d'you feel about going back to
St. Ives? That cottage is free - I rang them. We could drive down
tomorrow."

 "Perfect. Not that I'll be wind-surfing with this." Bodie gave his leg a
look of disgust.

 Doyle grimaced. "I never thought. We don't have to go."

 "Don't be daft. I was just mourning a wasted opportunity, not saying I'll
be bored. You'll take your painting gear?"

 "I might as well," said Doyle, his tone ultra casual. "Never thought I'd
want to pick up a paint brush again, let alone try water colours. I
mean...water colours. I'm turning into a cliché."

 "That's middle-age for you," said Bodie, straight-faced.

 Rather than the reaction he had hoped for, Doyle was staring into the
middle distance. His elbow propped on the table, his chin resting on one
hand, he was thumbing the side of his beard.

 "I *am* too old for the streets. One of these days, some time soon, we
need to talk about what we're going to do next. We don't even have to do
the same thing as each other but we need to admit what we want to do."

 "I know," acknowledged Bodie, humour dropping away. He had promised
himself that he would support Ray, he just hoped he would be able to keep
his end of the bargain. "What do you have in mind?"

 "That's just it, I don't. I can't see CI5 surviving Cowley. I'm not even
convinced it should."

 Bodie's lack of reaction suggested he wasn't alone in that thought.

 "That doesn't mean you can't write your own ticket," said Bodie
bracingly.

 "You too."

 Bodie shrugged that aside.

 "You don't want the authority?" pursued Doyle, his would-be casual tone
negated by the intent look in his eyes.

 "I dunno." Bodie pulled a face. "See, this is why we don't have many of
these conversations. We're bloody useless at them. You know I'll support
you, whatever you want to do. I know you'll do the same for me."

 "Which would be all the more impressive but for the fact neither of us
knows what else we want to do. Come to that, we don't have the
qualifications for any other kind of work. We wouldn't get hired to see
kids across the road."

 "It's the uniform, isn't it?"

 "What?" Doyle began to think he was less awake than he had assumed.

 "You have a thing for blokes in uniform."

 "I've never seen you wear one. Except that time you dressed up as a P.C.
Though you in a tux pushes every button I've got. Maybe I could sell you
off as a male model." Doyle didn't give Bodie time to preen. "You know, to
one of those catalogues that sell longjohns and incontinence wear."

 Bodie was too preoccupied to rise to the bait. "You've been trained up to
succeed Cowley, even if the squad doesn't stay the same. Are you seriously
thinking of giving up that chance?"

 Doyle concentrated on the path of his forefinger as he traced breadcrumbs
around his plate. "I think I am. No, I am. I won't pretend the idea
wasn't...seductive. But the job eats up our lives until there's nothing
else left."

 "It won't squeeze me out of yours," said Bodie with flat-voiced
conviction. "If that's all that's bothering you?"

 Doyle looked up. "No, it isn't. Not really, because I'm not sure if what
will be left will be worth having. I feel as if I'm losing myself, bit by
bit." He made a sound of impatience and gave an irritable gesture with one
hand. "Listen to me, wanking on."

 Bodie gave a slow smile. "My cue to leap to your defence?"

 Doyle relaxed back on his chair and stretched out his legs, propping a
bare foot under the thigh of Bodie's good leg and wriggling his toes.
"You've been doing that for a good few years now."

 "The novelty hasn't worn off," Bodie assured him. "What do you really
want, Ray?"

 Now he had taken the first difficult step, Doyle didn't even have to
think about it. "I want us to have more than the crumbs that are left over
from running CI5. There are so many things we want to do. Not just being
together, or travelling the world, but learning stuff... How to sail - all
the water sports come to that. Going climbing, riding, flying... You want
to learn to be a drummer. I quite fancy playing more than air guitar. I
want to learn how to play Flamenco. And I can't remember how many years
it's been since we've had time to help out at that boys' club in Limehouse
- or something similar wherever we settle down. I want us to have time for
the Sunday papers after buttered toast and sex. Concerts. The pictures.
Lunch in a country pub. We've been lucky to have had this long on the
streets and come out of it in one piece but whether we like it or not,
that can't last. Things *will* change - and not for the better as far as
we're concerned. Can you face twenty plus years behind a desk?"

 Bodie could not sustain that all-seeing gaze.

 "That's what I thought." Doyle leant across the table to take hold of his
forearm, shaking it slightly. "You stupid, stubborn, *loyal*... This has
never been about you - about what you want, has it?"

 Bodie met his eyes then. "I didn't want you giving up everything you've
worked for."

 "When I joined this mob I wanted to make a difference. And sometimes
we've done some good. Other times, for better or worse, we've maintained
the status quo. But recently there have been times... I know mistakes are
inevitable but can you remember the last time you heard Cowley admit to
making one? That'll be us, soon. It's getting too easy to make the
difficult decisions. Isn't it?" Doyle tightened his grip.

 For a few seconds Bodie forgot how to breathe, before he relaxed,
grimaced and nodded. "I sometimes forget how well you know me. I've had
enough. I want out, while our honour's still intact." Having finally
inched the cat out of the bag, he sat back with a sigh of relief.

 Doyle nodded, his eyes never leaving Bodie. There weren't many people he
looked up to - not really. Bodie was one of the few and had been for a
very long time. No one talked about things like integrity, duty, loyalty,
or honour these days. Bodie would cut off his arm with a penknife before
he tried. But then he didn't need to because he just got on with it and
lived them...

 "With honour intact," agreed Doyle, before he smiled. "That's settled
then. We'll leave when Cowley goes. It'll take that long for our notice to
kick in."

 "Yeah." While he said nothing more, Bodie put back his head and gave a
lengthy, bone-cracking stretch, his arms above his head, his spread
fingers reaching for the sky. He looked liked a cliché for an
advertisement proclaiming *Freedom*! When he slumped, he flexed his neck,
then proved he was close enough to the refrigerator to be able to liberate
two bottles of beer without leaving his chair.

 "Don't start with the lecture. One bottle won't hurt me, even with the
pills," he anticipated. "I want to celebrate."

 "I wish I'd realised you felt like this sooner," said Doyle with regret.

 "I don't see how you could. I didn't realise myself because there was
never the time. So I just put my head down and got on with it. I've had
too much time to think since the accident." Bodie knocked the cap off his
bottle on the edge of the table and saluted Doyle.

 Doyle looked at the shine that was back in those impossibly blue eyes and
touched the neck of his bottle to the one Bodie held. "To thinking."



 "...got a bit of money put by. I forgot about the investments I made back
at the end of the Sixties with my pay-off from the mercs. Was a nice
surprise. All legal," Bodie anticipated, when Doyle opened his mouth. "I
bought two houses in Kensington that had been converted into flats. A
management company's been looking after them but the owner's retiring and
wrote to me. Suggested I think about selling. You won't believe what the
places are worth. D'you reckon we could make a living out of doing what we
enjoy most?"

 "What, fucking?" said Doyle, giddy with relief now the hardest decision
had been made.

 "I've always fancied playing with one of those video cameras," said
Bodie, side-tracked. "We'll have to be quick though, before prime of life
turns to middle-aged spread."

 "Yeah, yeah. It'll be a while yet." Doyle opened the packet of mince pies
Bodie had bought and tucked in with gusto. He could not remember the last
time he had been this hungry. "There are all sorts of things we could do
to earn a crust. Though we'll need to check if we need any official
qualifications for some of them. I can put defusing a nuclear bomb on my
CV."

 "More like holding one steady while sweating cobs," said Bodie, pricking
that pretension. "What sort of things are you thinking of?"

 "Variety. Out-doors. Fun. Maybe something along the lines of a centre
running various courses, tracking, orienteering, walking, survival courses
- for the security services as well as people who fancy something
different for a holiday break. At different levels, of course. We'll need
quite a bit of capital but I've got some put by too. We'll have to have a
think. Not least, where to settle down. It couldn't hurt to look around
while we're in Cornwall. Dartmoor. Exmoor, even. Or maybe Scotland. Or
Wales. Might get more for less outside the West Country. Whatever we do,
with luck it'll give us the winter off. A chance to do whatever we want. I
don't need much to live on and be happy. And for all your talk, neither do
you."

 Bodie sat back, whistling soundlessly as he thought about what they were
proposing. It wouldn't be as good as the streets but it wasn't a desk. Or
watching what the job was doing to Ray... Or feeling as if he was
suffocating. And it would be fun.

 "So we're after some land, simple accommodation, with stables nearby.
What about target and clay pigeon shooting? We'd need more than the pair
of us, whatever we do. We can probably recruit from our old mob for some
of it," said Bodie, trying to contain his enthusiasm.

 Doyle sat back in his chair, listening more to Bodie make plans than the
plans themselves, hearing the new lightness in his voice, which work had
been pressing out of him. Bodie needed the illusion of freedom. And
variety, stimulation... So did he, come to that. This wouldn't be as good
as the streets but then nothing could be and they would lose them sooner
or later anyway. It was a damn sight better than going out feet first.
Good to have a choice. To reclaim their lives.

 "I'll get some paper," Doyle said. "We'd best starting making notes.
There's a lot to think about."

 "It's not just me, is it?" Bodie checked. "You really do want this?"

 Doyle's gaze never wavered. "Yes, I do," he said without hestitation,
because if it wasn't the whole truth, it was close enough. "Oy, that last
mince pie is mine! Oh, bugger it. Have half then..."



 By early evening they were surrounded by pieces of paper and brimming
with ideas.

 "I'm getting peckish again," Bodie announced. "One advantage of working
Christmas - we avoided turkey, pudding and sprouts."

 "Particularly sprouts."

 "I'll see to dinner,"

 "What's the catch?" Doyle groaned a second later. "You're going to
inflict it on me again, aren't you?"

 "It's tradition. Nutritious, too."

 "And cheap. My Nan used to cook it for us every time I went round to see
her. A very frugal woman was my Nan. She could make leftovers last for
days. Or maybe it just felt like it."

 "Can tell which side of the family you took after. We always have bubble
and squeak on our anniversary. You like it the way I make it."

 "I dunno how you work that out, it's different every year."

 "Exactly! That's the beauty of it."

 "Hers was always the same, over-cooked cabbage and lumpy mash, fried in
chip fat. Was disgusting. Yours isn't bad," Doyle conceded. "Especially
since you started adding the apple, nutmeg, garlic and fried onions."

 "Mine's fantastic, and you know it. Probably because we don't use
leftovers," Bodie admitted. "I got some of that good champagne to drink
with it. And marzipan fruit."

 "I can't stand them. And you shouldn't drink any more with those
pain-killers. Which reminds me, take two." Doyle stood over Bodie until he
did, knowing how much they were needed by the fact Bodie didn't argue.
Much.

 "Satisfied?" asked Bodie sulkily.

 Doyle kissed his upturned face. "If you're feeling that perky, you can
start cooking."

 "I could do with taking the weight off my feet." Bodie grimaced a few
seconds later. "Bugger. I walked into that one."

 "More like hopped. Blame it on the pills," comforted Doyle. "No, sit
tight and finish your beer. I'll make it this year. You can entertain me
while I slave over a hot stove."

 "How about a moving rendition of *It Was Christmas Day in the
Workhouse*?"

 "That must be a cheerful ditty," said Doyle, grinning

 "It's a monologue. An attack on conditions in workhouses actually."

 Doyle turned around. "How *do* you know this stuff?"

 "I like reading social history. Then I get sidetracked. Remind me to pack
some of the unread pile of books for St. Ives. What would you like for
Christmas?"

 "I've already got it," said Doyle, without an ounce of sentiment.

 Bodie went a bit pink anyway, before he recovered in typical fashion.
"Well, if you're hoping that will get you out of buying me any presents,
think again, Scrooge."

 "Socks, slippers, handkerchiefs, tie, aftershave..."

 Bodie grinned. "I remember making my dad a pipe rack in woodwork classes
and giving it to him for Christmas, even though the poor sod didn't smoke.
So, what have you got me?"

 "There might be the odd present or three stashed away where you wouldn't
find them."

 Bodie didn't disillusion him. "I'll fetch them, if you'll tell me where
they are."

 On his second trip Bodie came back with parcels addressed to Doyle.
"These are just the small things. What do you really want?"

 "You in your tux and me on my knees sucking you off. Well, almost. Then
we stick with noble tradition and you have your wicked way with me. Though
not necessarily over the back of the sofa. The fabric on this one itches
like mad."

 "That's all you want?"

 "You don't have a clue, do you?" said Doyle indulgently. "All these years
and you're still bloody well gormless. What I'd really like is you as my
toy boy."

 "You realise that means you'd have to pay me for sex?"

 "Bang goes my savings. I knew there was a catch to you obeying my every
whim."

 "Because that would be such a novelty," mocked Bodie affectionately.

 Doyle hooked down a recipe book, took an envelope from between its pages
and let the envelope flutter over to Bodie. "Well, open it," he said, when
Bodie just stared at it.

 "Tell me what it is first. You're looking worryingly pleased with
yourself." Bodie's eyes widened. "It isn't a weekend on a Health Farm, is
it?"

 "If only I'd thought of it," mourned Doyle. "Afraid not. You've always
said you want to learn to fly. It's lessons. Enough to get you the hours
you need to take the test." He had the rare satisfaction of depriving
Bodie of the breath for speech.

 "Thought you'd like it," Doyle said, satisfied, if considerably poorer.
"And it should fit in nicely with our plans."

 "If it wasn't for this bloody leg I could start the lessons while we're
on leave," grumbled Bodie.

 "You'll be up there, terrifying the birds, soon enough."

 "Why would - ? Oh, you mean real birds. Here, a few things to keep you
going."

 There was an inflatable Superman - "For when I'm away", Bodie explained.
A year's subscription to Doyle's favourite bike magazine and a book on
Michelangelo heavy enough to give Doyle a workout every time he lifted it.

 "I'm not sure about keeping a bloke who wears his knickers over his
tights," mused Doyle, examining from every angle the yet-to-be-inflated
superhero.

 "So it's not the tights themselves that put you off?"

 "You're insane," Doyle told him affectionately. "Don't eat those crisps.
Not only will you spoil your appetite but there'll be none left for when
we watch *Where Eagles Dare* for the tenth time. Reminds me, you owe me
five quid. I said it would be on again."

 "By rights it should've been *The Great Escape* again. Would've been
appropriate, too," said Bodie happily, as he picked up a pencil and began
to list a few more ideas, in between instructing Doyle on the best way to
make bubble and squeak.

 -- THE END --

 *Completed 26th December 2007*

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