The Professionals Circuit Archive - Special Delivery	     Special
Delivery

 

by Ellis Ward

  
 Two somberly clad figures stepped through the black enameled gate, taking
no notice of the golden Labrador that lay just within the yard, its liquid
gaze turned toward the street beyond. Footfalls clicked on the pavement as
the couple walked away, but their leaving caused not the slightest twitch
of a furry ear. For over an hour the dejected animal had endured the
comings and goings of strangers and acquaintances, whilst the object of
its vigil had failed to show.

The woman was guided into the passenger seat of a Rover saloon by her male
companion, and when she was settled, he walked round the front of the
vehicle to take his place behind the wheel. Their movements were remarked
by another pair of eyes, as disinterested as the dog's but far more acute
in their survey. Long before the couple had driven off, the watcher's
attention had returned to the ever hopeful animal, which for the moment
let its muzzle drop down to rest on its large paws, a sigh stirring the
grass in front of the shiny black nose. The dog anxiously continued to
scour the street through the metal bars.

Bodie grimaced and turned away. Grief was a constant in his work, and he
generally dealt with it with brutal efficiency--either by acknowledging
its impact and allowing himself a brief, destructive wallow, or more
expediently, by denying its existence altogether. Sometimes, however, it
was harder to shrug off--like now, when faced with the dumb pain of an
uncomprehending creature which would not be consoled by soothing words or
comforting touches--unless bestowed by the one awaited.

And that one would never come home again.

The funeral had been well attended by colleagues and friends alike.
Shrouded in black, the widow had stood at the head of the mourners with
her five-year-old son at her side and George Cowley at her back. Lacking
all still-living family--both her husband's and her own had passed away in
the intervening years--such impersonal support in this bleakest of hours
was all that had been left to her.

Bodie had been there, too, as had his partner, Ray Doyle. Despite being a
longtime friend of the family, Doyle had kept his distance, and so
accordingly, had Bodie. Hovering at Doyle's shoulder, Bodie had been more
aware of his partner than of the solemn proceedings. Tense and
preternaturally still, Doyle had spoken not a word when the dark-stained
coffin had been lowered into the ground nor moments later when the first
clots of dirt had bounced off the smoothly polished surface.

These last days had taken their toll on Ray Doyle: Brian Cook, the husband
of pregnant June and father of young Danny, had been recruited into CI5's
elite company based at least in part on Doyle's recommendation. This
morning, only a few years shy of his thirtieth birthday, Brian Cook had
been buried. Later in the day, another of their number, Norman Reynolds,
would be interred in his turn. Tomorrow would see the funeral of the bomb
disposal expert who had been caught in the terrorists' final blast.

For what it was worth, the criminals had been placed in custody with
little likelihood of their escaping conviction and eventual punishment.
But for Brian Cook, Norman Reynolds, and the man whose name Bodie did not
know, that levy was too little, too late.

And perhaps the same was true for Bodie, if for different reasons.
Immediately following the funeral, he had waited with his partner while
the other mourners had taken to their cars, and the gravediggers had
settled down to work. Still silent, Doyle had stepped nearer the opening
gouged out of the earth until he had been able to see the last glimmer of
wood disappear beneath a shovelful of dirt.

"C'mon, Ray," Bodie had persuaded. "That's it, eh?"

Ignoring him, Doyle had slipped a hand into a pocket and drawn forth a
long, broken neck chain. Holding it in his palm, Doyle had muttered as if
to himself, "Need to give this back to June."

Chilled, Bodie had said, "You took it off Brian?"

Trembling fingers had closed tightly round the languidly coiled gold.
"Yeah. Meant to give it to her days ago."

"That'll wait," Bodie had suggested. "Let's go, Ray. The Cow's given us
the rest of the day off, y'know."

Doyle's head had come up at last. Burnished with April sunshine and lifted
by a sweet-scented breeze, his curly locks had glinted redly, a mutiny of
color amidst dark clothing and pallid features. Distant green eyes had
briefly touched Bodie's face. "No, thanks. We got some thinking to do."

Biting back a retort, Bodie had given a curt nod. "Catch you later, then."

But Doyle had already looked past him, his hand formed into a fist, waving
a gesture of unconscious vengefulness toward Brian Cook's grave.

A few moments later, they had parted in the street, Bodie waiting until
Doyle had driven away. Aching deep inside, Bodie had finally turned his
own car into the road, joining the flow of traffic headed north.
Unnoticed, the miles had slipped by while he had withdrawn into the hurt.
It was old, this pain gripping his heart, and he knew it well. But never
had it threatened to unman him as it now did-but, neither had he ever
allowed himself to care quite so much.

It seemed the time had come for *good bye*.

******

June Cook's door swung open and released three more unhappy visitors. They
let themselves out through the wrought-iron gate onto the pavement where
they separated, each striking off toward a different vehicle.

In the distance an approaching motor could be heard. Brian Cook's golden
Labrador surged onto its feet, ears arched, nose pad twitching.

"Poor sod," Bodie whispered. He could as easily have been referring to
himself.

******

In a clearing in Kent, Ray Doyle stood at the pinnacle of a slow rise and
took in his surroundings. There to his right lay the stretch of ground
where Brian Cook had sprawled; a few feet away, Norman Reynolds. The hole
dug in a vain search for Jimmy Kilpin's arms cache had since been filled
in and, save for that disturbed patch of ground, there was little to
attest to the drama that had taken place here. A fanciful eye might have
seized upon the blots of discoloration marring the surface of the earth,
all within a few yards of each other. For Doyle, there was no need for
conjecture, for he remembered with utter clarity whose blood had been
spilled and where.

No stranger to death in its more violent forms, Doyle nevertheless found
himself growing less immune to the horror of it, rather than the reverse.
Throughout his life he had been constantly at odds within himself, never
expecting to achieve peace between the warring factions born of intellect
and temperament. So this new shift had not been foreseen all those years
ago when he had joined the Met. Then, he had anticipated a gradual
hardening of attitude--not necessarily a disadvantage for someone in this
particular line of work--though intellectually he had feared the loss of
sensibility as much as its tyranny.

At least that had been the case until Bodie had come along and, in
accepting Doyle without qualification, had made it possible for Doyle to
do the same. And now he feared he must lose Bodie to preserve that
precious balance.

*Unthinkable*.

Doyle swung his head to one side, looking away toward green, rolling
fields, eyes watering with the freshness of the breeze, face numbed by its
frigid caress. Below him, in the sheltered area formed by the surrounding
hillocks, the warmth of the sun gathered undiminished--as it had the day
Brian Cook had died.

Sighing to himself, Doyle took out the familiar gold neck chain he had
snapped from Cook's throat four days ago and frowned down at it. The site
of Cook's murder had seemed a good starting place for Doyle to order his
thoughts, for it was here the unthinkable had first sprung to mind.

Or was it?

A year and half ago, Doyle himself had nearly died. Through those long,
dragging days in hospital, then afterward in the flat shared with Bodie,
Doyle had found himself inundated with unwelcome thoughts. Since he had
been largely responsible by his laxness for being shot, Doyle had not
surprisingly spent considerable time mulling his abilities--or lack of
same--the range of his mistakes, and his place not only with CI5, but in
the world he called his own.

Always given to a tendency to brood, Doyle had learned to depend on Bodie
to lend perspective to his cynicism. In fact, through those dark winter
days of his recuperation, Doyle had come to depend on Bodie for a great
deal more.

It was while in hospital that he had grown aware of the striking scope of
Bodie's devotion. If Doyle suffered, his pain was reflected in the hard
set of Bodie's mouth and the heavy furrow weighing on his brow; if he
rallied, that achievement glowed bright in Bodie's eyes and curled
impishly on his lips. With relentless persistence, Bodie had chivvied his
partner to full recovery, tolerating neither self-pity nor self-reproach
along the way. Alternately amused and infuriated, Doyle had nevertheless
recognized the genuine caring underlying Bodie's inflexibility.

Over the months of convalescence that had followed, Doyle had slowly come
to comprehend that the affection Bodie felt for him far surpassed that of
mere friendship. At no time had this revelation repelled or even overly
surprised him. As they were flatmates for the better part of half a year,
Doyle grew to accept the inevitability of Bodie in his life, whatever role
he might play. To Doyle's mind, the prospect of their affection eventually
encompassing sex was an agreeable one, and in many ways a most sensible
evolution of their relationship.

Bodie, contradictorily, had not been so easily convinced.

******

Recalled to himself by a sudden drop in temperature--a slow-moving,
dark-bellied cloud was passing before the sun--Doyle shoved Cook's chain
back into his pocket and cast a last look over the clearing at his feet.
There were no answers to be found here.

Hunching into the warmth of his fur-collared bomber jacket, Doyle struck
off down the far side of the hill in the direction of the waiting bronze
Capri. Sure-footedly negotiating the slightly sharper incline that finally
gave way to a lumpy plain, Doyle accorded only a fraction of his attention
to his surroundings, his mind turning willfully to Bodie and the first,
cautious overtures Doyle had made to sound him out.

They had not gone over particularly well, Bodie assuming an obtuseness
that Doyle had encountered before: when Bodie did not wish to know
something, he simply could not be bothered. Refusing to believe that he
had misinterpreted Bodie's signals--however subliminal they may have
been--Doyle had chipped away at his partner's resolve until the facade had
shattered--if only briefly--revealing a veritable cauldron of emotion.
Accustomed to being held in some esteem, Doyle had been shaken to discover
the anger and resentment that boiled up alongside Bodie's fond opinion of
him.

His probings had been neither careful nor subtle. Fortunately for Doyle,
it had also been during this time that he had been struggling with witless
determination to regain his status as a full-strength agent. Irrespective
of their personal turmoil, when the job had been involved, Bodie had
remained at his side, encouraging him, goading him, until Doyle, exhausted
but hell-bent, had passed muster. Otherwise, Bodie had withdrawn.

Yet, feeling had continued to run high between them, for all that Bodie
denied its existence, causing their partnership to veer dangerously out of
kilter. In one of his first outings, a potentially explosive operation
involving a high-powered minister and then--acting MI6 head Dawson, Doyle
had been found out as a covert agent. His execution had been ordered from
on high, and then contracted by the lackeys who had served as Dawson's
somewhat bumbling but lethal operatives. Serendipity had resulted in
Bodie, in the guise of a hit man, and his uneasy ally
Williams--unbeknownst to them, Dawson's agent--being assigned the job.

Taken into the woods by a coldly remote Bodie and his darting-eyed
companion, Doyle had actually begun to wonder just how far Bodie would let
things go before seeing to his protection. In fact, Bodie had rather badly
miscalculated the true nature of his temporary associate, and only the
fact that Williams had been on their side arguably had saved Ray Doyle
from serious injury.

******

"If you don't want me as a partner, just bloody well say so!" Doyle
yelled, as Bodie drove him back to the place where he had left his own
car. "For Christ's sake, I only just got over being shot almost fucking
dead and here you--"

"Leave it!" Bodie roared furiously. It was the first emotion he had
displayed in weeks. "So I made a mistake, okay? Not like you--oh, no! You
just keep nagging and harping on--! It's a wonder I don't--"

Suffering the silence that ensued like a blow to his chest, Doyle cast a
searing scowl across at his partner. Bodie's face was as black as thunder,
his mouth compressed into an unyielding line.

"'A wonder you don't' what? " Doyle asked sharply. "Shoot me yourself?"

"That's a fucking stupid thing to say," replied Bodie viciously.

"You were going to let Williams do it."

Bodie said nothing.

With sudden sick doubt, Doyle pondered whether he had misread Bodie's
signals after all. Regardless, Doyle had to admit to himself that Bodie
was quite right: he *had* been pressing him, so intrigued with the idea of
having sex with his intransigent partner--himself having gone so long
without--he had spared little consideration for Bodie's feelings at all.

He mulled this over for several moments, while dull grey buildings fell
past on either side in a murky blur. Things had been strained between them
for weeks now. As lovers, it would seem they had no hope at all; worse, as
partners, they were beginning to unravel.

"Right," Doyle said at last.

He sensed the weight of Bodie's gaze, an almost palpable pressure raking
across his profiled cheek. It lingered less than seconds before Bodie
turned, unspeaking, to stare once more at the road.

*Without words, they had agreed to a truce*.

******

The gold Capri came to a stop in a small carpark located some considerable
distance from the verdant grounds surrounding stone ruins. Into the
increasingly cloudy sky twin towers thrust upward, their heavy foundations
rooting them in a spot that afforded a grand view of the coastline where
it opened onto the North Sea.

Doyle clambered out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. He
had been eyeing the stoneworks for some time as he drove along with no
purpose nor direction. Being April, there were as yet few tourists to
contend with--and it appeared that Reculver was not a major stopping point
in any case, for there was only one other car to be seen, and it probably
belonged to the gatekeeper.

It cost 50p to get onto the grounds, which Doyle proclaimed
"extortionate." The gatekeeper informed him archly that nobody was holding
a gun to his head; Doyle conceded with a sardonic smile that this was
certainly true.

Shoving the ticket stub into his change pocket, Doyle ambled up to the
great towers which were joined together by a partially enclosed walkway.
According to the brochure glimpsed beside the gatekeeper's hand--another
25p which Doyle had chosen not to part with--Reculver had been the site of
a Roman fort, upon which ruins of a medieval church--the towers and
disintegrating grating walls along the coast and east sides all that now
remained--had been built.

It was quiet here, and cool. The breeze off the sea impacted with Doyle's
slight form with some force, tossing his hair about his head and stinging
color into his cheeks.

As he wandered about, Doyle tried to imagine this site as it might have
appeared four or five centuries before. He had never longed for the past,
not even his own, but there was something comforting in being surrounded
by so much ancientness.

Outside the footprint of the erstwhile structure yawed a few weather-worn
headstones, their inscriptions almost erased after centuries-long exposure
to wind and rain and snow. Doyle came to a stop before the largest of
them, his head tilted to one side. His thoughts, however, almost
immediately trailed back to the morning's funeral and another grave.

At sight of the new-made widow, whose severe clothing and hollowed eyes
had only emphasized the pallor of her face, his conscience had once more
begun to flay him. Her big-eyed son had stood pressed close against her
swollen abdomen, clutching her hand, his subdued expression one of
unwanted understanding.

June had seemed unaware of the child--and of every other person who had
come to see Brian Cook into his final abode. It had crossed Doyle's mind
that he should take up his place at June's back alongside Cowley, so as to
offer his support; but upon the thought had come the absolute certainty
that his presence would not be welcome there.

Instead, he had selfishly secured his own solace in his partner's
steadfast closeness. Bodie knew what he felt, knew Doyle's side of it. In
his own way, Doyle was as bereft as Cook's widow, but with far less claim
to sympathy.

It was an empty feeling that gnawed at his insides, not unlike the gutted
sensation he had suffered during his semi-estrangement from Bodie
following the Dawson case over a year ago.

Then, having concluded that he must put aside the advancement of his
relationship with his partner if they were to remain a team, Doyle had
learned to employ a certain schizophrenia to keep his own clamoring
emotions at bay. While encouraging a resumption of their old mateyness, he
had soon discovered that being mere pals with Bodie was a torture he did
not like enduring.

Things had started coming to a head when they had taken on the Susan Grant
case. With Bodie assigned as her protector and Doyle left well on the
outside, Doyle had unwittingly begun to campaign for equal attention,
going so far as to flirt overtly--if unintentionally--with his partner.
Eventually realizing what he was doing, Doyle had tried to make a joke of
it.

Bodie had not been amused.

Chastened, Doyle had resumed his role as backup and general dogsbody, sick
at heart and hopeless with it. So he had been greatly surprised when Bodie
had capped the operation by requesting his company rather than Susan
Grant's. Over a meal, Bodie had entertained him with anecdotes from the
case that had gone hitherto unreported. Not the least of these played up
the fact that Bodie had *not* gone to bed with the pleasant young
woman--although when Doyle had probed for details, Bodie had been unable
to say exactly why this had been the case, as Susan had been quite willing
and more than attractive enough to suit him.

******

A particularly strong gust cut right through Doyle's leather jacket and
buffeted him where he stood. Abandoning the headstone, he struck off
across the site, his long legs hurriedly delivering him to the remains of
the east wall where he sought refuge from the wind. In what survived of
the corner nook, he came to a halt. By craning his head just a little, he
could gaze out over kelp-darkened water, its menacing vastness reflected
on the surface of his eyes.

Despite that brief period of renewed camaraderie, Bodie had soon gone back
to holding Doyle at arm's length. Accepting that Bodie must have
compelling reasons for his turnabout, Doyle had forced himself to come to
better terms with his feelings and concurrently to respect Bodie's more.
They had settled into something approaching their early friendship.
Nothing had been taken for granted, but each man had been secure regarding
his place in the other's life.

By then, almost a year had passed since Doyle had taken two bullets from a
would-be assassin's pistol. He had fought an uphill battle to regain his
health and vigor, and having done so, had spent the better part of six
months putting himself to the test. Doyle had never complained, but he had
begun to feel the strain of his particular avocation in ways unnoticed in
the past. Always a little hot-blooded, he now suffered from the cold;
always bursting with energy, he now fell prey to genuine exhaustion--the
kind that would not be banished after a single night's undisturbed sleep.

None of this had been mentioned to Bodie, but Doyle had begun to worry
about it more and more. They had taken on the Rahad operation, which
required that they once again work apart rather than together. Resigned,
Doyle had made the best of it, taking inordinate pleasure from the company
of sweet, if well-used, Anna, the prostitute hired by CI5 to assist in
setting up the Arab. And truth to tell, he had gleaned immense
gratification in bringing about the assassin's downfall; execution at the
hands of his own people would have to suffice, though Doyle would
personally have liked to see the man eradicated.

It had been Bodie faking his own death in the course of this operation
that had shattered Doyle's protective chrysalis. For an instant, he had
believed his partner lost to him forever. A second later, Bodie had
revealed his prank, and burning anger had replaced shock. With Cowley so
close to hand, Doyle had been forced to overcome the immediate urge to
pulverize his playful friend, and had, as well, to let Bodie's
little--very little--joke go unpunished. A tolerant grin pasted on his
face, he had quietly begun to plot his revenge.

Before his scheme could be implemented, however, the Rahad case had had to
be taken to its inevitable--at least as far as CI5 were
concerned--conclusion.

And then they had been handed Ojuka.

******

By a quarter to three, the steady exodus of visitors out of June Cook's
house had slowed to a trickle. None had appeared on the pavement for over
half an hour; time, Bodie decided, to make his move.

The idea had come to him on the way out of his building earlier this
afternoon. He had returned to his flat from the funeral only long enough
to change out of his formal clothing and to grab a sandwich and a beer.
Without Ray to keep him company, there had been no reason to linger, and
he had been back on the pavement within minutes.

While crossing the street to his car he had been distracted by the rather
comical sight of a red-haired girl, aged about ten, being tugged along the
pavement by an outsize dog, which had easily outweighed her by thirty
pounds.

"D'you need some help with that brute?" he had asked.

The girl had giggled. "No, thanks. I'm just letting him bully me."

At Bodie's skeptical look, she had insisted, "D'you want to see?"

"Why not? Go on, then."

With that, the girl had planted her feet wide apart, pulled taut on the
dog's lead and commanded sharply but without appreciably raising her
voice, "Noddy, *sit*!"

The animal had obeyed at once, almost to the undoing of an elderly
gentleman who had just walked onto the pavement from his front door.

"I say!" he had complained loudly. "That creature belongs in a barn."

"Sorry, sir," the girl, all wide eyes and choked-back laughter, had said
penitently. "Come out of the way, Noddy. There's a good lad."

Bodie had shrugged philosophically as the old man had tottered past them.
"Very impressive," he had added with a hint of a grin.

The child had pouted good-naturedly at him. "You could've warned me."

"Me?!" Bodie had laid a hand over his heart. "I never saw the old buffer."

"Really?"

"Really. On your way to the common, were you? Just don't let that monster
eat any other kids, eh?"

"Oh, I shan't."

Bodie had winked at her, then had set about unlocking the door to his car.
A moment later, as he had made himself comfortable behind the steering
wheel, his gaze had rested on her retreating figure, the overgrown dog
loping properly along at her side.

It was then he had remembered Doyle's question regarding June Cook's
golden Labrador: "*Wouldn't want a dog, would you? She asked me to shoot
it*."

At that time, they had been sitting in Bodie's car outside the posh block
of flats overlooking Lord's Cricket Grounds waiting for the return of
Ulrike's lawyer-comrade Tim Hockley. Bodie had not even dared touch
Doyle's hand in so public a place.

Gloomy self-absorption had characterized Doyle's mood since the
Sunday-morning shootings in Kent; in fact, it was that unremitting
pensiveness that was in large part responsible for Bodie's driving all the
way to June Cook's house this morning: he intended to offer temporary
lodging for her dog.

Having acted on impulse, Bodie now was not entirely clear on his motives.
Perhaps he thought that seeing others less fortunate than he would serve
to jar Doyle out of his misery. Or perhaps Bodie was simply hoping that
such a noble--and admittedly unlikely--gesture would cause Doyle to see
*him* differently.

Better.

Perhaps he might even come to love him.

Bodie snorted to himself. He had been an idiot to come here. Taking on
June Cook's dog was a burden he was ill-prepared to shoulder under the
best of circumstances.

But if it would somehow bring Doyle closer--

The animal's head shot up: another car, at the bottom of the hill,
accelerated away. Once more anticipation was replaced by anxiety; the
light in the luminous eyes dulled as the dog realized that the vehicle was
not the one it awaited.

Suddenly decided for good and all, Bodie stepped into the street,
inconspicuously stretching his spine to ease the kinks accumulated after
more than an hour of inertia. The Cooks' dog looked up warily at Bodie's
approach, its long tail cutting a slow swath through the air.

"Don't get your hopes up, old son," Bodie warned the animal as he eased
open the iron gate. "She might just ask me to shoot you, too."

At the front door, Bodie pressed a thumb against the buzzer. A little
nervously, he glanced back over his shoulder at the Labrador, which
watched him with baffled interest.

"Bet you've got a healthy appetite," he commented ruefully.

Just then the door swung open. Bodie looked down into the wrinkled face of
a woman in her middle to late fifties. She took in his appearance with
some bemusement but, despite the fact that he was dressed in smoke-grey
corduroys and a dark blue turtleneck under his black leather
jacket--hardly appropriate mourning apparel--no disapproval. For that
Bodie took an instant liking to her.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm here to see June," Bodie said by way of introduction. "My name's
Bodie."

"Bodie?" Questioning his name allowed the woman another moment in which to
appraise him. Apparently finding his unorthodox appearance--and his
forthright manner--acceptable, she held the door wider. "Come in, please.
I'll fetch June; she's having a little lie-down."

"I understand," Bodie said as he crossed over the threshold. "Tell her I
won't take up much of her time."

With a nod of mousy brown hair, the woman gestured him into the foyer and
closed the door. Then she disappeared round the corner, her footsteps
audible as she made her way down the corridor.

Prepared to wait, Bodie had a look round. A few pictures broke the flow of
flowered wallpaper: one was of Brian Cook, serious-faced in a police
uniform; another, of June, holding a tiny bundle in her arms; and the last
was that of a small child, who bore the narrow features of Brian Cook.

Suddenly wishing he were anywhere but here, Bodie glanced up sharply as a
low voice stated, "You're Ray's partner."

For a woman so heavily encumbered, June Cook had entered the foyer on
impressively quiet feet.

"*Attractive...intelligent...witty...got personality... *" Those were the
words Doyle had used to describe her. Bodie saw none of that in the woman
standing before him. Straight, very black hair hung lank beside puffy
cheeks; blue eyes, startlingly clear, were yet flat and expressionless;
and her mouth, which may have displayed a certain piquancy when relaxed
and smiling, was now only a thin line.

"Yes," Bodie said, covering the surprise that arose from her statement.

"He's not here."

"No, I know."

There was movement at the end of the corridor: young Danny, as
somber-featured as his mother, stood hovering like a small, slender
wraith.

Bodie said, "I'd like to speak with you--alone."

As June twisted round to see what had caught Bodie's eye, the older woman
who had answered the door reappeared. She curved her arms round the boy's
shoulders. "June, you really should be lying down."

"I'm all right, Nell." Turning back to Bodie, she said calmly, "What d'you
want to speak about?"

Rubbing his chin, Bodie tipped his head very slightly toward their
audience.

Frowning a little, June prodded, "Is it important?"

Biting back a sigh, Bodie said roughly, "Maybe. Probably not."

June's small lips pursed thoughtfully. "Nell," she said at last, "would
you watch Danny for a few minutes?"

"You'll be all right?" the older woman asked. To Bodie, the unspoken
*alone* echoed hollowly in the silence.

"Bodie's a friend of a friend," June replied matter-of-factly, "Would you
mind?"

Nell tightened her arms around the child. "We'll go round to my place
while your mum is having a chat with this gentleman," she whispered into
Danny's ear. "You can help me brush Nero."

The boy swung his head back, a slight animation sparking in forlorn eyes.
"But, his hair--"

"Won't show up on those trousers," June assured him with motherly
indulgence.

"You won't let him bite me?" Danny asked.

"You know Nero," Nell informed him tartly. "Cats bite whomever they like."
She leveled her kindly gaze at June. "Ring me, love, or give a shout over
the fence when you want us back. This weather is too fine to ignore."

"Thanks, Nell."

Their footsteps faded, to be replaced by the opening and closing of a door
in the distance. Tilting her head back, June eyed Bodie measuringly. "Come
into the kitchen," she said abruptly. "You look like you can use something
to eat."

"I--"

Bodie's incipient protest was ignored, the small woman already making her
ungainly, but fluid way down the corridor. Perforce, Bodie followed.

The kitchen was tiny under normal circumstances; now, with every available
surface piled high with foil- or cling film-covered dishes and baking
tins, it was reduced to service as a larder.

"There's food everywhere," June remarked unnecessarily. "You'd never guess
I was slaving over a hot stove just a few days ago." With unerring
instinct, she uncovered a platter bearing a richly decorated chocolate
gateau. Stretching up on her tip-toes she took down a clean plate from the
cupboard, then bent over to ferret a knife from the utensil drawer. A
large slice was cut from the cake and ferried to the plate. Adding a fork,
June swung round and handed the lot to Bodie. "Of course, now we have more
than enough for a small army. But poor Brian won't be eating any of it."

Bodie swallowed.

"Come round in here," June said, oblivious to his discomfort. "Sit down,
Bodie." She pulled a chair out from under the table that stood beside the
half-wall in the small space adjoining the kitchen and flagged him into
it. Once he had obeyed, she walked to the other side. Holding the back of
the facing chair but making no move to seat herself, June went on, "That's
what Ray always calls you, just Bodie. Is it all right if I do, too?"

"That's fine," Bodie agreed. "Look, I really don't mean to be a bother. I
just--"

"No bother. Eat your gateau."

Bodie hesitantly picked up the fork.

"It's crazy, really," June murmured, "but this morning I couldn't wait to
be rid of everyone--y'know, all Brian's old mates. And now it's gone so
quiet." She stared off into the distance for a moment, her blue eyes dark
with puzzlement. Without preamble, she asked, "Where's Ray?"

Closing his mouth on a forkful, Bodie began to chew. "Dunno."

June looked at him skeptically, her head canted to one side in a mannerism
Bodie was beginning to recognize. "According to him, you two practically
live in each other's pockets." A smile flitted across her mouth though
there was little humor in it. "Worse than an old married couple, Brian
says." She stiffened, her hands gripping the chair back. After a moment,
she added in a tense whisper, "I expect Ray hasn't forgiven me for all
those things I said the other day. I really didn't mean them. Only I was
so--"

"June."

She frowned. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Bodie said firmly. He found himself staring at her imposingly
ripe figure. Like many men, he found the physical reality of pregnancy
disconcerting, if not outright intimidating.

There was a brief silence. Then June said, "D'you want another piece? Or
something else--?"

Hardly aware that he had already cleaned his plate, Bodie gave the offer
serious consideration--he had not realized how hungry he was. But he
suspected that June must be ready to see the back of him, no matter how
much she might argue otherwise. "Thanks," he said, "but, no."

She nodded vaguely.

"Your friend Nell is right," Bodie remarked. "You probably ought to be
sitting down."

"I will," she assured him, her voice strangely breathy, "But you wanted to
speak with me--?"

"Sorry." Bodie set his fork on the plate. "It's about your dog."

June looked at him blankly. "My dog? Finn? Is he--?"

"Fine. Right out front when I came in."

Eyes shifting abstractedly, June muttered, "What about him?"

Bodie licked his lips. "Ray said you asked him to--well, get rid of him."

Exhaling all at once, June smiled bitterly. "You mean, I asked him to
shoot Finn." She closed her eyes. "I wanted to hurt Ray," she said
frankly. "Think I must have gone a little mad."

"Are you saying Finn won't be a problem, then?"

June glanced down at her hands where they clutched the chair back. She
peeled her fingers free and stretched them wide. They trembled. "Always a
problem, he is," she said absently. "Wouldn't mind shooting him myself
sometimes--especially after he's had a go at my daffs. Very partial to
upending bulbs and the like--"

"Would it help if I took him for a bit?" Bodie asked softly. "Maybe not
just me," he clarified parenthetically, "because I can't always count on
being back of an evening. He might have to be shifted between me and a few
of the other lads. Till you get settled, like."

A strange quietude seemed to descend upon the woman. "Did Ray ask you to
do this?"

"No."

"I see." She thought a moment. "Perhaps I should take you up on the offer
anyway." She drew in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. "But only
for a bit, as you say."

Bodie rose. "As long as you like," he said rashly.

"Why not?" she whispered. Then: "Yes. Do it now, Bodie, while Danny's not
home."

Accepting this unsubtle dismissal without offense, Bodie shoved his hands
into his jacket pockets and turned toward the door. "You know how to reach
me?"

"Yes, of course." She stood a little straighter, head high. "Thank you.
And Bodie--"

"Yeah?"

"Tell Ray not to stay away?"

"Don't worry, June." Bodie radiated greater confidence than he felt.
"He'll probably be round later this evening."

Leaving June alone in the small dining alcove, Bodie let himself out
through the front door. After the gloom of the Cooks' house, the
brilliance of the afternoon was dazzling.

Finn sat on a large sheet of flagstone baked warm by the sun. He took to
his feet as Bodie stepped onto the pavement, tail essaying a ready
greeting.

"You've already guessed, haven't you?" Bodie said wryly. He put out a hand
to pat the dog's head. The great golden skull pressed up against his palm,
encouraging an increase of pressure. Obligingly, Bodie ran his fingers
through coarse hair until they encountered the broad leather collar. "Oh,
damn--we need your lead, don't we?"

Having just escaped June's company, Bodie was reluctant to return. He had
never enjoyed the role of comforter; it made him feel awkward and somewhat
put upon.

Sketching a gruesome expression, he marched back to the front door.
Turning the knob with stealthy fingers, he entered hesitantly. "June? It's
me again."

There came no answer.

Glowering, Bodie padded into the corridor that led to the kitchen and
dining area. "June, I need Finn's lead."

She was in the kitchen in front of the sink, her back toward Bodie.

"June?"

"I thought you were gone. What'd you come back for?"

"Forgot the dog's leash," he answered coolly. "If that's not too much to
ask."

The woman slowly turned round. Bodie saw at once that she had been
weeping; her face was wet, her eyes reddened. She collected herself with
great dignity. "I'm sorry. I should have thought--" Her shattered voice
failed her.

In three great strides Bodie was at her side. He hooked an arm behind her
back and gently guided her to the dining area. There he dragged out the
nearest chair and helped her to sit in it, pretending not to notice the
way her legs fell apart to make room for her unborn child.

"I'll just get the kettle going," Bodie said practically. He paced round
to the kitchen. Keeping an eye on June through the wide opening in the
partition between the two rooms, he spoke aloud, "Now where will I found
the tea? Of course--in the cupboard nearest the kettle. Nice tin."

June's breathing grew steadier with each passing second. She tugged a
paper serviette out of a bird-shaped holder that stood in the center of
the table and wiped her nose. "I'm all right now."

Smiling to himself at that brave, self-conscious whisper, Bodie wondered
how Brian had managed to put up with June's little girl's voice. Probably,
he had loved it. "Take your time, love. Why don't you tell me about Danny,
eh? What kind of sports is he keen on?" While he spoke, Bodie deftly
filled the kettle and attached the flex. Following a brief search, he
rustled up two clean mugs. While the water heated, he took a plate from
the dishes cupboard and carried it to the sideboard where the remains of
the gateau lurked.

Studying him tiredly, the woman said, "You don't have to coddle me."

"Bri was a mate, June." Bodie found the serving knife. "He'd expect us to
look after you."

June's eyes dropped to her tightly meshed fingers. "Then why isn't Ray
here?"

With the blade poised over the cake, Bodie wasted a second searching for
an answer. Finding none readily available, he said nothing and plunged the
knife home.

******

Doyle raised his glass of bitter to his mouth and drained it. His face
felt seared from the wind off the sea; it was a relief to be out of it.
Only minutes remained before he would have to leave again, however: it was
afternoon closing time. He set the glass on the table and pocketed the
packet of pretzels he had purchased with his drink. As he made his
unhurried way to the door, he waved a hand over his shoulder at the man
behind the bar. A pleasant farewell followed him out.

The gusty air tore at him the instant Doyle reached the pavement in front
of the pub. Gritting his teeth against its fierceness, he slouched inside
his jacket until he came alongside the Capri. As he slid the key into the
lock, he cast a last look at the twin towers at Reculver, now nearly a
quarter of a mile away, looming black against the sky. A moment later he
drove out of the car park one-handed, delving into the packet of pretzels
with the other. Chewing industriously, he nosed the car onto the road that
curved back to the motorway.

*Ojuka*.

The man had both fascinated and repelled him. Undeniably charismatic,
there was yet a ruthlessness about the African ruler that Doyle had found
unpalatable--possibly because it reflected a savagery that resided within
Doyle himself.

The operation had not gone smoothly, and a young woman had died as a
result. Doyle had regretted that most of all. The gunman Parker must have
sensed this, for he had bragged of her killing after Doyle had recovered
consciousness whilst being driven to Avery's country home. Doyle would
have died, too, had he not managed to work free of his bonds in time to
defend himself against the killer's attack.

And then there had been Bodie. Despite his avowed disappointment at having
to cancel his date with Louise, he had come closer to flirting outright
with Doyle than he had ever done before. Calling Doyle "angelfish,"
referring to himself as *Doyle's* priapismic monster, and then,
impossibly, declaring his concern for Doyle's well-being *directly* to
Cowley's face and in no uncertain terms: never had Doyle expected to
witness the like.

Which had made it all the harder to keep his feelings to himself when,
after Doyle had arrived back from a visit to the third floor surgery to
have his burned wrists treated, Bodie had announced that he had made
arrangements for Doyle to double-date with him and Louise later that
evening. Agreeing to this with a baring of teeth that had passed for a
smile, Doyle had set to the rest of the day's work with a will, his
turbulent emotions kept brutally in check lest they tumble out to
embarrass both of them.

At the appointed hour, Bodie had shown up at Doyle's flat. It had been
Bodie's plan to pick up their dates, take them to a restaurant where a
table had been reserved, and afterward, presuming all went well, to then
drive back to Bodie's place.

Bodie had scarcely planted a foot in the door before Doyle's phone had
rung. That had been Dispatch forwarding a call from Louise, who had
informed him that her friend, a nurse, had been detained at the hospital
where she worked and would be unable to join them. Far more relieved than
dismayed, Doyle had heard her out, then had passed the handset to Bodie.
While Bodie had made placatory noises, Doyle had taken himself into the
kitchen to begin preparation of his already delayed dinner.

"Sorry, mate." A huge sigh lifting his jacket-free shoulders, Bodie came
into the kitchen.

Having paused only long enough to unknot his tie in his haste to free his
Adam's apple, Doyle waved his partner off. "Don't worry about me, Bodie.
You and Louise have a good time." His wrists had begun to throb again and
were none too pleased to find themselves hovering so near the gas flame
spurting under the cooking pan.

"Hm." Bodie came up behind him and peered over Doyle's shoulder at his
choice of ingredients. "Why're you poking at it like that?"

"'M not poking. Get out of here, will you? You'll be late."

"Are too poking. Like an old lady. It's your wrists, isn't it!"

"Go away, Bodie," Doyle said tolerantly. Butter spit into the air; he
jerked his hand aside. "Damn!"

"Give me that," Bodie ordered, and wrenched the fish-slice out of Doyle's
fingers while prudently turning down the heat.

Choosing to move out of Bodie's way rather than be shoved aside, Doyle
simply traded places with him, loitering close behind his partner so he
could oversee his efforts. Thrusting out his arm, Doyle exposed his watch
and held it under Bodie's nose. "You will be late."

"I canceled."

Doyle withdrew his arm. "You what?"

"You heard. The point of setting all this up was to get you out of an
evening."

Not believing this for a heartbeat, Doyle observed, "Wasn't what you said
last night."

Bodie blithely raised his shoulders. "Changed me mind."

"I see." Suddenly aware that the moment for his long-awaited revenge had
been handed to him on a proverbial silver platter, Doyle glided a half
inch closer to his partner. "Only enough there for one, y'know."

"You can start," Bodie conceded amiably. "Looking peckish, you are."

"Yeah, I am hungry," Doyle whispered, his lips very close to Bodie's right
ear. "But not for food."

Bodie stopped breathing. "Sorry?"

"You heard me." He touched the tip of his tongue to Bodie's earlobe. "Pay
attention to what you're doing there, sunshine," he warned hastily when
Bodie violently twitched. "Expect I *will* want to eat something--after."

"Af--ter?"

Reveling in those two splintered syllables, Doyle slowly curved his arms
around Bodie's chest. "I'm always ravenous after sex."

Recklessly he sent his fingertips in search of the lower hem of Bodie's
poloneck top; to reach it, he had first to ease the shirt free of Bodie's
belted trousers. Encountering no resistance, Doyle pressed the advantage
and floated his hands under the warm material, right up against Bodie's
abdomen just below the ribcage.

"Ray."

"Yeah?"

As Doyle continued his explorations, he could feel the quickened rise and
fall of Bodie's chest and hear the rush of soft, shallow breaths through
parted lips. Keeping his movements fluidly mesmeric, Doyle allowed one
hand to drift downward inch by cautious inch until it alighted on Bodie's
belt.

After speaking Doyle's name, Bodie said nothing more, not when Doyle's
fingers pried the leather tip free of the prong, nor when he worked the
clasp of Bodie's waistband open--not even when he slipped his thumbs under
the elastic of Bodie's briefs and pushed pants and trousers down onto
hard-muscled thighs in one smooth action.

His own heart beating high and excitedly in the hollow of his throat,
Doyle then directed his efforts to Bodie's poloneck. "One arm at a time,"
he whispered huskily. Bodie remained unexpectedly pliant, offering no
resistance as Doyle continued to strip him, even curving his head forward
to facilitate the removal of the shirt.

With a flick of the wrist, Doyle discarded the body-warm polo-neck, then
took a few seconds to survey his handiwork. He would have liked to look
longer--even if his view was limited to Bodie's back--but dared not risk
losing Bodie's compliance at this point. So, pressing close once again, he
turned his face into the curve formed by Bodie's neck and shoulder, his
arms encompassing the superbly contoured body with unintended
possessiveness.

A gasp hissed out through Bodie's teeth. Inwardly gloating at this
newfound ability to affect his normally unshakable partner so profoundly,
Doyle molded his full length against Bodie's mostly nude form. One hand
roamed freely from shoulder to hip and all points in between; the other
described ever-widening ellipses, their zenith remaining fairly stable at
the hollow under Bodie's ribs, while their nadir steadily dipped toward
Bodie's genitals.

Gently rubbing his own fully clothed groin against his partner's bare
buttocks, Doyle spread his descending hand wide to encircle his goal--but
stopped, sensing a heat far greater than Bodie was capable of exuding,
even in this aroused state. The gas ring still shimmered blue and orange,
although the pan and its ingredients had not yet begun to smoke. Doyle
spun the control to shut off the flow, then returned to his purpose. As
his fingers closed round Bodie's erection, Bodie leaned back against him
and rocked his hips forward.

"That's it," Doyle murmured, his breath coursing over Bodie's shoulder and
down his breast. Folding his arm tighter across Bodie's chest, Doyle laid
his mouth hungrily upon the side of the long, alabaster throat. Farther
down, insistent fingers began to stroke and squeeze with knowing
precision.

Bodie moved with him, his head gradually dropping back until it lay heavy
upon Doyle's shoulder. Then he let out a tiny moan: Doyle had altered the
already perfect rhythm so that now it was paced harder and faster.

"God, Bodie," Doyle said with a shudder. His partner's pelvic thrusts
brought firm, smooth buttocks up against Doyle's groin again and again.
The urge to strip himself bare so that he might experience that exquisite
pressure upon unblunted flesh was almost overwhelming. In fact, Doyle had
never done anything quite so difficultnor unselfish--as seeing Bodie's
pleasure through to its culmination to the neglect of his own.

But his torment was not long drawn out, for Bodie gave an unintelligible
groan and, abruptly bringing his hands round to reinforce Doyle's hold,
shoved hard into the tight channel thus provided him.

Doyle held his partner until the spasms stopped, his own passion banked to
embers while, with sudden nervousness, he awaited Bodie's reaction.

All thoughts of revenge had vanished.

A moment passed. Then Bodie gripped Doyle's wrist and proceeded to peel
the thin fingers free of sensitized flesh, one at a time. Before Doyle
could divine his partner's intention, Bodie lifted Doyle's hand to his
mouth and began to lick it clean with long, warm sweeps of his tongue.

Stunned, Doyle trembled as the embers burst once more into full flame. He
fell back as Bodie spun round and took the ends of his tie in a
no-nonsense grasp that made retreat impossible. Automatically curving an
arm round Bodie's shoulders to preserve his balance, Doyle ventured
optimistically, "You okay?"

Bodie merely stared at him, his formidable presence in no way lessened by
his state of undress. "Very. You?"

His partner's prosaic response was reassuring. Affecting dreamy
disinterest, Doyle gave the question two seconds of polite consideration.
"*Could* use a little help," he murmured at last.

A slow grin took command of Bodie's features. "I'll see what I can do."

******

Doyle squirmed; that morning remained all too clear in his memory. Bodie
had, in fact, taken excellent care of him. And after that first time, they
had readily fallen into the habit of turning to one another for sex.

While Doyle had accepted this turn of events with no admitted qualms,
Bodie--in keeping with his earlier resistance--had proven somewhat
skittish. It was he who, some weeks down the road, had asked if Doyle
found their new relationship confining. Doyle had airily answered in the
negative. Then Bodie had pressed him skeptically as to whether Doyle
didn't actually miss doing the birds.

At Bodie's persistence, Doyle had begun to wonder if his partner were
obliquely trying to express his own feelings. But, confronted, Bodie had
denied that he was unhappy with the arrangement, and the subject had been
dropped.

For Doyle, however, the questioning had only begun.

******

Along the edge of the rug that separated the dining area from the lounge,
June marched. She cumbrously walked from one end of the small room to the
other, back and forth, again and again.

Bodie had long since ceased to listen to her self-pitying mumblings,
playing the indulgent civil servant to the grieving widow. Yet there was
something compelling in the way she tirelessly lumbered across the
uncarpeted floor, her hands literally wringing together. The slice of
gateau had found its way into Bodie's stomach rather than June's, small
compensation for putting up with this aimless harangue.

And then she said something Bodie could not ignore.

"Are you saying you'd rather it was Doyle who'd been gunned down?" he
asked, deceptively civil.

Eyes swimming in tears, June glanced at Bodie as though she had forgotten
his presence. "Don't sound so high and mighty. I'd rather *anyone* else
had died instead of Brian. Not that I wish anyone dead, y'know? I don't.
Oh, damn."

"You're tired," Bodie pointed out, his tone lacking sympathy. "Why don't
you sit down and rest, June? You're wearing me out just watching you."

"I can't," she replied pettishly. "Wish I could. I haven't slept since it
happened."

"Pacing'll only make it worse."

June rounded on him. "Oh, it's easy for you to say! I expect you've had
this chat before--with other widows!"

"No." Bodie pushed his plate away. "Basic common sense. But you're not the
only one hurting. Told you before, Bri was a good mate. We all miss him."

She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. "Oh, yes, you might
miss him for a while. But what about Danny? What about me?" Her eyes
screwed tightly shut; she choked back a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Bodie,
why are you wasting your time here?"

Baldly Bodie said, "Finn's lead, remember? I need it so I can take him
with me."

"Oh." June inhaled sharply. "Oh." A little shakily she pushed off from the
table. "Give me a minute, will you?" She started toward the corridor.
"It's--buried away. But--I need to use the--"

"I can wait." With an effort, Bodie managed to say the words graciously.
He would far rather have been out of the door that very moment.

Yet as the woman walked away with halting steps, Bodie watched her
critically. "You'll be all right?"

"Yes." The word wafted back to him on a low moan as June rounded the
corner and disappeared out of his sight.

Grimacing to himself, Bodie suspected he might be in for a long wait. June
had gone as white as the lilies that had graced Brian's coffin. Perhaps he
ought to ring Cowley and suggest counseling--or better still, request that
he send someone who could stay with the distraught woman until she might
come to terms with her new situation.

Incapable of sitting still another moment, Bodie surged to his feet. He
collected the soiled dishes and carried them into the kitchen. These he
piled into the sink along with those used earlier, all of which were then
covered with water to soak.

Through the kitchen window, Nell and June's boy Danny could be seen
kneeling down, heads close together, a colorful rug stretched out on the
lawn beneath them. Nell held a sooty black cat in her lap; Danny was
brushing its coat with slow caution.

Mingled scents rose from the sideboard to tantalize and distract. Bodie
idly began to inspect the various plates, sampling a bite here and another
there until he had gone through every dish. He helped himself to a glass
of water, spending another moment watching June's neighbor and child play
in the afternoon sun.

After a bit, it struck him that quite some time had elapsed since June had
excused herself. Muttering under his breath, Bodie took another wander
through the array of foods that littered the counter. Chewing with no real
pleasure, he finished off a spicy beef pasty, rinsed his fingers under the
tap, and decided it was definitely time to leave.

He strode out into the corridor, and made an educated guess as to which
closed door represented the toilet. Coming to stand right outside the one
deemed most likely, he called loudly, "June, I'll find something else for
the dog, okay?"

"Bodie?" The woman's voice barely carried through the door.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm going now, taking Finn with me. Don't worry about the
lead, I'll find something--"

"Bodie!"

Frowning, he went nearer. "What is it?"

.Can you-- Can you come in here--please?"

"In *there?*"

He heard a low gasp. "*Please*?'

Confounded, Bodie took hold of the brass-colored knob and reluctantly gave
it a turn. "Are you sure, June?" He edged the door open.

A bitten-off moan. "I think--I need--your help."

She was squatting over the toilet, her panties puddled around one foot,
black frock hitched onto her thighs. Jerkily her head came up as Bodie
entered the small room; her eyes were wide and filled with pain, her mouth
drawn paper thin. Watery spots of red stained the toilet seat, as well as
the small towel that dangled loosely from her hand.

Faintly shocked, Bodie said, "You're not--?"

She bit her lip. "I thought I had to you know--but when I tried--"

"I'll ring for an ambulance." Bodie smartly stepped back into the
corridor.

"Bodie!" June cried. "I don't think--there's time. Fetch some
towels--upstairs in the--airing cupboard. Oh--!" She half-stood and
reached for the empty towel rail. With legs spread apart she hung on, her
face contorting as the contracting muscle reshaped the outline of her
abdomen, bearing it downward.

"Jesus Christ, June!" Bodie shouted; he had seen the powerful movement of
June's uterus through the fabric of her dress. "You had to've known this
was coming on!"

"No--Danny took ages," June grunted. "Oh, please--Bodie--the towels!"

Breaking free of his paralysis, Bodie jogged into the corridor then raced
back to where he had noticed the stairs. He took the steps three and four
at a time. Seconds later he found the upstairs bathroom. The airing
cupboard was behind the door; inside he found stacks of clean, dry towels.
Snatching up a huge handful, he bolted out to the landing and pounded back
down to the ground floor.

Breathing roughly, June still clung to the towel rail, her temple resting
against the wall. Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip. She looked
exhausted.

"Towels," Bodie announced curtly, thrusting them toward her.

"You'll--have to--use them."

"To do what?" Bodie exclaimed. "You ought to be in hospital. *I'm* no
doctor!"

June's eyes rolled shut and her whole body went tense. "The baby
is--coming--now," she told him with painful articulation. "You'll have--"

"God damn you, June," Bodie snapped. "I can't help you!"

"You must!" she sobbed. The contraction intensified, and she cried out,
helplessly shuffling her feet another inch or two apart to accommodate the
inexorable downward pressure.

"Oh, *Christ*." Bodie dropped down next to June's left foot and gingerly
lifted her skirt. "Bloody hell!" He rocked back on his heels. "I can't do
this," he said bluntly. "I'm going to ring for proper help."

Tears ran down June's face and dripped onto the linoleum floor.
"Two--more," she gasped. "Maybe three. I can--hardly--"

But Bodie was already hurtling into the kitchen, where he had seen a phone
mounted on one of the walls. Skidding to a stop, he was just about to grab
the handset off the cradle when he had an even better idea. He unlatched
the window over the sink, flung it wide and shouted through the net
curtain, "Nell! Nell, ring 999! June needs an ambulance!"

The woman looked up, startled eyes tracking Bodie's voice. Directly, she
began to struggle to her feet. Not waiting to see that she had understood
him or that she would obey, Bodie sprinted back to the toilet.

There he came upon June weeping pitiably, one shaking hand wrung like a
talon about the rail, the other hidden beneath her skirt.

"I've told Nell," Bodie stated flatly. "She'll take care of it." He picked
up one of the towels and unfolded it with military precision. "Tell me
what to do." June's beet-red face and clamped-shut jaws suggested he would
have to wait before she could respond. Accordingly, he went down on his
heels again and elevated the hem of June's skirt, Wincing, he beheld the
sight that had disconcerted him so badly a moment before: the dark-haired
crown of a slick, wet head cruelly distending the opening to June's body.

"Don't--let it--fall," she hissed. "Use the--towel to--wipe it--off. Oh,
sweet Jesus--!"

Once more she began to grunt, a long, agonized sound that raked at Bodie's
ears and scraped at his nerves. Simultaneously, a little more of the
child's head became visible. Worriedly, Bodie raised the soft terrycotton
material to within a hair's breadth of the tiny, sodden skull.

The contraction ended.

Panting, June slumped forward, her cheek flattened against the wall.

"Is that it? Has it stopped?" Bodie asked hopefully.

"God, I wish--! Uhh--"

In the next seconds the child's face was revealed in slow but steady
increments; furrowed brow, flattened nose, pinched lips--its every feature
seemed to reflect dismay at being introduced so ignominiously into this
new world.

Contemplating the wizened and wrinkled head depending so weirdly from its
mother's body, Bodie was unaware that his expression matched that of the
newborn's almost exactly.

"The head's out, June," he announced tersely. "Should I touch it?"

She mumbled something that Bodie could not decipher. His patience already
sorely tested, Bodie opened his mouth to growl. Then he took in June's
face: the anguish of loss, the sleepless nights, her present, racking
pain--all were deeply etched into her features. His temper dissolved
unspoken.

"Christ," Bodie again said under his breath. He covered one of June's
small, clammy hands with a warm palm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"You're doing fine, love. Don't give up now, eh?"

With a low, wrenching cry, she bent her knees and helplessly pulled on the
rail. As the next contraction began to bend her to its will, Bodie forced
himself to shut out her suffering so he could focus entirely on the
progress of the child.

With exasperating lack of haste, first one shoulder then the other broke
free. Pillowing the waxen, mottled creature with the lightest pressure of
the towel, nonetheless Bodie was unprepared when the rest of it seemingly
poured out all at once. Fumbling a little, he yet managed to balance the
mucky newcomer before it could overflow onto the floor.

"June?" The voice came from the door. Without looking round, Bodie knew
that it was Nell. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the distinctive
wail of an emergency vehicle siren; Bodie only hoped that it was headed
toward June's house.

"Where's--Danny?" June whispered.

"In front. He's watching for the ambulance. Here, Mr. Bodie, cover the wee
lad with another towel to keep him warm, won't you?"

"You take him--!"

"No. Not that I wouldn't love to, mind. But there's more to come. If you
can shift over a little, I can help June with that--providing the
ambulance isn't here before then, of course."

"More?" Bodie protested faintly, reluctantly accepting the proffered
second towel. He fastidiously draped it over the infant, being very
careful not to touch it or the still attached, pulsing umbilical cord with
his unwashed fingers.

"The afterbirth," Nell clarified. "Is the child breathing?"

"I--" Bodie examined it closely. "I don't think so."

"Give his little feet a slap, then."

" His *feet*? "

"Just do as I say."

Smothering a curse, Bodie warily maneuvered the unwieldy creature into the
curve of his left arm so that it lay close to his body, and bared the
bowed legs. Anchoring the ankles between the fingers of his left hand, he
applied a tap to the sole of each foot with his right.

"A little harder," Nell advised quietly.

Blinking against the sweat dripping into his eyes, Bodie gave the child an
audible smack. It gave a shocked inhalation; in the next second, a reedy
complaint rose into the air and slowly grew in intensity.

Squeamishly mindful of the umbilical cord, Bodie replaced the towel. He
shifted a little to take some of the strain off his back.

"Let me see him, Bodie," June implored. Amazingly, Bodie had almost
forgotten about the child's mother. She stood braced with her shoulder
against the wall, her hair plastered to damp cheeks, her eyes wide and
pleading.

Bodie turned and inched a little closer, bringing the child directly into
June's line of sight. Head bent forward, she stared expressionlessly down
at the now red-tinged face with its wide open, squalling mouth.

"Does he have all his fingers and toes?" she asked tremulously.

Peering beneath the towel, Bodie dutifully counted them. "All present and
accounted for."

Nell broke into sudden laughter. "He's a beauty, June. His dad would've
been proud."

"A beauty?" Bodie breathed disbelievingly, "*This*?"

Weakly writhing, impotent fists flailing, and streaked from head to toe
with blood and some other greasy, unspeakable substance, the child
appeared to Bodie quite one of ugliest things he had ever seen.

******

In the service area restaurant at Farthing Corner, Doyle meticulously
stripped off the protective cover of a UHT container, the contents of
which he then tipped into his cup of coffee. Although the food and drink
here lacked taste, texture and visual appeal, he had decided a break from
driving would be preferable to becoming one more motorway statistic.

Not that he would have been entirely without blame; his mind, constantly
drawn back to Bodie like flotsam skirting a strong undertow, had refused
to pay heed to the late day traffic and the maniacal personalities
hurrying towards home. After narrowly avoiding a collision that would have
left him permanently adhering to the back end of a mud-spattered lorry,
Doyle had started looking for a service or rest area, and luckily, had
found himself within a few miles of Farthing Corner.

This was his second coffee, the first having accompanied a soggy hamburger
and almost as soggy chips. Trying to expunge the lingering nastiness
coating his tongue, Doyle sucked down a mouthful of loamcolored liquid
that merely scalded off the tips of his taste buds.

*Bodie*.

He sighed, something he had done frequently of late.

In the six months that they had been lovers, Doyle's emotions had run the
gamut from delirious happiness to crashing depression. There had been days
when he had castigated himself in the crudest of terms for having allowed
the relationship to begin at all; others, when he had willingly
acknowledged that his life had been immeasurably enriched. Bodie, on the
other hand, appeared to have spent little--if anytime in contemplating the
matter. As imperturbable and taciturn as ever, he had not alluded to the
subject since that one conversation regarding Doyle's apparently
diminished interest in others.

Doyle had been left to wonder if Bodie viewed their changed situation as
simply an enhancement to their partnership, the sex being nothing more
than convenient. For although Bodie was a most tender lover and
astonishingly, a faithful one, as well--in every other respect his
treatment of Doyle was discernibly unaltered. But, then, Doyle could
hardly complain on that account, as he himself had yet to write sonnets to
Bodie's eyes, or plight his troth on bended knee--or far less
dramatically, even to take up Bodie's hand in his when the moment allowed.
Outside their occasional bed, Doyle rarely displayed physical
affection--but then, he never had. And now, he remained determinedly
removed and bristlingly independent--to all outward appearances, anyway.

But they had reached a crossroads--or at least Doyle had. The business
with Quinn, the poor, befuddled bastard, had been one more reminder of
what lay in wait for him and Bodie; Cook's senseless murder had been
nothing less than a final warning.

Yet, fear of death was *not* the catalyst that had driven Doyle to
re-examine his life--not fear of his *own* death, anyway. Watching Quinn
race his car into the runway barrier for seemingly no reason at all had
brought to mind another man equally unswerving in his resolve: Bodie.

For Bodie, CI5 would never lose its appeal. Just as Quinn had desperately
fought years of programming rather than let the side down, so Bodie would
forge on against increasingly sophisticated and lethal opposition, budget
cuts, shifting political power arrangements, and advancing age to serve
Queen and George Cowley. And *therein* lay the crux of Doyle's misgivings.

For Doyle had lost his edge. Not only that, but he no longer craved the
adrenalin surge that was invoked by fire-fights, car chases, and good
old-fashioned dust-ups. Perhaps his loss of appetite was due, at least in
part, to the realization that he was performing sub-par. While there had
always been fear in any unpredictable situation, just lately it had begun
to ride on his shoulder like a vulture scenting blood. It was foregone
that Cowley would eventually rumble him; worse, so long as he tried to
carry on, Bodie was at risk.

Pure selfishness had persuaded him to let it go so long: once Doyle cut
his ties to the Squad, those to Bodie would very likely be severed as
well. Knowing Bodie as he did, Doyle did not see how it could be
otherwise.

His leaving would force Bodie to seek a new partner, for Cowley preferred
not to send his agents out solo. Bodie was a creature of habit, and no one
was as familiar with his partner's quirks as Doyle. Handing him over to
another partner could herald a very dangerous period for Bodie. Even
though he was extraordinarily adaptable--given his background, how could
he have been otherwise?--Bodie had spent eight years with Ray Doyle, who
knew his abilities, instincts, and methods better, sometimes, than he knew
his own.

"Have you done, sir?"

Doyle started. A young man stood behind a small trolley that was already
piled high with litter from other tables. Glancing down into his
half-drunk and now stonecold coffee, he said wryly, "Yeah, reckon I am."

The chair squeaked as Doyle pushed it back from the table. He walked
across the brightly lit interior to the counter and requested another
coffee. While he waited, he looked out through the darkened windows. Dusk
crept over the rolling countryside, bearing nightfall in its wake. The
infrequent blaze of car lights on the motorway indicated that most of the
traffic had thinned out--Doyle had sat here for a very long time.

He handed a coin to the cashier and picked up the steaming beaker. With a
mumbled thanks, he made for the door, his stride long, his gait quickened.
His actions this day had only put off the inevitable. More than that,
Doyle had wasted hours of Bodie's company that would never be regained.

The surface of the gold Capri glistened with rivulets of dew. Doyle opened
the door and slid inside, flicking moisture from his fingertips. Something
of the day's warmth lingered, but he shivered. Spurred by a sudden sense
of urgency, he keyed the ignition, flipped on the windscreen wipers and
the headlamps, then released the handbrake. Wedging the hot beaker between
his thighs, he turned the car onto the drive that led to the sliproad, his
thoughts centered on home--and Bodie.

*Unthinkable*.

He wanted one more night with Bodie before coming to a decision. In the
darkest recesses of his mind, however, he already knew what he must do.

******

Finn's head came up, tilted to one side, then held steady, ears cocked
toward the front garden. Bodie, too, heard a car drive up the street,
continue past the block of flats, then brake to a stop some yards farther
up. The engine sounded familiar, but he had been disappointed too many
times this endless evening to once more hope it might be Doyle returning
home.

There followed the bang of a heavy door shutting, muted in the thick,
moisture-laden air. Straining, Bodie imagined he heard foot steps--boot
heels?--clicking along the pavement, headed in this direction; a clatter
as the walker ascended the front stairs; then silence.

Finn took to his feet, tail wagging. He stared up at the door overlooking
the back garden, his body from nose to tail tip making a single statement:
*I wait*.

Bodie did not realize he was holding his breath until the dog suddenly sat
down. Heaving a nervous yawn, Finn stretched out flat on the top step.
Letting his own eyes fall shut, Bodie gritted his teeth against the anger
now laced with disquiet that prowled inside his gut. By the luminous hands
of his watch, he could see that the hour had already gone ten--Doyle
should have been back long ago.

For all Bodie knew, Doyle might be lying dead on the side of the road--or
lying, aroused, in someone else's bed. If it were the former, Bodie could
count on Cowley to inform as soon as he had had the news himself; if the
latter, Bodie would know all too soon enough.

It had seemed logical to bring Finn here to Doyle's ground-floor flat:
there was the small, but dog-size back garden; the high, wooden fence that
provided more than adequate restriction; and the expanse of uncarpeted
floor should Finn forget his training.

But no Doyle.

Slow to boil, Bodie's ire had simmered all afternoon and well into the
evening. The whole bloody day had been a wash-out from beginning to end,
as far as he was concerned. And he was tired, though in truth he had done
little enough.

The ambulance crew had arrived just as June had begun to divest herself of
the afterbirth. A captive audience, Bodie had literally been left holding
the baby while the paramedics had squeezed into the tiny bathroom with
them. Nell had apprehended Danny in the corridor, the boy having trailed
the ambulance attendants into the house.

A grisly piece of work, Bodie had found the culmination of June's delivery
repellent and fascinating in equal measure. As blood was routinely
associated with serious damage in his business, it had been difficult to
accept that this was a natural and necessary process--and that June was
not, in fact, hemorrhaging to death before his eyes.

A moment later, the umbilical cord had been clamped and severed, the
baby's vital functions assessed and approved. At long last, June's newborn
had been rendered into her none-too steady arms, mother and child loaded
onto a trolley, and amidst much wobbling of wheels, transported to the
waiting vehicle. Without questioning the impulse, Bodie had insisted on
joining them in the back of the ambulance, going so far as to flash his
CI5 identification when the driver made as if to argue. As the double
doors had folded shut, Bodie had assured Nell that he would get a ride
back and let them know how June was getting on.

That he had done. Leaving an exhausted, pallid-faced June dozing in her
bed while her infant was numbered, cleaned up, and settled into his own
cubicle in the pediatrics ward, Bodie had summoned a taxi to return to
June's house. There he had taken tea with Nell and June's boy. Utterly
untraurnatized, the child had decided that his mother's ordeal was the
stuff of fabulous tales to be passed onto his mates and anyone else who
would listen. Imagining what June might have to contend with later, Bodie
had repressed a rare smile while ruffling the child's hair and bidding
Nell farewell. Outside, he had collected an uncertain Finn, the dog having
waited disconsolately throughout.

And here he was, perched on his heels at the back of the night--dark
garden, three-quarters empty can of beer in hand, waiting, as Finn waited,
for someone who might never show up.

With devastating suddenness, the dog let out a bark, whirled and slapped
his forepaws against the half-open back door. It gave way before his
weight; Finn shot through the opening. Bodie's hand fell on the butt of
his pistol just as a light came on in the kitchen.

A husky voice carried clearly on the still air: "Hello, old son. Whoa!
You'll have me over in a minute. Down, Finn. There's a good lad."

Heart pounding violently in his ears, Bodie yet knew at once who that
voice belonged to.

"You been fed, then? 'F course you have. Don't try that big-eyed, pleading
look on me, eh?"

Boot heels sounded a lazy tattoo in their approach toward the back of the
kitchen. Gripping the can tightly enough to dent the thin metal, Bodie
watched as a lean shadow spilled into the light. The elongated human-shape
eerily molded itself to each concrete step, then stretched farther and
farther into the back garden until it was absorbed into the night: Doyle
had entered the doorway.

Turning sideways to let the dog pad past him down the stair, Doyle crossed
the threshold and drew the door shut behind him. "Jacket on the chair
back, half-eaten sandwich on the table, ring-tab on the counter--you're a
detective's dream," he remarked amiably.

Bodie said nothing.

A muted glimpse of white suggested sharp teeth tugging at a bottom lip.
"I've been looking for you," Doyle tried again.

"You've found me." Bodie's voice betrayed none of the emotions roiling
around inside him--anger, relief, resentment, apprehension. Finn trotted
to his side and sat down.

"I've just come from hospital. Waited round your flat for a couple of
hours. When you didn't come home, I rang Dispatch. They told me about
June--and you."

It had not occurred to Bodie that Doyle might try to seek him out at his
flat just as he had sought Doyle here. Chagrined, he asked gruffly, "How
is she?"

"Friendlier than the last time I saw her. It was after visiting hours, but
she insisted on having a chat. She introduced me to Damon William before
one of the ward sisters chased her back to her room. She's doing fine."

"Damon William?" Bodie frowned.

"Damon's her father's name; think you can guess where the William comes
from."

"That's ridiculous."

"She's very grateful to you."

Through clenched teeth, Bodie said, "Was her fault she hadn't got hold of
the doctor in time. She's bloody lucky things didn't go all wrong!"

"According to June, her pains had been very mild till soon after you got
there. Kinda sneaked up on her."

"I know, I know," Bodie said irritably. "She told me all that in the
ambulance."

"She said," Doyle stated without inflection, "that you held her hand."

Dark blue eyes fixed on Doyle with intense dislike.

Unfazed, Doyle leaned back against the house and folded his arms across
his chest. "Other than that, your bedside manner stinks--says June."

"Yeah, well, you can tell her I don't intend to make a habit of it."

Nodding, Doyle continued, "She told me about Finn and your offer to take
him on for a bit. But she's changed her mind and wants him back. Nell will
mind him till she gets home, in a day or two."

"Finn will be happy to hear that," Bodie mused scathingly. "What about
Nero?"

"Nero?"

"Nell's cat. Do they get along?"

"I-- God knows." Doyle laughed uneasily. "One afternoon, and you're
practically a member of the family."

"Yeah, well, it should've been you there."

"Quite right; I can't deny that." Doyle gave him a long look. "What are
you sore about, Bodie?"

"Let's just say I've had better days." Curving his mouth round the rim of
the can, Bodie emptied the remainder of the beer down his throat.

"D'you want me to go?" Doyle asked softly. "I could stay at your place."

"Do what you like. You usually do." Bodie had not meant to say that; the
words had slipped out unpoliced.

Doyle straightened up. "Like today, you mean?"

"Never mind," Bodie muttered.

"I---see." Doyle took a deep breath. "I went to Reculver. Ever been
there?"

"Can't say that I have."

"It's on the coast east of Herne Bay; y'know, in Kent."

"Must've driven past it a time or two. What's so interesting about
Reculver?"

Doyle produced a mirthless chuckle. "Nothing, really. Just a big
ruin--though it costs a fortune to get in. But it's quiet; overlooks the
North Sea. I started out near Sittingbourne," he added meaningfully.

The mist formed a halo around the lamppost outside the block of flats;
from this angle it was just visible over the spiked trim of the fence.
Bodie gazed up at it indifferently. "Where Cook was killed."

"Hadn't changed much," Doyle said in response to Bodie's faintly
accusatory tone.

"Big surprise."

"Bodie--" Doyle cut himself off.

When he failed to continue, Bodie prompted, "Yeah?"

"Doesn't matter."

Bodie bit back a curse. It was ludicrous that he should go through hell to
please this man, and now that Doyle was finally here, Bodie do no more
than snipe at him. "So," he said expressionlessly, "did you get any
thinking done?"

Doyle's response was framed with caution. "A bit."

"Come to any conclusions?"

Angular shoulders rolled in a shrug. The movement, which would have been
attenuated in full light was no more than a regathering of shadows in the
gloom.

Steeling himself, Bodie asked, "You calling it quits, Doyle?"

"I-- How could you--?"

Bodie crunched the can in his fist. "I thought things have been going
pretty good between us. What's made you decide to end it?"

A second passed before Doyle spoke. Then he replied candidly, "Wasn't
talking about *us*."

A thousand colliding thoughts battled for supremacy in Bodie's brain; he
found himself briefly at a loss. To cover his confusion--and his vexation
at having revealed so much--he grunted, "No?"

"No. Why should you think that?"

Waving a hand in dismissal, Bodie demanded, "Then what have you been so
broody about? Cook? Reynolds? All that silly rubbish with June?"

"I--" Doyle lifted his hands with fingers spread wide apart. "I've been
thinking about leaving the Squad."

Having been convinced that Doyle intended to leave *him*, this statement
merited a moment's reflection. "Any special reason?" Bodie asked blankly.

"This and that," Doyle hedged.

Through years of experience, Bodie had learned that it was best to take a
different tack when Doyle was being evasive. So he asked, "Thought about
what you might do instead?"

A snort ripped the air. "My prospects are limited. Not much I can do."

"Bollocks," Bodie said succinctly. "Two or three possibilities come
immediately to mind. Ones even *you* wouldn't turn your nose up at."

"Yeah, yeah," Doyle conceded ruefully.

"Reckon I can think of a few, meself." He shifted his weight from one leg
to the other. "But I won't do anything right away," he promised a little
anxiously. "I mean, you don't need to worry about me not being around to
watch your back. Just been thinking on it, y'know?"

The velvety air plucked at the cobwebs occupying Bodie's brain. "I've
never worried about my back so long as you've been there," he said
thoughtfully.

Doyle dropped his head, nose pointed toward the tip of his boot. Now
Bodie's eyes had readjusted to the darkness, he could see his partner with
soft-edged distinctiveness, though not clearly enough to discern his exact
expression. Even so, he could sense Doyle's abstraction, and suspected
there might be more forthcoming.

He did not have long to wait.

In an insistent whisper, Doyle said challengingly, "And what about you?
Don't *you* ever think of doing something else?"

"Always," Bodie said placidly. "But that's my nature."

"Yet you've been with the Squad for eight years," Doyle reminded him.
"Because of Cowley--the job?"

"Partly," Bodie agreed. "But I've had good commanders and good jobs
before."

"Then why?"

A trace of a smile played across Bodie's mouth. "Thought you'd've puzzled
that out years ago."

The pale glow from the lamppost glittered in Doyle's intense gaze. "You
can't mean me?"

"Why not?"

"*Me*?" rasped Doyle.

Bodie's grin widened at the disbelieving tone. "Who else? Best partner
I've ever had. In all ways."

The toe of Doyle's left boot scraped across flaking concrete, raptly
overseen by its owner. "You're not one to settle down, mate. Be honest."

"True, too true." The moment stretched while Bodie pondered what to say.
It occurred to him for the first time that he and Doyle had always managed
to keep their relationship--in all its permutations--strictly implicit.
The mutual caring, respect, need, and love had always been present, but
never put into words for fear of--

What?

Of giving credence to something that was too fragile to bear the weight of
acknowledgment? Or, of discovering that beneath the surface of their
friendship nothing more comprehensive existed?

Intuitively linked to his partner, Bodie speculated that this time Doyle
needed more than a mere fleeting touch--in friendship or in passion--to
allay his concerns. In fact, he was only now beginning to register the
extent of those concerns.

"That is, I wasn't one to settle down," he went on, as though there had
been no lapse, "until I met you." With Doyle's attention full upon him,
Bodie inquired lightly, "So why d'you want to quit?"

Exhaling loudly through his nostrils, Doyle settled back against the side
of the building once more. With sardonic admiration, he commented, "Great
interrogation technique, sunshine."

Bodie persevered. "Because of Cook?"

"Not particularly," Doyle responded wearily. "Or more accurately, not
only."

"The shooting? Yours, I mean."

Eyes turning heavenward, Doyle answered in a hushed voice, "Maybe. Maybe
there area lot of reasons." He made a small, disparaging sound before
concluding, "What it all comes down to, is that I'm tired. Sounds stupid,
eh? But I'm talking about being so knackered that I don't want to get out
of bed in the morning--hard enough to crawl into the bloody thing at
night."

"And you think that'll change if we get out?" Bodie wondered.

"*We*?" echoed Doyle. Then: "Reckon I'm just being honest with myself.
Yeah, that shooting took more out of me than I've ever admitted." He
chortled raggedly. "But maybe it's just time I accepted that I'm not
getting any younger. It's a bugger of a job, Bodie. And I don't think I
can keep up anymore."

"You mean you don't want to," Bodie amended with unmeant arrogance.

Doyle's mouth fell open. He dropped his arms to his sides, hands rolled
into fists, and leaned forward.

"Don't get your back up," Bodie soothingly anticipated Doyle's angry
outburst. "Statement of fact. You've got another year or two in
you--otherwise I'd've suggested reassignment months ago."

"Reassignment?"

Pleased to hear a lick of temper amidst the uncharacteristic despondency,
Bodie concurred, "That's right. I'd wager Cowley's so understaffed we may
have some leeway in our options within the Squad. But if you'd rather get
out altogether, we shouldn't have a problem."

"You keep saying *we*," Doyle yelled. "You'd never leave the Squad! I know
how you feel--"

"How is that? And keep your voice down, will you?"

"It's-- Well, it's important to you. If you left because of me--"

"Doyle," Bodie interrupted with belabored patience, "you just heard me say
that I've been hanging about for the last eight years because of *you*.
Not Cowley, not Her Majesty's Government. *You*."

"*Why? *"

Doyle's harassed tone was infuriating. Bodie said coldly, "Don't be an
idiot! You know why. You must've known for fucking ever."

For an instant the stillness was absolute.

Then Doyle pushed away from the wall and began to stalk toward his
partner. "Must I?"

"Except for words, I've told you every way I know how," Bodie replied
bitterly, swiftly gaining his own feet.

Coming to a stop a yard away, Doyle looked hard into Bodie's face. "You
saying you love me?"

Having known without doubt that should the moment of revelation ever
befall them Doyle would somehow foist the burden of declaration onto
*him*, Bodie gave his partner a fulminating glare. He was within a
heartbeat of denying everythingbut only the realization that they would
likely never reach this moment again forestalled him. They had, after all,
come this far, and he had already given away altogether too much to revert
to pretense. He began, "Of cour---"

Doyle's hands shot out and cupped Bodie's face. "No!" he exclaimed in a
throaty whisper. He closed the distance between them. "Let me." With that
he brought his mouth down on Bodie's parted lips.

Time ground to a stop as Bodie surrendered himself to his lover's welcome
but painfully missed attentions. Beside him, Finn let out a quizzical
sound; when moments passed and his alarm went unremarked, the dog
grudgingly subsided.

His breath warm on Bodie's cheek, Doyle said, "I love you."

Stunned--for in the most closely guarded part of himself Bodie had never
really expected to hear those words from Doyle--Bodie wrenched out of his
partner's grasp, caught hold of one thin-boned wrist and jerked the
slighter man alongside him as he strode toward the steps. There he flung
wide the door, drenching both of them in the light from the kitchen. "Say
that *now*," he commanded harshly.

Blinking like an owl caught out by the morning sun, Doyle gave his partner
a chastising look. "Disbelieving bastard," he grinned heartlessly. "Nope.
It's your turn."

Bodie swallowed. Dipping his head, he brushed his mouth against Doyle's
temple with an exaggeratedly delicate touch--it was either that or thump
the aggravating bugger. "You know I do. Doyle, you prick, you know I love
you."

Laughter rumbling deep in his throat, Doyle announced, "That wasn't so
hard, now was it? Although you have gone a mite pale, mate."

Despite Doyle's flippant comments, his face was as gravely serious as
Bodie had ever seen it, green eyes glimmering with a hint of tears and
vast affection.

"Don't mind me," Doyle said huskily; he swiped at his eyes with one hand.
"'S it my turn again?"

Sliding his fingers into silken curls, Bodie matched his mouth to Doyle's
and kissed him long and luxuriantly. "Yes," he said at last.

With a self-conscious smile, Doyle stated unfalteringly, "I love you.
You're my life, Bodie."

Bodie buried his face in Doyle's hair and clung to him, savoring his
partner's heat and solidity--and the bruisingly strong grip with which he
was clasped in turn. He felt soaringly alive for the first time in days.
"Might ask you to say that again some day," he warned.

"Now I know you don't mind hearing it, I might come up with it all on my
own," Doyle countered.

For several minutes, they stood in the circle of their combined warmth
exchanging slow, searching kisses, oblivious to everything but each other.
Around them, the humid air gradually drifted downward. Protected by the
lateness of the hour, the increasing thickness of the fog, and the tall,
sturdy fence which separated them from the street, they knew themselves
quite safe from prying eyes.

"You hungry?" Doyle eventually asked, quivering slightly as Bodie exposed
him to the night, purposefully spreading wide his newly unbuttoned shirt
before turning his attentions to his trousers.

"Hmm."

"C'mon, then, and I'll fry up--" The breath caught in Doyle's throat.
Bodie's hands, moving like silent predators over familiar terrain, had
closed in with devastating swiftness on vulnerable prey. "You
won't--likely find--anything to--tuck into--down *there*."

"No?" Bodie dropped to one knee in front of his partner.

"No. Ah--" Doyle's fingers curved around Bodie's head and gently held him
in place. "But don't--stop looking--will you?"

His mouth otherwise engaged, Bodie used body language to reply, his
laconic statement causing Doyle to writhe.

Finn, hovering in the half-open door, looked on with some concern, his
ears rocking forward when Doyle began to moan. As the soft noises
intensified, the dog determined that interference at this stage might be
unwelcome, and so abandoned the two humans to carry on with their arcane
ritual while he went in search of some other entertainment.

******

"Security guard," Doyle said. Wielding a two-pronged fork, he prodded the
slab of bread sizzling in the pan in front of him.

"Gym instructor." Chin propped on Doyle's shoulder, Bodie idly oversaw his
partner's efforts on his behalf.

"You'd fancy doing that on a full-time basis?"

"Might run to fat otherwise," Bodie rejoined virtuously.

"Not on what we'll be making."

"You're expecting the worst. Cowley may find something useful for us to
do."

"You really think so?"

"Security guard, gym instructor--there are a few of those in CI5 as well,
y'know?"

"I can think of something else you can do," Doyle murmured, a smirk hidden
from Bodie's view.

"Yeah?" Bodie tightened his arms round Doyle's bare midriff. "Sorry,
sunshine, but I'm not passing my favors about--not even for the betterment
of the Free World."

"That's reassuring. But not what I had in mind."

"No?" Bodie sounded incredulous.

Jabbing him with an elbow, Doyle remarked, "Was thinking of your newfound
talent. Y'know, midwifery."

The silence that ensued was impressive.

"Of course, you'd have to do something about your manners." Tsking, Doyle
gave his head a shake. "June said they were deplorable."

"That's already been mentioned. I'd rather hire on with MI6." Bodie made
no effort to conceal a shudder.

"That bad?" Doyle lifted the pan off the ring and set it on a tile trivet.
Then he turned round and rested his hands on Bodie's waist, smiling into
his face.

"Worse." Scowling darkly, Bodie said, "I-- Hell of a thing to admit, Ray,
but it's easier killing people."

It was obvious that Bodie was only half-joking. Doyle suggested, "Maybe
the next one you deliver will come out shooting."

The faintest hint of a curve came to Bodie's lips. "Might be able to
handle that."

Doyle applied a kiss to the tip of Bodie's nose. "Scary, was it?"

"Terrifying. D'you have any idea what that looks like?"

"Kids being born? Was with the Met, sunshine. Had to sit through a film or
two, medical instruction, all that. Prepared for every contingency, we
were."

"But I bet you never delivered any of the little beggars yourself."

"None that I remember."

"You wouldn't've forgotten that, mate!"

"Happens every day I'm told." Doyle brushed his mouth against Bodie's
cheek and returned to his preparations.

"Not to me," Bodie intoned fervently.

"So scratch midwife." Doyle drained still-bubbling fat from each battered
wedge. One by one the chunks of golden bread were shifted to the waiting
plate. "By the way, what's brown and--let's see--has something to do with
the Isle of Wight ferry?"

Bodie hooted derisively. "You never could get a joke right, Doyle. It's
'What's brown and steams out of Cowes? Answer: The Isle of Wight ferry.'"

"Ah ha! It *was* you. Knew it had to be."

"Danny told you!"

"Outside June's room; he and Nell were just leaving. Gave me start, he
did," Doyle admitted wryly. "All I could think of was Cowley. Nearly
ruptured meself at the thought"

Giggling delightedly, Bodie remarked, "That never occurred to me at all.
Anyway, Danny thought it was funny."'

"June won't thank you for ruining her son's mind. And you've gone off the
track, sunshine." Doyle carried the plate to the narrow breakfast table
situated at the opposite end of the kitchen. "We were discussing how you
intend to support me in the manner to which I've become accustomed."

"You're the one changed the subject, pet," Bodie pointed out trenchantly.
Nevertheless he retired to thought, his brow wrinkled, his gaze distant.
All at once his features noticeably brightened. "I could take up
gunrunning ag-- I could take up gunrunning."

"Bring the tea pot, will you?" Pulling out a chair and brushing off the
seat, Doyle countered, "You could also be a minder. Much less likely to
end up in the dock for seeing to your client's needs, eh?"

Bodie paused in the doorway. "Lacks appeal." He waggled his brows
suggestively. "What about white slaver?"

"I'd miss you." A soft whine and scrape came from outside. Doyle snapped
his fingers. "Dogcatcher!" He jerked his head toward the door.

Wordlessly, Bodie moved to obey.

Watching his bare-legged, berobed partner with heavy-lidded appreciation,
Doyle murmured, "Actually, after you've bolted this lot down, I think we
ought to give your bedroom skills another test."

With a hand on his hip, Bodie halfturned to give his partner a sultry look
from under thick lashes. When this had had the desired effect--Doyle
thoughtfully licked his lips and began to smile with anticipation--Bodie
attended to the doorknob, taking care to stand back as Finn, mouth open
and tail sweeping from side to side, galloped in.

"My bedroom skills are beyond reproach," Bodie defended himself.

"Always room for improvement, mate. And practice makes--"

"Speak for yourself Some of us have already attained perfection." The door
met the frame with a protracted creak. "Anyway, d'you have any idea what
time it is?" Bodie held up his wrist, prominently displaying the face of
his watch.

"Timekeeper!" Doyle exclaimed. "London Transport are always hiring."

Bodie winced. "I've changed my mind. Let's discuss my bedroom skills
instead."

"No, you were right. It's past your bedtime. Wouldn't want you to lose
your beauty sleep," Doyle said with immense selflessness.

"Oh, no, I insist." Bodie started back across the room, grinning
wolfishly. "But I'll tell you what: with this new time keeping talent of
mine, I'll be sure to keep it under an hour."

Summoning a predatory smile of his own, Doyle drawled, "You'll be welcome
to try." 

-- THE END --

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