The Professionals Circuit Archive - A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words 
     A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

 

by JM Sherwood

  
 I found the photograph on my second day in the house. Some of the
furniture had been included in the sale, and I was busy digging through
junk left in the best piece -- a large antique desk -- when it turned up,
inside an old manilla envelope. There was nothing written on the envelope
itself, other than a date, scrawled in a careless fashion in the upper
left corner. February 10, 1984. Six years past.

I suppose I should have simply tossed it into the pile of things I'd
accumulated to turn over to the estate agent, but curiousity made me look
inside and there was the picture.

"Now there's a face," I muttered. Indeed it was. The photo was a formal
job, posed; the kind that make even celebrities look like dummies from
Madame Tussauds. Or usually did. I had the feeling that nothing could have
made this being anything less than lively. Even the curls that rioted over
his forehead seemed to snap with electricity. It was a head and shoulders
study, but the expanse of chest revealed by the unbuttoned shirt hinted at
a body that, I speculated probably caused cardiac arrest in yak. The most
arresting feature, though, was his eyes -- you've heard of people being
described as having cat's eyes. So had I -- I'd also never actually seen
anyone that lucky. Until then. These were wide, slanted, and glowed green
with a sort of feline sensuality that shot sparks along my nerve endings.
I couldn't begin to imagine what the genuine article might be capable of,
only that it would be somewhat devastating.

I set the photograph down, and turned the envelope over, thinking there
must be some clue as to the identity of this fellow, or -- who the photo
belonged to. Surely it had been left behind by mistake. I couldn't imagine
ANYONE leaving it on purpose. But there was nothing -- just that date --
six years ago tomorrow, in fact.

Robert Morris, the estate agent, would have to be contacted. There were a
number of other things which I'd found during my house cleaning --
clothing and some hardcover books, which were worn in a way that spelled
out rereading by the owner. That sort of thing always gets left behind
when you move from one house to another...over the years I'd probably left
an entire wardrobe and library behind in the various and sundry places I'd
lived in.

I had been an opera singer. Until a couple of months before when my
busy-body doctors told me flat out that if I didn't stop the traveling and
the performing, the strain on my voice would be such that I'd be lucky to
come out of it talking, let alone singing. These medicine men are
ruinously expensive, and I wasn't thrilled by their verdict -- BUT, if one
has paid out enormous sums for such advice, the very least one can do is
follow it. With luck I'd be all right. Eventually. In the meantime, since
my specialists were all in Harley Street, I'd decided to stop living out
of suitcases and buy a house. Which I did -- a nice place in Hampstead.
Regency fan light doorways and all that. It was odd, though -- I'd been
looking for something entirely different -- having always had a fancy to
live in Chelsea. I almost didn't bother looking at No. 13 Marsden Street.
And it was far too big for one person, though two or three would have fit
quite comfortably. But there was a rather...lonely quality to the place,
and --this will sound fanciful, you can put it down to 15 years in the
theatre -- it seemed to welcome me. The next thing I knew I'd signed on
the dotted line.

And found the photograph.

Which I finally managed to drag myself away from long enough to put the
sitting room back to rights, and make myself some dinner. Rain was coming
down in buckets, hard enough to make visibility nearly impossible; I
spooned in the last of my chocolate pudding, reflecting how lucky I was to
be inside.

That was when the doorbell rang. Now, I know what you're thinking -- when
one is in the city, living alone, and its late at night you don't just
waltz over and open the door wide to the first person who shows up. Well,
I didn't. There's a peephole and, by standing on the London phone
directory, I just managed to be tall enough to use it. Just as quickly, I
lept off the phone directory and opened the door.

Now wait a minute -- you would have, too. It was the fellow from my
mystery photograph.

Yes, I rather thought that might make a difference.

He was soaked to the skin, of course, which probably made him very
uncomfortable but did wonders for me.

He edged inside, trying not to drip all over the hallway. "Sorry about
this, but my car has decided to break down, and on top of that, I have to
meet someone...could I use your telephone? I used to live here, you
see...."

The voice was as attractive as the rest of him. "Sure -- and I know. I
mean, I know you used to live here."

"How do you know that?" He looked puzzled, and I just smiled and took his
jacket from him.

"Let me hang that up. Don't mind the floor -- they're going to be
carpeting it tomorrow anyhow. The phone's in here...." I pointed at the
entrance to the sitting room. "I'd better get you some towels to dry off
with...." I herded him in there, adding "if you can find somewhere to sit,
be my guest..." and when for the towels. Fortunately, they were still in
the boxes littering the rest of the hallway, as the most I'd done to the
upstairs was make my bed. I pattered back, and he took them from me
without comment, except for a quick smile and a muttered "thanks."

He dialled the phone, while I perched on the desk chair, but whoever he
was trying to reach wasn't answering. "Damn. He must have left already."

"Look, is there anything I can do to help?"

He shook his head. "No. I'll just have to try and get a taxi...."

"I'm afraid you're out of luck there, as well -- there's a strike on." The
British economy may have improved, but its workers had never lost their
enthusiasm for striking.

I turned my attention back to my visitor, realizing, suddenly, that his
clothes were much like the ones in the photo. Not noticeably old-
fashioned, but certainly not straight up to date either. Well, who was I
to talk? I was sitting there wearing a pair of pink 10 year old sneakers,
and some jeans I'd bought at Bloomingdales in 1980.

He was still gazing around the room, refamiliarizing himself, I
thought.... "That's new -- we had the walls done in cream. Rather bare
without the paintings...."

That puzzled me. There hadn't been any paintings when I'd first gone
through the house [missing text]. The seller had been represented by a
[missing text] never met anyone else. My visitor must have lived here
longer ago than last year when the house went on the market. I voiced this
last bit and he nodded, snapping out of whatever memories he was indulging
in. "Yeh, it must be over 10 years ago that we moved in...."

That "we" again. And I still didn't know his name....

"I'm forgetting my manners -- my name is Alla Alexander." His hand was
icy, the handshake surprisingly strong. The body -- though fulfilling its
hinted promise of cardiac arrest in yak (what he was doing to those faded
Levi's was positively immoral) -- was rather slender. All muscle though,
tensile like steel. It reminded me of the kind of strength professional
dancers acquire. "Ray Doyle." He studied my face intently, as though
either memorizing it, or trying to place it. "I thought you were familiar
-- you're a singer, aren't you? We saw you as Desdemona one night at
Covent Garden. Your Othello nearly forgot his lines just before he
strangled you...."

I laughed. "That's years ago -- my first big role." I'd sung the part
since, but not in London. It was 12 years or more since that night. I said
so, adding, "you have a good memory. I'd almost forgotten about poor Ian's
near amnesia." When one is 22, facing an audience of 1,500 people, plus
critics, in one's first big shot at being more than a horn wearing
Valkyrie in a crowd scene, one is far too nervous to be concerned with
much beyond remembering to die gracefully under Othello's hands.

"You said 'we,'" I prompted. I've never been known for beating about the
bush.

I was sorry I'd asked, because this look came over him -- I can't really
describe it, except to say it was infinitely sad. Yet that doesn't begin
to come close. "My partner and I. Bodie. He's the one I'm supposed to be
meeting..." a glance at his watch, "15 minutes ago."

I may not beat about the bush, but I also don't have to be hit over the
head with a sledge hammer -- "at least not often," my husband always put
in. Just the way he said the name, told me as unerringly as if he'd worn a
sign, that this Bodie was his lover as well. When people are a "pair,"
there's a particular inflection to "we," I suppose....

Aloud I simply said, innocently, "Oh -- are you policemen?" (My parents
had met that way, as a matter of fact, eons ago in the Pleistoncene age.
Dad had been a very up and coming detective, sure women belonged anywhere
but in a squad car. That was prior to being teamed with my mother,
naturally....)

Doyle grinned. "Don't let Bodie hear you call him a cop. We work for CI5."
I must have looked as blank as I felt, because he went on. "Just another
bunch of British secret agents, you know...." He was laughing, and I
didn't know whether he was kidding or not.

"Civil Servants, eh?" Robert had been one before chucking it to make a
pile in real estate -- or so his secretary had chattily informed me.

"Close enough." He suddenly seemed to realize something, and his face
darkened as he checked his watch again. "In this rain, Bodie's going to be
pissed off, hanging about waiting...."

The rather desperate undertone in his voice got to me. It must have, I
don't ordinarily run around loaning things like cars to people I barely
know. (I can see a certain person's eyebrow raised in disbelief. Jimmy
contends that I am so soft hearted, I would hug a rhinocerus if I thought
it was unhappy.)

Anyway, I said, "Tell you what, you borrow my car. It's only an elderly
Austin Mini, but it never stops running, and it will get you where ever it
is you have to be. You can meet your Bodie, and then return it tomorrow."

"Oh, look, I didn't mean -- I can't let you do that. You hardly know me --
I could be an ax murderer. Or a car thief." This last bit was said rather
dryly, and it was my turn to grin.

"My parents are cops, and I can spot an ex-one at 50 yards blindfolded.
Also, persons of the thief variety. My own special form of ESP. You're
honest. And you have somewhere you've got to get to." I fished the keys
out of my suitcase-size purse (they were at the very bottom as usual) and
handed them to him. "Just bring it round here tomorrow -- I'll be here,
unpacking. If it makes you feel better, you and your partner can buy me
lunch."

"If you're sure...." He still hesitated, but I could see that, for
whatever reason, he was desperately anxious to get going....

"I'm sure."

"Thanks. You must think its a bit odd, but its very important that I meet
him tonight. Hard to explain, but...."

"Then don't. To tell you the truth, if you were a car thief, I wouldn't be
upset -- it'd be the excuse I need to put the effort into buying a newer
model!" I went over to the window and peered out. It was still raining
manically, and I could barely make out the street light flickering at the
corner, let alone anything else. "You'd better get moving -- Bodie's
probably swimming, the way this is coming down. Could you tell me where,
sort of, he's waiting?"

Doyle hesitated, then answered. "Allerton Street. It's near the docks."

A job, I thought; no one would pick the dock area for a social meet.

"Fine." We were in the hallway, and I was handing him his jacket, when he
stopped suddenly, as though struck by something.

"You said you knew I'd lived here? How?"

"Ah...let me show you." I dashed back into the sitting room and scooped up
the envelope and photo. "See? I found this when I was straightening out
the desk...."

Doyle stared at his photo, rather as one might stare at a snake charmer's
cobra. "Bodie insisted we each get one done. His must be about here
someplace. There was never time to look, afterwards...." His eyes met
mine, jade coloured now, and intent. "If you should find the other -- the
one of Bodie, will you let me know? I'll collect this tomorrow when I
bring your car back -- if that's OK?"

I nodded. "OK by me. And I'll turn the place over, a bit, and see if the
other portrait turns up. Any ideas where it might have got to?"

He stared over my head, eyes focused not on the hall or anything in it,
but on some distant point known only to him. Finally, he said rather
dreamily, "Try the document box in the attic. It should still be up
there."

"Right. Take care now -- I've never seen it rain like this, not even in
the tropics."

"I will. And thanks again." Doyle handed me the envelope, and slipped out
the door. [missing text] The motor sounded unnaturally loud, being the
only other sound except for the drumming of rain. And off he went.




Robert dropped in bright and early the next morning. The torrents of rain
had packed off, and London was basking in a sudden turnabout of weather
that was spring-like, and sunny.

"You were right about getting the walls painted blue," he beamed round the
sitting room, "vast improvement over that ghastly cork. Can't think what
possessed the bank to rent it to those artists anyway...."

My head went up. "Bank?"

He nodded. "Yes, well, you see -- you purchased this from a bank, through
their solicitor. I tried to explain it -- but you were upset about those
tests at the time, and just said to get on with the whole business."

Right. That was when I was sulking about not being able to sing. "My
dreadful brat period. Now I remember -- I suppose I thought the bank
representative was the seller...and of course, I only met their lawyer."

"The people who owned the house were killed several years ago, and their
wills left the house to be kept in trust, or sold, as the bank saw fit."

I must have worn a puzzled expression or something, because he said "What
have I said?"

"You say the people who owned this house were killed, years ago...."

Robert frowned. "Six or so, yes...why?"

Rather intently, I went on, "And who owned it before they did?"

"Who? An elderly Colonel, retired from the Army. Masterson, I think his
name was...what on earth do you want to know that for?"

"That can't be!"

Robert sat down on the sofa and stared at me. Quite rightly he must have
wondered if I'd gone off the deep end. "Why can't it be?"

I clasped my hands together, barely noticing that they were starting to
shake. "Last night I was going through that desk, and I came across a
photograph. Of a man -- no name or anything, just a date. February 10,
1984. I was going to put it aside, to give to you with these clothes," I
pointed to the box at his feet, "but then, around 10 P.M. my doorbell
rang. It was the man in the photograph. He said his name of Ray Doyle."

Robert had gone rather pale. "That is impossible."

"Why?"

"Alla, Ray Doyle,...Ray Doyle has been dead for nearly seven years. Are
you sure this was the same fellow as in the photo?"

Oh my god. "Positively. He said he was on his way to meet his partner,
Bodie, and his car had given out. That he'd lived here at one time, and
could he use my phone."

"Did he get an answer from whoever he was ringing?"

"No. He slammed it down and said Bodie must already have left. Robert --
he was so desperate, underneath...it was an effort for him to chat. So
I...."

"You what?"

"I loaned him the Mini. Robert -- he can't be dead, ghosts don't drive off
in minicars."

Robert took my hands and drew me down on the sofa beside him. "Think
carefully. Did this chap say anything else?"

"He said he had to meet Bodie at a place called Allerton Street, near the
docks, that it was hard to explain why -- but it was terribly important
that he get there. Bodie would be upset if he didn't. And he said that
they were sort of civil servants -- he referred to Bodie as his partner,
and I'd wondered if that meant policemen."

Very quietly, Robert asked, "Did he say who they worked for, then?"

"Something called CI5. It didn't ring any bells for me, and he laughed --
said it was just another bunch of British secret agents."

He got up and began pacing back and forth, agitated. I just sat and
watched, bewildered, thoughts chaotic.

Robert stopped in front of me, finally, and said "Secret agents? Well,
yes, strictly speaking, that's rather what they were...."

"How do you know that?"

His expression was an echo of the sadness on Doyle's. "I used to work for
CI5. I knew them, you see."

Robert, it seemed, had joined Criminal Intelligence 5 back in 1978. Bodie
and Doyle were already two year veterans by then, and already legendary
within the department. Cowley, the dour Scot who had headed things up, had
even been heard to admit -- in strict confidence -- that those two
tearaways were his best.

In their business, death was a routine, daily presence. "Put your affairs
in order," was no idle suggestion, but an absolute necessity. Still, Bodie
and Doyle, the Bisto Kids as they were jokingly called, had managed to
beat the odds and stay alive -- and together. Robert was rather delicate
about that, but, as usual, I simply trod in with both feet. "You mean they
were an old married couple, don't you?" I said.

"I should know better than to skirt an issue with you. Yeh, you'd think it
would've affected their working together, but it didn't. Instead, it just
got so they wouldn't even have to talk...just a couple of glances, and
they'd get on with the job, each knowing exactly what had to be done. It
was bloody eerie, sometimes. My partner and I were good, but we never got
like that...or that close." He grinned suddenly, then went on with the
story.

I said finally, "So, what I've told you almost exactly parallels their
last job?"

"Exactly. One of Bodie's contacts, I guess you'd call him, was on the
inside of the organization. When he found out what was being planned, he
got on to Bodie about it. Doyle was on duty in the ops room that night --
but when the call came through, Cowley told him to hop it over there to
Allerton Street. Backup. Just in case."

"Except Doyle never got there -- it was raining, just like last night, and
the car he was driving conked out on him."

"Yeh." [missing text] "It wasn't around here, of course, but on a night
like that, things must have been just as deserted...not even taxis about."

"They're on strike now...go on."

"Not much else to tell. The bad guys found out about the snitch in their
midst, and decided to kill two birds with one stone. Doyle'd used his R/T
to call HQ, and Murphy and I got to him -- fast. By then Bodie'd radioed
wanting to know where the hell his back-up was...when we got there it was
too late. I can still see it, you know, clear as day. Doyle kneeling over
Bodie, blood everywhere...not a bit like on TV, you know... nothing
pristine...no commercial breaks...." He took a deep breath. "I cleared out
soon after that. Enough was enough. So did Murph. He's got his own
security firm now."

"What...what happened to Doyle?"

"He limped on, doing the job, for a while. Couldn't work with anyone else.
I though Cowley'd make him, but he just let him go solo. I think he knew
that sooner or later Doyle would be gone, too. About three months later
Ray got into a tight corner and decided not to fight his way out of it.
End of story." Robert stared straight ahead, then shrugged. "He was dead
the minute Bodie was anyway -- at least as far as anything that mattered
is concerned. God preserve me from loving somebody that much."

"Not the end," I said slowly. "Apparently he's still looking for Bodie."

Robert jerked as though someone had pulled on a string. "You can't be
serious? Last night was just...."

"Just what? You know the story because you were with CI5. How many other
people who just happen to be twins of Ray Doyle are there? Wondering
around London? Re-enacting -- nearly -- the events of the night their
partner was killed? How many?"

"None," Robert whispered, rather green around the gills.

"Well, then, you tell me, if that wasn't Ray Doyle -- or some
manifestation of him, then who in bloody hell was it???"

"I don't know!!! I only know I don't believe in ghosts. And neither should
you -- it's unhealthy." He stood up. "I've got to get back to the office."

I let him go -- he was too upset to be of any help, and his trying to
cover it up made things worse. I knew I wasn't imagining things, anyway.
I've been in some very odd places in my time -- enough to know that
whoever said there are not only more things in the universe than we
imagine, but more things in the universe than we CAN imagine, was quite
right.

Something else was niggling at my brain. If the man I'd loaned the car to
was, in fact, Ray Doyle -- then where was the car? And secondly, if I
checked the attic, would I find a document box? With another photograph in
it???

The uppermost floor was dusty, filled with the accumulated boxes of what
appeared to be the Ages, and ill-lit. I needed the flashlight I'd brought
along, just to keep from tripping over things. I'd been through three
million back issues of Sporting Life (the Major had been a pack rate), and
untold old copies of the Times (interesting but they would have to go --
fire hazard was written all over them). Nothing else had turned up, and I
was walking back toward the door that led onto the landing, terribly
disappointed. I'd turned the flashlight off, thinking I knew the way, and
of course tripped over the first box I came to. It's contents spilled onto
the floor, old curtains mostly, and I swore loudly, before beginning to
shove them together. I was stuffing them back in when my hands hit
paydirt. Hard, metal paydirt.

What I fished out was a rather large, dull grey, box -- like an oversized
first aid kit. It was locked, and no sign of a key. Too bad. I practically
ran down three flights of stairs, and skidded into the kitchen. Judicious
application of several knives and a knitting needle were enough to break
the lock.

Inside were a pile of papers, and I examined them one by one as I took
them out. There was a long legal document deeding the house to "Raymond
Doyle and William Andrew Philip Bodie," old insurance policies, a couple
of stock certificates (Bodie's), copies of two wills. At the bottom, was
the twin to the envelope I'd found in the desk. Like everything else, it
was dated nearly a decade ago.

I examined the photo carefully. Zowie -- I could see why Doyle had been
thoroughly hooked. Bodie, at first glance, was the exact opposite of his
partner. Relentlessly handsome, blue eyes that would have made Robert
Redford envious, and straight, silky-looking dark hair, cut short, like a
cap. On closer inspection, the eyes had the same sort of... aliveness to
them that Doyle's had.

I wandered back into the sitting room, and propped the photos up, side by
side, on the desk. "Two halves of a whole...that's for sure." Next to each
other like that, the men seemed to be smiling at each other, as if sharing
some marvelous private joke. I felt like an eavesdropper. And I felt a
strange mixture of anger -- that times were such that two vital,
happy...and yes, valuable, people like this could be wiped out in a
moment, and all for nothing; and also of sadness, for the same reasons.
I'd liked the man I'd met -- and not just because he could cause cardiac
arrest in yak, either. His quality had been the type that communicates
itself at once; not even the two dimensional photograph could dim it. Not
in Ray or in Bodie. I wished I could have known them.

Nothing else untoward happened. The police found my Mini, parked neatly in
Thorpe Street. Oddly enough, that's only about a block from Allerton. The
keys were tucked up in the sunvisor. Doyle being a cop to the last. They
wrote it off as just another odd, harmless, incident.

I tried to discuss things with Robert, but he was so bothered by it all,
that he wouldn't. "Not another word. It's all absurd...." he'd snarl, then
firmly change the subject. He wouldn't tell me any more about CI5 either,
though it wasn't listed in the phone book like the rest of the government
agencies were. I finally called a reporter friend. Sounding rather
surprised, Mara explained..."Oh, they phased it out when it's chief
retired -- the crime problem was pretty well under control, and besides --
budget cutting had reduced it to a clearing house. That was in, oh, 1987.
The head man, Cowley, died soon after." That was all anyone could -- or
would tell.

I still live in the house -- I don't know what it meant to Bodie and
Doyle, but I think I can guess -- I've always been happy here. It's been
good luck, too -- my voice recovered full strength, and I've been singing
ever since. Better than ever -- which surprised my doctors no end. But not
me.

Soon after all this, I was wandering through the Manuscripts department at
the British Museum, and tripped over Jimmy -- he was kneeling in front of
a packing crate, cataloging the items in it at the time. He's a Ph.D. in
history and writes long and (though I'm prejudiced) fascinating books
about it.

In the end, I kept the photographs -- they stand framed on that same desk,
though it's in my study upstairs now. I don't know why, exactly, except
somehow I feel as though I'm looking at friends when I see them. Or it
could just be I'm a pack rat and hate to toss anything out. I kept the
clothes, too -- there were a number of shirts, all rather like the one Ray
had on that night. I wear them when I splash about working on my hobby --
painting planetscapes. I don't think he'd mind.

Jimmy's the only person I've ever told the whole story to, other than
Robert. He heard me out, then eyed the faces in the gilt frames
thoughtfully. "I see what you mean," he said, and put an arm around me. "I
hope he found Bodie. Finally."

Now, this last bit may be crazy, but you know, I think he did. You see,
this is the one thing I've never mentioned to anybody.

I'd been mucking around, trying to paint a simple seascape, for a change
-- I'd gotten in the water and the shore, some cliffs in the background.
Two suns hung in the sky; it should have been finished, but it lacked
something. I gave up on it, and stuck it in a corner.

I didn't get back to my painting for a couple of months, having been busy
getting married, and whatnot, but when I finally uncovered my little alien
seascape all those weeks later I got quite a shock.

This is the crazy bit. You're quite free to discount it, or say I painted
the rest of it in my sleep, or whatever. I know who did it, at least I
think I do. I hope I do.

Strolling along the shore, arm in arm, were the figures of two men. They
were small -- being painted as though off in the distance, almost at the
point where everything, sea, land and sky merged. But they were familiar
figures, one a bit taller than the other; one head suggesting a mop of
curls.

Tucked into a corner of the painting, so minute you'd miss them if you
didn't have your nose practically pressed to the canvass, were the swirls
which, on that close inspection, suspiciously resemble a 'B' and a 'D.'
But they're VERY tiny, as I said, and I could be seeing what I want to.

On the other hand, that doesn't explain how the figures got there, now
does it?

-- THE END --

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