The Professionals Circuit Archive - Commemoration	  Commemoration

 

by Jane Mailander

  
 *(Story #5 in the "Land-Bridge" series)*

Murphy rose fifteen minutes before the set time on his alarm; he was in
and out of the shower and drinking his first cup of tea before it went
off. He straightened his rumpled bed, determinedly feeling neither a
physical nor emotional ache at the solitary job. He chose a suit of a
sober conservative grey, his camouflage for the upcoming day of moving
amongst the ministers in the high halls of power. Today he was to play the
part of Cowley's personally- picked successor, a role he played to
perfection and one of the many he played in his CI5 work, as Cowley moved
through Whitehall on a funding crusade, cruising like a well- dressed
shark among other well-mannered sharks waiting for the first hint of
weakness to begin a feeding frenzy. 

Murphy nodded at his image in the glass as he straightened the dark blue
tie; he was now the very model of the silent and deadly intelligence
vector who could chat with the vicar over tea even as men killed and died
in another country on his orders. 

Doyle had been out and far for a fortnight, making himself useful to
Jarlath Connoll's operation and gathering information on an imminent drug
shipment. He was most likely just getting ready to turn in, considering
his undercover persona; drug traffickers tended to keep vampire's hours.
He'd be doing it up druggie style -- fast cars and women, horrible
clothes, loud rave-ups every night -- on the surface, living in a manner
to make him the envy of the hoi polloi. 

Murphy did not envy him. 

Ray Doyle was the best undercover man in CI5, and one of the best when it
came to dealing with the druggie mob. Tonight, he'd laugh louder and dance
with more birds than on previous nights, wear gaudier suits and visibly
have a good time. Today was just another day, one of waiting, watching and
listening for any information that would lead to three or four key arrests
in Connoll's operation. 

Just another day. 

Impeccably groomed and reeking of respectability, Murphy did not look at
the snapshot tucked into a corner of his desk blotter -- green trees,
granite heights, and painfully blue sky framing two dishevelled and
grinning men in climbing gear -- as he passed the desk on his way out of
the flat at precisely 6.15. The sky was overcast, suggesting rain later, a
day like most this past week. *Remember that. It's just another day. Stay
cool today, and don't think about him. He'll get through this -- none of
his new pals will see anything different. It's an ordinary day.* 

There had been a time when Murphy wouldn't have had to think about keeping
aloof and emotionally apart for the day's duration, any more than he'd
have had to think about breathing. He'd been destined for aloofness since
childhood and beyond -- Lone Wolf Murphy, the unpartnered agent, the
island that stayed safe when disaster struck those on the mainland. 

All that had changed three years ago today. The change was entirely
Doyle's fault. 

Well, to be precise, it was Bodie's fault. 

******

"Murphy, come," George Cowley's voice rapped. 

Murphy looked up from his desk, knowing instantly that he was to accompany
Cowley in the capacity of his second; had Cowley wished his skills as a
rank-and-file member of A Squad, he'd have used his RT frequency. 

And one look at Cowley's face told Murphy that it was bad. Disaster had
struck an op, an assassination, a dead agent or three, a bomb had gone up.
He did not ask questions; he merely followed Cowley to the car-park. When
he heard the directions, he did not speak. 

Only when they were well on the way to the hospital did Cowley break
silence. "It's the Townley operation, Murphy." 

Murphy nodded. "Four-five and three-seven," he replied as if being
quizzed; as Cowley's successor he often felt as if he were back in First
Form being asked to recite the previous night's schoolwork by rote.
"Townley's gun-running to Derry, looking at getting into the drug business
to finance the operation. Doyle and Bodie were to observe and arrest if
they caught him with the goods." He froze himself even harder inside, in
preparation for bad news. 

"Aye, well they caught him dead to rights. It went up today. There was
some heavy shooting. Four of Townley's men were taken into custody, but
Townley himself got away." He was silent for a longer period of time, his
face old beyond his years. "Bodie went down. He's in surgery now. It's
very bad, Murphy." 

Murphy nodded and realised why they were going to the hospital. Bodie was
beyond their help. They were to get hold of Doyle before he stormed out on
a rampage of revenge or made himself permanently redundant. 

*I thank thee O God that I am unpartnered--* 

Murphy was so used to making that silent act of gratitude whenever a
partnership was violently sundered that he hardly thought about it. It
didn't matter how close the agents had been to him -- never very close,
Murphy was always careful to maintain a distance between himself and his
colleagues -- or how recent the loss was -- always as near as the next
assignment, one tended to lose the concept of "inappropriate thoughts"
when death was a regular meal served to you. He was glad to be the lone
wolf, tending his own wounds and staring in polite non- comprehension when
a paired wolf howled for the loss of his partner. 

They reached the hospital and made their way to the Casualty area, toward
the bloodied and distracted man huddled on a chair outside the operating
theatre. Doyle did not acknowledge their presence until Cowley spoke to
him. The blood around Ray's mouth showed that he'd given Bodie the kiss of
life in the field. It was not a good sign. 

Minutes later a doctor emerged bearing the inevitable news. Doyle flung
himself down the corridor on his way out of the building. And Cowley
ordered "six-two" to go after 4.5 and stay with him, to prevent the
surviving partner, friend and clandestine lover of six years from causing
CI5 to lose its two best agents in one day. Murphy obeyed, and went after
Doyle to rein him in. 

That order had never been remanded. Three years had passed, and Murphy was
still with Doyle. 

******

Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full sir. 

Murphy kept his distance, and his tongue, and nodded and said "Sir,"
whenever Cowley said something to him. Yes, this was the Honourable
So-and-so, representing Such-and-such District, his predecessors having
done such-and-such a thing and having enacted such-and-such legislation,
currently heavily involved in Thus-and-such affairs of state...Murphy knew
them all and could rattle off their political and family histories by
heart -- knew the official and the CI5 biographies on each one. Minister
Such-and- such, aka George's Old MI6 Chum, a primary reason that CI5's
funding outlook brightened just at those times of the year that coincided
with certain golfing holidays Cowley took. The Right Honourable
Such-and-such, good and snug in their pockets what with those unfortunate
photo-negatives liberated from a small-time pornographer during an
investigation on smuggling charges... It was all very complicated, it all
turned on various factors, the factors waxed and waned in potency at any
time due to any of a dozen different variables -- and it all had to be
done with a bland face, a sincere handshake, and the superficial
appearance of business-as-usual every time the forces were united.
Triple-think. 

Murphy's mind was good for such intricate dealings, twists and turns in
relationships and their logical extrapolations. He had started his career
in the Diplomatic Corps and had made his way through that to the attention
of George Cowley. 

Murphy's earlier life had prepared him for Intelligence work as well. His
cool impersonal upbringing by a reluctant aunt after his parents'
disappearing act had resulted in a cool impersonal agent who relied
entirely on himself, and who could cold-bloodedly congratulate himself on
his singularity every time tragedy befell his fellow agents. 

"Sir," he said again, restraining the urge to touch his forelock --
*Dammit Ray get out of my mind!* -- and followed at Cowley's heels,
leaving some Right Honourable Thus-and-So pleased at having one-upped old
George so thoroughly (at least in his own mind; later he would not be able
to recall if Cowley had, in fact, agreed to a single one of his proposals
-- but only much, much later). Murphy never stopped looking and being
properly respectful before a number of Ministers who deserved neither
respect nor their current offices. This part of the job was just as
important as stopping a drug shipment or ferreting out a Soviet spy, and
far more delicate. 

This politely poisonous game had once been Murphy's whole life, bringing
with it the cool-blooded satisfaction of being able to outthink opponents
and let them think they'd outthought Murphy. A game for cool heads and
cold blood. 

But now something hot burned beneath Murphy's heart that had stirred it
into a warmth and life it had never known. Wryly, he thought that the
source of that heat was eminently skilled at lighting fires in cold
people. 

Bodie hadn't looked any different the day he died from the day he'd joined
CI5; but his superficial bonhomie had become a glow of genuine pleasure,
his callous shrug at death had become a quiet regret, and the grin of the
soldier camping it up with his best mate had become a steady beacon of
attention aimed at his partner. That had only ended three years ago today,
with one of Townley's bullets. 

Murphy should have taken Bodie's change as a warning. If he'd adhered to
his philosophy, he should have sat tight in the flat and let Doyle cry all
night in his room alone. But the one atom of his mind that refused to
remain island-bound had gotten free, and had taken Murphy with it into the
bereft bedroom to hold Doyle against the pain. First mistake. He'd even
found a few words, dusty and cobwebby from non-use, intended solely to
comfort the grief- stricken man. Second mistake. The third and fatal
mistake had been to sleep beside Doyle in the bereft bed that night --
again, strictly for warmth and comfort. His shrivelled heart had blossomed
and thrived on those small deeds. 

"Very good, sir." *Bite my bum, you pompous git.* Murphy dammed back the
Doyle-ism in his mind and stayed where he was, his polite smile frozen
into place beneath his direct stare. Part of him was gratified to see the
chinless wonder hesitate and give him a single unnerved look before
vanishing from his direct vision -- no doubt worried about the complete
sanity of Cowley's young thug. 

He'd been doomed from the start. In six months he was Doyle's partner, the
pair of them silent but deadly and effective. Murphy's very differences
from Bodie were probably what saved that partnership from suffering the
fate of Doyle's vitriolic pairings with other luckless agents not long
after the Townley shootout. 

Two months after their first job as partners, a near-fatal confrontation
outside an embassy had dredged up a violent reaction from Doyle -- Ray's
terror at the thought of losing a third partner had finally opened all
emotional floodgates between himself and Murphy. In that raw and painful
atmosphere, Murphy realised exactly how he felt about Doyle -- and sensed
the other man's attraction to him. And with no hesitation, he had acted on
that attraction. 

******

For the second time in his life, Murphy woke up beside a sleeping Doyle.
There were differences. Now they were both naked, their bodies limp in the
aftermath of powerful release. Murphy winced as movement called attention
to several tender spots that would show as bruises. Now he was emotionally
limp as well; it is not easy to have something inside you made suddenly
clear. All this time he'd thought it was concern for a friend that had
drawn him to Doyle. 

Bodie had probably thought the same thing. 

He smiled and his hands stroked the dozing man grumbling awake beside him,
thinking about the biggest change from that first night to this one. Last
night the overriding concern in the joining had been life, not death. 

"Wha fuckin time zit?" Doyle growled. 

Murphy grinned at the dulcet tones of his lover and responded non-
verbally, his tongue and his fingers bold. Doyle grunted and grumbled like
a reawakened bear. 

Murphy continued. 

Gradually, still grumbling a little from time to time, Doyle rose from his
torpor and began to respond in kind. 

But Murphy saw a new difference from even the previous night's sex. The
tender gestures that had been eagerly accepted last night were now batted
away with Doyle's trademark brusqueness even as the stronger, wilder
motions were accepted. Perhaps Ray preferred the rougher stuff in the
morning. Perhaps he was coming out of his cocoon of grief. Perhaps he was
trying to separate the love he'd shared with Bodie from a friendly fuck
with a mate. At the moment, Murphy gave not a damn. 

******

Looking back, Murphy would say that what he and Doyle had together was
friendship, partnership and sex. For Murphy it was more than that, but
he'd known from the beginning that there would be no contesting for the
place in Doyle's heart where Bodie had taken root. 

And even if Ray had been able to return the emotion in an intensity to
match Murphy's, he still wouldn't be able to say the words. He hadn't said
them once to Bodie while they'd lived, as he'd confessed brokenly that
terrible night. It was still Doyle's greatest regret of his personal
life... 

Enough, that was the past. What they had was enough. And from the night
when they'd joined physically had come the important milestones of their
time together. 

The New Year's roll call, the grim CI5 custom of tolling the year's dead
and officially burying them. By tradition, all public grieving for someone
had to stop after that person's name had been called. Murphy had stood
with Ray as he'd shouted Bodie's name, offering moral support -- and had
held him that night as the tearful Ray had plunged himself into sex to
drown out the pain in his heart. 

Murphy's birthday the next March, the usual cheery knees-up and gag gifts
at The Hoof and Claw with all the other off-duty agents, and a private
ritual enacted between the two men in his darkened bed that night --
marred only slightly by Ray calling out the wrong name at an important
moment. Murphy had instantly cuffed the stricken Doyle and sternly ordered
him to keep his mind on his work, which had kicked the man into laughter
rather than tears as they made love again. 

The first anniversary of this day, Doyle snarling through the day and
refusing all sympathy as Murphy remained his coldest- blooded. Ray's
near-fatal wounding that had put Murphy into precisely the situation he
had tried to avoid for so long -- the fretting partner, waiting on
tenterhooks for the word from the doctor. What he had gotten instead was
Cowley, quietly explaining why he had never remanded the "stay with him"
order. 

And of course the foray that had resulted in Murphy's blotter photo, their
climbing holiday up a mile of Yosemite granite. Murphy surreptitiously
touched the small rough spot on his chin, all that remained of a good hard
bang on the side of Three Brothers 800 meters above the ground. For some
reason Ray liked to lick it. 

That had been six months ago. Today they were both working. 

And on the anniversary of Bodie's death, Ray had to pretend he was living
it up and enjoying every minute of it. At a gesture from Cowley, Murphy
approached and stood silent at his shoulder while the Old Man traded
idiotic banter about golf with a financial bigwig. He had the better job
today. 

******

Back to Headquarters. Back to the cabinets and drawers and shelves full of
endless files to be taken down and pored over, pictures studied, m.o.'s
considered and compared, connections postulated. A good part of Murphy's
training was simply long hard hours of hitting the books. Someday he must
know every denizen of this office as well as Cowley did, if not better. 

How many joined CI5 for the fast cars and the excitement? This morning it
had been stand and nod and not look bored; this afternoon it was studying.


And all day it had been not getting worried. All fortnight. 

Worry was a major drawback to the changes within Murphy. He'd learned that
not all the poring over files would erase the nervous knot in his stomach,
the urge to chew his lower lip, and the uncertainty that kept him dangling
between skyhooks, unable to reach either one to pull himself clear. Not
even the sure knowledge that Doyle was the best at what he did helped.
Bodie had been the best, too, and-- 

Angrily Murphy worked through the pain, shuffling and opening and closing
and staring and reading and committing to memory. Only when the day was
well given over to night did he start up from the desk with a sheaf of
files, prepared for some more intense at-home study. 

Even Cowley was gone; there was only the night watch and a pair of agents
dozing in the rest room. He went into Cowley's office to refile his packet
-- and stared at a single bottle of Guinness atop the Old Man's desk. It
wasn't Cowley's, he never touched the stuff. There was no note attached,
but Murphy didn't need one. Linda Keogh and Sally Woolridge had been
staking out a disco pub today (one known to harbour bombing experts),
probably spending the whole day slapping faces; they knew Murphy worked
late; they knew Doyle was in the danger zone, out of his partner's reach;
they would know Murphy's usual tipple from the few get-togethers he'd
attended with other agents. Warmed by this off-the-wall gesture of respect
for their future boss by the Sisters of No Mercy, Murphy filed his armload
and took up another one for home study. 

Home without mishap, his stout and a bag of takeaway curry riding atop his
files, Murphy did the sweep and found nothing new. After dinner he worked
on the files with the Beatles' "Rubber Soul" album playing softly in the
background, the only aspect of his work environment not identical to
Cowley's. He worked steadfastly and in a straightforward manner. And he
was not worried for Doyle. Nor was he lonely, nor homesick (how could he
be homesick when he was in his flat for the evening?). He did not listen
to nonexistent rustles in the kitchen, heard no tuneless humming, smelled
nothing delicious wafting through the small place. There wasn't even
anything left in the freezer -- it had all been eaten. 

It was another late night. 

******

At one a.m. his RT went off. Instantly he was alert and thumbing the
connection open. "Six-two." 

"Four-five." 

"Give your report." His heart was beating faster because the ungodly sound
of his RT had snapped him from a sound sleep. 

"Cooper time tomorrow, Aunt Lucy's." 

"Understood, 4.5. Other?" 

"'Sall. Out." And the RT was still. 

Doyle couldn't get away from his new friends, then, if that terse report
was all he dared. 

Murphy called in to Headquarters and let Cowley know the time and place of
the drug exchange. Then he got up to start the day, early though it was.
He'd be needed at HQ to supervise the planning of the denouement of the
Connoll case. 

It was all but done now; the vital information had been exchanged. All
Murphy needed to prepare for now was the possibility that someone had
listened in to Doyle's phone call or was about to lift his cover. 

They'd know soon enough. Tomorrow at noon at Paddington Station CI5 agents
would either stop a shipment of heroin or find a body stuffed in a
suitcase-- 

*This is the way it's always been! I've got to control myself. Goddammit,
Ray, why'd you have to go and do this to me!* 

******

The denouement was anticlimactically clockwork. 

A day and a half later Murphy surveyed the scene with a quiet cold
satisfaction at having done the job well. After only a minor scuffle, the
three drug conveyers had been taken into custody along with their luggage
even as the operation's headquarters was being cleaned out at the other
end. Doyle himself appeared, dishevelled and all business, leading a
cuffed and bloody-nosed Connoll. "Wouldn't sit still while I read 'im his
rights," he said. 

"You're fucking *dead*, Duncan," snarled Connoll as Keogh and Woolridge
took him in hand. 

"Threatening a law enforcement official," Woolridge said blandly. 

"That's another charge, Connoll," Doyle replied in an identical bland
tone. "Warned you what you say can be used against you." 

Connoll, still furious, was hustled away before he could add any more
charges to his tally. 

"That's the lot," Doyle said, only now addressing Murphy, the inside man
reporting to the outside one. "Jax and Anson are cleaning out his home
base. Cow was right about him, he's dirtier than a fleet of druglords.
Shipping guns, bomb parts, cocaine, everything but white slaves." 

"Good work, four-five. Report to Headquarters, write up the report, and
watch out for Connoll's hit men." 

Doyle snorted and made a rude gesture at the thought. "Any of his thugs
who escaped'll want to work for someone who's free to pay their salary --
and none of the other rats are sorry about losing a member of the
competition." He heaved a sigh and looked toward the blocked-off part of
the station where curious travelers tried to see what the police had been
doing there. "Look at them. They probably think some old dear passed out
without her medication." 

"We fight off the wolves," Murphy said calmly. "And the sheep just keep
grazing. They never know, Doyle." 

"Not even when one of the dogs is killed defending them." Doyle's voice
was level and quiet, almost emotionless. His eyes were directed at the
crowd, but they were looking at someone else. There was no bitterness or
grief in his voice. Only acceptance and peace. 

"No," Murphy said in the same quiet voice, "not even then." He patted
Doyle's shoulder. "When you've finished your report, four- five, go home
and stay home for two days. You've had enough riotous night life for a
while." 

Doyle nodded and moved off the station, looking to cadge a ride to
headquarters from one of the other agents. 

Murphy watched him go, then went to his own car. He did not drive directly
to CI5 headquarters. 

******

It was another ordinary day, an afternoon too cool to be perfect, with a
clouded sky. But the grass was dry -- for now -- and the sun gleamed
fitfully off polished granite and marble. Murphy bypassed the impressive
cenotaphs and made his way to the newer section of the yard, to the flat
brass plates tamped into the ground -- and beyond that, the smaller plates
denoting even smaller sites. 

The proper date was two days past. But Bodie had been a professional. He
had known the job always came first. 

He knew the site well by now. He rounded one last marble arched stone, the
bouquet of roses extended-- 

And stared at the splash of gold blanketing and surrounding the marker
where Bodie's ashes were buried. Full round stemless flower heads of a
dazzling yellow were laid close as stones in a drywall over the whole site
to create a blaze of beauty. 

Marigolds. The flowers that covered the dead in India before they were
cremated. And not lowered down, or stuck in the sunken vase provided,
either; this was the careful considered work of an artist. Somehow, during
the op, Doyle had managed to make his way here without being seen, perhaps
even scaling the wall after hours, to pay his respects to his partner,
friend and lover in a way that honoured Bodie's travels in exotic lands.
And it fit with the mode of burial; *Cremation,* Bodie's will had
practically shouted in panic. The man had seen too many rotting bodies in
his career; it had been clear he'd wanted a quick clean end to the
business. 

Hesitantly, wary of marring Doyle's offering, Murphy lowered his own
bouquet into the exact center of the marigold blanket. When he stood back
and saw what he'd done, he caught his breath. 

It was perfect. From a shield of gold blazed a blood-red heart. 

*Or, a coeur gules.* 

Murphy stared, awed at this creation of a blazon worthy of the soldier it
covered. Nothing he could say, think or pray would approach it. So he only
stood in silence before it, for much longer than he'd intended. 

Only when he'd finally stirred himself to leave the site did he say, "He's
happy. He's all right. And so am I." 

******

Home. The home that had merely been his flat two weary nights ago. 

Murphy did the check before entering. Procedures. 

But now the room was lit, chasing away the long hard days' worth of work
and worry. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen to fill his nose;
warmth surrounded him. 

And Ray was before him, robed and clean and fresh-shaven, and his eyes
were warmer than the room. 

Murphy met the green gaze with his own warm look. They both knew where
they had been and what they had done there; this too was the result of the
shorthand of partnership. 

And for the first time, Murphy understood that it didn't matter that Doyle
didn't match his own feelings. What they shared was strong and powerful,
something incomprehensible to the sheep. It might not be what he wanted
from Ray, but it was still enough-- 

"I love you." 

He stared. He'd heard. He'd seen the lips move. He'd heard Doyle
correctly. 

It was seeing the roses and marigolds all over again, that sudden and
unexpected blaze of beauty that had pierced his heart into stillness and
awe-- 

"Love you, Murph," Ray said quietly. "Love you so much." 

The future head of CI5 found himself unable to speak. 

"It's a little past," Ray continued, picking up a filled wineglass and
offering it to Murphy. Wine the colour of roses. "But it's the anniversary
of our first night together." 

Murphy took the glass. Then he set it down. And he took his future into
his arms. 

-- THE END -- 

*Originally published in *Chalk and Cheese 18*, Agent With Style, 1998*

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