The Professionals Circuit Archive - Rainy Days       Rainy Days

 

by Jane

  
 Waking up always used to be my cue to groan and roll over, and tell the
world to go away and leave me in peace for another hour at least -- two if
I could wangle them! Mornings are not my favourite time of day; they
herald another round of effort and danger, and as resigned to both as I've
become, I relish neither enough to greet the dawn with whoops of youthful
enthusiasm.

 But that morning I drifted up out of a meaningless dream, and if my nose
hadn't told me exactly where I was, the weight on my chest would have;
there was nothing surprising anymore in waking up in this bed, and my body
had grown accustomed to the hot, sharp-boned feel of another man's body
almost at once. Christ, but Ray had got thin. They had kept him in
hospital for just over a month, and he had been home for a fortnight,
slowly getting his strength back, trying to stay warm, doing the
half-baked little exercises the physios had given him. If he was eating
regularly, I didn't know about it, but try as I might, I couldn't get him
to look at food yet.

 His bones have always been just under the skin, but after the long climb
back to health and even this marginal fitness, he was as thin as a kid,
weighing so little I had the impression I could pick him up with one hand.
The exercises were working, though; Macklin turned up trumps, organising a
programme that wouldn't hurt him and could be done indoors, because there
was too much rain about and it was much too cold out there to let him go
out for long. Brian's a funny bird; if you're on the job and competitive
he'll break you in two, but he's so gentle with Ray that I've honestly
started to suspect he has a soft spot for him. Fraternal affection, or
something -- the big brother complex. That I can accept and smile; I'm not
that jealous. Yet.

 The muscles in Ray's back and shoulders were starting to knot up again,
bunching under the thin skin, and his legs were just beginning to harden
up; still, he wasn't really strong, and his wind was ruined. He'd be in
agony when he started to run again, I knew, but Macklin had warned him off
that for weeks yet, so there was nothing immediately frightening about the
prospect.

 And in any case, those lungs would tone themselves up naturally now that
he'd started up with me. In bed, that is. I can get him out of breath just
by stroking him, even now, so at the time, lovemaking was something
strenuous for him, poor bloke.

 Still, he was getting desperate for it. It was seven weeks or so since he
had been touched by anyone except a nurse or a doctor, and when we finally
got it together he was almost starved, not just for a healthy release of
the tensions in him, but for affection.

 He turned to me late in the afternoon, letting me know with an
exasperated smile that he'd been seeing the love I was still trying to
hide, and that he was hungry for it. You could have knocked me over with a
feather; I'd been ravenous for him for so long I'd started to think I'd
have to give Cowley my heart-felt resignation and run, fast and far, away
from him, because it was hurting me. Wanting him used to make me ache
something fierce, and chasing girls was not the answer. I tried that, got
the reputation of a super stud with bad social manners, and all I got out
of it was depression as I was shown, time and again, the difference
between sex and love. The sex was great; good girls, every one of them.
But it was love I was aching for... And him I wanted it from. Him I wanted
to give it to, share it with.

 Am I a sentimentalist? Maybe. He thinks I am, teases me unmercifully at
times. But he's a fine one to talk, him with his big, bruised eyes and his
mouth that goes soft and swollen with love and wanting. So, late in the
afternoon, when he turned to me at last, just smiling and stroking my
cheek, I let out some sort of strangled sob and went to him, cuddled him
for hours.

 He was hurting; the bloody operation sites were giving him hell, and from
what I know of these things, they probably always will. Years from now
he'll pull an adhesion and be in pain, but if that's the trade off for
being alive, it's fair.

 He was rigid, stiff against me; I thought at first that he was
uncomfortable with the idea of being with a man, but it didn't take long
for it to dawn on me that he was aching. I took his shirt off -- and my
fingers shook, I'll admit; how long had I wanted to do this? -- and warmed
my hands in front of the gas heater before I rubbed his hurts away. He's
like a kitten, stretching and purring when he's enjoying being touched;
that was just one of the joys of being with him I learned that afternoon.
I learned about a hundred more that night.

 Last night he had been starved for affection, wanting me with a passion
that startled me, and it wasn't until he came in my arms that I realised
what he was saying, breathily, into my hair.

 I'd been riding high on the rapture of touching him, living out my
fantasies, and hadn't even realised he was speaking until I heard the word
'love,' realised he was telling me he loves me. I must have whispered the
same words back a dozen times before we drifted off to sleep.

 We smelt a bit strong -- the bed did, come to that, which is only
understandable, all things considered, so as I swam up out of that
meaningless dream I knew where I was long before I woke. The weight on my
chest was hard and bony, but the poor little bugger wasn't heavy enough to
make it hard to breathe, and I knew it was much more comfortable for him
to sleep pillowed on me than trying to find some comfortable way to lie on
the mattress. He had slept there most of the night, and I was stiff with
immobility, as I'd no intentions of waking him after what I'd done to him.

 I'd exhausted him, and felt guilty about it; there was no way he could
keep up with me yet, and he shouldn't have tried. I'd wanted him to lie on
top of me, afraid that my weight would hurt him -- for God's sake, a few
weeks ago his chest was laid wide open, and the scars were still livid!
But in a couple of minutes he was pouring with perspiration and shaking,
and there was nothing for it. When he was underneath me I kissed him and
told him to lie still, that I'd do it all, and by that time he was so
wrung out he was glad to do as he was told.

 The first time he'd ever done it with a man, I thought, grinning like an
idiot as I woke up and felt the moist breaths tickling my neck. I'd had as
shadowy a past as you'd expect of a bloke with my list of dubious
accomplishments, which is to say, I wasn't averse to male company if there
weren't any girls to be found and it was some time since I'd even set eyes
on a skirt. I'd always preferred girls; men were just a convenience, until
I wandered off the squash court that day and hunted up an orange juice,
and met him.

 I won't say it was love at first sight -- I'm not that daft; lust maybe.
There are parts of his anatomy that would get to a nun who's been dead for
ten years. No, the love came later, when I got to know him, first to like
him, then to want him so much I was sure he had to know. I guess he did
know, at least for the last couple of months; the way I hovered around
when he was ill might have tipped him off. My girl friend left me, said
I'd neglected her once too often and pushed off with a pilot... I wasn't
sorry to see her leave, because my whole world had begun to revolve around
him anyway.

 Loving is a funny thing; can be absolutely terrifying and, Christ, it can
hurt. All that wanting and yearning and aching.

 Then, here I was, wriggling my toes and grinning at the ceiling in sheer
joy as he began to stir on top of me, yawning and filling my left ear with
a damp draught before he lifted his head and smiled down at me out of
green eyes that were soft as a doe's and not really awake yet. Blue jaw
and all, he looked as lovely as ever, and I reached up to kiss him.

 It's all in the eye of the beholder, I expect; from the neck down we all
tend to admire the same physical attributes -- a beautiful body is a
beautiful body, and that's that, except for the outlandish cases, like the
Man-Mountain bodybuilders and the other extreme, the concentration camp
refugees, which are very much an acquired taste (which isn't to say people
don't acquire it!); but from the neck up, it's all personal preference.

 I've heard Ray called ugly, heard his eyes called 'funny,' and his face
'round and cheerful.' Well, I'll defend to the death a person's right to
his or her own opinion, of course, just so long as they don't ask me to
agree with those definitions!

 I saw him in profile first, and he was squinting, and it was his nose I
noticed before anything. Like something on a marble statue, I thought, and
then he turned away from the light and let me have it with those eyes,
wide open and unblinking; to say that my knees turned to jelly is
something of an understatement, because a moment later he smiled hello at
me and I had to lean back against the bar at once. He has a mouth any
woman would -- or should, if she's got any sense -- kill for, and a voice
that could make a shopping list sound like a love letter.

 Beautiful? Another understatement. So I started taking notice to him on
Day One, and what followed is history. He didn't move a muscle as I kissed
him, just lay there and opened his mouth to me, and I wanted him again. He
smiled sunnily as he felt me getting hard under him, and rubbed his hip
against me. Still not up to par, he took a few seconds to respond to the
idea, but I was still astonished at how fast he turned on. The time I'd
been knifed, it took a month for me to remember what my equipment was for,
and I hadn't been anywhere near as ill as him.

 He wriggled around until he was comfortable, put his head down on my
shoulder again, and rocked against me as long as he could. Macklin's
exercises were doing him good, I thought; a week or two ago he'd have been
exhausted in moments; not that he had much staying power even now, though.
I could feel his breath getting short and gave him a prod in the ribs with
one finger. "Trying to do yourself a mischief, sunshine?"

 He lifted his head and looked at me with an apologetic sigh. "Trying to
make it good for you," he murmured. "Can't. Not yet. Will one day,
though."

 Trying to make it good for me? Didn't the idiot know what he was doing to
me just by being here like this, plastered against me with his cock
digging into my belly. I think I gave a hysterical giggle, and took hold
of him with the kind of exaggerated care I was used to now, lifting him
gently onto his back and moving over on top of him, like last night. Too
thin, I noted absently, feeling his ribcage under my chest, but he was
game enough, wrapping his legs around me. Maybe I could start force
feeding him with chocolates or something.

 It was sweet, God, so sweet, feeling him tense up with the needing to
come, trying not to, hanging onto me for dear life while I stroked every
bit of him I could reach and let my mouth rove between both his ears,
exploring everything along the way, eyes, nose, and every part of that
mouth. He was too knocked out to do more than lie still and hold back as
long as he could -- that's a hell of an effort for a fit person anyway,
and he was doing bloody well.

 Thanks to Brian and his exercise programme, I thought with a vaguely
delirious sense of the ridiculous as I got close myself and followed him
into that kind of sticky, exhausting rapture that never lasts half long
enough. It's odd; with a girl you're always wondering what she's feeling,
but with a man you know for sure. Makes being with a man special, somehow,
but I'd never wanted to love a man before him.

 Definitely sentimental, I thought as I climbed off him as soon as my ears
stopped ringing, and groped about for the box of tissues. It was empty. He
was laughing. "Phew, this bed smells a bit on the strong side," he said,
wrinkling his nose. "I wonder why that should be?"

 I was using a bit of loose sheet to mop us up. "I really can't hazard a
guess," I said drily. "Could have something to do with a certain person
getting an attack of the randies all of a sudden... Well, two people, to
be fair." I kissed the middle of his chest, suddenly wishing I'd bent to
taste his essences before swabbing them away. Well, do that next time; in
fact, suck the gorgeous creature into oblivion next time, I thought with a
thrill of anticipation -- that'd save a bit of the mess too. Then I
wondered if he'd suck me and shivered; it might take him a while to get
around to that, but I could wait. I remembered my first times, as a kid,
at sea. It can take a bit of getting used to, I'll be honest; but if he so
much as kissed me where I'm tenderest I'd be off. No doubt about it, so I
wouldn't be asking for much.

 He stretched and yawned, and I watched his skin stretch tightly over his
ribs. "Breakfast," I said decisively. "Before you lose any more weight.
Making love takes a lot out of you, and if you're going to start wantin'
it at every verse end, you'll have to put back what the rave up takes
out."

 "Not ready to get up yet," Ray yawned, rubbing his chest.

 "Not aching, are you?"

 "A bit. I'm getting better though," he said with a sleepy smile that
stole the breath from my lungs.

 I kissed his forehead. "You stay put, then, and I'll see what I can
rustle up." Breakfast in bed, for Christ's sake... I was losing my brain.
I realised that as the first sign of utter insanity as I pulled on his red
robe and headed for the kitchen, half expecting him to appear in my wake.

 Give my Raymond an inch, and he'll part the car in it. He was still in
bed when I went back to the bedroom; he'd fluffed the pillows up and was
reading a magazine, one of those pop-science journals, where the laws of
the universe are rendered into words of one syllable for dodos like us. He
was tousled and very pale, but smiling, and I forgave him for the
self-indulgence of the morning's lethargy. After all, he'd made love twice
in twelve hours for the first time in seven weeks, and just two weeks ago
he'd been so woozy and light headed that he'd had to be wheeled out to the
car, and his favourite nurse and I had picked him up between us.

 I dumped the tray down on the empty side of his bed and shook up the
bottle of baby oil. "Okay, sonny Jim, which is the bit that hurts, back or
chest?"

 "Back," he told me, chucking the magazine away and sending his fingers in
search of a bacon sandwich from the tray.

 "Turn over, then, and eat your brekkie while I do the honours." He did as
he was told, pulling a pillow under his shoulders and chewing on the hot
sandwich while I rolled the unfresh bedding out of the way and oiled up my
hands. I hadn't had much of a chance to look at him last night; he'd been
so tired by nine o'clock that he was in bed by the time I got back from
the bathroom, so I hadn't undressed him or seen him properly. The night
was chilly, too, so we'd made love with the blankets up around our
shoulders -- hence, the state of the sheets.

 Now, he was flat out in front of me in all the Doyle glory, and I was
having a hard time breathing. The scar on his back was ugly, really awful,
enough to curl your toenails, like fingernails on a blackboard, but it
would pale out and just about vanish. I've had dozens of worse scars, so I
wasn't all that concerned about it. Besides, it wasn't his scar I was
looking at, it was his rump. Backside, rear portion, situpon, posterior,
anything you want to call it, but I will not refer to it as his arse,
because one does not apply vulgarity to works of fine art; and believe me,
it's a work of art.

 It wasn't the first time I'd seen it naked, of course; it wasn't even the
first time I'd touched him. I've been groping him for years, without
making much ado about it. But this was the first time I'd been free to
touch it with him quite aware what I was doing, and with my hands covered
in oil. My heart was doing foolish things; I stooped and kissed it, and he
gave me a backward glance, heavy eyed and sultry. "Oi, I thought you were
going to massage my scars, not my bum."

 "I am," I affirmed, manfully looking away from the sight of the Doyle
rear, unclothed. "For now." My fingers were as gentle as I could manage,
but I knew I was causing him more than a little discomfort, so I avoided
the scar itself. working on the shoulder and the ribs which had been
spread so they could get at his heart. I still shudder, every time I think
about bullets in his heart. Christ, if he'd died --

 But he hadn't, and he was purring at last as I managed to get the aches
to subside, his teeth working on the last of his sandwich. "At least
you're eating," I told him, trying to sound stern, which isn't easy when
you're breathless. I was working down around his lumbar region now. I'd
noticed that he was not as stretchy in this part of his back as he had
been before; too long spent lying on it, not enough using it, I guessed.
Brian had given him a set of stretching exercises which he glanced at
briefly before dragging out a book on Yoga that had the dust of ages on
it. He knew what he was doing, and it wouldn't be long before he could tie
himself in knots again.

 "Was hungry," he said, licking his fingers, then putting his head down on
the pillow and giving himself up totally to my ministrations.

 "Good sign." I kissed the nape of his neck, just under his hair. They'd
cut it short for the sake of ease in the hospital, but he was going to let
it grow again, or I'd know the reason why. With his hair cropped he looks
like Little Orphan Raymond, all big eyes and cherub-cheeks. It's not until
he lets it grow long, almost down onto his shoulders, that you see the
Mona Lisa look starting to show through; turns me on to see him either
way, to be honest, but when he looks like a refugee from Boys' Town I get
this urge to smother him with protection, and that'll drive him right up
the wall, he's so damned independent. With his hair long he looks like
something off a Leonardo canvas, infinitely desirable, and it's not my
protective streak he arouses. Oh, no. I shuffled backwards, working down
toward his hips and kneading the crunched-up vertebrae until he yelped at
me to be careful. It can be a bit painful, but you have to get the
circulation going somehow. I had other ideas about that, but I didn't
think he was up to it -- yet. One day, though. My hands accepted the
invitation of his buttocks, and I wasn't massaging so much as caressing by
now. He was oily and floating away on the pleasure of touch, and didn't
notice what I was doing until I was stroking much more intimately. I held
my breath, wondering if he would object as I trickled my fingers through
his cleft and pampered the pucker of tight muscle there with one loving
thumb, but the sexy little animal just purred and wriggled, bending one
knee to make it easier for me to --

 What I wanted to do sent my pulse rate through the ceiling, and I took my
hands away, climbing over him to lie down beside him and wipe my hands on
the already crumpled and ruined sheets. He pried open his eyes and rolled
his head on the pillow to look at me. "What did you stop for? I was
enjoying that."

 "I know you were," I nodded. "That's why I stopped."

 He frowned, tiny lines appearing about his brow. "Huh? Make sense, Bodie,
it's too early for guessing games."

 "Who's guessing?" I demanded ruefully. "Come on, Ray, you know full well
what I want to do with you. What I'll want you to do with me when you're
strong enough."

 Colour flushed up in his cheeks, two roses, like an Irish milk maid. "Oh.
Yes, of course," he said huskily. "Well, I don't see why not. I mean, if a
few little strokes like that felt so good, it'll be fantastic when you...
When you..." He cleared his throat. "Hey, am I big enough?"

 This conversation was starting to turn my brain into pasta. "Course," I
said, trying to be reassuring. "But you're not strong enough yet. "You go
on the way you're going, and you'll know when you're ready for that."

 "Okay, love," he said happily, kissing my nose. "Thank God one of us
knows what he's doing!" His expression softened and the smile was a little
wistful. "Can't tell you how nice it was waking up with you this morning."

 "Mutual," I whispered, trying to get my thoughts into order before I
started behaving like something out of those sickening romantic novels.
Drowning in his eyes, or something equally nauseating. Trouble was, those
women who write that guff have got it right; I was drowning in his eyes,
going down for the fiftieth time and knowing I'd never come up again. In
simple self defence I rolled out of bed, collected the tray and yanked the
bedclothes off him. What a sight he was, flailing around, giggling,
glistening with oil. "Shower," I told him sternly, "or your clothes won't
be fit to be seen.

 "Share it with me?" He asked, sitting up and scratching at those skinny
ribs.

 "Love to, but I have to get my breakfast now," I said... The truth was, I
already wanted him again and if I got under the hot water with him a half
erection would become the real thing, and... I didn't know if he was
strong enough to take this much loving, and even if he was, could he get
aroused so soon? If he couldn't, he'd feel at a distinct disadvantage with
me turning on like the Blackpool Illuminations at every verse end --

 What he didn't know was, I hadn't been with a girl in almost as long as
him. Couldn't face them, couldn't get my mind off him, and couldn't bear
to sink into the wonderful realm of fantasy in the chasteness of my own
lonely bed, because at any moment the phone might be ringing to tell me it
was all over. Weeks of worry; then, finally, relief. The relief, when he
began to get well, brought the love I'd been hiding right to the surface;
I couldn't have drawn a curtain over it if I'd wanted to, and by the time
I went to pick him up at the meat works, I didn't want to anymore. If he'd
objected to what I was feeling, I knew he'd chase me, or give me a lecture
on the sins of bisexuality.

 Thank God he didn't. It wasn't until we were home, and he was relaxing,
in the week that followed, that I started to realise how bloody frustrated
I was getting. The sight of him doing Brian's silly little exercises and
shaving in the morning, and eating cornflakes while he read the paper, and
drinking beer while he watched the football, was starting to drive me to
distraction. I hoped he wouldn't see it, but when he did I was more
relieved than he'll ever guess; I'd managed to sneak back to my flat for
an hour or so alone now and then, but a head full of dreams and a talented
right hand isn't the same at all, and if anything the frustration was
getting worse.

 Now we'd finally got it together, the faithful old male urges were all
demanding attention at once. Shower with him? Tonight, maybe, but not
right then, no way.

 I put bacon on to fry for myself and emptied cornflakes and dried fruit
into a bowl, determining to force feed him if he refused them. He was
singing in the shower, a husky baritone, dead in tune, something from My
Fair Lady, I think. He's the film buff, not me. I was half way through my
own breakfast when he appeared, padding into the kitchen with two towels
around him, his hair streaming down his back. His skin was China-white; it
was the middle of winter in any case, and he'd been anaemic after losing
buckets of blood. The paleness scared the willies out of me, and I jumped
up, sloshing milk onto the cornflakes and scraping a chair out from the
table.

 "I already ate," he argued.

 "So eat again. And park yourself, while I dry your hair."

 "I can dry my own hair," Ray said loudly.

 "Yeah, but I want to dry it," I wheedled. "Never done it before, want to
do everything. A bit at a time."

 He heaved a sigh of resignation and sat down, lifting the bowl and
playing with the food. I folded the towel around his head and rubbed at
the tangles gently. Two minutes later the cornflakes were going soggy in
the dish. "Eat!" I told him, not prepared to brook an excuse. "Eat, or
I'll tell Doctor Ross you've got a phobia about food, and let her rip into
you with Herbie to their evil hearts' content."

 "She hasn't got a heart," Ray said, muffled under the towel. "Herbie's
okay, heart of silicone. But Ross? A heart? Surely thou dost jest with
me."

 "All the more reason to shovel the cornflakes away," I added, finished
with his hair and dumping the towel in the sink. I kissed the top of his
head and sat down on the other side of the table. "Got the rest of the
day," I observed with relish. "What d'you want to do?"

 Ray was staring out through the window. "Go out."

 "Freezing out there," I said doubtfully. "Was raining an hour ago, it'll
be raining again by this afternoon."

 He heaved another huge sigh. "I'm starting to think the sky's made of
white plaster," he grumbled. "Want to go out, Bodie, before I start
getting a phobia about flats!"

 "How about the museum?" I suggested. "A film?"

 "I said out," he repeated. "Sky, trees, you know."

 It was the middle of winter. The day he'd been shot the trees were
golden. I remember watching him striding away toward his car, the last
time I saw him on his feet for so long; boots crunching through the fallen
leaves. Next time I saw those boots they were stretched out on the carpet
and he was --

 I forced the image out of my mind, haunted by it, knowing I could never,
ever forget it. "All right, but wrap up," I said sagely. "If you end up
back in hospital with double bloody pneumonia Cowley'll skin me alive."

 "You're not my keeper," he said defensively.

 "Tell that to the Cow," I grinned. "He's accepted that I'm in charge. My
natural genius, I expect. He knows he couldn't trust you to take the top
off a bottle of milk!"

 Those serpentine brows of his gathered in a frown as his teeth worked on
the cornflakes. Little Orphan Raymond, I thought, and had to laugh. I
reached across the table, wanting his mouth... I'd been kissing him for
less than a day and couldn't get enough of him. I got a mouthful of
cornflakes for my trouble, and chewed the soggy fragments blissfully while
he shook his head over me.

 "You're just about ready for certification, mate," he told me succinctly,
but the laughter was there in his eyes and he was keeping a straight face
with an effort. "Okay, so I'll wrap up. It isn't exactly snowing, is it?"

 "Cold enough to," I told him. "Be Christmas in three weeks, remember.
Speaking of which, what do you want?"

 "For Christmas?" He blinked at the unexpected question. "Haven't given it
a thought."

 "Well think about it, because if they run out of rocking horses, I don't
have access to a magic wand, do I?"

 He guffawed, choking on the last spoonful. "Don't need a rocking horse.
Got you."

 For the first time in about twenty years, I blushed... Little monster. I
might have realised that his smart mouth would get back into shape along
with the rest of him. Then I remembered the morning, and last night, and
being thought of as a rocking horse didn't seem so bad. In fact, with him
up on top of me, it'd be bloody lovely. And I told him so. His eyes misted
up suddenly and for one awful moment I was sure he was going to cry.
Sentimentality, I suppose, and eve if he had cried it would have been a
measure of how good he was feeling. Still, I didn't want to push him in
any direction.

 He studied the empty dish and tapped a beat on it with his spoon for a
while, then cleared his throat and said, "Charleton Heston."

 I blinked. "You want Charleton Heston for Christmas?"

 "Prat. The book, The Actor's Life. Been meaning to read it, tried to get
a copy while I was in hospital, but Frank couldn't find one. The nut
forgot to order it, too."

 "Oh," I said sympathetically. "Well, I'll see if I can turn a copy up.
Frank's your brother, isn't he?"

 "Older brother," Ray nodded. "Works for Shell -- he was a diver till the
necrosis caught up with him, then he turned over to the administrative
side of it, geosurvey, that kind of thing. Oil exploration."

 "Sounds fascinating." I stirred, glancing at the time. "It's eleven
o'clock. If you want to go out, you'd better get ready. Buy you lunch
somewhere. And for Christ's sake, put something warm on, you haven't been
out of the shower long."

 "Yes, mum," he said acidly, sweetening the rejoinder with a kiss, a
little offcentre of my mouth.

 "I'm not your mother," I shouted after him. "If I was your mother I
wouldn't have designs on your body, would I?"

 "If you were my mother," he shouted back, as I heard the wardrobe door
slam open, "I wouldn't have designs on yours!"

 There was open acceptance in the remark, and I sat back and stared at the
table with a smile. He wanted me; and last night, damned if he hadn't told
me he loved me. It may have been threatening rain outside, it may have
been the middle of winter, but to me it was a wonderful day. Felt like we
should have been leaving for a honeymoon, not an afternoon out in the
cold; but tomorrow I was back at work, and that would bring me down to
earth with an unpleasant thump.

 When I made it into his bedroom he was dressed; jeans and onion-like
layers of clothes. Vest, tee-shirt, shirt, pullover, brown leather jacket,
and that scarf wound around his neck. He looked down at himself and
demanded, "will I do?"

 "I think so," I said generously. "What about a nice wooly cap to keep
those shell-like ears warm?"

 Ray was trying to pantomime bad temper and not managing it; this was the
first time he'd been outside for more than a few minutes. We'd gone to
collect his laundry one semi-warm day, last week, but he'd been worn to
tatters in the walk from car to launderette and back again. Big plans,
foiled by the unco-operative nature of his legs.

 He was through the door ahead of me and eager to be out; I watched him
shiver as the wind blasted right into his face for the first time, and
jingled the carkeys. "Where to, sir?"

 "Park," he said at once.

 I made a face; after all the rain we'd been having it'd be mud up to the
elbows. But if it was what he wanted... So I spoil him. It's my
prerogative. The sky was leaden, it would be chucking it down in an hour
anyway, so I knew the rain would drive us back to the car soon. The trees
were like skeletons, forlorn, lifeless, but he was right, it was nice to
be out.

 I had taken a fortnight's holiday, starting the day he got home. Before
the shooting, I'd been intending to get over to France with Wendy, get out
of Ray's life for a good long time, try to forget what he looks like, try
to focus on the rest of the world for a while. That went straight out of
the window in half a second, I didn't even remember Wendy and the proposed
holiday until he was out of intensive, and by that time I was spending my
life either at work or at the hospital. Cowley let me do it; he could have
had me chasing off across half the British Isles, but he kept me on little
domestic jobs until I got back onto an even keel. I suppose, as an old
army man, he knows well enough what it's like when your mate's been shot.

 Except, I don't think he's got any idea about Ray and me; not yet anyway.
Don't know what he'll make of us when he does catch on. Tear out what
remains of his hair, maybe. Leave a hole in the ceiling on his way through
it. Sack us. Love on the dole can't be all bad!

 For a while Ray walked quite strongly, but he started to lag a quarter of
a mile out from the car and I slowed up to give him a chance. He was blue
about the lips, which was rather disconcerting: he'd been blue for a
fortnight after the operations, which is a dead giveaway of heart trouble.
So, was he just cold or was he starting to suffer? I had visions of him
going down clutching his chest and me making a bee line for the hospital,
eighty-five miles an hour.

 It started to spit with rain and we ducked into the bandstand to wait it
out. He put me between himself and the wind and I didn't say anything,
though 'I told you so' leapt to mind. He can be stubborn to the point of
foolishness sometimes, but he's not a complete idiot. When the rain
stopped he got his feet moving in a determined shuffle, not at all like
the Doyle walk that's been knocking 'em dead since he was fourteen, and he
was heading back toward the car.

 "Lunch?" I asked. "How about a dover sole at Hammond's?"

 "Sounds terrific," he muttered, teeth chattering.

 He only picked at his food, and drank two cups of tea, thawing out in the
cozy little restaurant, gazing out, heavy- eyed, at the winter wonderland
on the other side of the steamed-up plate glass. I was going to suggest
going on to the museum or a film, but one look at him was enough to make
me think better of it. He must have walked most of a mile, anyway; that
was good going, up and down hill. Lunch at a restaurant and a drink at the
Rose and Crown on the way home -- not a bad start to his return to normal.

 He drank a gin and tonic with an expression of real, unabashed
satisfaction; the first time he had tasted gin since the day before he'd
been shot. He'd been with me then, too. The Lin Fo case had been dragging
on and on, and we were existing on a knife edge, wondering if we were
going to be suspended, charged or given the kind of reprimand that crisps
you ears. It hadn't been our fault that the two young loonies had got
themselves blown to hell, but that never seems to matter. Our fault or
not, we get the joy of carrying the can back almost every time. Ray
reckons the old man's got a soft spot for me, but if he has, I've never
seen it. If I put one foot wrong, he has me by the shirt front -- I blew
my stack once in the cells when a youngster had been killed by that South
African hit man. I was having the horrors about Ray, out there on his own
with the real Van Niekirk on the loose. Can't even remember what I said,
but Cowley actually grabbed me... Ray can get away with blue murder, I've
seen him take the old man to task and call him 'Cowley' with a look of
murder in his eyes, and all the Cow does is harness that fury of Ray's,
make it work for him. Okay, so maybe Cowley has a soft spot for us both.

 I drove home and got the heating on. It was half past one and Ray was
feeling like hell. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to; he just
slumped down into a chair and put his head back, looking like he was going
to fall right through the cushions. I put my hand on his head, expecting
him to be cold and instead he was hot.

 "Feverish," I observed, "You've given yourself a chill."

 "Feel lousy," he admitted.

 "What have you got, aspirin?" I was heading for the kitchen, where he
kept his pills and potions in the cabinet. Digitalis, also a big yellow
tablet for blood pressure, sleeping pills, pain killers. He was onto
ordinary Disprin type things now, and didn't need the sleeping pills, but
they'd told us that he'd probably take the digitalis for years, maybe for
good.

 I put him to bed at three and dickered about calling the doctor, but he
said he was just shivery and very, very tired, and I believed him. He's
not thick enough to lie about his health when there's really something
wrong. I read and listened to music, letting him sleep, and at six I heard
the loo and he appeared, flushed and tousled, almost asleep on his feet,
the red robe clutched about him. He sat down with his toes in the hearth
and I put the kettle on.

 "Want anything to eat?" He shook his head. "Sure? I mean, why don't we
send out for a pizza?" He shook his head again and I sighed. "Don't mind
if I send out for a pizza for myself, do you?" Another shake of the head.
"Talkative," I said drily.

 "Teeth are aching," he admitted. "Cold wind."

 "Little hot house flower," I teased, handing him a cup of tea, very hot.
"There, slosh that 'round 'em."

 I ate the pizza, watching him sleep on the couch while a current affairs
show played out on the box, nothing really interesting, just politics and
who's been murdering whom. He was coming slowly back to life, but he
looked far less than chirpy, and by nine he was out on his feet.

 This time I undressed him, enjoying the simple chore, thinking back to
the big plans I'd had that morning... I'd been going to taste him, suck
him till he thought he'd been sent to heaven. I sighed; there was always
tomorrow. Luckily, one of life's greatest pleasures is just cuddling him,
so I swallowed the frustrations and held him instead. He was asleep as
soon as his head touched the pillow.

 Silly sod, he wasn't well for days, and I castigated myself for letting
him out so soon. Cowley and Macklin would roast me over a bonfire if they
found out.




 A week later, I got home -- I'd been at Ray's for so long that I'd
started to think of his flat as home -- and was just about to shout
'yoo-hoo, honey, I'm home,' which was a standing joke between us, when I
heard voices. He had company, and I wasn't surprised to see Brian in the
lounge. He had Ray stripped to the waist, there was a blood pressure thing
on the couch and Ray was standing on one foot, knee bent into his middle,
one arm about the bent leg, the other outflung for balance. Macklin was
looking on and nodding his appreciation.

 "Better," he was saying as I showed my smiling face, "but your hips are
getting stiff. What are you doing to stretch them out?"

 "This, mainly." Ray sat down on the rug, careful not to twist his chest,
which was giving him hell, still, if he moved without thinking, or overdid
it. He spread his legs and took hold of his feet, bending until his nose
was a few inches off the rug. "I'm getting there."

 "Not bad at all," Macklin agreed. "Muscle tone in your back is not good,
though. Doing the dynamic tension things?"

 "When I can," Ray told him, getting back to his feet and pulling a face
as he got a twinge from his chest. "But much of that and the ribs hurt
like blazes. I asked the surgeon about it; he says they spread 'em, that
they're going to be sore for a couple of months, but there's no real
damage."

 "That's what they told me," Brian agreed. "No, just keep going, Doyle,
you'll get there... Ah, Bodie. You living here?"

 "Just about," I said brashly. Make something of it, Brian, just say
something I thought defensively.

 The Big Blond Bruiser, as he's affectionately known around the gym, just
gave me an odd look and said nothing, but I, in my paranoia, could tell
what was going through his mind. Ray and I were starting to look married,
I was sure of it, and if he'd cottoned on... Maybe we were done for.

 Brian packed his stuff up as I went looking for a cuppa. He'd brought one
of those blow-in-the-tube devices that test your lung capacity, and a
stethoscope. Contrary to popular opinion, he's not out to murder Cowley's
operatives, he's here to keep us alive. Somehow that thought doesn't make
you feel very confident when you're on the receiving end of a refresher
and he's beating the crap out of you, but it's his job to look after our
physical welfare, and that meant making sure that 4.5 was keeping to
schedule. Ray was taking him seriously, too; he'd been mauled by enough
physiotherapists at the hospital to make him see the sense of it, I
expect.

 "Fair enough," Brian said at last. "You're coming along, Doyle. What
about your vitamins?"

 "I'm taking the pills," Ray said, trying to keep a straight face as we
both remembered the old joke.

 "Not eating much, though," I chimed in, shoving a cup of tea at the
Bruiser. "I can't get him to eat his greens for love or money."

 "Naughty naughty." Macklin grinned. "Want me to have Kate Ross come over
and read you a lecture on the virtue of cabbage?"

 "She's a trick cyclist," Ray said loudly, "not a dietician, and why is it
that everybody's always threatening me with her?"

 "Because everybody's scared stiff of her," I chuckled.

 "Kate's okay," Macklin shrugged. "She knows her job... She saved your
skin, Bodie. Those Hell's Angels would have creamed you, you were so far
out of trim."

 He would be reminding me about that for the rest of my life, I guessed.
I'd been a real idiot, but to the likes of me, that comes like second
nature. I backed out of the conversation till he left, and caught Ray as
he literally fell into my arms and hugged me. God, but he felt good,
skinny and hard and hot. He wanted to kiss me, and I was delighted to
oblige.

 "So the sadist's pleased with your efforts," I asked.

 "Sort of," he said while he nibbled on my ear.

 "What do you mean, sort of?"

 "He says I'm underweight."

 "You are underweight. Never thought I'd see eye-to-eye with Brian, but
it's finally happened. You're stronger, at least." That was no
exaggeration. He'd taken a few days to get over the thorough chilling, but
the way he'd bounced back, I knew he was on the mend. I was remembering
last night as we stood there, toasting ourselves in front of the gas
heater and kissing. Last night he'd managed it; he'd woken me up at about
eleven, climbed up on top of me and really surprised me. He'd been turned
on already before he woke me, and I hadn't taken more than three seconds
to light up -- I was starting to get a bit desperate by then, with him
being unwell for so long. I'd intended to let him go on until he got
tired, but damn me if he didn't manage it, take me all the way.

 He slept like a log after that, still asleep when I went out to work in
the morning, and I stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him with a
peculiar sense of pride in his achievement. He was curled up like a
hibernating squirrel, the quilt pulled up around him, his mouth open, dead
to the world at seven, just the passage light half-illuminating his face,
because it was still dark outside.

 It had rained all day and I was wet, hanging my jacket over the back of a
chair to dry as he gave me a parting kiss and padded off into the kitchen.
I could smell something good cooking, and wondered what he'd been up to
before Brian got there. He'd been making Eve's Pudding, which he knows I
love, and custard, but the lasagne came out of foil trays, sent down by
the Italian nosh house on the corner.

 "He reckons I'll be working again in spring," Ray said as we ate.

 "No hurry, take your time," I said, trying not to burn my mouth on the
lasagne and slopping fruit juice into glasses.

 "I'm getting bored," he complained.

 "Which means you're getting better." I reached out for his hand,
squeezing his fingers. "Christmas in a fortnight. Make the most of the
holidays like everyone else -- nobody on holiday gets bored. Pretend."

 "I get bored on holiday," he said, trying to sound disconsolate through a
mouthful of lasagne.

 I'd moved along to the pudding by now and was making noises of
appreciation. "Hey, this is good. Going to make someone a good wife one of
these days."

 His eyes darkened by shades as I watched. "Oh yeah? Got anyone in mind?"
There was a husky catch to this voice.

 I forgot about the food for some time. Silly things go through your mind;
idiotic thoughts you wish hadn't happened... Like asking someone to marry
you when it's absolutely, bloody impossible. The law in this country won't
let two men get married. Or any other country, come to think about it."

 "Ray," I said quietly, "I think maybe we should talk."

 "About what?" He asked, abandoning what was left of the pasta and moving
onto the dessert.

 "About us," I said coaxingly. "Come on, sunshine, don't play the dim wit
with me; we've been sleeping together for a week, and I've told you I love
you half a dozen times. What are we going to do?"

 Ray's the kind of person who likes to slam the shutters up between
himself and the rest of the world, and I was terrified that he'd do that
with me now. I knew I was pushing him, I was wondering if it was too early
to push so hard. For a long time he didn't answer me, as if he couldn't
make up his mind about something, and then he looked me in the eye, his
own eyes green and glittering. "I won't take second place." It sounded
like a warning.

 Second place? What was he talking about? I frowned into my bowl of apple
pudding, trying valiantly to work it out before I admitted to defeat and
said, "you what?"

 "I said I won't take second place," he repeated. "I won't be a convenient
lay on the side when you need sex in a hurry."

 "You little bastard," I said levelly, without heat. "You think I'd do
that to you? Read my lips: I love you. Get it that time?"

 He frowned at me, and I could literally hear his brain ticking over. "So
what does that mean?"

 "What do you want it to mean?"

 "I..." He heaved an enormous sigh and pushed the dessert away, no longer
interested in eating. "Back at the hospital, I just used to live between
one visit and the next. Got to the stage where I was watching for you,
every day. Didn't come alive till you got there, died again after you'd
gone. Do you know what I'm saying?"

 I did; call it empathy. "You're saying you want to have me around," I
said, allowing a smile to show through.

 He nodded, and he looked miserable. "Yeah. "Not just at work; not just at
weekends. All the time." Another vast sigh followed the words. "I want you
to live here... And I know I'm asking something that's bloody impossible.
I mean, you and your birds! I know you'll be wanting to chase 'em by the
flock, and I understand that, really I do. But..."

 "You won't take second place," I repeated. "I heard." I reached for his
hand again. "Hey, you want solemn vows?"

 "Maybe," he said defensively, and then shrugged out from behind the
table, wrapping his arms about himself and leaning against the sink.
"Maybe later. Let it settle down, let us get used to it before we talk
about -- about settling down."

 "Sensible," I admitted. "How long? Talk at Christmas?"

 "Another fortnight," he said seriously. "Maybe. I mean, in another
fortnight of my company you'll know if you want a girl or not, won't you?"

 I got to my feet and went to grab him. "What about you? You might want a
girl yourself."

 "Me?" He blinked in astonishment. "I told you, Bodie, I love you. Don't
want to sleep with a stranger with I'm in love!"

 I cuffed his ear gently. "Kindly do me the same justice!"

 "Oh." He smiled at last, impish and irresistable, and hugged me tightly.
"It's good in bed with you," he muffled against my neck. "I knew it would
be. Lay there in hospital thinking about how it would be. Was good last
night, wasn't it?"

 "You're getting stronger," I observed. And he felt much harder under my
hands, too; you could feel the muscle in his shoulders and back. Chalk one
up for Brian. He was starting to do a few chores around the house; I'd
come home one day and he'd rearranged the furniture; for a moment I
thought I'd wandered into the wrong flat. He sent the curtains out for
cleaning the week before Christmas; that made him sore. He must have
overreached himself nicely getting the damned things down, and I gave him
a rocket about being stupid. I told him there was nothing altruistic about
my anger, that when he was unwell I got abandoned to the woes of
chasteness, which is bloody frustrating, but in fact it's just that I
can't bear to see him hurting so much. It's his pain that makes me angry,
not the nights I spend cuddling him while he aches, because I've
discovered that worrying about your loved one plays hell with your libido.

 Ray bit my neck like a randy little vampire and wriggled out of my grasp.
"Brian reckons I can start running in the New Year," he said, with obvious
satisfaction. "Not far, at first, of course, but I'm looking forward to
it."

 "I'll bet you are," I moaned. "Dragging me out of a nice, warm bed at
some ungodly hour and trudging through the slush."

 "No snow in the long range forecast," he told me with a smirk. "Just
rain, rain, rain."

 I made a face. "And there was I, dreaming of a white Christmas." I heaved
an enormous sigh, pantomiming disappointment. In fact, the prospects of
Christmas with him were nothing less than enchanting, and I was scouting
for things to give him as I drove around with Murphy at work. 




 I'd booked my holidays from Christmas Eve noon to Boxing Day, and unless
World War III started up all of a sudden we'd have two and a half days of
pure domestic bliss with holly and tinsel. There was a party at the
office, but it wasn't getting into gear by the time I had to leave; it
wouldn't get going properly until three or four in the afternoon, and I
was out of there like a bullet at 12.05, two stops to make on the way
home. One, the department store, two, the offlicence. Ray was not supposed
to drink much, not that he really soaks up the booze in any case, so I
stuck to wine and champagne, and just one bottle of brandy.

 At the department store I only had to pick up the things I'd bought,
because I'd had the girl giftwrap them and store them for me until
Christmas. I could have taken them back to my empty flat, but I hadn't
been there in over a week and didn't much fancy tackling the dust and
mould on this of all occasions. I'd got him a sweater, fluffy angora wool,
with a big, loose turtle neck, pristine, virginal white with an aquamarine
stripe around the shoulders and cuffs; and a gold chain, as heavy as I
could afford, rich yellow gold; and his book, Charlton Heston's dairies;
and something I'd read about, Peking Royal Jelly, said the ad, was the
greatest tonic known to mankind. I wandered into a health shop, had a
heart attack at the price, and bought him two months' supply. I hate
doctors; I'd sooner die than go to one, and so alternative medicine is a
particularly attractive proposition. Certainly, Ray's been swearing by it
for years; so the Royal Jelly wasn't just a gift, it was something
practical. 




 Juggling parcels, I took the lift up and fished for my keys; I'd asked
for duplicates of his keys, and Cooley didn't bat an eyelid, just handed
them over. One of these days, I guessed, the old man was going to put two
and two together and come up with five, and I was braced for the storm.
"Home, Ray!" I called as I slammed the door, assailed by a draught of hot
air as I shut the cold out.

 There was no answering bellow from inside, and it wasn't until I had
dumped the parcels on the table in the lounge that I noticed why. He was
stretching awake, dopey and smiling; he'd fallen asleep on the rug in
front of the heater, right under the corner table where we'd decided to
put up the tree. It was mostly decorated, all the toys and tinsel on it,
and only the fairy lights were still to be added. There was an angel on
top of it, very old and threadbare, an heirloom: the lights were old too,
they went back to the [text missing] and were huge and heavy by comparison
to the Christmas tree lights they make today. They and the angel had
belonged to Ray's grandmother, and she'd given them to him for 'his
family,' whenever he got one.

 They had been in a box in the back of the cupboard for years. I stumbled
over them once, while I was looking for the oil and rags and pull-through,
to clean the guns, and he gave me a sketchy story of a wonderful old woman
who barely spoke the English language at all, and who had come over to
England at the turn of the century as a young widow with several kids at
her heels and not a penny in her pocket.

 We'd decided to get a tree on a sentimental whim; I've always liked
Christmas. It's a time when you can put the cares of the world behind you
for a few days, remember what it was like to be an ordinary person, maybe
remind yourself what love means, because in the real world, you forget so
easily. I had forgotten about the lights and that threadbare old angel,
but obviously he hadn't. He'd bought the tree, toys and tinsel the day
before; arriving home, I'd tripped over the boxes in the dark, in the
bedroom, so hadn't been surprised when he looked absolutely knackered
after his shopping spree -- shopping at this time of year is enough to tax
an athlete, never mind a person getting over open heart surgery.

 The tree looked lovely; and so did he, stretching himself awake right
under it. "Well," I said, taking off my jacket, "I asked Santa for
something nice under the tree, and I guess he was listening, for the very
first time ever."

 He blinked at me dopily, then caught on and laughed as he sat up. "Went
to sleep."

 "I can see that." I knelt down beside him, wanting to kiss him. "Been
drinking port," I noted, tasting his mouth as he wound his arms around me
and pulled me down onto the rug. My fingers and toes were starting to thaw
out and tingle, and the gas heater seemed to be roasting me; he felt
literally molten.

 "Rain on your hair," he smiled. "Still chucking it down?"

 "Just a bit of drizzle," I yawned. "Got the booze. Got a couple of things
for you, too." "Which reminds me." Ray squirmed around, reaching for the
parcel on the table behind him. "Got this for you."

 I sat up, taking it from him, weighing it between my hands; he'd had it
wrapped in blue-and-silver paper, and there was a card taped to it: 'for
Bodie, with love.' Funny, seeing it in words choked me up, and I covered
the emotion with a pantomime of guessing. I shook the box, but heard
nothing; it weighed a few pounds, measured perhaps one foot by two by
eight inches. "Good heavens, what can it be?"

 "Open it, you twit," he said, exasperated.

 "No way." I handed it back to him. "In the morning."

 "You're not a kid, Bodie," Ray grinned. "You don't have to wait till
tomorrow -- I bought the bloody thing, Santa didn't drop it down the
Chimney!"

 "Tomorrow," I said firmly. "Now, let's get the lights on the tree. I want
to see if they work after being there in the back of the cupboard for ten
years."

 "They work," he said, levering his way to his feet by leaning on my
shoulders. "I tried 'em in the box before I went to sleep. Oh, I got a
Christmas cake and a plum pudding too. All full of white flour and white
sugar, and very bad for you. But we'll eat them anyway."

 The afternoon was lovely; we ate too much lunch, sat by the heater while
the rain pelted down outside, and watched the television. A documentary
about a volcano in Africa, and a production of Swan Lake that sent us both
to sleep, curled around each other on the sofa. He woke in a panic,
remembering the chickens that were crisping in the oven, and I trailed him
into the kitchen, bewildered by his industries as he produced dinner. I'm
not a cook, never was, don't intend to become one, and I told him that at
the start. Sugar in the potatoes and incinerated lamb chops, if you let me
loose in the kitchen. Fair enough, said he, you look after the vacuum
cleaning and the rubbish, and wash the windows, and we'll call it even.

 Domesticity... At one time I'd thought the whole scene was an incredible
bore, a bit like cleaning your kit when you're in the field. Something
that has to be done, but you don't do it for fun and you're delighted if
someone does it for you. I suppose it's why men get married! I'd shocked
myself when Ray divided up the labour... I didn't mind. Wash the windows,
take out the refuse and push the Hoover around the flat -- fine by me, I
said, and only when I'd said it did I realise what I'd agreed to. By that
time it was too late to take it back, and I shocked myself again: I didn't
want to take it back. I was pleased to do 'the roughs' in exchange for
home cooking... Damn, if we weren't settling down into marriage, what the
hell were we doing?

 By nine he was yawning and put the electric blanket on. As a rule, I
can't stand electric blankets, but I've learned to make an exception...
When he's cold he's cold. Cuddles up like a kid, icy feet making me
shiver, octopus arms strangling me, but kissing is as far as he'll go.
When he's freezing, all he wants to do is get warm, and I can't say I
blame him. When he got out of hospital the cold made him ache dreadfully,
and I got used to sleeping on wires in the first few nights. Then, when
we'd started making love, I soon discovered that he doesn't want to know
about it until he's toasting... After that, I started putting the blanket
on in plenty of time, because wanting him is as much a part of life as
breathing.

 Christmas Eve, snuggled up with the blankets up to our chins. This was
heaven, I thought, especially as he started to kiss me without being
prompted at all. Those elegant hands of his were all over me, teasing and
pampering, and he ducked like a seal under the blankets to suckle my
nipples, emerging pink and tousled and laughing. Revenge, I thought,
panting like a broken winded horse, and grabbed him, manhandling him right
where I wanted him, pinning him down with my weight, both hands between
his legs. Christ, but he turns on with a vengeance; he spread his legs for
me, moaning inarticulately and writhing around, making a mess of the bed,
until I stopped to let him get his breath back and simmer down.

 He looked debauched, heavy eyed and languorous, and he wriggled his
fingers under the pillow, bringing out a tube of cream and handing it
ceremoniously to me. "There. Use it."

 I blinked at the tube for a moment, knowing exactly what he meant -- I
wasn't that dazed -- my heart hammering and my mind refusing to get itself
in gear. "Ray? You mean it? You want me to --?"

 "To do me," he nodded. "I'm strong enough, now. Brian was over here the
other day, had me doing pressups. If I can do bloody pressups, I can stay
on my knees for a bit." He reached over and kissed me. "Go on, I won't
break."

 "Going to hurt a bit," I warned. "I'm not sure I want to hurt you on
Christmas Eve."

 "Oh, Bodie," Ray said huskily, "if I didn't want it, I wouldn't be asking
for it, would I? Look." He reached over the side of the bed and produced a
folded towel. "I've even thought of a way to keep the bed dry. Not going
to lie in a puddle tonight. That's a vitamin cream, oily and everything.
Stop worrying and get on with it. I'm not an innocent -- I worked with all
sorts with the Police."

 He turned over and put his head down, and I watched with somewhat glazed
eyes as he tucked the towel into place under him. He was serious, he'd
thought it all out, he knew what I was going to do, and approximately what
it would be like. I swallowed, hoping to God that I could be gentle and
patient.

 I needn't have worried; loving someone makes you worry about them first,
about what your beloved's feeling, whether he's enjoying it. Doesn't
matter a damn about yourself -- you could explode or have a coronary for
all the interest you have in your own body. I lay on his back for some
time, getting him used to it, because it's strange the first time. Let him
feel me, pressing up behind him, very hard and very hot, and then I put
plenty of cream on both of us, my fingers inside him, stroking there. I'd
stroked him this way a couple of times, so he knew what it felt like, and
by the way he was purring he was loving it.

 "Bend your knees a bit more, love," I whispered. "Lift up a bit... bit
more... that's it." Down under the blankets I could feel that incredible
little backside presented to me, and I swallowed, wanting desperately to
make it good for him. I thought he was scared -- he was shaking -- but in
another moment I realised it was frustration making him shake. He was
hanging on to his strangling desire with an enormous effort, and as soon
as I realised that I relaxed a bit myself.

 In... In... God, he was so tight I couldn't believe it. Hot. He moaned
under me, his muscles grabbing up, which is involuntary, and I stroked his
cock and kept still until he relaxed again before pushing on. I didn't
think I'd be able to enter him this deeply, and was stunned when he took
all of me, but by that time he was rigid with pain and trying to regulate
his breathing, waiting it out until the pain subsided and turned into
pleasure. There was nothing I could do to help except keep still and
stroke him, and I was waiting for him to either tell me it hurt too much,
or that the pain had gone now. That's the way it goes, and he must have
known, because he just kept still and waited it out.

 Little by little I felt him relax, and when he gave a moan I could tell
the difference. That wasn't pain, that was sheer abandon. He wriggled,
caught his breath as it started to hurt again, waited till the pain was
gone once more, and pushed back against me, letting out a howl as the
pleasure swamped him. I knew what he was feeling and relief washed over
me. The hard part was over. Only then did I suddenly realise what I was
going through: my body was in agony, I had cramp from holding back and
keeping still, and my heart was going like a hammer.

 It was okay to move now, though, and I did. He wailed in rhythm to what I
was doing, noisy little bugger, and I knew he was getting close when he
tensed from head to foot. Climax racked him about two seconds before it
hit me, and he yelled again as I came, probably scalding him. I think we
collapsed. I know I collapsed, and as I came back to my senses my first
worry was for him -- Christ, if my heart had been working like that, what
had his been doing?

 He was practically asleep, flat out under me, my hand trapped under him,
still holding him, and I hadn't even moved to withdraw yet... I didn't
want to pull out of him; I wanted to stay there forever, but I was worried
about squashing him -- I'm no feather weight -- and, he might not realise
it right at that moment, but he was going to suffer shortly.

 With great reluctance, I clambered off him and still he didn't move.
"Pet? Ray? Say something!"

 "Ungh," he said into the pillow.

 "Ray, you okay? Ray!"

 "Don't yell, Bodie, I 'aven't gone deaf! Bodie..." He took a breath and
tried to move. "Oh, God, my hips are broken."

 "Cramp," I muttered, grabbing for tissues to mop up before we messed up
the bed. "Just move a bit at a time, love."

 A fraction at a time he got his legs together and turned over as I pulled
the towel out from under him. "Hey, you're right, the bed's dry."

 "Won't be soon if you don't do something brilliant with those tissues,"
he warned, and as I did something, he yelped. "I'm a teensy little bit
sore, my sweet. Give us the cream."

 "Hold still," I said scornfully, and did it for him, dumping everything
onto the floor. "There, how's that?"

 He wound both arms around my neck and pulled me down to kiss me. It was a
long, deep, searching kiss, and half way through it I tasted salt. When I
lifted my head I saw the tears on his cheek. "Hey, what's this in aid of?"

 "Just happy," he whispered, not letting go of me. There was a pause, I
knew he wanted to say something terribly important, so I kept quiet, let
him get his thoughts together. If his brain was as pulped as mine, it
would take some time. "Bodie, was it... was I any good?"

 "You what?" I blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

 "I mean, was I okay? I mean, as good as a girl?"

 "As good as --?" My eyebrows had vanished into my fringe.

 "Yeah. I mean, will you be needing a girl, because I'm not... because I
can't..."

 A girl was the furthest thought from my head, and I told him so. "Still
that frantic brain of yours, mate, and turn off your imagination," I
ordered huskily. "As good as a girl? As good as? You crackers?" I grabbed
him and squeezed the breath out of him, only remembering his painful chest
in the nick of time. "Best I ever had, Ray. Honest."

 "Honest?" He squeaked as I crushed him.

 "Honest. Skinny, bony and hairy as you are." I kissed his nose and eyes.
"And before you say anything, I like 'em skinny, bony and hairy. You're
beautiful, so don't start putting yourself down."

 "Wasn't going to." He sounded the tiniest bit smug now. He knew he'd done
well, and now that I'd affirmed his impression he was sure of himself.

 "Merry Christmas," I said gruffly, reaching over to put out the light.
"And good night." I yawned hugely. "I think I"m about to go into a coma."

 The silence lasted through five companionable minutes in which both of us
floated blissfully on the brink of sleep, and then I heard him take a deep
breath to say something into my left ear. "Bodie?"

 "Humph?" I was half listening. "Can I... I mean, will you let me..."

 "Do it to me?" I chuckled wickedly. "Counting on it. But get used to it
first. No hurry, is there?"

 Silence for another minute or so. "Bodie?"

 This time I had to struggle to listen. "Yeah?"

 "It was fantastic. I love you, mate."

 It was barely a murmur, but it got through to the bit of my cortex that
was still functioning in a second and gave me a deep, warm glow that was
something else on top of the wonderful afterglow of love making. I woke up
without a jar, wanting to tell him how much I loved him, but by that time
he was sound asleep, and I just propped myself up on one elbow, looking at
his dim outline in the reflection of the street light across the road. He
looked like a kid, cheekbones too sharp, jaw too sharp, with the weight
he'd lost, eyelashes dark against his skin, which was still as pale as
porcelain. God, so beautiful he took my breath away, and besides -- he was
mine. I had his virginity, and if that didn't prove it, what did? 




 It was eight when he woke, still almost dark, and all Ray did was roll
over onto his face and go straight back to sleep again. I sat up, yawning
and scratching my chin, and debated the virtues of sleeping in and the
alternative, going and fetching us some breakfast.

 And the presents, I thought suddenly, and that decided it. I slid out of
bed and scrambled into his robe, commandeered his electric razor out of
the bathroom cabinet and used it while I made tea and toast, and by the
time I arrived back in the bedroom he was stirring awake properly. I had
the tray in one hand and the boxes and packages in the other, and I dumped
the lot on top of him as he sat up, putting on the lamp to augment the
meagre daylight.

 In the mornings he looks like a dissolute leprachaun, all bleary-eyed and
barely awake, with a blue chin and heavy lids. He looks so vulnerable in
that moment that it brings all my silly protective characteristics to the
fore at once and I have to watch what I'm doing with especial care, or
I'll make a real idiot of myself. I kissed his nose and busied myself with
the tea.

 There was the sound of ripping paper, and I watched with a good deal of
satisfaction as he discovered the sweater. Going by the look on his face
it was what he'd wanted for ages but was too tight fisted to buy for
himself. He grabbed me and kissed me just as I took a bite of toast, and
then sat giggling as I licked the butter off his chin.

 "That's one down, two to go," I told him. "Go on!"

 He opened the big box first, and did a double take as he saw the Peking
Royal Jelly. "Hey, I had the same idea myself -- Jesus, Bodie, the price
of this!"

 "All in a good cause," I said with mock resignation. "And I'm going to
stand over you and make you take the stuff!"

 "Won't have to," he told me, popping the top off one of the lovely little
brown glass phials and swallowing the contents. "Mm, takes like cherry
brandy."

 "It what?" I demanded, and took a sniff at the empty glass; wiley
Chinese. They'd packed the bitter liquid in a liqueur -- no wonder he was
keen to take it. I'd been imagining him having to hold his nose and force
it down to 'do him good.'

 He was ripping the paper off the little box then, and as he saw the gold
chain his chin fell slack. "God, Bodie, this must have cost you a
fortune."

 "A moderate fortune," I admitted. "I've got a small fortune left, you
know -- stuck it in a building society when I got back from Africa. Called
it my retirement fund. It's picking up a good rate of interest, so don't
look at me like I've gone mad, love, I can afford to spoil you."

 Ray slipped the chain over his head; the gold lay on his skin,
shimmering. Seeing it was compensation enough, but he was shoving the
package he'd bought for me at me and making demands that I rip my way into
it at once. "Next to this lot, it doesn't look like much," he admitted,
"but how was I to know you'd be buying up half of London?"

 "Shut up, Ray." I kissed him quiet and tore the wrapping paper off,
honestly curious to see what he'd got. Then it was my turn for my chin to
hit my knees. For months I'd been ranting about a new camera, a Nikon FM
to be exact.

 And there it was, still in its plastic jacket with half a dozen yellow
Kodak boxes at one end of the box, and a bunch of free-D vouchers taped to
the lid. "Ray, this cost a fortune!" I gaped at him. "The whole reason I
didn't get one myself was because it was so bloody expensive!"

 "Yeah, when now you've got one," he grinned. "So long as you're happy."

 "Deliriously," I said, aware that I was getting a little watery around
the eyes. I took a sip at my tea and shook my head over him. "You can't
afford this kind of money, not on a copper's savings," I admonished.

 He was being practical. "Well, we'll be living together now, won't we? So
we'll be able to pool our money, and we'll save a fortune on expenses, so
we can afford these things." He reached out for my hand and knitted our
fingers together. "We are going to be living together, aren't we? I mean,
you said we'd talk about it at Christmas, and last night, when you said
you liked screwing me as much as a girl, I thought, you'd not be desperate
to run off chasing women anymore, would you? So why can't we live
together?"

 "Ray," I said, assuming as pained an expression as I could while I was
trying not to grin at him like a Cheshire cat, "I wish you could hear
yourself. Sack full of neuroses, aren't you?"

 He shrugged and twisted the gold chain between finger and thumb, studying
the blankets. "Never had an affair with a bloke before, have I? So how do
I know what's supposed to happen? I mean, the sex is easy, and terrific,
but... Little social problems. Like living together. Like me belting you
for going off with girls --"

 "Possessive," I observed. "Shut up and eat your breakfast, Ray. Don't
want to hear any more about us fighting on Christmas morning."

 He fiddled with a piece of toast. "So you're going to move in here, are
you?"

 "What do you think?" I pushed the gifts out of the way and sprawled out
beside him. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been here for weeks anyway!
Most of my clothes are here, and half of my records, and moving the rest
over'll take an afternoon, when the weather clears up. Have you looked
outside? It's raining!"

 So much for a white Christmas! It rained all day, and into Boxing Day,
too, not that it mattered, because we didn't go out. He wandered out of
bed not long before lunch, which I fixed -- cold chicken rolls and
Christmas cake is within even my limited capacities -- and by dinner time
had started to rue having got the camera for me.

 Available light wasn't up to much, but I made him keep still for long
exposures, making the best of what there was, and shot two rolls of him.
He was caught between laughing and arguing about being used as a model,
but I just ignored the protests. I wished I could have shot some snaps of
him in the raw, but when you're going to drop the negatives off at the
chemist, you have to be sensible... Hm. Next item on the shopping list is
a home developing kit. Also a pair of boxing gloves, because when I ask
him to get 'em off and keep still for the camera he'll do his nut. I
think. Or maybe not; after all, he's an artist, he's done 'life studies'
of all manner of naked subjects, so what's the difference between working
with a brush and a camera? Well, there are differences, I suppose, but one
can live in hope.

 Christmas with Ray was great; also enough to drive you into
schizophrenia. He alternates between little kid and Scrooge, as if he's
trying to deny the wonderful time he's having, trying to keep up the
facade of cynicism. For myself, I just wallow in it, always have. I
spoiled him outrageously, because there had been a time, a couple of
months before, when I'd been envisaging drinking myself into a stupor this
Christmas. We've celebrated the silly season together since 1977, and if
he'd died after the shooting, before I'd even had the chance to kiss him,
I'd have been a basket case. Christmas always makes things like that so
much worse, because it ought to be so special, so nice.

 That first Christmas with Ray was the nicest I'd ever known; I couldn't
help looking at the old, heavy lights and the angel, and remembering what
his grandmother had said. She'd given them to him for 'his family' when he
acquired one. That was me; and knowing that choked me up a dozen times. I
smothered him with love, expecting him to fight me off at any moment, but
I think he may have been needing it. Making love hadn't hurt him at all,
even the soreness had gone by morning, and he wanted it again that way,
still trying to get used to it. The second time was easier than the first,
and I could let go too, which made it just as mind-blowing for me. 




 Back to the real world with a thump on Boxing Day evening; I had to set
the alarm to wake me, because Cooley wanted me at the office at half past
eight. This is the high spot in the terrorist bombing calendar, and CI5
was on standby; I'd known that I could be called in at any time over
Christmas, but, thank heaven, it hadn't happened.

 Going back to work, leaving him asleep, flushed and warm, curled up in a
bed that I'd begun to think of as ours was sheer masochism. I kicked
myself for the idiocy of it, and was grumbling about having to work at all
as I headed for the car. It was chucking it down, I was half drenched
before I got in behind the wheel, and frozen. One of these days, I
thought, we'd give Cooley our resignation, retire and enjoy life.

 And the thought uppermost in my mind was that it could be a day very
soon. If Ray's heart never did permit him to get back into the field,
would he elect to be a pencil pusher? A paper tiger -- him? It was a bit
unlikely; he'd been a warrior, and to become a clerk is the ultimate come
down from that. So, he'd hand in his notice and take his service pension;
which would be quite a considerable amount: he'd had almost fifteen years
in the Police and CI5 by that time, and been almost fatally wounded. So
there would be no real shortage of money, especially as he'd be quite
capable of working; and I'm still well fixed from the days of my wild,
wooly youth.

 As I started the car, watching the wipers battle vainly against the
torrents of water sluicing across the windscreen, I was thinking enviously
of people who live ordinary lives... Lie in bed till a civilised hour,
know you're going to live to see the evening. There's a lot to be said for
it, and one of these days... It was all up to Ray and his heart, really.
He hadn't said two words about what he wanted to do in future -- at least,
not in my presence, but going by the way he was exercising he had every
intention of having a bash at the CI5 physical.

 Okay, love, I thought, pulling out from the kerb; let's see you do it. 




 We had company on New Year's Day, and it took us both by surprise. The
knock at the door came at half past seven, and by chance Ray was already
out of bed. He'd gone off to the loo and decided to make a cup of tea
while he was up, and get the heating on, so when the disturbance came he
answered the intercom. I couldn't hear who it was -- I had my head under
the blankets -- and it wasn't until the door opened and the visitor spoke
up that I started to wonder who was so important that he'd actually get in
at this hour of the morning.

 The voice was very like Ray's, the accent was identical, and the two of
them were laughing and joking. I heard Ray ask if the newcomer wanted a
cup of tea, and heard the kettle go in, then I drifted into a doze and the
next I knew Ray was shaking my shoulder saying, "here's your tea, sleepy
head. Want to lie in for a bit?"

 I struggled up out of the cocoon of blankets and sleep and grabbed the
cup. "Yeah. Who's that?"

 "Frank," he told me, sitting on the side of the bed and finger-combing my
hair. "Big brother Frank, you remember. He's been to a party, it broke up
an hour ago and his car's broken down. Can't get home to Kent until his
wife comes out in her car to get him, and since she's minding the kids,
that's going to take an hour or two. So he thought he'd come visiting.

 "Kind of him, disturbing a bloke's sleep," I muttered, sipping my tea,
and I must have looked like a hibernating lounge-lizard, because he
laughed like a drain and kissed my forehead.

 Just as he kissed me, there were footsteps in the passage and a voice
said, "Can't find the Shreddies, Ray, where d'you keep -- oh, my God."

 Ray straightened with a sigh, and I watched his eyes sweep over the messy
double bed, the hibernating and obviously naked me, and the communal heap
of clothes at the foot of the bed, all dumped on the floor ready for the
wash, clearly discarded a garment at a time by two people standing in very
close proximity. "Serves you right, Frank," Ray said over his shoulder,
winking at me. "Should know when to keep your nose out. I could have had
half a chorus line of high-kickers in here! Instead, I've got Bodie...
Okay, you know the worst, so that's out of the way. The Shredded Wheat's
in the wall cupboard behind the spice rack. Milk's in the fridge, go easy
on it, we're running low." He turned and looked at his brother's gaping
face. "Well, push off then, if you were that hungry."

 I took a good look at Frank Doyle as I got a grip on what my mind was
doing and started to get the panic under control. He was a six footer,
maybe taller than me, with broad shoulders and the same narrow hips and
long legs as Ray -- very much the same sort of build. His face was boyish
in the extreme, like Ray's, roundish and high cheek boned, but his eyes
were grey-blue, and his nose wasn't anything special, and his mouth was
too wide. I could see the family likeness; he and Ray were very much
alike, despite the differences -- just enough dissimilarities to make my
Raymond beautiful and Frank 'ruggedly handsome,' or whatever women call
it. He was forty- three, as far as I knew from various little things Ray
had said about his young life, and he was almost entirely silver, which
looked strange but most attractive with that boyish face.

 And he was stunned. He stood there gaping at me, then at Ray, then at me
again, until my lover shooed his brother out of our bedroom and chased him
into the kitchen. I pricked my ears, listening for their conversation, and
since they made no attempt to hold the volume down it wasn't hard to hear
them.

 "Bodie's your partner," Frank began.

 "S'right. Hand me the milk," Ray said carelessly.

 "But -- but -- you're sleeping with him?"

 "Right again." There was a clatter of the little milk pan.

 "You're not just sharing a bed with him," Frank said, close to
spluttering. "I mean, you kissed him."

 "I gave him a peck on the forehead, very chaste," Ray said indignantly.
"I didn't try to suffocate him."

 There was a long silence, then Frank spoke again and his voice had
moderated. "Didn't know you were queer, Ray."

 "Oh, I never was, before," Ray admitted. "Never knew I was at all, till I
was shot, and it made me re-evaluate everything in my life. All my ways,
my feelings. Got to the stage where I realised Bodie was everything I had.
Everything I wanted. If that isn't love, what is?"

 "That's fraternal love," Frank said. He was playing the big brother,
giving Ray the benefit of his extra years' experience. "You didn't have to
jump into bed with him."

 "No?" I heard the pan go onto the gas. "I started thinking about the
physical side of it when I was in hospital; they had me there for so long
my libido came back to normal before the rest of me! Thinking about it was
just about all I could do, and when I started dreaming about Bodie the
rest just fell into place naturally. Pass the sugar over. Want another
cuppa?"

 "No, thanks, still got half of this one." Frank paused, obviously trying
to speak tactfully. "So you dreamed, did you? And after that you just had
to experiment!"

 "You bloody great prat," Ray said, exasperated. "Always been the same,
haven't you, Frank? There's only you knows what he's doing -- only you
knows what's best! For your information, I waited three bloody weeks
before I said a word to Bodie. I thought about it till my brain was numb,
and watched him like a hawk. All the signs were there to tell me how much
he cared for me! And while I was watching him it dawned on me how bloody
attractive he is. Now, butt out of my love life before I get annoyed and
chuck you out through that door. It's got nothing to do with you. Am I
gay? Think what you like, it doesn't bother me!" There was a tone of real
anger in Ray's voice: I know when enough's enough, when to back off, and I
prayed that Frank knew him well enough to do the same.

 It seemed that Ray's temper was notorious, because Frank just chuckled.
"Okay, okay. You never were the same as anyone else, were you? Always got
to do things the hard way. He looks after you, does he? I wondered why you
didn't get mum or one of the girls to come in and do for you while you
were sick."

 "Got Bodie," Ray said defensively. "Don't need anyone else."

 Another long silence, then Frank asked, almost too quietly for me to hear
him, "you had any other men, Ray?"

 "No. Don't want any, either. It's just between Bodie and me. Something
between us. Don't expect you to understand."

 "If it's any consolation, I don't think you're gay," Frank offered,
perhaps as a peace-offering. "If you were gay you'd be hanging around with
fellas, wouldn't you?"

 "Would I? Well, I don't," Ray said indignantly.

 "So you're not gay," Frank said affably. "Oh, keep your hair on, you
clot. It doesn't bother me. I could tell you some funny stories about
Uncle Al and cousin Tim for a start. Not to mention Aunt Rosie. This
family's got so many skeletons in the closet we keep our clothes on the
floor!"

 At last Ray laughed. "Yeah, well don't tell mum or the girls about us
yet, will you? If I ever do have to spill the beans I'd sooner do it
myself. Mum'll do her nut, I should think. At least I can put it in the
right words if I'm there myself."

 "Yeah, okay." Frank was eating his Shredded Wheat by this time. "Hey,
Ray, he, um, he's gentle with you, isn't he?"

 Ray guffawed. "Like, if he wasn't you'd duff him up for me? Christ,
Frank, I grew up about fifteen years ago, I'm big enough to take care of
myself!"

 "Not while you're sick," Frank said, deeply into his big brother act now.
"You're so skinny he could break you in two without even trying. So he
treats you right, doesn't he?"

 My ears were roasting; the compunction was to dash into the kitchen and
take Frank by the throat and tell him to lay off my lover and my
reputation. I closed my eyes, wondering how I could ever face the Doyle
clan after this -- then it occurred to me that Frank and I had the same
interest at heart: Ray, and his welfare and happiness. That made it almost
acceptable to have my private life discussed so openly.

 "Yeah, he treats me just fine," Ray was saying. "And that is the last
we're going to say of it. The day I start asking you about Julie's little
ways, you can ask me about mine and Bodie's, and until then -- shut it,
Frank. When's Julie going to get here for you in any case?"

 As it happened, Julie Doyle picked her husband up about twenty minutes
later. I'd bagged the shower without ever seeing Frank's smiling face
again, and intended to stay there as long as I could before going out to
face the music, and when I heard the door and the woman's voice I sighed
in relief. Ray was waiting in the kitchen for me, breakfast on the table,
his already half eaten, and he said, "chicken," as I appeared.

 "Cluck, cluck," I agreed shamelessly. "Curious sod, isn't he? I was
waiting for him to ask the 'how' and the 'how often' of you!" I reached
for toast and jam. "Family's a pain."

 "They can be," Ray admitted. "But he was just worried that I'd got myself
into something I didn't know anything about... You know, you and he are
pretty much alike. Both of you spend half your lives worried that I'm
going to get hurt."

 "Because you're such a skinny little golly," I told him, watching him
glower furiously at me. "I suppose I can appreciate what he was thinking.
There's a lot of strange blokes out there. What they do makes what we do
look chaste and moral."

 He nodded. "I saw a lot of it while I was in the Met; saw a lot of rape
cases, you know. Men, I mean. It's different when a man gets himself
raped... Much worse than a woman." He stirred and went to toss the last,
cold dregs of his tea into the sink. "That's what Frank was worrying
about, I think. He was wondering if you were screwing me, and if so, did I
mind."

 "You don't, do you?" I asked, giving him a sultry look.

 He laughed. "I'll let you know. Only done it four times. It's getting
easier every time, though -- not even getting sore now. And it feels so
good."

 He was starting to turn me on with that husky voice and those half closed
eyes, and I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was getting
turned on himself. Loving Ray is easy; not loving him would be absolutely
bloody impossible. He seduced me back to bed, and for the first time I let
him lie on his back, sure now that it was easy for him. This way, I was
able to watch his face as he came, which I'd never been able to do while I
was inside him, before. Pagan is a good word for him. Pan. A faun. Belongs
in a forest at the gates of dawn...

 "That's five," I said breathlessly as we clung together afterward.
"Getting blase about it, aren't you?"

 He bit me in retribution for that remark. 




 January was half way out, and it was still raining, though the pundits
were saying there was snow to follow. The overcast was miles deep, we
hadn't seen the sun in weeks, and it would stop raining only on rare
occasions. Ray was chafing at the confinement. He was feeling better every
day now, and I think the Royal Jelly might have had something to do with
that. These Chinese are no fools. He'd managed to put on three pounds, and
Brian's exercise programme was toning up his muscles beautifully. Macklin
had been over at the flat on the Tuesday, taking his blood pressure,
listening to his heart, and Ray had had the official summons to the gym on
the Thursday afternoon.

 I was working, but I drove him over there, dropped him off with his
Manchester United carryall, and told him to stay in out of the rain,
because I'd pick him up again at five, and we'd shove off home together.
As luck would have it, the job I was doing wasn't world-shattering, and
Murphy and I had got through all the leg work by four.

 When I got to the gym, Macklin was shouting, and for a moment I was sure
he was shouting at Ray. Prepared to flatten the bastard, I hurried inside
out of the rain, and only then realised that he was shouting at a gigantic
Irish setter called Rusty, who was climbing all over him, getting long red
hairs all over his brand new white jogging suit. Meanwhile, Ray was
sitting on one of the exercise mats, laughing his head off at the antics
of the Big Blond Bruiser and the dog.

 Rusty had been a sniffer with the bomb squad, and a bloody good one,
until a bomb went off prematurely and mangled his back legs. They were
going to destroy him, but half the staff had words to say about that, and
we all chipped in money to get the pooch neurosurgery. They just about
knitted his legs back into shape, and although he limps a bit, even now,
three years after the fact, he's a bundle of energy, and a menace when
he's in the mood to play.

 I noticed that Ray was also covered in long red hairs, and pink in the
cheeks from exertion. "Hi, sunshine, how's he been treating you?"

 "Like a monster," Ray said heartbrokenly.

 "Like his nanny," Brian growled, fending the dog off. "He isn't fit
enough by a long shot, Bodie. You making sure he does his exercises?"

 "Every day," I assured him. "In fact sometimes he does too many... What's
the problem, Brian?"

 "Oh, no problem, really. It's just that our standards of fitness so far
exceed those of, say, the Army, that that would pass for an ordinary fit
person just won't do around here." He reached down, patting Ray's tousled
head, which was a curiously tender gesture. "Keep going, old son."

 For some time I frowned at Macklin, wondering what the hell had got into
him to make him so nice, and then I remembered the story he'd told when he
was sharpening us for the Parsali job. He'd been through the mincer too,
he knew exactly what it was like. It made him and Ray comrades in arms, I
guessed, and obviously the same thing had occurred to Ray, who had started
to accept Brian's concern for him. He was calling him Brian, too, which
was something new. As a rule, previously, one only called Macklin by his
first name to annoy him.

 "Okay, let's see it again," Macklin said briskly, grabbing Rusty and
chucking him at me. "Look after the pooch, Bodie."

 Oh, thanks a heap, I thought, knowing the state my jacket would be in in
three seconds flat. So I took it off, hanging it on the back of a chair,
and sat down on the mats with the dog to watch my partner work. I'd never
stopped thinking of Ray as my partner, even when it was very doubtful that
he'd ever be any more than an invalid... It's a way you get into, and it's
a trap too. Now, though, Ray was looking better all the time and there
was, we thought, every chance that he would actually do it. He and Brian
were sparring, and Ray looked supple and nearly as strong as ever. He
wasn't quick, though, and his reflexes had gone to hell. Brian was pulling
everything, and I could tell he was going slowly, too, and still Ray was
lagging.

 At length, Macklin threw a towel at him and said, "okay, that's enough
for now." He stood over Ray, watching him flop down beside me and fend off
Rusty as best he could, and folded his arms on his chest, frowning down at
his charge. "Well, I'd say you're about as fit as half the blokes out
there," he said with exaggerated caution. "And it's time you started
working on your wind now. Your heart's strong enough to take it, and your
muscles are getting nicely into shape. You can start jogging tomorrow --
but I'm going to warn you. Don't jog with Bodie; don't let him make you
compete, don't let anyone else make you compete. Don't get into aggressive
confrontations. You're not bad, as secretaries and shop keepers go -- if
you never got any fitter for the rest of your life there's blokes out
there who'd envy you. But you're not ready to push yourself to the limit
yet and if you do you'll pay the price."

 "Pay the price?" Ray panted. "Like what?"

 Macklin tapped his chest. "Heart valves need work, my son. Dilate one and
you'll get athlete's heart."

 "Errol Flynn had that," I said gravely. "Kept him out of the Army. Know
how they said he got it?" I met Ray's eyes and we both stifled a guffaw...
The rumour said darling Errol for the old athlete's ticker by his antics
in bed; that's absolutely, bloody absurd; your heart works no harder
making love than it works in running 'round the block, but still, the
thought that he got it by screwing made us want to dissolve into
hysterics.

 "Errol Flynn aside," Macklin said sternly, "take care, Ray. You're doing
okay, but you could wreck your chances in half an hour, being foolish.
Your heart's running way too fast, but your blood pressure's up to normal,
and you're only about five or six pounds underweight now. Chances are your
heart will always run too fast now, but the digitalis'll make it regular,
and it's getting strong. Even if your heart rate never comes down to
what's normal for an athlete, I'd recommend that Cowley overlook that,
because it's normal for you."

 "Gosh, thanks," Ray said with a seraphic smile.

 Macklin gave us both an exasperated look, then turned his stern
expression on me. "Compete with him, Bodie, and you could finish him.
Understand?"

 I sobered at once; Brian wasn't joking. "Of course. I know what I'm
doing; I'm not that stupid. I also don't want to see him jogging in the
rain, getting bloody pneumonia, so don't you start setting time tables." I
could sound just as stroppy when I wanted to. "And if it snows -- forget
it."

 He blinked at me. "Who're you, his mum?"

 "His mate," I corrected, getting to my feet, and only Ray and I knew just
how much weight that word carried.

 Mate. It's a funny word; but it just about summed us up, and it was the
one term I could use in public in all innocence. I trailed Ray to the
showers and sat on a bench drinking orange juice, watching him under the
water. His scars had started to silver out now, and soon they would be
unnoticeable. I wondered if they'd ever tan over, or always be there as
white lines among the brown, in summer... Some scars do tan, some don't,
which is strange. Mine are a motley collection; old ones, new ones, scars
that I can put a finger-tip into, others that looked like death itself
when they were new and have now almost vanished. Wait and see, I thought,
watching him towel dry and give his hair a blast with his Gillette dryer.

 It was only when he was finished, hair all fluffy, jeans and brand new
white angora turtle neck in place, that I became aware of Brian Macklin
watching me watching him. I gave him look for look: make what you like of
it. He just stood in the doorway with a typically inscrutable look on his
face; then vanished. Ray hadn't noticed him at all and I didn't say
anything. If Macklin chose to report to Cowley that 3.7 was sitting there
with slightly glazed eyes, watching 4.5 in the raw, so be it. Cowley could
give us the sack for all I cared at that moment. The day's work had been
so boring and repetitive that all I cared about was getting home, with
Ray, and shutting the door, and I didn't need to work for CI5 to do that!

 I picked up his bag and waved him out of the gym. "Out, and we'll pick
dinner up on the way home. Italian? Chinese?"

 "Chinese," he said after some deliberation. "And a bottle of wine, too."

 "What are we celebrating?"

 "My health," he grinned. "I can stop taking those yellow golf balls for
blood pressure. I'm all normal."

 "Normal?" I fondled his backside while I was sure no one was looking.
"Mary Whitehouse wouldn't agree with you there."

 He trod on my toes by way of answering. 




 It had rained for two days, and the first patch of clear sky we saw was
on Saturday -- a Saturday when I was off all afternoon. For the first time
in three weeks...

 Oh, the joys of sitting in front of a football match with a beer in one
hand and him in the other, I thought as I drove home from work after a
morning of unbelievable tedium; but that plan went up in smoke the moment
I opened the door. He had his tracksuit on, the new one, which is green
and white. He'd bought it just the week before the shooting, and I'd
thought how terrific it looked, tight in all the right places. Now, it was
a size too big, loose, reminding me that he had half a stone still to make
up. "Hello, what are we playing at today?" I asked as he threw a cheese
and tomato roll at me. I hate winter tomatoes; they're sent over from
Continental glass houses and taste like cotton wool, but it's either that
or pickles, and I like pickles even less. That's a preference that goes
back to my Army days; as a rule, if they've ladled pickles, or curry, onto
the meat or the cheese, avoid it, because it's gone off. They reckon that
if they dig the maggots out and cut the green bits off, and put plenty of
spices on it, you'll never know, and what you don't know about won't hurt
you.

 "Going for a run," he said brightly. "Eat your lunch and get changed." He
had his jogging shoes in his hands and sat on the sofa to put them on.

 "Oh, I'm running as well, am I?"

 "Well, it's either that or sit in the car and watch," he said with a
cheeky grin. "Seriously, Bodie, I can't run far, so it's not going to hurt
you. Christ, I can get out of breath on the stairs. Tried jogging up them
yesterday --"

 "You did what?" I said, aghast.

 "Tried jogging up the stairs. For God's sake, relax. I only go as far as
my heart'll let me. I let it get up to about 145 a minute and quit. I'm
not a fool."

 I started to breathe again. "Oh. And what happened?"

 He looked gloomily at his knees. "Managed about two flights and caved
in." He pulled the laces tight on his left shoe and knotted them up. "So
it's not going to take much to put me away, if you want to run with me. If
not, just sit in the car."

 Sit in the car and leave him to it? Stupid idea. He was looking a bit
like a waif now; too thin, so pale, his hair getting longer and longer...
How can a man be so beautiful? I know it isn't a word applied to men much,
but that's because there are so few men who inspire it. Those who do have
to be seen to be believed... the ballet dancer, Nijinsky, was one; and a
few actors -- Tony Curtis as a kid, maybe, and precious few others. I knew
another bloke, a lot of years ago, who had that something that grabs your
attention and hold you in thrall with his physical attributes, but Scotty
was all on the surface, an incredible face attached to a relatively so-so
body, out to exploit what he had for everything he could get out of it --
which turned out to be a lot. He took up with a Baron, or a Count, or
something, one of those European titles that weren't worth the parchment
the pedigree was written on after the war. Then there's Ray. Deep and
moody, mercurial, irritating at times, with the capacity to move you to
tears with a look, or make you laugh at your own woes, which were breaking
your heart only a minute before. Sometimes he isn't beautiful; he can get
into a mood where his face becomes frighteningly introverted, brooding,
intense, sombre. You'd give a month's pay to know what he's thinking
about. All the lines of his face seem to draw down, his eyes get that
withdrawn look, his mouth seems to get smaller, and he looks... Not
ordinary, far from it. Still striking, compelling, but nearly terrifying
with it. Those are the times when I'll play the fool with a vengeance,
trying to get him to snap out of it. Sometimes he does; sometimes it takes
loving to get him to lighten up... There's no way in the world you can
brood and bedevil yourself when you're flat on your back with your knees
wrapped 'round someone's neck and your body overriding your mind.

 We drove out to the park and left the car under the trees. Not a leaf to
be seen anywhere, and the grass was so muddy we made a joke of it (just
about ready to play football on this!). I'd changed into my blue tracksuit
and had my eye on the sky; we were safe for a while, unless a wind got up
and blew the rain clouds closer faster than expected, and I didn't think
Ray would be going far enough to make it a worry. 




 The wind was enough to slice you in two, but the kids were still out. A
bunch of them were flying model aeroplanes, the kind on control wires that
go round and round sounding like lawn mowers. A school gym class had met
to throw javelins and discus, and there were dozens of kids and dogs. I
watched Ray limbering up just inside the park gate and said, "okay, which
way?"

 "Round the perimeter," he suggested.

 The perimeter was a bloody long way, and I shook my head. "No way, mate.
Forget the distance, think about the time. How long do you reckon you're
good for? Fifteen?"

 "Twenty," he said carefully, not taking chances.

 "About a mile and a half," I judged. "That's about out to the rose
gardens, down to the bandstand and back. Okay?"

 He judged the distance and nodded. "Okay."

 I had hearty misgivings about the whole affair, but we set out with the
wind behind us, and he jogged along beside me quite easily for the first
quarter mile. Then I noticed that he was breathing heavily and nursing a
stitch. Always happens when you haven't run for a while. You can do all
the standing-still exercises you like, and when you come to run you'll
stitch up. "Wanna stop?" I asked quietly.

 He shook his head. "Nah. Keep going."

 I was wondering if the silly sod was competing with me, so I slowed up a
bit, not enough to make him suspicious, but enough to let him set the
pace, which he did. In fact, he just kept up the same pace he had started
with, never varying it by a fraction no matter what I did or said. After
the three quarter mile mark, he was flushed but I noticed that the stitch
seemed to have gone and his breathing had settled down. Rugged and uneasy,
but no worse. A mile out, and he got his second wind, loping along with
much more ease; I began to relax.

 But he was knackered by the time we got back to the car, and, in it with
the door slammed to shut out the wind, I put my hand on his knee and felt
the shaking of spasming muscles.

 "Idiot," I accused.

 "Cheers," he said acidly. "I did it, that's the main thing."

 "Heart?" I put my flat palm on his chest, yanked down the zip of his top,
put my hand inside and felt around for the beat. "Jesus, like a fistful of
castanets! What -- 130? 140?"

 "That's fine," he said hoarsely, obviously choking for a drink. "Brian
reckons anything up to 145 is okay, and I never let it get any faster than
that. It's getting stronger, Bodie, and so am I. Quit your fretting, and
take me home."

 So I did as he asked. We got home in time to shower and eat before the
match started, and it turned out to be so damned boring, with Brighton
getting massacred 5-0, that by half time we were making love on the couch
to the accompaniment of John Motson and a raucous soccer crowd. Should
have been absurd, but it was wonderful, especially when he put his fingers
into me and watched me so carefully, gauging my reaction.

 He wanted to take me, I knew, and he was just about ready to do it. Quite
strong enough now, that was no worry, and also mentally prepared for it.
He'd learned a fair bit of technique from me and made up a lot of it -- no
one could accuse Ray Doyle of not having an imagination! I let him know in
no uncertain terms what I thought of those intruding fingers. I moaned and
writhed under him -- couldn't have stopped myself doing that in any case,
skillful little bugger that he is.

 We were dozing, naked and still hot in the lounge room that was like an
oven with the heater going full blast and the doors and windows shut, and
the match had drawn to its tedious final whistle, when he looked down into
my face with a frown, about to pop the question. I sealed his lips with my
index finger. "Tonight," I said. "I'm counting on it."

 If anything, the colour in his cheeks rose a shade higher, and I watched
his throat contract as he swallowed before he buried his face in my chest
and went limp. "I'll try to make it right, Bodie," he muffled. "Think I
know what I'm doing now."

 "You should," I chuckled. "You've had it every which way but standing on
your head since Christmas Eve!"

 He trembled, I wondered what was wrong, then the laughter escaped and
suddenly we were wriggling around in hysterics. At last, thoroughly
exhausted, I got up to turn off the TV and get another beer, and sorted
out my clothes. I was wondering what his brother Frank would make of the
pair of us, making love on the sofa in front of a football match!

 Fiction writers talk about an 'agony of anticipation,' and I don't think
I'd fully appreciated what they meant until I sat through Murder By Decree
between eight thirty and eleven; he was dozing on my shoulder, his legs
stretched across mine, on the sofa, and try as I might I couldn't
concentrate on the film. All I knew was, some bird in a loony bin had had
a baby, and Holmes and Watson had something to do with it. Of all the
nights for there to be a film on!

 It was a long, long time since I had been bottom man to anyone. I learned
all about this on a ship out of Liverpool, and for a long time I really
hadn't like it. I learned to like it when I met a lovely man on vacation
in Senegal, but after I got back to London, after two not-so-nice
encounters I decided to call it a day. Having somebody inside you is
beyond belief, if that someone is special, and clever, and careful. If he
isn't, forget it. This was what had Frank worried -- worried that one day
his little brother was going to get himself simple-raped, and hurt,
humiliated. And in that kind of situation there isn't one goddamned thing
you can say in your own vindication, because you brought it on yourself.
You just get over it, chalk it up to experience, see to your hurts and
make bloody damned sure it never happens again.

 I hadn't been hurt since the very early days; but I also hadn't let
anyone do this to me for over a decade -- let alone encouraged someone to
do it. I was, consequently, every bit as virginal, in the physical sense,
as Ray had been -- your body sort of takes up the slack and forgets it
ever happened at all. I knew it was going to hurt for a while, just as he
had; but I was remembering how good it could be, and thinking about how
much I loved him as I watched him take his vitamins and brush his teeth
and lock up the flat.

 For the first time in years I was trembling with that positive agony of
anticipation, and so turned on I could hardly stand still as I waited for
him. He was worried, but determined to do it. Ray's not your usual,
submissive, natural born bottom man. He's a stubborn, independent,
opinionated, passionate little aggravation; I knew full well that in this
relationship of ours it would be even give-and-take, with riches to be
reaped in all ways, and I was only too delighted to have it that way.

 His eyes were dark, dilated, and he was breathing heavily as he undressed
us; this time, I left it all up to him, didn't lift a finger to help,
encouraged him to go all over me with his hands and lips, and take his
time about it. Spreadeagled on the bed, panting under the assault, I
thought I'd never been given this kind of treatment in my life before, and
I racked my brain trying to think of anyone who'd even come close. There
was a girl called Sharon, once, and an older woman called Barbara -- a lot
older than me, as experienced as a professional tart, with an insatiable
appetite. They ran Ray a pretty good second, but he was still out in
front; partly because what he did, he did with an enormous delicacy and
tenderness, and with love, and didn't giggle; partly because he, being a
man, knew exactly what to do, and wasn't at all hesitant; and partly
because he had several techniques I'd never come across before... We all
have our little ways; some people can be downright disgusting, others can
be the greatest turn on you'll ever get. Ray fitted into the latter
category. In spades.

 Somehow, no matter what he's doing with you, there's a quality of
delicacy about his loving that's at once endearing and absolving of the
sin of what he's doing, no matter how very personal and intimate it is. He
drove me to the point of distraction while he scrounged together the
courage to go ahead with it, and by that time he had to lend me a hand to
turn over because I didn't have a bone in my entire body. I was slick with
his saliva but he wasn't satisfied, and used a lot of that oily cream of
his too, and then he was inside me and my mind seemed to have escaped
through my ears. Wherever it was, I hadn't a clue.

 My senses were overloading shockingly, which is something that happens to
me on very rare occasion -- or did, in the past. I knew instinctively that
Ray would manage it frequently in future. It hurt like hell, felt like a
fire in my loins, and my back was throbbing; and I was so full of him that
I couldn't seem to breathe. But the notion that we were the same body for
this short time cut clear across the pain and as he paused at last, all
the way in, I just held still and let the pain go away. It took a little
while, and then the first thrills of pleasure went threading through me,
ripples of quicksilver along my nerves. He was sobbing, I heard him from
far, far away, and knew he would have to move soon. I was ready for him to
move, I tried to tell him, but words were beyond me.

 When he moved inside me I thought I'd die. Every nerve was alight, I was
dizzy with the anguished, tortured delight of it, and when he took hold of
me in an oil-slick right hand I know I cried out, a hoarse yell, warning
him how close I was. He must have been pretty near the end of his tether
too, because instead of backing off to make it go on he squeezed with his
fingers and bucked into me. He was trying to be gentle and I wished he
would let go and do it harder, because every tiny bit of friction was like
stardust shooting through my nerves.

 He came first, his fist tightening convulsively about me, sending me up
over the top a second later, and the next we knew we were lying in a
sticky tangle, Ray's weight pressing me into the quilt, his softened cock
slipping out of me, accompanied by a seeping of oil and semen. It only
occurred to me then that I should have used a towel to keep the quilt dry,
but it was too late and I was too sated to care much.

 "Bodie?" His voice was husky, speaking to me from five miles away, and I
felt the tickle of tissues between my legs. "Bodie?"

 "Mmmmm," I breathed, ungluing my eyelids to see his face, an inch or two
from mine, flushed and debauched, like a wicked angel sent on a mission of
sin by Old Nick himself. Temptation. I kissed him full on the lips and
wound my leaden arms around his neck. "Nicely done, my lad. Was terrific."

 He sagged against me in relief at the confirmation of what he'd assumed,
and bit my shoulder. "You're fantastic, Bodie -- so bloody tight! Christ,
was I like that?"

 "Tighter," I said. "Was purgatory trying to go slow the first time, but
worth the effort, right?"

 A rather filthy chuckle answered me. "Right. Didn't seem to hurt you all
that much. Or d'you just have a high pain threshold?"

 "Bit of both." I yawned. "Quilt's in a mess."

 "It'll wash." He echoed the yawn. "Tired now. Into bed."

 'Tired' was an understatement; exhausted would have been a better word.
We went out like a couple of lights and didn't move a muscle till the
neighbours had a shrieking session at seven the following morning. I was
remembering the loving and woke half hard -- which is often the case with
Ray, as well. He wasn't anywhere near awake when I stroked him fully hard
and rolled over on top of him. Perfect way to start the day, and we start
ours like this about half the time. Doesn't seem to matter who wakes
first; I guess we both have one track minds!

 "Hey, it's stopped raining," Ray said, twenty minutes later when we both
surfaced properly. "Looks like a nice day."

 Terrific, I thought; and I had to work. Cowley wanted me at the office by
ten, and I'd be finished at six or seven, if we got a break. Murphy was
partnering me at the time, and although he and I are good buddies, going
to work was the last thing I really wanted to do. I shared Ray's shower
and left him putting washing through the machine, whistling in the laundry
that's little more than an alcove off the kitchen. Having facilities to do
your own washing, drying and airing in a flat is something I hadn't really
appreciated before; he'd inherited the machines when his old Aunt Edith
died, and we were just beginning to value them. If not for the dear
departed Edith Clancy, we'd be making the pilgrimage down to the
launderette with so many sets of sheets that someone would put two and two
together...

 Addings twos was Murphy's favourite game, and he was starting to catch on
to me at last. I'd done absolutely everything I could think of to distract
him, but when the weeks were going by and I wasn't getting any birds, and
I always seemed to be at 4.5's, he couldn't be blamed for seeing the
truth. He laughed like a drain for days and teased me unmercifully
thereafter, and I bore it all in a noble silence until he got used to the
whole idea and gave me his solemn pledge of silence. Either that or I
strangled him and buried the body one stormy night on the heath, I warned
him, because I didn't want Ray being put through the mincer yet. Time for
that later, when he was up to it.

 Okay, so Murphy knew; and Frank knew; and Macklin had his suspicions. How
long before chatter or a report reached the Cow? Not long -- not even I
was optimistic enough to think the peace and quiet could last forever. The
bubble of peace lasted until January 29th, and when it broke there was
more of a whimper than a bang, thank God.

 Ray was coming down with the cold that cost him half of February; he was
still not strong, susceptible to things like this, and he'd caught the
damned infection from the old girl upstairs. She was a kindly old soul,
worried about him, knowing he'd been injured, and she came down with a
cake to do the tea- and-empathy bit, sniffing and snivelling all over him
for an hour or two. Three days later he was feeling shivery and unwell,
and of course that was the day he was due to go up to Central to do the
psychological profile thing for Ross.

 Maybe if he'd been well he'd have managed to bamboozle the test -- or
maybe he did throw up a smoke screen, and Ross is just damned good at what
she does. She and Herbie monopolised him all afternoon, and according to
Ray he hadn't a clue what she was after most of the time, doing word
association tests, pattern recognisition, that kind of rubbish.

 Rubbish? Can't be all that stupid, because I was called into The Presence
the next morning and Cowley had the report in his hands. He waved me at a
chair, I sat, and he examined me from behind his desk like a tarantula
about to strike. Funnily, when he spoke his voice was almost kindly, and
his eyes -- I could have sworn he was trying not to laugh. Laugh at me? I
wondered... No, it was compassionate kind of humour, and that I could
tolerate for as long as it took.

 "So, Bodie, you and Doyle have become... Intimate. Is that a good word?"

 My heart skipped a beat but I kept a straight face. "It's good enough,
sir. Sorry, sir."

 "Are you?" Cowley asked, something like a strict Victorian father who's
caught his son stealing sweets from the corner shop. "How sorry are you?
Sorry enough to finish the relationship?"

 "No, sir, not that sorry." I was stunned by the notion but didn't let my
face show it. Stupid idea! What does he think I am, a vampire, preying on
Ray while he's down -- just waiting my chance to rape the poor little
bugger when he can't put up a decent fight? I was half way insulted.

 "I thought so." Cowley scanned the report. "This is the file Doctor Ross
has compiled from the tests run on Doyle yesterday. She did not know that
you've been living with Doyle since he got out of hospital, and was just
making astute guesses... According to her studies, Doyle is in love with
you. Now, it was a simple matter to add this to your occupation of the
same flat, and also to observations made by Macklin --"

 "The big mouthed bastard," I muttered.

 Cowley blinked at me mildly. "Not at all. He was required to give me an
evaluation of your chances of surviving as an active unit in future,
should Doyle pass the physical. He spoke to me candidly, off the record,
nothing in writing, because he was not sure of your situation. All he said
to me was that you and Doyle seem to care very much about each other, that
you have become closer than most blood kin and are possessive and
protective of each other. Nothing more than that."

 "Oh." I adopted a guilty expression. Damn. For once Macklin had done the
decent thing.

 "When I asked you, a moment ago, if it was true that you and 4.5 are
intimate," Cowley told me, "I would have accepted an outraged denial from
you. After all, to say that Doyle is in love with you is not to say you
love him. If he has evolved some infatuation -- a crush on you, well,
that's adolescent and emotionally immature and altogether what I'd expect
of a man who has been so close to death."

 "That's not it at all -- that's not even bloody fair," I said loudly,
defensively. "Infatuation? A crush? He's not a schoolboy! Adolescent?" I
snorted derisively, remembering the way we were together, the way we made
love. Immature? God help the human race if sex gets much more
sophisticated than our games, because I don't think our cardiovascular
systems were designed to take much more punishment!

 "So what is it?" Cowley prompted, as bland as ever.

 I shrugged, flushing to my ears, trying to think of some way to say it
that wouldn't sound bloody stupid. "Love, I suppose," I said at last. "I
fell in love with him ages ago; being ill made him take another look at
what he wanted and needed out of life, and what he wants is me. Don't ask
me why. There's women by the score who'd run about after him... Mind you,
there's no woman breathing who'd be a CI5 wife for more than a few years.
Ever looked at your boys, sir? Single, divorced or fighting at home. Or
dead," I added, a little cruelly. "If you want us to resign, say the word,
sir, we'd be happy not to rock the boat."

 He sat back; the chair squealed under him and he shut the Ross file,
drumming his fingers on it. "You would resign, wouldn't you? And the
intelligent thing would be for me to require it of you. But I need hardly
draw your attention to CI5's problems in 1980, Bodie. We lost eight men in
1979, and seven in 1980, and three, Doyle included, are still on the sick
list. We are a small unit, compact and interdependent on one another. The
truth is, much as I dislike it, I can't afford to cut off my nose to spite
my face. If you resign, I lose a founder member, and I've already lost six
of those in the last eighteen months. Two of the dead men, says Doctor
Ross, were driven by unhappiness at home until they were literally
incompetent and got themselves killed... Bad marriages.

 "Another two of the younger men, the newer recruits -- 1.1.5 and 1.2.8 to
be exact, were squabbling over working hours with their women friends,
distracted and worried about losing their companions. This is a common
problem in units like ours, and it does not surprise me to watch it
happen. But Doctor Ross and I have been reviewing the fine print in our
rule book in an effort to streamline our policy."

 I knew what he was talking about. "The fraternisation rule," I guessed.

 He nodded. "Aye. We have the capacity to pair off within the department,
at least some of the time. Susan and Murphy are very fond of each other.
Ruth and Lucas would pair off it they were permitted to. You and Doyle
have broken the rules -- in your case, extenuating circumstances must be
taken into account."

 "Gosh, thanks," I said acidly. At that point I didn't give a toss whether
he took the shooting into account or not; he could take or leave Doyle and
me, and if he said three words in the wrong direction I'd quit, simple as
that.

 "Aren't you listening, 3.7?" The Cow actually smiled. "I'm trying to tell
you that we are about to rewrite the small print. If we allowed pairing
off in the ranks, much of the family and personal trouble encountered by
CI5 men and women would be alleviated. Now, the only remaining question is
if this department can tolerate a homosexual couple."

 I winced at the term. "Bisexual," I corrected. "Neither of us is limp
wristed or a gorilla, sir."

 "Semantics," he shrugged. "Bisexual, if you prefer." He leaned forward.
"I want certain assurances from you."

 "Like what?" I asked, honestly curious.

 "That you won't put the department at a disadvantage; I don't want a
public show, 3.7. If I hear that you and Doyle have been seen at gay bars,
clubs and meeting places, there will be trouble. I don't want to know
about your private life, but I will be exceedingly unhappy to learn that
you, or he, has been dating -- outside the 'family', if you will. What I'm
saying is this: we are a closed shop. What's kept in the family is
tolerable if not encouraged; but if you take your bisexuality out into the
street, you can expect to stay out there. The dangers of having the
department raked over the coals by the press are hardly new concerns --
we're not popular, we never have been. If we give the opposition
ammunition, they'll use it. I expect you and Doyle to be exceptionally
discreet together in public, and if at any stage in future you decide to
go your separate ways and seek other, civilian, male companions, far be it
from me to dictate to you where your preferences should lie -- but I will
require your resignation. Clear?"

 "Pristine, sir," I nodded, and couldn't help smiling. And this was Kate
Ross' advice, was it? Damn --

 "Perhaps you could indicate, Bodie, if you and Doyle are likely to
separate and pursue other similar relationships," Cowley asked a moment
later.

 Now, that was a stupid idea, and I must have made a scornful face,
because Cowley hid a smile. "Split up, sir?" I hunted around for suitable
words. "Well, I won't say it's impossible, given ten or fifteen years in
which to get thoroughly cheesed off with each other and squabble one time
too often, but... Not in the immediate future, no. And if we did split
up..." I tried hard to imagine replacing him with another bloke, and
couldn't. "He's the only man I want, sir." I sounded strangled felt silly
saying it. "If I couldn't have him, for any reason, I don't think I'd want
to... That is, I'm not as gay as all that! Sir."

 He let me escape from the office about ten minutes later, after I'd
signed a form; it was a release to move into Ray's flat on a permanent
basis, and I was trying not to tango down the hallway. The worst was over,
I was still in one piece, I still had a job, and I was cleared to live
with the one true love of my life. Oh, bliss.

 I'd been planning to spend the evening shuttling my stuff over from the
cold, musty flat to the warm, cheerful one, but when I got home Ray was
really ill. The old woman's cold had taken root and he was wrapped in a
blanket with his feet on the hearth, blue about the eyes and streaming. I
could have flattened the old girl, but it wasn't her fault he was still
debilitated.

 Christ, was he ill. I managed to convince him to go to bed at eight and
read -- he was still wading through the Charlton Heston book I'd got him
for Christmas -- and took supper to bed with me. He was blowing his nose
every three minutes and sucking cough drops, and when I kissed him all I
could taste was menthol. Kissing him was an experience -- he couldn't
breathe through his nose, so he'd yank his head away and gasp every now
and again. At last I just gave in and consigned lovemaking to the future.
We'd been revelling in each other so much, lately, that it wouldn't be too
hard on me to let it lapse for a while, and he was far too ill to even
think about it.

 I phoned him every few hours the next day, and he could barely croak, and
I watched him lose weight again, as he was slow throwing it off. A week
went by and he hadn't been up to doing his exercises; Macklin wanted to
know why he hadn't shown up at the gym, and I told him... Damn me, but
Brian was out at the flat the same day when I got home, talking to Ray
like a Dutch uncle about taking vitamin C and keeping warm. I had a bottle
of brandy in a brown paper bag behind my back -- I didn't know if Ray was
allowed to drink or not, but I was going to put a splash of brandy in his
tea, and to hell with them... If you've got to have a cold, have it in
style, I say.

 One day he stopped blowing his nose, and I heard him sing in the shower
for the first time in a week, 'My Old Man Said Follow The Van,' husky and
broken, but if he was singing he was feeling better. He was eating again,
too, and in bed, though he didn't have much energy, he didn't mind if I
stretched out on his back and just rubbed myself in the clench of his
incredible rear; I don't need to enter his body to fly, just being close
to him is enough. Once, he offered to suck me off, but both of us ended up
in hysterics, because it's impossible to suck anything or anyone when you
can't breathe through your nose. I couldn't get it up for laughing for
half an hour, and he was giggling for a week every time he remembered the
pantomime... Eventually, I solved the whole problem by sucking him, and I
borrowed one of his menthol cough drops to do it with.

 Now, to that point, I had heard about what you could do with a menthol
cough drop, but I'd never had a girl who had the slightest idea about
them. Kinky? I don't know. But I know what they do to your mouth, so... 




He screamed. A full-bodied, lung-deep scream. The neighbors must have
thought I was killing him -- I thought I was killing him for a moment as
he started to thresh around, but when I tried to lift my head he grabbed
me and held me in place, so I really gave it to him, for as long as he
could stand it, and when he came I thought he was going to pass out. I had
a hard time trying to swallow it all, and came myself without any help at
all. After I swabbed my legs dry I scooped him up in my arms. "Ray? Come
on pet, are you okay? Did it hurt you or what?"

His hands were about limp, trying to clutch onto me, and he took some time
to find his voice. "Isn't something you'd be after every time," he panted,
"but, oh Christ, Bodie... Never felt so hot, so cold, so hard, so big,
never..." Then he did pass out, absolutely exhausted, which was partially
due to being unwell, still, and partially due to the Menthol Surprise.

That settled it; as soon as he could breathe through his nose, I was going
to get him to do that to me -- why should he have all the fun? It wasn't
until the middle of February that he started to feel really well again,
ducking out between showers to jog up and down the streets between home
and the river, and when I could hear that his voice was back to normal (if
he can do three choruses of What Are Friends For? under the shower, he can
breathe) I handed him a cough drop and told him to perform. He laughed so
hard I thought he'd get hiccups, and there was a gleam in those beady
green eyes that was nothing short of malicious.

For a moment I wondered what the hell I'd got myself into, especially when
he stuck the sweet into his mouth and sucked on it until his saliva was as
mentholated as the candy, but I got a rein on my cowardice and let him
dump me onto the pillows. He pushed one pillow under my hips to forcibly
arch my back, which was an incredibly erotic sensation to begin with, then
spread my legs and lay between them. I could hardly breathe before he gave
me what I'd asked for, and then --

Oh, I screamed. He was right. It wasn't something you'd be demanding every
time you have an hour or two to spare, but I'd never felt so hot and cold
at the same time, nor so hard. Felt as if I was going to explode, and the
ache in my balls was almost agonising. The sexy little bugger knew down to
the smallest lick what he was doing, and with the pillow under my hips I
was just about helpless. Coming nearly ripped me in two, and how I didn't
faint I'll never know, but I saw, dopily and with much satisfaction, that
he'd come himself, watching me and listening to me.

Maybe we had something to thank the old woman for. I mean, if he hadn't
caught her cold and bought the cough drops...

He was back at the gym, working out almost every day with Macklin, Towser
and Rusty through what remained of February; it rained day in, day out,
and they were starting to talk about the Thames flooding. Macklin was due
leave and gave us all a supercilious grin as he departed for Majorca,
dumping Rusty on us. Ray called me at work by R/T to warn me before I got
home, or I might have had heart failure at the barrage of noise as I got
the door open and one foot over the threshold.

Rusty had got very friendly with Ray, with Ray being at the gym so much.
He doesn't really 'belong' to anyone at all; Macklin and Towser often look
after him because they have the facilities, at the gym; but Murphy took
him for a weekend in Dorset once, and Susan sometimes took him home with
her. She has three cats too, but Rusty seems to like cats. Doesn't
actually devour them, at least. Ray bellowed out of the kitchen as I
called "home R-- yeeh, what the --".

"Rusty, you stupid great fleabag!" Ray bawled. "Get off him, he lives
here, you maniac! Rusty!"

Bribed with a bonio, the Irish setter limped away to the sofa and sat on
it, crunching on the biscuit, filling the cushions with crumbs and
covering them with long, red hairs. I sighed in resignation, catching Ray
with a hello kiss. "So how long are we pooch-sitting?"

"Just for a couple of days. Susan's taking him to her mum's for the
weekend, and then he'll be staying with Towser next week."

"Why can't he stay with Towser this week?"

"Because Towser's sharpening up Lucas and McCabe to go bodyguarding for
some Opec person next week... Come on, dinner's getting cold. Come on,
Rusty, who wants a can of Lassie, then?"

The boisterous fleabag settled down quite nicely, to be fair; taking him
out for walkies at eleven in the freezing cold was not fun, and neither
was his idea of the best place to sleep. Between us. I'm used to sleeping
with a certain warm, bony little bundle of affection in my arms, but the
bloody dog insinuated himself into the middle of the bed and short of
locking him in the kitchen I couldn't think of a thing to do with him to
shift him. Making love was a laughable idea -- I do not relish the
thoughts of a troy with an Irish setter, and that's what it would have
been. On the Friday night, thankfully the last night we'd be minding him,
I was thinking about locking him out of the bedroom at least for an hour.
Or half an hour. He whined and wailed like a kid wanting an ice cream,
scratching at the door, and Ray, damn him, started to laugh. That sense of
humour of his'll be the death of me.

He's useless when he laughs. Libido goes straight out of the nearest
window, and if I didn't find his laughter infectious I'd get very, very
frustrated. But the sound of Ray laughing always has had me in sympathetic
hysteria, and at last we just let Rusty into the bedroom and cuddled up,
jamming ourselves together before he could get between us, not daring to
move because he'd have been in there like a shot in half a second.

Susan collected him at seven on the Friday night; she was going out to her
mother's farm, somewhere in the wilds of Devon, and Murph was going with
her. They make a gorgeous couple, and she was introducing him to her mum
as her regular go-steady now. I was delighted for them, honestly, and
hoped that Cowley would team them, partner them, in the same way as Ray
and me. Then, if Murph and Susan set up home together, they could share
some of the good times. I like both of them -- purely platonically, I must
add; one love is enough in my life -- and I was eager to see them settled
and happy, like Ray and me.

And we were happy. Deliriously, absurdly. March was wet, but warmer by
far, and as Ray worked out at the gym every day I could literally see him
getting stronger before my very eyes. So I wasn't surprised at all when he
told me over dinner one night, "Mack's scheduled me for the physical in
three weeks."

I studied him over my plate of dover sole and lemon sauce. "You ready for
it?" He was a better colour, though still pale, and he was still maybe two
or three pounds underweight, though he was eating regularly. His hair was
long, dark after the winter, his face still angular, pixyish, not at all
the round faced Raymond I knew from years ago. "You reckon you can pass
it?"

"No," he said promptly. "Not if I was taking it this week. Not a chance.
But I've got three more weeks... Time I started to compete, Bodie. Compete
with you." He played with his food. "I want you to work with me, if you
will; push me, see how far I can go, make me push myself. I want to be
sure -- and I want you to be sure -- that if they let me back on the job,
I can back you up, all the way. I..." He looked up at me, eyes huge and
unblinking, and I felt as if he was looking clear through to my soul. "I
don't want to let you down in a tight spot. If I can't do it, tell me the
truth. If you want me at home, in bed, but you want a partner you can
trust at work, say so. I'd sooner know you were safe on the job, safe to
come home to me every night, than be with you all day, until the day I get
you killed."

For a long time I said nothing, mulling it all over. He was right, of
course, absolutely dead accurate, and I guessed he'd been thinking in
these terms for a long time, maybe since he was in hospital, starting to
fight back to fitness. At length I gave him a nod of agreement. "Okay,
you're on. I won't pull the punches and tell you stories. If you're no
good, I'll tell you so. But I won't let you hurt yourself trying to prove
you're better than you are, understand, Ray? If you have to take a desk
job, and get home an hour ahead of me, fit as a fiddle and itching to
ravish me at every verse end, let that be enough... Can you do that? Be a
paper tiger?"

Another long silence ensued, and he shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'll
have to try it to know. Desk job, paperwork, getting secretary spread, my
glasses wearin' a groove in my nose, going stir crazy... I don't know,
love. Maybe I can, and maybe I can't, and if I can't -- well, I'll get a
pension from the service and I can take a job too. I'm not exactly an
invalid, am I?"

I guffawed at that, remembering what he'd done to me just that morning.
"Invalid? Don't make me laugh while I'm eating."

"Right," he grinned. "Lots of jobs I can do; and there's always art."

I've seen his work, and he underestimates how good he is. A lot of
professional artists have problems with things he finds second nature --
perspective and colour composition, for example. It's less of an exercise
for the hands, more of an intellectual commitment to the work: you have to
be able to visualise a three dimensional object in two dimensions, and
that's far harder than you might think. He can; he sketches everything he
sees to pass the time away; he's got three sketchbooks from his time in
hospital, and you can recognise the doctors, nurses, other patients, the
potted plants, the equipment, the view from his window, the cars in the
carpark down below. When he got home he kept on going; his sketchbook of
studies of me makes me blush to my ears. He's drawn me asleep, watching
telly, taking a bath, and making love, dozens of studies. He calls it
revenge, for the album full of photos I've amassed since he gave me the
camera for Christmas. Well, maybe I owe him a bit of vengeance, but I
haven't had the chance to snap him in the raw yet, but that's the way he
likes to draw me most of the time! If he wasn't so bloody accurate it'd be
less flatteringly embarrassing.

The way he sees me always makes me blink; I've always thought of myself as
a bloody great, galumphing carthorse of a bloke. Too big, too heavy, which
is why I dress the way I do, and stay dressed; dancing around in your
underwear, or in shorts, or beach wear, is for people built like Ray, not
me. I'm still not sure if the way he sees me is flattery or truth, but the
sketches he does are done with love and talent, so whatever it is he sees,
he likes it. He suggests a sort of 'power,' I think, when he draws me.
Physical strength, leashed-in energy, and such. And he has an insight into
my sexuality that leaves me stunned. He drew me, once, as a Regency buck
in tight white breeches -- which was fine; he also made said buck aroused,
and used the silver handled cane as a means of suggestion, and emphasised
his character's direction of attention, leading the viewer's eyes to some
person just out of the frame. It's a hell of a turn on trying to visualise
just what is getting the character turned on -- the picture's absolutely
wicked. For me, just out of the frame, it's him, surprised in a moment of
abandon, an act of lust, but so innocent of the supposed sin of it that he
just looks up with those enormous, soft eyes, inviting his observer to his
doom, like a siren.

So there was no doubt in my mind that if he wanted to take up a career in
commercial art, he could do it. Put together a portfolio and hawk it
around, get some work illustrating for children's books, greeting cards,
that kind of thing. He'd like the life, too, being his own boss and doing
the work when he felt like it, nobody breathing down his neck.

Still, that was all in the future, and there was a lot of water to go
under the bridge before we got to the point of decision making. I finished
the dover sole, working out a plan of action. I was going to be working
all day, so if I was going to train with him it would have to be before
work, as I'm too tired afterward to stand a spell in the gym or on the
track and give good account of myself in bed. I considered letting our
love life wither away and scratched the idea; physical exertion is not the
whole thing in the CI5 fitness tests. They test your mental alertness,
too, and being sexually frustrated after a few weeks' abstinence ruins
your mental sharpness. You find your attention wandering in all sorts of
wonderful directions at the most inopportune of moments.

"You're going to be up with the roosters, my lad," I told him as he did
the washing up. "We'll run; then we'll call it a race. You could always
beat me in a flat out footrace, and when you can again you'll know you're
back to normal, right?"

"Okay," Ray nodded. "What about hand-to-hand?"

"Gym at the weekend," I said. "What about firing range?"

"No, that's okay, I'll be spending time with Jack Crane three days a week
until the test, and I don't think I've lost my eye. I was at the range a
few days ago and was shooting just about as well as ever."

Which meant he was still bloody good. Ray's always had me beaten in
handgun work; being ambidextrous may have something to do with it. I've
watched him rosin his holster a dozen times: rosin in his right hand, left
hand doing the Quick Draw McGraw stunt. The ambidexterity is in his file,
too, along with his Police record. He killed three men while he was with
the Met, and one of his hits was a long-range shot, reflex stuff, nearly
impossible. I've seen it done once; Krivas had a sharp shooter on his
payroll for a few months, lived with a magnum in his hand till we told him
he should marry the damned thing. I wish I'd seen Ray make that shot; he'd
have been all of about twenty-four at the time.

I set the alarm for six thirty and wound the clock, and when he slipped
into my arms I walked my fingers all over his back until he stifled a
giggle. "Whatcha doing, mate?"

"Just feeling your muscles. You feel hard as nails."

"Hard?" He squirmed around and nudged me with his cock, which at that
precise moment put his muscles to shame. "Shouldn't tickle me like that,"
he admonished. "You know it turns me on."

I tickled him again. 




Six-thirty is not the best time of day to discover that you're out of
milk, out of clean socks, and that it's chucking it down and you're due to
go running. I groped for the clock to shut off the tremendous din, rolled
over, knocking the breath out of Ray and collecting a sharp elbow in the
ribs in retribution. "Time to rise and shine," I growled.

"Rise and shine?" He croaked. "It's the middle of the goddamned night,
still, and it's bloody pissing down!"

"Okay, go back to sleep, my pet," I said indulgently, and collapsed again.
"Come and cuddle us instead."

But he was wide awake now and wriggled away. "Rain. Just what we need. I'm
running out of time, Bodie, and speaking of running --" He slid out of bed
and went to rummage for a clean jogging suit. "Three weeks isn't long to
to turn a physical wreck like me into a CI5 superman." I peered at him in
the semi-darkness. "Physical wreck?"

"By Brian's standards." He was half way into the green and white suit,
finger combing his hair. "Come on, Bodie... 'Less you want to stay in bed,
since it's such an awful morning, I got to go, but I can get back in time
to shower and have breakfast with you, if you want to stay put."

He was serious, and that showed me more than anything else how far he had
come since the shooting. When they let him out of hospital he ached when
the wind blew on him, suffered in the cold and couldn't walk a hundred
yards without turning blue. Now, he was quite confident to go running in
the rain, push himself to the limit, then stand under a shower with me and
make breakfast.

He was getting better. He was practically back to normal, and it had taken
him over four months to do it. I smiled at him, forcing myself out of the
warm depths of our bed, and ten or fifteen minutes later we hit the
street. There was a determined look on his face that I was not about to
argue with; Ray Doyle in a Mood can be a tenacious little bugger. At first
I let him set the pace, letting him get warmed up, and warming up myself,
which took some time, because the rain, though not heavy, was freezing. We
were down by the river when I felt warm enough in every muscle to step up
the pace, and I gave him a sidelong glance, making sure he was okay to
start.

Then I ran. I took it up to a sprint, down to a steady lope, back up to a
sprint, down to a flat-out run, and stayed there until I could feel my own
muscles starting to tell me that enough was enough. He was still beside
me, and he was suffering. I've no idea how far we ran at that pace, and I
had the idea he was pushing himself harder than he should. It'd be nothing
compared to the test itself, of course, but Christ, if he hurt himself --
Make or break, I thought grimly, and as my muscles started to tell me to
quit I took the pace back up to a sprint.

Ray's almost three years older than I am, so his heart is supposed to run
slower than mine at optimum; the fact of the matter is that it runs a
bloody sight faster, as fit as he is; the principle's the same -- I'm
younger and should therefore be able to run faster. Well, maybe. He kept
up with me but I was sure it was an effort of sheer willpower rather than
muscle, and it was distance rather than the pace that beat him. He came to
a halt, clutching at his right side, leaning against the wall, and shook
his head. He was streaming with perspiration and his chest was heaving.
"Can't do it, Bodie. No way."

"Not today, " I agreed. But tomorrow. Or next week." I took a quick glance
around to ensure that no one was within miles, and grabbed him in a brief
hug. "You've got three weeks. You nearly did it today, so if you do it
every day, you'll get there."

He heaved himself away from the wall, blotting at his face with a shirt
sleeve that was even wetter. "Come on then, let's jog back. Jog back,
Bodie. Run back tomorrow."

I thought back to Macklin's idea of fitness; when he's through with us we
make Olympic athletes look tame. Jog the first five miles, run the second,
jog the third, walk the last five miles home. Towser a yard or two behind
you on a bike, waiting to see you drop -- it's not malicious, just
practical. When you drop, he'll listen to your heart, your pulse,
respiration, and tell you when it's safe to go on. They're not there to
beat you up, just to make you push yourself to the limit, make you better
than you ever thought you could be. In the Army, I was a big, unfit lump
of lard by comparison!

Having to treat Ray this way was damned hard; being in love with him makes
me want to coddle him, makes me ache for him when he's in pain, makes me
want to tell him to chuck the whole thing over and go home in peace. But
he wouldn't thank me for that. We jogged home and stood under the shower
together, let the hot water ease away the pain and fatigue, then ate
breakfast. Before I left for work we stood at the door, kissing, pressed
together, as if I was trying to tell him that I wasn't trying to hurt him
with the stupid training programme. He knew that, of course, but it made
me feel no better about what I had to do.

"Bodie, don't be a jerk," he told me fondly. "I want to do this, really.
Want to see if I can make it back, all the way."

"I know," I sighed, wanting his mouth again and aware of the time. Wanted
to go back to bed, to be honest; I didn't think I had the stamina to make
love to him, not after that marathon in the rain, but it would have been
nice to cuddle up in the warm and let the world go by. "You look after
yourself," I told him sternly. "Going to the gym again?"

"And the firing range, and up to Central to do some tests for Ross. I
think they want to find out if my brain's turned to rice pudding sitting
in front of the telly all this time." He bit my ear. "Shove off, pet. I'm
cooking pizza for dinner, so bring a bottle of wine in with you."

"Your wish," I told him with a lisp, "is my command, oh sweetheart of my
life, sunshine of my declining years --"

"Out!" He said loudly, laughing, and pushed me through the door, "before
Cowley gives you the sack for being late every day, and gives me the
blame! You show up bleary eyed and twenty minutes late, and I'm sure he
thinks I've been screwing you all night." He paused, on the point of
closing the door. "Hm. Now, there's an idea..."

Like the coward I am at times like these, I beat a hasty retreat. I didn't
know which was worse, having the Cow actually thinking that, or Ray making
jokes about it. He's got a really perverse sense of humour, sometimes.
Oddly, I wasn't getting as much stick at work as I thought I'd get. I'd
imagined all sorts of joking and teasing about being a queen, a faggot,
limp wristed and posturing. I'd stored up a lifetime's one liners to shoot
back at them, so as to turn the whole thing into a huge, impromptu cabaret
act. But outside of some ribbing I took from Anson, Lucas and McCabe,
everyone else just seemed to politely disregard it...

I'm just guessing, but I think they'd been making speculations about me
and Ray for ages, behind our backs. By the time he was shot, we were
working together all day, spending evenings together and even going off on
holiday together. Now, what the hell does that look like? And the girls,
they'd probably reasoned, were just a smoke screen to keep the powers that
be off our backs. It was a bit disconcerting to come to this conclusion,
but at least the storm in a teacup I'd feared didn't amount to much more
than a fair sailing breeze, and I gave as good as I got. Much to my
surprise, I even got some envious looks --

There's a new boy, Robinson, just twenty-five; he'd been on the firing
range with Ray for a week, and then riding around in the car with him
while I was undercover, getting field experience with an old pro. Damn me,
but Robinson was looking daggers at me! He fancied Ray himself. Bisexuals
come in all kinds -- which was something George Cowley was going to have
to get used to. He's got any number of them -- us -- on the squad, whether
he knows it or not, and since he's written in a new paragraph or two in
the fine print, bis are going to start pairing off, following our lead,
sooner or later, now it's allowed.

I found time, during a lull in the afternoon's business, to go over to the
range and share a few words with Ray and Jack; they're matey, but they
look like David and Goliath -- Jack's a bloody great beanpole in cammo
fatigues. Ray was laughing his head off when I appeared and I heard the
second half of a very ribald gay joke that had Jack in stitches too. Ray's
got hundreds of such witticisms stored up in his attick, dating from the
days he spent on the beat. He can top you any time of the day or night
just by rattling off something he heard outside of a pub in Soho at
chucking-out time, or saw written on a wall in a Gents' convenience in
Limehouse at three in the morning. There is no way you're going to get on
top of him when it comes to wisecracking, and you're better advised not to
try.

Jack had been needling him about living and loving with me, I guessed, and
Ray had risen to the challenge in kind, spinning outrageous stories and
telling gags that had finally doubled Jack up in hysterics. I judged that
it was safe to show my face when he was thoroughly beetroot red and Ray
pulled the ear pads on again, ready to burn off another clip. Jack took
one look at me and dissolved into more laughter, and I just cracked a grin
and let him laugh.

At that moment Ray looked like something out of a fantasy, and you'd have
to be terminally straight with your eyes glued shut not to see what he
had, what we shared. He was standing in front of the big blower air
conditioners that kept the shooting range just above freezing, and the
draught was blowing his hair around. The lights were bright, casting halos
in the air above the targets, and he was wearing his tightest black jeans
and the white angora turtle neck I'd bought him. He had the sleeves pushed
up to his elbows and you could see the ridges of muscle along his forearms
as he lifted the Browning 9mm he was using. Legs spread to brace himself,
eyes enormous and unblinking... If Jack couldn't see what it was I'd
fallen in love with, pity about him. He needed his glasses fixed.

"So how's Annie Oakley doing?" I asked while Ray paused to change clips.

"Oh, about as well as ever. His reflex-shooting is about a quarter of a
second off his old average, but that'll be cured by doing." Jack paused to
watch Ray snap off a half dozen shots and reload again. "See? He's dead on
target, and his eyes are as good over the distance as ever. But he's out
of practise -- we all get a tiny little bit rusty if we don't do it
regularly."

It sounded like an outrageous double entendre, and I shot a glance at him,
seeing the twinkle in his eye. "Oh droll, very droll, Jack. No rust on us,
is there?" 

"Not," he said, biting off a chuckle, "that I can see. Know what amazes
me, Bodie? That the Cow let you get away with it."

"I offered to resign," I shrugged. "I expect he places a bit of value on
me. On us. Hey, is Ray up to scratch for the test?"

"He will be in a week or so. How's he doing at the gym?"

"Ask Macklin," I growled. "But I'm running with him in the mornings. He
can keep up with me, it's distance that gets him, not pace, and that'll
sort itself out as we go."

As I spoke Ray smoked off another clip, took off the concussion pads and
turned towards us. Seeing me, he smiled and waved. "Didn't hear you come
in."

"Was listening to the routine you were doing for Jack's benefit, before,"
I admitted. "Everybody a comedian." "Gotta be," Ray chuckled, "or there's
people in this world--" a nod at Jack "--who'd have you by the throat."

"Been giving my lad a hard time?" I demanded, eyeing Jack as if he was a
black window spider.

He adopted an air of injured innocence. "I only made a few jokes, Bodie.
Got better than I gave, too. Your lad, as you call him, ought to try out
for the music hall. Except they wouldn't let him tell stories like that
down at the Old Bull And Bush."

"Serves you right," I said drily, trying not to laugh. Trust Ray. "Anyway,
I only came over to say hello and see what's going on. Got to get out to
Records in a minutes, so I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you, Bodie." Ray winked at me, and I was half way back to the
door when he yelled, "and don't forget the wine!"

"Yes, dear," I carolled, and ran for it before Jack could start in on me,
Raymond, as it turned out, was a good deal tougher than I'd thought he'd
be... It was like so much water off a duck's back to him! 




Macklin and Towser had him for hand-to-hand in the late afternoon, and Ray
came back with a bruise the size of the palm of my hand on his ribs from a
kick. "Teach me to be more careful," he muttered as I swore, seeing it for
the first time as we undressed to shower. I held my tongue with
difficulty; I know Mack's job is to push Ray into pushing himself; I know
that everything he does is done deliberately; and I know Ray can look
after himself, that he's a grown man, for all the fact that he looks like
a kid.

But being in love with someone makes you irrational to a degree, and I
shot Brian and Towser some murderous looks in the days that followed. Ray
was knackered when he got home every day, and if I wanted to make love, I
had to start it myself and do most of the work, because, much as he
enjoyed it, he would have dropped off to sleep if left to himself.

This kind of training schedule takes a lot out of you, as I had discovered
when I transfered from 2 Para to the SAS. Now, the lads of 2 Para will
tell you that the SAS is the most useless bunch of twits under the sun,
and there are times, admittedly, when the SAS can really fluff a job.
Thank God we didn't do it in the real world, at least while I was in the
outfit, but I do remember getting pulped by 2 and 3 Para on an exercise in
Eire... Be that as it may, the standards of physical fitness required of
you to even salute in the SAS are pretty close to the demands George
Cowley makes of you, and while they're shoving you through the mincer you
wish you were far, far away.

I went easy on Ray, guessing what he was feeling like. His temper
shortened and he'd snap at me now and then, but, knowing the problem I
would overlook the outbursts and, sure enough, ten minutes later, he would
be there with a kiss of apology and an invitation to exact revenge if I
wanted to. As a rule, the look of contrition on his face was more than
enough to smooth my feathers over, because I never can stay annoyed with
him when he gets the Little Orphan Raymond look.

But once, I took him up on the offer. I was complaining about some
household matter that was a joint project, I think -- he cooks, I do the
vacuum cleaning, take out the rubbish, clean the windows, he makes up the
bed, we share the laundry and the shopping. Works out fine, usually. I
can't even remember what the argument was about, but in about five seconds
we were really bitching at each other, and I knew it was his fault, and so
did he.

It took twenty minutes for him to get around to apologising, and I'd been
simmering. I was just starting to cool down, but the injustice of a couple
of things he'd said was rankling, as much as I knew he had a reason for
being a little irrational -- stress and tension can do funny things to
you. He padded out of the kitchen, where he'd been stocking up the pantry,
and kissed the back of my neck; the first thing I felt was an irritated
desire to fend him off, but when he whispered in my ear, "I've been a
right berk, haven't I? I'm sorry, Bodie, honestly..." I couldn't help but
respond. He pressed against me, eyes cast down in that way he has of
offering himself up for chastisement -- I expect he used to do this with
his mum, when he'd really earned a spanking, and nine times out of ten
she'd take one look at him and give him a chocolate bar instead.

Well, not this time. I was still stinging, and the offer to even it up
just a little bit was too much. Later, it was my turn to feel guilty, but
at the time... I tossed him onto the sofa and I was rather rough with him,
yanking his clothes loose and manhandling him around, dumping him down on
his knees. I wasn't even especially gentle as I made him slick with a bit
of my own pre-ejac, but I made sure he was thoroughly turned on before I
took him; and I took him almost as hard as I could.

Guilty conscience turned my face crimson when we'd come back down to
earth, and he was looking at me with enormous eyes from the other end of
the sofa. "I, um, didn't hurt you?" I mumbled.

"Dunno," he said honestly. "Don't think so, but... Christ, are you going
to do that every time I annoy you?"

I gave him a look of disbelief. "Monster!"

He buckled up, leaving his tee shirt loose. "I'm not hurt, I don't think,
but... Jesus, Bodie, that was fantastic."

I blinked at him, disbelief turning to absolute incredulity. "You mean you
--"

"Enjoyed it, rather," he said sheepishly. "I'm not into the domination
game, not really, I don't think, but... You've never done it that hard
before. It never felt that way."

Damn. So much for my budding guilt complex. If I'd meant it as a punitive
exercise it'd backfired on me. "Want it hard again?"

He nodded. "Sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. I felt --
helpless. But it was with you, like I could just give myself over into
your tender care, just forget who I was." He shivered. "It's strange, I
never felt like that before. Must be feeling good because I love you so
much, otherwise I think I'd be angry about it. But I'm not." He wriggled
around on the other end of the sofa and made a silent 'ouch.'

"I have hurt you," I said, aghast, and grabbed him in a hug.

"Just sore, for the first time in ages," he told me, "forget it and come
and set the table."

So ended our one real argument, and for several days his temper cooled off
a bit, as if the prickles of rising anger reminded him of that episode on
the couch, and gave him the grasp on his temper he needed to calm down
before an could brew up.

They were the longest three weeks we'd ever spent together, though, and as
fit as Ray was, he spent most of his evenings in a heap of utter
exhaustion. He was lively in the mornings when we went running by the
river, though, and a fortnight after the first time we put him to that
particular test, he outran me.

It was bitterly cold and the sky was so overcast that only the fluoros
were responsible for a faint glimmer of light at seven-thirty; I let us
warm up, then set the pace, faster, faster, cut back to a jog, up to a
sprint, waiting for him to drop back or tell me that he'd had enough. Over
the two weeks he had been getting better gradually, and that morning he
finally did it. I ran myself into the ground and the little bugger was
there beside me at every step, not beaten by the pace, not beaten by the
distance until I slowed up and came to rest by a skeletal tree, holding my
left side, which was pierced by a agonizing stitch.

He was wheezing like a loco trying to get up steam, but he had done it,
and there was a look of utter triumph on his face. I put my hand inside
his jacket, feeling for his heart and making him jump because his skin was
so hot and my fingers so cold, and if his heart was running at 120, that
was all. Now, an athlete who has sprinted that distance would be
registering a lower heart rate, especially an athlete who's well turned
thirty, and my own heart was only running at about 90 or 100, but for Ray,
the beat I felt under my hand was terrific. It would slow to about 60,
maybe a little less, whereas my rest pulse is much lower, but -- for
Christ's sake, I never had two bullets shot into my heart!

I gave him a celebratory hug as we turned for home and promised to bring
in a bottle of bubbly to celebrate with. As it turned out, it was a bloody
good thing that he had managed it on that day, because in the afternoon,
it snowed. The forecast was for better weather when the wind swung
southerly again, but for most of the week before he was scheduled for the
test the snow lay deep and thick and even over most of the city, giving it
a faerie look, making it beautiful. That was a shame; we could have used
the snow at Christmas, but the Gulf Stream had been a few degrees warmer
this year and it wasn't till we got a big blow off the Arctic that the
temperature got down low enough for snow... In March! Not the first time
it's happened, I suppose, but not getting a White Christmas is always
disappointing.

Not being able to run because of the snow worried Ray, and he spent extra
time at the gym, to Macklin's amazement. Usually, we can't get out of
there fast enough. I was working on some files in the office beside
Cowley's the next afternoon, and managed to overhear a conversation
between the Cow and Brian; Macklin had come up to Central to give the boss
Ray's file, an assessment on which the test would be judged. Jack was
making a similar report, and so was Ross, and these progress reports would
be used to help determine Ray's real capabilities during the test, because
the very stress of taking the test would put him at a disadvantage and so
affect his results.

"Oh, 4.5's progress," Cowley said with an edge of interest in his voice.
There was a shuffling of papers and I pricked up my ears. "Not bad,"
Cowley continued. "Not bad at all. Heart still too fast, of course --"

"It always will be, George," Brian said. "And if I were you, I should
ignore than. It's my opinion that Doyle's heart is about as strong as it
ever was. He's still taking digitalis, and he's as fit as I've ever seen
him. With snow outside he's even putting in extra time at the gym."

"Taking the whole thing seriously," Cowley observed.

"Dead serious," Brian affirmed. "Working like a black stoker right now.
Hate to tell you this, but he's got me run off my feet; I think I must be
getting old -- or maybe I'm missing Towser's help!" Towser was home with a
Vic inhaler stuffed up his nose and a glass of cough mixture at the ready.
Which was no less than he richly deserved for giving Ray that godawful
bruise. Your sins have a way of catching up with you.

"What's he like with his hands and feet?" Cowley asked.

"Deadly," Macklin told him. "And quick, too. He's too thin, of course, but
he's all muscle, and being so light means he's faster than he ever was.
Faster than Bodie by far -- Bodie's got twice as much muscle but he's
pushing a lot more weight with it. A fight between Doyle and Bodie, or
someone Bodie's size? My money would be on Doyle, I'm afraid. Much as I
admire muscles, you have to be able to hit your target to hurt it, and
I'll be frank with you George -- and if you ever pass this on to another
living soul, I'll shove you through the physical! -- I gave it my level
best two days ago, didn't lay a mit on him, and look at this souvenir."

A pause, then Cowley actually laughed. "Oh, nasty. Looks like a footprint,
Brian."

"That's because it's a footprint. It was like trying to catch a ferret
with a shopping basket. Slippery as an eel and twice as mean. He's on his
toes, no bloody doubt about it."

I felt a great surge of pride. There had been a time when I'd thought my
Raymond had had it, I'll admit. I'd thought he'd be fit enough to live a
happy, active life, love me senseless and enjoy every day, but this had
seemed out of the question when he was getting Christmas cards from
physiotherapists and aching fit to break your heart when the days got
colder. I couldn't wait to get home and pass on what I'd heard, then swore
him to secrecy because there is no sense annoying the Powers That Be
before your exam. 




Two days before the test was scheduled, with great reluctance, I took my
hands off him and vowed to keep them to myself until it was all over and
done with. He gave me a shrewd look, guessing what I was doing, because I
was still gazing at him with a sort of glazed-eyed desire, wanting him and
suffering in silence. He chuckled merrily but accepted the decision as
common sense; like footballers before the big match, or like the England
bowlers the day before they take on the West Indies. As frustrating as a
bit of abstinence can be in the short term, it can pay dividends. We just
cuddled up platonically and avoided the whole subject of the test, never
even mentioning it.

Cowley was watching us with beady blue eyes, but I wasn't a bit
disconcerted, not after what I'd heard from Macklin. I knew he would be
getting darling Kate Ross' report, though, and I had a pretty good idea
that she'd be suggesting something nasty, so it came as no surprise when
Cowley asked for me to come into his office and gave it to me point
blank...

"Doctor Ross recommends reteaming you and 4.5."

"Oh, does she?" I asked cynically, "Typical."

"I could team Doyle with Jax, they're old friends, since they served in
the police together; and you and Murphy would work well together, two old
Army men."

"I daresay," I said indifferently. "But since you're not going to be doing
that, there's hardly any sense wasting time talking about it, is there?"

He scowled at me. "You're very sure of yourself, 3.7."

I nodded. "Yes, sir. I am. You know as well as I do that Doyle and I work
best when we're together."

"But you're emotionally involved."

I nodded again. "And that's why we have to stick together. If I'm worried
sick about Ray, I'm going to foul up on the job, and vice versa."

"Jax and Murphy are both highly competent men."

"So they are; and as back-up I couldn't think of anyone better. In fact,
why don't you try teaming them? They might just hit it off and turn into
something special."

"Like you and Doyle?" He asked acidly. "Doyle and I have two separate
lives," I said, just as acidly. "At home, it's none of your business --
sir. At work, we're 3.7 and 4.5. All I meant was that Murph and Jax could
turn into a team that'll stack up in practical terms with Doyle and me."

He was trying not to laugh; his mouth was pulled into a tight line but his
eyes were twinkling. "I'll consider it, Bodie. Now, as to the problem of
your teaming... I'll go this far. When Doyle is passed by the examining
officers I'll put you two on probation, as a team. If you work well,
you'll stay teamed, if you botch up your job, you'll be separated. Fair?"

"As Tattersals," I grinned. "Look, sir, I'm not going to work well if I
have to trust Ray's back to anyone else, that much I can tell you for
sure. Even if we do screw the job up royally, if you split us up we'll be
worse. You'd be better off sacking us and calling it a day."

Now he frowned at me, weighing and measuring what I'd said. "Well, we'll
see. No sense trying to cross bridges before we get to them... That's all,
Bodie. I believe you're due in court in an hour, aren't you? The Sangster
hearing."

That was the last I heard of the reteaming question, though I'll bet Ross'
report was stern and dour. Jack was crowing in delight at Ray's scores,
and Brian was still sporting his bruises, won at Ray's hands -- or feet --
so the actual physical itself had to be a breeze. It takes three days to
wade through all the tests, and they're bloody hard, but Ray was bearing
up with a cheerful, cheeky grin, tired and sore, but optimistic. He would
arrive home ahead of me and I'd find him in the bath sipping gin and
reading while dinner heated in the oven, and I'd make some half baked,
standing joke about his skinny ribs to cover how concerned I was about the
tortures they were subjecting him to. He was losing weight again, and I
bought him a pound box of Milk Tray, feeding them to him one at a time
every chance I got until he started to talk about tooth rot.

"Rubbish," I said, pushing a strawberry cream through his protesting lips
and kissing him on top of it for good measure. "You can always have 'em
out, can't you?" I kissed him again, and he somehow worked half of the
chocolate back into my mouth, so that we both collapsed laughing,
savouring the Cadbury's.

I was running about like a scalded cat most of the time he was being put
through the mangle; the snow made for a little variation in the sameness
of city living, and Murphy was in high spirits, since he'd taken up with a
girl whose 'daddy' was in racehorses. I teased him about marrying for
money and he just stuck his chin out and rather indelicately told me to
mind my own business. I spluttered, "but what about you and Susan?"

That sobered him up. "I trod on her mother's toes and she's angry with
me," he said quietly. "Everything in the garden was rosy until we got onto
the subject of marriage and religion, and then... How was I supposed to
know her mother's a practicing Catholic who doesn't believe in sex before
marriage?"

I guffawed. "And you let it slip that you and Sue are --"

"Mm." He sighed heavily. "We were thinking of living together up till
then, and she forgot to tell me not to mention anything about it to
Margaret -- her mother. I put my foot in it when I mentioned buying a
bedspread with a tiger design -- you know the one, it's been in the
magazines for weeks. Anyway, that made old Margaret ask when we were tying
the knot. And I clammed up like a fool. I don't know that I'm ready to
marry yet, you see, so..."

"So Maggie hit the fan, and Susan's getting flak from home, and blaming
you for having a big mouth, and you've decided to call it a day?" I
guessed.

"Well, we've decided to cool off, try not seeing quite so much of each
other, that way we can figure out just how attached we are to each other,
you know. So I'm seeing Joyce and the horseracing bunch, and she's seeing
a Coldstream Guards officer." He heaved another large sigh. "And I don't
think either of us is very happy."

"Look, you can't let the older generation rule you," I said wisely. "When
Ray's mother finds out about us, the fur and feathers are going to fly,
but we've made up our minds that the family can bloody well get used to us
or lump it. You do the same thing, and a pound gets you a penny they'll
come around."

"Come around with a rope and lynch me from a lampstand," Murph said sadly.
"Want to know something, Bodie? I envy you and Ray something rotten. You
have no idea how sick and fed up I am of going home to a cold, empty flat.
S'okay for kids sowing their wild oats, but -- I must've sown a whole
paddock and what that life's got to offer I've had up to here. I'm not
ready to settle down to the pipe and slippers routine, but God, it'd be
nice to have someone to go home to, someone who'll be there. Don't know if
you can follow me, but..."

Following him was easier by far than he thought. I'd wanted the same thing
myself since I was about twenty-five. I'd run wild like a moron from the
age of fourteen and had sampled everything the wild side had to offer,
savoured it and grown sick of it. Girl after girl, forgetting their faces,
their names, no one to love, no one who loved me. Then I met Ray and it
all changed. In the early days he was a little scruff, fun to be with,
beautiful in the way that puppies and kittens and mucky little kids are
beautiful -- which is not to intimate that he was mucky, he wasn't! But he
had this unsophisticated, absolutely virginal appeal, as if the world
hadn't scratched the surface of what he had to offer yet. Absurd, really,
because during the Ann Seaford affair I learned more from him about the
seamy world of pimping and prostitution that I'd learned in all my days as
a merc and Para. No, he wasn't the ingenue he looked, but that didn't
alter the impression! Then, I don't know, he seemed to grow up under my
nose. Started to dress differently, let his hair grow; he got thinner than
ever, which gave him an elegance new even to him, and I started to fall in
love. I knew I loved him with a passion long before Ann Holly appeared on
the scene, and I went through torments, sure I'd lost him without ever
having him.

But no, Ann was as blind as all his other women, and good riddance to her.
I got drunk with him, and it was over, except for the times I'd catch him
looking at a snapshot of her and looking wistful. Christ, how I wanted
him, then! But it took almost another year before -- wham. He was lying on
the carpet in a pool of blood and milk.

The rest is history. I must have sat there in the car with Murphy for a
full minute, eyes blind, looking back at everything that had been, and he
was frowning at me when I came to again. He patted my shoulder. "Hey,
don't worry about Ray, he's going to rewrite the test records, mate. He's
been working himself into the ground, hasn't he? I sneaked a look at
Macklin's log book, and added up the number of hours he's been at the
gym."

"Right," I affirmed, starting the car. "And about you and Susan -- let it
take its own time and enjoy yourself with the horseracing people. When the
time's right, it'll sort itself out."

He and she had obviously come to the same conclusions, as I watched him
throw off the introverted mood and go back to his previous high spirits,
good humour that lasted all week.

For me, it was not such a good week; Ray came home uptight and silent,
unwilling to discuss what had been done with and to him during the course
of the day, and I didn't press for info. If he wanted to say something
he'd say it himself without badgering. He slept soundly, tired out, and
left before me in the mornings, as the lab tests started at eight; I lay
in the dark, watching him dress and listening to him shower and shave, and
he would bring toast and tea back to bed, sharing that brief time with me
and then kissing me goodbye, car keys already in his hand.

Two evenings were a total writeoff, this way, just long patches of silence
punctuated by a noncommittal grunt and the arbitrary selection of
something stupid on the box to pass the time away before we'd fall into
bed and I would watch him go out like a light. By the last day of the test
I was getting pretty frustrated, I don't mind admitting; five days of
chastity after the life we'd been living for months was starting to make
me ache!

They were finished with him by four o'clock and when I got home he was
asleep, stretched out on the hearthrug with his sketch book abandoned a
couple of feet away and a stick of charcoal doing hideous things to the
deep pile. He came awake with a jerk as I shouted, "home, Ray! Brought a
bottle of wine!" And when I cast off my jacket and the bottle and plunked
down on the rug next to him, he threw himself at me.

"Finished!" He crowed. "For better or worse, it's over!"

The stress and strain of it must have been wonderful, I thought, only now,
when my Ray was suddenly back in my arms, realising the personality shift
he'd gone through. It was as if a stranger with Ray's face had lived here
for the last week, and this was like a reunion party. He brought glasses
and we drank the wine there on the rug, scrambling each other out of our
clothes and giggling like a couple of randy teenagers. He wanted to be
mounted, nearly gave me a heart attack to watch him take to his knees and
present himself, but I wanted to do it face to face, so we did it twice.
And after five days of not doing it at all, we were more than capable of
managing it twice. I took him quite quickly, unable to achieve much iron
self control after the spectacle of him on his knees with that rump
pleadingly offered to me for consideration, and then I lay down, yanked
him on top of me, wrapped my legs around him and he took me in return. We
were in a nice mess, and so was the rug, and we transferred from there to
the shower, still laughing, satiated and drowsy with the sex and the wine,
both indulged in far too fast. 




I wanted to go out to celebrate but Ray wouldn't hear of it. We'd spent
little enough time wide awake in each other's company in solitude lately,
and he wanted to go to bed and celebrate in peace and quiet. We cuddled up
after dinner -- which we washed down with beer, since we'd polished off
the wine earlier -- and watched TV in bed, having hysterics at Jack
Lemon's antics in The Great Race, and by ten we were up to making love
again. That time we took our time about it, torturing each other until we
could barely stand it, then wriggled around and sucked each other into
oblivion, falling asleep right where we were.

It was after midnight when we woke, my head on his thigh, the weight of
his head on mine, his musk tantilising my nose. No one smells or tastes
like Ray, and he says the same of me; I reckon we would know each other
anywhere in a blackout. I was cold, as the room had cooled off a great
deal and we were still snow up to the windows outside, so I switched on
the electric blanket, went to make a cup of cocoa, and kissed him awake
with the hot chocolate before bundling him into bed. He was chilly, his
cold feet giving me a shock, and dog tired. Too much wine, too much
excitement and too much sex all at the same time, I suppose. But then,
what's a celebration for but to get worn out in a sated, debauched kind of
way? 




The test results were in the next afternoon, and Cowley was on the phone,
signing Ray back to duty, bright and early Monday morning. We savoured the
weekend as our last uncluttered by the job; we drove out to the park and
threw snowballs with a bunch of kids, walked Rusty as far as is good for a
dog who's still limping from his old wounds, listened to music on the
Sunday night and went to bed early.

Getting back into the silver Capri with him for the first time in five
months was weird. We were on probation, everyone on the top rung of the
ladder knew that -- us, Mack, Towser, Ross, Murphy, Jax, Betty, the people
who would have to pick up the bits and sort out the paperwork if we did
foul up. But it wasn't going to happen, we both knew that. We were
literally telepathic on the job before we became lovers, and now we were
thinking so much like the same person it was frightening. Or overwhelming.

April was one of the busiest months we have ever sweated through, and May
was not much better, as if the fates had decided to chuck Ray and me in at
the deepend and see which way we came up. The first task Cowley set us was
to find Quinn, an escapee from a loony bin, poor bloke... A three year
stay as a guest of the KGB and anyone'd be a loon. It wasn't his fault,
and he'd fought like a champion to get on top of the hypnosis. I was sorry
to see him kill himself, and Cowley was still mourning his death a year
later. Ray and I acquitted ourselves with grace and aplomb.

Then we were separated by the nature of our next job, when Cowley decided
we would look into the case of an old friend's daughter, a lovely girl
called Susan whose life was being made a misery by people harrassing her
in carparks, and such places. I had to laugh, at one point; the Cow had
sent me to look after her -- and, I suspect, to test out just exactly how
faithful I could or would be to my lover. He set me up good and proper.
Lovely woman, alone in her flat, she's frightened, I'm the soul of comfort
and reassurance... Sorry, George, I thought, it aint gonna work this time.
She likes me but -- she calls Ray 'the good looking one!' I was smiling
about that for ages. The good looking one! Well, no one could accuse Susan
of having bad taste; it was an opinion we both shared. I got to see Ray
only rarely, and we made the most of what time we had together, playing
silly little pranks, like the time he bought me a liver sausage sandwich,
which he knows I hate. The job went off smoothly and I was pleased when it
was finished; pleased to see Susan and her family at peace, and to be able
to stroll in the rose gardens with my lover and give Cowley a told-you-so
grin. Ray had been showing off his green thumb to Susan's mother, charming
the old bird as he charms the young ones, but he lit up when I arrived and
Cowley was there to see it.

The most outlandish job that came our way in April was the Colonel Lawson
affair; there's a lunatic, if ever there was one. Wanted his brains
examined. A danger to himself and everyone else as well. He's dead now, so
it's all even, and the way Ray and I solved the whole situation shows how
well we were acting and reacting as a team. Better than ever, I knew, and
Cowley had started to relax. He wasn't even watching us closely anymore.

Working with Ray was somewhere between a pleasure and a trial, because we
were still at the stage where good old fashioned lust could raise its not
so ugly head at any moment, and it was often hard not to grab a quick kiss
when we had a moment to ourselves. We did do that while we were packing up
the stakeout gear, just before Cookie got killed by that madwoman's
terrorist group. I just couldn't wait. He'd been teasing me about
something and I threw a pillow at him; he picked it up and threw it back,
and we wrestled for a second before we were kissing. Stupid and risky, and
we won't be doing it again if we can help it, but -- oh, there's an old
saying about stolen kisses being best.

Cookie's death hit Ray like a ton of bricks, and I could have throttled
June for taking it out on Ray like that, asking him to shoot the dog and
blaming all her woes on him, but the shock of it brought the baby on
prematurely, and they had a fight to save her life, so, miserable as Ray
was, she was in an infinitely worse condition. There was nothing I could
do for her, but I petted Ray shamelessly until he felt better... Then
again, I always do. After we'd packed up the stakeout gear, just before
Cookie was killed, we were almost out to the car before it dawned on me
that I was laden like a beast of burden while Ray was carrying -- the
tripod. I gave him my best 'I'll get you for that later' look, but I
didn't mean it. Carrying things for him is like second nature now and goes
back to the time he was ill, when if he carried anything at all he'd pull
his operation sites and spend days in agony. The truth is, he can still
pull an adhesion here and there, and I still tend to carry heavy things
without thinking about it. It's a habit I'll break myself of eventually.
Maybe.

Life was back to normal. The tedium of the job, with the occasional
cold-sweat scare, booking our holidays months and months in advance, going
home to shove dinner in the microwave and then watch TV or go to a film,
and fall into bed, making love if the fancy took us, or just doing the
crossword if it didn't, although I'll admit, we didn't do many crosswords!
We could still argue heatedly; politics and food were areas in which we
have never agreed, and although I can see his points of view I just can't
seem to adjust to them. But the good thing is that he has never asked me
to change; he just insists that he be allowed his own opinion, which is
absolutely fair.

I was preoccupied with just one last worry, and that was what I'd
mentioned to Murph, that his family would do its collective nut when it
cottoned on to us, and it did happen. His mother is a wonderful woman, a
blazing redhead of about sixty with blue eyes and skin the colour of bone
China. She has a temper which makes Ray's look mild by comparison, and a
soft spot a mile deep. She wormed the truth out of his brother, Frank, one
day, so I heard, and was on our doorstep the following weekend, giving me
the rounds of the kitchen for contaminating her pure, lily white son.

For a moment I thought she and Ray were going to kill each other; he blew
up in her face five minutes into the tirade and never repeated himself
once for the next fifteen. He gave her a dressing down that would have
flattened George Cowley himself, and I had the oddest impression, watching
the good woman wilt, that Ray might well be the one person in the world
who knew how to do this to her. He didn't raise his voice (much), and he
didn't say one wrong word, not even a mild curse or a blasphemy, which
made what he had to say so much more cutting.

We were, he said, consenting adults, long gone from the nest, fully
entitled to make our own choices; Bodie, he told her, had been his
lifeline for years, and when he was ill the one and only thing that had
kept him alive, and no thanks to his darling family who had put in a
sketchy appearance when they were least expected or desired. Bodie, he
continued, had shown him more kindness, more understanding and more
affection than all his siblings combined, and if it had come to love
between the two of us, he was happy to participate in what amounted to a
stable, satisfying marriage.

I choked up, listening to him, watching the older woman go from fury to
mild outrage to a sheepish acceptance to an expression of compassion, and
when she looked at me I'm sure she must have seen the glitter in my eyes.
Although she didn't say one word in encouragement to us that day, she
never fought with us again. We got an invitation to stay at her home,
politely declined; she sent Ray a birthday card when he turned 34, and
stunned me by sending me one when I turned 32, nine months later. Frank
came calling with his wife in July and indicated that things had smoothed
over at home, that the clan had accepted us. We breathed a mutual groan of
relief at that, and when we went to Barbados for three weeks in the
September brought back a mountain of presents for the Doyle clan, kids and
grownups alike.

It was very important to Ray that his family not hate him, I realised, and
had to laugh as I thought back to that morning when Frank had burst in
upon us. So many skeletons in the closet, he'd said, the Doyles keep their
clothes on the floor. So maybe we had less shocked and disgusted them than
mildly disconcerted them -- as in, 'Oh Christ, not another one!' There was
one depressive who'd had a go at her wrists twice already, and an Aunt who
had had an affair with a stage manager in Marsailles in her distant youth,
and an uncle who had never married or had any children, but who wrote
reams and reams to an old Army chum and disappeared for protracted periods
to a farm in the north. Not so very shocking, really, when you compare the
Doyles to other, really wild people like drug addicts and pimps and
terrorists, but as regards 'ordinary' families, wild enough.

I've never had a family. I ran the Liverpool docks as a kid and followed
my nose to sea at fourteen. I left behind me a father drinking himself
into a grave, a mother buried in a churchyard on the outskirts of the
city, an elder sister who had married and gone to Glasgow and a two up and
two down rat hole I had no intentions of living in as I grew up.

Now, I've got 'in-laws' by the score, a standing invitation to come and
stay at the big house in Derby, a lovely home in which Ray and I take a
pride -- it may only be a flat, but it's ours -- and the wherewithal to
scoot over to the Caribbean or the Med whenever we can weasle some leave
out of the boss. Not bad for a fourteen year old runaway who should have
been raped within an inch of his young life and strangled to death within
the first six months of his odyssey. And I've got someone who loves me so
deeply it often scares and worries me, reminding me of the weight of
obligation that much love carries. Cowley was sure, looking back on it,
that I'd be sleeping with Susan and fighting with Ray over my infidelities
when he split us up and sent me to guard her that time, but there was
never any chance of that. Susan was -- and is -- a lovely woman, and of
course I could see how desirable she was, but...

Sex is sex and love is love. And I'd sooner do it with love. Now and then
I notice a particularly beautiful woman, and there are times when I dream
about cuddling someone soft and round, but when I wake up it's to find
soft, curly hair tickling my nose and a beautiful head on my shoulder, and
the love wells up, banishing everything else. Casual sex just isn't the
lure it once was, and I know Ray feels the same way. He's everything I
want, and, thank God, I seem to be everything he wants. The lecture he
gave his mother set down what he feels once and for all, leaving me in no
doubt about what he was giving me and expected from me.

His scars mostly tanned over the summer after he got fit; we spent every
spare moment out of doors, summer was long and mild, and by the time we
escaped to Barbados he was already tanned to that apricot jam colour he
goes. Three weeks in the Caribbean, and he was gypsy-dark, all he needed
was a silk scarf and an ear ring. And I had three more albums full of
photos -- two dimensional memories to look back on when we're old and
grey, thirty years from now, whistling through our dentures, dying our
hair and having hysterics over the Old Days. Its hard for me to picture
him old, and I don't intend to try; I'd sooner overlook the whole concept
and make time stand still as long as it will

With a bit of luck, that'll be a bloody long time.

-- THE END --

*July 1986*

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