The Professionals Circuit Archive - The Dearest Possession The Dearest Possession by LH Doyle sighed, looked round at the wreck of what had once been Bodie's immaculate flat. Trust Bodie to be away for the weekend with his latest girlfriend when it happened too... Burglars...vandals...whatever you wanted to call them, end Doyle could think of a few other choice names for them too. And they'd left a right mess behind them. To Doyle's shrewd eye it looked like every breakable object had been broken, every tearable object torn, every slashable object slashed; the place was a mass of devastation and destruction. He frowned distastefully. Burglary was always upsetting, and he didn't fancy the thought of being the one to tell Bodie what had happened either. Being the fiercely private, fastidious person he was, Bodie wasn't going to take kindly to this at all. A serious business too, a CI5 flat being burgled. It raised all kinds of worries, mainly the possibility of a security leak, for how had the thieves managed to get through the cast-iron security system off the flat in the first place? And what if there *had* been a breach of security? What if they had accidentally come across something they shouldn't have seen? Very worrying that... Of course there was always the added possibility the thieves had known all along that they were breaking into CI5 property, and had used the burglary as a cover...albeit a very elaborate cover, for they'd taken all the usual things...TV, hi-fi, video, plus about 100 in loose cash Bodie had left lying around...and that wasn't counting the vandalism they'd left behind them. He picked his way carefully through the smashed glasses, cups, tapes and records littering the carpet to the sofa, and flopped down heavily on it. It wasn't the most comfortable spot to sit, for it was minus its cushions and had been slashed right down to its springs, but it was still the best resting place the flat had to offer now the burglars had done their work. The ruin of one of a more expensive leather jacket, knife slashed in at least a dozen places, was lying on the sofa beside him. He picked it up, surveying the damage, frowned again, then screwed it into a tight angry ball and threw it back down on the sofa. A second set of footsteps crunched through broken glass as Cowley joined him, perching on an arm of the sofa. "You say you have a number for him?" "Yeah," Doyle sighed, "God, he's gonna love this little lot..." with another angry, sweeping glance round the room, "he'll have a bloody fit when he sees it." "Aye, a disturbing business," Cowley agreed, his gaze travelling round the room too, "it's to be hoped it was just a straightforward burglary." "Have forensics finished yet?" Doyle checked. "Just now," Cowley informed him, "an expert job. They knew exactly what they were doing, and apparently knew how to immobilize the security system too." "Well, if they've finished," Doyle went on, "I'll try and tidy up the worst of the mess before he gets back. It'll kill him to see the place like this..." But after Cowley had left, he stayed where he was on the sofa for a long time, staring into space. It wasn't exactly easy to know where to start... He got up at last though, sank to his knees on the floor in front of the sofa, starting to pick up scattered cushions, ashtrays, broken glass... Most of Bodie's books seemed to be scattered across the carpet too, and Doyle made a neat stack of them as he went along, occasionally glancing at some of the titles, making a separate pile of the books that had been ripped and vandalised, and were no longer worth keeping. Most of them were paperback novels, dog-eared and well read, but there were a few expensive hardbacks, mostly on the subjects he would have expected... weaponry, warfare, military history... There were the expected few volumes of carefully selected poetry too - Keats, Shelley, Byron and the like...a few obligatory pulp action novels, interspersed untypically and surprisingly with random volumes of philosophy. Doyle smiled to himself. Yeah, a man of varied tastes was Bodie. And much more complex than he appeared on the surface too. It'd taken Doyle quite a while to realise that, which wasn't surprising, when Bodie tried to keep it so carefully hidden. As if he wanted to come across only as some kind of shallow, good-time Charlie, for God's sake... But Doyle had long since discovered there was much more to Bodie than that. And it had been surprisingly rewarding to discover it too. Amazing to find out for instance, just how well read Bodie was, his knowledge encompassing a wide range of subjects. He was, Doyle had realised, much more knowledgeable than himself, specially on the history and philosophy side of things. Yeah, Bodie was really into all of that, and it was one of the things he broadcast least about himself too. Not surprising. Didn't really go with the cool, laid back image... But it had always fascinated Doyle how and why Bodie had managed to develop an interest in those subjects in the first place, for by Bodie's own admission, Doyle knew he'd had very little formal education. Left school as soon as he could, just as *he* had, and hated every minute of it too, or so he'd always maintained. So when had he developed the motivation to get into this kind of reading, because he certainly hadn't led the kind of life which was conducive to academic achievement after he'd left school. When had he found the time, if he'd been so busy with all the exploits he was so fond of recounting to anyone who was prepared to listen...when all of his time so far seemed to have been taken up in hard, military action? Where had the impetus come from for all this selective reading? He had to be self-taught too, for Doyle couldn't see how there'd been time for anything as mundane as evening classes in Bodie's short but busy life. He picked up one of the more expensive looking volumes lying on the floor, one of the ones that had been left intact, probably because it'd simply been too difficult to tear apart... He opened it idly, looked at the title page...Plato...The Phaedrus. God, Bodie and his philosophy. Nearly all Greek stuff too. Strange though. Doyle still wasn't quite used to the idea of Bodie going in for this kind of thing, though his partner made no secret of his interest, with him at least, and the books were always openly laying around the flat whenever Doyle bad been there. He didn't recall ever seeing this particular one before though...but he supposed it must have been here... There was an inscription on the flyleaf. Had the book been a present then? The writing was a series of thin, spidery loops and scrawls, difficult to read. He concentrated hard, managed to pick out the words to start... "From one idealist to another..." he read, "...always remember there is joy and fulfilment to be found in idealism too... J.S. Christmas 1968." J.S.? Who the hell was that? 1968...Bodie would have been 18, going on 19. Young...still in the Navy, if Bodie's own chronology of his life was to be believed. Probably overseas... J.S...the initials meant nothing to Doyle, certain 'J.S' wasn't someone Bodie had ever mentioned to him. But he had to have been important to Bodie. A book of this kind was a very personal kind of present, and Bodie had kept it with him all this time...in such good condition too...well taken care of, though the pages were so well-thumbed... Perhaps someone who'd played an important part in Bodie's formative years? For at 18 no one's character was fully formed. There were still so many tastes and beliefs and preferences to be discovered at that age. Was J.S. perhaps a teacher of some kind then? Crazy...Bodie didn't go in for that kind of thing. Doyle had never known anyone who was less swayed or influenced by others. He formed his own opinions, did Bodie...knew what he wanted, what he believed in... But at 18 it could have been a different story... Doyle remembered himself at the same age, realised he'd changed almost beyond recognition since then. The period from his late teens to his mid-twenties had transformed him from a cocky, streetwise kid into...what? Someone who ended up deciding he wanted to be on the other side of the law at least... So why couldn't the same transformation be true of Bodie? What had Bodie been like at 18? The idea was fascinating. He'd have to ask him about it. And if Bodie thought he was prying he could always tell him to mind his own business, couldn't he? And probably would too, he thought, amused. He flipped through the book, stopping now and again, interested, when he found countless passages which Bodie had neatly underlined and bracketed in pencil. One, near the beginning, began, "Now if you are afraid that public opinion will condemn you when men hear of your love affairs, reflect that the lover, believing that others will envy his good fortune as much as he values it himself is likely in a state of elation and gratified pride to publish generally the fact that his efforts have not gone unrewarded..." The words struck a strange, responsive chord somewhere in the back of Doyle's mind, almost as if they should have some personal relevance for him, but, frustrated, he couldn't quite grasp the connection... Another passage, a little further down the same page, read, "Then again, you may be alarmed by the reflection that friendships are easily broken, and that if that happens the greater part of the harm will fall on you, who have sacrificed your dearest possession..." Again, the same little spark of... recognition, shot through him, as if the words had a personal meaning for him... Troubled, he flipped further on, found another passage, later in the book, double underlined this time, "So now the beloved is in love, but with what he cannot tell. He does not know and cannot explain what has happened to him..." Doyle was puzzled. Bodie so preoccupied with love? Love as a subject for philosophic discourse? Love as an abstraction rather than a reality? Not like Bodie at all. He didn't think about it, for God's sake. He just went out and did it... The Phaedrus wasn't a book Doyle had ever read either. Oh, he'd managed to plough his way through The Republic years ago, during one of his periodic, aesthetic, self-improvement bouts, and had found it tough going as well, pleased he'd even managed to finish the damned thing...but he'd be the first to admit he hadn't understood everything he'd read there, and it hadn't particularly appealed to him either, so he'd never bothered with Plato after that, but he'd heard of The Phaedrus all right, and he knew what it was about too...the Greek ideal...platonic love and all that... He deliberately cut the thought off in mid-stream, not wanting to take it any further, finding himself troubled by it. Frowning, he continued to flip through the book, right to the back...where he found the photograph...neatly sellotaped in place on the inside back cover... A photo of himself, taken here in Bodie's flat...by Bodie... about eighteen months ago... One of the ones Bodie had taken when they'd been fooling around with the camera Bodie had bought that weekend. He'd used up a whole roll of film, Doyle remembered, "...just practising...", taking shot after shot of him, joking all the time, making all his usual, glib, derogatory comments, telling Doyle what a good guinea pig he made to test out the new camera... Doyle had seen all the pictures when they'd been developed too; for some reason Bodie had made a point of showing them to him. He remembered they'd even had a good laugh about them because some of the earlier ones on the roll had been so bad, all blurred and muddy, till Bodie had got the hang of the focussing and the light meter... and then there'd been the others where Doyle had fooled around... spoiled them he supposed, by posing a bit and pulling faces... They'd split them right down the middle, taken half each, and Doyle had immediately forgotten about his share. Stuffed them into a drawer at home somewhere he imagined. He'd no idea where they were now. But this one, the one taped so carefully at the back of the book, had to be one of the better ones. He didn't even remember Bodie taking it. But Bodie must have caught him off guard, because he looked pretty serious on it, and he remembered that had definitely not been a serious day. It'd been a crazy day...a fun day... But there he was, sitting side-on, gazing out of the window, here in the sitting room, looking a bit dreamy-eyed and far away... Oh Christ... He shut his eyes, screwing them up tight, closed the book with a loud bang, letting it fall to his lap, took a deep, shaking, disbelieving breath...opened his eyes again to discover that the room was suddenly blurred in front of them... ...Always remember there is joy and fulfilment to be found in idealism too... He took another deeper, calming breath, sniffed hard, wiped a hand over his eyes, and clambered awkwardly to his feet, still holding onto the book... He was wrong. Of course he was wrong...had to be. None of his business anyway. What the hell was he doing, looking through Bodie's things in the first place? It was his own bloody fault and he deserved everything he got...He should forget he'd ever seen the damned book... stop wasting time...and concentrate on clearing this place up a bit before he phoned Bodie and broke the news about the burglary... Christ no...he couldn't do any of that...for in his heart of hearts he knew he wasn't wrong at all. Everything was suddenly making such blindingly clear sense he knew he couldn't be wrong. No, he wouldn't phone Bodie yet. He had some thinking to do before he did that...and a couple of delusions to make, maybe very important decisions...and...he looked down at the book clasped tightly in his hand...a little serious reading to do too... Wiping shakily at his eyes again, he found as comfortable a spot as possible on the ruined sofa, opened the book, and started to read... -- THE END -- Archive Home