The Professionals Circuit Archive - Caravans	     Caravans

 

by Mandragora

  
 Oh, bloody hell!" Bodie's nose wrinkled with disgust as he squinted
through the windscreen of the silver Capri. Light refracted off shiny
paint-work as the car cruised to a halt at the end of three stationary
lanes of traffic. The stray burst of sunlight broke for an instant the
grey gloom of the lowering sky. "I told you that we should've--" 

"Yeah, yeah," Doyle interrupted, suppressing a groan. "And I told you that
I couldn't set off any earlier, because I promised Stuart--" 

"That weasel!" 

"...promised Stuart I'd introduce him to my grass," Doyle continued,
inserting a note of condescending patience into his voice. Okay, maybe
this wasn't the best way of dealing with William Andrew Philip Bodie when
in full pissed-off mode but Doyle's patience--never large to begin
with--was just about exhausted. "Seeing as Eddie had info that might be
useful in the Marburg case that Stuart's working on. Nothing important, of
course." 

"Yeah, okay." Bodie's voice was grudging. "But why did the daft sod insist
on this morning? The Friday before the Bank holiday. Jesus Christ, any
idiot could've predicted that traffic would be bad pretty much everywhere.
Let alone on the bleedin' M1!" 

"Probably did it just to fuck up your day." 

Bodie shot him an irritated glance, but his mouth was twitching with
suppressed amusement. Doyle grinned at him and for an instant Bodie's
glower lifted and a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, but a
moment later it faded, together with the fleeting sunshine. Grey, all
around was grey. Better that than Bodie's temper unleashed, though. 

Doyle sighed. It looked like today Bodie was determined to take offence at
the smallest things. Yeah, maybe it would've been better to have started
the drive up north along Britain's busiest road earlier, beat the usual
Friday weekend traffic, worsened by the fact that it was the May Bank
Holiday weekend. So, when Stuart asked him for an introduction to his
snout he'd suggested that they better make it really early, seeing as the
Cow had ordered him and Bodie up north. 

And he'd explained to Bodie why he was late, when faced with a
black-browed scowl at his turning up as Bodie had so charmingly put it,
'at eight fucking thirty in the morning--just in time for rush-hour'. His
snout Eddie had got stuck on the tube, signal failure at Kentish Town he'd
said. It really wasn't Doyle's fault that they were delayed in setting
off. 

Nor was it his fault that there were road-works on the North Circ, just
before the Uxbridge Roundabout, so that it took them half an hour longer
than usual, even accounting for the volume 

of rush hour traffic, to get to the M1. Then there'd been the accident at
Junction 10, by Luton, and that had delayed them another forty minutes.
And all the time Bodie's already black mood had got blacker and blacker,
descending from shades of dark indigo to deepest ebony. Doyle glanced at
the blanched knuckles of Bodie's hands, gripping tight to the steering
wheel and winced. That had got to hurt. 

"Pass us that bag in the back, would you, Doyle." 

Doyle turned around. A white paper bag sat in solitary splendour on the
ochre and orange pattern that crisscrossed the backseat of the car. He
grunted as he twisted round, finally undoing the seatbelt to grab the bag.
There was a familiar rustle as he looked inside. "Christ, Bodie! What did
you do? Knock off a sweet shop? We're only going as far as Yorkshire, you
know, not the North Pole." Doyle looked at the assortment of chocolate
bars with amused disbelief. He counted a Marathon, a Kit-Kat, a chunky
Aero--minted flavour, a dark chocolate Bounty, a large bar of Cadbury's
Dairy Milk, ditto a bar of Bourneville, a smaller bar of Galaxy, a
Crunchie, a Toffee Crisp and two Curlywurlys. He held one up. "Two of
these, mate. Must really like them." 

Bodie glanced over and shrugged. "Always liked June Whitfield." Doyle
frowned at Bodie in puzzlement. Bodie must have felt his stare because he
said, "'*Terry and June*'." 

A second later Doyle remembered that Terry Scott advertised Curlywurlys
and shook his head. "I wonder about you sometimes. Terry Scott's not
really married to her, you know." 

"He is on the telly." 

"Anyway, I didn't think she fit your criteria. She's got to be over
fifty." 

Bodie's gaze slanted sideways. "Dunno, she's in her forties isn't she? And
she's definitely still breathing." 

"Ah, but does she come across? And I thought you were a bit pickier than
that. You 

seriously telling me that you fancy her?" 

"Always liked the motherly type, myself." 

"Really? That explains why you went for Angie, then," Doyle said,
referring to Bodie's latest girlfriend, who was anything but motherly and
was a right little scrubber. Sexy, though. 

Bodie grimaced. "Like you wouldn't've, if you got the chance." 

Doyle shook his head. "Not my type, mate. Like them with a bit more class
than that." 

"How remiss of me, I forgot you like to spend time at Daddy's place in the
country at the weekend." Bodie's voice echoed with the faux upper class
accent he could assume at will. It was more convincing than Doyle's best
attempt, even though he was better at accents generally, better at
blending in, at going undercover. Bodie could only do two accents, scouser
(and after all he'd been brought up in Liverpool so bloody well ought to
be able to do that one) and posh. Not much of a repertoire, that. 

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of creature comfort," Doyle said
absently, not paying much attention to what he was actually saying as he
placed the bag onto his lap, where Bodie could easily reach it. 

"Yeah, you've got that one down pat. Go for the birds with money, don't
you? God knows we won't get rich in this game." There was a note of
bitterness in Bodie's voice that shocked Doyle but, even as he opened his
mouth, not certain what he was going to say, with a savage twist of the
dial Bodie turned the radio up full blast. 

Doyle winced as his eardrums were assaulted by the sound of Soft Cell,
Marc Almond singing about his '*Tainted Love*'. A hit from a couple of
years back; in the summer of '81 the record had been everywhere, at number
one for weeks--months--on end. It wasn't that bad a song, just a bit too
loud at present. Swiftly, he leant forward and turned down the volume. 

"Oi! I was listening to that." 

"Going deaf are you?" Doyle retorted smartly. "They could hear it in John
o' Groats, you'd got it turned up so loud." 

Bodie said nothing in response, merely sniffing in disapproval but
mercifully he left the volume control alone. He reached over and picked up
the Toffee Crisp from the bag in Doyle's lap, muttered, "Help yourself,"
then disposed of the chocolate bar in a few, voluminously swift bites.
Ignoring Doyle's disapproving look, he subsequently ate half the Bounty,
offering the other to Doyle who refused it with a wordless shake of his
head. Bodie ate the rest. 

Doyle threw the paper bag into the back seat, then leaned his head against
the backrest of the chair and tried to sleep as the car crawled forward,
stuck in the queue of traffic, the pop music from the radio echoing
tinnily in his head. But he was unable to relax, not with the object of
his latest worry sitting right next to him. 

What the fuck was wrong with Bodie? 

He'd been in a bad mood all morning, his temper lasting far longer than
normal for Bodie--when being typically Bodie. But Bodie wasn't behaving
typically. 

Doyle felt a faint sense of outrage--he was the unpredictable one, not
Bodie. Doyle prided himself on being able to forecast with a fair degree
of accuracy exactly how his partner would react in any given situation.
He'd only been wrong once, when Bodie had gone off on a particularly
stupid frolic of his own and decided to kill the biker, King Billy. If
Doyle thought about it (although he tried not to) he could've kicked
himself for being so oblivious there. He ought to have worked out what was
going on in Bodie's thick head. That he hadn't was a failure on his
part--and Doyle disliked failure intensely. He wasn't going to fail again.


Except that he was. Because something was wrong and he hadn't the foggiest
idea what it was. 

He was disturbed from his reverie as Bodie yelped in protest. "God no!"
There was a note of horror in his partner's voice that made Doyle grin
involuntarily. 

"What? What's the matter?" 

"Simon bleeding Bates and '*Our Tune*' is what's the matter." 

Doyle listened to the voice emanating from the speakers in the car,
hearing the unctuous tones of the Radio 1 DJ rabbiting on about Lorraine
and her tragic dumping for another woman by 'our Gary', her boyfriend of
fifteen years ago. He glanced at his watch, yep, it was eleven o clock,
time for '*Our Tune*' all right. Not that he listened to it but he'd had a
girlfriend, Mandy, who was a regular devotee. Doyle shared Bodie's
abhorrence of this particular radio feature. "So switch to another
station," he suggested. Jesus, he wondered where Bodie's brains were on
occasion. 

Bodie grimaced and shook his head. "Can't," he said succinctly. "Dial's
broken." He exhaled heavily. "I wanted to listen to the test-match this
afternoon on Radio 3, too." 

"Maybe we'll be there by then." 

"With this traffic," Bodie snorted. "Not bloody likely." He reached over
and turned the radio off with a decisive snap. "You didn't want to listen
to that did you?" he asked belatedly. 

"Bit late now if I did, isn't it?" 

"For Christ's sake, Doyle, you can always switch it back on, you know.
Must you be so fucking self righteous all the time?" 

Doyle gritted his teeth, telling himself that he was not going to rise to
the bait. He wasn't. He swallowed his temper and said nothing, contenting
himself with glaring at Bodie's profile as his partner stared steadfastly
ahead. He knew that Bodie could feel the glare, but his partner didn't
crumble and glance at him. 

Par for the course nowadays. Bodie seemed to spend all too much of his
time ignoring Doyle recently. He had thought for a while that Bodie was
merely wrapped up in something else, off in his own little world. 

Some new bird, maybe--one that he didn't want to compete with Doyle
over--had grabbed his attention. If so, she would soon go the way of all
the rest and he might as well let the lad enjoy his infatuation while it
lasted. 

But there wasn't a new girl. Bodie was still seeing Angie; Doyle knew he
was as they'd double dated last night. Not one of their better efforts, he
reflected ruefully. In fact, fucking (or not-so-fucking, seeing as he
hadn't got any) disaster might be a better description. Angie and Jane,
his date, hadn't exactly got along like a house on fire. Jane had taken
one look at Angie's tight, black skirt, her shiny, purple,
plunging-cleavaged blouse and seamed black stockings, faked a smile and
sat down as far from the other woman as she could get. Angie noticed, of
course and deliberately set out to annoy Jane, rubbing up against Bodie,
twining herself around him and acting like a skinny, inky-haired cat in
heat. 

Doyle had tried to catch Bodie's eye, exchange a commiserating 'Women!
What can you do with 'em' look, maybe suggest an early split before the
evening was totally ruined. But Bodie ignored him, lapping up Angie's
attentions, even bloody well encouraging her. That wasn't like Bodie, who
usually made some effort to follow the social niceties, at least when in
company. He and Angie'd gone so far that Doyle had thought about selling
tickets, when he wasn't worrying how Jane would take it if they were
chucked out of the pub. 

The evening ended with Jane leaving, worse, leaving without telling Doyle
that she was going. She said she was going to the loo but never came back.
It took him a good half-hour to clock to that one, thinking that there was
probably a queue for the ladies. Women moaned about that all the time.
When he finally realised that she'd done a bunk, Bodie wasn't exactly full
of sympathy, commenting merely, "Well, Ray, me old son, you know what they
say. Win some, lose some. Course, I only know about winning, meself." 

Angie giggled indistinctly, mouth engaged in making a five-course banquet
out of nibbling Bodie's ear. Doyle got up, in no mood to be made fun of,
not by his stupid git of a partner or his slapper of a girlfriend. "I'm
off," he announced. 

Bodie didn't look up from excavating Angie's tonsils, didn't even wave or
acknowledge Doyle's leaving in any way. He simply ignored him. 

Doyle had intended to have words with Master Bodie about his behaviour
last night this morning, let him know in no uncertain terms that it wasn't
something Doyle intended to tolerate. He knew that there were times when
Bodie bent over backwards to accommodate him, keep him sweet. The secret
tinge of satisfaction Doyle had at that wasn't something he was
particularly proud of. 

But that satisfaction was largely missing nowadays. Now it was him doing
the accommodating and he didn't like it. Not at all. Faced with Bodie's
temper this morning, he had decided that prudence was the better part of
valour and declined to raise the subject. 

Shit! 

Bodie had once accused him of having a yellow streak down his back. When
had that turned into reality? Since when had Ray Doyle backed off, from
anything or anyone? 

Since his partner had turned into someone more cantankerous than Alf
Garnett was when. Talk about touchy. And he'd been so for...well, a while,
really. So, how long was it, exactly? 

Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the seatbelt edge digging sharply
into the side of his neck. But all his wriggling about could not halt the
uneasy realisation that Bodie had been seriously off form for weeks at
least, maybe longer. Damn it, he ought to know since when. But he didn't.
Okay, he'd had other things on his mind, but Bodie was his partner, for
Christ's sake. The man he depended on to watch his back. Some fucking
copper he was. 

Doyle inhaled sharply as he finally realised what he had somehow managed
to miss, obscured by Bodie's bad temper and his own self-preoccupation.
Somehow, somewhere, sometime, so gradually that he couldn't pinpoint the
exact moment, Bodie had withdrawn from him. He was all surface
congeniality, showing Doyle a shiny, smooth exterior; a black beetle's
carapace, reflecting Doyle back at himself, giving nothing away. 

Doyle blinked hard as it hit him that he had never seen Bodie behave quite
like this before. Not even in the early, competitive days of their
partnership before they had learned to communicate merely by a look, a
motion, a raised eyebrow. 

Ostensibly it was all still there; on the surface the partnership was
rock-solid. There had been no dip in their efficiency rating, 4.5 and 3.7
were as good as ever, Cowley's best. But Doyle knew that something was
off, last night and this morning had finally brought it home to him. He
just wasn't sure what. Or what to do about it. 

He worried at his lower lip, then straightened in his seat again, trying
to get comfortable. Bodie glanced across at him. "What's the matter,
Raymond? Jane leave a few bruises last night did she? No, I forgot, Jane
buggered off and left you all on your own. Has to be frustration, then.
Don't have that problem myself, of course. But then, some of us scored
last night." 

Doyle eyed his partner with acute dislike. "Fuck you!" 

"No thanks, darlin', leave that to Angie, eh." 

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, fighting for calm. It wouldn't do him
any good to rise to the bait, especially as that was obviously what Bodie
wanted. Well, Bodie could just go fuck himself! Bugger the stupid bastard
anyway. He was spending far too much time worrying about this. Why should
he worry what the fuck Bodie-- 

He glanced at his partner, noting the movement of powerful thighs and
Bodie's capable hand changing gear, sliding smoothly into fifth. 

--thought anyway? It wasn't as if they lived in one another's fucking
pockets. Not really. Fuck! 

Fucking Bodie. 

Bodie fucking. 

That was a sight all right, all heavy cream skin poured over smooth
muscle. He'd seen Bodie in action a few times, when they'd double dated
and ended up at either his place or Bodie's. So he knew how Bodie turned
his whole attention onto his girl, concentrated on her, must make her feel
really good, special, Doyle reckoned. Bodie had all the talk down pat too,
could lay on the charm thick, coax the birds right out of the trees when
he wanted to, could Master Bodie. No wonder the girls fell for it. 

Wish he'd turn a little of that charm Doyle's way, no matter that he knew
it was false, fake, designed to get Bodie precisely what he wanted, which
was into the girl's knickers in the shortest possible time. But it would
make a nice change from the moody bastard who was sitting beside him. 

Oh, fuck him. 

Doyle shifted his attention to the road, searching for distraction, noting
and sorting with his trained eyes the differing types of traffic. 

The Capri was moving much faster now, the queue that they had been stuck
in having melted away, leaving no clue as to why it had formed in the
first place. It could be something as innocuous as some old dear pootling
along at forty miles an hour, or just a hill in the road, which some
under-powered cars couldn't cope with and had to slow down when they hit
it. The knock-on effect was a traffic jam several miles long back down the
motorway. 

Doyle took in the high concentration of lorries, probably all trying to
get back home for the long weekend and travelling salesmen, recognisable
by their suit jackets which hung ubiquitously from a hook on the inside of
the car, so as not to crease them. Then there were the families, off on
holiday from the looks of it. Often there were roof-racks on the car with
suitcases strapped precariously on top. If he looked closely he could see
the kids squabbling in the back, while their parents did their utmost to
ignore the noise in the front. Sometimes the mother--who almost invariably
was in the front passenger seat while the man of the house drove--would
attempt to placate her noisy offspring with offerings of colouring books,
or sweets. 

It made Doyle glad that he hadn't got a family, that he could spend the
rest of his miserable, selfish life playing cowboys. He bit down hard on
that thought. He was not going there, not again. Not now. 

Glancing around, he noted something that puzzled him. "Lot of caravans on
the road," he mused, not really noticing that he had spoken aloud until
Bodie snorted. 

"It's the Bank Holiday. What else did you expect? It's prime caravan
season, Mr and Mrs Average and their two point four kids off for the
annual two weeks holiday." 

"Bit early for that, isn't it? It's May, not August and don't the schools
go back on Tuesday?" 

"Dunno." Bodie shot a quick, unreadable glance at him from indigo eyes.
"You're the one who's seeing a schoolteacher, not me." 

"Emma? But we split up weeks ago," Doyle protested. 

Another of those unreadable glances. "Did you? Must've forgotten to
mention it, then." 

Doyle blinked. Maybe he had forgotten at that. It wouldn't be surprising,
given circumstances of late. "So, you ever been on one, a caravanning
holiday, I mean?" he asked, not sure why he was persisting in making
conversation but all his instincts insisted that they needed to sort out
whatever the problem was--and fast. He was nothing if not persistent,
Bodie having on more than one occasion unflatteringly compared his
tenacity to that of a ferret down a rabbit hole. This was an ideal
opportunity to have it out--whatever 'it' was-- with Bodie. Start with
something innocuous and go on from there, a proven interrogation
technique. 

This time Bodie's gaze was tinged with a hint of amusement. "Can you
really see me *volunteering* to spend time in one of those little metal
boxes. It's bad enough on stakeout." 

Doyle grinned at him. Bodie had a point. Doyle knew full well that Bodie
had a taste for luxury, which normally he freely admitted to despite that
nasty crack earlier about Doyle going for women with money. Like Bodie
didn't? Because it would be the height of hypocrisy--and whatever his
faults that was one that Bodie had never been guilty of--to suggest
otherwise. "Maybe not now," Doyle said, conceding the point, "but what
about when you were little?" 

A second later and Doyle was cursing as Bodie's face closed in, then
smoothed out, a familiar blank look crossing his features. Stupid! He knew
Bodie didn't like talking about his childhood, knew it, so why had he
brought the subject up? Him and his big mouth. "I always wanted to go on
one, stay in a caravan, when I was young," he said quickly, striving for
just the right reminiscing tone of voice. 

There was a moment's silence, then Bodie spoke. "But you never did?" 

"No. Mam and Dad never fancied the idea. We went to a holiday let in
Llangrannog every year instead." He made certain that he gave Llangrannog
its proper pronunciation, rolling the 'c' sound of the double 'l' at the
back of his throat in approved Welsh fashion. 

"So where's that, then?" Bodie asked, deadpan. 

Doyle shot him a mock-annoyed glare. "Wales, you berk. North Wales, near
Cardigan." 

"Oh. Never would have guessed from the name." 

"Yeah, yeah. So me Welsh could do with some work. It's a beautiful place,
though, Llangrannog. Has two of the best beaches I've ever seen, all
silvery sand, and some great rock pools. When the tide went out there were
always lots of great things left behind, starfish, seahorses, masses of
seaweed. The second beach you could walk round when the tide was out, but
had to go over the cliffs--we used to call it 'going over the top'--when
the tide was in. We nearly got trapped there, on the second beach, a few
times when the tide was really high, had to make a run for it to the
cliff." 

"You really liked it there." Bodie's voice was low. 

"Yeah." Doyle shook himself a little, self-conscious in his enthusiasm.
"Well, we went there every year as I said, so got to know it really well.
The locals all knew us as well, used to give me and Nige free sweets and
crisps. I'll take you there some time, if you like," he offered
impulsively. A moment later, when there was no response from the other
side of the car he was cursing himself. Stupid. *Again.* 

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Ray." 

"Oh. Good. Well, how about next time we've both got a few days off? That
is, if I'm--" Doyle bit off what he had been about to say hastily and
continued, barely missing a beat, "I'll see if I can get us into The
Ship-- that's the village pub. Serves great beer, or so Dad used to say."
Doyle was aware that he was chattering to cover his surprise. Bodie had
not only said yes, but he hadn't bitten his head off. Progress. 

"Sounds good to me." With that, silence descended, warm and familiar, then
Bodie spoke again. "Blackpool." 

"Eh?" 

"We went to Blackpool once, all of us." 

Doyle suppressed the immediate impulse to ask just who 'all of us' was and
contented himself with a questioning look. 

"Stayed in a boarding house, looked at the Illuminations, went on the
rides, you know the type of thing." 

"I've never been to Blackpool." Doyle spoke absently, still trying to come
to terms with Bodie actually volunteering (probably true) information
about his mysterious past. 

"Haven't missed much. Although the Illuminations are nice, they go on for
over a mile, you know." 

"Must be why they call it the Golden Mile." 

"Yeah, okay. Twat!" 

"Takes one to know one." 

Bodie gave Doyle a mildly admonishing look as he glanced into the wing
mirror, indicated and caused the car to pull over into the middle lane and
then into the outside lane. "Petrol," he said, as the Capri turned off the
motorway into a service station, slowing smartly as it careered round a
corner. 

"How about stopping for a cuppa?" Doyle asked. "Could do with a slash,
too." 

Bodie scowled, well-defined mahogany brows drawing together in thought. "I
dunno, we're running late as it is." 

"Oh, c'mon, Bodie, I'm parched." 

"Okay. I'm a bit dry meself," Bodie admitted, steering the Capri into the
car park. 

Inside, the service station had the usual plastic ambience, scuffed and
faintly shabby. There was a shop to the left of the entrance selling an
assortment of newspapers, magazines, overpriced tapes, snacks and
chocolate. Ahead was the so-called 'restaurant', which in reality was a
self-service café. It smelt of chips, bacon and fried eggs. 

"You want tea?" Bodie asked. 

"You buying?" Doyle raised an eyebrow interrogatively. 

"Might as well. I'll be queuing up at the Post Office for me pension by
the time you volunteer." 

Doyle ignored this blatant--and untrue-- slur on his generosity. "Ta.
Think I'll have a coffee, though. I'm off to the bog." 

"D'you want a sticky bun? Scone?" 

Doyle pondered for a moment, then shook his head. "No thanks. And you'd be
better off not having one, either, after all that chocolate." 

Bodie favoured him with a narrow-eyed stare. "Who do you think you are? My
mother?" 

"Nope. I'm the bloke you have to keep up with when we're chasing some nice
friendly axe murderer." He smirked at Bodie, whose scowl intensified,
knowing full well, Doyle reckoned, that he was having trouble keeping up
with him since he'd put on a few pounds recently. 

The thought struck him as he was washing his hands in the gents. That
couldn't be what was wrong with Bodie, could it? Worry about his weight
and general fitness? No, not Bodie. He wasn't the type to worry about a
few extra pounds, not when he knew that a good session with Macklin would
shift them readily enough, not to mention being secure about his looks.
God knows Bodie never had any problem pulling the birds. And he was
certainly fit enough. Doyle might be a bit faster but Bodie was only
marginally behind him. 

But, the fact that he had gained weight recently might be a symptom, even
if not the cause. When Bodie was unhappy, he ate. Doyle set his jaw and
decided that enough was enough. He was going to find out what was wrong
with the stupid git if it killed him--and if he pissed Bodie off enough it
just might. 

He found Bodie sitting at a table by the window in the café. There was no
sign of a sticky bun Doyle noted approvingly as he slid into the blue
plastic chair opposite his partner. He wrinkled his nose at the table,
which was covered in scratched Formica and had been inadequately cleaned,
traces of HP sauce still lingering, smeared on the surface. The whole
place was in desperate need of a refit; it was dingy even by service
station standards, the walls faded to an indeterminate beige, highlighted
with a nasty brown skirting board. 

He glanced about, automatically cataloguing entrances and exits. The place
was fairly full for that indeterminate time between morning coffee and
lunch, with a mixed clientele ranging from noisy families to salesmen
sitting studying *'The Sun'* in solitary splendour, together with a couple
of overalled lorry drivers and a group of eight bikers, encased in
brightly coloured leather and lounging, legs spread, in a corner. Nothing
that looked particularly threatening. 

He sipped his coffee and scrunched up his face as the almost-scalding
liquid hit his taste-buds. "God, that's terrible." 

Bodie shook his head. "Best service station coffee, that. Vintage." 

"*Chateau horrible*," Doyle agreed, as he took another sip, shuddered and
downed the coffee swiftly, yelping a little as the hot liquid scorched his
tongue. Bodie made no attempt to rush his own coffee, sitting placidly
sipping at the fluid. "How can you?" Doyle enquired, watching in appalled
fascination. 

Bodie shrugged. "Army nosh. You can get used to anything." 

"I *knew* there was a reason why the army didn't appeal. Even the police
canteen grub is better than this." 

Bodie grinned at him. "Actually, usually the army food isn't that bad,
there'd be a mutiny otherwise. It's better than the crap that PC Plod
gets, anyway." 

Doyle raised his eyes to heaven, beseeching patience. It was an old
squabble between them, comfortable like an old slipper worn through much
use. "You're just saying that 'cos--" he began, but what he was going to
say was drowned out by a noisy scrape of chair and then a ringing crash as
the chair tumbled backwards onto the floor. 

Doyle leapt to his feet, subliminally aware that opposite him Bodie had
done the same, swiftly scanning the room for the source of the noise.
There, where the bikers were. One of them, a great hulking man, the strip
lighting reflecting off short, dark hair and greasily white skin, was on
his feet, fists clenched, towering over one of the restaurant staff, who
was bleating that he didn't want any aggro. 

As one, both CI5 agents moved smoothly towards the bikers, ready to take
charge of the situation and defuse the tension before it got ugly. Doyle
was aware of the familiar adrenaline rush, blood pulsing fast through his
veins, heart hammering, the response automatic and uncalled. His focus
narrowed and sharpened, cool eyes instinctively assessing the situation. 

It was unlikely the bikers were armed with anything more lethal than a
switchblade, deadly close up, but no match for his and Bodie's guns,
doubtful though it was that they'd have to draw them. They could take the
bikers, he reckoned, easy. With the ease of long practice he let nothing
of his thoughts show on his face. Bodie, too, looked calm and unperturbed
but Doyle knew that his partner was no more immune to the throbbing
excitement than he was. A quick glance at each other and they were ready,
splitting up wordlessly in order to smoothly approach the area from
opposite, intersecting directions. One, two, three-- 

A small figure exploded into the room. 

--they stopped, stilled in mid-step. 

"Pete," the figure screeched. "You stop right there, Peter Morris. Don't.
You. Dare." A short, skinny woman, hair bleached to an improbable shade of
flaxen yellow, stood at the entrance to the restaurant. She wore tight
jeans and a black leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet emblazoned with
leaping scarlet flames dangled negligently from her hand. A moment later
and she was mincing across the floor, stiletto boot-heels clicking on the
tiles. Doyle's gaze followed her as she approached the frozen tableau in
the corner. The biker--Pete--shifted a little uncomfortably as the woman
fixed him with a basilisk's stare, from slitted blackberry eyes. "What the
bleedin' hell do you think you're doing?" Her voice was high and
childlike, but there was nothing childish about her sharp, terrier's face.


Pete cringed visibly. "He were rude, Linda," he mumbled in a Yorkshire
accented baritone. 

"Rude. I'll give you rude, you big oaf." 

The woman turned to the restaurant employee. "He's ever so sorry. 'e
didn't hurt you did he, love?" 

"Er, n--no," the man stammered, obviously shaken. 

"That's all right then." With that, Linda turned beady eyes on the
remaining bikers. "And what were you lot doing?" she demanded. "Letting
him bully this poor man like that. Men!" she sniffed. 

Doyle's eyes met Bodie's. They were brimming with mirth and Bodie was
biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to prevent laughter escaping.


"But Linda," one of the bikers whined, "Pete's right. He was rude." 

"That's no excuse for violence," Linda snapped. "What did yer mum say?" 

The biker shrank back in his seat as a crimson flush made its way up neck
to forehead. 

"Come on, we're leaving." Linda's voice was imperious, that of an empress
expecting to be immediately obeyed. 

"But I haven't finished me tea," another biker made the mistake of
protesting. Her glare impaled him and he wilted, like a weed blighted by
frost. "Right," he mumbled. "I'll just get me things then, shall I?" 

A moment later and the strange procession wended its way out of the
restaurant; eight leather-clad men following one small woman, rather like
a pack of St Bernards meekly pursuing a poodle. 

Doyle managed to control himself until there was no sign of them, then he
made the mistake of looking at Bodie again. Both men exploded into
laughter, the pent-up adrenaline finding its release. "Did you see their
faces," Doyle gasped. 

"Did you see *hers*!" 

"Stop it," Doyle groaned, ribs aching. 

"Cowley should take her on--she'd terrorise the whole fucking underworld
into submission." 

Doyle laughed harder, making his way back to his seat on unsteady legs and
sinking down, still chuckling. But no sooner had he seated himself than
Bodie was draining the last dregs of his coffee and saying, "Ready to hit
the road?" 

Doyle shrugged and followed his partner silently back to the car. They saw
the bikers at the other end of the car park and could hear Linda's voice
cutting through the air sharper than a switchblade through flesh. Bodie
turned and grinned companionably back at Doyle, who raised a twitching
eyebrow in response. 

"Wonder if they could market it," Bodie commented as he started the car
and drove to the adjacent BP petrol station. 

"What?" 

"Whatever it is that Linda's on. Could be Britain's secret weapon." 

"Yeah, would put the wind right up the Russians." As he spoke, Doyle
caught Bodie's eye and they were off, two grown men giggling like a couple
of third form schoolgirls. "Stop it," Doyle said again, severely, control
almost restored. "It's not like it was that funny." 

"Not if you're Pete, anyway." 

Bodie missed Doyle's admonishing look, as he got out of the car to fill up
on four star. Several minutes later and they were back on the motorway. 

The atmosphere in the car was the most relaxed it had been all morning as
Bodie drove swiftly north, changing lanes on the outside with a fine
disregard for the Highway Code. Doyle pondered his options for a while,
loath to disturb the present feeling of ease between Bodie and him. But as
the car sped smoothly along the motorway he told himself severely not to
be such a sodding coward, thinking of his previous thoughts regarding his
yellow streak. Now was a good time to tackle Bodie. Nothing heavy, he'd be
subtle, sound him out first for a bit maybe. 

"So, you wanna tell me what's wrong?" he blurted out. Fuck! He was a
trained interrogator, for God's sake. 

"Eh?" 

"You've been a bit...distant lately. Anything you want to tell me?" 

"What the hell are you on about, Doyle?" Bodie's voice wasn't hostile--not
yet, anyway--but it was tinged with impatience. 

"You, me. Us," Doyle said, gesturing vaguely about him. 

"That's really eloquent, that is. Should stand for Parliament, mate, win
'em over with your speeches." 

"Sod off," Doyle said automatically. He stopped and sighed, ran a hand
impatiently through his hair. "Look, there's something wrong, you know
there is. After what happened last time... You never said-- Going off on a
frolic of your own. Well, it's just not on, Bodie. C'mon, talk to me." 

He gazed earnestly at Bodie's ivory-skinned profile as his partner stared
steadfastly ahead. "I don't know what bee you've got in your bonnet this
time but there's nothing wrong with me. Dunno where you get your ideas
from sometimes." 

Doyle groaned inwardly. So it was going to be silence, was it? That was
when Bodie was most difficult to handle, not when he lost his temper and
behaved like a bear with a sore head, nor when he did his bull in a china
shop impersonation, showing a real talent for tactlessness. Doyle was well
used to both modes of behaviour, knew how to deal with them deftly and
with the minimum of fuss. But when Bodie clammed up tighter than a
Scotsman's sporran on his stag night, then there was trouble. When
something was important to Bodie he wouldn't talk about it. Like now. 

Shit! 

"I've noticed lately that you've been a bit... Recently... It's like I
said, you've been distant. Lately." Doyle winced at the lame sound of his
own voice and was unable to make himself resent even a little bit the look
of derision Bodie threw his way. 

"Your imagination working overtime again, is it? You can be a sensitive
little flower sometimes, petal, you know that?" Doyle bristled
automatically at the patronising tone, not to mention the words and opened
his mouth to blast his partner with a few well-chosen comments but Bodie
was continuing. "Maybe you ought to think about whether there's something
wrong with you." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Doyle snarled. 

"Look at what you've just said. Making vague comments about there bein'
something wrong with me, but you can't tell me what. Doesn't sound right
to me. Look, Ray, if the stress is getting to you or something, there's no
shame in asking for some time off. Happens to the best of us, mate." 

"The best of us being you, I suppose?" 

Bodie ignored the note of intense sarcasm to beam beatifically, while
simultaneously and unsuccessfully attempting to look suitably modest. "If
the cap fits..." 

"No cap's big enough to fit a head that big," Doyle shot back, but his
heart wasn't in it. "And there's nothing wrong with me. It's you, I tell
you." 

"Name me one thing--one thing, Doyle-- that I am, or am not doing that's
different from normal." 

"Your temper for a start. I never know where I stand with you nowadays.
One minute you're fine, the next you're biting my head off." 

"You really take the fucking biscuit, you know that?" Bodie's stare was
incredulity itself. "*I've* been biting your head off. What about you?" 

"We're not talking about me." Doyle was vaguely proud of how unruffled his
voice sounded. "I'll admit I've got a bit of a temper at times--" 

He ignored the muttered, "At times!" from Bodie. 

"--but it's not like you to be so mardy all the time." 

"Oh for fuck's sake! Jesus, you could make a drama out of a--a teapot."
Doyle blinked at the less than coherent simile but Bodie was continuing
on. "Just because I've been a bit testy lately you make out that the whole
bleeding world is coming to an end. You know, you're the worst bloody
drama queen in CI5, could give Liz Taylor a run for her money." Doyle
opened his mouth in protest but Bodie didn't give him the opportunity to
speak, the words tumbling out like bullets from a machine gun. "So no one
else is allowed to have moods, are they? Just Raymond bloody Doyle. What a
fucking ego! You've got more front than Jeffrey Archer." 

"Bodie..." Doyle injected a distinct warning note into his voice. 

Bodie ignored him. "You make Maggie Thatcher look like Mother fucking
Theresa." 

"Bodie!" Doyle's shout echoed through the confines of the car. "This is
exactly what I mean. Since when did you go off like this, without
provocation either!" He softened his voice. "That's my job, mate, not
yours." 

"I don't know what you mean," Bodie said, hands white knuckled around the
steering wheel. "It's that overactive imagination of yours working
overtime again." 

"Pull the other one--it's got bells on!" Doyle worked hard to try and keep
the annoyance out of his voice. "I know you, Bodie. I know when
something's wrong and I'm tellin' you--" 

"Change the record will you, Doyle. You're getting boring." 

There was a definite 'back-off' note in Bodie's voice, one that Doyle
hadn't heard often and seldom directed at him. You'd have to be really
brave or really stupid to keep going when Bodie sounded the warning bell
like that and Doyle had never thought of himself as stupid. 

He paused for a moment, considering his options. If he persisted in his
questioning he'd probably get nowhere judging from the blinding lack of
success he'd had so far. He'd also risk making Bodie really angry, much
worse than the overreaction he'd demonstrated to date. Or, he could shut
up--for now. 

Raise it again later when Bodie'd calmed down a bit. 

He shrugged, "Okay." Outwardly he was calm, seemingly resigned to his
partner's bad mood, but inside he was chilled, even a little queasy. 

Bodie was lying to him. Not just telling him to leave it alone as he had
done in the past, but actually denying that there was a problem. Worse, he
was warning Doyle off in a tone that definitely meant business. Even Doyle
thought twice before crossing Bodie in those circumstances. He rubbed his
hands together, trying to warm his suddenly cold body. He was actually
scared, he acknowledged, not of Bodie but of the yawning gap that had
suddenly opened beneath his feet. 

Trust, it was a matter of trust. Trusting your partner to watch your back,
anticipate your moves in a controlled and deadly dance. If successful they
stayed alive. Fail, and the price was death. 

He'd never had a partner he trusted like Bodie, never worked with someone
who knew him so well. And he'd thought he knew Bodie. Oh, perhaps not all
the details, not every last item of his probably sordid past. But he knew
all the important things. That Bodie would always back him up, would never
leave him on his own in a sticky situation. He'd been able to count on
that, absolutely. 

Bodie had never lied to him before, not really, not about anything that
mattered. He told some whopping great porkies when trying to outdo Doyle
in the picking-up birds stakes, true enough. But that was just a game,
childish fun. This was something big, something important, something that
struck at the heart of their partnership; a threat that Doyle couldn't
begin to deal with until Bodie at least acknowledged it. If he couldn't
even do that... 

Doyle could feel that sense of trust eroding away, slowly, like water
dripping from a tap. 

"It's just--" he began, then bit down heavily on the rest of the sentence.
Now was not the time. 

"What?" 

"Nothing." Doyle swallowed and gazed out of the window, ignoring the
prickle at the back of his throat as he told himself that this wasn't
over, not at all. He was just waiting to pick his moment, not fuck up like
last time. 

He saw tidily enclosed verdant fields dotted with freshly shorn sheep
passing by in an amorphous blur, subtle shades arrayed untidily as on an
artist's palette. Sporadically there was a flash of blinding yellow,
rapeseed virulently bright in the fleeting sunlight. It was a cosily
familiar sight to Doyle, millennia of cultivation forming a patchwork
quilt of faded-emerald grass, sprouting seeded corn and wheat and the
occasional farm house, accompanied by long-shanked pig sheds and looming
corrugated iron-roofed barns, sides open to the weather. 

Every now and then there were hints of urban colonisation. Signs that
indicated 'North' and counted down the miles to Leicester, Nottingham,
Sheffield, Leeds, later solidifying into conglomerations of long, grey
warehouses. Surrounding them was the yawning black tarmac of the
accompanying car parks and the spider track of roads fading away into the
distance. It was on the face of it utterly civilised, safe, the land
thoroughly tamed. The only predator still existing was man. 

Inside the car there was silence. Bodie drove deftly, paying little heed
to the speed limit. Eventually Doyle felt his eyes closing, lulled into
slumber by the smooth motion of the car as it travelled along the even
surface of the motorway. He fell into an uneasy, broken doze, dimly aware
of the uncomfortable angle of his head and the seatbelt digging into his
shoulder. 

He woke when he felt the car begin to slow down, the sound of the
indicator clicking loudly in his ears. "We here?" he asked, a bit muzzy
still, grimacing as he sat up after pulling the seatbelt edge away from
his neck. 

Bodie shook his head. "Just getting off the motorway. But it's not that
much further now, just a few miles along the A57 and then off." He frowned
as he spoke. "Hello, what's this?" 

Ahead there was what appeared to be a queue of caravans, lining up to get
off the slip road. Doyle counted at least twelve, of various shapes and
sizes, gleaming dully in the diffuse sunlight that was trying to break
through the patchy cloud cover that was swirling in swoops and vales
across the horizon. Seizing on what he hoped was the offer of an olive
branch he spoke, "Told you there's a lot of caravans around." 

"Yeah," Bodie returned absently. "The question is, why are they all
getting off here? I thought they'd be on their way further up north, or
would've got off in the Peak District. Can't think of any reason why
they'd be all getting off the motorway near Sheffield." 

Doyle shrugged. "Me neither. Unless there's a show on or something." 

"Could be." As he spoke, Bodie was easing the Capri forward onto the
roundabout, slowly following the wallowing caravan trail in its wake down
the A57. "Great," Bodie moaned. "It'll take *ages* if we have to follow
this lot all the way." An instant later and Bodie was manoeuvring the car
around the two caravans immediately ahead, overtaking on a hairpin bend
with what Doyle considered was utter recklessness, even for Bodie. 

"Bodie! You pillock! Where are we gonna go? Okay, you've got past these
two, so there's only about another hundred and two ahead." 

Bodie glared at him. "Can't stand being stuck behind a fucking caravan.
They're a menace on the roads, shouldn't be allowed. Slow, bloody useless
traffic hold-ups. I tell you, they've got the right idea in the Channel
Islands, don't allow caravans there at all." 

"How'd you know that?" Doyle asked, interested in the source of his
partner's sudden knowledge of the caravanning universe. 

There was a moment's silence. "Er...." Amazingly, there was the faintest
hint of pink on Bodie's high cheekbones, warming the ivory skin. 

"C'mon, Bodie," Doyle coaxed, sensing a rare moment of weakness. 

Still silence. 

"No." Doyle made no attempt to hide his delight, a wide grin spreading
irresistibly across his features. "You had one, didn't you?" 

Bodie shrugged, carefully unconcerned. "Yeah, okay. We tried to take a
caravan to Jersey once, but they wouldn't allow us on the ferry. Dad went
spare." 

"Hmm, I'm just picturing it. Little Billy Bodie. A boy and his caravan." 

"Knock it off, would you." Bodie made no attempt to hide his irritation. 

Doyle tried to swallow his smile, not willing to chance Bodie's currently
uncertain temper, but still imagining a younger Bodie camping out in the
caravan. He'd been a tough little kid, he'd bet, all smart mouth and
knobbly knees. "So do they still have it? Your parents. The caravan, I
mean." 

"Dunno." Bodie's mouth clamped shut. 

Recognising the warning sign Doyle glanced about, searching for a change
of subject. 

They were travelling through the countryside still, but it was much closer
to the car now that they were on the A road as it twisted and turned,
taking them through grassy fields sprinkled with blue-daubed sheep and
cows--Friesians, unless Doyle missed in his guess. The road was edged with
a wall built of the slatted, grey limestone common to the area, ringed on
top with stones rounded with weather. He spotted a riding school to the
left, jumps standing idle in the field while several horses cropped lazily
at the grass in the adjacent field. It was an absolutely ordinary scene,
pretty enough in a bucolic sort of way, but lacking the stormy beauty of
the adjacent Peak District, or the wild majesty of the heather-clad
Yorkshire moors, just a few miles away. 

His gaze was caught by a flash of sunlight, reflecting off metal ahead and
to the right. 

Squinting, feeling his eyes stinging with sun-dazzled tears, he touched
Bodie lightly on the arm and wordlessly pointed to a field. There,
gleaming in effulgent splendour, stood row upon row of neatly parked
caravans. 

Bodie's face was a picture. "My God! It's a--" 

"--caravan convention!" Doyle finished for him. He grinned at Bodie, who
rolled his eyes with patent disgust. 

"A bloody caravan convention. In the middle of nowhere." 

"That's probably why they chose it. Gives them an ideal opportunity to
swap septic tank tips." 

"Discuss the best route to Bridlington." 

"Whether they should go for that new four berth, now that they've got
little Johnny on the way." 

Bodie's lips pursed, face redolent with suspicion. "You seem to know an
awful lot about it for someone who's never been caravanning." 

Doyle shrugged. "Mary Johnson." 

"Eh?" 

"She was one of my girlfriends, back in the fourth form. Her father had
one, was obsessed by them, used to talk about them all the time." 

"Serious was it?" 

"What?" 

"You and Mary Johnson. Girl like that, with all those prospects, some day
to be the owner of a top of the range carav-- Ow!" Bodie took his hand
momentarily off the steering wheel to rub reproachfully at his arm. Doyle
ignored the theatrics. He hadn't hit Bodie *that* hard. 

"You should know better than that, mate." 

"Yeah. Don't take any relationship seriously, do you?" Bodie's sneer was
impossible to miss. 

Doyle blinked once, twice, three times. Words twisted on his tongue. "I
don't know what the *fuck* your problem is. If I've done something that
you think is out of order, then you can fucking well *tell* me, all right!
You won't fucking *talk* to me when I ask you what's wrong but've been
dropping nasty little insinuations all day, and I. Have had. Enough!" The
echoes from his shout reverberated throughout the car, lingering as Doyle
shut his mouth with an audible snap. 

Bodie had paled, Doyle was satisfied to see, although there was no outward
change in his expression. "You haven't *done* anything, okay?" 

"No, it's not okay. You've been like acting like a total tosser for weeks
now. And I'm sick to the back teeth of it." 

"*I've* been acting up." Bodie gave a short, humourless laugh. "That's
rich, coming from you." 

Doyle's fist clenched tight as he fought to control his temper. For an
instant he thought about laying one on Bodie, right on the end of his
tip-tilted nose, or maybe split that crooked eyebrow of his and watch as
bright blood trickled down the pale skin. He bit down hard on that
thought, not wanting to go where that led. He'd only ever hit Bodie in
earnest once. That was enough. Not to mention that hitting someone who was
driving was way beyond stupid. 

He took several deep, deliberate breaths as Bodie's words repeated
themselves in his head. 'You haven't done anything.' '*I've* been acting
up?' What the hell was Bodie on about? He hadn't done anything that could
possibly piss Bodie off recently. Had he? Doyle thought swiftly but
absolutely nothing came to mind. Nothing. But something had got to
Bodie--and got to him really badly judging from his recent behaviour. 

What the fuck was it? What? 

Great! Fucking marvellous. He had enough on his plate right now, had more
than enough of his own problems, without having to worry about some
imagined insult that his prat of a partner had taken exception to. 

He forced himself to speak slowly, striving for calm reason. He wasn't
entirely successful. 

"Look. I really *don't* know what the problem is, okay. And now's not
exactly an ideal time to sort it. But you and me are gonna have a long
talk when this op's over. Okay?" When there was silence he repeated again,
the word distinctly edged with temper, "Okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Jesus, Doyle. What d'you want. Blood?" 

Doyle contented himself with a fierce scowl but said nothing further. They
passed the entrance to the caravan filled field, which was headed with a
loopily hand-printed sign welcoming all visitors to the Anston Caravan
Convention 1983. Bodie let out an audible sigh of relief when the traffic
blocking his way uniformly turned off the road and down the dirt track
cutting across the lush grass. He gunned the Capri sharply, speeding up to
eighty in a few, adrenaline filled seconds. Doyle grimaced but kept his
mouth shut until he noticed a road forking to the right. "Weren't we meant
to turn there?" 

Muttering obscenities under his breath, Bodie glanced in the mirror and
with a squeal of protesting brakes spun the car around in a perfect
handbrake turn. Doyle pressed his lips together firmly. He wasn't going to
say anything. 

The country lane was narrow, twisting and turning between high, limestone
walls. It was bordered by a deep ditch and overlooked by branches hanging
from the trees--sweetly green-leaved elms and cypresses--that lined each
side. Bodie took each corner fast, sliding the car expertly round the
turn. Doyle had to admire the casual competence with which Bodie handled
the wheel but then his partner was almost as good a driver as he thought
he was. The road gradually widened as the walls fell away, affording a
view of a brook running swiftly to the east, willows standing sentry along
its banks as their branches wept gracefully into the water. 

As they rounded a sharp bend, Doyle caught the glimpse of metalwork ahead,
as a large off-white box-shape tilted crazily to one side. The car slowed
and Doyle realised that what he saw was a caravan stuck in a deep ditch to
the side of the road. Both its right-side wheels were mired in the mud, as
was the blue-metal Cortina towing the caravan. To the side and on the
grass verge was set up a folding table, complete with a couple of chairs.
The table was spread with a lace edged tablecloth, atop which was a large
Thermos flask, three cups and a couple of packets of biscuits. Calmly
sipping at a cup of tea a middle aged woman sat in one of the chairs, her
grey-shot, brown permed curls slightly in disarray from the breeze,
thickly flowered print dress topped with a hand-knitted turquoise cardigan
bright against the muted green of the countryside. 

Bodie wound down his window as he brought the car to a halt. "Everything
all right?" he asked, raising his voice slightly to be heard through the
open window. 

"Yes, thank you, dear," was the placid reply. 

"You certain? It looks like you've had a bit of an accident there. Is
there anything we can do to help?" 

"Thank you for asking, that's very sweet of you, dear, but it's all taken
care of. My husband's gone off with the farmer to get his tractor to pull
us out of the ditch." 

"Going to the caravan convention down the road?" Doyle asked, more for
something to say than out of any burning desire to know the answer. 

"That's right." The woman stopped and frowned. "It's such a pity that this
happened when we were so near to it, too." She cast a dubious look inside
the caravan. From where he sat Doyle could make out a chaotic interior,
books, board games and clothing were scattered around, having obviously
fallen from cupboards gaping wide in disarray showing crockery and
glassware neatly clipped inside. "Mustn't grumble," she went on
resolutely, looking up at the streaky-grey sky, "at least the weather's
fine. Quite warm for the time of year." 

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" responded Bodie, gallantly making small talk,
favouring her with that charming smile which was an automatic reflex when
confronted with a woman, any woman. She smiled back at Bodie, obviously
enjoying the attention from the handsome young man at the wheel of the
fast car. 

At her smile a strange, formless pain twisted and turned within Doyle,
coiling inside his stomach in serpentine folds. The woman was so very,
very British, sitting there calmly sipping tea in the aftermath of an
accident, whilst her mobile holiday home was totally wrecked beside her,
ruining the chance of a grand entrance to the convention. Looking at the
neatly set table Doyle deduced that she was probably the house-proud type
and the wreckage of her previously immaculately arranged caravan was
causing her considerable distress. Yet she was resolutely making polite
small talk with strangers, grateful for their offer of assistance and
looking on the bright side of things, commenting that at least the weather
was fine. Which it was, in that it wasn't raining. 

He swallowed heavily, ridiculously affected by her, the epitome of what he
was fighting to keep safe. '*Terry & June*', lower middle class
ordinariness personified, that in response to calamity sat placidly
drinking tea whilst her husband was away seeking help, totally unconcerned
about the possibility of danger. For what was there to fear? She was in
the middle of the English countryside, on her way to that most mundane of
activities, a caravan convention. Safe, ordinary, boring. 

Doyle would die to keep it so. 

Keep her safe. And not just her but the rest of them too, all of them
going about their everyday business, the lorry drivers and salesmen on the
motorway, the squabbling families, the bikers too, essentially harmless,
all mouth and trousers. Keep them all safe from the likes of the man he
and Bodie were on their way to meet today. 

******

They were the reason why he stayed with CI5, year in and year out. Despite
the danger, the boredom interspersed with fast, frantic,
adrenaline-scrambled action, the awful ambiguities of the job, he did it
to safeguard her and people like her. He willingly dirtied his hands so
they didn't have to. So what if he might be addicted to the danger,
revelled in it, loved it, lived for it, might even sometimes end up
playing cowboys? 

His focus had become blurred, distorted by the weight of losing so many
colleagues, some of them also friends, young men and women dying ugly,
messy deaths whilst still in their prime. He had become disillusioned at
the waste of it all, forgetting the underlying rationale, coming to
believe that maybe June Cooke had been right and it was all a useless,
bloody game. 

But it wasn't. What he did--what CI5 did--was important. All of it. 

He breathed a sigh of relief, decision made, feeling something inside him
that had been knotted and tangled into a hard unyielding lump since
Cookie's death start to unravel and dissolve. 

"Would either of you like a cup of tea?" 

Doyle blinked at the sound of the woman's voice. Bodie raised an eyebrow
at him in question and he shook his head minutely. 

"Ta very much for the offer, but we must be going, so long as you're sure
you'll be okay..." Bodie's voice trailed off delicately into what was
almost a question. 

The women smiled at him politely. "No, no, you go on. This is a lovely
spot to wait for my husband." 

Bodie smiled back. "Okay. Goodbye then." With that he wound up the car
window and shifted the car into gear. "Nice woman," he commented as he
steered the car round yet another corner. 

"For a caravan owner," Doyle agreed, watching Bodie out of the corner of
his eye to see if he'd rise to the bait. Bodie merely grunted in reply and
Doyle contented himself with a small smile. 

He felt free, light as helium, at last unburdened of the weight that had
been dragging him down for so long. 

Okay, whatever was wrong with Bodie still needed to be dealt with but now
Doyle was confident that he was up to the job. He'd get to the bottom of
the matter, sort it out-- after all it couldn't be *that* bad and he'd
just been overreacting (possibly not for the first time, if he was honest)
to Bodie's generally bad mood. Christ, it wasn't as if Bodie hadn't been
in a temper before but it'd never been anything serious, except for the
once. Likely it was nothing this time as well and they'd soon be back on
track again. 

For the first time in what felt like far too long Doyle was actually
looking forward to the rest of the day. 

Neither man spoke for a while as Bodie drove the car down the twisting
country lane and into a small village called Oldcotes. He pulled over at a
whitewashed pub called the Pig and Whistle, which was free-standing on the
high street and outside of which was a hand chalked sign stating, 'Food',
and looked enquiringly at Doyle. "Lunch?" 

"Have we got time?" 

Bodie shrugged. "There's no way we're gonna get back to London before
evening in any event. And I'm starving." 

"Oh yeah, I can see that," Doyle said dryly, eyes raking his partner's
sturdy frame. "You look like you're about to pass out from hunger." 

Bodie beamed at him. "Exactly." 

"And it's not like you had any breakfast ...or ate all that chocolate."
Doyle was busy unfastening his seatbelt and climbing out of the car as he
spoke. 

"That's what I like about you, Raymond," Bodie said, falling into step
beside Doyle as they walked towards the pub entrance, "Your warm and
understanding nature." 

"Also the fact that I'm hungry," Doyle agreed as he looked round for a
free table inside the smoky atmosphere of the pub. 

Later, relaxed after a pint and a ploughman's, Doyle decided to tackle his
partner again. But slowly this time, invite Bodie to confide in him by
sharing a confidence himself. "I've been thinking," he began carefully.
Anyone less attuned to Bodie than he was would have missed the way the
other man's body stiffened minutely. 

"Dangerous, that," Bodie said, not looking up from mopping up the last
dregs of gravy on the meagre remains of his plate of roast beef and
Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. 

"For some of us," Doyle agreed amiably, grinning at Bodie's glare. 

"So, deep thoughts were they?" Bodie's voice was casual, apparently
unconcerned but Doyle knew better. 

"Y'could say that." He paused and took a deep breath. "Cookie's death...
It really shook me up, you know." 

"Yeah." Bodie glanced aside as he spoke. 

"Since then, what with what June said, when I went to tell her... You
know." 

Bodie's gaze snapped back to his. "I don't know what she said. You never
told me." 

"I didn't?" Doyle frowned slightly. "Maybe I didn't at that. Thought I
had," he murmured. "Oh, it wasn't anything but what you'd expect, I
reckon. Accused me--us--of playing cowboys, implied I'd been messing
around with Cookie's life." 

Bodie scowled. "Ah c'mon, Ray, you meant well, more money would've been
useful, what with the baby and all." 

"Yeah," Doyle sighed. "Tell me again what they say about good intentions."
He paused and took a sip of his half-pint of Worthingtons. "Anyway, that's
not important now. But--" 

"No, you're wrong." Bodie fixed him with an intense gaze. "Doing a mate a
favour, *trying* to help out a mate, well, it matters." He shrugged,
looking down abruptly and fiddling with the coaster his beer had been
sitting upon. 

Doyle felt a slow spreading warmth inside at Bodie's partisanship. Maybe
things between them weren't as fucked up as he'd thought if Bodie was
still trying to defend him, even from himself. "Okay. Thanks." He paused
again. "But what I was trying to say is that I was thinking that maybe she
was right." 

"What! you're not seriously telling me that you thought you'd killed
Cookie or anything daft like that. Jesus, Ray--" 

"No, no. Not about that. About the cowboys bit. Made me wonder whether
that's what I'd been doing, playing around." 

Bodie groaned. "I don't believe you sometimes. If you think that this is
just a bit of make-believe--" 

"So, why d'you do it?" Doyle interrupted. "I asked you that once,
remember?" 

"And I told you." 

"Yeah, money. I didn't believe it then and I don't believe it now." 

Bodie shrugged airily, gaze bent upon where his hands were slowly tearing
the cardboard coaster apart. "S'not the point why I'm doing it, is it? You
said that you wanted to do something worthwhile and that's why you joined
the Mob. Changed your mind, did you?" 

Doyle cleared his throat. "Not exactly. But..." 

"June got you wondering whether it's really worthwhile?" Bodie didn't even
wait for Doyle's nod of agreement before he was off and running, hands
clenched tight around the shredded remains of the coaster. "You stupid
prat! You know what your trouble is? You think too much. Christ! When I
think of all the times when you've lectured me, *ad* bloody *infinitum*,
about how we're looking out for folk, protecting them, you even meant it
when you said, 'keeping these shores green and pleasant'--" He held up a
silencing hand, spraying confetti from his palm to fall unnoticed to the
floor, as Doyle opened his mouth. "You did! Don't try and deny it. And
then to lose it, just because some woman who's not only just lost her
husband but is about to drop her latest sprog besides...
Un-fucking-believable." 

Doyle's face felt warm. "Okay, okay. But she got to me, y'know." 

Bodie snorted. "Obviously!" 

"Anyway," Doyle spoke doggedly, determined to have his say. "I-- I was
thinking of resigning." 

Bodie's face went blank, wiped clean of all expression. "I see." There was
a pause, then, "So, are you going to?" 

"No." 

"Why not?" His voice held nothing but idle curiosity. 

Doyle smiled a little. "It was the caravan." 

"Eh?" 

"Doesn't matter. I just realised that I was wrong--that June was wrong.
That's all." 

Bodie rolled his eyes. "That's great, Doyle. Can we go back to the car
now?" 

Doyle stared at him, nonplussed. He wasn't certain what reaction he'd
expected from Bodie to his announcement that he was staying with CI5, but
he'd anticipated something, well, *more*. Of course, Bodie hadn't known
that he was thinking of leaving. That probably accounted for it. But his
brilliant plan of getting Bodie to confide in him looked like it was about
to bite the dust. He looked around quickly, searching for inspiration.
"But..." 

"What?" 

"I haven't finished me beer." 

"Drink up, then," Bodie said, already on his feet. Faced with Bodie
looming over him, arms folded, Doyle had no choice but to quickly down the
rest of his drink and meekly follow Bodie back to the car. 

Conversation was desultory, consisting mostly of Doyle providing
directions to their destination, which was hidden away down a long drive
off a little-used 'B' road. The house was large, with immense, staring
windows as was typical of houses built in the Edwardian era, and
surrounded by a neatly tended garden. 

"Wouldn't like to try and defend this place," Bodie said, over the sound
of the car 

wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive. 

"Location's not bad." 

"Yeah, but look at those windows, and there's too much cover for anyone
approaching from the back." 

"Lucky we're just here to talk, then." 

"You hope!" As he spoke Bodie brought the car smoothly to a halt outside
the imposing front door and scowled up at the ivy climbing around the
frame. "Just how does an IRA activist end up with a house like this,
anyway? Fighting for their fucking cause." His eyebrows drew together,
disgust redolent in every feature. "Lining their fucking pockets is more
like it." 

"You read the briefing," Doyle said as he climbed out of the car,
stretching slightly to relieve an ache in his shoulder. "And it's ex-IRA,"
he reminded Bodie. 

"Officially." Bodie's gaze was sceptical as he glanced across at Doyle
over the top of the car. "They never *really* leave, you know, just stop
going out on ops. And yeah, I know, his wife's got money." 

"Possibly not as much as you think. I mean, how much can even a house like
this go for round here?" 

"Good point. It is a bit back of beyond," Bodie agreed, pushing on the
doorbell firmly. 

The door was opened a moment later by a man in his fifties, silver-grey
hair thinning and with a definite paunch. However, his blue eyes were
shrewd as he sized up the two men standing outside. Doyle recognised him
from his photograph as Jimmy Lynch, *Sinn Fein* member and a supposedly
former leading light in the IRA. "Yes?" 

"CI5," Doyle said, proffering his ID. "Doyle." 

Lynch took it and examined it closely. "You'll not be English, then?" He
had a pronounced Derry accent. 

"British," Doyle said with relish. 

"And yours?" Lynch said, looking at Bodie. 

"Want the code-word as well?" Bodie said as he handed over his ID. 

Lynch ignored the words, although he glowered at Bodie. "You'd better come
in." His mouth twisted as he spoke, indicative, Doyle thought, of his
distaste at having two English rozzers inside his house. 

"Ta." Bodie glanced at Doyle as he spoke, shrugging minutely. 

They followed Lynch down a long, wide hall that smelt pleasantly of the
beeswax emanating from the polished wooden floorboards into the lounge, a
warmly appointed room with two long, overstuffed couches clustered around
the coffee table. Lynch lowered himself onto one, while the two CI5 men
took the other. 

There was silence for a moment. After a quick look at Bodie, Doyle spoke.
"You wanted to see us, Mr Lynch." 

"I wanted to see Cowley," the man growled. 

"*Mr* Cowley's busy." Bodie beamed at the man with spurious friendliness.
"Reserves himself for the important people." 

Lynch's eyes narrowed. "Aye, well. Happen I've got important information."


"So you said when you contacted Mr Cowley," Doyle said, making no attempt
to disguise his impatience. "We haven't got all day, Lynch." 

Lynch's lips pursed. "There's trouble coming." 

"There always is where you lot are concerned," Bodie agreed dryly. 

Lynch fixed him with a hard-eyed stare. "I do hope you're not insinuatin'
that I'm a member of an illegal organisation." 

"Cut the crap, Lynch. We're not here to nick you for being an IRA member,
just to listen to this so-called information you say you have." Bodie
favoured the man with a particularly sweet smile. "Of course, I do have to
wonder where an ex-IRA man like yourself gets his important information
from... Retirement a bit boring is it?" he finished in a sympathetic tone
of voice. 

Lynch's hands clenched tight, but a pleasant smile illuminated his face.
"You're ex-armed forces, aren't you?" Bodie's mouth opened but Lynch
continued with barely a pause, "You must be, a grand lad like yourself.
What was it? Marines? Paras? SAS? Enjoyed your tour of the Provinces did
you? What is it you were doing? Ah yes, 'keeping the peace'. Is that what
they're calling killing unarmed women and children nowadays?" 

Bodie shook his head. "Wrong. Not a bad guess, although not exactly a
great leap of imagination, seeing as we're from CI5. No, Doyle here's the
army man--" Doyle kept a straight face only with difficulty. "--I'm an
ex-copper myself." It took all Doyle's powers of concentration to keep
from choking. 

Lynch favoured Doyle with a slow stare. "Him? The British Army?" He
snorted. "It's a fine yarn you're spinning there." 

"Just goes to show you shouldn't judge by appearances, doesn't it? Now
then, Mr Lynch, the information, please. We haven't got all day." There
was a definite snap of command in Bodie's voice, the ex-army sergeant
extant. 

"You're no copper," Lynch muttered, then continued without missing a beat,
"As I said, there's trouble brewing. But it's not us--not the IRA," he
added hastily and then hesitated. "Kids!" he spat out, bitterly. "Little
shites, think they know it all. Think they're the likes o' Michael
Collins. Feckin' heroes for the Cause. But we made them and we'll--" He
stopped abruptly, the words strangled in his throat. 

Doyle's eyes narrowed; it was as they suspected. "What exactly is it
you're saying? Not that some of your lot are going off on unauthorised
'activities'?" He drew out the last word, making no attempt to hide his
disgust. 

"I'm not with the organisation," Lynch protested but obviously only for
form's sake. "But I keep my ear to the ground. There's been a split," he
said bluntly. "Some of the boyos, they're calling themselves the 'Real
IRA'." 

Lynch snorted, making no attempt to hide his disgust. 

"What are they going to do?" Doyle spoke slowly, feeling his gut clench
tight at the thought of the havoc that might be wreaked by a splinter
group from the Provos, a group that was violent enough to worry the IRA
old guard. CI5 was already well aware of the rumoured existence of this
new group but to have it confirmed by Lynch--to have an approach made by
the likes of Lynch--showed a real depth of concern on the part of the
Provos. And if the Provos were worried... It didn't bear thinking about.
Except that he had to. 

"The rumour is a fine, big campaign hitting the tourist spots. London, o'
course. Chester, Bath, York, Canterbury, Durham." 

"Hit us where it hurts, eh?" Bodie's gaze was level upon the IRA man. 

"Aye." 

"I wouldn't think that would be something your lot would mind." 

"Their methods aren't condoned by the organisation." 

Doyle vented a short, humourless laugh. "That's rich. I don't recall the
IRA exercising too many scruples in Guildford. Birmingham. Or in Harrods."


Lynch's eyes wavered the merest fraction. "That's in the past." 

Bodie's mouth twisted in an approximation of a smile. "Lost some of your
Yank funding, did you?" 

"And it's what's to come that we're discussing here," Lynch said, ignoring
Bodie's words. 

"All right." Doyle's voice was leached of all warmth. "What are the
details?" 

Lynch shrugged. "I've already told you." 

"That's it!" Doyle stared at the man in disbelief. "That's very fucking
helpful, that is. There's rumours of campaigns in the tourist spots. Oh
yeah, that gives us a lot to go on. We'll have absolutely no fucking
trouble stopping them with info like that." 

"It'll be handled." Lynch's steady gaze took in both Bodie and Doyle.
"We're only telling you now just in case. If it isn't handled in time. So
you'll know it's not us. Not the Provos." 

"Or so that you can use this as an excuse." Bodie's gaze was similarly
steady. "Not a bad tactic. Make up some pretend splinter group, tell us
they're going to be causing trouble and sit back and reap the rewards
while having none of the bother. If a few tourists are maimed or killed,
so what? Wasn't the IRA. Keep the Americans happy." 

"That's not--" 

"Consider yourself warned," Doyle said, cutting off Lynch's attempted
protest. "If this so-called 'Real IRA' isn't stopped before they do any
damage it won't matter what your lot claim, we'll tell the world that it
was all a setup. Better 'handle' it fast." 

As one, he and Bodie stood up, preparatory to taking their leave. "Sure
you haven't got anything else to tell us?" Bodie asked as they turned in
unison for the door. 

Lynch shook his head, by now also on his feet. "Just that I'll be telling
the boyos to 'consider themselves warned'." He smiled. It was not a
pleasant expression. 

Doyle felt his muscles bunching up as he turned round, not sure what he
was going to do, but a touch from Bodie on his arm stopped him from
acting. Bodie gave a minute shake of his head, echoed by Doyle's equally
minute nod in acknowledgement. Silently, both CI5 men made for the front
door, followed by the equally silent Lynch. 

It was only when they were pulling away from the drive that either spoke
again. "Well that was a waste of time," Doyle said. 

Bodie shrugged. "Had to be done, though." 

"Yeah. He's a hard man, Lynch," Doyle commented. 

Bodie nodded, even as he shifted gear expertly. "Good tactician, too.
Least we know now why he used his home for the meet." 

It was Doyle's turn to nod. "Think he figured that the lack of secrecy
might alert the Real IRA." 

"Only if they knew that he'd made contact with Cowley. But yeah, it's a
good way to find out if anyone high up in the hierarchy is a Real IRA
man." 

"But only if the Real IRA don't actually make a move." 

"Which presents our friendly Provos with a dilemma." Bodie's smile was
grim. "Do they 'handle' the Real IRA straightaway, or do they wait to see
whether they've flushed out a traitor in their midst." 

Doyle grinned happily. "Couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of people." 

"Yeah." Bodie grinned back at him. He sobered abruptly. "Can't say that
I'm happy at the thought of an IRA splinter group--worse than the
Provos--running around though." 

"Me neither." There was silence for a moment broken only by the roar of
the Capri's engine when Bodie caused the car to accelerate on the flat.
"Reckon the Provos will sort them out?" 

"Sooner or later." 

"Yeah, but some of their own and all." 

"Honour amongst thieves." Bodie's voice was dry. "Haven't noticed it
myself, let alone amongst terrorists." 

"You think there's no loyalty, then?" Doyle was genuinely interested in
Bodie's opinion, knowing that he had seen rather more of the way that the
IRA operated than Doyle had. Bodie hadn't talked much about his army
posting to Northern Ireland, beyond saying that he'd been 'strictly
keeping the peace', but Doyle'd seen from their subsequent dealings with
the Provos that Bodie evinced them little respect, combined with a
dangerous delight in provoking them. 

"Loyalty's in short supply nowadays." 

Doyle blinked at the bitter statement. "What d'you mean?" he asked,
surprising himself by the cautious sound of his own voice. 

Bodie stared straight ahead. "Nothing." 

Doyle chewed on his lower lip for a moment while he considered whether he
should just let the subject go. "I don't think so, mate. It's not
nothing." 

Bodie sighed. "There you go again, over-analysing the situation as usual.
You're worse than a dog after a bone. I didn't mean anything by it. I told
you." 

Doyle swallowed heavily, feeling a suspicious tightness at the back of his
throat. Bodie was lying to him again. "Are you accusing me of disloyalty?"
He forced a dispassionate note into his voice. No need to stir things up
any more than he had to. But Bodie didn't answer. "Are you, Bodie?" At his
partner's continued silence Doyle's temper flared. "Fuck you!" 

Bodie turned a sardonic eye upon him. "Oh, that's very nice, that is.
Charming as ever, Doyle." 

"If you've got a problem with me, you can fucking well tell me, all
right," Doyle snapped. Then, unable to prevent the hurt from seeping
through, "I thought we were mates." 

"So did I." 

"What's *that* supposed to mean?" 

Bodie shrugged. "Sounds straightforward enough to me." 

"So, what are you saying? That we're not mates? I-- I don't understand." 

"Don't be so thick." Hardened CI5 man though he was, Doyle was unable to
prevent himself from sinking into his seat at the note of derision in
Bodie's voice. "Mates look out for one another, trust one another." 

"They do. We do." 

Not for the first time that day Doyle found himself unable to read the
glance that Bodie threw his way. "I was right the first time," Bodie
muttered. 

"What?" 

"Remember when you and I were first teamed up? What I said?" 

"Stay cool. Don't get involved," Doyle quoted. 

"Yeah. Good advice, that. Think I'll take it." Bodie shifted gears with a
definitive motion of his hand and resumed staring ahead. His gaze didn't
waver. 

What the fuck? Doyle couldn't think of anything that he could possibly
have done which could have caused Bodie to be even mildly pissed off at
him, let alone accuse him of disloyalty. And he knew that loyalty was very
important to Bodie, had seen that demonstrated over and over, in his
interactions with Doyle, Cowley and other CI5 agents. Not to mention old
mates of Bodie's, Keller, to name but one. "What's wrong, Bodie?" 

Bodie's voice was flat. "You're not stupid. Work it out." 

"Honest, Bodie, I dunno what you're on about. We've not always seen eye to
eye in the past, fair enough, but you've always been there for me, I know
that. And I thought you knew that you can rely on me." 

"Seeing as how you've never let me down in the past." 

To his horror, Doyle felt a wave of heat travel up his chest to his
forehead. "Yeah, okay. I'll admit that I could've behaved better once or
twice. But damn it, Bodie! I know you, you've never exactly been shy in
coming forward whenever I pissed you off." 

"I know you, too, Doyle. Don't think I don't." 

"I know that you do. We're a good team, you and me. We're the best and
that's important to me and I thought it was important to you, too. But
here you are, making vague accusations but not actually giving me a
fucking clue about whatever it is that I'm supposed to have done wrong and
I tell you, we won't be a fucking good team for much longer!" Doyle had
not intended to shout but was desperate to cover the hurt that he could
hear thick in his voice. 

Bodie shrugged, still not looking at Doyle. "I didn't say anything about
breaking our partnership." 

"No, but that's where we're going. You accuse me of being untrustworthy
and--" 

"I never said that," Bodie protested mildly. 

"Yes you did. You said--" 

"Didn't say anything about trust." 

"Okay! You said loyalty, but I don't see that they're that different. For
fuck's sake, why won't you tell me what the fuck it is that I'm supposed
to have *done*!?" 

Silence, then at long last Bodie sighed again and spoke. "It's like I
said, I know you." 

"Yeah, but I don't see--" 

"You want me to tell you or not?" Doyle shut up. "I know how Cookie's
death hit you, could see it. You're not exactly inscrutable, you know. I
was expecting you to start talking about resigning, 's par for the course
with you. But you didn't. But I knew that you were brooding about it. Then
I realised that you were really serious about it. I kept on expecting you
to talk to me about it, but you didn't." Bodie brought the car to an
abrupt halt by the side of the road, although he didn't switch off the
engine, and turned round to face Doyle. "Tell me, Doyle, were you even
gonna say goodbye before you pissed off out of CI5?" 

Doyle blinked. A second later and he felt the anger, deep scarlet red.
"*This* is what all the trouble's about? Just because I was thinking of--
Oh for fuck's sake! Since when did I have to discuss my whole bleeding
life with you? Christ! The way you're carryin' on you'd think we were
married or something." He felt a vicious sense of satisfaction at seeing
the colour drain out of Bodie's face. "What, Bodie? Want me to tell you
every single fucking detail of my existence? Should I let you know whether
I've wiped me bum this morning? You stupid prat! You jump to some fucking
stupid conclusion, without a scrap of evidence and start sulking over it.
You're so bloody stupid that--" 

"Shut up!" Bodie's shout reverberated in Doyle's ears. "Just shut the fuck
up." There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of harsh
breathing. All the colour that Bodie had lost had come flooding back,
staining his face with a rich, dark colour. "Go on then, Doyle. Tell me
I'm wrong!" Bodie's voice was hard, vibrating with anger. "You said it
yourself, you were gonna resign. Would've been nice to know that I ought
to start looking for a new partner. But you didn't fucking well bother to
tell me. Too bloody selfish, just thinking of yourself as usual. Don't
know why I even bother, it's par for the course with you." 

Doyle could feel his heart pounding in his ears as one phrase out of all
that Bodie had said reverberated in his head. "Is that what you were going
to do? Look for a new partner?" 

"Eh?" 

"Were you going to look for a new partner?" 

Bodie shrugged. "Suppose so. I could work solo, maybe. But-- "He stopped
abruptly. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Let's get back to the point here. You were going to resign,
right?" At Doyle's continued silence Bodie repeated harshly, "Right?" 

"All right," Doyle snapped. "So I was thinking about it. Didn't know that
was a crime." 

"You--" Bodie shut his mouth abruptly. "Yeah, well, so I was right." 

"I *told* you I was thinkin' of going." 

"So you did. Today." Bodie's voice was flat. "You said that you're
staying." 

"So what more do you want?" 

There was a long silence, then Bodie spoke, his voice a low monotone.
"Nothing." He put the Capri into gear and eased the car away from the side
of the road carefully, exhibiting none of his usual careless flamboyance. 

******

Again silence. Finally Doyle broke it, his gut knotted with formless
anxiety. "We're still partners though, right? I mean, you're not actually
looking for anyone else, are you?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"Of *course* it fucking well matters, you cretin!" Doyle exploded. 

"Why?" 

"What d'you mean, why? We're a team, the best. You want to throw that
away?" 

Bodie laughed. There was no humour in it. "Should've guessed. Stupid.
You're right. Be stupid to throw away being the best." 

"So it's settled, then?" Doyle persisted. 

Bodie shrugged, the merest movement of his torso. "Suppose so." 

"Right." Once more silence fell within the car. Doyle looked down at his
hands, surprised to find that they were clenched tight, knuckles white
with pressure. He swallowed heavily and consciously relaxed. It was
sorted. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing. 

He was still telling himself that twenty minutes later when they were
driving past the Anston caravan convention once more. Neither man had
spoken further. Doyle glanced idly out of the window and vented a low,
respectful whistle. "Look at that. There's even more of them now." 

Bodie grunted. He didn't turn his head to look at the caravans. Doyle
subsided into silence, not speaking again until he spotted a sign on the
motorway stating that there were services one mile ahead. "Pit stop?" he
suggested. 

Bodie's glance at him was cool. "I'm not bothered either way." 

"You're not tired?" 

"No." 

"Don't fancy a drink?" 

"Nope." 

"Afternoon tea?" 

"I said no." 

"Okay, okay. I was only asking." 

"And I was only answering. Happy now, Doyle?" 

"Not particularly," he muttered but Bodie ignored the comment and once
again silence descended. 

Doyle gazed unseeingly out of the car window, tension aching in his
shoulders and down his arms to his hands, scrunched together on his lap.
There was only so long he could continue lying to himself. It wasn't
sorted. Not at all. 

Bodie was treating him like a-- a-- Well, precisely like what he was. His
partner. Just that and nothing else. Not his mate, not even the bloke you
regularly met down the pub when you went for a pint. He swallowed heavily.
He hadn't fixed it. Not at all. 

What he'd done was fucked up. Badly. Because Bodie was hurting. Badly. And
he knew why, as he knew his partner. 

Trust, it was all a matter of trust. Only it wasn't Bodie who'd broken the
pact, but Doyle. 

Up to him to fix it then. He'd wanted to avoid this, had hoped to avoid it
when he'd made his decision earlier. He'd been running all the persuasive
arguments he could think of in his head for weeks now, had got to the
point where he'd--almost--convinced himself, but never quite reached it.
Now, he was going to have to make himself vulnerable. God, he *hated*
that. 

He heaved an inward sigh. How many times had he threatened to resign? And
how many times had Bodie talked him out of it? But this time he hadn't
given Bodie the opportunity, had he? 

And why hadn't he? 

"I wanted you to come with me," he blurted out abruptly. 

"Eh?" 

Doyle was helpless to prevent the slow flush that made its way from chest
to forehead, but he persisted doggedly, determination colouring his voice
even as he tried not to show the vulnerability, knowing that Bodie would
see it all too well nonetheless. "If I resigned," he mumbled, then cleared
his throat and continued in a louder voice. "Knew you could talk me out of
it, o' course. You always do. But this time I was...I was really serious.
Needed to keep me head clear, not let you muddy the waters." 

"Since when do I--" 

"Always." Doyle favoured him with a wry smile. "Could charm the birds out
of the trees when you put your mind to it." 

He was hoping for a smug smile from Bodie, together with a comment along
the lines of, "Already have, Raymond my son, already have," but wasn't
surprised when Bodie merely stared at him, dark brows knotted. "Go on,"
Bodie said tersely, flicking the indicator and causing the Capri to change
lanes, sitting comfortably behind a lorry in the slow lane. 

Doyle chewed on his lip for a moment, then inhaled deeply. Time to lay his
cards on the table. "Know how much you like being in CI5. But I thought
that if I came up with something good that you'd like doing you might, um,
comewithme," he muttered, the last few words blurring into one. 

"You what?" 

Doyle swallowed, hard. "You heard." 

There was a short pause, then, "Why?" 

"What d'you mean, why?" 

"What I said." 

"You-- Oh, for fuck's sake, Bodie--" 

"Why, Doyle? Because we're 'the best', is that it? Don't want to muck up
the team, is that it?" Bodie sounded almost bored and derision threaded
through his voice. But Doyle watched his hands, clenched tight around the
steering wheel of the car. 

"How about pulling over?" Doyle asked abruptly, suddenly desperate to see
Bodie's face, read the expression in his eyes. Bodie said nothing in
response, but the Capri moved smoothly onto the hard shoulder and came to
a halt. He left the motor running but flicked on the hazard warning light,
it's rhythmic tick-tocking a regular counterpart to Doyle's suddenly
unsteady breathing. There was silence for a moment, then Doyle cleared his
throat and spoke, voice still a little hoarse. "Because you're my mate. My
best mate. And I'd, you know, if we-- It wouldn't be the same, would it?
If you were still in CI5. And I..." 

"Wasn't?" 

He nodded. "Yeah." 

"You have to know when it's time to move on, Ray." Bodie's voice was
unexpectedly gentle. 

"Like you do?" Doyle was vaguely horrified at the harsh sound of his own
voice. 

Bodie shrugged and slid the gear stick into first, preparatory to moving
off. 

"No, wait!" Doyle blurted out, placing his hand momentarily over Bodie's
to halt his movement. "That's not--" He stopped and took a deep breath.
"Sorry. Look, I'm not good at this, but if you weren't there, I'd, you
know, miss you." Bodie said nothing, so Doyle continued on, face burning,
"And I was thinking about the future, what's gonna happen when we don't
make the A Squad any more. Dunno about you, but I don't fancy a desk job
at the Cow's beck and call." 

"So, you've been making long term plans, is that it?" 

"No, not really. I mean, yes, that's part of it. But when I thought about
it, what I might end up doing, I just-- That is, no matter what, I
couldn't imagine anything where you and me weren't togeth-- Partners. Um,
a team," he finished hastily. 

"A team." 

Doyle could read nothing in Bodie's echo of his words, but shook his head
determinedly. "Partners. Mobile ghetto, even. Remember when you said
that?" 

"Yeah." 

"Like knows like and all that," Doyle finished lamely. 

Bodie's mouth twitched. "Think we're alike do you?" 

"I-- Yeah. In every way that counts." 

"What, a cold-blooded killer like me and a starry-eyed idealist like you?"


Doyle winced at the reminder of some of his less than temperately spoken
past words. "All I know is that you're the one person I trust. And I don't
want--" He bit off what he was going to say, knowing that once the words
were out, there would be no going back. And he was too afraid to take that
step, always had 

been. 

"Don't want what?" 

Did he dare risk it, even now, when he'd almost succeeded in destroying
what they already had? If he'd read Bodie wrong... "You know what." 

"Do I?" The voice was mild but underneath Doyle could sense it, the
tension and something else. That something which had been unspoken between
them for so long, silently understood maybe, but to acknowledge it would
change everything and put at risk all that they had. But if he didn't...
It had been too long and what they had was dying, withering on the vine
before it ever came to bloom. Time to clear the air--if only he had the
guts. 

He gulped. "To be without you." The words were blurted out, fast. Doyle
squeezed his eyes shut, tight. 

For a moment there was silence, then, "Getting sentimental in your old
age, Ray?" 

"I'm only a couple of years older than you." The words came automatically,
an echo of old, old squabbles. 

"So you keep telling me. And you always were the sentimental type." Doyle
cracked open his eyes. Bodie was grinning at him, a familiar smirk, except
for the underlying tenderness in his eyes. 

"As opposed to the great big softie sittin' next to me." Doyle bit down
hard on his smile, almost incandescent with relief. It was going to be all
right. 

"There's nothing soft about me, mate. It's all muscle." 

"Prove it!" The air in the car shrank and wound tight around Doyle as
indigo blue eyes met his. Bodie switched the ignition off. Doyle
swallowed. Never dare Bodie, never dare Bodie, never dare Bod--ie-- 

Heat scorched Doyle, pierced his groin. Bodie's lips were silken, yet firm
against his as his breath caught, mingling hotly with that of his partner,
his mate, his best frien-- Doyle groaned and shifted, arching closer to
Bodie, feeling the long muscles of his back clench beneath his fingers.
The arousal was sharp, shocking him in its intensity. He'd long known he
wanted Bodie, in an admiring almost abstract way, but he hadn't *known*.
He'd been blind and stupid, deliberately so. 

Warmth faded as Bodie's mouth left his leaving him bereft as Bodie pulled
away a fraction, but only for an instant. He nuzzled at Doyle's neck,
where the t-shirt gaped wide, then a second later he was pulling it up
with an impatient murmur, running strong callused hands over Doyle's
chest. Jesus. Doyle let his head fall back against the headrest of his
seat as his cock jumped in response. Fuck! If Bodie kept this up wasn't
going to be able to control himself much longer--and his jeans were
killing him. 

"Bodie!" he gasped. "You've got to-- Oh Christ!" The rasp of a zipper
being undone was loud in the car and Doyle whimpered as he felt Bodie's
hand envelop him, fingers caressing the head, smearing the moisture that
trembled at the tip. 

"Like this?" Bodie's hand moved. Doyle moaned, as much response as he was
capable of making, breath coming in little, strangled pants. Bodie's hand
moved faster, then faster yet. 

Nothing had prepared him for the tidal wave that crashed over him,
subsumed him, then deposited him on the shore, leaving him weak and
trembling. He opened sated eyes and feebly reached out to lightly touch
Bodie's face. "I-- Bodie, that was..." 

"Good, wasn't it?" The voice was ostensibly filled with self-satisfaction
and a smug smile wreathed Bodie's face, but Doyle clearly heard the
wordless anxiety buried deep beneath. 

He smiled slowly, watching with pleasure the way Bodie's eyes lightened at
his response. "Yeah. C'mere." He reached out and drew Bodie's sturdy torso
close, taking his mouth in long, slow, deep, wet kisses until Bodie was
moaning deep in his throat, clutching frantically at Doyle. Even as his
tongue penetrated deeply into Bodie's mouth he was reaching for his groin,
adroitly pulling down the fly, shoving aside snug briefs and reaching with
pleasure for the silken-smooth, iron-hard length of Bodie's erection. The
cock leapt, eagerly straining towards completion. Doyle hesitated a
moment. What he was considering was really, really stupid, considering
that they were pulled over on the hard shoulder of the motorway, open to
the eyes of any passing lorry driver. Not to mention that it was illegal. 

Oh the hell with it. Doyle finished the kiss, ignoring Bodie's wordless
protest, bent down and took Bodie's lengthy, curving erection in his
mouth. The flavour exploded on Doyle's tongue, indescribably, uniquely
Bodie. 

"Doyle! Fuck! Are you craz-- Oh God!" 

Doyle swirled his tongue around the head, enjoying Bodie's whimper in
response, exercising skills that had lain long-dormant, unused since his
art school days, before he'd joined the Met. He moved his mouth up and
down the long length, rejoicing in the feel and taste, adoring the sound
of Bodie's harshly quickened breathing as he got closer and closer to the
edge. He was making Bodie feel good, special, knowing that this time it
wasn't because he fancied getting his leg over but because he loved-- 

"Ray! Shit, Ray, it's-- I'm--" 

Doyle swallowed and swallowed again as Bodie erupted inside his mouth, the
bitter taste never before so satisfying to him, never so deeply savoured.
He let go of Bodie's softening erection with a last, regretful kiss, then
sat up to the gratifying sight of a thoroughly debauched Bodie, eyes
glazed, chest still heaving for breath, face flushed rosily red as he
sprawled untidily in his seat. Doyle's cock gave an interested twitch as
he contemplated the pleasant thought that if this was what a well-blown
Bodie looked like, he couldn't wait to see a well-fucked Bodie. He sighed
a little, regretfully, at the realisation that that would definitely have
to wait for later, for reasons of discretion at least, not to mention that
although the spirit was definitely willing it was a bit premature for the
flesh. 

He waited expectantly for Bodie's words as his partner's breathing
steadied, then slowed. Bodie rearranged his trousers, zipped up the fly,
then his mouth opened and finally he managed to speak. "Ray! Are you mad?
You gave me a fucking blow-job, in broad daylight, on the bloody M1
motorway." The supposedly outraged tone of voice didn't quite come off,
Doyle thought. 

"Yeah, where anyone might've seen us," he agreed, laughter trembling in
his voice as happiness spread warmly inside him, tingling in his toes. 

"Coppers, terrorists, MI5..." Bodie reached over as he spoke and kissed
Doyle lightly on the lips. "And you, sunshine, have done that before." 

"Not on the M1, I haven't." Doyle's mouth quirked as he tried to hold in
his grin at Bodie's ostensibly annoyed glare. "Besides, who did you think
you were dealing with? Some sort of amateur?" 

"You? Never." Bodie shook his head, the grin coming freely now. 

"Anyway, you saying you haven't?" 

Bodie cleared his throat. "Not exactly." 

"Thought so. Tell you what, you can tell me all about it on the way home."


"Whose home?" Bodie's eyes were intense as he awaited Doyle's answer. 

"Yours, mine, 's all the same isn't it?" 

A searching look, then the tension subtly disappeared from Bodie's
tight-strung form. "Suppose it is," he said easily. 

"Okay, then. Well," Doyle demanded a moment later as Bodie had made no
move to start the engine. "We going? 'cos I dunno about you, but I'm
looking forward to, er, relaxing in a nice warm bed, after a lovely long
shower, of course." 

"You'll be lucky to get more than a trickle out of my shower." 

Doyle ignored Bodie's rueful comment. "Or a bath. I'm not fussy." 

"Could've fooled me." 

"Dinner would be nice, as well," Doyle continued, determinedly. 

"You cooking?" 

"Don't I always?" Doyle said smartly. "Tell you what, though, I'm buggered
if I'm always going to be lumbered with it, 'specially when we've just
come off stakeout and are really knackered." 

"But Ray..." Batting your eyelashes like that ought to be illegal, Doyle
thought. "...you know that we'll starve if we have to eat my cooking." 

"Yeah, you're wasting away there," Doyle said, pointedly eyeing Bodie up
and down. 

"Takeaways," Bodie protested. 

"You never fooled me, you know, not for an instant. I know you can cook." 

Bodie's mouth twitched. "Not for an instant?" 

"Maybe for an instant," Doyle admitted, remembering his disgust when he
realised that Bodie'd been taking him for a ride about his lack of
culinary skills. "We'll take it in turns." 

Bodie shrugged. "It's your stomach," he said, easing the car back onto the
motorway. 

"We've got plenty of time for you to get it right." Doyle reached up to
pull down the seatbelt. 

"Have we? Plenty of time, I mean?" 

Doyle's hands slowed. "Something we need to talk about, maybe?" 

"Yeah, but not now, eh. Later." 

"Later," Doyle agreed, the bright shine of his happiness a little dimmed
but still burning steadily. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't come up
with several ideas as to what a couple of former CI5 men could do to earn
a socially responsible living--some of which Bodie might even like. He
reached out and squeezed Bodie's thigh, hard, craving the contact. 

"Oi! Do you mind! I've got to drive the motor, remember." 

"Don't mind a bit, mate." 

"That'll leave bruises, that will," Bodie groused. 

"Want me to kiss it better?" 

A pause, then, "Maybe later." 

Doyle laughed and left his hand resting on Bodie's thigh as the car sped
south, a promise of what was to come.

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *The Bisto Kids*, Infinity Press, 2001*

******

*AUTHOR'S NOTE:* I refer to the 'Real IRA' in the story as being a
splinter group of the IRA (more properly called the Provisional IRA,
colloquially known as the Provos). To my knowledge the Real IRA didn't
actually exist at the time this story is set, although there is a group
called the Real IRA in existence nowadays who are indeed a splinter group
of the Provisional IRA, following disagreement amongst IRA members as to
the Northern Ireland peace process. 

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