In every heart, there is a room,
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
Billy Joel
 
 
 

February 15.
Tuesday, 2.10pm

It was silent in the corridor as Murphy paused. Silent and cold. Hard
linoleum beneath his leather soles echoed up his legs, his back and
into his neck. A faint sound of breathing from his own mouth was all
his ears could detect, like a whisper of memory, here and gone.
Central was empty - or about as empty as it could ever be. And as
silent.

Odd that the bustle of London failed to penetrate this sanctum with
warm suggestions of life outside. There was no sound-proofing in
these inflexible walls, no soft furnishings, no carpet or curtains.
Stark and simple, grey and practical. CI5.

Murphy turned his head just once to glance down the long grey tunnel
to where a thin film of light caught the immobile figure of George
Cowley. The Old Man stood by his office door, suit neatly pressed,
glasses in one hand, the other half-raised as though in mid sentence.
He must have sensed Murphy's hesitation. Another heart-beat and
Cowley raised his glasses, indicating the next, inevitable step
forward.

Murphy nodded but doubted Cowley would see it from this distance. His
gaze turned back to the door in front of him. He raised a hand and
let it rest on the handle, putting all his focus on the image visible
through the clear and polished glass.

The rest room. Windows opposite heaving grey winter light into a room
without heat. A bench along the right wall, cupboards above, tea
things and mugs scattered across the flat surfaces. Pale green
ancient paint, white formica mottled with gold thread, scratched from
use. In the centre of the room, a table, a chair almost parallel to
it - and on the chair, a figure.

Black had always been Bodie's colour. The shade of his hair, his best
clothes, his occasional moods. Black now surrounded him, enveloping
those heavy shoulders, neither hunched nor rigid. Bodie sat in
perfect profile to Murphy, upright on the uncomfortable chair, his
feet flat on the floor, his chin lifted, those famous blue eyes level
and studying the wall opposite, looking into a distance invisible to
Murphy. One hand alone rested on the table before him. Fingers spread
out, utterly immobile.

Murphy swallowed and pushed the handle down. The door swung wide at
his touch, soundless, like the rest of the building. Bodie didn't
even acknowledge his existence. For long moments, Murphy waited,
giving the other man a chance to notice the change in the air, to
register even if only on a subconscious level, that he was no longer
alone. Then he moved forward and stopped beside Bodie. Gently he
lifted a hand and placed it on the other man's shoulder.

"Bodie."

Movement, fractional and almost imperceptible. Then Bodie's head
turned and raised, his gaze almost meeting his friend's. "Time?"

"Yeah, the Old Man's waiting. Car's downstairs."

Bodie nodded once then unfolded his large frame from the chair.
Murphy stood back.

"You'd better bring your coat." He swallowed, not wanting to say it
but having no choice. "It's snowing."

The only reaction was Bodie's hand reaching for the thick black coat
draped over the back of his chair. Then he was past Murphy, his
footsteps smacking down the passage like a tattoo of accusation.
Quickly, Murphy followed.

Cowley was waiting in the car, seated in the back. Without a word,
Bodie chose the front, taking his place beside the driver with a face
closed of expression. As soon as Murphy was in place next to Cowley,
the driver let out the clutch and the engine roared into life,
breathing more heat into the confined space.

Murphy shot a glance at the Old Man as they moved out into traffic -
but Cowley either didn't notice - or chose not to. His gaze rested
out the window, on the roads as they slipped by, on traffic congested
between streets too narrow for modern transport. His mouth set in a
thin line, his pale blue eyes reflecting the grey day; there was
little of the Whitehall-shaking hellion about George Cowley to be
seen. His hands were clasped together - but the fingers of one hand
kept tapping against the back of the other and Murphy would have
liked to have smiled. Even the Cow wasn't as hard as he pretended to
be.

Relaxing into his seat a little, Murphy turned his gaze on Bodie -
but the face was averted leaving only enough for Murphy to see how
Bodie's eyes watched the flutter of snowflakes down the side window.
Of everything else, he appeared ignorant.

One grey street after another rolled by, page after page, each as the
last until, without preamble, the car turned into a driveway lined by
bald trees and sketchy grass. Gravel crunched under the tyres as the
driver slowed and stopped beside other cars parked in the gathering
snow.

Bodie was the first to get out and Murphy followed him, always an eye
to orders given and meant. Footsteps gouged into the gravel as they
reached the church door, Cowley following behind - and then they were
inside, Bodie striding ahead as though he would rid himself of his
shadows. Arbitrarily, he took a seat three rows from the front,
folded his arms and settled back, his face set and immobile.

With a last glance at Cowley, Murphy sat beside him leaving the boss
to sit at the front; his duty, his place.

The small church was almost full - though Murphy would have had
trouble putting names to more than a few faces. Kathy was there,
sitting with Susan and Sally. She gave him a weak smile of
encouragement but she knew where his place was. His attention was
caught by the lilting phrases of a Beethoven organ piece. Not much,
just the introduction. A rustle of movement and the priest,
white-robed, book in hand, took his place before the lectern.

The music drifted to silence. People settled. Murphy lifted his
attention from Bodie to the words the priest spoke, clear and
distinct, echoing against hard stone walls empty of hope.

"Go placidly amidst the noise and haste and remember what peace there
may be in silence. You are a child of the universe no less than the
trees and stars. You have a right to be here." The priest let his
gaze wander among those seated before him. "Words favoured by the man
we have gathered here today to honour and remember. To honour because
he was a voice in the darkness, a soul prepared to fight for and give
his life for what he believed in. To remember because he was also a
man, a human like us all, with his virtues and his faults. A man who,
despite the violence of his work, managed to touch us all with his
love and his humanity. In this memorial service today, we will
remember and honour a man who was taken from us without warning and
without goodbyes: Raymond Doyle."
 

4.15pm

Murphy withdrew his hands from his pockets, clasped them together and
blew on them. It had to be below zero outside - but at least the snow
had stopped. Already street lights were coming on, resenting the
short winter days with bleak yellow warnings. Thick clouds loomed in
the sky above, pressing down on the leafless trees as though they
would crush the world beneath them.

Just about everybody had left now. Kathy had already gone, given a
lift home by Sally. Taggart and Fields had rushed off on a job. Only
Jax, Anson and Susan waited by their cars, Cowley with them - most
likely talking about work. Not really the time or place but Murphy
wasn't about to say anything to the Old Man.

As though reading his thoughts, Cowley chose that moment to leave the
others and cross the carpark to where Murphy waited by the door.

"He's still in there?"

"Would I be standing out here freezing if he weren't?"

"I'm in no mood for flippancy, 6.2."

"No, sir," Murphy only just kept the irritation from his voice.
"Should I get him?"

"Not if he's praying."

"Bodie?" Murphy let out disbelieving grunt. "Doyle was the believer
of those two, sir."

Cowley took his gaze from the church door and pinned it to Murphy
with the accuracy of a Class A marksman. "Then why do you suppose
he's still in there, half an hour after the service finished?"

Murphy could only shrug.

"Aye, well leave him until he's ready to come out. Then take him
home. Susan will drive you. Don't worry, she's an eye to his mood and
won't try to draw him out. All the same, 6.2, your assignment for the
next four days is to stay with 3.7. I don't want him to be left alone
to do anything but visit the bathroom."

Murphy shot one look at the church door and the sliver of pews he
could see inside. "Is such close observation really necessary, sir?
It's not as if Doyle was killed on the job. There's no murderer for
Bodie to go flying after, is there?"

"Does there need to be?"

The sharpness in Cowley's voice made Murphy turn back to him. "What
are you getting at, sir?"

"Doyle was his partner, Murphy. You're his friend. Stay with him and
keep him out of trouble. You're the only man I have available who's
big enough to keep him in order."

For a moment, Murphy studied Cowley, seeing past the crisp
instructions and gruff voice to where the genuine concern waited in
those hard grey eyes, barely acknowledged. CI5 had lost half of its
best team - but Cowley had lost a man, a good man. Doyle would be
missed and in more than just a professional manner.

"Should I expect trouble, sir?"

Cowley raised his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile playing around his
mouth. "Have you known a day on this job when you shouldn't?" He
gestured to his driver to bring his car around. "Stay with Bodie,
6.2. Watch him and have him in my office by 9.00am, Friday."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Cowley turned and climbed into his car. Murphy glanced
across at Susan who shrugged, happy to wait. Well, perhaps they would
have to wait - but who said Murphy had to do it outside, where his
feet were quickly forming the particulars of iceblocks at the end of
his legs.

He headed back inside, just inside the door. A heater blasted
ineffectually against the winter and he almost took up residence
inside it.

Bodie had moved. He now stood in the centre of the isle, between the
two front pews as though afraid of moving closer to the altar. His
hands rested by his sides, flesh covered by black gloves, shoulders
covered by woollen coat, head angled down, as though he were studying
the medieval tiled floor. There was a stillness about him, about the
church that sent a chill of a different kind through Murphy and all
his instincts were alerted at the same time.

That left hand clenched suddenly and almost lifted. Murphy stiffened,
ready for some assault - but then Bodie relaxed again and Murphy let
out a breath -

And almost missed the harsh sound whispered in the silence. A voice.
Words, coming from Bodie. The tone filled with fury; barbed wire
scraping across the floor.

"You bastard, Ray. Why didn't you just say?"
 
 

**************

January 17
Monday, 11.20am

"Good God, Bodie, what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

Doyle's half-laugh, half-rage, barely infringed on Bodie's
concentration. At least, not that he would show. Instead, he
carefully peeled the paper from his bacon sandwich, took another
mouthful and kept his gaze attentively on the newspaper in front of
him, effectively ignoring Doyle waiting outside the car, his arms
full of grocery bags.

"Oi! Open the bloody door before I drop the lot!"

"Mmm?" Bodie murmured, pretending to study the racing pages with all
the application of a lab assistant over a microscope.

A harsh thud rocked the car, making the cup of tea he had resting on
the dash slurp liquid over onto his paper. "Hey! What was that for?"

"Bodie!"

With a grin, Bodie left his paper and reached over the back seat to
unlock and push open the back door. Grumbling, Doyle dumped the bags
on the back seat, slammed the door and climbed in behind the wheel.
"Bloody arms were ready to drop off."

"Thought you'd be doing weight training with them, mate," Bodie
quipped, his eyes once again on his paper. "You're always telling me
how strong you are."

Doyle said nothing but simply started the Escort's engine and with a
sly grin in his partner's direction, gunned the car into motion. With
a shriek, Bodie made an ineffectual grab for his tea - only to find
it splattered all over his paper, his hands - and his lap.

"What are you doing?" Frantically, Bodie brushed the hot liquid away
from his more sensitive parts, spearing Doyle with a look of burning
hatred. "That was uncalled for!"

"Oh, stop whining, Bodie, the paper caught the worst of it and you
know it. Besides, if I did do you any damage, the female population
of London would send me a reward - and I'm a bit strapped for cash at
the moment."

Still tidying himself up, Bodie collected his bacon sandwich and
pulled off a bit of soggy bread. Fortunately, the rest had survived
unscathed. "That's because the only way they'll climb into the sack
with you is if you take'm to one of those high class restaurants.
Expensive way to get a bit of sex if you ask me."

"Better than taking them to the local café like some people I could
mention."

"I never…"

At Doyle's chuckle, Bodie glanced at him and settled for a grunt. He
didn't much feel like arguing today. It had been a long week already.
Two days, two cases, two shoot-ups - and four dead. Funny how they
could work half a dozen cases for weeks at a time, long dragging jobs
filled with intel gathering, obbos and speculation - and then within
twenty-four hours, have three of them explode in the squad's face. At
least he and Doyle had been spared the other case. The bomb. Seven
wounded - though nobody dead. Did it have to be like that? Nothing
for weeks, almost months - then too much, too quickly?

Maybe he was just getting old. How long had he been at this caper?
Five years in CI5 and partners with Doyle that whole time. Good god,
that was about the longest he'd stuck with anything his entire life.
School, street kid, merchant navy, mercs, Africa, army, paras, SAS.
And after all that, he ends up with a 'career' in CI5. From the
sublime to the ridiculous. Getting old? Nah! Not yet. Not by half!

And now they had a morning off. A whole bloody morning. Just enough
time to pick up laundry, buy a bit of food, see what the outside
world looked like - and then go back to work. Hardly worth the
bother, really.

"You'd better stop off at my flat. I'll have to get changed."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Doyle said, glancing with feigned concern at
the wet patch on Bodie's lap. "I shouldn't think anyone will notice."

"Yeah, they bloody will, Doyle and you know it. Then I'll have to put
up with a week's worth of jokes about getting over excited and not
being able to save it for the birds so you can just stop by my place
and let me get changed or I'll really give you something to complain
about." Bodie finished with more of an edge to his voice than he'd
intended. He didn't look at Doyle but instead, finished off his
sandwich and settled back in his seat, prepared to close his eyes.

Doyle said nothing.

Bloody hell, why couldn't he stop doing that? What once would have
been nothing more than a joke they could both laugh at, now became
something that really irritated him deep down. No, he didn't want to
look at Doyle. Didn't want to even guess what he was thinking. Didn't
want to hear those words asking if anything was wrong. Didn't have an
answer. At least, not an answer he wanted to think about.

Yeah, well maybe he was getting too old. Maybe five years was enough
for any man. Plenty of time to get shot at and blown up and knifed.
Breaking bones, collecting bruises and concussions. What a way to
earn a living. A career in gradual self-destruction, that's what this
was. Keep going until one day there's nothing of you left for them to
target.

"Bodie?"

"What?"

"Is something bothering you?"

Yep, there it was. *The* question. Phrased differently each time, but
nonetheless, the same question. And Doyle never taking his response
for the truth, as though he didn't trust Bodie to even know the
answer, as though he needed Doyle to help him work it out.

"There's nothing bothering me apart from a pair of wet trousers."
Bodie filtered out the sigh but said nothing else. Doyle would know
not to ask again. At least, not today.

"Bodie?

"Yeah."

"We're here."

With some surprise, Bodie sat up and looked about him. Doyle had
found a park right outside his building.

"I'll wait here. Just don't take too long. I have to get this stuff
back to my place before we go back to work. Don't forget your
laundry."

Bodie collected the bag and dashed out into the cold. He leapt the
stairs to his door, key already in hand. More slowly now he went up
to the first floor, opened his flat up, absently turning off the
alarms. He came to a halt in the lounge, by the window where a crack
in the lace curtains gave him a spy hole on the Escort. The laundry
bag dropped from his hand, forgotten.

Doyle was out of the car, his jacket collar pulled up around his
ears. Two kids were making little snowmen along the front brick wall
and Doyle was helping them.

Five bloody years. What the hell was wrong with him? Didn't five
years mean anything any more? How many times had Ray saved him from
death or injury? Or worse? Like last month when those Dutch gangsters
had made the best attempt CI5 had ever seen at framing an innocent
man for murder. If it hadn't been for Doyle, Bodie would even now be
rotting in a cell on the Island, waiting for his enemies to take
turns peeling slices off him.

For five years their partnership had been based on mutual trust. They
ruled the top of their profession, their record of success unmatched
by any other team. Their skills unquestioned, their strange shared
wavelength almost incorporated into basic training for the new boys.
They were the best.

Trust. Yeah. So what the hell was wrong with him? And how could he
stop it? Leave? Well, that was one way out of it, but not his
preferred choice. What else? Couldn't say anything - to anybody.
Ignore it? Not working so far. Hadn't for the last two months. In
fact, it had only become worse.

"Damn it, Bodie!" he hissed into the silence. "Just leave it alone."

As though Doyle sensed his confusion from below, he rolled up a ball
of snow and fired it at Bodie's window. Knowing he wouldn't be seen,
Bodie stepped back - then strode into the bedroom to get changed.
Minutes later he was setting the locks and leaping back down the
stairs to the cold outside, determined to shrug off this mood once
and for all. Oddly, Doyle didn't complain about his tardiness and
instead, simply swung out into the traffic.

"You are comin' to the pub tonight, aren't you?"

Bodie glanced aside - and only then did he remember and instantly
grinned, "It's Murph's birthday, isn't it? Yeah, I'll be there."

"Good. You'll enjoy it."

"So you said last week - but I s'pose you still won't tell me what
you've arranged?"

"Nope."

"Aha. Does Kathy know?"

"Didn't tell her."

"But it'll be good?"

Doyle chuckled with delicious wickedness. "Yep. Murphy's gonna kill
me - so don't you get drunk. I'll need you to watch me back."

"Like hell. You've dropped yourself in this one, sunshine. I'll be
busy elsewhere."

Again, Doyle sniggered, "You're assuming I invited some birds."

Bodie decided not to take the bait. "And the boys would hang around
for about five minutes if you hadn't. Don't try that one on me."

Yeah. Perhaps a night at the pub was just what he needed.
 
 

9.15pm

Murphy was not now - nor ever had been - a match for Raymond Doyle.
Nor was Bodie, on this particular occasion, of a mind to help the
Smurph out. He valued his own skin far too highly.

No. It was far more enjoyable - and infinitely safer, at least for
the moment, to stand back with everyone else and simply watch.

And laugh.

The pub was crowded with as many agents as could get the night off.
Murphy's cool, laid-back attitude made him popular with just about
everybody and most of them had snatched at least a few hours off.
Many had girlfriends and wives with them, Murphy included. But right
now, Murph had been separated from his lovely Kathy and was sitting
blindfolded on a chair, handcuffed and completely stuck.

At least Doyle had let Murphy keep his clothes on.

Everyone else kept a safe distance, a neat if hysterical circle
around the poor man. Kathy stayed beside Bodie, unable to stifle her
giggling.

"He's going to make me pay for this you know, Bodie. He'll never
believe I didn't have anything to do with it."

Bodie grinned, "I'll back you up, sweetheart. We'll just blame it all
on Doyle. Let him take the heat."

How Murphy had managed to let his guard down enough for Doyle to get
the cuffs on, Bodie couldn't imagine. But it was done now and
although Murphy pleaded to be set loose, Doyle was having none of it.
Instead, he stood behind Murphy's chair and reached into a bag he'd
brought with him. Almost soundlessly, Doyle, his mouth set
purposefully, lifted a huge card up for everyone to read, turning it
this way and that to make sure they all saw it clearly.

'Act like there's a stripper coming in.'

Almost on cue with the roars from the delighted crowd, music cranked
up all around them. Typical stripper's music, bump and grind - only
nobody appeared. Doyle held up another card.

'She's dancing in front of him.'

Whistles and calls. Encouragement for the phantom lady to do her
worst.

Bodie began to laugh.

Murphy's face was priceless and even Kathy had to clamp a hand over
her mouth so her love wouldn't hear her enjoying his discomfort.

Another card. 'She's removing her upper garments.'

More roars. They were playing along and loving it. Poor old Murphy
was yelling at Doyle to take the blindfold off but Doyle, savouring
every wicked moment, simply held up another card.

'She's getting ready to finish her act.'

>From the bag, Doyle produced a filmy scarf and innocently brushed it
over Murphy's face. The crowd screeched with laughter. Then the scarf
disappeared and Doyle held up one last card.

'The stripper has left the building. Applaud.'

As though they'd just seen the best show on earth - which in a way,
they had - all of CI5's finest put their hands together and whooped
and yelled their approval. The music, almost drowned out by this
barrage, grunted to a close.

Doyle held up his hand, encouraging them on. Over the noise, Bodie
could hear Murphy shouting.

"C'mon, Doyle, give me a break!"

"You wanna see the stripper?" Doyle yelled back.

"Don't be an idiot."

And Doyle grinned, his green eyes sparkling. He nodded to somebody
behind Bodie and then there was a press in the crowd as a man stepped
forward.

Tall, perfectly built, well-fed muscles defined by body oil and a
scanty singlet. Tight leather pants and heeled boots finished the
outfit off. The man took up a pose right in front of Murphy, taking
the scarf Doyle handed him - and Bodie had to hold his stomach
against his laughter, knowing what was coming.

With a flourish, Doyle removed Murphy's blindfold.

Murphy blinked, focussed - and his jaw fell open.

Kathy turned and buried her head in Bodie's shoulder, her whole body
shaking with laughter.

Murphy was instantly on his feet, taking the chair with him - and
suddenly Doyle had disappeared. It was up to others to steady their
laughter and unlock the cuffs - a few of them having to hold the
Smurph back from hunting out Doyle, no matter where he'd gone. Kathy
chose that moment to go back to him. It was only her calm and
repeated insistence that prevented cold-blooded murder.

His face aching with mirth and feeling better than he had in a long
time, Bodie headed for the bar and another beer. He collected it and
spied Doyle hiding in a booth on the other side of the crowded room.
Their eyes met and they grinned. He bought another pint then squeezed
through the press of people and landed on the empty seat opposite his
partner.

Doyle took the drink with a nod of thanks, his gaze understandably,
on the other side of the room, keeping an eye out for a surprise
attack. His face was a picture; wariness combined with blissful
satisfaction. It would take some time before that smug smile wore
off. Time - or Murphy finding him in the next five minutes.

"Don't worry, mate. He'll save it for later."

"Yeah, that's what worries me." Though Doyle's grin made it a lie.

Bodie shook his head. "Jesus, Ray, you do like living dangerously! If
Kathy hadn't been there…"

"If Kathy hadn't been there, I wouldn't have blindfolded him - and it
would have been a real stripper."

"You mean, the guy isn't?"

"Nah," Doyle chuckled. "Just a bloke who does a little modelling for
the art classes I used to do. Offered him a tenner and a few drinks.
He was game. Loves a laugh."

Bodie raised his eyebrows. "A model?"

"Yeah." Doyle's eyes were still on the other side of the room.

"A gay model?"

"Dunno. Never asked."

Bodie turned his attention back to the crowd and eventually spied
Murphy somewhat mollified by the delectable Kathy neatly wrapped
around him. Music had boomed up again and a few couples were now
dancing. Murphy dragged Kathy to a little space on their own and they
danced, close up, creating their own world amidst the noise and
crush. By the look of him, Murphy had already forgotten Doyle's prank
- though without doubt, he'd remember tomorrow.

"He won't last the year."

Bodie frowned and glanced back at Doyle. "Eh?"

"Murphy." Doyle took another drink and met Bodie's gaze. "Was talking
to him yesterday. I think he wants to get out."

"Kathy?"

"It's not her, exactly. She loves this mob - strange girl that she
is. I think if young Michael Patrick wasn't already in the squad,
she'd think seriously about leaving the Met and signing on. No, I
think Murph's decided he wants the quiet life for a while."

"Serious then, is it?"

Doyle shrugged, "Well, you know him better than I do."
 

"But he never said anything about this to me."

Doyle's glance grazed against his awareness and vanished, buried in
the action of taking another hearty mouthful of ale.

Strangely piqued, Bodie sat up straight and put both arms on the
table. He fixed all his attention on his partner. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't play games with me, Doyle. What was that look for?"

"What look?"

Now it was all innocence - but not the fanciful kind that warned of
some incoming joke. No, Doyle expected Bodie to buy this.

He didn't. "Has Murphy said something? About me?"

Doyle grimaced and shook his head. "Look, Bodie, nothin's been said.
Just forget it, okay?"

"No. Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is going on." Doyle gave him an exasperated sigh and shook
his head again. "Jesus, you tell me I obsess over stuff. Just trust
me and forget it."

Bodie fell silent but the moment was far from forgotten. He wrapped
his hands around his glass and let his gaze drop into the depths of
the remaining amber nectar. He tried to dust away the cobwebs of that
fleeting look, but it just wouldn't work. They stuck there, attached
to a mental image of Murphy and Kathy together in their own world on
the dance floor and buoyed afloat by his dark mood of that morning.
Slowly, all the laughter of the practical joke fluttered away as
though it had never been and he was left feeling hollow, grey and
raw.

"Ray?"

Slowly he raised his head until his eyes met Doyle's. In the murky
pub light, there was little visible of the usual vivid green.
Instead, he was met with hazy brown, brows drawn up in that odd
movement that appeared to make Doyle look so vulnerable.

The gaze that met his was searching and not a little gentle - and
caught Bodie at the back of his throat. After a moment, Doyle took a
breath, "Bodie, you're my best mate, right? You're the best partner I
could have had even though I thought Cowley was mad the day he teamed
us. Can't you just trust me and leave it alone? Please?"

Bodie gave a short shake to his head. "But?"

"No buts, Bodie. That's it." He grabbed his glass and put a hand on
the table to push himself up but Bodie caught it, forcing the hand
down on the flat surface.

"Answer me. But what?"

A flare of anger flashed across those eyes, to be instantly quelled.
Even so, Bodie didn't let go. While Doyle's ire was not something he
would normally choose to face, and in fact, would go some distance to
avoid, right now he was willing to take the risk. Another heartbeat
floated by and Doyle relaxed with a sigh, draining the last of his
beer.

"Bodie, you're a stubborn SOB and if you were anybody else, I'd
flatten you."

"Look at me and tell me." Bodie still kept a firm grip on Doyle's
wrist.

"That's just it, mate. You know what we've been through together over
the last five years. If I was ever in trouble, I'd come to you first
for help. But Bodie, I hate to say it - you're just not the kind of
bloke it's easy to confide in."

Sharply winded, Bodie released Doyle's wrist and sat back. He
couldn't take his eyes from that face he knew so well. Inside, his
stomach rocked a block of lead from side to side, squashing flat
every tumbling morose feeling he'd had all day, for the last few
months. If somebody was to throw a punch at his solar plexus right
now, they'd break every bone in their hand.

Doyle swallowed and idly, Bodie watched his Adam's apple move up and
down. "I'm sorry, mate," Doyle murmured, only too aware of the hurt
he'd inflicted, even though he'd tried to avoid it. Knowing Doyle,
he'd do the whole guilt thing now. "You didn't want to hear that and
that's why I didn't want to tell you. But you do it to yourself.
Hell, when Marrika died, you just cut yourself off, even from me. It
took you weeks to get around to talking to me about anything - and
still you never said a word about her. I still don't know if she was
the love of your life or just somebody you had some vague sentimental
feeling for. It sounded like she betrayed you once before, but I'm
only guessing. And as for that dark distant past of yours? Oh, I know
there are things you don't want to talk about, and you laugh at the
stories the boys make up about Africa and everything - but I'm not
talking about them. I'm talking about Murph and Kathy, Anson and
Susan. Me. Your friends. You keep us shut out."

Bodie didn't move. Some small part of his mind, safely objective,
noticed that that had been just about the longest uninterrupted
speech Doyle had given him in over five years.

Stiffly, he lifted his glass to his lips and spoke before drinking,
"What do you want me to tell you? My life's bleedin' story or
something?"

Doyle sagged a little, "Christ, no, Bodie. But you know what I mean.
Hell, I was there at your side when we took on Krivas and his mob -
and yet all you ever did was hint at why you hated him so much. Who
was the girl? Did you love her?"

Love?

Bodie could have laughed - if there'd been anything left inside that
wasn't already diced and shredded. Gathering more of himself
together, Bodie finished his beer and laid the glass back down,
prepared to do battle. "Yeah, I know what you mean, Doyle. I've seen
you do the same thing to me every day for the last five years."
"What?" Doyle was thrown, instantly confused and it showed all over
his face.

"Last year, the day you got shot." Bodie's words came out stunted
now, and a little harsh, failing to completely hide the still-buried
anger and fear that episode had cost him. "When we left the inquest,
I asked you to the pub, to wind down - because I knew you were in a
mood. I knew you needed it - but what did you do? You shut me out and
went back to your flat alone. And May Li was waiting for you and
almost killed you."

Doyle's mouth hung open and Bodie had to drag his eyes from it to
meet Doyle's gaze. The distraction only served to darken his mood.

"But…"

"But nothing, Ray." Bodie leaned forward, his voice a low growl.
"I'll make a bargain with you, sunshine. I'll tell you about any
episode in my life, if you tell me the story of how you got your
cheekbone smashed."

Doyle snapped back at this. A look of something sped across his face
like lightning, all twisted and grappling with past and present. A
conjunction of realities too sharp and too tender to express in
words. He hid it all behind disbelief - but Bodie had seen it. And
Doyle knew it.

Depressingly satisfied now, Bodie got to his feet. "Tell Murph I said
happy birthday." Without another word, he turned and pushed his way
through the crowd and out the door.
 

He was three streets away before he even noticed how cold it was.
Didn't matter. His flat was only around the corner and he'd left his
car at Central, expecting to drink tonight.

The streets were quiet as he pounded along them, feet crunching on
fresh falls of snow. Along the gutters and fences, snow had turned to
grey muddy slush making the place look more dirty and foetid than it
normally did. He crossed at the corner and stormed past doors,
windows where a little light shone out into the night. He could hear
radios and televisions, people's lives prattling on around him,
oblivious to the silent menace stalking past.

One building from the corner, he turned and stomped up the steps. He
shoved the key in the lock so hard, it almost broke. More stairs and
then his front door. Only at the last moment did he remember to turn
the alarms off. The door slammed shut behind him with such force, the
living room windows rattled. He dropped his keys on the floor and
sank onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

In the darkness, he silently urged calm upon himself. He took deep
breaths and willed the muscles in his shoulders to unlock, to
mentally picture the tension flowing out of them and away. He
focussed on the knot in his stomach and worked at it, easing it loose
again. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on a plain blank wall,
to drown in it.

Exercises learned over years of fight training. Take only a perfectly
clear mind into battle with you. Never aim a weapon with anger in
your heart. Emotions of any kind spoil your aim. Feelings of any
nature get in the way of the job and you risk losing your life by
being unable to concentrate on why you're there.

And he was good at it. Not perfect, true - but pretty damned good.

So why wasn't it working this time? Instead of calming him, the
exercises only fed his disquiet and unease and drove him eventually
to his feet.

Damn Doyle!

Damn him!

Grabbing his keys, Bodie strode to the door. He'd set Doyle straight
once and for all.
 
 

This time he didn't notice the cold at all. The fire inside him burnt
enough to keep the whole of Chelsea toasty for a week. Ready to storm
into the pub and haul Doyle out by the collar, Bodie was pulled up in
the shadows on the opposite side of the street, by the sight of
various people leaving for home in happy clumps. Bodie paused warily.
He hadn't realized it was so late already. He looked at his watch.
11.10pm. Doyle's car was still there.

Before Bodie could move, the man himself backed out through the pub
doors, Murphy and Kathy with him. Doyle led them to his car and
unlocked it for them. That's right; he'd offered to give them a lift
home. Even from his hiding place, Bodie could clearly hear Murphy's
half-drunk warning of what the morning would play for Doyle. It was
Kathy however, who made sure Murphy got into the car without smacking
his head on the roof.

Bodie was about ready to head back home when he saw something else
that stalled him. That guy - the stripper - exited after Doyle,
warmly rugged up with a long coat and scarf. He came around the car
before Doyle could get in and placed a proprietorial hand on his
shoulder.

Bodie stiffened.

"I'm glad you called me," the model said with a grin. "That was worth
coming out into the cold for."

Doyle nodded, "Yeah, thanks for doing it. I'm glad you enjoyed
yourself."

Bodie couldn't take his eyes from that hand, the grip. His mouth went
dry but his feet for the moment seemed unable - or perhaps unwilling
- to move.

"I had a ball. Listen, Ray, we should go out for a drink sometime.
Catch up."

Doyle laughed, a husky disavowal. The man ignored him and went on.
"Oh, come on, Ray." Now he was smiling too, as though he knew what
Doyle was thinking. He dropped his voice a little but Bodie would
have heard the next words if he'd been standing a mile away. "You
know I think you have the most gorgeous arse I've ever seen. Are you
sure you won't even think about changing sides?"

Again that laughter from Doyle. He gave the man's shoulder a friendly
pat, "Sorry, Jeff, but you're just not my type. But I will buy you a
drink sometime just to show there's no hard feelings."

Jeff dropped the hand and stepped back from the car. "Oh, but there
are, my sweet, there are. Drive carefully. Goodnight."

Bodie drew back further into the shadows as Doyle pulled out from the
kerb and drove past. Jeff shook his head and turned for the opposite
direction. Bodie was frozen to his hiding place, struck by two
overpowering thoughts, one treading so hard upon the other, his
breath was snatched away.

Bodie was jealous and -

*Doyle had lied to him*.

As the pub emptied, Bodie turned and walked back down the street, his
hands deep in his jacket pockets, his mind abruptly emptied by that
stormy intrusion. In what seemed like only a few moments, he found
himself climbing the stairs to his flat again. He went in with only a
vague feeling of a change in surroundings. Absently he turned the
heaters up and dropped his jacket on the back of the chair. He looked
down at his hands and was surprised to find them almost blue.

Shower. He needed to have a shower to warm up. He'd never sleep like
this.

The bathroom filled with steam quickly and stripping off, he stepped
under the pounding spray, closing his eyes and turning his face into
it. As the heat seeped into his flesh, his mind began to work again,
slowly cranking up into a fury of thoughts he could neither contain
nor control.

Doyle had known Jeff was gay - but he'd lied about it to Bodie. Why?
Had he thought Bodie would make an issue of it? Was there some
element in his shady past he wasn't willing to admit to? Even to
Bodie?

Did he really want to know?

With a groan, he put his palms high on the wall and leaned forward so
the water would pummel his back and he could rest his forehead on the
cool smooth tiles. Even before the next thought was completed, he
dreaded it.

So it was true. All that jealousy, all that rage and anger. All that
hiding and snapping, slapping Doyle back every time he tried to get
close. But it wasn't really Doyle he'd been hiding from.

No. Bodie had been hiding from himself and the knowledge that he
wanted something from his partner that he was never likely to get.
Now it stared him in the face, unavoidable and inexcusable. Hiding -
even ignoring it would do no good any more. Hadn't done to begin
with.

Christ, why was this happening to him? From the age of fourteen, when
he'd jumped on that ship out of Liverpool, he'd been faced with
countless opportunities to climb into bed with a man. Sometimes, in
the merchant navy, it had been all he could do to fight them off. He
could have been flattered, but as a raw teenager, all he saw was the
affront to his masculinity. Not once had he ever been tempted - not
even from curiosity. Not that it would have bothered him, really -
but since he'd never wanted to, he'd never thought about it.

And then Africa. Oh, sure, plenty of opportunities there too. The
mercs in his unit. The local girls either unwilling or too scared of
the white soldiers - and Bodie had never been one to force a girl if
she didn't want it. He'd made do with those who had wanted him and
while not exactly scattering his wild oats, he'd managed to get by.
Then there had been that night in Dakar when all his caution and
skill had almost failed him. Luck alone had saved him from certain
violent rape. That incident on it's own should have been enough to
put him off for life. The army and SAS had reinforced it. Everybody
knew it went on in the ranks, but nobody talked about it because the
fact was, if a man got caught in the wrong bed, the only future was a
dishonourable discharge and a life spent having to invent excuses.

But Bodie had never been in danger of any of that - because his
passions had always been wholly and completely focussed on the fairer
sex, no matter how hard to catch.

And two months ago, that had all changed, against his will, against
even his conscious desires. Oh, he knew the exact moment, the precise
second his lifetime view of Doyle had abruptly altered, ruining his
peace.

All so innocently. On the job, trapped between a warehouse wall and a
truck, Doyle close behind him. The men they'd been following for a
week were too near for them to risk moving and they were stuck for
almost twenty minutes. Crammed up together in a tiny space, their
feet hidden by the back wheel of the truck, unable to go back or
forward, not even to speak.

After the first rushed seconds, as the stark reality set in and Bodie
had realized they had to stay put, he'd relaxed a little - and that's
when it had happened.

Slowly, creeping from one part of his being to the next, like a kind
of poison, he'd become aware of Doyle's body pressing close to his
side. Doyle's breath on his neck, feeling the heart beat from his
chest. He'd caught a glimpse of those green eyes, the full lips
parted to breathe silently, the hair tousled by the wind streaking
down the alley. Doyle was there, touching more of him than any casual
matey gesture could ever manage, ignorant of the effect he was having
on his partner - while every fibre in Bodie's body, every thread of
his soul shrieked a wanting he couldn't begin to put words to.

His arousal had sent a wave of deep, violent shock through him which
to this day, he could recall without any trouble at all.

Impossible and yet -

Not impossible at all.

And standing outside that pub tonight, he'd felt it all again,
watching Jeff place a hand on Doyle's shoulder, making the offer with
a smile, having it turned down without offence.

What would Doyle do if Bodie played the same game? Would he receive
the same chuckle, the same secure smile? Or would Doyle smack his
teeth in for making such an assumption, for betraying a friendship
they both relied on so much.

And why had Doyle lied?

Bodie turned off the shower and dried himself. He threw on a robe and
stomped through to the kitchen. He put on the kettle for a cuppa he
didn't really want - but he couldn't quite bring himself to go to bed
just yet. There were too many suggestions in that action, too many
ways for him to trap himself as he had done so many other nights
since that day in the alley.

And it hadn't all ended there, either. Minutes after they'd finally
squeezed themselves free of the alley, they'd caught up with the
traffickers, trapping them mid-deal. Oh, they'd brought them in
without too much trouble but there had been a moment there, when
Doyle had almost vanished from his life altogether. Again. A gun
brought to bear on him, Bodie too late to shout a warning, his own
weapon terrifyingly slow but managing to bring the man down with a
single shot. Doyle had been philosophical about it as usual, but that
day it had been Bodie in shock, for hours after, replaying the
incident in his mind's eye, conjuring up an alternate ending for the
day - to walk out of the morgue, facing a world without Ray Doyle.

Again.

That day, over a year ago now. The alarm on the R/T. The frantic
drive, the climb up the fire escape to look through the window and
see the sight.

Never, no matter how long he lived, would Bodie ever forget that
first split second. In that second, that moment in time - which to
him, dragged for an eternity - Doyle was dead. Gone, his presence no
more than an emptiness. Lying motionless on the carpet, covered in
blood.

Blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

Ray's blood.

And then Bodie had cracked through his ice-bound horror and fallen at
Doyle's side to find a weak pulse. The hours, days and weeks after
that had never seemed quite so bad as that first moment, even though
for a while there, it looked like Doyle might not survive surgery -
or the first two days after.

Nothing ever as bad as that moment.

The kettle whistled and Bodie pulled out a cup, stuck a spoon of
coffee into it. The steaming water burnt his fingers but he paid no
attention as something else drained into him with the aching ice of a
cold bath. A dismal realization so awful, his mind couldn't contain
it in silence.

"Christ, no!" he breathed into the empty kitchen. "No."

No, no, no.

"Please, don't let it be love!"

Yes, he could accept that he lusted after Ray Doyle and would do just
about anything save risking the partnership to get him into bed - but
please, not love. Anything but that.

Lust he could live with. Like the pains of a gun shot or a knife cut,
the agony was physical. He had learned ways and means to curb it, to
reduce the affect it would have on him. He could still function, do
the job, live his life. He might be a little bad-tempered every now
and then, but it wouldn't destroy him, wouldn't change the life he'd
worked so hard to get.

But love?

Real love?

A fate worse than death. Words like pain and agony, distress and
torment were volleys of soggy paper against a wall of obsidian rock.
To love was to give oneself up, hand one's heart into the care of
another in the vague and vain hope that it would be given back
unbruised and unbroken, still whole.

Physical pain Bodie could cope with, even the thought of a long and
painful death scared him only a little in comparison. And he knew. As
a child and as an adult. So he'd learned to shelter his heart against
that onslaught. Marrika had come close - but her world had always
been at odds with his, and his deep-rooted survival instincts had
warned him off giving more than a little of himself. As it was, that
small part had been charred to a cinder with her betrayal and would
never see daylight again. She had been the last; he had promised
himself so.

But - was he still so inured against the hurt? Did he still protect
himself so perfectly? Or had Ray Doyle, mercurial, guilt-driven and
blindingly honest, found a away through the rat-maze with his
unswerving loyalty, his heart-felt ideals and a smile that nearly
melted Bodie every time he saw it.

No, this hadn't been going on for only a few months. This condition -
serious as it appeared to be now that he looked at it - had been
developing for a year, perhaps longer. Doyle had been getting to him
for a long time. Perhaps even from the beginning.

When truth is revealed, it is generally done so completely and Bodie
now looked back on five years and saw all the things he had blinded
himself to before. The laughter, the jokes, the nights watching
football on the telly, the quiet afternoons spent reading papers,
long nights on obbo duties. Days spent working with somebody he could
trust with his life - not lightly, but seriously. Times when they
horsed around and others when the peace was all they needed.

In a crowded room or in response to a joke, Bodie would always look
for Doyle's gaze first. He would seek and find those cat-green eyes,
wide and open, trusting, the eyebrows drawn together or raised
slightly, affecting vulnerability. The quirky smile which accompanied
the deadpan voice, light, lilting and absolutely not to be taken
seriously. And the opposite, the husky growl, the warning, the anger
and rage, the danger.

Ray Doyle was a man of contrasts and it was not unknown for him to
display most of them in the space of an hour. But Bodie knew them
all. Every one.

Every one except the lie.

But did it have to be love? Did he even know what love was any more?
Was this what it felt like? This aching in his gut, this fear of
going to sleep, this torment rolling ever onwards in his head, this
almost overpowering desire to go straight to the man's flat and use
every ounce of his superior strength to get Doyle into bed, to open
his eyes and see that the two of them together could be so much
greater than the sum of their parts. To show him, really show him,
how important it was that they be together. Was that love - or was he
just thinking and feeling with his balls and making too much of
everything else?

And if he did, if it was love, if he gave anything away this time, if
he so much as glanced in that direction, there would be nothing left
of him to recover. Too many years of protection had left him with no
immunity. But would hope alone save him from that fate - or was it
already too late? Had he already given his heart away for Doyle to
crush in his innocence?

Maybe that's why Bodie'd been so thrown tonight in the pub. So hurt
so quickly. So deeply. He was already in danger.

Abruptly restless, Bodie took the coffee and poured it down the sink.
He strode into the living room and picked up the bottle of scotch he
kept by the telly. He screwed the lid off and swallowed twice of the
burning fluid, seeking satisfaction in the searing of his throat. He
put the bottle away before he could finish it off. He turned to go to
bed - and stopped. No, that was a little too dangerous tonight.
Dreams and fantasies would get tangled and confused and right now,
that was the last thing he needed. No, the sofa would do for tonight.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow he would have to get himself an answer. No matter what. He
had to know what he was doing here.

And why.
 

January 18
Tuesday, 6.00am

For the second time in six hours, Doyle found himself sitting in his
car, freezing and watching the windows of Bodie's flat. At the
moment, it was all dark, but soon a light would come on, then another
and half an hour after that, Bodie would come down the stairs ready
to be driven to work.

At least, that was the original plan. The one they'd worked out last
night - before they'd had that small disagreement.

Doyle brought his hands together and tried to blow some heat into his
sheepskin gloves - and failed miserably. With a groan at this
self-imposed discomfort, he stuck them back under his arms, put his
head against the rest and stared out through the crack of window he'd
left open.

Christ, he'd been an idiot last night! His instincts had warned him
to stay right away from any subject Bodie might be touchy on - and
what did he do? Put his foot right in it - and then, as frilly icing
on the cake, he'd brought Marikka and the Krivas girl into the
discussion.

No wonder Bodie had swiped back with the crack about his cheekbone.

Hypocrite! After complaining that Bodie shut himself away from
people, Doyle had been unable to say a word. Jesus, Doyle knew as
well as anyone that his partner had good reasons for keeping his
thoughts to himself, reasons buried under years of pain and learning
to find a way to live with it. He'd never intended to imply he wanted
Bodie to open up and tell everything.

And taking that kind of tack could quite possibly be the exact
opposite way to get Bodie to open up. Especially now.

Last night had been his big chance. Knowing he would love the joke
planned for Murphy, Doyle had planned on plying Bodie with alcohol,
going back to his flat for a nightcap - and then applying just enough
pressure to get Bodie to explain what had been bugging him for the
last few weeks.

No, months.

Doyle wasn't exactly sure when the moods had begun to change. After
all, Doyle wasn't the only CI5 agent capable of mercurial shifts of
humour. Bodie had had plenty over the last five years - but his were
always short-lived, generally endable with a few beers and a game of
darts, a round up of the latest dirty jokes Doyle had collected.
Never before had he seen Bodie so fixated on what appeared to be one
single problem.

No - he had seen it before. Once.

That mess with Williams and the bikies. Cowley had threatened to kill
Bodie - and he'd meant it. And if he had, it would have been Doyle's
fault for not sticking with Bodie in the first place, for not making
an effort to find out what was behind the depression, for not staying
with him and watching his back. For not being a friend. Bodie had
needed Doyle and Doyle had failed him.

Cowley wouldn't have killed Bodie - Doyle would have stopped him.
Yes, even if it would have meant the end of CI5. Cowley had never
seen it at the time, so concentrated was he on getting Bodie to
release his hold on the bikie, King Billy - but Doyle had stayed
close, ready and prepared, watching Cowley's eyes for the
subconscious flash of intent that always heralded the press of a
trigger, a split second before it came. Doyle had done it before,
would no doubt do it again. As a marksman himself, he'd made
something of a specialty of knowing how to tell that moment. He would
have seen it coming and he would have kicked the gun aside. Bodie
might have been injured - but he would have survived and to hell with
George Cowley.

Yes, there were some similarities between that depression of Bodie's
and his current apparent state of mind - only last time, his work had
suffered. Now, Bodie worked just fine, no better and no worse. No,
really the only obvious thing was the way Bodie dealt with the people
around him.

Yesterday, Murphy had said as much to Doyle. That's why he'd
confessed his plans rather than to Bodie. Always a little apart from
those around him, in the last few months, Bodie had become positively
isolated. He still went down the pub, still played darts, still
partook of the usual jokes and bitches about work but whereas once,
he had been a driving force behind such behaviour, these days, he sat
back, injecting only the occasional dry comment. Susan had been the
first to notice, drawing Doyle's attention to it about two months
ago.

Not that Doyle hadn't asked Bodie - and more than once at that. Every
time the same response. Nothing wrong. No point talking about it, no
point asking.

And then there was last night.

After he'd taken Murphy and Kathy home, Doyle had returned here, in
the pitch of icy night. He'd sat in his car for an hour, watching the
lights in Bodie's flat, debating with himself the advisability of
going up there and beating the truth out of his partner, but some
subconscious sense of unease had kept him in his car long after the
lights had gone out.

And again this morning. Up extra early, yawing his head off, he'd
come by to talk to Bodie before work - and yet still, he sat here,
getting colder, waiting for Bodie to come out on his own.

Never realized he was such a coward before. Or - was he too afraid
Bodie would press the issue about his damaged cheekbone?

Unable to stop himself, Doyle chuckled dryly into the icy morning.
No, he wasn't that selfish. He could put up as much defence as he
needed to. Bodie was never going to hear that tale if he lived a
hundred years.
Nobody ever would.

No, it was something else. Something that rippled warnings on a dozen
different levels of his awareness. Something that told him to tread
very, very carefully this time.

Bodie would still be angry about last night - but neither of them
would want to turn up to work in that state. The Old Man noticed such
things and had a bad habit of asking awkward questions - and getting
answers under the most inappropriate circumstances. No. No matter the
warnings rumbling in Doyle's stomach, he would have to face Bodie
this morning. Now.

He pushed the car door open and was gratified to note a light go on
in Bodie's living room. He got out of the vehicle and waved his arms
around a bit, jumped up and down to get his circulation going. Then
he jogged across the road, up the steps and pressed the buzzer.

The answer came quicker than he expected. "Yeah?"

"It's me."

"Bit early. Come up." The lock on the door was released and Doyle
took the stairs two at a time, his first thoughts on warmth. The flat
door was open ready for him, the kettle already on. Doyle made
straight for the gas fire in the living room, hearing the shower with
the part of his brain not affected by cold.

Still waving his arms a bit, he made tea then for good measure, put a
plate of toast on the table beside it. When he was done, Bodie
appeared, dressed and rubbing his cropped hair dry with a towel. His
eyes flickered over Doyle before moving on.

"Jesus, somebody's hungry."

"Hungry and cold." Doyle poured tea out as Bodie grabbed a slice of
toast and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

As Doyle warmed his hands against the cup, he tried to gauge the mood
of the man opposite him. So far, Bodie's tone had been noncomittal -
to anyone else, that might mean that everything was fine. But Doyle
knew Bodie too well to be fooled by it. For a start, Bodie hadn't
actually looked Doyle in the eye once so far. But was that because of
last night - or whatever else it was bothering him.

And should he say anything about either?

He couldn't help himself. The diligent worrier inside him demanded
action and he had no choice but to make the attempt. "Bodie, are you
okay?"

The response was instantaneous. Bodie rolled his eyes, swallowed hard
and set his cup firmly back on the bench, "Christ, Ray, if you ask me
that once more…" Then he was walking out - and for a second, Doyle
thought he must be mis-hearing because he distinctly heard… laughter.
Wry, a shade bitter perhaps, but laughter nonetheless. Another moment
later, Bodie reappeared with his coat on, ready to go.

He grabbed another slice of toast and waved it in Doyle's direction.
"Well, don't just stand there, sunshine. We don't want to keep George
waiting, do we?"

On the way to the car, Doyle set his most searching gaze on his
partner and found all the classic Bodie-signs present. All those
hundreds of subtle nuances that had taken painstaking hours to
compile. The set of the shoulders, the exact pace of his walk, the
angle of his head, the tilt of his chin - right down to the precise
tone of voice used and the degree of glitter in those all-too-blue
eyes. Doyle knew it all so well because he'd seen it all before. Too
many times.

Bodie had chosen to ignore the whole thing. As usual. No fight, no
argument, not even a discussion. Nothing. As if last night hadn't
happened.

Exactly like that - and if it hadn't been for Doyle's expert
knowledge of Bodie's hiding techniques - he would have begun to
wonder if he hadn't imagined that tense moment in the pub, the fire
flung at him from those extraordinary eyes. The challenge
unconsciously given - now to be withdrawn.

Bodie would bury the whole thing again, stretching out the distance
already developing between them. It was only a matter of time before
Bodie succeeded in isolating himself so perfectly that their working
relationship would start to suffer. And once it did, they'd never
find a way back.

It was enough to make a man scream.

For a moment, starting up the car, Doyle was tempted to tell Bodie to
go to hell - but he'd done that once before, over the bikie gang. No,
he'd let his partner down once in five years. He would have to wait
five more before he got another turn. No, Bodie needed help - even
though Doyle had no idea how to do that - what he did know was how to
stick to somebody.

After five years, Bodie meant too much to Doyle. Too much to just
walk out on him because he was a shrivelled up, cantankerous,
self-opinionated, egotistical, self-deluding, stubborn SOB.

Too much by far - and Bodie deserved more than a couple of months
worth of patience even if, in the end, Doyle ended up with an ulcer.

Hell, it was a dangerous job; maybe they'd both get blown up before
he'd have to worry about it.
 

6.35pm

Bodie lounged in the chair before Cowley's desk, his fingers nimbly
tying strands of elastic bands together. Doyle waited beside him as
Cowley finished off his phone call. With a final word, the handset
was replaced and the Old Man turned back to them.

"Well, you two managed to make the most of your day. Well spotted,
Doyle. It's not every day you accident upon the load up of two tons
of stolen ammunition. If you hadn't noticed the registration of the
truck, we wouldn't have known anything about it until the locals
started getting picked off with 9 mil. Can't say I realized Jimmy
Sumner had got out yet - though obviously all promises to stay on the
straight and narrow have been rescinded."

"Bit late."

"Right well, you may as well get off home, both of you. Here tomorrow
for round up at 8.00 am."

As Doyle got to his feet, Bodie leaned forward, ignoring him.
"Actually, sir, I might be a couple of hours late. I have an
appointment."

"Well change it, Bodie."

"I can't, I'm afraid. It's personal."

Cowley sat back, pursing his lips, but since they'd brought in Summer
and his boys without shedding a drop of blood and collecting the
stolen ammo in the process, he could hardly complain about a couple
of hours. "Very well. Ten and no later, Bodie."

"Yes, sir, thank you sir."

Bodie was up and out the door before Cowley could change his mind.
Doyle strode beside him as they headed down the corridor. For a
moment, Doyle said nothing. Then, just before they could hit the
freezing outdoors, Doyle paused.

"This appointment, Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"Does it have anything to do with what's been bothering you lately?"

Bodie raised an eyebrow, rolled his eyes - and shook his head for
good measure. "I told you, nothing's bothering me. But since you
asked, yes it does. Now can we please get out of here? I'm hungry."

"Fancy a quick pint?"

"Not tonight, thanks. Just drop me home."

The journey passed in a haze of inconsequential chatter about Jimmy
and guns and stolen vehicles - and Bodie sighed some relief when
Doyle, still bemused, drove off into the winter dark. All day it had
been too easy to go back over last night, the questions about Jeff
rattling off his brain like machine-gun fire. But every question had
it's own back up; why should Bodie care about Doyle's past? So what
if he had gay friends. Did it matter in the long run?

All in all, the last thing Bodie wanted right now was to get into
that one conversation. Not at least until he knew whether he really
needed to have it or not. Not until he found out, once and for all,
what he really wanted.

Bodie paused on his doorstep a moment to make sure Doyle was really
gone, then rushed inside with no lack of haste. He showered, changed,
grabbed his most unremarkable coat and scarf, collected the keys to
the Capri - then headed back out into the cold. He could grab
something to eat on the motorway north.
 

11.48pm

Birmingham. In winter. Cold and wet. Not a place many people would
choose to spend an evening - but then, wasn't choice what this was
all about?

God, when had he learned to get so maudlin? Questioning was Doyle's
thing. Maybe he had been around CI5 too long.

See, that's exactly the problem! Thinking things like that! Hell,
Bodie was the arrogant one. The beautiful and engagingly modest one.
The one the ladies couldn't resist…. Well, perhaps best not to follow
down that line of thought.

Bodie did a left turn down a badly-lit street and abruptly began to
laugh. This was so silly. So stupid. Coming up here in the dead of
night - he could get himself killed - all to answer a simple
question. Well, granted, it wasn't that simple exactly - but it was
only the one question.

Hell, if Doyle knew what he was doing Bodie would be minus a few
teeth by now.

Yeah, Doyle. Bad-tempered, moody little sod. All laughter and smiles
one moment, dark slashing anger the next. Capacity for guilt the size
of Spain - and yet, the only person Bodie had ever met who continued
to care for him no matter what happened. Even now, after months of
bad temper from Bodie, Doyle had used all caution and gentleness this
morning, asking how he was, knowing Bodie would be upset by last
night, wanting to talk it out, make it better, stop his partner from
hurting. Doyle cared, alright. Cared a lot.

And no, it wasn't just duty, either. Doyle could never be accused of
being so shallow. No, the exact opposite. There were depths to Doyle
Bodie had only ever glimpsed. Those he had seen wove together to form
a personality and character of extreme complexity and yet at times,
he was as easy to understand as a year one reader. He had walls -
pretty solid ones at that - and they came down when he wanted.
Slammed down in fact - especially over his question about the
cheekbone. But there was always something about Doyle that attracted
a more than it repelled, something in that angel's face and green
eyes. Bit by bit until, over the years, Bodie found he couldn't
imagine being teamed with another partner, trusting anyone else as
wholly - or any kind of life that didn't have Ray Doyle enmeshed
within it.

It was almost invisible - and only somebody who got really close
would ever see it - but Doyle had a fine narrow healthy streak of
honour and somewhere along the line, it had sliced right through
Bodie and lodged in a place he couldn't touch, himself.

But was that love? The kind that scared him the most? Since last
night, he'd gone over this so many times, it had begun to make him
dizzy.

What did he want from Ray?

Friendship? Sure, always.

Partners? Absolutely. Nobody else.

Sex?

This time the answer was slower but no less positive. Yes. He wanted
to hold Ray, touch him, kiss him, feel the depths of passion match
his own. Yeah, he wanted sex with Ray. So much it hurt - but -

Love?

No matter how many times he went the circuit, how many times he asked
himself the same questions, in the end he was left with the same
hollow pit in his stomach as the last, painful truth revealed itself.
He wanted all of that from Doyle. But he also wanted something else.
Something he couldn't name. Something that both terrified and excited
him at the same time. Something that held promise and dire warning
and yet still drew him onwards. He could only think of it one way.

He wanted something more.

Bodie left the car parked at the end of an alley and turned down,
hands thrust deep into his pockets.

How long did he have? Two hours to get back, get some kip and be at
work by 10. That gave him an hour or so to play with.

Would he need an hour?

Garish neon scrawled above the door led him to the place.
Deliberately refusing to hesitate, he walked straight inside, through
the second door keeping the heat in. It was even darker inside than
out. There was a bar opposite, the usual configuration of bottles,
glasses and crisps arranged along the wall. Between Bodie and the bar
were tables crowded with people, all talking at the same time, almost
yelling over the sound of music coming from a dance floor somewhere
in the distance.

Yeah, there were a few women here - but the rest were men and more
than a couple glanced in his direction as he paused to get his
bearings.

Well, he was here now. Best to make the most of it.

His normal arrogant bearing made crossing the room a breeze and he
reached the bar with his dignity in tact. He ordered a gin and tonic
and managed to pinch a table by the wall as it suddenly became
vacant.

So far so good. But so far had only been the easy bit - and it wasn't
yet too late to back out, head for home question unanswered - but
still in one piece. Sanity would still be in tact - more or less. He
wouldn't really have to risk anything.

No. Stay until there is an answer - regardless of what it is. Doyle
deserves that much.

Smoke and noise suffocated any liberal atmosphere the club might have
achieved with décor. This was one of those places best not visited
during daylight hours; no eye could stand that kind of bleak,
deliberate seediness.

But it wasn't in London and the chances of Bodie being recognized
here were limited in the extreme. Both gun and ID were safely at
home. If it came down to it, he could always claim he was following
up a lead of some sort. Hell, he knew enough seedy characters to fill
three places this size…

Check and double check. Take no chances, risk nothing. What an idiot!
What was he doing here if not to risk something? To take a chance! Or
at least to risk something he could bear losing. His heart would have
no part in tonight's activities.

With half a grin to his own idiocy, Bodie raised his glass and took a
sip. One drink would be enough if he had to drive back to London in
the early hours. He let his gaze drift across the darkness, noting
without pausing the knotted couples touching, holding hands, arms
around each other. Even kissing. Intimacy. Between men.

He'd seen it before but not this open and despite his purpose, there
was something oddly unsettling about the sight. If the club had been
filled with hetro couples, would they be touching each other like
that - or would they be content to wait until they got home?

A pair of eyes snagged his. Dark eyes on a face younger than his.
Spanish perhaps.

Bodie didn't look away but couldn't ignore the sudden flutter inside.
Fear? Hell, yes. But fears had to be faced, didn't they?

Didn't they?

Bodie looked up to find another gin appear on the table before him
and an elegant hand pull a second chair up.

"Mind if I sit?"

"No." Bodie managed, keeping his voice level. Those eyes bored into
him again and… and for the first time, he allowed the intent to go
further than his head. The back of his throat ached, his shoulders
cramped, his gut tumbled over like a flapjack in a pan and his cock
did a small leap before settling to wait for the next jolt.

Years of working in a violent profession kept the stress from Bodie's
voice, stopped him from swallowing too much. He drank again, waiting
for the other man to make the next move.

And he wanted it. That next move.

"You army?"

"No," Bodie replied, his gaze catching the sheen of silky hair,
shoulder length, arms sinewy and strong. Mouth parted enough to
suggest… the tip of tongue darting to one corner, as if in
anticipation.

"Get a lot of army in here. Nowhere else for them to go, is there?"
The other man glanced around the room once, briefly then turned back
to Bodie, delivering the next desired jolt. "If we leave our drinks
here, the bar will hold them for us."

A thrill of fear splashed through Bodie, and hard on its heels was
the wash of excitement. It was going to happen. Tonight.

He nodded and the other man stood. Bodie came to his feet also and
let the man lead him through the room, between bodies jumping about
the dance floor, to a door at the back. A long corridor stretched
into the distance, draped with a few bodies on display - but the
Spaniard didn't go far. He turned into one of many doors on the left
and Bodie found himself inside a small booth, about six foot by four.
An unmistakable smell of musk told him what it was - and warned him
what was about to happen.

He turned to find a finger tracing the line of his jaw down to his
lips. Unthinking, he touched his tongue to the tip, then drew the
finger inside his mouth, sucking gently. The Spaniard smiled.

"I thought so." With his other hand, he deftly unclipped Bodie's
buckle and pressed his hand against the bulge beneath the cloth.

Bodie couldn't suppress the moan which escaped his lips. It felt like
he'd been hard for months with no relief in sight. This wasn't going
to take an hour.

His fly was unzipped quickly and then his erection was released into
the man's hand and for a moment, Bodie abandoned himself to the sheer
pleasure of feeling. Hot breath seared his face but he didn't turn
for a kiss. That wasn't why he was here. Instead, his hands sought
out the other man. He had to feel, had to know what he was doing - or
the whole thing would be pointless.

On any other day, he would have smiled at the silent pun, but his
blood was pounding in his ears as his body stumbled over the lines
between desire and reality, custom and familiarity. He'd never done
this before and his wanting increased through the essence of
forbidden pleasures, mysteries as yet unknown. His cock strained for
release, pumped gently but firmly by this wanton creature. Bodie
found the zipper and pulled it down, discovered a lack of underwear
and paused only a second as his fingers touched hot flesh. He pulled
it free and wrapped his hand around it. It was incredible. So firm,
so real. A cock in his hands, the head straining, the ridge along the
top already seeping pre-cum onto his skin.

Bodie smiled. With a kind of perverse joy, he looked down and watched
as his strong hands set to work, squeezing the other man's balls,
fingers pressing the ridges on the tender underside, pulling harder
and faster. The breath against his cheek became staccato, a grunt no
more. Bodie squeezed harder, revelling in the power, knowing orgasm
was seconds away. His own cock was left forgotten but he didn't care.
All he wanted was this thing in his hand, a weapon belonging to
another man.

With a guttural moan, the Spaniard jerked and came and Bodie felt the
triumph roll over him. Taking only a few moments to recover, the
Spaniard then lifted his eyes to Bodie's long enough to give him a
sated smile - and then he dropped to his knees.

Abruptly, Bodie pulled in a breath of shock as his cock was taken
into the Spaniard's mouth. Again his eyes travelled south, watching
that masculine face suck on him, eyes closed, enjoying it. The sight
and sensation was extraordinary, and before he realized it, he was
holding the man's head against him, thrusting deep into that mouth,
savouring tongue and lips and teeth as they grazed against his flesh.

Oh god!

He froze, his eyes snapping open. No. He couldn't do it. Not like
this. Not so empty and callous and quick and harsh and cheap and so
damned lonely. It was too much - too far.

With the wrong man.

Carefully but firmly, Bodie pulled the face away from his crotch and
offered a half-hearted smile. "Sorry. Not tonight."

"You sure? I mean, you deserve it. Your hands were damn good."

"I'm sure."

"You can have my arse if you'd prefer."

Bodie bit his lip to stop himself from replying. Instead, he shook
his head and urged the man to his feet. In control again he smiled,
"I enjoyed watching you come."

The man frowned at him as though he'd just discovered a new and
rather bizarre fetish - then gave a quick shrug. "Your choice." With
that, he turned and left Bodie in the booth alone.

Swallowing, Bodie gazed down at his erection. He could either do
something about it himself now - or get the hell out of here and back
to London.

Home. Yeah.

He had his answer and for the first time, after all those months of
pondering, he knew exactly what he was afraid of.
 

(end part 1)