CHAPTER 9

Monday

Woken by the sound of his door opening, followed by a firm, familiar touch upon his shoulder, Doyle uncomplainingly escaped Simon's embrace and the dancing tattoo of four constantly moving feet on top of his chest. Nodding gratefully when Bodie whispered an offer of tea, Doyle took himself into the bathroom and washed up, the cold water doing much to bring him out of the lethargy of clinging slumber.

They were outside and running up the far slope a quarter of an hour later, the surrounding night still darkly grey and resisting the arrival of a chill dawn. Bodie explained what awaited them in the ring once they had completed their work-out, which would be somewhat abbreviated this morning to allow more time on the bars.

One by one, Bodie ticked off the various elements of their new routine-- all of which he intended to put to the test this morning. Doyle silently marvelled at the degree of effort required to organize so many different individuals in such a short period of time. While Bodie and Doyle were performing in the upper rigging, Riley would provide the sonorous narrative, backed by the band's rendering of a most varied musical selection; Des would be on the floor in the shadows, operating the web; and Donal McShane, the electrician, would supervise the frequent lighting changes. Doyle had, of course, seen far more entailed productions--but all had involved considerably more participants, as well. He feared that their shoestring operation would inevitably be exposed for what it was--and suffer accordingly in comparison to the grand circus acts.

But Bodie's contained enthusiasm was catching despite his customary reserve. Through the images created by Bodie's words, Doyle could envision the effect he wished to create, the enchantment they might weave for their audience, even the emotions their little story might evoke.

Inside the Big Tent, the magic became very mundane. The net went up while they worked out on the mat. The band members, bundled in sweaters, woollen trousers, and fingerless hand warmers slumped sleepily over their instruments. Seemingly unaffected by the cold or the hour of morning, Riley sat on one of the benches near the ring and scribbled on a pad of paper; Basil, with her nose buried under her tail, napped in Doyle's jacket near the ringmaster's feet. Des chatted with Tom and Donal, all three drinking steaming hot tea while they waited for the two flyers to finish their warm-ups.

A short while later, dawn cast orange and yellow streamers across the eastern sky, tingeing the worn canvas that tautly formed the Big Tent with a hazy glow. Wishing for the heat of the sun on his leotarded back, Doyle rode the web, hoisted by Des, up to the platform. Familiar with the short, stocky man's strength now, he was quick to entrust himself to the other man's care.

Balanced on the slat of wood, Doyle covered his hands with resin, idly looking down on the people below. Riley set his pad of paper and pen aside, then tucked the edge of Doyle's jacket round Basil as he stood up. While the tall, lanky man strode across the sawdust-coated floor to his usual place just inside the ring, Donal doused the lights focused on the upper rigging, so that nightfall seemed to descend once more.

"This'll be rough, lads," Riley said to no one in particular. Whisking the single, folded sheet of paper from a breast pocket, he glanced round at everyone, and up at the shrouded trapezes. "You lot ready up there?" Answered by Bodie's vibrant, "Get on with it, you showy old sod,'" Riley nodded lugubriously and cleared his throat commandingly before beginning to read.

The script, taken from Bodie's skeletal first draft, had been expanded and refined by Lily. While her authorship was credible, Riley's full- bodied, reverberating voice and the remarkable control with which he wielded it, lent the words a richness they lacked on their own. Smiling to himself, Doyle let the last of his doubts slip away; Bodie knew precisely what he was doing.

Cued by the script, Doyle gripped the bar, waiting for the instant that the spotlight snapped on. It surged out of the darkness, fixing him in its center, burning him with its brilliance. He lunged forward, young, vigorous, full of spunk, frolicking with youthful disdain of mortality, his every movement executed with carefree expertise. Bodie caught him and sent him back to his bar, Doyle's returning pirouette exuberantly graceful and apparently effortless. As Riley spoke, attempting to match his pace to Doyle's actions, the band joined in, lagging at first, but, guided by Riley's gestures, soon adding, rather than detracting, from the mood.

Doyle recognized the music, but could not name it: a sprightly Vienna waltz, burgeoning with charming, unfledged sparkle. He danced to it, employing the movements he and Bodie had choreographed so diligently over the past days. Back and forth he went, spinning, tumbling, folding over and under in seemingly impossible positions. Having established himself as the quintessential jejune scapegrace, Doyle paused briefly on the platform to catch his breath and to resin his palms. He then swung out over the floor of the ring, forming a bird's nest, reaching out for Bodie's waiting arms--

--and it was no longer Bodie, the kindly benefactor, meeting him, but a jealous deity, bent on his destruction. The spotlight cut from garish white to jarring red, making the mock battle appear far more fearsome than it was. Strident musical notes stabbed raucously into the air from below, and Riley's stunned voice imparted his alarm.

The contest ended suddenly and shockingly. Violently thrust away from his ruthless attacker, Doyle, now the youth fatally wounded, dropped like a stone. He landed on his back in the middle of the net, amidst drumrolling tension. The music swelled dramatically as he bounced back into the air, struggling to rise, torso straining upward, shoulders and head flung back--but gravity claimed him, and he crumpled to the net.

The lights blinked out.


Riley allowed a beat, a single pulse, before reporting the tragedy that had befallen the youthful hero. In the darkness, the end of the dangling web dropped onto Doyle's flank. Moving only his arm, he hooked his elbow through the loop and gave the rope a tiny tug. In seconds the web began to reel him upward, slowly, but without pause. Doyle, hanging limply, was washed by a pale blue glow. Higher he rose, taken into the area of the upper rigging--here, the realm of the gods--Riley's reverent tones calling upon the non-existent audience for its hushed support, while the band softly underlay all with a haunting musical motif.

The web brought Doyle alongside his trap; in character, he sluggishly reached out for it, and took hold. Clutching it to him with both arms, he swayed back and forth, his body describing a small arc. The solitary, filtered, blue light shifted to red once more. Several other lights came on at once, blinding white clashing with lurid orange and bloody red. As Riley's narration rose in volume and urgency, the lights strobed wildly, and the band's discordant fanfare approached cacophony. Doyle spasmed as if run through with an electric shock. This was the intercession of the gods--those who would give the youthful hero immortality in return for the use of his warrior's spirit.

Hardened now, and imbued with uncanny power, Doyle began to stir, creakily at first, then with increasing fluidity. Suspended in the center of shattering brilliance, and accompanied by somber, dramatic music and Riley's impassioned voice, Doyle lengthened his swing until he could hand himself over to the once more benign Bodie. They floated across the better part of the ring and back; then Doyle spun free and returned to his own trapeze. Pushing off strongly with his legs, he widened the measure of his arc, rapidly gaining speed and momentum. Breaking from the bar, he rolled into a double, backward somersault. Coming out of it with heart-stopping speed, he yet uncurled in time to connect with Bodie's waiting hands, which clasped his wrists in turn and held tight.

The lights went out once more. Doyle returned to his platform, striking a pose as the huge overhead lights came up, illuminating the entire ring. Chest heaving, he found Bodie, sitting casually on his bar, a brow arched inquiringly his way.

Out of the silence below came a soft ripple of applause which gradually increased in intensity. Glancing downward, Doyle was startled to discover that their audience had grown. Springing from one foot to the other with an elegant flourish, and beaming with achievement, Doyle looked across at Bodie once more. "And what do you think?"

"Needs work," replied Bodie succinctly.

---

He was right, of course. For all that the performance had gone from beginning to end without a major flaw, there had been choppy transitions from one musical piece to another, Riley's pacing had not always matched Doyle's actions, and the lights had failed to track Doyle at least twice. This first run-through had given everyone an idea of what they were dealing with, and from that baseline, they could fashion their improvements.

As Bodie had promised, he and Doyle spent the better part of the day working on the routine. When not in the air, they debated with their confederates on the ground, going over every aspect of the performance. At noon, Bodie finally called a halt, to Doyle's mingled relief and regret. He was exhausted, having subsisted on innumerable cups of tea and a couple of dried out scones provided by an unknown donor; yet, the adrenalin was still bubbling in his veins, and he was loath to quit with so much energy fizzing in his body.

Throwing a towel in Doyle's direction, Bodie reminded him, "Sanjay'll be wondering where you've got to, y'know. Time for his stuff."

"Oh, shit," Doyle winced. "I forgot."

Amused, Bodie began to climb into his sweatsuit. "I noticed. Feeling better about the routine, are you?"

Doyle flashed two fingers at him. "Know-all. Yeah, now I've seen it all of a piece--I think it may just work."

"I'm so pleased."

"Bugger off. You can't've been so certain it would work."

"Sure he can," Riley interposed, stepping onto the lowest bench beside them. He handed Doyle his sweatshirt. "Has an instinct for what works, does Bodie."

"Thank you." Bodie seemed a trifle nonplused by the ringmaster's praise.

"No need to be modest, son." Riley picked up his paper and pen. "You've got a talent for organization and execution. And Lord knows you had to've seen how much better Doyle would be over Roger. It all speaks of a military mind, I'd say."

"Got you pegged," Doyle attested.

"And the heart of a baroque romantic," Riley added devastatingly.

"Christ," Bodie muttered, as if wounded.

"But that's all right. It might not work with the outside world, but in the circus, it's essential." A sheet of paper slipped from the pad and fluttered to the ground.

Doyle bent over and picked it up. Handing it back, he said, "Here you go."

"Ta. 'S a letter to my family," Riley said unnecessarily. He tucked the sheet of paper into place with the others. Looking down his long nose at Doyle, he said archly, "I write to them every day."

Ignoring the unstated challenge, Doyle asked blandly, "How long since you've seen them?"

"Two years." At the expression of polite comprehension that flitted across Doyle's face, Riley went on, "I can't get a job there, y'see; I have a record."

"Murder, mayhem, sedition--?" Doyle began gamely.

"Ray--"

Riley raised a hand to end Bodie's intervention. "No, it's all right, Bodie." He smiled at Doyle. "Murder, actually. I killed a man--some would say justifiably--after I found out that he'd raped my wife. She had his baby while I was in jail. As there were extenuating circumstances--legal jargon, y'know--the court eventually reviewed my case and I was released, supposedly with my name cleared. But no one will hire me there. Not at home."

"Oh."

Riley scooped Doyle's jacket up off the bench. "So I came to England-- being an expat and all--so that I could find a job. There aren't many people with my sort of credentials, y'know."

"Show him the pictures," Bodie suggested.

"It is only fair," Riley said with a touch of malice.

Grinning a little sheepishly, Doyle took his jacket, forbearing comment until Riley had peeled his wallet out of a back pocket. There were many pictures stored therein, all of which had been viewed and viewed again with loving eyes until the colors had faded from over-handling.

"She's very pretty," Doyle said truthfully, studying the dark-haired woman who smiled hopefully into the camera. On her lap sat a sturdy, well-fed child who reflected her coloring, rather than Riley's sandy hair and fair features. "Your son--?" He caught himself too late.

"Yes," Riley said, unhesitating. "My son, Neil."

"How old is he now?" Doyle peered closely at the picture.

"Almost eight." Riley returned the pictures to his pocket. "He longs to see the circus. Says he would like to be a ringmaster, like me. Melanie says she will come if I will only send her plane fare. But it could be another year."

The longing was stark in the other man's eyes--yet completely removed from his well-trained voice.

"Your Neil will be nine by then," Doyle remarked. "The perfect age to start him in the circus."

Clearly having expected pity, Riley accorded Doyle a closer look before responding. "Yes. That is what I think, too."

---

"So, what are you plotting?" Bodie asked once more.

While Bodie manned the shovel, Doyle shifted the bucket from spot to spot and scattered fresh straw. Sanjay lay in his customary spot, but as the morning was grey and drizzly, the canvas had been left in place, and the tiger was forced to bask in the unwarming light of a low-wattage bulb.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Doyle muttered. Sanjay had not improved during the night; Doyle silently weighed the benefits of calling in a veterinarian.

"Come on. I can see that crusading glint in your eyes--even from here, and through the stench of this abomination Derek calls shit."

Crouching down before Sanjay, Doyle twisted a quick glance over his shoulder. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"Riley," Bodie said with heavy emphasis. "You're planning something, aren't you?"

"You mean, a way to get his family over before the Millennium?"

"I knew it! Hardly here a week and you're trying to undo the world's injustices."

"If you knew what I was thinking, why'd you ask?" Doyle peered into the tiger's half-closed eyes; they seemed clear, but on no account could they be described as bright.

"Always good to have clarification. So what d'you have in mind? A raffle--we could give Sergei away? Except nobody'd have him. Or a pool-- ? No, scratch that."

"Sounds as though you've already been thinking about it." A low, vibrant purr pleaded Doyle's continued attentions. Settling on his knees behind the tiger's forelegs, Doyle let his eyes wander over the lemony yellow coat broken all down his spine with jagged black stripes.

Bodie admitted, "Not only me."

"But there is a plan? Tell me: Maybe I can help."

"Actually, you're an important part of it."

Alerted to something indefinable in Bodie's tone, Doyle looked round at him once more. "Go on."

"Let's finish the cat first, eh?"

"Why?" Dark brows skimmed low over Doyle's narrowed eyes. With a final ruffling of fur, he bade the tiger good bye, and resumed his chores.

"You'll know 'why' when I tell you."

"Bad as that, is it?"

"Just wait till we've given this old bugger his medicine. Don't want you stirring him up, y'know.

"Bodie."

But no amount of cajoling would get Bodie to confess his secret; Doyle would have to be patient until they had completed their tasks in the tiger's cage. Once the soiled straw had been removed and the water bowl refreshened, Doyle took his now-comfortable position behind the tiger's shoulders so that he could brace the huge, powerful head preparatory to dosing him.

But the semi-slumbering feline accepted Bodie's ministrations without protest, seemingly removing himself altogether from his surroundings. As the aged throat muscles worked, Doyle lightly fingered the thick fur. "Did he take it all?"

Holding the empty syringe up to the wan light, Bodie nodded. "The lot."

Mouth twisted bleakly, Doyle mumbled, "Although I don't see that it's doing him much good."

Tipping his head toward the door of the cage for Doyle to join him, Bodie said, "He is old, Ray. Sometimes it's kinder to let 'em go."

All expression vanished from Doyle's face. "Think I don't know that?" Giving the tiger a pensive caress, Doyle took to his feet, and began to follow Bodie out. "So tell me your idea for getting Riley's brood over here."

"Two people hardly constitute a brood. And it's not my idea, really."

"You're stall--"

"Oh, Ray! Bodie!' Simon swung into the tiger's tent from the connecting corridor. "We need your help."

"What's up?" Doyle secured the cage opening before regarding Simon closely.

"And who's this 'we'?" Bodie demanded.

"I've already got Tom and Des and Jeremy. But we need someone who knows horses."

"What for?" Doyle asked, his patience already strained. He glanced over his shoulder at the snoring tiger. Although the animal's breathing sounded rather harsh, Sanjay appeared to be sleeping peacefully; he had not been disturbed by Simon's arrival.

"Mickey's got cast in his stall."

Bodie's face contorted into a grotesque mask. "Oh, bugger."

"Great," Doyle concurred gloomily.

"When's Derek due back?" Bodie asked, aggrieved.

"Not for hours; you know that. We have to have Mickey up and ready for the night's house well before then, Bodie!"

Both hands raised defensively against Simon's piercing entreaty, Bodie said sharply, "Okay, okay!" He glanced sidelong at Doyle. "Ray?"

No more enthusiastic than Bodie, Doyle shrugged. "Can't just leave him like that, y'know."

"Don't I just." Looking well put upon, Bodie groused, "Better be at it before the silly nag starts to panic."

---

Panic, however, appeared to be the furthest thing from Mickey's mind. He lay on his back, wedged in the corner formed by floor and stable wall, all four legs sticking out at improbable angles, his long neck curved toward the front of the stall, eyes watchful but not in the least alarmed.

"Thank God it's not Flip," Simon said irrelevantly. "He raised a terrific ruckus the time he got stuck. Almost killed us when we tried to set him to rights."

"No telling how long Mickey's going to put up with this, though," Bodie pointed out grimly.

The bay's dark eyes swivelled toward Bodie with ineffable trust.

"Good Lord, will you look at him?" Doyle snorted. He slipped the latch and swung the gate open. The horse was completely harmless, so long as he did not begin to flail those sharp-edged hooves. "Tom, you're a strong lad," Doyle said, flagging the other man to his side. "Come over here with me."

"Keep the gate open, Si," Bodie ordered. "Mickey'll need a bit of room to stand up in once he gets his feet under him." Looking from Des to Jeremy, Bodie said, "Only need one of you. All five of us in here, we'll just get in each other's way."

Jeremy gave his smaller companion a shove. "Go on, mate. You helped Derek when I was down sick with flu."

"You weren't sick with flu, Jem; you just said that to get out of working." "What're you on about? I--"

While the two men argued back and forth, Doyle said to Tom, "Whatever you do, be careful of his feet, eh? He may be taking this awfully well, but he'll come up all at once. He could hurt you without meaning to."

Refraining from comment, Tom chose to glower at Doyle instead. Accepting this as his lot in the order of things, Doyle simply turned toward Bodie and raised his brows.

Acknowledging the look and interpreting its meaning with ease, Bodie said firmly, "That's enough! One of you, out!"

Bodie's tone of voice brooked no argument; Des stepped smartly through the stall gate. "Everybody else, stand as clear as you can, right? We'll pull him over together."

Four sets of hands came out and grasped the horse's ankles. With their combined strength, the sixty stone horse was smoothly brought onto his side. A hint of muscle bunching in the region of the left hamstring was all the warning Doyle required to shove himself violently against Tom's side, carrying both of them to the opposite end of the enclosure. Before they had even connected with the partition, Mickey's hind legs flashed out; they slammed up hard against the back of the stall, almost taking it over. Mickey lurched to his forefeet, head stretched right out to give him the balance needed to raise his hindquarters. Then he was shaking vigorously, straw flying into the air and cascading down onto his hapless rescuers.

"You okay?" Bodie snapped.

"I am," Doyle replied. "Tom?"

Ashen-faced, Tom clutched a hand to his chest. "Felt that hoof slice right past me. If you hadn't--"

"He's fine," Doyle said. He thumped Tom lightly on the shoulder. "How about tea, Simon? Think we could all use some."

"A pint would be better," Jeremy muttered.

"Sorry, Jem," Simon said wryly. "This house is dry. Tom, come in here and sit down; you're looking bloody awful. Are you sure you weren't hit? Can't always tell right away, y'know."

Bodie smothered a laugh and turned away before the others, except Doyle who was watching him, could notice.

Keeping his own face quite straight, Doyle sidled up alongside him, stepping out of the way of the other three men who were lumbering after Simon into the tackroom. The bay now stood with his nose eyelash-deep in feed, seemingly unfazed by his traumatic experience.

"You still trying to earn points with this lot?" Bodie murmured under his breath.

"Points?"

"Rescuing Tom like that. Mickey almost had you, too."

"He would've had Tom for certain, if I hadn't got him out of the way."

Bodie's eyes were unreadable. "I don't care about Tom."

Doyle reached out and slapped the horse's withers. "Neither does Mickey."

---

Finally freed from his temporary duties in mid-afternoon, Doyle announced his intention of driving into town to visit the shops. Bodie, who had spoken little, despite never being more than a stall away, immediately offered him a lift in his Mini. Having no plausible excuse for refusing--other than that he wanted to place a call to Cowley--Doyle felt compelled to accept.

With Basil on his lap, and shrouded in stonewall silence during the short ride, Doyle wondered, however, just why Bodie had bothered: Every conversational olive branch went stoutly ignored, until Doyle set his mouth in an even line and gave up altogether. He kept his eyes on the scenery after that, watching the less developed, outer edges of town swiftly alter to concrete and brick as they entered the town proper.

For all his remoteness, once in the grocery shop, Bodie became Doyle's shadow. It was impossible to ignore him, hovering a step back from Doyle's elbow. Nevertheless Doyle pretended to, concentrating on making his choices along one aisle and now another. Occasionally, Bodie would add something to the trolley, scrupulously keeping his items separate from Doyle's.

But Doyle knew it was only a matter of time before Bodie stated his mind, which Doyle suspected was simmering with repressed irritation. In the event, Bodie's unnatural restraint was snapped by an unlikely item: a packet of curry mix. As Bodie picked it off the shelf, Doyle remarked jokily, "Living dangerously there, mate."

"Me?" Bodie exclaimed in a furious hiss, rounding all too quickly on his companion, who instinctively fell back before that ice-cold demeanour.

"I can't hold a candle to you, Doyle."

Staring at the other man blankly, Doyle said, "You're angry."

"Bloody right I'm angry. You moron. D'you really think I fancy the idea of digging Mickey's foot out of your forehead?"

Doyle winced. "Keep your voice down, fool."

Bodie's eyes flashed unmistakable warning signals, his mouth pursed petulantly, his face strangely waxen.

Comprehension surging through him, Doyle's first reaction was to laugh. "This is ridiculous, d'you know that?" Almost belatedly sensing that Bodie was a hair's breadth away from clubbing him, Doyle sobered at once, and laid a precautionary hand on Bodie's right forearm and squeezed it mindfully. "You giving me gyp about that--Christ, I haven't heard you complain when we're up on the rigging!"

"That's different."

"How?"

"I'm in control there."

"We're partners, Bodie." Doyle opened his mouth to say more, then decided that he did not have to. We're partners. How long since he had said that, and truly meant it? Bodie was staring down at his arm, where Doyle's hand still gripped it. "Partners," Doyle said on a note of enlightenment, the kind that heralded the unveiling of the mysteries of the universe.

"You're an idiot," Bodie marvelled aloud.

Unoffended by this appraisal, Doyle smiled widely. "Takes one to know one."

Reluctant amusement broke through the obsidian hardness of Bodie's eyes. "Yeah. I reckon it does." He raised his unencumbered wrist and consulted his watch. "You going to spend the rest of the day here? Lily wants to see me about my costume before the performance tonight."

"So why'd you offer to drive me into town? Or were you worried I might smash my bike into a bloody great lorry?" At Bodie's glacial stare, Doyle only broadened his toothy display. When this did not earn him a clout on the side of the head--although Bodie appeared to consider the prospect--Doyle safely released the tensed arm, and began to chivvy his companion toward the check-out with unsubtle nudges. All the while he mused to himself that he was very likely in more danger when baiting Bodie than at any other time--and wondered if Bodie himself were aware of that little conundrum.

---

Abandoned by Bodie the instant the engine of the Mini ceased idling-- because, according to Bodie, he feared retribution from Lily--Doyle retired to his own caravan. Faced with a couple of hours to while away, he occupied himself at first by storing his purchases. With Basil settled on the rug with a new chew toy, he then sipped a heartening, hot mug of tea while deliberating on what he might do with this brief respite. His intention of ringing Cowley had been totally confounded by Bodie's sullen presence; in that state of mind, Bodie would undoubtedly have hung round the very phone kiosk while Doyle had placed the call.

A little later, rinsing his hands in the bathroom sink, Doyle caught his reflection in the looking glass. Thoughtfully, he picked through his beard. Evans, his hairdresser, had warned him that he should be prepared to maintain the artificial aging process. While the hairdresser's handiwork still evinced authenticity, Doyle decided to take advantage of his few idle moments, just to ensure that he did not get caught slack at a later time--although Doyle had to remind himself that he was not expected to be here more than a couple of weeks. Still, it could not hurt to take precautions.

Making himself comfortable on the edge of the bath, Doyle commenced his repair work. Mystified, Basil lay in the doorway, alternately worrying her toy and overseeing Doyle's curious behavior. She was incapable of comprehending this new ritual in which Doyle painted a creamy mixture of specially prepared bleach and peroxide onto his beard--which had been carefully parted and held back with sticky tape for a natural overlap-- nor the waiting period that followed during which Doyle sat boredly rapping his knuckles on his knee, hummed to himself, and stared fixedly into space.

Basil would have understood even less her companion's jumbled thoughts, for Doyle's mind was back on Bodie.

Partners, Doyle ruminated. When a bloke knew what to expect from his partner, he didn't waste time trying to nursemaid him. Bodie was learning that, it appeared, slowly but surely. He patently trusted Doyle's skills on the trapeze and his ability to look after himself against a human assailant--Tom and Sergei, for example--but he had yet to learn all Doyle's special talents--his physical speed, split-second instincts, his fire-born wisdom. That would come. What fascinated Doyle was this unlikely aspect of his partner--for the urge to protect obviously did not rest easy with Bodie; in fact, Doyle could see how he fought it, even scorned it. But, for all his resistance, it was not something he could deny, however much he might like to, and at the slightest whiff of a fray, if he believed Doyle might have need of him, he cast aside all pretense and plunged right in, no matter the hazard.

Bodie, quite simply, cared more than he ought to.

Rousing from his wool-gathering twenty minutes later, Doyle rinsed off the concoction with a groan of relief, then minutely examined the results in the mirror. Although the sticky tape, when removed, had taken with it an unwilling strand or two, Doyle decided that Evans would have declared the operation a success.

With nearly two hours left to kill before he got kitted up, Doyle decided to take a turn about the circus compound. Undaunted by a misting, very cold rain, Basil trotted at his heels, and together they strolled down the muddy path to the sideshow.

The barkers were in their stalls, sprucing up their come-ons in anticipation of the night's spenders. Doyle was greeted often, and with real friendliness, the "new-boy" taint having sloughed off unnoticed sometime in the last week. This ready acceptance came as something of a surprise to him, for he remembered how clannish circus people could be-- not unlike CI5 operatives, who were legendarily slow to warm to a newcomer. Such treatment usually suited Ray Doyle, who had ever stood apart from his fellow agents. In this present reality, however, being made a member of the circus community was gratifying, for it meant he was playing his role well. Perhaps he was playing it too well.

As Doyle wandered along, responding with a wave and a smile to those who took note of him, he reflected that he had never adjusted so effortlessly to an undercover persona. For years he had believed that the resin and bright lights of his youth had been expunged from the deepest corners of his mind; yet, a week here, and he might never have moved on. In fact, there were times of late when he could not say with any certainty where Ray Doyle, CI5 pretender, left off, and Ray Doyle, circus habitué, took over.

Perhaps, he mused, this was simply all part of the changing process that had begun in London. There, doubts and festering discontent had grown to unignorable proportions. Here, he could pretend that Ray Doyle lived only to shine as Circus Sergei's newest aerial star--and to further his nascent relationship with his partner, William Bodie.

And what would William Bodie think when Doyle was recalled to London?

Maybe, Doyle would not go back.

By this time on the verge of the moors bordering the north end of the compound, Doyle threw his head back and laughed out loud. The blustery wind, its icy edge sharpening by the minute, tore the sound to tatters.

"Bodie's right: I am an idiot, Basil."

The dog sat shivering by his trainers, awaiting his pleasure.

"And so are you," he said, not ungently. "Let's have a quick run, and we'll go home. Dinner for you, tea for me; what d'you say?"

Tongue curled pinkly in the middle of a wide grin, Basil came up off the ground, to dance on her hind legs, forefeet raised high. Doyle took off into the heather at a run; Basil, like a bullet, shot after him.

---

An hour later, outfitted in his Regency finery, Doyle bounded out of the caravan, and almost ran over Sergei, who had just appeared from round the side of his own unit.

"Sorry!' Doyle automatically put out a hand to steady the other man.

Gaining his footing with dignity, Sergei subjected Doyle to close scrutiny. "You will be performing on the trapeze Wednesday?"

"Yes," Doyle replied. "As we've arranged."

"I watched you this morning, from the back of the Tent."

After allowing Sergei a moment in which to say more, Doyle finally prompted, "And, what did you think?"

"It is not circus, as I grew up with it," Sergei replied thoughtfully. "Then, we made the audience believe that merely being caught by another person forty feet above the floor of the ring was high magic. But these days, people demand more. I think that is what you will give them."

Strangely affected, for Sergei had spoken with obvious sincerity, Doyle gave the circus owner a thin smile. "Bodie thinks it'll work."

"Bodie's instincts are usually the best. Not always," Sergei amended with a flash of teeth. "But usually." He brought up both hands and tidied Doyle's frilly cravat. "This costume suits you."

"As much as the leotard?" Doyle murmured.

"Every bit." Sergei fell back a pace. "You are welcome to join me for a drink after the performance."

Doyle shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't think so. Been a long day, y'know. Be ready for bed by then."

Eyes dark and hungry roamed over Doyle's face. Sergei said softly, "I have a bed. And you are welcome to use it." He licked his mouth, then looked aside. "They'll be waiting for you in the stables. I'm sure Simon has worn Derek out by now, but he ought to be ready for you."

"Yes, I saw him return while I was taking a run on the moors," Doyle said. "Empty-handed, apparently."

"Apparently." Eyes falling on Doyle's face once more, Sergei said, "Don't forget my offer, will you? I keep a bottle of finest malt whisky; I'll look forward to sharing it with you." Touching Doyle's arm lightly, he started off again, his footfalls heavy on the soft ground.

A low sound, less than a growl and more than a grumbling whine rippled from Basil's throat.

Glancing down at the dog standing protectively in front of his feet, Doyle said, "Good idea, Bas: I'll hold him down, you disembowel him." He gave her a prod with the toe of his boot. Muttering sourly to himself, he said, "Malt whisky, indeed. Cowley'd get along with old Sergei just fine."

---

Monday's house was dismally sparse. There was something hugely disheartening about performing to so few onlookers, no matter how enthusiastic they might be--and this group, die-hard circus devotees, enjoyed themselves loudly and at length.

After the parade, Doyle led Tuppence to the stables, accompanied by Bodie, who was tiresomely continuing to keep his distance. It was on the tip of Doyle's tongue to invite him back to his caravan--that, after all, had been the plan two nights ago--but Bodie's lack of interest and Doyle's pride held the question deep in his throat.

Derek, looking weary and underslept, took the horses and led them back to the stalls. As Bodie walked away with a remote "G'night, all," Doyle decided to remain and lend a hand for a while. Gratitude lightening the grey cast of his bluff features, Derek clapped a hand on Doyle's shoulder and gathered up a grooming kit for him.

Five horses later, Doyle bid the other man good night, too, and, after a brief peek into Sanjay's cage, where he found the tiger sleeping soundly, started exhaustedly for home. The night was frigid, a raw breeze cutting right through the sweat to the bone. Half asleep on his feet, Doyle came up to the door of the caravan without a hint of something amiss--until he touched the knob, and the door swung noiselessly out on its hinges.

Brought wide-awake all at once, Doyle slid a hand through the narrow gap and flicked on the central light. Starkly illuminated, the kitchen-cum- dining area exhibited appalling vandalism. Biting off a curse, Doyle shoved the door wide and stalked inside.

"Shades of Roger," he groaned, boot heels scraping across shattered glass and pottery.

Batting material gushed out of huge rents in the padded booths like disemboweled entrails. The curtains hung in shreds, and various unpleasant, smelly substances had been smeared wantonly over the glass.

Temper rising as his eye caught sight of each new outrage, Doyle glanced down at Basil's water and food bowls, now in shattered pieces on the floor.

"Basil?" he whispered.

Since he had started leaving the window open for her, Basil had made a habit of letting herself in each night before the conclusion of the last performance, so she could nestle warmly on the bed to await Doyle's return. The bed, however, was a nightmare, sheets and duvet shredded and thrown about, the mattress wrenched off the frame and leaning drunkenly against the opposite wall in the middle of the narrow corridor that led to the bathroom.

There was no sign of Basil.

"Basil!"

A hesitant whine caught his ear; Doyle raced to the kitchen window, heedless of the debris-mined floor. He peered out: The bike stood unmolested, but Basil was nowhere in sight. "Basil, where are you?"

The sound came again, and with it a sort of slithering, scraping sound. In the shadows at the base of the caravan's skirting, the black tip of a narrow muzzle appeared through a very small crevice formed by the joining of panels. "Basil, come on, girl!"

After a bout of frantic wriggling, the whole dog materialized. She gave herself a fierce shake, then raised her head, her nose twitching as she verified the identity of the man in the caravan. Then she leapt up onto the bike, and from there, through the window, right into Doyle's arms.

He held her close to his chest for a moment. "You know who did this, don't you?" he said in a low, harsh voice. "And so do I."

In the next instant, Doyle was out the door and striding across the short distance that separated his caravan from Sergei's. Standing with legs braced apart on the top step, he hammered at the door with a fist, and kept hammering at it until Sergei shouted furiously from inside, "Hang on, damn it! Give me a minute, will you? What the--"

The door swung open, Doyle sidestepping to avoid being struck.

"My caravan," he said coldly. "Someone's turned it into a tip."

Cinching the belt of his dressing gown at his waist, Sergei frowned soberly at him. "What are you shouting about, Doyle?"

"My fucking caravan," Doyle said with vicious enunciation. "It's been turned upside down."

Sergei leaned against the jamb. "Bad?" he asked.

"A little," Doyle intoned caustically.

Folding his arms across his bulky chest, Sergei murmured, "Roger again, probably."

"What's 'Roger again'?" Bodie's voice came from the darkness near the front of the caravan.

Glowering down at his shadowed form, Sergei said, "Doyle says his caravan has been done over. Maybe you'd know something about that?"

In the faint overflow of light spilling through Sergei's door, Bodie could just be seen to smile. "Oh, I might. But I don't think Roger had a hand in it--not this time."

"Who, then?" Sergei drew himself up to his full height.

"Hardly matters. The mutt okay, Doyle?"

"Yes."

Interrupting abruptly, Sergei said, "You'll need a place to stay for the night. You're welcome here, Doyle."

Pure rage burned through Doyle's veins. He only just managed to keep his hands round Basil--and away from Sergei's throat.

"That's all right, Alf," Bodie said in a maddening drawl. "He was planning on spending the night with me, anyway."

Sergei's eyes shot from Bodie to Doyle, who met the circus owner's searching gaze with barely concealed enmity.

"Better luck next time," said Doyle meaningfully. He clattered down the wooden steps and walked past Bodie without look or word.

"You know he did it," Bodie stated flatly, falling in step beside him.

"Of course I do. Was very insistent about my coming round for a drink tonight. Didn't occur to me he'd go this far, though, did it?"

"Ray, we're here. Ray! Where're you going?" Bodie demanded, when Doyle passed by Bodie's caravan without a hint of slowing.

Doyle spun round then, and said evenly, "I know where I'm not wanted-- but thanks for the offer. It gave Sergei the hump, anyway. But the stables'll do for me, thanks."

"Not wanted! What's that supposed to mean?"

A light went on next door in Hannah's kitchen. Lowering his voice, Doyle stated precisely, "You've made it clear all day, Bodie, that you'd be happier without my company. Let's leave it at that, okay?"

"Stupid bug-- Get in here, will you?" When Doyle ignored him, Bodie snarled, "Just for a bloody drink, okay?"

Hannah's voice wafted tiredly through her front window, "God, Ray, do what he asks, will you?"

Swallowing an acid retort, Doyle said through clenched teeth, "Sorry, Hannah."

Smoke from a cigarette billowed out through the curtains into the night. "If you think it will help you settle your differences, you can leave Basil with me for the night."

"Good night, Hannah," Doyle snapped. He shouldered his way up the steps past Bodie, boot heels coming into loud contact with the linoleum floor.

Bodie came up after him at once, slamming the door shut, then leaned back against it, as though he might have to fight Doyle to keep him inside.

This impression was not lost on Doyle, who stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, unthinkingly cradling Basil against his chest. He eyed the other man without liking.

Bodie spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "What'll you have? Whisky? Beer?"

For the first time, Doyle noticed that Bodie was dressed in his terry robe, haute école boots, and to all appearances, nothing else. Thawing the slightest bit, Doyle remarked, "Go back to bed, mate. I'll fold the booth out and sleep there."

"Christ, you can be thick," Bodie grated out. "D'you want something to drink, or don't you?"

Sighing heavily, Doyle glanced round, his eyes taking in Bodie's neatly appointed caravan, in such jarring contrast to his own. "Dunno."

"You are in a state." Bodie left the door and reached out for Basil. "Let me have the--' On a sudden high-pitched bark, the dog's head lunged out and sharp teeth snapped at Bodie's hand.

"Why, you little-- C'mere, you!"

Basil growled, every muscle in her body gathering to spring, until Doyle said, "'S all right, Bas. You know Bodie won't hurt you."

"She isn't worried about her," Bodie corrected him. "Give her to me, will you?"

Doyle did as Bodie asked; the dog went into his arms stiffly, but without further complaint.

"Time for you to be in bed," Bodie said darkly. He lifted up the duvet at the foot of the mattress, and placed the dog underneath. She poked her head out a second later, keeping a wary eye on Bodie.

"She was under the caravan," Doyle said. "Squeezed through a small crack when I called to her. She must've been underneath all the time."

"Lucky she had a way to get out." Bodie's expression was grim.

"Luckier for Sergei. If he'd hurt her--"

"He must've been drunk."

"I don't think so." Doyle raked a hand through his hair. "Look, can I just use your shower? Give me a spare blanket and I'll sleep out here, as I said. Don't want to be a nuisance."

Grudging amusement eased the hard cast of Bodie's face. "Go take that shower. I'll put the kettle on." When Doyle hesitated, Bodie said, "Go on."

Soon cocooned in the humid warmth of the tiny shower stall, Doyle took his time in his ablutions. The long day had had its toll; there was no point in belaboring the destruction of his caravan just now--but Doyle hated being put at a disadvantage, and there was a distinct feeling of his having been done over as well.

With a towel slung round his middle, and another over his shoulders to catch drips off the ends of his hair, Doyle quit the bathroom. Basil looked up at him from the folds of the bedding. He stroked her head and back reassuringly, then walked through to the kitchen. Just then the front door came open and Bodie appeared, various bits of clothing draped over one arm, Doyle's trainers dangling by their laces from his other hand.

Doyle paused in the drying of his hair, noting the cold-kissed bloom in the other man's cheeks and the sheen of dew on the smooth, dark cap of hair and long, thickly clustered eyelashes. "What's all that?"

"A few things you'll need in the morning. Bit of a ruin over there, isn't it?"

"Someone was very thorough."

Piling Doyle's articles on the seat of the single kitchen chair, Bodie waved him toward the sideboard. "Tea should be ready by now. You want something to eat?"

"Nah. Thanks." Feeling just a little exposed--not to mention, chilled-- by his state of undress, Doyle started toward his clothing with the intention of pulling something, anything, on. Spying his running gear, he reached out--only to have Bodie block his path.

"Get in bed, mate. You're turning blue." He placed both hands on Doyle's shoulders and wheeled him round until Doyle faced the bedroom. His touch was no more than comradely, but Doyle resisted.

"Which side d'you want?" Bodie asked, giving him a shove. Once Doyle had falteringly walked from the small kitchen into the other room, Bodie stepped across to the sideboard and poured two mugs full of tea. "I favor the wall, myself."

Doyle sat down on the edge of the mattress, watching Bodie's every move. Basil twisted her head round and gave Doyle's hand a lick. Reflexively scratching behind her ears, he announced baldly, "I used your toothbrush."

Bodie's only reaction was a slight lifting of dark, curving brows. Gripping the handles tightly, he carried the two mugs into the bedroom, lazy spirals of steam rising above the surface of creamy brown liquid. "So long as you didn't touch my lipstick, that's all right."

Conceding a small grin, Doyle took the proffered mug.

Bodie sat down beside him. "Let's get a few things straight--if you'll pardon the expression." He sipped delicately at his tea. "We're both tired--and tomorrow's going to be a bitch of a day. While I'd happily have you fuck me through the floorboards, we'll have none of that tonight, okay? Just you and me, two mates, sharing a rather narrow bed. What d'you say?"

Doyle merely nodded and buried his nose in his mug.

"I overreacted today," Bodie admitted. "Made me do a bit of thinking. About us. What I told Sergei wasn't entirely untrue--y'know, about you spending the night with me. The reason I was there when you lit into him, was because I was just coming round to see if you wanted to talk. Nothing else, just talk."

Heating his hands round the mug, Doyle looked sidelong at his partner. "About?"

Avoiding his penetrating gaze, Bodie gave an abbreviated shrug. "I like you, Ray. I want to have sex with you, too. I'm afraid I might do both at the same time."

"That's honest enough," Doyle commented, his blasé tone hiding the liquid warmth spreading throughout his insides.

"I--"

Doyle dropped a hand on Bodie's thigh and gave it a hard squeeze. "Leave it out, mate. I'm full-grown; if you break my heart, I'll survive, y'know."

Snorting, Bodie stretched out an arm and set his mug on the narrow bed cupboard. Bending over, he wrenched off his boots, then stood up to remove the robe. "Maybe it's not your heart I'm thinking about." Without another word, he scooted, bare-bottomed, across the top of the bed, then burrowed under the duvet, bringing the upper edge to lie just below his chin.

Intrigued by that flash of pale skin, Doyle placed his mug alongside Bodie's, switched off the wall-lamp overhanging the bed, and twitched the towel from his hips.

"That's cheating, Doyle," Bodie grumbled.

"Hm?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Easier to turn the light out first. 'Sides, nothing you haven't seen before," Doyle argued, lifting the side of the duvet and gliding underneath. Basil edged out of his way as his feet stretched to the bottom of the mattress, then curled up beside his ankle. A shift of the head skimmed long, wiry hairs ticklishly across the sole of one foot. "Keep those whiskers to yourself," he gasped.

"Didn't touch you," Bodie said, affronted.

"Not you." Doyle added whimsically, "Though you could, if you wanted to."

He felt the bed dip as Bodie rose up beside him. Heart suddenly galloping like a horse bolting free, Doyle held his breath.

"Could I?" Bodie breathed, and brought his mouth down onto Doyle's.

Doyle turned into the kiss, all weariness banished, hungry for this in a way he would never have imagined. But Bodie pressed a hand flat to Doyle's chest and pushed him back down.

"It's late, sunshine. And I wasn't joking about tomorrow; it'll be a killer."

Doyle gritted his back jaws together. "Right. G'night, then." He would not admit for the world that he did not give a damn about tomorrow--not now, when he wanted very much to hold and be held. On that thought, he said gravely, "Can I--?" But pride killed the words in his throat.

"What?" Bodie asked softly.

"I'm cold. Could we--?"

The bed tossed like a skiff caught in a storm. Bodie's powerful arms encircled Doyle's comparatively skinny frame and gathered it to his solid body.

Shocked by the sudden warmth and satiny smoothness of Bodie's skin, Doyle closed his eyes and pressed even nearer. "Wonderful," he murmured, ignoring the interest kindled in his groin, not unobservant of a kindred interest tangible in Bodie's.

"Better?" Bodie asked.

"Much. God, you're warm."

"So're you. Very. What's that poking into my leg?"

"Probably the same thing that's poking into mine."

Bodie laughed, his breath ruffling the hair lying heavy on Doyle's temple. "This is ridiculous. Maybe we should just--"

"No." Doyle's hand was draped round Bodie's neck; a thumb swept idly up and down the thickly buttressing musculature. "You're right. It'll be better when we're not tired--and when I can see you. Expect I'll enjoy that."

The hardness pressed against Doyle's hip slightly thickened and lengthened. "I think the lamp still works," Bodie muttered.

Doyle hugged him with violent exuberance. "Shh." Amazingly, he yawned. The urge communicated by no more than sound, Bodie produced a jaw- cracker himself only seconds later.

"See?" Doyle said sleepily.

A small flurry of movement at Doyle's feet signalled Basil's renewed settling in.

Bodie gave a muffled gasp. "That bloody dog of yours has a cold nose!"

Chuckling softly to himself, Doyle moved his head slightly on Bodie's shoulder, revelling in this undemanding closeness and warmth, his body weighted with pure exhaustion. His comment to Bodie, If you break my heart, I'll survive, had been all bluff; but this moment was one he would remember for a long time, no matter what happened. And even if it never happened again--for whatever reason--it would be more than some people ever had; people like--

"Bodie!"

The man lying next to him startled slightly. "Yeah?"


"Earlier, when we were talking about Riley--you remember--this scheme of yours to get his family over here: You never told me what it was."

Doyle felt the broad chest cease moving. Then Bodie was laughing, a low gurgle that slowly gained in intensity.

"Come on, what is it?" Doyle's hand slid down to one tidy buttock. Forefinger and thumb hovering perilously over the downy skin, he threatened, "So help me, Bodie, if you don't--"

"No! I'll tell you. Just-- Oh, shit."

Doyle's hand closed over Bodie's left buttock. He liked the way it filled his palm, smooth and round. Finding himself on the brink of total distraction, he growled, "Well?"

"You'll kill me."

"I'll kill you if you don't tell me."

"Believe me, I forgot all about it."

"I believe you."

"You don't. Never met anyone as suspicious as you, Doyle."

"Quit stalling!"

"Right." Bodie took a deep breath. "Told you it wasn't my idea, and it wasn't. But I overheard a couple of the lads talking a day or two after you hired on; seems Hannah and Lily had set up a lottery to get some money to bring Riley's family over. They've done that before, using match results, that sort of thing; but they've only ever brought in a few pounds, y'know."

"I'm listening," Doyle assured him, when several seconds went by without Bodie continuing.

"Yeah, well-- This time they decided to base the stakes on something a little more interesting--at least to their perverted little minds."

"Why am I getting this sick feeling in my stomach?"

Bodie pulled him even closer, tucking one of Doyle's thighs between both of his. "Because you're cleverer than you look. Stop that!' He twisted free of Doyle's teeth. "Cannibal."

"Bodie--"

"They sold days--counting from when you started--with the winning day being the one you and I-- Well, you know."

Having reached that conclusion as soon as Bodie mentioned the selling of days, and resigned to the ignominy of his fate, Doyle said simply, "I see. So who's the lucky winner? D'you know?"

"Derek. And before you ask, he and Simon are the only two who know that I know. Otherwise, they'd've called it off."

"Will Derek give his winnings to Riley?"

"Of course. He's as bad as Simon, y'know. And Riley will get the money Hannah and Lily raised from selling chances, as well. All told, it should come to over five hundred quid."

"Christ," Doyle said disgustedly. "Lily, I could see; but, Hannah?"

"Incurable romantics, the lot of 'em," Bodie agreed condescendingly.

"You, on the other hand, wouldn't've rigged all this--you and me together, I mean--in the name of romance, eh?"

"I might have--but I didn't. I swear it." Bodie's voice thrummed with sincerity. "Anyway, you like Riley. And, besides, sleeping with me is small price to pay to get that kind of money together."

"Especially since sleeping with you is all I'm doing to--" Doyle broke into another yawn, "night."

"Yes, but you're not going to mention that little fact any more than I will."

Mulling this over, Doyle realized he had finally warmed all the way through. "No." Dismissing the silly wager as no longer worthy of concern, Doyle concentrated instead on Bodie; having him in his bed could become quite habit-forming.

"Are you bothered?" Bodie asked tentatively.

"No." Doyle brushed his mouth against the pulse beating in Bodie's throat. Laying his head back down, he pressed, "But you really did forget?"

"Yes, I really did." A chuckle rumbled in the depths of Bodie's chest. "After all, if we'd waited another two days, the pot would've been mine! Had Simon buy me a chance, y'see. Since there were a few left over, Hannah didn't-- Ow! Stop that, Ray!"

"You'll pay for that, Bodie," Doyle promised him ominously, his breath hot upon Bodie's shoulder.

"One can only hope. Ouch!"

---

CHAPTER 10

Tuesday

Dreary, rain-washed light filtered in through the curtains over the narrow bed. Lying on his side in the pre-dawn chill, Doyle stared sleepily at the man stretched out beside him. During the night, they had changed positions often, their two bodies meshing together like well- oiled gears. Some while ago, Bodie had placed his head on Doyle's shoulder, an arm slung heavily across his chest, a hard, contoured thigh hooked possessively over one of Doyle's.

In repose, Bodie was enchanting--even with thick, black stubble, sandpaper rough, dusting his jaw. Underneath the new growth of beard, his skin was as unmarred and pale as marble. Dark, curling lashes rested on the upper curve of his cheeks. His face, so often remote, if not outright forbidding, in sleep was as irresistible as a child's.

Doyle favored his mouth. The impish upper half and its longer, curving lower mate drew him like a siren's song, speaking of sweet pleasure at the very hint of a touch. He wanted to kiss Bodie, and to be kissed in turn. Smiling to himself, he recalled Bodie's statement of the night before: I might want to do both at the same time. Bodie was not alone.

Moving cautiously in order not to precipitate the sleeper's awakening, Doyle freed himself from Bodie's embrace and gently guided him onto his back. For a moment the other man's breathing became slightly more shallow, and his eyelashes shifted, as though they were about to open. After a moment, however, Bodie subsided back into dreams.

The duvet had slipped from Bodie's shoulders with his movements, and now lay draped across his chest just below the armpits. Pulling the fabric down even further, taking care not to tug, Doyle slowly revealed the impressive expanse of Bodie's chest from collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage. The superb definition of muscles over bone might have served as a model for a Greek statue. A sparse growth of hair grew at the crest of Bodie's breast, hardly enough to be noticeable; extending downward from his collar-bone were hard-packed pectorals and, planted to either side, small, dusky rose nipples.

Breathing a little faster, Doyle curled around so he could encircle the nearer nipple with his lips. Incapable of stopping himself, Doyle snaked out the tip of his tongue and outlined the rapidly hardening nub, encouraging the transformation until he could suck the tiny peak into his mouth.

A low moan informed him that Bodie was no longer asleep. A second later, a hand came to lie on the back of Doyle's head, fingertips gliding into thick, straight hair, pressing his mouth harder onto Bodie's chest. Doyle willingly increased the suction, one hand floating over Bodie's ribcage to cover the other nipple. Gently tweaking and pulling, he mimicked the action of teeth and tongue with his fingers.

"Ray."

"Hm?"

Bodie's hand curved under his chin. "Look at me."

Letting go his prize with some reluctance, Doyle was not prompt to obey.

"Ray."

At last he looked up--and fell into twin pools of molten blue.

"Come here."

Doyle went, complying with Bodie's wordless direction to lie between his thighs. Cautiously lowering himself onto the sleek-planed body, Doyle cupped Bodie's face between his palms, and began to kiss him.

Two hands moved from Doyle's shoulders and flowed downward over spine and ribs and the small of his back, until slowed by the sharp rise of Doyle's buttocks. Deliberately they made the ascent, until Doyle was tightly gripped, thenceforth to be kneaded, caressed, and explored, almost roughly, until he thought he would go mad.

Taken to fever pitch with dizzying speed, Doyle pushed back against Bodie's fingers, then thrust downward into the yielding smoothness of Bodie's belly, where he met an impressive heat and hardness to match his own.

Rocking his hips, Bodie deepened their kiss, forearms pistoning as he controlled the force of Doyle's up-and-down movements. He stretched out his legs, shoving aside the clinging bedclothes so that he could brace Doyle's feet with his own, lending them both added leverage.

From the side of the bed came a muffled thump and a yip of surprise.

Jerking his mouth away from Bodie's, Doyle gasped raggedly, "Shit! Basil, are you--?"

Almost at once an implacable, electronic beep, beep, beep commenced, emanating from the clock on the bedside cupboard. Frozen in a state of high passion, Doyle swung his head back around and stared wildly down into Bodie's eyes.

Grimacing as if with pain, Bodie snapped, "Christ! Wouldn't you know it!" He moved his hands to Doyle's flanks and bodily lifted him. "Get off me, Ray! We'll be late, if we don't get started right now. We've got to be in the ring in half an hour!"

"Bodie!"

"In the ring and ready to fly. Oh, God!" With that, Bodie grabbed Doyle's head and held him unmoving while he kissed him with desperate passion. "Promise me we'll finish this tonight."

"Don't worry," Doyle said furiously, swinging himself off Bodie with cold efficiency. "You may not live long enough to need reminding."

Completely naked and still hotly erect, Doyle strode into the kitchen while Bodie dove into the bathroom. The clothing Bodie had collected for him the night before lay in a heap on the dining-room chair; Doyle snagged a pair of pants and his sweatsuit, both of which had apparently survived Sergei's vandalism undamaged, and pulled them on.

Sitting on the edge of one of the kitchen booth benches, he methodically put on one shoe after the other, then raised his head to glare with intense dislike at his partner, who at that moment emerged from the bathroom.

Stabbed by green ice, Bodie said helplessly, "D'you think I wanted to stop?"

"You did."

"There're people waiting for us, Ray. We owe it to them to be ready at the same time they are. If we don't warm up, we'll--"

"Oh, forget it, Bodie! C'mon, Basil." The dog had been looking on with injured perplexity for some moments. "Let's see if Simon's got something you can eat--and maybe a cuppa for me."

Shutting the door angrily behind him, Doyle marched across the caravan site to the path leading to the circus compound. The bitter, wet morning did nothing to alleviate his vile mood. And it did not help that in some, still rational part of his mind he knew that he was being grossly unfair to Bodie. After all, Bodie had been as caught up in the moment as he--almost--and every word he had said was true. Selfishly, however, Doyle wanted to believe that their love-making should have counted for more, should have taken precedence over a bloody early morning work-out. Anyway, how much longer could it possibly have taken them? Doyle had been right on the edge--was very near it, even now.

The fresh breeze cutting across the field rapidly cooled Doyle's ardor, however. In fact, the nearer he came to the stables, the more he felt a fool. A week ago, it would have been Doyle calling a stop to less important activities--because sex with anyone other than Bodie would have been just that: something unimportant, a part of his job, and no more.

When had that changed? It was as though, without his noticing, Doyle had come violently, excruciatingly alive after being numb for many, many years. And as might be expected, suddenly sensate nerve endings were adjusting to this unexpected reversal with searing discomfort.

In the tackroom, Doyle found Simon sitting at the small table, a cup of tea in hand, Derek behind him, massaging his shoulders.

"I won't stay," Doyle said by way of apology for intruding. "But can I beg a favor?"

"You're usually out running by now," Simon remarked languidly. He leaned back into Derek's ministrations. "And of course you can stay, if you like. What's the favor?"

"My caravan's been wrecked, and--"

"Yes, Hannah told us."

Doyle stared at him. "Hannah? It's not even dawn yet."

"Last night, when we got back from the stables. Derek and I stopped by your place this morning, after Derek finished feeding the beasties. It is a shambles."

"It bloody well is--and I can tell you who did it, too."

"We all know who did it, Ray," Simon agreed gloomily.

"The bastard. He isn't going to--" Doyle closed his mouth abruptly. Looking from Simon to Derek with a slow, searching gaze, Doyle said, "If you were over there--then, you know I stayed the night with Bodie."

Derek broke into a huge grin.

"You're a rich man now, aren't you," Doyle exclaimed with sudden, genuine humor. In the morning's lusty preoccupation, he had forgotten all about Bodie's revelation of the night before.

"Bodie told you?" Simon asked warily. At Doyle's placid nod, he prodded, "And you're really not angry?"

"I hear it's all in a good cause. Look, I've got to meet Bodie in the ring in about two seconds. Could you give Basil something to eat? I don't think anything in the kitchen was salvageable."

"I'll see to her."

"And can I have a thermos flask of tea for me and Bodie? We--overslept."

Repressing an approving smile, Simon shooed Derek away from his chair. Free to move, he rose and went to the kettle at once. "Consider it done. I'll just bring this round to the Big Tent, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Simon. Derek, I'll try to get over later to see Sanjay, if that's all right?"

Derek's head bobbed in agreement. As Doyle turned toward the corridor, Derek grunted loudly, a hand raised to delay him.

Doyle stopped, jamming his fingers into his pockets, head bent to one side in inquiry.

One big hand came up to lie over Derek's heart. Then he pointed at Simon, who was looking on with a faintly sheepish expression.

"I had to tell him--y'know, about Sergei," Simon whispered contritely. "But I made him promise not to hurt him."

Having understood Derek's gesture without Simon's explanation, Doyle said, "Happy I could help. But if you do decide to give that prick a bash, you just let me know, Derek. After all, what're mates for?"

"Ray!"

Doyle ignored him. Derek raised a thumb into the air, his smile wreathed with malevolence.

---

Doyle managed to work in a round of stretches before Bodie appeared. A few of the crew helping out with the routine had already arrived; even now the net was being tied off, and a couple of the band members were playing experimental notes on their instruments. Shamefacedly, Doyle acknowledged to himself that, had they selfishly carried on with the morning's diversion, they would never have made it here in time.

As Bodie strode up to the mat, coldly aloof, Doyle said quite simply, "I'm sorry."

Giving him a sharp look, Bodie dropped his towel onto the bench a few feet away. "So am I."

"I asked Simon to bring us a flask of tea. Should have it here in a bit."

"Good. Are you ready to start?"

Doyle said sheepishly, "I'd rather finish--but as 'start' is our only option, yes."

Hands on his hips, Bodie asked flatly, "Does that mean you're going to give us a chance to take up where we left off?"

"Try and keep me away."

Bodie's face slowly relaxed. "That's all right, then."

The morning's work-out was every bit as brutal as that of the previous day--Doyle would not have thought it possible. Once the two men were thoroughly warmed up and ready to ascend to their trapezes, the missing members of their crew had arrived.

The first run-through was a disaster. While the flyers performed reasonably well, nothing else was up to standard. Riley, unusually abstracted, missed several cues; Donal fired the lights out of sequence, and Des managed to bump Doyle into the trap when reeling him up out of the net.

Following an extended tea break, during which Riley offered everyone husky thanks for the money collected on his behalf, things greatly improved. The overall atmosphere turned to one of buoyant optimism, smoothing over minor flaws and timing glitches without slowing the pace of the production.

By the fourth run-through, it was agreed that a costume rehearsal was in order, as much to try out the intricacies of Bodie's new costume as to continue refining the routine. Other aspects of the production--painting the web black so that it would blend into the darkness, and realigning the lights so that they would rotate over a precise area--had already been taken care of.

Bodie declared that they would continue their rehearsals the next day, and their last effort would be a costume run-through. Based on that, they would spring the latest version of the Flying Falconis on the Wednesday night audience--providing there was one.

Voicing his concern over this, Doyle came in for some good-natured ragging concerning doom-sayers and albatrosses.

"The Monday following opening weekend is always dead," Bodie said philosophically. "In fact, things won't pick up again until Friday."

"Lord, how d'you manage to stay in business?" Doyle exclaimed appalled.

Bodie eyed him in reproachful silence. "It's a small circus, Ray."

"But we had such great houses the first few days. You'd think with word of mouth--"

"Circus is dying--you know that. The first audiences are the last of the faithful. This new routine should churn up some interest, but Circus Sergei will never have the kind of spectacle people associate with the old-time circuses--the sort of thing they can see on the box any time they like."

"Yeah," Doyle murmured, "I know. It's just--"

"What?"

Doyle had been about to say, It's wrong. But that was Ray Doyle, bright-eyed aerialist, speaking--not Ray Doyle, the hardened cynic, who comprehended all too well the state of dreams in the world these days. "Nothing. If we're done here for the day, I'd best away to my caravan and start the repairs."

"Come over to my place first," Bodie suggested. "We'll have a big lunch to make up for the bread and butter Simon gave us."

"If it hadn't been for Simon, we wouldn't even have had that."

"True. But I'm a growing boy, and I need something substantial to carry me through the day."

---

Replete after a hearty meal of sandwiches, fruit, cheese, and a bolstering ale, Bodie and Doyle, the latter with Basil on his shoulder, struck off across the caravan site to Doyle's faded green unit at the far end of the park. The back of the hair on Doyle's neck began to rise as they drew nearer and he saw with certainty that the door stood wide open. Not only that, but a skip leaned drunkenly beside the steps.

"What the--?"

A man's backside appeared in the opening, and even at this angle and from this distance Doyle recognized its owner as Tom. As the big man felt his way down the stair, Doyle saw that he was carrying a large box, filled with debris and other bits and pieces that had constituted his household goods.

"Oi!" Doyle called, removing Basil from her perch and setting her on the ground. "What are you doing there?" He came up alongside Tom and peered into the depths of the box.

"Lending you a hand, son," Tom said bluffly.

He had no more than spoken before two other people emerged from the door of the caravan, hefting another large box between them. Unfamiliar with the two teen-aged boys, Doyle glanced across at his partner, eyes wide and perplexed.

"Tom's boys," Bodie said. "Adrian, Denis, this is Ray Doyle." The two young men could only nod and mumble a greeting, their hands otherwise occupied.

"Hello," Doyle said faintly.

Once the boys were clear of the doorway, Doyle sprang up the steps. From the threshold he looked round the inside of the caravan in utter bemusement. "Who organized all this?" he asked hoarsely, noticing that the floors, walls, and windows had been scrubbed clean, the ruined curtains taken down, the mattress restored to its proper place and made usable again with fresh bedclothes--even the rents in the upholstered booths had been concealed with strips of plastic tape.

"He did," Tom said, thudding up the steps. One big thumb stabbed in Bodie's direction. "Came round this morning first thing and asked if we could help out."

Remembering the morning, and his wretched temper, Doyle inhaled deeply. "I see." Gathering himself with an effort, Doyle said solemnly to Tom, "Thank you." Shooting a quick look of chagrin Bodie's way, he added, "And thank you."

"It won't be habitable for a bit yet, mind you," Simon proclaimed, poking his head out from behind the half-closed door of the bathroom. He walked into the bedroom, a smaller container of smashed articles propped on his hip. Squeezing himself up against the wall opposite the bed, he allowed one of the boys to pass in front of him, then managed to haul his ungainly burden into the kitchen. "Don't reckon you'd want to explain this?" he asked, and held up the remains of the bleach mix Doyle had used the previous day.

Struck speechless, Doyle could only stare at this evidence of his deception.

"Tampering with nature, eh?" Bodie said gleefully. "What's the matter, wasn't it grey enough on one side or the other?"

"Lacking the proper balance?" Simon threw in with mock sympathy.

Doyle stitched a flimsy almost-grin across his mouth. "Bastards," he muttered weakly.

Simon patted him on the face. "Don't worry, Ray," he assured him conspiratorially. "We won't tell."

"Speak for yourself." Bodie wrapped an arm around Doyle's shoulders. "It's always good to have a bit of blackmail in reserve."

"Stop it, Bodie! Or he'll be telling all your deepest, darkest secrets--bet he must know a few of them by now, too--the odd freckle, unusually placed birthmarks--that sort of thing."

"You're a cat, Simon." Oblivious to the smooth hiss that followed this remark, Bodie commented, "Looks like you lot are almost done."

"We are." Simon waved a graceful hand at the cupboards over the sink. "You have dishes, glasses, and eating utensils, Ray. A teapot--and a proper cozy, thanks to Lily." The hand pointed at the drawer under the oven. "And a few pots and pans. The basics only, I'm afraid."

"But as that's all he had to start with, it should do," Bodie said pragmatically.

"Yeah," Doyle whispered huskily.

"You'll want to take him into town to replace his perishables, then," Simon said knowingly to Bodie. "Food, soap, loo paper--all that. The clothing that wasn't destroyed is being laundered by Lily. She'll have it back before you settle in for the night." He smiled kindly at Doyle. "Don't look like that, Ray. Hasn't anyone ever been kind to you before?"

Doyle swallowed hard and kept his mouth firmly shut.

"C'mon, mate," Bodie said and turned Doyle back toward the door. "Didn't you say something about wanting to look in on that bloody tiger? You can do that while I'm being groped by Lily. I'd expect Simon would have a list of necessary items ready by then. Then we'll have a pleasant drive into town."

"An excellent idea," Simon concurred without hesitation. "Half an hour ought to see it done."

As they left the caravan site with Basil scampering round their feet, Doyle finally said, rather gruffly, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't have much chance to get a word in edgeways this morning, as I recall," Bodie said with only a hint of rebuke.

"I feel a right berk."

"And so you should. Mind you, I didn't have to twist anyone's arms. You've done a few good turns here yourself, y'know."

"No reason for you to put yourself out, though," Doyle said, conscience- stricken. "Especially after this morning."

"That's all right, mate." Bodie mock-punched Doyle on the upper arm. "I'm relying on you to set that to rights tonight."

"Count on it," Doyle promised.

---

Sanjay had finally improved--not a great deal, but Doyle could see the cat's renewed strength in the deceptively boneless but unbowed shoulders, the untrembling set of the head, even in the clear, lazily blinking yellow gaze. And to Doyle's delight, the cat made a point of welcoming him when he came inside the cage to say "hello." Sanjay butted Doyle's hand, then curved his head under Doyle's fingers, demanding that he caress the furry ears.

Shaking his head to himself as he observed this silent communication, Derek took up Doyle's shovel and completed the mucking out of the cage Doyle had begun.

After a few minutes of this, the cat yawned suddenly, displaying long, impressive canines and shorter, less fearsome teeth--which, despite their lack of size, were by no means to be ignored. All at once, he seemed very wide awake.

Derek set aside his shovel and rake to collect Sanjay's medication. Talking soothingly in the cat's ear, Doyle held him while Derek quickly emptied the mixture into the animal's mouth.

"Well done, mate," Doyle murmured. He stood up--and in one, unfaltering movement, Sanjay came up alongside him. "What're you up to, then, old son?" Doyle's voice dropped a register, as it always did when he was nervous. The cat's movement, disconcertingly agile in a creature so large, had taken him by surprise.

Standing only a foot away, Derek studied his charge with tilted head.

"What d'you think he wants, Derek?"

Coming to some conclusion, the trainer raised a hand and described a large circle.

Taking that to mean the inside of the cage, Doyle clarified, "You want me to walk him in here?"

At Derek's nod, Doyle gave a slight heave of the shoulders. "Fine with me. What about you, Sanjay, me old fruit?"

Tapping the animal on his sloping shoulders, Doyle led with one foot, but hung back until he saw that Sanjay was inclined to join him. Slowly, out of deference to the cat's lumbering stride, they made a complete circuit of the cage. Doyle was careful to restrict himself to the tiger's pace, so that he presented neither a challenge nor inadvertently triggered the cat's primal "prey-chase" instinct--even if the beast seemed too decrepit to respond. With his massive weight, he could have Doyle on the ground with half his face gone before either man could contemplate defense.

As they walked, it seemed to Doyle that the tiger's stride began to lengthen, and he was certain of it when he had to quicken his own pace to keep up. Two, then three times they went round the inside of the cage. Sanjay ended it by coming to a stop in front of Derek. Welcoming his trainer, he slowly rubbed up against him with playful familiarity.

A bitter-sweet smile smoothed the lines on Derek's weather-beaten face; he cuffed the tiger lightly, then dropped to one knee and hugged him.

Deciding this was too effusive a reaction, Sanjay backed away, shaking his head vigorously, and repeated the affectionate gesture with Doyle. For his part, Doyle simply struggled to stay on his feet, letting the old cat push back and forth against his legs while he kept a hand on the tiger's neck, fingers rubbing at the sensitive spot between his ears.

Sanjay yawned again, and just as this simple action had signalled the start of the cat's liveliness, it also denoted its ending. Expelling a rumbling sigh, the tiger slunk over to his customary place, despite the absence of sunlight, and became one, in the way that all cats do, with the floor.

Together, Doyle and Derek left the cage. Their departure went unnoted, for Sanjay was already asleep, his breathing loud, but steady. Gripping the other man's arm briefly, Doyle indicated his thanks, then started for the corridor, the region under his heart strangely constricted.

---

The remainder of the day flew by. Doyle, with Basil zipped into his jacket, met up with Bodie in a frigid, blowing rain. They clambered into the Mini and rode into town to replenish Doyle's supplies.

"Guess I'll have to take to locking my door," Doyle mused sulkily.

"Wouldn't stop him, if he really wants to get in, y'know," Bodie said. "That's why none of us bother."

"He's done this before?"

Hedging a little, Bodie said, "Can't say for certain--although it seemed likely at the time. Was one of those rare days when Rose was away all night. Alf stuck his nose in a bottle and when he finally poured himself out, he was ready for lerv. Went after Arturo that time. But a straighter bloke you never met, and our Alf came out of it a little battered. The next morning, Arturo discovered his car had been worked over--all the tires slashed to pieces and the paint-work scratched from stem to stern. Was his pride and joy, that car."

"But Arturo couldn't prove anything?" Doyle guessed dryly.

"That's right."

"Then, why-- Oh, look!" Doyle's eye had been caught by the distinctive colors of a Circus Sergei poster plastered against a low brick wall in front of some council flats. Realizing that this must be the latest edition, Doyle insisted that Bodie pull off to the side of the road so he could inspect it more closely.

"Get an eyeful of that, mate!" he cackled gleefully, equal parts of astonishment and elation ringing in his voice. "'The Flying Falconis will debut their spectacular new act on Wednesday!' I wouldn't've thought it of the old bugger."

"Wasn't Sergei," Bodie advised him.

"No? Who, then?"

"Lily, I expect. She takes care of the press releases and the advertising. They go a few rounds when the receipts for service come in, but Lily always wins."

"She's done us proud, Bodie. Hope we can live up to it."

"We will. That is, you will."

"Hold that thought."

---

Weighted down with carry bags, the two men returned to the caravan site late in the afternoon. Stepping into his unit, Doyle ordered Basil to stay just inside the door until he could wipe her muddy feet. She dropped her hindquarters at sight of his hand signal as though her bottom had acquired a load of lead.

After letting Bodie pass by him, Doyle closed the door and looked round. "This is incredible," he stated, at last. "New curtains, a rug for Basil; Christ, they even supplied bowls for her food and water!"

"Nothing if not thorough, is our Simon." Bodie set about emptying out the bags, ordering the assorted purchases on the sideboard. "Put the kettle on, will you? It's bloody cold in here."

"Bodie--how can I possibly pay them back?" Doyle asked raggedly. Coming up alongside his partner, he turned on the taps and began to fill the metal container.

"Told you, mate. They were paying you ba--"

A knock at the door interrupted him. As Bodie reached for the knob, he noticed the dog still seated on the entry mat. "How long you going to keep this poor mutt over here, Ray?"

"What? Oh, bloody hell, Basil, don't be so literal." He snapped his fingers just as Bodie opened the door, and reached for her with a damp tea towel.

"Well, hello, Emma." Bodie gestured the woman onto the top step. "Come in out of the rain. Ray, meet Emma, Tom's wife."

The woman, petite and pleasantly round-faced, held a large foil-covered pan in both arms. She made no move to enter. "I've just come round to give this to Mr. Doyle."

"Ray," Doyle said quickly. Giving Basil a last swipe, he rose up and came alongside Bodie. "Please come in."

"Oh, no, thank you. Tom told me what happened yesterday--in the stables, y'know? This isn't much; but he said your place had been done up. I thought you might like to have some food in, already prepared, like." She smiled self-deprecatingly. "Well, it's a nice, hot meal, anyway."

"You're wonderful, love." Doyle swiftly relieved the woman of the heavy container. "There's an awful lot here; surely you and Tom will join us?" The "us" sprang from his mouth spontaneously. One way or another, Doyle meant to spend the evening with his partner.

"No, no. Tom's taking me into town tonight--even if the weather is filthy."

"You're sure, Emma?" Doyle shrugged helplessly. "Then, thank you so very much. I really don't know what to say; you're very kind."

"You don't need to say anything, Mr.-- Ray. I know you and Tom didn't get off to the best of starts, but he's very grateful now, and so am I." She raised a hand in parting. "I must go! Good night."

She leapt off the wooden stair, and dashed off into the rain, her blue jeans-clad legs eating up the distance as she ran.

Looking after her, Doyle murmured, "This is mad."

Guiding Doyle back into the room, Bodie shut the door and gave a theatrical shudder. "No, cold is what this is." He peeled back an edge of the foil. "What's in here? My God! Next time Mickey gets cast in his stall, you let me do the heroics, eh? Beef stew with chunks of meat bigger even than your mouth, potatoes, carrots, onions; fresh-baked bread by the smell of it--Emma's well-known for her home cooking, y'know; and lemon tarts. I think I've died and gone to heaven."

"Lucky for you you're invited for dinner."

"There's enough here for a small army."

"Then we'll ask Derek and Simon round. Okay with you?"

Bodie bent his head to one side. "Yeah. That's very okay with me."

"What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You. You don't understand why these folks are willing to lend a hand, do you?"

"Not really," Doyle confessed. "It isn't--what I'm used to."

"You worked in the circus before. What's so different this time round?"

Doyle shook his head, incapable of answering, because he had no answers to give. "It just is. Different, I mean."

Reaching out, Bodie removed the large container from Doyle's hands and set it on the sideboard, a few inches of it left hanging precariously off the edge. Then he stepped forward and took Doyle into his arms. "I've never met anyone like you, you know that? One minute you're an arrogant swine; the next you could sell shares in humility."

Uncomfortable, Doyle tried to draw away.

"Don't," Bodie said. "I want to hold you. Just hold you, okay?"

Drowning in brilliant blue eyes, Doyle said shakily, "Okay. Hold me, then."

Standing in Bodie's arms, his bearded cheek pressed to Bodie's smooth one, Doyle was tempted for the first time in his many years with CI5 to confess exactly who and what he was to someone who could be told nothing. The urge was frightening in its intensity; for an instant, Doyle thought he might not be able to control it.

Like a shaft of light stabbing into the heart of darkness, it came to him. Here was the shelter he had sought all his life: Someone to love him while granting him his own strength; yet, someone he could also be strong for. "Bodie--"

"Hush, sunshine. Don't you like this?"

Doyle blinked hard against a sudden stinging sensation at the backs of his eyelids. "Maybe too much."

"If it's the right person," Bodie whispered, "it can't be too much." He kissed Doyle's forehead, then let him go. "C'mon, you, let's get this lot put away. We've a show to prepare for."

---

Tuesday's turn-out was even more disappointing than Monday's crowd. The circus troupe worked with its usual manic fervor, but there was something soul-destroying in playing to so few people; even the horses and dogs seemed to sense the difference.

After the parade, Doyle changed out of his Regency outfit and handed it over to Lily for a thorough cleaning. In dulcet tones, he asked for a preview of Bodie's new costume, but was summarily refused. Affecting disinterest, he bade Lily good night and adjourned to the stables to hurry the grooming of the horses.

The post-performance ritual was hastened by the added hands. Once the last horse had been returned to his stall, Doyle and Derek sent Bodie and Simon on ahead while they sidetracked for a last visit with Sanjay. The tiger slept deeply and undisturbed. Switching off the torch and restoring it to its hook, Derek held the flap open for Doyle to precede him. They raced across the field, their breath billowing in the frosty air. Doyle outpaced the more huskily built man by only a few seconds. Laughing, Doyle swung open the door to his caravan and bowed Derek inside.

Giving Doyle's ear a twist, Derek strode across the threshold.

In their few minutes head start, Simon and Bodie had fed the dog, laid the small table and started the meal warming. A bottle of red wine stood breathing in the center of the mismatched place settings--to Doyle, everything looked absolutely perfect.

His feeling of glowing contentment lasted far beyond the late dinner, the sweet, and the post-prandial coffees. Silly with it, Doyle offered to entertain his companions. Basil featured largely in his antics, eagerly somersaulting and dancing upon Doyle's shoulders and back, and even balancing on his head--very briefly, for neither of them were terribly sure-footed at that stage of the proceedings. The evening's amusement culminated with Doyle cajoling members of his audience to tie his hands securely behind his back so that Basil could free him.

The dog lit into the offending bonds with great fervor--yet she had learned how to leave the skin on Doyle's wrists relatively unscathed and untied him with a minimum of damage. Testing her ability, Derek bound Doyle's hands in a more complicated knot. This time, Basil took a little longer in her efforts; still the bond was undone with impressive speed. Unfortunately, Doyle's left wrist also came away sporting a bright red scratch--nothing, he swore, to worry about.

Bodie, however, argued otherwise. Citing his need for a capable partner, he declared the game at an end.

"Oh, Lord, Derek, it's gone midnight already!" Simon's mouth fell open in an elegant yawn. He dropped his head back against the animal trainer's shoulder.

Derek gazed down on him fondly, then jabbed the slighter man in the ribs.

"What? Oh! Right." Sitting up in a sinuous stretch, Simon blinked sleepily across the table at Bodie and Doyle. "I'm supposed to ask you: would you look in on the animals Thursday night?" He melted into a dreamy grin. "Derry's promised to take me into town, but he wants to know his children will be all right without him."

"Of course," Doyle said promptly. He was drunk on high spirits and anticipation. Cuddling Basil on his lap, he said, "I reckon I know the routine by now." Butting his shoulder against Bodie, he added, "We'll be happy to. Won't we, mate?"

"Our pleasure." Bodie raised his glass in an informal toast. "'Bout time you lads went off on your own for a bit."

Simon sighed expressively. "It will be lovely." Slumping back against his partner once more, he let his eyes fall shut. Without the garish stage make-up, he looked very young and innocent.

Drawing him into the circle of his arms, Derek blew a kiss onto the top of Simon's head. He pushed him upright.

"Hm," Simon mumbled. "Time to go."

Outside, the temperature had dropped drastically and an icy rain was falling. As the other two men hurried off into the gloom, and Basil scurried into the heather, Bodie muttered, "You'd never know there's supposed to be a warming trend in the offing."

"Who told you that?"

"Piper. He always favors his right foreleg when the weather gets better. Not so's you'd notice, mind."

"Should I believe you?" Doyle asked, shivering on the top step.

"'S up to you," Bodie said indifferently. "You'll see, though; it'll be bright and sunshiny tomorrow."

"Hope you're right. There you are!" This, to the dog as she bounded up the box stair. "Poor Bas; must be awful to have your bathroom outside on a night like this."

"Not that it's notably warmer in here," Bodie stated meaningfully.

"Faint-heart. Stop that shaking, you idiot animal! You'll have us drowned in a minute. Come here." He wrapped the tea towel round the shuddering terrier and rubbed her down while Bodie closed the door. "Go on, off with you."

As he stood up, he found himself the center of Bodie's attention, that inescapable blue gaze sparking a flame deep in his gut. He stretched forth a hand, and Bodie took it, as though he had done so a hundred times before. Needing no prelude, they walked into the bedroom.

A thousand thoughts raced through Doyle's mind as he stopped and looked into the face of the man at his side. Most important in that moment was not that, after a lifetime of waiting, he was about to have sex with a man; rather, it was that he was going to bed with this man--and not just for the all-too-transitory pleasure of orgasm, but to lie with him throughout the night, to enfold him in his arms and shield him--and be shielded in turn--from the cold.

Something of his musings must have communicated themselves to Bodie. A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth, leaving his features unguardedly tender. He raised a hand to Doyle's face, and slowly traced the outline of the full lips with his thumb. "You are a romantic, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Doyle whispered.

"You're looking at my face, not my crotch. That's a romantic in my books. You want to kiss me?"

"Very much."

Doyle's artless response seemed to surprise Bodie. Something that might have been regret flickered across his face. "Ray--"

"Don't worry about it, mate," Doyle assured him gently. "I'm not going to ask you to make an honest man of me in the morning. Promise."

Whatever stood poised on Bodie's tongue remained unspoken. He nodded. Raising both hands to Doyle's bearded face, he stepped forward and placed his mouth lightly upon Doyle's waiting lips.

Doyle closed the gap between them, eyes rolling shut as their bodies came in contact. The flame guttering in his groin surged into a bonfire, tendrils of heat licking out headily in all directions.


As one, they stripped off their inconvenient clothing; as one, they moved toward the bed; and as one, they stretched out on the mattress under the duvet. Tangled in each other's arms, they sought a perfect fit, rolling together until Doyle came to lie on his back, with Bodie bent over him.

"Bodie!" Doyle moaned sharply, spreading his legs to make way for the knee that pushed peremptorily at his thighs. Bodie lifted himself on top of him, bringing his silken length and heat up alongside Doyle's straining erection. "God!" Doyle arched up to meet it, hips canted forward as he struggled to intensify the dizzying feeling.

The friction was exquisite; that, coupled with Bodie's naked closeness and devouring kisses, stimulated Doyle almost more than he could bear. He bucked against his lover like a wild pony, incapable of holding still while every nerve ending in his body threatened to flare into sunbursts of pure sensation.

There was no question of their spinning the moment out; it was upon them almost as soon as they had begun. Doyle cried out and stiffened, clinging to Bodie's sweat-slick back as pulse after pulse of body-hot urgency spurted out onto both of their bellies. A fractioned-second later, it was Bodie who groaned, his face buried in the curve of Doyle's neck, his convulsive grip on Doyle's buttocks painful, but by no means unwanted. For seemingly long moments Bodie continued to move against him, the violence of his release leaving him slow to recover.

Dazedly, Doyle beheld the other man's vulnerability, withholding complaint as Bodie continued to lie on top of him while his breathing slowed and his heartbeat, still palpable under Doyle's softly rubbing palm, returned to normal. This was the instant at which Doyle should swoop in for the kill; the instant when he should put forth the questions that Bodie might otherwise deign not to answer.

Instead, Doyle clutched his new lover even closer to him, wanting more than anything to protect Bodie--from the world, from himself, from anyone and anything that might do him harm.

Apparently already more than part-way asleep, Bodie, as malleable as a child's teddy, merely gave a low murmur when Doyle rolled him onto his side and settled the dark head on Doyle's breast.

"Bodie?"

"Hm?"

"You still awake?"

"'Course."

"Tell me something?"

"Whazzat?"

Doyle hesitated. So many questions he ought to ask--

"What d'you want?" Bodie mumbled sleepily.

Gazing down at the peaceful face illuminated by the glow overflowing from the kitchen lamp, Doyle said, resigned, "Why'd you leave all the lights on, eh?"

"Did I?" Bodie skimmed his cheek against the hair on Doyle's chest. "Close your eyes, sunshine. 'S dark in there."

"Yeah, I expect it is." Doyle kissed the top of Bodie's head, slowly becoming aware of the stickiness drying on his abdomen, and the cool, damp spot on the sheet where their bodies met. Smiling mockingly to himself, he closed his eyes.

And Bodie was right: There, it was dark.

---

CHAPTER 11

Wednesday

"I fell asleep on you."

Under skies of liquid pewter, the two men ran up the slow incline, footfalls crunching on gravel, their misting breath churning like miniature cyclones.

"Twice," Doyle said, purely in the interests of accuracy.

"Didn't think you were awake enough to notice when it happened again," Bodie admitted, abashed.

Doyle laughed softly. "Even after six bouts of mad, passionate sex I notice when something that heavy is lying on top of me."

"So why didn't you say something?" Bodie asked indignantly. He looked away toward the rolling field, shrouded in heavy fog, to his left.

"Did. But you were well away by then."

Bodie muttered, "Didn't mean to, y'know?"

"'S all right," Doyle said unconcernedly. "Seem to recall dropping off on you, as well, at some point."

"Yes, you did," Bodie said, vindicated. "In fact, I thought you'd died. Wouldn't move when I prodded you; hardly breathing, you were."

Doyle shot him a sardonic grin. "Is that why you woke me? And here I thought--"

Glowering intimidatingly at his partner, Bodie cut in sharply, "You know why I woke you. And don't make out as if you didn't enjoy it. 'Sides--I only woke you once."

Snorting his incredulity, Doyle countered, "Once! How about the time I rolled over, and you--"

"Your own fault. You ought to be more careful where you go sticking your bottom."

"Was trying to get warm," Doyle reminded him. "Especially after you'd pinched all the covers."

"Got you warm, didn't I?" Bodie asked reasonably.

"Well, I must admit--"

"Anyway, the way you were pitching about, if I'd had evil designs on your arse, there was no way I was going to--"

"Your aim was off, you mean. Or maybe you were just slow after--what was it at that point?--four times?"

"Five. But be honest, Doyle: You weren't exactly fighting me off, now were you? One word, y'know, and I'd've left you well alone."

"One word, eh?" Legs dragging just a little, Doyle reached the top of the rise. There he turned round and began to jog in place. "Better tell me what that one word is, then--just in case I ever need it."

Circling him with untapped energy, Bodie said, "Won't."

"'Won't?'" Doyle asked, bewildered.

"Won't ever need it. C'mon, mate, race you back."

"Bodie!"

But the other man was already pelting back down the stony path. Growling under his breath, Doyle took a deep breath and started after him.

---

"That'll have to do," Bodie said, dropping off the web and landing lightly on the tips of his toes.

Poised uncomfortably on the spreader ropes, legs curled under the edge to keep himself from rocking forward, Doyle admired his partner's nonchalance. "Still a few rough patches," he said mildly.

"And we haven't got time to smooth 'em down," Bodie countered. "That'll come."

"Eventually," Doyle agreed. "What about the new costume? Mainly the cowl? Was worried you wouldn't be able to see me."

Wiping one arm down with rough cotton, Bodie grinned sidelong at Doyle. "Don't need to see you, sunshine. I know where you are all the time."

Startled by the admission, Doyle smiled back.

"It's the reversible flap that needs some work. I'm going to see if Lily can alter it so it doesn't hang open. Spoil the effect, that would."

Doyle sprang down off the net, readily accepting the terry towel Bodie proffered him. "You do that. I'm off to look in on Sanjay."

"Bloody tiger. Watch yourself, eh?"

"Yeah, I shall. I heard what Derek said when he stopped in a bit ago; just Sanjay wanting his medicine, I expect."

"Or extra attention. You're spoiling him, Ray."

"And you're just jealous." Bodie's beatific expression caused Doyle to look at him twice. "What's that for?"

"'M not jealous--not after last night, anyway," Bodie replied nostalgically.

Doyle pretended to flinch. "We have company, y'know?"

"They can't hear me. 'Sides, they expect it of us."

Exhaling sharply, Doyle gave his head a shake. "Incorrigible, that's what you are."

"If you think last night was good," Bodie whispered, his words spoken for Doyle alone, "just wait till tonight."

Refusing to own up to the lick of heat that spurted inside him, Doyle said evenly, "Take a lot to top it."

Bodie's eyes darkened. "Bottom or top," he murmured, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, "would suit me just fine."

"Maniac," Doyle reproved, his voice dropping huskily. "Christ." He tossed the towel back to Bodie, who snagged it mid-air. "Sodding maniac."

A low cackle percolated up from the depths of Bodie's chest, and he winked once, slinging the strip of cotton round his neck. Then he struck off in the direction of the red curtain, his clothing tucked under one arm.

Lowering himself to the bench, Doyle took up his trousers and shook them open. As he angled his left leg into the material, a narrow, black- whiskered muzzle appeared from underneath the seat.

"Eavesdropping again, were you, Basil? That's all right; who're you going to tell?" He tweaked the animal's nose, then concentrated on guiding the other leg into the crumpled running suit.

---

Sanjay was indeed fretful, pacing the confines of his cage in a way Doyle had not seen before. Derek seemed unconcerned, however, and led Doyle inside to minister the day's potion. The cat gave them a baleful once-over before coming to a stop a few yards away, there to observe their approach through slitted eyes.

"Ah, don't be that way, old son," Doyle muttered coaxingly. He strode with unfaltering purpose toward the animal, knowing that he would not stand a chance should Sanjay choose to lash out at him. Paying almost as strict attention to his human companion as he did the huge cat, Doyle took root where he stood when Derek raised a warning hand.

Sanjay spat once, baring discolored, but still formidable fangs. Slowly, slowly his ears shifted forward, and he sat down. When Derek reached out and stroked his throat with a curled forefinger, he neither resisted nor quibbled.

Swallowing dryly, Doyle moved into position, and gently surrounded the cat's neck with an arm. Not for the first time, as he braced his elbow against the powerful shoulders, Doyle marvelled at the animal's indulgent nature.

But now the cat was tense, pushing into Doyle's loose hold. Responding reflexively to that slight challenge, Doyle tightened the angle of his elbow. This was sufficient to stall the tiger's forward motion. Making swift use of the minor distraction, Derek emptied the syringe into Sanjay's mouth, then rubbed the thick throat to encourage him to gulp the fluid down.

"There's a good lad." Doyle relaxed his arm, letting it slide naturally down the broad, lushly furred breast. His fingers curved into the cat's hair, gleaning the sensations of warmth, softness, and the pulse beneath the hide. "Beautiful, that's what you are, mate."

The intimidating rattle that signified that all was well in Sanjay's world welled up from the hidden place deep within the cat's body. Doyle could feel the arresting vibration through his fingertips.

"Beautiful," he said again.

Sanjay's mouth split open, widening into a great yawn. With no warning, he lay all the way down, bearing Doyle's hand with him. Butted lightly-- but, given the size of the cat's head, with imposing pressure--Doyle hunkered down onto his heels to continue his caresses.

A tsk from Derek brought Doyle's gaze up; enraptured with the cat's acceptance of him, he had quite forgotten the other man's presence. Derek looked on with a crooked smile, his head turning slowly from one side to the other with cynical disbelief.

"Sanjay," Doyle announced, "has impeccable taste."

Rolling his eyes, Derek groaned speakingly.

---

Dismissed from the cat's favor when Sanjay fell into an all-consuming slumber, Doyle walked out into bright sunshine. Squinting his eyes against the glare, he remembered Bodie's prediction of the night before-- which, according to Bodie, had been passed on to him by way of Piper-- that clear skies were in the offing.

An inquiring whimper brought Doyle's head round; outside the back entry to the animal enclosure, Basil sat patiently waiting, watching him to determine whether he would walk toward the caravan site or back around to the circus compound. Doyle, however, was no longer moving at all, for his attention had skipped beyond the dog to the large, mud-encrusted lorry parked on the other side of Derek's Rover.

Somehow, despite having seen Donal O'Shea only a few days before, and well aware that his appearance must presage imminent activity, Doyle was unprepared for the reality that greeted him. His first reaction was gut- deep denial: Not now, when things are finally coming together for me and Bodie. His second was a sense of inevitability: Cowley had foretold Doyle would not stay here beyond two weeks.

Smothering a sudden churning disappointment, Doyle poked his head back inside the canvas opening and called, "Derek, d'you want some help unloading the lorry?"

"Not his to unload," Simon called from the tackroom. "Something Sergei ordered." Nearly a minute passed before Simon went on, "But thanks for offering."

Doyle scarcely registered Simon's addendum, which had probably been prodded out of him by Derek. Something Sergei ordered. It would be child's play to speculate what that something might be.

Tonight, Doyle must inspect the lorry's contents; if his guess was right, his stay with Circus Sergei was about to come to an end.

---

For half an hour, Doyle searched the circus grounds for his partner. In the ring, he found Hannah putting her dogs through their paces; Falstaff, Aidan, and Zoe arguing the timing of their act with Riley; and the juggler and plate spinner practicing their skills under precariously dangling web spinners who were working out overhead. None had seen Bodie since morning; Riley, however, reminded Doyle that Bodie had been concerned about his costume and when last observed, had been headed in the direction of the dressing tent. Doyle thanked him and loped outside.

Lily was alone. At sight of Doyle, she drew a face that brought him up short. "Oh, Ray, I promise this will be ready by tonight."

"What will?" Doyle stared at the length of cloth that lay across Lily's ample lap and overflowed onto the floor. "Is that my cape?"

"It is. Or it will be. It's just I've been so--"

"Stop worrying," Doyle said with a laugh. "If mine's not ready, Bodie'll just have to do without his."

She shook her head wonderingly at him. "You don't seem the least bit nervous about tonight."

Made aware that everything had gone clean out of his mind--save the prospect of Donal O'Shea inconveniently interrupting his idyll--Doyle said ruefully, "Haven't had a chance to think much about it. Bodie had us running all morning long."

"I watched you for a few minutes. It's going to be tremendous."

"Hope you're right. Lily, I didn't come in here to nag you about my cape. Have you seen Bodie?"

"Not for an hour or more--since just before noon. I added another Velcro fastener to keep his costume from popping open, then he left."

"No idea where to?"

"None."

Doyle scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Need to find him. When d'you want me to stop back for the cape?"

"If I haven't finished it by six, it won't be ready," she apologized.

"Not to worry, love." Patting her hand lightly, Doyle favored the woman with a reassuring smile. "Believe me: That cape is the last thing on my mind."

---

It seemed that Bodie was nowhere to be found. Doyle searched the compound, Basil ever at his heels, but no one could report any more recent sightings than Lily's. Concluding with a brief visit to the stables, Doyle refused lunch with Derek and Simon for the second time that day, and strode outside into warm sunshine. As he neared the caravan site, he glanced across at Bodie's caravan. That had been his starting point in his quest half an hour ago. As then, the blue structure stood unaltered, betraying no sign of habitation, Bodie's battered Mini a silent sentinel alongside.

"He's been nicked by aliens, Bas," Doyle muttered irritably. His stomach rumbled its discontent--by his watch, the afternoon had gone nearly two-- and Doyle had not eaten since early morning.

Together, Doyle and the dog trundled up the steps to his door. A sound from within alerted him the instant he turned the knob.

"It's about damn time you showed up," Bodie declared querulously. He sat at the dining table, a plate of sandwiches piled high in front of him. At the opposite end another plate waited, covered with cling film.

Doyle sighed. "How long have you been here?"

Tipping his wrist to arch a brow at his watch, Bodie snapped, "Since half past twelve. Thought you'd be done in the stables nearly half an hour ago."

"Was." Pulling the door to behind him, Doyle went across to the sink and washed his hands. "I've been looking for you since then."

The vexation vanished from Bodie's features. "Oh." He broke off a piece of bread and passed it down to Basil. "Leave my fingers, you little git!"

"Don't feed her table scraps," Doyle admonished perfunctorily. Lowering himself into the booth facing Bodie, he added in priggish tones, "Bad habit." His laughing eyes met Bodie's.

Allowing a hint of apology to cross his face, Bodie reached out and touched Doyle's lower lip. "Sanjay okay?"

"Bit peevish. He's lost weight, y'know, even in the short time I've been here." He pursed his mouth to kiss Bodie's fingertip.

"Hard to believe you've been here only a little over a week," Bodie mused, more Doyle thought, to himself than to his audience. Bodie drew back his hand, and settled his fingers round the edges of his sandwich.

"Yeah," Doyle said. And how much longer would he remain?

"What is it, Ray?"

Eyes fixed on the meal in front of him, Doyle could not bring himself to look up. Forcing a chortle, he mumbled, "Wore me out, didn't you?"

"And what d'you think you did to me?" Bodie parried bluffly. "Was going to suggest a kip, actually."

Disbelieving, Doyle brought his head up sharply.

"Just a kip," Bodie assured him, conceding a tiny smile. "Tonight I want you to fly like you've never flown before."

"And after the show?"

"Was talking about after," Bodie said with a rakish grin. When Doyle sniggered, Bodie stretched out a finger and shoved Doyle's plate nearer to him. "Go on. Eat up, sunshine. Then we'll have a little lie-down."

---

Doyle woke in the early evening, as closely held in Bodie's arms as when he had first nodded off almost three hours earlier. As good as his word, Bodie had asked nothing more than the warmth and comfort of Doyle's presence. After sketchily tidying up the kitchen following their repast, they had lain down on the narrow bed. With Basil at their feet, and swathed in a single blanket, they had exchanged lazy kisses--initiated by Doyle--until both had become driftingly quiet, not completely asleep but no longer strictly awake. Shortly thereafter Doyle had dissolved into the sheltering recesses of his subconscious, as totally at peace as he ever allowed himself to be.

Now, he lay mutely observing his partner, wondering at the changeability of the man. One moment, Bodie could be imposingly gruff and distant, the next, gently and tenderly affectionate. None of Doyle's previous bed partners had ever captivated him so totally--not even now, when the bed was being used only for sleep.

As if becoming aware of Doyle's scrutiny, Bodie twitched, dark, saturnine brows dipping low over closed eyes. Before he could awaken, Doyle slid nearer and pressed his mouth against Bodie's lips, kissing him thoroughly but without passion.

"Hm, yeah." Bodie's drowsy blue eyes sought out his partner, coming to rest on Doyle's face. "What time is it?"

"Just after five. Ought to be getting up soon."

"Very soon." Stretching languidly, Bodie arched up against Doyle's slighter frame.

With a hand braced in the small of Bodie's back to keep their bodies from separating, Doyle rode out the sinuous movement, eyes shuttering as the pleasurable friction generated a flood of molten heat in his groin.

"You are a wanton thing, aren't you?" Bodie commented, his breath scudding across Doyle's throat.

"Not wanton," Doyle objected weakly; Bodie's mouth was on his collarbone, sharp, but cautious teeth claiming an area of tender flesh for their own. "Just...susceptible."

"To me?"

"Especially you," Doyle admitted, squirming slightly as Bodie turned his attentions to Doyle's left nipple. "Do we...really have time for this?"

Chuckling hoarsely, Bodie caught hold of Doyle's hand and unceremoniously shoved it under the waistband of his briefs, there to wrap it round his own silken hardness. "How long d'you think that'll take?"

"How long does it get?" Doyle asked brightly.

With a strangled growl, Bodie dragged him away from the edge of the bed and rolled on top of him. Frantically trying to accommodate his partner, Doyle tugged Bodie's pants down in between each of the other's driving thrusts, finally bringing the slip of material to lay across the tops of Bodie's thighs--all the while wriggling desperately to aid Bodie's rough efforts to do the same for him.

Regarding Bodie's length, Doyle soon found himself far too absorbed to tender an accurate measurement. The bulk and heat of Bodie's erection burned into his abdomen, and stroked demandingly alongside his own aching member, stripping away every consideration except the immediacy of that compelling touch.

And then Doyle was soaring, ecstasy glowing hot inside him for an endless instant before it erupted outward, racking him with the violence of uncontrollable spasms.

Bodie moaned, his searching kiss deepening briefly before he, too, tipped over the edge.

Arms clasped round Bodie with jealous strength, Doyle murmured, "Fantastic--that was fantastic. Love you, Bo--"

Hearing the words only as they were spilling out of his mouth, Doyle caught his breath and winced as if with pain. "Sorry."

Unhurriedly lifting his head from its place on their shared pillow, Bodie gazed down into Doyle's wary green eyes. "I'm not," he said flatly, and kissed Doyle again, this time with unmistakable tenderness and indolent repletion. "And now we have to get cleaned up." He pushed himself up and swung both legs off the side of the bed. "You can scrub my back, if you like."

"Won't both of us fit in that bloody tiny shower at the same time," Doyle advised him.

"That's all right." Grabbing hold of Doyle's wrists, Bodie impelled his partner into a sitting position beside him. "You can stand outside and reach round the curtain."

"That's generous of you; you going to do the same for me?"

"'Course. Do anything for you, Doyle. D'you hear me? Anything."

Spoken with unembroidered simplicity, Bodie's words held the ring of truth. Wide-eyed, Doyle looked hard into his partner's handsome face, unaware how much his own unguarded expression gave away.

Bodie bent forward and touched his lips to Doyle's forehead. "Don't gawp like that, son, or I'll own up to something really embarrassing."

"No," Doyle said abruptly. "Not yet. I--"

"Don't worry. I'll wait till we're both ready, okay?" Granting Doyle no time to answer, Bodie stood up and jerked him onto his feet. "You get started while I try to find where all my things have gone. And I could use a cuppa right now, so I'll just put the kettle on. You?"

"Yes, please," Doyle said gratefully, letting go of Bodie's hand with reluctance.

Giving Doyle a friendly leer, Bodie turned toward the kitchen; smiling lopsidedly after him, Doyle took himself off to the bathroom, a hand smearing their combined ejaculate across his abdomen before it could drip down onto his thighs. Stepping into the shower compartment, Doyle paused when he heard Bodie say, "What're you doing under the table, you silly mutton-head? Wait a minute--is that my shoe?! Basil!"

With a flick of the wrist, Doyle rotated the taps wide open, the sound of rushing water drowning out the yaps and shouted curses that ensued. As far as he was concerned, Bodie and Basil would have to thrash out that particular altercation without him to act as referee.

---

"Come with me, to a simpler time, when men of honor feared nought save disgrace, and the gods of the realm looked down with favor upon their champions. Behold, the youth!"

The great light flared on, exposing Doyle, who stood balanced proudly on the platform, one arm outstretched to stay his trapeze. Pushing off, he swooped out over the ring, his leotard starkly white in the brilliance of the massive klieg, spangles winking with every tiny movement. Out he swung, and back, gaining momentum and speed until, suspended over the center of the ring, he let go, cavorting like a creature born to the air. Too soon he was forced to concede to his earthbound origins and gave himself over to Bodie, who, in the guise of the gods' deputy, here served as the youth's protector. Playing his role with verve and unbridled enthusiasm, Doyle easily conveyed the impetuosity and resilience of the young and sound.

"Such strength and valor must always draw the attention of darker forces, and so it is now. They wait, and once they find our lad alone, seize their moment. See, the attack!"

His costume black from the waist up, an executioner's cowl concealing most of his face, Bodie challenged the young hero on his next crossover, testing his strength with brutal indifference. Barely escaping unscathed, Doyle swung back once more--and now Bodie delivered a fearful blow, sending Doyle spinning away, his awkward movements giving the impression of crippling pain. Undaunted, if badly wounded, the youth returned to the fray yet again, as all heroes must--only to be unremittingly vanquished. Clinging weakly to his trapeze, Doyle hung from one hand, his body sagging heavily. And then he pretended to lose his hold altogether, rousing a gasp from the audience as he plummeted down, luridly lit by the damning blood-red light, and still down, into the net, where he landed with winding force.

"Even at the moment of death, he will not surrender. No, even then, with his last ounce of strength and unbroken spirit, he struggles vainly upward--"

Using the impetus of his impact with the net, Doyle launched himself back into the air, chest high, arms thrust out behind him, creating the image Bodie had described so soon upon his arrival: Like a bloody great bird. The audience believed in it and was pulling for him; he could sense the tension as muscles not his own struggled to lift the injured warrior.

"--only to fail in the end."

The hush was complete as Doyle collapsed back down into the net--then lay there unstirring. Riley let the moment go just long enough for the stunned onlookers to believe that Doyle might truly be hurt; but not long enough for anyone to leap to his assistance.

"Will the gods abandon one of their chosen few?" The web, operated by Des under cover of darkness, tapped at Doyle's shoulder, right on the mark and with meticulous timing. Unobtrusively Doyle snaked his arm into the loop and gave the rope a solid pull. He ascended with accelerating speed, outlined by the blue light which suggested the coldness of death. At the instant the web brought him within reach of his trapeze, the lights overhead began to coruscate. Amidst this strobe effect, Doyle stiffened, as he imagined someone touched by the galvanic energy of the gods might do.

"Fresh blood floods his veins, new strength powers his muscles, and the certainty of purpose fills his heart and mind. Imbued with life reborn, he commits himself to the service of his gods." Riley's voice boomed with amazing conviction over the Tannoy, keeping pace with Doyle's effortless acrobatics.

Twaddle, Doyle thought, cynically amused, as he was taken into Bodie's hands following completion of a bird's nest pass-over.

Having dispensed with the black hood, and with the flap on his costume reversed and secured in place so that once more he, like Doyle, was clad all in white, Bodie sent his partner pirouetting back to his own trapeze. Both lengthened their swings in preparation for Doyle's double somersault.

"Left older and wiser, but now immortal, the warrior takes his place amongst his peers, no longer of this world, but of a far, far better one." The music rose to a crescendo just as Doyle broke from his trap. Spinning once, twice, then unfolding to give himself into Bodie's hands, Doyle's supple movements held the audience spellbound, not only by his display of unquestionable skill, but through the remarkable flamboyance with which he executed every action.

Alighting onto his platform in the glow of the white klieg, Doyle spun round, one arm raised dramatically, his stance all circus as he invited response from every corner.

The house, somewhat larger than the previous two nights, broke into applause and cheers. Doyle waved across at his partner, lest he be neglected in the accolades. Bodie, however, stood removed on his own platform, seemingly untouched by the audience's approval.

"Bastard," Doyle whispered to himself; for, in his eyes, Bodie was magnificent. All hard muscles and compact strength, it was Bodie, Doyle decided, who should play the role of the youth in their preposterous production.

Diving down into the ne