CHAPTER ONE

As yet another heavy door clanged shut behind him, Bodie barely managed to suppress a shiver. Down the bare corridor an unseen man could be heard shouting orders. Prison. Even the sound of the word was depressing. The uniformed warder opened the final door into a small room, bare except for one scrubbed table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs.

A door on the opposite side of the room opened and a prisoner escorted by two uniformed men entered.

"Prisoner for transfer, sir," shouted the larger of the two men. Bodie saw the eyes in the gaunt face widen.

"Transfer? Where to?"

"Shut up, Doyle. Speak when you're spoken to."

"This is the first I've--"

"I'm warning you, Doyle, belt up."

The door behind the prisoner opened again and a fourth warder appeared carrying a tatty holdall and brown paper carrier bag. Doyle snatched the bags from him.

"That's my stuff!"

"Check the contents, Doyle, then sign this." The officer who had accompanied Bodie put the official form down on the table. In silence Doyle diligently checked each bag and box, not hurrying and totally ignoring the irate glares and snorts from the four burly, uniformed men.

Bodie saw the quick glance that raked him from head to foot but did not say anything.

Satisfied that all his possessions were there, Doyle straightened up and turned to the man who had shouted at him, handing over a bar of slippery soap with a hard smile.

"This isn't mine. Wouldn't want to get done for thievin' Her Majesty's property, would I!" He turned back to the table. "Now, where do you want me to autograph?"

The form signed, Doyle picked up his bags and looked expectantly towards Bodie's escort.

"Right, sir." The warder moved towards the door, indicating that Bodie should precede him. "We've a few forms for you to sign at the office and he's all yours. Milton, bring Doyle." And the procession moved towards the other office.

Watching discreetly through the glass partition as he completed the paperwork, Bodie looked his new acquisition over. The washed-out, baggy prison issue clothing swamped the frail-looking figure, his size diminished even more by the sheer bulk of the guards that flanked him. Again he wondered what Cowley was up to. This was hardly normal procedure.

Prisoners' interviews were usually carried out within their place of abode; to be released into the custody of a lone CI5 agent without even an escort was, to Bodie's knowledge, unheard of.

What was so special about Raymond Doyle, he wondered.

"I can't say I'm going to miss the bugger," the warder confided as Bodie asked about his prisoner. "Sometimes I reckon it's a shame they stopped transporting 'em to Australia. Real bundle of trouble, he is."

"What's he in for?"

"Bent copper." The man pulled a face. "Nothin' I hate more than a bent copper."

Paperwork over, Bodie collected his prisoner and the procession continued in silence to the outer gate. Before opening the final lock in the door, the guard with the loud voice stopped Bodie.

"Shouldn't you cuff 'im?"

Doyle glared at the guard but remained silent. Bodie assessed the skinny man.

"Nah. Not going to do a runner, are you," he said brightly, confident of his own abilities if the smaller man should risk it.

The door opened and the two men stepped into the free world. Bodie started to move towards his car but then stopped. Doyle wasn't following.

"Come on, Doyle. The car's that way." He pointed to the solitary vehicle.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll find out when you get there."

"Who are you? This isn't normal procedure. I want to know where I'm being taken." Doyle stood his ground.

Annoyed by the stubbornness, Bodie grabbed hold of a surprisingly well-muscled arm and pulled.

"You're going where I'm taking you." He manhandled Doyle across the empty space, unlocked the car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Ingrained caution made him lock the door before walking around to his own seat.

The drive into town took nearly an hour and the journey was conducted in silence.

As they pulled into the CI5 car park Doyle peered up at the drab building. "What is this place?"

Bodie ignored him and got out to unlock Doyle's door. An hour ago the man hadn't wanted to get in the car, now he didn't want to get out.

"I'm not moving until I know where I am and why I'm here."

"Look, mate," Bodie growled, "you're here because I was told to bring you here."

"Doesn't answer my question," Doyle answered belligerently. "I've been stitched up once too often. I'm not moving until I know what's going on."

Bodie knew that it would take very little effort on his part to get the little toad into the building, but it had been a tough week, he was wearing a good suit of clothes, and, quite frankly, he couldn't be bothered.

"I'm CI5." He flashed his I.D. before the brittle gaze. "That is CI5 headquarters." He pointed towards the building. "My boss, who is not known for his generous nature and kind heart, is in there waiting to see you. If you shift your arse out of my car and get it over there you might find out what's going down because I neither know or care. Okay?"

It obviously was because Doyle gathered his belongings and followed him through the doors. The bags were left at the security office and the two men walked into the building. Coming towards them, his attention on a file in his hands, was a sandy-haired, middle-aged man. Bodie called out to him.

"Sir."

The man looked up and removed his glasses.

"At last. I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you. No problems at the prison, Bodie?"

"No, sir."

The man turned his attention to Doyle.

"Well, Mr Doyle. If you would come with me, my office is just here."

The man opened a door bearing the nameplate of George Cowley, Controller CI5. Doyle did not know whether to be worried or impressed.

"Bodie, there's no need for you to remain, but stay in the building, please. Once I have spoken with Mr Doyle I'll want to see you again."

"Sir." Bodie acknowledged the order and the dismissal as he left the office.

Ray Doyle watched the door close and turned his attention to the man seated at the desk. Any minute now, he thought, I'm going to wake up and find it's all been a dream.

"Sit down, Mr Doyle, make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you a drink?"

He must have nodded because the man stood up and crossed the room to remove glasses and a whisky bottle from the filing cabinet. He took the offered glass and sipped the golden liquid. The burning sensation spread like wildfire down his throat and into his stomach.

"Now," Cowley reseated himself behind his desk, "down to business. How much did the Governor tell you?"

The whisky had caused his vocal cords to seize up and even his second attempt was not too clear.

"Not much." Doyle cleared his throat and told Cowley all he knew. "I was called to the Governor's office yesterday afternoon and told that new evidence had come to light. He wouldn't tell me anything else. Said he didn't want to get my hopes up."

Cowley was unsurprised by the bewildered voice. Governor Bryant had not been too pleased when his ordered routine had been disrupted by CI5's demands. Events had occurred so fast it was surprising that Doyle looked as confident as he did.

"You are not in my custody, Mr Doyle. You are perfectly free to leave as and when you like."

"Free?"

"Free," confirmed the Scots brogue softly, the sharp blue eyes missing none of the effect his announcement had caused.

"I don't understand. I don't understand any of this, do you mean I'm getting a retrial?"

"Let me explain from the beginning. Your defence at the trial, your only defence, was that you were setting yourself up as a plant in the drug ring in the hopes of snaring the other police officers whose identity you didn't know but were sure were involved. Now, you claimed that on the night in question you told your senior officer, Detective Inspector Taylor, of your plan. What was Taylor's reaction?"

"He told me not to go ahead, said that he didn't think it was a good idea for me to go undercover alone."

"Did you obey his order not to proceed?"

"You know I didn't. If I had I wouldn't have got myself in this mess, would I?"

"The prosecution's main evidence was your total lack of official orders; there was no record of your informing the squad of your intentions."

"Of course there wasn't. It wasn't until the next day when I was arrested that I heard about the accident."

"Yes. D.I. Taylor's death was most unfortunate, especially for you."

"Most unfortunate," Doyle repeated, his voice bitter. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"I have examined the reports; the crash was, beyond any doubt, an accident."

"What made you think it might be otherwise?" Doyle asked, the wariness in his voice being replaced by curiosity.

"D.I. Taylor did make a report on your plan to infiltrate the group. It seems he guessed that you would ignore his instructions to leave things alone--"

"Where's the report? Why didn't anyone find it at the time?" Three years, three lousy years, all because of one missing report, the last report of a dead man.

"He handed it over to D.I. Behan."

"Mike? Mike Behan?" Doyle couldn't believe his ears. Mike had been one of the few friends who believed his claims of innocence.

"D.I. Behan was the police presence within the ring. He knew you had to be stopped. Taylor's death provided him the ideal opportunity. No one else knew of your intentions. Behan arranged your entrapment, planted the evidence and destroyed Taylor's report."

"I'll kill him!" Doyle leapt to his feet, ready to find his former friend and carry out his threat.

"He's already dead; he died four days ago. Cancer."

Doyle slumped back down into the chair, disappointed to have been robbed of his chance to wreak revenge.

"Amongst his papers was a letter addressed to the Home Secretary. It seems he wished to die with a clear conscience. The original report was destroyed but the letter is thought to be an accurate record of his involvement with the suppliers and dealers and, of course, a statement declaring your complete innocence and the way he framed you. Here," Cowley passed over several sheets of paper, "is a copy of the letter. I'm sure you'll want to read it."

Doyle took the document in shaking fingers and forced himself to concentrate on the scrawling, spidery writing. The letter was dated only a few weeks previously.

At last he folded the papers and handed them back.

"So I'll get a retrial?"

"That is what I want to discuss with you. A retrial would become a very public affair. The media would have a field day--a young policeman framed by his senior officer, all those wasted years you've spent locked away, broken dreams, personal heartache, only to be cleared by the testimony of a dying man. The film companies would be queuing at your door for exclusive script rights. Is that what you want?"

"Well...no, but--"

"I can use you, Doyle. I had already noted your name before the charges arose. I was sure I wasn't wrong about you but, as you know only too well, there was no proof. I want you in CI5. What I don't want is someone whose face has been plastered across every newspaper in the country."

"Well... I don't--"

"If you agree to my proposals, your innocence in this matter will become a matter of record and you will, of course, be financially compensated for your loss of earnings and the hardship you've suffered."

"What proposals?"

"You have every right to request a public retrial, I am suggesting that you forgo that right."

"Why?"

"As I said a few moments ago, Mr Doyle, I can use you. Three years ago I would have welcomed you on your professional abilities alone. Though a trifle rebellious you were a good policeman. Now, after your recent experiences, you have a wealth of contact with those on the other side of the fence. As an ex-prisoner your face is known and you'll be able to gain easy admittance to circles that undercover agents would have to work months to achieve." Cowley paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. "But, as a publicly affirmed, upright, honest citizen you'd be back to square one. If you agree, your criminal and prison records will be destroyed, you'll be free to tell friends and family about your innocence. All I ask is that you consider it. I have a feeling you will find working for CI5 an...experience. Well?"

"How long do I have to decide?"

"I need your answer now. I'm sorry to rush you, but D.I. Behan's letter has stirred up a regular hornet's nest and the D.P.P. is eager to get started on it. How he deals with it depends on your answer."

"If I agree, my name will be left out of new investigations into that little lot." Doyle pointed to the letter. Cowley nodded.

"How can I avoid the retrial? It's a formal procedure, how could I get out of that and the attendant publicity?"

"I have examined the implications of the letter. It clears you completely. You were arrested before you uncovered anything that will be of any assistance in the new enquiries. The Home Secretary has agreed to leave your name out of the new investigating. D.I. Behan is dead. There is no need to rake over old ground. Unless you feel the need to be publicly exonerated. It is, of course, your right."

Doyle's mind was in a whirl. Ever since the summons to the Governor's office the day before, his thoughts had been a jumble of 'what ifs' and hopes that kept insisting on struggling out from under the tight lid he kept clamped down. It was happening too fast. He had only just begun to accept his lot, and try to adapt more to the strange prison life. In less than an hour this man, George Cowley, had turned his whole world upside down. Mike, his friend, had betrayed him and left him to rot in jail, only a guilty conscience releasing him, and now he was being asked not to scream his freedom cry from the rooftops, but to keep the stain on his name, to hide his innocence in a way others would hide their guilt? What for?

Because it would make him useful to CI5, because this Cowley person said he could use him. Even three years ago Cowley had wanted him. Doyle knew he would have jumped at the chance then, but a lot had happened since. He'd changed.

Cowley could see the indecision in the shockingly large eyes.

"I know a little of what you've been through, Doyle. You'll be allowed time to retrain and rehabilitate yourself."

Time. Time to retrain and rehabilitate. Would there ever be enough time for him to escape the past few years?

"I don't think I could face going back inside. Not now."

"I won't ask you to, not now. I can't promise you that I will never ask you, though; as a CI5 agent, I frequently order my men to do unpleasant duties."

"All right, I waive my right to a retrial." Where had the words come from? Doyle thought in amazement. Not from his brain, that was for sure. Cowley was already moving into action, showering him with reams and reams of paper, all requiring his signature. So much for reading everything before you sign it, he thought ruefully.

As the last of the papers were signed Cowley called someone on his desk intercom and in response the door opened and an attractive woman entered.

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, Betty. A small matter for you to attend to, more pleasure than duty I hope, though. This is Ray Doyle, he has just agreed to join our organisation. Our timetable has become a little behind and I'm sure that he would welcome a break from business and a meal. Take him down to the canteen and fix him up with something, bring him back here when he's finished."

"Yes, sir."

"Before you go, call Bodie to my office."

"Yes, sir." Betty turned to the latest addition to the family. "If you'll follow me, Mr Doyle."

"Yes, of course." For all the informality of the conversation, Doyle knew he had been dismissed. Dutifully he followed Betty.

"Where do you come from, Mr Doyle?"

"Pardon?" Doyle's head snapped back to the woman, trying not to show his surprise at the seeming abundance of men openly wearing shoulder holsters that passed them going in the opposite direction.

"Bodie, Mr Cowley wants you in his office."

His escort from the prison came into the corridor from a side room; like the others he was minus his jacket, his shoulder holster looking as if it belonged to his body. Doyle saw the double take in the blue eyes and waited for the inevitable comment, but all the man said was "Everything okay?" to which Betty replied:

"Fine. Just going to get some lunch. See you later."

Bodie moved past them without another word.

"I said where do you come from? Most of us were trawled from army, navy, airforce or the police," Betty continued.

"Oh, er...police." Doyle jumped on his impulse to say prison.

"Met.?"

"What?"

"The Met., are you from the Met.?"

"Yes."

"What part?"

"Drugs Squad."

"I don't think we've got anyone else from there, a few Met. boys but mostly the armed forces." Betty gamely struggled on but the conversation was like wading up a muddy river against the current. Conversation clearly wasn't one of the new boy's good points.

Rather than eat in total silence Betty talked almost non-stop about CI5 while Doyle picked at his food.

---

Bodie entered the quiet office with trepidation, wondering if perhaps this was how Daniel felt on entering the lion's den. He knew the old man was up to something, he could feel it in his bones.

"Come in, Bodie, stop hovering in the doorway. Sit down."

Bodie stopped hovering and sat.

"How's your back now?"

"It's just fine, sir."

"Dr Willis doesn't agree."

"Now I've got rid of that bloody neck brace I feel much better, hardly so much as a twinge."

"Willis said you could stop wearing the brace?" asked Cowley. Everyone who had come within range of Bodie's tongue over the past few weeks had heard about his view on modern instruments of torture.

"Yes, sir, providing I don't 'exert myself'," Bodie said meaningfully, leaving Cowley in absolutely no doubt of his meaning.

"Hardly a twinge is not 'fine', Bodie. Damaged vertebrae are not things to be trifled with. You're damn lucky not to have been killed or crippled--" Cowley broke off, realising that Bodie knew only too well how lucky he had been.

"Perhaps you don't need to be told that. Anyway, it will be some time before you will be medically cleared for normal duties so I feel obliged to keep you occupied in some way. You're causing havoc in the office, you've got to divert some of that energy and I've just the job for you."

Bodie managed to look wounded and cautiously interested at the same time.

"I've decided it's time you were teamed up with a partner."

"Oh no. I work solo, I always have," Bodie broke in. This was not what he had been expecting.

"You've worked alone because it suited me to let you, Bodie. It now suits me to partner you," Cowley snapped back, the authority in his voice quelling further protests. "The man I've selected is new to us. CI5's facilities will be placed at your disposal and I want you to supervise his training. Dr Willis feels another two months will be enough time for your injury to heal properly. In ten weeks I want you and your partner ready and fit for active duty. Macklin will run the last two weeks' training so you can participate fully."

In other words, thought Bodie with a sinking heart, the last two weeks are to pummel me back into shape. Oh well, might as well know the worst, find out who Cowley wants to saddle me with.

"Who is he?"

"Ray Doyle."

The name hung in the air. Bodie couldn't believe his ears.

"He's straight from the nick! He's still doing time, for christ's sake."

"Kindly lower your voice, Bodie," Cowley ordered. "These files are for your perusal; read them, familiarise yourself with their contents. They will tell you all you need to know about Doyle. He can tell you his personal details himself."

"You're nuts!" Bodie stood up and paced the floor. "I really don't believe you. You are teaming me with a bent copper!"

Cowley ignored his operative's disrespectful attitude; he could quite understand how it looked from Bodie's point of view.

"Sit down, man. Doyle has been completely exonerated from all the drug and corruption charges. As from today he is a free man without a stain on his character."

"I haven't heard about any retrials going on," said Bodie.

"And you won't. Doyle has waived his right to retrial; he has agreed to accept the Home Office decision and no public announcement will be made."

"Why should he do that?"

"Think, Bodie! Doyle has been inside the prison system for three years. Think of the faces he knows, people he's met, the people who have met him. When I send him undercover those same people are going to see a familiar face, a kindred spirit, not a stranger who is to be mistrusted. Doyle and everyone who matters to him, along with the authorities, will know he was falsely accused. But everyone else will accept him for what they think he's proved to be. A bent policeman, a criminal of the worst kind, someone they can trust."

Bodie could see the point behind Cowley's impassioned speech, but he could also see one or two flaws.

"So the past three years were a set-up then?"

"No."

"How do you mean? Was he really convicted or wasn't he?"

"The case against him was sound, he had no defence to speak of and he was convicted and sentenced to eight years. With good behaviour the earliest release date he could have would be eighteen months from now."

Bodie was really confused by this time. If the case was so good how come Doyle was being released early? Why should the man forgo all public declaration of his innocence? He had a hundred and one questions which all demanded answers.

They came in a shortened version of the Taylor/Behan report and letter and the files listing Doyle's police and prison records. A swift scan of the files told him a lot about his proposed partner. Detective Constable Raymond Doyle had been quite a busy little bluebottle, and a police marksman to boot. Reading between the lines Bodie could see why Cowley had considered Doyle for CI5 even before the spell in prison. From the comments written by his superiors it was clear that Doyle hadn't been popular. Insubordination was a common complaint--his methods, though at times unorthodox, got results.

Moving on to the record of the prisoner Bodie found a very different story.

The arrogant, incorruptible D.C. Doyle had not reacted positively to incarceration. There were pages of logged incidents in which Doyle was the alleged instigator or the centre of disturbances and fights. His aggressive behaviour had not endeared him to either the warders or his fellow inmates and he had been subjected to the full gamut of official punishments. A few sheets clipped to the front of the file turned out to be medical notes from the prison hospital. The seemingly endless list of cuts and contusions bore testimony to frequent fights. Not all the injuries had been minor; a year ago Doyle had been seriously injured in a fight and had been transferred to an outside hospital for treatment. Fractured skull, shattered cheekbone, broken wrist and cracked ribs. It had been some fight.

The shattered cheekbone obviously accounted for the strange bump high under the skinny man's eye. The medical notes were incomplete but Bodie had read enough.

"He spent three years in hell and you expect him to be sane enough to work for CI5!"

Cowley's answer was interrupted by a ringing telephone; he answered it promptly.

"Just a moment, Betty," he said into the phone and then turned back to Bodie.

"It's up to you to see that he's got what it takes. You've got twelve weeks to turn him into what you know I want." He pinned Bodie to the spot with a glare, then without looking away spoke into the telephone again. "All right, Betty, send Mr Doyle in, please."

Crossing the room, Doyle felt his skin prickle as Bodie looked him over, the dismay at what he saw all too clear.

"Doyle, I know you've already met Bodie but from now on you're going to be seeing a lot more of him. For the next twelve weeks he will be running you through a training programme."

Twelve weeks, Bodie thought with disgust as he looked at the frail, green-eyed wraith, twelve months wouldn't do it. He came to the conclusion that Cowley sometimes expected too much of his men.

Everything still felt unreal to Doyle; his senses were still reeling from the calmly delivered news that he was free. He knew he'd made a right prat of himself with the woman. Lord knows what she thought of him, he knew he hadn't managed to form sentences of more than two words over the whole meal. He returned the wary look he was getting from this Bodie character. Cowley was handing him over to that! It was as clear as the nose on his face that Bodie didn't want anything to do with him. Cowley had said he was free to leave any time he wished. All he wanted to do at that moment was start running, to run and run until he found a quiet place where he could be alone to think. Everything was moving too fast. Stop the world, I want to get off, he thought to himself, and almost giggled aloud at the cliché. Christ, now I'm getting hysterical!

"Doyle."

The voice cut through his confusion, but no one seemed to notice he hadn't been paying attention.

"...will of course be issued with your own car from the pool. It will take a month or so for the allocations office to find you a flat; in the meantime, Bodie, your present flat has a spare room I believe?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bodie, not too sure he liked the way the conversation was heading.

"Unless either of you have any valid objections you can share. It shouldn't take security too long to clear a place for Doyle."

If either of the men had any objections they chose not to voice them.

"Right then," Cowley looked at his wristwatch, "there isn't much more we can do today. Doyle, I've arranged for you to attend a meeting at the Home Office at 10 tomorrow morning. Bodie, make sure he gets there on time. It will only be a formality, Doyle, so don't worry about anything." Cowley broke off from his talk and watched the two men.

It was clear that neither of them was happy with the arrangements but that couldn't be helped. The young man's disorientation was all Dr Ross had predicted. If Doyle was going to be of any use to CI5 they had to stop him from falling into a mire of self-pity; Ross' advice was to keep the new recruit moving at such a speed he could only react instinctively, he shouldn't be allowed time to begin any self-doubts.

Bodie was just what the doctor ordered. Cowley knew that the established agent was going to try and run his unwanted partner into the ground. Doyle would either go under or survive. Cowley only hoped there was enough spirit left to survive!

"Right, gentlemen, I've only a few more things to say. Firstly, Doyle, I've told Bodie the bare facts leading up to your imprisonment and subsequent release. He has also seen your police and prison records; once you have completed your training period you will be given access to his professional details--as partners it is only fair that you each know the other's history and training. Any exchange of personal information is completely up to the pair of you.

"And finally, Doyle, you have been told you can inform anyone you care to that your character has been cleared. I wish to caution you to use discretion when telling people. Remember, however unpleasant, your 'prison record' can be useful only as long as it is believable."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all, gentlemen." Cowley stood up and walked around his desk, extending his hand to Doyle, who rose from his chair to take it.

"Welcome to CI5, Mr Doyle."

"Er...thank you, sir."

"Bodie, there are a queue of people waiting for Mr Doyle in the Administration Office, show him the way."

---

It was another few hours before Bodie led the way out of the building, only to return immediately to retrieve Doyle's bags from the security office.

Doyle could feel the heat burning his cheeks as they emerged through the doors for the second time. How was he supposed to have recognised where they were? All day he had been dragged along corridors, into one office after another, rarely being told where he was going or why. Every time someone shoved a piece of paper under his nose he scribbled his name on it; he had probably signed his life away a hundred times over. The Incredible Hulk had glowered and snarled constantly and was letting everyone know exactly how he felt about being lumbered with so much dead weight.

On top of his physical exhaustion, Doyle's mind was numb from the speed of events and he was almost too tired to take anything else in. He was feeling knackered, confused, a little frightened and more lonely than he had ever believed possible. The Hulk clearly wanted nothing to do with him and Cowley only wanted him because he could 'use' him. People had used him before and he didn't like it.

Glancing sideways at his silent shadow, Bodie gave a mental groan. The poor sod was grey with exhaustion and clearly didn't know whether he was coming or going. He could feel himself softening and jumped on the reaction, squashing it firmly. Don't feel sorry for him, you fool, he told himself sternly. You'll be offering to carry his bags next! He turned his attention towards the evening he had planned--shit! Doyle.

"Look," Bodie began, "I've already made arrangements for tonight and I expect you've got things you want to do..." Doyle didn't say a word and Bodie felt a nasty insidious feeling well up inside but squashed it before he could recognise it. "I'll give you a spare key and I'll see you at my place later, okay?" The emotion demanded to be recognised. Guilt.

Doyle felt his heart sink a little further but schooled his voice and features to hide how much yet another rejection was hurting him.

"Suits me. The admin. bloke gave me your address. I'll see you later then."

Bodie winced at the tone of voice, deciding at the last minute to at least try and be friendly. It was, all said and done, the bloke's first day of freedom in three years. He stumbled, embarrassed over his invitation.

"Look, I've arranged a date with this girl, I can call her up, maybe she would bring a friend."

Doyle had received better invitations, but even so he was tempted. The relaxed atmosphere of a pub and a few drinks could be what he needed to unwind a little, but common-sense prevailed. Apart from the fact Bodie obviously felt obliged to ask him, Doyle was suddenly aware of his meagre funds. The solitary five-pound note in his pocket wouldn't last long and he had no wish to impose on Bodie's begrudging charity.

"Thanks, but no. Like you said, I've got things to do."

A weight lifted off Bodie's shoulders and he began to move towards his car.

"Just in case I'm back late, you'll find sheets and blankets in the airing cupboard in the hall, help yourself to anything you want, should be something edible somewhere in the kitchen. See you," Bodie shouted across the road as he climbed into the car. He was already manoeuvring out of the car park when he looked back to see that Doyle was still standing where he had left him. He pulled up alongside and wound the window down.

"Can I drop you anywhere?" he asked politely.

The question terrified Doyle. Panic welled up inside him. Did he want to go anywhere? What a stupid question. What a bloody stupid question! Yes, he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere away from here, from the drab building filled with its energetic, lively happy people and the dour Scotsman who wanted to use him, away from the piercing blue eyes that had already seen right through him and despised him. Just away. Somebody please--come and take me away! But he knew nobody would come--who was there left to care? Only himself.

"I said, can I drop you anywhere?"

"No, thanks. It's all right."

Relieved, Bodie shouted a farewell and accelerated out of the car park, trying vainly to leave his feeling of unease behind with the solitary figure standing clutching his bags on the pavement.

Doyle watched the car roar down the road until it disappeared into the traffic. He looked around at the surrounding buildings and tried to work out where he was. No one had thought to tell him. In the distance and through the hum of city traffic he heard a clock chime. Five o'clock. He hadn't realised it was so late. His own watch had been stolen soon after his arrival at the prison--so much for honour among thieves. He was certain the clock was Big Ben and so made off to find the nearest tube station that he knew could only be a few streets away. Once he found the station he'd think about his next move.

He turned the corner and stopped dead, the sudden mass of humanity taking him by surprise. The rush hour! Endless streams of busy, hustling office workers scurrying to catch busses and trains home after a hard day's work.

Stepping into the flow of bodies he was swept along with the tide to the Underground station; standing still in front of a map he was buffeted and knocked aside by the constant movement of human traffic. His eyes traced the coloured line; Bodie's address was Knightsbridge, practically a direct line from Hounslow; he could go and collect his belongings from John's house.

Rejoining the flow of people, he bought a ticket and struggled onto a packed train. He stood all the way and the journey took forever.

He was already walking up the path to his brother's house before it occurred to him that perhaps he should have telephoned. Too late now. He reached out and rang the doorbell.

The hall and porch light came on as the door was opened, the sudden brilliance blinding after the dim street lighting.

"Good lord!" Doyle recognised his brother's voice. "What are you doing here?"

Now he knew he should have telephoned.

"'Lo, John," Doyle said calmly as he tried to gauge his brother's reaction.

"How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Yes, well it's really great seeing you again too. Me? Oh, I'm fine, how about you?" The sarcastic bite successfully hid shaky notes.

"I suppose you'd better come in," his brother said ungraciously.

"Why, don't you want the neighbours to see me?"

John Doyle stepped back to let his troublesome brother inside and was unable to prevent himself looking up and down the street to see if anyone was watching his house.

"I suppose you want a cup of tea."

"Only if it's not too much trouble." Doyle knew that his brother had only offered out of habit, but he suddenly realised how thirsty and hungry he was.

"Your face--what happened to it?" Standing under the bright kitchen light, John got his first proper look at his brother's battle-scarred face.

"A fight. Thought you were told about it," he answered in a forced attempt at nonchalance.

"The one that put you in hospital."

"Yeah, oh and thanks for the get well card and chocolates."

"What...I never sent any card--"

"No? Oh, sorry, my mistake." He had known that. A week in intensive care and another month in a public hospital before being carted back to prison...he knew the doctors had called his brother and told him about his condition but nothing came of it. Not even a visit.

Daft to have expected it really, he told himself.

"What are you here for? You can't stay here y'know. I told you at the funeral that you weren't welcome anymore."

His mother's funeral. They'd let him out, with an escort of course, to attend the service. Milton, the creep, had waited until the family were all around them before removing the bright, shiny handcuffs. His brother had told him right there outside the church before going in to the service, exactly what he thought. Mum's death was entirely his fault. The shame he'd brought on the family was what finished her. The cancer that had slowly been destroying her for years had absolutely nothing to do with it.

"I just want the cases I left here."

"You should have phoned, I could have sent them to you, you know I don't want you here."

"All right, I should've phoned but I didn't. Just give me my stuff and I'll go."

"Too right you'll go, Carole and the kids are due home soon and I don't want them seeing you."

John pushed past his brother and disappeared upstairs. After a few minutes of banging around he came back struggling and sweating with the effort of retrieving the heavy cases from the very back of a cupboard.

He set them down and opened the front door.

"Here's what you came for. Now you can go, can't you."

"Thanks for looking after them--"

"Don't mention it. Only reason I took 'em was because I didn't want you going round Mum's upsetting her when you came out. If I'd had my way I'd've chucked them on the council tip the day of the funeral. Get your cases and get out, I don't ever want to set eyes on you again."

((line missing)) but his brother didn't want to hear.

"No. Go on, get out."

"Things have changed, John. I was released today because--"

"If you don't move I'm going to kick you out and I don't care if the bloody neighbours are watching!"

"John, please listen to--"

"Get going before I call the police."

John pushed the cases out of the house, shoved his brother out with them and shut the front door.

It was a few minutes before Doyle looked away from the closed door. The encounter had been even worse than he had imagined it. God only knew why he'd come here today, perhaps just to get the inevitable over with. He rearranged the holdall over a shoulder and tied the carrier bag to one of the cases, then started up the path towards the station.

He didn't look back.

---

He was shaking with exhaustion by the time he pushed open the door to Bodie's flat, his arms and shoulders protesting fiercely at the strain of lugging all his worldly possessions across London. It was a relief to find the place empty.

He placed the bags in the spare room and found the airing cupboard and the kitchen. He made a cup of coffee but decided against eating anything. His stomach was in a knot, the whole day had been one shock after another. John's reaction, though expected, had been the last straw.

Feeling uneasy about imposing on Bodie's privacy, he returned to the spare room and collapsed onto the bare mattress. He did not lie there too long though, only too aware he could easily fall asleep. He unlocked his luggage and started to check through the contents.

He had packed them the first night after the trial had started. It had taken the court six days to find him guilty but he had known the outcome already. Not much to show for twenty-nine years of life. After he had been suspended from the force and released on bail to await his trial, Ann had asked him to leave the flat. He hadn't even been able to convince her he was innocent. She had believed all the lies and hadn't even tried to believe or trust him. The cheap, furnished bedsit he had moved to had been a long way from the cosy house the lovers had shared. He had agreed to let her keep the furniture they had collected together; somehow even then he'd known he wasn't going to need it. Good job they hadn't been married really, Doyle thought as he carefully checked each item; Ann could be such a snob at times. She would have hated being a felon's wife. And as for prison visiting--she would have died of embarrassment. He put the last item back, clicked the lid shut and moved on to the second case.

She hadn't visited him once. There had been a few letters at first, polite, stilted notes completely ignoring the fact that the recipient was a recently abandoned lover who had fallen on desperately hard times. The last letter had been over two years ago and had been full of information about the 'really terrific job' that would be 'so tremendously fulfilling' in America.

He'd never had many visitors. One or two of his colleagues, his mother once, just after his committal. She had cried the whole time. That had been the last time he saw her.

Satisfied that everything was all there, he locked the cases up again, shutting from sight all the memories of his former life. They contained no clothing, only personal treasures that he had found it impossible even to consider parting with: photograph albums, a few special framed pictures that had always been a part of his home, documents, certificates, records, books and, somewhere wrapped in tissue, the picture of his class at Hendon the day he had passed out. He knew it was there and had seen the white tissue but he had not unwrapped it. He still couldn't touch it--not yet, there were still some memories that were still too painful.

He stood up and wandered through the flat until he found a clock. It was just after eleven. Having had an enforced bedtime of ten o'clock for so long, it seemed very late and he wondered what time Bodie would get in.

Struggling against his tiredness, he made up the bed and then went in search of the bathroom. The bath proved irresistible and before he could stop himself he was up to his neck in hot water and thoroughly enjoying his first totally private bath in a very long time. He only just managed to find the strength to drag himself back into the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed. About to lie down and give up the battle to stay awake, his eyes caught sight of the closed door.

He didn't have to close that, did he?

Doyle knew he was being stupid, there wasn't even a lock on it, but he did it anyway. Getting up, he re-opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar; then, satisfied, he crept back to bed.

---

As he pushed the door shut and clicked the double lock over, Bodie listened. The flat was quiet, but his sigh of relief was cut short as he saw the pool of light spilling into the dark hallway.

It was gone midnight; if the little toad was waiting up for him like some Victorian maiden aunt, Bodie decided he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences.

His night out, like the day preceding it, had gone from bad to worse. Marianne had been in a strange mood, alternating between sullen silences and a nagging bitchiness which indicated, to Bodie's mind, she had just about had enough of broken dates, phonecalls out of the blue, not to mention being abandoned mid-date. He knew it was all over bar the shouting but he had wanted to finish the affair on a high note--give the poor creature something to remember him by.

But Marianne was like a tiny china doll, incredibly beautiful miniature perfection, and her under five feet in six-inch heels height had meant her six feet in his two-inch heels escort had spent a great deal of time stooping to hear her soft, genteel voice. By the time they adjourned to her bedroom his back was killing him and the lure of lying on the exquisite Marianne's bed had nothing whatsoever to do with the lady's skills.

But it was her bed, he was her date and she knew it would probably be the last time and she felt she had earned it. Not wanting to disappoint her and unwilling to appear ungentlemanly, Bodie tried to put his heart into it. Things were moving along nicely when a pair of slender arms slid around his neck and her soft, supple body arched up against him as she stiffened beneath him. Bodie felt his own release building up, but as her body jumped in a final orgasmic convulsion she tightened her grip around his neck.

The yell Bodie uttered was not one of triumph. Unwittingly, the luckless Marianne had applied pressure directly over the injured vertebrae.

His whole body, with one noticeable exception, went rigid as the pain washed over him. It was left to Marianne to manoeuvre the pain-wracked body off her and to try and comfort the sweating man.

Unable to face the prospect of a repeat performance, Bodie had finally managed to get away, only too aware that his swan song was not likely to instil any feelings of regret or loss in Marianne.

He peered into the bedroom, ready--even eager--to let rip. But even in that he was thwarted. Doyle was asleep.

Spoiling for a fight, Bodie walked right up to the bed, willing the man to wake up. Doyle slept on.

Bodie looked around the room. Over in the corner were two medium-sized suitcases, a holdall and carrier bag. On top of the bags, neatly folded, were Doyle's clothes. With a guilty start Bodie realised that Doyle had still been wearing the prison issue when he'd left him outside headquarters. Of course he had, Bodie told himself, no one at the prison had realised he was going to be released.

He looked at the cases again. Where had Doyle got them from? How had he got there? The uneasy guilt magnified. Christ, he thought, he hadn't even checked to see if the poor sod had any money! It was more than likely that he hadn't. Fuckin' hell, he thought morosely, maybe I should have passed the hat around at H.Q. He forced the uncomfortable feelings away with practised ease.

His gaze returned to the sleeping man. That's right, Doyle. You get your beauty sleep because you're gonna need it.

The gaunt face was softened into delicate planes and angles by sleep, dark rings and the ugly mismatched cheekbones transformed by the gentle lighting that also played on the smooth bare shoulders and arms. Doyle was slim to the point of being skinny. There was no way this frail creature was going to last the training period. Bodie cheerfully estimated the inevitable collapse would happen in the first week.

He clicked the light off and softly padded into his own bedroom. There was no need to worry about Cowley teaming him with Doyle. His headache forgotten, Bodie climbed into bed, already planning the first and last week of Ray Doyle's career with CI5.

---

CHAPTER TWO

Wrapped as he was, warm and comfortable within a cocoon of bedding, dreams unremarkable and nearly forgotten, already fading away, it was the silence that finally made him open his eyes.

Being accustomed to a dawn chorus of heavy boots, clanking doors and jangling keys, mingled with loud and often heated verbal exchanges, this new stillness was almost frightening and he was still half afraid that any sudden move on his part would wake him up only to find the whole thing another cruel joke.

He blinked against the brilliant sunshine that was pouring through the uncurtained, unbarred window.

It was a beautiful morning.

He slid out of bed and crossed over to the window, grimacing a little as his shoulders protested about the previous day's physical demands. Pushing the window wide open, he leant out and peered into the street below. Although bright, the sun gave little warmth, but the discomfort did not interrupt his enjoyment of the new morning.

Further down the road, three uniformed school boys, heads together, could be seen making their unhurried way to school. As he watched, two of them snatched something from the third and ran off, their victim running shrieking after them, their war cries echoing up and down the quiet street. As they vanished around a corner, a milk float rattled into view and squeaked to a halt outside the next block of flats; the milkman climbed from his cab and passed a few words with the postman emerging from the same block. An old man out walking his dog completed the picture.

Sounds from inside the flat drew his attention from the tranquil scene. Doors opening and closing, somebody moving about. Bodie was awake. Doyle was half dressed before he really looked at the clothes he was putting on. The previous morning, like so many other mornings, he had dressed in the standard prison gear; blue trousers and jacket, blue and white striped shirt. Fashion and individuality were unheard of where he had been living, and he had long since stopped caring about his appearance; to be different meant you stood out. It had been a hard lesson but he had soon learnt to blend into the drab 'sameness' and become just another blue uniformed prisoner. Anonymity had its benefits.

He suddenly went cold as he recalled the previous day. He hadn't given it a single thought. All day he had been wearing the prison uniform--even going out to his brother's house--he had thought himself a little paranoid at the time and had convinced himself that he was imagining the strange looks he had received from everyone; the women in the CI5 canteen, the office staff, the ticket collector and the hard-looking man who had stared at him from Hounslow to Knightsbridge. Nowadays the uniforms were not decorated with brightly coloured, vile arrows, but they might just as well have been.

He tore the sleeve in his hurry to get the garment off. Never, ever again would he wear a blue and white striped shirt. The only clothes he had were all issued, courtesy of Her Majesty. He finally settled on the short-sleeved white vest; it would do until he could get something more suitable.

Barefooted, he walked through to the kitchen. "Morning," he said, as Bodie started in surprise.

"Bloody Christ!" the other man swore as he recovered from the silent entrance. He had almost forgotten about his visitor. "Do you always creep about like that?"

"I wasn't creepin' anywhere," Doyle retorted, immediately on the defensive. Stooping to pick up the plastic bottle Bodie had dropped, he read the label--the tablets were strong distalgesics--and handed them over.

They were taken with poor grace.

"Kettle's just boiled, tea and coffee's over there, milk's in the fridge. Bread's in the bin. Help yourself." Bodie tipped two tablets onto his hand then swigged them down with some water.

"I'll drop you off at the Home Office in time for your appointment, then go on to HQ. I'll either see you there or here tonight as I don't know what's going on just yet. I've got to arrange your training programme and fuck knows what time you'll get out of your meeting."

"Okay."

Bodie watched as Doyle made himself a cup of coffee.

"How did you get on yesterday?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"Last night, I noticed you'd collected some cases from somewhere."

Doyle spun round; the cases were in his room, the only way Bodie could know about them would be if he had come into the room last night--while he was asleep.

Not understanding the troubled expression, Bodie pressed the question again.

"Pick them up from a friend, did you?"

"No."

"Family?"

"Yes."

"Pleased to see you were they?" Bodie asked politely. Those painkillers were good, the sharp pain in his back was already ebbing away to a more tolerable ache.

"Surprised," was Doyle's answer.

"I'll bet they were." Bodie chuckled. "How did they react to the good news?"

Doyle turned back, pointedly ignoring the question, and spooned some sugar in his cup. "I've just used the last of this milk, you got any more?"

The flat voice and change of subject curtailed that particular conversation. Once Doyle had drunk his coffee he left the kitchen, leaving Bodie sitting there alone to finish his in peace. Finally Bodie rinsed his breakfast things up and got ready to leave.

Jacket on and car keys in his hand he tapped on the door to the spare room. It swung open to reveal Doyle standing at the window.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yes." Doyle followed him towards the front door.

Bodie looked back at the T shirt-clad figure. "Haven't you got a jacket, it's going to be cold out there."

"I'll be okay."

"I said it's cold, you'll need a jacket or something." Bloody hell, Bodie thought, I'll be wiping his nose for him next.

"I'll be okay," Doyle insisted.

Suddenly Bodie caught on. Why on earth hadn't the daft sod said something? Even he could understand why yesterday's jacket was no longer acceptable.

"Hang on a minute," he shouted over his shoulder as he dived into his own bedroom. "Try this, it's bound to be a bit big but at least you won't get cold." He held out his second best leather jacket.

"No thanks, I don't--"

"Wear it," Bodie snapped out. "The last thing I want right now is you going down with bleeding flu." He thrust the jacket over and left the flat without looking back. By the time he reached the car, Doyle, wearing the coat, was right behind him.

---

By lunch time Doyle was beginning to wonder why he had ever wanted to leave the quiet sanctuary of his cell. He had spent all morning determined not to give in to the desire to apologise for all the trouble he was causing as he was seen by a never-ending stream of bureaucrats who seemed at a loss to know what to do with the man cluttering up their neat offices. He had received an awkward handshake and garbled apology for the inconvenience the mistrial had caused him from the Home Secretary's secretary's assistant's secretary. At least he thought it had been an apology. He had never seen so many embarrassed faces in one day before. Oddly enough, it seemed to be his decision not to go for a retrial that was causing the problems rather than the fact he had wasted three years of his life in H.M. prisons.

He was ushered into yet another office and braced himself for the next round. The fact that he was clearly expected almost threw him off-balance.

"Ah, Mr Doyle, I was expecting you hours ago, get lost did you?"

The vigorous handshake and thump on shoulder were as genuinely friendly as all the others had been false. "Come in, come in, have a seat, cup of tea? Might even round up some chocolate biscuits if we're lucky." The redheaded whirlwind pulled him into the wonderfully unregimented office, while issuing orders to his secretary.

"Two teas then, Bet, luv, and some biscuits; oh, and tell Mr Randall that we'll be over to see him soon."

Doyle removed some papers from a chair and sat down.

"Right, now then, I'm Bob Craig. Let me see where you've been so far." He took the file that Doyle had been carrying around with him and quickly scanned the list of departments already visited. "Been around a bit this morning. Any idea of exactly what's been going on, have you?" Craig's cheerful face positively beamed across the desk at him and Doyle felt his gloom lift a little.

"To be honest--no."

"Can't say I'm surprised. Gets right up their noses when they realise that our wonderful Courts of Justice aren't all they're cracked up to be. Don't suppose anyone's even apologised to you yet, have they."

"Well, I think someone did earlier this morning."

"Not that any apology is ever going to make up for what you've been through." Craig looked the young man over; he had read the reports and had no doubts at all that the man before him had been through a lot. "How's it been since you were discharged from the hospital wing? No more trouble I hope?"

The green eyes widened as Doyle understood that Craig knew everything that had happened to him.

"No, no trouble," he answered flatly.

Craig was wise enough not to press the point.

"Mr Cowley is a formidable man, are you sure that he hasn't pressured you into forgoing your right to a public retrial?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I can understand the reasons behind his desire to keep your good character quiet but I'll give you the credit for knowing your own mind. I believe that you are to start a training programme to qualify you for CI5."

"That's right."

"If at the end you find you don't want to join Cowley's organisation or, indeed, if CI5 decide they don't want you after all, you will still have the right to ask for a public announcement of your innocence. This whole affair is totally without precedent so I don't see that a delay of another few months will hurt anyone."

"Sounds fair enough."

"Now, down to practicalities. Money. Do you have any?"

"Er...some savings in a building society, not much though."

"In time you will receive financial compensation, the amount will no doubt be bickered over but when all's said and done it will amount to your three years' loss of salary, taking into account any overtime and increments you would have been entitled to plus, of course, what they call 'recompense for hardship endured'. Though how they agree on a total for that defeats me. The Legal department will be in touch with you in due course; my job right now is to make sure you've enough to be getting on with. I understand Mr Cowley has provided you with a flat..."

"Yes."

"Again, should CI5 dispense with you in the near future you must come and see me about accommodation. Can't have you dossing down under the arches, can we?"

Doyle's thoughts immediately went to his current flatmate--dossing under the arches didn't seem such an unpleasant prospect.

Bob Craig continued the interview at a brisk pace, speaking in plain, everyday English that seemed to cut through reams of red tape and make the effort of rejoining the free world seem a piece of cake.

In under two hours, this very untypical civil servant had taken him to a quiet pub garden for a beer and a ploughman's, introduced him to Mr Randall, the local friendly bank manager, and arranged for an impressive advance on his forthcoming compensation. Cheque book and card were promised as soon as the ink was dry and Doyle now found himself at one end of Oxford Street with enough money in his brand-new leather wallet to buy a complete wardrobe.

With a light heart and a spring in his step, Ray Doyle walked into the first shop.

---

"Morning, Sid." Bodie nodded a greeting to the security man on the door and made his way up the stairs, his mind already listing the things he had to do when he reached his office.

"Morning Bodie, where's your little friend?"

Bodie looked at Connors, non-comprehension mingling with the scowl on his face.

"Huh?"

"Rough night was it?" said Connors, whose main problem in life was correctly assessing people's moods. "Showing our little jailbird the finer things in life were we."

"What?"

"Doyle--took him out on the town, didn't you?"

"No, I flaming well didn't!" Bodie's acid tone implied that his colleague was mad to have even suggested the idea, and adequately covered the uncomfortable suspicion that everyone--including Cowley--had expected him to do just that. He glared at the unfortunate Connors and rounded the corner, walking straight into one of the subjects of his thoughts. Cowley.

"Oof!"

Cowley reeled back under the impact and was only prevented from landing in an ignominious heap by Bodie's restraining hands.

"Ouch!" As he righted his boss, Bodie's hand went to the stabbing pain at his neck, and he closed his eyes against the threatening black and white spots.

"Bodie? Are you all right, man?" Cowley asked, his voice full of concern. Bodie had gone as white as a sheet.

"Yeah...fine... I'm fine..." Bodie had to admit to himself that hadn't sounded very convincing.

"Are you sure Dr Willis said you could leave the neck brace off?"

Recovering quickly, Bodie forced a pained smile. "Would I have taken it off otherwise?"

"I won't waste breath answering that, Bodie, but if you cause further injury to yourself by your own neglect I advise you against--"

"I'll be careful, sir. Promise. Scout's honour."

"Huh." With a warning glare, Cowley continued along the corridor and Bodie entered his own office without further mishap.

Halfway through the morning, Bodie threw his pen down and allowed himself his first smile of the day. Reading back through the timetable he had compiled, the smile grew. It wasn't excessive, he told himself. He knew he couldn't come down too hard on the man, but he was confident that Doyle would be willing, even eager, to cry off the rest of the training.

It wouldn't take much. After very little thought he had decided to stay in town and concentrate on the facilities available at HQ and the nearby gymnasium; a few runs around the building would kill Doyle off just as well as the open spaces down at the army ranges they normally used, and for a week or two it was hardly worth the effort of packing a suitcase.

He suddenly remembered that he would have to book time on the indoor ranges; he would have priority, of course, but it was still best to book. What guns had Doyle been trained on, Bodie wondered thoughtfully, probably something pretty basic. None of the so-called police marksmen he ever met amounted to much in the way of skill and versatility. Doyle probably thought he would be some kind of hot-shot, he decided disparagingly. That would be another way to knock him down to size; after three years Doyle's style was bound to be more than a little shaky, and there had been a lot of innovations during that time. CI5's armoury was extensive. Blind the little bugger with science, he thought cheerfully. First things first, though, he had to check on Doyle's weaponry record.

Walking slowly down towards the General Office, Bodie detoured via the vending machine and, by dint of a powerful thump on the side of the cabinet, persuaded it to cough one plastic beaker three-quarters full of a dubious liquid that claimed to be water. He couldn't decide which taste was worse, the sweet coffee/tea tasting water or the tablets which started dissolving immediately they touched his tongue. As always, one of them lodged in his throat and he had to repeat the manoeuvre to get a second drink of water. He was still trying to get rid of the bitter taste when he heard his name mentioned. Ever curious, he listened to the conversation drifting into the corridor through the open door.

"I thought he looked...cute."

"Come off it, Cathy...cute hardly does him justice."

Bodie's ears pricked up even more, it sounded like a good conversation.

"Those eyes," Cathy said. "I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful eyes on a man. I'd kill for eyes like that." The open envy drifted towards Bodie who, if he had been a bird of the feathered variety, would no doubt have preened the said feathers.

"What about his bum! Have you ever seen one like--"

A sudden commotion further down the corridor cut off the rest of the other girl's sentence; Bodie thought it was Barbara, but a girl with taste whoever she was. He knew he ought to move away but vanity made him stay. It wasn't often he actually heard firsthand what the office girls thought of him. The noise stopped as quickly as it had started.

"...training programme."

"Poor thing, fancy being stuck with that berk," said Cathy, and Bodie agreed wholeheartedly.

"If the department's so hard up for accommodation, I'll volunteer to let him come and stay with me," Barbara offered. It wasn't often that one could claim to hear a woman speak lecherously, but Barbara managed it beautifully and Bodie made a mental note to have a quiet word with the accommodation officer.

"I saw him first."

"Claws in, pussy cats," interrupted a third voice. "By the time Bodie has finished grinding the little darling into the ground he won't have any energy left for what you've got in mind."

Raucous laughter rang out but Bodie wasn't listening any more. Doyle. They had all got the hots for that pathetic weed that Cowley had dumped on him.

By the time he reached the counter in the office, the girls were a picture of decorum.

"I want a file. Ray Doyle," he snapped.

"Sorry, Bodie," said Barbara sweetly. "All CI5 personnel records are kept in Mr Cowley's office."

"He's not in CI5 yet," he barked.

"Mr Cowley holds his file though, you'll have to see him."

Bodie did an about turn and left, his bad temper wrapped around him like a visible cloak which people saw and avoided.

On arriving outside Cowley's office, Bodie caught sight of the file he was seeking--on Betty's desk. Naughty, Betty, he thought, the file should have been under lock and key, not available for every Tom, Dick and Bodie to have a look at.

He flicked through to the relevant pages and whistled under his breath. Not just a marksman, Doyle had been the top marksman for the two years before his committal. He had wiped the board in competitions, taking top prizes and honours in inter-constabulary competitions in handguns; he hadn't trailed far behind the riflemarksman either. Even three years away from the ranges would be unlikely to destroy that level of skill--a little practice and Bodie suspected he might find himself bettered on the handgun. It would be interesting to see how Doyle would progress with the brand-new technology available to CI5. He snapped the file shut; he wouldn't see it because Doyle was not going to last that long.

"Bodie, I want a word with you in my office. Now."

Bodie almost jumped in surprise; he hadn't heard Cowley come in. Taking the folder with him, he followed Cowley, wondering as he went why the Old Man was looking so disgruntled.

"Shut the door."

Bodie closed the door and moved across the room to sit down, only stopping as he saw the stern expression and upraised brow that indicated this was not an occasion to make himself comfortable. Wondering what the hell he had done wrong now, Bodie stood, military style, at ease before the desk.

"Last night," Cowley snapped out. "Where did you go?"

"Pardon, sir?" asked Bodie.

"When you left here, where did you go? What's the matter, don't you understand English anymore?"

Bodie was at a loss to understand why Cowley should be so mad. That he was furiously angry was obvious. It took a lot to get George Cowley this riled.

"Out, sir. To a pub--the Black Lion, on to a restaurant, another pub, and then to a home in Richmond."

"Who with?"

Bodie began to get the sneaking suspicion that Cowley was not going to like his answer. It seemed that Connors' assumption of who he should have spent the evening with was shared by Cowley.

"Marianne Phelby."

"Who else?"

"No one."

"Where was Doyle while you were gadding about with Miss Phelby?"

"Don't know, sir."

"What did he use for transport?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Did you think to ask him if he had any money on him before you left him to amuse yourself with Miss Phelby?"

"No, sir."

"What was he wearing when you parted company?"

"Prison clothing, sir."

"Where exactly did you leave him?"

"Forecourt outside, sir."

"What time did he arrive at your flat?"

"Don't know, sir."

"You don't know much, do you Bodie? It seems that the entire London Transport Police, Prison Service and the Home Office have been informed that there was an unescorted, possibly escaped prisoner travelling between Westminster, Hounslow and Knightsbridge last night. There were half a dozen telephone calls from retired prison officers, an ex-probation officer and several ticket collectors to that effect. Last night, Governor Bryant received a phone call from a Mr John Doyle who wanted to know if the Governor knew his brother was roaming the streets, free as a bird, in prison uniform." Cowley came to an abrupt halt. He had been perfectly aware that Bodie had not welcomed the prospect of having Doyle as a partner, but he had been sure that his agent's fair-mindedness and cleverly concealed soft heart would prevent him from being too hard on the man. Had he been wrong? Yesterday he hadn't thought so.

"Did he tell you anything about what he did yesterday?" Cowley asked, his voice a fraction less icy. He could only be thankful that none of the people had attempted to apprehend the prisoner. God only knew what that little scene would have done to Doyle's off-balance self-confidence.

"Only that he had collected some cases from a member of his family." Bodie's voice was very subdued. Listening to his own string of 'Don't know, sirs', he finally admitted that his behaviour towards Doyle had not been very benevolent.

"His brother reported him to the Governor, sir?" he queried.

"Aye, he did. It would seem that Doyle chose not to enlighten his brother about his change of fortune." John Doyle's telephone call to the Governor troubled Cowley. The next few months were going to be tough on his newest recruit, and it seemed that he was going to be denied the respect and understanding of his family as well as being run into the ground by a hostile instructor. He knew that if they mollycoddled Doyle the chances of losing him would double, but they didn't have the right to destroy him completely.

"Have you worked out a schedule for Doyle yet?" Cowley asked; at least he would keep an eye on Bodie, make sure he did not go over the top.

Bodie handed over the rough plan he had worked out and watched as his boss examined the very untidily drawn outline.

"It is only a rough draft, sir," he offered as Cowley peered at the scribbled handwriting.

"That much I can see, Bodie." He peered at the scrawling words a little longer, then removed his glasses.

"I'll want a decent copy of the working timetable."

"Sir."

"There are only two weeks here, what will be your plans from that time?"

"Haven't worked them out yet, sir. I thought it best to see how he gets on with that little lot first."

Cowley pushed the timetable back across the desk. Bodie's answer hadn't fooled him at all. It was plain that the younger man was not expecting Doyle to last that long.

"Very well. Before you start I want you to see Macklin, he will tell you how to measure Doyle's heart rate, respiration and so forth. Bearing in mind that Doyle has not had any strenuous exercise for a long time you must be careful not to push him too hard too fast. If you have any cause for concern over his physical condition you will consult Dr Willis immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

"As crystal, sir," Bodie said crisply.

"I'll want a rough outline of the entire programme before tonight. You will show it to Macklin when you see him, as well. You are in charge of Doyle's training, Bodie, but Macklin will have my permission to change or adapt anything he deems necessary. That will be all."

Cowley dismissed Bodie from his office but not from his mind. The outline had been what he had hoped for. Not easy but not excessive. Bodie clearly did not have a very high opinion of Ray Doyle's resilience or stamina.

This whole idea of teaming the two men had been more than a diversionary tactic to keep the convalescent agent out of the office staff's hair. Bodie had all the skills that CI5 needed at his fingertips, a true professional; his military experience combined with his mercenary experiences, gun running and slightly illegal youth, plus the hard-shelled nature that he showed to the public was what made his presence so advantageous to the department.

But, and Cowley admitted that it was a big but, all that skill was in danger of running wild and free. Bodie had no roots, nothing to hold him down and Cowley was aware that if the occasion arose, he would move off. Nothing would stop him; apart from himself, Cowley guessed that few people would even care. The only reason Bodie remained now was because of his personal loyalty to the head of CI5. Loyalty was hard-won and easily lost. Cowley knew that there would have to be something else to hold Bodie back, another binding loyalty. The two men were chalk and cheese, they had little in common, practically nothing except comparable weaponry skills and a seemingly ingrained sense of competitiveness. If the teaming worked, Cowley suspected they would be unbeatable.

Ifs and buts. That's what it all boiled down to in the end. Cowley sighed and pulled out a file that had been out of sight in his desk drawer.

Slowly he read through the medical reports. Was it really wise to put the two men together, he asked himself. He had gained access to Bodie's confidence only rarely, the young man's private life being a close-kept secret; but the little he had gleaned of the horrific experiences Bodie had endured in Africa said that he was right. If only Doyle would trust Bodie enough he might find an understanding friend.

---

It took two trips from the taxi and four trips to the rubbish disposal chute before he could begin to put his purchases away in the drawers and wardrobe of his new temporary home.

He had enjoyed the experience of spending money like it was going out of fashion, had savoured the sensation of owning a wallet that, like Dozemary Pool, was bottomless. Money had never been much of a problem before, but the complete freedom of buying something just because he liked the feel of the cloth and the vibrant colours of the fabric was new to him.

Once everything was neatly packed away Doyle set about choosing something to wear. He was spoilt for choice but eventually settled on a pair of jeans and a soft cotton shirt that even with its starchy newness was more comfortable than his much-washed prison clothes. Dressed, he fastened the new watch around his wrist and began to attempt tidying up his tousled hair. He frowned at his reflection as he watched the curls spring straight back; next on the list was a decent haircut. The hand dragging the comb through his hair stopped mid-motion, and the frown deepened. The small shaving mirror he had used over the past year had been old and speckled, reflecting enough for him to shave adequately. This mirror was as good as new and situated in the correct position to reflect a perfectly clear, well-illuminated image of its user.

For a long time Doyle looked at himself. It was almost like seeing a stranger. He had known he had lost weight but he'd never realised how much; he had always been slim, but the wide-eyed waif in the mirror was a complete surprise. He looked like a walking skeleton--no wonder The Hulk (which he had adopted by way of name for his appointed trainer and flat mate) had not looked overly impressed. D.C. Doyle of the Yard had vanished and in his place stood--what--Ray Doyle, exonerated ex-con and CI5 hopeful. His gaze returned to the reflection of his face, and in particular the protruding lump high on his cheekbone.

"That'll teach you to be so bloody vain."

A chill crept up his spine and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he heard that hateful, despicable, loathsome voice that haunted his waking hours as well as his dreams.

Had he been vain? he asked himself. Before what happened to him inside he would have said not. He was what he was. He could not change the colour and curls of his hair or alter his physical shape any more than he could suddenly grow horns. He had never had any problems attracting the girls he had wanted once he'd passed the puberty-pimply stage and it had never occurred to him that he might attract fish from the other side of the pond. Again he asked himself, Why me? But, as on the millions of other occasions, he could not fathom an answer.

He forced himself to turn away from the mirror. How long would it be, he wondered, before he would be able to see that mark on his face without remembering all that went with it?

He consulted his watch; it was early evening and he wondered what time The Hulk would arrive at the flat. There was no way of knowing without calling HQ and he had no intention of doing that. Rummaging around in the bedside cabinet, he came across a few technical manuals on basic firearms, and for want of anything better to do, he settled down across his bed to read.

When Bodie arrived home he found Doyle still sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, with the magazine still open at the first page.

Bodie took stock of the new clothes; at least that was one worry settled, he'd clearly got some money from somewhere. He looked at the time; it was just gone 6.30 p.m., surely it was too early for Doyle to want to settle down to sleep for the rest of the night--besides, he wanted to talk to him about their plans for tomorrow. He crossed the room and laid a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder.

Doyle was standing upright on the opposite side of the bed almost before his eyes were open.

"Oh...it's you..." Doyle rubbed a hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Startled me... What d'you want?"

Bodie couldn't help but be amazed at the speed of Doyle's reactions. He would have sworn that the man had been very deeply asleep.

"Didn't mean to startle you, but I thought you'd want to know what's in store for you tomorrow." Now that Doyle was fully awake, Bodie was conscious of something in the cold glare he was receiving that was very unsettling; for a brief moment he felt that Doyle was scared of him but the aggressive stance denied that impression immediately. "Come through to the other room when you're ready." Still puzzled by the mixture of emotions, Bodie retreated to the living room.

It was a few minutes before Doyle joined him and settled down in the opposite armchair, perched on the edge, his eyes scanning the sheets of paper Bodie had spread over the coffee table, preparing for the worst.

"Right, first things first," said Bodie in a businesslike, impersonal tone of voice. "From Dr Willis, the departmental quack; he's gone over your medical files and will be seeing you for a thorough medical at various stages during your training. He reckons you're about two stone underweight so here's a special diet sheet--follow it."

Doyle looked at the paper; it contained a list of high-protein, high-carbohydrate foods, most of which he had always disliked intensely and had no intention of eating now on anybody's say-so.

"Next, you ever gone in for jogging?" Bodie asked, successfully making the question sound as if jogging was a distasteful vice that no sane person would ever consider.

"Yes, I used to do a fair bit, it's a good way of keeping fit."

"Oh." Somehow Bodie had guessed that would be the answer. "In that case you can start first thing tomorrow, set your own pace and distance, then after breakfast we'll go down to the gym and start on building up your muscles." Bodie smiled as he spoke but the expression failed to reach his eyes.

"Okay," Doyle agreed quietly, already looking forward to a jog around the peaceful streets the next morning.

"Have you got any gear? Shoes, trainers, that sort of thing?" Bodie asked. After this morning's encounter he could imagine Cowley's reaction to discovering Doyle exercising in normal street clothes.

"Yes." Doyle was pretty sure he had anticipated and prepared himself, equipment- and clothing-wise, for everything The Hulk was going to throw at him.

"After the first week or so we'll start going over department policies and tactics; your papers say you've done a bit of urban-guerrilla training."

"That's right."

"Well, you can forget just about everything you learnt. In CI5 we have our own way of handling things. I'll put you through all the ranges; as you progress we'll move on to the next group and then the next. In CI5 you will have to reach a specified level of accuracy and remain constant, otherwise you'll be out on your ear."

"How long will the testing go on for?"

"Constantly. Everyone is checked regularly; if you get complacent you're out."

From the casual, offhand tone Doyle surmised the Bodie was sure he was going to fail at the first hurdle. People had underestimated him before; just because he wasn't built like a brick outhouse they assumed he was a seven stone weakling. He had surprised his opponents on more than one occasion and he would do his utmost to shock The Hulk out of his careless judgement.

The discussion of the training schedule was suddenly interrupted by a very loud rumble. Embarrassed by his betraying stomach, Doyle forced himself to look up.

"Sorry, but I think my stomach's trying to tell me something."

"Wouldn't say no to something to eat either. What do you fancy, there's an Indian and Kebab's takeaway, a Kebab House or a chippy just around the corner."

Before Doyle could answer, though, Bodie said, "Shit, it's Wednesday, the Indian and Kebab's shut so it's chips, unless you can cook," he added without much hope.

"I can cook. What have you got in the kitchen?"

"Dunno, Marianne got a load of shopping at the weekend; it all cost enough so there must be something out there."

"Don't you cook?"

"Not if I can help it. Do you want to see what's there?"

"Okay."

Once he had shown the new cook where to find everything, Bodie retreated to the living room where he settled down in front of the telly with a can of beer and Doyle's training programme, only half aware of the muted clattering coming from the kitchen.

It was nearly an hour before Doyle piled everything onto two plates and carried Bodie's tray through to the living room. Trusting that Marianne would have pandered to Bodie's tastes, he had chucked just about everything he had found into the bolognaise sauce and poured it over a pile of steaming spaghetti.

Apart from the widening of his eyes and the undisguised eagerness with which he reached for the tray, Bodie made no comment, but the speed at which the meal vanished spoke for itself.

"There's some more outside if you want it," Doyle offered.

Bodie did, and helped himself to a second generous portion, offering some to Doyle, who just shook his head. As he watched the second helping go the way of the first, Doyle wondered why it seemed to be his lot in life to end up with people who enjoyed good food but were unable or unwilling to cook it. Ann had hated cooking; the very thought of peeling potatoes or chopping meat would make her miserable for hours. She'd enjoyed his cooking and he had always found pleasure in spending an hour or so in the kitchen. Mind you, he admitted to himself, with Ann it was cook it yourself or starve.

Bodie leant back in the armchair and stretched. "That was really good. Put you to work in the kitchens, did they?" It had been meant as a compliment; he had enjoyed the meal, and a full stomach usually put him in a very benevolent mood.

"How did you guess!"

The biting voice cut through Bodie's sated well-being and made him realise that perhaps his comment had lacked tact. Before he could respond, Doyle finished his meal and strode through to the kitchen.

He really hadn't meant to offend the man and Bodie waited for him to return so he could apologise, but an item on the news caught his attention and by the time the programme had finished he realised that time had passed and still Doyle had not returned. Walking through to the kitchen with his own dinner tray, he found everything washed up and left to drain, and the room empty. Adding his own things to the stack of pans and dishes on the drainer, Bodie peered into the hallway; light was spilling out from the half-open door to Doyle's room.

So, he thought grimly, the little toad had decided to sulk in solitude. Stuff him then, and he turned back to the living room and the film that was just starting.

Lounging across his bed with the gun magazine spread out in front of him, Doyle lifted his head and listened as he heard the footsteps from the living room to the kitchen and back. Through the doorway he could hear the music heralding the start of the film. He refused to let himself dwell on the stupid throwaway remark. It wasn't worth it, and it was, he acknowledged sadly, probably only the first of many such comments. He couldn't afford to let each one upset him, but pretending that they didn't was proving to be harder than he had expected.

The magazine was not particularly interesting and the noise from the television eventually proved too distracting. Unable to settle, Doyle got up from his lounging sprawl across the bed and walked quietly through to the living room.

On reaching the darkened room, though, his resolve to walk in and watch the film faltered. Bodie looked very comfortable. The light from the television fell upon a very cosy scene, with Bodie lying full length across the sofa, his head propped up on a cushion.

How long he stood in the door he was not sure. There was nothing to prevent him from entering the room, absolutely nothing--except Bodie's indifference. Unable to force himself to intrude on the man's privacy and reluctant to experience any more hassle, Doyle returned to the friendly isolation of his own room.

---

CHAPTER THREE

Turning left into the quiet side road in which he lived, Bodie gave a sideways glance at his flaked-out passenger who had been asleep since before they left the car park.

It was hardly surprising, though, Bodie admitted cheerfully, and he allowed himself to smile properly for the first time in nearly a week.

Today had been pretty tough for Doyle; standing on the sidelines the gleeful convalescent had seen the confidence and cockiness of the previous few days falter and fade. He had at first allowed Doyle to set his own pace without letting him realise exactly what he was doing. It made sense to know precisely what the little toad thought he was capable of, Bodie had decided, and so for three days he watched as Doyle did his early morning jogging, weight training and shooting practice. Doyle's level of fitness, considering his undernourished state, was in fact a little above average for his size and age--a fact which told Bodie that he had not spent the past three years shackled to some dungeon wall.

Ray Doyle had decided against informing his instructor about the series of exercises Bill Hillyard had worked him through in the prison gymnasium, deciding that it would be in his own best interest not to lay all his cards on the table at once. His object, however, was completely and utterly defeated by his wish not to fall flat on his face and show himself up in front of the irritatingly superior agent.

By the third day, Bodie knew exactly how far Doyle's strength and skill could take him. The fourth and fifth days he had pushed Doyle to his limit and beyond--and then on some more.

Drawing up to the kerb, Bodie jerked on the handbrake and switched off the engine. Doyle didn't so much as twitch. Bodie shook him roughly, then even harder. The sleeper jumped and pulled away from his touch, then mumbled something too softly for Bodie to hear, before settling down again on the other side of the seat.

"Oi!" Bodie leant over and shouted in his ear. "We're home. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!"

A hand reached up to cover the ear nearest the noise and heavy lids lifted to glare in sleepy annoyance.

"We're home," Bodie repeated loudly, deciding there and then to leave Doyle in the car all night if he didn't wake up soon.

"Mmm--pardon? D'you say something... Oh, we're home..."

Uncoordinated fingers fumbled with the catch and pushed the door open. Recalling the agony last night's unthinking haste had caused, Doyle was careful to move each leg slowly and ease himself out of the car gently. He didn't care if he did look like an arthritic geriatric, he wasn't going to give Bodie the pleasure of seeing him doubled in agony caught by a cramp halfway between the car and the pavement again.

Following Bodie into the flats, he glared first at the staircase and then at the smug grin on the arrogant face. He dearly wanted to tell Bodie what he could do with his bloody lift, but he knew he lacked the energy to do it; he didn't even have the strength to crawl up the flaming stairs on his hands and knees--and Bodie knew it.

Angry with himself for being so weak, he raged mutely as Bodie considerately opened and closed the lift gates. Once inside the flat he flopped down in front of the television, prepared at least to try and take an interest in the news and following current affairs programme. Apparently--according to Bodie anyway--all self-respecting CI5 agents kept on top of current affairs constantly. As well as the physical training, Bodie had him reading all the daily newspapers, every day--cover to cover--from the Court Diary in the Times to the gossip column in the Sun and all points in between. If he wasn't being thrashed, pounded and humiliated, he was stuck in a corner hidden behind piles of newsprint.

Since the first disastrous evening Doyle had not offered to cook anything more adventurous than toast or coffee, and it had been left to Bodie, with half an eye on Dr Willis' diet sheet, to prepare the evening meals.

The reason for Doyle's malnourished appearance swiftly became obvious to Bodie. The man had the appetite of an anorexic sparrow! What Doyle had eaten in the last week wouldn't keep Bodie satisfied for a day. Coaxing a grown man to eat was not a skill that Bodie had ever acquired. His culinary expertise was not extensive but he tried to tempt Doyle with the few things that Willis recommended and he could cook. Steak and potatoes. Oven chips, Bodie decided, were the next best thing.

Carrying the dinner trays through to the lounge, Bodie was hard-pressed not to laugh at Doyle's earnest attempt to look wide awake and alert as he stared with glazed eyes in the general direction of the television, looking for all the world as if the Andrex puppy was the hottest news of the day.

The weight of the tray on his lap drew Doyle back to the present and he looked down, trying to hide his dismay.

Steak and chips again! Couldn't Bodie cook anything else? He couldn't even cook steak, Doyle decided as his stomach threatened to revolt; it was raw--if it had even seen the base of a frying pan it hadn't stayed long enough to make any impression, and if that wasn't bad enough, the blood made the chips go soggy.

Once he was sure Bodie had forgotten he was there, and he had eaten his fill of the unbloodied chips and accompanying tomato, Doyle slipped quietly into the kitchen and carefully disposed of the unwanted steak.

Surfacing from his own preoccupation, Bodie was unsurprised to find himself alone. Apart from the aggravation of preparing an extra meal and the odd extra cup of coffee, he could almost forget he was sharing his flat with anyone else. Even after five days there were no outward signs that anyone other than Bodie lived there. He'd had girls stay over before and even after only one day he would find things scattered about, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, a strange jacket in the hallway, an unfamiliar book beside a chair, but so far nothing belonging to Ray Doyle had left the small spare room that he occupied.

It was still early, not even half past nine, but Bodie knew that if he went into the hallway he would find the rest of the flat in darkness. Early to bed, early to rise and all that, Bodie thought. At least the berk didn't try to pretend he didn't need to sleep that much. Christ! if he had to tuck him into bed at night as well as everything else he'd do his nut next time Cowley asked how things were getting on.

Cowley! Should he tell Cowley about last night? God, let's hope that's not going to be repeated in a hurry, Bodie thought fervently. Doyle hadn't mentioned it this morning. Not that there was any reason why he should, of course. Nightmares were a perfectly normal thing to have; it was just your subconscious showing you all the nasty, horrible things that your conscious mind insisted on forgetting. A lot of perfectly normal people had nightmares; Bodie even had them. High on his list of most embarrassing memories was a recollection of the circle of twelve startled, sleepy faces around his bed as he screamed and fought off the enemy, only to wake up in his nice, safe bed in the middle of the barrack dormitory. One bad dream could happen to anyone.

It was the seventh night before the second dream disrupted the quiet flat.

Already reaching for his gun as sleep vanished, Bodie was on his feet before the panicked cry faded. For a moment it was quiet, but he trusted his senses enough to know he wasn't remembering a dream.

Not his dream--Doyle's. In the dark the voice cried out again, louder and more distressed. Slipping his gun back into its holster, Bodie relaxed a little.

Another cry came from the other room. More disturbed than he cared to admit by the obvious terror behind the garbled cries, Bodie slipped on his dressing gown and softly padded down the hall. The other night Doyle had seemingly woken up after the first cry because there had only been the one, blood-chilling scream that had frightened Bodie out of a year's growth. Sleep was reluctant to loose its grip on the exhausted, terrified man tonight, though. One more cry decided it for Bodie and he pushed open the door and reached for the main light switch; in the same instant Doyle jolted awake and hit the bedside light, the resulting brilliance blinding both men.

"What do you want?" Doyle asked in a breathless voice. "What's up?"

"That's what I came here to ask you," Bodie replied, slightly annoyed that he had to explain his presence. "Sleepwalking isn't something I go in for--neither is waking the neighbours at three in the morning screaming my head off."

So he had been screaming then. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Doyle knew that he would wake up before the screaming started, but like tonight, more often than not he wouldn't. Instead of the screws banging the door down, he now had to contend with Bodie also suffering broken nights.

"Sorry if I disturbed you...it was just a dream." Might just as well warn him of the worst, Doyle decided. "Get them every now and then. Seems I get a bit...noisy."

"I'd already worked that out for myself."

Sharp eyes looked up at him in a silent question.

"A few nights ago I heard you--guessed it was a bad dream."

The eyes dropped and gazed intently at the sheets. He didn't remember that one, they didn't always wake him up. Now that the recent nightmare was fading and the icy fear that chilled him to the bone was thawing, other emotions, mainly embarrassment, flooded in.

Remembering his own humiliation in the wide-awake barrack room, Bodie found himself trying to ease the tension. There was no shame attached to having the odd nightmare.

"Look, it's okay, don't worry about it," he said kindly. "All coming to get you, were they?" he joked.

The innocent words made Doyle freeze. Did Bodie know, he wondered. Surely not. He wasn't even sure if Cowley knew. Stupid. Of course Cowley knew--it was just easier to pretend that no one did. Was there anyone who didn't know? He'd grown used to the change of expression, the flash of sympathy, revulsion and in some cases excitement. Bob Craig, the doctors, the nurses in the public hospital, Governor Bryant, the screws--everyone in 'B' wing had known. Why should Bodie remain ignorant of the facts? But maybe he didn't know; Doyle wanted to believe he didn't. Were CI5 agents allowed to have nightmares, he asked himself--probably not. Would Bodie write "unsuitable because of recurring nightmares" across his report? Time would tell.

"Something like that."

The answer, when it finally came, was something of an anticlimax. Bodie watched as the immobile figure had worked the intended joke through, thought about it and spat it out. He would dearly love to know what had been behind the changes of expression in the drawn face that, in only a few seconds, had reflected shock, fear, disgust, despair and resignation.

"Look," Doyle continued, his fingers plucking at a loose thread on the pillow case, "like you said, this wasn't the first time...don't suppose it'll be the last either. There's no point both of us being up half the night--so next time, if there is a next time, I'd be grateful if you just left me alone. There's nothing you can do...just ignore it."

"If that's what you want."

"It's what I want."

"See you in the morning then."

"Yeah."

Giving him a stiff nod, Bodie switched off the main light and went back to his own room. Doyle watched him go, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard him returning to his own bed. Relaxing against the pillow, he closed his eyes. He was wide awake now; not that he wished to go to sleep right away, the dream always seemed to come back when he did that.

Through the open door he heard Bodie cough as he snuggled back into his bed, the noise sounding clearly through the quiet flat. Getting out of bed, Doyle walked to the door and slowly shut it; he stayed there for a few minutes with his hand resting on the handle. The small room grew oppressive; a cold sweat broke out across his face and down his back and his heart started pounding wildly. Suddenly terrified that he was going to be trapped in the tiny room, he opened the door, the rush of cool air dispelling the panic as swiftly as it had begun.

He stood there, leaning on the doorframe, gulping at the air. CI5 might well accept agents prone to nightmares but Doyle was certain that claustrophobes wouldn't even get past the first interview.

He closed the door and walked away, back to the other side of the room. It wasn't locked; there wasn't even a lock on the door. Any time he wanted to get out he could just walk over and open it. Any time.

He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

---

With his jacket slung over his shoulder, Doyle sauntered out onto the street, hoping that he looked more at ease than he felt. It was the first time since being released that he had gone out alone of his own choice. Although he enjoyed his solitary morning jog, he was always aware that someone was awaiting his return and hoping that maybe this morning he would collapse and refuse to go on.

No, he thought, deciding to be fair, Bodie was starting to realise that he meant business. Strolling along the sun-drenched, tree-lined avenue, Doyle felt in a mood to be charitable. He really couldn't blame Bodie for reacting to the proposed partnership without any enthusiasm. It must have been a terrible blow to his ego when Cowley had informed him that, after due consideration, he had decided that an ex-convict--albeit a wrongly convicted one--who had done three years inside, suffered from nightmares and various other psychological disorders and was two stone underweight was the ideal partner for him. It would probably take a bit of getting used to.

He carried on walking slowly, just looking around him, soaking up the easy atmosphere. Most of the office workers had gone home and the only people on the streets seemed to be people like himself, just out enjoying the summer evening: tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, couples soaking up the sun and each other's company, a few families looking tired but happy after a day in the big city.

A little way down the road, a public house had set tables and chairs outside on the pavement so people could drink and continue to watch the gentle flow of life and London, and he made himself comfortable with a cool beer at one of the tables. He was tired but not exhausted, today having been slightly easier because of Bodie's distraction. Doyle felt mildly guilty that he had used the other man's lack of attention to ease up. For the past two weeks Bodie had been pushing him harder than necessary, but he had an idea that he was going to be grateful for the strict regime he had imposed. Today, in a different part of the gym, another agent had been working out and Bodie had asked her to take Doyle on the mats in hand-to-hand combat. Ruth had agreed and set to enthusiastically; at first her degree of skill had floored Doyle--several times--but Ruth calmly told him that the first rule was always--never underestimate your opponent. He already knew that and was mad with himself for having to be so forcibly reminded, especially in front of Bodie, and by a woman who was certainly no taller or heavier than he was. He didn't consider himself to have a chauvinist attitude but being defeated so soundly by a mere woman was painful.

At the end of the day Bodie had told him quietly that he wouldn't be going straight home that night; the news had not surprised Doyle in the least. Bodie had not been very discreet about who he had been concentrating on all day, so after seeing Bodie and Ruth Pettifer slip away together, he had decided to venture out on his own.

There had been nothing to stop him going out at any time except his own exhaustion. Another reason why he had put off going had been his total lack of choice. An evening out with Bodie was something he was sure he could live without; all day in the man's company was bad enough. He had never really enjoyed drinking alone and he was very reluctant to call on any of his old friends, none of whom had visited or kept in touch with him--which really only left the cinema or a show, a meal in a restaurant--table for one, cruellest sentence in the world, that.

No. A quiet walk. Soak up the sunshine then go home, read that manual Bodie'd given him, try to stay awake past ten o'clock and then with luck, a dreamless sleep.

"Hello, love, sitting all alone on a lovely night like this! Can I join you?"

The soft, lilting voice jolted him back to the present and he looked up in time to see a slim, fair-haired young woman settle herself down at his table and arrange her drink and bags neatly beside her. He looked around them and saw that there were other empty tables she could have chosen and found himself wishing she had.

"Nice sitting out here like this, isn't it?" she said conversationally, trapping Doyle instantly when he agreed that it was by launching into the predictable make-talk by discussing the weather. Not in the mood for talking, Doyle made another mistake by mutely agreeing with her meteorological comments.

"Come from around here, do you?" she asked, in a sudden change of direction.

"No, not from here."

"Not a Londoner then?"

"No." He wasn't, not a born one anyway, and before he could stop himself he made his third mistake and began contributing to the so-far one-sided conversation.

"I was born in the Midlands but I've been mostly in London since I left school."

"I come from the sticks too, came to London for some excitement, I did. My name's Carole, by the way."

He couldn't have cared less but couldn't bring himself to be rude and so introduced himself.

"Ray." He returned her smile and tried to convince himself that he wasn't seeing all the signals he thought he was. There was nothing blatant about Carole; her personality was a little too powerful for his taste but she was modestly dressed and somehow didn't look as if she was a working girl.

"Are you meeting someone, Ray? I mean, I don't want to intrude."

"No, I'm not."

"All alone on a beautiful evening like this, criminal that is," said Carole softly.

Now he knew his first guess had been right. Up-market and classy but still a scrubber. Doyle's first reaction was a strong wave of revulsion but he kept in control long enough to stand up and make a reasonably civil farewell.

"Maybe it is but that's the way I prefer it. Goodbye."

Abandoning his unfinished beer he left the table and walked away, heading down towards the embankment, fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. At last he reached the river and, oblivious to passers-by, he leant against the wall, stared blindly out across the water and tried to stop the terrible trembling that shook his body.

The strength of his reaction frightened him. She was only a prostitute after all. He had spoken with enough of her kind in the line of duty not to be surprised or shocked by anything she might have said or done. She had been quite attractive; any other red-blooded man who had spent three years away from women would probably have jumped at what she was selling--whatever her price, he knew he would have been able to afford it.

Admit it, Doyle, he told himself harshly, she bloody terrified you! You're shit-scared of getting involved in a sexual scene. You're bloody hopeless! Inside his head the word echoed cruelly. Hopeless! Even if he had gone somewhere with her, nothing would have happened. Nothing. Ever since that last big fight when--his mind shied away from the thought, practice making it almost a reflex action. For nearly a year now there had been a whole lot of nothing. At first he hadn't bothered, hadn't cared, but then as time went by he found he did care--but still a big, fat nothing!

Turning away from the river he began to walk more or less in the direction of Bodie's flat. Not only claustrophobic but impotent as well. He could imagine Bodie's horror if he ever discovered the real truth about his new partner.

---

Summer ended abruptly and autumn began wetly; it rained constantly for the next three days. Bodie, who liked getting caught in the rain about as much as a cat did, hated it.

Waiting huddled out of the wind and wet in the doorway, Bodie looked up from his stopwatch in the direction that Doyle ought to be approaching from. The rain-washed street was deserted. Still, Bodie conceded, it was a bit premature to expect him just yet. The route he'd sent him on was at least five miles and the longest yet. He'd give it another five minutes then send out the hearse to bring back the body.

He spent the time checking through Doyle's progress chart that he had compiled over the last three weeks. For the first time he actually allowed a glimmer of admiration to peek through. It must have been obvious to Doyle that he had been put through the mill, that CI5 didn't really expect him to have progressed so far quite so soon, but he hadn't complained once. There had been the odd occasion when he'd seen Doyle close his mouth over a quick, explosive retort, or when he'd seemed to question the severity of a test, but each time he'd knuckled under and done what was asked. Not always successfully and not always very well--but at least he'd tried. Bodie had to give credit where it was due.

So far, Doyle had been full of surprises, physically at least. The lean, stringy body was surprisingly strong and had more staying power than first impressions led one to believe. After only three weeks the results of plenty of exercise, fresh air, sunshine and good food had banished the haunted, hunted look from Doyle's face. If only the recurring dreams would leave him alone Bodie was sure that Doyle's mental recovery would also speed up. But it wasn't just the dreams, Bodie acknowledged; the nightmares were only a symptom of a more serious condition and something would have to be done about the root cause of Doyle's unease before he could be considered for active duty with the department.

Cowley had not mentioned anything about Doyle suffering from psychiatric problems, and Bodie suspected that if he got a whiff of any mental trauma, Doyle would swiftly find himself out of the section. Or would he? The department had its own psychiatric specialist--Kate Ross; although Bodie had a deep dislike for and mistrust of the profession that had little to do with Dr Ross personally, he admitted that she seemed to serve a purpose. One or two agents had been told to see her professionally after a couple of very ugly operations had backfired with horrific results. Should he involve Ross? Later perhaps--if no other solution presented itself. Meantime, thought Bodie, what the hell can I do with a man who retreats into his room at every opportunity and emerges only at feeding times and for his scheduled exercises?

Despite invitations from other members of the squad and the odd genuine invitation from Bodie, Doyle had shunned all social contact, neither had he made any arrangements to see his own friends. After three years locked away from the finer things in life, Bodie was more than a little surprised at Doyle's total lack of interest in women.

The first time it happened he'd just thought that Doyle was too thick to realise what he was being offered, but in the end the girls were being so blatant even a Trappist monk would have at least suspected the motives behind their interest.

In an official situation he coped with the office staff and the few female agents in a perfectly normal way, but once the business was over he became distant and introverted, doing everything except melt into the wall in an effort to become invisible. The more the girls pressed, the further Doyle retreated. Wasn't just the girls though, Bodie realised in a sudden flash of insight; in every social encounter Doyle had done his utmost to remain in the background, retreating from any conversation as fast as he could without drawing any more attention.

Splashing feet drew him out of his thoughts and he looked up in time to see Doyle on the last few yards of his run. Instead of being confronted by a weary, bedraggled figure, though, Bodie saw a man almost bursting with excitement and lit up with an inexplicable inner joy. Apart from being a little breathless he didn't even seem to be tired.

"What are you hiding in there for?" Doyle enquired, his eyes and face transformed by a previously unseen smile. "Anyone would think you were scared of getting wet!"

Noting down Doyle's time, Bodie just shrugged. "Dunno what you're looking so cheerful for--you must be soaked to the skin."

"I am. Beautiful, isn't it! Love running in the rain--makes everything so fresh, clean." He drew in a deep breath. "Just smell it, all that clean, fresh air. How did I do?" he asked, peering over the top of the clipboard Bodie was busily scribbling on.

"Not bad, not bad." Actually, it was quite good and he had an idea Doyle knew it, but Bodie refused to let him see that he was impressed. "Not quite up to our standard yet but you're getting better."

"Blimey, go easy with the praise, won't you!"

Bodie responded to the teasing voice with a smile of his own. "Just 'cause you've managed to finish a little run on your own two feet rather than on your hands and knees, don't go getting any ideas."

"Hands and knees, Christ, I didn't even finish that first run." Unconcerned by the dismal failure of his first long run, Doyle laughed at the memory of Bodie having to scoop him up from the pavement where he collapsed, sweating and exhausted.

"Just goes to show what a decent bed and food can do for you. Prison life's never won anyone competitions in the fitness stakes."

Even as the words formed in his mouth Bodie knew he shouldn't say them--but it was too late. Immediately the happy sparkle in the bright eyes faded and the battered face turned to stone. Any mention of prison caused this reaction and Bodie only knew he had destroyed Doyle's happy, carefree mood with his remark. But even though he regretted breaking the cheerful mood, Bodie was irritated by Doyle's excessive reaction to every harmless comment.

"Look," he began, unsuccessfully trying to keep his voice calm, "I'm sorry if I'm thoughtless enough to keep making references to where you've been for the past three years--" Doyle's face became even bleaker and Bodie's patience snapped.

"It's a fact of life, Doyle," he shouted. "You've been inside one of Her Majesty's Institutions for three years. You know it and I know it. It was very unfortunate and I don't expect you had the time of your life while you were in there but neither of us can get away from it. You, Raymond Doyle, have been in prison for three long years. I don't blame you for wanting to forget about it but there's no call for you to get all twitchy and miserable every time I or anyone else is bloody daft enough not to cater for your delicate sensibilities. If you're going to act like Lot's wife every time the subject comes up you might as well get out now! If we're going to end up working together it's a fact we're both going to have to accept. You can't pretend it didn't happen because it did."

"A fact that we're both going to have to accept!" Doyle spat the phrase back at him. "That's rich, that is. It's just a fact of life that I'm gonna have to accept, is it?"

Bodie was rooted to the spot by the venom in the smaller man's voice, suddenly remembering his own hard-learned lesson that strength wasn't directly related to size.

"I haven't really got much choice, have I? Even if I did want to forget it'd all come flooding back the next time I looked in a mirror. I'll tell you something that'll make you laugh, you'll really love this, Bodie." Doyle's face twisted with bitterness and anger and Bodie knew that whatever he was going to hear, he wouldn't want to laugh.

"I don't look in a mirror to shave any more. In fact I hardly ever look at my reflection nowadays because every time I do see it..." A slim white-knuckled hand rose and touched the protruding cheekbone. "Once upon a time they used to brand criminals so everyone would know who they were and what they'd done. This--" Bodie watched as a finger stroked over the disfiguring bulge and the scarring that was still shiny pink. "This is a brand as far as I'm concerned, because every time I see it I remember how and where I got it. Forget! No chance!"

As if he suddenly realised that he was revealing too much of his inner torment, Doyle turned away and made a performance of picking up his track suit jacket and sports bag that he'd left on the floor. The movement didn't fool Bodie for a moment. He'd heard Doyle's voice waver and crack and seen the over-bright eyes. It was the first time that Doyle had made any reference to what had happened to him and Bodie guess there was a lot of pain bottled up inside, pain that needed to be released if it wasn't going to fester and warp his outlook, thereby destroying everything.

"How did that happen anyway?" Bodie asked mildly, illustrating the point by tapping his own, unflawed cheekbone. He knew that Doyle was going to have to talk it out with someone eventually. It was perhaps unfortunate that Doyle had not read the same psychology books, though--for he had obviously decided that he most definitely was not going to discuss it.

"It's none of your fucking business!" was Doyle's not wholly unexpected retort before he headed off towards the shower room at a brisk trot.

Unconcerned, Bodie watched him go, following behind at his own unhurried pace.

That's what you think, sunshine, he thought as Doyle disappeared through the locker room door. Maybe what happened inside that prison was none of his business but a little triviality like that was not going to stop him from finding out a few things. Pushing through the swinging door, Bodie saw that they had the shower room to themselves and Doyle was already minus his rain- and sweat-soaked T shirt.

As soon as he heard the protesting squeal of the door hinge, Doyle felt an icy hand clutch at his entrails and he spun around.

It was only Bodie.

He wiped the fresh sweat from his face and tried to still his pounding heart. He knew his hands were shaking but was powerless to prevent them. Dropping the shirt onto the seat, he looked sideways at Bodie, who had settled himself down on the opposite bench and was busily scribbling on his clipboard.

He's not even looking, Doyle told himself, but it was no good--the shaking wouldn't cease. Don't just stand there, Doyle, get undressed and get it over with before he does start looking, the voice inside his head told him calmly, and he knew it was the sensible thing to do...if only he could get his body to cooperate, he would.

Not looking up from his sheet of times and schedule, Bodie suddenly asked: "You met Macklin yet?"

Peeling off his second wet sock, Doyle refused to look up, forcing himself to keep calm and act naturally.

"No. Heard of him though," he said stiffly as he stood up and forced leaden fingers to slip his running shorts down.

"Oh well, you'll get a nice surprise on Monday then. I've asked him to run you through the department's fitness test. Want to see how much further I've got to push you."

Doyle had heard of Macklin's fitness exam from some of the other agents and knew that Monday was going to be a real toughie, but all he was worried about now was getting through the next ten minutes without disgracing himself. As if from a great distance he heard himself talking, his voice sounding tinny and unreal.

"Do you think I'm up to it?"

"No," Bodie said bluntly. "But it'll give a chance to see how much you've progressed and how much further you've got to go."

Unable to postpone the moment any longer, Doyle slipped off his briefs and walked into the communal shower.

"No one's expecting you to have reached the grade just yet," Bodie continued, looking up in time to see Doyle's stiff-legged walk into the shower. "You've come on pretty well--better than I expected, to be honest--but I want Macklin to see you in action; this training thing is more in his line than mine and he'll be able to see what needs working on."

The way Doyle was standing under the shower made Bodie look at the naked man worriedly. Had he strained himself, Bodie wondered.

"What's up?" he asked, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice. "Have you pulled a muscle or something?"

"No." Doyle could feel Bodie's eyes burning into his back and even though the water was hot he felt icy prickles all over his skin.

The abrupt 'no' did little to dispel Bodie's worry. Something was wrong here, he knew that much--but what? Standing up, he walked across to Doyle's towel, his eyes not missing the way the nude body jumped as he knocked against the bench. He held the towel out for Doyle to take, unprepared for the naked fear in the white face and wide-opened eyes, but the hand that grasped the towel was steady. It was so unexpected that Bodie found himself speechless, and he watched in stunned silence as Doyle wrapped the cloth around his waist and moved to the bench where his dry clothes were.

Doyle was scared of him...no, terrified! Doyle was terrified, but why? Bodie racked his brains trying to think what he had said or done to have caused such a reaction, but found nothing. Instinctively knowing that his closeness was contributing to Doyle's problem, Bodie moved back to his clipboard on the other side of the room and felt the tension ease fractionally as the physical distance between them increased.

"I'll meet you in the cafeteria for a cup of tea. Okay?"

"Okay," Doyle agreed, but Bodie had the feeling that he would have agreed to anything if it meant he was going to be left alone.

Musing over his cup of tea while he waited, Bodie tried to pinpoint what was bothering him so much--or rather, what was bothering Doyle. There were lots of little things that did not seem very important on their own but, now he put them all together, began to take shape like a jigsaw. Going backwards, Bodie mentally listed everything, starting with Doyle's very obvious fear in the shower room. It wasn't the first time they'd been alone together--so what was different, what had happened? He had never been in the locker room with him before; all the other times, Doyle had slipped away unnoticed or waited until Bodie had been involved with someone else. So what was so different about being alone together in that room? And the other day in the car...on several occasions Doyle had fallen asleep on their way home and until now Bodie had taken no notice of the physical jump Doyle gave each time he was woken up...that very first night too, Bodie remembered suddenly, he had leapt off that bed as if he thought Bodie was going to rape him or...

The jigsaw was suddenly complete.

God no, Bodie thought, surely not. But even as he sought to deny it, he re-ran everything through his mind, his surprising explanation fitting perfectly with Doyle's behaviour...the social withdrawal, his seemingly untypical attitude towards sex, his dislike of being touched unexpectedly, and his fear of being unclothed in front of someone.

Bodie recalled the records he had seen; Doyle had been involved in an extraordinary number of fights and 'incidents'. Having spent most of his adult life in a predominantly male society, Bodie was only too painfully aware of how some men, deprived of normal sexual outlets, could turn on each other for release. Already an outcast, the former policeman would have found few, if any, allies amongst the prison staff, and the inmates would have had free rein over the unfortunate man who represented the system that had put them there. The vulnerability of Doyle's position combined with his looks would have made him the obvious target if what Bodie suspected was true. How far would it have gone? His medical notes were, Bodie now realised, incomplete. A broken wrist, cracked ribs and a broken face said Doyle hadn't gone down without a fight...but that was over a year ago. What had happened since then?

Bodie pondered over Doyle's possible, no, probable reply if he questioned him, and knew he would have to wait until Doyle wanted to talk; it was no good trying to force out a confidence before it was ready. The problem was, when would Doyle decide he was ready to talk?

---

Bodie rolled over onto his face and pulled the pillow over his head in a vain attempt to block out the desperate cries that reverberated around the quiet flat.

"Come on, you bugger, wake up," he muttered through clenched teeth as he waited for the choked-off scream that usually heralded the end of this particular nightmare.

Another wordless scream reached his buried ears.

"Four bleedin' thirty in the morning," he groaned. "For chrissake, Doyle, wake up so I can get to sleep. Please!"

Being woken at all hours was fast becoming a habit.

Doyle's mental state seemed to be deteriorating in relation to his improving physical condition. At first, the dreams had only happened once a night with two or three peaceful nights between them; then they'd come every other night and now, for the second night in succession, they were trapping their victim every time he settled back down to sleep.

So far the nightmares had been a taboo subject; each morning Doyle had eaten his breakfast with an unfriendly, distant expression which discouraged any attempts on Bodie's part to discuss the cause of the dreams.

The training programme had been going very well up till now, but this afternoon, Bodie had seen the troubled expression on Macklin's face as he watched Doyle being defeated again and again because of his inattention and carelessness. The charts Bodie had been keeping on Doyle's progress were also beginning to reflect the downward trend--the impressive start was turning into a dismal decline.

Lack of sleep was the main problem. Doyle's reluctance to try and sleep was caused by the fact that eac