---

CHAPTER SIX

"Are you coming, then?" Doyle asked quietly.

"Might as well," Bodie replied as he rose from his desk. "Get it over with."

"You gonna tell him how you got that?"

There was no need for Bodie to ask what 'that' was supposed to be. Since his painful awakening in the early hours of Friday morning he had been sporting a beautiful black eye.

"I never could understand why they call 'em black eyes," Bodie said as he pulled a face at himself in the mirror while studying his injury. "Blue, green, yellow, mauve and every other colour in the rainbow, but there's not a single spot of black."

"Now the green's fading it doesn't look quite so bad."

"No, it doesn't--maybe I can just tell him I've got jaundice," said Bodie mournfully.

"In one eye?" Doyle asked.

After a final grimace at his reflection Bodie turned to follow Doyle down to the medical room where Dr Willis was waiting to give him another check-up and make sure Bodie was fit enough to begin his own training schedule in preparation for Macklin's fitness tests.

The medical section was like a very small, compact casualty hospital where the department doctors could treat a wide range of injuries from splinters through to broken bones. It saved a lot of time having the facility on the premises and, with the dangerous nature of the department's work, the section was well used.

Willis mmm'd and aah'd and fussed a lot, but he was a good doctor and he took his task of keeping his patients healthy very seriously. In a job where a pulled muscle or an ignored minor illness could lead to slower reaction times, injury and even death, he had to stay on his toes.

He lingered over Bodie's X-rays and poked and prodded his silently suffering patient.

"Are you sure you feel no discomfort when I do this?" Willis pushed firmly on the back of Bodie's neck.

"It feels okay, there's no pain at all."

"Hmmm." Willis flexed his fingers and probed an inch or so further down. "How about here?"

"No. Nothing."

Willis hmm'd to himself once more then moved away to his desk.

"All right, Bodie, you can put your shirt back on. Now, you can start a slow build-up, you've got another three weeks before Macklin can start on you but I want you back here the minute your neck starts paining you."

Bodie looked across the room to Doyle and smiled, making no pretence of listening to Willis' well-meant advice and never-ending list of dos and don'ts.

Then it was Doyle's turn. Bodie settled himself down in one of the chairs and concentrated half-heartedly on an old magazine lying there. Across the room it was Doyle's turn to be measured, poked, prodded and examined. The quietly spoken instructions to 'do that,' 'move this,' bend that,' 'breathe in' and 'blow out' and a smattering of 'hmms,' 'aahs,' and 'very goods' were the only sounds.

"Right, Doyle, if you would just step up on the scales for me."

Sensing that the end of the examination was looming, Bodie looked up from the article he'd been reading in time to see Doyle palming something and holding it behind his back as he stepped over to the scales.

Intrigued, Bodie got up and wandered over.

"Well done, Mr Doyle. You're gaining weight nicely, we'll soon have you up to par. I'm pleased that someone in this organisation appreciates the value of a properly balanced diet. Mind you," and Willis turned from the scales to glare at Bodie, "you are the first underweight patient I've had since I joined the section. Most of your colleagues' problems tend to lean in the opposite direction."

Bodie looked distinctly uncomfortable under the piercing glare and Willis tried to be fair.

"But then I suppose it's easier to gain weight than to lose it, isn't it, Bodie?"

By now, Bodie had moved close enough to see the object Doyle had hidden behind his back.

"Oh yes," he agreed, "much easier."

Especially when you're holding an eight-pound weight in your hand, Bodie thought. He looked up into Doyle's worried eyes. So, the little sod knew he'd been caught out, did he.

Just then the telephone rang and Willis moved away to answer it, leaving the two men standing by the scales whispering to each other.

"You say anything, Bodie, and so help me I'll hit you with it," Doyle hissed.

"Keep your hair on," answered Bodie, judging from the angry glitter in Doyle's eyes that he really meant it. "Dunno what you want to cheat for--I wish I had your problem," Bodie said earnestly. Willis was always nagging at him over his weight; had a weight fixation, did Dr Willis.

Standing by the desk, Willis was listening to the lab technician's voice while trying to work out what was happening over in the corner of the room. For a moment he'd thought Doyle was going to thump his partner with whatever he was holding behind his back. Willis's eyes opened wider as he identified the object; he looked over to table and checked which weight was missing.

"Yes, right, thank you," Willis said rather distractedly as the phone call drew to a close. "Well, I'll get back to you about it later on then, good-bye." He placed the receiver down and walked back to the scales.

"If you'd just get back on for a moment, Mr Doyle, I'd just like to check your weight again."

Bodie moved away as Doyle stepped back onto the scales.

"Oh, and just put the weight back over on the table, please. We don't want to get the wrong reading do we, Mr Doyle." Willis smiled, Bodie choked back a snort of laughter and Doyle sighed as he did as he was told.

"That's better," said Willis. "Amazing the difference a small lump of lead can make, isn't it? Nine stone seven pounds. You're still over a stone underweight. Have you looked at that diet sheet properly?"

"Yes, of course I have," Doyle answered.

"Are you following it?"

"Yes...well, sort of," Doyle finally admitted.

"Sort of isn't good enough. Your ideal weight is ten stone twelve pounds, but I'm not fussy, I'll settle for ten and half stone. Now," Willis indicated the chastened but unrepentant Doyle could get off the scales, "I'm due to see you both when Macklin has finished with you. Doyle, I'll want your weight to be at least ten stone and Bodie, we'll try for about eight pounds off yours, shall we?"

Feeling like naughty schoolboys escaping from a classroom, they left and took themselves off to the canteen to get their long-overdue lunch.

Standing in the queue, Bodie finally broke the silence with a mumbled threat about what he'd like to do with Willis's scales.

"Yeah," Doyle laughingly agreed. "And if I ever get my hands on the berk who compiled those bloody ideal weight lists I'll kill him."

"At least your problem's easier to handle, just keep eating. Me--he expects me to starve! Only eight pounds, he says. Only!" Bodie moaned. "I feel perfectly all right and I'm not overweight, just well developed."

"I've never been ten and a half stone in my life," Doyle added his moan. "About ten or ten four is my limit. Every time he sees me he makes some comment about how peaky and thin I look. I know I was a bit underweight--"

"Only a bit?" Bodie questioned the understatement.

"--but I've always been slim," Doyle continued, trying to ignore the sarcasm. "This is all muscle, you know, not an ounce of fat on me," he said, patting his enviably flat stomach.

Selecting their meals, Bodie carried the tray over to the table, leaving Doyle to pay and collect the cutlery. Just as they were sorting themselves out Dr Willis walked by, his look of approval fading as Bodie, with a devilish grin, took the plate of meat pie, chips and beans, and pushed the ham salad towards Doyle.

---

As the door closed behind Macklin and Dr Willis, Cowley summoned up the dregs of his patience and turned to Dr Ross.

"I would be grateful, Doctor, if you would enlighten me on this 'confidential' problem." Cowley's irritation was plainly obvious to the psychiatrist, and she calmly gathered her arguments.

"I was given to understand that my assessment of our agents' mental states was to be confidential except in circumstances where--"

"Yes, yes," Cowley snapped. "I'm perfectly aware of your brief, Dr Ross, could you get to the point. What have you to say that you felt you were unable to bring up in front of Macklin and Dr Willis? And please," Cowley begged ungraciously, "speak in layman's terms, otherwise we'll both still be here tomorrow."

"I always endeavour to speak plainly, Mr Cowley," Ross assured him in sugar-coated tones. "The problem is quite simple. Bodie."

"Bodie?"

"I have been observing them during training and study periods and it is my opinion, my professional opinion," she stressed, "that a working partnership between the two of them is doomed to failure."

"Macklin is of the opinion that Doyle is shaping up well."

"I agree, he has done much better than I initially expected but I doubt his progress is going to advance much more; in fact it's highly likely that he will backslide."

"Why?"

"Bodie is why, Mr Cowley."

"You keep saying 'Bodie'," Cowley replied, completely exasperated by Ross's confident, complacent and incomprehensible arguments. "I ask again, why Bodie?"

"There is no one answer, Mr Cowley, but I will try to explain the problem."

The psychiatrist ignored the heavily whispered, 'please do' and continued:

"Because of Doyle's treatment in Maidstone prison we knew he was probably going to suffer from some degree of trauma and we knew he would need a great deal of emotional support." Ross paused and waited for some indication that her audience of one was still with her. "We know that Doyle has had no satisfactory contact with his family and discreet observation has indicated that he has made no move to renew old friendships or strike up new ones. So far he has spent all day, every day with Bodie. The only social contacts he's made have come through Bodie."

It became clear to Cowley that he was obviously missing something Ross felt to be terribly important.

"So far I see nothing wrong with what you said. Doyle is leaning on Bodie--what is wrong with that? The man's still disoriented and Bodie is the only steady constant in his life--"

"Precisely."

Cowley was totally thrown by the doctor's triumphant exclamation. It appeared he had found the crux of the matter without recognising it.

"Please, Dr Ross, explain yourself."

"Bodie is the stabilising factor in Doyle's life. That is the problem."

Cowley almost gave up. Had he been given a choice between five minutes with Dr Ross or twenty-four hours with a hostile, rabid mass-murderer, the murderer would have won--every time!

"Doyle is leaning too heavily. Throwing them into such close contact is forcing Doyle to turn to Bodie for the emotional support he needs. We know that Doyle was suffering from nightmares while in prison and Dr Willis confirmed that he has not been sleeping well."

"But Willis said that the problem appears to be getting better. Both Bodie and Doyle have been looking more relaxed and refreshed of a morning--"

"Which means Bodie is also coping with Doyle's nightmares as well as the daytime problems."

"I still don't see the problem, if Bodie is coping." Cowley shrugged his shoulders.

"How long can he go on meeting Doyle's emotional demands? However you look at it, Doyle is demanding a lot from Bodie, he still needs a great deal of support."

"A need that Bodie is, apparently, meeting."

"For the moment, yes," agreed Ross, "but not for much longer. I was against this pairing from the start because Bodie is a loner. His personal records show quite clearly that he consistently shuns emotional involvement. He has friends, colleagues, acquaintances and a plethora of girlfriends, but no one who makes or is allowed to make any emotional demands. Bodie can work as part of a larger team, and he has on occasion worked in two-man teams but those pairings were always short-lived and always terminated by special request by Bodie."

The room fell silent as Cowley digested what he was hearing. Unfortunately, it did seem to be making sense.

"So," said Cowley slowly, "in your professional opinion, you are sure Doyle is eventually going to ask too much from Bodie and destroy the partnership."

"In essence, yes."

"And the end result...in your professional opinion?"

"The break could well be the final rejection for Doyle, the ultimate failure. I think we would lose him and possibly Bodie too."

"And Bodie?" asked Cowley. Doyle had been a risk from the beginning but he did not want to lose Bodie as well. The main reason behind teaming them had been an attempt to bind Bodie more securely to CI5.

"I am not unaware of your reasons for initiating this pairing and I won't repeat my thoughts on the matter, you already know them, but I suspect your plan to tie Bodie to CI5 with more than personal loyalty to yourself has backfired." Seeing that she had Cowley's complete attention she continued:

"Considering his dislike for involvement, Bodie has allowed himself to respond to Doyle's needs. Surprisingly, once the initial introduction period was over they got on extremely well and Bodie has taken the training programme very seriously; he's bullied and coaxed every inch of Doyle's progress and he's become very...protective." Ross struggled to find the right words. "He's looked after him...fussed over him...kept the other agents from trying all the usual new-boy tricks...he's allowed himself to...care."

"Is that so very wrong, Dr Ross?" Cowley asked quietly.

"In Bodie's book, yes. Caring means involvement and sooner or later he always shuns involvement. When he breaks away from Doyle, I think he'll know that as far as CI5 goes Doyle'll be finished. The combination of caring, involvement and guilt will probably make Bodie break away from CI5 as well."

It could happen. Even Cowley could see that. To lose Doyle would be a great pity--but to lose Bodie as well would be much, much worse.

Cowley dismissed Ross and told his secretary to hold all his calls; he needed time to think over Ross's damning prediction.

"Mr Cowley, Bodie is waiting to see you on a personal matter. Shall I ask him to call back?"

Bodie? What personal matter did he wish to discuss, Cowley wondered.

"It's all right, Betty, send him through now."

The door opened and Cowley got his first good look at the black eye everyone had been talking about. It would well be the most spectacular bruising he had seen in a very long time. It was rumoured that Doyle, tiring of his instructor's training methods and pushed beyond his limit had finally laid one on him. So far, Bodie had not denied the story and Macklin and Willis had only just finished reporting that the compatibility of the two men was becoming as obvious as the bruising--so if the story was true, it hadn't damaged the partnership. Unless, of course, Bodie wanted to talk about dissolving the team.

"A personal matter, Bodie?" Cowley prompted after he had stood awkwardly in front of the desk seemingly at a loss for words.

"Yes, sir. But not me--Doyle."

"Doyle has a problem?" Cowley was determined not to make the way easier; if Bodie wanted out he was going to have to say so.

"Well, yes and no...it isn't really a problem, it's just..." Bodie foundered helplessly. "It seems that Doyle was involved in a spot of bother, a nasty fight, about a year or so ago and he's troubled by...memories of the fight...apparently he was quite badly hurt and he doesn't really know for sure what happened. I just wondered if it would be possible for Doyle to see the reports regarding the incident."

It wasn't the problem Cowley had been anticipating and he felt himself relax a little.

"Which reports?"

"There must have been some kind of internal enquiry...and I think he would like to see his medical reports as well."

"I can't hand over Doyle's medical notes to you, Bodie, they're confidential."

"I don't want to see them, sir, but I think Doyle has every right to."

"So why are you asking for them and not Doyle?"

Bodie wouldn't--or couldn't--reply, but Cowley, a shrewd man, was sure he knew the answer. So, the thought, Ross was right. Bodie was learning to care.

"All right, Bodie," he said. "I will get the reports I think Doyle needs to see and I'll give them to you in confidence. Once Doyle has seen them I'll want them back. Call by my office before you leave tonight and I'll have them ready for you."

"Thank you, sir."

Bodie let himself out, his mind whirling with fresh doubts. Cowley had agreed very quickly to his rather strange request. He knew for a certainty that Cowley had already seen the reports and would of course know exactly what the outcome of the fight had been--was that why he was so unsurprised at the request, had he, in fact, been expecting it?

"Wanna watch it, Bodie, I can almost hear your cogs struggling into action." Doyle's voice, right behind, took Bodie by surprise. "That or you've taken to sleeping with your eyes open."

"Didn't see you, mate. Where're you off to now?"

"Jack Prescott, remember, he's going to have another go at teaching me how not to blow myself up."

"Course, I remember now, he's actually going to give you a live one to defuse, isn't he?" Bodie said seriously.

"Oh, yeah!" Doyle laughed. "You're kidding, aren't you. Aren't you?" he asked, as he was assailed by a sudden doubt.

"Of course, mate," Bodie replied to the anxious voice with a forced joviality. "Not going to let you near a real one, is he! Stands to reason. Course it'll only be dummy ones. Don't worry about it." Bodie threw an arm around the lean frame and gave it a quick hug. "There's nothing to worry about, just take your time. You're not nervous, are you? Steady hands and all that!"

"Of course I'm not nervous. Why should I be?" Doyle was suspicious of the overbright camaraderie. Bodie was just winding him up--wasn't he!

"No reason at all, sunshine."

---

Later that evening Bodie tapped lightly on the doorway to Doyle's sanctuary, for once waiting to hear permission to enter before walking in.

"Just wondered what you were doing," Bodie said, to excuse his intrusion.

"Nothing special," Doyle replied as he folded the newspaper away. "Just catching up with what Fleet Street's saying about the world."

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the living room?" asked Bodie. The spare room was very basic, only a bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers graced the small room, and Doyle had a choice of his bed or the floor on which to sit.

"I'm okay," Doyle assured him, and Bodie saw the wariness in the clear wide-eyed gaze that was warning him not to encroach too far into his territory.

"I was just going to make a drink, do you want one?" As an excuse, it was as good as any other; Doyle didn't appear to be overly suspicious, replying that yes, he would like a drink--coffee.

"Fine," replied Bodie. He turned to leave only to turn back, seemingly as an afterthought and tossed a squat, document-sized envelope through the air to land with a loud spat on top of the newspapers. "I managed to get hold of these for you...thought that you might like...want to read them...that they might help you come to terms with what happened to you...give you your answer one way or the other..."

Untypically, for the second time in one day, Bodie found himself waffling on like an idiot.

"Oh, hell," he said finally, "I'm going to put the kettle on. It's up to you whether you read what's in there or not."

Utterly confused, Doyle watched Bodie's hurried exit, then picked up the envelope, broke the seal and tipped the papers out.

His amusement at seeing Bodie behaving so ruffled and ill at ease died as a cold, sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. There were three reports: the internal enquiry, Officer Magill's statement and the admission notes from Maidstone General Hospital.

He stared at them blindly; his first reaction, once the shock receded, was to tear them up, burn them, destroy them completely. Why, he asked, had Bodie given them to him, what possible good did the stupid idiot think reading about it was going to do him? What possible good?

Unbidden, the embarrassed look on Bodie's face as he had thrown them over came back to him.

"...give you your answer...one way or the other..."

One way or the other.

Did he really want to know, Doyle wondered.

Of course he bloody well did a voice screamed from inside, and a smaller voice also demanded to be heard--but supposing the worst really did happen--could he accept that? Not really knowing, he could always tell himself that Ward had been stopped in time--but to discover, for an absolute certainty, that he hadn't--could he face knowing that?

He was sweating so much that his fingers, already stained by the newsprint, left smudgy marks on the pristine white paper the hospital notes were photocopied on. Suddenly, unable to read on, Doyle switched to Magill's report, the stark, clinical description of his injuries proving too much for him right now. If they went into as much detail as they had over his broken wrist, the first injury listed, he dreaded to think what he might find described in explicit, cold medical terms over the page.

Taking a deep breath and mentally bracing himself against what he might discover, Doyle began to read.

---

Alone in the kitchen, Bodie clattered about, keeping one ear tuned in to whatever might happen further down the hall. Because he wanted to take his time, the kettle boiled quickly of course, sod's law that is, Bodie told himself. How long should he leave it before going back? Would Doyle want him to go back? He had no way of knowing.

The envelope had not been bulky, so it shouldn't take Doyle long to read the reports.

Unable to settle, Bodie drank his coffee as he moved restlessly between the living room and kitchen. Before long, though, he had finished his, and Doyle's was growing cold as it sat on the draining board. Bodie tipped it away.

Back in the living room he poured himself a small whisky; as he rolled the smooth, fiery liquid around in his mouth he looked at the clock, then gulped it down. Twenty minutes. Surely Doyle had read it all by now.

In the bedroom Doyle shoved the papers away, tearing the envelope in his hurry to get rid of the distasteful reports--then tossing the package down to the end of the bed.

So--now he knew.

Cowley had read those reports.

So had a lot of other people. Bodie? Doyle didn't know. Even knowing that the reports had been one-sided--the Establishment's view and opinions were there, in black and white, for anyone with the right authorisation to see--did not ease the sense of injustice. Had everyone in that godforsaken, so-called House of Correction gone around wearing blinkers? Even admitting to himself that he had not been anyone's idea of a model prisoner, Doyle found it hard to understand how everyone from the Governor to the lowest-ranking screw could have misjudged him so. He hadn't been that bad--had he, he asked himself. Maybe he had. Once dear, sweet Bert had spread his malicious, mouth-watering gossip, there had been plenty of opportunity for Doyle to display his aggressive, antagonistic and anti-authority behaviour that the reports made so much of.

What the hell should he have done; lain down and let them take turns, for god's sake?

"Do you want that coffee yet?"

Bodie's quiet voice intruded on Doyle's very private, very bitter thoughts.

"You can shove your fuckin' coffee up your fuckin' arse!" Doyle shouted.

Immediately cursing the impulse that had forced him to see if Doyle was all right, Bodie withdrew, only to be called back.

"Oy!" Doyle leapt from the bed, snatching the envelope up and throwing it at Bodie. "You can shove this up there too!"

The anger that was burning through Doyle gave Bodie his answer. Well--at least now Doyle knew.

"Shout all you want, mate," Bodie said quietly, prepared to take the full brunt of Doyle's anger if he had to. "I don't blame you for being mad but if you really want to hit someone, we'll go down to the gym--Cowley isn't too keen on allowing us to wreck the furniture."

"Hit you...why'd you think I want to hit you?"

So used to fighting fire with fire, Doyle was thrown by the placid acceptance of his rage. He had always had a quick temper but his time on the Force had helped him to control it; but in Ford and Maidstone, everyone's tempers were quick off the mark. Two sparks could start an uncontrollable blaze among the closely confined prisoners. Inside, to back down meant losing--and there was no way Doyle was going to lose--ever.

"I don't want to fight you," said Doyle in a slightly bewildered voice. Puzzled, he had walked back to his bed and sat down slowly. Where had all his anger gone, he asked himself. He had been all set to wipe the floor with Bodie: and why--just because he gave him the reports that he had known existed somewhere but was too scared to look for?

"I'm...sorry...there's no reason to take it out on you...'s not your fault," Doyle apologised awkwardly.

"Come on, Doyle...you look like you could do with a drink--and no, I don't mean coffee."

"I'm gonna end up an alcoholic if you start pouring alcohol down me throat every time I lose my rag!"

"There's only about two inches left in the bottom of the bottle, mate, so I doubt if either of us is going to wind up drunk and incapable tonight. Come on."

Grateful that Doyle had calmed down, Bodie led the way into the living room and poured each of them a drink, draining the bottle into Doyle's glass.

For a while they sat in silence, only the television chattering away softly in the corner. Bodie started talking first, and Doyle found he didn't quite understand what was prompting the cautious speech, that is until he mentioned something about time healing most hurts, then he realised with a shock how Bodie must have interpreted his anger over the reports.

"Have you read that?" Doyle asked and pointed to the crumpled envelope that lay on the arm of Bodie's chair.

"It's confidential," Bodie replied. "Of course I haven't. It was given to me sealed. I didn't open it."

"Do you want to read it?"

"No." Bodie's answer was expressionless and definite.

"Aren't you curious?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?" Were their positions reversed, Doyle wasn't sure he would be able to contain his curiosity.

"Should I be?" Bodie responded to the irritatingly teasing voice with icy sarcasm.

Immediately, Doyle regretted his teasing. Bodie really didn't deserve that sort of treatment.

"Do you think Cowley's read it?"

"I expect so. Why--does that bother you?"

"No," Doyle answered thoughtfully, "but after seeing what the Governor thought of me, I'm surprised Cowley ever considered me for CI5. According to Bryant," Doyle explained, "I was the most undisciplined, troublesome, warped individual who invited trouble, thrived on violence and deserved everything I got, which by the way," he added, "was not as bad as I thought. My virtue is still intact and my body still pure--despite Kingsley and Ward's efforts to the contrary."

"So you weren't..." Bodie only just managed to regain control of his tongue but, apparently unconcerned by such indelicacies, Doyle finished the sentence for him.

"Raped. 's almost enough to make a person believe in miracles, isn't it! According to that," the envelope received another look, "even the bumbling, cack-handed Mr Magill has his uses, he actually managed to get to the right place, a little late but still in time to stop the fireworks."

"What happened to Ward and his cronies?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Bodie exclaimed. "They half kill you and are allowed to get away with it?"

"Maidstone is full of very blind, very deaf, very stupid people, Bodie. By the time Magill clonked along the landing in his size twelve regulation boots the only person left in the shower-room was me. The way I was lying and the fact my trousers were somewhere around my ankles apparently aroused some suspicion but, by the time I came around and worked out what I thought had happened and developed a nasty case of traumatic amnesia, there wasn't much they could do."

"Surely there was an enquiry?" Bodie was quietly appalled that such a vicious and serious attack could happen in a secure institution without there being repercussions of some kind.

"Oh yeah, there's a report on that too in there." The envelope received another cold look. "There was some criticism of the screws fouling up the rota system and letting the fight happen in the first place, but most of the blame came down on my head," Doyle said bitterly.

"On you?" Bodie asked. "How did they work that out?"

"Being as how me and dear Bert were such bosom buddies--" Doyle saw the look of disbelief on his partner's face. "Oh yeah, according to the screws--who of course know everything about everyone--"

"Says who!" sneered Bodie.

"Says the screws, of course--you'll never catch them admitting otherwise. Anyway, I've already told you what happened after dear Bert left, haven't I? Well, they thought that I was in the running to take control, there was a lot of tension in the wing and they knew something was brewing. They decided the fight was the climax of the struggle for the top...and that I was the loser."

"So nothing was done?"

"I was put...somewhere else after being discharged from the prison hospital. Ward took over from Bert and peace was restored. Ward was happy, the screws were happy, Bryant was happy and I was out of it."

But not happy. The unspoken words hung between them, making Bodie wonder exactly where the 'somewhere else' was. He asked.

"'E' wing," was Doyle's unenlightening and reluctant answer.

"'E' wing?" Bodie asked. "What's that?"

"Maximum security."

"Solitary confinement!" Bodie said, horrified. "How long for?"

"The last eight months or so."

All at once Bodie understood Doyle's reluctance to mingle with crowds of people, his reticence when drawn into a group's conversation. Eight months' maximum security could do that to you, spending at least twenty-two hours out of twenty-four locked away in isolation, month after month; a person could easily forget how to converse freely with others.

Bodie knew that long-term inmates in maximum security wings were allowed to make their cells comfy with radios and televisions, pictures and other small luxuries--if there was someone outside to bring them in for you, but being completely alone, cut off--Bodie shuddered at the thought. He was a loner by choice--to be forced into isolation was an idea that sickened him.

"How did you cope with that?" he asked eventually.

"It was...okay. I soon got used to it. Was nice, being alone, no one bothered me, pestered me; even when I did see the others on the wing at exercise time we all kept to ourselves--everyone had their own reasons for keeping apart and the screws didn't encourage friendly conversation. After Bert and everything...being ignored was a nice change. I made the best of it."

Doyle knew he had glossed over the misery he had felt every date of each month that passed, but there was no point wallowing. Although unpleasant, 'E' wing had been a lot better than his first introduction to Maidstone. He could see that Bodie had been shocked by what he had heard, his indignation that Ward had got off scot-free somehow warmed Doyle; it was good to know that someone cared. He drained his glass and stole a quick look across the room to see what Bodie was doing. Unaware that he was being watched, Bodie was fiddling with the envelope, bending the corners, then rolling it into a tube, flattening it out and then rolling it the other way. That his hands were acting without conscious thought was obvious to Doyle. Bodie's eyes and face were guarded and shuttered, blocking out what his thoughts might be.

Bodie tried to imagine the enforced isolation; Doyle's voice had revealed only a glimmer of the loneliness he must have felt--'I soon got used to it...being ignored was a nice change'. Shuddering with horror, Bodie wondered how many times a day Doyle had had to tell himself that being alone was what he preferred.

Not for the first time, Bodie began to re-evaluate his opinion of the man Cowley had all but dumped on him.

---

"How much longer are you going to be?" Bodie demanded crossly. He had been in bed for nearly a quarter of an hour and Doyle was still fiddling around, flitting between his room down the hall and the bathroom.

"I'm just cleaning my teeth," the voice answered.

"Just leave 'em to soak, they'll be safe in the bathroom! Hurry up, I want this light out," Bodie yelled as he thumped a fist into his pillow then switched off the lamp on his side of the bed, leaving only the lamp on Doyle's side. The shade must have been knocked at some time, because instead of a soft, cosy glow a beam of brilliant white light poured unhindered straight from the bulb and into Bodie's face; even with his eyes shut the light was still annoying.

He heard Doyle enter the bedroom, heard the sound of the curtain being drawn back, then, just as Bodie thought he was about to get into bed, the soft footsteps left the room.

"Now where are you goin'?"

"I'm putting something away."

"Hurry up!" Bodie complained. This nightly ritual was becoming exceedingly irritating. Every night Bodie had to make a point of reminding his house guest where he was sleeping; left to his own devices Bodie knew that Doyle would slip into his own bed and hope against hope that his absence wouldn't be noticed. Once he had agreed that yes, tonight he would sleep in the double bed, Doyle would take his time getting there, just finish reading this, or I want to watch the end of that, cleaning his teeth, washing his hair--and then taking hours to dry it--anything to put off the inevitable--and then once actually in bed the rigmarole of settling down to sleep would start. Ever since giving Bodie the nosebleed and subsequent black eye, Doyle had not refused to let Bodie hold him--he protested at some length every night, but he didn't refuse the restraining embrace.

Tomorrow night, Bodie decided grimly, they would start going to bed as soon as dinner was over, that way they might get the light off before midnight.

The footsteps returned and moved towards the bed...and then away again.

Now what's he doing? Bodie thought desperately.

Resigned to another stalling tactic, he opened his eyes to see Doyle removing his bathrobe and draping it around a chair but still making no move towards the bed.

"What are you fiddling with now?" Bodie demanded, his temper finally getting the better of his desire not to get mad with the infuriating little bugger. "I want this fucking light off so's I can get some sleep!"

"All right, all right," Doyle answered rather distractedly, Bodie's tone of voice only barely penetrating the cloud of thoughts swamping him at that particular moment.

Unable to wait patiently a second longer, Bodie surged across the empty half of the bed and switched the light off.

"Bodie!" a surprised voice cried out, "can't see a bleedin'--ouch!"

A muffled thump and a stream of extremely coarse expletives poured from Doyle's mouth.

"You all right?" Bodie asked, quite unconcerned at first, no one could be that voluble if he was seriously injured, but then the swearing tailed off to be replace by a series of choked-off hisses and sniffs, and he repeated his question. The only reply was an increase in volume and frequency of the strange, strangulated noises Doyle was producing. Alarmed, Bodie turned the light back on.

Doyle was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, only his shaking shoulders and the back of his downbent head visible.

"Doyle?" Bodie called softly.

There was no answer, no indication he had even heard his name.

Bodie slipped out of bed and moved to where Doyle was sitting, crumpled, shaking and holding his left foot with both hands, his face hidden by his arms and upraised knees.

"What's wrong?"

The shaking only increased. Bodie was really concerned now and he moved to crouch beside Doyle, reaching out to touch the curly head gently.

"Hey, come on, what's up? What's wrong? Have you really hurt yourself?"

For a few seconds Bodie thought Doyle was crying and cursed himself for having given him the reports to read. For the last few days Doyle had wandered around in a very strange mood, not appearing at all relieved to know, finally, that Ward had not achieved his object. He had instead seemed more angry over what the Governor and screws had written about him--angry and hurt, very hurt, that anyone could have apparently prejudged and misunderstood him so badly.

The wheezes and shakes were reaching mammoth proportions when Doyle finally gave in to Bodie's coaxing hand and lifted his head up. For a second their eyes met--then Doyle threw his head back and roared with laughter, helpless, uncontrollable laughter.

So relieved not to have found tears, Bodie found himself breaking into a smile and soft chuckles, eventually laughing outright in response to Doyle's unrestrained mirth.

In the end, after several long minutes during which Doyle ended up sprawled, helpless and weak on the floor, the laughter subsided. Wiping away the tears from his eyes, Doyle took hold of the offered hand and allowed Bodie to help him up and steer him towards the bed.

"Oh god!" Doyle gasped, "'aven't laughed like that for years...stomach's killin' me...oh god, dunno what hurts more, me stomach or me foot!"

Sitting down heavily on the bed, Doyle twisted his foot round to examine its underside.

"Not even a mark--felt like a ten inch bleedin' nail!"

"What's so funny about treading on something sharp?" Bodie also checked the sole of Doyle's foot for injury and then turned to scan the carpet for the offending object.

"Nothing," Doyle answered, a fresh bubble of laughter making further speech temporarily impossible.

Bodie found the small silver shirt pin that had embedded itself, point upwards, in the carpet pile. "Come on--share the joke," he begged, setting the pin safely aside and returning to his own side of the bed.

His breathing still ragged, Doyle tried to explain. He collapsed back onto the pillows and allowed Bodie to flick the duvet across him.

"I was just thinking, see," he began, "about what I enjoy most about being free, outside. Just the little things, you know," he turned his head on the pillow to look at Bodie as he tried to make him understand, "like...I dunno, 'aving a bath at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon just because I want one and not because it's my turn and I won't be able to for another day or so, and being the first person to read today's newspaper--not the twentieth to read the day before yesterday's. But what really cracked me up was thinking..." the green eyes sparkled anew and Doyle broke off with a fresh bout of giggles; Bodie waited patiently, "was...thinking how nice it was to get into bed...and then turn the light off...myself..." The explanation continued disjointedly as Doyle struggled against the wild desire to laugh again at what he knew was coming next. "...luxury of turning a light on and off...from your own bed...'s wonderful...never...never realised how wonderful until I couldn't do it...inside, screws turn the lights off...every night...always on the wrong side of the cell when it happened...bleedin' Bert always left his boots sticking out...and I always tripped over the damn things...was just thinking about...that when you turned the light out...and then I trod on...and it just...struck me...as being a...bit...oh gawd, it's...bringing tears...to me...eyes..."

Laughter being infectious anyway, Bodie couldn't stop himself from responding to Doyle's enveloping good humour, and they lay side by side, giggling like schoolboys in a dormitory, until they were laughed out. Finally and with a sense of ceremony, Doyle switched the light off and rolled onto his side, accepting with no discernible restraint Bodie's covering arm.

Hardly able to believe how things were turning out, Bodie carefully made himself comfortable, tucking his knees behind Doyle and resting his arm around the trim waist. Doyle's laughter had so relaxed him that he didn't tense up or raise his normal objections when his wrist was taken in a firm grip but instead relaxed into Bodie's protective embrace and slipped into sleep.

Even waking the next morning was a pleasurable experience. Bodie awoke first and was slightly surprised to find Doyle still sleeping soundly. Neither of them could have moved much during the night, and they were still cuddled up closely. Not only was it the first morning Bodie had woken to find Doyle still in bed, but it was also the first completely undisturbed night they had both had. It had been nearly a week since the last big nightmare that had so rudely and painfully woken them both up, but every night since then, Doyle's sleep had still been troubled and restless; only Bodie's soothing grip and sleepy reassurance had prevented the dreams from gaining a hold on the helpless sleeper.

Doyle's breathing changed rhythm as he slid, easily, from sleep to waking. Curious as to what he would do, Bodie remained still, but Doyle knew he was awake and uncurled himself, releasing his grip on the hand that was resting on his stomach, and stretching.

"Ummgh!" he grunted.

"Morning to you too!" Bodie replied, then asked, "Are you going running this morning?" when Doyle finished his bone-popping stretch.

"Mmm," Doyle answered. "When I've woken up properly." He yawned and rubbed his eyes then looked at the time--seven o'clock. "Why?"

"Thought I'd join you." Bodie's voice wasn't very enthusiastic.

"How come?"

"Macklin in two weeks is how come," Bodie said gloomily. "Gotta be nearly fit before I go near him or else he'll kill me on the first day."

"He seemed a nice bloke to me," Doyle said, not understanding the reason for the depth of Bodie's gloom.

"Do you think I could have that in writing?" Bodie asked as he slipped from the bed. "Then when he's finished hammering us to death I can show you what a fool you were. A nice bloke! Macklin?"

Hoisting his pyjamas to a more secure position on his hips, Bodie gave Doyle a final, disbelieving look and vanished into the bathroom, shaking his head and muttering, "Macklin! A nice bloke! Macklin!"

---

CHAPTER SEVEN

Feeling comfortable and relaxed, Bodie leaned back in the plush leather armchair and took a slow pull at his drink. The huge, ornate clock out in the lobby chimed out half past seven, and Bodie's forehead creased into a slight frown.

"Don't look so impatient, Bodie, I'll be with you as soon as I've finished with these breakfast menus."

The tall, elegant woman blew him a kiss as she glided across the bar and out into reception. Joanna was the sort of person who glided, Bodie decided appreciatively, never walked, always a sexy, sensuous glide.

But it hadn't been Joanna that had caused him to frown. It was taking Doyle one heck of a long time to finish dressing and come down to the bar. If he didn't hurry up the girls would arrive first.

"There you are," Bodie said. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Sorry," Doyle replied quietly. "Didn't realise you were waiting specially. Are they serving dinner?"

"Yes, but we can't go in yet, the girls aren't here."

"Girls? What girls?" Doyle's head swung around sharply.

"Joanna and...whatsername...Jo's friend...Terry. I did tell you," Bodie said defensively, because of the look of startled surprise in Doyle's eyes.

"You've mentioned a Joanna but this is the first I've heard about her friend."

"Sorry," Bodie said. "Must have forgotten to mention her. When I told Jo I was coming down here she said that her friend was spending her holiday here so I thought we could double date."

"Double date?" asked Doyle.

"Yeah. I've booked a table in the restaurant for eight o'clock. You don't mind, do you?" Bodie asked belatedly.

"It's a bit late to ask now, isn't it!" Doyle said irritably.

"Sorry if I've upset any plans you had but I thought that a good meal, and drink and a couple of nice girls would relax us nicely before Macklin tries to kill us off tomorrow."

"A light meal and an early night would be more sensible."

"So? Be sensible and go to bed early." Bodie winked and grinned lewdly. "I have every intention of going to bed early. I've also seen Terry and she looks like she might be agreeable to an early night if you play your cards right!"

Any answer Doyle might have wished to make remained unspoken as Joanna and her friend arrived and the conversation became dominated by introductions and the organising of predinner drinks for everyone.

Joanna and Bodie controlled the conversation, talking to each other and drawing the other two into a friendly, animated circle.

It was the first time Doyle had seen Bodie so relaxed, his quiet, unfamiliar laughter adding to the sense of cheerful well-being. That Bodie and the elegant Joanna had known each other some time was revealed by a few amusing anecdotes told mainly for Doyle and Terry's benefit.

The meal progressed slowly and Doyle was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. Terry came across as a very pleasant, intelligent woman and once they found a common interest they got on pretty well.

Managing to divert Joanna's attentions for a few moments by getting her to choose a liqueur coffee, Bodie glanced across the table to see how Doyle was getting on. At first, Doyle's usual stiffness and reserve had proved a little awkward but by degrees throughout the meal he had thawed and was now talking earnestly to Terry, looking more relaxed and at ease than when they had first sat down.

The drinks Doyle had consumed before and during the meal had no doubt helped considerably, Bodie decided. A snippet of the other pair's conversation drifted across the table... He hadn't known Doyle knew anything about art.

The coffees arrived and were duly drunk, rounding off an enjoyable meal.

"Did you know that we have a disco down in the basement, Bodie?" Joanna asked as they left the restaurant.

"Didn't have one last time, did you?"

"Not quite, it was still being converted then, but," as Joanna pointed out, "that was nearly nine months ago."

"As long ago as that!" Bodie exclaimed dramatically. "Seems like only yesterday."

"Liar!" Joanna laughed. "I suppose you're going to try and kid me that you've thought of me every day."

"Well..." Bodie smiled and then admitted, "not every day."

"Come on then, Terry, Ray, do you fancy going down for a dance?"

A hot, smoky, overcrowded disco was something Doyle wanted to avoid but Terry was pulling on his arm.

"Oh yes, I'd love to. Please come with us, Ray?" she asked sweetly.

Under the combined silent persuasion of three pairs of eyes, he capitulated and they entered the club.

It was as bad as Doyle had expected. The dimly lit room was throbbing with noise and bright lights and was packed to capacity. Most of the men present were plainly from the army barracks further down the road, and all seemed intent on having a wonderful time.

There were no empty tables, but Doyle managed to collect two stools for the girls to sit on while Bodie went to get them some drinks.

As they were waiting for Bodie to weave his way back through the crowd, Doyle could see Joanna was trying to talk to him and had to lean over and place his ear almost on top of her mouth to hear what she was saying. Through the heavy beat of a very energetic rock and roll number, he could make out about one word in three but he managed to catch her drift.

Apparently, so Joanna told him, the disco was usually closed midweek, but the NAAFI from the barracks had hired the cellar to promote easier relations with the local populace. Looking around the room, Doyle decided that the fathers of the local girls had every right to be concerned.

Bodie returned with a tray of drinks.

"Double," he shouted. "Save going through that lot again."

He had barely taken a sip of his, though, before Joanna was tugging him towards the dance floor. Passing his drink and his jacket over to Doyle, Bodie went. Having already removed his own jacket, Doyle spread them both over their stools and pulled Terry towards the dance floor.

In a perverse way Doyle was happier than he had been in the restaurant. Terry was a nice girl and he'd enjoyed her company but she had been making him increasingly uncomfortable. Everything about her revealed a tantalising glimpse of the sensual nature smouldering beneath the veneer of well-bred gentility. Down in the disco the noise completely stopped any intelligent conversation, and mime was the best way of conversing. The fact that the D.J. was a rock and roll fanatic and playing to a sympathetic audience also prevented any slow dances where, Doyle was sure, Terry would prove her ability to let her body talk for her. So, he danced and enjoyed himself.

Having decided that two dances at this pace were enough, Bodie pulled Joanna back to the stools where they sat and watched Doyle and Terry.

Bodie downed a good measure of his ice-cold lager. He should have guessed that his partner was such a good dancer; Doyle and Terry complemented each other and, looking around, Bodie noticed that he wasn't the only one watching them. Their lively interpretation of the jive had earned them a little more floor space, which they were using to good effect. The record came to an end and Doyle and Terry collapsed, holding each other up. Another record started and the space they'd worked so for was taken by other dancers.

Bodie held their drinks out for them as they made their way back to the stools. Terry sat down, as Bodie pulled Doyle closer to shout in his ear.

"All right?" he bellowed.

Doyle just grinned and nodded. He was having a good time and managing to quell his niggling doubts about Bodie's ulterior motives in arranging the double date. For all Bodie's talk about the delectable Joanna, Doyle knew that little if anything heavy was going to happen. Bodie had, after all, booked them into a double room, and surely he didn't intend taking Joanna to bed with them both!

Never having been keen on cavorting around a dance floor, Bodie was only too happy to let Doyle partner both the girls. There would be plenty of time to dance with Joanna when the D.J. finally decided his audience were tired, mellow and drunk enough to enjoy the inevitable smoochy numbers.

---

The first slow dance took Doyle by surprise; the way Terry melted into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder threw him for a moment and he stumbled, treading on her toes.

As the second smooch faded away, Doyle looked around for Bodie. It was past midnight and if they were going to face the assault course in the morning with any chance of success, they really ought to be thinking of turning in.

The dancers parted, and he saw Bodie, moving slowly around the same piece of floor, holding Joanna close and nuzzling lovingly at her neck.

Another intimate number welled up through the loudspeakers, and Terry shifted slightly, pressing herself so close that it was difficult to move without losing balance. In time to the music, Terry moved her body in a gentle, slip-sliding motion that made Doyle aware of every inch of his body that was touching hers.

Ever since his early teens, Doyle had always found it difficult to dance that closely with a partner. The music and the slow movements were hypnotically erotic and it was incredibly embarrassing to know that the girl could feel every inch of his arousal. With someone special it was different, it was almost a form of love-making, but with a stranger it could ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening.

By the end of the fourth dance Doyle didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Poor Terry had been giving it all she had, sliding, rubbing, nuzzling around his neck but so far she hadn't had much response. In fact, she'd had absolutely no response whatsoever, and a slightly bewildered look was beginning to replace her previous smouldering sensuality.

A bell rang behind the bar and the shout of 'last orders' went up. The D.J. played the last waltz and the party finally came to a halt.

Relieved that the end of the evening was in sight, Doyle was shattered when Bodie said that he'd see him at breakfast. Joanna, it seemed, had her own suite of rooms in the hotel, one of the perks of being the manager's secretary.

Doyle was speechless. It was now perfectly clear that this was what Bodie had been planning all along. When he'd first seen the double bed in their hotel room, Doyle had questioned whether the hotel staff wouldn't think it a bit strange with the two of them sharing it, but Bodie had shrugged it off, saying that all the twin bedded rooms were booked and as they were so used to sleeping together what did it matter, and that the staff had seen stranger things than two men sharing a bed.

Joanna and Terry returned from their hurried confab in the ladies' room, and latched onto the arms of their companions. Before Doyle could think of any plausible delaying tactics, Bodie and his companion had bidden them a cheerful goodnight and vanished.

Doyle groaned inwardly and turned to look at Terry, who was waiting expectantly at his side. She smiled and hugged his arm.

"Do you fancy a cup of coffee? I expect we can still order one from reception," Doyle stalled as his mind frantically searched for a way out.

"Mmmm. Love one," replied Terry. "Shall we have it sent to my room or yours?" she asked as they approached the reception desk.

"Er..." Doyle floundered. There was no way he was going to wind up alone in either room with Terry. "It's a bit daft asking for room service this time of night. We'd be waiting forever."

"I'm in no hurry," Terry informed him.

"Can we have a couple of coffees in the lounge, please?" Doyle asked the night porter, completely ignoring Terry's almost blatant invitation.

The lounge was empty, and it was a rather disconcerted young lady who watched her escort sit a respectable distance away from her on the elegant sofa. Terry was a well-brought-up young lady who had her own strict protocol. While she considered it permissible to indicate her warm and loving nature to a desirable young man and show him a metaphoric green light, actually to take the active role and press the starting button was not how a lady should behave.

The coffee arrived and was drunk in an uncomfortable silence. A few stragglers from the disco were hanging around the lobby in a noisy group. Some were waiting for taxis but two rather loud-mouthed squaddies were each trying to persuade the night porter to let them book into the hotel, while their girlfriends tried to hide their blushes and their faces behind one of the huge green leafy displays decorating the reception area. The church-going, upright citizen and father of three daughters was firmly telling the drunken revellers that his hotel simply did not allow that sort of thing to happen on the premises. Having put the squaddies firmly in their place, the night porter called over to the girls.

"Helen, Maria, would you like me to call a taxi for you? Your fathers would never forgive me if they found out I let you walk home alone at this time of night."

The girls gave up pretending they weren't with the soldiers and stepped out from behind the concealing greenery.

"You know how your dads feel about you walking out past the barracks late at night," the porter added for good measure.

In the face of such opposition, the soldiers decided to cut their losses, and headed back towards the barracks, drunk, alone and frustrated.

Watching this by-play from the lounge, Doyle wondered what Terry's reaction would be if he called one of the soldiers back and told the lucky man that he had an available room and a girl who was raring to go but that he just wasn't in the mood to satisfy her requirements. No! That wasn't called for, Doyle told himself. Not called for at all. There was no reason he should direct any bitterness towards Terry.

"Ray?"

The soft voice made him snap back to awareness. Terry was standing in front of him.

"Are you all right, Ray?" she asked, puzzled by the sad expression that had settled across his features. "You're not ill, are you?"

"Er..." Doyle's mind tried to shift into gear and catch up. Terry was giving him a way out. "No...I just feel a bit...you know. The meal was lovely but the dancing and beer on top of it might not have been such a good idea..."

At such short notice it was the best he could come up with, but it seemed to work.

"A bit of peace and rest will probably make you feel better. You're leaving first thing tomorrow morning, aren't you?"

"That's right. I suppose I ought to get some sleep. We've got a heavy day tomorrow."

"I'll say goodbye now, then, you'll be gone by the time I come down in the morning," Terry said brightly.

Relieved that everything wasn't going to get horribly complicated, Doyle stood up and gave her a brief hug and kiss on the side of her mouth.

"Goodnight and goodbye. It's been a lovely evening, it was nice meeting you," he said, and was surprised to realise that he meant it.

The quick embrace and sudden change of mood took Terry by surprise. Maybe he really was just feeling a bit off colour. Perfect gentlemen were so rarely come across that she found it hard to judge. Being of a naturally generous and unbegrudging nature, Terry decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Perhaps we'll meet again. Joanna said that Bodie comes here from time to time."

"Perhaps we will," Doyle agreed, thinking of the army assault course only a few miles away. In the next few years he was going to be seeing quite a bit of this part of England--if Macklin had his way.

"I hope so," he added.

Terry returned a chaste kiss of her own and smiled. "So do I." Then she was gone, leaving Doyle alone in the quiet lounge.

Reaching his room, Doyle noticed, with no surprise whatsoever, that all of Bodie's things were gone.

Wearily, Doyle sank down onto the bed and pulled his shoes off, kicking them away, and tugging off the rest of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap beside the bed. Remembering to set his alarm for the next morning he fell back onto the bed and pulled the covers over his nakedness. Too tired to think about the way the evening had ended, he switched off the light and rolled onto his side to sleep.

But he couldn't get comfortable. He rolled onto his back, then onto his side again before turning to lie flat on his stomach. Doyle wondered if something was wrong with the bed, but discounted that; it was no softer for firmer than the one he'd been sleeping in for the last month. The bed was all right, it was just...so big. The root of the problem suddenly became clear. He couldn't get comfortable because he couldn't get warm enough. It had been ages since he'd last slept alone in a double bed, and the last few weeks he had grown used to sleeping with a warm-blooded living blanket wrapped around him.

Turning the light back on, Doyle padded to the wardrobe and pulled out a spare blanket which he folded double and spread over his side of the bed; then, taking the spare pillows he placed them on top of the covers down the centre. Satisfied, he climbed back into bed where, comforted by the heaviness along his back and warmed by the extra blanket, he slept.

Waking up was a bit of a shock.

One second he was fast asleep and the next wide-awake and grasping at thin air. Puzzled, Doyle blinked and looked around the pre-dawn gloom in the bedroom. Surely someone had been there, he had felt...something...a presence. The room was empty, though, no one but himself there.

Still puzzled, Doyle snuggled back down under the covers. It was strange, he thought sleepily; although he'd been sure someone was there the presence had not been disturbing like it usually was, in fact, it had been quite...nice.

Curling up to go back to sleep, Doyle's warm hand found something it hadn't come across for a long, long time. Hardly able to believe that his senses weren't deceiving him, Doyle threw back the covers to look. The sudden exposure to the cooler bedroom air caused the appendage to shrink back even more.

Barely remembering to breathe, Doyle touched himself gently, memory guiding his hand through familiar motions. Instead of the erection growing, though, the pleasurable sensations faded into nothing and the more familiar limp, sexless flesh rested in his hand.

Disappointed and frustrated, Doyle punched his fist into the mattress. This was ridiculous, he told himself, there was absolutely no reason why he couldn't get an erection. Of course there wasn't, the small quiet voice of common-sense told him, you just did! It had been so long since it last happened that he'd almost forgotten how it felt.

Forcing himself to be calm, Doyle rolled over to lie on his back, closed his eyes and took a series of regular, deep breaths. Waiting until he felt the last of the tension leaving his body, he moved his left hand to slide over his lower belly, stroking himself, touching the soft indentation under his hips where memory told his wandering hands that he liked to be caressed.

Enjoying the simple touch, Doyle eased his right hand over his belly to mirror the actions of his other hand, sliding them down until his fingertips brushed against the tangle of pubic hair. A gentle throb rewarded the careful touch. Another, stronger pulse encouraged him to reach further into the nest of hair and touch the heavy balls resting there. Beneath his fingers he felt himself tighten, pulse and grow.

Frightened to open his eyes just in case it was all happening in a dream, Doyle continued touching himself, revelling in the very real pleasure of pleasuring himself.

As his excitement grew he tried to recall the elusive dream that had first woken him up. Was it Ann, he wondered, had he been imagining her touch? But time had eroded Ann's image from his mind and he couldn't conjure up anything, her face, her scent or her hands to feed his fantasy.

Terry then? As his hands worked on his cock, Doyle recalled how Terry had danced with him, the feel of her breasts rubbing against his chest through the soft, silky material of her dress, her nipples brushing against him, little hard buttons of flesh rubbing...her scent, her voice, and the hard press of her as she danced against him...

Considering that he had waited almost a year, Doyle felt that perhaps it would have been nicer if it had lasted just a bit longer. All that fuss, all those months of worrying and wondering and then it was up and down again quicker than it took Roger Bannister to run a mile!

Stamina's what you need, Doyle! he told himself, stamina--and a bit of practice.

Peering at the alarm, Doyle could just see he had another few hours before he had to get up. Time for a bit more sleep--and who knows, he thought as he rolled onto his side, on hand still curled around his sensitive, sated penis, maybe even a bit more practice!

---

With a final, lingering caress, Bodie eased himself out of the warm bed, fending off a pair of silky, warm arms that sought to pull him back down again.

"Sorry, love, but it's time I wasn't here."

"Just five more minutes?" Joanna's sultry voice pleaded.

He was sorely tempted but the thought of what Macklin was going to throw at him for the next four days gave him the strength to fight off the temptation.

"Sorry, petal," he whispered regretfully, "but I'm gonna need some energy to get through the next few days."

"Spoilsport!" Joanna complained as she blew her lover a kiss. "You've got no stamina, Bodie; come on." She followed him from the bed and slipped her arms around him, pressing her naked body against his as she continued her efforts to tempt him back to her bed. "Just for a few minutes, please."

It was rather difficult walking into the bathroom with Joanna so firmly wrapped around him but he coped--just! Stretching out an arm, he managed to turned the shower on.

"I'm going to be late, Jo. Will you please let go so I can get in the shower?"

"No."

Short of prising her off with a crowbar there was little Bodie could do. So he decided on a compromise. Pulling her under the shower with him, he twisted around and took the warm, inviting mouth in a bruising kiss and allowed her expert hands to coax his far from reluctant flesh into life once more.

---

By the time Bodie finally reached the main lobby, they had only ten minutes to get to the training centre that was a good fifteen minute drive away.

Doyle wasn't there, neither was he in the restaurant having breakfast. Through the reception windows he could see their car where they had parked last night.

Taking the stairs at a run, Bodie hurried up to Doyle's room only to meet Doyle as he came charging around the corner, holdall gripped between his teeth as he struggled to finish dressing himself.

"Shorry 'f I've 'ept you waitin'," Doyle mumbled around the thick strap.

Bodie took the bag off him and they headed back down the stairs.

"What kept you?" Bodie asked, blithely omitting to mention that he too had been late.

"Sorry," Doyle muttered as he finished struggling into his jacket and patted his hair into place, "but I forgot the time..." Blushing furiously, Doyle kept his head down and grabbed his holdall back.

Delighted that his plan had worked, Bodie slapped his partner on the back and chuckled.

"Good morning is it--or was it?" he asked, grinning lewdly.

By now they had reached the car, Doyle having tossed his room key onto the reception desk as they shot past it. He knew exactly what Bodie was thinking and didn't feel in the least bit inclined to enlighten him. Waking up the second time this morning, Doyle had gone back over the arrangements Bodie had made and realised that the whole thing had been pre-planned. The unnecessary overnight stay at the hotel--they could just as easily have stayed at the barracks--and Joanna with her conveniently available 'friend,' the meal--which Bodie had insisted on paying for--and the sleeping arrangements. Doyle knew that Bodie had been quietly concerned about his reluctance to rejoin the social mainstream and had got used to the way Bodie always seemed to make a point of chatting up girls in twos and then feigning uninterest in both girls when Doyle hadn't taken the bait.

It wasn't that he didn't understand or appreciate what Bodie had been up to--because he did--but Doyle had, not unsurprisingly, found himself unable to confide in him and reveal that it was his fear of falling flat on his face when the final clinch came that held him back. To have to admit to Bodie that, on top of everything else, he was impotent had been too embarrassing even to contemplate--but now it didn't matter! Once he had thought everything through this morning Doyle had deliberately relaxed and slowly, patiently and lovingly repeated the carefully erotic actions that had sent him into the relaxed, sated sleep he had just awoken from.

Just thinking about the delicious loving he had given himself twice this morning caused a fresh hopeful sensation in the pit of his stomach--and brought a new rush of colour to his cheeks. Now that body had remembered how to operate it didn't seem to want to stop!

Recognising the cloudy, heavy-lidded eyes and rosy sheen on the freshly shaven cheeks for the rising sexual heat it was, Bodie laughed again, then pushed his foot down on the accelerator. They had five minutes left in which to try to keep in Macklin's good books.

---

Leaving his driver to park the car, Cowley carefully stepped over the debris to where Macklin was watching the proceedings out on the site through a pair of powerful binoculars.

"How are they shaping up?" Cowley asked.

Without taking his eyes from the scene before him, Macklin answered:

"Bodie's in good form, you can have him back on active service as soon as you want."

"And Doyle?"

Macklin lowered the glasses and turned to look at the man beside him, then handed the binoculars over.

"Technically he's good--bloody good."

"Practically?" Cowley asked as he watched his newest recruit completely obliterate his target.

"Practically..." Macklin said slowly. "We both know that only the real thing will show us that. In the mock-up, the trials, in the gym--he's all right."

"As good as Bodie?"

"Different."

"How different?"

Macklin didn't answer straight away, and Cowley dropped the glasses and turned his back on the simulated street battle. Against the backdrop of rapid rifle shots and distant explosions, Cowley repeated his question.

"How different? I need to know if he's going to hold Bodie up, slow him down, are they so different they won't work together?"

"In a way they're almost...opposites," Macklin said thoughtfully. "Once, twice in the mock-ups Bodie was 'shot' because Doyle didn't cover him adequately and, vice versa, Doyle's been 'shot' because he didn't anticipate the line of action Bodie took."

Cowley knew the training routine; after each run an inquest into what happened and why was held, and the agents would be faced with their mistakes or victories on film. Frame by frame they would analyse, criticise or justify their actions.

"The discussions showed that Doyle can be impulsive but on the whole is more cautious, takes a more defensive stance whereas Bodie, as we know, is more aggressive and more inclined to jump in both feet first and with his eyes shut."

Macklin paused and frowned slightly. "But I feel they're good together. Different--but good. Bodie needs a little of Doyle's caution and Doyle...well, he could use a bit of Bodie's forcefulness."

"Doyle is no good to me if he needs Bodie to nursemaid him."

"A nursemaid is something Doyle doesn't need," Macklin said, his face breaking into a smile. "Put Doyle into a position where he is being threatened and you'll see what I mean. He's a bit like one of those sixpenny bangers you buy for Guy Fawkes night. Small and doesn't look like much but, oh boy! light the blue paper and stand well back!" Macklin laughed outright. "There aren't many people who catch me out or manage to hurt me but he managed it--only once, mind you, but he did it. Knows how to fight dirty does our little Ray of sunshine."

Cowley raised an eyebrow at the strange nickname, but Macklin forestalled any comment by continuing: "Doyle's problem is that he thinks like a policeman."

"Time will cure that," said Cowley.

"If he survives long enough." Macklin's sombre comment was a chilling reminder of the possible fate awaiting any new agent.

---

Slumped, sweating and exhausted on his makeshift sandbag armchair, Doyle watched the informal meeting that was taking place on the other side of the butts. His ears were burning and the cold sweat had nothing to do with the exercise he had just completed. Macklin and the range sergeant were talking about him to Cowley--he knew it! Sergeant Blowers was no doubt reciting the list of blunders starting with how he blew his own safe house and shot the innocent passer-by and ending up with getting Bodie shot three times. At least he'd only got himself shot once. A head shot. Dead was dead; the thought didn't help to make him feel better.

It hadn't started too badly the first week; back at HQ Doyle felt he'd coped with Macklin's demands. Bodie had prepared him well. Halfway through their second week, though, he had begun to understand why Bodie had laughed when he'd said he though Macklin was a nice bloke.

Macklin was a sadist.

A bloodthirsty, merciless, ruthless, unmitigated bastard.

And a sadist!

Unaware that he was scowling, Doyle turned away from the three men.

"Don't worry, sunshine," Bodie said reassuringly; he had seen the little group as well and could guess what was going through Doyle's mind, "you'll be all right."

"Ta very much," Doyle replied sourly. "I suppose they'll overlook the fact that I blew all the wrong things up and shot the wrong targets."

"And got me shot and yourself killed," Bodie finished for him.

"Thanks for reminding me!"

"Look, Doyle." Bodie leant forward and rested a hand on a bony knee, shaking it until Doyle looked at him. "You've done all right. Macklin knows it and so does Cowley--and shape up, mate, 'cause God is coming over to talk to us."

Doyle scrambled to his feet and braced himself to hear the worst. If the last two weeks had been his final trial he knew it was hopeless to hope--

"My office, eight o'clock Monday morning," Cowley barked at them, and Doyle's heart sank; the whole weekend to wait before hearing the final inevitable decision. The head of CI5 had already turned away from them, towards his waiting car when he turned back and snapped at them:

"And may I remind you, 4.5, 3.7, that I demand punctuality as well as obedience from all my men." Then he was gone, his car fast disappearing away up the road.

Slightly puzzled, Doyle turned to Bodie.

"What was that all about?" he asked, hardly daring to think what he hoped it was.

"Really, 4.5," Bodie chided, "I would have thought it was obvious."

"Well done, 4.5," said Macklin as he gave Doyle a congratulatory thump on his back that knocked him even more off balance than he already was.

"4.5," Doyle repeated, testing the sound and deciding that he quite liked it. "I'm in," he announced in a breathless whisper, then shouted it. "I'm bloody well in!"

"Don't exactly pick 'em for their quick thinking, do you?" asked Sergeant Blowers.

"Or for their brawn!" Macklin gripped Doyle's upper arm and examined the muscle there before sighing sorrowfully.

"Nah--it's his face. Sucker for a pretty face, is Cowley--ouch!" Bodie cried out as the full force of Raymond Doyle, alias 4.5 and the newly authorised, card-carrying member of CI5 threw himself at him, toppling them both to the ground.

Macklin and Sergeant Blowers walked off, leaving them scrabbling and scuffling in the dirt, talking of the demerits of allowing such juvenile behaviour on army property.

---

Eventually, Bodie began to steer the elated, shocked, scruffy, worn-out bundle of clothes that was his new partner back to the barracks. On the way back to their room, though, they met up with another of Macklin's victims who were intent on finding something in the NAAFI bar to deaden their pain. Once they discovered that Doyle had just officially been accepted into their ranks they put their hearts and souls--not to mention a good portion of their wallets--into giving him a welcome none of them would forget in a hurry.

The drinking session ended when the bar steward threw them out an hour and a half after closing time. Accepting that all good things must come to an end sometime, the agents all weaved their way through the dark-windowed Nissen huts to their beds.

Almost falling through the doorway of the cupboard that was their room, Bodie and Doyle struggled to undress and climbed into their beds, sleep coming almost before their eyes were shut.

Bodie woke up once during the night to find himself whispering softly and stretching across the eighteen inches that separated them to pat a chilly shoulder.

"Ssh...ssh...'sall right, Ray...everythin's all right. I'm here. Ssh...ssh..."

Reassured, Doyle stopped fidgeting and settled down into a deeper sleep, trapping the palm on his shoulder by covering it with one of his own. When Bodie withdrew his hand Doyle murmured a sleepy protest but then accepted the blanket that was tugged up in its place.

They arrived back at the Royal Arms Hotel just in time to treat the girls to lunch before braving the windswept, deserted promenade and throwing stones into the crashing surf. Out of season, Hythe had very little to offer four young people out for a day's excitement, and it only took a few hours of the bracing sea breeze to convince them that a return to the hotel was their best option.

Without discussing it with Bodie, Doyle booked them back into the same double room and invited both girls to join them for dinner, just as they'd arranged a week ago.

The girls accepted, not that Doyle had thought they were likely to refuse, and made their excuses to take their leave to go and get ready. Dinner was still three hours away, but Doyle could already feel a rising bubbly excitement starting up inside him. Terry's little smile and expectant, burning gaze served to heighten his anticipation.

Not by a turn of a single hair did Bodie let on that he was quite frankly surprised by Doyle's behaviour. They had returned to the hotel on Doyle's suggestion and Bodie had had to agree that another evening--and night--with Joanna would be rather pleasant. Their reception had been rather cool, though, and although he knew Joanna was okay, Bodie got the distinct impression that Terry wasn't exactly overwhelmed that Doyle had wanted a return match--at first that is. After about thirty seconds, though, Terry's cool melted under the charm and undiluted personality of Ray Doyle, even Joanna had gone soft at the edges and Bodie found himself having to make an extra effort to keep her attention.

Watching Doyle throughout the meal, Bodie found himself wondering if they should have requested a more secluded table; the way the main course was going down it looked as if Terry was going to be dessert!

The D.J. of the previous week was thankfully having a night off, and his relief played a well-balanced mixture of old, new, funky and smoochy numbers; not that Ray and Terry seemed to notice, they danced slowly, holding each other close through everything. By ten o'clock, when Bodie looked up from investigating the smooth perfumed skin behind Joanna's left ear, the lovers had gone. Bodie waited until ten-thirty and then escorted Joanna back to the privacy of their bedroom for the night.

---

The slight movement beside him jolted Doyle out of his light almost-sleep. Turning over until she came up against the naked warmth, Terry gave a murmur of sated contentment and slipped back into a deeper sleep. Waiting until he heard her breathing deepen and even out, Doyle carefully shifted sideways, moving even closer to the edge of the bed than he already was--another inch would tip him onto the floor, though.

Sleep just would not come tonight. Even though everything had gone all right and he and Terry had played, explored and loved each other to the point of exhaustion, sleep just refused to claim him. Each time his body tried to slip over the edge of awareness into thankful oblivion, Terry would move and he would wake up with his heart hammering inside his chest and every muscle in his body tense and ready to lash out. It had finally got to the point where he was too tense even to try and fall asleep just in case he couldn't wake up in time to stop himself from hitting Terry the way he'd hit Bodie.

For the rest of the night he slept by snatching a few minutes whenever he could, but never once falling into the deeper, relaxing sleep that could be very dangerous for the restless Terry.

Around dawn, Doyle finally arrived at the conclusion that at some point in his life he must have been a very bad boy, because someone--up there in heaven--really had it in for him. If it wasn't one thing it was another--after three and half years of celibacy and a year of impotent fantasies and nightmares, he'd finally got around to making love with a girl only to find that he was too uptight to relax and unwind enough afterwards to actually sleep with her.

Life, he decided, just wasn't fair.

---

Switching the bathroom light off behind him, Bodie was surprised to see that the only light left on in his flat appeared to be the small lamp on his side of the bed. After his success with Terry, Bodie had half expected Doyle to insist on being allowed to sleep alone in his own room. Not once during the evening since they had returned to London had Doyle mentioned altering their sleeping arrangements and when he'd said he was going to have an early night, Bodie presumed he meant on his own. There was no movement to indicate Doyle was awake and Bodie quietly placed his clothes on a chair and slipped into bed.

"Bodie?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Who else?" Bodie asked jokingly.

"Night."

"Tired you out, did she?" Bodie whispered as he clicked off the light and turned onto his side.

"What?"

"Terry."

"What about Terry?"

"Forget it, mate," Bodie said as he curled around his partner and tucked his knees closely behind Doyle's.

"Forget what?" Although his body was asleep, Doyle's brain still hadn't shut up shop for the day.

"Nothing, sunshine. Just go to sleep. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He was just about to drop off when Doyle began to get restless, but before Bodie could do anything, Doyle snuggled backwards across the mattress until he found the bare warmth of Bodie's chest and snaked an arm behind himself to find Bodie's pulling it around to rest across his waist. Then, holding Bodie's hand loosely, he muttered a contented sigh and settled back into a deeper sleep.

Hardly able to believe the change the last month had made, Bodie took the unconscious movement as a token of Doyle's trust in him, and happily settled down against the relaxed form to sleep soundly.

---

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning Doyle was very much aware of a nervous, fluttery 'new-boy-at-school' feeling unsettling his stomach. In less than an hour he was going to receive his first briefing as an active operative. Last night and then even more so this morning he had listened intently to the half-hourly radio news broadcasts, but so far this wintry morn there had been no international scandals, outbreaks of terrorism or sudden, horrific upsurges in major crime that might require him to leap into action and save mankind. The closest incident of major crime mentioned in the seven o'clock bulletin a few minutes earlier had been about an arms discovery in a little Basque village somewhere in Spain--somehow he doubted that CI5 would be asked to assist in police enquiries--unless, of course, Interpol decided there was a link with a British cell and asked CI5 to assist them...

Turning into the department car park, Doyle glumly acknowledged that the most exciting task he had to look forward to would be chauffeuring Bodie home again tonight. Thinking of Bodie, Doyle looked up to see the glum, thoughtful expression that had been there ever since Bodie had woken up this morning.

Doyle couldn't think of anything he had said or done that might have upset his partner, and so far all his attempts at trying to lighten the atmosphere had fallen on deaf ears...not that he had tried all that hard, though--he had enough problems of his own without taking on Bodie's as well.

During the shindig at the NAAFI club, Tom Blowers, who turned out to be quite an amicable chap once he changed out of his sergeant's uniform into civvies, had expressed some surprise when Doyle told him that so far no one had tried any funny business, no practical jokes or such-like on him. Some of the tales Blowers imparted to the new agent had almost turned his hair grey and made him determined not to get caught out. No way was Ray Doyle going to allow himself to become the laughing stock of CI5.

"Once we've seen Cowley we'll have to go and sort the motor-pool out," Bodie said suddenly as they entered the building. "It's about time we got your own car sorted out; now you're on the active list you'll need your own wheels," he said tersely.

"Have you any idea what Cowley'll have us doing today?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"Ready to save the world, are you?" said Bodie unkindly, completely forgetting the burning enthusiasm with which he'd begun his first day.

"Something like that," mumbled Doyle.

"What did you do on your first day as a fully fledged copper?"

"Watched the flies in the charge room get stuck to the fly paper hanging from the ceiling," Doyle said, his prospects for this first day in CI5 looking even more gloomy.

"That all?"

"And carried the tray of tea and biscuits into the Chief Inspector's office..."

"Oh well, there was a bit of excitement then!"

"...and tripped over the carpet and threw the whole lot over his desk." Doyle laughed at the memory and his day suddenly began to look a little more cheerful. "You know, I often wonder if that had anything to do with my getting transferred to another section."

"If you throw a tray of tea and biscuits over George Cowley the only section you'll be transferred to is a bit of ground measuring six by two and six feet under!" Bodie said cheerfully. "But seriously, don't worry about today. You're not likely to die of excitement but at least you won't have to watch the flies on a bit of fly paper. In CI5," Bodie said in a confidently superior tone, "we shoot them--target practice, you know. We've got to keep our hand in somehow!"

Their arrival in the squad room did not go unnoticed and Doyle found himself to be the focus of some good-humoured banter.

"Tooled up, are you?" one of the men he'd fought in the gym asked him; he thought it was Murphy.

Already keyed up and with Sergeant Blowers' warning uppermost in his mind, Doyle had successfully coped with all the double-meaning banter thrown at him, but Murphy's question made him even more aware of the bulky weapon on his ribs and stiff leather band across his shoulders. On Macklin's and Bodie's insistence he'd worn the gun every day for the past two weeks, taking it off only to go to bed and, because Bodie had done so, when they had gone out with the girls. The one thing he'd noticed over the last few weeks was that no one ever mentioned or alluded to the fact that they were wearing a gun or knew that you were wearing one. To do so was considered a social gaffe in CI5's book of Agents' Etiquette--a bit like telling someone he's wearing smelly underpants.

Something of Doyle's confusion must have shown on his face because Murphy repeated the question and elaborated on it a bit more to Bodie.

"Both loaded up and ready to go, are you? Revolving pencils loaded and new cartridges in our rolled-gold Schaeffers!"

"Sod off, Murph," said Bodie as he pulled a face. "But you're probably right; paper-pushing and baby-sitting is going to be all I'm gonna see of the action--watch it, Puddle, where's the fire?"

Having only just caught up with the conversation, Doyle frowned at the inappropriate name.

"Loverly Lambeth! Seems the hot-shot Cowley's dumped on me's had a phone call from his favourite snitch," Lake replied as he yanked his jacket out from underneath Bodie. "Did you have to sit on it?" he grumbled, trying to smooth out the creases.

"Puddle!" yelled a loud voice from the doorway.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Lake yelled back, pausing only long enough to give Doyle a friendly punch to his shoulder. "Watch this loon," he said quickly, meaning Bodie. "Before you know where you are he'll have a nickname for you and soon no one'll ever remember you were ever called anything else..."

"Puddle!" Williams' cry was taken up by everyone present and with a final grimace at Bodie, Lake answered his partner's call.

After another five minutes or so of shop talk, Bodie decided it was about time they made their way to Cowley's office, the tight, nervous expression on Doyle's face telling him not to prolong his agony any longer.

"Come on then, sunshine, let's go and see what Uncle George has got in store for us today."

Lake's parting shot suddenly became a lot clearer and Doyle smiled at the name. His mother had been the last person to call him Sunshine, and before that, his grandfather; "Little Ray of Sunshine"! At least it was better than being called Puddle! All of a sudden it occurred to Doyle that he didn't have a single clue as to what Bodie's forename was; he was opening his mouth to ask when the swing door flew open, letting a blast of smoke and flame erupt into the corridor, deafening and flattening him at the same time.

Bodie was the first to recover.

"Cowley! That was Cowley's office!"

Scrambling to his feet, his head still ringing from the shock-wave, Doyle followed him.

Confusion reigned for all of thirty seconds before Cowley appeared, unharmed and barking orders, causing everyone to jump immediately to his bidding. Everyone--except Doyle--seemed to have something terribly important to do, and so he stood quietly to one side, still holding on to the piece of charred wood that he'd picked up when he'd begun looking for the body.

"Yes, sir. Should I take Doyle?"

Hearing his name, Doyle glanced up in time to see Cowley look at him.

"Yes, it should be all right. Keep him occupied. Call in as soon as you find Murray," Cowley replied eventually, and Doyle guessed that Bodie was being sent out on a fairly unexciting task. Keep him occupied, Cowley had said. Keep him out of the way was what he had meant.

Feeling rather like a little boy tagging behind his big know-all brother, Doyle tried to look as if he knew exactly what he was doing and resisted the impulse to grab hold of Bodie's jacket as he rushed from office to office and then down into the car park. Doyle had started the engine and moved the car to the exit before he realised that he had absolutely no idea of where he was going.

"Carlisle Avenue, SE5," Bodie snapped back. "And put your foot down."

With a cautious disregard for the speed limit, Doyle headed for Westminster Bridge.

"Am I going to be told why we're going there before or after we arrive?" Doyle asked quietly, having told himself that it would be pointless to get annoyed simply because Bodie knew what was happening and he didn't.

"What?" Already intent on finding Murray and getting whatever information there was to be had from him, Bodie had very nearly forgotten that his chauffeur would also want to get in on the act.

"Murray, Peter Andrew," Bodie said crisply. "He's GPO technician and he's got a Grade A security pass. Log book shows he was in Cowley's office yesterday. The bomb was in Cowley's telephone so--"

"--we're going to get Murray who's in Carlisle Avenue," finished Doyle.

"Under Carlisle Avenue," Bodie corrected with a small, hard smile.

"Under?"

"As in down a hole...fixing cables," Bodie explained.

Doyle watched Bodie's conversation with Murray keenly. It was the first time he'd seen Bodie 'in action' so to speak, and felt that his partner's grim face and quick-fire questioning wasn't having the right effect. It must be very difficult to get into a heavy interrogation routine when your subject was a disembodied voice emanating from the depths of a dark hole in a suburban side street, Doyle conceded.

A tea cup emerged from the hole first, closely followed by the untroubled Murray, who calmly handed over his ID and suggested that CI5's security might not be all it was cracked up to be.

Heading back towards HQ, Bodie passed the bad news back to a none-too-pleased Cowley.

"Ease up a bit, Doyle," Bodie said as he finished reporting in. "There's no need to rush back. Our Leader is not very happy and security is going to get a right kick in the arse over this little fiasco."

"Because they didn't check the telephone man's ID properly?" Doyle asked.

"Because they shouldn't have bloody well let him in the building in the first place. Murray is the only bloke with the right clearance and has been for over a year now."

"Surely just having the one bloke is a bit limiting?"

"It was done purposely to stop exactly what happened today happening!" Bodie exclaimed.

"All right, keep your hair on!" said Doyle. "I was only asking."

"Sorry," apologised Bodie. "Well, a bit more than you were expecting for your first morning, isn't it!"

"Having a bomb go off in the boss's office wasn't the kind of excitement I was looking for, though," Doyle said with a smile.

"Baptism of fire," Bodie said grandly.

"Eh?"

"Took me two weeks to get out of HQ and another month before I got on a Grade A assignment."

"And here's me, new to the job, out on a Grade A before me ceremonial handshake from George Cowley," laughed Doyle.

"You've got high hopes, haven't you, mate? As far as I know no one gets more than one handshake from our Leader and you've already had yours."

"When?"

"Months ago," replied Bodie. "You mean the momentous moment isn't indelibly printed on your mind?"

"No." Doyle shrugged. "When months ago?"

"Your first visit to the building."

"I don't remember. Are you sure? I've mean I've heard he doesn't exactly give his handshakes away."

"Saves 'em for special occasions," Bodie chipped in. "If he ever briefs you and then shakes your hand as you leave--start worrying."

"I'd already heard that--that's why I was sort of looking forward to my first official one."

"Sorry, mate, but you've already had it--I saw it," Bodie added quickly. "Right after he introduced you to me and just before we went down to the Admin office." Doyle frowned and then shook his head as he failed to find the elusive memory. "Just after you came back from lunch with Betty," Bodie elaborated.

"Who's Betty?"

"Who's Betty!" Bodie said as he knocked his head against the car window in mock anguish. "The first bloke in CI5 to take iron knickers to lunch and he can't remember it! Just how much of that first day do you remember?" he asked suddenly.

Stopping the car to allow a neat, uniformed crocodile of juniors and their teachers to walk over a zebra crossing, Doyle frowned as he tried, for the first time, to recall that day.

"Not much," he finally said slowly. "Funny, but...I hardly remember the details at all."

"What can you remember?" Bodie asked, all serious now.

"Someone taking me from the prison in a car...without an escort..."

"Any idea who?"

"Dunno...all I remember is thinking it strange that there wasn't any escort...then reading Mike's letter...Cowley telling...no, asking me to waive my right to a public pardon...then John showing me into the street...dragging the cases back to the underground station..." Doyle's voice tailed away. Although the details were not clear, all the emotional turmoil of the day flooded back, the heavy depression, his overwhelming weariness and the swamping loneliness.

Bodie too was quiet. Not once, that day or since, had he ever considered the impact Doyle's sudden and unexpected liberation would have had on his state of mind.

"Units 3.7, 4.5, Situation Priority Grade 1. Newport Street Estate. Explosion involving 3.4. Assist 5.1 on arrival. Back-up already underway."

"3.7 responding," Bodie snapped into the radio phone. "Put your foot down, sunshine, that's Lake and Williams."

The order to drive faster was unnecessary as Doyle was already roaring down the road, his own problems pushed away and his full concentration on the job in hand.

By the time they arrived, the fire brigade had already done their work and the water hoses were lying idle. Pushing through the inevitable crowd, they made their way up the stairway and picked a cautious pathway through the fallen masonry and blackened wood.

There wasn't much they could do in the devastated flat and so, when Susan told Cowley about the telephone call in the caretaker's flat, they followed him down there. Maybe the call would have some answers for them.

Cowley's face became, if possible, even grimmer. The second bomb hadn't been an ugly coincidence then, but a planned, cold-blooded attempt to destroy CI5--and George Cowley.

Leaving the caretaker's flat, Bodie and Susan walked over to the shocked agent. Doyle watched them from a discreet distance; he had met Williams only very briefly a few months ago in the gymnasium, but they hadn't really talked, and Lake he had only seen for the first time a few hours ago. Feeling rather useless and left out, Doyle wandered over to where the car was parked and watched the firemen sorting out their equipment.

What a way to start a new career--the first day on the job some nutter tries to blow up the head of CI5 and succeeds in blowing an operative to smithereens!

Just at that moment a blanket-covered stretcher was carried from the stairwell to the waiting ambulance. Still distanced by shock and the speed of events, Doyle could only be amazed that they had found enough of Williams to put on the stretcher. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bodie holding Lake back, stopping him from going over to the blanket-covered remains. Once he had stopped fighting to get away, Lake turned his face into Bodie's shoulder.

The ambulance pulled away, the absence of any flashing lights or blaring siren only emphasising the futility of its journey.

"Come on, Puddle," Bodie said softly, "there's nothing you can do here. I'll drive you home."

Pulling himself together, Lake shrugged off the arm around his shoulder.

"Home!" he shouted. "I'm going to find the creep that set this up! It was...was his flaming Christopher that did this--I knew that bloke was no good but would he listen--never gave him any good information, it's always rubbish--I kept telling...him that Chris was no good--but would he listen? Would he?" Shock and grief were replaced by anger and a desire for revenge. Lake was a hardened agent and he had seen friends die before; he would grieve later...in private...right now he wanted action--and revenge.

"I'll come with you," Bodie said, and moved to get in the car.

"No, you won't, Bodie," a hard Scots accent informed him. "Aren't you forgetting something--or rather someone?"

Doyle! Bodie thought. Yes, he had forgotten him.

"I'll go with Lake, sir. 4.5 can take the car back to HQ. I'll be of more use with Lake than baby-sitting Doyle."

Bodie pulled the door open and slid into the seat. Lake had already started the engine and was revving it impatiently.

"No, you won't. Stay with Doyle," Cowley instructed. "Lake, you'll call in if you find Chris Benton?"

"When I find him."

"You will report in before you approach him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yessir," Lake snapped back.

The second Bodie slammed the passenger door shut, Lake was gone.

"Mathieson and King, 3.7, Control can't raise them on r/t to warn them of the current situation. They last reported in about forty minutes ago from Station Road, N.5. You and 4.5 get out there and find out what's happening," ordered Cowley. "Susan, you come back to HQ and start checking through the computer files. Well," Cowley glared at Bodie, "what are you still here for?"

"With all due respect, sir, I think I'll be of more use on this operation--"

"You'll stay with Doyle, Bodie! Now, get going--and when you find Mathieson and King tell them I'll want to know why they aren't wearing their personal r/ts." Cowley turned away and beckoned for his car to come over to him. "When Lake calls in Benton's location you and Doyle will be his back-up."

"Yes, sir," Bodie responded sulkily, still annoyed at not being allowed to join Lake right away.

From where Doyle had parked their car the whole scene had been clearly visible if not audible. He hadn't been able to hear what his partner was arguing about, but Doyle did not find it too hard to guess.

The top-speed drive to Station Road was conducted in near-silence, Bodie speaking the barest minimum to snap out directions. They were still two streets away when they heard the explosion. Doyle pressed his foot to the floor and their car nearly flew the last few hundred yards.

The car was a ball of flame, but through the heat haze, in the driving seat they could just make out the shape of a body.

Doyle saw the other agent first and rushed over to help him, and although barely alive, Mathieson managed to gasp out the name of the informant who had sent them there. Billy.

While Bodie notified HQ, Doyle pulled Mathieson's notebook from a pocket in the torn and charred jacket.

It took only a few minutes for the CI5 forensic team and George Cowley to arrive, and Doyle took the time to decipher Mathieson's log. The dead man had been an ex-policeman and his log was laid out in a familiar way, the abbreviations making some sort of sense.

Bodie had given up trying to make anything out in the log book and was therefore surprised when his chauffeur told him he knew Billy's address.

"We'll tell Cowley where we're going when we're on our way," Bodie said as they hurried over to their car.

As they pulled away, though, Cowley happened to look up. Bodie saw the irritation on his face and the gesture for them to come back--but Doyle, who was manoeuvring the car through the narrow space left between the forensic team's cars, didn't.

"Bodie!" crackled the r/t. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Flat 15, Walcot House NW3, sir." Bodie repeated the address that Doyle had found.

"I take it there is some significance to the address?" Cowley asked, the anger in his voice being overtaken by a more weary resignation.

"Mathieson and King had an informant who lives there. Doyle deciphered Mathieson's log book and reckons it was this Billy who tipped them off about Station Road. Sir." Bodie added the 'sir' as an afterthought.

"All right, but be careful. Remember Benton's flat was booby-trapped." The r/t clicked off.

"Put your foot down, Sherlock," Bodie said. "Let's see if we can't give Billy the shock of his life."

"Control to 3.7," crackled the r/t.

"3.7 responding," replied Bodie promptly.

"5.1 has reported a sighting of Christopher Benton's car at the railway sidings, Thornton Fields. He is awaiting your back-up before moving in. 3.7, 4.5, respond."

"3.7, 4.5 responding." Bodie clicked the handset off and logged down the call. "Billy'll have to wait."

"Lucky Billy," said Doyle as he slid into a controlled skid for a U-turn before shooting off in the other direction.

The sidings were huge, most of the buildings derelict shells, and an air of desolate decay hung over the area.

Doyle drove on past the empty sheds and alongside the railway track. Way over on the other side of the vast open space two trains rattled and clattered past each other and the drama that was unfolding.

"Over there!" Bodie pointed out Lake's car.

Once their car was parked they stepped out, careful to watch out for anything untoward.

A harshly whispered, "Over here," led them to Lake, who pointed out the battered, rusting car parked haphazardly further down the dirt track.

"That's Chris's car. It was spotted by the local police about half an hour ago, so I reckon he's around here somewhere--probably hiding in one of those carriages."

"Where's the police now?" asked Doyle.

"Told them to seal the area off and only let your car through. We can do without them getting under our feet."

Throughout the conversation, Bodie's and Lake's eyes never rested for longer than a split second on any one place. They were continuously searching, checking, evaluating, rechecking.

"We'll work our way through from this end. Doyle, you come with me." Bodie was already swinging up to climb into the first carriage.

"Wouldn't it be quicker if I started on the next carriage?" Doyle suggested, more than a little irked by Bodie's tone of voice.

"Follow me or go and wait in the car," Bodie snapped back, not bothering to look down on Doyle as he began checking the first corridor. Although Doyle had reacted well in training, an agent's first experience of a Grade A could be a very telling matter. He couldn't afford to spare the time or concentration to wonder how Doyle was coping.

"Well?" he demanded after a very brief pause.

There was no verbal answer, but Doyle climbed in behind Bodie, drew his gun and waited for his next instruction. He was very much aware that this was the first time he had drawn his gun in a 'live' situation. A small click drew his eyes to Bodie's gun. The insignificant noise had been Bodie releasing the safety. Swallowing hard, Doyle did likewise.

"Watch the other end and cover me as I go along." Bodie waited until Doyle moved into position before setting off, checking each compartment. Doyle kept his eyes alert for any movement that might pose a threat, edging his way down the corridor, side-stepping into the empty compartments, giving cover but staying safe--just like it said in all the manuals.

In a few minutes they were climbing into their second train and the procedure was repeated. In the third, they took it in turns to cover each other, alternating between checking the compartments and covering the corridor.

Doyle found Benton in the fourth train.

The inelegant, graceless sprawl of death was covered in a blanket of money.

Lake was sickened by the presence of the money rather than the luckless Benton.

"That's inflation for you," Bodie said cryptically, once Lake had moved away back to his car.

"Huh?" asked Doyle.

"Inflation," Bodie explained. "Used to be thirty pieces of silver. Now..."

"Close on to a thousand pounds, I reckon," finished Doyle as he watched a young PC scoop all the money into a plastic bag.

"Why do you think they left it behind--the money. It's genuine stuff," Doyle wondered out loud.

"He can't have been dead more than an hour. Maybe the police car that spotted Benton's motor in the first place frightened them off."

"Possibly," agreed Doyle. "Unless of course we're dealing with a nutter."

"A nutter with a thousand quid to chuck away!"

"It could be revenge is more important than money, and it looks like this is all some revenge trip. Someone's after blood, Cowley's blood--"

"--and anyone else's they manage to drag along. Terrific!"

Stepping past the department's forensic team, Bodie admitted to himself that Doyle could well be right. A nutter. Unpredictable, unstable--and bloody hard to outguess.

"Bodie!" Lake called them over to his car where he was talking to Cowley over the radio, his face a rigidly controlled mask that hid the anger and anguish he was feeling. Replacing the handset in the car, Lake turned to speak to them, but his attention was suddenly taken by a flurry of activity over by the railway carriage. The policemen manhandling the dead body had accidentally dropped Chris from the train doorway to land in a heap by the siding.

"With one thing and another, it's just not been his day, has it!" Bodie remarked casually.

Doyle thought the remark in rather bad taste, but Lake smiled briefly at the black joke.

"Cowley wants us to go to Billy's address; bearing in mind how he," Lake jerked his head towards the stretcher bearing Chris's body away, "was rewarded for his efforts, chances of Billy drawing his pension are pretty slim."

"Okay," Bodie agreed, already moving away to his car. "If you get there first wait for us," he ordered.

"Just don't be late!" Lake yelled back as he switched on the ignition and roared away with a tremendous squeal of tyres amid a cloud of dirt and dust.

With Bodie in the driving seat this time, they arrived only seconds behind Lake. For a few moments, three pairs of eyes subjected the neighbouring buildings to an intense scrutiny, then:

"All right," said Bodie as he began to move out of the car.

In the entrance hall it was decided that Bodie would take the front way to Billy's flat while Lake covered the back. It was not until Doyle made a play of clearing his throat that the other two agents acknowledged his presence. Bodie and Lake exchanged looks before Lake turned to take up his position at the back.

"Stick with me," Bodie said tersely as he moved towards the stairwell.

They climbed the stairs in silence, each alert for the least indication of danger, but they reached the fifth floor without incident.

Pressed flat, one each side of the door, Bodie drew his gun and listened to the sounds emanating from the flat. A radio, someone moving about...and a hairdryer. Billy was still at home--or so it seemed.

Ready, Bodie indicated to Doyle that he should announce their presence. The first knock went unanswered; a second, harder knock followed by Doyle calling Billy's name resulted in the dryer being switched off. Doyle called out again.

"I'm just coming," a voice finally replied. "I won't be a minute."

All was quiet until the unmistakable sound of a sash window being opened up broadcast Billy's intent to the men waiting outside.

Bodie's shoulder charge made short work of the flimsy door and they burst through just in time to see a jean-clad backside disappear through the window out onto the maintenance scaffolding. Leaving Doyle to call Lake on the r/t, Bodie climbed out after Billy.

A swift look at the shaky boards on the scaffolding, and Doyle ran back down the hallways and staircase, guesswork telling him that one of the corridors must lead onto the fire escape that Billy was probably heading for. The old building was like a rabbit warren, and it took three dead ends before he managed to find the doorway onto the metal fire stairs. He burst through the doors just in time to see Bodie and Lake corner a short, fair-haired young man.

The youth was easily subdued, and in fact offered no resistance at all; he only cowered away from them all, clearly terrified and scared for his life.

Keyed up with grief and frustration and high on adrenalin released by the excitement of the chase, Lake badly needed to let off some energy but, as Billy didn't provide the opportunity, he turned his need for action into scathing criticism of the late arrival.

"Get lost, did you?" Lake sneered unpleasantly. "Lose your nerve when you looked out of the window or something?" Turning his back on Doyle, Lake pulled Billy to his feet. "Still, I suppose we ought to be grateful you got here at all--looks like we might have needed you, seeing how tough chummy here is. Come along, Billy," Lake said, his voice switching from mocking derision to suspect amiability, "we just want to have a little chat with you."

"A chat!" squeaked Billy. "You've got no call to treat me like this if all you want is a chat. Who are you?"

"Who were you expecting?" Bodie asked.

"Are you police?" Billy's quivering voice said that he had already discounted that possibility.

"No," Lake informed him, the grin on his face growing fractionally larger as Billy's fear increased.

The procession made its way back through the halls that Doyle had run along. Once back in the cramped, untidy bedsit, Billy was thrown back onto the unmade bed where he made a final attempt at bravado.

"Look, who are you and what do you want from--"

Lake's glare caused the rest of his sentence to remain unspoken.

Bodie thrust his ID under Billy's nose and then indicated the other two that were being held for inspection.

"CI5," Billy gasped, "you're CI5!" The fear and tension drained away, leaving him limp and weak.

"Know many CI5 blokes, do you?" Bodie asked coldly.

"One or two," Billy answered cheerfully.

"One or two? How many exactly?" pushed Lake.

"A few. Two, only two--Mathieson and King, that's who I know." The fear had crept back into Billy's voice.

"Knew," Bodie corrected.

"Huh?" said Billy.

"What he means, Billy," Lake explained crisply, "is that you knew two agents. Knew as in 'did know' as in 'don't know any more'."

From his vantage point by the door it became increasingly obvious to Doyle that either Billy was an excellent actor or he didn't know what Lake and Bodie were talking about--and he doubted that Billy was any good at acting.

While Bodie and Lake concentrated on grilling the hapless Billy, Doyle continued to check out the flat. That Billy was still alive, though a relief, was definitely worrying Doyle. Williams' informant had not been so lucky. Was Billy in any immediate danger, Doyle wondered.

At that moment Lake, finally losing his patience with the evasive replies, dragged Billy to his feet and threw him across the room where he landed heavily on an armchair.

Bodie stepped in smoothly between the almost incoherent boy and Lake.

"Now, come on, Billy. We're asking you nicely to give us some straight answers. Where can we find this Parkes fella?" Bodie said as he tried to cool the situation down.

"I dunno, I dunno," squealed Billy. "No one place...anywhere--out in the street, anywhere."

Under the combined glares of two extremely powerful, intimidating interrogators, Billy was fast becoming so scared Doyle guessed that before long he wouldn't even be able to remember his own name. His interruption was clearly not welcomed by the two established agents, but Billy turned to Doyle as if he had been thrown a lifeline.

"I really don't know," Billy repeated in a slightly calmer voice. "It's like he always finds me."

"Where are you when he finds you? Out shopping, walking to your local, in the job centre, where?" Doyle asked gently.

Much preferring the manner of the smaller, quiet man who looked to be in a totally different class to the high-powered gorillas pinning him to the armchair, Billy responded to the friendly prompt and tried again.

"Around the High Street in the shopping centre and once, the time he told me about Station Road, in the car park by those warehouses off the High Street...yeah, that's where," Billy said with growing confidence. "I think he works somewhere behind the High Street...got his own office, I think."

Acknowledging that Doyle had won Billy's confidence, the two men backed off, Lake just relieved to be finally getting somewhere and Bodie to watch the clever way in which Doyle used his charm to guide Billy's memories along the right tracks. DC Doyle had obviously had a lot of experience with the Mr Nice and Mr Nasty method of interrogation. Content with his role of Mr Nasty, Bodie merely watched Mr Nice play his part to the end.

At last, Billy's memory had revealed all it could and he collapsed back into the armchair and watched the whispered conference on the other side of the room, his sense of impending doom not being lessened by the glowering looks and barely audible references to himself.

"No," Doyle said firmly, "it's a waste of time taking him in. Look what happened to Chris," he reminded them. "Leave Billy on the street and maybe Parkes will find Billy--who knows! Keep tabs on him and let him go."

"And if whoever killed Chris gets to him first?" Lake asked sourly.

"If we're watching Billy properly, we'll be there in time, won't we," Doyle answered quickly.

"Okay," Bodie added. "First we'll take Billy in--get everything we can from him checked out with computer control, then we put him back on the street."

"Okay," said Lake.

"Fine," compromised Doyle easily.

Once Billy had been handed over to their back-up, Lake left to handle the unenviable task of visiting Williams' widowed mother, leaving the other two men free until Billy had been dealt with at Headquarters.

"Lunch?" Bodie asked as Doyle started the car up.

"Good idea," Doyle replied and then looked at his watch. "More like dinner. Lunch was over and done with hours ago."

"Dinner!" exclaimed Bodie. "Shit!"

"What's up?"

"Dinner," Bodie explained. "Jo came up to town to see her sister today and I'd arranged to take her out for a meal. Damn, she's not gonna like being put off again."

"Again?"

"Yeah. We were supposed to go out to this place after the last time I met her at the hotel. She wasn't too pleased then; can't see her being overjoyed about tonight either." The vision of the only good thing about Macklin's army-style weekends flickered and faded from view. The obliging friendly Joanna was not the sort that took being stood up lying down!

"Make a detour past my place. I've got her sister's number on the pad by the phone," Bodie ordered crossly.

Parked outside the building, Doyle shouted out for him to hurry up, reminding him that they still hadn't had anything to eat.

Alone for the first time since getting up that morning, Doyle took the opportunity to relax a little. His first day was certainly turning out to be very different from the one he had expected. Although Bodie had made it quite clear at the start that he didn't relish being stuck with an inexperienced, untried agent on such a difficult operation, he had at least accepted and acted on the few pieces of information and advice that Doyle had felt able to offer.

Finally allowed the time to reflect on his actions, Doyle felt pleased with the way he had handled Billy. Doubtless the other two men would have extracted the small but not insignificant scraps Billy had to offer, but Doyle was sure that his intervention had speeded things up a little.

"Come on, Bodie," Doyle muttered under his breath as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. All in all, he reflected happily, day one was taking on a promising shape. None of Sergeant Blowers' ghastly predictions had come about--yet! Suddenly, inexplicably, the sergeant's dire warnings of horrible happenings crowded out all Doyle's comfortable sense of well-being.

The tale of how one poor, unwary agent was caught out unfolded as Doyle sat, frozen at the steering wheel. They had tricked the poor man into believing that the unsavoury youth trailing behind the visiting foreign dignitary was a suicidal, left-wing activist determined to handcuff himself to the dignitary at the first chance he got, and then detonate the explosive hidden beneath his coat. Determined to make his mark in CI5, the unsuspecting man grabbed the youth, knocked him out with a single, powerful punch and then proceeded to rip the youth's clothes off to get at the non-existent explosives. Apparently the dignitary didn't take too kindly to the way Britain's fascist secret police brutally assaulted his nephew. The young agent was, so Blowers informed Doyle, never seen in CI5's hallowed halls again.

"Doyle, get in here!"

The r/t crackled unexpectedly. After a second's hesitation Doyle leapt into action. Bodie's voice had been--strained; trouble, perhaps.

Three steps from the front door to the flat, Sergeant Blowers' warning flashed loud and clear through Doyle's mind. Anywhere...any time...

The headlong dash slowed to a more cautious pace. Doyle was prepared to meet anything. Murderers, robbers, terrorists--practical jokers. Anywhere. Any time.

His gun drawn, safety catch released, Doyle opened the door. The hallway was empty, as was the kitchen. Through the open door he saw Bodie sitting by the telephone, watching him. Doyle knew that had anyone else been in the flat, the cautious blue eyes would have been firmly fixed on the intruder. Even more certain the sergeant's prediction was coming true, Doyle entered the room, gun ready to shot the balls off anything that moved.

Having pointedly ascertained that the only occupants of the flat were Bodie and himself, Doyle calmly flicked the safety back on and moved away from his position against the wall.

"What's up then?" he asked, trying to and not quite succeeding in keeping the knowing smile off his face. There was no point in letting Bodie know he had already guessed what was happening. Let the children have their little game.

"Phone's got more plastic in it than it did this morning," Bodie said rather too calmly.

"That all!" Doyle said offhandedly, but then realised he would have to alter his tome if he didn't want Bodie to know the game was over. "How many numbers did you dial?"

"How many d'you think? One."

"Ah well." Doyle looked at the phone. "You want me to do it?" he asked politely.

"Wouldn't dream of it, no. Go to the pictures, go on."

"Nah," Doyle said after he'd considered the idea for a second or two. "I've seen everything that's on locally anyway." He reached for the phone with one hand and fished out his pocket wonder-kit with the other.

"Careful," Bodie warned. "Might be some kind of mechanism." A booby, he mouthed silently.

Doyle had to look away; one more second under that overly innocent gaze and he knew he would burst out laughing.

"Oh yeah--you mean that thing I always got wrong at bomb-disposal school."

Gently, Doyle unscrewed the phone and started to part the case from the body. "Tripper's probably on the bell--or if we're really unlucky, on the dial," he said, suddenly remembering that he never did quite manage to defuse one of those properly. He lifted the case away. Surprise, surprise! "It's on the dial. Don't mess about, do they? There's about a pound of plastic explosive in here."

"Let's have a look," Bodie said, and he carefully turned the phone around without moving his finger.

"Looks straightforward," Doyle said as he scrutinised the device and identified it. "There's a miniature detonator." Confident that he could remember all of Prescott's instructions, Doyle began to defuse it.

"I feel like that kid with a finger in the dike."

"That's just what you are, mate. You keep it stuck in there," replied Doyle rather distractedly. He wished Bodie would shut up; he couldn't remember which wire he should cut first. "Hold your breath, sunshine," he muttered. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Doyle chose a wire and snipped.

"You were very lucky, mate. It could have been the last cheap rate call you ever made."

With a relieved smile, Bodie released the dial, then immediately called Cowley on his r/t and told him about the bomb Doyle had defused.

Doyle only half heard the conversation. Now that he had cut the wiring away he was getting his first proper look at the detonator. Across a suddenly yawning void, Bodie's voice confirmed what Doyle's eyes were showing him.

The bomb had been live!

Doyle's stomach dropped through to the building's basement and his heart missed a beat or four. It was only when his ears started buzzing and the lights flashed black and white in front of his eyes that he remembered to breathe.

Thankful that he was already on his knees, Doyle sat back on his haunches so that the table top hid him from Bodie's eyes. He twirled the detonator in decidedly shaky fingers, examining the dainty, precision device, barely able to absorb that he had been that close to the end of everything. He couldn't put it down to skill, though. Choosing the right wire had been pure chance; he had been so sure it was a put-on.

Christ! If he had cut the other wire...

Returning to reality, against the background of a loud, tuneful, chirruping bird and the gentle hum of city traffic, he heard Bodie finish reporting in and knew that if he didn't snap out of it Bodie would realise that something was up.

"D'you wanna drink?" Doyle asked, his voice sounding distant and breathless to his own ears.

"Yeah, let's have a drop of the good stuff before I hide the bottle," Bodie replied.

"Huh?"

"Cowley, Phillips and half of CI5 forensics are about to descend on us, so--"

"We hide the good stuff." Doyle caught on.

Hampered by legs that were still decidedly shaky, Doyle had only managed to get as far as standing up by the time Bodie had poured the drinks out.

"Cheers," said Bodie, then added, "To life!" and chinked glasses.

"L'chaim!" Doyle returned, and then allowed the smooth malt to banish the last of his shakes. "Did you get your number?" he suddenly asked.

"That's a point. I'll have to call her later. We'd better not touch that any more." The phone received a hard stare. "As much as she's going to want me to go up in a puff of smoke when I cancel our date--I don't think she'd want me to go that far!" The rest of the room came under another searching glare. "I wonder if there are any more little surprises waiting for us?"

"How did they get in?" Doyle asked as they both began to check the doors and windows. "I thought these places were supposed to be secure."

"So did I," said Bodie grimly. "The alarms would have gone off if a window or door had been forced."

"Forensics will be able to tell if the wiring's been tampered with, won't they?"

"Should do," Bodie answered.

A series of squealing brakes and slamming car doors announced the arrival of the forensics team--and Cowley.

"You go and let Cowley in while I tidy up."

"What?"

"The bedroom, dimwit," Bodie shouted back from the other room. "Didn't have time to make the bed, did we. Can just see Cowley's face when he claps eyes on the bathroom, too."

"You were last up and last in the bathroom," Doyle responded virtuously. "Should have left it how you found it, shouldn't you!"

Leaving Bodie darting around the flat tidying away everything he didn't care for Cowley and the massed ranks of CI5 to see, Doyle obligingly took his time opening the front door.

Once the forensics boys were all engaged checking out the rest of the flat, Cowley asked for and got a more detailed report. When Bodie described the competent manner in which his new partner had coped with the bomb, Doyle felt a hot flush creep over his cheeks. Although Bodie had taken getting his digits tangled up with a pound of plastic explosive in his stride, he wasn't mean in handing out praise where he thought it was due.

Half expecting--hoping for--a few words of praise from the All-Powerful Cowley, Doyle was rather disappointed when, at the end of Bodie's report, Cowley dismissed both of them and promptly turned his back on them. A new, hotter glow burned Doyle's cheeks as he crossly asked himself if he had really been expecting a pat on his head and a lollipop! Defusing bombs was, clearly, a part of everyday life for a CI5 agent.

After being moved from his third seat in as many minutes by a busy forensic man, Doyle joined his partner out in the kitchen.

"Have a sausage," Bodie offered.

"Ta. Got any potatoes, peas and gravy to go with it?"

"Bread'n butter."

"I'm starving," Doyle complained plaintively.

"So am I but if you think I'm going to start cooking while those gannets are still here you can think again, sunshine."

"How much longer are they going to be?"

"Not much," Bodie answered as he attacked the last sausage. "We're still on standby, anyway."

"And I still haven't had any dinner."

"Well," Bodie said thoughtfully, "Cowley doesn't want us at HQ tonight, and I doubt that Wakeman will be found much before tomorrow--"

"Who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked, interrupting what Bodie had been about to say.

"Cowley was just telling me. Susan and Puddle found Billy's contact. Parkes is only a wire man and a supplier. Said he was paid by a bloke called Wakeman to do the phone in Cowley's office but that he didn't do any of the others."

"So who's Wakeman?" Doyle asked for the second time.

"Cowley knows the name, but the big puzzle is that Wakeman and all of his team are either dead or out of action."

"What was his game then?"

"Not too sure," Bodie said slowly. "Cowley knows but he's not saying much. I get the feeling Wakeman was a sleeper--or that he turned, and Cowley was involved in it."

"And Wakeman's dead?"

"Yes, but Intelligence reports have a listed sighting of one of his 'pals', a Philip Catrell, only a few months ago, so that's who we're looking for."

"We?"

"Well, not us exactly. Cowley wants us ready as back-up."

"Oh!"

Once again Doyle realised with a thump that he was still very much the untried agent.

"Don't look so down," Bodie said as he playfully punched Doyle's arm. "It's not been a very organised day but at least you've not made any cock-ups."

"That's what you think," Doyle said, and immediately wished he hadn't, but rescue in the form of a busy forensic man burst into the small kitchen.

"You got anything to drink, Bodie? This is thirsty work."

"Tea, coffee," Bodie offered generously. "Orange squash."

"Plenty of milk in the fridge," said Doyle blandly.

It was clearly not the answer the man had been hoping for and he left the kitchen in a huff, muttering to himself and anyone within earshot, about a particular tight-fisted workmate.

"Anyway," Bodie said suddenly, "as I was about to say before you butted in--seeing as how we've got some time on our hands this evening, how about you putting on your chef's hat on and giving me a break, not to mention a decent meal for a change," he added hastily with a cheerful grin on his face.

Doyle considered it. Ever since that first time he'd cooked a meal he had pointedly refused to attempt anything apart from hot drinks and supper snacks. At times he had felt a little guilty at letting Bodie do all of their main meals and wondered if he shouldn't perhaps offer to try again--but Bodie had accepted his silent reluctance to cook so well that he'd found it difficult to offer his services.

This was the first time Bodie had asked him for anything and Doyle suspected that if he refused it would also be the last.

"Why not--perhaps I could come up with a variation on flash-fried steak and oven chips!"

"Wouldn't be difficult."

"Okay. What do you fancy then?"

---

The jarring clamour of the telephone bell jolted Bodie out of a beautiful floating dream in which he was safe, warm, happy and loved. The dull pre-dawn light was still cruel to his eyes and he struggled to get a hand free to answer the phone. Still disoriented, he was puzzled by his inability to reach the bedside phone. Not only was someone in the way, but the arm that wasn't wedged between the two bodies was being held tightly, the strong grip refusing to free him.

Inured to the constant noise always present in prison, Doyle slept on, waking only when Bodie shook him in an effort to free his arm--but then erupting into sudden movement, curling into a protective ball while his fists and muscles clenched in preparation for a fight.

Having freed his arm, Bodie grabbed the phone and pinned Doyle to the mattress by dint of leaning on him. The instant Doyle came fully awake, though, the resistance melted away and Bodie relaxed his guard.

"3.7...yeah...Chalmers Road Industrial Estate...got it." Bodie replaced the receiver. "Morning, sunshine."

"Is it?"

"Rise and shine. Cowley's laying on breakfast for us the other side of town."

Realising that the call was to return them to duty, Doyle wasted no time in pulling his clothes on.

"They've found Catrell then?" he asked a few minutes later as they pulled the front door shut behind them.

"Maybe," Bodie replied as he slid into the driving seat. "Lake's found a caravan he's thought to have been using, and it looks like someone's in it."

The speed with which Bodie tore through the deserted (and not-so-deserted) streets made Doyle wonder if he would survive his second day as an active agent.

The industrial estate was discreetly busy. To an untrained eye all appeared normal; the run-down buildings and gutted warehouses looked as boringly uninteresting as normal but Doyle saw the armed rooftop observers and perimeter security immediately. They were waved through the gasboard road block without having to slow down.

A few hundred yards further down the road they saw Cowley and Lake and pulled up close by.

Forestalling whatever Bodie had been about to say, Cowley snapped out his orders without taking his eyes from the binoculars.

"See Phillips over there," he said. "He's got some equipment for you."

Doing an about turn, the two men walked quickly over to the department's explosives expert.

"At last," said Phillips. "What kept you?" he asked sarcastically but, on seeing the glowering look Bodie sent him, changed his approach. "Have you ever used either of these before?"

Bodie reached out for the smaller of the two gadgets.

"No, but I've seen this working."

"This is a metal detector, isn't it?" Doyle asked, examining his gadget.

"It's a bit more than just a metal detector." Phillips then quickly explained the uses of the two sensors and the operating procedures.

"But why us?" asked Bodie. "What's wrong with the Bomb Squad?"

"Because, Bodie," Cowley suddenly appeared behind them and answered the question, "if there is anyone in that caravan it's up to CI5 to get him out and if there isn't then it's probably booby-trapped.

"So?" Bodie asked, the logic behind Cowley's reasoning escaping him.

"So, Bodie," Cowley continued, "you will give Doyle cover as he checks a path to and around the caravan and, when you reach the caravan--"

"If we reach the--sorry, sir," Bodie backed down under the icy glare.

"When you reach the caravan, should it prove unoccupied you will check it out or--"

"Nab whoever's in it," finished Bodie.

"Move off when you're ready," Cowley ordered in clipped tones before returning to his observation of the solitary, sorry-looking caravan.

---

The first thing Doyle became aware of was the noise. A distant but irritatingly pervasive clamour. Without warning his world tipped over to one side and a solid object landed heavily on his legs.

"Gettoff 'im, you great oaf!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying."

Doyle recognised Bodie's voice and realised who it was that was cutting off the circulation to his feet--Bodie was no lightweight.

"Tell your mate to slow down for Christ's sake," Bodie said, his voice strangely distant. "He's only stunned--he's not dying or anything."

"Not according to Cowley, old friend."

Above the siren and Bodie's voice, Doyle identified Lake. "Doyle's dead--and so are you. Official."

Everything was becoming increasingly unreal to Doyle as he lay there listening to Lake relating the manner of his apparent demise. Surely his head wouldn't ache so much nor his legs protest so strongly at the painful treatment Bodie's backside was still giving him. He wasn't dead--to prove it he moved his legs in an effort to dislodge his partner.

"Watch it, I think Sleeping Beauty's coming round," Bodie said as he finally managed to get enough leverage to lift himself off the bed.

Unable to do much else, though, he only shifted forward a few inches and remained perched on the edge of the stretcher. Ambulances were not designed to carry crowds, and even the ambulance man had been surprised at the number of agents that had crowded into his vehicle.

"Come on, sunshine." Bodie encouraged Doyle's progress to full awareness by gently patting the side of his face.

"'m'wake," Doyle mumbled thickly. His own voice, like Bodie's and Lake's, had a peculiar, hollow ring to it. "I'm awake," he repeated a bit louder and shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears.

"I can see that, sunshine. Can you hear me?" Bodie asked.

"What?"

"Can you hear me?"

"No...yes--but not properly."

"It's the explosion," Bodie explained.

"John who?"

"Explosion!" Bodie shouted.

"What explosion?"

The ambulance came to an abrupt halt and the rear doors were wrenched open. Bodie was pushed down onto the opposite stretcher and a red blanket was placed over him, covering him from head to toe. Suddenly Lake was holding a similar blanket all ready to place over Doyle's face. The alarm must have shown in his eyes because Lake hesitated momentarily to explain.

"Just play dead while we get the two of you inside. We'll explain later--okay?"

After receiving a rather unsure nod, the blanket was lowered and Doyle's world became a red, stuffy place filled with a jumble of confused but oddly familiar sounds.

After what seemed like hours to Doyle but was only minutes later, the blanket was removed and a pretty young Oriental nurse was there, asking if he was all right.

During the journey into the hospital Doyle remembered what had happened, the mad dash away from the caravan--the crack of rifle shots and the wall of air that had lifted and thrown him head over heels.

"What happened to Cowley?" he asked Bodie.

"Pardon?"

"Cowley? What happened to him?"

"Cowley?" Bodie shouted back.

"Yeah?"

"He's fine. They've taken him through to intensive care."

Bodie's answer only confused Doyle. Maybe the explosion had shaken Bodie's brains up as well as his ears.

"What for?" Doyle asked. "Why take him there if he's all right?"

"All part of the plan," Bodie said sagely. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"How bad's the bad?" asked Doyle, suddenly suspicious of the innocently twinkling blue eyes.

"The good news is that it won't affect your pension but the bad news is--you're dead, mate, and so am I."

"I don't feel dead," Doyle said after giving it a moment's thought. "I just might die of thirst in the near future if I don't get a cup of tea and a couple of aspirins--but I don't think I'm dead yet."

As if on cue, the nurse returned with two cups of tea.

"Here we are, gentlemen. Doctor will be through in a few minutes to check you over."

Once the tea had been sorted out, the doctor was there, checking out their assorted bumps and bruises.

"Your hearing will come back to full strength within a few hours," he assured both of them. "It's only a distortion caused by the shockwave. You're both lucky you weren't any closer or perforated eardrums would have been the least of your worries!"

Once the doctor had gone, Lake popped his head into the room.

"Catrell's arrived," he announced. "He's on his way up."

"Come on, Doyle." Bodie jumped up and yanked his partner off the bed.

"What's going on?" Doyle asked, angry at being kept in the dark for so long.

"Cowley's laid a trap so Catrell will try to finish him off here in the hospital," Bodie explained as he peered along the corridor through a narrow crack in the door. "Here he comes." He drew back and pushed the door to as Catrell walked on by. "Right, come on then."

Quietly, the three men eased out into the deserted corridor. Outside the ICU another agent was standing, gun drawn, peering through the window blinds; without looking away from the window, he spoke to them, giving them a running commentary on Catrell's actions.

"He's inside. Cool as a bleedin' cucumber. Outside Cowley's room. Going in. He's shut the door."

"Move in!" ordered Bodie.

Catrell didn't stand a chance. His confidence had been his downfall and the combined forces of a not-so-ill Cowley and his minions soon overpowered and subdued him.

All the excitement was over and Catrell was being escorted to the waiting cars. Lake and Bodie were in a quietly jubilant mood and held the handcuffed man between them.

Following behind, as he had been for most of the last two days, Doyle was the only one who noticed the strange reaction of the tall, elegant woman that walked past.

Non-reaction would have been a better word, Doyle thought. Surely the sight of an obviously bruised and somewhat battered, handcuffed man being frog-marched along a busy hospital corridor would have aroused a little curiosity or consternation.

Puzzled, Doyle stopped and did an about turn to follow her, his intuition alerting him to some as-yet-unidentified danger.

The nearer they got to the ICU the more Doyle knew he was right to be following her. Up ahead she paused; Doyle heard the voices coming from around the corner--Cowley and Phillips.

From her shoulder bag the woman drew a small handgun and calmly took aim.

"Drop it!"

Doyle's voice cracked out and the woman twisted suddenly, clearly startled, her finger automatically completing the job it had been instructed to do. Doyle's gun echoed the shot and the woman gave a startled cry before crumpling to the floor, holding her shoulder.

Behind him, Doyle heard the swing doors burst open as Bodie and Lake arrived on the scene.

"She's Wakeman's sister, Lisa Wakeman," Bodie announced into the sudden quiet. "Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps by the look of things," he added.

Too numbed from the shock of the bullet lodged in her shoulder, Lisa Wakeman was in no condition to present any problems and the second clearing-up operation was set in motion.

Now that the immediate panic was past, Doyle found that the expected shock at shooting the woman didn't hit him. His system had clearly had as many shocks as it could cope with in one day.

Further down the corridor, Cowley was complaining, loudly, about the bullet that had passed through the overcoat he'd had over his arm.

"A perfectly good coat. Ruined," he said. "Ruined!"

"Well," Doyle heard himself say. "Look on the bright side--at least you haven't got blood on it as well."

For a split second the hustle and bustle in the corridor stopped. No one moved or spoke and Doyle began to wonder what happened to people unwise enough to cheek George Cowley.

"Hrmph!" Cowley vocalised, and after pinning Doyle to the spot with the glare he normally reserved for Bodie's sometimes caustic comments, strode away along the corridor, leaving Doyle wondering if the world was ever going to start turning again.

---

Late in the night, Cowley was still working at his makeshift desk as he finished checking the reports on Wakeman and Catrell.

The more immediate work done and out of the way, he turned wearily to his next task. From under a pile of papers he retrieved the red ink pad and stamp that his secretary had placed there in readiness. Three times he printed the damning word in luridly appropriate ink across each file. Deceased. Deceased. Deceased.

One and half operative units wiped out in a single morning. Two units really, Cowley realised grimly. Today, Lake had been working purely on momentum--automatic pilot--his training seeing to that; but now that the action was all over, Lake would have time to think, time to grieve, time to fall apart.

Cowley sighed and pushed the files away. Some good had come from the day's disaster, though; Doyle had more than proved his potential to the Department. As first days go, Cowley had to admit that Doyle's had been impressive. But even so he knew that the hoped-for partnership still had a long way to go.

It was standard practice for all established agents to prepare an additional report, totally separate from the operations one, on the actions of any newcomer to the squad. Reading through them, Cowley had seen Lake and Bodie's opinions on Doyle's behaviour.

Both men had clearly shown, without any resentment, that it had been Doyle who had guided the path their actions had taken. Not only had he deciphered Mathieson's log book after Bodie had discarded it as illegible, but he had gained Billy's confidence at a crucial moment, as well as recognising the danger in the elegantly dressed Lisa Wakeman. Admittedly Bodie and Lake were right behind him following Susan's radio message, but their arrival would have been too late.

Foolishly off his guard and completely without protection, he had let Wakeman have him in her sights; only Doyle's timely intervention had saved his life.

Doyle had worked well, but on his own--not part of a team.

Cowley mentally reviewed the training period and came to the conclusion that Bodie had achieved his task of turning Doyle into a useful operative--but the bonding of two halves to make a working partnership had not happened--yet.

Pushing his chair back, Cowley got up from the desk and collected all the papers that needed to be secured in the safe. Locking the paperwork away, he finally switched off the light and left his office--his mind still mulling over the intricacies of trying to match individuals into effective teams. He had three good men, men with a wealth of experience and potential. Lake's and Doyle's futures were predictably sound, the only maverick was Bodie. Cowley knew that he had to find the right partner if he stood any chance of keeping Bodie for much longer--if Doyle didn't work out perhaps he ought to try Lake.

Stepping out into the crisp night air, Cowley pulled his coat on and walked across to his car. No, he decided as he slipped behind the steering wheel. Bodie and Lake didn't 'feel' right in the way Bodie and Doyle did. Time was all they needed, he was sure of that. Time for Doyle to learn how to trust, and for Bodie to learn that to care need not be a recipe for disaster.

The problem resolved, Cowley drove out of the car park, heading for home and peaceful, undisturbed sleep for what was left of the rest of the night.

---

CHAPTER NINE

The road leaving the airport was heavily congested, the heavy rain and oncoming darkness not really helping. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Bodie made his bad mood perfectly clear. Unable to do anything, Doyle sat still and watched the slow progress of the never-ending line of cars.

"Christ," Bodie mumbled. "How much longer are we gonna be stuck here?"

Doyle didn't bother to answer.

From behind them a blue flashing light and droning siren heralded the imminent arrival of an ambulance. As if by magic, the jam of cars melted sideways, up onto hard shoulder and pavements to create a path for the vehicle.

Watching the progress of the flashing light in his rear view mirror, Bodie quickly steered his car to follow immediately behind the ambulance.

With the help of their pathmaker, the car sped on down the road, leaving all the other slow thinkers sitting in the rush hour traffic jam.

Arriving eventually outside HQ, Bodie pondered aloud on the form their next assignment was going to take.

"Maybe the Minister's granddaughter needs collecting from school," he said. "Or else we might be told to escort the post van to the sorting office. Or--" he continued excitedly, "maybe it's our turn to lick the stamps!"

Again, Doyle didn't bother to answer. He had found the last few weeks interesting if not exactly enjoyable. But protecting--or baby-sitting as Bodie called it--fairly low-level ministers and foreign diplomats, or observing the activities of particular addresses and people from a discreet distance, was not the type of work his partner had any great love for. Of that Doyle was in no doubt, because Bodie had told him so. Repeatedly.

"I want to see John in the armoury," Bodie said as they entered the building. "Will you sign in for me upstairs?"

Once Doyle had agreed, Bodie turned off to go down into the basement. The squad room was almost packed, Doyle noticed as he slipped in to the room next door to add his and Bodie's names to the list of 'operatives in residence' board. Just about everyone was in, it seemed, because there were only a few lines spare on the board, the rush of activity tailing off with the departure of all the different heads of state and their accompanying entourages.

All of a sudden the congenial buzz of conversation was interrupted by raised voices. For a moment the crowded room was quiet and then, into the stillness, the indignant voice repeated its question to his audience.

"I'd just like to know what Cowley's trying to achieve, that's all. I mean--what possible good can come from recruiting that sort of bloke?"

"If you can't beat 'em--join 'em," said one voice.

"Cowley's got his reasons--maybe he means to use him as a plant, undercover--that sort of thing." said another.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, that's probably what the Cow's after."

"I still don't like it," the original protester said firmly. "How can we trust a bloke that's already proved he can't be trusted?"

About to enter the room and find out what everyone was talking about, Doyle was frozen to the spot just outside the door as another voice added its contribution to the debate.

"Doyle's all right. He's done his time, paid his dues to society and all that crap. If Cowley sees fit to trust him I don't see that we can't."

"All right, Puddle," said the angry voice. "You trust him--you work with him--but I'm damned if I will!"

The room was suddenly filled with clamouring voices, some agreeing with Lake, but mostly with the other man.

Outside, Doyle finally managed to get his feet to work and walked woodenly, resisting the impulse to run, into the toilets, the nearest place where he could be alone in private to absorb what he had overheard.

He locked the cubicle door and leant on it, closing his eyes, screwing them up tightly, angrily, refusing to let the moisture overspill and form tears.

Quite wrongly he had thought it was behind him. He should have known that the stigma of prison would cling on to taint all he touched. For what seemed to be a lifetime he had been protesting his innocence, refusing to be forced into becoming what others believed he was; refusing to be beaten by a pack of lies.

Slowly the numbing rage receded and his thoughts moved along more coherent, dispassionate lines. Why should they believe him to be innocent? Hadn't he agreed to Cowley's suggestion that he waive his right to a public retrial--hadn't he agreed not to tell too may people about his change of fortune? Of course he had! No one had asked him about his immediate past. Foolishly he had told himself that they didn't know--and if they did they would realise that the judge and jury had got it all wrong.

Doyle, he told himself, you are a fool!

Someone came into the toilets from the corridor, and he immediately recognised one of the voices that had been raised against him.

"...load of rubbish. I thought this was supposed to be a rigidly upright, law-abiding incorruptible organisation." The unmistakable sound of two zips being unfastened and the following noises were as audible as the conversation which continued relentlessly.

"It was bad enough when his partner joined the squad, but at least he had the sense not to shit on his own doorstep."

Whether the man had come to the end of his argument or merely noticed the closed cubicle door and become aware of unknown ears, the conversation stopped and the two men finally left the small room.

After a few minutes, Doyle unlocked the door and crossed over to the wash basins where he splashed a handful of cold water over his face.

What, he wondered, had that last little comment meant? Although no names had been mentioned, Doyle knew that this time they had been talking about Bodie.

Re-entering the corridor, Doyle turned away from the squad room. Quite by accident he found himself outside the computer room. Peering around the door, he found the place almost deserted, and only a few operators seated at the odd terminal. One of the girls looked over at him.

"Want any help?" she asked.

"No. Is it okay if I do a couple of searches myself?"

"Go ahead," the girl answered. "Just yell if you need any help."

Without meaning to, Doyle found himself tapping out the names he had read on his partner's ID: William Andrew Philip Bodie, gave a possible date of birth, sat back and waited for the few minutes it took the computer to check all the National Criminal Records Offices for any matches on the names. One by one the answers flashed up on the screen. Nowhere in the country was there any record of one William Andrew Philip Bodie.

It had only been a thought after all, Doyle told himself. Again he tried to work out what the man had meant--perhaps Bodie had been involved in something abroad.

"Excuse me, love," Doyle called to the girl. "Does this thing have access to International Computer Banks?"

"No, sorry. All international requests have to go through the duty officer. Why, do you need something?" she asked.

"No, it's all right. I just wondered."

I just wanted to check my partner out, he thought quietly. About to leave the room, a sudden burst of curiosity flared and Doyle returned to the keyboard and tapped his own name out.

In seconds his full record was flashing up on the screen. Every meticulously recorded detail. His description. His age. His photographs. A summary of his court case and its outcome. Everything was there. Not a single word had been amended or deleted to show the reversal of the conviction.

Having been expecting a 'no trace' message, it took Doyle a while to see the flashing strip across the top of the screen but it soon demanded his attention. He read it: "This person is subject of a Home Office 'A' notice. All enquiries on this file are automatically recorded. No action is to be taken on the subject except the express permission of Home Office Department Code XXX."

Doyle cleared the screen and left the room. A flashing light on another terminal attracted its operator's attention; the girl responded to the message flashing across her screen by reach for a telephone.

---

Emerging from the overcrowded, overheated squad room, Bodie greeted his partner warmly. "Thought you'd got lost, sunshine. I've just booked us off duty until tomorrow--fancy coming down to The Three Kings for a pint and a game of arrows?"

"Fuck off!" Doyle growled as he shoved Bodie aside.

"Oi!" Bodie protested, his good mood vanishing almost as fast as it had come. "What's got into you?" he yelled after Doyle's retreating back. "Doyle? Doyle!"

Running to catch up, Bodie grabbed hold of an arm only to let go quickly to block the retaliatory punch from the unrestrained arm. "What the hell's got into you?"

"Are you going to tell me you don't know?" Doyle hissed.

"Don't know what?"

"Ah--forget it!" Doyle twisted away and continued his way along the corridor to Cowley's office. "Is he in?" he demanded of the secretary.

"Unless you have an appointment--no."

"Is he in?"

"You can't see him now." Betty held her ground.

"Come on, Doyle," Bodie said placatingly. "Can't go bargin' in on Cowley, he'll have you scrubbing the ablutions for weeks."

"I've already told you to sod off, Bodie, and I'm going to see him," Doyle insisted and moved towards the door.

The phone on Betty's desk buzzed and, trusting Bodie to restrain his partner's progress, she answered it.

The room was quiet until Betty replaced the receiver.

"Mr Cowley says to send Mr Doyle straight in," she said, her calm exterior expressing absolutely no surprise that Mr Cowley was anticipating the arrival of one rather agitated and disgruntled agent.

Too angry to wonder how Cowley had known he was outside, Doyle walked into the office.

Uncertain of what was going on and only aware that something had happened in the last half hour to make his new partner see red, Bodie followed. If his presence was unwelcome no doubt someone would tell him so.

"You have something you wish to discuss with me, 4.5?" Cowley asked straight away.

"I most certainly have," Doyle snapped back. "You..."

"Sit down, 4.5," Cowley interrupted.

His train of thought broken by Cowley's quiet order, the authority in the soft voice was impossible to ignore. Doyle sat down.

"Why have you--" he began again.

"Bodie, either come in or get out," Cowley said. "Do you have any objection to your partner's presence?" he asked Doyle.

Biting back the vulgar response that leapt into his mouth, Doyle managed to indicate that Bodie could stay if he wanted to. He drew breath to try again.

"Now then, 4.5," Cowley said smoothly, "what was it that was so urgent?"

Realising that an incoherent babble was not going to impress Cowley, Doyle tried to control his tongue and temper.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"Lie?" asked Cowley. "Could you try to be a little more specific?"

"About my criminal record. You said it would be destroyed--but it hasn't. It's still there for everyone to see!"

"And you have just seen it yourself, I presume."

"Yes."

"It took you longer than I thought, to become curious," Cowley said.

"You still haven't said why you lied," Doyle persisted angrily.

"I lied to you because at that moment in time it was what you wanted to hear."

"What--why?" asked Doyle, his anger giving way to a bewildered jumble of questions. "I don't understand why you--"

"I have already told you why, Doyle. It was, quite simply, what you wanted to hear. Surely your common sense would have shown you that a 'live' record is infinitely more precious than a false one. Unfortunately there are far, far too many policemen who are not as incorrupt as yourself."

"So you've slapped an 'A' notice on it!"

"Yes."

"So as well as being a known convicted, bent copper you've also labelled me a 'snitch,'" Doyle said, the disgust at the additional slur on his name perfectly obvious, but Cowley remained unperturbed.

"The 'A' notice is not exclusive to informers," he reminded the angry young man, "and is the most effective way of placing a 'Hands off without permission' notice on your file. It also allows this department to know immediately if anyone anywhere in the country requests computer access to your file."

"I don't like it."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Why didn't you tell me what you intended doing?"

"Because," Cowley replied, "I assumed you would realise how valuable your record was and reach the obvious conclusion yourself." The lie sounded convincing enough, and Cowley could see Doyle's anger ebbing away as the inference that he had somehow disappointed his boss sank in. Sitting back in his chair, Cowley rode the unexpected feelings of guilt with ease. The Wakeman affair had caused a lot of upheaval and the loss of three seasoned men had thrown everything a little out of synch. Doyle's first month on the squad had hardly been conventional; there had been no easy step by step progression to lead him up to the hectic and often dangerous way of life in the squad. In at the deep end on his first day, and never once within sight of shallows since, Cowley thought with grim amusement.

It was inexcusable however, Cowley admitted, that Doyle should have been left to discover his file on his own, but it had been one of the things he had been about to discuss with Doyle the morning the Wakeman affair had blown up, quite literally, in their faces. That, and of course, he remembered suddenly, Bodie's professional records.

"The others on the squad..." Doyle said quietly, breaking into the silence that had settled over the room. "The others..." he started again awkwardly. "They think my record is true, don't they?"

"I have not discussed it with them."

"If they think it's true...how can they...I mean, how do you expect me to work with people who don't--can't trust me."

"Who's said they don't trust you?" Bodie chipped in?

"No one," Doyle answered. "Yet," he added. "At least, not to my face...but I know some of them don't like it...that they don't want to work with me."

"Who?" demanded Bodie.

"Who, is really irrelevant, Bodie," interrupted Cowley. "It was perhaps remiss of me not to have foreseen this problem. It was my intention to ensure the squad knew about Doyle's background as well as how important it is to keep the information from becoming public knowledge, but...with Wakeman and the Commonwealth Conference things have been pushed aside."

Bodie listened to Cowley's rather stilted speech with amazement. It was the nearest he had ever heard the Old Man come to making an apology! And the experience was utterly wasted on Doyle, who was unaware that he was listening to history in the making. But Bodie's happy mood was soon shattered by Cowley's next topic.

"There was one other matter that should have been attended to on your first morning, Doyle." Cowley saw but ignored the sudden jerk Bodie gave in realisation of what the 'other matter' might be. "As I said at your first interview, once you are graded onto the squad you have the right to see your partner's professional history; the copies that had been prepared for you to read were destroyed in the explosion but a replacement file will be ready for you by tomorrow morning."

Bodie had completely forgotten about his file. Never having been allocated a permanent partner before, he knew that no one except George Cowley and probably that hard-nosed bitch, Ross, had ever read his history. He had wondered why, on that fateful morning a month ago, his black mood had cleared as fast as the smoke from Cowley's devastated office; now he knew why--he'd known that his file had been part of the crisp, black cinders that littered every crevice; each page burnt beyond salvation. He should have known they would have only been copies!

"The Drugs Squad," Cowley said suddenly, "have requested our co-operation with certain aspects of the Behan Operation--"

"Mike Behan?" asked Doyle.

"Yes. The papers he left have shed some light on--"

"I want in on it!" Doyle interrupted.

Bodie was slow to make the mental connection between Behan and Doyle.

"That is out of the question," Cowley answered flatly. "I have already selected the teams and their first briefing is to be held tomorrow morning. During the briefing I will--"

"Why is it out of the question--after the way Mike stitched me up I want to get everyone else--"

"4.5!" Cowley barked. "Your involvement in the operation is not open for discussion--I am merely attempting to let you know that at the briefing tomorrow I shall give the others the background to Behan's confessions. I will tell them that you were framed and wrongly convicted."

"I know the drugs scene--the people Mike knew, his contacts--I can help!" Doyle insisted.

"But they'll know you, sunshine," Bodie added, having caught up with the conversation. "That's why you can't go in."

"Precisely," agreed Cowley. "If you become involved in the new enquiries you might just as well tell your life story to one of the Sunday scandal sheets--the cover we are trying to establish for you will be destroyed."

"It'll be destroyed anyway at the briefing tomorrow."

"No," said Cowley, "only my men, only CI5 agents will be told of Behan's testimony about you--I can't risk revealing everything to the Drugs Squad team--"

"Behan might not have been the only one on the take," said Bodie.

Doyle spun around ready to deny that anyone else could have been involved in the corruption but his angry protest died in his throat as he realised that he hadn't even suspected his so-called 'friend's' involvement. How many of the awkward, embarrassed or horrified voices of his colleagues had been hiding their relief at his removal from the squad?

"Which is why neither of you will take any part in the operation--is that understood?" Cowley waited until he received a begrudging affirmative from Doyle.

Outside Cowley's office the two men walked side by side in a thoughtful, moody silence, Doyle inwardly fuming about the unfairness of life, and Bodie already trying to guess what Doyle's reaction to reading his file was going to be. Over the last four months or so he had discovered quite a lot about Ray Doyle--and he knew that Doyle was not going to be favourably impressed by his partner's history.

They reached the main doors without speaking and it was Doyle who made the first move as he tried to pull himself out of a well of self-pity he knew he was in danger of falling into.

"Who's treating who?" he asked.

Bodie looked at him blankly, and he explained. "A pint, a game of darts, the Three Kings--remember?" Doyle said brightly. "It was your suggestion," he reminded Bodie. "Oh, never mind--come on, I'll pay," and he moved off in the direction of the pub.

For a second or two Bodie stood and looked after the retreating back and knew beyond any doubt that after tomorrow Doyle would never dream of making such an offer.

Already bracing himself for the forthcoming rejection, Bodie decided he would make the first move.

"No, thanks," he call out. "I've just remembered something I've got to do--I'll catch you later." Turning away, he strode over to his car, climbed in and roared away out of the car park before his amazed partner had time to say anything.

---

As soon as he opened the door, Lake regretted the impulse that had made him stop by for a drink. The bar was packed with hordes of revellers, all of whom seemed to be full of more than just Christmas spirit. But the heat of the smoky room was infinitely preferable to the crisp, cold night air.

Fighting to gain the barmaid's attention, he suddenly saw a familiar face. On the other side of the room, tucked away in a corner almost hidden from view by the ten-foot Christmas tree, was Bodie.

After ten minutes and about a hundred 'excuse mes' Lake arrived at the alcove with two drinks.

"Where's the lamb, then?" he asked as he placed the full glass down in front of Bodie, causing him to start in surprise.

"Who?" said Bodie as he thanked Lake for the drink.

"The lamb," Lake explained. "You know, Mary had a little lamb, followed her everywhere--" Bodie's face became a comical blank as he looked up at Lake. "Oh, for god's sake--Doyle, bonehead! I was asking you where Doyle is."

The amusement on Bodie's face drained away and Lake knew that he had misjudged his friend's mood yet again.

"Dunno," Bodie said with polite formality. "I haven't got any pockets in this jacket!"

A loud burst of raucous hilarity from the other side of the room prevented any further conversation for a few minutes and the tension between the two men eased. Lake made himself comfortable on one of the stools and the two men watched the merry goings on in the room. Slowly, as their tension lessened, an air of depression took its place, and they carried on, drinking companions in depression and silence.

About half past ten, the largest party of noisy drinkers left to go on to a night club, and signalled to the others that the evening was drawing to a close. By the time 'last orders' was called, the room was nearly empty by comparison.

Bodie collected their last drinks and sat down heavily after having a nasty experience with one of the prickly, needle-like fronds sticking out at an odd angle from the Christmas tree.

"Merry Christmas, Bodie!" Lake cheered, and raised his glass.

"What's so bleedin' merry about it?" Bodie grumbled.

"Come on," Lake smiled across the small table at him. "You've got to at least make an effort."

"Why?" Bodie demanded to know.

"Because! That's why."

"That's no answer."

"Well at least I'm trying," Lake snapped back angrily.

All at once Bodie remembered that he was not the only one in the world with partner problems. Puddle and Williams had been partners for nearly three years--

"How's things going?" he asked gruffly.

Lake didn't pretend to misunderstand and the well-hidden misery and loneliness were suddenly all too visible in his eyes.

"Everything's fine, everything is all going smoothly and then I turn around to tell him something...and he isn't there," Lake said softly. "Don't seem to be able to stop myself doing it. It's not as if I could forget that he's...dead. But I keep expecting to turn a corner--open a door--walk into a room and find him sitting there." Lake tipped the last of his drink down and thumped the glass back down on the table. "I never thought I'd miss the aggravating, vulgar-minded sod this much. I never realised how much time we spent together--I had to clear my stuff out of his flat today, took me two trips in the car, then there was the stuff he'd left at my place--god only knows why we had two flats because he was either staying with me or I was staying with him. His family have taken everything, every--bloody--little--thing. I've got nothing, nothing! Not even a photograph, a keepsake, nothing!"

The depth of Lake's loss was a revelation to Bodie. He could still remember Williams joining the squad a few months after himself and Lake, and he had seen them knit together and become the polished, slick, professional partnership that had been destroyed totally by Lisa Wakeman and Philip Catrell.

"Do you know what Cowley asked me when we arrived at Chris's flat?" Lake demanded to know of Bodie. "Do you know what the first thing Ken's brother asked me--do you?" he said angrily. "Did--he--have--a girl? That's what they wanted to know. Was there anyone apart from his family that cared about him?"

Bodie couldn't see why such an enquiry about Ken's girlfriend should be so upsetting.

"Everyone went out of their way to tell Ken's family and Helen how sorry they were--and what a waste, such a terrible waste of life his murder was," Lake continued bitterly. "They tried to spare them all the messy little details like identifying his body, his parents don't hold with cremation so someone had to find an undertaker that was prepared to put what was left into a decent coffin--"

The publican chose that moment to give a belligerent cry of, "Glasses, gentlemen, please!" He caught the glass thrown at him--just--and glared at Bodie. "Why don't you take 'im home--he can chuck his own glasses around as much as he likes there!"

Bodie pushed Lake towards the door and out into the street. They stood, breathing in the fresh, nicotine-free air; Bodie saw Lake sway and reach out to steady himself on a lamppost.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked, realising that his companion appeared more intoxicated than he should have been after what they had just drunk.

"A fair bit," Lake answered quietly.

"You're pissed."

"Probably," agreed Lake without any particular enthusiasm.

"How much have you drunk?" Bodie asked again. Lake looked up at the stars in the heavens for a few moments before finally turning his attention back to Bodie.

"Not that much really," he admitted. "Just haven't eaten all day--didn't feel very hungry."

"Christ, what the hell are we going to do with you?" Bodie muttered; he had not intended Lake to hear him.

"That's what Kenny used to say," Lake said brokenly. "What the hell am I going to do with you, Puddle, he'd say. You know what happens when you get drunk, Puddle--that's what he'd say. Guaranteed. Every time."

"What does happen when you get drunk then?" Bodie asked gently, unsure how close Lake was to breaking down completely.

"Maudlin, Bodie. Very, very maudlin. Used to let me cry on his shoulder when I got a bit down, he did." Lake sniffed. "He was a good bloke, Bodie... Best friend I ever had. There's not many blokes who'll let another bloke weep all over them. Partners...he was the...best partner..."

Bodie took control and steered Lake towards his car. There was no protest as keys were fished out of pockets and he was driven home. Numbly, Lake allowed Bodie to let them into his flat and put him to bed.

There was nothing else Bodie could do. He guessed Lake would sleep through until morning and decided to go home himself; he could always check on him early next day. About to leave, Bodie was almost through the bedroom door when Lake called to him.

"Thanks, Bodie... I'm sorry about getting so...thanks anyway," he finished awkwardly.

"That's all right, Puddle. You can do the same for me one day."

"Christ, I hope not!"

Bodie was halfway though the door before he worked out what Lake had meant. He turned.

---

For a while Bodie drove without any destination in mind--around the centre of London through the brightly lit streets that were never empty of cars or people--past the lions and the fountains and on down past the offices of government.

None of the sights or sounds touched him. He drove mechanically, his thoughts locked into the maelstrom of emotions that Lake had evoked. No one had ever turned to him for such comfort before, and he had never seen anyone, friend, colleague or even an enemy so vulnerable or defenceless.

Lake had needed someone and he had been there; Bodie felt sure his presence had helped--not that he had been able to do much except listen and then pour Lake safely into bed--but he had helped, just a little. It had felt strange to be in a position to offer comfort, even more strange to have had it asked of him, and he had given what he could--all he had, in fact--and Lake had quietly taken it. But it hadn't been enough.

He was driving towards home now, his speed and consideration for pedestrians and other drivers impeccably correct--and totally without conscious thought.

Feeling awkward and unusually tongue-tied, Bodie had made one mistake with Lake and at first he had been unable to understand the anger that had momentarily replaced the hurt in Lake's eyes. As he clocked off the ignition after neatly parking outside his flat, Bodie was suddenly able to place the reason for that anger.

Even distanced by greater losses and disappointments, Bodie could still remember the sense of outrage his mother had evoked when she offered to replace his cat, Ginger, with a kitten; as if anything could ever replace the love and affection that the unfortunate Ginger had both given and received.

A new cat could never have replaced the one that had died any more than a new partner could ever replace Williams.

Walking up the stairs, Bodie remembered something else; his mother had bought another cat and he had grown to love the new Ginger just as much as the old one--until he was put down because his new dad decided he was allergic to cats.

Letting himself into the flat, Bodie heeled his shoes off and walked softly into his bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, he looked for a long time at the man fast asleep, the bright winter moonlight and amber streetlights pouring through the uncurtained windows giving him a clear view.

It felt...odd, Bodie decided as he continued to watch Doyle sleep, to come home and find someone there. It wasn't something that happened very often.

In the street a taxi drew up and began to disgorge its noisy occupants onto the pavement, the slamming doors, engine and party-bright voices sounding loud. The men were almost shouting and, in the bed, Doyle began to stir. The braying voices of his neighbours faded as they began to cross the road into the flats but as the group finally entered the building all the sounds died away. Doyle moved restlessly once more before settling back down to sleep.

Without really understanding why he did it, Bodie crossed over to the window and drew the curtains. They were heavily lined to create darkness at midday to enable him to sleep when his duties allowed. Until Doyle moved in he had always slept in the dark.

Almost at once Bodie heard Doyle begin to move in the bed.

"Are you awake?" Bodie whispered.

There was no answer except for another movement and a soft murmur.

"Doyle? Don't piss about. If you're awake, say so." Bodie's voice was a little louder; if Doyle was messing him about he'd wrap the curtain around his neck.

Feeling unaccountably guilty, Bodie opened the curtains. By comparison to the darkness it was almost daylight now, and Bodie saw at once that Doyle had turned to face where the light should have been and curled into a ball, his face worried where it had been relaxed and peaceful only moments ago.

Moving to begin undressing, Bodie's shadow passed over Doyle's face. On a shuddering intake of breath, Doyle jolted awake.

"Bodie?" he asked urgently.

"Nah--Santa Claus--go back to sleep, little boy."

"What time is it?"

"Quarter past two."

"Where've you bin?"

"Out!" Bodie replied shortly.

"Sorry," Doyle apologised sheepishly. "I sound like my dad, don't I! I used to dread getting home late and finding him sitting behind the back door waiting to catch me out."

Undressed, Bodie slipped in under the covers.

"Been with Puddle," Bodie offered across the pillow as Doyle turned away into his normal sleep position. "Bumped into him and...he wanted to talk, needed to. You didn't wait up for me, did you?"

"Course not," Doyle lied easily. "Now, belt up and go to sleep--and don't you dare put your hands or feet near me until you've warmed them up."

"This is my bed," Bodie said in an aggrieved voice."

"Go to sleep!" Doyle ordered.

The alarm was the next sound they both heard. After a few sleepy peaceful minutes Doyle sat up and pushed the covers away as he climbed out of bed. Bodie pulled them back up to his ears.

"Rise and shine," Doyle said brightly.

"Shuddup!"

"Don't go back to sleep, Bodie. Come on--up!"

"Umgh!" Bodie grunted and burrowed down under the covers.

"Coming for a run?"

"No."

"Do you good."

"So will another half hour's sleep--fuck off!" Bodie retrieved the duvet that his aggravating partner had twitched away.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes."

"'bye!" Bodie said hopefully.

"Coffee and toast."

"Thanks, mate, I'll have a bowl of cereal as well."

"You'll be lucky, I was hoping you'd have it ready for me."

"Fat chance."

Returning, sweating and breathless, Doyle was greeted by the pleasant aroma of fresh coffee and burnt toast and his smug, shower-fresh, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed partner.

As he munched his way through his toast, Bodie found himself consciously looking at Doyle as a long-term partner and possible friend for the first time. Lake had talked until the early hours of the morning about his partner and Bodie had listened. At first he'd told himself that he was only supporting a colleague in distress, just being there for Lake to talk to, but as the night had gone on he'd found himself listening for an entirely different reason--almost a selfish one.

Until last night, Bodie thought he had known Williams well. A good man, sharp, on-the-ball, always reliable, great hand-to-hand combat technique and a hit with the girls. But he hadn't known him at all, not really. Only now, after listening to his closest friend talking non-stop for hours on end, did Bodie feel he was close to really knowing the man.

Bit by bit, anecdote after anecdote, one incident and disaster at a time, Lake had slowly told the way in which their partnership had taken shape. It had taken them years to become a unit, to act and know instinctively that the other would be there to help, to laugh with or save each other. Years of hard work, blood, sweat and even a few tears--all destroyed by one ugly trick of fate.

Never having been that closely involved with another person's life, Bodie had been surprised at the depth of the ties between Lake and Williams. More than friends, closer than brothers even, they had shared everything, good times and bad--even girls as some of the light-hearted remembrances had revealed.

But the closeness was now demanding a price that Bodie wasn't sure he ever wished to pay. CI5 was a dangerous business and he had already contributed toward more wreaths than he cared to think about. He had learnt a long time ago that caring only ever resulted in pain. Lake had known this, though, and had told Bodie how he had fought against being teamed with Williams, but had learnt to care and was prepared to pay the cost--not that he had much choice not to do otherwise!

"Anybody in there?"

Bodie was jolted back to the present to find Doyle peering worriedly into his face.

"Huh?"

"I said, is there anybody in there? I've asked you three times if you want any more coffee and all you've done is look straight through me," Doyle explained. "I was beginning to think rigor mortis had set in."

"Sorry, I was...thinking."

"Did it hurt?" Doyle joked.

"I will have another coffee, thanks," Bodie said abruptly.

Puzzled, Doyle poured the coffee out and passed it over, all the time wondering what was wrong.

"What's up?" he asked as he decided to jump straight in.

"Nothing."

"Balls!"

"There is nothing wrong," Bodie said patiently.

"And I said, balls!" Doyle snapped out. "You're a moody bugger at the best of times but even I can see something's really bugging you."

Bodie opened his mouth to deny the allegation but the expression on Doyle's face stopped him dead. Ray was really worried! He wasn't asking just to be nosy, he was genuinely concerned.

"Do you think we can make a go of this like Cowley wants us to?" Bodie suddenly heard himself asking.

"What?" The question was unexpected and shook Doyle a little. "A partnership, you mean? Well, I don't see why not. We've managed all right so far, haven't we?" he finally answered.

"Do you know why Cowley has teamed us?" Bodie asked cryptically.

"Because..." Doyle groped for an answer. "I suppose he thinks I'm so green I need someone experienced to help me out."

"But why me?"

"You were...available, you didn't have a partner and I needed one--I dunno, I've not given it much thought," Doyle said irritably, now even more puzzled by Bodie's odd mood.

"I have," said Bodie slowly. "I've been giving it a lot of thought."

"Where were you last night?" asked Doyle; up until Bodie had vanished from outside Cowley's office everything had been fine, he was sure of it.

"Last night? I've already told you I met Puddle--but it doesn't really matter where, except it gave me time to think," Bodie answered. "Cowley knows me, probably better than anyone else, and he knows the type of person I am--not that he's ever held it against me," he joked, lightening the sombre mood momentarily. "I have strong suspicion that he's banking on this partnership keeping me in CI5."

"How?"

"Personal loyalty and what it entails. All the partnerships on the squad, if they last the training period they hold fast through everything. No one wants to leave a partner behind," Bodie explained. "One man can resign or get himself invalid out or killed without disrupting the organisation--but if you lose half of a team you lose everything."

"And you think you're so indispensable Cowley's trying to tie you to CI5 using me as the string." Doyle couldn't keep the note of derision from his voice.

"I don't think I'm indispensable--but I think Cowley reckons I am."

"And what is so special about you then?"

"What's special about you, sunshine?" Bodie returned. "We've all got something Cowley wants--but you haven't answered my questions. Do you think we're going to make a go of it?"

Doyle realised that Bodie was being serious and that he was expecting a truthful, considered answer.

"Yes," he said confidently. "Don't ask me why but I think we can do it. I can't see any reason why we won't--can you?"

Bodie tried to think of one, just one valid reason--but he couldn't.

"No. God help us both, but no, I can't think of any reason either."

"Why do I get the impression that you're not exactly overwhelmed with the prospect of working with me?" Doyle asked lightly, hiding his concern about Bodie's all-too-apparent doubts about their future.

Because I don't want to watch you die--Bodie only just managed to stop himself saying it out loud, but his face must have betrayed him because Doyle altered his voice, wiping away the sarcasm, the air of unconcern, and repeated his question.

"Do you want to work with me?" he asked. "Because now's the time to speak up. However much Cowley wants us together I can't see him forcing you to work with me if you really don't want to."

Bodie knew that Doyle was right. If he refused outright there was no way Cowley would be able to justify keeping them together.

"Don't you have any doubts?" he asked Doyle.

"No," was the prompt answer.

"Why not?" Bodie was curious to know. Nothing that had happened to Doyle in the past three years had encouraged him to trust people--friends or strangers--but he seemed prepared to accept him at face value. "You don't know the first thing about me and I practically know your life history."

The conversation he had overheard came back and Doyle realised with a shock that it was true. All he knew about Bodie was his name, address and present occupation.

"Well," he said consideringly, "if by the end of this conversation you're still of a mind to make a go of it I'll be reading your papers later on this morning, won't I!" He looked Bodie straight in the eye. "Am I going to find any surprises?"

"Depends on what you're expecting really, doesn't it?" Bodie replied.

Doyle nodded in agreement. The way Bodie turned his attention back to his breakfast gave Doyle the hint to leave the subject alone--for a while anyway.

Walking along the corridor towards Cowley's office, Bodie brought the matter up again.

"What are you expecting?" he asked, suddenly curious to know.

"You've been CI5 for...three years, isn't it?" Bodie nodded. "Before that...the way you enjoyed mucking about on the ranges...the army. You came on the squad from the army." Doyle paused and looked Bodie over very carefully from head to toe. "Probably a boy soldier or cadet or whatever they call 'em nowadays. A career soldier," he summed up, then once more recalled that cryptic reference to Bodie's past. "And here and there--a few...surprises," he added carefully.

"Close," Bodie said as he reached out and knocked on Cowley's door, opening it on the command to 'Enter.' "But you're right about a few surprises," said in a whispered, rueful voice as they crossed the room to stand before Cowley's desk.

The interview was brief. Doyle was handed a slim folder and told to return it as soon as it had been read. If he had any questions he was to ask Bodie. Dismissed, Doyle left the room alone with the folder tucked under his arm.

Once the door had closed behind Doyle, Cowley indicated that Bodie should take a seat.

"How is Doyle shaping up?" Cowley asked.

"So far he's done all right, taken everything in his stride--but the work we've been lumbered with the last few weeks has been pretty routine." Bodie took the opportunity to voice his complaints over the duties they had drawn. "Baby-sitting a bunch of dishwater diplomats didn't exactly give him much scope to display his talent," Bodie finished sourly.

"And off duty?" Cowley ignored the sarcasm in the young man's voice.

"Off duty?"

"Socially," Cowley elaborated. "How well has he...adapted to his new way of life?"

Bodie wondered why he should be so surprised that Cowley would want to know about Doyle's social life. He knew that he was still being watched by Ross and Dr Willis; over the last month or so Bodie had become quite used to suddenly finding Ross's eagle-eyed, see-all gaze centred upon either himself or Doyle. The woman unnerved him; she had a similar effect on Doyle too, Bodie had noticed.

"He hasn't exactly thrown himself into any kind of wild social whirl," he finally answered. "As far as I know he's not made contact with any old friends from the force or otherwise. He's not tried to contact his family either."

"What is he like to live with?"

Bodie pondered on which answer he thought Cowley wanted to hear.

"Quiet," he said slowly. "Keeps himself very much to himself. He's pretty easy to get along with--so much so that it's easy to forget I'm sharing the place with anyone."

"Is he still troubled by nightmares?"

Cowley watched the careful nonreaction with interest. Bodie knew what he was talking about--that was clear enough--but any surprise was swiftly replaced in the clear blue eyes by a cautious, appraising look.

"This is a silly question, I know," Bodie said, "but I know Doyle never told you or Ross about his nightmares--so how come you know?"

"His medical report from Maidstone mentioned that he was prone to suffer such dreams. There was a recommendation that he should receive some form of counselling to help alleviate the problem."

"Then why wasn't he?" Bodie asked angrily.

"He was released from Maidstone and I suspected that once he was clear of that environment he would be all right."

"You suspected!" said Bodie disbelievingly.

"Ross agree with me," Cowley replied. "Were we wrong?"

"No!" Bodie shouted. "But you could've at least warned me what to expect--"

"You appear to have managed well enough," Cowley broke in. "After a few initial problems Doyle's health and mental attitude appears to have made a remarkable recovery."

"Small thanks to you and Dr Ross!"

"Indeed?" Cowley questioned quietly, but immediately switched the conversation to a different topic. "In your opinion as the person who probably knows more about Doyle than either Ross or I, do you consider him ready to start living independently?"

"There's been a flat available for months," Bodie suddenly accused. "You've deliberately kept him in my flat so as to keep an eye on him."

"A flat is available now," Cowley agreed, "but accommodation had been instructed to put Doyle's allocation on 'hold' until I instructed them otherwise.

"So he could have moved out any time!"

"I knew that you would let me know if you found living with Doyle to be impossible," Cowley said placidly. "When neither of you pestered the office or me I surmised that the situation was proving agreeable to you both."

Bodie was rather surprised to realise that not once had he questioned the time it was taking the accommodation people to house Doyle, but Cowley's question still had to be answered, though. Did he think Doyle was ready to live on his own? He was undecided; half of him said no, but the other half argued that alone Doyle would stand more chance of establishing himself, in his own home he might feel freer to contact some of his own friends.

"Yes," he finally replied, "I think he's ready."

"You don't sound too sure, Bodie." Cowley had not missed the worried expression that passed fleetingly across Bodie's face.

"I'm not," he said honestly. "But I can't see that keeping him cooped up with me day and night is going to help him much more. From a couple of things he's told me I get the impression that he's not naturally so...introverted...retiring; out on his own maybe he'll feel easier about picking up on his old way of life."

"You're probably right," Cowley agreed. Bodie had only confirmed what he had suspected. "I'll get the office to inform Doyle about his flat then."

---

Further down the hall, Doyle was having a tough time trying to find somewhere quiet so he could concentrate on Bodie's papers. The squad room, duty office and all the smaller offices were full of men and women, milling around. The briefing Cowley had arranged had resulted in just about every available operative being in the building. The whole department was buzzing with anticipation and the arrival of a bunch of senior Scotland Yard drugs squad officers in the car park confirmed everyone's suspicions.

"I told you it was a drugs case," Doyle heard someone say--he glanced up and identified John Day. "It's not often the Drugs Squad lads ask for our help so it must be something big?" Day's voice held a questioning note and Doyle suddenly found himself the centre of attention.

"I've felt something bubbling under the surface for months now," Day said to Doyle after checking that the whole room was watching the two of them. "Been a lot of funny goings on, hasn't there?" Day crossed the room to stand by the desk Doyle had sat at to read.

"Has there?" Doyle returned mildly, then turned a page over, dismissing Day casually.

"I daresay we'll find out what's happening once the Cow gives us the briefing," Day said smugly.

Doyle suddenly identified Day's soft country accent as being the loud voice he had heard being raised yesterday against his presence on the squad.

"I daresay you will," he said coldly, pleased to see a flicker of apprehension on Day's face as he became aware of the icy glare and underlying rage in the quiet reply.

"Yeah..." Day stumbled and lost his train of thought but then remembered their audience. "I expect we'll get some answers to some questions we've all been wondering about."

"What questions would they be, Day?"

Bodie's voice matched Doyle's for temperature but it had more effect on the room full of people because they all knew Bodie's temper--Doyle was still little more than a stranger to them, still only a piece of hot gossip.

Bodie repeated the question but Day still failed to voice any intelligible reply.

"I will tell you one thing, Day," Doyle offered. "You're late for your briefing--it's three minutes past nine!"

Nearly half the people in the room checked their watches before mouthing obscenities and moving towards the door.

A safe distance away, Day turned back before he left the room.

"Aren't you coming then?" he sneered.

"Any reason why we should?" Bodie's voice covered Doyle's own, similar reply.

"Your little friend's the one with all the drug connections--isn't he? Should have thought Cowley'd have him using his...shall we say...expertise," Day said, snickering at his little joke. "Still, maybe he thinks it's best to keep temptation out of--"

Bodie's stance shifted fractionally and Day wisely beat a dignified if somewhat hasty retreat. The few remaining people suddenly became occupied with other more important matters and drifted away from the storm brewing in their midst.

"Read it yet?"

"Not had much chance, have I?" Doyle snapped back and shrugged off the warm hand that had gripped his shoulder, keeping him firmly but unobtrusively in his seat. "And I'll thank you not to do that again."

"Do what?" Oh," Bodie said and grinned sheepishly. "Well, Cowley doesn't hold with brawling in the ranks."

"I didn't intend brawling with anyone, I was just gonna lay 'im out--period!"

"Ah well, now if I'd known that I'd've let you hit him," Bodie apologised. "Still," he added, "it's Cowley's fault for not spilling the beans about your background or at least letting you do it yourself."

"Well they're all going to find out now, aren't they?"

"Look on the bright side--once the briefing is over the stain on your wonderful, honest, clean-living, noble, law-abiding character will be gone forever and you'll be at the top of everyone's social list."

"How d'you work that out?"

"Stands to reason," Bodie explained. "Such a nice bunch of lads, they'll be tripping over themselves to show you that they don't hold the past that you never had against you. Especially the women--be fighting over you, they will--trying to make up for all your hardship."

"You reckon?" Doyle said hopefully, caught up in Bodie's enthusiasm.

"Any of them you find too much to handle--you know where I live," Bodie offered. "Which reminds me--when you've read that lot you can go down to the accommodation office; the keys to a flat are waiting for you and we've got the day off to move you in."

"A flat! Where?"

"You read me life's story and I'll get the keys and address from the office, then I'll give you a hand to pack your stuff and shift it, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply Bodie was gone, leaving Doyle staring, open-mouthed, behind him. His mind was full of things that needed to be done if he was to move home today; vying with the thoughts of things to buy and do were thoughts on the briefing room full of people. Now, instead of treating him like a leper they would probably wonder how anyone stupid enough to get himself so thoroughly stitched-up could get a job with CI5.

He read Bodie's file automatically. He took everything in, but nothing touched or amazed him. Maybe it would later--but there was too much buzzing around in his head for Bodie's past history to bother him.

Bodie re-entered the squad room in time to see Doyle close the folder and lean back in his chair, stretching the kinks from his back. Doyle looked up at him then at the bunch of keys swinging from his hand.

"Fort Knox, is it?"

"As good as, sunshine. This..." Bodie peered at the crumpled paper tag, "is the key to the Yale lock on the front door." He held up the next key on the ring. "Front door security lock...front door alarm lock...fire exit security lock...kitchen window...bathroom...living room...study--that's posh, I've never had a flat with a study...bedroom door...wardrobe...security safe--security safe! I've never had one of them either."

"Where is this humble abode then?" Doyle asked as he took the tangled knot of keys from Bodie's hand.

"Off Kensington High Street, just round the corner from the park. Come on, mate, let's get going--don't want to read it all again, do you?" Over-conscious of the other people still left in the squad room, Bodie felt uneasy about saying the address out loud. It would mean nothing to Doyle, of course, but everyone else would still remember the previous tenant.

"Hyde Park?" Doyle asked as he followed him out of the room, causing Bodie to pause a second at the tight quality at odds with the expressionless face.

"No--Holland Park--near the Commonwealth Institute," Bodie added.

All Doyle's enthusiasm vanished as swiftly as it had come.

"What's wrong?" Bodie asked. Doyle only shook his head and shouldered past him, striding along the corridor to Cowley's office where he handed the folder back into the care of Cowley's secretary.

"Do I have any choice?" Doyle asked quietly as they crossed the tarmac to the car.

"Over what?"

"Taking the flat--have I got to have this one?"

"You haven't even seen it yet, it's a palace compared to mine--even got your own balcony. It's got some great furniture in it, too--bleeding' great pinball machine in the middle of the living room."

"You sound like an estate agent, are you really that keen to get rid of me?" Doyle said laughingly. "How do you know so much about it anyway?"

Bodie swore quietly; he would have to tell Doyle before someone else did. "I've been there a few times," he explained. "It used to be Williams' place."

The car was quiet until they arrived outside Bodie's flat.

"That's not why I'm not keen on the place--I didn't know Williams, so moving into his flat doesn't worry me...it's just the area. Used to live near there--only a five-minute walk from the Institute."

"With your bird?"

"Ann? Yeah, with her," Doyle said quietly.

"Thought you said she was in America, though."

"Only went there for a holiday. To forget all about me--get it all out of her system!"

Feeling hopelessly inadequate, Bodie climbed out of the car and they entered the building in a solemn silence.

Within fifteen minutes Doyle had all his belongings packed into two of Bodie's suitcases and stood them ready by the front door alongside the cases he had collected all those months ago from his brother's house. The speed with which Doyle was ready to go amazed Bodie. He had known women take longer to pack their handbags.

Doyle drove the car and Bodie was about to comment on their circuitous route when he saw Doyle's eyes fix on a block of fashionably expensive apartments. Following the line of Doyle's gaze, Bodie looked closely at the third floor flat, the only one that had a light shining out on that floor.

"Nice place," he commented dryly.

"Mmm..." Tearing his eyes away, Doyle looked back at the road and refused to be drawn any further.

Three minutes later they arrived outside Doyle's new home.

Doyle gave the flat a good look over, investigating all the rooms and cupboards, discovering what was hidden behind concealing doors and in cupboards and drawers. Covering his territory.

Bodie waited awkwardly in the lounge by the window. Without Williams' personal belongings, the untidy piles of books and papers, photographs and other ornaments and mementoes, the flat looked cold and uninviting. Aware of what had once been there, he was only too conscious of what was missing.

"Where's the linen cupboard?" a rather breathless voice shouted down the spiral staircase.

"I think it's in the wall between the bathroom and bedroom," Bodie shouted back as he recalled a dim memory of hunting for a dry towel on the one occasion he'd used the upstairs shower; as the memory gained substance Bodie looked at the settee with remembered disgust. After a long, tedious observation in a frozen, muddy trench in the Kentish countryside the three of them, Williams, Lake and Bodie, had returned to dry out, thaw out and flake out here. Williams and Lake took the bed upstairs and left Bodie to fight with the bed-settee. It had taken him a good ten minutes to work out how to open the thing without severing his fingers and then he discovered that a spring in the centre of the mattress was broken and had spent the night jumping every time he speared his nether regions on the protruding metal.

"It's empty."

"What?" Bodie jumped, he hadn't heard Doyle come back downstairs.

"Linen cupboard--all the cupboards, come to that. I thought these places were supposed to be furnished?"

"What's all this then?" Bodie said, indicating the furniture in the room.

"Furniture," Doyle agreed. "But nothing else; there's a bread knife and a milk saucepan in the kitchen, a bald loo-brush and broken bog-roll holder in the bathroom and not a blanket or pillow in sight--not even a dustpan and brush."

It had been three years since Bodie had moved into his first CI5 flat, and that had been from a private place where he had already accumulated most of the necessary domestic equipment.

"Now you know what your wages are for, don't you," he said cheerfully.

Several weary hours later Bodie deeply regretted his offer to help his partner with his shopping. While Doyle piled the next load of parcels and packages on the back seat of the car, Bodie rested his head on his aching arms; he'd thought that the duvet box and bag of sheets had been awkward enough to manoeuvre through the crowded shops but the last trip with the vacuum cleaner had just about killed him. He hated shopping at the best of times and always made a point of doing it only when it was really necessary and he never but never ventured near any shopping precincts the week before Christmas. It just wasn't safe!

"Have you finished yet? You must have run out of cheques if not money by now!" Bodie asked. "There is a law about deliberately writing rubber cheques, you know." He didn't want to pry into Doyle's financial affairs but, peering into the loaded car he began to calculate what Doyle had spent. "Are you on a different rate of pay to me, or something?" he asked. "Or do you have a rich relative hidden away somewhere?"

"Let's just say I'm on to a good promise, shall we!" Doyle answered as he set the front seat back and climbed in. "One more stop at a supermarket and then we can get back to the flat."

"You haven't got to buy everything today, Doyle. Give your cheque book a rest, for god's sake. Tell you what, drive us home and I'll cook us some dinner. We can take all this stuff back to your flat tomorrow."

"We're on the Embassy job first thing tomorrow morning," Doyle reminded him as they drove off in the direction of the supermarket. "If it takes off like Cowley's predicting we're going to be too busy to fiddle around getting the place straight. Makes sense to get it all done today while we've got the day off, doesn't it."

Bodie had to agree that it did, but it didn't stop him complaining when he saw the length of the queues in the shops.

Much, much later Bodie began to think life wasn't so bad after all. They had ended the day with a celebratory meal which christened the pots, pans, crockery and cutlery they had brought home from the shops. Settling back on the settee that was much more comfortable as a settee than a bed, Bodie listened to the bustling domesticity as Doyle cleared away the remnants of their meal.

"I'm going to miss you," Bodie said as his partner finally emerged from the kitchen and slumped into an armchair.

"Why's that? It's not as if I'm going anywhere."

"I'll have to wash me own dishes now, won't I," he said plaintively.

"Buy a dishwasher!"

"Got a better idea--cheaper too. You come visiting regularly--I'll even let you do all the other housework."

Doyle responded by tossing a cushion to hit him square in the face, the offending object was returned somewhat forcibly and a mock fight broke out, only to be stopped when Doyle realised the coffee mugs were in danger of being knocked over, and the room was restored to order.

"I suppose I'll have to get going," Bodie said mournfully. "'s all right for you, all cosy and snug in your little nest."

"What are you on about?"

"Going home!" Bodie moaned. "Listen to that wind howling--bet it's raining too."

"How're you getting there?" Doyle asked smoothly. Bodie smiled politely and reminded his partner about the invention of the car.

"You're not taking my car! How am I going to get to the Embassy tomorrow if you drive off with it tonight?"

Already halfway through buttoning his jacket in preparation for facing the wintry elements, Bodie swore. Profusely.

"You can walk to the tube or catch a bus," Doyle suggested, his face creasing into an amused smile. This was the first time that sharing a car had proved awkward.

Once Doyle had rather rudely vetoed the suggestion that he should drive Bodie home a solution was easily reached. Placing the phone back on the hook, Bodie unbuttoned his coat and settled back down on the settee.

"They'll be here in about ten minutes, so I've got time for another drink, haven't I?" Bodie hinted.

Once the ring pulls had been popped and disposed of, the two men relaxed back and awaited the arrival of the taxi.

His eyes roaming around the flat, Bodie assessed the difference the fleeting tenancy had so far made. Chairs not quite straight, curtains drawn and soft lights on, glasses and a few cans of beer about. Nothing much really--but enough to make the place look lived in. Over by the front door though, Bodie could see the cases that had sat on the floor of his spare bedroom for the several months. Still locked; Doyle had made no attempt to open them, although the other cases containing his clothes were unlocked and half unpacked in the small bedroom upstairs.

"It's going to be strange when you've gone," Doyle said quietly, almost to himself, and when Bodie asked him what he meant he became embarrassed and fidgeted in his seat. "This place...it's just... Oh, I dunno," he said tiredly, running his fingers through his hair.

"It's a nice place. You'll soon settle in," Bodie said.

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "We'll have to work something out with the cars though," he suggested.

"Sometimes we'll need both, the times we don't we can just pick each other up and drop 'em off afterwards. It'll work itself out, don't worry about it. Seeing as I live closer to the embassy than you, you can pick me up tomorrow morning, okay?"

Doyle agreed and an awkward silence descended on the room and they waited for the minutes to tick by. Eventually, to the relief of both men, the door buzzer went, announcing the arrival of Bodie's taxi.

Doyle saw him out and then locked the door before walking back slowly to the living room. The battered suitcases caught his eye and he dragged them into the centre of the room, snapping the locks open and lifting the lid to his old life.

---

It wasn't until he checked out the living room for the third time that Bodie realised what he was looking for. He still didn't find it, though. It was as if Doyle had never set foot in his flat--there was absolutely nothing that had been left behind by his temporary lodger; no forgotten book, toothbrush, toiletries or bits of clothing. Nothing to say he had ever been there and nothing to say he was ever coming back.

Getting into bed was another oddly unsettling experience. Through habit, he did not close the curtains and it took him over an hour to remember that there was no longer any reason why he should suffer the glare of the street lights. Climbing back under the covers, Bodie found the room to be terribly dark and the bed cold and empty.


...Continued in Chapter 10...

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