The Professionals Circuit Archive

All These Years

(from the Angelfish Archives)

dedicated to our Circuit Archivist
for getting me to wake up and think
and start writing again

[...Nervous hands
Grip tight the knife
In the darkness
Till the cake is cut and passed around
          Passed around
In little pieces
          In little pieces
The body
The body and the flesh
The family
And the fishing net
          Another, another
Another
In the mesh...]

The Family and the Fishing Net
#4, Peter Gabriel, 1982

All these years I've kept them in my mind, flat and silent, like newspaper-cuttings in an old book, or fading petals that once scented folded linen in a chest. That is a childhood memory. I possess neither linen-chest, nor books of that sort, nor cuttings. We are moved from flat to flat too often to accumulate. You have a photo album – one, which you showed me with a mix of chagrin and disbelief, years ago. Your brother, an aunt and your parents, all dead. You said, it's okay. I can't believe they were ever alive. And you put the book away, quoted me the relevant lines from that Larkin poem, poured us both another drink. Don't worry, Ray. And you asked me about my lot, and they stirred in me, as even the driest leaf stirs, as petals and newspaper cuttings do, the whispering dead. They ached and hurt like nerve-ends still firing in an amputated limb, and you saw me go pale, and you said, you don't have to talk about it. And because of that I could, a little. I told you about Kath; as my only sibling, a sliver of the truth. She paints, she's an artist. Lives alone up in Scotland. I think she was married once but... We exchange Christmas cards, sometimes with a letter in them. Sometimes not. You might get to meet her one day, mate. You'd like Kath.

Summer, and the sycamores in full leaf in all the dusty squares. The heat of the air made a virtue, a pleasant change, of Doyle's shot-out windshield, and he tore grinning down the Southwark side street to the pickup point where his partner was waiting in the road, affectedly ignoring his approach. Doyle stopped the statutory three inches off his right kneecap. "Oh, it's you," Bodie said when the screech of brakes and tyres had died, examining the jagged hole. "Someone been shooting at you, old son?"

"Only a bit. Made shooting back at 'em easier, actually. Cow wants to think about giving us convertibles."

"Get the bastards, did you?"

"Oh, yeah. Murphy and Jax are mopping them up."

Bodie came smiling round to the passenger door. But once it was open he stopped, and the smile faded off like the sun behind clouds. "Ray – for godsakes. Get out of the fucking car."

Doyle complied, and sharply. What had he missed? Wiring? Their current targets would think nothing of a pound or two of gelly. But he'd checked the Capri clean out of the pool that morning, and hardly left it since. "What's the matter?"

"You, you cretin." Bodie slammed the door hard enough for Doyle to discard the car-bomb idea and stalked round the bonnet to confront him. He put out a hand, and Doyle forced himself not to flinch as it brushed his cheekbone with a sudden hot prickle. "You're driving on a load of broken glass. You're all cut up. What happened?"

Doyle had no idea. He was therefore surprised to hear himself respond, casually, "Oh, I had to take a dive. Must've landed in it."

"I'll say." Bodie turned his attention to his arm, bleeding through the cotton of its rolled-back shirt sleeve, then brushed him down carefully all over. "Jesus, Ray. Doesn't that hurt?"

"Since you started pokin' at it, yes." No point in hiding pain. He was stinging from a dozen small cuts, now that Bodie came to mention it. What he had to conceal was the fact that he didn't remember getting them, hadn't felt them until third-party witness made them real. His head spun slightly and he put out a hand, unobtrusively, to the car's warm roof. To his relief, Bodie ducked under it and began exasperatedly to sweep the fragments off the seats. His voice sounded distant to Ray in a way the layer of metal and glass between them couldn't account for. "Never thought I'd say it, but those scabby denims do serve a purpose, don't they?" He straightened up; studied his partner's bloodstained pallor for a moment. "You could use checking over. I'll run you into Guy's."

Doyle swallowed. In the dryness of his throat words crumbled to dust: nobody touches me nobody don't touch me don't.... For one dreadful moment he thought he would blow all the years of hard work by bursting into tears or dropping unconscious into Bodie's arms... and then the inner stranger was there again, smiling, talking. "I'll see your A&E and raise you my first-aid kit. Tweezers, cotton wool, all the TCP you can drink."

"You want me to – ?" Bodie was surprised. When Doyle was hurt, he would either sort it out himself or seem to prefer an impersonal touch; hospital staff or the HQ medic. "Alright," he said. "But I'm driving. Won't have to put the top down today, will I, sunshine?"

A couple of shards were deeply lodged in his arm: Bodie sat on the edge of the kitchen table and worked as quickly as he could. Looking for something to distract him, he glanced at the leaflets among the scatter of post and said, "God, those are amazing."

"Yeah. They're Kath's. It's for her first London exhibition."

"Kath's?" Bodie staunched a fresh flow of blood with cotton wool and took a proper look at the leaflet's front cover. A sea or skyscape, he couldn't tell which. A gold-streaked chaos was tearing apart five hundred shades of blue. Explosion, he thought, then, to his own astonishment: orgasm. He shook his head, blinked the retinal images away. "Your sister? Jesus, I thought she was painting sheep up there. She's really got something."

"A neurological disorder, she says. That's a... " He tailed off, glad to have the opportunity to wince as Bodie got the last of the glass from his wrist. "That's an invitation to her opening night."

"Oh? You gonna go?"

Ray sat in the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window, one arm stretched across the table, the other as if forgotten on his partner's knee. It was a perfectly reasonable question. The reasonable answer would be, of course. I haven't seen her for years and I'm her brother. Of course I'll go along to marvel at the Doyle family's first success in generations. He willed the room and the world to stop their sickening yaw. "Yes. Yeah, probably."

"Okay. Now, are you going to throw up, or will you settle for just passing out?"

"Wh... what?"

"You've gone the colour of old wallpaper glue, mate. Did that hurt very much?"

"No! Hardly felt it. I'm just – God, I'm so tired, Bodie!"

He meant to resist his partner's hands on him. Their duty-shift wasn't over: he had a report to turn in, grocery-shopping, laundry... But the short flight of stairs that connected the two levels of his flat had become the emergency staircase at Hampstead tube station, and the strong grip on his waist and shoulder all that held him in reality. "Sorry," he managed as Bodie steered him towards the bed. "Must be getting that summer flu or something." His t-shirt had untucked and ridden up and the duvet felt cool and pleasant on his stomach as he half-fell onto it.

Bodie finished the first-aid work sitting beside him on the bed. By the time he was done, Doyle was asleep, dropped straight into a REM cycle from the look of him. His hands flickered open and shut, one on the undersheet, one tugging the edge of the quilt. Bodie shifted the pillow to ease his ragged breathing, then checked his brow and pulse for signs of illness. Too warm, and too quick, but then for Doyle that was normal, as if his whole system was constantly revving against its limitations. The lean body was laid out in seeming abandonment, but tensions rippled through it, the muscle-shifts of a dreaming cat. Frowning, Bodie brushed strands of sweat-damp hair off his face. "Funny bugger," he said, and continued to stroke his hair until the restive movements ceased. Then he got up and went downstairs, leaving him a note that he would file the report himself and pick up his laundry later if he got the chance.

In the dream, Bodie did not leave. When he stood up beside the bed, it was only to undress, which he did swiftly and in silence. Then the weight of his body came warmly to rest on Doyle's back. To conjure the biology of it, the physical detail of penetration, would have twisted the dream into nightmare and woken him – he had been too used, too degraded, to bear much reality – so his mind simply delivered the upshot: Bodie inside him, comfortably deep. Doyle moaned against the pillow and pushed up. "Fuck me," he whispered, and felt a tidal movement. "Fuck me, Bodie."

He came hard and did not wake up straight away. By the time he did, he was lying in cooling semen and sweat, and the dream flapped brilliant butterfly-wings around him, then because he was on his sanity's knife-edge and could not afford it, folded itself to a two-dimensional greyness, flipped to a single plane and disappeared.

He was not at any of his usual haunts, which was why it took Bodie so long to find him. Bodie had come off duty early and gone to the laundrette via the supermarket, good deeds fuelled by the hope that if he provided the ingredients, Doyle might feel moved to cook for him. But the flat was empty, and something in the look of the stripped-down bed had triggered Bodie's alarms. Thursdays had become informal gay nights at the pub near HQ where they sometimes drank, so he'd given the place a skip, only putting his head round the door at 10:30 when all else had failed, and...

There, in the corner, across the table from a smartly-suited 50-year-old who looked as if he couldn't believe his luck. Not saying much: listening, with a good-natured half-smile, to the older man's feverish babble. To all appearances sober, but the grip of his Browning was just visible under the edge of his jacket, and the remains of the ice in his glass had more colour than he did. Bodie sauntered over to the table, said, "Evening, gentlemen," and extended a friendly shoulder-pat to a concealing twitch of his coat. "Anybody need a lift home?"

Looking up, Doyle bestowed on him an unsurprised and genuine grin. "Bodie? What are you doing here?"

"That, my friend, is a question I'll be asking you when I get you dried out."

Doyle gazed up unblinking at his partner for a moment, then seemed to accept the comment and remember his manners. "Bodie, this is – " But his conquest, after shooting a rueful glance at the handsome new arrival, had faded off into the crowd. "Oh, he went."

"He did. Shall we go, too – while you can still walk?"

A warm late-May night, the city breeze tired but sweet. The road to the car park was quiet, and Doyle walked contentedly at Bodie's side, trying to remember what he'd been so worried about earlier that he'd wanted to go out and get pissed. He smiled: the strategy had obviously worked. And he'd managed the trick of blanking his mind while retaining muscle-control; Bodie's occasional steadying touch to his elbow was more a social gesture than anything else. "And speaking of society, mate, I wish you wouldn't scare off me friends. You looked like a bloody big copper coming in there."

"I am a bloody big copper, is why. Mate of yours, was he?"

"Nah. Only met him tonight. Seemed a nice enough bloke, though."

"I'm sure he was."

"An' he liked me. Said so."

"Course he did, you twat. He was trying to get into your pants." Doyle came to a startled halt. His eyes met Bodie's in unfeigned wonder. "Well, what do you expect on a Thursday in the Buck and Flutter?"

"I was in the Buck?"

Bodie took his shoulders. Laughter surged up in him and he forced it back. "Ray, sunshine – do me a favour. Do yourself one. Don't ever drink, okay? Never again. Not even water."

Sound advice, Doyle thought. Everything inside his head today seemed set for chain-reaction. Kath's invitation, the prospect of meeting her, spiralling down to the last time he had. Bodie's remark that a man was putting moves on him inducing a flashback to rumpled sheets, to a dream he couldn't possibly have had, because that sucked him down to childhood, and...

..will it be me tonight or Kath? Cam's run away and he leaves David pretty much alone now. I think David's got too old for him. And Anna, Anna took a knife to him last time –

In a shadowy corner of the car park, Doyle took hold of the metal fence-rail in both hands. His back ached. He remembered that pushing up against his father's weight had occasionally saved him when he thought it was about to snap. Sweat skimmed his palms and he dropped his head, gasping.

"Sunshine, what's the matter?"

Distinctly he recalled sending Bodie ahead to the car with an instruction to leave him alone – better to be good and sick here than force Bodie to stop in the middle of Hammersmith Broadway. "Told you to let me be."

"Yeah, you did." Bodie caught him; held tight to shoulder and brow as he vomited onto the tarmac. "Sure you want me to?"

"No. Don't... Don't leave me!"

The words stung him with shame as soon as they were out, but Bodie did not seem repelled by them. His grip on Doyle became an embrace and he said, "You know I won't."

The drive home was tough for Doyle even after that: he could drink Bodie under the table when he put his mind to it but would probably still be in casualty when Bodie crawled out and shook his head clear of the hangover. Knowing his limitations, he normally respected them, and Bodie wondered what had made him forget, or cease to care, tonight. He was huddled in the passenger seat, an occasional dry-swallow and hand pressed to his lips the only sign of inward misery.

"Mate, I can stop for you if you want."

"Nn-nn. Just get me home."

Once there, he disappeared into the bathroom, the door slamming hard on Bodie's enquiry. So much for don't leave me, he thought wryly, and went to the kitchen to put coffee on.

But he thought he knew what Doyle did need tonight. Someone who would be there, but on his terms. Someone he could touch, hang onto, use as a punchbag, without comeback or a price. He was a tough sod but when his walls came down they crashed completely; left him utterly exposed...

Switching the percolator on, he listened. Muffled retching and flushing of the toilet stopped soon enough that he wasn't alarmed, and then he heard the shower begin to run. Alright. It had taken him years to figure it out, but yes, he could provide what Doyle wanted. Really it was only a case of standing or sitting still beneath the onslaught. As for his own responses – as for them, the devil take them, he decided, adding another scoop of Kenco into the machine for good measure and rattling mugs out of the cupboard. He had as much as he could hope for, more than most men could ever dream.

Doyle came into the living room cautiously, as if every inch of him hurt. His hair was in heavy wet curls and he was about the same shade of white as his dressing gown. Gratefully he took in the normality of the scene: Bodie on his couch, pouring out coffee, just like any other night. The man didn't look up at his approach, but flicked him a grin as he sat down beside him. "Jesus, Bodie. What was I doing out there?"

"Drinking for England, from the look of things. Not like you."

"Not by myself, anyway."

Bodie nodded, handing him a mug. The two of them had shared some riotous benders. Solitary pickling needed to be done at home, for safety reasons, which Doyle knew as well as anyone else. No point in reminding him: the damp, tousled head was ducked in shame at the lapse. "Yeah. Take me next time, you selfish git." He sighed. "Didn't know whether to sober you up a bit or just sling you into bed. I reckon if you can keep that down, it'll kill or cure."

"If it doesn't kill me, make it stronger," Doyle misquoted with a tired half-smile, and Bodie snorted and put an arm around him. "You poor sod," he said. "If I ask what's going on in there, would you tell me?"

Doyle considered. He looked all the way down the hallways and endless roads of the past, and really considered explaining to Bodie what it was that held back his mornings, shadowed noon and brought on the night like a hungry wolf to devour him. His no, when it came, was therefore gentle and sorry.

"Does that mean not now, or not ever?"

"I – I don't know."

"But there is something."

"Yes. Yes, there is."

Bodie sat back on the sofa and drew Doyle with him. It wasn't complicated, and he met with no resistance, just a relieved surrender of tension as the too-thin frame subsided against him. "Come here," he murmured, unnecessarily; Doyle was hungrily reaching for contact, for the surcease from pain and cold that his partner's warm bulk delivered. He closed his eyes on Bodie's shoulder, in the clean-smelling dark of his own wet hair, and slipped an arm tight around his ribs. "Oh, Christ."

"It's alright. You'll be alright."

"When you say that, I almost believe it." A large hand descended lightly on the back of his skull, protective, caressing. "You – you don't mind me here, like this?"

Bodie smiled. He could see the lamplit room before him, the plants and the books on their shelves against the far wall. But it was as if, in some specialised way, he had gone blind, without distress or sense of loss. The sensory input he required was under his hands, pressed to his thigh, his chest. He said, "I don't mind at all." A few minutes passed, silent but charged, and he extended the thought, blindly, lost to all consequence or thought of tomorrow. "I don't think I mind... anything you do, Ray." Silence again: Doyle had stopped breathing, and when his vision sparked red Bodie realised he had, too. Deliberately he restored the pattern, and when his voice would be quite steady, said, "Do whatever you want. It's okay. There's no price tag, I promise. Whatever you want."

He was crying, in utter silence, lower lip caught hard in his teeth. His face was quite still, a tearsoaked mask of concentration. All he had wanted to do, it seemed, was sit up a little, and after a while, unfasten the top buttons of Bodie's shirt – one, two, three, very slowly, fingers deft and careful – and slide his hand inside. Bodie drew a breath, making sure it was a silent one, directing it low to his gut so his chest would not heave up. All Doyle's attention seemed fixed on the movement of his fingers beneath the cotton, but Bodie closed his eyes just in case, and tipped his head back. The chilly palm skimmed his collar-bone and he felt his nipples come helplessly erect. "You're cold," he managed, lamely, as the palm planed down to brush one painfully-sensitised tip, thinking that by mutual consent they might both just get away with it as an excuse.

"Sorry." But even as Doyle apologised, the reason vanished, warmth rushing palpably down the veins of his arms, heating his fingers in a soft shockwave. His mouth opened and a low moan escaped before he could get it shut again. "Oh, I want to touch you."

"Then touch."

"Bodie, I can't let you touch me back. I can't explain – "

"Don't have to. I won't touch you back."

"And – it never happened?"

"What didn't?"

"And tomorrow – "

"Tomorrow's just Friday, mate, long boring obbo and a few pints after."

"Oh God, no!"

"Sorry. Lucozade for you."

"How can you do this?"

"Because – because it never happened. And tomorrow's just Friday." And I love you. "Take what you need, sunshine. I won't touch back."

The skimming caress began again. Occasionally Bodie put out a hand and brushed fresh tears off his damaged cheekbone, out of the corner of his mouth, but otherwise remained still. Nipple to nipple, the caress that had started accidentally now making targets of the tight-drawn flesh. Flat-palm pressure, then a light sweep. Then Doyle closed his thumb and middle finger on one sensitised peak and Bodie swallowed convulsion. His back arched, hard and hidden amongst the sofa cushions, and his groan went down deep inside, burning and abrading en route. Not deep enough: Doyle froze, tipped his head to one side and whispered, "I can't do this to you."

"Yes you can." Bodie fought to produce a smile. "Ray, I've got reflexes. Carry on the way you're going and you'll probably meet a few more. It's nothing personal."

"I must still be pissed."

If looking at it that way helps. "Should think you are. You didn't drink your coffee."

"Gone cold now, hasn't it?" As if Bodie's doubt of his sobriety had been a final benediction, Doyle pushed the shirt's fabric right back, dipped his head and put his lips to one swollen nipple. "Christ," Bodie mouthed silently at the ceiling; put both hands firmly to the edge of a sofa-cushion and held on. Outlined in gold he could just see his partner's oddly-cut, exquisite profile, see how the sculpted lips parted to take him in. The wet glimmer of tongue, lapping across and across, cautious at first and then deliberate, a rhythmic flick. Bodie released a breath that would have been a yell in other circumstances and the sensation abruptly stopped. Was he relieved or desolate? Impossible to tell: his emotions were caught up in the maelstrom of physical response. Doyle lifted him with careful strength and eased him to lie almost flat on the sofa, which felt momentarily better as some blood made its way to his brain, but then the lean fine hands began work on his belt, his zip, and the reality of his raging hard-on could no longer be avoided. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "You're good at this. I'll go and – deal with that, if you want."

"You gave me fair warning about your reflexes. Bodie, can you ... If you close your eyes, can you imagine I'm a woman?"

Not without a very great leap of faith. Hell, I probably could, if I wanted to. That's the problem. No motive. Why would I want to imagine anything in creation other than what's here? Desperately Bodie cleared his mind, sought reason in the hot mist of arousal. "What for?"

"What do you think?"

"Ah... Ah, Ray, love. No. Stop right there."

Love? "You don't want – ?"

"You don't want. You can't."

"Oh – God, Bodie, how do you know?"

It wasn't denial. It was frustrated, wondering protest at Bodie's power to see through him. For a long moment they gazed at one another, Ray as flushed now as he had been stripped of colour before, kneeling over his partner's dishevelled body as if not quite able to believe the reactions he'd caused. Bodie was quite right: to touch the erection swelling the front of his black cotton pants was not within Doyle's parameters, the barbed-wire fence hammered into place around his childhood. To pull the garment's elastic down and take what was revealed into his mouth would have killed him, although every instinct howled at him to do so. And Bodie was so still, so sweetly observing the impossible rules Doyle had laid down, his hands motionless as if cuffed into place. Don't touch back. And he hadn't, though the dark cotton was damp with pre-ejaculate. And even within such limitations, even with so much uncomplainingly given and granted, Doyle could not love him.

Beyond tears, he stretched out and lay down close. He pressed his mouth to Bodie's shoulder and carefully shifted on top of him. "Go on," he whispered.

"What?"

"Let it come."

Bodie shuddered. His hips were caught beneath the sharp-angled cage of Doyle's. "No," he choked. "I don't have to – "

But he did. The light, tense pressure on him, electric in its stillness, had taken him from arousal to inevitability, the borderline unnoticed. "Jesus," he ground out, and Doyle stroked the hair at his nape and pushed down a little harder. "Come on," he said, mouth hot against Bodie's ear. "I want it. I want to feel it. Just let go."

Bodie's head arched back. His wail was soundless, a small lost rasp of overload. Distantly he was aware of Doyle's tongue on his exposed throat – a brief, sharp bite. "Christ – ! Ah, Ray, Christ – !" Hands still locked at his sides, utterly motionless, untouched except for the press of Doyle's groin on his, he climaxed, gasping out the pain and intensity and weirdness of it to the living-room ceiling. Wet heat shot from him and his hips bucked up before he could stop himself. Broken rule? But then Doyle took the motion from him, thrust down with cautious fervour until Bodie's broken cries ceased.

Another pair of jeans soaked through, although not with his own come this time. Twice in 24 hours. Bitterly Doyle reflected that his life was in some disarray. And this – even lying an inch from Bodie, watching him while he came – hadn't stirred his cock, although his mind had drifted in fire and his heart was still pounding at assault-course speed. Twisted, he thought, mentally setting this label on himself. Broken. And – oh, God – what had he done tonight...?

"Angelfish, I'd lie here forever, but if we wake up tomorrow like this, it won't get our ordinary Friday off to much of a start, will it?"

A silence. Bodie lay listening to the fear and disbelief and weariness chasing one another through his friend's body. He could read every twitch, every breath, and wondered how long the strange empathy would last. A side-benefit of coming to orgasm in his arms? If so, he would have to accept its loss, when it faded, as final. Forcing down a hot lump of sorrow in his throat, he said, "Doyle, go shower. It never happened. I promised you that, and it's true." He smiled faintly, and pushed the mass of curls back far enough to expose one still-warm cheek, which he kissed, delicate and chaste as a priest. "Can I say I wish it had? But it didn't. Just... leave some hot water for me, will you?"

Not for the first time, the perils of their job were a perverse salvation. An emergency-call spilled them out onto the street at 5:00 the following morning, and in the life-and-death that followed, both perhaps genuinely forgot the little storm that had rattled their off-duty. For a week they were sleeping on army cots with half a dozen of Bodie's old mob, and although Doyle woke up one cold pre-dawn to the sound of cheerfully-indiscreet shagging from the barracks toilet, there was no room in this world for his own tortured approach.

In this world, an IRA splinter group held six TA volunteers hostage in the base canteen, and shot the eldest of them, a skinny 18-year-old, when an army negotiator was five minutes late in arriving. The situation held for three days, then four, and on the fifth came the edict from military echelons unknown that the deal and all bets were off. Cowley went to explain this to his men, who were on discreet watch with the commandos for opportunity. He explained that for the army's purposes, the TA boys were expendable, and the SAS gentlemen too must accept this, although Cowley was aware of how that would stick in their collective craw. He explained that his own employees, though encouraged to respect the generals and diplomats, were answerable only to himself, and should they have any thoughts on this apparently-hopeless situation, they were to keep them to themselves, but act on them and provide him with a report in due course. After a long silence, seven out the nine men in the office, Cowley included, got up quietly and left. The two remaining found themselves recipients of an odd touch, pat to the shoulder, fierce eloquent look, as they walked out.

"That clears that up, then."

Doyle made a small adjustment to the sighting of his rifle and looked up into dancing blue eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Always good to know where we stand."

Doyle did not often think of his own physical gifts. Although he trained hard, his body was not of a type that demanded hard training to stay lean and agile. It was a source of some annoyance to Bodie, whose appetites and build cost him dearly in terms of maintenance. He often launched mocking complaint about his partner's improbable, cat-like ability to shift from place to place with no perceptible lapse of time nor intervening move. He was at the bottom of a flight of stairs – and at the top. Strolling along the deck of a boat, then over a rail to the wharfside, quite unconscious of his grace. He was not thinking consciously now of what it took to negotiate this steep-pitched rooftop with a cumbersome Armalite tucked under one arm. But it was pleasant to move, and to move in silence, when the prey was so close. When so much could be done, by the silence and quickness of a cat. Bodie was on ground level where he belonged, a wall through which Doyle's quarry would have to bulldozer their way, should things go wrong. He didn't intend that they should. Two shots from a good angle would save five lives – a fair bargain – and negate all danger to a sixth one whom Doyle held dearer.

The canteen had ventilation slats let into one perspex section of roofing. Their targets were not stupid; all the other vents had been stopped up or closed, but plans had shown that these were right above a set of freezer units and invisible from ground level. There was no possibility of shooting through them, but a good hard yank would bring the whole perspex unit out in one, and then there would be perhaps two seconds to drop down, take sight and finish matters. As anybody with a normal set of hinges to their joints would take three, Doyle was the candidate of choice.

He did it in one, but missed.

By his own standards anyway – the second gunman was only winged, not dead. The vents had been leaking and water had pooled and frozen on top of the refrigeration units. Succinctly breaking his wrist in the fall, Doyle rolled himself out into the open, self-appointed bait while the hostages ran. "Here! Here, you shithead; come an' get me!"

And he knew his viewpoint was a specialised one, but it seemed a hell of a long time, and the muzzle of an IRA assault rifle was bruising his forehead, before the deep voice broke across the morning: "Oh, I don't think so. Not today. Give it up now, there's a good lad."

No easing of the metal's bite, only small shifts as the balaclava'd head snapped back and forth in panic. Trying to decide. Bodie spared his partner a long, outrageous wink, and Doyle rolled his eyes in response. Oh, the tedium! "You alright down there?"

"Not so bad. Bust me wrist again."

"Which one?"

"Oh, the right this time."

"Cowley will be pleased."

"Doesn't matter. Can shoot with either."

"Shut up!" the gunman bawled, nerve snapping, plainly unable to believe the casual exchange going on around and as if through him. Knowing when to quit a tactic, Bodie gave him his full attention and a cold vulpine smile. "Alright," he said. "Let's discuss it, then."

For 30 seconds, Doyle's future hung on the outcome of a mindgame between two dangerous and wilful men. Not much by way of a discussion, he thought, unless his captor's ragged breathing could be taken as response to Bodie's calm listing of their options. Yes, the gunman could kill Doyle, but would die immediately himself as a result. Bodie had orders on the subject of taking him alive, but would probably forget those in the trauma of losing his mate. If this was intended as a kamikaze mission, then so be it, but Bodie didn't think so. He thought the gunman probably envisaged being alive when the dust settled, and being alive in jail would be more pleasant for him without a cold-blooded cop killing to his name. Of course, there was hostage potential here, but Doyle would not be so comfy a detainee as the six boyscouts he'd be replacing – in fact, a spitting cobra would probably give the gentleman less trouble – and Bodie would kill him anyway, somehow, somewhere, at some point. "Now," he concluded, letting a little of his fury and revulsion reach his eyes, "while you can still step, step the fuck away from my partner."

He'd turned his ankle pretty badly, as he discovered when Bodie hoisted him upright. The strong grip fastened round him and they made their way together through dusty, army-issue sunlight to the canteen doors. "Sorry I screwed up, mate."

"What? We should all screw up so badly. They're having Ray-Doyle t-shirts run off out there."

"With 'He Missed' on them? There was a sheet of ice up there. I slipped and – "

"Killed one and immobilised the other before you hit the ground."

"Immobilised is generous."

"Well, that's what backup is for. I'm glad you left me a bit of the action. All the mums and sisters are here, you know. Could quite fancy being a sung hero for once."

Doyle groaned. "Oh, God. Here, as in – "

"Right outside that door, hugging their crewcut babies and waitin' for you."

"Bodie, go and get the car."

"Aw, c'mon. Not even a touch of adulation? To make up for all the times we get our arses kicked?"

"No!" They were almost at the doors, the cavernous space behind them still acrid with cordite. Leaning lightly into Bodie's support, Doyle realised that he was enjoying him as he had used to do, simply and without thought. His power, his skewed sense of humour. The plain fact of his presence. Perhaps, he thought. Just perhaps, everything will be alright. He smiled. "Well, maybe I'd like a quick look at it. On the way to car," he amended an instant later, and Bodie grinned and led him into the daylight.

They had dinner together that night, a time-honoured mission's-end takeout, with undemanding small talk followed by sofa, beer and TV. As each routine pleasure dropped into place, Doyle felt more and more reassured. Was there any chance that Bodie really had forgotten? The man's memory worked strangely, storing pain and difficulty deep, sealed off as irrelevant to his here and now. He'd admitted to Doyle, once the Richardson case was wrapped up, that he hadn't even remembered Keller's existence until the continuing fact of it began to cause him trouble. And there was his time in Angola, and Belfast... Perversely, once Doyle was half-convinced, he began to be sorry about it. Bodie did not need more memories to suppress. And some small, anguished scrap of the abused child that had got caught up in Doyle's adulthood, and had a taste of freedom on that night a week ago, did not want to be forgotten. He crumpled a beer can, stretched his legs out onto the coffee table in front of Bodie's sofa, and tried to return some attention to Mastermind.

"Oh, God, what a racket!"

Doyle jumped slightly. He turned to look at his partner, but Bodie had not shifted from his comfortable slouch beside him. "What?"

Sidelong glance, deep blue through long lashes. "Your thoughts!"

"What about 'em? I wasn't having any." He stopped and stared down at the tin he was still mangling, feeling a faint blush start. "Was just watching the telly."

"Oh, yeah? Then who did command the starship Enterprise before Captain Kirk?"

"Christopher Pike, of course."

Bodie grinned. "You know that because you're a sad git, not cos you were paying attention. Now, what's up? Your conscience hurting? Your arm?"

"Neither." Doyle flexed his fingers where they extended from beneath a light plaster. "I'm fine." But he wasn't meeting Bodie's eyes, nor returning his gaze to the screen in such a way as to terminate the exchange. Shut up!, a voice inside him howled. Just shut up, Ray! What the hell do you think you're doing? From a dry throat, feeling helpless as a programmed automaton, he said, "That night when nothing happened ... "

Oh. My God, I really thought you'd never – "Yeah? What about it?" Friendly and steady, apparently unconcerned. Bodie thought he was doing quite well. It was Doyle who seemed to be having the problem, blushing rosily and staring at the carpet as if he'd like to take it in for questioning. The evening was warm and he'd stripped off his overshirt, leaving only the sleeveless T that Bodie had trouble with because it exposed his upper arms and the sweet sculpted rise of his collar-bones. The plaster hadn't set enough for him to shower and he smelled deliciously of himself, earthy and deep and real. Bodie had never fantasised about him when he was right there, but the vision swept upon him now of how it would be if he turned just a little, lifted his chin, closed his eyes, and how it would be if the lovely mouth thus exposed was under Bodie's, quivering and opening –

Bodie sprang to his feet. Once there he took a moment to still himself, school the massive pounce coiled up in his muscles to three tame, careful strides to the TV. Business as usual. No problems. Just a programme ending and the owner-occupier going to switch off the set. Doing so, crouching down to pick up some of the scatter of books and papers beneath it, he said, "It's alright if you want to talk about it."

"Not really. I just ... "

Lifting a hand to his mouth, Bodie sat still, looking out at the evening sunlight. He was quite sure that neither the heave of his heart nor the throbbing at his groin were apparent. Casually, he said, "There's nothing to worry about, Ray. Not even – not even if you'd like it not to happen again."

It took Doyle a second to sort through. Sense, then implications. He didn't mean the faint chuckle that broke from him; would have slit his throat, rather, in a clearer-headed moment. But there it was, a husky edge of amusement to his words. "No. No, not that. I just wanted to thank you for being so patient, such a good mate, while it – while it wasn't happening."

Nevertheless, the rest of the evening passed off pleasantly enough. Doyle left no earlier than he would have done anyway, and both had such a vested interest in normality that between them they created it, maintained it by mutual effort, the process and the strain determinedly ignored. Bodie could even help him into his jacket with a mocking intimacy when the taxi-driver buzzed up, making sure the sleeve wouldn't tug at his arm. "There, darling. Have a good day at the office."

Grinning, checking for house keys, Doyle heard a rustle of paper and withdrew Kath's leaflet from his pocket. "Oh, this is tomorrow night. Would you like to come with me?"

"What – to the opening? Nah. I like her stuff, but you two haven't met in years. I'd be in the way."

Doyle sighed, ran a hand into his fringe. "I phrased that badly. I'm shit-scared of meeting her. I could really use moral support. I meant, will you come with me? Please?"

Exhausted, hopeless, torn to bits by unwitting, conflicting demands. Showing not one flicker of it. Hold the door open for him; that's it. Smile. You can manage. "In that case, of course."

"Pick you up at eight?"

"Yeah, fine. Night, Ray."

There are limits on what you can smash, in a rented house. Think at last // We have not reached conclusion, when I // Stiffen in a...

Where the hell did that come from? Bodie stood panting in the kitchen, propped on stiff arms against the counter-top. A glass was in fragments in the sink and across the window sill, but it didn't seem to have done him much good. The blood still burned in his veins, beat a savage rhythm through his mind. It was Eliot, wasn't it? Thomas Stearnes. That old bigot. Think at last // I have not made this show purposelessly // And it is not by any concitation // Of the backward devils. A sob roared up in Bodie's chest, blocking his throat: he crumpled up over it, pressing both hands to his face. "God, why did I ever – ever meet you?" But tears were Ray's province – somehow over all the years he had hung on to the ability to cry – and Bodie uncoiled violently and did the thing he did instead.

The cupboard door was only chipboard under the pine veneer and his fist smashed through with satisfying drama. Pain skyrocketed up from his knuckles through his wrist and shoulder, and he turned into it as he would a cold shower, for much the same purposes. He was furious and miserable and he still had a throbbing hard-on – what unique species of torture had the world devised for him? Gasping, he stumbled back into the living room, looking for more breakables.

Black-and-red caught his vision, the pattern so familiar it was like a kind of code to his brain. Doyle, the code translated. Doyle at the wheel of the Capri. Running ahead of him into some war zone or other. Doyle on his sofa three hours ago, well-fed and warm, shrugging lithely out of the checked overshirt and slinging it behind him. "Forgot that," Bodie said to the empty room. Probably on purpose, he reflected – it was torn, damp and dirty after the trials of the day. Probably hoped Bodie would get it washed for him. It wasn't a thing he could break, and he wasn't big on tearing things up, but he prowled across the room with his eyes blazing nonetheless and took hold of it in both hands. Filthy, yes. And rich with its owner's scent. Breathing harshly, he leaned over the back of the sofa; lifted the fabric to his nose. A fantasy surfaced, lured by his position and the sensory input. Bend over the couch, Bodie. Now, damn you! I can't wait any more. "Oh God," Bodie whispered into the cotton. Couldn't he be left a scrap of dignity? Couldn't he curl up round his bruises and try to sleep it off? A kicked dog could count on that much. He shuddered as his cock tried for full erection in the trap of his fitted black cords. Cursing, he unzipped and took hold of himself. Very well. So be it. If this was his dream, he would have it, all the way. A dream could be hounded to exhaustion and killed like anything else. Instead of pushing down his fantasies about Doyle, he would let them come, and let them do the same for him, until he was sickened, until he found surfeit, until he was just plain bloody bored. Roughly, bitterly, he began to masturbate, a conjured demon at his back. He tears down my pants and thrusts into me, both of us bone-dry. It's agony. I'm coming.

Gasping, he pushed upright. He'd shot hard, a pent-up week's worth, and the sofa would need attention before he hosted any coffee mornings. He let his mind run ahead, to catch the flaring skirts of the next scenario...

That night, Bodie knelt outside the open door of the Capri and sucked Doyle off, while seagulls from the wharfside wheeled and cried overhead, and little coltsfoots sprinkled the sunny expanse of hinterland. He pushed him backover onto Cowley's desk and drew up his legs to grip his waist. In the squad room, Doyle bade him look out the window, then slipped a wet finger down the back of his pants and teased at his anus until his whole body burned and the world exploded in rainbow fire. Surprising even Bodie, Murphy figured in that scene, jerking off appreciatively while he watched. That night, Doyle stripped naked in a secluded reach of Richmond Park, settled against a tree and stared at Bodie like a lynx while he pleasured himself. In top-to-toe motorbike leathers he knocked Bodie senseless and unceremoniously raped him, because he knew it could never be, but still he wanted him so much, and when Bodie came round he forgave him and they did it all again. Back in the hospital bed after he'd been shot, desperate for release but too weak to touch himself, Doyle blushed and stammered out a certain request, and Bodie drew down the sheet and leaned over him, took him in his mouth and tongued him with exquisite care until his seed spilled. That night, they rolled together naked on a beach, thrusting and yelling and coming again and again.

That night –

And again, and again. And he was too sore to touch himself any more, and he'd had enough, which was the best time to continue. Still half-dressed, he lay on his front in the bed and had Doyle really hurt him, without passion this time, without remorse. His legs were splayed wide, feet chained to the bedposts. The thing pumping inside him was a dildo, cold and large, because Ray was not even interested enough to get hard over him any more. He convulsed, and came in a dry spasm. He was raw now, spent, and the last thing he wanted to think about was –

...Ray, at the end of ten years or so of happy cohabitation, coming to their big double bed and asking, "Tired, love?" And Bodie murmured yes, and a warm, tender hand brushed down his belly, and down again. Because feeding these dreams made them hungrier. Because this having bred only yearning, huge and lonely as a winter sky. One hand still trapped beneath him, Bodie went very still and closed his eyes.

He awoke at seven on Saturday evening, and knew that he couldn't wash, get ready, and have the place presentable by eight. An attractive throw – not that he possessed such a thing – would neutralise the couch, and all his bedlinen – God, all, pillowcases included – could be binlinered for the launderette. But it would take more than that to clear the air. Not of the faint, heavy musk that had drifted to every corner, though that was bad enough. No. Doyle walked into houses and said the place felt wrong, bad, and they would hear later of a suicide or murder or the death of an old man by slow neglect. And that was when weeks or months had passed. No. He would come in cheerful and ordinary and a minute later freeze, transfixed, and he would know that part of Bodie had died in here last night.

Still nauseous with unaccustomed daytime sleep, Bodie dialled his number. He picked up on the second ring, his hello? apprehensive. "Hi, it's just me."

"Are you alright?"

Oh, for Christ's sake. Don't start doing it over the goddamn phone. "I'm fine. Why?"

"You sound husky. You getting a cold?"

"Nah. You've stressed me into picking up me 50-a-day habit. Anyway, isn't it sexy?"

"Extremely." A wry, relieved smile in the machine-filtered voice. Bodie knew why. If he could still flirt, certain things between them still were safe. "Is this just an obscene phone call, or did you want something?"

"Neither, you ingrate. I'm offering. If you're nervous about tonight, why not have a few drinks and let me drive?"

"I don't know. I'm still not recovered from last Thursday week."

That makes you an' me both, angelfish. "Well, at least you weren't buying that night, I shouldn't think."

"You sod, Bodie. I just forgot it was Thursday."

"Mate, you forgot it was the Buck. I'll come over and get you, okay?"

"Well – okay. Actually, it's a good idea. Thanks."

"Are you alright?"

"God, Doyle, you running out of pick-up lines or something?"

Hands on hips, Doyle surveyed his friend. He was beautifully turned out, in tailored black slacks and a long leather coat that breathed expense in every understated line. Underneath was a simple white t-shirt that set off to perfection the drama of everything else. "You look like the great immortal vampire, that's all."

"Oh, ta."

"It's a compliment. But – I'm not sure you should be walking around in daylight. You sure you're not coming down with something?"

Only you. Years ago. Raymond bloody Doyle; emotional Black Death. "I'm fine," he said, hoping to God his partner's radar had not learned to pick up evidence of prolonged and desperate masturbation. "Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all." That was true enough, and might explain what looked like thumbprint bruises under his eyes. "Didn't know what to wear. I don't really do arty, unlike you bohemian types."

"Oh, yeah. I was real bohemian in that mess hall yesterday, wasn't I?"

Prickly bastard! Shields up, all the way, straight away. Well, he needs them. I sound like an attack. With no sardonic edge, Bodie said, "You look really nice, Ray."

"Oh." A big blush. God, he was nervous, wasn't he? And as vulnerable to compliment as insult. "Had problems myself. I wasn't going for arty. I think I was going for long-lost brother. Not too scary. Reasonably clean. You know."

"Far too mature to pull her pigtails, you mean?"

"Something like that. And I thought a beret and smock was going too far, so... " He tugged at the fawn silk shirt he had tucked into skin-tight cords a few shades darker. "So this is it." Abruptly he turned away, as if to stall any further observations. "Thanks for offering to drive. I am, in fact, going to have one huge bloody mary before we go. There's beer in the fridge for you, if you don't think it'll turn your head."

Kath had exhibition space in the RA. When Bodie expressed surprise at their destination, Doyle told him that the artist herself was just as astonished: after years of selling landscapes to the owners of the land concerned, one of her abstracts – a gift to a friend in London – had been noticed by a stray art critic during a party. In six months, she'd rocketed from rural obscurity to front-line talent, so completely that when her agent was planning a London show, he had not had to approach the RA, only graciously accept their offer. All these developments Doyle had learned of through occasional three-line notes, their importance played down with a self-mocking cynicism he knew well. No, Ray. I don't bloody believe it either!

Bodie managed to get parked in Mayfair and they walked down to Piccadilly through the rich summer night, air alive with passing perfumes and the spectrum of food-smells produced by hundreds of restaurants at their busiest time. Stepping out in their best, the two of them created a certain effect, and Bodie felt more than one admiring glance pass over his skin like a pleasant vibration. Doyle, his mind fixed on the evening to come, was oblivious to the attention they were getting. Pacing down the length of the Burlington Arcade, its opulent brightness making a small parade of the walk, Bodie wondered how the snatched looks might change if he reached out and put an arm around the lean, silk-clad shoulders or narrow waist. Touched just where his shirt disappeared beneath his soft leather belt. Or let his hand drop to the frankly-beautiful arse in its spray-on cords –

Sharply he thought of something else. The long leather coat could hide many sins, but it wasn't buttoned up in front. "How are you doing?" he asked, ashamed to have motive for enquiring other than genuine concern.

"Oh, you know. Cold sweat. Regretting the whole idea. Other than that, fine."

Bodie let out a low whistle as they entered the exhibition hall. "They don't really need the lights, do they?" All around the walls, somehow rendering the small crowd flat and lifeless, great panels of colour blazed. A star exploded in the mouth of a cave. A million fireflies shot over the surface of a lake, each one reflecting a different gold. The sun rose straight through the heart of a human figure racked out across the sky. For the first time in his life, Bodie understood how it was that otherwise-normal people could dedicate their lives to something so intangible as art. His breath had caught in his throat. But this isn't art, he thought, turning slowly to survey the room. This is reality on fire.

"I don't think she's here." Bodie started slightly and focussed on his partner. He realised with compassion and amusement that Doyle the artist had barely given the paintings a second glance: had been anxiously scanning the thirty or forty people clustered in front of them. "She doesn't always come to her opening nights; she gets stagefright. Let's go."

Having come out this evening with the intent of squiring Doyle through a painful family reunion and admiring what daubs he had to, Bodie was surprised to find he didn't want to leave, at least not without taking a closer look at these strange images. But Doyle had wrapped an eloquent grip round his wrist and was heading for the door. "Don't you want to wait for a few minutes, see if she turns up?"

"This is a message from fate. I listen to those, when they back up what I want to do anyway. Come on, let's go get something to eat..."

Shrugging, Bodie let himself be towed back through the crowd. He was still looking over his shoulder, though, and found his attention caught by a thin woman in a black dress near the far wall, talking animatedly to what looked like a group of students. Her hair was pulled austerely back, but thick curls were escaping, and its texture and shade of red-brown snagged oddly at his mind. Then, as he watched, one of the kids took a backward step into an old man rapt in contemplation of an adjacent starscape – and she moved with a catlike improbable grace to catch him before he could sway.

"Ray," he said, bringing him to a halt. "How long is it since you saw Kath?"

"Saw her – ? About ... 17 years, I think. Why? Oh, God." The woman had felt Bodie's gaze on her and turned. She held warily still for a moment, then she looked beyond him. Bodie saw her excuse herself from the group around her.

Her green eyes fixed on Ray were as remote from human concern as a mountain-lion's. Jesus, Bodie thought: no wonder he was nervous. This one's big trouble, and as she came stalking through the last of the crowd, he took an unconscious step forward and left to half-shield him with his shoulder. About a yard from where they stood, she halted as if registering his signal but not his presence: her gaze was burningly focused on Doyle.

Then she smiled, and while Bodie was trying to work out why he had thought her threatening, or in fact anything other than the loveliest woman he had ever seen, shot past him and into Doyle's stunned reflexive embrace. "Ray! My God!" A silver clasp clattered to the floor and her hair came down completely. "I never thought you'd come."

They clung together, motionless, for a second longer. Bodie heard her spine crackle; heard Doyle's squeezed gasp, then they both disengaged as if dropping hot coals. She was pink and flurried, evidently as unused to public demonstrations as her brother, whose face was blank with shock. Bodie, who had bent to pick up the silver clasp while this fierce meeting took place, extended it to her with one hand and put the other subtly to the back of Doyle's elbow. "Thanks," she said, her voice unsteady. "I was trying to look chic, but it keeps coming down... " For the first time, she looked properly at Bodie, and an awkward silence fell.

"Oh," Ray said, when it had become really uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. Bodie, this is my sister Kath. Kath, this handsome creature's my partner Bodie." He'd long since stopped worrying about a first name, and Kath didn't ask for one, simply putting out a slim hand to Bodie's ready grip. "Well," she said, gathering composure and flicking an amused glance at Ray. "He's almost as good-looking as you said."

Bodie turned on his partner. "What did you say?" Then, not giving him a chance to reply, flipping his attention back to Kath: "Almost?!"

They both laughed, and Bodie felt he had earned his keep for the evening. Doyle said, with much of the strain gone from his voice, "I didn't recognise you at first." He surveyed the slender figure in its silk-and-velvet dress. "What happened to the rest of you?" He immediately winced at the tactlessness of the question, but Kath only smiled uncertainly and rejoined, "Last time you saw me, I'd been comfort-eating for about five years."

"And you quit?" It was lightly asked, but Doyle would have liked to take her by the shoulders and shake from her the secret of any such recovery, such escape.

"Yeah, I just drink and do heroin now, hence – "

"Hence the pictures," they finished in unison, and broke into matching throaty chuckles.

Bodie rolled his eyes. Whatever he had been expecting from tonight, it hadn't been this. He understood from even this brief exposure that this was an established mode of communication between them, dry self-and-mutual mockery, and he wondered how afraid they were of any other kind. "Look," he said, feeling a sudden urgent need for distance, "I'll let you two catch up." He watched Doyle for any signal of distress, but only got a real if slightly too-brilliant smile. "Some of us did come here to look at these pictures, you know."

"Doesn't strike me as the artistic type. Not from your letters, anyway," Kath said musingly, watching his retreating back.

"Oh, he's a dark horse. I hope I haven't made him out as too much of a brainless hulk."

"No. Just as someone you admired physically, as well as in other ways. For a while I thought – " She broke off, her colour rising again. "Sorry. Inappropriate intimacy."

"It's alright." He snagged a couple of champagne glasses from a passing tray and handed one to her, giving them both a momentary distraction. "The answer's no. I – I'm not surprised you wondered, though. I have gone on about him."

"Well, he is very striking. And I'm not the only artist in the family."

Ray glanced around the iridescent walls. "You might as well be," he said, not hiding the trace of wistfulness. He had learned some technique, and when rendering the subject under discussion – ironically, because those sketches, from memory and vivid imagination, would never see the light of day – produced really good work. But he did not have it inside him to make anything like this. He said as much, and there they were back on dangerous ground, the differences between them emphasising all that they had shared. Another difficult silence ensued, Kath turning her glass round by its stem and examining one neat black court-shoe. "How's your job?" she asked eventually, and gestured at the cast on his arm. "Still pen-pushing?"

"Yeah, I found one that pushed back." He smiled in relief: this was an old established joke between them, mitigating the newness of here and now. Like Bodie, he had got into the habit of using "civil servant" as an umbrella-term for what he did, and Kath had accepted it unquestioningly until the night her phone rang and a warm Scottish burr had informed her that the civil servant had been shot in the heart and lay near death, should she wish to come and say goodbye. To her everlasting shame, she had not been able to – at the time, she had not been able to leave the house – but when the crisis passed, they had been more open with one another, and she had come to understand a little of what his daily life involved. "It's alright. It's not a forever deal, though, and they start looking askance at you after 40." Unconsciously he scanned the room for confirmation that his world was in place. "We should think about the future, I know, but... "

Kath smiled at the soft, unconscious "we". This time when her brother tailed off, it felt easier, and neither cast round for the next topic. She found she could look at him properly, and did so, taking in the slender, tough build of him, the cheekbone that had healed to odd attractiveness, the white that was coming in among the russet and brown at his temples. "You look well, Ray," she said simply, at length. "I'm glad to see it."

After that, the conversation became just that, an ordinary exchange between relatives parted for some time. Somewhere in Ray's mind he knew what a charade it was, but neither he nor his sister could bear any part of the alternative. Polishing off a second glass of champagne too fast, feeling the boundaries begin to shift, he decided on tactical withdrawal, and gesturing at the crowd, said, "I'm getting some looks. Am I hogging you?"

"Only by my express and absolute consent; apart from the students these people are idiots. But I had better circulate. Don't go without saying goodbye, though, unless – " She paused, voice catching dryly, her hands looking for nonexistent pockets in the starkly-cut black dress. "Unless you want that to have been it. And I'd understand, Ray."

The boundary strained and tried to give. Doyle felt his heart heave in his chest, old scars hurting. "No," he responded casually, "I don't. In fact, we're going out to Richmond for Sunday lunch and a walk in the park tomorrow, if you'd like to come."

"Won't he mind?"

Doyle sighed. "Kath, we're not a couple. I'm sure we come across like one sometimes, but it's just fallout from the job. He'll probably be bringing a girlfriend, if that makes you feel better."

Ray wandered among the pictures, trying not to understand them. The violence of his own childhood was here, transformed into fierce joy somehow by a woman whose revealed strength terrified and shamed him. No such alchemy was possible for him. He did not process; he buried. Why was she so much stronger? What had she learned? To his relief, he was soon waylaid by a tipsy cluster of students who, deprived of the artist herself, were happy to settle for something that looked a bit like her. Neatly he flipped their questions about childhood influences back to a discussion of their own work, and thereafter had very little to do except listen. He did not notice the passage of time, but Kath was chuckling ruefully when she came up behind him and said, laying a hand to his shoulder, "You lot are a liability. You've been holding forth for nearly an hour, and I'm damn sure my brother hasn't said two words." There were a few sheepish smiles, and Kath steered him away. "You know," she said when they were out of earshot, "I knew I'd like that man from the moment I clapped eyes on him."

"Who?"

"Your lovely partner, that's who."

"Oh, God. He hasn't made a move on you already, has he?"

"Now, Ray, you know that's not how you win the affections of a starving artist. He's bought my third-most-expensive picture, that's all."

Doyle came to an astonished halt. "He never has. Bodie?"

"The same."

"Bloody hell."

"Yeah. I didn't think I was going to shift it. It's much more violent than my usual stuff and I stupidly called it Revelations, so everybody thinks it's biblical."

Doyle blushed: he had, too. "Well, you don't need worry about Bodie thinking that. He'd rather die than put a religious interpretation on anything. I – I'm really pleased."

"Me too; I was afraid some vicar was going to snap it up to frighten the Sunday-school kids. It's nice to sell to someone who gets it. I didn't believe it when my agent told me, so I went to talk to him. He just said, this looks like someone realising something about themselves. Something great or something terrible. And that's what it's about."

"My God. He is a dark, dark horse. Now I feel guilty."

She snorted. "Don't be daft. You can't afford me any more. I'm not sure why, but I'm pretty sure he can." Her tone gentled. "Anyway, you've got one of mine, and I'm sure that scares you quite enough. Did you ever even hang it up?" He flinched, and she laid a warm hand to the wrist not in plaster. "Don't answer. You're pale, and you look pretty tired. Here comes your mate; he's noticed too. You'd better go quietly before he beats me up."

It was much later than Doyle had realised, and once away from the unsleeping hub of town, the streets were quiet. He waited, letting the swish of the wipers and the thrum of sudden summer rain go soothingly through him, until Bodie had negotiated the worst of the traffic and was properly available. "I hear," he began, propping a foot on the dash and keeping his gaze on the road ahead, "that you committed an act of artistic patronage tonight."

"What?" Bodie demanded, with an instant's genuine distress, then a smile hitched a corner of his mouth. "I never." He sounded like an aggrieved Lambeth burglary suspect, and Doyle began to laugh. "Who says? Anyway, you can't prove it."

"Reckon I can, mate, since we're due at your flat at eleven tomorrow to deliver it and hang it up. Sorry, I believe place it is the correct term."

"Yes. Do try to learn the vocabulary."

"And is she gonna place it to the left or the right of your Samantha Fox centrefold?"

"If you're not careful, she's gonna place it, with my help, up your – " He broke off, satisfied: Doyle was racked with helpless laughter. He had resigned himself to a large amount of flak over this and was glad to see Ray off to a good start. He hadn't said a word between the gallery and the car, and Bodie knew he hadn't been aware of his silence, nor much of anything else.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Bodie!" Doyle wiped his eyes on the sleeve of the beautiful shirt and collapsed back in the passenger seat. "I – I think I'm tired."

"I know you are. Was that much better or worse than you'd been anticipating?"

"Oh, better, much. It went well. It'll be nice to have lunch tomorrow, after we've, er, hung your asset. I just – " A jaw-cracking yawn interrupted him. "God, sorry."

"What for? Go to sleep if you want." Glancing over a second later, Bodie saw that the permission was belated. He'd gone out with the same alarming thoroughness as he had the other week, the transition difficult to tell from a faint. "Ray?" Steadying the wheel with one hand, he reached out and touched his shoulder. Nothing, but when he lifted his wrist, a strong, too-emphatic pulse was there under the bone's fine arch, and he shook his head and concentrated on getting him home.

Parked outside Doyle's flat, Bodie sat watching him, hoping that the cessation of movement might trigger him awake. "Hey, we're home," he said softly.

Doyle took a couple of disturbed breaths. Then his whole body convulsed in an effort that would have flung him onto his feet running, had the windshield and dash not been in his way. He slammed off them, cracking his brow and plaster-clad wrist, and collapsed.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Doyle!" Bodie reached over and grabbed him. Whatever it was, he was still locked into it, and after a brief stunned stillness began to fight. "No. No, don't do this. C'mon, Ray, it's me." He dragged him over the handbrake and held him still by main force. "Look, I don't know what it was, but it's not happening now. Do you hear me?" A fist landed in his stomach by way of response. Coughing, not letting go, he rocked him, and slowly, grudgingly, the seizure dissolved. But the dream would not let him go: lifting his chin, Bodie saw that his gaze was focussed off down unknown vistas of remembered fear. "Ah, Ray," he said despairingly, "when have I ever let anyone hurt you?"

Somehow the question got through. Through time and repeated demonstration, it had filtered down even into the most damaged layers of Doyle's psyche that Bodie would fight, kill, surrender his own life's blood, before allowing harm to come to him. He was part of the upper world, the thin top layer of good days and times, but the effect of him went deeper. "Bodie, are you here?"

Bodie's heart lurched: the question was faint and flat, as if in terrible doubt. "Of course I am."

The other thing his partner did unfailingly was tell him the truth, and the two worlds could not co-exist. Accepting this, his mind let him wake up. "Oh, my God."

A low, relieved chuckle. "Yeah!"

"I was – having a nightmare."

Bodie pushed him back a bit, lifted his fringe and saw by streetlight a considerable bruise rising. "I'd say it was having you. Tell me?"

He didn't really expect an answer, but the green eyes went distant. A moment later, a kind of feline disgust touched every line of his face. "No. Not ever."

They sat in a silence at once tense and companionable. Bodie was used to these; they both were. Too much to think about, no words adequate, but a comrade on hand should anything surface. Bodie let it extend until Ray's breathing steadied and the tremor left his hands. "Want to go inside?"

"Yes, but not with you."

It was so prompt and succinct that Bodie laughed. "Oh, that's charmin', mate. Any reasons, or is it just a sudden irrational dislike?"

"No," Doyle responded seriously. He sat up, looked straight at him. "Reasons. I want you to come in. Bodie, I want you to come in, get into bed with me and hold me so tight I can't breathe."

Bodie tried to analyse the expression that had gathered on his colourless face during this speech. It took him a while, but he concluded that he was steeling himself not to flinch when slapped. Fury rose in him, but it had no function in this place and time and he let it pass through, a rose of dark fire blooming out into the night. Gently he said, "And the problem with this is... ?"

"That you can't!" Doyle replied at once, surprised into clarity. "You want something I don't, and being that close to me makes it harder for you."

"You're wrong." The words came easy, almost without emphasis, because they were true. Bodie felt as if a door had opened up in his mind. It was something to do with the pictures, and he had bought the one that gave him the feeling most strongly. And it was something to do with Kath. The rain was easing up; orange-cast London clouds parting to reveal the three great lights of the Summer Triangle. Something to do with the possibility that while Ray Doyle was unusual, perhaps he was not unique – or at least that the parts of him Bodie loved most were also to be found elsewhere. Perhaps there existed for him something he could want and actually have, in principle at least. "You're a terrible egomaniac, Ray, and you're wrong. Come on, we're going in."

It was four in the morning. In the hours they had lain together, Doyle had not stirred. The arm Bodie kept round his narrow waist was tight enough to impede his breathing by the pleasant fraction he had seemed to desire. Bodie lay behind him, nose buried in his shower-damp, clean-smelling hair, wide awake and knowing that wasn't going to change any time soon. But he had been right, and it wasn't frustrated desire that was keeping sleep at bay. He just had too much to think about. A profound change had taken place within him, and although he was curled up groin-to-backside with Ray Doyle, he could cope. Ray's face, as they prosaically stripped and settled into bed together, had been a picture. Smiling, pulling him closer, Bodie tried to analyse if apprehension or hope had formed the greater part of his expression. He believed Doyle when he said he did not want him in that way, but he also believed that the man took a great deal of unconscious satisfaction in the fact that Bodie did. "Sorry, angelfish," he murmured into his hair. "I'd die for you tomorrow, but I can't live like that any more."

A couple of hours later, when there was friendly daylight in the room and he was sure Doyle was sleeping too peacefully for further nightmares, he disentangled himself and got up. Perhaps he was no longer yearning to roll the sinewy body onto its front and accommodate his cock between its thighs, but he couldn't fall casually asleep beside him, not quite yet, and he was exhausted. He left Doyle a note saying that he needed to explain things to Samantha, set the alarm clock for nine and left. He had a cupboard door to fix – and a hell of a lot of housework.

He had wondered if he would find her less compelling in daylight, but from the moment the car door opened and she misjudged the Capri's low chassis and half-fell out, he was lost. The severe black dress had been replaced by a russet cotton shirt, and jeans that strangled an arse every bit as worthy of display as her brother's. Keying open the building's main doors, he handed her courteously in and they both stood back to enjoy Ray's struggle with the picture. "Morning, sunshine," Bodie called. "You carry on there. How's the arm?"

Only Kath was not surprised by how good the painting looked on Bodie's living-room wall. Without conscious thought, she had formed a mental image of the man's surroundings which was borne out by the fact, and the room's unfussy lines and plain furniture gave the work a perfect context. It was pretty wild, though. Standing in front of it, hands wedged into the back pockets of her jeans, Kath wondered if he'd be able to live with its ferocity, then decided he was a man who could withstand a bit of that. She stole a glance at him, and found one already being stolen from her. "Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure like is what you do with your work." They studied one another for a moment, allowing the sounds of Doyle making coffee in the kitchen to ease the silent mutual assessment. Then Bodie said, "Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?" It was the simplest and calmest approach he had ever made, and they both calmly waited for her response. But half a beat later Doyle came through balancing a tray, and caught her eye, and said, "My God, he just spent nine hundred quid – "

"On asking me out!" Kath finished, and both exploded with laughter.

Carefully Bodie lifted the tray away from Doyle. "Screw you both, very much," he commented without rancour when he thought he would be heard, and it set them off again. After that he settled for ignoring them and pouring out the coffee. Kath had collapsed by the sofa, eyes streaming, all dignity gone, and her laughter was as infectious as Ray's, but Bodie decided they would have more fun if he kept a straight face, and did so with an effort. Doyle was balled up in an armchair, quite helpless. "Pair of utter bastards," Bodie contributed when they seemed in danger of getting over it, and exited the room to leave them to it.

"Oh God – !" Kath choked eventually, "He isn't really – ?"

Doyle grinned, wiping away tears. "No, I can guarantee he really isn't."

"All the same, I – I'd like to square it with him. Give me a minute. In fact, I need you out of the flat completely if I'm going to be serious. Go sit on the wall outside until you're wanted, okay?"

He was in the kitchen, smiling at her with the affection of long acquaintance. It confused her, but if the sense of belonging it conveyed was undeserved, it was also very pleasant. Disturbed, flattered, she stood in the doorway and tugged a long curl straight; watched it bounce back. "I think the expression is, 'this is all a bit sudden'."

"For me, too. I'm sorry. I just couldn't see much point in waiting."

"That's fair enough. But – I'm not sure you'll like me, on closer acquaintance."

"Well, as I said about the painting, I'm not sure liking's what you do. And it's dinner, not a lifetime commitment. I can ditch you if you don't come up to scratch."

She smiled. He was a lot smarter than she had originally guessed. She did wonder if her brother quite understood his intelligence. "Alright," she said, and came to sit on the kitchen table. "I'm about to make a speech, at the end of which you can change your mind, okay?" He nodded, and she laced her fingers together for a moment, then looked straight at him. "First, I'm not, and never have been, anybody's bird." He blinked uncomfortably, and she said, "Sorry. Ray hasn't said much, but I know you both employ the term. I don't object to it, it's just that I don't qualify. So if that's what you prefer, don't waste your time. Second, I'm only in town for another week. That's presumptuous of me, but I think that – I think that if we did go out, we'd have fun, and we might even start liking each other. Having got all that off my chest – I'm really sorry we laughed at you, and the answer is yes, unless you've changed your mind."

He leaned against the sink, surveying her cautiously. "No. You make me think, which I admit I don't enjoy much off-duty, but I haven't thought better of that."

While Bodie collected car keys and wallet in preparation for their trip to Richmond, Kath joined her brother on the wall. She felt absurdly guilty; fraudulent in a way she couldn't begin to define. "I shall," she declared formally, bumping a thin shoulder off his, "be accepting Will's invitation to dinner."

"Who?"

She smiled. "Bloke you work with. Tall chap, dark hair. Built like a brick shed. You know the one."

"Will?!"

"By his invitation." She frowned in amusement and concern: Ray looked genuinely shocked. "Well, I could hardly sit with him over the hors-d'oeuvres and call him Bodie, could I?"

"Kath, he made the vicar call him Bodie!"

To their mutual surprise, Bodie and Kath proceeded to enjoy a series of successful dates. A short discussion established that they had virtually nothing in common, and they therefore agreed to put up with each other's poor taste on alternate nights. So it was that Kath Doyle, respected avant-garde painter, found herself watching The Terminator at a very private advance viewing – her new friend had his contacts – on a huge Leicester Square screen, and to her astonishment loving every minute. Special effects had improved since her last taste of the genre in the back row of a tatty Belfast picture house in 1965, and it was pleasant to see clever, amoral people doing what they did best with no regrets. By way of revenge she took him to see Querelle at the tiny art-house Screen on the Hill, where he put up surprisingly gracefully with the hoots and cries of the mostly male, entirely gay audience packing the place out, only covering his eyes once or twice during the more unrestrained sex scenes. He took her drinking with six coolly gorgeous paratroopers; she took him to La Boheme...

..and the following Saturday morning sat chuckling at the breakfast table in Doyle's flat, relating their last escapade to her astonished brother. "I looked across at him during Mimi's aria and he had his eyes closed. I thought he must be really moved so I put my hand on his arm... and the bastard woke up!"

Doyle almost choked on his coffee. "Oh, God," he said when he could, "I was afraid you were going to tell me you'd found his sensitive side."

"Oh, hell, no. He doesn't have one. But he's fun in spite of."

"Probably because of." They grinned at one another: guilt, self-analysis and frequent post-mortems had cost them both too many easy good times. Then Doyle sobered. "Honestly, Kath, I'm surprised the two of you are hitting it off. You couldn't be further from his usual type."

"Which is?" Kath enquired cautiously.

"Well, it's polarised. Cheerful barmaids and rich daddy's girls he despises before he's got them out of their Knightsbridge flats. Come to think of it, I've no idea why he does that second one. The barmaids I can understand; he'd be the first to tell you he likes a nice simple lay." He heard himself and shut up in mortification. "I – I don't mean you, of course."

Kath gave him a wry smile; let him steep for a few seconds. "Would you like to engineer a subject-change, Ray?"

But she couldn't engineer them herself with Will, not indefinitely. He had treated her so gently on all their excursions, his most intimate touch a hand to her elbow on the theatre steps, that she wondered if he considered himself limited to an extension of Ray's brotherly regard. Enjoyable as that was, she knew a woman of her age had more to do than wait. She was staying at her friend Lara's flat – the flat and the friend that had accidentally launched her career – and when he stood with her outside, late, in the strange summer night-wind, she turned a dry, warm mouth to the kiss he had been aiming at her cheek. She felt a little electrical jump go through him and clutched tightly at his white cotton shirt, pressed briefly against his lips and backed off. "Come up for a coffee?" she suggested, one eyebrow signalling her amusement at the cliche. "Well, at least I didn't offer to show you my etchings."

"Only because you really have them."

She was still chuckling as she led him into the kitchen, and saw too late that a silent approach would have served her better. Lara's bedroom door swung open and her prettily-cropped head appeared, brown eyes enormous in the hall's dim light. "Hi, La," she said in resignation. "Sorry we disturbed you."

"Not at all," Lara returned brightly. She disappeared for a moment then emerged in a bright silk robe. "I've been lying awake every night for a week in the hope you'd be so indiscreet as to bring him in. You must be Kath's-brother's-partner-Will."

"The same," he agreed, amused but with a warning prickle at the back of his neck. She was reed-thin and barely came up to his shoulder, but when brown eyes were cold they did it more thoroughly than any other colour, and he instinctively did not like her. She examined him, lower lip caught between her teeth, while Kath introduced her, then put out a soft little paw to meet his gesture. "Well, I know I'm de trop. I just wanted to see what it took."

Kath ducked her head and fastened her attention on the carpet while Lara padded back to her room. Bodie watched her retreating spine with something close to a shudder in his own, then turned to his companion and saw her so pale she was almost green with it. "I thought only one person went that colour," he said, and took gentle hold of her arm. "Do you want to sit down?"

"No! No, I'm fine." She shook him off, then as if the reflex had been the very thing she wanted to avoid, deliberately reached for both his hands. "Too much culture, probably, and it's way past my bedtime." She had not meant it to sound seductive, but like her brother's, her voice took a sexy little rasp over some words when she was tired, and Bodie smiled. He disengaged his hands and put them to either side of her face; held it like a chalice. "You're very beautiful. Do you suppose Ray would mind if I kissed you?"

"Ray?" she echoed weakly. "What's he got to do with it?" But the warm mouth descended on hers, tasting of espresso and the aromatic liqueur they had had to follow and some animal thing else that made her heart bump raggedly, and she did not have time to worry that Ray did have some involvement, at least where his partner was concerned. The percussion shook her breastbone. Bodie felt it – it was new to him, not something he'd encountered with other, better-padded girlfriends – and after a few moments lost in the various sensations of kissing her, he drew back.

"What's the matter?" he demanded softly, horrified to see that her eyes were full of tears. "Did I do something you don't like?"

"Oh, what's not to like?" It was a frustrated wail, and if flattering, not much of an answer. Bodie held her by the shoulders, very lightly, ready to let go. "What is it, Kath?" he persisted. "Was I rushing you?"

"Rushing me – " She choked it off in a bitter little laugh. "Hardly. It's our third night out. We're way behind schedule as it is."

"What?!"

"Well, shouldn't I be a notch on your bedpost by now? Wincing when I walk? Isn't it normal policy for you to bed women you respect on the second date?"

"Kath," he protested faintly, as much dismayed by her sudden crudity as her apparent knowledge of his sexual MO. "Bloody hell. What has Doyle told you?"

"Nothing on purpose. He just – Christ, admires your style, I think, the way nothing's ever complicated for you – "

"Oh, is that what he thinks?" Bodie swallowed something that would have been rage if it had got loose. "Kath, your brother has – no idea. I don't have an agenda. I do what feels right, when a girl wants to do it. If she does. And as for nothing being complicated... " He shut up, quite unable to begin a discussion of that.

Kath supposed girl was one step up from bird. She smiled, unable to help it: he really was absolutely beautiful when he was cross. "Good God," she said. "Are we having a row?"

"What if we are? You bloody started it." The childishness was deliberate; Kath saw the glimmer deep in his eyes. "And what did your nice little friend mean about seeing what it took?"

"Nothing. And you're right, I did start it. I'm sorry. Look, if you don't have a timetable, I do: sex before the first fight. Let me start that too."

She moved like a cat beneath him, her clothes a pelt over fine warm skin. Somehow he found himself out of most of his own, divested of shirt and trousers by hands whose movements he could detect only by their result. "Mm, you're nice," she murmured, rolling him down onto the duvet and shifting lithely on top. Through his pants she felt his erection lift, pressing the heavy grey silk of her evening dress between her legs. He was large and hungry, and although he was smiling up at her, he was also sweating with the effort of control, as if it had been a long time for him, or as if he wanted her more strongly than she had thought. Kath was not afraid any more. She was on autopilot, in familiar skies. Carefully she sat back, drew the fabric of her skirts high on her thighs and eased his underwear down on his. His gasp at the sudden, almost scientific exposure of his flesh went by her unnoticed. All this, she knew, would be over very soon, and then she would breathe again, and then the gaping holes in the walls would heal up again, and the exercise surely worth it to relieve this nice man of his obvious distress. His cock came up to lie flat on his belly. "It's alright," she said, and put a hand to it, gently running a thumb up the throbbing vein. "You can let go."

Come on. I want it. I want to feel it. Just let go. Another time; another pair of upswept jade eyes interrogating his own, inflicting their idea of his pleasure upon him. "No!" he gasped. "Not like this. Let me – "

"Be quiet, love." Kath smiled, seraphic and a hundred miles away. Keeping her right hand just where it was, she popped the middle finger of her left into her mouth, withdrew it wet and plunged it deep between his legs. An instant later it slipped into his anus; fluttered and drew up and forward hard.

Bodie convulsed up off the duvet. Climax ripped through him like barbed wire through flesh, and it was better, and worse, and over more quickly, than anything he had felt in his life. He was aware that he had screamed because his throat hurt and the sound was still dying in the room, but what it was that had caused it, what it was that had preceded his fall and fall back down onto the bed – her arms now protectively around him, as if she knew how terrible was this fall – he did not know. He wanted to cry. For a moment he wanted to be sick; he had been as deprived of choice as a violated child, and yet somehow that dreadful touch had made him come, incandescently. Grey silk whispered around him. He buried his face in thick, soft hair. It smelled exactly like Ray's. Oh God, his mind said, and closed down in overload.

Kath dozed for a while, anchored in the grey-white nothing by the slowing beat of his heart. Then she opened her eyes, feeling their dilation, aware that she could see every detail in the room about her, though the only light was a pale yellow strip beneath the door. Lara, still awake? Listening? The thought didn't disturb her: she hadn't made a sound herself, and his climactic shout had been a good thing, uncomplicated and real. Yes, good; she had made it good for him and now he would sleep until morning and require nothing else. When he'd come, she'd made sure it was into her skirt, so the sensation of it drying would not disturb him and he wouldn't wake up feeling sticky or awkward. Amazing, what one little touch to an unsuspecting prostate would do. Slowly she disentangled herself, gathering up damp fabric as she went. It would dry-clean... probably. And if not, grey silk dresses were no longer for her a once-in-a-lifetime extravagance.

A large hand lifted and blindly sought the hair at the back of her neck. "Angelfish, don't go."

You're meant to be asleep. They always sleep after that. Paralysed, staring down at him, she realised that he still was, the move and the words just a reflex. "Angelfish?" she echoed in a wondering undertone, then replied for form's sake, "I have to take a shower. I won't be long." Padding from the room, she asked herself who had been the lucky fish.

Mid-morning sunlight woke him at last, and for a long while he lay still, catching up on the where and the sequence of events that had led up to it. His limbs felt heavy and slightly numb, as if he hadn't moved all night, and when he rolled over he became aware that the half of the duvet he wasn't lying on had been draped over him. He needed a shower, but not desperately so, and that was because...

"Kath?" He lunged up onto one elbow, feeling sick. She'd played his body like a teenage boy's; never in his adult life had he lost control like that. Shuddering, he remembered the helpless lurch to orgasm, the oblivion that followed on its heels. He hadn't had so much as a second to think about her pleasure, and she evidently hadn't slept with him –

A clear mezzo-soprano, cheerful as the sunlight, began to cut through the tangle of his thoughts. It was terribly familiar, and he gradually understood that this was what Ray would sound like, pitched up an octave or so. Unspectacular, on key, nice; picking a track through a manageable bit of Carmen. The sound came closer, and Kath opened the bedroom door. She had a tray balanced on the flat of one hand, and her curls were piled up in the teeth of a ludicrous dayglo plastic crocodile-grip. "J'irai danser la – Oh, you're awake. Here's some tea. D'you like fried bread?"

Bodie sat up. She was, he decided, one too many for him. Without her makeup she looked both younger and older and heartbreakingly beautiful, and her gaze was calm and unembarrassed. "As I'm sure Ray's told you," he growled, "I like fried everything. Kath, where did you sleep?"

"On the sofa," she responded promptly, handing him a mug and settling by him on the bed with her own. "Oh, God. This isn't going to be the about-last-night conversation, is it?"

"Shouldn't it be? Do you call what we did a satisfactory exchange?" He was blushing almost painfully, totally unused to putting his feelings on this subject into words. "I don't appreciate being – detonated, and left to – "

"Oh, Will!" She banged her mug down onto the bedside table and pounced into his arms. Her mouth found his with an urgency he knew was mainly based on a need to shut him up, and he cursed himself for finding it paralysingly erotic anyway. She kissed and kissed him, closed her eyes and opened up for the gentle ingress of his tongue, encouraging it with soft flickers of her own. Moaning, Bodie pulled her robe down off her shoulders and stroked the lovely, too-obvious arch of her collar-bones – and felt her slip away again, the same quick shutdown he had caught the shadow of last night. Not quite gently, he put both hands in her hair and drew her back. "You – you try to get it over with, don't you?"

The feline eyes crossed slightly as she tried to focus on him. Her mouth was a reddened, innocent O. "What?"

"Sex. At least – the awkward, messy male bit. How many other tricks have you got?"

"Christ," she said, after a moment. "You're an uncivil bastard, aren't you?"

"Yes. Honest, sometimes, too. Are you pissed off enough to be honest back?"

"Oh, and then some." She was shaking finely in his grip, and her skin's morning roses had blanched and vanished. "You weren't just horny last night. You were desperate. I don't know where it was all coming from but it scared me. I couldn't face it, not the way you think is proper, but I still wanted to make you feel better. So I did something just for you. So fucking shoot me."

Bodie stared at her. Honesty? She was verbal paintstripper. Suddenly he began to laugh, and she crumpled in relief and release of tension. He caught her as she rolled down into his arms, dispensed with the terrible hairgrip and let her curls spill across the duvet. "God, you're my worst nightmare."

"Smart tart?"

"Nastily put, but accurate. Would your twisted little world end if I did something just for you?"

It did not, but nothing began for her, either. It never had, not with this half of the species. Resigned, wondering how long he would persist without at least a moan or two, Kath lay on her back and watched the effects of the sunlight on the plaster ceiling rose. An artist, she reflected, need never be bored. And there were pleasant side effects: the feel of his hair, for instance, abundant and silky but so close-cropped it spiked across his crown. She brushed it with her fingertips, smiling – and heard her own voice say, "Ohhh, yes – !"

Blinking, dry-mouthed, she stared down into summer-sea eyes. They were brilliant with laughter, and the unnerving conviction took her that he had read both her indifference and her surprise. A black eyebrow winged up calculatingly, and he bent to his task once more, his tongue seeking the good spot. There.

"Oh, there! God!" It was somewhere near to, something to do with, the right side of her clitoris, but she did not have a clitoris any more, she had a pulsating sun that wanted to go nova. His hands pushed into the small of her back and lifted strongly, getting a better angle. The knowledgeable tongue pushed at her again and again, an unbearable rhythm. She arched up to him, hands clamping tight on the undersheet, starting to come in volcanic surges. "Dear God – Will – I can't – " Her scream ripped the morning in two. To Bodie's surprise, he felt his own body leap and fly with her – well, the difficult ones were the most rewarding – and he got a hand to himself, barely needing it, just wanting the touch.

Some protracted interval later, Kath opened her eyes and studied her assailant. He was gracefully disposed beside her, propped on one elbow, and smug didn't even begin to describe it. "Hm," she managed, and lifted a shaky hand to brush the corners of his mouth. "Little yellow feathers."

His grin increased, a delicious curl. "Off a strange little bird."

"We've had this conversation, but... I give you a perfect ten, my son," she finished in a disconcerting echo of her brother's idiolect. "Who taught you that?"

"You keep your trade secrets, I'll keep mine."

"Pig," she said without rancour. She stretched, all ribs and legs and creamy skin in the sunlight, and smiled as Bodie's broad, warm hand found the place an inch below her navel where the post-orgasmic glow was strongest. "You're right. I do try to get it over with." Turning her head, she met his eyes. "I can't tell you why. But I will tell you it cost me a marriage. Now – " She rolled over and pinned him before he could react. "I have to work today. Paint. Make preliminaries, hundreds of 'em. There is no choice. I must. Will you take me somewhere?"

Bodie shrugged. He'd make a fool of himself if he tried to keep up. Accepting this – and it was not an unfamiliar sensation, not at all – he simply took hold of the last part and hung on. "Certainly. Name your cityscape."

Lara drifted through the kitchen once while Kath made good her promise on the fried-bread front, but her greeting was merely neutral, and Bodie decided to assume the flat was spectacularly well soundproofed. It was anyway not his habit to be embarrassed in front of flatmates the morning after, and he waved a piece of toast at her in friendly disregard. "D'you think she needs her spare room back any time soon?"

Kath glanced up enquiringly from the Sunday papers. "No. I'm her last and only friend. Why?"

"Well, your week's up, in case it's slipped your mind. And... things are just getting interesting."

"Interesting, eh?" She hitched a crooked smile at him and sat back, nursing a coffee. He was asking her to stay, to all intents and purposes. But if indirect was his pleasure, it suited Kath too, very well, and she hid her own. "Lara is happy to have me."

"I'm sure."

She let the innuendo wash over her, silently impressed that he'd got her little flatmate pegged on such short acquaintance. A comfortable silence followed, rich with shared amusement. Kath thought she could bear a lot of his companionship, the undramatic quickness of his mind. "Well," she asked after a while, "since that's sorted out, you can tour-guide me. Where do we start?"

"Greenwich," he answered promptly. "Market, observatory, best view of the city there is from Blackheath hill. It's an old plague pit but I know you won't let that put you off."

"Sounds perfect. Shall we take Ray?"

He chuckled in surprise. "That was a big-sister way of putting it."

"Oh." She looked down. "Well, it's no use me coming on like that, not now. I wasn't a very good one to him." Before Bodie could draw breath to ask, she got to her feet and turned her back, pouring more water into the percolator. "It's just," she said, too brightly, "that the two of you generally spend Sundays together, don't you?"

"No," Bodie began, but then thought about it. Last Sunday had been Richmond. The one before that – on duty, so together by default. Beyond that, things got blurry, but he did seem to recall a football match, a retirement party, a sunny afternoon on Ray's fire escape when neither of them could work up the energy to go elsewhere... "Well, not religiously," he amended. "He certainly wouldn't expect it, not when I'm – "

"Oh, go on. Say courting."

"Somewhere between that and shagging lies the word I want."

She snorted with laughter and kicked him under the table. "You really are repulsive. Ray deserves time off from you. By the way, is he... ?"

"Courting?"

"Shagging?"

"No. He's between ballbreakers at the moment. Don't worry; he'll be back in the saddle as soon as he finds some beautiful, long-legged security risk who'll shove him through an emotional food-blender and dump him."

Quite a speech, Kath thought. And delivered with feeling. The weather changes fast around here. Bodie's eyes were bleak with anger above a sardonic smile. Soberly she asked, "Is that what he does?"

"That's what he doesn't try to stop getting done to him, yeah."

"Poor Ray, then."

They were silent for a couple of minutes. Kath was, Bodie suspected, as unwilling to hear more about her brother's painful attempts at a love-life as he was to give her further details. Folding up a newspaper, he shrugged. "I'll go and give him a ring, eh?"

He was back 30 seconds later, looking embarrassed and relieved. "Serves us both right for being so bloody patronising. Woke him up, didn't I? You never heard such language."

"And he can look so sweet, as well!"

Hanging up the receiver, Doyle returned his attention to the cracks in the ceiling that had held it since summer dawn had revealed them. His insomnia was of the intractable kind that stopped him just short of giving it up as a bad job and getting out of bed; held in a heavy, lethargic net of it he had lain and watched the cracks assume shapes borrowed from latent nightmare. Spiderwebs in the corner of an allotment shed. A child's bedroom door easing open two minutes after the telly ceased its yammer through the paper-thin walls. He always watched to the bitter end. God save the Queen... Lines in the palm of a grease-soiled hand.

His mind flew to Bodie and Kath, to the image of them together, with relief, a sense of sanctuary. The ordinary pleasures of a London Sunday existed still, and for the moment he knew he was better off out of it. He could just barely navigate his working day. Kath's presence in town, in his life, had corroded the last barricade, and past and present were finally, disastrously, united in his mind. If the week just elapsed had been the loneliest of his life, it couldn't have been better timed. He embraced the empty evenings, sank into them gratefully, exhausted. The door of his flat once shut behind him he let energy, the possibility of happiness, slip from him unprotesting: his partner and his sister were strong enough, alive enough, to hold his share of such things in trust.

Idly, downing vodka after vodka from a bottle that had sat untouched in his cupboard for a year, he wondered if Bodie had felt this sense of desolation when Doyle had been occupied with yet another woman who was supposed to be the one. If so, he had betrayed it by neither a word nor a look, and Doyle could not do so now, even had he wanted to. He couldn't have been more astonished at the turn events had taken. Since her divorce, Kath had studiously avoided male contacts more intimate than chess with the village doctor, and Bodie – well, Doyle thought, amused despite himself, perhaps finding someone as stroppy and high-maintenance as he is did the trick after all. And if either of them had the least chance of happiness from it, Doyle insisted on clear skies for their flight, especially from his own quarter.

And so he maintained the daylight world with Bodie, and thought that his partner detected no change. He seemed to accept Doyle's non-reaction with puzzled relief. Their current duty-shifts were too trying to admit of much soul-searching anyway, and he needed a steady companion as much as Doyle needed to be one. Mutual benefits, Doyle thought with a sense of bitter comfort. And the cracks in the ceiling were simply cracks. Bodie had called him from Kath's flat, and while he could have gone there that morning to pick her up, Doyle knew he hadn't. There had been a softness in his voice... Carefully, aching, he rolled onto his side. His wrist, fresh out of plaster and still strapped up, was nevertheless deft enough for this, and he welcomed the pain. It pierced the hangover-fog shrouding his responses. Like film on a repeating loop, the images came, a plain re-run of events played out in the room below this one just over two weeks ago. It had all been there for him, that night, if only he had known how to put out his hand.

Their duty-status dropped to standby, and suddenly Bodie had days as well as nights at his disposal. Well aware of how swiftly that might change, he addressed himself to Kath's purposes, ferrying her around the parts of the city she wanted to paint, and sunbathing, reading or contentedly distracting her with small talk as she worked. Being with her felt almost like cheating to him – as if he had been allowed to do all the groundwork before he even met her; as if he were only writing a story in the canon of someone else's well-developed character. There was no awkwardness, especially since by tacit mutual consent they had laid aside further physical lovemaking. Bodie told himself that this was temporary, when he allowed himself to think of it at all. It would sort itself out in time, and if it didn't... But that was where his speculations derailed. What did it matter, anyway? Her company was so good, her growing pleasure in his such a source of contentment and hope, that it seemed irrelevant.

He took her out to Kew, to the Heath and Primrose Hill, and watched her spin the familiar scenes to gold-streaked alien landscapes that still somehow sang of what they were. She was working fast and straight to canvas, and, sitting in unobtrusive guardianship a few yards away, Bodie came to enjoy the expressions on the faces of the little crowd that sometimes gathered to look over her shoulder. Curiosity, benign condescension, swiftly giving way to astonishment, disbelief, even fear – could this really be the world? Could this version of it be lurking, like the subatomic madness in the most prosaic of everyday objects, just a blink beyond their own perception, and, more crucially, would they be able to forget it once they turned away? Bodie experienced the same fear and wonder every time he looked at Revelations, but for him it was salutary, bracing, a universe that co-existed with his, rendered accessible by her vision and full of possibilities.

He was surprised, therefore, when on the Wednesday of that week, she surveyed the canvases on their stretching frames in Lara's big north-facing study and declared the lot of them redundant. "Green!" she clarified, when Bodie questioned the verdict. "Green as bloody grass. Why am I making like John Constable on LSD, in the middle of London?"

It was mostly a rhetorical question, Bodie knew, but he thought about it. Coming to sit beside her on the big Victorian radiator, he folded his arms on his chest and said, "Are you trying to pick up what you do in the country and just transplant it here?"

She'd been fidgeting with a thread come loose from her jumper, but now she stopped. She had Ray's trick of stillness at times; a complete suspension, even of breathing. This one lasted for some 15 seconds. Then she glanced up at him, her expression a peculiar mix of affection and annoyance. "You irritating, clever bastard. For that, you can take me out and show me somewhere ugly."

And that was easier. Bodie's time with CI5 had brought him far more often into the council estates, the barren wharfland, than the city's noble parks and tourist attractions. She was nervous of the new places but not afraid, and drew and painted with a focus not to be rocked by the smartmouthed kids that prowled around her, kept at bay as much by her calm dedication as the admonitory gaze of her companion. And then they got interested, too, just like the old men and the tourists, and she had no trouble.

But still she had no success, at least by her own lights. Bodie offered to sell everything she'd produced so far in consideration of a small percentage fee – comfortably aware it would make his fortune – and she grinned and informed him that he could take any he wanted as a gift, provided he showed no-one. They weren't right; they weren't the next step in an evolution of which she was only now becoming aware, and her efforts felt like trying to join up scraps of something that existed already whole, fully-realised, somewhere off in her mind. She explained this to Bodie, half-hoping he'd come up with another insight, but this time he just listened.

The next morning was Sunday, and she was less than pleased to be woken at six by Lara, standing naked by her bed with hangover-pale face. "Phone," she said, truculently. "Him again, you inconsiderate cow."

All he said was, "Can you be ready in half an hour? You need to see it from above, don't you?"

Will had assured her that the helicopter pilot was just an old mate who owed him a favour, but as outings went, this one had been spectacular beyond the bounds of Kath's powerful imagination. She could not decide what was burning hotter inside her – inspiration, because this had been what she needed, yes – or wondering gratitude. It was, officially, the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. If the day had been filmed and she'd been choosing a name for the film, if it had been a short story in need of a title, she'd have had no difficulty. "The Seduction of Kath Doyle," she murmured to her reflection, liking it for once, in the mirror above Lara's mantelpiece, and smiled.

"I beg your pardon?"

She turned around. "Nothing. Have you finished your coffee?"

"Just about. Why?"

"Because as a reward for all your kindness, I want you to bugger off and let me paint. I've got it now, and if I don't let it out I'll explode."

"Like that extra-hot madras you insisted on last week?"

"Exactly like that, you silver-tongued devil." She padded over to the sofa where he sat and crouched down in front of him; put a slim hand on each of his knees. "But... I want you to come back, too, Will. Tonight."

Her mouth sought his with tender force, and Bodie felt all the yearning, all the hunger he had convinced himself was indefinitely repressible, light up his nervous system like a Christmas tree. "Alright," he gasped, pulling away, having to. "Does midnight suit you, your ladyship?"

"In a fairytale Capri drawn by six white mice in bulletproof vests. Go away. Now."

It had only happened to her five or six times before, and she reflected, on her knees in front of the huge completed work, that it was just as well. On the canvas blazed what should have been the result of a week's hard labour, and although she knew it was hers, she had no memory of laying down a single brushstroke. She was quivering all over and the muscles of her left arm and shoulder burned. Beyond that, she had no evidence that the picture had not simply walked through her body to get itself born. It painted itself, she thought, then glanced down at her clothes and lost the sense of awe in plain amusement. It painted me. Down the street St Martin's church began to toll out witness to this strange day's hours, including her lost ones, and the doorbell rang.

Bodie looked at her, and began to laugh, and felt invisible chains fall from off his limbs and heart. He'd spent the last four hours staring at the telephone in his own flat, wanting to call Ray and ask him out for a drink, quite unable to do it. Trying to analyse his paralysis had only scared him and given him a headache. To see Doyle off-duty, to revive the easy companionship they'd shared until three weeks ago, seemed so prosaic and natural an intention that the prospect of failure killed it in the bud. And because for a bad half hour he had wanted it more than anything, the sight of Kath was a tremendous relief to him. If his losses were incalculable, they at least had a reason, and she was good, and warm, and real. Her hair and clothes were gaudy with paint and the pungent sting of turps made his eyes water as she ran into his arms. "God, Will, come and see!"

The breath left his lungs as she pulled back the studio door, and until his vision hazed, he forgot to replace it. More accurately, he could not: the massive painting propped across four easels on the far side of the room briefly appropriated the energy from his every reflex. For the second time that night, cold fear touched him – who, what the hell was Kath Doyle? How did he ever dare touch her? The city – all of the city; all its lights and souls, its ecstasies and squalor – was here in the room with him, conjured by her hand, the same hand now impatiently turning him away from his awestruck contemplation by the collar of his shirt. "Alright, you've looked at it," she said softly. "Now for God's sake look at me and make me real too."

"What?"

"It's finished. It – It's finished with me. Will, I'm... irrelevant now. Just the vessel."

There were tears in her eyes, and for a moment he came perilously close to agreeing with her, so vivid against her pallid skin were the smears of cerulean and gold. But then his bond with the everyday world asserted itself and his priorities snapped back into place. "Not to me, you're not," he informed her, almost harshly. He clasped both hands on her shoulders. "You're very, very real."

"And you can't fuck a painting, right?"

"Ah, Kath, do you have to – "

But she was smiling, her colour flooding back. In part it was sheer joy at having shocked the ex-merc with her language, but mostly it was simple arousal. "Sorry," she said insincerely. "That was by way of a hint."

The studio floor was bare polished wood, its coolness pleasant in the stifling June air. They divested one another of such clothing as was in the way, and Kath stretched out beneath him. She was more than ready for him – he touched her, as subtly as he could, to be sure – and when she moaned, smiled at herself and lifted her thighs to him, he was lost. Nevertheless he entered her carefully, forcing back shudders of pleasure and need, keeping eye contact and a good wide gap between this act and the scarcely-human rutting that something in him craved. "Kath," he breathed, lay still at full stretch in her for a moment, then drew back a little and gently thrust.

The eye-contact saved him and damned him at once. Her pupils constricted and he knew on the instant that it was over, knew it before the helpless clench of her vaginal muscles forced a pained gasp from both of them, before her hands could tighten on his shoulders. Swallowing dryly, he pulled out. "Kath, it's – "

"No!" she howled. "Don't – don't for God's sake say it's alright!" She clawed out of his attempt to gather her up, huddled away from him, clumsily dragging on up her jeans. Shock quickly taking care of his arousal, Bodie sat up, unconsciously pulling his own clothes together. He tried again to reach for her and found an outstretched palm planted flat on his chest. "Don't."

"Okay." He knelt motionless at arm's length. "Okay, love."

The word finished her. Somehow she knew how often in his life he had said it, and understood at the same time the breathtaking splendour of all she could not have. Tears came – a flash flood, saving her sanity even as they rocked its foundations. "You have to go."

"Kath, I'm not leaving you like – "

"Will!" A sob tore from her. "Please, if you – care anything about me at all... "

"Too much to ditch you when you're so unhappy. If you think what just happened matters to me – "

"Oh!" she wailed. "To you? God, you're all the same. It matters to me!" It was her last coherent effort: she curled up under her painting, knees to her chest, and threw an arm across the back of her head.

Earthquake victims, Bodie thought. That's how they sit. Balled up and rocking. In his more recent memories, there were the survivors of high-street bomb blasts. Stomach heaving, he got to his feet. The faint persistence of his erection was abruptly repulsive to him beyond endurance and he turned and stumbled away from her.

Lara was – oh, God, waiting? – in the corridor outside. In her absence he would have headed straight for the bathroom to throw up. But something about her, the cold little set of her head, her poise, forced him to find his own. "Lara," he managed. "Kath's... I... Christ, I don't know. Will you look after her?"

"Every time," she said, soft and cool as night breeze. "I always do. And if you'd asked me, Will, I could've told you this would fucking well happen. You can get out of my flat now."

Home. He wanted to go home. It was the only clear thought left to him as he pulled the car away from the kerb, and it was a first. Home? As a kid, he had spent most waking hours figuring out how best to get away from his, and he had never looked back. Home was where you hung up your gun harness. The newness of this feeling shook him to the bone. He had no idea what to do with it, and he therefore just drove, negotiating late-night traffic and the Capri's tricky gearbox without thought.

Drove, and eventually stopped. A grudging little breeze was stirring the air in the street. He hauled up the handbrake, letting it ratchet noisily, and watched an empty paper bag catch the wind and drift in the lamplight. At length he realised the double shadows cast by branches overhead were puzzling him because there weren't any trees in the street outside his current flat.

Home is not a place. He switched off the engine and closed his eyes. Lights were on in Doyle's window, but it was after one in the morning and he couldn't –

The car's R/T went off. Automatically he picked up; thumbed the send button. "3.7."

"3.7? 4.5," an amused voice responded. "Kerb-crawling, are we?"

"It's one step up on curtain-twitching," Bodie returned, not opening his eyes.

"Like I need to. None of my nice neighbours arrive with a ten-yard tyre screech. Anyway, we're quits. I'm staring out the window in the small hours, and you're sat there in your car. Do you want to come up?"

Doyle opened the door to him, and they exchanged a look, but neither spoke. Bodie felt a glass pressed into his hand, and allowed himself to be steered down the dim hallway and into the kitchen, where Ray pulled out a chair for him by the table.

"Ah," he tried, in pale echo of his normally-perfect rendition of their boss. "A pure malt Scotch, eh, laddie?"

"Actually, it's a crappy blend I picked up in the Co-op for anaesthetic purposes." Doyle sat down opposite to him; smiled wryly. "Try it. It works."

Bodie obeyed, asking a little roughly afterwards, "Do I look as if I need anaesthetic?"

"Afraid so." Taking his glass, Doyle poured him another. Then he sat back, folded his arms over his chest and looked at him in silence. Bodie did not mind the inspection. Somehow it felt like warm light, and he was very used to it. He could look back, look straight into the tired green eyes. Home is not a place. He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

He heard Doyle's chair scrape back softly, heard the soft barefoot tread across lino. Fingertips brushed down the back of his neck, then strong thumbs found locked muscle and began a gentle rub. "Oh God, don't." But he let his hands fall; let a shudder that had been waiting under his gut for an hour come up and rattle his frame. Through new, tearstung clarity of vision, he noted the empty bottle of vodka on the table, and realised with a little shock that Doyle, articulate, co-ordinated and perfectly composed, was probably as drunk as he had ever seen him. "Ray... Ray, what the fuck's going on?"

The careful, beautiful massage dropped and expanded to his shoulders. "With me? Nothing important. With you, though... Bodie, you've got to believe it wasn't your fault."

He stiffened. Even allowing for Doyle-ESP, this was a little too much, and he wondered if Ray could possibly mean something else, and if so, what. "Where's the... hidden camera, then, you sick voyeur?"

"In ze carnation in your buttonhole; vhere else?"

"Ah. I always forget to check me buttonhole."

Neither really had the energy to laugh, but amusement rippled between them. Doyle felt his skin prickle in its long-missed pulse and was grateful Bodie could not see the tears that gathered. "Will you listen to something, you idiot? I can only tell you because I'm pissed and because – you really, really need to hear it."

After a short pause, not questioning the need but damn sure he didn't want to, Bodie whispered, "Alright."

"Whatever's gone wrong between you and Kath, it's nothing you've done to her." Doyle's hands ceased their soothing motion and settled, firm and warm, on each of Bodie's shoulders. "When we were kids, home was... Well, the makers of The Waltons weren't losing any sleep. And when Kath was 12, our mum took her and left. From Derby to Belfast where she came from. She took her away – away from my dad, Bodie. She had to. But... But in a way it was too late. Do you understand?"

"Oh, God. Oh, God, no."

Doyle held onto his shoulders, shock-absorbing. His touch slowly drew Bodie back from the blizzard of grief and comprehension sweeping through him. Bodie sat up and let his weight rest against the lean stomach and chest. Under the thin blue cotton of his t-shirt, he could feel him breathe.

"I'm sorry, Bodie. I thought maybe she'd be alright this time. And it wasn't my business to tell you, if she hadn't chosen to. I never would have, if – if – "

A large hand closed tenderly on his bandaged wrist. "Ssh. You had to. You're right, I... I thought it was me."

"Was she okay when you left her?"

"No. But Lara was there, and... "

"Only too glad to pick up the bits?"

"It – it looked that way, yes." Bodie leaned his head back, let his eyes close in the relief of a lifting headache. "What's the deal there, then, Ray?"

"One-sided," was Doyle's only response, and he nodded, suddenly too tired to take that or anything else any further. As if reading the surrender in the muscles under his hands, Doyle touched what might in some alternate universe have been a kiss to the dark hair at his crown, and said, "It's late. Stay here tonight, if you like." When Bodie didn't reply – as if the casual offer had been in some way barbed and painful to him – he went on, "I was bored enough to take the clothes you keep here to the laundry on Thursday, and bored enough on Friday to pick them up."

"Bored? You don't get bored," Bodie protested vaguely, realising it was true as he said it. Doyle's scarce free time strained at the seams with unread books and papers, judo classes for underprivileged kids, and of course his endless quest to justify a high-pitched sexual appetite by clothing his encounters in relationships. Even sleep was somehow an active process with him: he enjoyed it like a cat and gave it a cat's concentration, sprawled across whatever bed or sofa or back seat was available. His own shock beginning to fade, Bodie recalled other incongruities, and turned round in the chair to look at him. "You don't get this drunk either, not on a work night. And not on – " He glanced across the table to the empty Stolichnaya bottle. "Not on that paintstripper. Why?"

"Cos it's a work night," Doyle returned, with listless grace and no effort at denial. "Fragrance-free version, innit?"

"What's going on?" Now that Bodie had finally started noticing, he couldn't stop, and alarm built as he surveyed him. Hollowed eyes, half a stone at least stripped from a frame that couldn't afford to lose a pound. "You look pretty rough, Ray."

"Whereas you're band-box fresh yourself," Doyle said. It was hoarse, through an aching throat. Bodie was getting to his feet, and the sudden reappearance in his life of that solid, concerned half-inch the man had on him, forcing him to look up, made the tears spill. He didn't compound the error by trying to wipe them away; realised he'd made worse a one when Bodie reached to do it for him, face blank with surprise. "Ray..."

"No. No, don't. I'm just – bone-tired, Bodie, that's all, and you're right, I have been on a quiet binge.