Day One - Tuesday Evening

"Damn it, Bodie! D'you think I'm enjoying this any more than you? A palm slammed down on the surface of the table, and the resultant report ricocheted about the dining room like a stray bullet.

Exasperated blue eyes, glaring out of an inordinately pale but profoundly handsome face, shot up. At the evidence of frustration so clearly etched on the woman's open features, Bodie bit back the angry words that lay coiled on the tip of his tongue and breathed hard through his nose, causing finely arched nostrils to flare almost elegantly.

"No," Bodie acknowledged. "Of course you're not. Sorry, Allison."

The woman shook her head at him, smooth, dark hair swinging fluidly around her face. A tiny smile peeked through the rigid set of her mouth, slowly but determinedly creeping upward to breach the weariness in chocolate brown eyes. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't've shouted." She relaxed back in her chair, body molding limply to the unyielding wood frame. "Audits are always horrid."

Bodie summoned a wry smile. "The audit itself is usually a doddle. It's the preparation that's 'horrid.'" Using the pads of his fingers, he rubbed gently at his eyes. "And it's been a rough couple of weeks. Bloody madhouse. Beginning to think I should move a cot in."

"Now there's a thought," Allison winced. "Look, I'll just put the kettle on; what d'you say?"

"No." Bodie rose, the chair scraping on the linoleum floor behind him. "I'll make the tea this time; you did it last."

"Thanks, love."

Pausing in the kitchen doorway, he grinned back at her. "But feel free to carry on, won't you."

"Bastard. You know what you--" The door buzzer sounded imperiously, drowning out whatever she had meant to add. Allison glanced across at Bodie, who had hesitated in the doorway. "You go ahead," she said. "I'll see who it is."

"Cheers."

Bodie glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the kitchen sink as he shoved the uncapped kettle under the water. It had only gone eight, but even with the switch to Summer Time, the day was already full dark.

His mind was empty as he waited for the kettle to fill, oblivious to everything but the sound of water pouring out of the faucet, the hollow insistence as it impacted noisily against the metal walls.

This was his fourth audit with Allison; their fourth year as partners. Recommended to him by a good mate from the Army, Allison had proved to be every bit as knowledgeable and reliable as his friend had promised. With his electronics training and her on-hands computer experience, they had quickly come to admire one another's skills and sharp minds--and the deadly persistence that carried them through that dreadful first year in which they had had to fight long hours and an unresponsive public to establish themselves in the computer repair industry.

It had not been easy. Along with a keen love of computers and an unholy talent for tinkering, Allison was blessed with a good comprehension of the business world. More than once, overwhelmed by the unanticipated roles he was forced to play--fast-talking salesman, tutor, confidant--Bodie had been tempted to throw in the towel and admit defeat. Allison, made of sterner stuff, would never hear of it, and each and every time had bolstered Bodie to continue.

In their relatively short time together, they had managed to find a niche in the burgeoning world of computer users. This, despite having briefly employed the services of a marketing representative, who had distressingly overextended their fledgling operation to the point where they had been incapable of keeping up with a multitude of new accounts without working themselves to death or going bankrupt by having to take on a fleet of new personnel to meet the crush.

After that notable disaster, things had settled down. They had kept on one of their temporary hires who loved to work long hours for reasonable but unspectacular pay. Heather Wood was computer adept in the most arcane way; Bodie sometimes referred to her as "witch." She often arrived with the pale advent of dawn and rarely left before the rush-hour traffic had slowed to a trickle. Quiet but personable, where Allison could be gregarious to a fault and Bodie impenetrably distant, the young technician had proved to be the perfect addition to their little shop.

For the most part Accurate Computer Services--ACS Ltd--elicited TPM contracts from firms which either had extant equipment, or those for which ACS recommended and expedited purchases. As a rule they performed all their repairs in the shop; but there were a few insistent--and surcharged--accounts for which they plied their trade on site.

After four years Bodie had almost completely adjusted to the new pattern of his life. Generally, he was content. It was easier now to forget certain episodes of the past, to place behind him the events and people who only rarely now visited his dreams. Life was--

"Bodie! Didn't you hear me?" Allison's clear, vibrant voice cut through the cotton wool of Bodie's thoughts and brought him sharply back to the present.

"Cor!" she tsked, watching him dump surplus water out of the brimming kettle. "You'll use any excuse for a kip, won't you?"

"Audits do that to me," Bodie retorted smartly. "If we could bottle it for the millions, it would be an excellent anti-insomnia aid." He plugged in the flex and pushed the rocker switch to ON. "Who was that at the door?"

"Bloke to see you." At the startled look leveled her way, Allison defended herself, "I tried to call you, but you didn't answer. He said he'd wait while I fetched you; refused to even step inside."

Bodie frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone. Certainly not tonight."

"I haven't seen him before." Her mouth curved into a crooked smile. "But then you don't often bring anyone home with you."

"Snoop," Bodie said, unoffended. "You get to finish this lot, then. Be back in a tick--I promise."

Bodie strode into the common corridor which led to the front door without foreboding or expectation, but with a pronounced touch of impatient curiosity. Outwardly at ease, the braced stance he assumed before turning the brass knob was nevertheless one that owed much to his earlier life.

At the sound of the door drawing open, the man on the front step spun round, poised seemingly for flight. Stove-pipe thin from the hips down, his shoulders and arms were contrastingly broad and well-developed, their size emphasized by an old leather flier's jacket--despite the man's hunched-forward posture. He was almost as tall as Bodie, but there all similarity between them came to an end. Where Bodie's hair was short and smooth, hugging the well-shaped curve of his skull, this man sported unruly, thick brown curls, long enough to get caught inside the fur collar of his jacket and profuse enough to obscure the high slope of his brow. His mouth was full, but uninvitingly compressed. The natural promontory of his right cheekbone had been replaced by a harsh ridge, although the alteration clearly had occurred some years before. Most commanding, however, were his green eyes, stabbing out from beneath lush dark lashes. Wide-set and slanting, and startling in their intensity, they lent an almost oriental cast to the round face.

Taking all this in within the space of two rapid heartbeats, Bodie did not fail to note that the man was according him the same thorough inspection.

"You're Bodie?" he asked abruptly, voice low and husky. The sound of it incongruously raised the small hairs on the back of Bodie's neck.

"Bodie, yes."

A fleeting grimace touched the man's face and was gone, so quickly Bodie questioned whether he had actually seen it. "A mutual friend suggested I see you."

"Really?" Bodie asked lightly. He was uncomfortably aware of the other man's scrutiny, still boldly raking over his features one by one.

"Father Keegan." The name was stated without inflection, yet it struck at Bodie like a challenge.

He stiffened. "Why should--?"

"He said you could help me." The words cost the other man; he fidgeted from one foot to the other, and for the first time glanced away.

Covering well the shock that gripped him at the man's announcement, Bodie said flatly, "He was wrong."

The other's face drained of color, "He said--"

"He made a mistake." Bodie's voice was deliberately harsh. Yet it gave him no satisfaction to see a bleak acceptance dull the green eyes.

"Right." Standing a little straighter, the man stepped down to the pavement, his shoulders racked as if with a sudden chill. A few steps away, he hesitated and looked back over his shoulder.

"What's the matter, Bodie?" he asked hollowly. "Something go wrong with the last person who asked for your help?"

Furious words bubbled up inside Bodie's throat, but the other man was already striding down the concrete path, long legs carrying him toward the street at an angry pace. He shut his mouth tightly over scalding outrage, compelled to watch the other leave in silence.

In less than a minute, the lean figure had disappeared round the corner where Sherwood Park Road and Robin Hood Lane came together, the smart tattoo of his bootheels fading until lost even to Bodie's keen hearing. There came the snarl of a powerful engine, followed at once by the shriek of rubber spinning on the road.

Still Bodie stood there, his racing heart gradually slowing to normal. The sourness of the man's disappointment lingered, tainting Bodie with a guilt he had not known in many years. "Who the fuck are you?" he hissed under his breath.

Staring into the distance, Bodie recovered himself with an effort. "Damn you," he muttered, and turned back into the house and its too-bright lights.

"Who was that?" Allison asked, leaning against the dining room door-jamb, her head canted to one side. She straightened as she took in Bodie's black expression. "Bodie?"

"Don't know," he replied tersely, the two words conveying more of his inner turmoil than he would have liked. Meeting Allison's concerned gaze, his own eyes pleaded indulgence. "Tell me there's tea," he said, with a faint smile. "We still have a lot to do, y'know."

"Hm." Allison clearly would have liked to pursue the subject; but they had agreed to certain ground rules when they had taken on the house, and implicit respect of each other's privacy was at the top of that list. Neither had ever faltered in honoring their agreement; Allison did not begin now.

Once settled at the kitchen table again, Bodie ruthlessly gathered his disjointed thoughts and concentrated upon the matter at hand. For all his determination, however, the tormented face of his visitor came back to haunt him. He'd seen that look before: desperate, nearly shattered, raggedly composed. It was the way a person looked after facing the abyss.

Wishing he had not denied him, but well aware that he could have done nothing else, Bodie cursed the stranger and Father Keegan with equal fervor.

He hoped the man would be all right.

---

Day Two - Wednesday

The following dawn was nothing more than a grayer shade of night. Rainy and overcast, the gloomy weather was a suitable backdrop to Bodie's dour mood. Despite having concluded the preparations for the audit well after midnight, he had risen early, chased out of the warm comfort of his bed by the nightmarish horrors invading his dreams. Consequently he was irritable and sullen as he drove into Merton, his expression wreathed in clouds as dark as the lowering sky.

The lights in the office-cum-workshop of ACS Ltd on the Broadway spilled out onto the pavement through uncurtained windows, yellowly welcoming amidst the gloom. Bodie had never realized how much he had come to depend on Heather's propensity for making an early start. It was more in his nature to work late into the evening than to build time in the morning. His black mood eased just a little at the evidence of Heather's presence: When he arrived at his desk, the heat would already be on in the building, and a fresh pot of tea would be ready to pour.

He drove on past, guiding the Vauxhall Cavalier through streets as yet uncluttered by other motorists, to the car park a short distance away. Snagging a somewhat better than usual stall, he parked with care then secured the vehicle. It was a relief to come out of the cold, clammy concrete structure into the pallid light of day. The walk to the office was very brisk in the early hour, rain falling lightly but with an icy edge.

Bodie keyed the front door, then paused to brush glistening drops off his hair as he rubbed the soles of his shoes back and forth on the entry mat.

"That's not ever you, Bodie?" Heather's voice came to him from the rear half of the company's let space.

"Good morning, Heather," Bodie greeted, hanging his jacket on the hatstand.

"There's tea," she called.

Palming his hair flat against his head, Bodie went through the office space to the back. Heather sat at one of the two long work-tables which lined the east and west walls, her dark head bent over a disemboweled Compaq.

"You're a treasure," Bodie said affably, tipping milk out of the jug into a stained cup. "When was the last time you had a rise?"

"Memory fails," she replied without looking round. "But if you're offering, I'll be happy to accept."

Bodie set the pot back on the tea-platter and raised the steaming mug to his mouth. "Hm. Lovely."

"You're here early," Heather commented unnecessarily. "Even for an audit week."

Mug in hand, Bodie wandered round the room, making a mental inventory of their current projects. He paused behind Heather to watch her work. Her long fingers were as steady and capable as a surgeon's, graceful, too, in their cautious movements, removing screws from the chassis of the desktop machine.

"After spending two weeks making sure the accounts are up-to-date, trying to repair a bung computer is immensely appealing."

"So hire someone to manage the accounts. You know both you and Allison detest doing it," Heather suggested.

Bodie sighed, setting the cup on the work-table he called his own. As he sat down, he rolled up his sleeves, and loosened the tie he always wore on the off-chance he might be required to visit a client's home. "We're only just breaking even as it is," he said.

There was no reason for dissimulation with Heather: she knew the company's financial situation as well as he and Allison.

She turned and smiled reprovingly. "Well, a little better than that. So take that rise you've been promising me for a year and a half and use it to pay an outside firm for time-sharing accountancy services."

Hooking his anti-shock metal bracelet round his left wrist, Bodie hesitated while Heather's words registered. "That may not be such a bad idea, moppet."

"Moppet," the woman snorted, and disdainfully turned her attention back to the circuit board cradled in her hands.

Heather's suggestion helped distract Bodie as he installed a serial port on a 286. Her idea certainly had merit; even if it wasn't fair to her to continue postponing the long-justified increase in wages. He'd often thought of offering Heather an interest in the company; but given the volatile nature of the computer industry he could not predict whether that would be a long-term investment, or a swift method of consuming her meager savings. Allison had been agreeable when he'd mentioned it to her; but she had also suggested that a little more time to see how things went--both with them and the business--would be advisable.

He was still mulling their options when Allison came in with the slim, well-dressed woman who represented the accountancy firm employed by their loan-holder. Delicate features, a rosy complexion, and beautiful blond hair made her very easy on the eyes--and Allison's eyes were full to overflowing.

Bodie allowed himself a secret smile, and shifted gears once more to cogitate the diversity found in human sexual attraction. While he could comprehend without difficulty what Allison found stimulating about this woman--after all the standard of beauty among English-speaking countries was fairly consistent--she stirred not the slightest spark of interest in him. Nor did Allison, for that matter--Allison, who was tall and dark and--depending on one's viewpoint--either full-figured or voluptuous, with a beautiful oval face, a sweetly curving mouth and sparkling eyes.

The stranger at the door last night, on the other hand, did so with a vengeance.

"Damn." Bodie spent a moment retrieving a screw that had fallen into the casing of the PC he was putting back together. He would rather not have thought of the man with the penetrating green eyes and whipcord body. And boisterously curly hair, and tempting, sensuous-looking mouth, and--

It had been months since he'd had sex with someone other than his right hand: an acceptable situation for a cautious man like him. While adept at sublimating his sexual needs through dedication to work, Bodie would eventually acknowledge his body's pitiable plight--made clear to him in no uncertain terms--and finally, he would act upon it. His body didn't often state its position quite so vociferously, however.

"Bodie, you remember Hazel Bell?"

He rose politely, scrubbing his hand on a spotless cloth. "I wish I could say I'm pleased to see you again, Miss Bell, but I do hate this yearly ord--process."

The woman smiled warmly, and allowed her hand to linger in Bodie's clasp. "Allison's told me. Believe me, you aren't the only one who feels that way. Most of the bank's clients do, unfortunately."

Bodie gently freed his fingers and nodded toward Allison. "It's Allison's turn to guide you through the paperwork this year. But if there's any way I can assist you, you only have to say."

Allison waved the woman toward the front of the building. Behind the auditor's back, Bodie shrugged at his partner. Wrinkling her nose in reply, Allison fell into step behind her.

---

By early afternoon, Bodie had caught up most of his outstanding work and was ready to play errand boy as an excuse to get out of the shop. Usually picking up and delivering units for repair was Heather's responsibility. The late nights and added stress of the last couple of weeks had taken their toll, however, and Bodie wanted a little time to himself.

After an unpromising start, the day had turned out inordinately fine. Clear blue skies, bright with sunshine, had banished the morose clouds of morning. Drawn irresistibly to the daylight, Bodie loaded up the small company van, then returned to the office one last time to collect his jacket and case.

"Oh, Bodie, thank Christ I caught you."

"No," he told Allison, both hands raised like shields. "It'll take me at least an hour to deliver this lot. I don't have time--"

"Bodie, you must! This is an important account, one of those that Josh signed up for us."

"Oh, no, Allison!"

"Please, love. The client's name is Raymond Doyle, and he lives just a few streets away, on Aylward. He rang first thing this morning and I meant to get to him; but there just hasn't been time, you know that."

Bodie screwed up his face into a grimace made especially grotesque just for her. "Surely this Doyle bloke can be put off till tomorrow?"

Allison sighed. "It's in his contract: six-hour response time. He paid for that clause especially."

Teeth bared, Bodie muttered, "Bloody Josh."

"So you'll do it?" She tugged her lower lip between her teeth, biting down lightly. "Someone needs to stay in case Hazel has questions. If you'd rather--"

Bodie raised his hands again. "God, no. What's his address, and what's his problem?"

"You're a brick, Bodie. On my desk. I'll fetch the telephone sheet."

To please himself, Bodie spent the next hour and a half seeing to the return of all the repaired equipment before driving to Raymond Doyle's house. He ranged from Wandsworth to Croydon and finally back to Merton. Contemplating his final stop did little to improve Bodie's frame of mind, as much for the lack of convenience it necessitated as for the fact that it had interfered with his plan to take the rest of the day off. ACS Ltd had very few contracts which required on-site maintenance; this, unfortunately, was one of them. For obvious reasons such accounts were more difficult than most to service. After all, a technician could not bring all the tools of the trade in a small leather case; and inevitably he or she would spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to please the customer--and still end up having to take the disabled unit in.

Resigned, Bodie turned the van down Aylward Road, perversely refusing to take pleasure in finding a space right outside Raymond Doyle's upmarket residence.

Well-tended, the house gleamed with a recent coat of paint; the garden path was newly scrubbed, and even the gate shone with a fresh application of black enamel. The garden, with its immaculately cropped and richly grown lawn, was edged with an abundance of daffodils and tulips--both of which were guarded by wall-flowers--magnolia trees, and budding rhododendron and camellias. Cocking a faintly jaundiced eye at this evidence of domesticity, Bodie let himself into the garden through the small wrought-iron gate, and walked up to the front door.

He pressed the bell and prepared to wait, giving his eyes free rein to roam over the beautiful flowers that surrounded him. Movement caught his attention: through the glassed-in porch, he could see a shadowy outline approaching the frosted window of the inner door. Straightening, he resisted the urge to check the alignment of his tie, well aware that few could match him for sartorial distinction--it was one of his few weaknesses.

The inner door opened and a man stepped out, reaching for the handle of the entry door. He froze, eyes locking with Bodie's in mutual startlement. Recognition, dismay, and suspicion flowed over the other's unforgettable features in rapid succession.

Schooling his own face to impassivity, Bodie lifted his case. "I'm from ACS. Are you Mr. Doyle?"

Whether he was Mr. Doyle was of no concern to Bodie at that moment; he was most certainly the stranger who had come to Bodie's door the night before. In the unkind light of day, the man appeared haggard, with sullen purplish circles hollowing his eyes and deep shadows emphasizing his cheekbones.

For a ghastly moment, Bodie almost panicked. Had Father Keegan referred Doyle to him for his computer skills, rather than for--? But, no. Bodie forced himself to think calmly: Doyle already had a computer firm on tap, and was shelling out extortionate sums to retain it. No, that wasn't why Doyle had approached him. Yet, absorbing his appearance, Bodie suffered a pang of intense regret that this man should have come to him for help, and that he had denied him. If only Father Keegan had not been the one to--

Coming to an unspoken decision, the man unlatched the outer door and held it open. "I'm Doyle. D'you have some sort of ID on you?"

"Of course," Bodie said evenly, unable to call back the color that flooded his cheeks. He pried the laminated card out of his breast pocket, thankful that he kept it there as a matter of course, for it was rarely called into use. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he held it out for Doyle's inspection, then waited with servile dumbness for his certain dismissal.

To his astonishment, Doyle's mouth stretched into a grin. "Just my bloody luck," he said wryly. "Please forgive my manners, Mr. Bodie." He pushed the door wide. "I'll show you where the miserable brute is."

For an instant, Bodie faltered, won over by that self-deprecating smile despite himself. Whatever had driven Raymond Doyle to seek Bodie's dubious assistance most certainly had not broken his spirit.

He went into the house, stepping past its slightly-built owner, who closed and locked the door behind them. With the invitation of a wide-spread hand, he was directed up the stairs. Proceeding without comment, Bodie took in the genteel quality of the furnishings, and wondered what sort of work Raymond Doyle performed to afford such an expensive home.

At the head of the stairs, he stepped to one side to give Doyle room to precede him. Lithely striding forward, Doyle walked down a small corridor to an open doorway. There he stopped.

"In here," Doyle said, and gestured Bodie into the room ahead of him.

Just inside the door Bodie paused to take his bearings. The room was comfortably-sized. A large desk commanded the space under the window that faced out over the garden; perpendicular to that stood another long table upon which squatted an old Compaq XT Deskpro. A small printer loomed at its side, paper curled round the platen, awaiting the computer's command. Along the third wall stretched a huge bookcase, filled from top to bottom with hardback and softcover books. Bodie accorded these a cursory glance as he left his position at the door and started for the computer.

"Oops, sorry, guv." A rough-hewn voice came to him from behind the computer desk when Bodie unintentionally toed the sole of another man's boot.

"No, it's my fault. Didn't see you there," Bodie apologized. He glanced back at Doyle, discomfited to find the man's eyes darkly intent upon him.

"Electrician," Doyle said, answering Bodie's unspoken question.

"I was only told your computer went on the blink; no details." He jerked his head toward the man on the floor. "Did your mains take a surge?"

Doyle said, "Something like that."

A trace of bitterness was audible in the soft voice. Bodie said encouragingly, "Tell me what happened?"

The man shoved his hands into the back pockets of his trousers and turned away, as though unwilling to meet Bodie's gaze.

Covertly devouring the reed-like form with his eyes, Bodie took in skin-tight jeans, faded and threadbare with use, and Doyle's oversized, cotton shirt, which flared wide at the throat.

"I don't know precisely what happened, Mr. Bodie. About 9.30 last night I was working at the computer when the lights began to flicker. The power went out--but only for a second, perhaps less. There was a loud crackling sound and the screen blanked. I turned everything off. When I tried to bring the system up this morning, it seemed to cycle on--all the lights and beeps sounded right--but the screen refused to display anything."

"Well, that gives me an idea of what to look for. I'll see what I can do," Bodie said.

"Thank you. If you need me--either of you--I'll be downstairs. Just give a shout."

"Right."

According the room another quick look as Doyle took his leave, Bodie began to remove his jacket. He peered over the back of the desk at the electrician who was hunkered down on his knees, fingers separating electrical wires.

"What d'you think happened?" he asked.

A young face, surrounded by haystack blond hair, peered up at him. "That, I couldn't begin to guess. Something queer, though."

"Queer?" Bodie concentrated on rolling up first one sleeve, then the other.

"In my opinion." Quiet sounds of activity continued for a few seconds while Bodie flipped the rocker switch to power on the CPU. Leaving that to warm up, he engaged the printer, which came on immediately. Listening with one ear to the normal hum, clicks and beeps of the computer, he ran a self-test on the printer; it worked perfectly. When he looked back at the video display, while reaching around to the back of the printer to switch it back off, he found the screen blank, although the small lamp indicating an active current was lit.

"There are three wall sockets in this room," the electrician announced.

"Yes?" Bodie fiddled with the contrast and brightness knobs--to no avail; the screen remained stubbornly dark. He flipped the rocker switch on the computer and monitor to OFF and waited for the hard drive to spin itself out.

"All the computer stuff--the printer, the computer, the video display, all that--were plugged into a power strip which was connected to the wall socket behind this desk."

"Go on." Bodie disconnected the keyboard and monitor from their respective ports, then shifted them to the uncluttered surface of the other desk. He carefully lifted the CPU and rotated it until the back of the casing faced him.

"This socket was fused," the man said in a hushed voice. "As if it'd taken a lightning strike or something."

Bodie considered that, lining his screwdriver up with the first of a great number of screws that needed removing. "Might it? Have taken a strike?" he asked reasonably.

"No storm, you see. And according to the local power services, no widespread surges," the man said sharply. "That lamp over there, the one by your head: It was plugged into the socket on the other wall, and switched on. Running on the same circuit, mind. There's not a blessed thing wrong with it. You're plugged into another circuit entirely, which is why you have power to that computer right now--in case you wondered. Just this socket went toes up. The way it looks, that computer should be a heap of melted metal and plastic"

Frowning to himself, Bodie slowly built up a pile of tiny, grooved screws. "And that plug point: How long have you been working at it?"

"For nearly two bleeding hours. Since the socket was the only thing damaged, I should've been able to replace it, and be on me way."

"But?"

"But the replacement I installed damn near fried me when I hooked it into the mains. And before you say anything, the power was disconnected until I switched it back on to check the socket."

"You mean, when you plugged something in, it blew the socket again?"

"That's right. And it shouldn't've done that."

Bodie removed the last screw from the back of the computer and began to jockey the outer casing away from the chassis. "So what're you doing now?"

"Replacing the bastard again; what d'you expect?" the man replied truculently.

"You're the expert," Bodie said flatly. "How could that have happened?"

"According to everything I know about electrics, it couldn't."

With a scraping sound that never failed to set Bodie's teeth on edge, he freed the outer shell from the body of the unit and set in on the floor, propping it on its side against the desk. "So the only things plugged into the socket were the computer and its peripherals?" The electrician nodded.

"And of that lot, the only items that appear to be damaged are the computer monitor and the wall socket--although I can't be sure something didn't happen to the CPU itself until I can hook it up to a working video display." Bodie added the last phrase more to himself than to the electrician.

"You want to know something else?" the other man asked softly.

Bodie said equably, "Sure."

"The power strip--y'know, the one everything was plugged into: You'd expect it to have been fried--just like the socket--now wouldn't you?"

Bodie leaned to the side to stare hard into the other man's eyes. "You're saying it wasn't?"

"Absolutely untouched it was."

"That doesn't make any sense," Bodie argued.

"Nothing about this job does, mate," the electrician said with certainty.

---

Bodie spent an hour checking the interior of the computer. He probed connections, examined microchips particularly susceptible to irregular electrical currents, pulled and reseated circuit boards, thoroughly cleaned out every nook and cranny, and replaced the power flex, even though the old one appeared to be in excellent condition.

While he worked, the electrician finished with the wall socket and took himself off to reconnect the power to that circuit. Just as Bodie was inserting the last screw into the back of the casing, he returned. Stretching tiredly, Bodie idly watched as the other man attached a gadget to the socket, apparently to test the current. There was a satisfied grunt, and the electrician gingerly plugged the lamp directly into the lower socket. He gave a soft whoosh of relief when the lamp switched on at his touch, unaccompanied by untoward electrical activity.

"Well, that's got it. At bloody last."

"Congratulations," Bodie said sardonically.

"Is it working?" Both men looked round as Raymond Doyle came into the room. In his hands he bore a tray with pot, mugs, and tea-things. "Thought the pair of you could use a break."

"Great," Bodie said, happily accepting a mug to which he added sugar and milk. Reminded for the last couple of hours that he had neglected to eat lunch, he ignored his conscience and took a small handful of chocolate biscuits from the tray and gulped them down.

"The wall socket's back in order," the electrician answered Doyle's question, after refusing tea for himself. He was busily restoring tools to his box. "Only just got it."

"Any idea what caused it to blow out?" Doyle asked.

"Not one, guv," the man replied. "But I've checked it out and you shouldn't have any more trouble. If you do, just ring my office and I'll be round soon as I can."

"Thank you," Doyle said. "If you're through here, I'll write you a check."

The two men walked out of the room, leaving Bodie alone. He left the chair he had been sitting in--for too long, according to his back and hips--and began to wander round, tea and biscuits in hand. Stopping in front of the bookcase, he idly scanned the titles. While a lover of books himself, he had never hoarded them as Doyle obviously did. There were many he recognized, far more that he didn't. A small stack lay sideways at the end of one row. The name of the author fairly jumped out at him: Raymond Doyle.

Bending closer, he read the titles: HARMONIOUS TONGUES, JIGSAW PUZZLE, BLACK SHEEP, HONOURS EVEN. Tempted, he raised a hand to take one of the books down when he heard the tread of Doyle's feet on the stair. For no reason he could think of, Bodie moved to the opposite end of the bookcase and continued his loitering there. When Doyle appeared, glancing from Bodie to the bookcase, Bodie raised his mug and drained it.

Popping the last biscuit into his mouth, he commented, "You have no idea how much I needed that. Thanks."

Doyle nodded abstractedly. "So, what's the prognosis?"

"Just about to test it. I can't say positively until it's powered up, but I won't be surprised if I have to take it in."

"Look, Mr. Bodie,I have--"

"I'm sorry," Bodie interrupted firmly. "I know it's in your contract that all repairs take place on-site. The inside of your CPU checks out fine. I'm just afraid you may have a display problem."

"And you can't fix that here?" Doyle asked bluntly.

"VDUs can be dangerous; they pack a huge charge. I'd rather do it where neither of us is at risk."

Doyle opened his mouth to say something Bodie guessed would be scathingly direct. Instead, he pressed his lips together in a hard line, and turned toward the window, arms folded across his chest. Bare to the elbows, Doyle's forearms were darkly haired, and tautly muscled. Greenish-blue veins stood out prominently against the backs of his wrists and hands, even visible over the bend of his knuckles.

"So when will I have it back?" Doyle asked, his even voice belying the tension betrayed by his rigid body. He spun round to face Bodie.

Caught out in his observation, Bodie met the green eyes a little guiltily. "Sometime tomorrow."

"Certain of that?"

"As I can be at this point. I still haven't checked out the hard drive. Everything appears to be all right, but until I can--"

"If you can't, I want a loaner. That's in my contract, too," Doyle said.

"Right. Whatever you were working on: was it backed up?"

"For the most part," Doyle replied, the bleak set of his face implying he may have lost more than he liked. "I can't waste time retyping everything, so I try to be careful that way."

"Good. I'll do whatever I can to preserve the contents of the hard drive, in the event it's damaged."

"Thanks." Doyle's arms fell to his sides, and he looked levelly at Bodie. When he didn't immediately speak, Bodie wondered uneasily if he meant to bring up their unpleasant meeting of the previous night. But all he said was, "I have a schedule to meet, and I'm already behind."

It was more explanation than Bodie had any right to expect. He nodded. "It'll only take a couple of minutes right now to see where we stand." With the monitor and keyboard reconnected, Bodie rocked the switch into the ON position and waited while the unit warmed up. As he had anticipated, however, the screen remained blank, and no amount of adjustment to the contrast and brightness controls could alter the situation. "That's it, I'm afraid." He took a disk out of his case and used it to park the heads of the hard drive.

Once the unit signalled that its task had been fulfilled, Bodie said, "I'll have to take it in." Not waiting for Doyle's response, he disengaged the power to the VDU and the computer, and set about preparing them for travel.

"Can I help you carry anything down?" Doyle asked resignedly, as Bodie closed up his case and pulled on his jacket.

"You needn't do that," Bodie declined. "Part of the job."

"Bugger the job," Doyle countered succinctly. "Why make two trips?"

Startled into a grin, Bodie admitted his gratitude. "That would be helpful, thanks."

With a speaking look, Doyle took up the monitor and keyboard and headed for the stairs. Bodie followed, carrying his case in one hand and the computer under his other arm. At the door, Doyle set his burden on the occasional table and saw to Bodie's passage, incidentally ushering him outside.

When Bodie was on the pavement beside the van, finding that the day had quite faded to darkness, he set his case down on the ground long enough to winkle his keys out of his pocket. As he drew the rear entry open, Doyle appeared at his side, balancing the cumbersome VDU and the more manageable keyboard in his arms.

"Ta, mate," Bodie murmured, concentrating on stacking the delicate items between blocks of foam padding kept in the van for that purpose. "Sorry I couldn't get you back on-line," he said frankly, squaring his shoulders as he faced his client.

"So am I," Doyle replied with a sigh. "Look, I've just remembered that I have an appointment in the morning, so don't bother coming round till about 1.00, okay?"

"I'll remember that." Bodie hesitated. He felt foolish pretending that last night's encounter had not taken place; and even though he was loath to say anything about it, he wanted to apologize--not for the denial itself, but for the brutal way he had issued it.

As if reading the intention in Bodie's eyes, Doyle backed away. "Good evening, Mr. Bodie," he said, arms pressed close to his body against the gathering chill. With that, he walked round the low fence to the gate, hair caught by the wind and whipped wildly about his head.

Recalled to himself, Bodie pulled the door to the van shut and latched it, surreptitiously watching Doyle until he vanished into the house. "Fuck and bloody fuck," he muttered. At the driver's side, he let himself in and strapped on his belt. The epithets continued as he fired the ignition, a seemingly endless stream of them reverberating in the interior of the car as he drove toward Sutton.

---

Day Three - Thursday

"Bloody hell!" Heather exclaimed. "Is that you again, Bodie?"

In sharp contrast to the anemic dawn of the previous day, the morning had made a grand entrance, swathed in clear blue skies that stretched endlessly in all directions, untainted by the slightest premonition of rain. Bearing the first rays of the newly risen sun on his shoulders, Bodie stopped long enough to shut and lock the front door.

"Good morning, Heather," Bodie replied. After hanging up his jacket, he went straight through to the workshop, stripping off his tie along the way.

Raymond Doyle's computer lay where Bodie had placed it the evening before, following his return to the shop. His fingers had itched to start on it right away, but by then it had gone nearly 6.00, and Bodie had been feeling the effects of his troubled sleep from the night before. Under normal circumstances, he would have been prepared to work into the small hours, but he had known he lacked the concentration--and energy; and he always hated leaving a project undone.

Upon his return home, Allison had commandeered him for a brief discussion, spilling all the latest regarding the progress of their audit. Having interrupted her own dinner to capture Bodie, she had generously offered him a plate as well. Accepting with unfeigned pleasure, Bodie had wolfed down his portion as though he were starving. Without asking, Allison had served him a second helping that had been larger than the first, and continued to comment on Hazel Bell's virtues.

"She's straight, isn't she?" he had stated, wiping his mouth with a serviette.

"Of course," Allison had chuckled. "Aren't they all?"

"'They' being all the people you find attractive?"

She had cocked an eye at him. "And you. What about that bloke last night? He was gorgeous--and probably straight as your gran."

"Don't you go maligning my gran," Bodie had laughed softly. "And what're you on about, calling him gorgeous?"

"Don't have to want him in my bed to think he's pretty, now do I?"

"You're absolutely right."

"I am?"

"Yeah. He was bloody gorgeous."

Bodie had chosen not to mention that he had seen "that bloke" again, nor that his name was Raymond Doyle--one of their clients.

Upstairs later in his own flat, Bodie had attended to the day's post. Half of it was dropped immediately into the rubbish bin beside his desk, the other half laid aside for payment a few days hence. Shortly afterward, he had attended to his nightly ablutions before crawling under the duvet and drifting at once into an effortless slumber.

An hour before dawn he had come fully awake, clinging to the fragments of a dream which had rapidly eluded him the more he had tried to recall it. Giving up for the strain, he had been certain of only one thing: Raymond Doyle had been a featured, if hapless, player.

Along with the vestiges of his dream, the desire for sleep had abandoned him. Seeing no point in pottering about the house when there was something constructive to be done, Bodie had readied himself for the day and then had undertaken the half-hour's drive to Merton Park in the dark.

"How's the audit coming along?" Heather asked, slapping a mug swirling with hot, milky tea on the table beside his hand.

"According to Allison, swimmingly."

Standing a moment to watch Bodie remove the signal cable which joined Doyle's computer to the VDU, Heather murmured, "Because of Miss Chiming Bell?"

Bodie took a quick sip of tea, wincing reflexively as his tongue and the roof of his mouth protested at the sudden increase in temperature. "You don't like her?"

Heather shoved her hands into the pockets of her corduroy trousers. "Nah. Hasn't got anything to do with me, has she?"

"But?"

"Allison tends to go overboard; I mean, it's obvious, Bodie."

Bodie looked up at the woman, his blue eyes made darker with question. "You think there's a problem?"

Heather shrugged. "Nah. I take it back. 'S just me." She reached out and ran a long finger across the outer edge of the computer.

"Thought you two'd worked that out ages ago."

"So did I," Heather confessed ruefully. "It's a different story when she's flirting right under my nose." She laughed; the humor in it almost rang true. "Don't mind me. It really was for the best; we aren't at all compatible."

"It hasn't affected your work," Bodie told her. "But maybe it was unfair of me to ask you to stay on?"

Wavy hair moved softly across the woman's forehead as she gestured her denial. "I like it here; you know that." She looked across at him, her gaze unguarded. "Most of the time."

Bodie opened his mouth, but Heather lifted a hand to forestall him. "No, that's all right. Drink your tea. You came in early to work, not to listen to me moan."

"You don't moan," Bodie assured her. "But you're right, I've got to get this unit back on-line before the afternoon."

"Right." Heather went to the teapot and replenished her own cup. "You want a scone?" she asked. "I bought some last night and actually remembered to bring a few in."

"Oh, yes, please."

Fortified with two thickly buttered scones and a topped-off cup of tea, Bodie geared himself for work. His first task was to replace Doyle's signal cable with one that Bodie knew to be functional; the monitor did not work. Next he replaced Doyle's monitor with another; it performed no better than the old one.

"Ah ha," Bodie gloated to himself. "Now we're getting somewhere."

He stripped the computer of all peripherals and cables and set about removing the myriad screws that held it together. With the case off, he spent another minute extricating the visual display controller card from the chassis. Subjecting it to minute examination under his magnifying glass and close-work lamp, he soon found the miniscule crack that had been virtually invisible to him yesterday in Raymond Doyle's study. It ran, finer than a strand of hair, along the top of the microchip that regulated voltage to the board. He could replace the board in toto, but if this chip alone were exchanged for a working one, and the original board reused, he could save the company considerable expense.

It was a time-consuming task, but Bodie revelled in it, removed from the rest of the world while he gently disengaged the soldered chip from the board and just as gently replaced it with one that had been salvaged from another unit. With an air of anticipation, he did not bother to reattach the outer casing, but reconnected the power and signal cables, and switched the machine on.

The computer responded promptly, its front display lamps indicating that it was going through the normal self-test process. At first the VDU remained blank, but as Bodie watched, willing it to work, small, phosphorescent green letters slowly took shape in the middle of the screen.

There should have been a cursor prompt, in the upper left-hand corner of the display. Instead, squarely in its center, the letters G-R-E-S-S-I-L were prominently exhibited.

A sliver of disquiet trickled down the ridge of Bodie's spine. The word--name?--was familiar. But Bodie could not place it, and somehow he suspected he did not want to.

"Good lord, Bodie, are you already here? Steady on!" This as Bodie jumped as though he had been struck. "Didn't mean to startle you," Allison apologized with a smothered giggle.

"Good morning, Allison." He glared good-naturedly up at her. "Was deep in it." Sparing a glance for the large-faced clock hanging on the opposite wall, he complained, "Don't tell me it's after seven already?"

"Already?" Allison helped herself to tea and a scone. She waggled her fingers at Heather in greeting. "How long have the two of you been at it, then?"

"Bodie arrived just before six," Heather declared. "Been beavering away ever since."

Allowing the conversation to flow around him, Bodie concentrated on getting his heart rate back in line. He glanced up sharply as Allison returned to peer over his shoulder.

"That's curious," she remarked.

"Very." He shooed her away. "Go on. Surely you've got something better to do than breathe down my neck."

"Ooh, tetchy," Allison murmured, but obediently wandered into the office area.

"That is odd," Heather commented, coming over to observe Bodie's screen. "Did you just type it in?"

"Nope," Bodie said flatly. "It appeared all on its own when I repaired the monitor display card. Somehow this must've got stuck in the card's memory."

"Impossible. It can't store anything; that's read-only memory."

"So I've been told."

"This is the unit you went out to work on yesterday afternoon?"

"Hm. Took some sort of power surge. There was an electrician there replacing a plug point."

Heather stared at him, her eyes round and disbelieving. "A wall socket? And this thing was connected to it?"

"That's right."

"Should've blown its socks off. Or, barring that, the communications port--that's always the first to go."

"Yeah. But the damage seems to be focused in the visual display circuitry."

"That's the original card?"

"Yeah. I switched out the power regulator to see if I could reuse the board."

"And that's what came up?" An impish smile touched the woman's mouth. "So-- Who's Gressil, then?"

"Haven't a clue," Bodie said. He raised his head and fixed his flinty gaze on Heather. "And haven't you anything better to do?"

"Ooh, tetchy," Heather said, her voice and intonation a perfect replica of Allison's.

Bodie chuckled. "Get outta here. Jeez."

Left to himself at last, Bodie attempted to establish communications via the keyboard. After several tries, he was prepared to concede defeat. If, as he suspected, the unit was responding, nothing was being reported to the visual display. And none of his efforts at clearing the memory erased the letters on the screen.

Frustrated, Bodie once again shut the unit off and stripped all the cables away. Automatically grounding himself to prevent shock, he reached inside the open case and pulled out the controller card. It was inches from the computer when, astonishingly, Bodie was stung by a short, but unignorable, jolt of electricity.

"Bastard!" he hissed, dropping the circuit board on the table, over-setting his half-full mug. Luckily, the cup tipped over the edge of the table, and what fluid remained spilled noisily onto the floor.

"You all right?" Heather asked, worriedly twisting round in her chair.

"Fine. Just dumped my tea."

"Oh. Thought--" But she hesitated before the daunting force of Bodie's inimical glower. She countered with a haughty face. "I'd offer to help you mop up, but some of us have work to do."

"Cheers," Bodie growled softly. With a baleful glance at the unreliable circuit board, he took a moment to tidy his surroundings before heading for the tea table. There he set about making a fresh pot. While it brewed, he stood scowling at his workstation, thinking furiously.

The circuit board should not have been able to shock him; it was incapable of storing a charge. Certainly, he might have transmitted a burst of static electricity to the board, but not one of that magnitude--and most certainly not after the bloody thing had already been in his hand for several seconds.

G-R-E-S-S-I-L.

That should not have been there, either.

Remembering the electrician's succinct observation of the previous day, Bodie murmured to himself, "'Queer' doesn't begin to describe it."

A few minutes later he was back at work on Doyle's computer, having disposed of the damaged circuit board by carrying it between the jaws of a pair of insulated pliers to the rubbish bin behind the building. He did not question why he went to such an extreme--and after a single glance at his still forbidding mien, neither did Heather.

Having installed a new circuit board fresh out of the box, Bodie turned the computer and monitor on and waited for what seemed the hundredth time for the unit to warm up. It was almost anticlimactic when the cursor prompt appeared. Bodie performed a thorough diagnostics check that eventually reported Doyle's hardware to be in excellent repair. Relieved yet baffled, Bodie then used a utility program to survey the files presently loaded onto the hard drive. Nothing registered as having been damaged outright. Luckily, Doyle had been meticulous in keeping his hard drive properly supervised.

Briefly, Bodie accessed the word processing software and pulled up the most currently written-to data file. He scanned through only enough of it to determine that it was a piece of fiction. Whether the complete file was there, he could not know; Doyle would have to determine that.

Satisfied at last, Bodie shut the unit off and prepared it for travel. He set it on the corner table where they temporarily stored items to be returned. A glance at his watch informed him that the morning was still very young.

Yawning mightily, he went back to his table and studiously applied himself to the remaining workload.

The hours before noon passed unremarkably. Bodie made great progress in catching up his backlog. Mindful of Doyle's words regarding the afternoon, Bodie took his time over lunch at a cheap cafe he frequented, which was only a few streets away from the office. The day continued fair, although a few clouds had begun to scuttle across the sky, like fluffy thieves preparing to make away with the light.

Back at the office afterward, Bodie was gathering the components of Doyle's computer with the intent of carrying them to his car, when Heather informed him that she was hip-deep in a problem that showed no signs of immediate resolution and asked if he could make the deliveries again today. Realizing it would put him behind, Bodie nevertheless agreed, especially as he'd had no intention of returning to the office after dropping off Doyle's computer.

Fortunately, there was only one distant delivery--and that was in Epsom, a straight shot south on the A24. Coming back, Bodie's luck wavered outside Ewell, where he came across an accident involving emergency vehicles. Opting to work his way round by using side-streets rather than wait, he found himself in Merton at half past three, and outside Doyle's house at a quarter to four.

Carrying the computer and the keyboard through the low-set iron gate, Bodie came to a stop at the door and pressed the buzzer, uncomfortably aware that he was late, and that it had been important to Doyle that he have his computer back as quickly as possible.

A minute passed, followed slowly by another. Brows lifting, Bodie thumbed the buzzer once more, wondering if Doyle had neglected to return from his meeting after all.

Movement on the pavement caught his eye. He nodded to a young girl dressed in school uniform, heavily burdened with a bulky hold-all. All eyes and long, strawberry-colored hair, she gazed owlishly back.

A soft sound from inside the building drew Bodie's attention back to the house. Through the frosted glass of the inner door, he thought he saw a human-sized shadow. The shadow slowly transformed into Raymond Doyle, eyes puffy, hair bedraggled, loose pale green shirt open almost to the waist, a glint of gold at his throat. He stared at Bodie for a long moment before registering the significance of the computer base and keyboard in his arms.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Please, come in."

Forgoing comment, Bodie stepped past him into the foyer, and there waited.

Sheepishly, Doyle ran a hand through his hair while tugging ineffectually at the edges of his shirt. "I fell asleep," he admitted. "Expected you earlier."

"Had to make some deliveries," Bodie explained. "I got here as soon as I could."

By degrees Doyle was coming awake. Muzzy eyes were a fathomless shade of green, the relaxed mouth soft and heavy with unintentional allure. He gestured off-handedly toward the staircase. "Can I get the rest of it for you?" he asked in a voice husky with disuse.

"No." Bodie spoke more sharply than he'd meant to. "Why don't you sit down? I've obviously just woken you."

"'S all right," Doyle said indifferently, rubbing his hand over his jaw. He had clearly been up and about at some time during the day, for his heavy beard was only now beginning to stubble up.

Refraining from further comment, Bodie concentrated on negotiating the stairs with his unwieldy load. In the study, he arranged the computer on the desk where he had initially found it. Taking the power flex out of a pocket, he plugged one end into the back of the computer and the other into the new wall socket. Once the keyboard was reconnected, he was ready to collect the monitor.

Halfway down the stairs, the front door swung inward and Doyle appeared with the visual display unit clutched to his chest.

"Thanks," Bodie said. He made no effort to take it from the other man, leading the way back up to the study, instead.

Once there, Doyle set the monitor on the computer base. Stepping out of Bodie's way, he stood back to watch as he rejoined the two units with the signal cable.

Flipping on the power switch, Bodie said, "Found the problem this morning; it was in the visual display controller card. Once I replaced it, the 'brute,' as you called it, worked like a charm."

"Could you tell if anything had been damaged?" Doyle asked, sounding very alert now.

"Didn't appear to be. But you'll have to check your data files to see if anything is missing."

Just then the computer beeped its readiness, and the blinking cursor appeared on the screen. Doyle lowered himself into the chair in front of the table and typed in the date and time at the prompts.

"I should've put in a clock for you," Bodie commented. "So you wouldn't have to bother with that."

Doyle cast a quick smile over his shoulder. "Just as well, really. It helps me to gather my thoughts." He typed in the command to access his word processing program. Once that had been loaded into the working memory, he pulled up a data file--the same one Bodie had briefly scanned. "Fantastic," Doyle breathed. "It's all here; well, missing a paragraph, perhaps. But no more than that." He heaved an eloquent sigh. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

Bodie laughed softly, "Think I can guess." He took the work order form out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the table in front of him, extending his pen for Doyle's use. "If you'll just sign this."

As Doyle complied, Bodie said quietly, "I don't imagine it's important, but there was something a bit unusual."

In the middle of writing his name, Doyle hesitated, eyes fixed on the work-order. (Yes?"

"I managed to bring the system up using the old controller card; but it was quite obviously damaged. Strangely enough, though, a name--or a word--appeared on the screen."

Doyle sat unmoving, the pen frozen in his hand.

"Does the name 'Gressil' mean anything to you?" Bodie asked.

For an instant, Doyle gave no indication that he had heard. Then he was surging upward, as powerfully as if he had been launched, plowing into Bodie and forcing him back against the wall.

"You bastard!" he shouted, his face unrecognizably feral.

Taken off-guard, Bodie yet quickly managed to recover himself. Bringing training to bear that Doyle could not have guessed at, Bodie peeled the other man's hands away from his throat and spun him round, not stopping until it was Doyle who stood pinned to the wall. Bodie crushed him there with his wider and heavier frame, primed to respond to the least hint of renewed aggression.

The fight had gone all out of Doyle, however, for as soon as Bodie stepped watchfully away, he slumped forward, wrapping his arms around his chest, moaning deep in his throat. "Christ," he whispered, "how could you have known?"

The color had fled from the round face, making empty eyes stand out in stark contrast. Without considering the implications, Bodie put an arm round the other man and bundled him outside the room, into the corridor and down the stair. He only stopped when he spied the dining room off the main corridor. Pushing Doyle into a polished wood chair next to the table, Bodie demanded bluntly, "Where d'you keep your spirits?"

Doyle's head jerked up at the question. He stared at Bodie as though he could not believe his ears; and then he began to laugh.

Bodie contemplated striking the man, for there was no doubt in his mind that Raymond Doyle was on the edge of hysteria, if not already caught in its grasp. Counseling himself to explore other methods first, Bodie cast about for something, anything, that might be of use, before spying a cupboard only a few feet to his left. He sensed with certainty that if Doyle kept liquor in the house, it would be stored there. He was right.

Bodie snatched out a three-quarters full bottle of whisky, poured a generous helping into a glass taken from the shelf above, and took it to Doyle. The other man did not struggle as Bodie braced one arm behind Doyle's curly head, and with the other, slipped the rim of the glass between his parted lips. Inhaling for another burst of machine-gun cackling, Doyle was luckless enough to suck in some whisky as well. Wild laughter mingled with strenuous coughing, exhausting the man until he bowed limply forward. Bodie kept a hand on Doyle's back, rubbing firmly.

"Oh, Christ," Doyle whispered raggedly.

"Better?" Bodie asked.

"No." Doyle brought both hands up to scrub at his face. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

Blinking painfully, Doyle squinted up at Bodie. "Of course I am," he snapped.

Pleased that the distinctive voice had returned to normal, Bodie held the rest of the whisky out to him. "Why don't you drink this, then, rather than wasting it. After you've finished, we can discuss how I'd like you to make amends."

Shutters closed over questioning green eyes, but Doyle took the glass and knocked its contents back with one swallow. His face contorted as the alcohol scorched a path down his throat, but there was no repetition of the choking fit. He thrust the empty glass toward Bodie, who took it at once and set it back on the counter in front of the cupboard doors.

"Come to dinner with me," Bodie said simply.

The request so far from what Doyle had apparently expected, his face went briefly blank.

"Dinner?" he echoed stupidly.

"With me. I'll even let you pay."

At that Doyle's eyes jumped up to Bodie's face. "I--"

"Come on," Bodie said cajolingly. "Famous author like you can surely afford a meal for two."

"Famous--"

"Saw the books on your shelves upstairs. Didn't touch 'em, mind, so I haven't a clue what they're about. But you must be famous to someone. They do sell, don't they?"

Doyle seemed to be having difficulty tracking Bodie's conversation. "A few," he replied vaguely. "But then--"

"Where's your jacket?" Bodie interrupted. "We can take my van."

"Look, Bodie, I don't know what you're up--"

"We can discuss that over a meal. Oops, where're your shoes, sunshine?"

Doyle suddenly laughed. To Bodie's infinite relief, however, it was untouched by the lunacy evident just a short while before. "Are you always this bloody domineering?" Doyle demanded.

Forestalling a lisping denial just before it could fling itself off his tongue, Bodie shook his head. "Shoes and jacket," he said.

Unselfconsciously wiping involuntary tears from his cheeks and lashes, Doyle let out a pent-up breath. "Okay. Give me a minute, though. I smell like a distillery."

"I'm not going anywhere."

That earned Bodie a hard look. Doyle curbed whatever he might have said, however, and walked quietly out of the room.

Bodie was standing at the front door a few minutes later when Doyle returned. More than half expecting to be summarily thrown out on his ear, Bodie forcefully repressed a grin of pleasure at the sight that greeted him.

Doyle had traded his shirt and trousers for a comfortably-cut western-style shirt with snap closures and very close fitting blue jeans; the outfit set off with a pair of three-inch high cowboy boots.

Keeping his assuredly unwelcome appreciation carefully restrained, Bodie scooped the battered leather jacket he had seen two nights before off the hatstand and handed it to Doyle.

Outside the sun was westering, and the heavens had grown heavy with cloudcover. Bodie led the way to the van, musing on the peculiarities of life. Two short days ago--less, actually--he had refused to speak with the man climbing onto the seat beside him; now he was actively laying claim to his time.

As soon as Doyle was belted in, Bodie started the engine and pulled the van into the street. They bucketed along until the clutch, which had a tendency to slip, properly engaged. Turning north, Bodie glanced across at Doyle. The other man sat quietly, hands lying limp in his lap, his gaze directed straight ahead.

"So, tell me what kind of books you write," Bodie said brightly.

He felt the weight of a piercing stare.

"Codswallop, mostly," Doyle informed him.

"But it sells, right?"

"Adequately, yes."

"I knew a writer once, when I was in the Army," Bodie reminisced. "He was never published, of course; wrote a lot of blue stories about blokes on leave."

"Too bad he didn't go for print; there's a market for it."

"Yeah?" Bodie remembered McCullough and some of the stories he had written. "He's dead," he mused aloud. "Guess he had to give it up."

Bodie bit his lip, aware again of Doyle's filleting gaze.

Doyle chose to say nothing, and they rode the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence. As they entered the building, the robust odors of garlic and onions embraced them. They were greeted by the hostess, who took them to a small table beside a window.

"Hope you like Italian," Bodie said politely. He had lost all confidence in his usual ability to converse comfortably with strangers--more so with the unnaturally quiet man seated opposite him.

"Love it," Doyle said. "This is a great place."

The overt lack of enthusiasm made Doyle's words a mockery.

"Right," Bodie murmured.

The edge of Doyle's menu suddenly tapped down insistently on top of Bodie's; Bodie fumbled to keep it upright.

"I meant that," Doyle announced, when he was assured of Bodie's attention. "I've been here before, and it is a great place. Just hope I can do the food justice."

"Oh." Bodie submerged himself once more in his menu, wishing the blood would stop rushing quite so violently in his veins. There was something immensely disconcerting about being the center of that verdant stare; he had not felt so inept in years.

Their waiter arrived soon afterward. They were early for dinner by most standards, although a few other booths had been taken already. Ordering a light meal to begin, Bodie requested a bottle of wine to accompany it, silently seeking Doyle's approval when he announced his choice.

Doyle seconded it without hesitation and added his selection to the young man serving them. Barely had the waiter left them before Doyle said, "Tell me how you came to work on computers."

Fascinated by the man's incomparable resilience, Bodie allowed himself a tight grin. "Are we making small talk, or do you really want to know?"

A weary smile smoothed the hard lines of Doyle's mouth and eased the bruised look in his eyes. "We are making small talk, but I would like to know, yes."

So Bodie began to relate his stint in the Army, and how he had been trained in electronics with specialization in computers. Onto the bare bones of dull fact he added layers of interesting and amusing anecdotes. Raymond Doyle was an excellent listener, seemingly held rapt by every word Bodie uttered. Curiousity blazed in Doyle's face; he spoke only to ask questions, until Bodie suddenly realized that he, a professedly private man, had told Doyle more about himself than he had ever revealed in one sitting to another person.

In the course of their conversation, the meal was served. Doyle picked at his food, shifting it this way and that across his plate until Bodie caught him out. In Bodie's opinion, Doyle could ill afford to shun a single calorie, not to mention the vast numbers available here. So he inveigled and bullied, until Doyle conceded to indulge him.

Pasta was downed with sweet red wine, made sweeter yet by the sinfully rich dessert and heavily sugared coffee that followed. Bodie inconspicuously contrived to give the lion's share of the wine to Doyle, but manfully laid waste to his own dessert with rolling eyes and histrionic groans that indicated he had dangerously tampered with the physical laws of unequal external and internal pressure.

To Bodie's disbelief, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they finally left the stuffily warm restaurant and returned to the van. Doyle was giggling and swaying, but managed to make it to the car park undamaged. Inside the vehicle, he leaned back, legs sprawled wide in front of him, hands resting at his sides on the full-width seat. He slanted a sweet-faced look at Bodie, who was operating the wipers to rid the windscreen of evening dew. Hyper-conscious of that languid regard, Bodie slowly turned to meet it, wondering dazedly when he had lost his perspective regarding this man, but uncomfortably aware that he had.

And now he was in danger of betraying himself, very badly. If he made a single, more-than-matey gesture toward Doyle, he risked far more than his job, and something of far greater importance to him: his self-esteem. Bodie had never put himself on the line when emotional stakes were involved. He dared not begin now.

"Time to take you home, mate," Bodie said, keeping his voice deliberately impersonal.

Doyle continued to grin for a few seconds. "Home. Ah, home." Then he closed his eyes, and the strain and exhaustion were back. The laugh lines round his mouth appeared abnormally deep; the hollows lurking beneath his eyes threatened to swallow them whole.

Steeling himself not to touch, Bodie savagely twisted the key in the ignition. The engine came alive, rumbling with quiet strength beneath the bonnet. Bodie drove off with especial care, bleeding the clutch to avoid unnecessary jerks and jolts.

Doyle fell into a doze beside him, rousing dopily when they stopped at the first few lights. Before long, he didn't stir at all, and when he slid sideways to rest against Bodie's shoulder, Bodie was not all surprised.

He guessed that Doyle would not appreciate the tender picture they made, but did not have the heart to waken him. Whatever was driving Doyle to the precipice of exhaustion--and they had not discussed the topic once during their evening together--it allowed the man precious little time to rest and recover.

Bodie slowly guided the van into an empty spot several houses down from Doyle's residence on Aylward Road. In the forty-five minutes it had taken to drive back to Merton, Doyle had gradually drifted downward to lie on his side, his marred right cheek propped upon Bodie's thigh. He seemed to be sleeping soundly now, and Bodie hated to disturb him.

Removing his hand from the still-engaged key, he steered the van back onto the street. At the end of Aylward Road he turned onto Leafield, retracing much of his route from earlier in the day to the A24. Through the night he drove, with no clear destination in mind, using the heat generated by the engine to warm the inside of the van until it was as snug as a den.

If the motion of the car afforded Raymond Doyle the respite he so desperately needed, then that was what he would have. In fact, if he must drive all night to keep Doyle at peace, Bodie would happily do so.

Such abiding trust deserved nothing less.

---

Day Four - Friday

"Good grief, Bodie. What cat dragged you in this morning?"

Bodie accepted the mug of tea proffered to him with a wan smile. "And good morning to you, Heather."

Splitting her concentration between Bodie's rough appearance and the filling of her own cup, she murmured, "You look awful. Shouldn't you be home in bed?"

"Didn't get much sleep last night," Bodie replied shortly. He tempered his response with a shrug. "But it was worth it."

"Oh, really?" Heather's twinkling dark eyes raked over his solid frame from head to toe. "Thought you gave up the cottages."

He pretended to take a swipe at her jaw. "Brat. Never did that, and you know it."

"Hm." The news seemed to please her. "Just be sure to remember how good 'it' was when Allison comes in, eh?"

"What's up with Allison?" Closing his eyes, Bodie took a long, bolstering swallow.

"Chiming Bell found a discrepancy in the ledger. Allison tried to pull the invoice, but it wasn't in the file. One of your accounts," Heather said in conclusion.

"Fucking wonderful," Bodie muttered. "You don't happen to know which one?"

"Ferguson, George."

An articulate brow sketched an incredulous arch. "Everything I've ever done for the old toad has been properly filed in his folder. Did she mention a specific date? Old Fergie tends to be a frequent complainer."

Heather's face corkscrewed theatrically with the effort of recall. "January? Yes, I think it was January--this year, of course."

"Of course," Bodie agreed. Taking his mug with him, he went to the office portion of the building and sought out the appropriate file drawer. A very few minutes later he returned to the work-room, waving a pink piece of paper like a flag of triumph. "Right here. Don't know how she could've missed it."

"Perhaps Hazel was too near finished with the audit for her liking."

"Catty, dear."

"Unless, that is, you filed it in your usual, unique way."

Bodie grinned. "It was right where it belonged: between the hanging file and the folder."

Heather chuckled, shaking her head. "She'll no doubt thank you for that, anyway."

Draining his mug and promptly refilling it, Bodie ventured quietly, "Allison still being a prat?"

Heather shrugged. "Nah. Allison's not a prat; I am." She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. "So who's the lucky bloke?"

Bodie tapped the edge of his nose.

"Be that way, then," Heather snorted. "Just don't forget to invite me to the wedding."

"You can be assured of that, moppet. I'll expect you in your best morning suit and most garish tie."

"And which one of you intends to wear the dress?" she shot back.

"Bugger off, you cow." Bodie choked back a laugh. "Bitch."

Chortling, Heather did just that, loudly humming "She Loves You" as she returned to her work-table.

Three new projects had come in during the previous afternoon while Bodie had been out. Sipping his tea as he glanced over the work orders, Bodie's mind almost immediately began to wander.

Last night had eroded some of his long-standing cynicism regarding humankind. After driving out of Merton, he had taken the van onto the A24 toward Leatherhead. Curled up beside him Doyle had slept soundly, his cheek pillowed by Bodie's leg, one long-fingered hand hooked over Bodie's knee. Doyle's state of exhaustion had been shockingly patent--as far as Bodie was concerned any bloke who could manage even to doze in the poorly-slung van would have to be more than half-dead; Doyle, on the other hand, had slumbered deeply for several hours.

Over miles of dark roadway Bodie had driven, until he came to the Burford Bridge Roundabout. There he had taken the turn which led to Box Hill. Travelling that late at night there had been no other traffic, for which Bodie had been grateful, as he had drastically slowed the van to negotiate Zig-Zag Road. He had forgotten that there were two sleeping policemen on duty, as well, until the first one had joltingly reminded him. Even then, amazingly, Doyle had not stirred.

At the summit, Bodie had driven past the tea rooms to the car park. There, under trees which still bore mute testimony to the savagery of the '87 hurricane, he had at last switched off the engine and doused the lights. Quietude, cloaked in darkness, had surrounded them.

Taking his hand from the steering wheel, Bodie had allowed it to lie on Doyle's shoulder, fingers spread wide to encompass as much of the other man's warmth as could be gleaned through the leather sleeve. It had occurred to him that Doyle was probably not comfortable in this awkward, twisted position; but he had chosen not to wake him, for fear that Doyle would demand to be taken home immediately. After the behavior he had witnessed earlier in the evening, Bodie suspected that an aching neck and sore back would make up the least of Doyle's problems.

For the moment, here with Bodie, Doyle had no problems. Content to sit immobile, Bodie had settled back in the thinly cushioned seat, studying the shadows created by starlight, and the ever-changing patterns made by branches shifted by a cold, fidgety breeze.

Sometime after one, Doyle had finally come awake, stretching cramped limbs and spine as he took in his surroundings without recognition. "Where are we?" he had asked.

Ridiculously cheered by Doyle's unconcerned acceptance of his presence, Bodie had answered, "Box Hill." Without waiting for Doyle to comment, he had started the engine, and turned the van in the direction of Merton. Sitting dopily upright and rubbing his face, Doyle had finally taken note of the time.

"Great company, aren't I?" he had muttered.

"I've suffered worse," Bodie had remarked truthfully.

Although he must surely have had questions, Doyle had fallen silent then, attending to the roads by which they had returned to Merton, making no attempt to engage Bodie in mindless chat. When at last Bodie had pulled up outside his house, Doyle had turned to him and said simply, "I ought to apologize--but somehow--( his forehead wrinkled with mild disbelief-- (I don't think I need to."

"Point to you," Bodie had said. "Good night."

"Good night."

He remembered nothing of the drive home, not even the brief stop at the shop to return the van and collect his Cavalier, mind and heart swathed in a hitherto unknown contentment that made all else of little or no consequence. Punch drunk with it, he had crept through the hall and up the stairs to his flat so as not to disturb Allison. Despite the late hour, he had made some cocoa and listened to the radio, distracting himself with a bit of ironing and mending until he had gradually unwound.

In the morning he had awakened before full light, his mood buoyant, but not overly optimistic. His liking of Raymond Doyle did not alter the fact that Bodie was gay while Doyle was almost certainly straight--at least to Bodie's seasoned eye. He knew men who could dissemble astonishingly well, but even they exhibited cracks, if one knew where to look.

But he could not deny the enjoyment of Doyle's company, even if the facade presented to him the night before had been one very likely far removed from Doyle's normal demeanour. There was no question that Raymond Doyle was a man under abnormal stress; Father Keegan's suggestion that he seek out Bodie's questionable expertise made that a given. Yet Bodie could not help but admire the strength of will and resilience evinced by someone caught in an untenable situation--and Doyle was holding up remarkably well. If he still wanted Bodie's help--and Bodie intended to find out if he did--Bodie was of a mind to render it.

---

The morning progressed slowly, but, fired with purpose Bodie cleared his table in record time. When Allison and the auditor arrived just after nine, he greeted his partner with the disputed invoice and was promptly subjected to a mild denunciation for carelessness. Much to his displeasure, Hazel Bell then took him aside and proceeded to explain to him what her company expected in the way of cooperation. Since he could not refute the fact that he had been slack in involving himself till now, he sat through the lecture politely; he even went so far as to take notes. Not unaware of the effect his appearance had on the young woman, he took pains to keep her on track whenever she strayed into personal matters, having no desire to mislead her, yet determined to avoid a personal statement that would prove embarrassing to them both.

It was Heather who finally rescued him, plaintively laying claim to his expertise, and stealing him out of Hazel Bell's thwarted grasp. In the work-room, Heather directed Bodie to a faulty circuit board that had been consigned to the salvage pile. They exchanged conspiratorial winks and he dutifully set to work dismantling it for component parts, something he had planned to do ages ago, but had either lacked the time or the inclination. Both, luckily, were available in plenty now.

At half past eleven, he made excuses all round, and promised to be back by two. Outside he discovered that the day had become clear and fine, just as it had promised at dawn. It was Friday, and the weekend was at hand; there was nothing that could dampen Bodie's high spirits. He walked to Wimbledon tube station and there joined the morning crowd. At Embankment he switched to the Northern Line, and at last came out of the subway at Tottenham Court Road Station across the way from Foyle's.

Darting across the street as soon as traffic thinned enough to make the run a degree less than suicidal, Bodie snubbed the venerable old bookstore in favor of its next-door associate, Waterstone's. After rapidly skimming the fiction section without success, he went up to a cashier and asked where he might find Doyle's books.

"You'll have better luck at Collett's," the cashier told him expressionlessly. "They carry a larger supply of that sort of thing than we do."

Allowing his imagination free license as to what "that sort of thing" might be, Bodie left the store and jogged the short distance down Charing Cross to Collett's. This time he bypassed the shelves and went straight to a cashier, who was perched in a small booth several inches above floor level.

"JIGSAW PUZZLE, HONOURS EVEN, HARMONIOUS TONGUES, and BLACK SHEEP by Raymond Doyle," the man mused. "Oh, yes, of course. We sold our last copy of HARMONIOUS TONGUES just two--or was it three--days ago? I can't remember."

"You're not going to send me to Foyle's, are you?" Bodie objected wistfully. Despite boasting one of the best inventories of books in the western world, Foyle's was commonly despised for its antiquated check-out system and the legendary indifference exuded by its employees.

The cashier smiled thinly. "No. You'll have your best luck at a small shop in Bloomsbury, actually: Gay's the Word. D'you know where that's located?"

"Ah--no," Bodie said, his thoughts racing far ahead of his tongue. "Would you have the address handy?"

A pencil scratched softly across a scrap of paper. "Here you go," the man said. "Quite easy to get at. Marchmont Street is just across the way from Russell Square Station."

"Ta, mate," Bodie said, and took the paper from the man's hand.

A few minutes later he was hurrying through the turnstiles at Tottenham Court Road Station, grateful that he had purchased a day ticket rather than a round-trip fare as he had originally been tempted to do.

The platforms and trains were packed with lunch-time travelers; Bodie barely succeeded in squeezing himself into the nearest coach. Immediately the doors closed behind him, and he had to duck his head to avoid injury.

Blessedly, Russell Square was only two stops away, although a change of trains was necessary at Holborn. Spewed onto the platform from the crowded coach, Bodie groaned as he recalled that this station did not have escalators, but three irritatingly laggard lifts--of which only two were ever in service. Weaving through the press with agility, he hurried up a short flight of stairs and rounded the corner--only to discover several people already waiting for the next opening of the lift doors.

Nearly five minutes later, Bodie sighed with relief as he stepped out onto the pavement in front of the station. Ignoring the rumbles of his neglected stomach, he trotted across the street, and from there it was only a short distance to Marchmont Street.

The bookstore was perhaps a quarter of a mile away; Bodie almost didn't see it, both eyes firmly fixed on the sandwich shop across the street. Recalling himself at the last moment, he backtracked and went inside. The unassuming atmosphere of the shop put him at ease at once.

There were only a few browsers in the book-packed confines of the small building, and a young, long-haired man in charge of the cash register. Deciding to give himself the pleasure of finding the books on his own, rather than requesting their whereabouts, Bodie began a lazy search through the shelves which took him in slow stages through the non-fiction section and magazines, before finally bringing him to the novels. Slowly, allowing the anticipation to build, he worked his way from A to D. A secret smile tugged at the corners of his mouth when he spied Doyle's name; it grew wide when he saw that all four books were amply represented.

Inordinately pleased, he carried his newfound treasures to the cashier. Stripping two tenners and a twenty out of his billfold, Bodie absently noted to himself that he would need to visit his cash point soon. A soft sound from the young man packing his purchases brought Bodie's head up. There was the faintest intimation of a smile on the fellow's mobile mouth; he paused for only an instant to study Bodie's selections.

"Have you read them?" Bodie asked.

Light brown eyes scanned Bodie's face a little shyly. "I have."

"Good?"

"Oh, yes."

Bodie raised a brow interrogatively. "Which is your favorite, then?"

Thin fingers shuffled through the books and came up with HARMONIOUS TONGUES. "This one, I think."

"Is it better than the others?"

The young man shrugged, boldly meeting Bodie's gaze. "Don't laugh, will you?"

"No."

"It's very romantic--but not at all smarmy. I enjoy a good love story now and then."

Pocketing his wallet and picking up the packaged books, Bodie gave the man a friendly smile. "Thanks, mate. I'll try this one first."

Bodie could feel the weight of the cashier's stare on his back all the way out of the store. There was little question in his mind that, had he asked, he would have had company for the evening; perhaps the night. But the thought to ask did not occur to him. In the last hour or so, Christmas had arrived very, very early: Bodie now knew that Raymond Doyle was gay.

Engrossed in the publishing teaser on the back cover of HARMONIOUS TONGUES, Bodie forgot all about the young man in the bookstore and the sandwich shop across the street, until he arrived back at Russell Square Station. After a quick consultation with his watch he knew he had no choice but to catch the first available train to Wimbledon in order to complete his next errand without making himself unconscionably late.

At a quarter past one Bodie surfaced in Wimbledon. After setting a brisk pace, he turned into the churchyard at St. John Fisher fifteen minutes later, breathing somewhat quicker than usual, but exhibiting little in the way of his exertions. Stepping into the central portal, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. An older woman sat in one of the back pews on the right. The rest of the church appeared to be empty save for the kneeling figure of a man three rows behind the chancel rail.

On silent feet, Bodie strode down the center aisle. Churches meant nothing to him, for he did not believe in God; but he respected their dignity and their intended purpose--regardless of the constancy with which their builders failed to achieve their goal of curing mankind of his failings. He slid into the pew behind the black-cassocked man and sat with hands hanging between his knees, waiting.

As the pulse beating in his throat dropped back to normal, Bodie could hear the susurrant, one-sided dialogue taking place in front of him, although not one whispered word was distinguishable from another. Almost five minutes passed before the priest concluded his prayer and raised himself stiffly onto the hard wooden seat.

"Bodie," he said, speaking in the hushed, but welcoming tone Bodie remembered very well.

"Yes. How are you getting on, Father?"

"Come, come, Bodie; tell me why you're here."

Grinning affectionately at the man's back, Bodie murmured, "Raymond Doyle."

"He did speak with you, then?"

"I sent him away," Bodie said honestly. "Why did he come to you?"

The priest shifted round to face him. He was an older man, with a kindly face that encouraged the spilling of confidences. Bodie had known him for four years and counted him a friend. He trusted and respected Father Keegan in a way he did few individuals.

"He had questions," Father Keegan replied obliquely. "I suggested that you might have the answers."

"Without warning me?"

The other man took the mild rebuke in stride. "I meant to ring, to let you know I'd given out your name. But I only said he should contact you; I made him no promises."

Bodie sighed. "Just as well, really. D'you know anything about him?"

The man contemplated Bodie's question before replying. "A little. His mother visited me on occasion, not long before she died."

"And Doyle?"

"She spoke often of him; always with love. He's been polite and friendly to me when we've met. I was surprised to find him so troubled."

"Then you wouldn't label him a loony?"

"By no means. I've always thought him a well-adjusted lad."

"He's Catholic, then?"

The priest shook his head. "No. C of E--but not active, I believe." At Bodie's expression, the other man shrugged his ignorance. "And I don't know why either of them came to me--although Mrs. Doyle did ask that I be prepared to hear her son out, should he ever seek my advice. But it wasn't advice he wanted, when he came to me last Friday."

"Friday!"

The priest waited patiently until Bodie explained, "He was round my place on Tuesday."

"He did express reluctance when I recommended you to him," Father Keegan noted. "And there was obviously a great deal on his mind."

Frowning, Bodie asked, "Why exactly did you tell him to come to me?"

Father Keegan returned Bodie's searching gaze unblinkingly. "He wanted to know about demons. I told him I knew of no one who has researched the topic as thoroughly as you."

Bodie clicked his tongue softly. "And here I thought you were matchmaking."

The priest's eyes darkened fractionally in the dim light. "I-- He isn't--?"

Nodding in contradiction, Bodie only just refrained from smirking. "Don't worry. Whatever's on Raymond Doyle's mind regarding me, sex is probably the least of it."

"Bodie--"

He held up a hand to stop the priest before he could continue. "We've had that conversation before, mate." He pressed his fist against the priest's shoulder. "And I appreciate the concern, even though I don't think it's needed. After all, I don't believe in--"

"Anything. Such a waste, my friend."

"Perhaps." Bodie stood up. "I'm glad I came by; it's been a while since we chatted."

"You know you're always welcome."

"I appreciate that. Thanks for the info, Father. Take care, won't you."

"And you."

---

Bodie arrived back at the office on the stroke of two. The remainder of the afternoon turned into a tedious exercise in reduced productivity; Bodie simply could not keep his mind on his work for more than two consecutive minutes before drifting off in search of some way to re-establish contact with Raymond Doyle. Heather was out making deliveries, and Allison was in the death throes of their audit. So he sat alone in the workroom, drinking innumerable cups of tea and counting the hours, and then minutes, until five o'clock.

Hazel Bell announced that she would be in on Monday to finish things up; Bodie managed to stitch a reasonably intelligent expression on his face while she packed her case and readied herself to depart. Allison sighed dramatically when the other woman had gone; apparently lust had given way to exhaustion. Bodie intemperately gave voice to his thoughts.

Before Allison could set upon him with verbal knives, as she so clearly wished to do, Heather reappeared. Lips pursed, but withholding comment, Allison went back to the office while Bodie and Heather tidied their workstations, preparatory to leaving.

Finally, it was five o'clock, and Bodie had shut off the lights in the workroom, locked the front and back doors, and was slipping into his jacket when Allison took a phone call. He was holding the door open for Heather when Allison informed him that the call was for him.

"Tell whoever it is that I've already gone," he whispered pleadingly.

Allison gave him a killing look, then spoke resignedly into the phone: "I'm sorry, Mr. Doyle, he's--"

"Wait!"

At that, Allison clapped a hand over the mouthpiece, and snarled, "Damn you, Bodie!"

"Sorry, Allison," he said fervently. "If it'd been anybody else--honest!" This, as she slapped the handset into his palm with stinging force.

Snatching her things off the desk, she started for the door. Pausing with hand on the latch, she glanced pointedly back at him.

"Thanks, Allison," he said contritely.

With an air of saintly suffering, Allison heaved a heavy sigh and sketchily waved good night.

No sooner had the door closed than Bodie said a little breathlessly, "Doyle--you still there?"

"Yeah. Did I catch you at a bad moment?"

"Nah," Bodie chuckled. "Just trying to avoid the Friday night stampede."

"Oh." There was an awkward lull, during which Bodie sought frantically for something to say. Before he could formulate a remotely clever comment, however, Doyle said, "Look, I want to thank you for dinner last night. And-- for afterward. I feel an absolute idiot, falling asleep like that."

"Don't--" Bodie began.

"Let me finish," Doyle insisted. "I'd like to repay you. But I reckon you have something planned for tonight?"

The diffident tone made Bodie smile softly to himself. "Actually, no. What'd you have in mind?"

"Dinner. Eight o'clock at the Village Taverna in Wimbledon--unless that's not convenient for you?"

"No, that's perfect; it'll give me a chance to go home and change."

"Great." Even over the telephone line there was no mistaking the lightened tone in Doyle's voice. "I'll see you at eight, then."

"At the Village Taverna. Right."

---

The Village Taverna was a popular restaurant, renowned for its Greek fare. It also had sequestered booths for those less inclined toward the boozy good spirits encouraged there. By the time Bodie arrived back in Wimbledon freshly bathed, shaved and rested, the streets in the immediate neighborhood were thickly lined with cars. Wondering what model vehicle Doyle drove, Bodie squeezed his Cavalier into a tiny space between another series Vauxhall and a Renault 9.

The evening was cool and damp, and Bodie had dressed in black corduroy trousers and a black polo-neck shirt. Topping all off with a coat-styled leather jacket--also black--Bodie was scarcely aware of the temperature; but he likely would not have been, even if rain had been pouring down.

A little uncertain where to look for Doyle--would he wait outside or in?--Bodie made a slow approach to the door of the restaurant. Finding no one dawdling on the pavement, he went through into the foyer. Doyle turned from his study of the patterned wallpaper at his entry, and the two men immediately began to size each other up.

Bodie's heart leapt at sight of him; immediately, he castigated himself for the wholly uncontrollable reaction. Clad in moleskin trousers that formed a second skin from waist to upper thigh, a loose pale green shirt that was almost certainly silk, and a cream-colored, bulky-knit jacket with sleeves rolled up, Doyle gave off waves of cosmopolitan indifference that attracted Bodie like a hummingbird to nectar.

At once he ordered his expression to one of matey greeting; if Doyle noticed the difference, it was not revealed on his own guarded face.

"You hungry?" Bodie asked ingenuously. "My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Doyle slowly smiled. "I am, actually." He cocked his head toward the entryway which led into the restaurant proper. A besuited gentleman hastened to meet them as soon as they came into sight, and spoke to Doyle by name.

Feeling a little out of place(this was Doyle's turf, not his(Bodie followed silently as they were taken to a table near the back of the building, well removed from other diners. They were given menus, drinks orders were requested, and they were promptly left to themselves.

"Nice," Bodie said, raising his brows. "You own shares in the business or something?"

"No," Doyle replied, grinning faintly. "I made special arrangements."

"Oh." Heart once more slipping into the fast lane, Bodie said the first thing that came to mind. "You're looking--better." He'd almost said 'great.' "Last time I saw bags like those under your eyes was at Heathrow."

"Thanks, mate," Doyle chuckled sardonically.

"How's the computer working, then?"

"Perfectly." Doyle toyed with his artistically-folded napkin, taking it apart before very carefully restructuring it to its stylish shape. "Lost very little of the file I was using when it blew." He looked across at Bodie.

Reading uncertainty in Doyle's mien, and cautious as to how to address it, Bodie greeted the arrival of their drinks and the brief interruption it offered with relief. Doyle tasted the wine and approved it; their glasses were filled and their server departed, giving them a few minutes longer to mull over their menus.

"Do you want to tell me how it happened--how the computer was damaged in the first place, I mean?" Bodie asked.

"D'you really want to know?" Doyle asked a little coolly.

The wine in the bubbled glass shimmered like liquid sunshine as Bodie slowly spun the stem in his hand. "Tuesday night, when you asked for my help, and I refused: do you remember what you said?"

Doyle shrugged. Lifting his chin, he answered, "Yes. It was rude of me, I know, but I felt a fool--and I was angry."

"It isn't easy for you to ask for help, is it?" Bodie realized, hardly aware that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. Before Doyle could contradict him, he went on, "But you were right; someone I cared for got hurt very badly because of me; because he misunderstood something I said."

His face shedding all traces of belligerence, Doyle breathed, "Sorry."

"You couldn't know," Bodie pointed out. "By the way, I spoke to Father Keegan today." He waited while that penetrated; Doyle cast him an uneasy glance.

"He said that you have questions. He also said that he told you that I might have answers to them."

"And what else did he tell you?" Doyle asked.

"Very little; he's a man you can rely on." Bodie essayed a disarming smile. "If you still want to ask, I'll do what I can to answer."

Gripping the fragile stem of his wine glass with dangerous strength, Doyle demanded, "Why?"

"Because I respect you?" Bodie did not mean to sound flip. But Doyle frowned at him. He went on, "There's something strange going on in your life; something so strange it drove you to seek help from a total stranger who only might be able to help you. But whatever it is, however awful it may be, it hasn't kicked the legs out from under you. I respect a man who won't back down."

Some of the tension drained from Doyle's body. He sipped his wine and began to run a fingertip around the base of the glass. "You're guessing, though, aren't you?" he chided softly. "Maybe this 'strange' thing is my own invention."

Bodie hazarded a grin. "Mr. Doyle, if you were capable of tampering with your computer to the extent I uncovered, you wouldn't need my services--or anyone else's--to repair it."

"What d'you mean?" Doyle asked.

"Someone--or something--wrote its name into your visual display controller card's memory. That's not an easy trick to accomplish without a fair degree of computer knowledge and the assistance of certain software. Now, it's remotely possible that you could be setting me up for your own reasons." He brought up a hand to still Doyle's embryonic objection. "But I don't think you are. In the first place, the software necessary to do what I've just described is not easily obtainable; in the second, I doubt that you have the training required to put it to use."

"But it is possible," Doyle said flatly.

"Anything is possible," Bodie stated.

At that moment their waiter returned to take their orders. Having spent little time in looking over the menu, Bodie asked Doyle to suggest something for him. Doyle did so without hesitation, apparently anxious to expedite the man's departure.

As soon as he had gone, Doyle asked, "What happened to that bloke; the one you said got hurt?"

Bodie set his wine glass down very carefully. "We were in Africa at the time. I--prefer not to talk about Africa."

His expression calculating, Doyle pressed, "Did he survive?"

Remote blue eyes gave away nothing. "Yes--if you consider a lunatic asylum 'surviving.'"

"But you still hold yourself accountable; even though you said he misunderstood you."

"It's an old adage, isn't it: a little information can be more dangerous than too much. And I didn't know very much then." Tension sang through his body; becoming aware of it, Bodie inconspicuously forced himself to relax. "He didn't believe in the forces he was trying to control--and they got the upper hand."

"Because he didn't believe?" Doyle said musingly. Then: "And what do you believe in, Bodie?"

The question was not unexpected; Bodie was only surprised it had not been asked sooner. He said expressionlessly, "Nothing."

Doyle blinked. "But--"

"Nothing structured, I should say. I don't believe in God; certainly not the Christian one." Bodie took a sip of his wine and let the silky liquid coat the tender linings of his mouth before swallowing it down. "I don't believe in ghosts and ghoulies. I don't believe in demons or devils any more than I credit the existence of angels or saints." With each word, Doyle's eyes grew darker. "I don't believe in any of the so-called paranormal as people have defined it." He gave Doyle a full-faced smile, pleased to see that the other man was not so far gone as to be immune to its effect.

"Then, what--?" Doyle stumbled.

"The operative words being 'structured' and 'defined by people,'" Bodie stressed. ÿ"Which is not to say that strange, inexplicable things do not occur. They do. It's the conclusions arrived at by so-called experts that I take exception to."

"So--something that most people would call a ghost, you would perhaps describe as an--oddity?" Doyle interpreted falteringly.

"Yes."

"And why," Doyle wondered, "did you develop this theory? Or are you just naturally cross-grained?"

"Maybe; although I don't think that was a factor at the time. In Africa I saw things I never expected to see; and then I encountered some curious goings-on in Belfast. I was always interested in such things, but after, that I started to read about the phenomena I had witnessed, and the more I read, the more I realized how little consistency there was to be found." Bodie drained his glass. He did not protest when Doyle refilled it from the carafe stationed at their table. "A belief in ghosts, demons, werewolves, vampires--all the inhabitants of the so-called paranormal--is common to most cultures throughout the world. But the characteristics of such things vary from one culture to another, and can often be loosely defined, even in the same society. For example, something labeled as a ghost by one person could be named a demon by another."

"I'm not sure I follow," Doyle said.

Bodie rubbed his jaw as he reflected how best to proceed. "Reams of pages have been written categorically explaining one phenomenon or another; but they are, all of these explanations, nothing more than opinion, conjecture. No two ghost stories are precisely the same, although they may share certain elements; no two tales of possession describe the same overt manifestations of demon control, although the symptoms may be similar. The phenomena, the events, the manifestations may well occur; but it is the people who specialize in such things--students of the occult--who classify and analyze them. It is my belief that such people are not necessarily the best arbiters of what these phenomena, these experiences, really are."

"Even though they're the ones who have provided all the documentation," Doyle said on a note of comprehension.

"Right."

"So," Doyle continued thoughtfully, "if the explanation for any given weird phenomenon is open to conjecture, then the standard solution for how one deals with it cannot be relied upon, either. Is that what you're getting at?"

"Yes."

"I hate to tell you this, Bodie," Doyle murmured, "but I don't think your theories give me anything to cheer up about."

Bodie licked his finger and skated it lightly round the rim of his glass. An ethereally sweet ringing rose into the air between them. "That isn't magic," he said, tapping the lip of the glass for emphasis. "It's a physical phenomenon. I think the various aspects of the paranormal are no different; but perhaps we don't have the ability--or the tools--to properly study and understand them."

Doyle slouched back in his chair, forearms resting on the edge of the table. Head bent a little to one side, he regarded Bodie without artifice. "Then if I describe what's been happening to me, you can tell me what the so-called experts would say, and how they would recommend handling it. True?"

"Very likely, yes."

"But you're also saying that the solutions they would propose won't necessarily work. Also true?"

"Again, yes."

Doyle's troubled gaze dropped to the wine glass now centered in the triangle formed by Bodie's fingers and thumbs. "Then there's no point in bothering you with it, is there?"

Bodie hated the defeated look in Doyle's face; but he would not lie to the man to eradicate it. "I didn't say there were no solutions; only that traditional ones may not be the panacea you're hoping for."

"Don't know that I'm up to a bout of trial and error," Doyle informed him with a bleak laugh.

"Have you discussed this with anyone else?" Bodie asked, his voice soft with understanding.

"No."

"Not even your close friends?"

"I have acquaintances, Bodie; no close friends. I prefer it that way."

"Fair enough," Bodie said affably, unperturbed by this antisocial attitude, but pleased at what it implied: Doyle was unattached. He opened his mouth to speak, but their waiter returned at that moment with their meals.

The heady aromas went right to Bodie's stomach, which sharply and publicly proclaimed his heinous negligence. Doyle, however, surveyed his dish as though it might crawl off his plate and attach itself round his throat.

"Ray." Bodie's voice was pitched low so that their server could hear nothing as he walked away. "You're going to tell me everything, and we will do something, I promise."

Apparently dismayed that his vulnerability should be so obvious, Doyle took pains to cover it. "After what you've just told me, I don't see how--"

"You're tired; exhausted, I suspect. It's clear you haven't eaten properly for some time, too. So dig in and relax. There's nothing to threaten you here. Come on. Just humor me, will you?"

As Doyle stared into Bodie's eyes, some of the wounded look began to fade. He dredged up a pale smile. "All right."

Bodie's ravenous hunger must have communicated some of its urgency to Doyle; for though he started slowly, eventually his own plate gave mute testimony to his efforts. One course followed another, until even Bodie was suffering the discomfort of gluttony.

Signalling their waiter, Doyle ordered coffee for them both, then grinned across at Bodie who was unobtrusively stretching to ease the fit of his snug waistband. "Better?" he asked.

Bodie snorted. "I think I should be asking you that."

"I am, thanks."

They paused while the table was cleared and coffee served. Warming his long fingers around the small cup, Doyle said quietly, "I think it started about five weeks ago."

"You think?"

Doyle shrugged, his shoulders peaking under the heavy sweater. "I'd wake up feeling tired, out of sorts; like you do when you've had a nightmare. Didn't think much of it at first. Until it began to get worse."

Bodie listened without interruption as Doyle described the fragmented nightmares he had experienced. They had bothered him only two or three times a week at first; always intense, disturbing and lingering. At some point after the second week, odd episodes began to occur: items dropping suddenly--and loudly--to the floor from a previously safe perch; odors, strong and overwhelming, filling a room; noises generated by no physical agent; and worst of all, a sense of another's presence--not necessarily human.

"It got to the stage where I thought I would go mad; that I already was mad," Doyle said, his voice so low Bodie could hardly hear him. "I tried to deal with it rationally; after all, nothing like that had ever happened to me before. And, looking at it that way, I could discern a pattern."

"What sort of pattern?" Bodie asked, unwittingly dropping the register of his voice to match Doyle's.

"Except for the dreams, all the strange bits take place between nine and one. The dreams, unfortunately, seem to happen whenever I sleep."

"Do they vary?" Bodie asked. "Or is there a pattern to them, too?"

Doyle took a deep breath, his eyes distant. "They've never--been coherent." He gave a tiny laugh. "Not that most dreams are. But there's usually a certain logic to normal dreams--or normal nightmares, for that matter--no matter how bizarre they may be. These-- They're like a kaleidoscope of images and senses and words."

"What sorts of images? Senses? Words?" Bodie asked encouragingly.

"Unspeakable faces, ugly colors, hideous odors, emotions that have despicable form-- I can't explain, Bodie; they don't make sense. The words are crude for the most part, sexual in nature but mostly perverted and sickening." He stole a glance at Bodie from under dark, thick lashes. "And there's the name Gressil; in my dreams. It must refer to someone--or some thing."

"What's your overall reaction to the nightmares?" Bodie questioned. "You said they're 'intense, disturbing, and lingering.' What else?"

"They frighten me. If you hadn't noticed." Doyle went on, his clipped laugh raw. "It feels as though something is trying to get at me--to climb inside me--through my dream thoughts."

Bodie swallowed. "And the manifestations: d'you have any associations with them?"

"Not good, if that's what you mean." Doyle forced another laugh, which came out mirthlessly brittle. "It's like something challenging me; daring me to defy it."

"Do you have a sense of oneness about this 'it?'"

Doyle stared at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Could there be a single consciousness behind everything?"

The idea seemed to disturb Doyle; his face briefly contorted with revulsion. "I guess I hadn't thought of that."

Bodie gave him time to consider the question thoroughly, watching the mutable expressions that chased across that compelling visage.

"Not just one," Doyle decided at last. "But not many, either."

Bodie smiled faintly. "Tell me what happened the night you came to my place."

"All hell broke loose," Doyle said, wincing. "I'm trying to meet a deadline; I have a book due Tuesday week. Plus I've been proofing galleys for another which the publisher is pressing me for by this upcoming Friday." He drew a wry face. "The timing of all this shite could've been better. After I left you I came right home and tried to get some work done on the story. At nine o'clock things started up again, but I was determined to ignore it. That worked until almost midnight. Up till then I was able to pretend that nothing was unusual; that the room didn't reek of cheap, brassy cologne; that my books weren't throwing themselves off the shelves one by one; that my ears weren't ringing from the assorted screams and howls that came out of nowhere--" Composed, but betraying the cost of that self-possession in ashen features and trembling hands, Doyle hesitated. "I'm--not absolutely certain what happened. But something--something tried to take form in that room."

"In the study?" Bodie prodded.

"Yeah. I tried to pretend it wasn't there, Bodie. But I could feel it coming nearer, surrounding me, whispering filthy things in my ears. I even imagined I could feel its breath on my cheek--like the stench from a cesspit. It demanded that I recognize its presence, that I--surrender myself to it. And I--I guess I finally snapped. I think I shouted; told it to go away; told it that I would never acknowledge it." Doyle sucked in a long breath. "It didn't like that. The air-- seemed to crackle; there was a roaring noise, so loud I could feel the vibration of it through the floorboards. Things began to fly about the room." He caught his hands together, clasping them tightly. "There was an incredible explosion--or something that sounded like an explosion--and the next thing I knew it was one o'clock, and everything was back to normal."

"What d'you mean, 'the next thing you knew?'" Bodie asked, quietly appalled.

The thin shoulders sketched a shrug. "I--must've fallen asleep--" his lip curled "(or fainted--or something. Came round with my head on the keyboard. The lamp on the desk was working--not flickering any more; and the computer seemed to be on, but the VDU had blinked out."

"And the next night?"

"Pretty quiet," Doyle admitted. "More like it was in the beginning. Just a little noise and stink." He rolled his eyes self-effacingly. "But then I stayed in my room from eight o'clock on."

"So there are areas in the house that are less affected than others?"

Doyle bit his lower lip. "Yes. The kitchen and my bedroom. Worse are the lounge and study."

Suspending one hand over the other, Bodie asked, "Do those rooms line up, by any chance? Y'know, the study and lounge; the bedroom and kitchen?"

Doyle's brows went up. "They do, y'know. Just like that."

"And you've never experienced anything like this before, in all the time you've lived in the house?"

"No. And that's nearly thirty years."

"So you were born there? Or moved there shortly after? You can't be more than thirty now."

"Nearly thirty. No, I wasn't born in the house itself; but that's where my mum and grandad were living at the time."

Bodie shoved back his sleeve and took note of the time.

"Am I keeping you?" Doyle asked.

"Don't be so touchy," Bodie said reprovingly. "It's almost 12.20. This lot will be booting us out in another ten minutes. Could I talk you into inviting me round to your place for tea?"

The question seemed to steal the breath from Doyle's lungs. "You don't believe me. You want proof, is that it?"

"Nothing like empirical evidence," Bodie said gleefully.

"And if there's nothing to see?" Doyle's eyes had become cold and angry.

"Then we'll be able to drink our tea in peace," Bodie retorted. "C'mon, Ray. This isn't like taking your car to the garage to perform for the mechanic." He reached for the bill, only to have it torn out of his hand.

"I invited you out," Doyle snapped. "This is mine."

"You paid last night," Bodie argued.

"And immediately fell asleep on you--literally."

"Don't remember complaining." They started across the still fully-occupied restaurant to the cash register. As Doyle disregarded him, Bodie wheedled, "You're going to make me feel like a kept man."

Doyle shot him a frosty glare. "You hardly look the kept type, Bodie. And anyway, I'm the wrong gender, aren't I."

"Kept is kept," Bodie muttered defiantly.

It took longer than Bodie would have liked, as they had to wait in a queue three customers deep. Exiting the restaurant at twenty to, Bodie asked the make of Doyle's car so he would know which one to follow home, and so that they might arrive together. As it turned out Doyle's car, an older, pristinely-maintained Mercedes, was parked only a short distance down the street.

They drove through the streets of Wimbledon and Merton unhampered by traffic, the exhaust from their cars billowing hugely in the moist night air. Doyle snagged a place near the front of his house; Bodie was not so lucky, and had to park several lengths farther down.

Waiting out front, Doyle stood facing the house, staring at the wide window that overlooked the garden. As Bodie jogged up, Doyle pointed at the curtains, at the spot where the two panels of fabric came together. In the chalky light of the streetlamp, the material could be seen to swing gently from one side to the other, as though stirred by an idle finger.

Impatiently marking the time, Bodie said urgently, "I want to go inside."

"Bodie--" Doyle's teeth were chattering. He shut his mouth against the betraying sound, and whatever else he may have intended to say. With keys in hand, he strode resolutely up to the gate, and fumbled the latch open. No sooner had he unlocked the exterior door of the enclosed porch than they could hear the front inner door silently swing wide.

Not waiting for Doyle's invitation to enter as well, Bodie brushed past him and stepped into the foyer. Over his shoulder, he asked, "Lights?"

"To your ri--" Doyle began; he gave a soft grunt as the bulb over their heads sprang to life, blazing brightly.

"Useful, that," Bodie commented, unfazed. He gestured to the closed door on their left. "Lounge?"

"Yes." The single word was little more than an abrupt sibilant. Bodie reached out and took the latch in hand. The door yielded easily, and he pushed it inward. It moved without sound. Peering into the room beyond, Bodie thought it was awfully dark--far darker than it should have been with light spilling from the hallway. He took a tentative step forward, his foot coming to rest on the threshold.

"No!" Doyle gasped, grabbing Bodie's arm and jerking him backward. "There's something in there," he whispered anxiously. "Bodie, don't!"

Reluctant to take his eyes off the room, Bodie yet cast a quick glance back at Doyle. "You stay here," he said, breaking Doyle's vice-like grip. "It isn't waiting for me."

Despite the steadiness of his voice, Bodie was not unaffected by the little he had seen so far, although all of it could easily be explained. With his senses stretched to their limits, he entered the room. At once the darkness seemed to encroach, creeping nearer like tendrils of fog off a river. Heart pounding high in his chest, Bodie took another step. The air was laden with a scent so overpoweringly sweet it threatened to bring up his dinner. Funny, how it had not been there when Bodie had first come into the room. A smell that strong should have spread throughout the entire house--.

A tiny buzz, like the whine of a mosquito, skittered past Bodie's ear. It circled him, or so he imagined, passing from one side to the next. And then it was heading for the doorway.

It isn't waiting for me, he had said with assurance. But it was searching for Doyle.

"Ray!" he shouted, twisting round and lifting his foot to run. Somehow the few paces he had taken into the lounge had become fifty. Something weighted his legs, so that each forward lunge was sluggish and ungainly, as though he were trying to hurry through deep water. "Ray, get out!" His own ears reported nothing, even though he had bellowed as loudly as he could. Truly frightened now, not for himself but for Doyle, Bodie gathered all his strength and lurched forward against the treacly restraints--

--and barrelled hard into Ray Doyle, slamming him into the corridor wall opposite the lounge door. Bodie felt the breath go out of the other man, and heard his cough of pain. They ended up on the floor in a snarl of arms and legs, Bodie trying valiantly but failing to prevent Doyle's elbow from splitting the corner of his lip.

"Damn-it-Bodie," Doyle whooped. "What-the-fuck-were--"

"Catch your breath, Ray," Bodie urged, finally getting his heels under him and pulling himself off Doyle, who remained sprawled on the floor.

Furious green eyes spat up at him, losing none of their venom even when Bodie reached out and gave him a hand up. Having attained a shaky vertical, Doyle summarily shrugged off Bodie's support, choosing to lean heavily against the wall instead.

Belatedly glancing down at his watch, Bodie confirmed his guess: it was just past one in the morning.

"Are you all right?" he asked as Doyle began to straighten up and brush himself off.

"Perfectly." The word was bitten off at both ends. Doyle took his handkerchief out and thrust it into Bodie's hand. "You're bleeding," he advised him coldly. He started off with measured tread toward the end of the corridor.

"It didn't get you, then?"

Doyle came to an abrupt stop and speared Bodie with a frigid look. "The only thing that got me was you. What'd you think you were playing at, anyway?"

Briefly lost for words, Bodie asked stupidly, "You didn't feel it?"

Looking Bodie over carefully for the first time since he had erupted without warning from the lounge, Doyle finally recognized the signs of shock in the other man's face. "Something happened."

"Yeah." Bodie could be curt, too. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Doyle assured him. "There was nothing going on out here after the lights came on. But I thought you were-- Well, never mind what I thought. What happened to you?"

"You thought I was winding you up. No, don't deny it," Bodie said, dabbing at his lip with Doyle's handkerchief. It came away stained with bright red blood.

Doyle, however, made no effort to contradict him, staring shamefacedly straight ahead.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Ray," Bodie said tiredly. "Look, I really could use that cuppa you promised--and then I'll tell you about it, okay?"

"Come on, then, trouble." Doyle spoke lightly; but he could not conceal the shadows that wreathed his drawn features, nor hide the sick worry in his eyes.

---

Day Five - Saturday

A nagging headache ushered Bodie into awareness the following morning at dawn. Groaning self-pityingly as he realized what time it was, he dragged himself out of bed, forced down a couple of Anadins, then crawled back under the covers. Lying very still in the vague hope of luring sleep back to his too-active brain, Bodie found himself recalling the previous evening in minute detail.

Following the curious episode in the lounge, he and Doyle had adjourned to the kitchen where Doyle had occupied himself making tea. Watching him with idle appreciation, Bodie had continued to staunch the flow of blood from his battered lip. In a very few minutes Doyle had piled the table with teapot, mugs, milk and sugar, and a plate of assorted biscuits. He