Fifteen bloody hours chasing will o' the wisps and rumour had left Ray Doyle in a foul mood. He wanted nothing more than to get home and sleep, but hunger was also demanding his attention and so he stopped on the trip back for a late meal. The place he chose had only two virtues: it was open, and it was on the way home. He had never stopped there before, but there was parking, and it was just off the motorway. Outside, the faded paint and yellowed shades hinted of a less than successful enterprise; he had almost turned and left before he pulled open the heavy wooden door. A laughing couple had released marvellous scents of onion and fresh bread into the night air as they opened the door to go out, however, and his stomach had the final vote.

Inside it appeared no better than the outside, with uneven lighting and a jumble of assorted tables and chairs. Yet almost all the tables were filled, the food came promptly, and it was so good he forgave the white rings on the wood of the uncovered table. The woman who brought his food and drink was cheerful, the place was warm, and by the time he had inhaled the last bite, Doyle was feeling human again. He was just wondering to himself if he wanted something sweet to end with when a hand fell on his shoulder.

"Ray Doyle! I was thinking it might be you!"

Doyle's first impulse had been to react as a CI5 agent, but the sound of the golden tones froze the inclination and his hand moved away from his gun. He knew that voice!

"Topper!" Doyle rose out of his chair, turning to face a tall, heavyset man with a wide smile and a head with only a fringe of red hair left above his ears. "Topper?" he asked again, less certainly.

"You've not changed a bit, lad!"

The same could not be said of Walter Toppenham, who had doubled his weight and halved his hair. Doyle grinned and did not make the obvious comment, instead saying, "How have you been? It's been...."

"Fifteen years if it's a day! Have you time to talk?" Topper asked, eyeing the empty plate and glass at Doyle's place.

"Oh, yes, although if I fall asleep mid-sentence, don't take it personally. Long day. What brings you here?"

"Habit. Charla gets tired of me taking up space in front of the telly and sends me out for a bit of exercise." The man made an expressive face, and Doyle laughed.

"You're still with Charla, then?" Doyle asked, remembering a petite young lady with red nails who had dressed always in black skirts and t-shirts. Had she changed as much?

"Married her, dear boy, when the first baby came along."

"Which you vowed you'd never do," Doyle reminded him, and he meant both marriage and fatherhood.

"Don't remind me. There's three of them, now." Topper did not look at all distressed, and in fact there was a note of pride in his voice which caused Doyle to grin. "There now, no call to look like that! I suppose you're still fancy free, then?"

Doyle thought of Ann and waited for the still keen stab of regret which he was learning to live with. It didn't come, and he was able to say, "Almost got caught last year, but it fell through. I'm a bachelor still."

"And a policeman, I heard. Never would have thought it! Ray Doyle, upholding the law! You were the wildest of us all!"

"No, that was Tom!" Doyle said, avoiding the question of his profession and leading the discussion back to old times.

"Tom. He was a bit of a tearaway in his time, wasn't he?" Topper said, his lips turning down and his tone muted.

Doyle considered. "I take it Tom is no longer with us?" he said quietly.

"Wrapped his lorry around a bridge ten years ago. We had a lovely wake for him. He'd 'ave enjoyed it. Just his sort of do." Topper's eyes squinted as he looked back to the memory. "All the B's."

"Booze, babes, and breakfast at the end of it!" Doyle recalled with him. Images swirled in his head as he remembered.

"Don't forget the other B!" Topper said with a wink.

"Boys," Doyle said, with half a laugh.

"Specifically, butts, Doyle. The year we discovered sodomy, eh?" Topper gave an exaggerated wink.

"The same year half the group discovered hemp," Doyle added. He remembered the ugly flat, the broken down chairs and sprung sofas which decorated the place, the thick haze of smoke and the clink of bottles, and then someone turned up the music until the ancient walls vibrated and the windows rattled. He remembered dancing....

"The good old days." Topper smiled at some memory of his own. The flat had been Topper's idea in the beginning. A group of art students, all more or less poor, all wanting space to work, had scraped together the monthly rent on the place. It had nothing going for it except the bank of windows on two sides gave an enormous amount of natural light. Let in the cold as well, Doyle remembered. He could almost feel the stiffness in his fingers as he'd tried to paint. Tried. Even with warm fingers, it had been a frustrating experience. So much inside, wanting to be expressed, and so little talent. He'd felt real rage when, after days and days, he had no more to show for his time than if he'd simply poured the paint down the drain.

"Couldn't have been that bad," Topper commented, seeing his expression.

"Thinking about the art. I was so bad," he admitted, "I didn't even know how bad I was."

Topper laughed. "You weren't good," he agreed, "and you weren't the worst. There's not a working artist in the lot, you know. Salesmen and clerks and teachers, now, all of them. Bonnie was the only one to even come close to a career in art. She has an antique shop. Makes her money off tourists."

"Bonnie! Those damn cigarette holders she kept practicing with, and all the while her eyes watering because she couldn't bear the smell of tobacco!" Doyle laughed aloud at the memory.

"Bad as that idiot with the beret--him, the lad with the sharp nose, you remember?"

Doyle did. He had always had a memory for faces. The artist's eye, but none of the skill. "Trin something. Hung around with Tom."

"Trin Scott, I think it was. Knew his place, that one." Topper leered, then poked towards Doyle, his finger not quite touching his skin. "Not like some I could mention."

"Frustrated you, did I?" Doyle asked with a grin.

"Lord, yes. You were a beautiful lad, Doyle. All arse and eyes, under that mop of curls. Come to think of it, you still are. How'd you like to make me happy in my old age?"

"And bend over for you? Not likely, old son. And didn't you tell me you're married?" Doyle wanted to know.

"So? As long as I don't bring home anything catching, right?"

"Those your words, or hers?" Doyle asked.

"We have an agreement. Any privilege I have, she can have, and vice versa. She has an old boyfriend or two."

Doyle wondered how that worked. His own moral code had flexible spots, but married women were more trouble than they were worth, and he believed in fidelity within marriage. Why bother playing the game if you were going to cheat or change the rules?

"Whatever works," Doyle said casually, keeping his opinions to himself.

Topper laughed. Doyle looked at him in inquiry. "It's just that I'm getting old. Must be. The thrill of the chase is dimming, and it just seems like too much work. I'm no beauty, so what I manage to charm into my bed isn't much anyway. It's a sad thing, Doyle, when you realize you've taken to bed someone the age of your mum, just to have your end away that night." Doyle nodded solemnly. His own experiences with older women had been odd ones. Safer to stick to sweet young things who thought the little tricks you knew were fantastic. Although lately he hadn't even done much of that.

"I'm even considering giving up my share of the flat," Topper was saying.

Doyle focused on him. "You're never telling me that's still going!"

"The flat? Hell, yes! Not the one we had at first; they tore that down years ago. We transferred to a flat in the building just north--you remember it? We used to call it the palace!"

"Do I? Too rich for our blood, I remember. It had central heating!"

"And all other mod cons. We've the attic, now. Nice light for painting--not that many of us use it for that."

"Still the same arrangement? Seven members, one seventh of the expenses and obligations, and an assigned day?"

"The same," Topper nodded. "I've got," he paused for effect, "Monday."

"Would have killed for Monday, back when," Doyle admitted, memory making him smile.

"I had Friday, you had Saturday. Could only use the place to paint in the mornings because on the weekends, everyone expected to party there at night."

"I remember scraping up the money, taking odd jobs so I could pay my share of the rent. It's a wonder I ever had any time to paint!" Doyle shook his head. Just last month he had been undercover, working as a box maker while watching for smuggled guns, using skills he had learned while earning his extra rent money all those years ago.

"Yes, and in those days you only had to come up with a tenner. It's fifty a month, now. It went up last year. It hurts the budget now almost as much as it did then," Topper said. "That's why I'm thinking of getting out. I could put half that amount away and surprise Charla with a holiday next summer."

"She knew about the flat in the old days," Doyle recalled.

"She knows about it now, but not about the price increase. She'd be livid if she knew!"

There was a pause in the conversation as Doyle ordered them both fresh drinks. Then he asked, "Who shares the place? The old group?"

"Wally has Tuesdays. You remember him? Thought he could sculpt?"

"I remember." The man could make a huge mess without half trying, and the damn stone chips got everywhere. Stepping on them with bare feet was an unforgettable experience.

"He just uses the place to get away from his mother. Terrible old bitch. Man named Fillbeck has Saturdays. Says he wants to be a writer and this is the only way he can get a day of uninterrupted work done. He's produced two books. Can't say if they're any good or not, but I saw one in a shop once. Had a nasty cover, all dripping blood and fangs. He's a grocer's assistant, too, I think. Sandra has Wednesdays and her friend Mona has Thursdays. They're both in art school. Young things. Actually paint, I believe. Wish we'd had their dedication. Deadly dull about it, they are."

"Won't give you the time of day, eh?" Doyle laughed.

"Too right. Half think they must be...." He waggled his fingers suggestively.

"It would explain why they turned you down," Doyle said, but his pursed lips and laughing eyes told that he thought there was another reason.

"You don't leave an old man any illusions, Sugar Ray! You always were a hard lad."

Doyle didn't offer any sympathy, smiled at the old nick-name and only asked, "Who has the other days?"

"Friday is Zach Thomas, Sunday is Mark Lane. Lane is usually there with his squeeze of the week. The colour of hair changes, but not the empty space under it...Thomas has the same hobby and picks up the same types, but they're the opposite sex."

"Nothing changed there."

"I know. They're both late with the money half the time, too. Lane's on probation. We're tired of fronting the money for him. But having to vet new candidates is a pain in the arse."

"I remember." And Topper was ethical enough not to leave the group in the lurch. He probably wouldn't quit the group himself while there were two possible changes in the offing.

"Only thing worse is trying to find a new char. Have a good one now. Comes in every week day from 11 to 11:30 in the morning. Does for someone else in the building so it's no trouble."

"I remember when we didn't have help and we were each assigned jobs. Lattie went nuts trying to force us all to do our part."

"Gave up on us all and went to Australia!" Topper remembered. "He's a banker there, now, did you know?"

"The sort with double ulcers," Doyle predicted.

"No doubt. Another?" Topper asked, indicating Doyle's empty glass.

"No. I'm done for. I need twelve hours of sleep, one more glass and I'll be taking it right here, or face down in the gutter. I'd best be getting home." Doyle stood up slowly, frowning. Then he said, "Topper? Put my name down on the list, will you? I think I need a home away from home."

Topper looked a bit startled, but said, "You should see the place first."

"No, that's fine. Let me have your number. I'd give you mine, but I'm never home." Which was true, but not the only reason.

Topper produced a scrap of paper and a pencil, and provided the number, all the while a big smile on his face. "We wouldn't even have to look into you--there's enough of the old crowd who'd remember. Worth it not to have to go through that again. Call on the first."

"Or as soon after as I can."

"You married, Ray?"

"I told you...."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I'm just used to blokes wanting to get away from the little woman."

Doyle grinned. It wasn't a little woman he was interested in getting away from, more like a little man. A sandy-haired, sharp-tongued old bastard.

Doyle shook hands with his old friend, said his good-bye and went back to his vehicle, forcing back yawns and old memories. Wonderful, the old days, but not the sort he wanted to live over again. He shook his head, focusing on the lines of the road, blinking his eyes to keep them functioning.

He'd actually asked for the next opening, the next occasion when a flat and a day came available. Furthermore, he experienced a sensation of wicked anticipation such as he hadn't felt in years, because he was quite sure he was going to break the rules if he actually got the place. He was not going to tell anyone about this bolthole, this secret room. Certainly not Cowley, and not his partner, either.

What made him think he wanted a place of his own? Bodie had confessed to having some boltholes, some secret stores, and he'd even shown Doyle two of them. Probably had a half dozen more, the paranoid sod. Bodie had become even more so since that affair with his East German girlfriend. Botched all the way around, that was, and it still stung. Bodie, Doyle--and Cowley. Cowley cooperated with the other agency, he had shared a big job with Willis and that mob only last month, but Doyle knew he did it with his eyes wide open, with all his moves backed up and checked. Wouldn't like to be Willis, for when the opportunity came, Cowley was going to drop his opposite number in it up to his scrawny neck. With any luck, Doyle and Bodie would be around to help.

His mind was not staying on the subject he had set for it. Sure sign of exhaustion. Still, a good night's sleep would set him up, and tomorrow he'd see Bodie again. He'd missed his partner. Bodie had been undercover for a week, playing the part of a taxi driver. Doyle spared a moment of pity for Bodie's paying customers, but none at all for the drug ring which CI5 had broken. His pity was all for himself, tracking down rumours about mysterious men and missing payrolls for days and days, and nothing to show for it, either. Cowley wouldn't be happy.

Doyle turned onto his block with a sense of intense relief, parked his car, locked it, got his bag from the boot, and forced himself to be alert, to go cautiously to his flat. He'd been away, and who knows what waited for him?

Cold rooms, nothing in the cupboards and nothing hiding under the bed. He set his locks, pulled a plastic bottle of milk from the freezer to leave on the counter to thaw--he'd learned that trick from Bodie--turned on the heat and crawled into bed, promising himself a hot shower in the morning. He recalled nothing else until his alarm went off six hours later.

He slapped the thing into silence and gave himself over to hot water and a shave, to the pleasures of tea and a hearty breakfast and fresh clothing. Energy filled him, and he whistled tunelessly as he strode out the door.

It was when he was in the car again that it came to him exactly why he was in such a good mood. It was because he would team up with Bodie again today.

Bodie.

The whistle faded. Doyle was well aware that Bodie was coming to represent a problem. All very well to become fond of your best mate, to depend on your partner for just about everything. Just fine if you liked him, enjoyed his jokes, appreciated his capabilities.

But admiring his arse was a bit over the line.

So was imagining what those lips would feel like under his.

Worst of all was imagining what Bodie would say if he ever found out about Doyle's little deviations.

It was all Topper's fault, Doyle thought unfairly, slowing down to join the stream of morning traffic at the intersection. Topper had been the first of their group to dare try it on with a member of his own sex. He'd winked and bragged and boasted until one by one, each of the others had tried it as well. Doyle had been one of the last, put off by the eagerness with which others had attempted his initiation. He'd finally given it a try. Topper had offered his arse with the understanding that Doyle would reciprocate in the reasonably near future.

Doyle had liked doing it to Topper. But he had been a kid, on fire most of the time, willing to fuck at the drop of a pair of pants and only moderately picky about what ended up in his bed. Doyle had followed Topper's directions and been satisfied. Keeping his own part of the bargain a week later had been hard, although he's never let anyone see how reluctant he had been. It had hurt--but he'd adjusted and after a few more trades, had started to spend his time equally between the boys and the girls. On some rather memorable nights, he'd had both in the same bed.

"Randy little toad," he said to the memory.

He'd given up the boys and the art and the friends for the police. It had been a good trade in most ways. A regular pay cheque, a sense of being of use in the world, the occasional victory in the war against crime, all had kept him from looking back. New friends, new goals, new lovers. It had all changed again when he joined CI5.

With CI5 had come Bodie. Bodie, the aggravating sod. Bodie, the tough man, the ex-merc, the soldier. The man.

The problem.

His problem met him as he entered the rest room door, met him with a lewd comment and a beaker of stewed tea. Doyle accepted both in the spirit in which they were offered and sat down to wait his master's call. Cowley, facing down audits and accountants for the third straight day, emerged in mid-morning for just long enough to bark out assignments.

"Cleaning house," Bodie sighed, as they climbed into Doyle's car. "Again."

"Has to be done." Doyle pulled out of the car park and into traffic.

"Poor damn Culbert. Can't even go for a pee ten years after you leave CI5, without George wanting to know."

"It's a little more serious than that. He's not been seen for days," Doyle said. "And he only left us last year."

"He's the smart one, if you ask me. Gateman at a posh development like that one, and all he has to do is peer out from his little brick box, and say, 'Ah, Mr Filthy Rich,' and punch the red button which opens the electronic gate."

"Bit more to it than that, surely," Doyle suggested.

"Not much. Easiest security job there is."

"If you call it easy to be cooped up for hours at a time."

"Bet he takes a book. Improves his mind. I would," Bodie said, virtuously.

"Yours needs it. Do I turn here?"

"Your own mind could use a bit of help, Raymond. Of course you don't turn here. Left at the pub."

Doyle followed Bodie's directions, allowing Bodie his smug nod of confirmation. He allowed Bodie a lot, these days. Not that it seemed to be harming anything.

"We might get off on time for once," Bodie commented later. "Want to try that new Chinese takeaway?"

"Fine," Doyle said, not letting his pleasure at the thought of spending the evening with Bodie show. "Are you paying?" he asked, with hope in his voice.

"Your turn," Bodie said at once.

"So it is." Doyle had known that all along. He always knew whose turn it was, just as Bodie always knew. When they didn't know, they together chose the path, playing children's games or simple lotteries to resolve the question.

Fairness had been the basis of the relationship they carved out during those first strained days as partners. Part of their ability to communicate with a minimum of words, to know what the other was going to do in any situation, was based on a sense of fair play and turn and turn about. Both kept the running total in their heads, tallying score automatically in a game which had been running for years.

The accounting had started from distrust, each keeping severe count of every point, taking turns being the one to dash first up a stair, to go first into a room where a killer lurked. Soon, it became just a shorthand, a way of easing the non-essentials from a discussion or an action. It had evolved into something so much a part of how they were that they were no longer even aware they did it.

Now, they did not always take things exactly in turns--and yet each always knew what the actions of the other would be. The complexities of a shared past had woven into their very personalities. They knew each other extremely well.

But Bodie didn't know how Doyle felt.

Wasn't going to know, either. Doyle had decided that a long time ago. To speak was to betray the fabric of their relationship. They had used women as a touchstone in their reactions to each other, had the pursuit of the fair sex as their shared hobby. To imagine Bodie turning from women was to think of him turning from food or air. He enjoyed his affairs, short honest things with no pretence about them. The young women who found Bodie in their beds knew he was there for a romp and a tickle, they knew he was allergic to the chimes of wedding bells.

No doubt Bodie thought Doyle's philosophy the same as his own, although Doyle had always been more serious about his birds than Bodie. Doyle had always had, in the back of his mind, a vision of eventual domesticity. Cozy flat, adoring woman, a baby or two--he'd never imagined specifically 'who,' but he had always just assumed a 'what.'

That changed.

After Ann, with the dream in tatters around him, he had picked up the pieces and went on. Bodie had been there, supporting him in a solid, matey way. Slowly, the dark had drifted away from the vision of "who," and Doyle had come to realize that his feelings for Ann had masked other feelings, feelings he had not been able to acknowledge. Feelings he half hated and half gloried in. Feelings he did not dare to put a real name to, for fear of saying the truth aloud.

"You're quiet."

"Sorry."

"Kept you up last night, did she?" Bodie teased, with a wink and a waggle of the eyebrows on the "up."

"Was decently alone last night, as you probably well know. You try driving a hundred miles in the dark in the rain!"

Bodie snorted. "We've both done that before!"

"Not alone. I can usually count on your snores to keep me awake!"

"Nasty, dear boy. Who does the driving, nine times out of ten?"

"The one who needs the practice?" Doyle asked.

"The one who knows what he's doing. Way you drive, we'll die of old age before we get to Culbert's!"

"In a hurry, are you? Eager to see him again?"

Bodie made a rude sound. "You know very well I could never stand the bloody bastard."

Doyle nodded wisely. "Never got over the time he beat you over the obstacle course, have you?"

"He cheated."

"Did he?" Doyle said nothing else, but grinned.

"Besides, he took advantage of my good nature."

Doyle tossed him an inquiring look.

"Never paid back the whole of anything. He'd round it off--always in his favour!"

Doyle let his lips turn up again. "Maybe he just didn't have any change."

"He had it--always feeding it into the machines, wasn't he?"

"That's why he didn't have any," Doyle explained in the careful measured tones one used when talking to foreigners and persons of doubtful mental capacity.

"Never?" Bodie refused to agree, on general principles.

"Is this our turn?" Doyle asked, knowing perfectly well it was. Bodie was successfully distracted, and Doyle made sure the conversation for the rest of the drive stayed safely on the subject of the chances for Liverpool on the tenth.

Their ID's got them past the gate, a manager's key got them into Culbert's tiny bungalow on the grounds. It had been inhabited by a tidy man with no real secrets--after the CI5 agents were done, every inch of his home had been turned over. Everything from the Mayfair under the mattress to the stains in the coffee cups came under their scrutiny.

"Left his wad," Bodie said, showing the roll of cash he had discovered tucked into a mug in the back of the cupboard.

"All his papers seem to be here," Doyle added, closing a previously locked metal box which had been under the bed.

"So where did he go?" Bodie asked.

"You might talk to the bloke at the gate, while I annoy the residents?" Doyle suggested.

"Not too much, Doyle. Cowley won't like it if he starts getting those phone calls about you again."

"Cowley can...."

"Ah ah!" Bodie shook his finger in warning and ducked out the door. Doyle put on his best servant-of-the-public face and went to ask his questions of the neighbours.

The neighbours all had domestic help, most of which were not adverse to a bit of gossipy chat. They all knew of Culbert's status among the missing, all had something nice to say about him, but none knew even his first name. One of four men involved in security for the housing estate, Culbert had been the newest and the most nondescript. He had foiled a robbery his second day on the job, and was the most alert of the guards. He was also the one who followed the rules, who actually looked at the ID when he asked for it, the one who annoyed the residents at times when it seemed he was being overly cautious.

Doyle went to every house, and there were sixteen of them. When Bodie found him, Doyle was standing on the walk, staring at one of the four flower gardens which were tucked between each quad of houses.

"Don't like the colour?" Bodie asked.

Doyle said, "Nobody's seen him since he got off work that night. Is there something about this," he waved a hand, "which strikes you as not quite right?"

"It's ugly," Bodie offered.

"In addition to the obvious?" Doyle wanted to know.

Bodie looked it over, then glanced across at another of the cultivated plots for comparison. "No," he said.

"Did I ever mention that I went to art school?" Doyle asked casually as he walked around the small flower bed. There were raised brick planters, with urns of coloured cement holding cascades of greenery or glowing spots of colour.

"Once. Or twice. Flunked out, didn't you?"

"A complete failure," Doyle agreed with candour. "But some of it stuck between the grey cells. All the others," he pointed at the garden sections, "have the hues of the flowers change in a kind of circular pattern, moving from the outside to the middle. But this one doesn't."

"Offends your artistic soul, does it? Is there a reason you've decided to stop and critique the garden?" Bodie asked. There was no scorn in his voice, no implication that Doyle should stop wasting his time. He waited for more information.

"Does the earth look a trifle disturbed to you?" Doyle asked.

"You think somebody buried him here midst the daisies?" Bodie jeered.

"No, I think someone could see the gates from here--if they shifted a few of these cement pots temporarily."

"Lying down, hidden by the plants. Could do," Bodie agreed. "At night. During the day it would be taking a stupid chance."

"At night," Doyle agreed. "And in the dark they got the flowers back out of order."

"Leaving the question of--why?"

"I'm open to suggestions, Sherlock."

"He had just switched to the six to midnight shift. Each man was to walk the perimeter of the grounds after he got off his shift, look for anything suspicious. What did he see?"

"If he was here, he was watching his own station!" Doyle had moved the urns--not without some difficulty--and stretched out in the space. Facing away from the gate left him staring at a rhododendron. He switched again, fitting his body into the area. Head down, he had a perfect view between two bushy miniature mums.

"Or," Bodie said, "some person driving or walking in or out. But why settle down for a long obbo, then?"

"You think it was Culbert here? Not somebody watching him?" Doyle asked, scrambling up.

Bodie helped him pull the urns back into place, and then brushed at Doyle's leaf covered shirt and jeans. He didn't notice as Doyle turned slightly pale.

"Time to call Papa," Bodie intoned. "But you're the bright lad with the clue. You talk to him."

"Coward."

"I'm going to go over the log with the guard again. They only log visitors, not the coming and going of the people who live here. Then I'm going to walk around this place, same as the guards are supposed to do four times a day."

"Exercise. So good for the figure," Doyle agreed, automatically ducking out of the way of Bodie's mock punch.

Cowley listened to Doyle's report without commenting, and then said, "I've had a background check done on everyone who resides there, Doyle, and they're clean, they're all clean, twenty years back and more. But twenty one years ago...."

"Dirt?" Doyle suggested, knowing that tone.

"Aye, dirt, swept under the carpet, but dirt, non'th'less, and ours to deal with. Pay special attention to the occupants of #12, a family of four named Netherton. I want you to become familiar with the area, go to each house again. Show your ID, ask too many questions. At dark, I want you to watch who comes, who leaves. I'm sending Jax, Emery and DeLeon to follow any vehicle which departs from #12. Is this clear?"

"Very, sir."

"Cowley out."

Doyle signed off as well and went to tell Bodie his visions of an early evening off had just been blown to the moon.

It wasn't an exciting day, but the weather was good, and Bodie was in fine form, using his charm or his best official manner as the situation required. When they had been to each house, Doyle went for the meal, bringing back double portions of chicken and chips for Bodie.

Fingers shining with grease and chips disappearing at an amazing clip shouldn't have been erotic, but Doyle was forced to look away, to pretend diligence at the job. It annoyed him. He told himself it wasn't Bodie, but only old habits drifting up from his past to haunt him. Old dirt, he thought, and smiled. Bodie gave him an inquiring look over his well-gnawed bone, but Doyle just shook his head and gave a shrug. Bodie only tilted an eyebrow and went back to coaxing the last slivers of meat into his digestive system.

They left with noise and a proper thank-you-for-assistance at the gate, only to drive five blocks away, park the car in a quiet spot, and walk back to the area.

"We're actually lurking behind a tree," Bodie said in disgust later.

"Not exactly spoilt for choice, are we. These people designed their homes to discourage loitering by the under-classes, didn't they?" Doyle pointed out.

"Not as clever as they might have been, with only one exit out of that place."

"How are you at climbing trees? Bet we can see both the gate and #12 from halfway up."

Bodie looked up. "Too obvious in daylight. Have to wait for dark to use the tree, and then there will be easier ways to stay out of sight. Trees are damned uncomfortable after the first five minutes."

"Spent a lot of time in trees, have you? Darwin may have been right!"

"Berk. Get out your pen, Raymond, someone is pulling up at the gate." Bodie was the one reading off the numbers from the plates and describing the occupants of the vehicle, while Doyle noted it down in his neat crabbed handwriting. Jax and the others arrived at dusk, and they ate sandwiches Jax had brought, and waited.

Two cars parked in the drive of #12 left shortly after eleven, and were followed by CI5 vehicles. A sporty red number arrived there at midnight, and left at one, and that was followed as well. Bodie was up in the tree with the night glasses, whispering to Doyle perched below. Doyle leaned against the rough bark and tried to hear only the words, and not the rich sibilant sound, tried not to think of Bodie, whispering a different sort of message into the night.

They were relieved at two, sent to get some sleep and report to Cowley at ten. Bodie drove, and Doyle found he was watching Bodie's face through slitted eyes while pretending to doze, and he felt a growing annoyance with himself.

He always fell hard, when he fell, tumbling into near obsession with the object of his desires. His romance with Ann had been like that, an all-the-sudden total immersion into delightful enchantment. Be damned if he was going to fall for Bodie in the same way. He could imagine nothing more difficult to deal with--or more painful. Might as well just give up the job now. He could become gatekeeper to the upper middle class, maybe. There was a job open.

Dark humour. Bodie's sort of thing more than his. But then, he was well aware of the way he had picked up some of Bodie's tastes and habits, and Bodie's likes and prejudices, just as Bodie had adopted some of his. Running in the morning, for example, and writing the date first when filling out reports and....

"We're here."

Doyle roused. "Where's here?"

"My place. Pick me up in the morning?" Bodie asked as he opened the door.

"Right." Doyle yawned and got out to cross to the driver's side.

He drove away at once, resisting the urge to watch Bodie walk away.

He really ought to do something about Bodie, he thought when he was alone. He checked to see if he was being followed as he pulled out of the parking space, but as he could see nothing suspicious, he went back to his thoughts. Doing something about Bodie.

Not Bodie's fault, he reminded himself. What was there to do? Quit? Stupid thing to do, really. There would be questions, Bodie would take it wrong, and on top of everything, Doyle wasn't a quitter. He liked the job. It would have to become hell on earth before he gave it up. It was hard working with Bodie while he lusted after him, but Bodie was the best part of CI5.

The solution was to do something about the lust. Maybe it wasn't Bodie, exactly. Bodie was just the man he worked with most closely, and he was funny and good at the job and handsome. Of course Doyle had been attracted to him. Rather by default, when you thought of it that way. What he should do is find himself an outlet for those feelings. A man. Surely, if he looked, he could find a discreet man for a few hours here and there.

He'd have to approach it with the same caution an agent of CI5 approached anything. It was possible to do it. He had no illusions about that. For all the wide range of results that a good solid investigation could produce, there were always facts never discovered at the time. The trick was to never leave a money trail, and never share a secret.

He thought about it until he left the car. Putting thoughts on hold in favour of caution, he made his way to his door, and then inside. Automatically, as he hung up his coat, his mind started up again.

Topper. That was the first step. He could talk Topper into sharing his day at the flat, until a day opened up which he could have for his own. The harder task would be finding a man to take to the flat. Doyle had a preference for clean, muscular men, men without any feminine attributes, men who were not into dominance, leather or pain. He knew where such men were to be found, but there was a risk in being seen in such places. The risks in advertising were just as bad. Worse.

Topper again? The man could keep a secret, and he'd enjoy the assignment, enjoy having the excuse to go looking. But was there a better way to do this? He gave it thought all during his shower, and he was still thinking about the angles as he drifted off to sleep.

He called in the morning, but Topper had already left for work. Doyle declined to leave a message, and he was glad Charla did not recognize his voice. Morning brought second thoughts over his cereal and milk; he continued to mull over the subject until he pulled up in front of Bodie's. His partner met him at the door, jacket half on and a last piece of toast clutched between his teeth.

"Running late, are we?" Doyle asked, taking the toast from between Bodie's lips as the other checked both locks on the door. He tried not to think of the warmth of Bodie's breath on his fingers, of almost touching those lips.

"Mmmmph," Bodie said, having taken back the toast and disposed of half of it in one bite.

Sad, when a man could look that sexy with toast crumbs all over his face. "Eloquent bastard," Doyle said, with as much fondness as he allowed himself to voice.

"Cowley wants us to go directly out, now," Bodie reported, before disposing of the other half of the toast.

"Come on then, William. Don't dawdle," he advised, as Bodie slowed to watch an under-age but over-endowed young woman cross the street towards them.

"Not what I was thinking of doing," Bodie said, eyes still following her progress down the walk.

"Thoughts like that will get you a new residence, complete with bars and a clanging door, mate."

Bodie laughed. "Looking won't get me arrested. Do you want me to drive?"

"If you'll keep your eyes on the road, Romeo!" Doyle slid into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt, mindful of Cowley's latest campaign. Having recently lost an agent solely for the reason that the man had been unsecured during a high-speed chase, Cowley had taken to verbally harassing any agent who now neglected the basic safety precautions.

"Romeo? That's your way of telling me she's about fourteen, is it?"

"I thought Juliet was thirteen?" Doyle said, with a glance back. A crime, putting kids in high heels like that. Made them look older, and it was provocative, the way their rear ends swayed. And it made him feel old to realize he was reacting like a....

Like a man in his mid-thirties, old enough to be her father, old enough so that his first reaction wasn't lust, but concern for the little fool--and her family, letting her go out like that.

"It's not like I was thinking of asking her out, Doyle. You know, you've become very judgmental of late. I should watch that, if I were you."

Doyle said, "They're doing something to the road ahead. You'll want to turn left."

Bodie turned at once, but didn't let the subject drop. "I've a date with an air hostess tonight. Although if tonight is anything like last night I shall go to bed with my balls in knots. Again."

I could solve that little problem for you, Doyle thought, but what he said was, "Something wrong with your good right hand?"

"It can't kiss. Love a good snoggin' session. Osculation, Doyle, is something very difficult to do alone."

Doyle had to agree with that, although he tried not to dwell too long on the concept of kissing Bodie. It drove his blood pressure up. He should have resisted, but he gave in to his worst impulses and asked, "So besides kissing, what does your lordship require of his companions of the evening?"

"That makes 'em sound like tarts, Doyle. Have a bit more confidence in my abilities! The finest of young ladies, Doyle, that's what my birds are!"

Doyle snickered. Maybe some of them were, but all? Doyle knew better. "Osculating experts?"

"Undulating experts as well. All legs and arse behind, Doyle. I love the way a woman walks."

"A handicapped woman, you mean."

Bodie threw him a questioning glance as they finally hit the motorway. "Pardon?"

"You think that wiggling arse is natural? It's just the result of high heels, Bodie, toe squeezing, foot warping contraptions which take away a woman's ability to run."

"Naw. It slows a man down, Doyle, not a woman! He stops to admire the view, and she's got him within reach. She reaches out! She grabs him! She...." Bodie was playing out a small drama with the aid of waving hands. Most of the time at least one was on the wheel.

"Did you intend to hit that car? You missed by at least an inch," Doyle said critically.

"Two," Bodie declared, unperturbed.

Doyle took the conversation back. "What do you look for in a sex partner, Bodie?"

"Versatility. Legs down to there, tits out to here," Bodie said, taking his hands from the wheel again to demonstrate.

"Not intelligence, or good conversation, or...."

"That's just icing. Comes along with the basic package."

"So basically, what you want is a pair of legs that open."

"Got it in one, mate!" Bodie agreed cheerfully.

Something inside Doyle gave a little twist, but he ignored it.

Bodie looked over when he became aware of the silence. "It's what all men want. It's what you go after yourself."

"Don't judge me by your rule book, Bodie! Some of us look for something other than that. Good conversation. Kindness." He looked at Bodie. "Fun to be with. A sense of humour."

"I get those things. Just don't go looking for them. You make everything too hard, Doyle."

You make me crazy, Doyle sighed to himself. What was he looking for? It wasn't like Bodie was suddenly going to declare that what he really wanted was a sulking green-eyed man who could outshoot him with a pistol.

Cowley himself was at the gate when they arrived, a sheaf of papers in one hand, an r/t in the other. "Ah, there you are. Join Murphy. He'll fill you in," Cowley said brusquely, turning away to speak to an irate citizen who could not turn in at the gate because it was blocked by CI5 vehicles.

"Good morning to you, too," Bodie murmured, as he and Doyle went to meet the other agents in front of the house.

Murphy nodded as they stepped beside him. "We're to take the house apart, #12. Search it top to bottom. We're looking for papers, guns, and Culbert. We're to search wearing these," he held up pairs of surgical gloves. When Bodie caught his eye and lifted an eyebrow, Murphy shrugged in return. Orders. "I have the kit here, and I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything from the box. Evans, Jax, take the top floor, Branchcomb and Ford, this floor except the kitchen, where I'll be with Thompson." There were whistles at that, for Thompson was attractive and blonde. Murphy offered them a selection of fingers to choose from but then went on as if he had not been interrupted. "Bodie and Doyle will take the lower levels. We'll be doing the grounds eventually, too, no doubt. Let's go." He began handing out the gloves.

"The dungeon again," Bodie said sadly.

"They know your taste for low things," Doyle told him.

"Explains why I like you. Careful." They had reached the house and started down the stairs. "All that money, you'd think they could afford a hand rail."

Doyle was thinking how pitiful it was that his heart had thumped hard when Bodie said he liked him. He'd better get Bodie out of his system. Soon.

The rooms below were for storage, for a wine cellar, for a weight room. Doyle stood, pulling on the latex gloves and looking around. "Where shall we start? Wine cellar?" They had long ago worked out a pattern for searching a room, and they preferred to do it together. If they did it individually, they found they were continually asking each other about what had already been done. In the beginning, doing it together had eliminated any lingering doubts about the quality of the other's work. Now it was just a habit, another way of working together.

"Wine cellar," Bodie agreed. Bodie went left, and Doyle right.

"Nothing."

They did the room with the exercise equipment next. Doyle could see that Bodie was aching to try out the devices--once he saw a gloved hand rest yearningly on the bright steel bar of a complicated machine designed to work the thigh and calf muscles.

They had to dismantle it all, to peer inside tubes and packets, open up whatever seemed to be closed. Bodie went for a hammer, and resolutely smashed open some of the weights. Sand was eventually everywhere, as were bits of stuffing from several of the cushions. They made an attempt to return everything to a reasonable state, due to Cowley's policy of not disturbing the citizenry any more than necessary, but there was no denying the room and its contents had suffered.

The storage rooms were last. Carton after carton, box after box, they delved into private lives. The detritus of years, packed away and forgotten. Bodie threw the dead mouse he found at Doyle, who ducked and cursed him and promised a suitable revenge, while imagining just what he'd like to do to Bodie to make him pay. Strange, strange thoughts, to weave between the hard practicality needed to paw through item after item in search of something not as it should be.

Jax arrived, measuring tape in hand, and working around them, he measured each of the walls, and then left.

"I thought so," Doyle said. "No railings."

"If you're under the impression you're making sense," Bodie told him, "give it up. You're not."

"I'll not bother to explain it," Doyle said. He'd spotted several violations of the building codes; in a home this new it could only mean that the builder had taken liberties for a reason--probably the folding kind. There had to be a motive behind it, and Jax measuring the rooms confirmed it. Secret room? Or just a safe the owner wanted well hidden?

They were invited to explore beyond the limits of the walls. Bodie went to work with enthusiasm, prying off panels with an iron bar and an exuberant willingness.

They found more than they expected.

Bodie, the iron bar slack in his hand, said in a low voice to Doyle, "D'you ever read that story by Poe?"

Doyle looked at the plastic wrapped bundle, held upright in its wooden niche by boards neatly nailed into place, and said, "Yes. You'd better go tell Cowley."

Bodie shook his head. "You go. I'll keep on here." He hefted his tool, looking at the space to the left speculatively.

Doyle shrugged and went. He returned with Cowley and three others, to find Bodie had the whole wall down. There were five other bundles exposed, but none of them had that rounded look which instinctively made them uneasy. These new ones had an angular look. Bodie had one of those open, and the dull metal of rifle barrels showed through.

Cowley knelt, tore away enough of the plastic of the first bundle to catch a glimpse of what was within. "Female," he said in a clipped voice. "Not recent," he added, and relief spread through the watchers as they realized it couldn't then be Culbert. "Notify the authorities. The rest of you, keep on looking. No doubt there'll be more to find." He showed little emotion, but there was a touch of offended fastidiousness there nonetheless.

Everyone scattered. Bodie attacked another wall. "What do you suppose that poor woman looks like after all this time?" he asked Doyle.

"Welcome to go look if you like," Doyle offered, making no move to do so himself.

"I didn't say I wanted to see it. Seen enough dead bodies, fresh and otherwise, in my time. Human nature, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Not going to be anyone we know, is it?"

Bodie lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug, and said, "Stand back." There were shouts behind him, and he stopped his swing. Jax appeared at the top of the stairs. "They've found Culbert, and the bastard is actually alive!"

"Can he talk?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Unconscious. Ambulance coming. Cowley says keep on with what you're doing, and he's going along to the hospital. Murph's in charge. I'm to start an inventory of what we have found. It's going to take more paper than I've got to list this lot, so I'll be back once I've found some." He popped back out.

"We'll be here awhile."

"I'll like it better when they take that away," Doyle looked over at the so-still plastic-wrapped body on the floor.

"We're going to miss another meal," Bodie said; by changing the subject he told his partner he didn't want to talk about the dead. Doyle didn't find food at all the thing for a new conversational subject and changed it again.

"We'll be working on this one for weeks. Fallen into the middle of something big, haven't we?"

"Funny how it works, sometimes," Bodie agreed, and then he was making too much noise to continue the discussion.

Doyle set to work, prying off the sections as Bodie loosened them. Teamwork, he thought, as he put his back into it. Imagine how it would be if they both quit CI5, if they worked at some job like other men. In construction, perhaps. Could imagine Bodie doing that sort of work. Driving big machinery, perhaps. Swinging a hammer. Imagine him with his shirt off, sweaty, muscles swelling....

No. Better not.

"Clever," Bodie said, pausing in his work. "Ammunition stacked up along the wood. Metal detector would assume it was part of the reinforcement--they thought. That trick's been tried before!"

Doyle said, "They all have. Which reminds me. Bash through, that wood behind. These blokes bring Trojan horses to mind."

"Your wish is my command," Bodie joked, but instead of using his crowbar, he let loose with a kick, stepping into it to gain all the power he could. Wallboard exploded out into the next room. "No, you're wrong," Bodie said, peering through the hole he had created. He wasn't even panting. Bloody show-off. Not that a certain part of Doyle hasn't appreciated seeing that sturdy body in action. Not poetry in motion, Bodie--not unless bulldozers were, as well--but eye-catching.

"The theory is still good. Got secrets beyond secrets, don't they?"

"Help me pull this down," Bodie ordered. Doyle loaned his strength, and the rest of the wall was down. "The little housewife is not going to be happy. We've made a right mess."

"Don't stop to admire your handiwork now. Too many more walls."

Bodie obediently went at it again. In two hours, they had indeed made a mess of monumental dimensions, and they wore the evidence from head to toe.

When the r/t sounded, they were glad enough to stop. "3.7," Bodie said briskly, hiding his breathlessness admirably.

"I want you and 4.5 in the kitchen." No need to ask who. The two agents headed for the stairs, Bodie still clutching the iron bar in a blistered hand.

They found Cowley seated on one side of a wide kitchen table, papers strung out before him, and several items wrapped in plastic besides. One was partially open, and they looked over the contents silently while they waited for Cowley to cease speaking into the r/t.

"Batteries, wire, timepiece, and..." Bodie began.

"Plastique," Doyle finished. "Nice little bomb, that."

"One of quadruplets, too," Bodie noted. "Looks like the other lads have been busy as well."

"Can't take all the glory, mate. Selfish."

Cowley could now give them his attention, and he started with a sour look to get theirs. "Bodie, Doyle, you'll stay with the house tonight. I'll have Thompson watching outside the walls. I'll want reports every hour. You found nothing else downstairs?"

"After the bullets? No." Bodie looked around the kitchen, his eyes lingering on the fridge. Doyle, hungry as well, was bold enough to ask Cowley if they could go out for a meal and was told food would be arriving soon, and meanwhile, they were to wash the dirt off.

"Do we look that bad?" Doyle asked as they found their way to a spacious bathroom. One look in the mirror assured him that he, at least, had chalky dust in his hair and streaks of it on his face and arms. They indulged freely in expensive soap and fresh towels, and emerged in time for the pizza Anson carried into the house.

By dusk, the last of the lads had left, and Bodie had long ago munched up the last crust of the pizza. Doyle joined him in the front room, glad of a chance to sit for a moment. "Have you seen this place?" he asked Bodie. "I've seen bombs that have left more standing."

"Yeah? Well, 'e shouldn't have had a finger in quite so many rotten pies, should he?"

"I heard the body turned out to be his wife. Who do you suppose has been playing the part all these years?" Doyle stretched. Outside, the lights along the drives had come on. When Bodie didn't answer, he said, "I feel filthy yet."

"So take a shower. I'll watch."

"You'll watch me take a shower? Petal, I didn't know!" Doyle joked.

Bodie made a rude noise. "You know what I meant!"

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to put on my dirty clothes again, so I'll have to pass."

"Wear some of Netherton's. Wash yours--there's the machines in the room beyond the pantry."

"Be something, wouldn't it? Chasing a man while wearing his clothes?" Doyle stood, stretching. "It should be quiet, though. I think I will."

"Don't take too long--I want to do the same."

The bath was huge, with shower heads at each end, so that one could stand, caught in spray from two different directions--or shower with a friend. Doyle soaped himself well, scrubbing the dirtier bits with an assortment of natural sponges. Odd sensations. His skin tingled, and he didn't think of Bodie. He thought of Topper, of making his phone call. Not from here, with the line tapped, but as soon as he could.

Clean and fresh, wearing silk boxer shorts he found in a drawer in the master bedroom, and a white shirt and black trousers from there as well, he emerged from the bathroom threading a belt through the belt loops. Bodie whistled as he saw him, and Doyle stopped to look at himself in the mirror. The cinched in trousers weren't his usual look, but--it wasn't bad. All he needed was a coat to sling over his shoulder by one finger, and he'd look like an advertisement.

Bodie was stripping off, throwing his clothing onto Doyle's. "Toss 'em all in together--be quicker," Bodie suggested, before disappearing into the bathroom. The image of those strong, powerful thighs, the broad muscled chest, the lax roll of Bodie's genitals stayed with Doyle as he quickly retreated, the armful of clothing swiftly snatched up as he went. The warmth of Bodie's body still clung to the underpants on the top of the pile, and Doyle was glad to find the laundry room, glad to thrust the garment clear to the bottom of the machine, as far away as he could get it. Soap powder, dials...he let the mechanics of getting the washing started distract him from the odd wishful thoughts.

Afterwards, he did a round of the house, checking windows and doors, although he knew Bodie had done so already. He would have been shocked to his core to find Bodie had missed anything, yet he had to do his own check. Like dogs, marking territory, one coming along after the other? Doyle grinned at the idea.

He took another tour, turning out lights so that they could best look out into the dark. Did he time his arrival so that he showed up just as Bodie stepped out of the bathroom? He watched his partner dress, and he admired the end result. Bodie, in a white shirt and black trousers from the same drawers and closet Doyle had borrowed from, was....

Doyle sighed. The slacks, too long and too loose on Doyle, were tight on Bodie, clinging to the curve of his buttocks when he turned. The shirt, adhering to his body in spots where Bodie had still been damp when dressing, was equally flattering. For once having to do without his high necked polo, Bodie had deigned to leave the top two buttons of the shirt undone. Doyle swallowed hard on the words which came to his lips and settled for a nod which said his partner looked acceptable. Bodie, knowing he looked wonderful, smirked. His hair was already almost dry, unlike Doyle's which was still damp. Doyle ran his fingers through the mass, turning an impulse to touch Bodie's hair into a re-arranging of his own, and said, "No problem below. I turned off the lights. How do you want to run this?"

"I don't anticipate trouble. Be a bloody fool to try to come in here, and what's left to come for? No reason for both of us to stay up all night. Let's take two hour watches. Flip you for it? Heads I go to bed first, tails you do."

"With my coin," Doyle agreed, digging into the strange pockets for his change. Tossing a coin to Bodie, he watched intently as it flashed into the air and then fell to the ground. Both of them leaned over it. Doyle thought of how close their heads were. Their bodies.

Bodie said, "I win!"

"Where will you be, then?" Doyle asked.

"I think I'll try here. Nighty night, Ray!" He made motions, pretending to urge him out with the gestures a farmer's wife used to chase hens.

"R/t by the bed," Doyle said, although it didn't need to be said. Bodie's gestures the second time were obscene and then threatening. Doyle grinned and left.

He went from window to window, making no motion to show a watcher that he was there, and pausing to study the scene out each pane of glass. Eventually he went to put the laundry into the dryer. He thought of his clothing and Bodie's, tumbling together, the legs of the trousers twisting among and between....

The ruined house was quiet. Time passed too slowly. Doyle stood in the door of the bedroom, looking at Bodie sprawled out on the bed asleep, for a full moment before he woke him. He brought their clean clothing, and put on his own while his eyes lingered on Bodie. Then he woke his partner and watched Bodie change as well. Bodie was observably reluctant to climb into his own clothing, to give up the expensive borrowed ones. White silk. Bodie's taste in clothing went towards the fashionable, but not always towards the classic styles. Bodie couldn't afford the sort of things he would like to have; he dressed well considering his budget, but seldom reached the highest sartorial peaks.

I'll buy you silk shirts, if you'll be mine, Doyle silently promised, and smiled because it was a throwback to his childhood, to innumerable bargains made with fate which he had outgrown years before. Hadn't he?

The bed was covered with fine sheets which smelled of lavender, but it was too soft. Doyle stretched out on it, disappointed to find it held no trace of Bodie's scent or warmth, but glad enough for the chance to sleep. His two hours were gone in a blink. Bodie was back, waking him up.

He felt more like himself. Downstairs, Bodie had made tea; it was hot and fresh and Doyle carried the cup with him as he hiked from room to room. He even went down to the basement. He thought of that poor damn woman, killed and sealed into the wall of her own house. No ghosts, here. Just silence. Too much time to think.

He was careful not to wake Bodie early. They had always played fair with each other. Doyle lay back down on Netherton's expensive, uncomfortable bed, watching Bodie check his gun before heading down the stairs.

The only way to be fair to Bodie was to never, ever let him have a clue about how he felt.

Morning came with Bodie's hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake while Bodie spoke into the r/t. "That's right, sir. Of course. Quiet as the grave here all night."

"The local police will be sending a man over to guard the place until an investigative team from New Scotland Yard arrives. Give them every consideration." Cowley's voice had that abstracted sound, as if he were doing two other things as well as speaking to them. Probably was. "We're turning the murder over to them, while following up on the weapons cache. We have numbers from the guns. Stolen, of course, but over four years ago. 3.7 will look into that theft. 4.5, I want you to report back to me at two, here. We have some calls to make."

"I'll be there," Doyle said unhappily, and signed off.

"Cheer up, I have tea and toast ready downstairs. Who is going to notice a loaf of bread gone missing when there's holes the size of elephants in the pantry? Better hurry, though. The men on the bicycles will be here by eight."

Doyle gave a scowl at Bodie's scurrilous description of a policeman--Bodie had a habit of tweaking him about his past--and hauled himself to the bathroom, where liberal applications of cold water to his face brought him in touch with reality. His mouth was like a peat bog.

Hot tea helped set him right, but the toast--what was left of it--was quite cold. He ate it anyway.

They had come in Doyle's car, and left that way as well, Doyle driving. He dropped Bodie off at his place and went on to a public phone, where at last he caught Topper. Mindful that his friend might have wife or children listening at that end, Doyle was careful to explain his proposition in words which did not require any answer except yes or no.

Topper was pleased with the idea of renting out some of his days until a slot opened up for Doyle, and glad to meet for lunch at the pub where he had last seen Doyle. The CI5 agent went home and went to bed. It was difficult sleeping during the day, and after only a few hours he was up, thinking about the report he would have to do on the Netherton case, while he showered and dressed in fresh clothing. He had discovered long ago that if he had a report all ready in his mind, it went much faster when he sat down to put it on paper. Sometimes, too, he recalled the events more clearly after this process. It was a great help when he was called to testify in court.

He was early, and sat with a coke in front of him, waiting for Topper, and wondering about the flat. When Topper arrived, the man thanked him for his brilliant idea, relieved him of thirty pounds. "For the rest of this month, and the fund," as he explained, and pressed into his hands a key. It was cold and solid in Doyle's hand. Then Topper asked if he wanted to skip the meal and spend the time at the flat. Doyle agreed.

They took Topper's car, Doyle not wanting to explain the radio in his, and soon they were walking up the stairs in a modest house which had been converted to flats thirty years ago.

"No lift. Keeps the rent down and the heart rate up," Topper said as they headed up the four flights of stairs. The dark wooden staircase was polished, the stairs clean. The door to the flat was number 10, and the solid wooden door had two good locks, which Doyle approved of heartily. This door opened up into a room which would have been huge, but it lost much of its space because of a steeply sloping ceiling. The flat plainly was a converted attic, as Topper had said. This white room featured a set of large wooden lockers along the wall and windows on the north and east. The curtains at the windows were faded but not dusty, and there was no covering on the paint splashed wooden floor. A tiny kitchen was tucked into one corner, with a sink and cooker and a table painted white, with two black plastic chairs and a wooden one which had long ago lost all varnish.

Doyle blinked.

Topper was showing him the lockers. There were eight, one for the cleaning lady which was unlocked, one for each of the seven co-renters, with a padlock or combination lock on each. Topper opened his, showing that there was considerable space inside, including a rack for a coat or other clothing, five small drawers, and a large empty space for an easel and art supplies. Topper had this area filled with glasses, bottles and a stone crock with a lid in the shape of a mouse. He offered the use of the closet to Doyle, who declined, to Topper's almost-well-hidden relief. He locked up and crooked a finger, telling Doyle to follow him.

"Ta da!" Topper opened the door to the bedroom with a flourish, watching for Doyle's reaction with eager anticipation. Doyle's response must have been satisfactory, because Topper laughed and ushered him in. The room was like something out of the Arabian nights. Lush ruby-red carpet covered the floor, and the walls were papered in blue, with a pattern of white and gold. Curtains of thick red, which matched the carpet, guarded the windows. The bed was king sized, covered by a black and white duvet, turned back to show sheets of red satin.

Two of the walls sloped here, as well, but the bed was under part of this slope and the wall featured bars and pulleys and ropes, with an actual swing or trapeze tied to one side with a velvet cord.

"Bloody hell," Doyle said quietly.

"And there's this," Topper said, opening the door to the bathroom. It was done in white enamel on which was painted original art--nudes, both male and female, sported on every wall. The old-fashioned claw-footed bathtub was huge, and had a shower as well. One wall held a shelf with a hundred bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bubble bath, bath crystals and lotions lined up. The toilet and sink were modern, and the cupboard featured thick towels of every size and colour.

"I can see why you're reluctant to give this up," Doyle said to Topper, while he struggled not to see a vision of Bodie, nude on that magnificent bed. The bed wasn't his idea of good taste, but he knew Bodie was drawn to the flamboyant in that area, and he knew Bodie would adore it.

Only Bodie would want to bring a woman here, make love to her amid all this decadent splendour.

"The next two Mondays are all yours," Topper announced, with a grand gesture. "By then a regular slot will probably be open. You did want your own day, right?"

"Yeah. I want it." Now, more than ever. He smiled. "Wish I could stay awhile longer, but duty calls. Thanks," he took Topper's hand firmly, "for letting me have some of your days."

"I should thank you," Topper said, patting his pocket where the money lay.

When they parted, Doyle had the unmarked keys on his ring, and he went a round-about way to work, stopping once for takeaway. Cowley grabbed him the moment he arrived, and Doyle found himself driving Cowley from place to place, playing secretary on the car phone while the boss was in meetings so that when he came out again Cowley was instantly in touch with all that was going on.

The last thing Cowley said that night was that Doyle was to arrive at nine the next morning, to assist Bodie. It gave Doyle a warm glow which lasted all the way home; it was better when he could work with his partner. Doyle found he was whistling as he settled in for a few relaxing hours at home. The box bored him, he soon discovered. Restless, he turned it off and sat thinking for a moment, and then he went to his closet and began to root around, finally unearthing a wooden box, which he took to the table to open.

Paints. Brushes. Papers and notebooks of drawings. More than ten years old, all of it. He'd lost the easel and the bulkier equipment about the third time CI5 had moved him, and he'd long ago destroyed almost every painting he had ever done. There was just this box left, and by now the half empty tubes of paint and the old brushes would be nearly useless. Best to throw it all out and start new. Being Doyle, his idea of throwing it out was to donate it to the centre where he sometimes taught self defence. They didn't expect him on a regular basis--CI5 did not operate on a schedule--so they wouldn't notice at first that he did not come around on Mondays.

He sat, one hand on the battered box which held the paints, and tried to decide if he was doing the right thing by taking a share of the artists' flat. Maybe it would be better to just give his extra time to the kids at the centre. Yet in the middle of the night the centre couldn't take his time, and the centre couldn't give him what he was looking for right now. He didn't have to keep his share of the flat for long, after all. Just as long as it took to get all this out of his system.

Whatever "this" was. Mid-life crisis? The same thing which sent happily married middle-aged men running off with chorus girls? Only he wasn't middle aged. Thirty three. Young, most people would say.

Bodie was younger. A couple of years, but it seemed more, sometimes. It was the perennial child which Bodie exhibited, especially to his partner. The sort of thing which caused him to wolf down Swiss roll on an op, or give a Tarzan yell before leaping. Bodie....

Doyle shook his head, driving the image of his partner away from him. He refused to think about Bodie. No. He needed to...he needed...he needed a good wank and an early night, he decided. Slowly, he began his evening rituals: checking the locks, bathing, brushing his teeth. Then, he turned back his bed and got out his collection of magazines. Naked, he lay on his bed, idly rubbing at his cock while he flipped pages. Some of the pictured women caused a moment of warmth, and he worked to excite himself. Slowly, however, he stopped paging through the magazine, letting it fall shut as he was caught up in mental visions from the far past. He remembered pumping an unknown man's cock at a party at the old flat, and how it had been to hold still while fingers poked lube up his arse, getting him ready for the cock.

It had never been great, being fucked. Good enough to get off on, good enough to do it again, but never great. Better to be doing the fucking, he remembered. Young. Too young to spend any time on your partner, intent only on hunting the elusive next fuck. He recalled the nights when he had fucked two or three an evening both men and women, and the one mad weekend when he'd been taken by five men, one after the other. Drunk. He'd been wild and drunk and a fool.

The memories weren't helping. Quite the opposite.

So he let his mind drift back only a few months ago, to a young woman who had shared herself with him and given him the most incredible blow job. Just thinking about it was enough to lift both his spirits and his flesh. The feel of her lips...watching the dark cap of her hair as she bobbed up and down for his pleasure, the skill of her fingers....

Doyle came, gasping, milking himself hard, and then falling back on the bed while he recovered, his hand rubbing at his abdomen, his body singing with the release of tension. He yawned, and forced himself to get up and go clean himself up. Ten minutes later he was asleep.

Bodie was in a mood the next day, one of those dark spells where he glowered at the world. The man needed exercise, Doyle decided, and after a morning of phones and files he enticed Bodie down to the gym. Two hours of the modified karate which CI5 currently favoured and the smile came back to Bodie's face.

What was coming to Doyle's face was a bruise. He had miscalculated once, and Bodie had gotten in a good one. Knowing that Bodie sported a few bruises himself, thanks to Doyle's fast feet and clever hands, made it bearable.

The bruise had some interesting side effects. Since it gave him a twinge to smile, he was a sombre back-up to Bodie when they went to haunt the haunts of the gun-running crowd. Surprising, how many people didn't mind talking about buys which must have occurred four or five years in the past. It was the current deals they were closed mouthed about. Memories were faulty and booze made them more so, and on top of that, there were deals which divided the results of other deals, and then combined them with yet other deals. Guns, bought at different times than ammunition, traded together and then sold separately again.

It was lucky they even came up with a name, but "Paulson" was mentioned on three different occasions, and so they did not go home empty handed.

Bodie had been all black leather that night, wearing one of those oddly pristine combinations that made Doyle look scruffy by comparison. Doyle had been content to play second fiddle to Bodie in this environment, to buy the drinks and keep his mouth shut while Bodie spoke to former friends and acquaintances. Bodie did the same for him when they spoke to one of Doyle's grasses.

Black leather.

It wasn't easy to get to sleep that night.

Monday was a relief. They spent the day getting certain visitors of importance safely from the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to the meeting, from the meeting back to hotel, and were off early. Doyle turned down an offer to join Bodie for a meal, picking up Chinese on the way to The Flat. He parked several blocks away, not only to be prudent but because parking was less plentiful than he had thought.

He ate sitting in utter silence in the strange kitchen, glad he had thought to bring his own beer, because while tea and a teapot was available, he could find no cups. He had his r/t with him, but he hoped it would stay silent.

After the meal, he set out to explore the place. He made a quick check for bugs, prodded by professionalism and paranoia, and was glad to find nothing obvious. He would bring a kit and do a proper job next time, he told himself. Today was reserved for breaking and entering. He had his kit, professional tools lifted off a second storey man back when he was a copper, fine steel tools in a purpose-built case of felt and leather.

He started with the locker reserved for the char. It was not locked, and considering the contents, there wasn't any need for it to be. Packets, bottles, rags, mops, brooms, and a sweeper. It was on the end, closest to the front door. The next in line was locked with a padlock. Doyle timed himself, and was holding it open in less than four minutes. He grinned. Nothing like keeping one's hand in, in a good cause. He could just imagine what George Cowley would say if one of his flatmates turned out to be a terrorist--or even a garden variety criminal.

This locker was crammed full. A man's coat, several years out of style, hung on the hook. Condoms, salves, lubricants plain and flavoured, filled one drawer. Coffee cups and other crockery, some packages of dried soups, and some canned food sat on the shelf. There was a wind-up alarm clock there as well. Another drawer of dildos and various odd devices which did not bear close scrutiny, but which Doyle looked over quite completely.

The next locker took even less time to get into, but that was because it was Topper's and Doyle had caught two numbers of the combination on the previous visit. No surprises. He left it open when he finished.

The third, which had a double lock, took more than a half hour of work, and he stopped twice to stretch cramped fingers and once to take a cup from Topper's locker and go and make himself some tea. It was a good thing he was in no hurry, he decided as he went back to the chore.

Inside was the biggest collection of porn magazines he had ever seen. The locker was stacked top to bottom with them. Some were common, some were like nothing he had come across before, even in his years with the vice squad. At least, Doyle discovered after he had pulled them all out and, one by one, replaced them in the same order, none of them were the really kinky things. No kiddie porn, or snuff mags, or any that featured scat or pissing. But there was one which featured people and animals--including a spread with actors made up to look like the court of Catherine of Russia, and which also featured horses--and one which had entirely too much contortion and manacles for his taste.

All the drawers had been removed from this locker except one, and in that was a bottle of lotion, glass, a cup and an alarm clock.

After he got all that back in place he had to stop and wash his hands--the magazines were dirty in more than one meaning of the word and some of them must have been decades old--and get another cup of tea. The next two lockers were a breeze in comparison. They were used by artists and actually contained art equipment, paint and small canvases. It was clear two people shared both compartments. There were several works in progress stored inside as well. Talent, Doyle decided, but one was untrained or unrestrained, and the other seemed to have a problem with perspective with which Doyle sympathized completely.

The next locker had an easy padlock and simple contents. An alarm clock, condoms, magazines, plates and silverware, tall candles in elegant glass holders, a selection of romantic cards with coloured envelopes, a stack of unpaid bills--Zach Thomas, Doyle noted, was at the end of his creditor's patience--and a scrapbook/diary with details of his sexual encounters and evaluations of his performance. The man thought a lot of himself.

The locker on the end, fastened with another small padlock, obviously belonged to the writer. There was an electric typewriter, a stack of ribbons, several reams of paper, at least one of every correction medium ever invented, and files and files of typed material. A single coffee cup and a single fork and a small travel alarm gave testimony to his solitary pursuits.

Unexceptional, Doyle decided as he closed the last locker and went back to the one after Topper's, the one with the world class collection of naughty magazines. Eighty-five percent of them were straight, and it took a little work to find one which had a segment in it which featured men. Doyle took the magazine and an alarm clock with him to the magnificent bedroom.

The bed was comfortable. He bounced on it, testing it out, while setting the clock. Then, he went to the bathroom and gave the shower a test run as well. Plenty of hot water and marvellous towels, huge thick ones made it a lovely experience. It was strange to dry off in the midst of the painted nudes on the bathroom walls. Clean, with the towel around his shoulders because his hair was not quite dry, Doyle climbed back onto the bed to peruse the magazine. Fuzzy pictures, most of them, and standard stuff, too. Big man in leather feeding cock to a smaller man on his knees. Big man spreading his arse for an even bigger man's horse-sized cock.

Here was one. Two bodies, entwined, lost in shadows. Highlights which were almost artistic, and faces anonymous. Yeah. Just enough fuel for his imagination. His hand started to move blindly searching for and finding his cock, and he became so caught up in his fantasy that he almost forgot to pull the towel over his spurting penis when he came.

He fell asleep a few minutes later, the towel pushed off onto the floor and his hand trailing off the edge of the bed after it. He woke up several times in the night to unusual sounds from other parts of the building, but he did that at home as well, and he only turned over and went back to sleep once he had identified what had roused him.

Well rested when the alarm went off at five, he spent a few minutes returning all his borrowed items and hiding all clues to his snooping. Next time, he decided, he would bring a track suit and go directly out to exercise. As it was, he was forced to drive home, change, run, come home and eat and be at work at nine.

Work was a complete contrast to the peace of the morning. Bodie was full of stories about his latest girl. Doyle listened with patience to a recital of how long and golden her hair was, how she was a natural blonde, wink wink, how she liked to lick--everything, wink, nod--and how she was insatiable--leer.

Doyle did his best to show interest, to respond as he always had, and fortunately, they were put to work immediately upon arrival and he did not have to pretend for long. Cowley had a new lead on the weapons from the Netherton case. Half the morning was expended in discovering the individual who had once been a partner of Netherton's was dead, the afternoon was spent finding and talking to the man's daughter.

Stelle Ackerson knew a few more names, associates of Netherton's, and she had known Mrs Netherton and spoke of how pretty she had been. Doyle had let Bodie handle the interview. He sat back and watched his partner pour on the charm. Doyle let his eye trace the shape of Bodie's body as the man leaned forward. Bodie brought his hands to the front, as well, and both actions made him look smaller, less threatening. And he smiled. Killer smile, that, and when he stopped smiling it pulled his mouth into a bit of a pout. He played her like a trout and she told all she knew.

"You didn't try for her," Doyle said when they were back in their car. "Could have, you know. She really fancied you."

"She did, didn't she?" Bodie responded, pleased. "Maybe after the case is closed and it's proved she had nothing to do with it, I'll look her up. Right now, I've got my hands--and other parts of my anatomy--full with Tammy."

Doyle snorted his laughter.

"She has," Bodie added, "a sister. Or so she tells me. Let's double, Friday. Assuming, as always, that our social secretary has nothing else planned for that night."

"What's wrong with her?"

Bodie cocked his head to one side. "Wrong with her?" he echoed.

"Yeah, the sister. If she was anything special, you'd have made a play for her yourself."

"Haven't met her, have I?" Bodie explained.

"Ah. So this is a blind date."

"Yeah, but judging by Tammy, you won't be unhappy."

"I," Doyle told him, "remember the last time you set me up with a blind date."

"When did I...oh."

Doyle bared his teeth at him and said, "I see you remember it as well as I do."

"How was I to know she had tattoos?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Over fifty percent of her body. You, of course, did not see the ones she had on her lower abdomen. Unless your fantasy is to stick it into a nest of snakes?"

"Can't say it is," Bodie admitted. "Snakes?" he repeated.

"A little twist on the Medusa story, she told me."

"Charming."

"Isn't it."

Bodie recalled himself to their current discussion and said, "But Tammy's sister won't be like that. Come on, mate. Live dangerously!"

Doyle made a rude sound.

"We'll make it just a movie and a meal. Can take her home early, if you like," Bodie said generously.

"You already set it up, didn't you?" Doyle said.

"Well, if you couldn't make it, I could always ask Anson or Pruett. I did tell her I had a good-looking mate, though, and are you sure either of them really qualifies?"

Doyle said, "In low lighting," but he was thinking, 'Does he think I'm good looking?' and his heart was beating just a little faster.

"Come on, Doyle. Only a few hours of your time," Bodie wheedled.

"I'll kill you if you're dropping me in it," Doyle warned.

"If she turns out to look like Godzilla, I will personally buy you a bottle...."

"Of whatever I choose?" Doyle interrupted him.

"Well--as long as it doesn't cost more than...."

Doyle interrupted him again. "Whatever I choose."

"You win." Bodie gave in, with a glance which showed he had noted the steel in Doyle's voice. "Friday," he said.

"Friday," Doyle agreed, even as he called himself fifty kinds of fool. Double dates with Bodie hurt now. Watching him all over some woman, and all the time Doyle was supposed to be doing the same to her friend. Hard to do when your instincts were to kick both the ladies out the door and....

Bodie was back on the subject of Tammy's charms, and Doyle didn't listen. They were home early enough so that after Bodie dropped him off, Doyle had time to hit a few of the shops. He bought tea mugs, two big ceramic ones with Neptune and mermaids chasing each other in a blue and green sea, fish tails creating the handles, and two plates to match. Flatware with black handles and squat modern shapes, and squared off glasses with heavy bases. Sets for two. He let his imagination conjure up a heavy-eyed young man with bedroom eyes who....

Blond. Make him a blond, and short. Shorter than Bodie, anyway. Make him young, and a little shy and serious. Opposite in every way of a certain blue-eyed partner. Yeah....

"Sir? May I help you?"

Doyle realized he was blocking the exit, apologized and left at once. He went home to a healthy dinner and an early night. It was just as well, for the next few days were full. Cowley kept them running from one transport company to another, checking invoices for a shipment which had taken a specific route on a specific day. In this case, bounty was the problem, rather than lack of information, for eighteen vehicles fit the description. As happened so often, Cowley took the information they provided and switched them to another assignment without explanation.

Friday night, they got off duty with only enough time to shower and dress before Bodie was around with the car. Doyle sat beside Bodie in the cart smelling the enticing scent of Bodie's aftershave and saying nothing as they drove to Tammy's flat. Tammy greeted Bodie with a squeal and a smack of her red lips, and Doyle took the opportunity to look at the sister.

The woman wore an odd look on her face, half apologetic, half resigned. She was very like her sister, and yet a perfect example of how arbitrary standards of beauty are. He face was only a trifle broader than her sister's, her eyes only slightly smaller, her mouth only a bit wider. Yet Tammy was beautiful and Terry very close to plain. Doyle introduced himself, polite and warm, and saw the uncertainty in her eyes fade away, replaced by gratitude and hope. It was the hope which scared him.

He drew her to one side and spun a story of a true love out of town, and he saw that she only half believed him. Men, he assumed, had told her a great many tales with the message that she was not what they were looking for. All kinds of lies, and several brands of the truth. "We'll have a good time," he promised her as Bodie and Tammy finished their physical greetings and finally turned their attention to the rest of the world.

The meal was fine, with lively four-way conversations which left nobody out. Terry had a fine sense of the absurd and a solid practicality. Doyle wondered how many frogs she would have to kiss to find a prince. He was a frog himself at the moment. Did her sister Tammy think she had found a prince in Bodie? Or did she know about his webbed feet and not care? Bodie, for all his handsome face and clever banter was no more on the market than Doyle was.

The movie was a comedy, and they laughed. Afterwards, Doyle dropped Bodie and Tammy off at her place and drove Terry home, and as he pulled up at the address she had given him, he surprised himself by asking her if she would like to go to bed.

"Not the faithful type?" she asked, one hand on the handle of the door. "Or do you think because I'm not pretty, I'm easy? Men think I should be ever so grateful for a one night stand, you know."

"No. Did you ever," he asked her, leaning on the wheel, his face turned towards her in the dim light, "love somebody desperately, somebody who couldn't see you at all, who didn't even care about you?"

Terry laughed. Doyle made a face. Of course she probably had crushes on men who didn't even know she was alive. He felt a growing bond of sympathy for her.

"Yeah, well, you understand." He tried a smile. "I wasn't really lying. I'm committed, even if...."

"What kind of woman," she wanted to know, "wouldn't find you attractive?"

Doyle shrugged. He actually knew quite a few who thought him common, and others who were willing to spend the night in bed with him, but wanted nothing besides the use of his mouth, his hands, his cock. Most men, Bodie included, never even looked at him romantically. Thank God.

"It's an intriguing offer, you know. I've never been to bed with a really good looking man. Not too many men at all, if you want to know the truth. Usually I get left off at the kerb with a handshake. It wouldn't be much fun for you."

"Negative thinking. Can't have that!" he told her. "It will be fun. It just won't be anything more serious. I wouldn't want to hurt you," he added.

"Do you have...anything...to use, I mean?" Even in the dark he could see her blush.

"Yeah." He turned to her, grinning. "Several somethings--if you want to make a night of it!"

She laughed, almost lightly. "There's something I've never had. Twice in one night." She seemed to make up her mind, saying, "If you really want to...."

He was out of the car and opening her door, handing her out as if she were a princess, and she laughed and gave him her arm. They went up three flights of stairs, and went into her flat. It was small, clean, and the bed was a double. He had her naked and in it in ten minutes. Her body surprised him with the curves her dress had hidden. She had skin like milk. Like Bodie's, he thought, but thrust that idea from him, refusing to think of Bodie now.

He made it a night for her, accepting what she gave but making her pleasure his focus. His mouth between her legs was new to her, and she adored having her breasts sucked. She touched his penis as if it were made of gold, she was wide-eyed as he taught her the proper way to encase a hard cock in rubber, and she cried, "It's so big, so big!" as he pushed into her, so that he wondered for a moment if she were a virgin.

She knew what to do, however, and she did it moderately well, and he taught her a few tricks. An excellent pupil, in fact, he acknowledged when they joined a second time an hour later, and the third time at dawn.

"She's a fool," Terry told Doyle as he dressed. She didn't have to say to whom she referred.

Doyle paused and smiled at her, holding back a yawn. "We're all fools," he told her. "A man with any sense would stay with you instead of chasing impossible dreams."

"It was a wonderful night," she told him, and he kissed her before heading out to his car. He went home, changed into running gear and jogged for an hour before cleaning up and picking up Bodie.

Bodie was red-eyed and lazy with satisfaction and he was glad to let Doyle drive. "So, what brand do you want?" Bodie asked when they were underway.

Doyle glanced over at his sprawled form and lifted an eyebrow. Bodie understood him perfectly and said, "I owe you a bottle, mate."

"Nah," Doyle replied, watching the traffic.

"I suppose you'll want the same as Cowley. Pure malt?"

"Nothing, Bodie. It's okay. She was a nice girl."

"Anything closer to a dog and she would have barked," Bodie said with careless cruelty. "Name your poison."

No way to win this one, and he wasn't in the mood to go into details about his night. To explain any of it would be to explain too much. "Yeah. Pure malt. What Cowley gets." He could always save it and present it to their boss on some future occasion.

"Next pay packet," Bodie promised. "Unless you want to loan me a bit?"

Doyle grinned. "Not a chance."

"I know you've got it," Bodie said.

Doyle shook his head. "I've got plans for my money, mate."

"Retiring to the south of France?" Bodie asked.

"That's a thought." He decided to change the subject. "Wonder what the old man will have us chasing today."

"Paperwork. According to rumour yesterday," Bodie amended.

Doyle made an unhappy sound. Paperwork, and on a Saturday.

"Yeah."

But they didn't. Bodie was sent to test fire new pistols, stoppages having recently hit an all time high, and Doyle went to back up Jax in an investigation of a car bomb which had taken out part of the wall of a residence only a few houses from Safe House Four. Coincidence bothered Cowley.

They got Sunday off. Not that it was a regular thing--most CI5 agents worked at least one Sunday a month and two was more common. Sunday was not a popular day to have off. Few of the agents were of a religious nature and Sunday was not the best day to have free if you needed to shop, or if you were looking for anything other than a chance to catch up with your sleep.

They worked Monday, and that evening Doyle turned down a chance to go out to eat with Bodie and several others, in order to go to The Flat. He took the kit--an assemblage the size of a small suitcase--and checked the flat for bugs. Nothing. He also traced the phone line through the walls. There was no phone in the apartment, but there had been once, and he made sure the ends of the line were sealed off properly. He ate fruit he had brought, "borrowed" Topper's tea cup again, and spent the night in exotic comfort.

The first of the month brought a long-awaited pay rise and, when he phoned Topper to inquire about sharing another month, the news that Friday's Zach Thomas had thrown in the towel and would be vacating that week. None of the others had objected when Doyle's name was suggested; being a charter member was in his favour. Was Doyle interested?

Yes. Doyle told him at once that he was interested, and offered, with the joy of the rise still in him, to bring the first month's rent and the deposit by at once. Topper, unused to such promptness, laughed and took him up on it.

Friday.

His own day!

Unsure of why it meant so much to him to finally have a "day", Doyle went about setting up his one-seventh of a house. He bought a fine lock. His first Friday was spent reinforcing the door of his new locker with steel, adding new hinges and installing the lock. After scrubbing down the inside of the locker and painting it, he impatiently waited for it to dry and then put in his place settings for two.

Place settings for two, he thought as he rested with a cup of hot tea. Two.

He had given some thought to the problem of finding a man. He did not want to find a gay bar and just pick up someone. He knew gay pubs were traps for someone in his profession. He wanted what anonymity he could have, as well as the maximum amount of control.

Before he left on Saturday morning, he had slid a note under the door of the first locker, which most probably belonged to Mark Lane.

Bodie and Doyle were to take over from Miller and Ford Saturday morning. It was a standard stakeout. They were loitering in a pub, keeping an eye on the building across the street. Drugs, Cowley thought, but those who slithered in and out were much older than expected, and other forms of vice remained a possibility.

"Had a good night, did you?" Bodie asked, when the other topics of conversation had dwindled and they had been reduced to talking about Liverpool's chances for entirely too long.

"Eh? Oh, very quiet. Caught up on my reading," Doyle told him, partly truthfully. He had ended the evening with yet another of the magazines from Tuesday's collection, and his good right hand.

"Is that what it's called now?" Bodie asked, lifting his eyebrow in that suggestive way he had. "You weren't home, confess it. I know, because I tried to call."

"Call?"

"I was going to honour you with my presence," Bodie said, assuming an air of offended dignity. "Or is it that you just aren't answering your phone? Dangerous, that, if Father wants you."

"Tammy stood you up, did she?" Doyle said, shrewdly guessing what caused his partner to consider spending the evening.

"No. But she did have to go the airport to pick up some cousin."

"You could have gone with her," Doyle suggested.

"It's against my principles to show too much interests in a bird's relatives. They get the wrong idea."

"The faint clang of wedding bells?" Doyle asked.

"Not this one. But, she does fancy the idea of moving into my flat. It's ever so much nicer than hers," Bodie added, doing a credible imitation of a female falsetto.

Yet another middle-aged man entered the building across the street. The next two were beyond middle age, frankly old. Doyle frowned. It would be too obvious to sit here all day taking notes, but according to his mental abacus that made thirty.

"So, where were you?" Bodie wanted to know.

"Out," Doyle said, his attention more on the scene across the street. The man who had just come out was walking swiftly, his head up, his movements abrupt. High?

"Come on. You can tell me her name," Bodie wheedled.

"Sorry. Not a girl," Doyle said.

"It's me, your partner, your dearest...."

"Somebody's going to have to go in there, see what's going on," Doyle said. "Have we got anyone over fifty on the squad?"

"Couple men and women on the support staff. Jerome down in records must be almost sixty."

Doyle shook his head. "He can barely walk. It has to be somebody who can handle himself in a tight spot. It almost has to be...."

"Cowley!" Bodie caught his thought, and laughed out loud.

"Yeah, Cowley," Doyle grinned. "Do you suppose he yearns for active status occasionally?"

"All I know is you get to be the one who suggests it to him!"

Doyle cut his eyes at him. "Coward!"

Bodie didn't deny it, but he didn't like the idea, even as a joke. "Hungry?" he asked. "I'm going to order."

They had been sitting there long enough to know what looked good, and both of them chose quickly. Doyle took advantage of the change in subject to excuse himself. It wasn't so much that he needed to relieve his bladder--although that turned out to be a necessity as well--as that he needed to get away from Bodie. When he came back to the table, Doyle decided, it had better be with a whole new subject of conversation. He racked his brain.

All for nothing. A new waitress had come on duty for the lunch crowd, a tall redhead with outstanding...ah, attributes. Almost too many to mention, which did not keep Bodie's admiring voice from mentioning them as soon as she was out of earshot. Doyle sat, half annoyed, half relieved. He was safe from further prying questions from Bodie. At the same time, he couldn't help feeling a slow burn of resentment against the woman, the stranger, who so totally had captured his partner's attention.

Sheer jealousy, he told himself. The sooner he found a man to focus all his passion on, the better. At the moment, however, he was forced to give all his attention to the job. It was clear enough that Bodie's mind was elsewhere!

The food was good. Doyle ate more than he usually would, and after the meal he left Bodie to do the job--and flirt with the waitress over coffee--while he went for a walk. Pretending to window-shop gave him an opportunity to cross to the other side of the street, to look more closely at the gentlemen who entered the door marked 14 and climbed the stairs. They all seemed to have a furtive air. He waited to see what they looked like coming out.

Number 16 sold art supplies, and from the window he had a good view. He watched long enough to see that the men emerged with various positive expressions on their faces and...shaved? Definitely shaved. Doyle stood, perplexed, and at first did not hear the saleslady as she asked him if she could help him find something.

When he emerged from the shop he had both hands full and two wrapped packages under his arm. He'd also made his pay rise redundant and was, in fact, shocked at the amount he'd spent. Dazed, he went around the corner to put his purchases in the car before he went back to Bodie.

"Where the hell have you been?" Bodie wanted to know.

"She turn you down, then?" Doyle asked kindly.

"Have a date for Friday," Bodie countered, patting his pocket where his little black book--in his case, brown--resided.

"Of course," Doyle said, having expected nothing else. "Bodie, why would those men come out of there," he inclined his head towards number 14, "shaved?"

"My god, we're watching a barber shop?" Bodie said, feigning shock. "Dens of iniquity, those are. Some of them have," he leaned forward, "naughty magazines!"

"No!" Doyle responded with proper horror.

Bodie nodded, maintaining his air of morality. "And bay rum!"

"Rum?" Doyle asked, puzzled.

"Bay rum, you ignorant toad. What some old men get doused with after a trip to the barber. You've smelled it."

"Oh," Doyle said, recalling the scent.

"Always seemed a waste of rum to me, splashing it about."

"I'm going to call in," Doyle said.

"Ah-ah, Raymond. Your just had your stroll. My turn!" Bodie said, and left to go to the car.

Doyle was left alone. He ordered tea, and it came and he had almost drained it before Bodie came ambling back.

"We're to go. Cowley wants us back in. Something's on for tonight."

"Good." Doyle tossed back the last of his tea and stood up.

"What have you got back there?" Bodie pointed to the back seat as they settled into the car, strapping in as per Cowley's latest instructions. Both of them hated the feeling of being restrained, of reduced mobility, but after losing two agents whom doctors said could have been saved if they had been wearing seat belts, Cowley had laid down the law.

"That? Painting supplies," Doyle said.

"The walls in that flea-trap they moved you into could use a touch-up," Bodie agreed, deliberately misunderstanding.

"Cretin."

Bodie grinned and pulled out into traffic. Fortunately, from Doyle's point of view, a little old lady cut him off at the corner and all Bodie's attention went to avoiding an accident and finding the exact words to describe her actions and ancestry.

Every minute from that point on was full. The "something" on that night was the bust of an industrialist who had been exporting more than pipe to the oil countries. A day to get in place, then a carefully orchestrated raid, and two full days of mop-up.

And Friday off.

Doyle and his painting supplies arrived before nine in the morning, and as he was unloading his car he saw two young women who were probably Mona and Sandra, Wednesday and Thursday, coming out the door. Healthy looking young women, athletic, with hair cropped short and arms full. He waited until they were gone to go up. Right now he didn't want to think about the others who were sharing the flat. Reality had no place in a fantasy.

A whole day. A whole Friday. Gathering clouds said it would be chilly and wet later in the day. Doyle went early to the shops, buying a bit of cheese, bread and fruit for his dinner, and a bottle of red wine. Once back, he put the items which needed refrigeration away and went to unpack his art supplies.

The easel unfolded, and he tried it out, adjusting the screws until the height was right. The three already stretched and primed canvases he set aside and he began to assemble his own, his fingers remembering instructions which were fifteen years old without any prodding from his memory. Soon the astringent chemical smells were making him light-headed, the results were scattered everywhere, and Doyle was investigating the tubes of paint he had bought.

A rattle at the door surprised him, but it was only the char, a leathery lady of late middle-age with impossibly brassy hair who waited while he slid the chain off the lock, and after a mumbled greeting went in and cleaned the bathroom. She was gone almost at once, and he recalled that she only came in for half an hour a day.

He painted Bodie. He knew the moment he put a brush into paint what the picture would be. It wasn't a portrait. It was a series of shapes, blocky, powerful, camouflage greens and browns, hidden touches of blue and the long rust and red phallic shape which might have been a gun and might have been something else. Everything which wasn't Bodie was jungle; he played with the trailing vines and aggressive vegetation, spending much more time on them than he did on the shape which said to him "Bodie," and had no physical resemblance to his partner at all.

Only when a knock came at the door did Doyle suddenly realize that it was getting dark in the room, that he was stiff and his fingers hurt.

"Who is it?" he called out, putting his brush down as if it had suddenly grown heavy and then wiping his hands on the rag which had been a face cloth that morning.

"Mark Lane," came the masculine voice, and Doyle frowned. Mark Lane. Sunday. He went and opened the door the length of the chain, one hand on the gun he had scooped up from where it lay on his jacket on the wooden chair. What he saw caused him to go put the gun away and then come back to open the door.

The man was not threatening. His hands were empty. Doyle studied his visitor as the man walked in. He was an inch or two shorter than Doyle, with a plain face under thinning brown hair. His big hands seemed uncertain of what to do with themselves, and the brown eyes gave the impression of someone who was nervous and shy.

"I think I remember you. At a party, years ago." Doyle's memory didn't provide anything else except the mental image of a young man wearing plaid bell-bottoms.

"I wondered if you would remember," Lane said, a smile warming his face as he reached out a hand to shake Doyle's.

"Sorry about the paint," Doyle said. His hand still wore several colours, but at least the paint wasn't wet. Lane's handshake was firm, Doyle noted, and lasted just the right length of time.

"No problem. Nice to see somebody in the old group actually still paints," Lane said. He was looking at the picture, studying it.

"Just taken it up again. Stress reducer," Doyle said. He had the impulse to cover the painting, to put it away, but he managed to subdue his instincts, not wanting to draw even more attention to the canvas. "It's not finished," he added, when Lane kept looking at it.

"I would have said so," Lane said mildly. "The secret of painting is knowing when to stop," he added.

"Some of us shouldn't even begin," Doyle said with a smile. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"Yes. Lovely," Lane added, when he saw the cups Doyle produced. As Doyle filled the kettle, he said, "I was surprised when I got your note."

"It wasn't an easy one to write," Doyle admitted.

"I must confess, I don't remember quite all I would like to remember. Are you...new to...ah, to...."

"It's like the painting. I'm coming back to it after a very long time away. I thought you might know somebody to recommend to me."

"Yes, I understood that from the note. Frankly, I came to look at you, Ray. I wished to know what type you were before I risked both my reputation and someone else's well-being. But you're not a raving queen or a leather boy, are you? You...to be quite honest, you don't have the look of a man who needs any help finding his bed partners!"

"I hate the bars," Doyle said. It was partly true, after all. He poured the water into the tea pot. "Do you take milk? I hope not. I forgot to get any."

Lane shook his head. "This will be quite nice as it is, thank you, although I do like...." He paused, looking around, and then pointed to a cupboard. "Sugar, in the blue jar." He got up to get it himself.

Doyle poured the tea, handing the fuller cup to his guest and then taking a cautious sip of his own. He only realized as it slid down his throat how parched he had become.

"What...precisely...have you in mind?" Lane asked, after tasting his own tea and setting the cup down.

"Looking for your cast-offs," Doyle said, flashing a grin when Lane gave a start. "Topper said you had a few."

"Topper...." It was obvious that Lane had been going to say something unkind, but had bit back the words.

Doyle lifted an eyebrow, silently asking a question.

"A man doesn't like to admit to his failures," Lane said, self-depreciatingly. "Or, it could be said there was something wrong about each of them. I'm not sure my cast-offs are what you need."

"But failures or not, you'd know something about the men. Know which ones might be interested in a short term relationship. Just a bit of fun," Doyle said. "Nothing serious."

"Easy enough. That's all they were for me," Lane said, his eyes reflecting a sadness, "short term. Nothing serious."

"Are you looking for something serious?" Doyle wanted to know.

"It comes of getting old, I suppose." Since Lane was only a few years older than Doyle, Doyle made a depreciating gesture to indicate the man was not old.

"Oh, you, you handsome types, it doesn't happen for you," Lane told him, smiling faintly. "Have anything you want, for as long as you want!"

Doyle thought of Bodie, and gave a sour smile.

Lane noticed. "Your lips are smiling, but not your eyes. Some man break your heart, Sugar Ray?"

"Oh hell. You remember that old name too?" Doyle laughed and shook his head.

"If I remember, you were rather belligerent. It did fit." Lane stated. He didn't let Doyle change the subject. "What's his name?"

"No names. Let's just say that I'm trying to forget Mr Tall-dark-handsome-and-straight."

"So anybody will do?" Lane inquired, very casually.

"If he's clean, discreet, healthy and not looking for anything more than a roll in the hay, yeah. Do you have somebody in mind?"

Lane sipped his tea, as if taking in courage before he spoke. "Well...I volunteer."

Doyle, who had brought his cup up to his mouth, paused, and slowly put it down again.

"I'm sorry," Lane apologized at once. "It was just a thought. Of course you'll want someone younger. More exciting. It's just that, well, I am clean, and moderately healthy--though I've an allergy to cigarette smoke, I'm afraid--and I am discreet." He laughed, dryly, and said, "You needn't worry about expectations. I never have any."

Doyle looked at him, thinking furiously. It's true that he'd had in mind a few handsome young men. This plain faced man with the quiet air wasn't what he had imagined at all. He was, however, as different from Bodie as could be found.

"We could try it," Doyle heard himself saying. "For awhile."

Lane looked absolutely stunned. He recovered himself almost at once, but an animated look stayed in his brown eyes. "Decent of you, old boy," he joked.

"You never expected me to agree, did you?" Doyle asked.

"I wasn't joking, you know," Lane said apologetically. "About handsome men. If they're straight, they go for the prettiest girls. How often do you see a plain girl with a handsome man? Oh, yes, occasionally, but," he shrugged, "it's not the rule, is it? It's the same with gays. You go to the bars and there are all these handsome studs, cruising. Looking for their match--or better. Some of them are even looking for mirrors, you know. Their own doubles. It's very Narcissus. Oh, sometimes a man like me gets lucky. Bobby has a fight with Vince and storms out with the first man he sees, or Tony comes too late to the Garden, and makes do with the second string. Usually, though, it's two types who go for those of us in the middle rank who stand between the gods and the mud at the bottom of the pond. One sort is looking for what he can get. A meal, a sugar daddy, a favour, a loan, perhaps even a place to sleep. They learn quickly if there's little to be milked from this particular cow. The other type is," he smiled, "like me. Always looking. Never quite successful at it."

Doyle said, "What are you looking for?"

Lane smiled. "An excellent question. At first, when we were young, it was for thrills, for notches on the bed post. Then it was for grand romances, for meaning in it all. I've passed that, now. I just don't want to end up a lonely old queen buying, one way or the other, the time of young men." Lane shuddered theatrically.

"Have a few years to go before then, surely?" Doyle assured him with a bit of a smile.

"It's closer than I like." Lane took another sip of his tea. "Are you looking for a bottom?"

Doyle blinked for a moment, then understood. Was he? Slowly, he said, "I never liked it much. Being fucked."

"No one of the old crowd knew how to do it," Lane said. "The young are impatient."

"Going to teach me how to do it right?" Doyle asked.

"If you like." Lane showed no emotion, no carnal eagerness, only a calm practicality.

"I think so," Doyle said. He couldn't really imagine going to bed with Lane. It was like considering bedding a woman who didn't attract him. Yet there was something in Lane's very calmness, in his quiet practicality, which appealed. Doyle knew instinctively that Lane was experienced, and kind. Too, there was the knowledge that however calm his outward demeanour, Lane was pleased at the prospect of bedding him. Doyle was in the mood to do a kindness.

"Tonight?" Lane asked, apparently more interested in his tea than in the answer.

"If you've nothing else on." Doyle was equally as casual about it.

"My calendar is completely clear," Lane answered.

"I want to clean up first," Doyle said, waving at his painting endeavours. He took the last swallow of his tea too quickly, making that sound Bodie teased him about, the one he usually compared to drains. Lane was too polite to have even appeared to notice, much less comment on it.

"Do you need help?" Lane asked, standing as well.

"No, thanks anyway," Doyle said, with a wave that asked Lane to sit down again and finish his tea. Doyle began to clean brushes and cap paints. He left the picture out to dry on the easel, but he placed it in the corner, turned so that it couldn't be seen. "I'll need a shower, " he added as he was finishing up.

Lane, who was clearing away the tea things, said, "Yes, of course."

Doyle entered the warm water of the shower with mixed feelings. A few coals were warming his belly at the thought of having sex, and a few butterflies were doing loops a bit higher up as he contemplated the type of sex. It had been so long.

But it was something he had planned, something he had decided he wanted. He dried himself, concluded that to put on clothing again would be redundant, and emerged from the bathroom naked and still towelling his curls. Lane was there, putting something on the small wooden stand beside the bed. He straightened up, his eyes wide. He swallowed.

"I think I'll take up painting again, too," Lane said in a raspy voice.

Doyle laughed. "Only if you were better at it than I was--or am!"

"I was told I was technically correct, but that my paintings had no life. Perhaps I just didn't have enough life in my subjects." It was a compliment, but not an offensive one, and Doyle's lips turned up. Lane was letting his eyes take the scenic route from the top of Doyle's artless curls to the bottom of his long-toed feet. His eyes widened as he noted scars, but he made no reference to them.

"You're underdressed for the occasion," Doyle said, and stood watching as Lane stripped. The man was too seasoned to be embarrassed by his nakedness, but Doyle could see he was keenly aware that his body didn't have the muscles and his face didn't have the beauty that he saw in Doyle.

He did have a cock that was of a size with Doyle's, and when erect it would be a trifle longer. Doyle stared down at it, watching its growing tumescence and thinking about taking cock up the arse. His own genitals gave an inquiring twitch. He didn't react when Lane came close and touched his chest, running an exploratory hand over the curve until it settled over the small brown nub of his nipple.

"What do you like?" Lane asked. "What do you like best?"

"I don't remember," Doyle said, half-truthfully.

"This?" Lane went to his knees, and his mouth closed over the end of Doyle's penis. Doyle's hands went at once to Lane's shoulders as he braced himself. Good. Better than good. Doyle's head went back as the pleasure gathered in his abdomen, spreading out, lifting his cock up hard into the hot, wet mouth.

Lane changed the angle of his head, allowing more of Doyle's cock to slide in, and for a few seconds Doyle fucked the willing mouth--until Lane pulled away. Doyle felt the loss keenly, but he saw that Lane only wanted to move them to the bed, and he agreed with the idea; his legs weren't holding up well.

He was flat on his back on satin sheets, and the mouth was on his cock, sucking, and slick fingers were at his arse, rubbing, opening him, and he came when two fingers, buried deep, stroked him inside and the mouth around him began an effort to swallow down all which he poured out.

Panting, Doyle lay unprotesting as Lane climbed on top of him, and began humping into the hollows of his closed thighs. By the time Doyle was thinking enough to wonder if he should do more, there was wetness there and Lane collapsed on him, panting even harder than Doyle had.

"We didn't get very far," Doyle observed a few minutes later.

"Far enough," Lane told him, wryly adding, "One of us thinks he's died and gone to heaven."

"We barely got started!" Doyle laughingly protested.

"Exactly. So far to go. So much to look forward to!"

"Tonight?" Doyle grinned.

"I have an idea. You go paint another picture. I'll just take a few hours to recharge my batteries!"

"I have a better idea. You recharge, and I bring back a meal. Chinese? Chicken?"

"Chinese. Two streets north, three east."

Doyle patted his shoulder and went to clean up. Normally he, too, rested after sex, but now he was wide awake, too filled with a nervous energy to relax. He welcomed the idea of a walk in brisk air.

He used the time to think. It was going to work, he told himself as he strode along, head down because of the steady cold wind. He hadn't once thought of Bodie as Lane sucked him off. It was good. The man he made love to didn't have to be Bodie. It wasn't anything like the way Bodie would do it. Smells, actions, words, all different, he told himself, with satisfaction.

Waiting for his order in the small shop, inhaling the blended scents of a hundred exotic spices, knowing they were permeating his clothing and hair and probably his very skin, he found it easy to think of going back, eating, and then heading for bed again. This time.... His imagination toyed with possible variations as he returned.

He came in to find Lane, freshly showered and in a robe, drinking tea. All of Doyle's new plates were set out and the wine was open and breathing. He'd left his locker open, Doyle realized, wondering if Lane had taken the opportunity to look through his things the way he had looked through everyone else's. If so, there had been little to see. His gun had been tucked into his jacket pocket, and now he left it there as he hung the jacket up in his locker and joined Lane at the table. He didn't have to carry an r/t unless he was on standby or on a job, and he wondered briefly how he would explain it if he had to bring one here some time. It would be smartest just to not come here when he was on standby. The thought did not appeal.

They passed the cartons back and forth, serving up the food, and then they ate, chatting about the past, about people they had both known and about the changes which had come about. Topper was discussed, and Zach Thomas, who had rented Friday before Doyle. According to Lane, Thomas had once passed out on Friday, slept through Saturday one day when Fillbeck hadn't come in, and had still been there on Sunday morning when Lane had arrived. He told it in a droll way, and Doyle found himself laughing aloud.

They put the kitchen to rights together, and went to the bedroom. It was late now. Doyle checked the doors and curtains again before he took off his clothing. The yellow lamplight on the reds, blacks and golds gave the place an Arabian Nights air. Too, it was a flattering light for Lane, who pulled Doyle down onto the sheets and began a gentle assault on his buttocks. His intentions were clear, and Doyle did not object. He cooperated, doing his part by letting Lane have the lead, by lifting his arse when asked, by holding quite still when, after a thorough preparation, Lane moved behind him, centred himself, and pushed in.

It did not hurt, as Doyle expected it to. He remembered the tight feeling, the fullness, but the slow care with which Lane began was new to him. Pleasure grew, and Doyle reacted, shifting that he might more easily be penetrated, spreading that Lane might drive in deeper and then deeper still.

It didn't take Bodie to enjoy this. It didn't take Bodie at all! Doyle's thoughts were wild as keen delight grew, as he felt his orgasm tumbling to the surface like oil in a cauldron which had finally come to a boil. Inside him, Lane pistoned to his own heights, plunging in hard as he came. Lane pulled out, rolling off the condom which Doyle had not even realized the man had put on, and then he lay beside Doyle, one hand laxly draped on Doyle's knee.

When Lane had caught his breath, he said, "I'll let you do that to me in the morning--if I'm invited to spend the night."

"Deal," Doyle said, and remembered nothing more until morning, when he woke to find he had not set his alarm, there was no time for him to discover the joys of Lane's body and if they did not hurry, Fillbeck would be setting up his typewriter before they had even had a morning shower.

Doyle was out the door, calling his thanks to Lane who had offered to lock up, and he shaved on his way to work with the electric razor he kept in the car.

He and Bodie were watching the extremely nice home of one of Cowley's suspect Whitehall Warriors. Cowley disliked it intensely when men in authority flaunted the laws of the land. The assignment was the usual one--they were to note the plates of the cars which brought visitors, and to photograph those visitors. Very dull work, done from within a dark van.

"Always bleedin' hot or fucking cold," Bodie complained as he joined Doyle inside the vehicle. Today was the latter variety. The small stove kept them well supplied with hot soup or tea, and a plastic jug served as a chamber pot, but it wasn't civilization at its finest. "Nothing to eat as well. Did you think to bring anything?" he asked Doyle. Doyle, who was watching the house as Bodie poked through the drawer which served as cupboard and pantry, grunted out what Bodie interpreted as a "no."

"At least you had breakfast," Bodie moaned.

"Sorry, no. Woke up late," Doyle explained.

"Me, too. In the wrong bed as well," Bodie admitted, with a pleased smirk. He was waiting for Doyle to ask for more details, but when he didn't, Bodie was willing to provide them anyway, and went on at length about a red-headed waitress, Lana.

Doyle was amused--Bodie with Lana, Doyle with Lane--he wished he could joke about the similarity of the names, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He was even more amused when Bodie began to hint about the exotic delights they had shared. It was a bit of sodomy he was describing at such length.

Doyle kept the glasses against his face, fighting his laughter and then, a heartbeat later, fighting tears. Just like Bodie to be willing to fuck an arse--if it was a female arse.

Don't think of him with his redhead, he said, trying to tune Bodie out. Think of Lane, and what he did last night. The sliding tight moment of penetration, the stretch of it, as if he were opening up the world, the throb of cock against the magic spot which multiplied the crystals of sensation he had felt in every part in the vicinity--and some that weren't!

Bodie had asked a question.

"What?" Doyle asked, glancing away from the glasses for a moment.

"You haven't heard a word I've said," Bodie said in disgust.

"Something about kinky sex with whats'er-name," Doyle said.

"That was before I asked you for your contribution to the general fund. I am going to go get food and the papers," Bodie said.

"Then you watch," Doyle said, thrusting the glasses at Bodie. His hand found his wallet. When he opened it, Bodie's hand snaked around, and he snatched up several notes while shoving the glasses back into Doyle's hand.

"Ta!" Bodie said on his way out the door, as he pulled on the knitted cap which gave him the appearance of a working man. Doyle offered him a salute with two available fingers and kept most of his attention on his job. Bodie was the one out there freezing his tush off, after all, and Doyle was willing to be the one who kept warm.

He was just recording the departure of the man of the house, off to slay dragons in his neat grey suit and monogrammed briefcase, when Bodie came back. "Where's my change?" Doyle wanted to know.

"Wasn't any," Bodie told him. "I bought everything in the shop. Do you want to start with the croissants, the Danish, the fresh bread and butter, the jam tarts, the fruit or the chocolate?"

"For the sake of your arteries, I hope you're joking!" Doyle said, but of course, Bodie wasn't. He started fresh coffee on the small stove and offered to take over the watch, as he could do it one handed and while chewing. He left Doyle to pour out the coffee when it was done. Doyle, meanwhile, had finished his croissant and was halfway through the apple before he poured the coffee.

There was enough food to last all day, but by the time they were relieved at seven it was dark and they were both ready for a real meal. Bodie may have been ready for even more, for he talked about giving Lana a call, but Doyle was tired--and sore from sitting on his abused arse all day, and so after they ate, Doyle went home. They were due to return the following morning, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He woke up, whistled his way through a