Work of Art
There were times when Bodie cursed the day he'd joined CI5.
Meagre pay. Lousy hours. Too many spent sitting on his arse, waiting.
Like now, tucked in a Hull bedsit, watching the rundown semi-detached opposite. Rain splatted against the windowpane, like one of those modern paintings Ray was always going on about.
See how the colour blends, Bodie, on the canvas, not the palette. Beautiful, yeah?
Only Hull had no colour. Just grey. Countless shades of it.
The door opened. "Oi! Got your sandwich, you lazy sod."
Green eyes met his.
Fuck Hull. Bodie's world had colour enough.
-- THE END --