Bodie was still dead asleep, and at six in the morning after a week that had been a nightmare of tension, Doyle could not blame him. It was discomfort that had woken Ray; his body was stiff and sore, which he had expected. It had been a tough night, too. Bodie had been ravenous for it, wanting him again when they woke at midnight.

The memory of his helplessness beneath all that power and scorching hunger made Doyle shiver, though the August morning was warm and bright. Sunday. A day for rest and recreation, a chance to recharge the batteries for the week to come - idle pursuit and happy memories. Ray felt none of that. His face twisted as he studied the back of Bodie's head; his partner lay on his stomach, his face turned away, distanced from his bedmate even now, this morning, after he had been allowed to take what he wanted. To slake his blind lust in Doyle's willing body. Ray felt only a consuming unhappiness, highlighted by the aches and soreness; and the feeling was no stranger.

He let his eyes close, shutting out the bright sunshine and concentrating on memory - not the previous night, but a night eight months before. New Year; a party; too much alcohol and good cheer, too much laughter and joking; a bed in a friend's spare room; unexpected and disbelieving desire.

It had been good, Doyle thought. No, it had been very good. Bodie had a mastery of the arts of loving that explained why his many birds pined away, one by one, as they were dropped. Ray's brow crinkled in a frown as he looked back over the years, trying to recall how many women there had been. He had forgotten the names of most of them, but enough of the faces remained for him to count too many. Bodie delighted in girls, enjoyed them, pleasured them and discarded them. Few relationships lasted more than two months.

And where do I fit into this scheme? Doyle puzzled as he shifted about in the bed, trying to ease the kinks out of his spine. The girls were tactfully dropped in a few weeks or a couple of months, but here it was August, and Raymond Doyle was still in his partner's bed - a little the worse for wear, but welcome there.

New Year had turned into an orgy of sensuality, and Ray had learned many a dark truth about himself. The terrifying new heights of arousal as he was crushed against the body of one bigger and stronger than himself, the helpless lust that sent him willingly to his knees to be plundered like a girl -

Oh, Bodie wanted him. January had been an odyssey of self-discovery, February barely calmer, and as spring warmed it seemed to fan the fires of the hunger that drove them together. It had been better than just 'good', Doyle admitted. It had been beyond anything he had expected or imagined... before it all went wrong.

Now, it hurt. The physical discomforts of being used were nothing - he had never been afraid of a little pain and was no stranger to it. In their job, who was? But there was more than that. A deep, racking agony that seemed to center in his chest, made him taciturn and moody, wanting to spurn the world in general, and Bodie in particular. The worst of it was, Bodie had not even noticed.

Flaming June, glorious weather, two weeks' leave, Doyle remembered. They had half planned to go away together, hiking and rock climbing, and Ray had looked forward to it with a great satisfaction in the tingling anticipation of time to themselves, time to be together and alone. Then Sharon had come along; suddenly Bodie was heading for Paris and Rome, and with an instant's blind panic, Ray knew what was wrong.

It was not Sharon, it was himself. Sharon was tall, red-haired and leggy, and Bodie adored her for weeks. The trip to Paris and points West took ten days, and he came home happy but exhausted. The girl was nothing short of radiant, probably expecting an engagement ring... For Ray, it was a time of soul-searching and misery, artfully concealed.

Sharon never received any such ring, and a week after Bodie got home he felt the itch for a solid, muscular male body in his bed. A smile, fingers tousling soft brown curls, and the look on his face was one of sublime self-confidence. He knew Doyle would come back and climb into bed. Ray very nearly refused him, but it was too easy to be ambushed by lust, by the hunger to be with the one he loved.

And that was the difference. Ray smiled sadly at the back of Bodie's head as the discomforts of last night's activities spurred him toward the bathroom. He slid out of bed, mouthing a silent 'ouch', looking down at Bodie for some time. It was no more Bodie's fault, in realistic terms, than it was his own. Ray was in love; Bodie was out for fun and pleasure, that was the start and end of it.

The kisses were just as fierce, the caresses just as practised as they had been in January; but darkness and pillows hid the twist of unhappiness that coiled through the blazing lust as Ray was urged onto his belly. Surrender was bittersweet now. The needing was just lust; his own helplessness within Bodie's embrace was little better than a brief, sometimes painful bondage, a servitude to which he went silently, accepting it for what it was. Bodie wanted him; he offered drinks and companionship, and later, laughter and sexual fulfilment... Not a bad offer, all told, Doyle admitted.

And for a long time it had been enough. And now? stiff-legged, he turned into the adjoining bathroom and quietly shut the door. Hot water filled the ivory tub, and he sank gratefully into it, lying back to soak away the aches and tenderness and study his body. He was bruised; there were finger prints on his hip bones, brands from little bites on his chest and belly, more finger bruises on his thighs - the visible proof of how much Bodie wanted this thin, tanned, furry body, as much as he maligned it and teased its owner about its frailty.

Ray propped his head on the glass shower screen behind the bath and closed his eyes. Bodie was as happy as a lark with his laughs and social drinking and casual domination of his partner's body; it was all fun, no hard feelings. So why am I here like a bloody little kid, trying not to cry?

The answer was all too clear.

Because I want him to love me, and he can't. Or won't. Because I have to decide - now, before it gets any worse... I have to decide if I want to go on this way.

He stirred as his shoulders and neck began to cramp with the weight of his head on the glass, reaching for a bar of Island spice soap and absently attending to himself. He had two choices. Take what he could get, call himself a bloody fool for falling in love with the heartless bastard - which was probably the truth anyway. Or bow out, call it a day, go and find himself a nice little woman, as blonde as Bodie was dark, as brown-eyed as he was blue-eyed, as small as he was big, and forget.

Surrendering to the moment's self-indulgent misery, he sniffed on blocking sinuses as he climbed out of the bath. The sensible thing to do would be to get out, run and keep running. But when had Raymond Doyle ever done the sensible thing? Sense would have been to make a joke of it at that New Year party, or to wake the morning after and swear he had no memory of the blind lust that had sent him into Bodie's embrace. If he told the truth, he had known even then that it would go wrong. Bodie was a good mate, he just did not have it in him to love. Anyone. It was not Doyle, or Sharon, or any of the multitudinous girls who had learned that fact at their cost, and it was not something Bodie could help.

Like people who snored in their sleep. Like people who sang out of tune. Like people who got freckles in the sun. Bodie did not love, and that was that. There had been two women, Ray knew, who had come close to inspiring the emotion in him. When he was very young, a girl called Helen, gut-shot, long dead; later, the actress, Marikka - also shot dead. Bodie called it love, but Ray was not so sure.

He had not seen his partner the rest of the afternoon after Marikka had been killed, and he had expected a storm to break when they met the following day; instead there had been nothing. Bodie reported for work the same as he had reported every other day, as if nothing had happened. Just a little quiet and subdued for a few days, Ray remembered, as one would expect of a man who had lost a good friend.

A good friend. Bodie made few friends, and Doyle was well aware that he was graced and favoured among that chosen few...

But I want more. Christ, Doyle, you're a demanding sod! He gives you all he can, his friendship, his trust, and screws your brains out at least once a week, and you have to have it all! Love, for Chrissake! You're asking the bloody impossible, and you know it! But I always thought... always wondered...

There was a tube of Savlon in the cabinet and he used a lot of it, needed it, and murmured in honest relief as it eased the sore, raw leftovers of submission. Bodie had had a few to drink, and he was always a little eager, a little enthusiastic, after drinking. Ray had known how it would be when he had accepted the invitation to bed and was not seeking to apportion blame. But in the cold light of day hindsight was all too cruelly accurate. And lust appeared tarnished, tawdry.

So run, he told himself, replacing the tube and reaching for a robe which hung on the back of the door. Get out and keep going - if you don't like being used, tell him where to quit! Can I? Will I? He sighed, belting the robe and pulling the plug on the bath. Breakfast, or dress and go?

He stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at the rumpled disaster of the bed. Bodie still had not stirred; he was snuffling into the pillow, at peace with the world, and it would be noon before he woke and went cheerfully to fry up sausages and bacon for lunch. Abruptly, Ray felt nauseous, and reached for his clothes.

Jeans, silk shirt, tan jacket, suede boots. They had had a night on the town, dinner at a restaurant, on to a club with a song-and-dance floorshow; too much whisky and soda past Bodie's lips. He had not been overcome or even mildly squiffy, but alcohol made him quickly aroused and, contrary to the gist of popular opinion, that hunger was hard to satisfy, as if he relaxed under the influence of a drink or three and let his passions have their head.

Soothed by the antiseptic, Ray slipped into his clothes, regarding his reflection in the long mirror. Slim, heavy-eyed, tousled. Seductive? He grinned at himself, pouted and struck a pose, weight on his left leg, hip out-thrust. The jeans were tight, outlining the tender curve of buttock and genitals, and if he put his shoulders back to stretch the silk tightly over his chest he could see his nipples. A little sore from love-bites, they drew his fingertips, and he stood frowning at himself, seeing a tousled Narcissus in denim and silk, massaging his nipples in abstract sensuality.

Was this what Bodie liked, what he wanted? Ray closed his eyes, his thoughts turning to the dark hours, later, behind closed doors. Kisses that suffocated him, fingers knotted in his hair, tugging, demanding, knees between his parted thighs; the heat and hardness filling him, over and over, as if Bodie was never to be satisfied. Coming in huge racking waves that drained him, going down on the bed and being lifted back to his knees for the onslaught to continue. Bodie's ravenous desire communicating itself so that he surrendered willingly to his mate's needs, trying to fulfil everything he wanted, needed.

Because I wanted him to have it, Ray thought sadly. Because I needed him to have it. Because I love him. He turned from the mirror, studying the broad, white back, remembering the feel, the taste of that skin, satin-smooth and hot. The dark silky hair was rumpled and inviting; the sleep-gentled profile was turned to him now, mouth open as if in search of a kiss. A sweet, foolish ache tightened Doyle's insides and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, lest he reach out with a caress that would be his betrayal.

He was sure he had never said it. The three words would be the end of everything, he knew. Bodie dropped a girl like a hot potato the instant she said it. I love you. No, Ray had tried to say it in other ways. At midnight Bodie had woken, hard again, needing again, and held his partner tightly while Ray went down on him, minutes of delight before the self-confident hands had lifted him around, spread him wide again.

On his back, knees bent into his chest, helpless, not even wanting to resist. Ray tore his eyes from Bodie, catching sight of his twisted face in the mirror. Not the expression of a man satisfied and at peace, he observed with a strange, dislocated rationale. The expression was one of misery and despair. In the cold blue light of day, the unbridled lust was ugly, for there was no love to cushion it, rose-tint it, protect it from the merciless ravages of reason.

Go, he told himself, leaving the bedroom without a sound. Behind him, Bodie did not move a muscle, and he checked the time. It was just before seven. The whole world was still drowsing, oblivious to its own problems, lost in its pointless dreams. Tears prickled his eyes as he took the lift down to the street and stood leaning on the bricking by the door. The silver Capri was parked at the kerb, and his own car was in Chelsea. Ray had intended to stay for lunch, perhaps for the day.

Taking what I can get, making the most of it? he demanded, in that moment intensely disliking himself. He pushed away from the brickwork of Bodie's building, hands in his pockets, his feet taking him toward the end of the street where a taxi rank stood beside the cluster of restaurants and the entertainment complex. There was always a taxi to be had. Who the hell needed Bodie?

He cringed at the words as they fled through his mind, recognising them for what they were. Defiance. He was trying to blame Bodie for the wreck of his own life, and that was not fair. What had Bodie ever done? Seduced him, wined and dined him, taken him to bed, and -

And used me, Doyle thought viciously, the anger directed at himself now. I was the one that asked for it, I put myself in his bed, got up on my knees and invited him to fuck me - is it his fault, because he did as he was asked? But... But I never expected to love him. Never asked to fall in love, never wanted it to happen.

A big, ugly diesel taxi was waiting on the rank, its driver reading a lurid paperback, sunglasses shading his eyes against the beautiful day. It was going to be hot again. Get on my bike after breakfast, Ray thought as he slammed the door and the taxi pulled out. Ride out into the country, swim, show my body a little sun... Can't. Christ, I've got bites and bruises all over me, damn him. Damn me for going to bed with him when he's had a few. Oh, Bodie. He closed his eyes to the lovely day, surrendering to the tearing doubt and unhappiness, trying to puzzle his way to a conclusion as the cab took him home.

Stay, and be used, take what he could get and loathe himself? Or run, find someone else, try to forget what had happened, put it into the past, get it out of his system?

The driver spoke to him twice before he was aware of it, and he handed the man some notes, not waiting for change. He was tired and stiff, still sore, but most of the pain was in his heart and there was no remedy for it. Fingers clumsy, he got key into lock and took the lift up to his flat, foregoing the stairs with a rueful smile... Not this morning. The door banged shut, locks clicked into place, and he studied the insides of drawn curtains, deciding to leave them drawn.

A bottle of Grouse stood on the silver tray, its cap still sealed, shot glasses upturned beside it. The amber fluid sloshed into cut crystal and burned across his gullet without being tasted. Waste of good whisky, he thought in Cowley's burr as he poured a second glass. The spirit warmed him, brought him a certain spurious, artificial glow. The second glass went down more slowly and he savoured the taste of it, picking up the bottle and carrying it to the settee. He heeled off his boots and threw off his jacket, fluffing a pillow beneath his head and regarding the bottle with a frown. Stupid to drink. Damned idiotic. Biggest mistake he could make.

He poured another glass.

---

"He's armed," Jax said, gazing up at the derelict warehouse. And he's out of his head on something. Speed, or horse, or something. God knows. He's been in there over an hour, so he'll have found himself a nice little shoot-hole - if we go in he'll drop us, one at a time."

Cowley squinted in the strong sunlight of late morning, his pale blue eyes studying the frontage of the warehouse. It had been the property of a furniture wholesaler, but before that it had stored toys, and the interior was fitted out with a maze of scaffolding. A million shoot-holes. "We could use gas," the CI5 controller said shrewdly.

The coloured agent nodded agreement. "It'd save bloodshed. Problem is, that place is the size of Wembley bloody stadium, and none of us has a clue where he is. We'd have to fill it with gas, and if we do that, it becomes dangerous. People living right next door. Evacuate?"

"All that disturbance on a Sunday morning, for one little IRA gunman," Cowley mused. "Where is the radio van?"

"Should be here in half a jiff," Jax guessed, eyes on his watch. "Long range mics - he twitches a muscle, we hear, we have him. The gas is coming too, sir... Murph should be right behind the radio van."

In fact, Murphy was minutes ahead of the van, green pilot's glasses on his nose, the keys to his black Capri in his hand, as he strode through the knot of police and CI5 people, waving to Jax and the boss in greeting. He had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, shirt open to smooth, brown chest, smiling as he made his way to his colleagues' side.

"Nice way to spend your Sunday," he quipped. "Nerve gas and mad gunmen. Cute, no?"

"No," Jax said, disgusted by the good cheer, "And where else would you be? No - let me guess. In church, right?"

"Singing like a bird in the boys' choir," ." Murphy affirmed with an expression of pure innocence. "Er, sir, who is this nut with the gun?"

"We only have a sketchy description," Cowley said tersely, "but it could be Tom Gaffney. Short, dark, square face, limp. He fluffed a job at a restaurant on Pearce street; he was trying to put a bomb in the bins against the side wall - shaped charge that would have demolished the whole public section. A chef surprised him; he put two bullets into the lad and ran for his life. A local bobby saw him, chased him here. Thank God the man had sense enough not to go in after him."

Murphy frowned. "Gaffney. I know that name."

"So you should," the Scot said tartly. "We get notification when an IRA agent is released from prison. Gaffney got out a month ago, after serving nine years. Doyle was the officer who arrested him in 1971."

"The Terror of Stepney Green." Murphy smiled. "Bright lad, our Raymond, what?"

"Nice of you to approve," Cowley said as he turned to watch the van pull in on the other side of the police cordon. "The gas, I presume. Where has the radio van got to?"

"There's a traffic snarl on the bridge," Murphy told him. "A wagon lost its brakes, tipped its load. Canned peaches all over the road. I picked my way through `em, but the van took the long way around." He basked in the sun. "Oh, what's the hurry? It's a nice day. If we weren't here we'd only be stuck back at the office filling out forms."

Cowley allowed an honest smile. "I'm glad to hear you enjoy your work."

The spectators were held back by a mob from the Met, and CI5 people and vehicles had the old warehouse thoroughly cut off from the street. There could be no possible escape for the IRA man, and it was in Cowley's mind that a surrender was likely. He had a loud-hailer in the back of the red Ford four-door, and on impulse fronted up to the warehouse, standing in plain view of the gunman, consciously making a target of himself.

"Gaffney. We have the whole place cut off. Come on out of there, man - you can't shoot your way out. We have gas, and we'll use it. Don't make it harder for yourself. Come out now."

There was no reply, and Cowley had hardly expected one; he repeated the whole message for the sake of thoroughness, and had turned away from the building when a pane of glass splintered outward, razor-edged shards littering the pavement. Jax, Murph and several police marksmen went down into the cover of their vehicles, weapons out and levelled on the broken window, but the IRA man was in concealment.

"It's CI5, isn't it?" The voice was hoarse, thick with the accent of the Belfast gutters. The Falls Road district. It was Gaffney, no doubt about it.

"Yes," Cowley answered, the loud-hailer against his mouth. "My name is Cowley."

"I know who you bloody are!" There was the dangerous edge of hysteria in Gaffney's voice.

"He's starting to come down," Jax guessed. "Idiot!"

"Drugs." Murphy asked, glancing at the other's brown face.

"Yup. Was so stoned he fluffed the restaurant job," Jax affirmed. "Plays nicely into our mitts, though."

"Gaffney!" Cowley's amplified voice bounced back off the warehouse walls. "Come out of there. We're willing to talk."

"Willing to talk shit," Gaffney shouted. "If you're CI5, you've got Doyle. Ray Doyle. He works for you now, I know."

Cowley's brow tugged in a frown. "We haven't got him here. We can get him. You want to talk to him?"

"Get him," Gaffney barked. "Get him right now. I know Ray Doyle - I'll talk to `im."

"All right. Sit tight and wait, man." Cowley set the loud-hailer on the long, red bonnet of his car and reached into an inside pocket for the R/T. "Alpha to 4.5. Alpha to 4.5." There was no response, and he repeated the message, louder; still, Doyle did not reply, and Cowley checked the sIS issue radio for faults. There was plenty of battery power. "Where the hell is he?"

It was not like Doyle to leave his R/T unattended, and Murphy said so. "Give it a minute and try again," he shrugged. "He could have gone to the loo for all we know."

But ten minutes later 4.5 was still not answering the call, and Cowley's patience had worn thin. He waved Murphy to his car. "Go and see if you can find him. If he's not at home, try 3.7's flat, he might be there."

"Sir." Murphy jogged back to the black Capri, slid in under the wheel and started it, pulling out in reverse and swinging the 'pocket rocket' sports car toward Chelsea. The snarl on the bridge had been cleared, and only the occasional crushed tin of fruit attested to the disaster. He made good time, driving fast with one eye on the time, and skidding the car in to park between Ray's white Escort and the red Mini belonging to his neighbour. If the car was here, Doyle probably was at home.

But Murphy leaned on the bell for a full minute, and still Doyle refused to answer, and he was on the point of R/T-ing Base with a warning to security that he was about to break in, when a drowsy voice over the intercom demanded crustily, "Who the 'ell is it? Bodie, s'at you?"

"No, Murph." Murphy told him. "Jesus, Ray, it's midday! You still asleep? Better wake up, old son. Duty calls."

"Oh. Come in, then," Doyle said quickly, and the door released, permitting Murphy entry.

The flat was in semi-darkness, and the first task Murphy performed was to throw open the drapes. Doyle was in the kitchen by that time, slamming the fridge door and pouring orange juice. Murphy leaned on the door jamb, frowning at him. "You look like hell, boyo. What kind of a night did you have?"

"Bloody rough," Doyle admitted, "so shurrup."

In fact, Doyle looked like a walking corpse, and Murphy was concerned. There was usually an air of life about Ray, a vitality that not even long hours slogging through records could dampen. He had a zest for living that was famous - or infamous, a manner that was magnetic. Face like a fallen angel, body like a broadwalk hustler, a walk that would slay a nun in her eighties, and a grin that made him look like a schoolboy caught with a girlie magazine. Murphy had long been drawn to the fascination of Raymond Doyle, had watched him, when the opportunity presented itself, since '76, when he had been invited to join the squad, and had liked what he had seen.

So what the hell had happened to Ray to turn that bubbly vivaciousness into this pale, tight-faced character whose feet dragged and whose hands shook on his glass? Murphy took a step closer, extending one hand to cup a thin, sharp shoulder. "Hey, mate, you okay? You look ill. When you said it'd been a rough night I thought you'd been ravin' it up. You look like you've been chucking up. Sit down, will you!"

But Ray leaned against the chromed edge of the sink unit, declining a seat. "I'll sit tomorrow," he said cryptically. The glass reached his lips intact and he sipped at the cold juice, making a face. "So what's the action?"

"Bloke called Gaffney. IRA bomb wallah, holed up in a warehouse over the river. Wants to talk to you. But you don't look up to it, sunshine. Better call the Cow, tell them to shoot it out and have done with it."

The glass hit the sink with a clatter and Doyle got moving. "No. I'm fine."

"This is 'fine', is it." Murphy demanded. "Must stick around and see what it looks like when you feel lousy." As Ray stepped past him, he caught a whiff of whisky. "Hey, are you hung over? Sunday morning blues?"

"No, not hung over," Doyle said tiredly. "See? No red eyes, no headache, all sparkly clear," he added acidly.

"There's whisky on your breath." Murphy pointed out in succinct tones.

"Hardly surprising." Doyle was on his way to the bathroom for his battery razor. "I've been drinking."

Drinking - on a lovely Sunday morning? Murphy frowned deeply, following Doyle to the bathroom door. The razor was not steady in his hands. "You're not hung over, are you? You're half way bloody drunk!"

Drunk enough to be trapped between misery and anger. The green eyes glared at Murphy. "Butt out, mate."

Murphy raised his hands as if at gunpoint. "Nothing to do with me, but Cowley is going to be thrilled, and I haven't got time to sober you up. Oh, why, Ray? What's got to you, to make you set out, deliberately, to drink yourself into limbo on a beautiful Sunday morning?"

The twist of Doyle's features told many a truth, but he said nothing, plying the razor over his jaw an inch at a time. Murphy's frown did not lighten. Doyle was mid-way between drunk and sober - drunk enough to be untrustworthy, sober enough to be still in the grips of whatever had driven him to it. There was an air of - Murphy struggled to define it - an air of hurt about him. That was it. Something about him that looked bruised, bleeding inside.

It must be bad to drive him to a bottle of whisky first thing in the morning on his first day off in weeks, and Murphy felt a sharp pang of sympathetic pain, longing to see the old, bouncy Doyle he had come to expect.

Ray changed into a clean shirt and jogging shoes, and his brown leather jacket, sliding sunglasses onto his nose, his shoulders hunched as Murphy shepherded him out of the flat. He scrunched down in the left of the black Capri, glaring at his knees and not looking up until the car braked down behind the police cordon. Murph killed the motor and touched his arm.

"You going to be okay?"

"Just peachy," Doyle said softly, one hand on the door, about to get out of the car before he turned back for a moment, appreciating the other man's honest concern. "Thanks."

"Any time." Murphy said, forcing a smile. "Listen. Stay out of Cowley's way; if he's busy he may never notice. Or tell him you're coming down with 'flu. 'S what you look like."

"Compliments will get you everywhere," Ray quipped, and left the car, door slamming behind him.

Cowley was going over a plan of the warehouse with Anson and Lucas and barely looked up as Doyle and Murphy appeared. Ray found a loud-hailer thrust into his hands and squinted at the warehouse, his vision playing tricks, his head beginning to throb in the bright light. Wishing he was miles away, he brought the device to his lips.

"Gaffney! You've got me here, so talk. I'm listening - Doyle, remember?"

Silence, and then: "Doyle? Out here where I can see you!"

Out in the open, in the line of fire. Ray's nerves were crawling and he was aware of Murphy at his shoulder as he stepped around the red Ford. "See me now?"

"Yeah, I see you." Gaffney was at the broken window; the sun caught the gunmetal of a weapon. Blunt muzzle, deadly. "Want to talk to you face to face. Get in here. Just you an' me."

"No." Murphy hissed the word into Ray's ear, one hand on his shoulder. "Not in there, he's got a shoot hole - and you're drunk, old son. Tell him no."

"This is close enough," Doyle told the IRA man. "I'm not that much of a fool, Gaffney. Come in there - and be shot?"

"Face to face," Gaffney repeated. "Or no deal!"

"Deal?" Doyle demanded, one hand rubbing at his head in an effort to dampen the throb. He glanced over his shoulder; Cowley was listening now, all attention. "What kind of deal?"

"Information," Gaffney offered, his voice high and thin. "And I get out of here. But only if you talk face to face - come on, Doyle, get in here!"

Doyle took a glance at Murphy's doubtful face and turned to the boss, referring the whole matter to Cowley. The Scot was calculating the odds. Murphy broke the strained silence. "If he goes in there, he's dead meat, sir. Gaffney just got out after doing nine years, he's got a gun in his hand, he's coming down hard, he's got a shoot hole made to order - and you're going to give him the bloke who put him away, right in his sights?"

"Why, thank you, Murphy," Cowley said tartly. "For your information, I'm about to do no such thing. Doyle, go over to the window, stand under it. Throw the loud-hailer away; it might be close enough. Keep him talking. We'll get a sharpshooter behind the vans; he'll show himself and he's ours."

"You hope," Murphy breathed soundlessly.

The ground had begun to heave and Doyle was cursing himself. Drinking in the morning was a fool's game. In fact, in his job, drinking with the object in mind of drunken oblivion was always a fool's game, no matter what the time. He steadied himself, one hand on Murphy's arm, and stepped toward the warehouse.

"Ray?" The other man's voice was very quiet. "You're green to the gills, mate."

"You don't say." Doyle swallowed. "Only got to keep this berk talking for a minute or two, till they drop 'im. Be okay." Keep telling yourself that, he thought bleakly as the ground pitched under his feet. He was armed, but his fingers were like plasticine and his reflexes gone to hell. Nice way to get yourself killed, Ray - nobody to blame but yourself... Wonder if Bodie would miss me?

The gunman was at the window, standing in the shadows, and Doyle's tongue was operating on automatic; he had no idea what he said, would never remember what passed between them, and had lost all track of time. In retrospect, only the cutting edge of his own stupidity would return to him, and it came as a vast relief when one shot barked out across the street, finding its target with professional accuracy.

He sagged back against the wall, his face shining with cold sweat, and Murphy was there a moment later, taking his arm and propelling him back to the cars. Cowley was absent - his voice was shouting in the background, organising a clean-up squad to go in for the body, but Doyle was not listening. He slid in on the left side of the black Capri and held his head.

Murphy frowned at the hunched figure, only becoming aware of Cowley when the Scot was at his left hand. "Sorry, sir, what was that?"

"I said, what is the matter with 4.5?"

"'Flu." Murphy lied smoothly. "He's been bad all night... permission to take him home and pour aspirin into him, sir?"

"Aye, get out of here," Cowley assented. "It's over."

"I'm off duty at noon." Murphy added cheerfully, going through his pockets for his keys.

"Then we'll see you tomorrow," Cowley said by way of dismissal as the younger man slid into his car.

The journey back to Chelsea was an agony Murphy was glad he did not have to share, and Doyle's first stop was the bathroom. The sounds of painful retching and the sour smell of stale whisky came from the room, and Murphy shook his head over the other man, searching for an antacid and finding strong peppermints in the kitchen cabinet. Ray was green-grey and ill, sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. Murphy handed him antacids, a glass of water and three aspirin capsules. "How about coffee?"

"Black," Ray croaked, taking glass and tablets from him.

"Want to lie down?"

"Nah. Be in the kitchen in a sec."

"Take your time." Murphy said softly. "I'll get the coffee on... And then you can tell me why."

Dull-eyed, Doyle watched him leave and sipped the water. Stupid thing to do - drinking in the morning, on an empty stomach. He deserved everything he got, and was just bloody lucky that he was still alive to be sick. If the job had been any more dangerous, he could have been in a hole in the ground with Bodie throwing dirt in after him. Bodie. Christ, the cause of it all. He swallowed the aspirin and stood up, swallowing again as his stomach heaved. The smell of coffee was difficult to tolerate, but he could only be better with something hot inside him, and he slumped at the table, taking a cup from Murphy's hand... Murph was waiting, but Ray was not about to talk.

How the hell could you say a thing like that - oh, it's nothing much, I'm just miserable because I'm in love with my partner, and I don't like it much when he fucks me for the fun of it, then passes out on me like I'm a one night stand --

"Ray." Murphy sat down on the other side of the table. "Come on, man, if it's this bad, you have to tell someone! Why not me? I'm a good listener. Don't try telling me it's nothing, because I know you better than that. You're a live wire, takes a lot to get to you. So what is it? What hurts this much?"

The unexpected insight and compassion hurt, and Ray knew his eyes were flooding with useless tears. He scrubbed at them and sipped the coffee, burning his mouth on it. The sharp pain helped him focus. "It's bad, but it's personal."

"Physical?" Murphy asked. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, not ill." Ray wriggled on the chair, his backside making its presence felt, reminding him of what Bodie had done; twice. Not physical? A wave of hysterical laughter threatened and he drowned it in coffee.

"A woman? Affair of the heart." Murphy pressed. "Oh, will you tell me, for Chrissake! You're not going to shock me!"

"Aren't I?" Doyle muttered. "Don't be so bloody sure."

"You've joined a witch coven, and last night they all took turns to ravish you while they summoned Old Nick," Murph guessed. "No? Your old dog walked under a bus. No? Your Mum just told you your real dad was the plumber. No? Oh, come on, Ray, whatever it is, you'll have to share it. It's ripping you apart. You know me. These lips are sealed - like talking to a priest, mate." He reached over, one hand on Ray's forearm. "So talk."

The green eyes focused on Murphy's hand, then rose slowly to meet blue-green eyes. Rather beautiful eyes, he thought. He heaved in a breath, let it out slowly. "Bodie."

"Bodie." Murphy echoed, clearly surprised. "You two have had a row? When - you were thick as thieves yesterday."

"Not a row," Doyle whispered hoarsely. "He... I... Oh, Jesus. It's got nothing to do with you!"

"Maybe not," Murphy agreed, "but you're going to tell me anyway. Aren't you?"

The need to share it, to have someone else know and understand, was consuming, and Doyle could not stop the words. "We've been lovers since New Year, and it's killing me."

Silence. The tap was dripping; the kettle was on the simmer; Murphy heard the sounds, but barely registered them. "You sleep together... And you hate it, Ray?" Doyle did not answer. "He, um, he has you, does he?" The green eyes closed and Doyle nodded. "And you don't like the sex?"

"It isn't the sex," Doyle said hoarsely. "I used to like it. I still do, I suppose, or I wouldn't let him do it, but... "

"He fucks you?"

"Yeah. Ever been fucked?"

Silence, again, then Murphy astonished his companion with a brief chuckle. "Once or twice. Long time ago. It's... a new experience, isn't it?"

"Was for me," Ray agreed, looking up at the other man with veiled curiosity. "You bi?"

"Maybe." Murphy shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's you we're talking about. And Bodie. So if you don't mind the sex, what is it, Ray?"

"Bodie," Doyle said with a sad smile. "I fell in love with the stupid bugger. I didn't even realise what I was doing till it was too late to stop it... Going to bed with him used to be fun, didn't seem to matter that he did it all to me - was just a bit of fun, you know?" His face twisted.

"Now, it isn't as nice," Murphy guessed. "You feel - what, Ray? Used?"

"Feel like a whore," Doyle admitted. "Christ, last night, I dunno... It could have been anyone, Murph. He didn't speak to me the second time, didn't kiss me or anything. Just had me, like, if I'd argued he'd have... "

"Raped you?"

The word brought Doyle back to the present with a start. "I dunno. Bodie's a good bloke, but he thinks he owns me. And I'm not helping him see the rubbish in that, am I? I just do what he says. For the sake of being with him."

Silence followed, and Murphy ached at the bitter self-hatred he saw before him. Used. A whore. Savage words Ray was using to flay himself. "Look," he said at last, "if even one of you has the love, it's okay, isn't it?"

"Used to be," Doyle whispered, "but I'm so tired now. So weary of wanting what I can't have. Christ, listen to me - whining like a bloody kid after candy!"

Murphy got his feet under him. "You're exhausted, you're ill, and you're going to bed. How's the gut now?"

"Okay." Doyle stood stiffly, hand in the small of his back, well aware that Murphy would know exactly what was wrong, but beyond caring. "You can leave me to it, Murph - be fine in the morning, really."

"Yap less, and get moving," Murphy said bluffly, following the smaller man to the bedroom. Doyle just stood mutely by the bed, one hand on his head, not even attempting to undress, and at length Murphy muttered an oath and stepped into the room. "Useless today, aren't you, sunshine? Keep still and old Uncle Mike will help."

"Uncle Mike?" An edge of curiosity lightened Doyle's tone.

"That's what the nephews call me," Murphy grinned. "It's my name - Michael."

"Michael," Doyle echoed, trying out the sound of it and liking it. He stood still as Murphy unbuttoned his shirt and lifted it off, too late remembering the bruises.

"Christ." Murphy turned him to the window. "He's a ruddy man-eater! What's he done to your nipples?" It was all too obvious what had been done.

"He gets a bit carried away when he's been drinking," Ray said defensively. "He's not usually so rough. I shouldn't have gone with him - 's my own fault."

"Carried away - keen?" Murphy echoed. He pushed Doyle onto the bed, pulling the jeans off him before he could protest, clucked over the bruises on belly and hips and raised an eyebrow at him. "What about the rest of it?"

"The rest of it?" Ray frowned, confused and light-headed although his stomach was steady enough now.

"How rough was he?" Murphy elaborated huskily. "Don't you think you'd better turn over and let me check it?"

"Used some Savlon stuff," Doyle muttered. "Be okay."

"Do yourself a favour and turn over." Murphy said sternly. "Come on - it isn't something new you've invented, you know. I've been there myself. Not bashful, are you, Ray?" He forced a smile. "Can't be bashful about a gorgeous little body like this, can you?"

Doyle blinked owlishly. "Gorgeous? Really?"

"Well, yeah." Murphy affirmed. "Like Bodie tells you."

To his surprise, Doyle gave a harsh bark of laughter. "He jokes about a lot. Skinny and hairy. Convenient." His face clouded. "Convenient like a bloody whore. Only free."

"Hey, he was joking, like you said," Murphy said quickly. "If he didn't think you were beautiful, why would he want you?"

"Didn't, when Sharon showed up," Ray slurred. "Took her to Paris." He giggled, nearer asleep than awake. "Gay Pahree!"

Murphy took advantage of the mortal drowsiness, rolling him onto his belly and yanking down the blue underwear. Doyle writhed in protest, token squirms and inarticulate words. "Well, you're like liver, but you're not bleeding." Murphy told him huskily, replacing the blue cotton and rolling him back over. "But he steamrollered you, didn't he?"

"Been drinking, told you," Doyle murmured.

"Then, for Christ's sake, be careful! Don't bloody well go to bed with him when he's had one too many!"

Abruptly, Doyle was awake, and startlingly sober. "Not going to be a next time, Mike. Can't do it again. Won't."

The tone was decisive, the first decisive thing Ray had said all day, and Murphy met the clouded green eyes levelly. "You sure?" He watched slender fingers rub at nipples bitten sore. Doyle nodded. "Then why are you so bloody unhappy, if you've made the big decision?"

"Because... " Doyle looked away. "Because I love him. Can't go on being used, Mike, but I'm not going to stop loving him by magic. Shall probably always love him, God help me."

They were silent for a long time. Ray studied the quilt on which he lay and Murphy studied him, seeing a small, brown, supple body, a tangle of red-brown curls, huge, sad eyes and a face that was - Murphy admitted a truth he had always felt in an abstract way - almost unaccountably beautiful. And so sad that it hurt. He reached out, taking Ray's hand and squeezing it. "You poor little bugger."

To his surprise, a wry smile rewarded the remark. "I'm not, you know."

He blinked, still holding the slender hand. "Not what?"

"A bugger of any description. He never let me."

Surprise lowered Murphy's jaw. "What - since New Year?"

Ray nodded. "I used to ask, but he'd make a joke of it, said I was too little to wrestle him down. As if it'd have to come to a fight before I could have him. I stopped asking."

"And let him have you," Murphy concluded. "That's not exactly even given and take, is it?"

"Never was," Doyle said philosophically. "Didn't expect it to be, after the first few weeks. I know he has a lot of bad experiences in Africa behind him. Reckon he might even have been raped. He just jokes about it all. You can never get a plain answer out of him. It was okay at first, didn't mind, because it was just fun. Then... " He shrugged, shoulders whispering on the quilt. "My own stupid fault for falling in love with the bastard. Should have more sense at my age."

"Should you?" Murphy smoothed back rumpled curls, finding them springy and soft, liking the feel of them and so smoothing them again. To his surprise and delight, Ray smiled under the caress and heaved a sigh.

"Anyway, it's all a bit academic now. Not going to be doing it any more. Makes me feel too much like a hooker now. Prostituting my heart, if not my body, and for what? Bruises! No, that's not fair. Usually he's quite nice to me." He closed his eyes, fingers tightening on Murphy's. "You're not shocked, Mike - thank Christ. Thought you'd belt me one."

"I'm chock-a-block with surprises." Murphy quipped. "Oh, relax, you half-wit. I'm a man of the world; got the scars to prove it. Smile? Just a little one? There, that feels better, doesn't it?" He cuffed the curly head affectionately. "Mind if I raid your fridge? It's lunch time and I'm starved."

"Be my guest," Ray slurred, almost asleep now. "Oh, and Mike... Thanks. Mean that."

With those words he was sound asleep, and Murphy stood up. There was an astonishing pain in him; it hurt to see Doyle like this, and Michael Murphy admitted to himself there was a real, genuine affection for Bodie's mercurial little partner in him... And an anger at Bodie. Fair enough - so Bodie did not love him, that was no one's fault. No one could be ordered to fall in love. But that was no reason to use, to take, to make a joke out of something that had begun to hurt someone.

It was typical of Bodie. Big, fun-loving, hearty, joking Bodie. In love with the world, and loved by it. Blind to its bad points, or forgiving of them; taking everything that was offered and given to him as his just desert. Including the gift of Ray Doyle's body. And Ray's heart?

The gift of Ray's heart was one he did not seem to want, so he blithely ignored it. How often did he swap girlfriends? Often enough to prevent any of them assuming there was any love at work. So why the hell, Murphy wondered as he scrambled eggs and made toast, did Bodie continue to bed Doyle?

The answer was obvious. They worked together and were friends, and the coupling was just an act of friendship to Bodie. There was a gulf of difference between sex and love, and Bodie had no use for the latter. Ray wanted to be loved and instead was just getting fucked... So how would I feel?" Murphy wondered as he ate. Disillusioned; miserable; tarnished. Betrayed?

He washed the crockery and made tea, sipping it as he stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Ray sleep. Betrayed? so he drank, and Murphy was wondering how long Doyle had been drinking. Not long, or he would have been showing the signs; surely- the likes of Cowley, Macklin, Crane, Ross, were like hawks, waiting to stoop on such behaviour.

Christ, it could be doom to his career, Murphy realised; and all for what? Because happy-go-lucky Bodie enjoyed sex of all kinds and just happened to have a beautiful, willing friend who would spread his legs; because Bodie had not discovered a need to be loved. Yet. It was sad, Murphy decided, and what hurt worst of all was seeing Ray in pain, disillusioned and betrayed by his wayward heart.

What he needed was someone to be kind, affectionate... I'm getting set to do the rebound stunt? Murphy thought aridly. I'm getting ready to scavenge, pick up the bits for my own coup collection? And what the hell about it? I don't love him as he wants to be loved, but he doesn't love me, so we're even. No lies, no illusions. What he needs is right here in my hands...

He smiled, enjoying the sight of Doyle's body, clad in a scrap of blue cotton, curled on its side, brown in the light from open windows. Oh yes; making love would be easy; Murphy was already half hard just thinking about it. And Ray needed it. Badly. Smiling, Murph left the bedroom, closing the door.

There was a film on tv, an ancient '40s musical that passed the time away, finishing at four. As the end titles went up Murphy heard the bathroom door close and went to make more tea. The loo flushed and Doyle appeared, clad in his red robe, rumpled and still drowsy.

"There," Murphy said, handing him a cup, "Wrap your laughing gear around that. Hungry?"

"Not really," Doyle was surprised at his company. "Still here?"

"Not going to leave you when you're bad, am I?" Murphy demanded. He put a hand on Ray's forehead. "You feel cool at least." The impersonal touch became a caress, fingers threading through he curls at Doyle's nape. "See if you can eat. Bickies?"

"Okay. There's a packet of ginger snaps in the box." Heavy-eyed, Ray sat down in an armchair, watching Murphy go to the kitchen, returning with a crumpled packet of biscuits and sitting on the chair arm. A ginger snap was pressed into his fingers and he chewed on it mechanically, not looking up until he felt a soft caress on his neck. "Mike?"

Murphy was smiling gently at him, the blue green eyes kind and warm. "You know, you're beautiful when you're hung over. All heavy eyes... Oh, go on, Ray - don't gape like a goldfish! Bet Bodie tells you such guff all the time."

Surprise made Ray nearly drop his tea. "No - well, that is, it's all a joke to him. He doesn't seem to care what I look like. Got a big, beaky nose and pop-eyes, so he says. Doesn't seem important to him, so long as he can have me mouth and me bum. I expect he stopped noticing what I look like years ago, we've been together so long. If I was beautiful, he'd have loved me. Maybe."

"So how come he doesn't love his droves of beautiful birds?" Murphy demanded. "You're a twit, Ray. But you're a beautiful twit, I'll give you that." As Ray blinked in astonishment he stooped to press a kiss to his forehead. "Let me be kind to you. I like you, really like you, always did. You don't love me, but I hope you like me, and - Ray, you need someone."

Doyle's voice was a husky whisper. "I know. Oh, Christ, Michael, I've been so - so bloody lonely. You don't know what it's been like. Working with him, wanting him, while he dates this girl and that girl, then, once a week I'll get the royal summons and trot along, well trained, and climb into bed like his personal, made-to-order catamite." He paused, clearing his throat. "I'm not proud of what I've been doing."

"Stop hurting yourself." Murphy said softly. "There's only you knows about your wounded pride. Bodie's a good lad, never set out to hurt you on purpose, but you're too clever an actor, Ray. You've hidden it all, made him think you're happy. If you'd blown your stack at him it might have been different."

But Doyle shook his head. "You can't get angry with someone because they don't love you. You chew yourself out for being a berk." He looked up at the other man, managing a faint smile. "Feels better to say it."

"Knew it would." Murphy gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Will you let me be kind to you?"

"Share my bed?" Ray asked quietly.

A candid nod, and Murphy's fingertips caressed soft lips.

"I... could use the company," Doyle admitted. "But I won't lie to you. I love him - dumb, I know, but I do. What I need is a friend, someone to be there. Reckon you can manage that?" He knew there was a ridiculously hopeful note in his voice.

As he looked up again a kiss brushed his mouth, light, almost tickling, warm, and inviting. The offer of comfort, of solace, was too good to be refused, and Doyle responded with parted lips, a flick of his tongue." Murphy lifted his head before it could deepen and smiled. "That was nice. Always liked you, Ray."

"Always liked you," Ray admitted. "Never guessed you might have liked me like that - but then, it was only New Year I found out about Bodie, and how nice it can be with a bloke. You... want to stay tonight?"

His reply was a tousling of his hair, more affectionate and matey than intimate.

"I'm..." The words were just a whisper, the green eyes cast down. "I'm too sore for it tonight, Michael."

"You can have me." Murphy offered cheerfully. "I got to like it a few years back. Or we'll do it another way. Lots of ways to enjoy each other. Ray?"

Doyle was thoroughly taken aback. "I just assumed -

"That I'd be the same as his lordship?" The bigger man gave a bridled guffaw. "Okay, I'd like to do you, if you wanted me to, but, Christ, not when you're red raw! It'd do my delicate ego a power or good, I don't think, if I finished the job and had you bleeding. Do me instead, eh? Oh, Ray, I wish you could see your face!"

"What's the matter with it?" Doyle demanded.

"It's pink and gawping." Murphy chuckled. "Most kissable." He got up and headed for the kitchen. "You're just about out of groceries, you know. Fruit salad, toast and jam suit you?"

They ate the makeshift meal on the hearthrug, watching the News. Ray was still too dazed by the turn of events to say much. He watched Murphy as much as he watched the television, liking what he saw and forcibly rejecting the absurd notion that he was betraying what he felt for Bodie by turning to Michael... That was the very concept he had to get out of his mind before he could begin to tack his life back into place.

They listened to music, since there was only drivel on the box; Mozart, Beethoven, Max Bruch. Murphy had a taste for the classics that delighted Doyle, since it was new and refreshing. Bodie's preference was for rock, rock and more rock, the harder the better, and while Ray could delight in noise and a brain-pulping beat too, given the occasion, there were times when he wanted something different. Bodie tolerated classics; Murphy liked them, and Doyle appreciated the difference.

Still feeling unwell, Ray headed for bed early, suddenly nervous, self-conscious, very much aware of the other man on his heels. Murph was bigger than Bodie, taller, heavier, and part of him was worried. He stood still, letting the robe be taken from his shoulders, letting his body be looked at, touched and admired. Murphy was a more vocal lover than Bodie; when he liked something he said so.

Furry chests pleased him; the interplay of muscle down the back, long, slim legs; the curve of soft, pliant buttocks. His hands were feathery, tickling, and he made sure he had Doyle aroused before he touched hot, stirring genitals. Ray caught his breath. It was odd, very odd. Bodie was the only man he had ever known before, and this was - different.

There was a different smell about Murph, musky and clean, very male, very nice, but unfamiliar. He was less possessive, more tentative, and Ray had to smile. Even the first time, Bodie had acted as if he knew Doyle was his, belonged to him by right. It had produced mixed responses in Ray; one part of him gloried in the unthinking possession - it was like coming home. But as he realised that it was just sex, the possessiveness took on the aspect of domination, and it was less attractive.

This was a game, Ray saw that at once. Murph would ask before he touched, eyes laughing, fingers teasing, inviting Ray to return the touches. For fun, Doyle thought, nerves alight now. God, but Murphy was big; he had to bend to kiss Ray's mouth when they were standing, and when they lay down, and he was on top, Ray felt a moment's panic. Too much weight, too much bulk. He got a rein on the baseless cowardice at once, but Michael had seen it, and flicked his nose in admonition.

"Berk. Wakey, wakey, Ray, I'm not here to wrestle with you, am I? Up you get then. Howzat - better now?"

He had lifted Doyle bodily onto his chest, and sprawled out beneath him, knees raised to cradle him. Doyle's heart was running away, beating at his ribs, and he laughed shakily. "Nice. Very. Hardly ever been on top before. Bodie's a bit eager, you see. And he likes to wrestle - all a game, and he always wins."

Murphy hid his frown in Doyle's tangled hair. Unwittingly, Doyle had probably put his finger right on the truth. All a game. The Game. Domination. Winner take all. And his partner, innocent and in love, was the prey. Bodie was a good bloke, one of the best, Murphy realised... The simple fact that the sex had not turned into rape or violence was the proof of how much Bodie was in control of what he was doing.

Yet still he had to win, had to be on top, had to possess; and here was Ray, flushed and carried away on a tide of delight because, eight months after he had offered up his virginity he was actually lying on his lover's body. What Doyle, in his awful, city-bred innocence, did not know, was that he was up against the habits of a lifetime, up against the law of the jungle; and it was a contest he would never win.

To win, he must demolish Bodie in a fight - impossible, not because it was beyond Ray's skills and tenacity, but because he was in love with his opponent and would draw the line at inflicting injury; or, Bodie must change.

Possible? Murphy wondered... And there was no answer to that. Ray was kissing his neck, rocking against him, small and sweet in his embrace, and he lifted the tousled head to look at him. "Well? D'you want to?"

"Want to what?" Eyes half closed, Ray was still rocking his erection against Murphy's. Speech was difficult, the words indistinct.

The fingers in the soft curls tightened, demanding proper attention. "D'you want to put it in me?" Murphy asked succinctly.

That stopped Ray; he gasped in a breath, stiffening from head to foot, and Murphy watched him fight not to come. He got back control with an effort of will, eyes glassy, and nodded. "I want to, if it's all right. There's a tube of stuff in the top drawer."

One long arm reached out for it, a battered tube of rich vitamin cream, nearly empty. Murphy uncapped it with a grin. "And all of this has been lavished on your little fanny?"

"S'what it was bought for," Ray said tautly, managing a little humour with a great effort. "Um, turn over and let me see to you. Please, Michael."

"No need for 'please' and 'thank you', Ray." Murphy said bluffly, handing him the tube and lifting him off so as to turn over and get his knees under him. "But take it easy, if you can. It's been a few years for me and I've tightened up a lot."

Doyle took the cream on his fingers and sat back on his heels to consider the whole situation. Murph looked terribly tight, but Ray well knew how one stretched, and he slipped gentle fingers in through the ring of muscle, pampering his new lover as Bodie had so seldom allowed. Michael was loving it - a stream of moans and curses, accompanying delicious wriggles, assured the novice that he was right on track.

"Come on, Ray." Murphy breathed at last. "Fingers are all very well, but can't you think of something better to use?"

And Ray had to admit, he could. He was surprised by a moment of pain as his cock pressed inside, and Michael gave a grunt of discomfort, so he stopped, regulating erratic breathing, and held still until Murphy writhed and cursed him, telling to get on with it. All the way in, he stopped again, knowing that he could not last long. It was too new, to overwhelming. He rested on Michael's smooth back, gasping.

It was over when Murphy heaved up and back, trying to drive him deeper and get some friction. It was too much, and Ray came with a hoarse cry, ears ringing. Face pillowed on smooth white cotton, Murphy found a smile, despite the pangs of frustration. The first time was always a toughie. Ray would be a bloody good lover, once he had been allowed to learn the new skill; the great gentleness he had managed, when he must have been on the brink of losing control, was the guarantee of it. Michael held still, waiting for Ray to stir, and when the smaller body moved away from him he turned over, letting his lover see the taut, aching erection throbbing against his belly.

The green eyes were dopy, but Ray had found his voice. "Christ, mate, I'm sorry. Couldn't hold back. Tried to."

"S'okay." Murphy smiled. "Get your breath back."

"But I'm so sore," Doyle panted. "and you're so...

"Big." Murphy supplied. "Stop worrying. You've got hands, haven't you?"

Ray swallowed, smiling. "Spread 'em and make yourself comfortable, then," he suggested, and when Michael was spread-eagled before him he lay between the long, muscular legs and put his head down.

Nobody, Murphy thought dizzily, minutes later, nobody gave head like Ray. No bloody wonder Bodie had to have him so often. Generous, knowing, uninhibited, Ray brought him to a high that was devastating and a climax that ripped him in two. He knew he was yelling and did not care, and when he floated back to proper awareness it was to find Doyle curled up on his chest, watching him with drugged eyes, his mouth soft and swollen. Murphy wanted that mouth, drawing the curly head down with leaden hands until Doyle's tongue was slipping silkily through parted lips to meet his own, tasting of -

Me, Murphy thought, smiling against Ray's open mouth. He broke the kiss to show Doyle the smile. "God, you're fantastic."

"Could always make that good," Ray said a little smugly.

"Bet you sent him up like a rocket." Murphy panted. "Do the same for you whenever you like."

"Will you?" Ray put his head down on a broad, muscular shoulder. "Mind if we sleep now? I'm beat as a rug over a line."

"I'll bet," Michael chuckled. "Come on then, bonny lad, into bed. What about the clock? Got to be at the office by - what, eight?"

"Mm," Ray mumbled. "S'already set, radio'll give us a blast at seven." He yawned and turned onto his stomach, and Michael bestowed a soothing massage to back and buttocks. "Was good, Mike. Was bloody marvellous. I'll do better when I get used to it a bit... 'Night, mate."

"Sweet dreams." Murphy wished him honestly, pulling the sheets up over their heads and putting out the lamp.

In the darkness, Ray's steady breathing tickled his left shoulder, but Murphy's thoughts were on Bodie. Bodie had just lost a prize, a priceless gift he had never properly valued; he could get it back if he was prepared to buy it back, but if he had the right tender to pay for it Murphy did not know. As he settled to sleep he was sure of only one thing.

There was going to be trouble. It was no one's fault - not Ray's, not Bodie's, not his own; but that altered nothing. When Sergeant Bodie, sometime mercenary and happy-go-loving partner, discovered that his prize had gone, there would be trouble.

---

In the fluorescent lighting, the tea looked positively purple, but Bodie was alone in the squad room, early at work for the first time in a year, and, annoyingly, there was no one to grouse about it to. Ray would have enjoyed the joke, made a meal of it, hammed it up, gone into the instinctive double-act, and Bodie smiled. Ray Doyle was probably the only real mate he had ever possessed. There had been colleagues, work mates, even temporary partners of one sort and another, but if there was one thing Bodie had never had before, it was a friend.

Five years with Ray had changed that. Now, it was beyond the scope of his imagination to envisage life without that tousle-headed little aggravation. And since New Year it had got even better. A warm sensation made Bodie's nerves tingle as he thought back to that party -

Destiny, Ray, he thought, smiling at the empty room - Kismet. Friends working well together on the job, and later, working together twice as well behind closed doors. Ray was a hell of a mate; not every man would come across that way; never an argument, as if he didn't understand the meaning of the word 'no'. But then, that sexy little creature probably didn't. He was something special, was Ray, always in there with a cheeky grin, a ribald remark, bedroom eyes and a zest for fun. Bodie toasted his partner in tea, chalking another mark up to Ray as he thought back to Saturday night.

God, it had been good. Ray was there at every point along the way, giving it everything he had, and when he lifted his rump he did it willingly, filling his lover with a furnace-heat. Bodie closed his eyes, shivering a little as he remembered... Husky moans, Ray coming too soon to take Bodie with him, then spreading himself wide to let his lover have it all.

And I bloody took it, Bodie thought a fraction sheepishly. Twice. Bet the little sod was as sore as God knows what next morning... Christ, ought to apologise. Where the hell is he? He checked the time, finishing his tea. Ray was late, which was unusual.

And he had been gone on Sunday morning, which was also unusual. Bodie's brow crinkled in a moment's concern. Damn, I didn't hurt him, did I? No blood on the sheets. Just so sore he couldn't sit still, then. He grinned, swallowing a chuckle. Well, you gets what you pays for and you pays for what you gets, and if the little raver wanted fucking, there's a price!

Bruised? The grin faded and Bodie leaned on the window ledge, looking down into the carpark. If he had been bruised inside, he would have made tracks for a doctor, first thing in the morning, as soon as he tried to empty his bladder and found out he couldn't, or that it was terribly difficult to -

Damn. Bodie chewed his lip, castigating himself for being so eager. He of all people, who knew what it was like to be forced that hard, and pay the penalties of failure. It was long in the past, but the pain and distress were still sharp in his memory; and to think that he had done something like that to his best friend stung.

Have to be more careful in future, he thought ruefully, and maybe make sure Ray is okay. Damned fool thing to do, screwing him that hard a second time, and then rolling over and going to sleep; selfish too, he admitted. Not the kind of thing you did to your best mate.

Blame it on the booze. Booze always did make him a bit on the passionate side, and regrettably careless of details.

The growl of an engine drew his attention, and he returned to the present to watch the white Escort pull into the carpark below the squadroom window. Ray squealed the tyres on the way into the slot and slammed the door, walking slowly toward the doors, head down as if he were studying the ground. Bodie bit his lip. Subdued? Under the weather? Oh, bloody hell, I've hurt him. And the stupid little sod didn't say a bloody word!

He got moving, meeting his partner at the lift door with a grin of greeting and shepherding him into the squad room. "You look a bit blue, sunshine. Anything wrong?"

In fact the green eyes were shuttered, and Ray did not so much look at as through him, even though the full mouth was smiling. "No, I'm just fine."

"So what happened to you, Sunday morning? Woke up and there you were, gone!"

"Oh, that," Bony shoulder within brown leather gave a shallow shrug. "Waited around for you to wake up, but I'd just remembered a million chores at home that needed doing, and I didn't want to spoil your sleep. Was going to ring you, but by the time I was finished working Murph was on the doorstep and I was over the river, sweet-talking an IRA gunman. It's all go, ain't it?"

"All go," Bodie agreed. He studied Doyle's averted face. He was pale, a little drawn. "Was great Saturday night, mate."

"Yeah, terrific." Doyle turned away toward the tea.

"Bet you were sore," Bodie chortled, one palm going down to fondle the inviting curve of buttocks in tight denim. He felt Ray jump and patted him.

"Extremely," Doyle admitted, not turning about, and burying his nose in his cup.

There was a long pause, and Bodie frowned at the back of his partner's head. "You, er, were okay, weren't you?"

"Okay?" Ray echoed indifferently, fighting off a yawn. "How d'you mean?"

"Sunday morning," Bodie elaborated. "You were just sore - nothing else?"

"Just sore," Doyle said dismissively, moving away to gaze out of the window, carefully not looking at Bodie.

Which made Bodie doubt the denial of whatever hurt. "Hey, if you had a problem or two, I'm sorry. Was a bit rough, I know. Didn't mean to be, but, hell, you were begging for it."

"Was I?" The words were a hushed whisper, and Ray did not turn back from the window. "How, Bodie? How did I beg?"

Bodie frowned at him. "Post mortems are not you style. If it's good, it's good, and that's the end of it."

"But what did I do to beg for it?" Doyle said softly. "I wasn't thinking too straight, can't remember clearly."

Bodie padded up behind him, fondling him again. "You suck me like that and then spread yourself, and you know what's going to happen, mate!"

"Oh." Doyle stepped away again, sipping at his tea. "Yes, of course. Silly of me. Well, so long as you enjoyed it."

"You mean you didn't?" Bodie demanded. "You were yellin' like a whole Apache war party when you came!"

A flush stained Doyle's cheeks. "Of course I enjoyed it. Wouldn't do it if I didn't enjoy it, would I?"

"Don't reckon you would," Bodie snorted. "Worth a bit of soreness the next day, right?"

"Right." The husky whisper was quieter than ever. "Bodie, why won't you let me do it to you?"

Damn. Bodie swung away, back toward the tea. He knew Ray was going to start that again one day. "Not my scene," he said gruffly. "Hail the conquering hero. Heat my bosom like Tarzan, bowl the maidens over. And you as well, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Doyle said, so softly Bodie had to strain to hear him. He heaved an enormous breath, and Bodie watched him turn about at last, a cheeky grin on his face. "There's a fantastic new bird in Computers. Seen her yet? Long blond hair, legs like a racehorse and a figure like Venus."

"Vanessa Maxwell" Bodie grinned. "Saw her last week - asked her out, too." He preened. "She fell on me, of course."

They all do," Doyle agreed drily. "Just hope she didn't break her neck. Or something else vital. Where are you taking her? Ballet? Opera? Transport Cafe?"

The jokes brought Bodie an enormous peace of mind, and he relaxed visibly. Christ, business as usual. Doyle was okay, just a bit inclined to writhe around in his seat and disappear at intervals to the gent's with a tube of whatever. Very much relieved, Bodie slung an arm about his shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Taking her to the garden party, that charity do on the river. In aid of the RSPCA, yet. She's big on animal rights. Heart in the right place.

"As well as all her other bits and pieces," Doyle added. "Well, have a nice time, and tell me all the juicy details the next day."

"Juicy details?" Bodie demanded brows climbing.

"Yeah, you know. Hail the conquering hero. Want to hear about how she was bowled over and begged for it, and you had her till she... "

For just a moment Bodie could have sworn there was a catch in Ray's voice, but a sudden burst of coughing explained it, and he made a joke of it. "You got a cold coming on?"

"Dust," Doyle explained lucidly. "Too much cleaning yesterday. Curtains, floors, the lot. That's my bout of domesticity over with till end of next year. Oh, no - I'm not cleaning your place, mush, so don't bloody ask!"

"Bribe you," Bodie said innocently.

"Oh yeah?" Doyle gave him a shrewd look. "What with?"

"What would you like?" Bodie asked, watching Doyle perch on the edge of the table and move a little sideways, finding a comfortable position. He bit off a chuckle.

"You," Ray said darkly, "so sore you can't sit down, and me, so exhausted I can't stay awake."

Bodie heaved a sigh, hand on his heart. "You haven't forgiven me for Saturday night, have you?"

"No, I bloody well have not!" Ray grinned. "My anatomy is very important to me, believe it or not." He checked the time. "How would you like the sack? Early to work, late on the job! Come on, Casanova, time to do some work."

Business as usual, Bodie thought happily, managing to pinch Ray's behind as they went through the door, enjoying the yelp of outrage and looking forward to teasing him about his wriggling around in the car. No doubt about it - Ray was the best mate a bloke could have. Co-operative, fun-loving, and able to take a joke at his own expense with the best of them. A real bloke, and worth a dozen other mates.

They were chasing IRA bombers, who were hard at work with the August tourist season at its height, and the week went slowly, routine leg work, following leads and getting nowhere fast.

On the social scene, Bodie did much better. Vanessa was a real doll. Garden party on Tuesday, a few drinks and dinner on Wednesday, and he was in a perfumed boudoir, smothered in her flowery scent, and flying her high. She cooked him breakfast before work on Thursday and invited him back the following night, and Bodie discovered her one true flaw... As a cook, she was a good plumber. The food was terrible. Still, she had her good points, and he was waiting for ten quiet minutes to regale his inquisitive partner.

They were parked by the embankment, lunching on salad rolls and doughnuts, and he launched into the blow-by-blow, giving an account of the prawn cocktails and pink champagne, the saffron satin bed sheets, and the sweet, feminine wiles that had seduced him.

Doyle toasted the story in Coke and shook his head. "You ought to have been a bloody novelist."

"What's that mean? Every word was true!" Half of them had been true, but Bodie was not about to admit to that. "Anyway, she's asked me home with her again tonight... which leaves Friday for us. Fancy a night out, Ray?"

Doyle yawned animatedly. "Friday's no good for me. Got a big night out planned. Going to the dogs."

"You certainly are," Bodie agreed innocently. "But what will you be doing Friday?"

"Greyhound races," Doyle elaborated with a pained expression. "Been saving a bob or two to lose." "

"Okay, what about Saturday?" Bodie suggested.

"Mm... Saturday's no good either. There's a new film opening at the Odeon Leicester square, had the seats booked for a fortnight." Ray tipped back his Coke, draining the tin.

"Busy social schedule you've got all of a sudden," Bodie said, watching the movement of smooth, brown gullet as Doyle swallowed the frothy liquid.

"I'm in demand," Ray quipped.

"Well, there's always next week," Bodie said philosophically, crumpling up his lunch wrapper. "Don't suppose you'll know if you have an appointment time free for later... ?"

"Appointment," Ray chuckled. "That's nice. Give you an appointment to ram your cock into me - omigod, that's rich!" Bodie surrendered to the humour, starting the car. "Okay, we'll look at scheduling later."

It was Saturday afternoon before they got back to talking over their plans, and Doyle subtracted himself from the casual gossip with a yawn and a stretch, ambling out to records and leaving Bodie typing the afternoon's report. Ray was busy on Monday night, Tuesday night, Bodie had Vanessa on Wednesday and Thursday, and the Friday was too far in the future to be tied up - unless he made an appointment.

An appointment, to ram his -

Damn. There was an itch, terminally unscratchable, that came over him when he wanted a man's body. No, Bodie admitted with a moment's honest astonishment, it was not a man's body he wanted. It was Ray's body. There was a subtle difference there, but a difference all the same. Vanessa was nice, very nice; and there were men by the dozen who would have been friendly, if he had the urge to go out and cruise, but that was not what he was itching for.

He was itching for Ray, and Ray was suddenly somewhere between indifferent and too busy to be bothered. That was bloody funny. Ray was such a peppery little sod that the offer of a wild night in the sack was like a kid being offered candy. So why the hell was he being so standoffish all of a sudden?

Unless that Saturday had hurt him, and he was too much of a mate to admit to it. Bodie looked back over the days since, trying to put his finger on any unusual behaviour. From his own unpleasant experience he knew what it was like when one's body had been forced... A swollen, bruised prostate, and life became a nuisance. But Ray had been absolutely normal, not a word or a gesture out of place, so it could not be that.

Then it came to Bodie with a flash of inspiration. Christ, there was someone else. He was seeing someone special. Maybe he was falling in love. Damn! A grin of humour creased Bodie's face as he studied his partner on the Friday afternoon as they rode back to Central in the white Escort. Okay - put it to the test.

"Busy tonight, are you?"

"Yup," Ray said at once. "Going out to dinner, and then a show. 'Don't Start Without Me'."

"Wouldn't dream of it, duckie. Someone special, is she?"

"She? she who?" Doyle was concentrating on the traffic.

"This mysterious bird who makes it bloody impossible for me to get you to myself anymore."

A cheeky grin answered that. "Who says it's a bird?"

Bodie did a double-take, suddenly and inexplicably hurt. A bloke? Ray was seeing a man? "Oh, stop joking about and tell me about her," he said lightly. "Share and share alike, remember."

"I told you," Ray said indifferently. "It isn't a bird, and as for share and share and all that rubbish - well, you'll have to talk to him about that. Michael's body isn't mine to loan around."

"Michael?" Bodie demanded, sitting up and fixing Doyle's profile with a steely look. "Michael who? Come on - you want me to do my gumshoe routine, and find out myself?"

Tyres whistled on the road as Ray pulled up at the lights. The green eyes glittered, angry, feline. "It's my life, Bodie - I'm warning you. I don't dance to your tune! You follow me, or check up on me, and you'd better put up your bloody dukes, because I'll come out fighting!" He calmed, the words releasing the tensions in him. "And for your information, it's Michael Patrick Murphy, our Murph. And if you want to make an appointment to ram that eager cock of yours up him, you'll have to ask him yourself. He doesn't belong to me."

There was silence then. Bodie closed his mouth and kept it closed all the way back to the carpark at Central, because the only words he could think of were lame, egocentric, half-baked protests. You have no right to be seeing a man because I'm your working partner - if anybody's going to be fucking you, it's going to be me - you're cheating on me!

Irrational, Bodie told himself heatedly. Bloody silly. If Murphy doesn't belong to Ray, how can I say Ray belongs to me? He's just my mate, we're not married! Jesus, what is there Murphy can do for him that I can't? Let him - let him -

Oh, of course. Bodie pressed his lips together to hold the bitter recriminations m, trying not to picture the two of them together. Naked, on Ray's bed, mouths together, sweat glistening on them as Murphy screwed hard into him -

No. Murph writhing under him, pliant and accepting, the small, slender, brown body rocking slowly on him while Ray took him. Gently? Yes, Ray would be gentle. Ray was Ray - wild and abandoned, but always careful, always so tender. Always.

The Escort slid in to park and the motor stilled. In the sudden quiet Bodie found words, quiet and cutting. "It means that much to you, to do the screwing, does it? Murph lets you, I don't, so you'll go to him instead. That it, Ray?"

Doyle's face whitened to the lips and his knuckles went away to bone on the plastic of the steering wheel. For some moments he simply breathed, and Bodie watched him fight the anger back under control. When he spoke, it was in a serpentine hiss. "The only reason I'm not ripping you apart, mate, is because I'd have to explain to George Cowley why I killed you, and it's too private to have him in on it. You ever say that, or anything like that, to me again, Bodie, and I walk, got it?"

"You've already walked," Bodie snarled. "It's been weeks, you haven't got time for me anymore!"

"I work with you eight and ten hours a day, you bastard! The only thing I'm not doing for you now is inviting you between my legs. What's this about, Bodie? You think you own me, or something? You think you've got exclusive rights to me?"

"No, but... " Bodie shrugged, searching for words; it was a long time since he had seen Ray Doyle white with fury, and never yet had that rage been directed at him. "What does he do for you that I can't? or didn't? Except lift his ass for you?" he asked at last, knowing how lame it sounded.

The reply began with a snort of bitter derision. "You know, I pity you," Doyle said, and there was a dreadful depth of sincerity in the words. "Lift his ass for me. Let you fuck me. Screw Vanessa, screw me. Christ, Bodie, is that all there is for you - sex? Nothing else? Nothing? It's all you think about, all you plan for, all you ever seem to want." He broke off the gasp in a breath that obviously hurt. "Fair enough - fuck to your heart's content, but not me."

"Ray," Bodie said quickly, "I didn't mean it that way. I put my foot in it, didn't I? I've really hurt you, but I didn't mean to, mate, honestly. Of course it's your life, and if you want Murph, that's fine. You're free as a bird, Ray, always have been. I'm sorry - I spoke out of turn. Honestly."

The green eyes were glittering. Fury or grief, Bodie could no longer tell; it was as if Doyle was a stranger, even his voice sounded odd. "Free? You think so?" he asked, choked. "Oh, Bodie, who gets to do who doesn't matter a damn to me, it's not that, never was. I -" And then he was gone, slamming the car and hurrying away toward the lifts. Bodie sat where he was in the passenger seat of the white Escort, staring after him, and aching.

Murph. A man. Ray was seeing another man.

It had been the furthest thought from Bodie's head - it had never occurred to him that Ray would turn to other men... Bruise on my ego? He demanded of himself, brutally. A lesson in ruptured self-esteem; I can't satisfy him, so he needs another lover? He rubbed his face, trying to stop the aches that beset arms, chest, shoulders, the sudden, crippling tension. Ray was making love with another man.

He can't! It's not right, he hasn't the right to!

Gibberish, he told himself icily. Ray is a grown man, over twenty-one. He has the right to do what the hell he wants, with whoever he wants... So why does it hurt?

Hurt and anger fuelled one another and Bodie slid out of the car, slamming the door. Rationality was far from his thoughts as he transferred to his own car, powering out onto the road and away.

If that was what Doyle wanted, he was welcome to it - in fact, he was welcome to go to hell. So why did it hurt? Why was there an ache in Bodie's gut that refused to abate, and no amount of alcohol or Vanessa Maxwell would alleviate?

It was late that night, after an evening spent in solitude and discontent, that he finally identified the look he had seen on Ray's face. That was not fury; that was pain. A real gut-wrenching agony, tearing him to shreds behind a facade of artificial anger. Typical of Doyle to conceal what he was feeling - but why? Bodie lay, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the painful scene over and over.

Each time, now, he saw the lines of stress and utter misery on his partner's face, and each time, his prickling conscience took him back to that Saturday night. A few drinks, a lot of kissing; Ray, pliant, silent, willing, his body offered up without argument.

I was rough, I know, Bodie admitted, but he's a man, for Godsake, tough as they come, he can take it. I'm sure I didn't hurt him that much. He was at work a couple of days later so...

Not physical hurt then.

It came to him with a sudden stab of merciless understanding and he groaned. "Oh, Jesus, is that what I've been doing? Oh, Ray... Me, of all people, it has to be me, the one who spent a year hating everything and everyone, because... "

Because they fought him down and beat him, and, as the vanquished, it was his part in the festivities to strip and kneel and take it. Two of them, eager, rough. There was physical pain, a price to be paid, a little blood, bruises inside, making life a source of annoyance for days, though he carried on as if he was in the best of health, too proud to let them know they had the power to hurt him. The worst pain was not physical in any case; it was the smarting burn of humiliation that haunted him all year and could still haunt him, even now, a decade later.

Cautiously, clinically, he went back to Saturday again and replayed the scene. Doyle, silent, unsmiling, accepting, his face drawn taut, his body offered without a word, and plundered with only token gentleness, more than once. 'You were begging for it'. Bodie remembered his words of Monday morning with another groan. Begging to be taken, hard, twice. "Then I made fun of him for being so sore," he whispered to the empty room, and could have kicked himself. "Christ, you're an ungrateful bastard, Bodie - it's a wonder he didn't... It's a wonder he's still on speaking terms." He rubbed his face.

Had Ray been begging for it? The memories, hazed with a fever of desire, were jumbled and unclear; he remembered husky cries, but to his now repentant mind they could as easily have been cries of distress as delight. Ray had gone down on him before being fucked again -

Hoping to suck me off and avoid being taken? Bodie heaved a breath into aching lungs; how he had needed it, to be sheathed in tight heat, glorying in the possession of male strength. "No... in him," Bodie admitted, aloud, giving substance to the admission. "So I didn't ask, didn't let him suck me, just picked him up and... " He scrubbed angrily at his face, the fury directed at himself now. "Jesus, it's a wonder he didn't kill me when I made a joke of it on Monday! Why the hell does he keep on smiling?" In that moment, Bodie honestly wished Doyle had hauled off and smashed in his teeth. They could have argued it out, got to the truth, made apologies where necessary, and put it behind them. Now, after their stony parting, Bodie's one great fear was that he had not just lost his occasional lover, but lost his one real friend.

Knowing that sleep was impossible, he slid out of bed and went to make tea. He could apologise - words were cheap. Too cheap. And would Ray even want to listen?

---

The play had been wonderful, hilarious, but if Doyle had even smiled, let alone raised a chuckle, Murphy was not aware of it. They returned to Murphy's flat, which was closer to the theatre by miles, and Michael set about supper, waiting for Ray to offer up the story. But he could make shrewd guesses at what had Doyle so caught up in painful introspection. It was stupid to love anyone that much. And tragic. The story came out haltingly as they drank cocoa and ate shortbread, and Murphy shook his head over Ray Doyle. So it had come to a confrontation, and it had gone badly. As much as that was predictable. The green eyes were haunted at Ray looked at him with the final confession. "Would have done no good to lie, so I told him I'm spending time with you. He could have found out in a dozen ways in two seconds, Mike. Better that it came from me. You mind?"

"Was the sensible thing to do," Murphy shrugged. "Now, if he wants to make a fight out of it he has to make his own play - he wants you back, he rolls the dice. With you, with me. Or he lets you go for the sake of peace."

"Go?" Doyle propped his chin on one palm. "I've already gone! He knows I won't climb into bed with him any more, but he thinks it's because I just have to the one who gets on top. That's as far as he wants to see; fucking is all there is, and if he won't let me, and you will, I'd sooner sleep with you... In a way I pity him, I really do."

"Don't," Murphy said softly. "Bodie's as happy as a kid in a toy shop. He's got everything he wants, Ray. He snaps his fingers, and any bird who sees him leaps into bed with him. If that's what it takes to make Bodie happy, fair enough. You're different - you're allowed to be. No law says you have to be the same. Bodie is having the time of his life, sowing his wild oats. Save your compassion for folks who need it."

Doyle saw the sense of that and nodded, finishing his cocoa in one swig. "What really worries me is that after the stupid way I went on in the carpark, I won't even have him as a friend. I bloody knew sleeping with him was a mistake. Take a five year friendship and chuck it on the scrap heap, and for what? So he can add my scalp to his collection!"

"Ah." Murphy sat down on the arm of Ray's chair, one arm about his shoulders. "Well, you can talk it out, can't you? He can still listen to reason, can't he?"

"Dunno," Doyle said honestly. "I blew up on him. I don't even know what I said, but I've got a vicious tongue when I get angry enough - and I was furious."

"You were hurt," Murphy argued. "What, humiliated?"

"Yeah." Ray rubbed his face. "Felt like a tart, trying to act like a minister's brat, and caught in the stable with the groom. All innocent, but who'll believe me?" He forced a shaky smile. "Christ, I'm tired."

"There's a cure for that," Murphy quipped softly. "Go to bed."

"Right. D'you mind if I stay over?" Ray asked, not looking up. "I don't feel like making whoopee tonight, so I thought I'd ask first."

"Prat," Michael said, cuffing the curly head by his shoulder. "Go and flake out, I'll lock up."

Sleep eluded Doyle and he lay awake, calling himself all kinds of fool. Bodie had no idea what he had said, and had even tried to apologise. It was not his fault if he liked sex, and that was all he wanted. So he could be a little eager and rough when he had had a few to drink - Ray already knew that, and had chosen to sleep with him that Saturday night... Not Bodie's fault at all. He was, as Murphy had observed, simply sowing his wild oats and having the time of his life. Every bloke's basic right. Doyle turned onto his side, staring at the window, trying to formulate something he could say to his partner when they met at work, something to patch it up. He could apologise for the storm of temper; Bodie had always accepted apologies in the past. Would he now? The weekend stretched out before him like a wilderness. There was one sure way to get Bodie back as a friend, but Doyle rejected it in the same moment as it occurred. Spreading his legs for Bodie to use him was the biggest mistake he could make; it would take friendship and reduce it to sex, take their easy-going working relationship and reduce it to a round of submission and casual domination. No doubt Bodie would thoroughly enjoy the winning, the satisfaction of being in the driver's seat, and everything would be rosy.

If that was the price of Bodie's friendship, it was too high. Ray curled up, going over and over the problem, and he was no nearer an answer when the sky grew bright with dawn. Michael was still asleep; the sleep of the blameless, Ray thought with wry humour, and he slipped silently out of bed to shower and make breakfast. He sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, remembering the countless occasions when he had seen the dawn come up with Bodie; relying on the support of friendship to see them through whatever crisis.

What was this but one more crisis?

But this time, was there anything left to see them through it? Murphy stirred at seven, singing in the shower before he attacked cereal and toast, and Doyle sat frowning at the table, knowing that he was pathetic company.

It was the third time Michael had framed the question, and he knew Ray had not heard him clearly even now. "I said, do you want to go somewhere today?"

"Oh. Not really, Mike," Doyle said, forcing this thoughts to order. "As a matter of fact, I'd rather spend a bit of time on my own. Not going to be thrilling company today."

"I'll run you back home," Murph offered. "Save you the price of a taxi."

"Thanks." Ray managed a smile, but the good humour was only surface deep, and when he had the door shut on his own flat he let the pretence drop. He stood in the riddle of the living room, seeing many jobs that should be done but unable to find the energy to tackle them. As usual when he felt low, he ate chocolate and sat staring at the gas heater. August was so warm that it was not in use, but its artificial coals were the focus of the hearth. He had been laid on the rug in front of it, in winter. Once, the memory would have brought a smile.

The demanding jangle of the phone roused him with a shock, and he glanced at the time; it was almost lunch time - probably Murph, trying to jolly him out of the moody blues... Bloody good bloke was Murph. He heaved himself to his feet and snatched up the phone, expecting to hear Michael's cheerful voice, shaken and suddenly cold when Bodie spoke.

"Ray? Ray, are you there?"

It was long seconds more before he could reply, "Yeah."

Another silence, and then Bodie said quietly. "Have to talk to you. Can I come over?"

Come over here? To the flat? Ray rubbed his face. "Uh, no. I'll meet you somewhere." Couldn't face him here, not in here where he's had me - hearth rug, settee, shower, bed.

"The Swan?" Bodie suggested. His voice was taut, Ray noticed absently. Tight-strung. "Buy you a beer, mate."

Bodie? Overtures of comradeship? "Um, okay. Be there at twelve, Bodie. That suit you?"

Stilted dialogue, unfamiliar, uncomfortable. "Fine," Bodie agreed. "I'll be there. See you, Ray."

With a click the receiver went back into place and Doyle stood frowning at the phone for a long time. Bodie had not sounded like himself. Coming down with something? Had he been working all night - Cowley's surprise commandments? Ray's mind went back to their blow-up. Jesus, not even twenty-four hours ago! So maybe it bothered Bodie too.

Bothered him enough for him to make the first move. Roll the dice, Murphy had said. Try to get his lover back. Or his friend? One way to find out, Ray thought bleakly, getting his feet moving.

The Swan was a country pub on the river, old, white walled, mock-Tudor woodwork, too many patrons thronging in the bar. The white Escort slid into a slot vacated as a brown Norris with an overload of sticky children pulled out, and Ray pocketed the keys, walking by Bodie's car on the way to the open doors.

"Ray?"

Bodie's voice startled him and he spun to see his partner leaning on the wall, two tankards in his hands. "'Ullo."

"Got here a few minutes ago," Bodie explained. "Saw you arrive and sent the lass for a couple. Too crowded inside, but there's tables this way."

White steel tables with pink and white parasols. Ray slid into the patch of shade and took a beer from Bodie's hand. All the arguments and apologies he had rehearsed the night before had gone and he was left fishing awkwardly for words. They were an elusive quarry, and to his surprise it was Bodie who broke the strained silence.

"I owe you an apology... And you can consider it said," he offered in a rueful tone. "See?" He bared his teeth. "I've still got 'em, and I'm bloody lucky, I know. You should have knocked 'em out for me. Okay, I've said it. Good enough?"

Doyle blinked at him. "What the hell are you on about?"

"About the way I climbed all over you," Bodie said with a sheepish smile. "Dumb thing to do, I know. I could've really hurt you, and then I didn't even ask if you were okay. I'm sorry, if I can help it I won't do it again, and now I'd like to bury it and go back to normal. You're my best mate, and that is what matters."

"Oh." Ray sipped at the lager, searching his turbulent feelings for some common denominator he could use. Bodie was waiting and he ran his fingers through his hair, leaning back against hot steel mesh to study his partner... Hopeful, he saw. Repentant. Guardedly cheerful, as if Bodie knew forgiveness was as simple as a smile and a kiss. "Bodie, what do you want?"

"Told you," Bodie said evenly. "Want to go back to the way it was before. You and me. Mates."

The breath Ray took caught in his throat. "I'll be your friend," he said softly. "Always was your friend."

Bodie pantomimed a sigh of relief. "Terrific. How about I buy you lunch? Can hire a boat, have a nice afternoon. I've bloody missed you lately. Missed you at home, that is. Haven't had the chance to get you to myself for ages." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"No." Ray shook his head. "I said I'll be your friend, Bodie, and that's what I meant. The rest of it is over."

Bodie's expression darkened, but the anger Ray expected did not appear. The blue eyes studied his glass, and Bodie chose his words with obvious care. "I've really hurt you," he said softly.

"If you mean, was I like raw liver for a couple of days, yes, I was. Outside of that, I was lucky. That time," Doyle said quietly. "That isn't anything to do with it."

"I know," Bodie admitted. "Wounded pride is a painful injury, isn't it? Got no one to blame but myself - ought to be bloody grateful, in fact." He managed a lopsided smile. "If you'd resigned, or asked to be reteamed, to get away from me, I couldn't have complained, not after the way I've been... " He bit the words back and took a draught of lager. "All right... Friends, are we?"

"Always were," Doyle said sadly. "But I can't -"

"Yeah, I know," Bodie said quickly. "My fault." A long pause, and then he said, "er, Ray, are you and Murphy still - that is, are you going to go on with him?"

A flare of defiant annoyance worried at Ray's innards, but he held his tongue until he had examined both the query and the man sitting opposite him. Bodie was tight-lipped and pale, holding in some awful emotion. Jealous anger, Doyle assumed - it was no more than he had expected, and that was not Bodie's fault either. Perfectly normal reaction to the 'theft' of one's lover. He chose words that were soothing, his tone calm.

"Mike's just a friend, Bodie. Just another friend."

"But you're sleeping with him."

"I used to sleep with you," Ray shrugged. "what are we but the best of mates?"

"But - he - he fucks you," Bodie muttered.

"So did you," Ray said quietly. "What about it? It's just a friendly bit of fun."

"But you don't come to bed with me," Bodie whispered.

"There's a difference," Doyle said levelly. "Murphy is not my partner. I can see him after work without jeopardising my working relationship, without busting up the best friendship I ever had. Bodie, sex isn't as important as what we have. What we had, before we made the biggest mistake of our career. We should never have done it, mate. Sex can't be a part of this lob, it's ripping us apart. Making life a contest."

"A contest I have to win, is that right?" Bodie asked, sadly. "Don't answer that. I've answered it myself about hundred times over, haven't I? Then made a stupid joke out of it when you were uncomfortable, afterward, Okay." He held up his hands as if at gunpoint. "I've been a berk and I deserve this. If Murph makes you happy, go to it, old son."

The gift of freedom hurt more than the expected fight for it, and Ray's guts twisted. Isn't he even going to try to get me back? Christ, is that all I was, just a quick lay, sex on command, when he needed it hard, and a bird would have squealed? Self-doubt turned into self-loathing, concealed behind a smile.

"That's a relief. Glad you feel that way, Bodie. Makes it easier, doesn't it? Back to work, the way it was, before. Hey, how did you go on with the Maxwell woman? Bit of all right, that!" The patter covered his churning nerves, but for the life of him he could not remember what Bodie had said in reply.

They drank a second round and sent for a pub lunch, eating it on the grassy bank of the river, and in retrospect all Ray could remember was the shine of August sunshine on Bodie's dark, silky hair, the way his mouth smiled, the laughing, relaxed tone of his voice - pleasure and agony in one.

So it was over, as simple as that. Cards on the table, confessions, admissions, apologies. A spur of the moment rationalisation - job before sex, and back to the old way of things. Blistering repartee, lightning reflexes, jokes and social drinking with the birds... And hunger, Ray thought sadly. Hunger, when I want his mouth, his hands, and I can't - Won't -ask. Because the price is too high and, goddamn it, I'm not a bloody whore!

They parted company at four and by five Doyle was leaning on Murphy's doorbell, waiting to be questioned, grateful when Michael asked nothing. They went to bed instead, making love slowly and gently, just sucking each other to satisfied oblivion. Later, held in big, strong arms, Ray went against his usual form and dissected what he had felt. It had been an act of friendship. The love that made being with Bodie painful had not been a part of it, and he and Murphy had enjoyed each other as he and Bodie never had. For Bodie, it was the winning that brought satisfaction, he was sure. Having his 'little raver' of a partner squirming around, begging to be fucked. Ray shivered, only just beginning to fully realise the woman's instinctive fear, that with her surrender would be forfeited the respect she commanded. 'Of course I'll respect you in the morning'.

Bodie still seemed to respect him, at least; that was something - and more than he could have asked for. Once or twice he had begged for it, in the very early days when the feeling was new and strange; after that? Bodie did not seem to understand. Ray offered his mouth out of love, spread his legs out of love, wanting Bodie to be fulfilled, as much as to be fulfilled himself, because sometimes it was painful and there was always a thread of sadness to mar the pleasure. Begging for it? Ray turned his face into the angle of Murphy's shoulder, blinking back foolish tears.

Begging to be loved. Whimpering for affection. Making do with fucking because Bodie had nothing else to give him, and from him only desired his body. Fool, he told himself - absolute bloody raving lunatic. Too old for this stupidity; deserve to be made into a clown. Learn from the mistakes. Don't make them again.

Learning usually costs dearly.

---

Bodie had the phone in his hand before he was properly awake, peering at his watch. It was five, and he had been asleep the odd hour or two. The voice on the line belonged to Cowley and he forced himself to awareness.

"You're on," the Scot was saying. "The Liverpool set-up. McDonnough just turned up dead in a backstreet rubbish bin, and we need another man who has been properly briefed up there - fast. That's you, Bodie. You can be there by noon if you get moving now. Drive up, and Smithson will be waiting for you."

Bodie hung up, rolling out of bed and under an icy shower before he had even begun to think. Smithson was on deep-cover, so far undercover that for him to be blown would terminate the whole operation. Libyans training operatives in the arts of bomb and gun, right under the noses of British authority - funded by IRA money that had originated in America, then sending the terrorists into countries such as Germany, France, Greece, there to wreak havoc, run the Security services around in circles so that the real trouble makers could be about their business, unnoticed.

Charlie McDonnough was an old Army man who knew the hard stuff and was a natural, born recruit. Big, tough, uncouth - Or could be, when he had to be. As could Bodie. And he was dead. Swearing beneath his breath, Bodie slammed the door on his flat and stalked out to the car. Damn Cowley - damn Fate, or whatever, or whoever worked out the timing. Today of all days! Monday. Ray would be at work and this should have been their time of reconciliation.

There was a Chance, a slim one, but a chance, that Ray could have been sweet-talked all the way, not merely back into friendship, but into bed. Having learned the hard way, Bodie was confident that he could make a better go of it now. Accept the offer of that gorgeous mouth, let Ray suck him, If that was what he preferred. Maybe even suck him now and then. Roll him over and lie on him, just rock against him, let that be enough. Christ, he thought belatedly, see to his comfort.

Too late? Murphy probably babied him, before and after - was that what Ray wanted? It did not seem in character, Bodie puzzled. Ray was a man, not there to be petted and spoiled and told how beautiful he was. He was beautiful, but that was beside the point.

Yet he was with Michael. Bodie shifted savagely into third and put his foot to the floor as he hit the motorway. So Michael spoiled him, and Doyle lapped it up, wanted it? The notion should have been absurd, but Bodie could not shake it off, as he could not shake off the image of the two of them together. Bloody Murphy, just hanging around like a vulture, waiting to scavenge on the spoils. The anger was fleeting but genuine, and then he swallowed it, recognising the impotence of it. Both of them were free men, what of it?

He was haunted by the picture he had of them, a mental image of two perfect male bodies, carnally interlocked; one large, broad, pale, the other slender, brown, lithe. He barely noticed the miles to Liverpool and was snarled in traffic as he forced his mind back to the job.

Smithson was waiting for him at the rendezvous pace, a waterfront bar, cheap, down at heel. The man was fronting as a recruiting officer, and the cover was nothing less than perfect. Silver whiskers, glasses, roll necked seaman's jersey, baggy jeans and a walking stick - Smithson's own father would have had a hard time recognising him. He greeted Bodie as he appeared, beckoning him to a table away from the door, under the covering din of a juke box playing the Rolling Stones.

"Hello Bodie, you look like hell."'

"Thanks a whole heap," Bodie said sweetly, the sweetness of venom. "When's the meeting?"

"I'm only a genius, not a ruddy magician," Smithson said with a grin. "Get yourself a room. Cheap, Bodie, you're supposed to be on your beam ends, ready to kill for bread, remember?"

"How long?" Bodie growled.

"Search me," Smithson said indifferently. "Could take a few days, a week. Chin up, old horse, call it a holiday. Nothing to do and all day to do it in. See you, sweets!" With that he was gone and Bodie was on his own devices. A room in a hotel was his first priority; food and sleep. The previous night had been rough, a muddle of memories - Ray, angry at him, Ray, hurting behind that facade of carefree good humour, Ray, panting with arousal, taking him in until Bodie was sheathed to the hilt in the beautiful, tight little ass. The images haunted him again, denying bin sleep, and he dared not resort to alcohol or pills.

The itch for a man's body was becoming stronger with each day. A man's body, he told himself bleakly. Ray Doyle had nothing to do with it. He tossed the night away, spent the morning ambling down the murky, begrimed seafront, ogling the tourists, girls and boys in skimpy bikinis, their charms not- so-innocently flaunted for one and all. At three he was back at the bar, chewing on a greasy burger and washing it down with tea like brown paint, waiting. Smithson did not show. He left at four, at a loose end, kicking his heels in the sooty little motel room. Itching.

Doyle had nothing to do with it, he thought sourly, dining on fish and chips and watching the television until the sheer brainlessness of the programmes made it impossible to watch any more.

Well, if Doyle had nothing to do with it, the rest was easy. Abandoning the motel room, he headed for an area of Liverpool once well known to him. Sixteen years had changed the place, but the character of it was the same. Dissolute, abandoned, inviting, with the siren-song of the forbidden. Dusky alleys, flesh for sale, male and female, drugs and the kind of pursuit that would get you jailed. If they caught you.

It had been the Ringo's Discotheque in the mid-60s, but the neon had all been renewed. It was Studio '66 now, and the music beating out of it was different. The steely, sounds of The Beatles, The Shadows, Freddy and The Dreamers, were gone. Rod Stewart. Spandau Ballet. The Police. Abba. Bodie took no interest in the music tonight, buying a beer and watching the dancers instead.

It was like watching a cattle market in progress; girls in suffocating jeans, boys in denim, leather, shirts open to display chest hair and medallions. Bodie grinned into the beer. Eeny, Meeny, miney, moe -

Instinct and the unconscious desire to test out the notion that Doyle had nothing to do with it led him to the lad with the gold earring, the skin-tight leather trousers and boots. Brown curls and blue eyes, skin like milk. Irish looks, he thought, not wanting to know a name to remember the boy by.

"Can I buy you a beer?"

The man was older than he had thought; he could see a few laugh lines as he turned to the light and smiled. "Yeah. You waiting for anyone?"

"No," Bodie said silkily. "You?"

The man offered his hand. "Richard."

"John," Bodie smiled, appreciating the firm, dry handshake and ushering the younger man to a table away from the dance floor. Lingering eye contact; conversation littered with intentional double-entendre. "Want to get out of here?" Bodie asked at last, an hour after he had bought the first beer."

There was a knowing grin on Richard's face. "Keen, are you, John?"

"Yeah." Bodie smiled seductively. "Like it that way? A bit keen and eager?"

Richard winked and stood up. "My place or yours? I live just round the corner, if you're interested."

But Bodie was not so trusting. "I've got a motel room; stay the night if you want.'"

Twenty-five, twenty-six, he thought as he shepherded his prize back to the motel, shut the door, and put on the light to see what he had won. Medium height, slim, nice skin and hair. Inviting mouth. The kisses were nearer to bites, the caresses rough, and Richard's body was like an eel, slippery with perspiration and writhing in his grasp as he bit and clawed, raking his nails over Bodie's back, leaving welts and brands everywhere. The near violence excited Bodie and he replied in kind, cuffing Richard's head not-quite hard, then smothering the protest with his mouth. Richard clutched him tighter, fingers tugging at his hair.

Bruised, tasting blood, Bodie tried to turn him over; the younger man fought, wrestling hard, and Bodie's blood sang as he remembered the struggles of yesteryear and felt the thrill of victory begin to tingle in his veins. Then Richard was on his knees on the floor, heaving as Bodie's fingers probed him. He was slick already, full of KY; he had set out that evening with the single thought in mind of being screwed hard, and Bodie was pleased to oblige, ripping into him like a trip-hammer, until he was screaming and heaving.

Exhausted, they curled up on the floor with the bedspread half over them, and Bodie smelt the distinctive odour of pot as Richard dragged his trousers over and hunted through the pockets. Offered a drag, he took it, listening to the sudden buzz, feeling the lax-muscled, artificial relaxation. Richard finished the battered old joint and passed out.

For Bodie the exhausted sleep was brief; it was two when he woke, stiff from the floor, stinging from his scratches and bites, and filled with a deep, gnawing disquiet. Barely conscious, he reached for the warm reassurance of his bedmate. "Ray? C'mere, Ray."

A snore answered him and his nose was assaulted by unfamiliar scents. Cheap aftershave, musk, pot. Oh, God. Not Ray. He woke up too fast, sitting up and holding his head as a moment's dizziness assailed him. His cock was sore, still swollen, and Richard was out cold, flat on his back, his mouth open, snoring quietly.

No, not Ray at all. Bodie frowned at the stranger, seeing him as if for the first time... Cruel mouth, thin and down-tugged at the corners. Lank curls, permed and shorn fashionably short over the ears, which gave the haircut a punkish look. Pale skin, not a muscle in sight, fluff on his chest and his belly. Semen crusting his abdomen and the thatch of short curls below. Unfamiliar genitals, just adequate. Square hands, soft and unused, rings on half the fingers.

Christ, but Ray was beautiful. Bodie rubbed his face in unhappy confusion. Ray had beautiful, springy hair, naturally curly, gloriously unshorn. And a nose that was perfect; and that mouth. Generous mouth, loving. Nice muscles, like steel under the brown velvet of his skin; soft pelt on his chest, between nipples that were so sensitive that he would gasp if they were even licked.

Bodie remembered biting then, making Ray's clench on his shoulders - excitement, he has assumed at the time. Protest? Ray's hands, Bodie thought, looking at Richard's short fingers, which wore too many cheap rings. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the illusion of Ray's presence because the cheap motel and the man he had just fucked were too near to everything he had tried to leave behind years before. Ray was different; not just his lovely, welcoming body, that husky voice and the smiling green eyes. Ray was no part of this - could never be.

Cheap hotel rooms on the Cape. Scrounging for money. Taking what he could get where he could get it. Men, women, it had made no difference. Cheap whisky, moonshine and hot, screwing around, wasting his life. No, Ray was no part of all that. Thank God. Ray was... To Bodie's fuddled mind it was painfully clear. Ray was home and hearth, nice things, clean sheets, long kisses and sweet caresses. Lovely body, with its hard, springy muscles, soft skin and nice smell, offered up for the taking. Loving - not fucking, Bodie thought, looking down at the comatose form of Richard. Richard had been a casual fuck - and, for what it had been, it had been good. Great.

Except it had not been what Bodie wanted. He realised the truth of that too late, and abandoned any attempt at sleep, trying to shake Richard awake. The stupid kid was out cold, and Bodie swore. No chance of getting rid of him before morning. He picked him up, turned him over and peered at the little fool's backside in the meagre lamplight. Slick with seeping semen and lubricant, he was red raw, and Bodie swore again, realising two. things.

One, Richard was going to hurt.

Two, Bodie had never bothered to look at Ray afterward to see if he was hurt or not, and had made a big joke of it if Ray was so sore that he had to attend to himself.

Big joke, Bodie thought sourly, heading for the shower - and the bloody joke's on me. No wonder the poor little burger has had it up to here. Right, Raymond, my boy - he turned on the water, icy cold, and stepped under it, gasping for breath - when I get home we're going to have it out. Michael Patrick Murphy and me. If he wants his teeth loosened I'm just the lad to do it.

And this time, Ray, you can trust me. T'isn't a man I want in my bed; it's you. Oh, you're a man all right; but more than that, you're my best mate. My friend. Clean and freezing, he turned off the water and scrubbed himself warm and dry with the threadbare towel provided by a thoughtful management. Grim faced, he climbed into the bed, abandoning Richard to the floor - which was probably where the little fool belonged. Glowering down at him, Bodie found that he had to fight off a shudder. The act had been vicious, and Richard had wanted it that way. Loved it, heaving and screaming at him to do it harder when Bodie was already at flat chat, using him without mercy.

Now Bodie did shudder, realising what he had done. He had gone right back to the jungle.

And that was what he had foisted on Ray, one bleak, loveless and regretted Saturday night. Ray, of the lovesome body and sweet good humour, laughing it all off and then coming back as his friend after what must have been a nightmare. Bodie snapped off the lamp and buried his face in the pillow, thoroughly despising himself.

But it would be different. Murphy would step out of the way if he knew what was good for him, Ray would come around with some sweet talking and a few beers; and then it would be good, as it should be. Bodie took solace in that thought, and found sleep at last. What Ray Doyle needed was a mate, a friend who would see him right in all situations... And Bodie was the one to fill that role. Ray knew that as well as he knew it himself.

---

The squabbling of the young couple across the street broke the monotony of stakeout work, but each shift was at least a century long, and Doyle spent the last half of them with his eyes on his watch, waiting for his relief. Murphy had the next shift, Jax the shift after that, McCabe the next, and then it was his turn again. And the six hours he spent at work, watching the shuttered Hutchins house, seemed infinitely longer than his eighteen off-hours. Feet pounded up the stairs to the stakeout flat, and he glanced at his wrist for the time again. "You're late," he said over his shoulder as Murphy ambled in.

"Big deal, a whole ten minutes," Murphy shrugged. "And I've got a good excuse. Brought lunch with me. Nosh here before you go. Haven't seen you for days, mate. Starting to think you've deserted me. Greener pastures or something? I know - it's that luscious Maxwell bird, the computer genius."

Ray looked away from the window with a smile. "Nah. Just want the time to be alone, think, get my brain working. Worked out well, didn't it, Bodie being sent undercover right now. With him out of the way I can get my act together, get back in gear. Christ, get it all worked out before he's back and breathing down my neck again!"

"Breathing -? You think he's going to push his luck?" Murphy was peeling the greaseproof paper from a ham sandwich.

"Bound to," Doyle said tersely. "Bodie being Bodie. Look at it this way. This is the first time he's been turned down since he was about four. It'll be a point of honour with him."

They ate in silence for some time, and then Murph crooked a brow at his mate. "And will you turn him down again?"

The green eyes shuttered as Ray immersed himself in the well of introspection that had cocooned him for a week, since he had lunched with Bodie by the river, and then Bodie had been sent to Liverpool. "Yeah. What's the whole point of doing anything in this life, Michael? Fun. You don't mind how much it costs, or how many knocks and scrapes you get, so long as you're having the time of your life, am I right? But when it stops being fun, the knocks and scrapes become just that - bruises and blood." He paused, regarding his food cynically. "Take a good look at me, Mike. I'm black and blue."

"Ray, don't punish yourself," Murphy said quietly. "You're on the way to fixing it. You told him you're finished, and he can't not accept it, unless he wants to - Christ, stake a claim on you!"

At last Doyle smiled. "Stake a claim? Like how?"

"Territoriality," Murphy grinned. "Solemn contract. Pact. He says he wants you and agrees to terms."

But Doyle shook his head sadly. "Can't hand out orders to fall in love, sunshine - doesn't work that way. He wants me body, and it's as simple as that. He let me go in about ten minutes of double talk, at the pub. He shrugged me off and told me I was free; it's not important to him, never was. He's... A good bloke. The best. Loves life, does Bodie, and sex is like a celebration of life. Fun and games. Was to me, I'll admit, until I did that damned fool stunt. Fell in love with him." He bit into a chocolate doughnut and chewed in silence, until the very quiet made him look up.

The other man was frowning soberly at him. "You know, you can be quite a backyard philosopher," Murphy observed. "Bodie, celebrating life, revelling in being alive the only way he knows how... Being alive came to mean a lot to him, in the old days, so he told me once. You had to fight every day just to survive, so you crammed your every spare minute full of whatever good things you could get. Best of food, best booze, the occasional high, if you could get good stuff, sex." He took a pull at a carton of iced coffee. "He brought that back to this country with him, it's just a damned shame you got caught up in it."

"Is it?" Ray shrugged off the observation. "Nah. Give a thought to his birds - think they don't fall for him? Let's see. About four a year, maybe five, since I've known him, and multiply that by five years. That's a lot of grief, Mike. They dote on him, they tell him they love him, and Bodie runs a mile. That's probably why he's still interested in me; I never said a word about it. Tried to tell him in little ways, without saying it, but he never listened." His expression darkened as he thought back to the interpretation Bodie had placed on his ways of saying his love. Begging to be fucked, he had called it. It was sad. He shrugged away the dreary mood, forcing a smile. "Lots of grief in the world, Mike, isn't there? This too shall pass."

"Hope you're right," Murphy vowed. "Coming home with me tonight? There's a film on telly, and I've got pizzas in the fridge. Want to watch Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse, and then go to bed and improvise a dance routine... ?"

Ray laughed, the first time he had laughed in so long. Bodie had been out of his hair for a week, and already he had begun to see properly again. "Yeah, why not. It's a date, Mike. I'll bring the beer."

"Great." Murphy leaned forward, planting a smacking kiss on Ray's sweet-tasting mouth, tongue teasing inside for a moment. "Cor, you're a treat, Ray. Could rip the clothes off you and kiss you all over, right here and now; then you could have me on the floor."

"Cowley would love that," Ray chuckled, leaping away from the offered temptation and reaching for his jacket. "You're a treat yourself, but I'd like to keep my job, and there's a house full of bomb wallahs over yonder that needs watching... Tonight, Mike. Then you can kiss me anywhere you like."

"And you can have me on the floor," Murphy winked. "Or in bed. Or wherever you fancy it."

He meant it, and Ray felt a surge of familiar, warm, real affection, leaning down to kiss him again. "Thanks. And when you've got your breath back, you can have me, too."

He fled with those words, not wanting to show Michael the lines of pain he knew were etching about his eyes. Christ, why couldn't Bodie have been so casually affectionate? Little things came to mean so much, when love entered the picture. Casual affection would have done; the odd compliment, pet names and give-and-take in bed, gentle laughter, even if it was in the manner of a joke about the physical price one paid for the act. Oh, Bodie would play about; in fact, he would play about too much. Pinch my backside at work, Ray thought, as he jogged out to the car; put his hand between my legs when he thought he could get away with it, get me going and chuckle when I'm in a right state, then calmly proposition a bird. Call me ugly and skinny and hairy, then ride me till I can't sit down and don't know what to believe anymore. Damn!

---

The Liverpool job was a bloody dangerous one, he knew; progress reports came through from Smithson every day, and in Ray's subconscious was the form of terror that Bodie would go the same way as McDonnough. Bodie swore he was immortal and indestructible, but the bravado would not have fooled his poor old mother. Bodie was as human and as fallible as anyone - and more than some. But he hid his shortcomings behind that wall of suavity, showing the world a cool, cynical exterior that was like a suit of chain mail.

The one thing he was really afraid of was that someone would one day get inside that suit of armour, Ray was sure; which was why Bodie ran a mile at the mention of love. Or was it simpler than that; was it just that he had no use for love, could not give it in return, and grew jaded with any one partner after a few weeks or months? Okay, a combination of both, Ray allowed. He's not the loving kind, and he's got secrets to hide, and a person on the inside he doesn't want to show. Even if he was as uncomplicated as a country vicar, that wouldn't have to make him the loving kind. Lots of people don't know how love, and, goddamn it, don't want to learn how. Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with Bodie. Or me.

He was making excuses and rationalisations, he knew, but did not care. Bodie was more than worth the double-talk.

Eight days after he disappeared to Liverpool, word came from Smithson that he had been recruited to the cause, and then news of 3.7 became sketchier. Smithson had little to do with the inside workings of the organisation, so rarely saw Bodie. Ray was fretting; Murphy could say or do nothing to help, and let him get through the time as best he could, thinking how much worse it would have been if Bodie had loved his partner, and said as much, welded them into a couple. Christ, such a 'marriage' would make this job nearly impossible, and Cowley was, as usual, dead right, in the non-fraternisation rule. Getting involved with your working mates was stupid to the point of suicidal.

A fortnight, and Bodie was on the phone himself, calling from a pay phone in a railway station, just a routine check-in, the first chance he had been given to get out of the building. The job was coming to the boil fast and would break soon. A week or ten days, Bodie guessed, and Cowley sent a squad up to Liverpool to stand by on Smithson's orders, ready to swoop.

Doyle was in Cowley's office when the squad was named, and lifted a brow at the boss. "Want me to go up there, sir?"

"No," Cowley said indifferently. "You're already on the McPherson case. You're of more use to me here, Doyle. Bodie could be out in his calculations - a week could become a month, and I can't have you sitting on your duff in Liverpool till October!"

So dismissed, Ray returned to the routine work on which he had been engaged since the Hutchins stakeout had ended with a whimper. Six assorted terrorists taking fright and putting their hands up at the sight of a dozen Uzis. Not that Doyle blamed them. The days were long and boring and he was grateful to escape in the evening, spending much of his time alone and the remainder of it with Murphy, who knew when to make jokes and when to let Doyle ruminate in silence.

When it came, Smithson's call to glory took then all by surprise. It was four in the morning when the job broke, and the Liverpool police would never forget it. They would be cursing CI5 up hill and dow