"Of course you're welcome, love," Ray Doyle said, his voice rich with affection. He juggled the telephone receiver from one hand to the other, casting a disparaging glance over his shoulder at the disarray of second reminders and account-overdrawn statements which littered his dining room table like the splintered debris of a shipwreck strewn across a pristine beach. "I'll have an excuse to put off doing all these bills a while longer." He listened to the soft voice at the other end of the line, then laughed. "No, I would not give them to you and Graham as a wedding gift--no matter what Bodie says." Perilously stretching the phone cable around the wall as he entered the kitchen, he picked up the kettle and switched on the water tap. "Yes, that's what you're hearing. Tea will be ready before you arrive. Good. See you then."

Whistling contentedly to himself, Doyle plugged the kettle into the socket and shut off the flow of water before replacing the silent handset in its cradle. He jammed his hands into his back pockets, and stood a moment, surveying the work awaiting him.

This was the first day in five weeks that there had been an opportunity to bring their household affairs back to some semblance of order, and only now, going threeish of an afternoon--and after having fruitfully applied himself to charring around the flat and completing some essential but time-consuming errands--was Doyle prepared to confront the backlog of bills, second-notices, and simple correspondence that had accumulated on their front mat in their absence.

Bodie, of course, was out taking care of what he considered the 'rough stuff': hiring formal attire for Sarah's wedding, and purchasing an appropriate gift. Given that the appointed day was rapidly approaching, this was, arguably, not the simplest of tasks.

While Doyle did not envy his partner, and had willingly agreed to the disposition of duties, the stack of paper seemed impossibly daunting. It was all bloody Cowley's fault, having thoughtlessly worked them day and night right down to the wire. Having been assured the time off to prepare for and to attend Sarah's wedding, the Old Man had nevertheless drained every last usable erg of energy out of the pair of them before allowing that they might have the remainder of Thursday off. Which effectively gave them Friday to rest up before the drive to the church in Bodie's hometown on Saturday morning.

One corner of his mouth drawn into an asymmetrical scowl, Doyle took a fortifying breath and started back to the table--only to veer off at the first squeak that emanated from the kitchen. All too soon the pot was warmed, the bags installed, and boiling water splashed into the portly ceramic belly of the teapot. Leaning back against the china cupboard, waiting for the leaves to steep, Doyle stole a moment for reverie.

He was glad to be home. Their most recent operation had been grueling both physically and mentally, and they were exhausted, right down to their follicles. Six hours ago, Bodie's face had looked like alabaster in the morning sun outside the nondescript building that housed CI5, the soft skin under his eyes puffy and faintly purple, stunning blue irises surrounded by a network of red that would not have looked out of place on an atlas of the south-eastern counties. Amazingly dapper for all that, Bodie had summoned a chipper grin and promised Doyle they could have Friday for them, if they got everything else caught up today. Stupidly, Doyle had agreed, when all he'd wanted to do was to fall into bed with his partner and, curled up warmly beside him, sleep for the rest of the week.

Even now, sometimes, he found it hard to believe that Bodie loved him and accepted everything about him--even those unspeakable weeks when he had whored for his keep. Not his fault, of course. They'd been trapped in another universe, and Doyle had been programmed to believe he was a hustler. Two years had passed and all Doyle had to show for that strange adventure were a pale scar on his right shoulder and a load of memories that occasionally scurried out of the murk to haunt him in troubled dreams. Blessedly, they were rarely as traumatizing as the nightmares that had restored his recollection of that time--a time that had been lost to him upon their return to this world.

The shock of that knowledge had filled him with a fierce self-loathing and had threatened to shatter his relationship with Bodie. Never one to forgive himself the foibles of lesser men, Doyle had withdrawn into himself, shaking off all of Bodie's attempts to discuss and consequently assuage his sick confusion, refuting the reality of what had happened until the dreams had coalesced into memories and he could deny it no more.

Like a suppurating wound, the horror and shock had bubbled up out of him, and he had struck out, seeking to wound his partner, madly trying to drive him away as well as spare him his ugliness. But Bodie had tolerated none of it, allowing Doyle his grief but refusing him the destructive inclination to wallow.

Nearly three months had gone by since that terrible night, when he had remembered all. And in the days that had fled by since then, what remained fresh in Doyle's mind was not the ignominy of what he had done and been, but rather the selfless support Bodie had offered. Instead of reproach, there had been a vast caring; instead of condemnation, only an abiding acceptance.

Unaware of the tender smile tugging at his mouth, Doyle broke free of his retrospection and attended to the tea. When Bodie came home--and after they had seen Sarah on her way--Doyle would take care of his partner's needs. A hot, home-cooked meal, a long soak in the tub, and an attentive lover would restore some of the sparkle to Bodie's tired eyes.

Resolutely Doyle carried his mug to the table and began again to sort through the pile.

Nearly an hour later a great deal of progress had been achieved. Where chaos had reigned before, there was now order--of sorts. From the kitchen wafted warm, appetite-inspiring scents, and upon the dining room table stood three neat stacks. The collection of bills due--and seriously overdue--were nearest the head of the table. These lay open beside the now-depleted checkbook while their less urgent kin awaited their turn.

Doyle sat hunched forward, pen in hand, methodically paying off another account. It was duly accorded a grumbled word or two of imprecation before being enclosed in an envelope for the return post. It was his intention to have as many finished off as possible before Sarah arrived upstairs, which would be in a very few minutes as he had unlatched the front door for her only seconds before.

It was with some surprise that he heard the muted workings of Bodie's key in the lock; he must have entered the building just before Sarah. Smugly aware that he was the very picture of industry, Doyle made no effort to greet his partner's entrance. The door closed quietly, and soft footsteps--measured by Bodie's signature tread--crossed the lounge to the dining room.

Smiling, Doyle relaxed back when familiar hands came to rest on his shoulders. "You get everything done?" he asked, reaching up to offer a welcoming caress.

"Yeah."

Suddenly alert, Doyle straightened in his chair. The tremble he had discovered in Bodie's grip was manifest in the murmured response as well. "What's--"

He cried out as something slammed down hard against the top of his right thigh, a few inches below the hip. Through the shock of the blow, the prick of a needle went almost unnoticed, although the rapid spread of warmth into his leg did not.

"Bodie," he gasped, wrenching around even as the drug was absorbed by the less conductive muscle tissue, from there to seep insidiously into the vulnerable blood stream, "What are you--?"

And then he saw him: Bodie--but not a Bodie he had ever seen before. Through swiftly blurring vision, he registered the gaunt, harsh features, the obsidian-cold eyes, the uncharacteristically long hair. His partner could not have changed so completely in such a short time; therefore, this could not be Bodie.

Bones turning to jelly, Doyle began to fold in on himself, coming to slump helplessly against the solid body of his attacker. His face pressed into the expensive woolen jacket, head held there by a supportive hand, each of Doyle's senses fell before the drug one by one. Yet through the rising waves of numbness, a single mad thought surfaced: Whoever this man was--he smelled like Bodie.

Strong arms hoisted him upright and he was half-dragged, half-walked across the floor. Observing himself as if from a distance, Doyle was frustrated to learn that he had no reserves of resistance to draw upon, but rather was disgustingly compliant, as though he were merely good-naturedly drunk.

By the time they had arrived at the landing outside the front door, the tiny homunculus within his head--remaining remarkably detached throughout--continued to log their progress. It noted with some small degree of satisfaction that his unwieldy body decidedly hampered the journey down the narrow stairs, while thrilling occasionally at the frequent missteps and near falls that threatened serious damage should his abductor lose his grip--or his balance.

Withdrawing completely into himself, Doyle gave into the pervasive torpor that apparently did not herald total unconsciousness, and was more than half-drowsing when they reached the landing at the second floor. A flurry of startled voices brought his head up as if in slow motion, and coaxed leaden eyelids to rise.

"But what's wrong with him? I only spoke to him a moment or two ago! Andy--"

Not Andy, Doyle wanted to warn her. It was Sarah, of course, staring at the man she believed to be her brother with something very like horror.

"Must've taken a fall," the man answered calmly. "Found him like this. I'm taking him to hospital. Don't worry, okay?"

"But, Andy, what's happened to you?"

Through his curiously fragmented time-sense, Doyle noted that they had continued to move, and were nearing the first floor landing. Voices came and went, like a radio signal suffering interference. Sarah, baffled and upset, was becoming a nuisance. And Doyle feared what this impostor might do if she pushed him too far.

"S-S-Sar-ah..." he whispered, "A-all...r-righ-t." The effort exhausted him, and he sensed the body beside him stiffen with surprise that he had produced speech at all.

"Ray--"

He tried to shake his head, desperate to warn her off, but managed only an ungainly wobble before collapsing against his abductor's shoulder.

"He'll be all right, I promise you," the man advised her sharply, and essayed the remaining stairs at a breakneck pace.

The brightness of the June sun was a painful shock to Doyle's eyes. He groaned as he was hustled down the concrete stairs and onto the pavement. A door opened and he was maneuvered into the front seat of a car he did not recognize. Drifting uncontrollably to one side, he was summarily braced against the now-closed door. Cheek flattened upon the glass, he gazed dully out the window. The worried face of Sarah Bodie was the last thing he saw before the car spun away from the curb and accelerated down the narrow street.

---

Cursing the broken-down lift out of habit rather than any real sense of irritation, Bodie plodded up the last steps to the third floor landing, shifting the plastic-wrapped burden slung over his shoulder for the nth time--and came to a complete stop at sight of the door to his flat standing wide open.

The stance he assumed was from habit, too--as was the way his hand slid inside his leather jacket and curled around the butt of his .44 revolver. Leaving the newly hired wedding togs draped over the banister rail, he assured himself that Doyle had left the door open for a reason--however indefensible--and that the sick foreboding compressing his insides would make for a good laugh later.

He crept into the flat on silent feet, surveying the lounge for anything out of place. Moving on, he entered the dining room, wanting the smell of food to be a good sign, but too well aware that it was having the opposite effect on his already frozen guts.

A sharp intake of breath drew him round, pistol in hand, finger on the trigger.

Sarah stared at him, her face drained of blood, eyes overwide and stupid with shock. "Andy?" she said blankly.

Bodie quickly holstered his gun and stepped toward the young woman. "What is it, Sarah? Did I frighten you? I didn't mean to. Where's Ray?"

She swallowed with obvious difficulty. Bodie reached her with two long strides and swept her out of the corridor and into the kitchen. There he filled a glass with water and handed it to her, his fingers wrapped around hers to steady them.

"What is it, love?" he prodded gently. "What's happened?"

"Thought it was you," Sarah replied, stammering slightly. "He looked like you, Andy, but--not."

"Who? Who looked like me?"

"The man with Ray. Ray looked sick, really bad. The man was almost carrying him."

"How long?"

Sarah blinked. "Ten minutes? Perhaps fifteen."

Fifteen minutes! In that time, Doyle could have been taken anywhere. Ruthlessly quashing a surge of panic, Bodie sucked in a deep breath. "Tell me everything, Sarah," he said calmly, "everything you can remember. It's important."

Bolstered by Bodie's presence, Sarah made a visible effort to regain control. "Need to sit down," she said apologetically, and settled immediately into the hard-backed chair Bodie slid out for her.

"I called Ray about an hour ago. Asked if you'd mind my stopping by for a few minutes. Haven't seen you in over a month."

Bodie noiselessly lowered himself into the chair opposite Sarah's, studying her closely. "I know. We've been busy."

She took a sip of water, her head nodding. "You always are. He said it'd be fine; we joked a little. He said I'd spare him doing bills." She glanced down at the still neat stacks positioned on the table, the open checkbook, the pen lying where it had fallen. "I rang him when I got here. He released the latch and I started up. I wasn't half-way to the flat when I met him--and that man--coming down. Ray was pale, his eyes shut. The man with him was holding him up; Ray was limp, Andy." She exhaled sharply. "The other man looked just like you. But...."

"But?"

"Thinner. Tired. Cold. He scared me."

"Why?"

She frowned, her mouth working. "I don't know," she replied finally. She shrugged her shoulders. "He didn't know me, but I was so sure it was you. Ray tried to speak. I'm positive he was drugged. His voice was slurred; he could hardly keep his eyes open."

"What did he say?"

"Could hardly understand him. I think he was trying to tell me that he was all right."

"The man with him: did he speak?"

"Yes. He said something about Ray falling; that he was taking him to hospital. He didn't want me butting in--and, well, I know how close you two are. And I haven't seen you in so long-- I thought maybe you--"

"Don't blame yourself, Sarah," Bodie said. "Did you see them drive off? See the car he was driving?"

"Yes. I don't think he wanted me to follow, but I was so worried, and Ray looked so...." She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes closed tightly. "OPN 153R."

"What?"

"The number plate--that's what was on it."

Bodie quelled the urge to shout. "You're sure?"

"It wasn't your car. Don't think you'd be caught dead driving a grotty old banger like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know the year or the model, but it was an old Vauxhall."

Bodie smiled grimly. "You're wrong, Sarah. That is my car."

"Then how did he...?"

"I have an idea. Look, love, I've got to go. I don't think Ray is in danger." He stood up and lightly curved a finger under the woman's chin. "But I can't afford to take any chances. Will you straighten this lot out? Lock up for me? And don't worry."

"Andy, you'll ring, won't you? Let me know Ray's all right?"

"Soon as I can. Thanks, love." With that he was out the door and thudding down the stairs three and four at a time.

Sarah sighed. She carried her half-full glass into the kitchen and abstractedly set about putting things to rights.

---

In fact, Bodie had a very good idea what was going on, the laws of nature and conventions of logic notwithstanding. Only one man could know where that car had been hidden; only one man could hold the keys that unlocked the garage housing it. He was that man.

Yet, nearly two years ago he and Doyle had stumbled into another place--another universe, paralleling their own, Doyle had said--and there they had encountered a man who called himself Bodie, too. Bodie's keys had worked to open that man's flat and to drive that man's car. If, somehow, that Bodie had found a way to cross the barriers that normally divided their universes, then surely the opposite would hold true here, as well.

As preposterous as it seemed, the answer was the only one that fit every criteria--save one.

Why?

Not only why should that Bodie purposely enter their plane of existence, but why should he kidnap Ray? Certainly there had been an attraction between them once: the bastard had purchased Doyle's favors when Doyle had been programmed to believe he was a hustler. But for all that he had desired him between his sheets, that Bodie had been willing enough to see them leave, since their presence in his world had been a rather massive inconvenience.

Something had happened to change his mind, obviously, and Bodie had a sneaking suspicion what that something might be.

It didn't bear thinking on. After all, if the maniac was capable of coming through this way, what was to stop him going back--taking Doyle with him?

Drenched in an icy sweat, Bodie turned his mind to the information he had got from Sarah. She had been so frightened; not, he realized now, because he had startled her with his revolver, but because she had recognized in an instant that there were two Bodie's--and the wrong one had got hold of Ray.

Strange how quickly those two had come to form a mutual admiration. Bodie had made his feelings regarding family clear fairly soon after discovering he had a daughter--a daughter who thought he was her brother! Ray was all the family he wanted, and this grown woman was simply outside his experience. He could not speak comfortably with her, although due to Doyle's efforts, he had learned to try. Sarah was inquisitive about her 'older brother,' and wanted to know more about him. Intrigued with the young woman, Doyle had done what he could to provide a link between them. In doing so, he had become Sarah's boon companion on those rare occasions when time was not at a premium and Bodie was otherwise engaged.

All of this had developed not long after they had received Sarah's invitation to her wedding and right around the time that Doyle's memories of all that had transpired in that other universe had come back to him. Those had been a miserable few days, before Doyle worked it out of his system in his usual inimitable way. In fact, Bodie still bore the scars, invisible though they were. Shortly after that, Sarah had made a few overtures and Ray had responded. He it was who had relayed Sarah's wish that Bodie walk with her down the aisle at her wedding; he too, who had put that same intended through the investigation mill, before allowing that the lad was clean, even though Sarah could surely do far better.

While not enamored with the notion of being saddled with a full-fledged family, Bodie had come to terms with the reality of it, for Doyle was determined that it should be so. Even Julie, Bodie's stepmother who had borne his child, had ventured forth a time or two, and everyone had been civil, if not fully relaxed.

Doyle was of the opinion that Sarah should be told the truth about her 'big brother.' Bodie didn't want to be bothered. He dreaded the possible row that might follow, along with the recriminations and disgust--all of which he himself thought perfectly justifiable. His actions had been criminally irresponsible, despite a certain provocation: Julie had been a powerful enticement to a fifteen year old boy. How his father had coped, Bodie could not begin to imagine. Yet the old man had managed somehow, and he had even made it clear in his letter, written in the closing days of his life, that he had exonerated Bodie of all wrongdoing.

Sarah was a lovely woman; bright, headstrong, and very affectionate. She viewed Bodie as a cross between a romantic hero and an off-putting stranger--or so Doyle had confided. For her the prospect of a long-lost sibling was wonderfully enchanting; for Bodie, it was laden with pitfalls and potential disaster. Even Julie had come to respect her stepson and was quick to defer to his judgment on those rare times they had discussed her husband's estate.

While Bodie could concede that this newborn familial entanglement had its enjoyable aspects, it would not matter a whit without Doyle beside him. Always a figure of great import in his life, Doyle had come to assume the very fiber of Bodie's existence. He could not perceive the day when they might be separated forever--would not even consider it. Somewhere, in a not oft-frequented corner of his mind, he knew that when Doyle died, he died. Whether by suicide, or neglect, it made no difference. There would be an ending. And the likelihood of that did not disturb him at all.

Not that he would give Doyle up without a fight. If that other Bodie had found a way to steal into their universe and spirit his partner away, Bodie would find a means of going after them--and he would remain there, searching, until he had got his Doyle back, just as he had done before.

Nevertheless the thought was oppressive, and Bodie pushed it aside, concentrating instead on the traffic, which was thickening as he rode nearer to Soho. Just as his opposite number must have had knowledge of his garaged vehicle--and more prosaically, a key to unlock it--so must he have access to the bolt-hole flat Bodie maintained in this part of Town. Not even Doyle knew about it, an oversight Bodie had meant to rectify some time ago. The subject had not come up, and it was not something he often thought about, having established the flat many years before, shortly after hiring on with Cowley's mob. Like the car, and the weapons secreted in its boot, the tiny bedsit was intended for escape, a place to catch his breath before the hounds could pick up his scent.

Please, he prayed, to no divinity in particular, let Doyle be there.

---

He was. Sprawled on his back upon fresh linen, and still shackled by the chemicals which evidently inhibited voluntary enterprise, Doyle gazed groggily about the unappealing accommodations and wondered where he was.

They had arrived only a few moments before. Shaken from roiling blackness, Doyle had been hauled out of the car and escorted into a dingy, dilapidated old building. Once inside the one-room flatlet, he had been taken to the small bed and gently lowered onto it. Briefly, consciousness had flirted with him, waxing and waning in a most discouraging manner. But slowly the world had righted, and he had begun to take an interest in his surroundings, noting the position of the door and the regrettable lack of windows. Just as the thought that he seemed slightly more clear-headed flickered optimistically through his brain, his abductor had come into view, standing solemnly at the foot of the bed.

Under that steady, terrible gaze, so very like his partner's, Doyle wanted to squirm. There was nothing of love in it, and so far, not much lust. But there was something.... Foolish, surely, to call it pain?

"I won't hurt you," the man said, ominously slipping the expensively-tailored jacket off wide shoulders. As he stepped round the end of the mattress, his eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Doyle, as though he meant to brand the image of his captive onto the very surface of his brain.

Trembling with the effort of marshaling unresponsive muscles to self-defense, Doyle could only wait helplessly as Bodie's look-alike came nearer. He tried to shrink away when the lumpy mattress sagged beneath the man's added weight.

A cold hand curved round Doyle's cheek, sending a shudder down his spine.

"D-d-on't." Doyle meant the word to reverberate with menace, but lacked the voice to carry it off.

"No point in fighting, sunshine," his captor said softly, head tilted a little to one side. He traced the darkened line of Doyle's jaw to the willful chin. A tremor ran through those fingers and the man grimaced, circling Doyle's broad neck with uncomfortable strength. "I've come a long way for this--for you." With sudden purpose he turned his attention to the first button that held Doyle's shirt closed. One after another he pried them open, taking his time with each, as though he had forever at his disposal.

From somewhere Doyle found the strength to bring his hands up; they were summarily shoved aside.

"Don't bother, Tiger." The voice had fallen to a whisper. "You won't be able to put up a decent fight for hours yet. So you might as well lie back and enjoy it. You enjoyed it before, remember?"

The breath stilled in Doyle's throat. He had known, of course. Even with the drug spinning his thoughts round like leaves in a squall, he had known this man. But to concede that he had wanted him before, and that he had relished the intimacy of his lovemaking, he would not do. "N-not...B-b-Bodie," he gasped.

A rueful smile lightened the haggard features. "Not your Bodie, you mean," he corrected gently, warming a hand beneath Doyle's collar.

"N-no."

The arrogant expression was all too familiar. "No," his captor agreed, even though Doyle had not spoken in argument but in refusal.

Doyle's shirt was spread wide, leaving him vulnerable to sight and touch. He felt scorched by the hot blue stare that raked over him. In truth he remembered this Bodie all too well: The domineering caresses that had swept him to ecstasy, while the pleasure sought from his body had been taken only out of curiosity. To this man, he had been nothing more than a passing conquest, one among many. In fact, he had been bought.

Impotent fury made his eyes blur. His Bodie had never used him so callously. "B-b-bast-ard," he ground the word out.

"Yes." Fingers stroked downward across his shoulders, mapping the contours of bone and flesh with unhurried thoroughness before coming to rest upon Doyle's chest. There they faltered, then stilled altogether, riding the wavelike undulation of Doyle's respiration.

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to clear his vision. This was a torture he had never experienced before. Incapable of protecting himself, he would be forced to yield everything. Doyle promised himself that he would kill this man once he was able. He would hunt him down, and he would destroy him--brutally, viciously, and without compunction.

It was a long, dizzying moment before Doyle became aware that his despoiling had yet to begin. Warily he cracked open an eye. The man's head was bent forward, all his attention centered on his own hands where they lay cool upon Doyle's dark-downed ribcage. A curious expression held siege to that bloodless face: a kind of wistful remorse. One of the palms shifted, just a little, and covered Doyle's heart.

Dazed, Doyle witnessed the crumpling of that hard visage. There was the briefest hint of brightness in the agonized eyes before the man curled forward and rested his cheek between his hands, shifting his head so that his ear was pressed full against Doyle's breastbone. And then he was clutching at Doyle's flanks, lifting him and surrounding him in a suffocating embrace. Ragged sounds bled from his throat, muffled but clearly discernible, evincing a deep-seated grief which had obviously been too long refused.

Not impervious to that shocking display of emotion, Doyle was nevertheless at a total loss of how to cope with it. Offering no objection, he lay quiet as his chest received the man's tears. Himself crippled and drained by the drug, Doyle ultimately did the only thing he could do: he surrendered to the hovering darkness.

Sometime later--seconds? hours?--he woke. A coarse blanket had been placed over him, and he felt distinctly unwell. He rolled onto his side, gulping against the nausea that filled the back of his mouth with salt. Something touched the base of his skull and he twisted around, finding instantly to his regret that not only was he sick to his stomach, but the unwilling possessor of a monumental headache, as well.

"Steady on," that familiar voice warned. "It'll pass in a minute. Just relax."

Agreeing out of necessity, Doyle rolled himself into a tight ball and rode out the spasms. A cool flannel swabbed his brow and moistened his mouth. He glanced up uneasily, not knowing what to expect. The other man accepted his distrust impassively.

"You ready to try some water?"

Hesitantly, Doyle nodded, closely observing the wool-clad arm--his kidnapper was again dressed for travel--as it reached across him and picked up a glass. Doyle was weak, but managed to grip the container with the other's help. He sipped delicately, cautious of his stomach's reception of even so innocent an intruder. A moment later, he drank some more, then crumpled back against the pillow.

The man regarded him with approval. "That's better. The junk'll be out of your system before you know it; it's a very refined cocktail."

"D-do I...want to know what...was in it?" Doyle whispered.

"Probably not." The man glanced away. "I should apologize, I suppose. This was a mistake."

"How...the f-fuck...did you get here?"

That drew a pale smile. "Easy, if you know how. But don't worry. I shan't be staying."

For the first time, Doyle really took in the man's appearance. Unlike the robust individual he had known in that other universe, this Bodie was a husk of his former self. He had lost weight--too quickly, if the unhealthy pallor of his skin and the purplish-blue shadows haunting his face were any indication. Dark hair lapped at his collar, haphazardly trimmed in front of his ears and across his forehead, a sign of neglect in his own Bodie.

"Why--all this," Doyle weakly demanded.

"'S not important now, sunshine," the other Bodie said evenly. "Have some more water. You'll feel better."

Doyle allowed the question to go unanswered--for now. He drank thirstily, more sure of his insides. But he overestimated his strength, and when his fingers lost their hold, only the prompt reflexes of the other man spared him an impromptu bath. A small amount of water collected on his bottom lip, however, and threatened to spill over.

Before Doyle could wipe it away, the other man brushed the backs of his fingers against Doyle's chin, allowing them to linger until the rivulet of moisture came to him. Then, with the ball of his thumb, he spread the wetness across Doyle's lower lip, continuing to stroke the soft skin smoothly, long after the water was gone.

Overcoming his first inclination to wrench free, Doyle was held motionless by the butterfly-light pressure of the man's hand--and the hungry gaze that searched his face. Despite himself, Doyle waited as the other Bodie bent nearer, only recovering himself at the last possible instant. "No," he breathed.

Less than an inch separated them, but the man stopped. He inhaled a little shakily. "Time I took you home, I think."

"That won't be necessary."

Two heads swivelled in unison toward the harsh voice. Bodie--Doyle's Bodie--stood just inside the half-open door, eyes as hard and cold as stone.

His twin on the bed evinced mild surprise. "I must admit, I didn't think you would puzzle it out so quickly."

"I had some help," Bodie said flatly. He gave Doyle a cursory once-over. "You all right?"

"'M...fine."

Bodie closed the door behind him, the gun in his hand appearing seemingly from nowhere. "Is he?" he pointedly asked his gaunt-faced duplicate.

"He will be," the other Bodie replied. He rose to his feet and stepped away from the bed.

"That was a bloody stupid stunt to pull." The softness of Bodie's tone belied the cold anger radiating from his voice.

"Yes, I know," his double replied wearily. "Now."

"Hand over your shooter." When the man had obeyed, Bodie added, "Shall I finish it--or do you have the guts to?"

Doyle stiffened in alarm, eyeing one man and then the other to be sure he understood. "Don't...be stupid, m-mate."

Bodie shook his head, never allowing the other to leave his sight. "Stay out of this, Ray."

"You...c-can't murder...him."

"Wouldn't be murder," Bodie murmured, gradually covering the distance between them, one slow step following another. "Can't kill a dead man, y'know." He laughed hollowly. "Sounds like a cheap novel, doesn't it?"

"Stop...it."

"Sorry, Ray," Bodie said equably. "He started it."

The other Bodie conceded a small smile. "He is right," he said amicably. "I did."

Doyle lurched off the bed, and flung himself between the two adversaries. "What is...the matter with you?" The color fled from his face, and he swayed, hand stretched out to his partner.

"Sit down, you fool," Bodie said gruffly.

Obeying because he could do nothing else, Doyle leaned forward, seeking his lover's support. It was granted immediately.

"You don't understand, do you?" Bodie's low voice held more than a hint of condescension. Soothing fingers combing through sweat-damp hair, he explained, "His Doyle is dead."

At that Doyle's chin came up. Finding the other Bodie's eyes upon him, he whispered, "You found him?"

"Yes."

"How long...how long has he been dead?"

"Six months." The stunned expression on Doyle's face seemed to cause the other man pain. He said sharply, "Look, there's no point to this. Your mate's right. I'd've killed him if he'd tried it on with my Doyle."

But Doyle had stopped listening, trying to absorb not only what the man had admitted to, but everything that he had left unsaid. "Interchangeable parts," he muttered with acid humor, as the truth struck home. "You're still a...prick, you know that?"

"Of course."

Bodie's thumb brushed lightly against Doyle's temple, unwittingly echoing the other's recent intimacy. "Ray, you okay?"

Doyle met the concerned gaze wearily. "Of course," he repeated mockingly. Then: "We're going home, and he's coming with us."

"No--" the other Bodie began, his voice drowning out Bodie's simultaneous protest.

"You owe me that, you bastard," Doyle snapped with sudden strength. His blanched face challenged his abductor to defy him.

Over Doyle's head the two men exchanged speaking glances. Bodie inclined his head in mimicry of a nod, his expression grim. "You haven't got a choice, mate--any more than I have. It's what he wants."

The other man's mouth twisted bleakly. "Doesn't mean it's good for him."

"Don't I bloody well know it," Bodie agreed dourly. After holstering his weapon, he bent over to grip Doyle under the arms. "C'mon, then, sunshine, on your feet."

---

The return ride to the flat was made, for the most part, in strained silence. Doyle fell asleep almost immediately, lulled by the vibration of the motor and the smooth motion of the vehicle. Bodie drove with extra care in order not to disturb him unnecessarily, and saved his own questions for the same reason.

The problem of the Vauxhall was solved by arranging to pick it up later. If Doyle were not up to it, Bodie would return alone by way of the tube and restore the old road veteran to the garage. He was thankful that Doyle had been too distracted to wonder about the Soho bedsit--and how Bodie himself had known about it. Time enough for that later; Doyle would remember eventually.

He kept an eye on his double in the rearview mirror, keenly aware that the man's attention was fixed solely on Doyle. There was a kind of hunger about him that feasted on Doyle's presence. The realization made Bodie uneasy while touching him with kindred understanding. Were he to believe Ray dead--and then to find him alive--would his reaction be dissimilar?

His head throbbed with a niggling but steady complaint. He'd hoped their brief interlude in that looking glass world was behind them forever. Although it had gone some way to bringing Doyle and him together, it had also caused a world of heartache for Doyle that he was still coming to terms with. What this little episode would do to him was anybody's guess.

Interchangeable parts. The moron! Bodie sighed, and gave his concentration to the road.

Doyle stirred reluctantly after Bodie had parked the car. Still drawn and waxen, he staggered from the pavement to the concrete entry, relying on Bodie to catch him should he fall. Somehow he made it up all three flights of stairs, only to collapse in a miserable heap on the sofa. Bodie stripped off his shoes after directing his counterpart into the kitchen to start the kettle. Then he fetched a coverlet from the overstuffed chair and tucked it round him. When he started to rise from a low crouch, a long hand snaked out and caught him by the wrist.

Looking askance at his partner, Bodie waited for him to speak.

"I won't have you hurting him," Doyle warned him huskily.

Bodie made no effort to conceal his displeasure. "He was going to rape you. You do understand that, don't you?"

"He had the chance. He didn't do it."

"He doesn't belong here, Ray."

"I know." Doyle exhaled heavily. "But he's already here, isn't he. And I want to talk to him; I...I want to know about him."

Bodie cocked his head to one side. "'Him?'"

"Yeah." The green eyes were not happy. "His Doyle. Don't suppose you can understand that."

"Not really," Bodie said honestly. "He isn't you--anymore than he's me." He bit back the bubbling of an hysterical snicker. "Perhaps I should rephrase that?"

"Don't bother. I know it's mad, okay?" Doyle assured him. "Just promise not to kill him."

"For now."

Doyle grimaced at him. "Stubborn bugger." He hooked an arm around Bodie's neck and drew him near. "I love you. Remember that."

"So long as you do, as well." He pressed his cheek against Doyle's jaw. "Wasn't the most comfortable scene in the world to walk into back there," he noted obliquely.

Doyle comprehended what he was referring to without difficulty. "Him and me, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I...can't explain it myself. But he looks like you--and he smells like you, too."

An abrupt gust of laughter stirred the curls behind Doyle's left ear. "Am I supposed to find that reassuring?"

"I still told him 'no'."

Bodie rocked back on his heels, cradling Doyle's face between both hands. He bestowed a gentle kiss on the full mouth. "That's the only reason your head doesn't hurt a whole lot more than it already does, y'know."

Doyle accepted that with a wan smile. "Berk."

"Have a little kip, mate. I'll just go and see what your friend is up to."

Heavy eyelids were already drooping downward. "Not me friend...."

After twitching the coverlet an inch higher onto Doyle's shoulders, Bodie left him. Entering the kitchen his empty stomach reacted spasmodically to the tantalizing scents rising from the cooker. The other Bodie, in the midst of stirring a large pot, spared him a glance.

"He will be all right," he said.

"He'd better be," Bodie snapped back. He surveyed the meat and vegetables simmering in a fragrant sauce, the large slabs of bread piled onto a plate, and the chunks of cheese and fruit which occupied another. "Seem to know your way around pretty well," he commented and reached into the refrigerator for a beer.

"I have the same flat--back home."

Bodie stared at him. "Of course." He continued to study the other man, taking in the stylish cut of his clothing, which was at odds with its state of repair: they looked slept in. The man's features fascinated him, too. Only once could he remember seeing that same shattered and ashen look in his own mirror. That had been nearly three years ago, after Doyle had been shot by a bloody-minded Asian girl. She'd nearly killed him; if she had succeeded, Bodie would have snuffed her out like a candle flame pinched between two fingers. She had died anyway, but by then was of no consequence--to anyone--disowned by her own people and held in contempt by those who denounced her purpose. This man wore the face Bodie had worn then. Had Doyle died, and Bodie had chosen to carry on, would he be wearing it still?

Uncomfortably sympathetic, Bodie jarred himself out of his thoughts and swept wide an arm, indicating the meal preparations. "Feeling a bit peckish, are we?"

"It's for Doyle. It'll help him."

"He's sleeping." Bodie took a long pull from his can. "What, precisely, did you have in mind for him?"

The other Bodie's face hardened, but he forced a laugh. "Should think that was rather obvious--even to you."

"More than you might imagine," Bodie came back softly. He bent over and took another can out of the refrigerator. His counterpart caught it deftly. "Tell me how you got here. I thought when it happened to us it was a fluke."

The unopened beer was turned slowly round within large hands. "It was." He peeled back the ring pull. "But there are differences between our worlds. Doyle's diary and my knowledge of where you had come in and gone out made it possible to calculate where points of overlap occur."

Bodie raised a hand. "Slow down. What were you doing with Doyle's diary?"

"When he got himself caught in our agent's flat, remember? We confiscated everything: his gun, money, personal effects."

"And from his diary, you sussed out how to get back here?"

"As you see." The man spoke with unemphatic arrogance.

"You couldn't have done it on your own," Bodie said with certainty. "I couldn't."

"And we're the same, are we?"

"Close as makes no difference." Bodie was rapidly reaching the end of his patience. "At least as far as the basics go. Fess up: who's in this with you?"

The man had a long drink before answering. "Crippled bloke who teaches up at Cambridge. Saw him on tv one night. Likes puzzles. He's considered a bright lad by some."

Bodie's mouth hung a little ajar. "You're joking--aren't you? I know who you're talking about; he's a genius. You just walked up to him and asked how to slip from one...universe...to another, did you?"

"Not exactly. Wrote him a letter."

"And he wrote back, take the 33 bus to East Sheen, step round behind Woolworth's and--poof--you'll be in another London."

A reluctant smile lifted weary lips. "Not quite." A hand slid under his lapel, into an inside pocket. The other man drew out a small sheaf of papers, which bore the telltale ragged edges of a computer print-out. "Based on the information I gave him, he worked out where the 'gates' are temporarily open. Has to do with the differences in our moons' rotations, the pull of the tides--I don't know what-all."

Bodie snatched the papers from the man's hand. Setting his can on the sideboard, he began to rifle through them. There was a map of England laid with dots connected by lines that formed a spiral pattern. Where the rings widened, they spread out over the Atlantic. One of the dots had been heavily circled with ink.

"Portsmouth?" Bodie asked.

"Near there. Look at the next sheet."

Bodie did. This print-out was an ordnance map, with place names underlined and times and dates scribbled alongside each location.

"He said it would constitute a 'transdimensional fault'--if it existed," the other man said helpfully. "Of course he didn't believe any of this; was just a game to him."

"Jesus."

"Works in clockwise fashion," the other Bodie lectured in the same offhand manner. "When you were in my world, you were supposed to go back here--if you wanted to maintain your time flow." A blunt finger jabbed at a spot south and east of Staveley Avenue. "Where you went out should've resulted in what he called a 'time conundrum' for you. Did it?"

Bodie gave his head a feeble shake, as if doing so would clear away unexpected cobwebs. "Yeah--if you mean we spent a month in your London and returned to find we'd only missed a day here."

"Maybe I'll tell him," the other Bodie murmured. "He'd be pleased to know that. It's what he suspected."

White-faced, Bodie marvelled at his duplicate's nonchalance. "You must know how dangerous this information is. What's to stop lunatics from going and coming at will?"

"That's the only copy in existence," was his quiet reply. "I destroyed the bloke's offices after he sent it to me. Almost burned down a whole bloody wing, unfortunately. And I did make sure he hadn't kept any of it at home, too. We're safe enough."

Appalled despite himself, Bodie grated out, "You're mad, d'you know that."

The man lifted the can to his mouth. "Not anymore." He spoke with calm assertion. "Seeing Ray...changed all that."

"Why couldn't you--?" At that instant the phone gave off two sharp trills. Diving for it before the extension in the lounge could echo its summons again, Bodie snatched up the handset. "770-7593. Sarah! Sorry, love. Yeah, he's fine. Meant to call, but I-- No, don't, he wouldn't want you to fuss. It was a mistake--a...a joke. Yes, Ray laughed as much as anyone. That's right, we'll be there. I promise. Yes, of course I'll tell him. All right. Good night."

He hung the phone back in its cradle. "Why do I have the impression she didn't believe me?" he groused under his breath.

"That the bird Doyle and I passed going out?"

Bodie glared with glittering menace at his counterpart. "Yes. And you never saw her. Is that clear?"

"As glass."

The door opened behind Bodie and he stepped smartly aside, only just avoiding a collision.

It was Doyle, drowsy-eyed, hair betraying a hasty finger-combing, but looking more alert than Bodie had seen him since morning. "Hallo," he said cautiously. "Is this a private party?"

"Just exclusive," Bodie said wryly. "How're the insides?"

"Ridiculously hungry." He cast a quick glance at the other man, reassuring himself of his existence, before turning back to Bodie. "I'm going to clean up. Will the grub be ready in a few minutes?"

"Greedy guts. Only take a sec to serve up."

"Wonderful." Doyle offered him a grateful smile. At the door, he hesitated. "Who rang?"

"Sarah. Told her you're fine; said the lads had rigged a prank; and we'll be at the church on time. She sends her love."

Doyle's grin widened. "She's a brick. Deserves better than us."

"Doesn't everyone?" Bodie agreed.

As soon as Doyle had disappeared into the bathroom, the other man asked disinterestedly, "I know I'm not supposed to have seen this Sarah, but is she something to you? Relation, maybe?"

Bodie raised a haughty brow. "Why?"

"She doesn't exist--in my world. She's beautiful."

Feeling as though he was treading an extremely precarious cliff edge, Bodie said carefully, "Perhaps you'll meet her when you go back."

The other man was cynically amused. "Probably not."

Bluntly, Bodie stated, "You'd have been better off to do it right after, y'know. Instead of putting yourself through all this."

Blue eyes, reflecting more torment than Bodie ever wanted to know, met his unflinchingly. "True."

Bodie blinked and it was as if the windows to that personal hell had never existed, replaced by an opaque hardness that revealed nothing.

---

For Bodie, the meal that followed was unutterably bizarre. The three of them sat at the dinner table and conversation was pedestrian, Doyle not yet ready to pursue his enquiries. As always, whether distressed, not distressed, or simply starving, Bodie ate well. Doyle picked, as was his wont, and the other Bodie did the same. In fact, Doyle put down more than he did. Bodie tried to overlook the fact that the other man could not keep his eyes off the green-eyed incarnation of his dead lover, yet it still unnerved him. He wished that he had made no avowals to Ray, and that this intruder was as dead as his lover.

Afterward, dishes were left in the sink to soak while everyone repaired to the lounge room. Bodie settled in the overstuffed chair, pleased when Doyle sat on the carpet by his feet, a bony shoulder pressed against his knee. The other chose the sofa--the farthest end from them--coffee cup held between both hands, as though he sought the comfort of its warmth.

Doyle opted for the direct approach. "When did you meet him--the other me?" he asked, and took a noisy sip from his own mug.

"About a month after you two disappeared. Thought it was you at first," he said reminiscently. "Until he raised his head and I could see the difference in his eyes."

"What difference?"

The other Bodie moved his shoulders dismissively. "Don't think I can explain it. But it was there." He laughed softly. "My first mistake, really. You were my tiger; thought to myself he was a sewer rat."

Doyle tensed. "Because he whored around?"

Surprise flared across the man's face. "He didn't."

"It was in his file," Bodie argued. "His 'protector' was Harry Walter, the bloke who had Doyle programmed."

"Of course--" The other paused with sudden comprehension. "You couldn't possibly know." He hesitated long enough to take the measure of the two men, then plunged ahead. "It was his cover. My Doyle never hustled anyone. But it was useful for others to think that he did."

"Why?" Amazement tugged Doyle's voice into a squeak. Bodie had felt the shock of the other man's words communicated through his partner's body; he laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder.

The man said, "Because a rent-boy doesn't draw half the attention of a known assassin."

"Assassin!"

Ignoring the consternation in Doyle's bloodless visage, the other Bodie went on, "One of the best, too. Worked for our side more often than not. Even hired out to Cowley a time or two."

Bodie's brows drew downward with doubt. "If he was so good, how'd he get caught by you lot?"

"Playing the part. He was taken in a routine trawl. Normally, that wouldn't have caused him any difficulty, but after your mate had been in CI5 custody, we had his prints. A standard check brought him to our attention. And since I'd got my arse in a sling over losing him before--well, Cowley thought I'd want to redeem myself."

"What about Harry Walter?"

"Doyle did a few jobs for him. Harry had a comfortable set-up. And he liked Ray just fine."

"You said he wasn't a whore," Doyle said sharply.

"No. And he was choosy about who he went to bed with. But he wasn't above using people; he used Harry."

"And you?" Bodie asked.

That drew a slow smile. "Yeah. At first. Which isn't to say the attraction wasn't there." His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he let silence speak for him. As though to himself, he added, "Things were pretty shaky in the early days. Neither of us knew what we wanted, but it was always great in bed--kept us coming back for more."

"You fell in love with him," Doyle said, on a note of discovery.

The other man did not deny it. "Yes."

"What about him? How did he feel about you?" Bodie probed.

The man's expression was not pleasant. "It cut both ways."

Cautiously Doyle requested, "Tell me how he died."

The other did not respond at first, a vast emptiness dulling the brilliant color of his eyes. Somehow, in an instant, the hollows cut into his face deepened and the lines etched into his cheeks and jaw darkened, as though he were falling into a decline before them. He spoke and the image was dispelled, his voice unwavering and clear, if a little husky. "He was shot to death, then dumped in the Thames."

"Who?" Doyle breathed.

"I don't know."

"What d'you mean, 'you don't know'?" Bodie demanded.

"It means I don't know," the other replied coldly.

"You tried to find out."

The hard face marginally relaxed before the certainty in Doyle's words. "Of course. Worked on it nonstop for three months. Told Cowley to fuck himself when he tried to interfere. Believe it or not, he came round and offered the total resources of CI5. But whoever murdered my Doyle left no clues, stirred no whispers on the street, and vanished without a trace. I couldn't turn up a fucking thing. Nothing."

"Where were you when it happened?" Bodie wanted to know.

"On assignment. Up north."

Doyle regarded him tensely, picking up on the resentment in the clipped response at once. "How long after he was murdered did you find out?"

A muscle pulled visibly at the back of the heavy jaw. "Nearly two weeks."

"What?!"

"Cowley didn't approve," he explained flatly. "Of us. Because we got close. Guess it threatened him, and the Squad. He told me when I got back to Town."

Bodie was frowning. "Didn't you try to reach your Doyle while you were on the case?"

The other man drained his cup and set it on the end-table with a clatter. "No. We'd had a row the night before Cowley sent me to Leeds. Ray...could be pretty volatile sometimes. Thought the separation would do us both good. Meant to square things when I got back."

Aching for the man who was so like his partner, Doyle asked gently, "You're sure it was him--that it was his body? You said he'd been in the water...."

The other paled noticeably. "Yes, I'm sure. Cowley'd already had him cremated, but there were morgue shots. It was Ray." Without another word, he stood up, face rigidly composed. "Look, I know it's early yet, but could you give me a place to...to lie down? Then I'll go. There's nothing more I have to tell you."

Bodie rose immediately. "We've a spare room-- You know. The bed's made up, clean sheets, the lot."

"Thanks," the man said curtly. He nodded once and left the room. Seconds later they heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing.

Doyle's expression betrayed him. "Christ," he whispered.

Bodie reached down a hand and drew his partner up to his feet. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Doyle said, harshly. "I am." He moved closer to Bodie and took him into his arms. "God, Bodie."

"Know what you mean," Bodie muttered, fervently returning the embrace. "May be early for him, but I'm knackered. You ready to sleep, old son?"

"Past ready. Just--let me hold you a bit, okay?"

"Not fighting, am I?" Bodie said lightly.

Doyle eased his convulsive grip and leaned far enough away to behold Bodie's face. "Rarely do," he replied in kind. "Bodie--"

A finger came up and pressed against his parted lips. "I know, Ray. He's hurting. But there's nothing we can do. Nothing he can do. Just wish he hadn't come here to figure that out."

"'S like seeing you hurt," Doyle said somberly. "Wish--"

Bodie kissed him, silencing the warm mouth once more. "Let it go, mate." He glimpsed a flicker of mutiny in the green depths. "Please."

Doyle bent his forehead to Bodie's shoulder. "Bed," he said.

---

He should have been asleep. This afternoon, whilst trying to organize their accounts, he could have slumbered where he sat. Now, curled up behind Bodie, one hand resting possessively on a solidly muscled hip, he could not put a stop to his mind replaying the day's events--over and over again. The clock on the bedside table displayed 12:25 in prominent red numbers, voicelessly scorning his wakefulness.

More than anything, he could not escape the memory of that other Bodie's countenance, bleak and hardened with grief. The urge to comfort had been frighteningly intense, even in light of the way he had been treated himself. His anger at being viewed, in essence, a substitute for the other Doyle had given way to understanding. If his Bodie died and he could have him back--just long enough to see his face one last time--would he go to any lengths to do so?

No. No, because Doyle was a coward, and if he could have Bodie back only to give him up a second time, there would be nothing left. And, as this Bodie had found out, a substitute simply would not suffice. Doyle refused to expend a great amount of brain time on the likelihood of Bodie's death. Should he ever be confronted with the reality of it, he would deal with it then.

But with rueful black humor, he doubted that the other Bodie would have done himself in after having got what he'd come for. Yet he could empathize with the man's suffering in spite of that, because there was that much of his Bodie in him.

A soft sound from the adjacent room brought Doyle's head up, ear turned toward the door. The swish of wood gliding over carpet followed a second later, but by then Doyle was already slipping from the bed, automatically closing the covers around his partner to spare him the draft. He padded on bare feet toward the door, sashing his robe at the waist.

The other man's hand was on the latch to the front door when Doyle called his name. His voice had the desired effect and stopped the other in his tracks. "Few hours yet until daylight," Doyle pointed out conversationally. "Why the rush?"

Back turned to him, the other Bodie said, "No time like the present." Yet he lingered, door handle unmoving in his grip.

"Wait until morning," Doyle said with quiet entreaty. "We'll take you to the coast. Save you train fare--or keep you from nicking someone's car."

"Why?"

Doyle thought it over. "I guess because I'd like to know more about your Doyle. And because it was you stirred all this up. Don't you want to talk about him?"

"No." The man released the latch and turned round. They were mere shadows of movement in the darkened room, facing each other across a distance of a dozen or more feet. "You can hate me all you like, but that doesn't place any obligation on me, y'know."

"I know," Doyle concurred. A glimmer of light reflected off the white of his teeth. "The really stupid bit is that I don't hate you. And I should."

The other placed a hand on his hip. "For drugging you? For hauling you off to your lover's bolt-hole--"

"Bolt-hole!" The smile vanished from Doyle's mouth. He bit his lower lip. "Should've realized--or thought to ask, anyway." At least his mind was beginning to work a little more effectively than it had this afternoon. "You must have one just like it--in your world."

"Yes."

"Hm. And, no, the reason I should hate you is for what you did to me on the other side--Over There."

"You were willing," the man reminded him.

"I wasn't in my right mind," Doyle stated with great precision. "And you knew it."

Neither spoke for long seconds, standing enshrouded by the incorporeal fog of night. Then the other Bodie said, almost gently, "I didn't hurt you."

Doyle produced an eloquent snort. "Didn't you? When Bodie and I returned here, somehow I forgot almost everything that had gone on there. That whole month I was selling my arse on the street was a blank, anyway. It finally came back a few months ago. All of it. Including you."

"Like I told you before: you enjoyed it as much as I did," the other said provocatively. "And you were good, sunshine."

"Yes, I was," Doyle said through clenched teeth. "So, for that matter, were you."

There was a sound, almost like a cough, before the man said with irritating good humor, "Touch."

"It wasn't right," Doyle went on inexorably, "for you and me. Not...like it was for you and him."

Again that tiny grunt that betrayed the other's reaction. "No," he acknowledged. "That's true."

"Tell me about him," Doyle whispered. "Tell me what he was like."

"Why?"

Doyle raised his hands, expressing without words his own lack of insight. Then he asked, "Could Harry Walter have made your Doyle a whore?"

The other gave a heavy sigh. "You know, I hoped you would never remember all of it; what they did to make you like that. It can't be important anymore, Ray. You and your mate are settled down--and happy with it. Just leave it alone."

Doyle ignored him. "Could he?" he persisted.

There was a rustle of clothing as the other Bodie shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. He turned his head and regarded Doyle sidelong. "If you expect me to talk, then I'll have a cuppa to wet my throat."

A long arm, clad in softest silk, stretched toward the kitchen. "After you."

---

Bodie rolled over, rearranging the covers about him. It was cool for June, but that was not what had woken him. Drained by the afternoon's rollercoaster experiences and the accumulated weariness of too many 20-hour days, he had hit the pillow and dissolved into unconsciousness. Doyle had been with him then.

He wasn't here now.

Heart beating far too fast, Bodie left the bed, snagging his robe from between the foot-board and the mattress, where it inevitably came to reside. He called, just under his breath, "Ray?"

There was no answer, but he had not expected one. Panic was a subjective thing, and something he was rarely subject to. Subjectively, he knew he had never been so frightened in his life as he was at this instant. He should've killed the bastard; should've never let Ray talk him into letting the maniac come home with them. And he would most certainly blow his own brains out if Doyle had come to any harm because of his inability to rub two simple thoughts together and spark a coherent idea.

In the corridor downstairs, he immediately spied the strip of light glowing beneath the kitchen door. Dragging his robe about his shoulders, he went forward on stealthy feet, still awash with the urgency of adrenalin and the need for caution. Just outside the door, he heard voices. He listened long enough to recognize both speakers, and the apparently civil tenor of their conversation. The resultant relief nearly had him over. Slowly he turned the latch and pushed the door inward, yet a little uneasy over what he might find within.

Doyle, sitting at the far end of the table, looked up at once. As if unsure of Bodie's intention, he waited until he caught his partner's gaze before offering a ready smile in welcome. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"You did," Bodie said impassively. "You weren't there." His eyes held a question as he surveyed the homey setting: cozy-covered teapot, jug of milk, sugar bowl, two mugs brimming with milky tea--even a plate of creme-filled biscuits. Doyle must have bought them this morning, when he restocked their cupboards.

Doyle flushed at Bodie's statement. "We've been talking," he said coolly.

"I see."

It was clearly on the tip of Doyle's tongue to offer explanations, but something inside him that was innocent of wrongdoing successfully fought the impulse. "I've just made a fresh pot of tea," he announced. "I'll get you a mug, if you--"

"No, don't bother. Everything seems well in hand." He contemplated the back of his counterpart's head; the man had not acknowledged his presence by word or look. "Think I'll go back to bed." His eyes were unreadable. "You coming?"

Doyle went very still. "Be there in a minute, okay?" he said at last. It had been a struggle to string those few words together and keep them free of the resentment simmering inside him.

"Yeah, sure." With that Bodie turned on heel and walked out, closing the door with exaggerated care behind him.

The chair skidded on the linoleum as Doyle climbed to his feet and gathered his mug all in one motion. He poured out the tea and rinsed the cup with water. Without facing round, he said firmly, "I'd like you to wait until morning before you leave."

"I'll think about it," the other man said.

Feeling those blue eyes boring into his back, Doyle felt driven to excuse his partner. "'S not his fault, y'know. Expect I'd feel the same if our situations were reversed."

That statement brought forth a sardonic laugh. "Except that it wouldn't have happened in reverse, would it? Everyone else would have left the dead in peace."

"Don't ever apologize for loving him." The words were out before Doyle could stop them. He couldn't even account for the ferocity of their delivery. A little sheepishly he met the other man's eyes, and found himself the object of a huge sadness. No, he reminded himself. Not me. "Good night," he said roughly.

Trailing after him came the soft words, "See you in the morning, Tiger."

Doyle entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him, furiously stripping off his robe. Bodie was a long hump beneath the duvet, facing the wall. Doyle scrabbled in beside him. Regardless of his partner's reaction, he wrenched him onto his back and straddled his hips.

"What the hell--"

"Never treat me like that again, Bodie." Doyle pinned his partner's tightly muscled arms down when he made as if to resist. "Under any circumstances."

"Stay away from him, and it won't be a problem," Bodie snarled.

"It isn't a problem now!" Doyle gave him a teeth-jolting shake for emphasis. "What did you think you were going to find out there: him fucking me on the kitchen table, and me urging him on? Damn it, sunshine, if it'd been any other man--even a gay one--you wouldn't have acted that way. Would you!"

Bodie subsided beneath the smaller man's weight. "No."

"No," Doyle repeated. Keenly conscious of the corded tension still evident in Bodie's body, he said more understandingly, "Ah, Bodie. I'm sorry, too. Can guess how you're feeling. He was trying to leave, and I wouldn't let him."

"Why not?" Bodie asked grudgingly.

"Don't laugh. I just wanted to talk about his Doyle; didn't really have the chance before."

Bodie freed himself so he could slide his hands about Doyle's waist. "So what'd you find out?"

"Nothing very amazing," Doyle confessed. "He and I aren't very different--weren't very different--at all."

"You thought he was better than you?" Bodie asked perplexedly, divining that more from Doyle's tone of voice than from anything he had said.

Thin shoulders rose and fell. "He wasn't a whore."

Bodie could not repress a fond smile. "You'd rather have been a hit-man during that month?"

Doyle's mouth fell open. Several seconds ticked past, before he closed it again without speaking. "Is that a trick question?" he asked wryly.

"Lie down," Bodie suggested, and gently tugged at his mate's arms. "Right here, beside me. Yeah, like that." As Doyle settled, Bodie allowed himself to revel in their closeness. "It happened," he said without inflection. "It left you with a load of rotten memories. But you survived. You've nothing to hate yourself for."

"Don't hate myself," Doyle protested. "Just--regret it, that's all."

"Too much. And you conveniently forget that it's been two bloody years ago."

Doyle rubbed his chin against Bodie's shoulder. "Yeah, I know. Sometimes I forget, too, that I got you--the way we are now--as a result of it. Well, in a roundabout way."

"Is that good or bad?" Bodie murmured.

"Definitely good--'cause you love me in spite of it." He leaned nearer to inhale the scent of Bodie's hair.

As Doyle ran a hand over the broad, smooth expanse of his chest, Bodie thought it prudent to point out, "You do realize it's after one, don't you?" He stopped breathing altogether when the inquisitive touch slid downward to the flat surface of his abdomen, pausing a while to investigate the silky plain that lay between twin ridges of hipbone, then nimbly delved into the waistband of his y-fronts.

"Hm. Finally learned to tell time, did you?"

"Well, one of us should be able to--" Intelligent thought abandoned him before the onslaught of that persistent assault.

"Is this the moment," Doyle asked, after a long, succulent kiss, "that I should politely enquire why you have a snuggery in Soho?"

The pent air went out of Bodie's lungs as though he had been roundhoused. Doyle hovered above him like a gleeful executioner, awaiting his victim's last words. Never one to be at a loss for long, Bodie said without embellishment, "No," and pulled Doyle back down to suffer his own ravaging explorations.

Some while later, when both were succumbing to the irresistible allure of sleep, Bodie assured his close-held mate, "You can start paying half the lease, if you like."

Doyle chuckled softly. "How kind."

---

It was half-past six and the sun was renewing its authority over the sky when Bodie wandered bleary-eyed into the kitchen. Doyle was already there, fully dressed, standing in front of the big dining room window and sipping tea. He gave Bodie an affectionate appraisal, wooed again by that woebegone vulnerability in the space of an instant. "Sit yourself down, mate. Coffee's ready. I've just started the toast."

Bodie downed a heavily sugared mugful before asking, "Is he still here?"

"Dead to the world." At Bodie's startled look, Doyle assured him, "Asleep, idiot. What on earth did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." Bodie ended the awkward conversation by engaging his mouth in a serious bout of mastication.

Doyle eyed him curiously for a moment, as if gauging his mood. Then he too, retreated into the unthreatening routine of early morning. How useful, he thought, convention can be. He knew, as Bodie did not, that this was the lull before the storm. Conversation was desultory. They discussed the previous job, the latest gossip Bodie had picked up at HQ yesterday morning, and at some length, Bodie's bedsit in Soho.

"Never even think about it except when I get the statement from the bank telling me the lease's due. 'S why I kept forgetting to tell you about it."

"Like that old car you had garaged away?"

"Yeah. Damn. Need to pick it up, y'know."

Doyle took his cup and plate to the sink. "If there's anything left to pick up, you mean."

"Who else'd have it?" Bodie finished off his coffee. "I really wasn't holding out on you, mate."

"'S not important," Doyle said easily. "Know how you like to cover all the angles."

"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean--"

"--they're not out to get you," Doyle completed the aphorism for him. "Yeah, yeah, tell me a new one."

There was a muffled tread on the carpet outside the half-open kitchen door. A dark head peered inside. Almost apologetically, the other man said, "Thought I smelled coffee."

"You did. And there's toast, if you want some."

He also was attired for the day, face washed and hair combed. "Thanks."

Bodie waved him to an empty chair, observing that the night's rest seemed to have improved his appearance. While still bearing the remnants of fatigue and grief, his color was better and his eyes clearer.

Doyle fetched the loaf of bread from the sideboard and primed the toaster. He plugged in the kettle for more hot water, then leaned back against the sink cupboard to await its call, marvelling over their strange group and how easily the impossible had become commonplace.

"You mentioned a ride to the coast," the other Bodie said, drinking in Doyle's familiar slouching carriage with bittersweet appreciation. "I'd just be grateful for a lift to the nearest railway station, if that's all right."

Affably, Bodie said, "We can do that."

"Thanks." He reached for the coffeepot and sloshed steaming liquid into a mug brought by Doyle for his use.

The toast gave off its trademark scent, and Doyle freed it from the coils before it could darken further. "Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?" he asked off-handedly, dropping the man's breakfast gingerly onto the plate in front of him.

The other Bodie considered the question while wielding the butter knife. "Like what?"

Doyle took up his own cup and briefly perused its contents. "Like the investigation you made into his death." It was not necessary, of course, to explain who 'he' was.

A dark brow went up, mirrored by one exactly like it on another face only a few feet away. "Ask away."

"You said you were given the resources of CI5 to look into the matter, but you found nothing. Nothing at all?"

Sharp teeth clamped down on a thickly marmaladed corner of toast. "No," the other Bodie answered when his mouth was free. "Whoever pulled that off was slicker than anyone I've ever run across. No witnesses, for one thing. Ballistics couldn't find anything distinguishing about the weapon used on him; it had no background. The bloke who pulled him from the River couldn't tell me anything other than that Doyle had been found near Battersea Bridge. He alerted the local nick. The lads there ran his prints and found out he was one of Cowley's mob, so they--"

"What d'you mean, 'one of Cowley's mob'?" Doyle asked, bewildered.

The man heaved a sigh, scowling down at his toast. "Told you, he worked for him sometimes. Hired on for the occasional job."

"As a murderer?"

"Executioner. He was sanctioned, remember?"

"Oh, right." Doyle occupied himself with renewed coffee preparation, pouring boiling water over crushed grounds and clamping the lid on the percolator before saying, "So you never had any suspects?"

The other Bodie chewed and swallowed without pleasure. "Plenty of those. Hard not to make enemies in that line of work, y'know."

"No one you could pin it on, though?"

"No."

"What about Harry Walter? Was he on your list of possibles?"

Blue eyes blinked up at him. "No."

"Why not? He was one of...Doyle's associates. You said he used him; maybe Walter didn't like--"

"No. Walter was long dead by then."

Grimly pleased, Bodie murmured, "Had an accident, did he?"

Sharing the same feral expression, his counterpart said, "If you can call an accident deliberate, then yes, he did. One of Ray's specialties was the 'deliberate accident'."

"Doyle killed him?"

"Yep."

"Why?" Doyle asked plaintively.

The other Bodie held out his cup, and Doyle mechanically refilled it. Adding a disastrous amount of sugar and milk, the man stirred the lightened brew with his spoon until the granules dissolved. "Because of what Walter did to you."

Doyle went to the table and sat down, lowering his head to stare directly into the other man's eyes. "He knew about that?"

"Not at the time Walter got hold of you, no. He was off in Edinburgh, on a kill."

Conflicting emotions tumbled inside Doyle like numbers in a bingo wheel. "'M surprised he didn't find it amusing--especially since he only ever played the hustler."

The other Bodie's eyes glinted with malice. "Amusing? To have someone who looked exactly like you put on the street--to be fucked by anyone with a few quid in his pocket? No, Walter was using you to get back at Ray."

"What for?"

"Remember, I said Ray used him? He never gave Walter what he wanted, y'know. Just teased. Let him think that someday he'd let him have his arse. When I told him what he'd done to you, Ray was furious. Didn't show it, of course, but I could see it coming. In less than a month he'd put paid to old Harry."

"What a pity," Bodie said cheerfully.

Doyle shivered. He gulped down the remains of his now-cold coffee. "What exactly did you tell him about me?"

"The truth," the other man said simply.

"And he believed you?"

"Eventually, yes." At the expression in Doyle's eyes, he added softly, "And I told him all of it."

"And he didn't mind?" Bodie asked skeptically.

"No. In fact, he once said he was glad; otherwise, I wouldn't have been so keen to get him into my bed."

"He wasn't bothered by--" Doyle stumbled awkwardly, "--by the comparison?"

A tiny smile softened the hard lines framing the other Bodie's mouth. "He made bloody sure there was nothing to compare before we'd been together very long. Was a competitive little bastard, my Ray." He ducked his head, ostensibly studying the remainder of his toast, which had long since gone as cold as Doyle's coffee. "Look, we need to get going. The gates are only open during specific periods."

"You make it sound like a revolving door," Bodie commented lightly.

"Not quite. But there are precise times and locations. You have the charts."

"You said you had other suspects," Doyle interposed abruptly. "If...if Ray Doyle were to reappear, d'you think that might flush the right one out?"

Bodie felt as though he'd taken a hammer blow to the heart. "No."

His counterpart was suddenly sitting up very much straighter in his chair. "It would certainly stir someone up."

"You're not going back there," Bodie said tightly.

"I want to know who killed him," Doyle argued.

Bodie turned on the man at the other end of the table. "You talked him into this, didn't you!"

"This is the first I've heard of it," the other Bodie replied.

"Nobody's talked me into anything," Doyle flatly informed his partner. "This is something I want to do."

"That's a hell of a plan, mate," Bodie said sarcastically. "Didn't think suicide was your style."

"It isn't. I'd be counting on you--both of you--to cover me."

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Of course. That would make all the difference. And what do we do when you get snatched anyway--if not killed outright? Or maybe you just fancy another turn as a bum-boy?"

Tension flashed through Doyle like lightning grounding itself into a mountainside. He let it go, almost at once, well aware of Bodie's tactics--and his reasons for lashing out, as well. "That wasn't what I had in mind, no. But thanks ever so for reminding me."

"Ray--"

"It wouldn't take much. An appearance here and there," the other Bodie speculated quietly. "Word would travel very quickly."

"You're talking about setting a trap with him as the bait," Bodie said savagely. "And you've nothing to lose--"

"It wouldn't be like the last time," Doyle reasoned. "We'd know what to expect. And he could tell us who to watch out for."

"Oh, yes. That would make all the difference."

"I need you there to watch my back, Bodie. We'd have everything planned out. We could make it work."

Bodie shoved his chair away from the table and stood. "I watched your back the last time. D'you want to find out if my skills have improved since then, is that it? See if I can do the job right this time?

"Bodie--"

"Fuck you, Doyle." He slammed the chair back under the table and stalked out of the room, letting the door crash back on its hinges behind him.

"It would work." The other Bodie's eyes were agleam with predatory fervor.

Doyle agreed with a nod. "I know. But not without Bodie. My Bodie." Handling the furniture and fixtures with considerably more courtesy than his partner had shown them, Doyle went in search of his lover.

He found Bodie in their bedroom, bent before the dresser, shoving tightly folded clothing, shaving gear, and other odds and ends into a plastic-lined holdall. He asked uneasily, "What are you doing?"

"That's a bloody lame question coming from a brilliant copper like you," Bodie retorted. "What's it look like: I'm packing."

"You leaving me?"

Bodie stopped long enough to regard his partner with intense dislike. "If I had any sense, I would."

"Bodie...."

The bag dropped to the floor, and ungentle hands caught Doyle and dragged him close. Bodie's mouth was cruelly demanding, but Doyle yielded to him without hesitation. In an instant he was released, and roughly pushed away. Bodie said angrily, "If I stop you doing this, you'll never let me forget it. So, we'll go; get it over with--and I hope to God we find our way out of there okay. But that's all: When we get back, that's the end of it. Right?"

Doyle felt very small before that unhappy surrender. Nevertheless, he guiltily began to defend himself. "You know I wouldn't go if you--"

"Insisted? Yeah. And you'd nag me about it for the rest of our lives--however long that may be. Going along with this is fucking stupid, but it's the easy way out."

"It's important, mate," Doyle insisted. "He was me. I want to know why he died."

"You'd be better off leaving it alone," Bodie said unsympathetically. "Poking about over there isn't going to do your friend in the kitchen any good. Can't you see he'd be better off dead, too? You can't change the bleeding past."

Doyle leaned forward and rested heavily against Bodie's back. "No." He eased his arms around the trim waist and held on tightly. "I do love you, mate."

"I'll try to remember that," Bodie whispered ironically.

---

Stony silence prevailed during the ride to the coast. Despite a closely reined excitement, the other Bodie said nothing, watching as the rolling hills of the downs fled past. In the front seat, Bodie drove, his anger disguised by polite indifference. Doyle sat beside him, conspicuously mulling over the charts which had been confiscated from the man in the back.

Before leaving the flat, Bodie had arranged to have his misplaced vehicle collected and parked in front of their block of flats. He questioned the other Bodie for information about their journey, rapidly gaining understanding of the notations on the charts and how to employ them. And then they had set out, Doyle oddly subdued, Bodie coldly distant, and their companion charged with new purpose.

Despite the less than ebullient atmosphere inside the Capri, the morning was fair. Small clouds roamed a soft blue sky, carried aloft by feathery summer breezes, and the sun quickly burned the dew off green fields dotted by lazily grazing sheep. It was an idyllic day, brimming with the promise of warmth and fragrantly humid air. For all that those travelling in the silver car took note, it could have been sullen with thunder clouds and pelting down rain.

They reached Southsea at half past nine. Following his double's suggestion, Bodie parked the car in a residential area about a mile from the pier. After securing the vehicle they started off, Bodie and Doyle trailing behind the other man, who had he been a lurcher, would have been tugging at his lead.

He took them down the road that fronted the Channel, grunting with satisfaction when he saw that the tide was out. A few small boats and dinghies rested drunkenly on the silty sand awaiting the water's return, surrounded by strands of pungent kelp, a variety of shells, and the more mundane debris created by mankind: the odd can, bottles--Doyle even spotted an unmated deck shoe wedged toe downward, heel in the air.

The other Bodie guided them down to the beach, slogging through yielding sand between the pylons of the pier, and out toward the water's edge. Bodie drew a face but did not falter. They had been told to expect this. All the same, Doyle split the air with a colorful epithet when his trainer went out from under him. Bodie lent him a hand to regain his feet--and withdrew all contact immediately afterward.

They continued to walk beneath the pier, ankle-deep in saltwater--when abruptly they seemed to step off a shelf and into water that came waist-high.

"Right!" the other Bodie proclaimed exultantly. "That way." Rather than returning for shore, they went some distance farther southward before the man instructed them to parallel the beachline. At last, sodden and thoroughly disgusted before the day's adventure had even begun, they were herded inland.

Curious eyes watched them trudge out of the waves sucking at their feet, but were roundly ignored. Bodie's holdall, packed with considerable foresight, had been spared total immersion through his quick response to their initial dunking. All the same he fought a keen desire to dump it into the nearest rubbish tip as he slung it over his shoulder and paced his partner. If this was any indication of what the rest of their day would be like....

"So how are we going to know when we get there?" He shouted in order to be heard over the wall of sound produced by the ocean at his back.

The man striding ahead of them slowed until they came abreast. "You do carry a compass, don't you?"

"I know which way is north," Bodie informed him, deadpan.

The other's head performed a slow, patient wag. "You may think you do. Remember that I told you there are differences. Nothing all that noticeable unless you pay attention to that sort of thing; our lunar cycle follows a pattern not quite the same as yours, for example. Our magnetic north is a few degrees east of yours, too. Found that out quite by chance."

Bodie put a hand into his pocket and came out with his keys; on the keyring was a small compass. Knowing which way was north in his world, and familiar with the lay of the land in this part of England, he proved the discrepancy to himself at once.

"Useful to know," he remarked.

"So, to answer your question, said his counterpart, "We're here."

---

The old Vauxhall still stood where the other Bodie had parked it, amazingly intact after having been left unattended for two days, even in this placid neighborhood. The men clambered into it gratefully, for though the day would probably grow warm later in the afternoon, it was rather brisk as yet, and their clothing was quite wet. Bodie took the front seat beside the driver, giving Doyle no option but to sit in the back.

"What about when we go back?" Bodie asked practically.

He was favored with a twisted grin. "If it's anything like my crossover, you're in for a treat."

"Meaning?"

"Coming this way we went under the pier."

"You're not serious," Bodie said dangerously.

"If you say so." The other concentrated on wending the car through the traffic crowding the peninsula. "Did you notice how the water was deeper all of a sudden when we came through? It's like that going back. Looks like the tide's gone out, but when you reach the bottom, there's plenty of water. Don't worry."

"Wonderful." Bodie's teeth were clenched tightly enough to make his jaw muscles ripple.

"You knew that when you came over?" Doyle asked curiously.

The other Bodie replied, "No."

"But you jumped anyway."

The man did not bother to state the obvious.

Under lowering skies, they picked up the M27 and headed toward Southampton. While clearly England in all aspects, the weather here was far less congenial than that they had left behind. By the time they were navigating the roundabout onto the M3, rain was pounding them from all sides, flung in huge sheets by bruising gusts that buffeted the old car on its spongy shocks.

Forsaking conversation amidst the thunderous downpour, each man settled into his own thoughts. Doyle took advantage of his relatively spacious accommodation and curled onto his side on the back seat, head pillowed by one bent arm. He fell asleep within moments, in spite of clinging, chill clothing and the rocking motion of the car.

Bodie observed his partner's withdrawal and, despite his still simmering anger, wished he could make him more comfortable. Yesterday's ordeal had taken its toll on an already worn-thin Ray Doyle. Three months should have been long enough to set his lingering doubts to rest--and probably would have done, if this fool had not shown up. But whatever haunted Doyle from those days had come back to gnaw at him with a vengeance. Quite what was cluttering Doyle's mind at this point, Bodie could hardly begin to guess. And he was worried, especially given the obsessive quality of Doyle's resolution to involve himself in all this.

And yet he could not deny a certain perverse fascination himself. He had never met this universe's Ray Doyle, but the man had clearly possessed the same power to enthrall as his own Doyle. Enough, in fact, to drive an otherwise sane man to find a way to transgress the laws of nature and physics.

Heading northward through lushly verdant countryside, they raced beyond the heart of the storm. Capable of carrying on conversation at a normal volume once more, Bodie said to his driving companion, "Tell me what you thought when you met Doyle."

A dark gaze passed over him before resuming its watch of the rain-slick road. "My Doyle?"

"Yes."

The other Bodie smiled slightly to himself. "Had mixed feelings, actually. He'd been a nuisance before--your Doyle, that is; an unnecessary complication. But he had a way of getting under a bloke's skin without half trying. Went into that interrogation room thinking I'd set him straight--and found myself a step behind before I'd even started."

As the miles sped away, the man recounted his surprise in learning that not only was this not the Doyle he had met before, but neither was he the Doyle he had come to know by his CI5 form. And Doyle guarded himself with expert care. Only after they'd shared a bed a time or two, did he begin to open up, gradually coming to trust Bodie enough to tell him who--and what--he really was.

Within six months Doyle had moved in with him--and it was then Cowley had begun to take exception. To all appearances, Bodie was living with a small-time hustler and petty thief, hardly the best recommendation for a CI5 agent. Bodie, however, had "quelled" Cowley's objections--how, he did not explain. Eventually, Doyle's prowess with a hand-gun and rifle had come to Cowley's attention and, as was usually the case, the old man had found a way to make use of that ability to the Squad's benefit. That Doyle already hired out his services was not information Bodie made a point of imparting, and could only marvel that Ray had managed to cover his tracks so efficiently as to evade even Cowley's resources.

Theirs had not been a life of settled domesticity. Both keenly self-indulgent, they had suffered several fierce battles before jointly recognizing that they actually shared something unique--and good.

It had lasted almost a year.

They were nearing the outskirts of Greater London when the other Bodie finished his story. Vaguely disturbed, but unable to explain why, Bodie spared a glance for his slumbering partner--and found him wide-awake, brows canted low over unsettled green eyes. He wondered if Doyle was remembering home as fondly as he was at this moment.

The sky continued grey all the way to Chelsea, where at last the battered old Vauxhall came to a creaking halt. It was the same block of flats they had walked out of this morning--and not. But that awareness was only in the minds of those who entered, for there was nothing about the building to set it apart.

Miserably encased in still-damp clothing, the three took the lift to the third floor. The other Bodie noted aloud with malicious glee that at least that worked here, and the other two could not argue. He unlocked the door to the flat and they entered, one at a time, following his lead.

The dissimilarities inside, however, were at once apparent, for there were many. Overall, the effect was avant-garde, from the snow-white carpet and black curtains to the startling paintings that decorated the walls. Vividly impressionistic, they communicated a remarkable range of feeling and atmosphere--and were almost disturbing in their intensity.

"Your Doyle decorated the flat, didn't he," Ray commented, his voice hushed.

"Yes."

"Same thing you've been threatening to do for bloody ever," Bodie said, tight-lipped.

Standing before a fierce display of framed color and indefinite activity, Doyle said wryly, "He did all the artwork, as well."

Frowning, Bodie glanced across at his partner. "You haven't painted in ages, Ray--"

"No, but I've seen these already." A finger tapped the side of his fleecy head. "In here."

Bodie's sense of uneasiness increased ten-fold. "Always suspected you had rotten taste in art, mate," he said under his breath.

Unnoticed by Doyle, the other Bodie was free to look his fill, gaze focused intently on the lean figure. "He liked to paint in the morning, over by that window." He directed them to the wide glass in the east wall, near the dining room. "Did this kind of stuff, mostly. Said realism wasn't the medium for the things only he could see."

Doyle shot him a slit-eyed look, his strange mood echoed by the man's words. But all he said was, "D'you still have any of his stuff?" He gestured at his unappealing attire. "I'd like to change."

"In the spare room," the other Bodie informed him quietly. "You know where it is."

Bodie watched his partner stride from the lounge room, wondering if the tiny hairs at the back of his neck would ever go down.

Christ, but this had been a mistake!

"How about you?" the man inquired courteously. "There's plenty for you to choose from. I'll just put the kettle on."

"Great."

The other Doyle's influence was as strongly felt in the master bedroom, walls covered with more pictures done in the same style. The color combinations and choice of furnishings reflected a strange ambivalence: creativity born of demons. Bodie startled when a soft voice came from behind him, "It bothers you, doesn't it."

Tucking a clean shirt into blessedly dry trousers, Bodie acknowledged his partner's question with a rueful frown. "A bit. You?"

Doyle shook his head. "Only that I recognize it. Stuff I've thought about doing for years." He added vaguely, "Some of it, anyway."

"What's that mean?" Bodie secured the snap at his waist and stretched to ease the fit.

A long-fingered hand reached out and unbuttoned the top of Bodie's shirt. He tried to hide it, but Doyle was trembling. "Came across some sketchbooks and a few canvases. Want you to look at one of 'em."

"Bad?"

"You tell me."

Rubbing the base of his skull irritably, Bodie followed his partner into the other bedroom. There were drawings scattered over the somberly hued duvet, depicting people and places in several different media: paint, pastels, pen and ink, and pencil. They ranged in artistic method, as well, from the wildly abstract, to strictly naturalistic. For all that his work featured dark subjects with particularly violent imagery throughout, there was no denying that the other Doyle was a most gifted artist.

Ray pulled a small canvas from beneath a larger pencil sketch and flipped it face-up.

Seldom had Bodie seen anything that repelled and attracted with such devastating power. A pencil drawing, it had captured two male bodies in an instant of spellbinding ecstasy. The smaller man lay on his back, legs spread wide, heels hooked on his lover's shoulders; the other was hunched forward, balanced on his knees, his downward thrust beautifully evoked in the bunched buttock muscles and tendon-taut upper thighs. With a few simple lines, a highly erotic tableau had been wrought. The man on top was quite clearly the other Bodie; the one impaled, though thin and wiry, might have been the other Doyle--or might not. His face, obliterated by the only splash of color on the otherwise totally pencil rendering, was a wash of gruesome shades of red and flecks of white, where bone may have peered through the gore.

"Jesus," Bodie whispered.

"At least he had the sense not to hang it on the wall," said Doyle.

Bodie wrenched his eyes from the horrific drawing; mordant humor of that sort was usually more his style. "Ray--"

"I'm quite sure the two of you are in desperate need of a quick grope, but there are...."

Holding the canvas so that the picture was clearly visible, Doyle stepped round to meet their host. His unvoiced question was answered immediately: the man blanched.

"Have you seen this before?" Doyle asked, putting the question into words.

A slightly trembling forefinger and thumb closed along the edge of the drawing and removed it from Doyle's hand. "No. Can't say that I have."

"Who's the man on the bottom?"

More than a little stunned, the other Bodie lifted his head and blinked at him. "I have no idea."

Doyle was somewhat dumbfounded by the man's reaction. The other really seemed badly shaken. Strange that, since, in their line of work, they saw ugly things every day. Ugly this was--in content, anyway--but far less so than the reality that they dealt with on a regular basis.

"Why would he do something like this?"

The man shook his head. Then he tossed the picture onto the bedspread with a disregard he clearly did not feel. "Ray could be very--inventive. Where did you find it?"

"In the wardrobe, at the back. Yeah, I was snooping. It's the only way I'm going to find out more about him."

With a final glance at the strange picture, the man turned on heel and strode out of the room.

"And what d'you reckon that tells you, sunshine?" Bodie asked, frowning down at the drawing.

"Something we probably don't want to know," Doyle admitted softly.

The other Bodie was filling mugs when they entered the kitchen. His wits about him again, he said without preamble, "We need to do something about him." He gestured toward Bodie.

The 'him' under discussion returned that impassive statement with a flinty glare. "If you think I'm going to stay out--"

"That's the last thing I think," the other interrupted. "Doyle's right: he's going to need both of us to cover him. But we can't operate with you and me looking like identical twins. My appearance has changed--rather drastically--so you can't pretend to be me. You need a disguise."

"A disguise!" Bodie hissed.

Doyle's face broke into a slow grin. "What'd you have in mind?"

The other man took a small box off the seat of a chair in the dining room, and peeled apart the flaps. A hand dipped inside and a light brown wig appeared. With the flick of his wrist, it was sent spinning upon one large finger, longish wavy tendrils flaring out to the sides.

"You're out of your bleeding mind," Bodie snapped.

"It should fit you perfectly. I've used it before. Undercover."

"Kinky like that, are you?"

Bodie's counterpart ignored him, drawing two more items out of the carton. "Put it on. I've a pair of brown contact lenses, and prescriptionless glasses to go with it."

Bodie snagged the hair-piece from the other man's hand and held it out before him as though it were the decaying remains of an overlarge rodent.

"Can't wait to see this," Doyle snickered, and backed hastily away when his partner made a threatening gesture.

"Sod off." Bodie' s mouth pursed sullenly as he surveyed the other articles. "I've never worn contacts before."

"Won't hurt you. I'll show you how they go on your eyes."

"How reassuring."

"Try the wig on first. It's not that uncomfortable. And it will change your appearance."

Bodie scowlingly carried the offending item to the bathroom, sharply putting Doyle off his stride when he attempted to follow. "You just occupy yourself with something else," he suggested, none too politely.

Sighing theatrically, Doyle went back to the table and picked up one of the mugs. Gratefully sucking the warming liquid down, he felt the other man's gaze upon him--as he had so often in the past day--and met it easily. "What're the chances of us getting access to your computer?"

"At HQ?" The man scoffed, "Very unlikely."

"I mean to. And I want to see the morgue report," Doyle said emphatically.

His words were met with an unreadable stare. "That I can get."

"Good. Think about how you're going to get us on-line, too. Your Cowley used to be...under your thumb," he finished diplomatically. "Expect you could still have your way with him, if you wanted to."

The other Bodie turned away, but not before Doyle had noticed that he seemed to have lost a shade of color. "I'll think about it," he replied, raising the mug to his mouth.

Puzzled, Doyle took another tack. "D'you have a specific suspect you intend to try me out on? Someone more likely than the others?"

The dark head moved in negation. "Told you: I investigated everyone who might've had it in for Ray. They all came out clean, with ironclad alibis. Rather thought we'd take you to the places he used to frequent. If there's anyone wandering round with a guilty conscience, that should get a rise out of him."

Doyle's thoughts were not happy ones. "Bit strange, that. Not one suspect being the least bit shaky, I mean."

"My sentiments precisely," the other said sarcastically. He tossed back the rest of his tea and carried the mug into the kitchen. Doyle watched him slosh amber fluid out of a tall bottle into the cup before returning to the teapot to top it off.

"Good way to ruin fine malt."

"Doesn't do a thing to garden variety rotgut," the other Bodie assured him.

"Good way to ruin a good cuppa, too."

"You'll be warning me about the risk to my kidneys next."

"No point," Doyle said.

"None at all."

"All right, you can both have a good laugh now," an equally sardonic voice said from behind them.

Doyle turned, eyes saucering at his partner's transformation. The wig had taken shape once molded to the finely sculpted skull. The lighter color opened Bodie's face up; the softer style took years away. Entranced, Doyle went nearer, and began a slow circle around his partner. "You're bloody gorgeous, sunshine," he owned at last.

"At least it's not as bad as I expected," Bodie with only a hint of asperity.

Doyle leaned a little nearer and murmured, "May have to buy you one just like it when we get back."

A dark brow arched upward. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, Raymond, my lad, you've got another think to come."

"We'll see," Doyle said, sultry insinuation gleaming in interested green eyes.

"Can't you two pack it in for a minute?" The words were spoken tiredly, colored by the faintest suggestion of envy. In fact, before the bland facade slammed fully back into place, Doyle had a glimpse of a killing emptiness, shocking to see in eyes he knew so well.

"Give him a chance, mate," Bodie argued, reassured in good measure by Doyle's response. "It isn't often Goldilocks here gets to see my natural beauty reduced to ashes. Or maybe it's just envy, eh? With this silly thing on me head, I've got more hair than he has."

The other man raised his hands in mock despair. "Must be a cosmic reaction: my Doyle used to come over exactly the same way, whenever I used the damn thing."

For a moment the room fell quiet. The genuine affection and irremediable grief in that brief statement had struck hard at the hearts of the other two. This man could be their future. One possible future, in any case.

Doyle took a deep breath. For the first time he recognized the magnitude of what they had done in coming here, something Bodie had understood with his usual keen instincts. What Bodie had not been able to make clear to him was that Doyle's crusading impulses endangered not only their lives, but their knowledge of each other. Holding these two men up as a mirror to their own lives would be an enormous mistake. For all that their genes were exact replicas, their external influences bore little similarity. If Doyle wanted to understand what had made his opposite number tick, he would have to understand the whole man. And that was something he would not accomplish in a few days' time. Perhaps not even in a lifetime.

Best then, to get this over with as quickly as possible.

He said to the other Bodie, "Why don't you show him how to put on the rest of that rig. Then we can get started."

The man inclined his head. He gulped down the heavily doctored drink and brought himself up to his full height. "Right. Let's go."

Bodie, who had not grasped the import of what had just happened, reluctantly tailed after the other man.

With half an ear tuned to the grumbling complaints and impatient maledictions that fitfully erupted from the bathroom, Doyle trolled through the other Doyle's room. He gathered together the drawings he had uncovered and restored them to the back of the wardrobe--all save the one, which he thoughtfully placed on the chest of drawers. From time to time, as he sifted through the other's clothing, and examined personal effects that had been left lying about, he would look back at that drawing, and wonder.

He didn't know what it was he was searching for, or why it should be so important to get a handle on his other self. Clearly Bodie had not felt this same compulsion, having accepted the fact of his double's existence with his usual smooth equanimity. In fact he had regarded the other man--with good reason, as it came to pass--more as a competitor than an ally from the very start. Two years ago.

Suddenly uneasy, Doyle guessed that his own motives probably would not stand up to close inspection. Would he have been happier to discover that his counterpart was a hustler and content with his lot, rather than a cold-blooded murderer who had never sold his body in his life? Painfully aware of what that previous month's visit here had cost him, Doyle could not say no--and remain honest with himself.

"Doyle."

The voice cut through his musings, bringing his head up. The other Bodie stood at the door, watching him curiously.

"Trying to get my bearings," Doyle explained, and returned the toy soldier, which he could not recall picking up and was now nestled in his hand, to the oddments shelf that hung on the wall beside the looking glass.

The small canvas had caught the other's attention. Anger--and something else Doyle could not identify--flickered across the drawn features. "Why keep that out?"

"It means something." Doyle brushed a finger across his nose. "Wish I knew what."

"Means you're as barmy as he was. C'mon. I've got something to show you."

Doyle abandoned the room with a queer sense of relief. The other Bodie waited outside in the corridor, gesturing him towards the bathroom. A chipped-tooth grin erasing his air of preoccupation, Doyle went up to the door and peered around the jamb. "Bloody hell."

A not very happy Bodie gave up trying to tweak the unaccustomed wig into a semblance of naturalness and glowered at his amused partner. "'Ello, Sailor," he lisped. "Looking for a good time?"

Doyle bit his lip to contain a burst of laughter. Whatever Bodie resembled, it was not a hustler on the avenue. In fact, there was a wonderfully bookish presence about him that Doyle would not have thought him capable of in a million years. While the wig had made him appear younger and certainly less tough-looking, the glasses completely altered his appearance. Standing so close his breath threatened to fog Bodie's lenses, Doyle muttered, "What happened to your eyebrows, then?"

"Lon Chaney over there thought they were too dark, what with my new coiffure and all; used some kind of pencil on 'em. Back off, will you? Can hardly see out of these sodding things as it is."

"Sorry," Doyle said, without a hint of contrition. And, then, before Bodie could guess what he was about, Doyle bobbed forward and kissed him, the merest pressure of mouth upon mouth. "Always wondered what it'd be like to kiss a brown-eyed bloke with glasses on." He gave a yell as Bodie reached for him, and danced away before he could retaliate.

"Feel a fool," Bodie moaned.

"You look fine, sunshine," Doyle said feelingly. "More importantly, you don't look like you at all. Tell you what: you must be a mite peckish by now; it's nearly noon. I'll buy you lunch; what d'you say?"

Bodie canted his head at the other Bodie. "Know somewhere safe we can take him and get a good meal?"

Having stood by and waited for the anticipated by-play to wind down, the other was more than ready to depart what had become for him an overly confining flat. "And it's not too far from here. C'mon."

---

Somewhere between the apartment and The Plow and The Plover, having substituted the Capri for the Vauxhall, the tension within the other Bodie manifestly dissipated away. Doyle suspected it must have a lot to do with his Bodie's transformation. He wondered how he would have reacted had he ever come face-to-face with his opposite number; himself duplicated. Somehow, he doubted his always insecure self-image would have handled it well--no matter what this Doyle had been like.

The pub was small and congenial. Since it was Friday afternoon, and the place was in the heart of an area booming with renovation work, business was lively with working folk of many professions crowding the interior, drinking, eating, talking, and playing the fruit machines. Yet by luck, they managed to commandeer a booth at the far end of the bar just as a group of three left, and started with lagers all round. With a table secured, Bodie and his duplicate went to the ordering station and placed their requests for lunch. They brought back fresh drinks and settled in to wait.

More relaxed now, the two men began to exchange trenchant comments about their fellow diners while Doyle sat back and allowed himself to be amused. Quips flew fast and furious, one man trying to top the other. By the time the barmaid arrived they had attained new heights of cynical commentary and Doyle's stomach was aching from him having laughed so hard.

As soon as she had gone, Doyle pushed hard against his partner's shoulder. "Shift yourself, mate," he said. "I've got to use the bog."

"Jesus, Doyle, didn't your mum ever tell you to go before you left home?"

"Yeah, well, you can't pour a pot of tea and two beers down me without this type of thing happening. Move it, or I'll go on you."

Still complaining--he was virtually salivating now that the food had arrived--Bodie did as requested, not even sparing a glance as Doyle loped away.

"What about his mum?" the other Bodie asked. "Did she die young?"

Bodie closed his eyes, savoring a huge bite of his sandwich. "Hm hm." Under a tolerantly condescending blue gaze, Bodie swallowed, and knocked back a long slurp of his beer before answering properly. "Yeah. He was about five. How about your Doyle?"

"The same. She had a fall down the stairs. His father was a sot. Died a few years later in a sanatorium."

Bodie gestured agreement, returning to his meal with single-mindedness.

"And you?" the other asked casually. "Did your father bring home a fresh-faced young bride when you were but a lad?"

The half-devoured sandwich stalled on its next approach to Bodie's mouth. For some reason it had not occurred to him that this man who wore his face should also have shared his background. After all, they were different in so very many ways, there must have been a branch-off point at which their lives deviated, resulting in the men they were now. At mention of Julie and his father, alarm bells went off in the back of Bodie's head, as he remembered that this man had no knowledge of his daughter, Sarah. That fact implied many possibilities: his father yet lived in this universe; his father had died and had lost touch with his only son; his father didn't give a toss about his only son and had made no effort to track him down; or Sarah simply didn't exist here. Hesitant to complicate this downtrodden individual's life any further, Bodie said simply, "Yes. Is that why you left home, too?"

An edged smile was his reply. "And I never went back," he said dryly, confirming at least one of Bodie's surmises. "'S daft, y'know, but I might never have met my Doyle if not for the pair of you."

Something tightened inside Bodie's chest. "Strange, that. I mean, this'll probably sound sickeningly soppy, because I don't believe in Fate, or God, or any of those supposedly higher influences--but once I'd met Doyle, I knew he belonged with me." He adopted a silly voice, "Somehow we were meant to be together, ducky."

The other ignored his defensive camping. "Yeah," he said pensively. "I thought the attraction was just sex at first. I mean--well, I knew it was good already, didn't I. But he-- I would never have believed that another person could become so important to me." He raised his eyes to Bodie's troubled face. "You were right, y'know, what you said about being unable to kill a dead man. That's the only thing that's kept me going: looking for your Doyle. And when I found him, it was like someone had chucked a load of water into my eyes. He wasn't my Ray Doyle, at all. All that time, I'd just been putting off--"

"Stop it. Ray's given you another reason to keep going. It's important to you--or it should be--to find his murderer. Much as I dislike Doyle's involvement in this, if it hammers the bastard responsible, I won't mind in the least."

Some of the torment dissipated from the other man's mien. "Thanks, mate. I know he wouldn't've agreed to this without you."

"Fat lot of choice I had," Bodie said sourly. "Where is the aggravating little sod, anyway? Can't take him--"

For an instant the two men simply stared at each other, bound together by a single, terrible thought. Throat struck painfully dry, Bodie whispered, "No."

And then he was moving, heels pounding on the wooden floor, thighs pumping as he raced to the back of the building, totally oblivious of the shattering pint glass that was sacrificed in the flurry of his rising. The door to the bathroom stood slightly ajar.

It slapped against the inside wall and bounced off again from the force of Bodie's entry.

The room was empty.

"Fuck!" The single word ripped from Bodie's throat, leaving it raw and constricted. He rounded on the man behind him, only just checking the urge to slam his fist into that frozen, dead-white face. "Search the building," he barked, elbowing his double aside.

"'Ere, we can't have that in my--" The owner of the establishment was accorded the same treatment as Bodie bolted down the corridor. With a quick turn of the head, he scoped the room from one end to the other. The only reminder of Doyle's presence in this building was the meal forsaken at their table, uneaten. A guttural sound escaping him, Bodie ran outside, entertaining the faint hope that Doyle had decided on a breath of air before rejoining his companions. He wasn't there. Just as he was turning to reenter the pub, the other Bodie came out. "I searched the back; there's another exit. He's not there, but there were some scuff marks on the pavement."

"We haven't been here half an hour," Bodie said, his too contained voice giving away the effort required for him to leash his temper. There was blood in his eyes, and the man before him would easily serve his immediate need to strike out at someone. "You looked the place over."

The other was indifferent to the accusing tone, too worried about Doyle's fate to suffer concern for himself. "Of course. There wasn't anyone who should've recognized him. But someone did; probably the moment we walked in the door."

"Obviously." Bodie unthinkingly brushed a stray lock of soft brown hair away from his cheek. "Oh, Christ, Ray," he whispered. "Where do we start?"

---

He knew it would hurt if he opened his eyes. Pain was waiting for him, a shadowy, lurking presence just behind the tips of his eyelashes. To put off the moment, he tried to collect his thoughts, to recreate the instant that had brought him to this state. That's right: they had been in the pub, their meals delivered to the table--and he'd gone to use the loo. At least he'd been allowed to finish, zipped and snapped, and was in the act of turning round at the noise behind him, when he-she-it had struck. Trusting that other Bodie's judgment, Doyle had been lax in looking after himself. And here he was--wherever here was--flat on his back, bound at the wrists, and tethered, as well.

Aware that he could not put off the inevitable for long, Doyle edged his eyelids upward, simultaneously relieved to find that he was in relative darkness, yet worried that he had been out for so long that night might already have fallen. Incautiously rolling his eyes to one side, he flinched at the red heat that exploded at the base of his skull, surprised but grateful when it did not sever his tenuous link to consciousness. A wave of nausea followed, but he fought it, forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply until the spasm had passed.

Christ, but he seemed to be forming a bloody habit of this!

When next he ventured a look, the demon inside his head only throbbed threateningly, much to his consolation. Very carefully, and from a rather restricted point of view, he contrived to take in his surroundings. It was a small room, but not without merit; he had certainly been in worse--that flat in Soho, for instance.... The bed upon which he had been deposited was comfortable and the shades had been drawn--out of deference to his expected sensitivity to light?

He was alive. His assailant could certainly have dispatched him outright--but had not. Perhaps that indicated that there remained some time before a decision to do so was made.

Why the hell hadn't the other Bodie been prepared for this? Doyle hadn't even sampled his lunch--although on reflection, he'd probably be wearing it on his shirt front now, if he had.

Life was full of little kindnesses, Doyle decided blackly: He'd been allowed to finish his pee but not to start his meal before being coshed on the head. A bloke should be grateful for what he got. That philosophy was too good not to share with Bodie, who would certainly appreciate it. If he ever saw Bodie again.

Well, he had no one to blame but himself. He had wanted to know who killed the other Doyle, and it appeared that he would have the opportunity of finding out, first-hand. Just before he himself was disposed of, of course.

Niggling concerns. Do something constructive, you whinging bastard.

Gathering his strength, Doyle attempted to move. Several seconds later, after creeping back from the lightning-flayed abyss of unconsciousness, he tried again. He'd hurt like this before, he told himself, even if he had been younger then.

Refusing to give up, and ignoring the very real possibility that he was concussed, even if his skull was not split, Doyle drove himself to the edge time and again. His efforts were slowly rewarded as he gradually adjusted to his environment and the injury he had suffered.

Eyes compensating for the darkness, he was grateful to note that he had been left unguarded and behind a closed door. The lack of watchers was heartening for there was no one to view his pathetic struggles simply to regain control of his faculties, much less to free himself.

Before long he was writhing on the bed, attempting to determine the extent of his bonds. His wrists were braceleted together--probably with his own ruddy cuffs, too. His feet were also strapped together and, like his hands, lashed to something that did not easily yield. Undoubtedly the bed frame.

Despite being trussed top and bottom, Doyle was capable of a degree of movement. He could roll from one side to the other, although his strained shoulder muscles couldn't take the pressure for long. But at least the exercise kept the blood active in his limbs; were he given the opportunity to resist, it wouldn't be necessary to overcome numbness as well as a pounding headache.

No sooner had he settled in for a long wait, than there came a grating of metal against metal from the keyhole. Whipping his head about without due consideration, sharp pin-pricks of light swirled before his eyes--only to be washed away before a greater brightness that poured in through the doorway. Blinded, Doyle was denied even the satisfaction of seeing his captor. There was a quiet click--the door closing again?--and footsteps resounded lightly on the floorboards.

Like a goat tied to a stake, there was nothing he could do but await his captor's purpose.

---

They had been in and out of the car for hours, haunting the backstreets of London as the other Bodie hunted down his grasses, one by one. Doyle had been snatched between 12:35 and 12:45; it was now four o'clock.

"That's enough," Bodie said unequivocally. He shut the door and dragged the seatbelt across his shoulder once again. "We're wasting time."

"Haven't heard any suggestions from you," the other retorted. "Word'll filter down soo--"

"Not soon enough. It never did with your Doyle, remember?"

The man hunched behind the steering wheel locked his own belt into place. "I don't need reminding," he began acidly. "Especially by--"

"I want to go to HQ," Bodie said.

"He isn't there," the other growled. "That, I can assure you."

"About the only thing you can assure me is that you don't know where he is."

The other Bodie let out a sibilant breath; he was close to the breaking point and Bodie knew it. "I can't get you in," he replied practically. "You know what security's like."

"This from the man who nips round to the next universe when he wants to replace an old boyfriend," Bodie marvelled. "Find a way, and do it now. I want to see your Doyle's file, and I want access to the computer. You figure out how, bright lad."

Silence ensued, lasting no more than half a minute. Then the engine was started and the transmission brutally engaged. Bodie didn't even blink at the near miss they precipitated as they barrelled through a junction. He was already half-dead inside, waiting only to determine Ray's fate before giving up the other half, as well. By his reckoning, the man piloting their vehicle must be even further gone than he: after all, he had lost two Doyles--when Bodie was learning it was quite awful enough to lose one.

Refusing to consider Doyle's circumstances, Bodie fixed his mind on what he could and could not do. Regardless of how long it might take, he would not leave this blighted place until he knew Doyle's fate. Yet in a cold, cold corner of his mind, he damned Ray to hell and beyond for bringing them here, since that was easier than contemplating the yawning, bottomless hole that had opened up inside him.

They had not ridden far when the Capri was swung down a narrow alley and brought to a rocking halt outside a substantial door amidst piles of empty crates and paper refuse. The other Bodie faced his companion and thrust out his hand. "Give us your ID."

"Why?"

The pouting mouth curled into a caustic smile. "'M going to deface it."

Bodie resignedly handed the requested item over. Then he watched his double stride up to the door, rap peremptorily on it before a small viewing hatch slid open. Some unseen communication took place and the man was given entry. Bodie waited impatiently, controlling his restlessness by compiling a list in his head of what he would search for once they reached HQ.

Fewer than fifteen minutes had elapsed before the other Bodie reappeared. As he slid into the driver's seat, he pitched two flat objects at his companion.

Bodie snagged them mid-air. One was his CI5 ID, most of the pertinent information neatly excised; the other was a small card, laminated between two still-warm layers of clear plastic. It was a clearance pass, issued by Enfield Management, Ltd., which bore not only the finger-printed, documented material lifted from his ID card, but astoundingly, a picture of him as he now appeared, brown-eyed, bewigged, and bespectacled. "This is you," he said, out loud.

"Now it's you." The engine roared and they backed out of the alley at ruinous speed. "You'd better make it good when we get there, sunshine. We'll be a bit conspicuous."

"Why Andy Steele?" Bodie asked, his thumb-nail underlining the alias on the clearance pass.

"You've never used it?"

"Nope. Andy I can understand, but the Steele-- Oh. Mum's maiden name."

"Full marks. Surprised you never thought of it."

"Perhaps we don't go undercover as often in my world," Bodie mused, unthinkingly bracing himself as they hurtled through an amber light.

"Never used my own name until I joined CI5. Before that it was William Phillip most of the time," the other told him. "It was Cowley insisted I go by Bodie again."

"Why put it off so long?"

"Habit, I guess," his companion said indifferently. "Thought the old bastard might have put the hounds on me when I first ran away. Not that he'd've wanted to find me very badly; not after what I di