Day 35 - Fic: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Apologies to all for this being yet another offering that has nothing to do with my particular prompt. I had a lovely little ficlet all worked out before this monstrosity hijacked proceedings.
Anyway, Happy New Year, everyone. This fic is dedicated to the wonderful genre of pantomime. I didn't quite get the Dame in there, but you *can* imagine Ray in a blue gingham dress... if you really want to.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
or Don't let a crack writer within a hundred miles of your fandom. Part the Thousandth.
The car sped on through the inky black night, darker shadows of hedgerows and trees flashing past as Ray Doyle drove a little faster than the current conditions would recommend, trying, and failing, to outrun his demons.
Why had he done such an idiotic thing?
Good food, good wine, good company and a split second's insanity was apparently all it took to trash seven years of friendship.
Bodie would never speak to him again. That, of course, was assuming that the other man didn't take the more merciful option of a bullet to Ray's head instead.
His face, frozen with rage, appeared again in Ray's mind and he cringed anew at the stupidity of acting on an impulse he had successfully buried deep for all of those seven years. Reason had been swift to reassert itself, if rather too late and, faced with physical disapprobation from his closest friend, Ray did what any self-respecting coward would do: he ran.
He hadn't even paused to grab his jacket on the way out and it was more good luck than good judgement that his car keys had been in his jeans pocket. Then he had driven through the night, no thought to where he was going. Just away, away from the pain of a mistake years in the making.
Suburban sprawl had long ago given away to the winding lanes of the Kent countryside. The rain, more ice than snow, had been falling steadily for the entire journey and seemed to be settled in for the night. Hell, the way Ray felt at this moment, it seemed it would fall for the rest of his life.
He turned on the cassette player, hoping to fill his mind with something other than those black thoughts spiralling in his brain. Immediately a man started singing very loudly about blessing the rains down in Africa and Ray abruptly turned it off again, belatedly remembering that Bodie had bought the tape just last week. He must have left it in the car by accident.
Swearing profusely, he fumbled with the eject button, taking his attention off the road for a moment and throwing the tape on the passenger seat.
It was only a split second of inattention, but it was enough. As Ray looked up his car hit an icy patch in the road and started to slide. He immediately tried to regain control, steering into the skid, but it was too little, too late. The car left the road, crashing through the hedge with surprising force, bouncing Ray around like a pea in a tin can.
Hitting his head hard against the side of the car, his last thought was 'Christ, Bodie’s going to kill me' and Ray Doyle lost his fight with consciousness even before the car came to a stop.
* * * * *
The first thing that registered beyond the splitting headache was the brilliant sunshine of a beautiful new day. Ray groaned, at first not remembering where he was, and wondering exactly what alcohol Bodie had been feeding him the night before.
He opened his eyes, wincing as the sunlight abused his sensitive retinas and was momentarily confused as he finally realised that he was sitting at the wheel of his Capri.
Belatedly, memories of the evening before finally deigned to put in an appearance and Ray gave a heartfelt groan, burying his head in his hands. Quite apart from the fact Bodie was never going to speak to him again, Cowley was guaranteed to kill him for this, trashing the Capri and with no villains in sight as an excuse either.
He ran the usual series of internal checks, making sure of his injuries before attempting to move. To his surprise, he seemed to be mostly fine; cuts from the shattered window, bruises from where the seatbelt had cut into his shoulder and hip, and what seemed to be a relatively minor concussion. He had been very lucky.
Easing off the seatbelt, Ray opened the car door and gingerly got out, muscles protesting every movement. He turned back to the car to assess the damage. Aside from the shattered window and minor scratches to the side and to the front, the car seemed in good nick for something that had ploughed through a hedge and into a field. But it was well and truly stuck in the mud and Ray swore as he realised he was going to have to call in the cavalry.
He moved back towards the driver's door, and to reach for his R/T, before finally the scenery in front of him caught his attention. Ray was rather bewildered to see the usually beautiful English countryside so changed. It looked like a particularly tacky film set, except for the fact it was obviously real.
He glanced down at the discarded tape and shook his head.
"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kent any more…"
A brief check of the car and his person confirmed that the R/T was nowhere to be seen. And, more worryingly, neither was his gun and holster. Belatedly Ray realised he'd left them neatly stacked on top of his jacket, which was neatly placed on Bodie's kitchen table. In Bodie's flat about a million miles away from here.
At which point Ray meandering thoughts were rudely interrupted by what could only, very charitably, be called 'a selection of music from the Broadway Shows’. Sung by Chipmunks.
"Ding, dong, the Witch is dead…"
Ray had no idea what the singers meant until he checked the rear of the car, which was when he saw the legs terminating in a pair of sensible brogues poking from under the wheels.
Oh shit.
He instinctively recoiled from the brown stocking-clad appendages, their owner representing his first truly accidental kill since Coogan years before, and fell over something.
The something turned out to be Anson. Or at least a person who could be Anson if he was reduced in height by a good half.
Well it was often said that smoking stunted your growth.
The vertically-challenged Anson was accompanied by several more persons, not one of them over three feet tall.
"Ello, ello, ello, what's all this then?" said the little-Anson.
Ray was pretty sure that was probably the last thing he ever actually expected to hear, but he rallied himself manfully. "Accident," he stated succinctly.
Little-Anson peered at the legs improbably protruding from the rear of the car. "Pity really. Intentional would've been much more impressive. If you can just sign here, then you can be on your way." He waved a stack of paperwork at Ray’s face- well, chest actually, that being as far as he could reach.
Ray didn't move. "What happened? Where am I?"
Little-Anson sighed. "You don't even know that? Damn, I brought the wrong forms, then. Bloody tourists. I bet you don't even have an official Visa."
One of his companions at the back spoke up in a piping voice. "Can't do, Boss, Flossy ate the stamp last week."
"You'll need to see Control," remarked little-Anson, gloomily, obviously envisaging many more forms in his immediate future. He off-loaded the useless forms to a colleague and started rooting around in his pockets. "I'll have to arrest you, I suppose. Now where are my handcuffs?"
"On what grounds?" asked Ray, confused.
"No idea. How about driving without due care and attention?"
"Eh?"
"Well you couldn't have been paying that much attention if you don't even know where you are." He finally located what he was looking for and pulled a pair of impossibly small handcuffs out of an over-filled pocket. He cast a dubious look at both Ray and the cuffs. "Well, I suppose I could improvise."
"Constable! That will be all." The whip-cracked order came from behind him, and Ray spun round to see a rather oddly dressed Susan Fischer stood behind him.
"Susan," he breathed. "I am so glad to see you."
She glared at Ray imperiously. "I am the Good Witch of the North. And I have no idea of who you might be. Except the owner of the vehicle that has crushed the Wicked Witch of the East. For which, alone, I am therefore predisposed to aid you."
Good Witch... Well that explained the wand and sparkly frock. It didn't necessarily explain the fairy wings, but Ray was feeling charitable.
"Your best bet is to talk to the Wizard," she continued. "He'll sort you out with the necessary forms and waivers. But in the meantime, please accept my thanks on behalf of the Munchkins. Your fortuitous arrival has helped us out with a very long-standing problem."
The Good Witch paused for a second and then frowned. "You’d better take these," and she waved her magic wand. The sensible shoes, latterly adorning The Wicked Witch's feet, appeared in her hand and she gave them to Ray.
He took them with a bemused look. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
The Good Witch shrugged. "I'm sure you can come up with something”.
"And how do I find this Wizard?"
"I'm surprised he's not sent someone to meet you, there must be a rush on at the City. But don't worry, it's easy. Just follow the Rainbow Brick Road."
"And my car?"
"Impounded as evidence," piped up little-Anson looking happier about being able to arrest something.
"Right." Ray said, looking at said Rainbow Brick Road very dubiously. He felt a tug at his jacket and he looked round and then down. A Munchkin was stood by his side and Ray had to bend down to hear what the tiny man had to say.
"It was supposed to be yellow," whispered the Munchkin Ray had privately dubbed 'mini-Murphy'. "But we kept running out of bricks."
With no other option but to find the Wizard, Ray started to follow the Rainbow Brick Road and he soon left the gaggle of Munchkins behind. Not that the road was an easy one, the coloured bricks were all different sizes and he stumbled more than once.
The sun was hot overhead and Ray was soon weary. He tied the shoe’s laces together and hung them round his neck in order to keep his hands free as he walked along.
A few trees were scattered along the road, but they provided little shelter from the sun; instead their roots only hindered, pushing the bricks up and causing more trip hazards.
The road steadily climbed to a crest and, on reaching it, Ray was both pleased to see the city in the distance and disappointed to see that it was still a fair hike away. But the walk was nowhere near as onerous as those Macklin regularly enforced on both he and Bodie, and with only a short pause to enjoy the view he set off down into the valley below.
Only a few yards later the road disappeared into the edge of a meadow of sweet-smelling daisies. Or, at least, Ray thought that they must be daisies, even if they were bigger than any he had ever seen before. The road could be seen in the distance, curving its way down the valley and with a sigh Ray started across the field.
He found the way hard going. The flowers reached above his waist and the ground was rather muddy. The flowers gave off a peculiar strong smell and there was a bizarre low humming on the edge of hearing, almost as if the flowers were whispering to one another. The effect was soporific, rather like white noise on those tapes of ocean sounds one of his birds, Karen possibly, had been into.
Ray's progress across the meadow became slower and slower. The sun was warm on his back and it was a beautiful day. Surely five minutes contemplation on the existence of nature wouldn't hurt.
He sank to the ground and less than a minute later Ray was fast asleep.
* * * * *
"Oi! Lazybones! Wake up!"
The concerned voice finally intruded into Ray's consciousness and he instantly obeyed, opening his eyes and staring into a most welcome face.
"Bodie!"
But the man bending over him held no recognition in his eyes.
"You're not Bodie, are you?"
"I have no idea who this Bo-die you speak of is. Are you all right?"
"I think so." Ray looked around. He seemed to be lying in a grass meadow, away from the murmuring flowers. "What happened?"
"You fell asleep. That's dangerous around here. You never know who's going to stumble over you."
"Like you, you mean? Yeah. I just felt so sleepy all of a sudden. Couldn't keep my eyes open."
"That'd be the poppies." The man indicated back to the field of flowers Ray had tried to cross.
"Mate, they don't look like poppies. They definitely look like daisies to me."
"Not poppies, you dumb idiot. 'Poppies'. Surely you could hear them?"
"I could hear some kind of whispering, yes."
"Well, normally they play popular music, as voted by the listeners of 'Oz FM'. This place is usually hopping."
Doyle really couldn't see it. "What's happened then?"
"Inexplicably, they all voted for the Queen's Greatest Hits. That's thirty-odd years worth of Christmas and Opening of Parliament speeches being played right now."
"No wonder I felt like scoffing a mince pie." Ray took the man's proffered hand and was hauled upright. "I'm Ray Doyle."
The man nodded. "It's getting dark, we should seek shelter." And with that, he turned and strode off towards the woodland Ray had noticed previously.
Ray had to run a little to catch up with the quickly striding man. "And who are you, then?" he enquired, a little stung.
Not-Bodie stopped suddenly and fixed Ray with a piercing glare. He nodded once, apparently satisfied. "They call me The Tin Man."
Ray reached out and knocked a knuckle on The Tin Man's forehead. "Is that because you're made of tin?"
The Tin Man batted his hand away. "Don't be silly. I mine tin. That's why I'm known as The Tin Man."
"You mine tin? In a forest?"
"You go where the tin is."
Something in his tone called a halt to that conversation and with no further words, they wandered on into the woodland, which was taking on the proportions of a reasonably sized forest. It was dark and damp under the trees, and strange noises sounded in their branches.
The silence between the two men was beginning to become oppressive, but Ray was adamant he wasn't going to be the first to break it. And, finally his patience was rewarded.
"Why are you carrying a pair of ladies’ shoes?"
Doyle shrugged. "I was given them by Susan. I mean, 'the Good Witch of the North'. They're my reward for killing the Wicked Witch of the East. But they don't fit." This last bit was said rather mournfully.
"The Mather Woman is dead?" The Tin Man asked incredulously, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Well, yeah. But it was an accident. I hope she wasn't a friend of yours?"
"Hardly. But dead? I've spent years plotting my revenge on her. I should kill you for taking that away from me."
"Are you going to?"
The Tin Man looked at Ray speculatively and a shiver ran down Ray's spine. Bodie always scared him a little when in this sort of mood and this Bodie-a-like seemed to affect him just the same.
"How did it happen?"
"My car fell on her and crushed her."
"Was it painful?"
"I suspect so, yes. It was for me." The latter was added as an afterthought and was accompanied by the surreptitious rubbing of one of the more prominent affected areas. Belatedly Ray realised he had mud on his back from the meadow and had to wipe his hand discreetly on his jeans.
"Good. In that case I won't kill you. Though it’s just as well that you didn't kill her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West, at the same time, else you'd've robbed me of two vendettas. As it is, you've made an enemy, Raydoyle."
"I'd rather you kill me than hate me," Ray said, rather startled to realise that was true. Or, at least, true of the man The Tin Man so strongly resembled.
"Oh, I didn't mean myself. I suppose it wasn't your fault and you have saved me some effort. I meant the Mather Woman's sister. She will be out for your blood now, Raydoyle. We should be on the watch for her minions."
Now even more confused, Ray walked on in silence with his strange companion until they turned a corner in the somewhat winding path they had been following and Ray finally saw their destination, a beat-up, rundown shack of a cottage.
"Is that it?" he asked, rather disappointed.
"Yes. It's a bit small for two, but we'll make do tonight," The Tin Man said and pushed open the door.
Inside the cottage was dim, but seemed clean enough. Immediately as Ray stepped through the door, The Tin Man closed and barricaded the entrance before moving to do the same to the windows.
"If you would care to light the oil lamps - you'll see some matches on the mantelpiece."
As Ray set about organising illumination for the run down shack, The Tin Man started organising something to eat. Ray was unsurprised to note that both sausages and Swiss Roll featured heavily in the repast. Obviously some things never changed. Even in strange and unknown alternate universes.
It was chill and dank in the tiny abode so Ray lit a fire in the grate. When he stood up again, The Tin Man unceremoniously handed him a bag.
"For the shoes," he said in explanation.
"Thanks."
Then The Tin Man handed Ray a plate of food, which needed no explanation.
Finally fed, watered and at peace in the flickering light of the oil lamps and fire, Ray asked the question that had been burning in his mind for hours now.
"If I've met the Good Witch of the North, and killed the Wicked Witch of the East. And the Wicked Witch of the West is out to kill me, who's the Witch of the South and is she good or wicked?"
"Oh, Dorothy-Ann," said The Tin Man, dismissively. "No-one has seen hide-nor-hair of her since she ran off with The Scarecrow. The pair of them left Oz in such a state. Until The Cow took over, of course."
"The Cow?!" exclaimed Ray, rather confused. "What's he doing running Oz?"
"Well, as I say, he stepped in after the Scarecrow eloped with Dorothy-Ann. Everyone calls him The Cow. Well, not to his face, of course. And he's not a cow. He's a lion. The Cow is short for Cowardly. Except he's not that either. The old Wizard gave him back his Courage."
"I always thought he was more of a Scotch man," Ray muttered.
"You've met then?"
Ray shook his head, slightly disappointed. If it had been Cowley, well. He might have had some influence there.
The Tin Man mistook his look. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure you'll get to see him tomorrow. He might be a very busy lion, but you do have the fact you killed the Wicked Witch of the East on your side. He's been wanting rid of her for years. Plus," and here The Tin Man smiled broadly. "I do have one more bargaining chip."
Ray opened his mouth to ask what that was, but at that moment, a rustling noise could be heard outside.
"Damn," The Tin Man drawled, not looking in the least bit put out. "I think we've been discovered."
He stealthily crossed the room and peered out a corner of the window. "Yup, it's definitely the Wicked Witch's minions. I'm afraid they have us surrounded."
A scrabbling sound on the roof gave credence to The Tin Man's pronouncement.
"Can you shoot?"
"Of course," Doyle replied.
"Right, let's see how many of them we can take out." The Tin Man grabbed a couple of guns from a cupboard. He tossed one to Doyle who checked it over carefully.
"Hey, these are water pistols!"
"Of course," snapped The Tin Man. "You think we'd use bullets here?"
"But what good is water going to do?"
"Nothing. This, on the other hand…" and The Tin Man drew a couple of bottles of scotch out of the same cupboard. "I'd been saving these for a rainy day. Ah well." And he tossed one to Doyle. "Fill up the pistol and if anything moves, you shoot."
That, at least was easy enough. Ray found that a partnership with The Tin Man was just as well-oiled and slick as his was- had been- with Bodie. But he had no time to mourn the past as he shot at the shadowy figures that circled the small dwelling, each direct hit earning him a high pitched scream.
But there were too many and the duo soon found themselves out of whisky and still hopelessly outnumbered.
"What are we going to do now? Surrender?"
"Nope. Leg it."
"Leg it?"
"There's a secret exit back here," and, only stopping to collect the bag of shoes, The Tin Man quickly led Doyle into the dark depths of the cottage, before unlocking an old and very stiff wooden door. The hinges protested loudly as he pushed it open.
"I've never heard of talking hinges before, that's bound to get their attention." Doyle grumbled.
"So we run fast."
And they did. But it was in vain, the Wicked Witch's minions soon closed in.
"Hey, they can fly!" Doyle shouted, narrowly avoiding tripping over a tree root.
"Of course they can!" shouted The Tin Man, "Run faster."
Doyle tried to do so, but the minions soon surrounded them, and he could only stare in horror as two grabbed at The Tin Man, lifting him off the ground. But he had no time to protest as he was also grabbed from behind and carried high into the sky.
* * * * *
It wasn't the pleasantest flight Doyle had ever had and, for all he had been captured and somehow bound in rope, he was very glad when both he and The Tin Man were deposited on a flagstone floor. A dark and forbidding castle rose in front of him, high in the mountains, far away from the forest and the Rainbow Brick Road.
Ray also got his first good look at the minions. To a man they were three-foot high, dressed in blue hospital scrubs and bore leathery blue wings. None of them looked very happy.
As one, they all knelt, heads to the floor. Ray briefly wondered why, but that curiosity was quickly answered when through the big wood-and-steel door a woman appeared.
"Ah, well done, my minions," she said in a rather husky voice. "You bring me the criminals. Though I see they have reduced your number in fighting. Such juvenile behaviour. But a few months of therapy will soon make them grow up a bit."
Ray groaned. Obviously the Wicked Witch of the West had as high opinion of him as did her counterpart in the real world, Doctor Kate Ross.
The Witch ignored him totally. "Now, my minions. Take that one," and here she indicated to The Tin Man, "down to the deepest dungeon. He and I have a lot to discuss. But for now I shall start with the other."
She clapped her hands and the minions jumped to her bidding, dragging The Tin Man away and Doyle suddenly felt very lonely.
The Witch grabbed Doyle and pulled him through the massive door, through a large, echoey hall and into an equally echoey, and draughty, stone chamber. Here she deposited Doyle in the middle of the bare stone floor while she took her place in a chair that seemed to be a cross between a throne and a particularly chintzy armchair.
She poured herself a glass of wine and looked Ray over.
"Normally, when I capture a Munchkin, I train him into a medical student. But you, you're no Munchkin and I'm not sure I care for that." The witch smiled suddenly. "Have you ever considered a career as a rent boy?"
Doyle swallowed, nervously. Cowley had sent him on such an assignment a couple of times in his somewhat chequered career. He hadn't enjoyed it much, even if he'd learned several tricks he wouldn't have done otherwise.
"Of course, you'd have to be trained up. It'd take months. And I don't have that much free time. But perhaps," and here her eyes raked his form appreciatively, "I could make room for you in my appointments diary." She took another sip of the wine. "But first things first, I believe you have something of mine. I want it back."
Ray stared back at the Wicked Witch, completely nonplussed.
She rolled her eyes and pointed to the bag. "The shoes, man. The shoes."
"Oh, they're mine. I was given them."
"By whom? Who had the right to give you those shoes? My dearest sister is dead and therefore those shoes are mine!"
Ray really couldn't fault her logic there, but there was something she was definitely missing…
"If I may interject here, Ma'am," he started, "but I believe there's something you're missing," and to illustrate his point, Ray started to struggle in his rope bondage.
He had to credit the woman, he supposed. She caught on very quickly. On the other hand, she obviously enjoyed her work for she allowed Ray to continue in his struggles for a good ten minutes before clasping a hand to her head.
"Oh!" she exclaimed in patently false concern. "You can't hand them over because you're all tied up. How remiss of me!" The witch clicked her fingers twice and the ropes instantly fell away. "Now," she continued and a more brusque tone. "Hand them over."
Ray untied the bag from his neck and proffered it nervously to the Wicked Witch who snatched the bag out of his hands with a triumphant smile.
"At last! Oz will be mine! Mine I say!!!" and, with an evil cackle, she reached into the bag to pull out her prize.
To Ray's surprise, however, her expression quickly changed to one of anger. "What kind of trickery is this?!" she cried and hurled the bag and the contents into the air.
At that exact point the door to the chamber was flung open and The Tin Man barrelled through. "Catch the bag, Raydoyle!" he cried, "don't let it fall!" and with that he pulled the water pistol out of his waistband and fired it with unerring accuracy at the witch. A stream of brown liquid hit her straight in the face.
"Fuck, that stings!" she yelled and then began to scream as she realised exactly what the liquid was. "I'm melting! I'm meeeelting!"
And indeed she was. The skin on her face bubbled and cracked and she turned in on herself, twisting and shrinking until only her robes and a suspicious-looking puddle was left on the chamber floor.
Ray, in the meantime, had caught the bag easily. He now set it carefully on the floor and joined The Tin Man who was kneeling next to the puddle, prodding at the scotch-soaked material with the business end of the pistol.
"Is she dead?" he enquired.
"Yes," responded The Tin Man with satisfaction and flashed Ray with a smile so sweet that Ray all but melted under the other man's gaze.
"How on earth did you manage to get out of the dungeon?"
"Well, the minions had decided they were going to practice their surgery module on me, which helped."
"How so?"
"Being medical students, of course they had to have a wild party beforehand. So I waited until the party was in full swing, untied myself and picked the locks on the cell door. Then I found the witch's cellar to load up with some ammo and came to find you. Easy."
Ray nodded to himself. Yes, it did seem that easy. "So what now?"
The Tin Man started to speak, but didn't get a chance as the late Witch's minions at that moment crashed into the room. Ray immediately snatched up the bag, holding it to his chest as they trapped the two men in a rapidly diminishing, and loudly chattering, circle.
Ray was rather worried about this; surely now the Witch's ex-minions would take them apart in revenge and, while The Tin Man now had ammunition, Ray had accidentally dropped his water pistol when they had been captured.
But he was to be surprised again. There was some debate amongst the minions, they were obviously trying to choose a spokesperson and Doyle could definitely see some block-voting going on at the back. Finally one of the minions stepped forward.
"You've killed the Wicked Witch of the West, yes?" he said in a piping voice.
Ray nodded, warily.
"Oh, thank you so much!" the ex-minion cried, falling to his knees. Ray and The Tin Man were forced to bend even further over to look the man in the eyes. "We are forever in your debt. She was evil and cruel, never let us stay up late and rarely let us conduct our own clinical trials. If there is anything we can do for you, please let us know."
"Well, there is one thing," The Tin Man said, obviously recovering more quickly from the surprise than Ray. We could do with some transport down to the Emerald City."
* * * * *
The journey back from the Wicked Witch's castle was a lot more comfortable than the trip there. The medical students rigged up slings for the two of them and Ray spent a pleasant hour watching the miles disappear behind them.
All too soon the towering turrets of the City rose in the East and even Ray, who never had much of an eye for architecture, was impressed.
They landed in a small clearing just outside the main gates and The Tin Man, in his customary terse manner, commanded the medical students to deliver their luggage to a nearby hotel.
Ray still didn't know what was in the crates The Tin Man had insisted they should bring from the castle and he resigned himself to not being enlightened in the near future as without a word The Tin Man lead him through the Emerald Gates and into the Emerald City itself.
The Tin Man obviously knew his way around as he didn't need to ask directions from anyone, but instead strode steadily through the labyrinthine streets. Not that there were many people about, in fact Ray had seen more life in a Welsh village on a wet Sunday in February. But as they strode through the silent city he could sense they were being watched from behind shuttered windows. It was a most disconcerting feeling.
But The Tin Man would not pause to answer any of Ray's tentatively asked questions so he just tightened his hold on the shoe bag and hoped that he would not have cause to regret not having his own gun with him.
In the event nothing happened and they soon reached the centre of the city and the grand Emerald Palace itself. It was a prepossessing sight, sparkling verdantly in the sunlight. Ray was wondering how they would get past the multitude guards that obviously defended the building, but The Tin Man had no such qualms, leading Ray up to the great doors themselves before turning and starting down a path that led round the side of the palace.
"Back entrance?" he enquired of his taciturn companion.
The Tin Man shook his head. "Offices. The Cow doesn't like the Palace, he says it's too ostentatious."
"He's not wrong there," Ray agreed.
The Tin Man ignored that comment and led Ray into a drab sixties concrete office block, as utilitarian as the palace had been ornamental.
He stopped at the front desk and perched on the corner, greeting the somewhat familiar-looking woman with a wink and a leer.
"Hullo, Betty. Is the Old Man in?"
Betty sniffed. "To you? What do you think?"
"Ah, but I think he might be more inclined to see me now, I've brought a friend with me."
Betty gave Ray a good, hard stare, then shrugged, effectively dismissing him as unimportant. "He's in with the First Minister at the moment and has given strict instructions not to be disturbed."
The Tin Man's expression darkened for a moment as if he wasn't used to being dismissed so easily. Then he smiled, deliberately banishing the thickening sense of menace.
"Ah well," he said lightly. "I'm sure he'll be asking for me before long. When The Cow bellows tell him I'm in the usual place." And with that he removed himself from the desk deliberately slowly and dragged Ray towards the door. ''Come on, Raydoyle," he said cheerfully, “I don't know about you but I could murder a pint."
As Ray was quickly hustled out of the building, he briefly turned back to see Betty reaching for the telephone with a thunderstruck expression on her face.
The Tin Man dragged Ray down even more twisty and turny streets before reaching a rather plush hotel and obtained a room key from the receptionist. Ray was rather surprised when the receptionist was an uncommon four-feet high, until he realised she was wearing very high heels.
His was surprised again when The Tin Man unlocked the door to a rather plush suite and ushered Ray in to the room.
"How ever are we going to afford this?!" he asked.
The Tin Man gave a grin. "Ill-gotten gains from the Wicked Witch's castle. That's what I asked her minions to carry over here. Scotch is as good as currency round here. Even more so while she was keeping a very tight rein on the supply." He cracked open one the crates left scattered around the sitting room and held up a couple of bottles. "Fancy a shopping spree?" He handed one over to Ray, unscrewed the cap from the second and took a deep pull of the pungent liquid. "Ah, well, we've got about an hour, I reckon. I'm sure we can make good inroads to at least one of these each."
"An hour?" Ray asked.
"By my estimation. That's how long it'll take The Cow to find us." The Tin Man threw himself into one of the plush armchairs to one side of the large crackling fire.
"But an hour?"
The Tin Man flashed Ray a cheeky smile. "This isn't my usual place."
"You don't say." Ray sat in the other armchair. "One thing is still bothering me," he started, taking his own slug of scotch, and coughing slightly. "Good stuff this."
"Only one thing?" The Tin Man murmured.
Ray shot the other man a glare. "What upset the Witch so much when she checked the bag? Were the shoes the wrong size or something?"
"Ah," The Tin Man nodded. "Not quite. Have a look."
Ray opened the bag, vaguely impressed with himself that he'd kept hold of it so long, and reached in, pulling out not a pair of sensible brown shoes but, instead, a pair of crystal scotch glasses. "That's not a pair of shoes," he finally commented, looking at them from all sides, enjoying the play of firelight on the cut glass.
"Oh, but they are. Just a spot of transfiguration. Here, we may as well do this properly." And The Tin Man poured a healthy slug of scotch in to each glass, taking one for himself. "Cheers."
They clinked glasses and each man drunk deep.
"That's better," commented Ray before thinking deeply. "We didn't get much of a heroes welcome at the Palace, did we?"
"Ah, I believe that's my fault, I'm afraid. I rather disappointed the Old Man. Or, at least, that's what he thinks."
"What happened?"
"Well, it was the Wicked Witch of the West's fault. She knew that I'd got close to some shady dealings that she and her sister were involved in. Scotch smuggling and the like. She was an advisor to The Cow, so she started feeding him false reports. Telling him that I was going off the rails, losing my nerve. How he should replace me. Rather than face the sack I, er, went off on my own. And I've been hunting the two ever since."
"You ran away?"
"No! Well, not quite. But the Old Man didn't see it that way. Still doesn't. Well, obviously not now. Now both women are dead. Thanks to you."
"And thanks to you, too."
"Yeah. We make a good team." The Tin Man stared into the fire, pausing in thought. "Have you considered…?"
"Have I considered what?"
"Nah, it doesn't matter. You'll be wanting to get home now. It's not fair on you."
Ray leant forward in his chair and put his hand on The Tin Man's knee. "No, go on?"
"Well, have you considered staying? We do make a good team. We could carry on making a good team. Stay here? With me?"
The shadows were lengthening in the room as the sun went down and Ray couldn't really see the expression on The Tin Man's face. So he got out of his chair and knelt next to the other man, looking up in to his face, taking in the shuttered expression inches above his own.
"I'll consider it," Ray finally said.
"You mean that?" The Tin Man gave an irrepressible smile and Ray matched it with one of his own.
"Yeah, I'll stay."
Ray couldn't say for certain which man moved first or whether they moved as one accord, but his lips touched The Tin Man's and time seemed to stand still in the gathering dusk.
A knock at the door some indeterminate time later caused the two men to break apart, reluctantly.
With a wry smile, The Tin Man looked at his watch. "Half an hour. Looks like I rather underestimated The Cow," he took in Ray's somewhat dishevelled appearance and his eyes gleamed. "We'll get rid of him quickly and then get back to our, er, in depth discussion."
"Very in depth, if I recall," Ray agreed and set about making himself look presentable as The Tin Man switched on the overhead lights and went to open the door.
Bit it wasn't the ruler of Oz and nor was it a summons to the Palace. Instead the man at the door was the carefully selected spokesminion of the ex-Wicked Witch of the West's ex-minions.
Bowing and scraping, he addressed the two men. "My Lords and Masters, how is it you wish for us to serve you now?"
Ray looked at The Tin Man in amusement. "Do we actually have use for a bunch of low-paid minions?"
The Tin Man, rather gratifyingly, caught Ray's intention at once. "Not even for flying minions, sorry."
"Then it would probably be best if we freed you. Then you could go back to your friends and family and live out your lives in peace."
Bewilderingly, the spokesminion didn't look very happy at this news. In fact he looked rather upset. "But what should I do for a living? I've been a medical student for so long, I'm not sure I'm even employable now! And without employment, I shall not be able to support my family and we shall starve. And that is true for all my colleagues at the Castle. It would be a disaster!"
"Oh," Ray looked to The Tin Man for guidance, but the other man stood back and folded his arms, obviously willing to let Ray take the lead in this. Then inspiration struck.
"What about the castle?"
The Tin Man looked blank for a moment, then grinned broadly. "The Cow won't like it. But he would definitely prefer to see that the ex-minions of the ex-Witch gainfully employed, rather than cluttering up the city and causing trouble."
"Well, that's it then." Ray turned to the spokesminion who had looked upon the previous conversation in complete confusion. "The castle is yours and your colleagues to set up a medical school for the benefit of Oz."
"But," The Tin Man interjected, obviously enjoying himself now, "A most important question. What are we going to call it?"
Ray thought for a moment. "Well, in their scrubs and with their short stature the ex-minions look rather like imps don't they? And with those big wings, they can fly. They're aerial. And we want it to be a bit better than a boring old school. So how about "Imp Aerial College Medical School"?"
"That's a terrible name," retorted The Tin Man. "Pity they're not baronets, then we could call it 'Barts'. But they’re all men. How about 'Guys'?"
But the spokesminion clapped his hands in excitement. "Imp Aerial. It's perfect! I must go and tell the others. Excuse me," and with quickly ran out of the hotel room, muttering something about 'Rag Week'. Just as the door started to swing shut on him, he poked his head back into the room. "Oh, and thanks!" he said, and closed the door behind him.
"Where were we?" muttered The Tin Man after making sure they were once again alone.
Ray moved in close, holding the other man's head in his hands. "About here," he muttered, bringing his mouth down on to soft lips.
At which point there was another knock at the door.
"What do you want?" barked The Tin Man as he threw open the door, justifiably rather angry and frustrated. "Oh, it's you, sir," he continued in only a slightly kinder tone as he took in the man stood at the door.
The incumbent ruler of Oz, for it was he, nodded an abrupt greeting to The Tin Man before entering the room and commandeering the most comfortable armchair.
Ray was very unsurprised that the man bore some resemblance to his real-world namesake, even if his hair was a little longer and a little more ginger than he was used to. The large beard, also, did not compliment the man's looks, in Ray's not-so-humble opinion.
"I see your temper hasn't improved, William," The Cow commented in lieu of a greeting.
"I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes."
"You underestimate me, as always. I’ve always considered it one of your less endearing traits. Had you considered the possibility of talking to me before flouncing off? We might have got this mess sorted out more quickly if you had."
"But, sir…" The Tin Man started.
"In the event," The Cow continued as if there had been no interruption, "it seemed to go all right. Even if a lot of it relied on chance. I shall see you first thing on Monday morning, eight a.m. sharp, do you hear?"
"But, sir, the Wicked Witch…"
"Was feeding me false information about half the Palace Guard. I'd known for months. And you'd've known too if you'd confided in me rather than going off half-cocked."
"Why?"
"Why else but to deprive me of my best men while she snuck in and removed the last remaining whisky repository in the land. Or the second to last," The Cow added, looking around the room and taking in the number of crates stacked in the corner.
The Tin Man followed his gaze. "We were merely storing it until we could hand it over the appropriate authorities. Although I did promise Karl downstairs half a case for the rooms."
"Och, your expense claims always are extravagant. I should let you suffer. But," The Cow mellowed as The Tin Man ostentatiously poured him a scotch from the bottle already opened into a glass Ray had appropriated from the bathroom, and handed it to him. "Perhaps this time I can afford to be generous. You did well, laddie."
Ray was handed his glass refilled and joined in the toast to 'Whisky Galore' in the time-honoured way, chinking his glass against The Tin Man's glass and drinking deep.
"Now then, Mr. Doyle," The Cow said, sitting back in the armchair, looking very much like the cat that has got the cream, "you led us a merry dance when you vanished yesterday. Not that it was your fault, exactly. One of my men was supposed to collect you and bring you to the Palace directly, except he was temporarily detained and you had to make do with William here. I would like to formally thank you for your part in this business."
"Hear, hear," chimed in The Tin Man.
"First of all, where are the, er, objects you took from the Wicked Witch of the East?"
Ray shrugged. "Here," he indicated to the two glasses he and The Tin Man still held.
"William's idea, no doubt," The Cow sniffed. "In that case all you have to do is clink them together three times and you'll be back home in no time."
Ray and The Tin Man shared a look of intense horror and moved as one to put their glasses on the table.
"Well, actually..." Ray started to say.
But the two men's near-telepathy failed them that one time and as their glasses hit the table they rattled together a third, and last, time.
"Oh, bugger!" was the last thing Ray heard before the darkness claimed him again.
* * * * *
Consciousness this time came in the form of white walls and dim lighting instead of riotous colours and brilliant sunlight.
The headache, unfortunately, was still very much in evidence.
Such subconscious details such as the smell of vomit-tinged bleach and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes all added up to one world and in consequence Ray didn't even bother to move. "Did anyone get the number of the truck?" he mumbled to no one in particular.
"I believe our investigation concluded there was no truck, 4.5." The dry voice of George Cowley was as inevitable as it was unwelcome.
Ray closed his eyes and violently wished himself back in Oz.
It didn't work.
An elbow nudged his side, gently. "Oi, sunshine. Don't fall asleep on us now."
Just his luck. Bodie as well. Ray didn't react. He'd become adept at that over the years. He tried the wishing thing again, throwing in a wish for the Vendée instead, if Oz wasn't a goer.
"Ray," Bodie warned.
Ray groaned. It was still no good. He opened his eyes. "I had a dream. And you were in it, and you…"
"Enough of your jokes, 4.5. Bodie has given me his report. I'll expect yours once the doctors have had a look at you."
A nurse was summoned and did the necessaries, leaving almost immediately to organise the presence of a doctor. Cowley followed her out with a curt "See you later," to both the men.
Silence reigned for several minutes before Ray gave in.
"How long was I out?"
"A little over two days. Old George was starting to climb walls. Not seen him so worried since he fumbled that bottle of scotch a couple of years ago."
"Huh. My head hurts."
"That'd be the concussion, sunshine."
"How am I?"
"Isn't that what I should be asking you? Nothing permanent. Cuts and bruises. Cracked ribs. The concussion, of course. Oh, and a broken wrist."
"Didn't notice that." Ray looked down at the offending article, all neatly wrapped up in a plaster cast. Of course, now he'd noticed, he realised that it also hurt.
"Clean break, nothing to worry about. You'll still be able to aim and shoot."
"Guns?"
"That as well."
"Two days? That's a hellish long time for a bit of a headache."
Bodie nodded. "The quacks were worried. They couldn't find much wrong. Well, that was obvious. There's not enough of a brain in that thick skull of yours to be that damaged. They even had a look at your brainwave."
"Did it?"
"Stuck its tongue out as well, filthy bugger. Can't believe you live with something as uncouth as that."
"I'm rather attached to it, actually."
"Huh. Anyway, I think they were finally convinced that you weren't waking up because you couldn't be arsed."
"Sounds reasonable."
"Or running scared," Bodie remarked, his tone becoming serious. "Do you remember what happened?"
"I remember enough to be surprised that you're here."
"Where else would I be, eh?"
Running scared, Ray thought, uncharitably. He shrugged instead. "I'm sorry."
"So you should be. Nearly gave me a heart attack, you did."
"Won't do it again."
"Better not. Not sure I could survive such a shock a second time."
Ray closed his eyes. So close to normality and yet so far. Death would've been preferable. But soft skin touched his lips, shocking in its unexpectedness. Ray opened his eyes to find Bodie's face still hovering close.
"What you do that for?" Ray's tone was possibly more acid than he meant it to be.
"Didn't get chance to do that before, did I?"
So they were going to talk about it. That had novelty value, at least. "Well, I know where I'm not wanted."
"Didn't say that."
"You stood there like a prize lemon. A half-second more and you'd've flattened me. Give me some credit for self-preservation at least."
"You surprised me. You kissed me."
"And I notice you didn't kiss me back."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Bit late for that, eh?"
"First chance I got. Was in shock before."
"So that's what they're calling it nowadays."
"It's not every day that your deepest fantasy comes true, you know."
"Deepest fantasy?"
Bodie just shrugged, but took Ray's hand between his own, tracing the veins with one fingertip.
"Huh." Ray settled back, only a faint smile on his face betraying the heady rush of delight running though him.
Bodie squeezed his fingers, but didn't say a word.
"What did you tell The Cow?"
"You'd rushed off to see a snout."
"And he believed you?"
"All he could do in the circs."
"You told him that I'd gone rushing off without my gun or R/T to look up an informant? In deepest, darkest Kent? At two o'clock in the morning?"
"Best I could do. In the circs." The tone of voice told Ray everything he needed to know.
"You found me."
Bodie nodded. "I'd followed you out of London. Had just about managed to catch you up when you skidded off the road."
"Oh."
"Then the quacks said you weren't responding. Thought you might've found somewhere I couldn't follow."
"Nah. Locals were a bit weird. Okay to visit, but not to stay."
"Glad to hear that you're still making absolutely no sense."
"Why ruin the habit of a lifetime, eh?" But Ray squeezed Bodie's hand back, as much as he was able.
"Glad you came back to me, Ray."
Ray smiled. "Well, you know what they say. There's no place like home."
The End
TITLE: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
AUTHOR: Andromeda
Slash or Gen: Bodie/Doyle, Doyle/"other"
ARCHIVE: at Proslib/Circuit - yes, please.
DISCLAIMER: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For the Discovered Whilst A-Carolling Challenge. With thanks to my beta, cuvalwen. With apologies to the rest of you.
Anyway, Happy New Year, everyone. This fic is dedicated to the wonderful genre of pantomime. I didn't quite get the Dame in there, but you *can* imagine Ray in a blue gingham dress... if you really want to.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
or Don't let a crack writer within a hundred miles of your fandom. Part the Thousandth.
The car sped on through the inky black night, darker shadows of hedgerows and trees flashing past as Ray Doyle drove a little faster than the current conditions would recommend, trying, and failing, to outrun his demons.
Why had he done such an idiotic thing?
Good food, good wine, good company and a split second's insanity was apparently all it took to trash seven years of friendship.
Bodie would never speak to him again. That, of course, was assuming that the other man didn't take the more merciful option of a bullet to Ray's head instead.
His face, frozen with rage, appeared again in Ray's mind and he cringed anew at the stupidity of acting on an impulse he had successfully buried deep for all of those seven years. Reason had been swift to reassert itself, if rather too late and, faced with physical disapprobation from his closest friend, Ray did what any self-respecting coward would do: he ran.
He hadn't even paused to grab his jacket on the way out and it was more good luck than good judgement that his car keys had been in his jeans pocket. Then he had driven through the night, no thought to where he was going. Just away, away from the pain of a mistake years in the making.
Suburban sprawl had long ago given away to the winding lanes of the Kent countryside. The rain, more ice than snow, had been falling steadily for the entire journey and seemed to be settled in for the night. Hell, the way Ray felt at this moment, it seemed it would fall for the rest of his life.
He turned on the cassette player, hoping to fill his mind with something other than those black thoughts spiralling in his brain. Immediately a man started singing very loudly about blessing the rains down in Africa and Ray abruptly turned it off again, belatedly remembering that Bodie had bought the tape just last week. He must have left it in the car by accident.
Swearing profusely, he fumbled with the eject button, taking his attention off the road for a moment and throwing the tape on the passenger seat.
It was only a split second of inattention, but it was enough. As Ray looked up his car hit an icy patch in the road and started to slide. He immediately tried to regain control, steering into the skid, but it was too little, too late. The car left the road, crashing through the hedge with surprising force, bouncing Ray around like a pea in a tin can.
Hitting his head hard against the side of the car, his last thought was 'Christ, Bodie’s going to kill me' and Ray Doyle lost his fight with consciousness even before the car came to a stop.
* * * * *
The first thing that registered beyond the splitting headache was the brilliant sunshine of a beautiful new day. Ray groaned, at first not remembering where he was, and wondering exactly what alcohol Bodie had been feeding him the night before.
He opened his eyes, wincing as the sunlight abused his sensitive retinas and was momentarily confused as he finally realised that he was sitting at the wheel of his Capri.
Belatedly, memories of the evening before finally deigned to put in an appearance and Ray gave a heartfelt groan, burying his head in his hands. Quite apart from the fact Bodie was never going to speak to him again, Cowley was guaranteed to kill him for this, trashing the Capri and with no villains in sight as an excuse either.
He ran the usual series of internal checks, making sure of his injuries before attempting to move. To his surprise, he seemed to be mostly fine; cuts from the shattered window, bruises from where the seatbelt had cut into his shoulder and hip, and what seemed to be a relatively minor concussion. He had been very lucky.
Easing off the seatbelt, Ray opened the car door and gingerly got out, muscles protesting every movement. He turned back to the car to assess the damage. Aside from the shattered window and minor scratches to the side and to the front, the car seemed in good nick for something that had ploughed through a hedge and into a field. But it was well and truly stuck in the mud and Ray swore as he realised he was going to have to call in the cavalry.
He moved back towards the driver's door, and to reach for his R/T, before finally the scenery in front of him caught his attention. Ray was rather bewildered to see the usually beautiful English countryside so changed. It looked like a particularly tacky film set, except for the fact it was obviously real.
He glanced down at the discarded tape and shook his head.
"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kent any more…"
A brief check of the car and his person confirmed that the R/T was nowhere to be seen. And, more worryingly, neither was his gun and holster. Belatedly Ray realised he'd left them neatly stacked on top of his jacket, which was neatly placed on Bodie's kitchen table. In Bodie's flat about a million miles away from here.
At which point Ray meandering thoughts were rudely interrupted by what could only, very charitably, be called 'a selection of music from the Broadway Shows’. Sung by Chipmunks.
"Ding, dong, the Witch is dead…"
Ray had no idea what the singers meant until he checked the rear of the car, which was when he saw the legs terminating in a pair of sensible brogues poking from under the wheels.
Oh shit.
He instinctively recoiled from the brown stocking-clad appendages, their owner representing his first truly accidental kill since Coogan years before, and fell over something.
The something turned out to be Anson. Or at least a person who could be Anson if he was reduced in height by a good half.
Well it was often said that smoking stunted your growth.
The vertically-challenged Anson was accompanied by several more persons, not one of them over three feet tall.
"Ello, ello, ello, what's all this then?" said the little-Anson.
Ray was pretty sure that was probably the last thing he ever actually expected to hear, but he rallied himself manfully. "Accident," he stated succinctly.
Little-Anson peered at the legs improbably protruding from the rear of the car. "Pity really. Intentional would've been much more impressive. If you can just sign here, then you can be on your way." He waved a stack of paperwork at Ray’s face- well, chest actually, that being as far as he could reach.
Ray didn't move. "What happened? Where am I?"
Little-Anson sighed. "You don't even know that? Damn, I brought the wrong forms, then. Bloody tourists. I bet you don't even have an official Visa."
One of his companions at the back spoke up in a piping voice. "Can't do, Boss, Flossy ate the stamp last week."
"You'll need to see Control," remarked little-Anson, gloomily, obviously envisaging many more forms in his immediate future. He off-loaded the useless forms to a colleague and started rooting around in his pockets. "I'll have to arrest you, I suppose. Now where are my handcuffs?"
"On what grounds?" asked Ray, confused.
"No idea. How about driving without due care and attention?"
"Eh?"
"Well you couldn't have been paying that much attention if you don't even know where you are." He finally located what he was looking for and pulled a pair of impossibly small handcuffs out of an over-filled pocket. He cast a dubious look at both Ray and the cuffs. "Well, I suppose I could improvise."
"Constable! That will be all." The whip-cracked order came from behind him, and Ray spun round to see a rather oddly dressed Susan Fischer stood behind him.
"Susan," he breathed. "I am so glad to see you."
She glared at Ray imperiously. "I am the Good Witch of the North. And I have no idea of who you might be. Except the owner of the vehicle that has crushed the Wicked Witch of the East. For which, alone, I am therefore predisposed to aid you."
Good Witch... Well that explained the wand and sparkly frock. It didn't necessarily explain the fairy wings, but Ray was feeling charitable.
"Your best bet is to talk to the Wizard," she continued. "He'll sort you out with the necessary forms and waivers. But in the meantime, please accept my thanks on behalf of the Munchkins. Your fortuitous arrival has helped us out with a very long-standing problem."
The Good Witch paused for a second and then frowned. "You’d better take these," and she waved her magic wand. The sensible shoes, latterly adorning The Wicked Witch's feet, appeared in her hand and she gave them to Ray.
He took them with a bemused look. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
The Good Witch shrugged. "I'm sure you can come up with something”.
"And how do I find this Wizard?"
"I'm surprised he's not sent someone to meet you, there must be a rush on at the City. But don't worry, it's easy. Just follow the Rainbow Brick Road."
"And my car?"
"Impounded as evidence," piped up little-Anson looking happier about being able to arrest something.
"Right." Ray said, looking at said Rainbow Brick Road very dubiously. He felt a tug at his jacket and he looked round and then down. A Munchkin was stood by his side and Ray had to bend down to hear what the tiny man had to say.
"It was supposed to be yellow," whispered the Munchkin Ray had privately dubbed 'mini-Murphy'. "But we kept running out of bricks."
With no other option but to find the Wizard, Ray started to follow the Rainbow Brick Road and he soon left the gaggle of Munchkins behind. Not that the road was an easy one, the coloured bricks were all different sizes and he stumbled more than once.
The sun was hot overhead and Ray was soon weary. He tied the shoe’s laces together and hung them round his neck in order to keep his hands free as he walked along.
A few trees were scattered along the road, but they provided little shelter from the sun; instead their roots only hindered, pushing the bricks up and causing more trip hazards.
The road steadily climbed to a crest and, on reaching it, Ray was both pleased to see the city in the distance and disappointed to see that it was still a fair hike away. But the walk was nowhere near as onerous as those Macklin regularly enforced on both he and Bodie, and with only a short pause to enjoy the view he set off down into the valley below.
Only a few yards later the road disappeared into the edge of a meadow of sweet-smelling daisies. Or, at least, Ray thought that they must be daisies, even if they were bigger than any he had ever seen before. The road could be seen in the distance, curving its way down the valley and with a sigh Ray started across the field.
He found the way hard going. The flowers reached above his waist and the ground was rather muddy. The flowers gave off a peculiar strong smell and there was a bizarre low humming on the edge of hearing, almost as if the flowers were whispering to one another. The effect was soporific, rather like white noise on those tapes of ocean sounds one of his birds, Karen possibly, had been into.
Ray's progress across the meadow became slower and slower. The sun was warm on his back and it was a beautiful day. Surely five minutes contemplation on the existence of nature wouldn't hurt.
He sank to the ground and less than a minute later Ray was fast asleep.
* * * * *
"Oi! Lazybones! Wake up!"
The concerned voice finally intruded into Ray's consciousness and he instantly obeyed, opening his eyes and staring into a most welcome face.
"Bodie!"
But the man bending over him held no recognition in his eyes.
"You're not Bodie, are you?"
"I have no idea who this Bo-die you speak of is. Are you all right?"
"I think so." Ray looked around. He seemed to be lying in a grass meadow, away from the murmuring flowers. "What happened?"
"You fell asleep. That's dangerous around here. You never know who's going to stumble over you."
"Like you, you mean? Yeah. I just felt so sleepy all of a sudden. Couldn't keep my eyes open."
"That'd be the poppies." The man indicated back to the field of flowers Ray had tried to cross.
"Mate, they don't look like poppies. They definitely look like daisies to me."
"Not poppies, you dumb idiot. 'Poppies'. Surely you could hear them?"
"I could hear some kind of whispering, yes."
"Well, normally they play popular music, as voted by the listeners of 'Oz FM'. This place is usually hopping."
Doyle really couldn't see it. "What's happened then?"
"Inexplicably, they all voted for the Queen's Greatest Hits. That's thirty-odd years worth of Christmas and Opening of Parliament speeches being played right now."
"No wonder I felt like scoffing a mince pie." Ray took the man's proffered hand and was hauled upright. "I'm Ray Doyle."
The man nodded. "It's getting dark, we should seek shelter." And with that, he turned and strode off towards the woodland Ray had noticed previously.
Ray had to run a little to catch up with the quickly striding man. "And who are you, then?" he enquired, a little stung.
Not-Bodie stopped suddenly and fixed Ray with a piercing glare. He nodded once, apparently satisfied. "They call me The Tin Man."
Ray reached out and knocked a knuckle on The Tin Man's forehead. "Is that because you're made of tin?"
The Tin Man batted his hand away. "Don't be silly. I mine tin. That's why I'm known as The Tin Man."
"You mine tin? In a forest?"
"You go where the tin is."
Something in his tone called a halt to that conversation and with no further words, they wandered on into the woodland, which was taking on the proportions of a reasonably sized forest. It was dark and damp under the trees, and strange noises sounded in their branches.
The silence between the two men was beginning to become oppressive, but Ray was adamant he wasn't going to be the first to break it. And, finally his patience was rewarded.
"Why are you carrying a pair of ladies’ shoes?"
Doyle shrugged. "I was given them by Susan. I mean, 'the Good Witch of the North'. They're my reward for killing the Wicked Witch of the East. But they don't fit." This last bit was said rather mournfully.
"The Mather Woman is dead?" The Tin Man asked incredulously, stopping dead in his tracks.
"Well, yeah. But it was an accident. I hope she wasn't a friend of yours?"
"Hardly. But dead? I've spent years plotting my revenge on her. I should kill you for taking that away from me."
"Are you going to?"
The Tin Man looked at Ray speculatively and a shiver ran down Ray's spine. Bodie always scared him a little when in this sort of mood and this Bodie-a-like seemed to affect him just the same.
"How did it happen?"
"My car fell on her and crushed her."
"Was it painful?"
"I suspect so, yes. It was for me." The latter was added as an afterthought and was accompanied by the surreptitious rubbing of one of the more prominent affected areas. Belatedly Ray realised he had mud on his back from the meadow and had to wipe his hand discreetly on his jeans.
"Good. In that case I won't kill you. Though it’s just as well that you didn't kill her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West, at the same time, else you'd've robbed me of two vendettas. As it is, you've made an enemy, Raydoyle."
"I'd rather you kill me than hate me," Ray said, rather startled to realise that was true. Or, at least, true of the man The Tin Man so strongly resembled.
"Oh, I didn't mean myself. I suppose it wasn't your fault and you have saved me some effort. I meant the Mather Woman's sister. She will be out for your blood now, Raydoyle. We should be on the watch for her minions."
Now even more confused, Ray walked on in silence with his strange companion until they turned a corner in the somewhat winding path they had been following and Ray finally saw their destination, a beat-up, rundown shack of a cottage.
"Is that it?" he asked, rather disappointed.
"Yes. It's a bit small for two, but we'll make do tonight," The Tin Man said and pushed open the door.
Inside the cottage was dim, but seemed clean enough. Immediately as Ray stepped through the door, The Tin Man closed and barricaded the entrance before moving to do the same to the windows.
"If you would care to light the oil lamps - you'll see some matches on the mantelpiece."
As Ray set about organising illumination for the run down shack, The Tin Man started organising something to eat. Ray was unsurprised to note that both sausages and Swiss Roll featured heavily in the repast. Obviously some things never changed. Even in strange and unknown alternate universes.
It was chill and dank in the tiny abode so Ray lit a fire in the grate. When he stood up again, The Tin Man unceremoniously handed him a bag.
"For the shoes," he said in explanation.
"Thanks."
Then The Tin Man handed Ray a plate of food, which needed no explanation.
Finally fed, watered and at peace in the flickering light of the oil lamps and fire, Ray asked the question that had been burning in his mind for hours now.
"If I've met the Good Witch of the North, and killed the Wicked Witch of the East. And the Wicked Witch of the West is out to kill me, who's the Witch of the South and is she good or wicked?"
"Oh, Dorothy-Ann," said The Tin Man, dismissively. "No-one has seen hide-nor-hair of her since she ran off with The Scarecrow. The pair of them left Oz in such a state. Until The Cow took over, of course."
"The Cow?!" exclaimed Ray, rather confused. "What's he doing running Oz?"
"Well, as I say, he stepped in after the Scarecrow eloped with Dorothy-Ann. Everyone calls him The Cow. Well, not to his face, of course. And he's not a cow. He's a lion. The Cow is short for Cowardly. Except he's not that either. The old Wizard gave him back his Courage."
"I always thought he was more of a Scotch man," Ray muttered.
"You've met then?"
Ray shook his head, slightly disappointed. If it had been Cowley, well. He might have had some influence there.
The Tin Man mistook his look. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure you'll get to see him tomorrow. He might be a very busy lion, but you do have the fact you killed the Wicked Witch of the East on your side. He's been wanting rid of her for years. Plus," and here The Tin Man smiled broadly. "I do have one more bargaining chip."
Ray opened his mouth to ask what that was, but at that moment, a rustling noise could be heard outside.
"Damn," The Tin Man drawled, not looking in the least bit put out. "I think we've been discovered."
He stealthily crossed the room and peered out a corner of the window. "Yup, it's definitely the Wicked Witch's minions. I'm afraid they have us surrounded."
A scrabbling sound on the roof gave credence to The Tin Man's pronouncement.
"Can you shoot?"
"Of course," Doyle replied.
"Right, let's see how many of them we can take out." The Tin Man grabbed a couple of guns from a cupboard. He tossed one to Doyle who checked it over carefully.
"Hey, these are water pistols!"
"Of course," snapped The Tin Man. "You think we'd use bullets here?"
"But what good is water going to do?"
"Nothing. This, on the other hand…" and The Tin Man drew a couple of bottles of scotch out of the same cupboard. "I'd been saving these for a rainy day. Ah well." And he tossed one to Doyle. "Fill up the pistol and if anything moves, you shoot."
That, at least was easy enough. Ray found that a partnership with The Tin Man was just as well-oiled and slick as his was- had been- with Bodie. But he had no time to mourn the past as he shot at the shadowy figures that circled the small dwelling, each direct hit earning him a high pitched scream.
But there were too many and the duo soon found themselves out of whisky and still hopelessly outnumbered.
"What are we going to do now? Surrender?"
"Nope. Leg it."
"Leg it?"
"There's a secret exit back here," and, only stopping to collect the bag of shoes, The Tin Man quickly led Doyle into the dark depths of the cottage, before unlocking an old and very stiff wooden door. The hinges protested loudly as he pushed it open.
"I've never heard of talking hinges before, that's bound to get their attention." Doyle grumbled.
"So we run fast."
And they did. But it was in vain, the Wicked Witch's minions soon closed in.
"Hey, they can fly!" Doyle shouted, narrowly avoiding tripping over a tree root.
"Of course they can!" shouted The Tin Man, "Run faster."
Doyle tried to do so, but the minions soon surrounded them, and he could only stare in horror as two grabbed at The Tin Man, lifting him off the ground. But he had no time to protest as he was also grabbed from behind and carried high into the sky.
* * * * *
It wasn't the pleasantest flight Doyle had ever had and, for all he had been captured and somehow bound in rope, he was very glad when both he and The Tin Man were deposited on a flagstone floor. A dark and forbidding castle rose in front of him, high in the mountains, far away from the forest and the Rainbow Brick Road.
Ray also got his first good look at the minions. To a man they were three-foot high, dressed in blue hospital scrubs and bore leathery blue wings. None of them looked very happy.
As one, they all knelt, heads to the floor. Ray briefly wondered why, but that curiosity was quickly answered when through the big wood-and-steel door a woman appeared.
"Ah, well done, my minions," she said in a rather husky voice. "You bring me the criminals. Though I see they have reduced your number in fighting. Such juvenile behaviour. But a few months of therapy will soon make them grow up a bit."
Ray groaned. Obviously the Wicked Witch of the West had as high opinion of him as did her counterpart in the real world, Doctor Kate Ross.
The Witch ignored him totally. "Now, my minions. Take that one," and here she indicated to The Tin Man, "down to the deepest dungeon. He and I have a lot to discuss. But for now I shall start with the other."
She clapped her hands and the minions jumped to her bidding, dragging The Tin Man away and Doyle suddenly felt very lonely.
The Witch grabbed Doyle and pulled him through the massive door, through a large, echoey hall and into an equally echoey, and draughty, stone chamber. Here she deposited Doyle in the middle of the bare stone floor while she took her place in a chair that seemed to be a cross between a throne and a particularly chintzy armchair.
She poured herself a glass of wine and looked Ray over.
"Normally, when I capture a Munchkin, I train him into a medical student. But you, you're no Munchkin and I'm not sure I care for that." The witch smiled suddenly. "Have you ever considered a career as a rent boy?"
Doyle swallowed, nervously. Cowley had sent him on such an assignment a couple of times in his somewhat chequered career. He hadn't enjoyed it much, even if he'd learned several tricks he wouldn't have done otherwise.
"Of course, you'd have to be trained up. It'd take months. And I don't have that much free time. But perhaps," and here her eyes raked his form appreciatively, "I could make room for you in my appointments diary." She took another sip of the wine. "But first things first, I believe you have something of mine. I want it back."
Ray stared back at the Wicked Witch, completely nonplussed.
She rolled her eyes and pointed to the bag. "The shoes, man. The shoes."
"Oh, they're mine. I was given them."
"By whom? Who had the right to give you those shoes? My dearest sister is dead and therefore those shoes are mine!"
Ray really couldn't fault her logic there, but there was something she was definitely missing…
"If I may interject here, Ma'am," he started, "but I believe there's something you're missing," and to illustrate his point, Ray started to struggle in his rope bondage.
He had to credit the woman, he supposed. She caught on very quickly. On the other hand, she obviously enjoyed her work for she allowed Ray to continue in his struggles for a good ten minutes before clasping a hand to her head.
"Oh!" she exclaimed in patently false concern. "You can't hand them over because you're all tied up. How remiss of me!" The witch clicked her fingers twice and the ropes instantly fell away. "Now," she continued and a more brusque tone. "Hand them over."
Ray untied the bag from his neck and proffered it nervously to the Wicked Witch who snatched the bag out of his hands with a triumphant smile.
"At last! Oz will be mine! Mine I say!!!" and, with an evil cackle, she reached into the bag to pull out her prize.
To Ray's surprise, however, her expression quickly changed to one of anger. "What kind of trickery is this?!" she cried and hurled the bag and the contents into the air.
At that exact point the door to the chamber was flung open and The Tin Man barrelled through. "Catch the bag, Raydoyle!" he cried, "don't let it fall!" and with that he pulled the water pistol out of his waistband and fired it with unerring accuracy at the witch. A stream of brown liquid hit her straight in the face.
"Fuck, that stings!" she yelled and then began to scream as she realised exactly what the liquid was. "I'm melting! I'm meeeelting!"
And indeed she was. The skin on her face bubbled and cracked and she turned in on herself, twisting and shrinking until only her robes and a suspicious-looking puddle was left on the chamber floor.
Ray, in the meantime, had caught the bag easily. He now set it carefully on the floor and joined The Tin Man who was kneeling next to the puddle, prodding at the scotch-soaked material with the business end of the pistol.
"Is she dead?" he enquired.
"Yes," responded The Tin Man with satisfaction and flashed Ray with a smile so sweet that Ray all but melted under the other man's gaze.
"How on earth did you manage to get out of the dungeon?"
"Well, the minions had decided they were going to practice their surgery module on me, which helped."
"How so?"
"Being medical students, of course they had to have a wild party beforehand. So I waited until the party was in full swing, untied myself and picked the locks on the cell door. Then I found the witch's cellar to load up with some ammo and came to find you. Easy."
Ray nodded to himself. Yes, it did seem that easy. "So what now?"
The Tin Man started to speak, but didn't get a chance as the late Witch's minions at that moment crashed into the room. Ray immediately snatched up the bag, holding it to his chest as they trapped the two men in a rapidly diminishing, and loudly chattering, circle.
Ray was rather worried about this; surely now the Witch's ex-minions would take them apart in revenge and, while The Tin Man now had ammunition, Ray had accidentally dropped his water pistol when they had been captured.
But he was to be surprised again. There was some debate amongst the minions, they were obviously trying to choose a spokesperson and Doyle could definitely see some block-voting going on at the back. Finally one of the minions stepped forward.
"You've killed the Wicked Witch of the West, yes?" he said in a piping voice.
Ray nodded, warily.
"Oh, thank you so much!" the ex-minion cried, falling to his knees. Ray and The Tin Man were forced to bend even further over to look the man in the eyes. "We are forever in your debt. She was evil and cruel, never let us stay up late and rarely let us conduct our own clinical trials. If there is anything we can do for you, please let us know."
"Well, there is one thing," The Tin Man said, obviously recovering more quickly from the surprise than Ray. We could do with some transport down to the Emerald City."
* * * * *
The journey back from the Wicked Witch's castle was a lot more comfortable than the trip there. The medical students rigged up slings for the two of them and Ray spent a pleasant hour watching the miles disappear behind them.
All too soon the towering turrets of the City rose in the East and even Ray, who never had much of an eye for architecture, was impressed.
They landed in a small clearing just outside the main gates and The Tin Man, in his customary terse manner, commanded the medical students to deliver their luggage to a nearby hotel.
Ray still didn't know what was in the crates The Tin Man had insisted they should bring from the castle and he resigned himself to not being enlightened in the near future as without a word The Tin Man lead him through the Emerald Gates and into the Emerald City itself.
The Tin Man obviously knew his way around as he didn't need to ask directions from anyone, but instead strode steadily through the labyrinthine streets. Not that there were many people about, in fact Ray had seen more life in a Welsh village on a wet Sunday in February. But as they strode through the silent city he could sense they were being watched from behind shuttered windows. It was a most disconcerting feeling.
But The Tin Man would not pause to answer any of Ray's tentatively asked questions so he just tightened his hold on the shoe bag and hoped that he would not have cause to regret not having his own gun with him.
In the event nothing happened and they soon reached the centre of the city and the grand Emerald Palace itself. It was a prepossessing sight, sparkling verdantly in the sunlight. Ray was wondering how they would get past the multitude guards that obviously defended the building, but The Tin Man had no such qualms, leading Ray up to the great doors themselves before turning and starting down a path that led round the side of the palace.
"Back entrance?" he enquired of his taciturn companion.
The Tin Man shook his head. "Offices. The Cow doesn't like the Palace, he says it's too ostentatious."
"He's not wrong there," Ray agreed.
The Tin Man ignored that comment and led Ray into a drab sixties concrete office block, as utilitarian as the palace had been ornamental.
He stopped at the front desk and perched on the corner, greeting the somewhat familiar-looking woman with a wink and a leer.
"Hullo, Betty. Is the Old Man in?"
Betty sniffed. "To you? What do you think?"
"Ah, but I think he might be more inclined to see me now, I've brought a friend with me."
Betty gave Ray a good, hard stare, then shrugged, effectively dismissing him as unimportant. "He's in with the First Minister at the moment and has given strict instructions not to be disturbed."
The Tin Man's expression darkened for a moment as if he wasn't used to being dismissed so easily. Then he smiled, deliberately banishing the thickening sense of menace.
"Ah well," he said lightly. "I'm sure he'll be asking for me before long. When The Cow bellows tell him I'm in the usual place." And with that he removed himself from the desk deliberately slowly and dragged Ray towards the door. ''Come on, Raydoyle," he said cheerfully, “I don't know about you but I could murder a pint."
As Ray was quickly hustled out of the building, he briefly turned back to see Betty reaching for the telephone with a thunderstruck expression on her face.
The Tin Man dragged Ray down even more twisty and turny streets before reaching a rather plush hotel and obtained a room key from the receptionist. Ray was rather surprised when the receptionist was an uncommon four-feet high, until he realised she was wearing very high heels.
His was surprised again when The Tin Man unlocked the door to a rather plush suite and ushered Ray in to the room.
"How ever are we going to afford this?!" he asked.
The Tin Man gave a grin. "Ill-gotten gains from the Wicked Witch's castle. That's what I asked her minions to carry over here. Scotch is as good as currency round here. Even more so while she was keeping a very tight rein on the supply." He cracked open one the crates left scattered around the sitting room and held up a couple of bottles. "Fancy a shopping spree?" He handed one over to Ray, unscrewed the cap from the second and took a deep pull of the pungent liquid. "Ah, well, we've got about an hour, I reckon. I'm sure we can make good inroads to at least one of these each."
"An hour?" Ray asked.
"By my estimation. That's how long it'll take The Cow to find us." The Tin Man threw himself into one of the plush armchairs to one side of the large crackling fire.
"But an hour?"
The Tin Man flashed Ray a cheeky smile. "This isn't my usual place."
"You don't say." Ray sat in the other armchair. "One thing is still bothering me," he started, taking his own slug of scotch, and coughing slightly. "Good stuff this."
"Only one thing?" The Tin Man murmured.
Ray shot the other man a glare. "What upset the Witch so much when she checked the bag? Were the shoes the wrong size or something?"
"Ah," The Tin Man nodded. "Not quite. Have a look."
Ray opened the bag, vaguely impressed with himself that he'd kept hold of it so long, and reached in, pulling out not a pair of sensible brown shoes but, instead, a pair of crystal scotch glasses. "That's not a pair of shoes," he finally commented, looking at them from all sides, enjoying the play of firelight on the cut glass.
"Oh, but they are. Just a spot of transfiguration. Here, we may as well do this properly." And The Tin Man poured a healthy slug of scotch in to each glass, taking one for himself. "Cheers."
They clinked glasses and each man drunk deep.
"That's better," commented Ray before thinking deeply. "We didn't get much of a heroes welcome at the Palace, did we?"
"Ah, I believe that's my fault, I'm afraid. I rather disappointed the Old Man. Or, at least, that's what he thinks."
"What happened?"
"Well, it was the Wicked Witch of the West's fault. She knew that I'd got close to some shady dealings that she and her sister were involved in. Scotch smuggling and the like. She was an advisor to The Cow, so she started feeding him false reports. Telling him that I was going off the rails, losing my nerve. How he should replace me. Rather than face the sack I, er, went off on my own. And I've been hunting the two ever since."
"You ran away?"
"No! Well, not quite. But the Old Man didn't see it that way. Still doesn't. Well, obviously not now. Now both women are dead. Thanks to you."
"And thanks to you, too."
"Yeah. We make a good team." The Tin Man stared into the fire, pausing in thought. "Have you considered…?"
"Have I considered what?"
"Nah, it doesn't matter. You'll be wanting to get home now. It's not fair on you."
Ray leant forward in his chair and put his hand on The Tin Man's knee. "No, go on?"
"Well, have you considered staying? We do make a good team. We could carry on making a good team. Stay here? With me?"
The shadows were lengthening in the room as the sun went down and Ray couldn't really see the expression on The Tin Man's face. So he got out of his chair and knelt next to the other man, looking up in to his face, taking in the shuttered expression inches above his own.
"I'll consider it," Ray finally said.
"You mean that?" The Tin Man gave an irrepressible smile and Ray matched it with one of his own.
"Yeah, I'll stay."
Ray couldn't say for certain which man moved first or whether they moved as one accord, but his lips touched The Tin Man's and time seemed to stand still in the gathering dusk.
A knock at the door some indeterminate time later caused the two men to break apart, reluctantly.
With a wry smile, The Tin Man looked at his watch. "Half an hour. Looks like I rather underestimated The Cow," he took in Ray's somewhat dishevelled appearance and his eyes gleamed. "We'll get rid of him quickly and then get back to our, er, in depth discussion."
"Very in depth, if I recall," Ray agreed and set about making himself look presentable as The Tin Man switched on the overhead lights and went to open the door.
Bit it wasn't the ruler of Oz and nor was it a summons to the Palace. Instead the man at the door was the carefully selected spokesminion of the ex-Wicked Witch of the West's ex-minions.
Bowing and scraping, he addressed the two men. "My Lords and Masters, how is it you wish for us to serve you now?"
Ray looked at The Tin Man in amusement. "Do we actually have use for a bunch of low-paid minions?"
The Tin Man, rather gratifyingly, caught Ray's intention at once. "Not even for flying minions, sorry."
"Then it would probably be best if we freed you. Then you could go back to your friends and family and live out your lives in peace."
Bewilderingly, the spokesminion didn't look very happy at this news. In fact he looked rather upset. "But what should I do for a living? I've been a medical student for so long, I'm not sure I'm even employable now! And without employment, I shall not be able to support my family and we shall starve. And that is true for all my colleagues at the Castle. It would be a disaster!"
"Oh," Ray looked to The Tin Man for guidance, but the other man stood back and folded his arms, obviously willing to let Ray take the lead in this. Then inspiration struck.
"What about the castle?"
The Tin Man looked blank for a moment, then grinned broadly. "The Cow won't like it. But he would definitely prefer to see that the ex-minions of the ex-Witch gainfully employed, rather than cluttering up the city and causing trouble."
"Well, that's it then." Ray turned to the spokesminion who had looked upon the previous conversation in complete confusion. "The castle is yours and your colleagues to set up a medical school for the benefit of Oz."
"But," The Tin Man interjected, obviously enjoying himself now, "A most important question. What are we going to call it?"
Ray thought for a moment. "Well, in their scrubs and with their short stature the ex-minions look rather like imps don't they? And with those big wings, they can fly. They're aerial. And we want it to be a bit better than a boring old school. So how about "Imp Aerial College Medical School"?"
"That's a terrible name," retorted The Tin Man. "Pity they're not baronets, then we could call it 'Barts'. But they’re all men. How about 'Guys'?"
But the spokesminion clapped his hands in excitement. "Imp Aerial. It's perfect! I must go and tell the others. Excuse me," and with quickly ran out of the hotel room, muttering something about 'Rag Week'. Just as the door started to swing shut on him, he poked his head back into the room. "Oh, and thanks!" he said, and closed the door behind him.
"Where were we?" muttered The Tin Man after making sure they were once again alone.
Ray moved in close, holding the other man's head in his hands. "About here," he muttered, bringing his mouth down on to soft lips.
At which point there was another knock at the door.
"What do you want?" barked The Tin Man as he threw open the door, justifiably rather angry and frustrated. "Oh, it's you, sir," he continued in only a slightly kinder tone as he took in the man stood at the door.
The incumbent ruler of Oz, for it was he, nodded an abrupt greeting to The Tin Man before entering the room and commandeering the most comfortable armchair.
Ray was very unsurprised that the man bore some resemblance to his real-world namesake, even if his hair was a little longer and a little more ginger than he was used to. The large beard, also, did not compliment the man's looks, in Ray's not-so-humble opinion.
"I see your temper hasn't improved, William," The Cow commented in lieu of a greeting.
"I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes."
"You underestimate me, as always. I’ve always considered it one of your less endearing traits. Had you considered the possibility of talking to me before flouncing off? We might have got this mess sorted out more quickly if you had."
"But, sir…" The Tin Man started.
"In the event," The Cow continued as if there had been no interruption, "it seemed to go all right. Even if a lot of it relied on chance. I shall see you first thing on Monday morning, eight a.m. sharp, do you hear?"
"But, sir, the Wicked Witch…"
"Was feeding me false information about half the Palace Guard. I'd known for months. And you'd've known too if you'd confided in me rather than going off half-cocked."
"Why?"
"Why else but to deprive me of my best men while she snuck in and removed the last remaining whisky repository in the land. Or the second to last," The Cow added, looking around the room and taking in the number of crates stacked in the corner.
The Tin Man followed his gaze. "We were merely storing it until we could hand it over the appropriate authorities. Although I did promise Karl downstairs half a case for the rooms."
"Och, your expense claims always are extravagant. I should let you suffer. But," The Cow mellowed as The Tin Man ostentatiously poured him a scotch from the bottle already opened into a glass Ray had appropriated from the bathroom, and handed it to him. "Perhaps this time I can afford to be generous. You did well, laddie."
Ray was handed his glass refilled and joined in the toast to 'Whisky Galore' in the time-honoured way, chinking his glass against The Tin Man's glass and drinking deep.
"Now then, Mr. Doyle," The Cow said, sitting back in the armchair, looking very much like the cat that has got the cream, "you led us a merry dance when you vanished yesterday. Not that it was your fault, exactly. One of my men was supposed to collect you and bring you to the Palace directly, except he was temporarily detained and you had to make do with William here. I would like to formally thank you for your part in this business."
"Hear, hear," chimed in The Tin Man.
"First of all, where are the, er, objects you took from the Wicked Witch of the East?"
Ray shrugged. "Here," he indicated to the two glasses he and The Tin Man still held.
"William's idea, no doubt," The Cow sniffed. "In that case all you have to do is clink them together three times and you'll be back home in no time."
Ray and The Tin Man shared a look of intense horror and moved as one to put their glasses on the table.
"Well, actually..." Ray started to say.
But the two men's near-telepathy failed them that one time and as their glasses hit the table they rattled together a third, and last, time.
"Oh, bugger!" was the last thing Ray heard before the darkness claimed him again.
* * * * *
Consciousness this time came in the form of white walls and dim lighting instead of riotous colours and brilliant sunlight.
The headache, unfortunately, was still very much in evidence.
Such subconscious details such as the smell of vomit-tinged bleach and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes all added up to one world and in consequence Ray didn't even bother to move. "Did anyone get the number of the truck?" he mumbled to no one in particular.
"I believe our investigation concluded there was no truck, 4.5." The dry voice of George Cowley was as inevitable as it was unwelcome.
Ray closed his eyes and violently wished himself back in Oz.
It didn't work.
An elbow nudged his side, gently. "Oi, sunshine. Don't fall asleep on us now."
Just his luck. Bodie as well. Ray didn't react. He'd become adept at that over the years. He tried the wishing thing again, throwing in a wish for the Vendée instead, if Oz wasn't a goer.
"Ray," Bodie warned.
Ray groaned. It was still no good. He opened his eyes. "I had a dream. And you were in it, and you…"
"Enough of your jokes, 4.5. Bodie has given me his report. I'll expect yours once the doctors have had a look at you."
A nurse was summoned and did the necessaries, leaving almost immediately to organise the presence of a doctor. Cowley followed her out with a curt "See you later," to both the men.
Silence reigned for several minutes before Ray gave in.
"How long was I out?"
"A little over two days. Old George was starting to climb walls. Not seen him so worried since he fumbled that bottle of scotch a couple of years ago."
"Huh. My head hurts."
"That'd be the concussion, sunshine."
"How am I?"
"Isn't that what I should be asking you? Nothing permanent. Cuts and bruises. Cracked ribs. The concussion, of course. Oh, and a broken wrist."
"Didn't notice that." Ray looked down at the offending article, all neatly wrapped up in a plaster cast. Of course, now he'd noticed, he realised that it also hurt.
"Clean break, nothing to worry about. You'll still be able to aim and shoot."
"Guns?"
"That as well."
"Two days? That's a hellish long time for a bit of a headache."
Bodie nodded. "The quacks were worried. They couldn't find much wrong. Well, that was obvious. There's not enough of a brain in that thick skull of yours to be that damaged. They even had a look at your brainwave."
"Did it?"
"Stuck its tongue out as well, filthy bugger. Can't believe you live with something as uncouth as that."
"I'm rather attached to it, actually."
"Huh. Anyway, I think they were finally convinced that you weren't waking up because you couldn't be arsed."
"Sounds reasonable."
"Or running scared," Bodie remarked, his tone becoming serious. "Do you remember what happened?"
"I remember enough to be surprised that you're here."
"Where else would I be, eh?"
Running scared, Ray thought, uncharitably. He shrugged instead. "I'm sorry."
"So you should be. Nearly gave me a heart attack, you did."
"Won't do it again."
"Better not. Not sure I could survive such a shock a second time."
Ray closed his eyes. So close to normality and yet so far. Death would've been preferable. But soft skin touched his lips, shocking in its unexpectedness. Ray opened his eyes to find Bodie's face still hovering close.
"What you do that for?" Ray's tone was possibly more acid than he meant it to be.
"Didn't get chance to do that before, did I?"
So they were going to talk about it. That had novelty value, at least. "Well, I know where I'm not wanted."
"Didn't say that."
"You stood there like a prize lemon. A half-second more and you'd've flattened me. Give me some credit for self-preservation at least."
"You surprised me. You kissed me."
"And I notice you didn't kiss me back."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Bit late for that, eh?"
"First chance I got. Was in shock before."
"So that's what they're calling it nowadays."
"It's not every day that your deepest fantasy comes true, you know."
"Deepest fantasy?"
Bodie just shrugged, but took Ray's hand between his own, tracing the veins with one fingertip.
"Huh." Ray settled back, only a faint smile on his face betraying the heady rush of delight running though him.
Bodie squeezed his fingers, but didn't say a word.
"What did you tell The Cow?"
"You'd rushed off to see a snout."
"And he believed you?"
"All he could do in the circs."
"You told him that I'd gone rushing off without my gun or R/T to look up an informant? In deepest, darkest Kent? At two o'clock in the morning?"
"Best I could do. In the circs." The tone of voice told Ray everything he needed to know.
"You found me."
Bodie nodded. "I'd followed you out of London. Had just about managed to catch you up when you skidded off the road."
"Oh."
"Then the quacks said you weren't responding. Thought you might've found somewhere I couldn't follow."
"Nah. Locals were a bit weird. Okay to visit, but not to stay."
"Glad to hear that you're still making absolutely no sense."
"Why ruin the habit of a lifetime, eh?" But Ray squeezed Bodie's hand back, as much as he was able.
"Glad you came back to me, Ray."
Ray smiled. "Well, you know what they say. There's no place like home."
The End
TITLE: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
AUTHOR: Andromeda
Slash or Gen: Bodie/Doyle, Doyle/"other"
ARCHIVE: at Proslib/Circuit - yes, please.
DISCLAIMER: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For the Discovered Whilst A-Carolling Challenge. With thanks to my beta, cuvalwen. With apologies to the rest of you.