Fallout (part 1) by cornishcat
The lads’ inability to talk to each other on a personal level has disastrous consequences.
Ray was disorientated when he first woke up. The room was unfamiliar and he tried to recall who he had left the stag party with. He lay quietly for a few minutes, listening to her soft snores, then realised he wasn’t really interested in finding the answer. Quietly slipping from the bed, he retrieved his scattered clothing and cautiously found his way to the bathroom, where he hurriedly dressed before leaving.
He drove home instinctively, totally unaware of his surroundings, his thoughts a confusion of doubts and disbelief.
What the hell had he been thinking, saying yes when Bodie asked him to be his best man? Well, now the day of reckoning had arrived and he was expected to stand there and watch the man he adored tie the knot. Could he really do that?
And after the nuptials, what then? How on earth was their working partnership going to withstand the inevitable changes a marriage would bring? It occurred to him for the first time that Bodie might well have had similar fears when he’d announced his own engagement to Ann. But then he hadn’t gone through with his wedding plans had he, not like Bodie was about to? Well, to be honest, it was Ann who had actually walked away but he would have called it off, eventually, because marrying her would have been as hopeless as pissing in the wind. He understood that now but at the time… at the time he had so wanted to be engaged, so wanted that promise of everlasting happiness and yes, he had very nearly been swept along with the whole bloody romantic notion of it all.
By the time he arrived back home he knew what he had to do - but how was a different matter altogether. Sitting at the table in his chilly kitchen, he weighed up his options over a pot of tea. He’d never considered himself a coward before but, remembering how he’d reacted to Bodie’s confession all those months ago, there was no way on earth he could face a confrontation today - and he doubted the groom would appreciate one either. So, he grabbed the notebook he kept by the phone and tried to put down on paper some sort of explanation. But what could he say if it wasn’t the truth?
He was relieved to see that Bodie’s building was still shrouded in darkness when he pulled up outside an hour or so later. Using the spare key, he crept in and propped the envelope, containing the wedding ring and a brief note, up against the kettle. From the sounds coming from the bedroom it was obvious that someone, probably Murphy, had made sure Bodie got back home safely. That was just another thing for him to add to the list of things he felt guilty about; not watching over him during his last night of freedom.
Unable to resist the temptation, Doyle quietly pushed open the door and smiled to himself as he stood and watched Bodie sleep, mouth open, bent arm resting over his forehead, snoring away obliviously. It really must be love if he found that gormless look so appealing. God, he was going to miss the daft pillock while he was away.
“Good luck, mate. See you when you get back in a couple of weeks,” he whispered before he finally closed the door on a lost opportunity and went back home to his empty flat.
Glancing over his shoulder, Bodie could see that her family and friends had turned up in force. Ironically, he compared their excited chatter with the mumbles coming from the pews on his side of the church. He had no relatives he would risk inviting along to ruin his day but a number of the off-duty lads had managed to show up and he was pleased to see the Cow sitting amongst them.
As he slipped two fingers into his waistcoat pocket to confirm that the ring was still safely tucked away, he was reminded again of the scribbled note left for him sometime during the early hours. Ray was sorry, it had basically said, but he wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony after all. Why the hell hadn’t he spoken up earlier and told him that he couldn’t be bothered offering a little moral support? Well, fuck him, he didn’t need the bastard anyway. In fact, he didn’t need anyone and if Doyle had so obviously called time on the friendship then he may as well because there was no point in clinging on to his pathetic dreams, no point at all. Funnily enough though, Bodie had actually been surprised that Ray had agreed to be his best man in the first place, considering…
The first few chords of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ forced him to push any further thoughts of his partner out of his head and he couldn’t suppress a delighted grin when he saw her entering the back of the church. As she walked towards him, arm in arm with her proud father, she looked as radiant and beautiful as Bodie had ever seen her and he pledged, there and then, that he would do his best to make her happy.
Suddenly her steps faltered and she looked around anxiously, scanning for someone amongst the guests. Bodie watched as her father leaned down to whisper in her ear and give her an encouraging smile before she nodded her head and the small procession resumed its slow journey down the aisle.
Bodie only vaguely listened to the vicar’s views on the sanctity of marriage. He might question the existence of a god but he had no doubts about his commitment to this woman. As he held her hand and offered his vows, he was utterly charmed by the tear that endearingly trickled down her cheek and, whilst he waited for her answering responses, he realised that he felt more contented than he had in a very long time.
But she didn’t immediately say anything, just looked deep into his eyes as if searching his very soul, questioning his commitment, stripping him naked.
Eventually, she stretched up on her tip toes to brush his cheek with her own, speaking so quietly that he nearly missed her words. He didn’t have time to fully register what she was saying before she cupped his bewildered face between her palms, said how very sorry she was and turned to quickly walk away.
His shout of, “Wait Ali, for god’s sake!” reverberated around the hushed church, although she didn’t seem to hear him.
Two hours later he had locked his Capri back in the garage, still ludicrously trailing tin cans from the rear bumper, and returned to the flat that he had hoped to share with his new bride. But his life had changed now and there was no going back. Long gone were the free Saturday afternoons spent with Ray; laughter, beer and takeaways watching footie on the box and, more lately, the cosy evenings with Ali, curled up together in the oversized armchair.
Castigating himself for such pathetic thoughts, he hung the new suit back in its protective bag, pulled on his bike leathers, climbed aboard the BMW and left London far behind - along with everything and everyone associated with it. Yeah, time to move on.
Even as the sun dropped lower in the sky, he continued to power his bike along the darkening roads until, finally, he could admit that he was utterly and completely lost. He did eventually pull up outside a nondescript pub, its warm lights promising some welcome comfort, but he very nearly turned back at the door when the heat and noise hit him. Taking a deep steadying breath, he strode up to the bar and automatically ordered a pint. Then, after finding a small table by the window, he sat staring out into the night, the beer already forgotten in front of him.
Was it really only six months since he had admitted to Ray how he felt?
“What do you think I am; a fucking queer or something?” was the succinct response he got to his unguarded declaration.
The subject was never discussed again but things had obviously changed. Bodie sensed that Ray no longer trusted him and subtly avoided situations that might find them alone together, making excuses to meet in the local pub instead of at one of their flats. However, their working partnership seemed largely unaffected and they were still hailed as the squad’s best team.
Funnily enough, even though he had dated Ali on and off for a couple of years, their relationship didn’t really start getting serious until Doyle began distancing himself. And as they grew closer, Bodie couldn’t quite believe that she accepted him for who he was and had never seemed too shocked by any of his revelations. Even when, one drunken evening, he had first confessed that he loved his partner. She had smiled softly and told him she already knew that but believed he loved her equally, if not more. She had then rolled around laughing at the absurd thought of Ray being anything but the unrivalled womaniser that he so obviously was.
So, he now wondered why she had she strung him along for so long, only deciding at the very last minute that marrying him was the wrong choice. What had he inadvertently revealed that made her decide she didn’t want to settle for second-best? She was right; she did deserve better and he really hoped she’d find it but he now knew he wasn’t going to bother looking himself any more. When he considered that he had managed to fuck up his two most important relationships by first falling for his best friend and then believing he’d found happiness with the beautiful Ali, then what was the bloody point?
“Love? Hah, an over-rated emotion if ever there was one”, he muttered as he picked up his glass and set about drinking himself into oblivion. He downed the lager in one before he stood up, found a place at the bar and ordered the first of many large vodkas.
*****
Doyle spent the weekend alone. He tried filling his time with cleaning his flat, restocking the kitchen, catching up with the laundry and reading three of the books he’d been saving for his holidays but nothing, not even jogging around the local cemetery in the pouring rain, seemed to stop him worrying. What possible explanation was he going to be able to offer Bodie, when he returned from his honeymoon, that would help them salvage their friendship?
Monday morning came around slowly and with relief he drove in to headquarters, hoping he’d be allocated some work that would require his complete concentration for the next fortnight.
Flashing his ID in the general direction of the security desk as he loped past, Fred attempted to call him back. “4.5. Mr Cowley wants to see you at eight o’clock… and he expects you to be on time.”
Doyle waved his hand in acknowledgement as he continued on towards the rest room, looking forward to a catch-up with some of the squad before they all dispersed. He was disappointed to find it already deserted, although the kettle was still warm and a blue haze lingered in the far corner. Coughing a little unnecessarily, considering there was no-one around to notice, he pushed open the window to clear the air and, whilst he waited for the kettle to re-boil, wandered over to study the duty board. It looked like a couple of big operations were coming together and he was relieved to see that he was on a solo op up north. Yeah, two weeks of peace and quiet; that wasn’t so bad, he granted. Better than being stuck with some snotty new recruit or cooped up with the likes of Anson and his foul cigars.
The door banged open and Murphy charged into the room, squabbling about something or other with Jax who was following closely behind.
“Hey, you two, where is everyone?”
They both stopped and looked at him. “Oh, you’re still alive then?” said Jax, with an unusual touch of sarcasm. “We missed you at the church - but perhaps not as much as Bodie did, the poor sod.”
“Now, come on mate, he’s a big lad you know and doesn’t need me holding his hand. Mind, she’s a lovely girl, is our Ali. Chose the wrong bloke though, when she could’ve had m...”
Uncharacteristically, an angry Murphy was in Doyle’s face before he had a chance to finish. “You fucking bastard!”
Their brief stand-off was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. “Yes sir, he’s here… right away.” Jax replaced the receiver and turned to Doyle. “The Cow wants you.”
As he made his way into his boss’ outer office, he was beginning to realise that it wasn’t only Bodie who’d be expecting an explanation. He would need to think of a plausible one quickly before he met up with those two again.
“Good morning, 4.5.”
“Oh, hi Betty. I’ve been summoned.”
“Yes. You were expected five minutes ago.” Cowley’s secretary continued to clatter away on her typewriter even as she gave him a long withering look.
A little aggrieved, knowing he wasn’t actually late yet, he knocked and went it, settling himself against the nearest filing cabinet, legs crossed, arms folded.
The Controller eventually closed the file he was making notes in, carefully placed his fountain pen on the blotter and looked up to face him. “I’m sending you to Manchester, Doyle, to take over from Miller. It’s a straightforward op; I want details of this man’s activities.” He pushed a buff folder across the desk towards him. “You know the drill. Don’t take any action, just inform me of anything noteworthy. But don’t go losing him!”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” he replied absently as he skimmed through the enclosed photos and typewritten reports.
“I’ll send you some relief when I can but you’ll be mostly on your own with this one,” Cowley reminded him. “Although I do expect Bodie back before the case breaks.”
He removed his glasses and paused a moment before continuing. “On a more personal note, what pressing engagement kept you from his big day, then?”
Shit, someone else expecting him to bloody account for himself!
“It’s hardly any of your…” Doyle paused to consider the sanity of that response. “Something came up,” he added, a little more conciliatorily.
“Have you heard from him?” Cowley surprisingly ignored the hint of insubordination.
“God, no … and I don’t expect to, either. There are some things he doesn’t need my help with.”
“You can be a cruel man sometimes, 4.5. I hope the confidence you have in your partner is not unfounded.” Cowley replaced his glasses and turned his attention back to the thick files on his desk, effectively dismissing him. “Miller will fully brief you when you get to Manchester.”
Leaving the office, Doyle was astonished that he had so obviously failed to consider how any of the squad would react to his absence at the wedding. But to be judged ‘cruel’ came as a quite a shock. Did Cowley really think they were joined at the hip and, if so, then he surely must have presumed there’d be some separation when one of them got married?
He thought he might find Murphy or Jax still in the VIP lounge but, thankfully, it seemed they’d already left the building. Sensing he was missing something vital, apart from Bodie that is, he headed home to pack his bag. It wasn’t unusual for him to work solo on occasion but Doyle was feeling increasingly uneasy as he drove north up the busy M1 later that morning.
*****
Alerted by concerned security staff to the wanderer’s early morning return, Cowley went directly to the rest room. He almost missed the dark figure slumped in the depths of the favoured armchair.
It was hard to reconcile the changes that had occurred in just two weeks. He noted that Bodie’s face was marred by dark shadows, stubble and fading bruises. His normally well-cared for biking gear was badly scuffed down one side and there was the lingering odour of stale alcohol pervading the room. Shaking his head, he left him to sleep and returned to his own office to start the day.
Two hours later there was a knock on his door. Bodie looked noticeably better; he’d shaved, showered and changed his clothes but there was no disguising the pale, gaunt look.
“How are you, 3.7?”
“Much as I enjoyed the break sir, I’ll be glad to get back to some proper work. I see 4.5’s up in the sticks and I was wondering if I could work solo myself as well.”
Ignoring the request, Cowley indicated the drinks cabinet. “Pour yourself a wee dram and make mine a large one. I foresee a long day ahead.”
“Eight o’clock is a bit early, even for me,” Bodie muttered before handing a glass to his boss and quietly sitting down empty handed.
Studying one half of his best team, Cowley said nothing more until Bodie finally lifted his head and looked at him directly.
“Have you seen Miss Clarke since your return?”
“I only arrived back in the city this morning, so haven’t been able to catch up with everyone just yet... sir.”
Neither man broke eye contact for a few moments; Cowley continuing his appraisal and Bodie determined to reveal nothing of his inner turmoil.
So, he’s still strong enough to be insolent then, Cowley thought with relief, which helped him come to a decision that he’d been pondering over.
“I intend partnering you with Murphy for a while,” he finally announced.
“As I said before, I would prefer to work solo, if you don’t mind.”
“I will be the one deciding how this department is run. Do I make myself clear, 3.7?”
Bodie didn’t reply immediately, apparently giving serious thought to his answer. Eventually he sat up a little straighter and nodded his head.
“Och man, go home, you’ll be no use to me today. Sort yourself out and report back tomorrow, 08:30 sharp. There’s talk of another drugs war, here in London and I want it stopped.”
Cowley’s confidence was not greatly improved as he watched a subdued Bodie leave his office.
But despite his concern for one of his agents, he still had a ten o’clock meeting with the minister to prepare for.
*****
The following morning Murphy found Bodie making coffee in the otherwise deserted rest room.
“Do you want one? Kettle’s just boiled,” he was asked.
“Yeah, ok”. He watched Bodie search for the best mug amongst the assorted pile of crockery on the drainer before he chose one and spooned in the Nescafe. He couldn’t help but agree with the Cow’s assessment; Bodie did look tired although Murphy had seen him looking a lot worse, remembering how bad he’d been after Doyle’s shooting. Which wasn’t really surprising, considering he’d spent most of his spare time at the hospital, accepting everything the battle-scarred patient threw at him throughout his long and very painful recovery. But to everyone’s relief, Doyle had stubbornly dragged himself through rehab and eventually been pronounced fit for work - what was it, seven or eight months ago?
Murphy could easily understand how his near-death experience had changed Ray; he’d bounced back with a new zest for life, a determination to prove he could be as good as he was before Mayli had attempted to turn him into a watering can and was soon screwing his way through an unsuspecting female population. But there had been a subtle change in Bodie as well - and not necessarily for the better.
“Here.”
A steaming mug thrust under his nose interrupted his thoughts. Murphy grimaced as he tasted the contents. “Christ mate, you’ve forgotten the sugar!”
“Ah sorry, force of habit. I’ll let you make all the drinks in future. This was just an introductory offer for my new partner. Cheers,” Bodie said, saluting him with his own mug.
*****
Doyle was sick and tired of staring at the four walls of the Didsbury bedsit, particularly as the yellow flock wallpaper was slowly disappearing behind large swathes of mould and mildew. He’d stayed in some dumps in his time but this was the pits. The two-bar electric fire was woefully inadequate at combatting the cold or the damp, despite the number of fifty pence pieces he fed the electric meter so he could keep it running constantly. Cowley was going to have a fit when he submitted his next expense chit.
He was supposed to share the kitchen and bathroom with the tenants in the two adjacent rooms but he hadn’t actually met either of them yet, only hearing their clandestine comings and goings late at night. So, he pretty much had the place to himself.
The only brightness in the day was found in his music tapes, some of which he’d sneakily stolen from Bodie’s car months ago. He was currently listening to Ziggy Stardust and was surprised that Bodie hadn’t noticed the cassette had gone missing - or maybe he had and was too stubborn to ask for it back. Doyle had wondered why he’d even ‘borrowed’ that particular one when he preferred R&B himself. Weirdly though, it was fast becoming one of his favourites and therefore the most frequently played. Perhaps he needed some fresh material before he turned in to yet another mad Bowie fan like his partner.
That reminded him; he would need to pick up some spare batteries for his Walkman when he was next out tailing his target because he couldn’t bear to think what it would be like if he didn’t have something to combat the incessant tedium and enforced silence.
“…love descends on those defenceless, idiot love will spark the fusion…” he quietly sang along with Bowie as he changed the roll of film in the camera.
His surveillance duties weren’t particularly difficult either. MacArthur was a man who preferred routine rather than the unpredictable. Up at 09:30, cooked breakfast, trip to the local shop for a packet of fags and the morning paper, then back home to meet the ‘business associates’ who drifted in and out throughout the day. Later on, he might walk down to the pub on the corner for a swift half but he never stayed long enough for Doyle to enjoy the change of scenery.
The surveillance job was simple enough; photograph any visitors and keep records of times and dates. He wondered if Cowley was punishing him for something, putting him on this solo obbo because he was bored out of his brains and left with far too much time to think…
Bodie would have been back from his honeymoon for nearly a fortnight now. A married man. Who would have imagined that ever happening? Even Cowley had predicted that it was highly unlikely he would need to arrange a security check on any one of 3.7’s birds. How bloody wrong had he been?
Doyle did worry who Bodie had been temporarily partnered with whilst he was stuck up here, in Manchester. He hoped it would be Murphy because they’d always seemed to get on well together; their shared army background probably had a lot to do with that. The truth was though, he’d assumed he would have been reteamed with Bodie as soon as he was back from his honeymoon and not still be sitting here in this hell hole.
He also wondered how Ali would be coping with all the unsocial hours her husband would be working. Or the undercover jobs or indeed, the inherent dangers he would face, day in, day out. Would she be expecting him to come in off the streets? Nah, he would never settle for a desk job… or would he? Or would he even have a choice in the matter?
Wrapped up in his uncertainties, Doyle almost missed the blue Saab pulling up on the double yellow lines outside. He grabbed his camera, almost fumbling it in the process and, twitching the net curtains to one side, kept snapping until the passenger and his driver disappeared inside the house opposite.
Shit! Harry Tomlinson as I live and breathe! What the hell is a heavyweight like him associating with a scumbag like MacArthur for?
As he was out of RT range, he knew he’d have to use the public phone downstairs and call this one in urgently. The Cow would not be best pleased if he hadn’t been informed of this development and, besides, Doyle wasn’t sure who he should now follow; MacArthur or Tomlinson, but he dearly hoped it was the latter because that would be where the action was.
*****
Murphy was surprised at how quickly he and Bodie had settled in to an effective working partnership. This was helped largely by Bodie’s willingness to let him lead on the operations; deciding when to move in, which snitch to approach, when to be the good cop, when the bad. He did seem more docile than usual but that was understandable considering the shitty time he’d had lately.
However, he had no idea where Bodie went after their shifts ended. He’d turned down all suggestions of meeting in the pub and had never once spoken about Ali or the aborted wedding or anything else on a personal level for that matter. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t even mentioned Ray.
He supposed that this was as good a time as any to try and break the ice.
“Do you fancy a quick pint before we head back, Bodie? The landlord keeps a good cellar in The Dog and Partridge, or so the local plods tell me.”
“Nah, we should shift it as the Cow wants these reports on his desk by morning.” Bodie turned towards the carpark at the rear of the police station but Murphy stalled him with a hand on his sleeve.
“Ah, come on, mate. I believe the food’s not bad either. Shame to pass up on the opportunity for a decent lunch.”
The arm was whipped away, shocking Murphy with the abruptness of it.
“I said no.” With that, Bodie marched off to where they’d left the Capri.
Murphy had never been on the receiving end of the legendary temper before and he certainly didn’t want to experience it first-hand right now so he got in the car and they drove back to HQ in an uncomfortable silence.
Luckily, the following morning Bodie seemed more like his old self again, although he was now sporting the beginnings of a shiner and an Elastoplast covered the knuckles of his right hand. He did offer to make Murphy another brew, this time even remembering to add the sugar, and willingly took both their finished reports down to put in Betty’s in-tray for collating. Unfortunately, he was collared by Cowley in the process, who frowned disapprovingly at the black eye.
“Ah, 3.7. I want you and 6.2 in my office in ten minutes.”
“What does the old scrote want now?” Murphy asked when Bodie returned to the rest room. “He can’t have read our reports yet, you’ve only just dropped them off.” He had been hoping for a quiet morning to have a quick kip. After leaving work the previous evening, he’d given his latest girlfriend a call and they’d spent a very pleasurable few hours together. Exhausting but definitely worth every minute’s lost sleep. He had intended to gloat a bit with Bodie but, on second thoughts, realised that probably wasn’t a very good idea.
“How the hell should I know. Get your arse in gear and we’ll find out.”
Cowley appraised them of the new information Doyle had acquired. Intelligence now indicated that Harry Tomlinson was about to permanently shut down the Shoreditch drug ring because he needed their patch for his own nefarious business operations. Concern was being raised because he had been known to use explosives to get what he wanted in the past and he didn’t generally give a toss for any innocent bystanders. Cowley was aware that he was also looking to bring in some local muscle to bolster his mob’s strength, so both Bodie and Murphy were to ensure they got themselves drafted on to his payroll.
He gave them false documents and alternative lodgings to give credence to their back stories and told them to report to the armoury where they were issued with untraceable handguns, knives and knuckledusters.
After changing into more appropriate jeans and old jackets, they dropped some personal stuff at their ‘new’ flats and met up again at the Black Swan; a pub known to be frequented by Tomlinson when he was in town and recruiting. Not the best of circumstances to have their first drink together but at least, Murphy thought optimistically, it was a start.
*****
With relief, Doyle packed up his stuff and left the grotty flat eight days later. He drove directly to HQ and went straight down to the Ops Room where he knew the Controller was updating the squad and where he hoped to get more news of Bodie and Murphy’s undercover operation.
“Ah 4.5, welcome back. Good work up in Manchester. As you know, Tomlinson is about to shut down the Shoreditch gang and, we are led to believe, that he’s planning to do it Thursday night. We are just waiting on some final information from Lewis.”
“Do we even know where the drug factory is, yet?” he asked, keen to get up to speed as quickly as possible.
“Murphy thinks it’s highly likely to be in the old Albion Warehouse on Osman Road. He and Bodie have followed Tomlinson there on several occasions and he, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be surveying the place. Murphy also recognised some of the local dealers who were milling around outside. We’ll know soon enough, if Lewis’ snitch comes through with the goods.”
Cowley unrolled a large map and spread it across the table, holding the corners down with various files. “Once we have confirmation, I’ll want Anson and Jax positioned on the roofs opposite, here and here.” He indicated two red crosses with the arm of his glasses. “You’ll need sniper rifles. I’ll have Jenkins ready them for you to collect from the armoury this afternoon. Doyle, I want you, Lucas and McCabe covering the back. Pick a team of four off the duty roster. Murphy will lead the frontal assault, taking Benny, Taylor, Charlie and …”
“Murphy?” Doyle stood up straighter and frowned at the Controller. “I thought he was working with Bodie.”
“He was but then the case he was running last June came to court earlier than expected and they called him in as an expert witness. There was no way he could account for his two-day absence without drawing too much attention to himself. Tomlinson is a canny bastard and we didn’t feel it worth risking the whole operation trying to get him back inside.”
“But still worth risking Bodie, eh? He’s on his own in there, you do realise. Who’s watching his back now?”
“Yes Doyle, I am fully aware of the current situation. They discussed it before Murphy left and Bodie seemed to think he could handle it, if he kept his head down.”
“And we all know how good he is at that, don’t we?” Doyle knew he was being unfair, that Bodie could handle most covert operations… it’s just that he could also be a bit bloody reckless at times, as well. “How’s Ali taking all this, then? Is she even aware that Bodie’s deep undercover? Geez, they’ve only been married a few weeks and already he’s putting his life on the line.”
The room went eerily quiet and the other agents kept their heads lowered, seemingly to study the plans in closer detail. Everyone except Cowley, that is.
“Doyle, come, we’ll talk in my office. The rest of you, organise your teams and check out the necessary equipment. We’ll be needing to mobilise as soon as we have word of the exact time and location.”
Doyle declined the glass of whisky he was offered, dread forming a knot in his stomach.
“I had wrongly assumed that someone in the squad would have told you…” Cowley hesitated. “I am surprised… so, the whole time you were up in Manchester you didn’t…?” He looked embarrassed and that worried Doyle, because the Cow never looked embarrassed. Or was it shame he could see?
“Sir?”
“I am sorry lad, I should have made it my business to ensure you knew; the wedding didn’t go ahead as planned. Miss Clarke changed her mind.”
“What! What d’you mean?”
“There was no marriage.”
“How … why… what the hell happened?” Doyle asked, struggling to control his building excitement. Was he going to get a second chance, a chance to make things right between them?
“As I said, the young lady called it off. Unfortunately, she left it until they were at the altar. As you can imagine, Bodie didn’t take it too well.”
The poor bastard, Doyle acknowledged, feeling guilty now for his selfish thoughts.
“Why the hell wasn’t I told before? He’s supposed to be my partner, for fuck’s sake. I could have been here for him, supported him.”
“If you had been willing to perform your duties as his best man, then you would have…”
They were interrupted by Betty’s knock on the door. Doyle barely noticed her enter, his head reeling with the implications of Cowley’s unfinished words. Yeah, he should have been...
“Mr Cowley, Lewis has just got back,” she announced. “He confirms that a bomb has been planted in The Albion, set to go off at twelve noon tomorrow.”
“My God, they’ve brought it forward. We’ll finish this conversation later, Doyle. In the meantime, select your team and get them prepared. We’ll move in at first light.”
“Sir? That’s not all.” Betty looked towards Doyle, her sympathy barely hidden. “The snitch told Lewis that he thinks 3.7’s cover’s been blown.”
*****
“OK, Brook, why was that mate of yours knocking around with a copper the other day?”
“I wouldn’t call him a mate, Tomlinson. I’ve only worked with him on a couple of jobs. That hardly makes us best…”
With his arms and legs securely tied to the chair, Bodie could hardly avoid the blow to his unprotected belly.
“Bullshit. He’s a bloody snout and I want to know what he’s blabbed to the filth.”
“How the hell should I know?”
A savage right cross to the chin sent him crashing to the floor.
“Where d’you first meet him?”
“I can’t remember. The Black Swan, possibly?” he offered, hoping a little cooperation would buy him some respite.
He was pulled upright again so savagely that the chair rocked precariously from side to side, threatening to overbalance again before finally settling back on all four legs.
“We’ve checked his digs but he appears to have shipped out. Where’s he gone?” Tomlinson persisted.
“I don’t even know where he lived in the first place!”
“Don’t give me that, you fucking arsehole.” A vicious swipe with a baseball bat, swung by one of Tomlinson’s heavies, shifted a rib or two and Bodie struggled to take his next breath.
“I promise you, you’ll be singing like a bloody eunuch before long, so save yourself a shit load of aggro and answer my fucking question. Where has Mitchell disappeared to?”
“A world bloody cruise?”
He wavered on the edge of losing consciousness when the bat struck his left arm with a sickening crack. Someone grabbed his hair, pulled his head back so he couldn’t fail to see the stiletto blade that Tomlinson was waving menacingly about in front of his face.
“Got anything to say now, hard man?”
Bodie wasn’t sure what, if anything, he could say to avoid that being used on him so he gritted his teeth and defiantly glared back.
Tomlinson wasn’t to be put off so easily though and was evidently in a hurry to wrap up this little inconvenience so he could start to organise his new campaign of attack. The pain, when it came, was excruciating as he pierced Bodie’s flesh with the knife each time he didn’t get the information he wanted to hear.
But Bodie couldn’t be arsed responding any more. What was the point? He wouldn’t believe him until he got the truth and he was never going to get that.
Eventually Tomlinson saw the futility of it all and turned to his goons. “We’ll have to assume that Mitchell grassed and just move the operation forward a bit, that’s all. We may not catch the fuckers at work but we can certainly close ‘em down, right enough, and that’s good enough for now. We’ll take that” he nodded towards Bodie, “and dispose of the body at the same time.”
He then stepped forward and threw another low body punch but then, just before he lost consciousness, Bodie caught a glimpse of the blood-covered blade that Tomlinson was actually holding in his fist.
Fuck!
*****
Doyle knew that time was running out fast. The bomb was primed to detonate in less than twenty minutes. Unfortunately, the position and construction of the device had prevented the Army Disposal Team from even attempting to defuse it so sandbags and anti-blast mats had been packed tightly around to try and minimise the damage. Everyone had already been evacuated from the building and the drug lords and dealers rounded up and handed over to the police… everyone, except the agent Cowley insisted was still imprisoned inside and who his men would willingly continue searching for until the final possible moment.
As he leapt down the last flight of stairs, he barrelled straight into Murphy.
“God Ray, am I bloody glad to see you. Has anyone found him yet?”
“No but he’s here, I know it, so keep bloody looking!” he shouted back over his shoulder as he raced off in the opposite direction.
He knew the rest of the squad were searching the upper floors but Doyle was so relieved that he now had some help with the cavernous basement. He skidded to a halt by the first in another long row of heavy oak doors. Finding it locked, he stretched up to peer in through the iron grille. Empty, or so it appeared with such a cursory look.
“Bodie!” he shouted again, frustration catching in his voice, but there was still no reply. Goddammit, where the hell was he?
As he approached the final few rooms, his confidence that he would find his friend alive had faltered considerably. They’d always been able to anticipate each other’s moves, understand each other’s motives, two parts of a whole, the very best. But that was no longer true, was it? They’d well and truly fucked up and Cowley had had them working apart for ages. In fact, they hadn’t even seen each other for around six weeks so how could he expect things to feel the same?
As he peered through the grille of yet another secured door, Doyle was so lost in his increasing fears that he almost failed to see the body lying dumped in the middle of the stone floor.
“Bodie?” he whispered and then, with more urgency, “Murph, he’s here!”
He tried the handle again, just to be sure, but it remained firmly locked. Kicking out in anger, he realised there was a small broken hatch at the base of the door which he was able to slide open.
Christ, it was going to be tight.
Removing his jacket and holster, he squeezed himself, with some difficulty, through the narrow gap.
At first, he thought that he was too late - Bodie felt so deathly cold - but Doyle released a long-held breath when he eventually found a weak pulse. Dried blood caked Bodie’s body and he could now see that fresh rivulets continued to ooze sluggishly from numerous open wounds scattered over his bare chest, stomach and arms. Even his feet were a blackened mess, he vaguely noted.
“Ray! Where are you?” Murphy’s voice ghosted through the basement.
“Here.”
Just as Doyle finished checking Bodie’s airway, Murphy’s face appeared at the grille.
“Christ, Ray. Is he…?”
“He’s alive. We’re going to have to get him out that way,” he said, tilting his head towards the hatch.
“Jesus, how the hell are we going to manage…?”
“Unless you have a key then that’s the only option.”
“OK, mate,” Murphy replied, pulling out his RT to call in the news that they’d found Bodie but he was in need of urgent medical attention.
Doyle was already struggling with the slippery body. “Chuck us me coat, Murph. I can’t get a grip on him.”
It was hard forcing the uncooperative arms into the jacket sleeves, particularly the left which seemed oddly swollen but, once he’d managed, he was then able to drag Bodie over to the door. Murphy reached through, took a firm grip on the collar and pulled him the last couple of feet - but Bodie’s shoulder caught on the frame with a shocking thud.
“Geez! Come on, Murph, for god’s sake.”
They tried to ignore the additional damage they knew they were inflicting as they pulled, shoved and twisted Bodie into the small opening until, with a final tearing of leather, his body was forced through.
“How long have we got?” Doyle gasped, bending to retrieve his holster.
“About six minutes, by my reckoning - provided the intel is accurate and the bombers know their stuff. So, let’s get out of here.”
They hoisted Bodie upright, slung his arms over their shoulders and dragged him back down the corridor the way they’d come, his bare feet leaving blood-stained trails in the accumulated detritus of the disused warehouse.
They had just started up the second flight of stairs when Bodie’s right foot caught between two iron balusters, pulling them off balance and sending them crashing to their knees.
“We’re not going to make it, Murph. Time’s running out… it’s too far,” Ray conceded. “Help me get him under here then leg it, will you?”
“OK, but you’re coming with me. Bodie’s out of it. He’ll not thank you for risking your life unnecessarily.”
“I’m not leaving him. Deserted him once but never again. I have to stay. Now go!” With that, Doyle pushed Bodie deeper under the concrete steps and tried to offer as much protection as he could with his own body.
Listening to Murphy race back up the stairwell, Doyle hugged Bodie even tighter against his chest, buried his face in the matted hair and willed him to survive long enough to hear his apology. Far too soon though, he felt the floor shift and groan beneath him before the shaken building entombed them under choking piles of dust and broken masonry.
part 2: https://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/372313.html
Ray was disorientated when he first woke up. The room was unfamiliar and he tried to recall who he had left the stag party with. He lay quietly for a few minutes, listening to her soft snores, then realised he wasn’t really interested in finding the answer. Quietly slipping from the bed, he retrieved his scattered clothing and cautiously found his way to the bathroom, where he hurriedly dressed before leaving.
He drove home instinctively, totally unaware of his surroundings, his thoughts a confusion of doubts and disbelief.
What the hell had he been thinking, saying yes when Bodie asked him to be his best man? Well, now the day of reckoning had arrived and he was expected to stand there and watch the man he adored tie the knot. Could he really do that?
And after the nuptials, what then? How on earth was their working partnership going to withstand the inevitable changes a marriage would bring? It occurred to him for the first time that Bodie might well have had similar fears when he’d announced his own engagement to Ann. But then he hadn’t gone through with his wedding plans had he, not like Bodie was about to? Well, to be honest, it was Ann who had actually walked away but he would have called it off, eventually, because marrying her would have been as hopeless as pissing in the wind. He understood that now but at the time… at the time he had so wanted to be engaged, so wanted that promise of everlasting happiness and yes, he had very nearly been swept along with the whole bloody romantic notion of it all.
By the time he arrived back home he knew what he had to do - but how was a different matter altogether. Sitting at the table in his chilly kitchen, he weighed up his options over a pot of tea. He’d never considered himself a coward before but, remembering how he’d reacted to Bodie’s confession all those months ago, there was no way on earth he could face a confrontation today - and he doubted the groom would appreciate one either. So, he grabbed the notebook he kept by the phone and tried to put down on paper some sort of explanation. But what could he say if it wasn’t the truth?
He was relieved to see that Bodie’s building was still shrouded in darkness when he pulled up outside an hour or so later. Using the spare key, he crept in and propped the envelope, containing the wedding ring and a brief note, up against the kettle. From the sounds coming from the bedroom it was obvious that someone, probably Murphy, had made sure Bodie got back home safely. That was just another thing for him to add to the list of things he felt guilty about; not watching over him during his last night of freedom.
Unable to resist the temptation, Doyle quietly pushed open the door and smiled to himself as he stood and watched Bodie sleep, mouth open, bent arm resting over his forehead, snoring away obliviously. It really must be love if he found that gormless look so appealing. God, he was going to miss the daft pillock while he was away.
“Good luck, mate. See you when you get back in a couple of weeks,” he whispered before he finally closed the door on a lost opportunity and went back home to his empty flat.
Glancing over his shoulder, Bodie could see that her family and friends had turned up in force. Ironically, he compared their excited chatter with the mumbles coming from the pews on his side of the church. He had no relatives he would risk inviting along to ruin his day but a number of the off-duty lads had managed to show up and he was pleased to see the Cow sitting amongst them.
As he slipped two fingers into his waistcoat pocket to confirm that the ring was still safely tucked away, he was reminded again of the scribbled note left for him sometime during the early hours. Ray was sorry, it had basically said, but he wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony after all. Why the hell hadn’t he spoken up earlier and told him that he couldn’t be bothered offering a little moral support? Well, fuck him, he didn’t need the bastard anyway. In fact, he didn’t need anyone and if Doyle had so obviously called time on the friendship then he may as well because there was no point in clinging on to his pathetic dreams, no point at all. Funnily enough though, Bodie had actually been surprised that Ray had agreed to be his best man in the first place, considering…
The first few chords of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ forced him to push any further thoughts of his partner out of his head and he couldn’t suppress a delighted grin when he saw her entering the back of the church. As she walked towards him, arm in arm with her proud father, she looked as radiant and beautiful as Bodie had ever seen her and he pledged, there and then, that he would do his best to make her happy.
Suddenly her steps faltered and she looked around anxiously, scanning for someone amongst the guests. Bodie watched as her father leaned down to whisper in her ear and give her an encouraging smile before she nodded her head and the small procession resumed its slow journey down the aisle.
Bodie only vaguely listened to the vicar’s views on the sanctity of marriage. He might question the existence of a god but he had no doubts about his commitment to this woman. As he held her hand and offered his vows, he was utterly charmed by the tear that endearingly trickled down her cheek and, whilst he waited for her answering responses, he realised that he felt more contented than he had in a very long time.
But she didn’t immediately say anything, just looked deep into his eyes as if searching his very soul, questioning his commitment, stripping him naked.
Eventually, she stretched up on her tip toes to brush his cheek with her own, speaking so quietly that he nearly missed her words. He didn’t have time to fully register what she was saying before she cupped his bewildered face between her palms, said how very sorry she was and turned to quickly walk away.
His shout of, “Wait Ali, for god’s sake!” reverberated around the hushed church, although she didn’t seem to hear him.
Two hours later he had locked his Capri back in the garage, still ludicrously trailing tin cans from the rear bumper, and returned to the flat that he had hoped to share with his new bride. But his life had changed now and there was no going back. Long gone were the free Saturday afternoons spent with Ray; laughter, beer and takeaways watching footie on the box and, more lately, the cosy evenings with Ali, curled up together in the oversized armchair.
Castigating himself for such pathetic thoughts, he hung the new suit back in its protective bag, pulled on his bike leathers, climbed aboard the BMW and left London far behind - along with everything and everyone associated with it. Yeah, time to move on.
Even as the sun dropped lower in the sky, he continued to power his bike along the darkening roads until, finally, he could admit that he was utterly and completely lost. He did eventually pull up outside a nondescript pub, its warm lights promising some welcome comfort, but he very nearly turned back at the door when the heat and noise hit him. Taking a deep steadying breath, he strode up to the bar and automatically ordered a pint. Then, after finding a small table by the window, he sat staring out into the night, the beer already forgotten in front of him.
Was it really only six months since he had admitted to Ray how he felt?
“What do you think I am; a fucking queer or something?” was the succinct response he got to his unguarded declaration.
The subject was never discussed again but things had obviously changed. Bodie sensed that Ray no longer trusted him and subtly avoided situations that might find them alone together, making excuses to meet in the local pub instead of at one of their flats. However, their working partnership seemed largely unaffected and they were still hailed as the squad’s best team.
Funnily enough, even though he had dated Ali on and off for a couple of years, their relationship didn’t really start getting serious until Doyle began distancing himself. And as they grew closer, Bodie couldn’t quite believe that she accepted him for who he was and had never seemed too shocked by any of his revelations. Even when, one drunken evening, he had first confessed that he loved his partner. She had smiled softly and told him she already knew that but believed he loved her equally, if not more. She had then rolled around laughing at the absurd thought of Ray being anything but the unrivalled womaniser that he so obviously was.
So, he now wondered why she had she strung him along for so long, only deciding at the very last minute that marrying him was the wrong choice. What had he inadvertently revealed that made her decide she didn’t want to settle for second-best? She was right; she did deserve better and he really hoped she’d find it but he now knew he wasn’t going to bother looking himself any more. When he considered that he had managed to fuck up his two most important relationships by first falling for his best friend and then believing he’d found happiness with the beautiful Ali, then what was the bloody point?
“Love? Hah, an over-rated emotion if ever there was one”, he muttered as he picked up his glass and set about drinking himself into oblivion. He downed the lager in one before he stood up, found a place at the bar and ordered the first of many large vodkas.
*****
Doyle spent the weekend alone. He tried filling his time with cleaning his flat, restocking the kitchen, catching up with the laundry and reading three of the books he’d been saving for his holidays but nothing, not even jogging around the local cemetery in the pouring rain, seemed to stop him worrying. What possible explanation was he going to be able to offer Bodie, when he returned from his honeymoon, that would help them salvage their friendship?
Monday morning came around slowly and with relief he drove in to headquarters, hoping he’d be allocated some work that would require his complete concentration for the next fortnight.
Flashing his ID in the general direction of the security desk as he loped past, Fred attempted to call him back. “4.5. Mr Cowley wants to see you at eight o’clock… and he expects you to be on time.”
Doyle waved his hand in acknowledgement as he continued on towards the rest room, looking forward to a catch-up with some of the squad before they all dispersed. He was disappointed to find it already deserted, although the kettle was still warm and a blue haze lingered in the far corner. Coughing a little unnecessarily, considering there was no-one around to notice, he pushed open the window to clear the air and, whilst he waited for the kettle to re-boil, wandered over to study the duty board. It looked like a couple of big operations were coming together and he was relieved to see that he was on a solo op up north. Yeah, two weeks of peace and quiet; that wasn’t so bad, he granted. Better than being stuck with some snotty new recruit or cooped up with the likes of Anson and his foul cigars.
The door banged open and Murphy charged into the room, squabbling about something or other with Jax who was following closely behind.
“Hey, you two, where is everyone?”
They both stopped and looked at him. “Oh, you’re still alive then?” said Jax, with an unusual touch of sarcasm. “We missed you at the church - but perhaps not as much as Bodie did, the poor sod.”
“Now, come on mate, he’s a big lad you know and doesn’t need me holding his hand. Mind, she’s a lovely girl, is our Ali. Chose the wrong bloke though, when she could’ve had m...”
Uncharacteristically, an angry Murphy was in Doyle’s face before he had a chance to finish. “You fucking bastard!”
Their brief stand-off was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. “Yes sir, he’s here… right away.” Jax replaced the receiver and turned to Doyle. “The Cow wants you.”
As he made his way into his boss’ outer office, he was beginning to realise that it wasn’t only Bodie who’d be expecting an explanation. He would need to think of a plausible one quickly before he met up with those two again.
“Good morning, 4.5.”
“Oh, hi Betty. I’ve been summoned.”
“Yes. You were expected five minutes ago.” Cowley’s secretary continued to clatter away on her typewriter even as she gave him a long withering look.
A little aggrieved, knowing he wasn’t actually late yet, he knocked and went it, settling himself against the nearest filing cabinet, legs crossed, arms folded.
The Controller eventually closed the file he was making notes in, carefully placed his fountain pen on the blotter and looked up to face him. “I’m sending you to Manchester, Doyle, to take over from Miller. It’s a straightforward op; I want details of this man’s activities.” He pushed a buff folder across the desk towards him. “You know the drill. Don’t take any action, just inform me of anything noteworthy. But don’t go losing him!”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” he replied absently as he skimmed through the enclosed photos and typewritten reports.
“I’ll send you some relief when I can but you’ll be mostly on your own with this one,” Cowley reminded him. “Although I do expect Bodie back before the case breaks.”
He removed his glasses and paused a moment before continuing. “On a more personal note, what pressing engagement kept you from his big day, then?”
Shit, someone else expecting him to bloody account for himself!
“It’s hardly any of your…” Doyle paused to consider the sanity of that response. “Something came up,” he added, a little more conciliatorily.
“Have you heard from him?” Cowley surprisingly ignored the hint of insubordination.
“God, no … and I don’t expect to, either. There are some things he doesn’t need my help with.”
“You can be a cruel man sometimes, 4.5. I hope the confidence you have in your partner is not unfounded.” Cowley replaced his glasses and turned his attention back to the thick files on his desk, effectively dismissing him. “Miller will fully brief you when you get to Manchester.”
Leaving the office, Doyle was astonished that he had so obviously failed to consider how any of the squad would react to his absence at the wedding. But to be judged ‘cruel’ came as a quite a shock. Did Cowley really think they were joined at the hip and, if so, then he surely must have presumed there’d be some separation when one of them got married?
He thought he might find Murphy or Jax still in the VIP lounge but, thankfully, it seemed they’d already left the building. Sensing he was missing something vital, apart from Bodie that is, he headed home to pack his bag. It wasn’t unusual for him to work solo on occasion but Doyle was feeling increasingly uneasy as he drove north up the busy M1 later that morning.
*****
Alerted by concerned security staff to the wanderer’s early morning return, Cowley went directly to the rest room. He almost missed the dark figure slumped in the depths of the favoured armchair.
It was hard to reconcile the changes that had occurred in just two weeks. He noted that Bodie’s face was marred by dark shadows, stubble and fading bruises. His normally well-cared for biking gear was badly scuffed down one side and there was the lingering odour of stale alcohol pervading the room. Shaking his head, he left him to sleep and returned to his own office to start the day.
Two hours later there was a knock on his door. Bodie looked noticeably better; he’d shaved, showered and changed his clothes but there was no disguising the pale, gaunt look.
“How are you, 3.7?”
“Much as I enjoyed the break sir, I’ll be glad to get back to some proper work. I see 4.5’s up in the sticks and I was wondering if I could work solo myself as well.”
Ignoring the request, Cowley indicated the drinks cabinet. “Pour yourself a wee dram and make mine a large one. I foresee a long day ahead.”
“Eight o’clock is a bit early, even for me,” Bodie muttered before handing a glass to his boss and quietly sitting down empty handed.
Studying one half of his best team, Cowley said nothing more until Bodie finally lifted his head and looked at him directly.
“Have you seen Miss Clarke since your return?”
“I only arrived back in the city this morning, so haven’t been able to catch up with everyone just yet... sir.”
Neither man broke eye contact for a few moments; Cowley continuing his appraisal and Bodie determined to reveal nothing of his inner turmoil.
So, he’s still strong enough to be insolent then, Cowley thought with relief, which helped him come to a decision that he’d been pondering over.
“I intend partnering you with Murphy for a while,” he finally announced.
“As I said before, I would prefer to work solo, if you don’t mind.”
“I will be the one deciding how this department is run. Do I make myself clear, 3.7?”
Bodie didn’t reply immediately, apparently giving serious thought to his answer. Eventually he sat up a little straighter and nodded his head.
“Och man, go home, you’ll be no use to me today. Sort yourself out and report back tomorrow, 08:30 sharp. There’s talk of another drugs war, here in London and I want it stopped.”
Cowley’s confidence was not greatly improved as he watched a subdued Bodie leave his office.
But despite his concern for one of his agents, he still had a ten o’clock meeting with the minister to prepare for.
*****
The following morning Murphy found Bodie making coffee in the otherwise deserted rest room.
“Do you want one? Kettle’s just boiled,” he was asked.
“Yeah, ok”. He watched Bodie search for the best mug amongst the assorted pile of crockery on the drainer before he chose one and spooned in the Nescafe. He couldn’t help but agree with the Cow’s assessment; Bodie did look tired although Murphy had seen him looking a lot worse, remembering how bad he’d been after Doyle’s shooting. Which wasn’t really surprising, considering he’d spent most of his spare time at the hospital, accepting everything the battle-scarred patient threw at him throughout his long and very painful recovery. But to everyone’s relief, Doyle had stubbornly dragged himself through rehab and eventually been pronounced fit for work - what was it, seven or eight months ago?
Murphy could easily understand how his near-death experience had changed Ray; he’d bounced back with a new zest for life, a determination to prove he could be as good as he was before Mayli had attempted to turn him into a watering can and was soon screwing his way through an unsuspecting female population. But there had been a subtle change in Bodie as well - and not necessarily for the better.
“Here.”
A steaming mug thrust under his nose interrupted his thoughts. Murphy grimaced as he tasted the contents. “Christ mate, you’ve forgotten the sugar!”
“Ah sorry, force of habit. I’ll let you make all the drinks in future. This was just an introductory offer for my new partner. Cheers,” Bodie said, saluting him with his own mug.
*****
Doyle was sick and tired of staring at the four walls of the Didsbury bedsit, particularly as the yellow flock wallpaper was slowly disappearing behind large swathes of mould and mildew. He’d stayed in some dumps in his time but this was the pits. The two-bar electric fire was woefully inadequate at combatting the cold or the damp, despite the number of fifty pence pieces he fed the electric meter so he could keep it running constantly. Cowley was going to have a fit when he submitted his next expense chit.
He was supposed to share the kitchen and bathroom with the tenants in the two adjacent rooms but he hadn’t actually met either of them yet, only hearing their clandestine comings and goings late at night. So, he pretty much had the place to himself.
The only brightness in the day was found in his music tapes, some of which he’d sneakily stolen from Bodie’s car months ago. He was currently listening to Ziggy Stardust and was surprised that Bodie hadn’t noticed the cassette had gone missing - or maybe he had and was too stubborn to ask for it back. Doyle had wondered why he’d even ‘borrowed’ that particular one when he preferred R&B himself. Weirdly though, it was fast becoming one of his favourites and therefore the most frequently played. Perhaps he needed some fresh material before he turned in to yet another mad Bowie fan like his partner.
That reminded him; he would need to pick up some spare batteries for his Walkman when he was next out tailing his target because he couldn’t bear to think what it would be like if he didn’t have something to combat the incessant tedium and enforced silence.
“…love descends on those defenceless, idiot love will spark the fusion…” he quietly sang along with Bowie as he changed the roll of film in the camera.
His surveillance duties weren’t particularly difficult either. MacArthur was a man who preferred routine rather than the unpredictable. Up at 09:30, cooked breakfast, trip to the local shop for a packet of fags and the morning paper, then back home to meet the ‘business associates’ who drifted in and out throughout the day. Later on, he might walk down to the pub on the corner for a swift half but he never stayed long enough for Doyle to enjoy the change of scenery.
The surveillance job was simple enough; photograph any visitors and keep records of times and dates. He wondered if Cowley was punishing him for something, putting him on this solo obbo because he was bored out of his brains and left with far too much time to think…
Bodie would have been back from his honeymoon for nearly a fortnight now. A married man. Who would have imagined that ever happening? Even Cowley had predicted that it was highly unlikely he would need to arrange a security check on any one of 3.7’s birds. How bloody wrong had he been?
Doyle did worry who Bodie had been temporarily partnered with whilst he was stuck up here, in Manchester. He hoped it would be Murphy because they’d always seemed to get on well together; their shared army background probably had a lot to do with that. The truth was though, he’d assumed he would have been reteamed with Bodie as soon as he was back from his honeymoon and not still be sitting here in this hell hole.
He also wondered how Ali would be coping with all the unsocial hours her husband would be working. Or the undercover jobs or indeed, the inherent dangers he would face, day in, day out. Would she be expecting him to come in off the streets? Nah, he would never settle for a desk job… or would he? Or would he even have a choice in the matter?
Wrapped up in his uncertainties, Doyle almost missed the blue Saab pulling up on the double yellow lines outside. He grabbed his camera, almost fumbling it in the process and, twitching the net curtains to one side, kept snapping until the passenger and his driver disappeared inside the house opposite.
Shit! Harry Tomlinson as I live and breathe! What the hell is a heavyweight like him associating with a scumbag like MacArthur for?
As he was out of RT range, he knew he’d have to use the public phone downstairs and call this one in urgently. The Cow would not be best pleased if he hadn’t been informed of this development and, besides, Doyle wasn’t sure who he should now follow; MacArthur or Tomlinson, but he dearly hoped it was the latter because that would be where the action was.
*****
Murphy was surprised at how quickly he and Bodie had settled in to an effective working partnership. This was helped largely by Bodie’s willingness to let him lead on the operations; deciding when to move in, which snitch to approach, when to be the good cop, when the bad. He did seem more docile than usual but that was understandable considering the shitty time he’d had lately.
However, he had no idea where Bodie went after their shifts ended. He’d turned down all suggestions of meeting in the pub and had never once spoken about Ali or the aborted wedding or anything else on a personal level for that matter. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t even mentioned Ray.
He supposed that this was as good a time as any to try and break the ice.
“Do you fancy a quick pint before we head back, Bodie? The landlord keeps a good cellar in The Dog and Partridge, or so the local plods tell me.”
“Nah, we should shift it as the Cow wants these reports on his desk by morning.” Bodie turned towards the carpark at the rear of the police station but Murphy stalled him with a hand on his sleeve.
“Ah, come on, mate. I believe the food’s not bad either. Shame to pass up on the opportunity for a decent lunch.”
The arm was whipped away, shocking Murphy with the abruptness of it.
“I said no.” With that, Bodie marched off to where they’d left the Capri.
Murphy had never been on the receiving end of the legendary temper before and he certainly didn’t want to experience it first-hand right now so he got in the car and they drove back to HQ in an uncomfortable silence.
Luckily, the following morning Bodie seemed more like his old self again, although he was now sporting the beginnings of a shiner and an Elastoplast covered the knuckles of his right hand. He did offer to make Murphy another brew, this time even remembering to add the sugar, and willingly took both their finished reports down to put in Betty’s in-tray for collating. Unfortunately, he was collared by Cowley in the process, who frowned disapprovingly at the black eye.
“Ah, 3.7. I want you and 6.2 in my office in ten minutes.”
“What does the old scrote want now?” Murphy asked when Bodie returned to the rest room. “He can’t have read our reports yet, you’ve only just dropped them off.” He had been hoping for a quiet morning to have a quick kip. After leaving work the previous evening, he’d given his latest girlfriend a call and they’d spent a very pleasurable few hours together. Exhausting but definitely worth every minute’s lost sleep. He had intended to gloat a bit with Bodie but, on second thoughts, realised that probably wasn’t a very good idea.
“How the hell should I know. Get your arse in gear and we’ll find out.”
Cowley appraised them of the new information Doyle had acquired. Intelligence now indicated that Harry Tomlinson was about to permanently shut down the Shoreditch drug ring because he needed their patch for his own nefarious business operations. Concern was being raised because he had been known to use explosives to get what he wanted in the past and he didn’t generally give a toss for any innocent bystanders. Cowley was aware that he was also looking to bring in some local muscle to bolster his mob’s strength, so both Bodie and Murphy were to ensure they got themselves drafted on to his payroll.
He gave them false documents and alternative lodgings to give credence to their back stories and told them to report to the armoury where they were issued with untraceable handguns, knives and knuckledusters.
After changing into more appropriate jeans and old jackets, they dropped some personal stuff at their ‘new’ flats and met up again at the Black Swan; a pub known to be frequented by Tomlinson when he was in town and recruiting. Not the best of circumstances to have their first drink together but at least, Murphy thought optimistically, it was a start.
*****
With relief, Doyle packed up his stuff and left the grotty flat eight days later. He drove directly to HQ and went straight down to the Ops Room where he knew the Controller was updating the squad and where he hoped to get more news of Bodie and Murphy’s undercover operation.
“Ah 4.5, welcome back. Good work up in Manchester. As you know, Tomlinson is about to shut down the Shoreditch gang and, we are led to believe, that he’s planning to do it Thursday night. We are just waiting on some final information from Lewis.”
“Do we even know where the drug factory is, yet?” he asked, keen to get up to speed as quickly as possible.
“Murphy thinks it’s highly likely to be in the old Albion Warehouse on Osman Road. He and Bodie have followed Tomlinson there on several occasions and he, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be surveying the place. Murphy also recognised some of the local dealers who were milling around outside. We’ll know soon enough, if Lewis’ snitch comes through with the goods.”
Cowley unrolled a large map and spread it across the table, holding the corners down with various files. “Once we have confirmation, I’ll want Anson and Jax positioned on the roofs opposite, here and here.” He indicated two red crosses with the arm of his glasses. “You’ll need sniper rifles. I’ll have Jenkins ready them for you to collect from the armoury this afternoon. Doyle, I want you, Lucas and McCabe covering the back. Pick a team of four off the duty roster. Murphy will lead the frontal assault, taking Benny, Taylor, Charlie and …”
“Murphy?” Doyle stood up straighter and frowned at the Controller. “I thought he was working with Bodie.”
“He was but then the case he was running last June came to court earlier than expected and they called him in as an expert witness. There was no way he could account for his two-day absence without drawing too much attention to himself. Tomlinson is a canny bastard and we didn’t feel it worth risking the whole operation trying to get him back inside.”
“But still worth risking Bodie, eh? He’s on his own in there, you do realise. Who’s watching his back now?”
“Yes Doyle, I am fully aware of the current situation. They discussed it before Murphy left and Bodie seemed to think he could handle it, if he kept his head down.”
“And we all know how good he is at that, don’t we?” Doyle knew he was being unfair, that Bodie could handle most covert operations… it’s just that he could also be a bit bloody reckless at times, as well. “How’s Ali taking all this, then? Is she even aware that Bodie’s deep undercover? Geez, they’ve only been married a few weeks and already he’s putting his life on the line.”
The room went eerily quiet and the other agents kept their heads lowered, seemingly to study the plans in closer detail. Everyone except Cowley, that is.
“Doyle, come, we’ll talk in my office. The rest of you, organise your teams and check out the necessary equipment. We’ll be needing to mobilise as soon as we have word of the exact time and location.”
Doyle declined the glass of whisky he was offered, dread forming a knot in his stomach.
“I had wrongly assumed that someone in the squad would have told you…” Cowley hesitated. “I am surprised… so, the whole time you were up in Manchester you didn’t…?” He looked embarrassed and that worried Doyle, because the Cow never looked embarrassed. Or was it shame he could see?
“Sir?”
“I am sorry lad, I should have made it my business to ensure you knew; the wedding didn’t go ahead as planned. Miss Clarke changed her mind.”
“What! What d’you mean?”
“There was no marriage.”
“How … why… what the hell happened?” Doyle asked, struggling to control his building excitement. Was he going to get a second chance, a chance to make things right between them?
“As I said, the young lady called it off. Unfortunately, she left it until they were at the altar. As you can imagine, Bodie didn’t take it too well.”
The poor bastard, Doyle acknowledged, feeling guilty now for his selfish thoughts.
“Why the hell wasn’t I told before? He’s supposed to be my partner, for fuck’s sake. I could have been here for him, supported him.”
“If you had been willing to perform your duties as his best man, then you would have…”
They were interrupted by Betty’s knock on the door. Doyle barely noticed her enter, his head reeling with the implications of Cowley’s unfinished words. Yeah, he should have been...
“Mr Cowley, Lewis has just got back,” she announced. “He confirms that a bomb has been planted in The Albion, set to go off at twelve noon tomorrow.”
“My God, they’ve brought it forward. We’ll finish this conversation later, Doyle. In the meantime, select your team and get them prepared. We’ll move in at first light.”
“Sir? That’s not all.” Betty looked towards Doyle, her sympathy barely hidden. “The snitch told Lewis that he thinks 3.7’s cover’s been blown.”
*****
“OK, Brook, why was that mate of yours knocking around with a copper the other day?”
“I wouldn’t call him a mate, Tomlinson. I’ve only worked with him on a couple of jobs. That hardly makes us best…”
With his arms and legs securely tied to the chair, Bodie could hardly avoid the blow to his unprotected belly.
“Bullshit. He’s a bloody snout and I want to know what he’s blabbed to the filth.”
“How the hell should I know?”
A savage right cross to the chin sent him crashing to the floor.
“Where d’you first meet him?”
“I can’t remember. The Black Swan, possibly?” he offered, hoping a little cooperation would buy him some respite.
He was pulled upright again so savagely that the chair rocked precariously from side to side, threatening to overbalance again before finally settling back on all four legs.
“We’ve checked his digs but he appears to have shipped out. Where’s he gone?” Tomlinson persisted.
“I don’t even know where he lived in the first place!”
“Don’t give me that, you fucking arsehole.” A vicious swipe with a baseball bat, swung by one of Tomlinson’s heavies, shifted a rib or two and Bodie struggled to take his next breath.
“I promise you, you’ll be singing like a bloody eunuch before long, so save yourself a shit load of aggro and answer my fucking question. Where has Mitchell disappeared to?”
“A world bloody cruise?”
He wavered on the edge of losing consciousness when the bat struck his left arm with a sickening crack. Someone grabbed his hair, pulled his head back so he couldn’t fail to see the stiletto blade that Tomlinson was waving menacingly about in front of his face.
“Got anything to say now, hard man?”
Bodie wasn’t sure what, if anything, he could say to avoid that being used on him so he gritted his teeth and defiantly glared back.
Tomlinson wasn’t to be put off so easily though and was evidently in a hurry to wrap up this little inconvenience so he could start to organise his new campaign of attack. The pain, when it came, was excruciating as he pierced Bodie’s flesh with the knife each time he didn’t get the information he wanted to hear.
But Bodie couldn’t be arsed responding any more. What was the point? He wouldn’t believe him until he got the truth and he was never going to get that.
Eventually Tomlinson saw the futility of it all and turned to his goons. “We’ll have to assume that Mitchell grassed and just move the operation forward a bit, that’s all. We may not catch the fuckers at work but we can certainly close ‘em down, right enough, and that’s good enough for now. We’ll take that” he nodded towards Bodie, “and dispose of the body at the same time.”
He then stepped forward and threw another low body punch but then, just before he lost consciousness, Bodie caught a glimpse of the blood-covered blade that Tomlinson was actually holding in his fist.
Fuck!
*****
Doyle knew that time was running out fast. The bomb was primed to detonate in less than twenty minutes. Unfortunately, the position and construction of the device had prevented the Army Disposal Team from even attempting to defuse it so sandbags and anti-blast mats had been packed tightly around to try and minimise the damage. Everyone had already been evacuated from the building and the drug lords and dealers rounded up and handed over to the police… everyone, except the agent Cowley insisted was still imprisoned inside and who his men would willingly continue searching for until the final possible moment.
As he leapt down the last flight of stairs, he barrelled straight into Murphy.
“God Ray, am I bloody glad to see you. Has anyone found him yet?”
“No but he’s here, I know it, so keep bloody looking!” he shouted back over his shoulder as he raced off in the opposite direction.
He knew the rest of the squad were searching the upper floors but Doyle was so relieved that he now had some help with the cavernous basement. He skidded to a halt by the first in another long row of heavy oak doors. Finding it locked, he stretched up to peer in through the iron grille. Empty, or so it appeared with such a cursory look.
“Bodie!” he shouted again, frustration catching in his voice, but there was still no reply. Goddammit, where the hell was he?
As he approached the final few rooms, his confidence that he would find his friend alive had faltered considerably. They’d always been able to anticipate each other’s moves, understand each other’s motives, two parts of a whole, the very best. But that was no longer true, was it? They’d well and truly fucked up and Cowley had had them working apart for ages. In fact, they hadn’t even seen each other for around six weeks so how could he expect things to feel the same?
As he peered through the grille of yet another secured door, Doyle was so lost in his increasing fears that he almost failed to see the body lying dumped in the middle of the stone floor.
“Bodie?” he whispered and then, with more urgency, “Murph, he’s here!”
He tried the handle again, just to be sure, but it remained firmly locked. Kicking out in anger, he realised there was a small broken hatch at the base of the door which he was able to slide open.
Christ, it was going to be tight.
Removing his jacket and holster, he squeezed himself, with some difficulty, through the narrow gap.
At first, he thought that he was too late - Bodie felt so deathly cold - but Doyle released a long-held breath when he eventually found a weak pulse. Dried blood caked Bodie’s body and he could now see that fresh rivulets continued to ooze sluggishly from numerous open wounds scattered over his bare chest, stomach and arms. Even his feet were a blackened mess, he vaguely noted.
“Ray! Where are you?” Murphy’s voice ghosted through the basement.
“Here.”
Just as Doyle finished checking Bodie’s airway, Murphy’s face appeared at the grille.
“Christ, Ray. Is he…?”
“He’s alive. We’re going to have to get him out that way,” he said, tilting his head towards the hatch.
“Jesus, how the hell are we going to manage…?”
“Unless you have a key then that’s the only option.”
“OK, mate,” Murphy replied, pulling out his RT to call in the news that they’d found Bodie but he was in need of urgent medical attention.
Doyle was already struggling with the slippery body. “Chuck us me coat, Murph. I can’t get a grip on him.”
It was hard forcing the uncooperative arms into the jacket sleeves, particularly the left which seemed oddly swollen but, once he’d managed, he was then able to drag Bodie over to the door. Murphy reached through, took a firm grip on the collar and pulled him the last couple of feet - but Bodie’s shoulder caught on the frame with a shocking thud.
“Geez! Come on, Murph, for god’s sake.”
They tried to ignore the additional damage they knew they were inflicting as they pulled, shoved and twisted Bodie into the small opening until, with a final tearing of leather, his body was forced through.
“How long have we got?” Doyle gasped, bending to retrieve his holster.
“About six minutes, by my reckoning - provided the intel is accurate and the bombers know their stuff. So, let’s get out of here.”
They hoisted Bodie upright, slung his arms over their shoulders and dragged him back down the corridor the way they’d come, his bare feet leaving blood-stained trails in the accumulated detritus of the disused warehouse.
They had just started up the second flight of stairs when Bodie’s right foot caught between two iron balusters, pulling them off balance and sending them crashing to their knees.
“We’re not going to make it, Murph. Time’s running out… it’s too far,” Ray conceded. “Help me get him under here then leg it, will you?”
“OK, but you’re coming with me. Bodie’s out of it. He’ll not thank you for risking your life unnecessarily.”
“I’m not leaving him. Deserted him once but never again. I have to stay. Now go!” With that, Doyle pushed Bodie deeper under the concrete steps and tried to offer as much protection as he could with his own body.
Listening to Murphy race back up the stairwell, Doyle hugged Bodie even tighter against his chest, buried his face in the matted hair and willed him to survive long enough to hear his apology. Far too soon though, he felt the floor shift and groan beneath him before the shaken building entombed them under choking piles of dust and broken masonry.
part 2: https://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/372313.html