Pros fic: No Dreams, part 2 of 2

[hutchynstarsk]

#

When he pulled Steed in for questioning, the sandy-haired, broad-shouldered man looked Bodie up and down-a glance that was neither quick nor furtive. It surprised Bodie somehow, made him feel off-balance for a second.

He was supposed to be the one in charge of this whole scene, and yet this man seemed confident-arrogant-enough to believe that he had control, could even look a CI5 man up and down as if assessing his ... qualities. He did the same thing with any girl who got in his view, and Bodie began to wonder just how safe this arrogant man felt that he could be so indiscreet even in CI5 headquarters.

“Where were you last night?” he asked Steed, doing the whole steely CI5 man bit. Remembering the corpse that had looked like Doyle, it wasn’t hard.

Forensics hadn’t proved whether Steed (or anyone else) had been a customer of the dead man, and no one had been found to serve as a witness of any sort. Bodie was dreading the visit home to the family. Perhaps he could palm it off on Mac or Murph. Doyle was out, for obvious reasons. (Getting to sit on his arse while the others worked theirs off!)

“I can give you names and addresses if you like.” Steed leaned back, arms crossed, smirking.

“Oh? More than one, was it?”

“Several.” He proceeded to give details that left Bodie in no doubt about his insatiability-if they were true.

He was glad to be out of the room with that mocking gaze. The man irritated him. Especially as Bodie was supposed to make this look like a routine investigation, and had to keep the gloves on.

#

“It doesn’t make any sense, sir,” said Bodie, frowning. He, Doyle and Cowley were conferring in Cowley’s office after Bodie and Doyle had separately tracked down each of the names and addresses. Each witness swore blind that they’d been with Steed for part of the night.

“And all the hours line up neatly, minus a little driving time.” Doyle flopped down his notebook and sighed heavily, angrily. He ran a hand back through his hair. “It has to be a setup-has to be. But why?”

Bodie threw him a glance, wondering if he’d been forgiven now, or if the ‘why’ was a general thing, aimed at no one in particular. “That’s what I’m saying. Why bother getting alibis-and so many? Why bother killing that man-going to all that trouble? He obviously has as many willing sexual partners as he wants, and no shortage of funds if he can bribe so many people. Though they may not all be bribes.”

“Because, men,” said Cowley, “killing is the biggest thrill of all. Och! He’s rubbing our noses in it. I can smell it. The American may or may not be involved, but Steed is involved, and deep, too.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” repeated Doyle in an undertone. He was frowning, as if trying to make sense of something.

“What doesn’t?” Cowley faced him, and Bodie watched, too. They were both alert to Doyle’s hunches, knew not to underestimate them.

“I can’t put my finger on it yet, sir.” He looked up at Cowley, confused and worried and a bit irritated. “But there’s something...” He shook his curly head slowly.

“Well think of it, and soon, Doyle. Now on your bikes, men.” He turned back to his desk, to tackle the piles of papers there.

Bodie caught up with his partner by the coffee machine. “Pour me one. Ta.” He looked at Doyle, trying hard to be bright-eyed and cheerful. He took a mouthful of coffee, then grimaced, and added sugar. “You could’ve at least sweetened it for me.”

He waited for Doyle’s comeback, something along the lines of telling Bodie he was getting lazier every day.

It didn’t come. Doyle still wore a frown.

“Face’ll stay like that if the wind changes,” said Bodie jovially, a remark designed to draw fire, or a roll of Doyle’s eyes and a laugh.

“Still not talking to me then?” he finished, letting his face go mournful.

Doyle cast him a glance, as if only just noticing he was there. He looked annoyed, as if by a buzzing mosquito. “Oh, go away Bodie, I’m thinking!” He ran a hand back through his hair. He slurped his own coffee, grimaced and set it down and stared abstractly at the pattern on the wall.

“Right, I’ll just go away then mate, shall I?” Bodie headed to his desk, mouth turned down. Forget him anyway.

#

There was a scratchy sound of cloth against microphone. “I still don’t like this.” Doyle spoke into the wire he wore. He couldn’t afford to be seen with an R/T. He wasn’t wearing much, couldn’t reliably conceal it anywhere.

Bodie crouched in a nearby alley and watched his breath make fog. Doyle must be frozen. He walked up and down the alley, rubbing his arms. His steps sounded quick and sharp in his boots. He wore his jeans with the patch on the arse. They were tight, faded, and quite worn. He wore a thin red shirt, buttons open to the waist. His hair was wild and in his chest hair nestled a gaudy gold chain. But essentially everything was the same: Doyle, in his too-tight clothes. Only today he was walking down an alley undercover as a prostitute waiting for a customer.

Bodie would tweak him about that someday-that he didn’t have to change his style much to pass as a hooker.

But not today. Today he was just so worried about Doyle that he didn’t have any jokes in him.

He’d prevailed on Cowley, insisted on being within sight of Doyle the whole time. Visions of the other dead men haunted him sickeningly. And even though he knew Doyle was strong, armed, and knew karate, the pit of dread in his stomach didn’t go away from that knowledge. In fact, even with him watching, he wouldn’t really feel safe until this was all behind them, until Doyle was safely (and warmly) indoors and the killer was finally behind bars.

It had to be Steed. It just had to be.

Now he was heading this way, carefully and secretly tailed by CI5 agents, his whereabouts reported conscientiously all the way.

He’d come this way last night, and they had every reason to hope he’d come here again, trawling for sex. Cowley had set Doyle up tonight to prepare for that possibility. Ignoring Bodie’s objections.

No one had died last night. But perhaps there had been no one who looked like Doyle, either.

Now all they could do was wait.

“I hope we catch him this time,” muttered Doyle into his wire. “I’m tired of being the goat.”

Since he wasn’t talking into an R/T, Bodie couldn’t reply, couldn’t dredge up a smart remark to lessen the tension. All he could do was endure....

His R/T crackled to life, and another agent’s voice sounded, tight and alert. “Here he comes, 3.7. Get ready. He’s cruising along, heading right your way.”

Bodie’s grip tightened on his gun and he crouched lower. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat slicking his armpits.

He knew that not far away other men and women walked and waited for customers. How did anybody work like that on a night like this in an alley like this, when they knew someone had been killed so very recently? It must be hell...

He thought back to Doyle’s words to Cowley. He had sounded both indignant and unnerved. “‘I’ve never done anything like this,’” he’d insisted. As though he needed that to be very clear to the whole world-and especially to Bodie, whom he was still mad at.

But he hadn’t said the words to Bodie. Actually, he’d barely said anything to Bodie lately.

Now, watching his partner play bait in a cold alleyway, Bodie strongly wished that so much didn’t separate them. The undercover op, the lack of R/T, but more than that, the cold indignant wrath from Doyle, because Bodie had said the wrong thing. He wished he could set it right now-take back the fact that he’d mentioned it or say the right words to set Doyle at ease again. To remove that bitter, distrustful look from his slanted green eyes.

Bodie gripped his R/T more tightly in his fist.

I’d say it doesn’t matter, mate. It doesn’t matter who you were or what you did. You’re my partner, and I’m sorry if I ever gave you cause to doubt that.

But so much more than a few cold yards of air and pavement separated them tonight.

The sound of tyres. An engine. A car, driving slowly. Doyle strode towards the front of the alley and leaned provocatively against a brick wall. Bodie couldn’t see it, but he could imagine how it would be: Doyle’s gaze, sullen and smouldering, following the car’s driver.

Daring him to stop.

The car braked, gently. A door opened. Footsteps.

Doyle’s voice, rising in a cant wheedle of price arguing and bravado. The rumble of Steed’s words in reply. Bodie clutched his gun, thought of the dead men and felt sick.

Doyle was leading him back into the alley, ostensibly for a bit more privacy, in truth to be nearer his backup. Was he terrified? Was his heart pounding desperately? Or was he playing it cool, handling everything with grace under fire the way Doyle so often seemed to do during undercover work-fooling everyone, except Bodie....

“Let’s see the colour of your money,” said Doyle, near enough now for each word to be distinct to Bodie. He shifted his aching calves a little, and readied himself to spring forth. They needed some kind of evidence, though. An attack, a threat-something. Only, please, not a dead Doyle.

“I’ve got it for you right here,” said Steed’s arrogant voice, heavy with something ugly and sensual at the same time. He drew a hand from his jacket and-

Shick. Shick.

The gleam of light from metal caught Bodie’s eyes at the same second Steed thrust his knife forward. Bodie erupted from his hiding place, screaming a wordless war yell, running all out.

Too late.

Doyle flung out one of his fancy karate moves, but Steed twisted, shoved the knife deeper. And drew back and shoved it in again, twisting.

When he pulled it out, Doyle crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. Steed stood there in the moonlit, hazy alley, holding a blood-drenched knife. His gaze rose to Bodie, flicking up from the gruesome task that every silent signal of his posture screamed he wanted to complete.

The knife flicked to the ready. “Come on, then.” He took one step forward so he stood over Doyle, his grin an ugly thing, daring Bodie, taunting him.

Bodie raised his gun and fired.

Two shots exploded from his gun. Steed looked... somehow surprised as he toppled. It seemed he fell in slow motion, right on top of Doyle.

Bodie ran towards them, reached them and yanked him off, fumbling with his R/T. “Ambulance, in the alley,” he ordered in a gasp, and shoved Steed with his flickering eyelids aside. Bodie knelt over Doyle, who lay so very still.

Down the alley burst another agent, eyes wild, gun drawn. “Steed?”

Bodie ignored him. “Come on, sunshine. Come on,” he murmured, searching quickly for the wounds. Doyle was slick with dark liquid. “Mate, don’t leave me.”

Vaguely he was aware of the footsteps of the other agent. The man neared Steed, bent over him and then drew away. “I’ll guide them in,” he said, retreating with one shocked glance at Doyle. He spoke into his R/T as he moved away. “Where’s that ambulance?”

Doyle gasped in a painful breath and opened his eyes. “Bodie!” he complained, his voice half its usual strength, odd-sounding, small and rough and pained.

“Sorry love.” His hands had found the wounds, low on Doyle’s abdomen. Under the ribs. Probably not fatal, but bleeding fast. Steed must’ve meant to finish him with a garrotte, like the others.... “Hold on for me and I’ll give you a pressie,” he promised nonsensically, his voice shaking with emotion and tension. “This’ll hurt, so be brave.” He yanked off his jacket, pressed it against the wound, against the welling dark liquid. Doyle cried out.

Bodie winced in sympathy. “Told you it would hurt.” His voice sounded like he would either laugh or cry in a moment. He bit his lower lip, hard, and kept the pressure on Doyle’s wound.

It was like his dreams, only worse because now it was real. Bodie, Doyle, blood, cold pavement, and a darkness deeper than night welling in his partner’s eyes.

Doyle’s breath was coming in shattered gasps, as if he couldn’t get enough of it in his lungs. Did he have a lung puncture? Was he haemorrhaging on the inside, filling up with blood so he couldn’t breathe? These things could happen, Bodie knew.

“Bo-die,” said Doyle. His eyes were dark, dark: now reflective mirrors showing street lights, fear, and a wise old soul. His teeth chattered. He’d been cold even before getting stabbed...

“Right here, sunshine.” He fumbled with his other hand for the R/T, now slick with Doyle’s blood. “Where’s the bloody ambulance?” he demanded, his voice beginning to break.

“Bodie... sorry... I’ve been a jerk...” Doyle’s eyelids began to close.

“You haven’t, mate. I was. Stay with me now, all right?” He nudged his partner’s arm. “Doyle! Not like you to give up a fight! Show some bottle.”

“I’m... tired.”

“No you’re not. Come on, stick with me.” His voice was all a-tremble, very un-Bodie-like. Behind his eyes, wetness burned. This was not happening. It had happened before, yes, to soldiers and mercs he knew, but never, never to someone he couldn’t bear to lose. Never to Doyle. Not that look, please God not that empty, slack look-

Finally, sirens. An ambulance pulled into the alleyway and disgorged itself of ambulance men. Its blue lights filled the alleyway with pulsing light, glowing eerily.

The medics removed Bodie’s bloody hand and began to work on Doyle. They checked Steed, and left him, and fetched a stretcher for Doyle. They called medical things to one another, hard at work, ignoring the uninjured CI5 man on the pavement who was choking back tears.

#

This was Doyle. He could survive anything.

Bodie reminded himself of that fact as he sat in the hospital. Well-sat, stood, or paced. He couldn’t seem to sit still for long. Even when he sat, he kept moving, shifting position, crossing one leg over the other, draping his arms over the backs of other chairs, then tilting his wrist to checking his watch. And frowning and erupting from his chair to begin the pacing process all over again.

He couldn’t get it out of his head that Doyle had been trying to say his last words to Bodie. Apologising, of all things.

The bloody fool. Best apology for anything he could ever do would be surviving. Just live through it, mate, he found himself thinking. Willing it with every cell of his being.

He hoped-he wanted to believe-that it would be nothing. He’d find out Doyle wasn’t hurt badly. They’d share a shaky laugh and move the topic quickly away from the scare they’d both had.

He’d buy Doyle grapes, tease him about skiving, give him magazines.

Make him promise never to say any last words to Bodie.

Bodie had been the recipient of too many last words already in his lifetime. Sometimes, they were from people he didn’t even get on with under normal circumstances.

It was a chore, a heavy burden to watch someone die and try to help them and be unable to help them. It was a heavy burden you’d never quite forget, to hear someone’s last words-even if they were nothing more than an incoherent desire for water or a tearful cry for Mother.

Those, in fact, were the worst. To have someone you’d hated dying practically in your arms, and hear the little boy in his voice, the things he would never say in any other hour of his life... It tore into your soul and left little gaps, where lesser feelings could sieve through.

Doyle, for all his quick compassion (and rage), had never understood that. He’d never seemed to realise how, after living through some things, smaller emotions and cares could come to mean next to nothing. These days a tragedy had to touch Bodie deeply and personally for him to feel much. It wasn’t just being a ‘hard man’ (as if it were some sort of game to him, or a play he was putting on), as being a soldier. A soldier who’d live through hell and come out and been very glad of the sunshine on the other side. But a soldier who was never quite the same afterwards.

But Doyle. Lying on the pavement bleeding-well that took it out of Bodie. Left him a jibbering wreck inside, to be honest. He’d been damn near bawling on the pavement, till someone came and drove him to the hospital to wait for Doyle.

Damn! He’d not known he could be so vulnerable to hurt anymore.

He got up, and started pacing again.

#
“Your partner can see you now.”

Bodie sprang to his feet at these so very welcome words. “Thanks, love.”

He’d fallen asleep for a bit in the waiting room, despite everything. It had been light sleep, a soldier’s sleep, alert for the unexpected noises, footsteps where they didn’t belong or the sound of weapons. Dreams, half-remembered things, had flitted through his brain, reminding him of Doyle, of death, of African suns beating down mercilessly on the dead and dying.

He was so glad to be back in the starched and sterile hospital with a weary nurse telling him where to go. He headed down the hall at a quick pace, nearly a jog.

Doyle, Doyle, Doyle...

“He’s been asking for you.” The doctor holding a clipboard faced Bodie somewhat disapprovingly from behind glasses that could rival Cowley’s for their no-nonsense quality. “But you can’t stay long. He’s groggy from anaesthesia, but recovering from his surgery quite well.”

“Thanks mate.” Bodie breezed past him with barely a nod, eyes and mind all for Doyle.

The pale figure in bed stared up at him blearily, as if he having trouble focusing. Doyle looked rather pathetic. “Bodie?” he asked, sounding utterly spent.

“Me, mate, all two of me.” Bodie smiled down at him far too widely and squeezed his partner’s arm.

Doyle gave an infinitesimal nod, as though everything were in place now. Then his eyes closed again, his breathing faint but steady.

Bodie stayed till the doctor returned to send him out.

He went home, showered, shaved, and tumbled into bed and slept, deeply and for a long time. No calls disturbed him, no dreams.

#

He held the door carefully for Doyle. The curly-haired agent moved slowly, achingly as he climbed into the Capri, grimacing as he tried not to jar or bend his knife-wounded, bandage-wrapped lower abdomen.

“All right?” asked Bodie.

Doyle nodded, his lips pressed together in a grouchy look. Bodie shut the door after him and bounced around to the other side. He climbed in, started the engine, massaged the gears and drove off, nice and easy. A smooth ride, to deliver Doyle home.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. Bodie was content with that.

Days seemed so much brighter since Doyle was going to be all right. It had been a painful and difficult thing, to see him hurt and deal with the aftermath, but Doyle was going to be all right now, so Bodie could forget all that.

Funny how something horrible happening could make you appreciate regular things so much more. It had always been that way; he remembered how wonderful his first pint tasted after a battle. How beautiful the whole world looked. It seemed macabre that it should be so, after all the ugliness he’d witnessed. And yet he’d never felt more glad to be alive than right after a battle.

“Bodie,” said Doyle. He no longer seemed to be biting his lip to keep from groaning in pain.

“Yeah mate?” Bodie kept his eyes on the road, but he smiled at the familiar voice-beside him, where it belonged.

“Never mind.”

Bodie glanced over at him, found him staring out the window broodingly.

Oh yeah, right. This was Doyle. He needed words.

Everything was settled between them as far as Bodie was concerned, but he realised he’d never actually come out and said the words to Doyle. It was awfully hard to get them out, now that the crisis was past. Besides, they’d already both said sorry in the heat of the moment. What more was needed?

But this was Doyle, who needed to thrash things out with words.

“Listen mate,” said Bodie, “you have to know, it doesn’t matter to me. None of it. I was just curious, that’s all. Didn’t mean to-make you think I care. Because I don’t. You’re my partner, that’s all. I don’t give a damn about anything else.”

Doyle turned an embarrassed, pleased smile on him. “Ta.” He drummed his fingers on his jeans. “But I want to tell you.”

“Well, you don’t have to.”

“You want to know,” said Doyle with utter conviction.

“Only if you want to tell me,” uttered Bodie in saintly tones.

Doyle laughed. “All right, well maybe I do. Used to model in art school, you know?”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Well, I did. It never bothered me-the human form, nudity, just natural, isn’t it? And I needed the money.”

Bodie imagined a young Doyle posing with an unconcerned, blasé attitude for an art class. Once again, Bodie marvelled at the differences between them. Bodie didn’t even like taking his shirt off in public at the beach. He was not generally what anyone would call shy, but he certainly couldn’t have sat through an art class being drawn by a bunch of artists. At least not without turning beetroot red.

And if any of them were pretty girls it would be even worse. He’d either be embarrassed out of his skull or extremely turned on. That would be intolerable, leave him feeling out of control and not at all cool. And yet Doyle, whose temper or joy could flare up in an instant, would’ve sat through it steady as a rock, utterly confident in himself, even wearing nothing but his skin.

“Go on, then. I’m all ears,” said Bodie.

“We had this teacher,” said Doyle, who’d apparently needed the prompting, and sounded as though he didn’t enjoy what he meant to say next. “He fancied men. No big deal. Except sometimes he’d-well he gave out better grades to anyone who decided they fancied him back. That sort of thing.

“And I didn’t. Lord, wouldn’t have even if I was into blokes. He was a nasty, ugly little man. Uglier on the inside than the out, too.” He rubbed a palm distractedly over his leg and knee, and left it there, cupped, as he stared through the windscreen, not seeming to see the street ahead.

“He despised me. Suppose I was too obvious that I wasn’t interested. He used to-stare during my modelling. I just ignored it. Let him eat his heart out. I just didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t scare me.

“But then he started-giving me bad grades. And other teachers did, too. Really said some ugly stuff about my art. You know how toffee-nosed teachers can say the cruellest things in the nicest way? Make you feel like complete dirt? Yeah.” Now he drummed his fingers, faster. “Well I was never really sure-and I’m still not-if I was just that bad, or if it was some sort of vendetta because I wouldn’t play patty cake with him. But I wouldn’t put it past him.” He laughed, a hoarse cracked sound. “I also wouldn’t put it past me to be just that bad.”

Bodie wanted to defend his partner, but he didn’t know, either. Doyle had never let him see any of his art. Doyle would just laugh if he asked about art. (“Gave that up long ago, didn’t I?”)

“So go on,” said Bodie. “What happened next?”

“Dropped out, didn’t I?” said Doyle, lightly. His voice did not conceal that he didn’t take it as lightly as all that. In fact, it sounded as though it rather pained him, even after this long. “And I needed work. Someone told me since I was good at modelling, I should give stripping a try. Well, why not, right? It’s the same difference. Taking off your clothes for money, because someone’s silly enough to pay.” He shrugged-and then grimaced and brought a hand gingerly towards his wound. His hand stopped before touching his bandaged side.

“I still didn’t do it. Just-feeling so very low, I was glad enough to work in a shop and forget everything to do with art classes.

“But my teacher was prospering. I heard he was up for some award or other. Then one day I ran into one of my old fellow students when I was packing his groceries. He made a remark about the teacher spending a lot of time at a certain male strip club instead of teaching. Then and there my brain hatched a scheme for revenge. Sort of thumb my nose at that teacher. I’d show him what he never got, and never would get.” Doyle laughed uncomfortably. “I suppose you don’t think so, but I can be rather vengeful sometimes.”

Bodie kept a tactful silence.

Doyle glanced at him, that green gaze astute. “Or maybe you do think so.” He raised a hand, and laughed at himself. “Well anyway I took the job. I started taking off my clothes to music, for a bunch of men.”

He shook his head. “Looking back, I can’t see why I didn’t realise I wasn’t happy doing it. But at the time, the money was good, and I was so miserable from being an art failure, I didn’t really care about much of anything. I liked having a feeling of power-especially over that teacher.

“It got to him just like I’d thought it would. He couldn’t stay away, but he couldn’t stand it either, knowing I was out of reach. And I got pretty good, and I made a fair chunk of change.” He paused, as though remembering. “But one day someone accosted me, taking it for granted that I would sell more than just a peek. It got a bit rough. Sort of woke me up. I knew a bit of karate, I wasn’t really hurt. But it surprised me out of my gloom-made me realise just how miserable I’d become.

“I didn’t enjoy what I was doing. I just sort of shut my mind off and went through the motions, except when the teacher was there. Then I took malicious pleasure in it. Anyway, after that I quit. Didn’t look back.

“I started working in a shop again, and working towards becoming a policeman. Somewhere inside me, that goal had coalesced, and I realise that was what I wanted since I couldn’t be an artist. I wanted to stick up for people who couldn’t stick up for themselves, and fix everything that was wrong with the world.” He snorted.

He tapped his fingers on his knees, drumming rapidly. “Had to go to a different town, in case I was known as a stripper. They did find out, but a family friend put in a good word for me. My scores were quite good as well.” He shrugged. “Looking back, I guess my whole ‘stripping for revenge’ plan was a pretty ridiculous thing to do. I didn’t want you to know about it and look down on me.”

Bodie protested. “Hardly fair, mate. Me look down on you? You’re the one who looks down on me sometimes.”

“I don’t, really.” Doyle sounded surprised. “Proud of you, aren’t I? You’ve done so much in your life, and come so far.”

“I’ve come so far-what, from being a dirty old merc?”

“Not everyone could come back from that life, mate. You’re something special that you did.”

Bodie wondered if that was true. He liked hearing it, either way.

He was glad to learn the truth, and his sympathy was all with Doyle, no matter what. But he knew from experience, he needed to say something here, not just nod and smile. Doyle would take offence if he didn’t get some sort of response. Maybe he wouldn’t get angry today, but he would start to brood and then take it out on Bodie later, thinking he’d been rejected or laughed at, even if that was the last thing Bodie intended.

“Thanks for telling me, mate. I’m glad you’re all right,” said Bodie. The words, even as simple as these, felt awkward. It was so much easier to make a joke, or have a drink together and seal the contract between them that way, than to put anything serious into words. He was learning, but it wasn’t easy for him. He thought Doyle was learning to accept his peace offerings and silences as well, but he couldn’t risk being misunderstood after Doyle had shared things so personal and obviously still painful.

“You ever think about having that teacher investigated for abuse of power with his students sort of thing?” he asked casually.

“Yeah. Tried when I was a cop, didn’t I? They started an internal investigation, but so far as I know nobody ever discovered anything. Or else they covered it up. Far as I know, he’s still teaching, a dirty old man getting dirtier and older.”

“Cowley could make an investigation be taken seriously.”

“Yeah,” said Doyle thoughtfully. “If the teacher is still at it. You’ve got a point, mate. I never wanted Cowley to know, but he obviously does anyway. Enough, at least, since I was the first person he thought of to be a stripper.” His voice held a sort of ringing self-mockery and chagrin.

“That was because you looked like the victims, mate.”

“No, he knew. I know when the old man sees right through me. And he did. Guess I’m lucky he hired me at all.”

“He’s not that much of a stickler.”

“No, right. He hired you, after all.”

“Hired you and all.”

“Yeah, well he hired you.”

“Hired you first.”

“No, did he? Lord, he loves me best after all.”

They were grinning from this silly exchange, and still smiling when Bodie pulled up at Doyle’s flat. He hopped out and went around to help his partner from the car. Or at least hold the door for him, if Doyle’s pride wouldn’t allow him to accept any help.

#

CI5 and the police did a thorough going-over of all Steed’s property. And he had a great deal. They could only piece together so much, but evidence made it likely that he’d killed Fred Langos for trying to blackmail him.

They still couldn’t tell why he’d killed the strippers and the prostitute, though. From Doyle’s experience, it seemed that Steed was interested in killing, not sex at all. Perhaps Cowley’s theory about the thrill of killing was correct.

But to find out as much as they could, they wanted to talk not just to relatives and ex-lovers (as they had done), but to his American crony. To this end they waited till Roberts came back into the country, over a month after Steed’s death. And Cowley confronted him-along with the minister and a higher-up American diplomat for clout.

It was a closed meeting, and Bodie and Doyle weren’t in it.

Waiting outside for the results of it, Bodie said to Doyle, “Doesn’t make much difference, does it? Steed’s dead now. I don’t know why the Cow cares about motives at this point.”

“Suppose he wants to find out how much Roberts was in on it,” replied Doyle. “If he should be deported.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he should, just for poor choice in friends if nothing else.”

Doyle shifted a bit. His side was much better, but Bodie caught him grimacing at times, as if it still caused him discomfort. Probably shouldn’t be back on even light duties yet, but Cowley and Doyle both said he was up for it, and so here he was.

The American emerged from the room now, his face ashen, his expression troubled and distant.

Then his eyes fell on Doyle, and he gave a start. “What are you-” He checked himself.

Doyle rose slowly. “Yes? What am I what?” he asked in his most intimidating voice.

Bodie stood beside him protectively, his soldier’s senses tingling and alert for any coming threat.

But none came. The man simply tried to get his face under control, his mouth gasping like fish out of water. He managed it at last. “Nothing,” he said, waving it away. “I thought I recognised you.”

Cowley stood in the doorway, his glasses gleaming. “Someone you and Steed both recognised, Mr Roberts? Someone he hated enough to kill?”

“Yes-no-I-I don’t have to answer your questions. Talk to the embassy!” And he hurried away, clearly disconcerted.

Bodie started after him, but Cowley stopped him. “Bodie. Leave him. We don’t need trouble, and he’ll not tell us more now. It must’ve been someone Steed and Roberts both knew. We can find out, if we check the records. Likely from their student days. Perhaps he refused Steed, as not many people seemed to have done. Then when Steed went off his mental rails, he began killing anyone who looked like this man.”

Bodie was conscious of a self-conscious, guilty look from Doyle. Was he equating his own art school experience with this somehow? Did he think his old teacher would go mad enough to start killing anyone who looked like him?

“Never mind, lads,” said Cowley. “I’ll have the research department dig it up. We’ve put a period to it, at any rate. Roberts confessed-more or less-to the knowledge that his friend was becoming obsessed. He said he was trying to put a stop to him getting into dangerous situations. He refused to admit knowledge of the killings, and we can’t prove anything, but he certainly conspired to keep Steed from being caught.” He shook his head. “Och, so much wasted life! All those young men killed for no good reason. And these two foolish rich thugs. Both had too much power and did nothing good with it.” He sighed. “I don’t think Roberts is a killer, though. Simply wasting his life doing nothing but partying at his country’s expense.” He sounded surprisingly weary. “Come along. I’ll buy you a whisky, and we’ll have our own little party, at my expense.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bodie smiled in anticipation at the treat. It always meant a job well done, if you got to drink with the boss.

“And you’ll buy me the second round.” Cowley’s weary eyes gleamed momentarily.

Doyle grimaced in anticipation of that pleasure.

“Yes sir,” said Bodie, for both of them.

#

“So come on, then, Ray.” Bodie nudged Doyle with an elbow and looked over at him, smiling. “You’re going to someday, aren’t you?”

Doyle shook his head stubbornly. He was slightly slurred from all the whisky. Cowley had told them not to even think of driving themselves back, but to take a taxi or bus. Then he’d left, limping a bit, and given the barman a sharp nod of goodbye. In the end, he’d covered most of the bill, but left just enough of it for Bodie to feel the pain in his wallet.

Now Bodie and Doyle were drinking, side by side, finishing just a bit more, loathe to let go of the last mellow feelings from a case completed. Even though Cowley wasn’t paying. Even though the case might never have all its ‘t’s crossed and ‘i’s dotted.

“Be a mate,” cajoled Bodie. “You’ve let other people see.”

“Told you I’m no good, didn’t I?” Doyle grimaced at him, pugnacious with drink. “And besides, I don’t do it anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t kept any. You mean to tell me you binned all your old paintings?”

“Yes.”

“What, every last one?” Bodie tsk’d. “I don’t believe you mate.”

Doyle raised his glass, emptied the last few drops, and set it down firmly. He stared at it, frowning.

Bodie continued. “You never even told me what you painted. Oil or watercolour? Or acrylics? How ‘bout finger paints?” he guessed, nudging his partner, trying to raise a smile.

“Leave it, Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was low.

“I’m just curious, sunshine,” said Bodie. “Whole part of your life you’ve just cut me off from, haven’t you?”

“Cut myself off from it as well. Nothing special for you. I told you, that’s all in my past. Why do you want to dredge it up again?” He shot Bodie a dark look.

Because I want to know if you were any good. And if you let someone stop you from doing something you love just because their words hurt you. I want to know if that’s how you make your decisions. And I’d like to see a bit further into your soul about the things that mean something to you.

He couldn’t say any of that, even with a good few drinks inside him. Instead he just grinned. “Want to see the nudes you painted, don’t I?”

Doyle rolled his eyes and looked away. “Human figure is nothing to giggle over, Bodie! It’s art, for pity’s sake!”

“Oh, boy, do I like art!” Bodie rubbed his hands together, gleefully grinning. Doyle stayed turned away and ignored him.

Bodie stopped and tried another tack. “Never painting again then, sunshine?”

Doyle shook his head gently. “No, mate. I’ve had enough of that. No dreams are meant to last forever.”

Bodie put down his glass, and stared at him, blinking, all smiles gone from his face and his heart. “You can just change your mind like that? About something that meant so much to you?”

He thought, CI5. And me. Suddenly he didn’t feel so drunk or so happy.

Doyle gave him one long, slow glance, and smiled ruefully. “Not you, mate.” He pushed a couple of notes across the counter and rose, giving the barman a nod and a “Ta.” Bodie followed him as if in a dream, feeling more unsteady on his feet than he’d realised he would be.

They left the warm, dark pub with its friendly background noise. On the street, the air was a cool wakeup call. Cars whizzed by in a businesslike manner and somewhere a bored dog barked.

“D’you mean you’ll never leave CI5 then?” Bodie asked, pushing his luck, wanting to be certain he’d heard correctly, hoping that Doyle had meant what he said.

“No,” said Doyle. He stopped, leaned against a wall outside of the pub and crossed his arms. He yawned so widely that Bodie saw tonsils.

“No?” Bodie tried to smile. “Decisive lad, aren’t you?”

And then Doyle gave him a smile of rare beauty, soft and seeing straight through him to his worried core. “Said I’d never change my mind about you, sunshine. Not CI5. No guarantee I’ll be here forever, or you either. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Nothing lasts forever. But I won’t change my mind about you even if we don’t work together anymore.”

“Just like that?” said Bodie, a fierce well of dizzy happiness rising in him. He wanted to grit his teeth. He wanted to shout. He wanted to thump Doyle hard and run from his retribution. It was all mixed together with a happy feeling. “Always be your mate, someone you shout at and bully and shut out-and fight to the death for?”

“I never bully you!” Doyle sounded wounded.

“Well, potato, tomato-”

“I never did!” said Doyle. “But yeah, all the rest.” He looked at Bodie with glittering green eyes, daring him, arms still crossed.

Bodie felt a silly grin growing on his face. “Same here, mate.” He reached out and punched Doyle on the arm, and laughed.

Dreams didn’t last forever, maybe; but perhaps some things did.

#

Bodie and Doyle both stood in front of Cowley. Bodie was there as backup only. They both had grim faces, and Doyle seemed really tense. He’d nearly backed out twice.

“If you don’t ask him, I will,” Bodie had threatened while they were sitting at their desks.

That had made Doyle laugh. “You don’t even know his name.”

“Could find it out,” said Bodie, and flicked an elastic at him, sitting at their desks. Doyle had squinted his eyes shut in an automatic wince and ducked aside. And then retaliated with several paperclips.

In the end, Doyle had gone through with it. Now he was standing very straight, speaking stiffly to Cowley.

“Sir, I was wondering if you could-start an investigation into an old art school teacher of mine. I have reason to believe-”

Cowley looked up at him levelly. “Mr Johnson? I was wondering when you would ask about that, Doyle.” He removed his glasses and folded them precisely, holding them in his hands. Bodie found himself watching, focusing on this small gesture instead of Cowley’s dangerously calm face. He felt more than saw Doyle stiffen at his side.

“You knew, sir?”

Cowley allowed himself a small smile. “Of course, Doyle. I don’t hire anyone I don’t know a great deal about. I would venture to say, I know everything there is to know about your past.”

At this, Doyle looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Yes, Doyle, even that!” Cowley smiled.

Doyle cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you mean, s-”

“Don’t you? Well, never mind, lad. Never mind!” He rose from his chair and strode around the desk. “The point is, I had your teacher investigated immediately I learned of him. He was stripped of his position and retired shortly after the investigation was complete. He had indeed been accepting sexual favours for higher grades. It created a small, though well-covered-up, scandal. Not because of his sexual preferences, but because of his abuse of power. The school made certain that it never reached the news.” He stared at Doyle.

Doyle gaped at him as if he’d grown extra ears. “You knew? And you-did all that-and never told me-sir?”

Cowley sat on the edge of his desk. “No, Doyle. I wanted you to trust me with it. If you didn’t, I assumed you didn’t need to know.”

Doyle just gaped at him.

“But whether you knew or not, I wanted to take care of the rot. British education will never be the finest in the world if we can’t control our teachers and hold them to a standard of self-control and fairness. I take care of my own, as well.

“As near as I can find out, your grades would have been passable, if Johnson hadn’t influenced the situation. I can’t regret the presence of a good officer-” Here he gave a wintery smile. “-but I can deplore the situation that made your leaving art school necessary.”

He put his glasses back on and went around the desk, sat down and picked up papers, tapping them into place together. “If that’s all, gentlemen?” he asked, back to being the stern boss.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” said Bodie for both of them. He plucked at his dazed partner’s arm and they left the room together. Bodie shut the door behind them carefully, afraid of Doyle’s coming outburst getting back to Cowley. Bodie led him further away, steering Doyle by an elbow.

“I can’t believe he knew...” Doyle’s voice was low and shocked. “And I did get better grades...! And he never told me!” Now it was nearly a shout, ringing with feeling.

“Shh, mate,” said Bodie comfortingly, with an anxious glance back at Cowley’s door. “You know how the old man is. Thrives on secrets.” He put a hand on Doyle’s back to steady him.

Bodie kept himself planted firmly between Doyle and the door. Sure enough, Doyle looked wrathfully, indignantly back at it. If he went back to shout at Cowley, Bodie intended to tackle him, healing wound or not. They’d had far too much trouble recently to go asking for more.

“He was looking after you in his own way,” reasoned Bodie. “C’mon, have a drink. And tell me about your art now. You could take it up again now, as a hobby.”

Doyle blinked and stopped walking, despite the pressure on his elbow, steering him towards the front door. “Yes,” he said, appearing much struck. “I guess I can.”

Bodie swallowed and forced himself to smile, thinking of Doyle in a paint-covered smock, a beret and a silly moustache. Holding a paintbrush, and talking about art. Becoming famous and leaving this life far behind...

Doyle turned a smile on him, nearly blinding in its brilliance, augmented by damp eyes that seemed lit from behind, like glowing globes. “Thanks, mate. For making me ask!” In place of his anger was a sudden, dizzy joy. In his gaze, Bodie saw all the dazed happiness of a man recovering something he’d thought he’d lost forever-something wonderful that he’d never thought he’d get back, not in his wildest dreams.

“Anytime, mate,” said Bodie, keeping emotion off his face, staying placid and calm, and thinking unaccountably of a bird in your hands, broken wing now healed. And you opened your hands and let it go.

Of course you did; there was nothing else to do.

If Doyle wanted to be free, Bodie wouldn’t hold him back. Even if it hurt. No dreams for him, just life, lived with eyes wide open, and if Doyle said any last words to him at least they wouldn’t be because he was dying. Just because he was leaving, that bird taking flight to music Bodie couldn’t hear.

Maudlin, he thought, and shook himself. Besides, Doyle had promised.

Maybe Bodie would visit the art gallery and tell dirty jokes and be welcome, somehow, even amongst all the nobs and toffee-nosed gits. And Doyle.

“Drink?” he asked.

“Yeah, drink,” said Doyle, his steps lively and high, an extra bounce in his curls and a smile on his face that nearly hid the fact he was very close to tears.

They went and had a drink together, their reasons entirely different: celebration and consolation.

Bodie told himself he was a silly fool for seeing more than a hobby, for taking any of this personally.

And then he drove Doyle to the art shop, and helped him pick out fresh brushes, canvases, and oil paints, while making remarks about all the shades of nude that existed in the world.

[[[the end]]]