Cards on the Table-

Cards on the Table - Part Two

The cobbles under Tower Bridge were every bit as painful as he had been warned, the matting put down by the race organisers no help at all, so he gritted his teeth and pressed on. At least now they were out of the windswept, skyscraper canyons of the Isle of Dogs, the crowds had thickened up nicely, and he was beginning to get into the atmosphere of the day.

He glanced over at Doyle, running beside him, still light on his feet, still moving easily and freely. As marathon "virgins", they had started out with the main mass of runners in Greenwich Park, jammed into the entrance with thousands and thousands of ordinary runners, many running for charity, many running in fancy dress. It had taken perseverance and genuine pace to get them both into a position where they could run at all.

Bodie glanced at his watch and saw they were more or less on track for their projected time, the 3:15 to 3:30 described by Doyle as "fast but not fanatical". He realised he could probably now abandon his own particular nightmare, (being beaten over the line by some prat dressed as The Albert Memorial). Now all they had to worry about was Doyle's pet nightmare, (being beaten over the line by the man Bodie knew only as 'that little shit Morrissey from Obscene Publications').

He took the bottle Doyle had just scooped up from a drinks station and drank deep. Normally he would have emptied part of it over his head, but a brief shower ten minutes earlier had cooled them both. The sight of Doyle with his running gear plastered to him by rain had made Bodie thankful his blood was urgently required in his legs, the incipient erection which had threatened at Greenwich making an entirely unwelcome reappearance. Still the loveliest arse in the Free World, that was.

He looked over at his friend and saw with satisfaction that Doyle looked better than he had in months. That drawn look had gone, the damaged cheek bone retiring from prominence, Doyle looked fit and relaxed. Bodie felt he was entitled to claim at least some of the credit for that.

**

"Why the hell would I want to spend my free evening down the gym sparring? I haven't hit anyone since I left CI5 and with the possible exception of you, I can't think of anyone I'm likely to hit in the future."

"I'll tell you why. Because as far as I've seen since I got back, you're living on coffee and antacids tablets. If you didn't have the digestion of an ostrich, you'd have an ulcer by now."

The hand that had been easing towards Doyle's diaphragm made a hasty detour to his breast pocket and pulled out a hankerchief.

"Look at you. You're so tense it's a wonder you haven't broken something."

Doyle was losing his temper. "Bodie..."

"Come on, Ray, give up. You've never been able to put one over on me. Admit it, you're still angry about all this, and it's all bottled up inside you because there's no one nearby you can be angry at. So, come down to the gym and be angry at me." He smiled limpidly. "I promise I'll be gentle with you."

Doyle's scowl held for a few seconds and then broke up in an unwilling bark of laughter. "Smart arse," he said, the nearest Bodie knew he would get to agreement.

So, later that week, they went out to the hideously expensive health club Bodie patronised, and found out just how unfit both of them were by their own (perhaps overly high) standards.

***

They passed into Upper Thames Street, the office blocks towering over them, cutting off what little sunshine there was and funnelling a cold wind into their faces. The road surface was littered with discarded water bottles which burst open if you trod on them.

Doyle was looking into the crowd now, checking the faces as they both made their way over to the left-hand side of the road. There she was, in the prearranged spot, under the watchful eye of one of her many uncles and cousins (and the even more watchful eye of the City of London Police).

She jumped up and down waving excitedly and held up a piece of card, on which the words GO DADDY GO appeared in intricately-coloured lettering. They both waved back, blowing kisses, and as they passed, her uncle lifted her onto hisshoulders. She was cheering, although they couldn't hear her for the noise of the crowd, and she waved again and then turned the card round. On the back it said GO BODIE GO, and if the letters were not quite so carefully filled in, Bodie for one was not going to complain. There were few things, he had come to realise, more flattering than being whole-heartedly liked by a child. Their initial wariness with one another was long past and, while it had taken rather longer, he had finally managed to wrestle his own crippling jealousy into submission. She was a good kid, bright, funny and brave and he had learned to like and perhaps even love her a little.

She still disconcerted the hell out of him, though. Just as she had at their first meeting.

***

He stumbled out of Doyle's bed late and dressed, wondering for the umpteenth time why travelling West to East always knocked him out and the other way round had little or no effect. Into the sitting room and there was Doyle, reading to his daughter who sat in his lap looking at the pictures. Doyle took one look at him and handed him the cup of coffee he'd been drinking himself. Bodie grabbed it gratefully and sank into an armchair. "What you need is breakfast." said Doyle judiciously. "Scrambled eggs okay? You ate all the bacon last night".

Bodie nodded and watched as Doyle lifted his daughter off his knee and stood up. "By the way, Bodie, this is Ammy. Ammy, this is my friend Bodie."

They exchanged cautious hellos.

"Do you want to come with me and make breakfast? Or are you going to stay here and talk to Bodie?"

Amita looked over at him and then tugged on her father's hand. "Is Bodie a stranger, Daddy?" Doyle bent over and kissed the top of her head. "No, Bodie isn't a stranger. You're a very clever girl for asking but he isn't a stranger. He's my best friend -- you can trust him."

The little girl nodded, apparently satisfied, and settled back on the sofa as her father disappeared into the kitchen. She was wearing bright blue leggings of some description and a matching jumper, the hair which had been loose the previous night gathered into a single, neat, fat plait which hung over her shoulder. It was, Bodie realised, probably the first time he had been alone with a little girl of this age since he'd been this age himself. She was looking at him with an air of expectant interest, as though waiting for him to perform, and the only things he could think of to say were the sort of questions he'd loathed as a child and vowed never to ask when he was grown up himself. He took a sip of his coffee.

"You slept in Daddy's bed last night."

Bodie agreed warily.

"Are you Daddy's boyfriend?"

Hot coffee down the nose had never been one of Bodie's favourite sensations. Doyle came out of the kitchen with a wad of kitchen paper, and Bodie covered his confusion with a lot of noisy nose-blowing. "Sorry about that," said Doyle, making a not particularly successful attempt to hide his grin. "We had to explain about David and Nigel next door when she saw them necking in the garden." He bent over and tickled her nose with the end of her plait.

"Bodie's not my boyfriend, Lammie. He's just a friend who is a boy. Like you and Alex."

Amita considered this for a moment, unembarrassed in an entirely Doylean way. Then her round little face creased into a shockingly familiar smile. She picked up the book they had been reading and held it out. "Do you want to finish the story?" she said.

So he took the book and was further thrown when it turned out to deal with the adventures of The Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig. Ammy appeared to be accepting him, and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing how important that would be for any future relationship with Doyle.

It was only later that he realised the little girl's thought processes must been moving along very similar lines. The really important question came after breakfast, while she was demonstrating the intricacies of her toy garage. Bodie's tentative question about the car wash having been demolished with a scornful, "It's only pretend water", she stopped talking and sat, fiddling with the petrol pumps. Eventually, and without lifting her head, she asked, "Are you scared of guns, Bodie?"

Doyle was sitting beside her on the sofa, but Bodie did not need the expression on his face to tell him how important this was. "Well," he said eventually. "Guns are very scary things. But I used to be a soldier, and I know how to be safe with them. So, no, I'm not scared of guns."

Amita looked at him for what felt like a long time, biting her lip as she chewed over the answer. Then she nodded and handed him a toy car. "You can put it through the carwash if you want," she said.

****

As they entered the underpass at the end of Upper Thames Street. Doyle looked up at one of the temporary electric signs erected for the race, checking for the code word which would reveal he was needed elsewhere. It was a reminder, if one were needed, of how far he had come in his profession, and how far he might yet go.

***

Bodie had found out about it by accident, a chance comment by someone in the office who liked to keep up with current affairs. Gleeful at the apparent opportunity to embarrass the hell out of Doyle, he arrived on his doorstep just before the programme began, with a bottle of wine and an innocent expression.

His reception was everything he could have wished for. Doyle opened his front door, got his first good look at Bodie's face, and tried to shoulder charge the door shut again. Winning that battle by sheer force of weight, Bodie made himself at home in front of the stereo while a visibly disgruntled Doyle went in search of glasses and a corkscrew.

"How the hell did you find out?"

"Karen heard the trailers."

"I might have known you wouldn't have come across it on your own. And no more of that for me, some of us are on stand-by." Doyle settled down with very poor grace and picked up the remote control. The stereo lit up, the tape deck started to move (at which point Doyle looked distinctly sheepish) and the radio kicked in.

"'In Committee', a weekly look at the business of the Parliamentary Select Committees.

Today the Commons Home Affairs Committee continued its inquiry into the vexed question of whether British police should routinely carry arms. The Committee heard evidence from Commander Raymond Doyle of Scotland Yard's Anti-terrorist Squad and it was obvious that members were a little surprised at the strength of feeling shown." A cut to outside broadcast sound, a hollow-sounding room and over-amplified voices which boomed slightly.

Bodie glanced over at his friend. Doyle had sunk lower in his chair, and for a moment Bodie thought he was feeling self-conscious. Then he realised, Doyle was concentrating hard; listening to his own voice and to the arguments he had presented, assessing his own performance.

It was a performance worth listening to. Bodie had expected conviction and carefully ordered argument; what he had not expected was the effective way the argument was presented. Never less than polite, even when he was being badgered, Doyle managed to address the differing concerns of the various members of the committee, not wasting time trying to persuade the unpersuadable, concentrating instead on those who might be swayed. Speaking, not only for the audience in the room, but also for those who would read the transcripts.

Only a five minute extract was broadcast, but it was enough both to impress Bodie and to chill him to the bone.

Doyle never talked about his job, beyond the occasional general comment or complaint, and Bodie had never asked him to, recognising that as a civilian he was no longer entitled to know. Without more up-to-date information to set beside his memories, Bodie, on the rare occasions he had thought about it at all, had vaguely imagined Doyle at work as a slightly more mature version of the man he had known all those years ago.

The contrast between the Doyle he had known then and the Doyle he had just heard on the radio was startling. It was not just the presentation skills, or the calm under pressure or even the sophistication of the intelligence on display, although they were all part of it; it was more the realisation that Doyle had developed all these gifts and probably many others Bodie would never know about and was now a leading figure in British law enforcement; a man who was consulted and respected by those in power; a man who was, professionally at least, much more than Bodie had believed him to be.

And if he was this now, why had he stayed a CI5 agent all those years? He could have done anything, certainly he could have done something better paid and much less dangerous.

When the programme turned to EC fisheries policy, Doyle switched off the sound and turned to him. "Right -- let's get the cracks over with," he said.

Bodie shook his head. "No cracks from me, Ray. You were very good."

Doyle eyed him suspiciously. "So why the long face? You look like you've lost a shilling and found a sixpence."

Bodie got up and went over to the fireplace. There was a new photograph of Ammy in her school uniform, and he bent over to look at it properly.

"Bodie?"

Bodie turned to face him. "Was I holding you back when we were together?"

"Eh?" said Doyle inelegantly, thrown by the question.

"You were good on there, Ray, really good. You're one of the movers and shakers now, you could have done better than CI5. Was I holding you back all the time we were partners?"

Doyle stared at him. "What the hell.....?" Then, obviously realising Bodie was serious, he got up and put his hand on Bodie's arm. "You daft ha'poth," he said gently, his smile affectionate and entirely devoid of mockery. "You weren't holding me back. I wasn't ready for all this then. I needed all those years of Cowley yelling, 'think, Boy, think' at me. I had to learn not to fly off the handle all the time. I had to learn the double and triple think and the ins and outs of power -- and I learnt all that with you."

He threw an affectionate arm round Bodie's shoulders and drew him back to the sofa. "I'll tell you something else," he said pouring them both another drink. "Those years were some of the best of my life. I wouldn't swap them for anything." He handed Bodie his glass and sat back, putting his feet back on the coffee table. "What I do now is interesting, and useful and even satisfying sometimes: but it's never fun, and we used to have a lot of fun, didn't we, in between the mayhem?

****

Out onto the Embankment. The crowds were even thicker here, and the wind from the river, though cold, was cleaner than the dusty draughts of the City. His spirits lifted after the dispiriting chill of the tunnel. There was a cheer as a wheelchair athlete whisked past them with a hiss of tyres, her arms pumping madly.

A jazz band in a boat moored beside the road swung into 'Is you is or is you ain't my baby?', and Bodie laughed out loud. On a day like this anything seemed possible.

Doyle heard the laughter and grinned over at him; Bodie smiled back, realising for the first time in a very long time that he was happy. It felt good just to be alive, here, with Doyle, running in the sunshine, half of London gathered on the streets to cheer them on. On a day like today anything might happen.

Is you is or is you ain't my baby? He had been waiting for over two years to ask that question and he was no nearer to knowing the answer than he had been that Christmas. There were days when it seemed an utter impossibility and there were days ....

*****

The telephone shocked him awake just after 3.00 am, but when he growled his name into the receiver, a surprised-sounding voice on the other end of the phone asked for Commander Doyle. Before he could open his mouth to bellow, the spare-room extension was picked up and Doyle came on the line. Fully awake by now, Bodie hung up and got out of bed. He knew next to nothing about the cases Doyle was currently working on, but a couple of weeks ago Doyle had taken to reporting his whereabouts to Control as soon as he arrived at Bodie's flat, so it had been obvious that something heavy was on the cards. He went to put the kettle on, knowing Doyle would need the caffeine, and knowing too his opinion of Metropolitan Police coffee.

They met in the sitting-room, Doyle knotting his tie and looking out of the window.

"Sorry."

Bodie handed him the mug and mock-slapped at the back of his head. "S'okay, I remember what it's like. How are you getting in?" Doyle had not brought his own transport and the chances of a cab at this hour were slim.

"They're sending a car." Doyle was heavy-eyed but alert, his mind already on whatever was waiting for him.

It hurt, although he knew it shouldn't, to be cut out like this and he tumbled into speech before he could stop himself. "Midnight phone calls to strange men's flats, both of us answering at once. Ten to one your office is going to have me down as your bit on the side." Oh Christ, had he really said that? Embarrassment flooded his skin with heat; embarrassment not at what Doyle might think but at the fact that he had actually said his secret out loud, as though saying it was in some way a betrayal. Thank heavens neither of them had turned the main lights on.

Doyle grinned tiredly over the rim of his mug. "Let 'em. Maybe it'll stop the little bastards calling me Father Superior."

"You!" He could only hope his surprise at Doyle's comment was covering his shock at his own stupidity. "Why?"

Doyle glanced out of the window and shrugged. "I don't smoke, they've never seen me drunk, and I didn't follow standard OP for a senior copper with a failed marriage".

"Which is?"

"Find the nearest ambitious and/or randy woman and fuck like rabbits." He held the mug in one hand and the curtain in the other, his head turned to look down into the street, exposing the clean, hard line of his throat above his still-open collar.

Bodie clenched his fists in the pockets of his dressing gown and aimed for their usual ease. "Well, I can soon cure that for you. First time I get to meet one of them, I'll tell them about Murphy's stag night."

That brought the head round to face him, a reminiscent smile from ear to ear. "Oh I don't mind you telling them," said Doyle. "Just promise you won't tell Murph." A car horn sounded in the street below and the smile vanished. He tossed the empty mug to Bodie and grabbed his overcoat from the back of the sofa. "I've got to go. I'm sorry about the run, looks like it's going to be a nice morning too. Give my love to the tombstones. I'll ring as soon as I know what's happening."

Then he was gone. Bodie, looking down from the window, saw him take the steps outside in a single stride and drive off in an unmarked car. Only then, when mortification had faded to a subliminal background hum, did Bodie remember Doyle's total lack of concern at the idea that their friendship might be called something else by other people.

***

Or is you ain't? There were days like that when it was easy to hope, and there were days when incidents like that one did not seem to count for anything when weighed against more brutal truths.

****

"Come on, it'll be fun. Like the old times, you and me and a couple of good-looking women; a little wining, a little dining, a little dancing and who knows?"

"No thanks." Doyle was sprawled on the sofa in his own flat, his stockinged feet on the coffee table, the England v Holland match on the TV. He pointed at the screen with a half-eaten slice of pizza. "Look at that, that was never off-side."

"Ray, it's been over a year. Don't you think it's time you ...got out a bit."

Doyle sat up, poured himself a hefty dollop from the open bottle of wine on the the table and sat, staring down into the glass.

"Ray?"

The glass was downed in one. "You don't understand," he said eventually, softly. "I don't want anyone else. I want her."

***

That had been painful to watch, the death of the hope that had lingered stubbornly beneath the anger; and, when Doyle finally removed his wedding ring on January 1st 1998, Bodie could feel no joy. That night, with Doyle on two days leave, they emptied his wine rack together, and at two o'clock in the morning, Bodie took advantage of Dutch courage.

****

"Will you get a divorce?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. I'm not sure there's any point."

"You might meet someone else." Doyle shook his head and then winced as the movement made his head spin. "I can't see it happening, Bodie. I put everything I had into making it work this time, I don't think there's anything left." He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, the way he might have done when Bodie first knew him. "I don't think I can go through all that again -- the looking, the asking. Takes courage to do all that and I reckon I've used up all of mine."

****

The Houses of Parliament in view and the last stretch of the Embankment, the short incline you never noticed in a car feeling like Mount Everest. The pavements were packed six or seven deep with cheering humanity; balloons, flags, whistles, cheering. A whiff of fried onions from a hamburger stand made his stomach growl.

He hurt: the backs of his thighs, his heels, his stomach and, for some bizarre reason, a spot between his shoulder blades. He'd finish but he'd be bloody glad when it was over.

Birdcage Walk - fucking odd name for a street. Doyle slipped on a discarded crisp packet and cursed breathlessly. Is you is or is you ain't? Is you is or is you ain't?

Is you is or is you ain't?

He had grounds for hope, he knew that. Where else did Doyle go when things were bad?

****

The doorbell rang, a couple of hours later than he had expected, and when he opened the door, there was Doyle.

He was wearing the uniform he only wore on ceremonial occasions, the black armband proclaiming what that occasion had been; medals on his chest Bodie had never seen before or since, worn only to honour the faithful departed.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't......"

"Don't talk soft. Come on in."

That night they drank whisky, for the warmth and not to get drunk. They sat in the gathering darkness and toasted a young life cut short, and The Cow, a better man than they had perhaps realised at the time.

***

And if it came to that, where could Bodie turn when he needed help?

***

The food poisoning struck within a matter of hours after the banquet. An invitation to a Friday night drink having ended in all-too-audible retching, Doyle simply moved in for a few days; dealing with the squalid necessities with an unfazed practicality which was balm to Bodie's humiliation; turning aside his muttered apologies with the comment that fatherhood had hardened him to most things and at least Bodie was unlikely to puke in his ear.

*******

The Mall - the noise was deafening, the finishing line in sight. He saw some prat staggering around, obviously hoping to attract the TV cameras since his colour was so good. They exchanged a quick glance and, as one, straightened up, assumed a jaunty grin and forced themselves into a longer, easier stride.

Shit that hurt! But what did that matter? They'd done it, they'd fucking done it!

200, 150, 100 yards.

Bodie's heart soared. They were here, they'd done it: trained together, run together, got injured together, recovered together, they'd even accepted that fucking stupid bet from Morrissey together and now perfectly in step, even their breathing synchronised, they finished together. Arms raised high, hearts pumping, pain forgotten, laughing like idiots, and only 3 hours and 23 minutes since they'd crossed the start line.

"YESSSSS!" Doyle flung his arms round him, jubilant. Bodie could feel the other man's heart beating against his own and at last, there was no doubt in his mind. No one could be closer than this, no one. No one else had shared the same joys, the same pains; no one else remembered the things they both remembered, no one knew Doyle like he did.

A steward was urging them forward into the lines to collect their medals and space blankets. Separated by a line of tape, they jogged on, their shoulders so close they were almost touching.

The medal, surprisingly heavy and impressive on the end of its ribbon, banged against his chest.

"Get you a silver chain for that," he shouted.

"To hell with that! The way I feel now, I want gold." It had been years since he'd seen Ray this elated.

To hell with caution, he'd waited long enough, as soon as they got back to his place.....

The noise in the Mall seemed to have died down and the lines had spread out the crush at the finish line, and it felt to Bodie that he was alone with Doyle, everyone else on the other side of a pane of glass, muffled and inconsequential.

"Just one thing, Bodie?"

"Yeah?" He'd do anything, right now, anything at all.

"If I ever suggest we do this again, shoot me!"

"It'll be a pleasure."

He didn't mean it and neither did Doyle. Who could pass this up? This was as good as life got.

Doyle clutched at his slippery space blanket. "I feel like something left-over in the fridge."

"I always said you had chicken legs."

A huge cheer went up in the Mall, someone famous perhaps or one of the groups from the forces. Automatically they turned towards it, the ridiculous wedding cake confection of the Victoria Monument visible beyond the finish line.

Suddenly Doyle grabbed him, and pointed. "Look that's him, the one in the bright green shoes - that's that little shit --"

"Morrissey from Obscene Publications," finished Bodie gleefully. He looked at the man, red-faced, bald-headed, exhausted and not a day over thirty-five. So this was the man whose off-hand, remark about geriatrics had set them off on this lunatic venture.

They slowed down and waited for him to stumble up beside them.

"Oh hello," said Doyle, with what Bodie privately considered to be a remarkably unsuccessful imitation of surprise. "Didn't see you back there." He leaned forward, all friendly concern. "You okay, Roger? You're looking a bit flushed."

"Well, you know what it is, don't you Ray? Young people today - got no stamina."

Morrissey stared at them with undisguised loathing. His mouth moved but quite obviously he couldn't think of a thing to say and he stalked off, his attempt at a dignified withdrawal ruined by a lopsided limp.

"That was very juvenile of us," said Doyle severely as they watched him go. "We ought to be ashamed of ourselves."

"But we're not, are we?"

"Not a bit." Doyle took a deep breath. "I feel about thirty again --let's go hire a Capri and do handbrake turns on the North Circular."

"Okay - but you've got to wear flares."

"Only if you've got a shirt with one of those collars that used to saw your ears off."

He slung an arm round Doyle's shoulders, happiness and his decision giving him courage. Doyle didn't seem to mind, he didn't even seem to be surprised.

Tonight. He was going to ask tonight.

Then he heard a voice behind them yell, "Bodie! Gary!" and it all fell apart.

He turned. It was Todd Kellerman, his six foot frame squeezed into a French Maid outfit he had made no effort to live up to, the hairs on his legs poking jauntily through his fishnets, a sash proclaiming he was running in aid of the London Lighthouse.

"I thought it was you two! Glad to see you finally came to your senses, Bodie," he said a little breathlessly as he came up beside them. "I always did say you made a great couple." He was smiling, still the big, friendly St Bernard pup he'd been when Bodie had first met him in New York.

Friendly but not stupid. "Bodie?" He turned and got his first good look at Doyle from the front. He took a step backwards. "Oh oh. Sorry, my mistake."

Neither of them were looking at him, they had other concerns, and he couldn't resist a parting shot. "Sheesh Bodie, when you said I wasn't your type I didn't realised you were this particular!"

"Bugger off, Todd, there's a good lad." There was no point in being angry with him, wasn't his fault. Bodie turned back to face Doyle, expecting and receiving no mercy.

"Who's Gary?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, out here in the noisy street, without time to lead up to it, without privacy or preparation. Doyle was wearing the expression Bodie had seen in a hundred interrogations, and there was no point in trying to hide the truth.

"He's the man I lived with in New York."

Doyle was after him like a dog after a rat. "You were lovers?"

Yes."

"And he looked like me?"

"Yes." He did not even bother to hope that Doyle would not make the connection.

"Because you wanted me?" Then, without hesitation or doubt, the final step. "You still do!" It was not a question.

Bodie looked at him, at the set face, the clenched fists and, in the wreck of all his hopes, seized what might be his only chance to say it. "Ray, I love you."

Over their heads a loudspeaker spat and crackled, and announced, "Attention please, attention please. Will Mark Latham please come to the Police checkpoint. Mark Latham to the Police checkpoint."

Doyle swore. He turned away and then turned back. "I've got to go," he said. "I.... Oh, hell.... I'll see you later." He left for the Police mobile unit in a shambling, painful run.

Bodie watched without moving, saw the urgent conversation with a uniformed sergeant, the production of a printed message which resulted in a flurry of orders from Doyle and his eventual departure on the pillion of a police motorcycle, his legs still bare beneath a borrowed fluorescent jacket. Only then did he trudge over to the baggage trucks to reclaim his kit.

He travelled back to his place on the Underground. The ticket halls and platforms were packed with hundreds of happy runners and their families and thousands of spectators. The mood was festive; a busker was playing something cheerful on a trumpet and the crowd swayed and hummed to the tune; the runners bobbing up and down as they tried to keep the stiffness they could all feel in their legs from getting any worse.

It was one of those occasions, rare in London, on which the crowd becomes a single happy group instead of travelling as individual units holding themselves aloof. Runners were congratulated by complete strangers, stories were swapped and joking boasts flew about the swaying carriages.

Bodie hardly noticed. He stood alone, shifting his weight to the rocking of the train with the ease of long practice, remembering the look on Doyle's face and trying to work out what it meant. Shock, certainly -- but beyond that, Bodie could not say. He felt as though he had lost something, something familiar, but he could not work out what it was.

His flat felt unnaturally quiet. He had fallen in love with this place at first sight, and while Doyle was predictably snotty about the marble tiles on the floor, Bodie had liked the airiness, the sense of space. Now, and for the first time ever, his own home felt cold and empty to him.

He wandered into the kitchen and drained a large glass of orange juice as a protection against dehydration. He refused to look at the meal stored in the fridge, the salad and cold meats, the fruit and ice-cream, and the champagne that had all been intended for the celebration of their triumph.

He took a shower, watching the grime of London swirl round his feet and down the drain. He was tired now, his feet and legs aching. As he stood under the driving water, he realised that what he had lost was hope. While nothing was said, everything was possible. Now, with his secret in full view, he found he no longer expected a happy ending. At the back of his mind something was telling him he was too tired to think straight but, the more he thought, the more his speculations took on a horrible plausibility.

Somewhere along the line they had drifted too far apart: what he wanted and what Doyle wanted and needed, two entirely different things. All the care he had taken of Doyle, of his welfare, of his peace of mind, all the time and effort he had devoted to ensuring that his own love was always a comfort to Doyle, and never a burden, had not brought them any closer than they had been that first Christmas. His anxious care for Doyle mirrored, not in Doyle's friendship for him, but in his love for his daughter. The jealousy Bodie had believed conquered, returned in a sudden flood that left a nasty taste in his thoughts.

His eyes stung, bloody shampoo, and it took a conscious effort to get out of the shower and dry.

He dressed, drank more orange juice and then wandered into his study to check his e-mail. Karen reckoned to have seen them both on the TV coverage of the race, Jim was still fretting about next week's meeting, the Storey case had been unexpectedly wrapped up and ..... He couldn't be bothered to read any more.

Eventually he fell asleep on the sofa, Radio 5 droning in the background and intruding into his dreams, appearing there as a stream of incomprehensible orders from the Cow, dead these 7 years or more.

The doorbell jarred him awake and, when he tried to stand, every muscle in his legs complained bitterly. He hobbled to the front door where sheer force of habit made him peer through the spy-hole. He had no doubts who it would be and he was right. He felt the usual rush of excitement, of awareness, sweep away the last vestiges of sleep. Adrenaline kicked in: fight or flight and he was sick to death of running away.

He opened the door. "It's orl right h'officer, I'll come quietly," he said, cringing aside in mock-terror to let Doyle in.

Doyle, in all the black and silver splendour of his uniform, passed him and headed down the hall, already unbuttoning the heavy jacket. "Don't you start," he warned, his voice no more than normally exasperated. "I had enough trouble with the bloody taxi-driver. Seemed to think I was personally responsible for this morning's traffic arrangements." He shrugged out of the jacket, tossed it onto a chair, and attacked the knot of his tie. "It was the only thing I had in the office to change into. I could hardly turn up at Number 10 in my running gear."

"Oh I dunno," said Bodie, leaning on the door frame watching him move, a little stiffly, about the room. "Might have given his missus a cheap thrill. D'you want something to drink?"

"No thanks, everyone's been pumping me full of fluids all day. It's a wonder I'm not making a noise like a hot water bottle." As he always did when he visited Bodie's place, Doyle went over to the window to look down at the trees in the private square below. He stood for a couple of minutes, his hands in his pockets, his back to the room, watching them toss their heads in the rising wind.

Bodie waited patiently, recognising the signs. Doyle wanted to talk and did not know where to start. Twenty years ago, he'd just have dived in, but this Doyle had learned caution somewhere along the line and, while part of Bodie missed the old fire, another part recognised ruefully that twenty years ago he might well have been given his head in his hands and was content to wait.

Eventually Doyle spoke. "This morning you said you loved me...."

"I meant it, Ray."

Doyle turned at that. "Yes, I know you meant it; that's what scares me." His back was to the window, either by accident or design, and, with the early evening light behind him, Bodie could not see his face. His hair was longer than he usually wore it these days, no time for a cut recently, and in silhouette he might have been the man Bodie had first met all those years ago. He made a gesture of helplessness, a clench and wave of the hand. "This is, Bodie, I know what you're offering me, I'm just not sure what I have to offer will be enough for you."

"Why don't you let me decide that?" A strange sensation blossomed in Bodie's chest, a choking feeling, like suppressed laughter. Doyle was willing to talk, it wasn't a flat out 'no'.

"Because I don't trust you to decide what's best for you, that's why," said Doyle, something (embarrassment, anger) sharpening his tone, and Bodie watched him catch it and smother it before it got out of hand. "I've been thinking -- and don't groan one of us has to -- and I've realised what the last couple of years has all been about. I know you don't want me to say this but I'm grateful. I also know I don't deserve it or you."

"Ray...."

"No, listen Bodie. I'd give everything to be able to say I love you the way you must love me and I can't. I wish to got I could but I can't." Then, before Bodie had time to do more than feel the chill gather. "But I'd like to try, Bodie. I'd really like to try."

Doyle wasn't the only one who had learned caution in all their years apart. "You sure? Not six months ago you were telling me you'd run out of steam or guts or something." He wondered briefly whether this was the time to reveal how much that had hurt, then shrugged mentally. This was not time to play games.

"I'm sure." Then, catching sight of something in Bodie's face, added. "And it's not because you're an old man's last resort, if that's what you're thinking." He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is coming out all wrong." He grinned ruefully. "And it all sounded so good in my head too. Look can we sit down? My feet are killing me."

They sat down, facing each other, perched on the edges of their armchairs. Doyle was looking at him anxiously and there was something Bodie had to get settled up front. "You're not saying all this because you feel sorry for me, are you? Because if that's it, you're going straight out that bloody window."

Doyle shook his head, obviously neither angered nor surprised by the question.

"It isn't like that and you know it. It's because I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend the rest of my life with. It's because if I love anyone apart from Ammy, it's you. It's because I know you and trust you and because you know me, all of me, even the bits I'm not proud of." He paused and his sudden lascivious smile caused a small heated kick in the pit of Bodie's stomach. "And I'm not denying it's partly because I've fancied you something rotten since that first morning in Cowley's office." The smile vanished and he spread his hands as though grasping for words that were still somewhere out of reach. "It's not me and what I need that worries me -- it's you. You're good for me, Bodie, I know that, but you? You deserve something better than a friend who wants to try to be more but can't promise he'll succeed."

Bodie said nothing. His mind was racing now, with the diamond-sharp clarity of a firefight, seeing what it was he had wanted and what it was he might achieve, the advantages, the disadvantages, the disappointment he had steeled himself to meet and this unlooked for joy .

"Don't get me wrong, Bodie. I'll do my damnedest to make this work. If we do this, we're in it together for as long as we've got. I can't promise much, but I can promise this: I'll never leave you, I'll never lie to you, and if I hurt you, it won't be because I meant to."

It sounded like a promise, a vow even; a life time's commitment from someone who was many things, not all of them admirable, but who was, above all else, a man of his word. He would be faithful, for it would never occur to him to be anything else; he would be gentle and generous, for he had learned how to be both; and best of all, he would be Ray Doyle, the man, the friend, the partner he had loved for all those years. It wasn't all that he had wanted but it was enough. By god, it was enough for any man.

"So that's the deal," said Doyle. "It's a rotten deal and you deserve better. I just hope to hell it's enough."

Bodie could not help but smile as happiness rose in a warm choking tide from somewhere round about his sternum. "Ray, you're the only person I know who'd offer me everything I've ever wished for, and then apologise."

"But that's the point, it isn't everything you've ever wished for, is it?" Doyle was urgent and sincere, and at that moment Bodie loved him very much. How many people would insist on describing the inferiority of their own love and all the disadvantages there were to loving them? "I want you to have the best and I just don't think that's me."

He leaned over and took Doyle's hands in his. "You know what that sounds like, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, I know all that, but you have to know it's not the same...."

Bodie levered himself to his feet and stood over him, still holding his hands. "You daft bugger," he said gently, longing to hold him close but knowing it must wait until this was settled between them. "You're thinking about this all wrong. You can't measure love like that - - mine's bigger than yours, yours is bigger than mine. It isn't like that." He paused for a moment to sort his thoughts, wanting this to be right so it would be over. "Don't you see? It's not a pair of socks; it doesn't have to match exactly. You want to try, I want to try, let's try to together, please Ray."

Doyle looked up at him for what felt like a long time, his head cocked on one side. "Bodie, if I asked you to do something for me, would you?" His eyes were wide and earnest .

"Depends," replied Bodie, not so lost in love that he had abandoned all suspicion. He'd seen that look before.

"Pull me up. I think my knees have seized."

Bodie stepped back and pulled Doyle to his feet. Then, still holding the hands, he pulled the unresisting Doyle towards him, wrapping Doyle's arms around his waist.

Then, at long, long last, he put his own arms round Doyle's shoulders and held him close, without fear or pretence, in full acknowledgement of who they both were and who they would both become. He could feel the hard plane of Doyle's chest, the grip of his arms, the side of his head against his own cheek. "You'll just have to get used to it, mate," he said. "You're enough as you are."

"You must be mad." Doyle's face was pressed into his shoulder and the words buzzed ticklishly against Bodie's skin.

"Stark raving."

"You know we can't live together, at least not until I retire."

"You retire at 55 -- I looked it up." He kissed the side of Doyle's head. Bloody hell, even his hair tasted good.

"They're talking about asking me to head the European War Crimes Bureau. I'd be away a lot of the time."

"But you'd come home to me." He tried to nudge Doyle's head round with his lips and succeeded only in kissing his ear. Doyle shivered, so he did it again.

Doyle moved a little closer. "I'm told I snore."

"Yes, I know, I'm the one who told you. Look, are you going stop wittering and let me kiss you?"

It was perfect. The way Doyle turned his head, his smile, the way he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss. It was gentle, just a meeting of mouths, and it was everything Bodie had ever wanted. He felt Doyle tighten his arms, and he put his hand on the back of that beautiful neck, threading his fingers through the almost-curls,to hold his head, feeling the gentle tug and draw of that beautiful mouth against his own.

When he could bear it no longer, he drew away and rested his head on a bony shoulder. Doyle held him tightly, patting his back and whispering words of reassurance they only needed because this had all happened so quickly. "It's all right. We're all right. This is going to work." And even as he spoke, the words were no longer necessary and he trailed into silence.

Doyle smelt of dry-cleaning and London grime and institutional soap and Bodie drank him in, the hard, prosaic, indisputable reality of him. He could feel something inside himself start to loosen and expand, like a great spring held in tension for too long beginning to uncurl. This was what he had wanted for so long, what he had only half-believed he would ever have, and he held it in his arms, everything, everything in the world.

Doyle lifted his head and craned backwards to get him into focus. "What's so funny?"

He couldn't explain, not all of it, not yet, so he settled for the least of it. "You... me... this..." he said, gesturing uselessly behind Doyle's back at the pair of them, standing there, plastered together. "I've waited 10 years to get my hands on you and now I have the only thing in my trousers that isn't stiff as a board is my todger."

"You poor old soul," said Doyle, his smile turning smug. He hitched a little closer and Bodie's heart turned over, the last of his doubts disappearing in a surge of joy which lifted his mood like a sky rocket.

He grabbed Doyle in bear-hug that lifted him off his feet. "You know what? I'm starving and there's a pile of grub in the fridge just going to waste."

"Right, let's have something to eat and then we can go and have a long soak in that Olympic-sized swimming pool you call a bath."

"Or better still, we could eat in the bath." Neither of them made any move to let go.

"Then afterwards, we can go to bed and er..."

"See what comes up?" It wasn't that funny but they ended up holding one another up, weak with laughter.

Which, as Bodie was to point over twenty years later, wasn't a bad way to start a new life.

The End

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