Fic - Emmanuel

[foreverfoxcat.livejournal.com]

Hi guys,

You've got me today, so here's a little offering for January 6th. 

 

Doyle wrapped his thick woollen scarf tightly around his neck and leaned against the steel railing at the back of the warehouse.  He shivered as the cold, wet metal seeped through his denim jacket, digging his hands deep into his pockets.  Above him the red and green Christmas lights hanging over the high street sputtered on and off, casting a dim, flickering glow on the pavement.  A few of the shops on the rain-drenched road were showing the first signs of life, the shopkeepers taking a moment to pause and stare at the ambulance parked on the corner before disappearing quickly into their newsagents or cafes. 

 

Nobody stopped to ask any questions.

 

Doyle eyed the shopkeepers for a moment and then turned his back on the street, staring instead into the deep cavern of the concrete building where Wilfred Brennan was being lifted into a black body-bag. 

 

After a while one of the paramedics tapped him gently on the arm, speaking in a low, soft voice.  “Well, it certainly looks like natural causes.  He’d probably been dead for a few hours by the time you got here.”  He gave Doyle a sympathetic look and shook his head in apparent condolence.  “It’s December, you know.  He was an old man.”  Doyle nodded but didn’t reply.  The medic let out a chuff of air and leaned back against the steel railing, trying again.  “Did you know him well?  We’ll need as many details as we can – next of kin, age, date of birth.  Anything like that.”

 

Doyle grasped at the railings with his fingers and shook his head.  “I hardly knew him at all.  Only met him for the first time yesterday.  He’d been living rough in this area for about eight years, though.”  Doyle indicated the row of shops lining the street, their shutters still tightly closed.  “Some of them might be able to tell you more.”  He swallowed dryly.  “My friend knew him better…” 

 

The paramedic nodded encouragingly and glanced up and down the empty street.  “Is he around then, your friend?  We really do need as much information as possible to process everything as quickly as we can.”  He smiled apologetically.  “Christmas, and all that.”

 

Doyle pushed himself off the railings and buried his face deeper in the warm woollen scarf.  “No.”  He took a few steps towards the warehouse.  “No, he’s not around.”

 

Doyle kicked at an empty crate lying on the concrete floor.  Three weeks of undercover work for him and Bodie, pinning down a new gang of arms dealers selling cheap guns and ammunition to would-be crimelords; Doyle on the inside acting as a go-between, and Bodie based at the warehouse waiting for delivery.  The perfect sting.  Bad guys collared, weapons located and good guys home in time for dinner. 

 

Doyle ran his fingers over the single bullet hole in the cracked concrete wall. 

 

Bloody Bodie. 

 

The woman in the shop next door had given a statement complaining about the shifty-looking men who kept coming and going from warehouse, about the gunshots and the unregistered van that had nearly run over one of her customers after the shots had been fired.  Absolutely indignant, she’d been. 

 

We keep to ourselves around here.  We don’t make trouble and we don’t expect trouble…  But still, she’d offered Doyle a cup of tea and expressed appropriate sympathy for the poor man who’d been shot… after all, nobody deserves that. 

 

Doyle winced as the stretcher clattered loudly under the weight of the body bag, startled by the hollow, metallic echo that rang through the empty building. 

 

For all that woman’s tea and sympathy, it had been Wilfred Brennan who had phoned for the ambulance, stayed with Bodie until it arrived, helped stop all that blood.

 

Doyle stepped to one side as the stretcher was wheeled past him and loaded into the waiting ambulance, watching as the thin, black canvas bag containing all that remained of Wilf Brennan disappeared between its open doors.  Stubborn old Wilf Brennan – still sleeping in the back of the warehouse when Bodie’s cover was blown, still clueless as to what Bodie had really been doing for the last few weeks.  Still wearing the old parka and leather gloves Bodie had given him when Doyle came back this morning and found his frozen body. 

 

Doyle blinked as the first drops of rain began to fall on the pavement, tucking his scarf into the top of his jacket.  Christ almighty.  Five days before bloody Christmas.  Just five days left and it had all gone straight to hell. 

 

The ambulance gave a quick flash of its lights and drifted slowly down the high street, finally disappearing around a corner.  There was no hurry this time.

 

Doyle shivered again.  Bloody, fucking Bodie.

 

 

 

 

************

 

The frost under his feet crunched softly as Doyle made his way to plot 6475B of Revell Lane Cemetery.  He stopped when he reached the unmarked grave, tucked away between a mossy stone angel and a marble headstone with stark white letters engraved across its face.  All across the grassy bank stood a varied collection of old and new headstones, some of them leaning forward precariously, battered and blown by hundreds of years of north-easterly winds. 

 

Doyle grasped the small bundle of roses he held in his hand tightly and frowned at the uneven, newly laid turf that was all that marked out plot 6475B.  He bent down and placed the flowers on the cold, hard grass.

 

“Not much of a send-off, I know.”  His voice carried through the crisp white air, sounding unnaturally loud to his ears within the quiet, deserted graveyard.  He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sorry about that.  I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner as well.”  He smiled thinly.  “Paperwork, you know…”

 

A low chuckle drifted from behind him and he closed his eyes as he felt Bodie’s hand warm and firm on his shoulder. 

 

“I’m sorry I missed the funeral, Ray.  I would have been here if I could, you know.”

 

Doyle nodded and let out a low breath.  “You were in hospital.”  He lifted his head and turned to face Bodie, taking in his lean appearance.  Still thinner than he should be and far too pale. 

 

Doyle turned back towards the grave.  “All he got in the end was a Council burial.”  He tightened his fists inside his jacket pocket.  “You know what they do with a Council burial?  They hire a professional mourner, in case no one else turns up.  They buried him on Christmas Day, squeezed him in because they just had enough time between the morning and afternoon services.”  Doyle kicked at the ground, jerking his head towards the church.  “The vicar had us singing Christmas carols, for Christ’s sake.   Me and the hired mourner singing O Come O Come bloody Emmanuel because they couldn’t even be bothered to change the damn hymn numbers.”

 

Doyle gave a sudden, shuddering sigh and turned on his heel, facing Bodie.  He looked down at the ground and paused.  “He was a soldier, you know.  Served in World War Two.” 

 

Bodie raised an eyebrow.  “Yeah?”

 

Doyle nodded.  “El Alamein.”

 

“Africa?”  Bodie let out a low whistle.  “Hell of a campaign.”  

 

“He won a medal, got the Military Cross for gallantry.”  Doyle’s eyes didn’t look up from the freshly laid grass.  “He risked his life for his country, probably saved hundreds of lives and he ends up under an unmarked pile of earth with nobody to mourn him and O Come Emmanuel to see him off.”

 

Bodie sighed and took a step further forward.  He placed his hand on Doyle’s shoulder again, his fingers rubbing gently back and forth over the material of his coat.  “He had no family left, Doyle.  Sometimes you just outlive everyone.” 

 

Doyle tilted his head.  “He was just like you.”

 

Bodie reached out and pulled Doyle’s hands from his jacket pocket, squeezing his fingers gently.  “It was different for Wilf, you know.”  He gripped their joined hands firmly, punctuating his words with a few gentle tugs.  “Wilf was all alone, he didn’t have anyone.  It’s not like that for me...”  He paused.  “… for us.” 

 

Still Doyle didn’t look up.  “He was wearing your coat.” 

 

Bodie squeezed Doyle’s fingers and took a deep breath.  “I know.” 

 

“It was like seeing you lying there all over again.” 

 

“Yeah.  I know.  Trust me, I know.  But you and me, Doyle, we’re not going to end up like Wilf.” 

 

“It’s Christmas.  No one should die like that.” 

 

Bodie looked down at the first snowdrops, pushing their way through the frozen earth.  “It’s January 6^th.  A whole new year.” 

 

Doyle clutched at Bodie’s fingers and looked up at him then, smiling slightly for the first time.  “So, did you make any new year’s resolutions then?” 

 

“Yeah.”  Bodie tugged gently at Doyle’s scarf, pulling him away from the grave and closer towards him so that they stood chest to chest on the frosted pathway.  Doyle blinked once then let out a long, slow breath that blew warmly over Bodie’s face. 

 

Bodie smiled.  His fingers brushed against Doyle’s lips and lingered there, feeling the cold, soft skin.  He leaned forward as Doyle closed his eyes, speaking softly in the still air of the empty churchyard.  “Actually, I made one for both of us…”