discoveredinalj | Hallowe'en Story: In the Widening Gyre (Reply)

Whew! I'm not first up.

I would recommend reading the warnings.

In the Widening Gyre
by Verlaine

George Cowley did not consider himself to be an unduly fastidious man, but he had been raised with an old-fashioned sense of the fitness of things that demanded he stay up to scratch, especially when times were uncertain. Even as a scared youngster in a POW camp, not sure if the camp doctors would bother to try and save his leg, he'd struggled against the lice and rats with the same determination he'd put into regaining the strength to walk. He'd instinctively understood that allowing himself to become slovenly would be a victory for the enemy; a sign, however small, that he'd acquiesced in defeat. Once back home, his clothing was always of the best quality he could afford, and his linen immaculate.

Tonight—tonight was one of those times of uncertainty. Cowley grimaced at his image in the mirror. Not that there was anything uncertain about the men who meant to kill him. Their conviction, their clarity of purpose, was in no doubt at all.

The Home Secretary's opinion had been clear and to the point.

"They missed the PM in Brighton through sheer luck, and no one in the security service is ever going to admit just how near a thing it was. They don't intend to miss you."

"And I intend to let them think that right up until the moment we close the trap on them."

"I could order you to go into protection. In the circles where it matters, PMs come and go. You, on the other hand, are George Cowley. You're CI5."

"Which is precisely why I can't hide, and you know it. Let the word get out they've made me scuttle, and every ten-penny hooligan will think he can take on the security services."

But knowing he was right didn't make it any easier to step from the shelter of a doorway. At his people's insistence he wore a bullet-proof vest under his jacket day and night, but that simply transferred the nervous itch to the back of his neck. He consciously steeled himself to keep from rubbing at it, knowing he was surrounded by people observant enough to recognise it as a sign of tension. His hand was on his gun at every sound, even inside the guarded halls and offices of CI5.

So far only Ruth Pettifer had paid for his life with her own, though Jerry McCabe might never walk again, and his partner Lucas would probably have to be quietly shifted out. There was no place in CI5 for a man susceptible to a sudden tremor in his hands. In his darkest moments after the funeral Cowley had wondered if the game was worth the candle, and that in itself felt like a treachery to Pettifer, whose brisk, clear-eyed self-assurance had never wavered.

Cowley watched his own hands as he reached for the straight razor and unfolded the blade, both pleased to see them rock steady and slightly amused by his own conceit. He always kept the blade stropped to its keenest edge, just as he kept the soap and shaving brush immaculate, with never a stray bristle left behind. Like the razor itself, the ritual of shaving and caring for the tools was a legacy from his godfather, from a time when attention to duty and detail were badges of honour.

Angling his face slightly, he shaved with precision, a series of long careful glides down the cheek, turning his head after each so the light would fall exactly on the next line. Then neat short strokes upward on the neck, making sure to raise his chin so no hidden shadow would disguise a patch of stubble. Finished, he inspected the results from all sides in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. A clean close shave, without a single nick. He splashed cold water on his face and, on impulse, reached into the cupboard and brought out the seldom-used bottle of bay rum.

"A light touch, laddie," he could still hear his godfather say, with all the disdain of the old highlands for the decadent town. "Ye'll no be wantin' to reek like a whore's boudoir."

A light touch. Cowley frowned slightly as he patted on the cologne. Sometimes it seemed that for all the doublethink he prided himself on, his own touch on the world was more like a blow from a mallet. Blunt, quick, producing results, but all too often leaving behind shards and splinters that could not be repaired easily.

He shook his head and gave himself a final glance in the mirror. As well done as ever it could be, he decided. Leaving the bathroom, he returned to his bedroom and looked at the clothing he'd laid out. The protective vest glowered from the chair at the bedside like a mastiff at the gate.

Cowley picked it up, and then carefully, deliberately, put it down again.

"Not tonight." He was unaware he'd spoken aloud until he heard the note of resentful anger, all too close to self-pity. Even so, he did not pick up the vest again, and did not look at it while he finished dressing. Crisp white shirt, black tie expertly knotted, holster adjusted so as not to affect the cut of the dinner jacket.

A gun, but not the protective vest. He couldn't hold back a grim little chuckle. Perhaps there was something to be said for mallets after all.

One final swift glance at the mirror brought a nod of approval. He looked no different than he had on many other evenings, preparing to go to his club or to a working dinner. The itching at the back of his neck wasn't visible, and he'd keep it that way.

"Permission to be admiringly insolent? A voice from the past ghosted through his mind.

"Permission denied. I'm not brave, laddie," Cowley responded to the phantom memory. "Just too damn stubborn to know when to give in."

He turned toward the door, but before he'd taken two steps the sound of the telephone brought him to a halt. For a moment he debated ignoring it. The thought that it might be good news—perhaps the bastards had all blown themselves up with one of their own bombs and good riddance to them—crossed his mind, but he dismissed the false hope ruthlessly. In the real world, there were no miracles.

He picked up the receiver.

"Cowley."

"I'm glad I caught you, George." The Home Secretary's Welsh lilt was more pronounced than normal, a sure sign he was anxious. "A last chance to talk you out of this foolishness."

"We’ve had this discussion, minister, and my mind's made up. I will attend the opening session of the conference, and I will give the speech I'm scheduled to make."

"A damn stupid ending if we lose you to false pride. You're no use to anyone as a martyr." The Home Secretary sounded grimly determined, but not particularly sympathetic.

"You should at least know me well enough to know I wouldn't risk my people's lives for pride, false or otherwise," Cowley snapped. "The entire venue is awash in security. And I'll be escorted by one of my best teams straight from my own door." Cowley hoped devoutly that the slight waver in his voice had not been discernable over the phone line.

"I'll never understand you, you know. You've insisted all along the whole thing's a waste of time, yet you're putting yourself in mortal danger to give a speech you don't believe a word of."

The difference between an armchair soldier and a real one, Cowley thought uncharitably. Aloud, all he allowed himself to say only, "Who said that the prospect of hanging clarifies a man's thoughts amazingly?"

"I warn you, George. Embarrass the government and the IRA won't get the chance to shoot you. The PM will take care of it herself."

Cowley bit back a laugh. "Since her record is substantially better, I shall consider myself duly warned."

"You've always thought too much of your own judgment and too little of mine," the Home Secretary said. As he drew breath to speak again, a sharp coded knock sounded at the front door.

Cowley sighed with relief. "You'll excuse me, minister, but my escort is here," he broke in, grateful to be spared further argument.

"Very well. Good luck, George. And if you survive the night, we will resume this discussion."

"Thank you for the support, minister." Cowley wasn't sure if the man had heard the sarcasm and didn't care. He allowed himself the luxury of slamming the handset firmly into the cradle.

The knock sounded again. Picking up his overcoat, Cowley checked his gun one last time, and squared his shoulders. There were only so many preparations a man could make, and then the struggle had to be joined, for better or worse. He opened the door.

The sight that greeted him stopped him cold.

You should be rotting, was the thought that crossed his mind. Eighteen months, you should be skeletons in rags and mould, not this.

Not Ray Doyle lounged against the doorpost, plaid jacket loose around his shoulders, sunglasses tipped down on his nose. Not Bodie, in black over black, standing at casual parade rest.

Cowley was aware that he was clutching the stair rail so hard tiny flakes of paint were grinding into his palm. His other hand fumbled for his gun, even though he was sure it would be of no more use than the prayer rising unbidden to his lips.

Even so, discipline held through, and his eyes moved from one to the other not entirely sure what he was looking for. Could even the best of actors or the most skillful of surgeons reproduce two men so exactly? Try as he might, he could find no scrap of difference. It was Bodie and Doyle as he'd last seen them, down to the rip at the bottom of Doyle's jacket zip and the first faint threads of silver in Bodie's sideburns.

Finally he managed to force his hand, finger by finger, away from his gun. Forced his dry lips to move.

"I buried you."

"And very nice funerals they were, too," Bodie said. "Could have done without the bagpipes, mind."

"What—" His voice broke and he cleared his throat. "What the devil are you two doing here?"

"Funny you should put it that way." Doyle's smile could have cut glass.

In some corner of his mind, Cowley was aware that he should be running screaming, not so much because he was standing on his doorstep conversing calmly with two dead men, as because it undoubtedly meant that he was mad. Instead, he found himself strangely calm. Given the alternative of Repton, or Kate Ross, he thought a bit giddily, perhaps it was the lesser of two evils to accept that ghosts might walk.

"Why have you come for me?"

"You're assigned a team for escort duty this evening. We're it." Doyle levered himself upright with a lithe shrug of one shoulder. "This way, sir."

"When I looked at the duty roster, my escorts were Murphy and Jax," Cowley snapped. "What's happened to them?"

"There's going to be a slight delay," Bodie said. "Murphy's had a convenient spot of engine trouble. Just enough so we can get out of here ahead of them."

Cowley nodded. "Are you giving me a choice?"

"Not really, sir. The lads in records missed a little information. You need to tell them not to write off some of that bad juju so fast." Bodie glanced quickly up and down the street. "The opposition's called up another team, one with a few different tricks up their sleeves. You get in a car with Jax and Murph, none of you will survive the night."

"And those different tricks—would they anything to do with how you two have suddenly appeared here?"

Doyle grimaced. "You're not the only one who knows how to run an Operation Susie."

Cowley felt a deep chill in his stomach. "Operation Susies are apt to have a high cost for the people involved."

"We remember." Bodie's voice was uncompromising.

"So." The chill moved toward his legs, and Cowley stiffened his knees with savage effort. "My sins coming back to haunt me?"

"Us? Innocence personified." Bodie's face was bland as milk chocolate. "But there's some circles where they don't approve of you at all. Regular King Canute you are, holding back that blood-dimmed tide."

Doyle's head suddenly jerked, and he turned to look down the street. "Bodie?"

"Yeah, I feel 'em. Time to go, sir. Now!"

Doyle stepped aside, one hand under his jacket, his eyes scanning the roofs around them. Bodie moved to the other side, flanking Cowley, and urged him forward. They took two steps onto the pavement and then Cowley faltered to a halt, unable to force his feet to move any further.

The gold Capri Doyle had often driven idled at the kerb. The driver's side was a sieve of bullet holes.

Cowley felt his knees give way, and his breath suddenly caught helplessly in his throat. The pain under his breastbone was so sharp that for a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack.

I opened that door. The blood spilled out over my feet. Ruined my shoes. He swallowed convulsively. You were lying half over Doyle, shielding him to the last. What did I send you to?

"Sir!" Bodie said, with real urgency in his voice. "Move!"

He grabbed Cowley's arm and pulled. As he stumbled toward the road, Cowley saw, from the corner of his eye, a bluish-grey mist swirling up out of the gutter. He turned to look, and gagged at the stench of rot and sulphur. Bodie gave him a vicious push in the back that sent him falling in the direction of the Capri. His hands automatically went out to try and break his fall, only to be caught in a bruising grip to drag him sharply forward. His shins hit something solid, his head cracked against the doorframe, and then another push from behind had him half-lying in the rear seat.

"The door!" Doyle roared.

Something hard hit him along the leg with a muffled thump, and then the seat he was on rocked and jerked. There was a squeal of tyres under him, and the protesting howl of an engine run up through the gears too fast.

For a few minutes Cowley remained huddled down on the back seat, concentrating on nothing but the vibration underneath his cheek. At first he welcomed the darkness; it was soothing, protecting him as it might a child hiding under the covers from a beastie in the closet. A slow burn of shame began to gather at the thought. George Cowley was neither a child nor a coward. Slowly, he gathered his courage and pulled himself upright, feeling dazed and disoriented and more than a little nauseous.

"Think they spotted us?" Doyle asked. He was bolt upright in the passenger seat, shoulders rigid, head turning jerkily from side to side.

"Bound to have," Bodie said. "Luck doesn't work for us anymore."

"Oh well, that's alright, then." Doyle slumped back into the seat as if his strings had been cut. "Cheer up, Bodie. We knew how this would end."

"Hasn't ended yet." Bodie shifted again, and the Capri shot forward through the evening gloom. Cowley braced himself against the seat in front of him, wincing involuntarily as his hand touched the blood-caked upholstery. There was something . . . surely the Capri was moving far faster than a car should be on London streets?

He dared a glance out the side window, and blinked. Buildings and streets were flowing by in a blue-grey blur that seemed to have nothing to do with actual motion. It reminded him of chase scenes in old films, in which the passing scenery was only a projection itself. If it hadn't been for the constant rise and fall of the engine and Bodie's swift movements on wheel and gear lever, he could have believed it was all just some fantastic piece of cinema.

Doyle twisted to look back. "They're gaining," he said harshly.

"Have to do something about that." Bodie turned the wheel, and swore as something rocked the Capri from behind. For an instant Cowley smelled sulphur again. Then Bodie tramped on the accelerator, and the blue-grey scenery speeded up.

"Can't take another of those. Hold 'er steady." Doyle started to wind the window down.

"Ray, don't! Christ!" Bodie choked the word out like a mouthful of hot coals.

Doyle laughed. "Too late for second thoughts now, sunshine. Steady on."

The gun Doyle drew from under his jacket looked like an ordinary Walther, but as he leaned out the open window, Cowley's eyes refused to focus for a moment on something that definitely was not a gun. When Doyle pulled the trigger a stream of sliver flashed past the car like a spill of molten metal. From behind them came a growling, grinding shriek that clawed right down to the core of Cowley's bones. He clapped his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth in an agony as much of spirit as of body.

"That's one," Bodie said with bitter satisfaction. "How bad, Ray?"

Doyle popped back into the car, grinning maniacally. "Never you mind. Put your foot down then, there's a good lad." His voice was hoarse and slurred. "Might be able to lose the rest in the—" The remainder of the sentence was a series of noises that were completely incomprehensible. Cowley felt another stab of pain through his ears.

"What's happening?" he gasped.

Doyle turned his head, and Cowley saw one green eye, and one stark yellow, the scarlet pupil slit like a cat's. He jerked back from the sight, fighting the urge to throw open the door and fling himself out into the passing night.

"Don't do it, sir," Bodie said calmly. "You really don't want to meet what's out there right now."

Bodie, thank God, both looked and sounded normal. But then he shifted again, and Cowley's eyes were drawn to his hands. The right hand, on the wheel, was the same pale square it had always been. But the left—Cowley drew a sharp breath of shock. Flatter, broader, the digits somehow fused into two dark claws, tipped by heavy yellowed nails.

"You're damned." Cowley wasn't sure where his trembling voice came from.

"As Judas," Bodie agreed. "Turns out Moses wasn't joking about all those commandments.

"Why?" Cowley heard the plaintive bewilderment in his voice. "You killed to protect your country. You obeyed orders—my orders—to save lives. To stop terrorists and criminals."

"That argument didn't wash at Nuremberg either." Doyle said in that slurred, cracked voice.

"You were right then, Doyle," Cowley whispered. "Whatever you are, I made you."

"We had free will. We chose."

"Without being fully informed? Where's the justice there?"

"And if we had known?" Bodie's voice was serious. "Question's always the same, really: do you let the bad guys win because you're afraid of the fight? We're not built that way, and neither are you."

"And this is the price," Cowley said heavily.

"Not for you. Not if we can . . ." Doyle's voice trailed off into painful gibberish again.

"Shut up, Ray," Bodie growled. "Don't make it hurt more than it needs to."

"And your hand isn't on fire?" Doyle retorted. He closed his fingers over the misshapen thing on the gearshift.

Bodie laughed, and the car put on another surge of speed. After a few moments, Cowley leaned back in the seat. Despite a very strong temptation, he didn't close his eyes, but after a while he found that he was focusing on the back of Bodie's head. It was easier than looking out the window at the oddly coloured, twisting blur of streets and buildings that were not, that could not, be London. Easier than acknowledging that whatever it was that Bodie was guiding so swiftly and expertly was not really a car, whatever it might look like.

He wasn't sure how much later Doyle let go of Bodie's hand and looked around again. "They're getting closer."

"We're at top speed now," Bodie wrenched the wheel, and the Capri tilted disquietingly. "Can you stand another shot?"

"No!" Cowley snapped, unaware he was going to speak. "You've both risked enough. Will this be of any use?" He leaned forward, extending his gun between them.

Bodie took a quick sideways glance. "Still a brave old bastard," he said admiringly. "But you're a bit out of your jurisdiction right now."

"When's that ever stopped him?" Doyle muttered.

The Capri shuddered at another sudden jolt from behind. Doyle muttered a curse, the wheel spun in Bodie's hands and for an instant the vehicle seemed to turn itself quite impossibly, in a way that made Cowley's stomach lurch. Then everything slowed and they were drifting into an alarming four-wheel skid. The blue-grey outside swirled thicker around them. He was reaching for the window crank before the vibrations stopped.

"Nothing but your hand out the window," Doyle instructed. "Do it fast. Don't aim, just pull the trigger and get back in."

"Don't look!" Bodie said. "Whatever you do, don't look."

Cowley was not inclined to argue. As the window opened, the stink of sulphur drifted around him, stronger than ever. He steeled himself, closed his eyes and thrust the gun out the window.

Once, during the war, Cowley had seen the effects of a white phosphorus grenade. He'd been close enough for a fragment no larger than a pinhead to fall on his arm, and he could still vividly remember the shocking pain, out of all proportion to the injury. As his hand moved out of whatever protection the car provided, it felt as if he were reaching into the heart of that phosphorus fire. He screamed, fingers closing convulsively on the gun before losing their grip, and then he was lying back on the seat, his hand cradled to his chest, hearing his own sobbing and underneath it a terrible low howl of pain and fury that seemed to shake the earth.

"A hit. A palpable hit!" Bodie whooped.

"Or close enough" Doyle elation was grudging but visible nonetheless. "Here, you all right, sir?"

Cowley pushed himself up on his elbows, unwilling to open his eyes and look at his hand. The pain had lessened a bit, but he could not imagine anything left there but bones and shreds of cooked meat.

"It's not as bad as it feels," Doyle said firmly. "Go on, look."

He forced his eyes open. His hand was whole, a bit red perhaps, if the strange light allowed him to see properly, but all still there. Down the outside of the trigger finger, almost all the way to the thumb, ran a shiny black smear. Now that he was actually looking at the hand, he could tell that the black scar was the only real source of pain remaining. He touched it cautiously with his forefinger. It was smooth, glassy hard and uncomfortably hot.

"Battle scar," Doyle said. Then more ear-twisting gibberish.

Cowley looked from one to the other, appalled. "Is this what it's like for you?"

Neither said a word.

Cowley closed his eyes again, and let himself drift. There would be guilt later—if he survived—and fear and despair. But for now there was only a blessed numbness that let him think quite calmly and rationally about the fact that following his orders had condemned two of the best men he'd ever known to unimaginable torment. And even worse: knowing that, he would not have changed anything.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. We cannot let it come to that. There are things that are worth any price.

He touched the scar again.

Even this.

Suddenly there was a quiet thump, and everything went still. Sluggishly, Cowley dragged himself upright and looked around. They'd pulled to a stop at the side of the road. The mist was notably thinner, though it was still difficult to make anything out past the bonnet of the car.

"We're here," Bodie announced.

"Here?" Cowley felt stupid, muddled.

"Where you get out," Doyle said. "Ride's over."

Cowley took hold of the bullet-shattered door with shaking hands and pushed. There was a loud creak of protest, and for a moment he was nearly faint with the thought that he might be trapped in the Capri, that he was doomed to ride with Bodie and Doyle through a mist of blue-grey sulphur forever. Then the door gave, almost spilling him out on his face. He put one foot on the pavement, then the other, unsure whether he was more terrified of where he was or where he was going. Gritting his teeth, he levered the rest of his body out of the car.

He was standing in front of the ministry building. It was too dark, deserted—as if this small section of the street was still caught in a bubble of some otherworldly silence. But the building was recognisable, the air smelt of nothing but the London streets, and the darkness was blessedly nothing but honest black night.

He leaned down to look in the window.

"Bodie. What happens now?"

Bodie jerked his head towards the building. "You go in there. Make your speech, rally the troops. You keep those roses and lavender well fertilized and watered."

"And you?'

Bodie shrugged. "We face the music."

"Is there anything I can do for you?

Doyle laughed, a tearingly bitter sound that hurt Cowley nearly as much as the unhallowed words he'd garbled out earlier had. "Pray us out of purgatory?"

Bodie slapped his arm. "Prat. He means well."

Doyle shrugged, a trace of the old grin brightening his face. "We're all right."

Bodie threw an arm around Doyle's shoulders, the misshapen claw teasing gently at a stray curl. "We're together. Everything else is," he shrugged slightly, "inconvenient."

Cowley felt his throat tighten. "I won't let this go to waste," he vowed.

"Good enough," Bodie said, at the same time as Doyle growled, "See that you don't."

There was a twisting shimmer that it hurt to look at, and then the Capri—drove away was not exactly the right term. It seemed to get smaller and further away, without any normal sense of movement at all. There was another shimmer, and it was gone.

For one heartbeat the silence remained, and then the world crashed in. Lights blazed to life, in the windows of the buildings around him, and on every lamp standard. Horns and traffic sounds thundered in from all directions, along with running footsteps and shouts. A damp breeze swept along the street, and he shivered, but otherwise ignored it all. He stood alone, completely unprotected for the first time in weeks, but he felt no fear. The itch at the back of his neck was gone.

Cowley looked down at his hand. The shiny blackened scarring along his trigger finger still hurt, and he suspected it always would. But the pain was no worse than that in his leg, and he accepted it in the same spirit. You made the choice of what to defend, and lived with the results.

"Mr. Cowley!"

Murphy was in the lead of the group of agents who reached him first, guns at the ready. "You're all right, sir?" he panted. "When the escort team got your place, you were already gone. We thought they'd got you."

"No, Murphy." He forced a smile. "Arrangements were made that no one on the Squad was aware of. A final layer of protection, you could say."

Not a word of a lie to it, either, even if it wasn't all the truth.

"We'd best go in, sir," Murphy said. "This area's secure, but we've got too many overlooking roofs for my liking."

Cowley looked back along the empty street. There was a sound that might have been the screech of Capri wheels at full throttle, and then silence.

"Yes, you're right. Let's go." Cowley smoothed his jacket, surprised to find that his marred hand was as steady as it had been when holding his razor earlier.

For a moment longer Cowley looked toward the street. Wild thoughts of a monastery, of the remainder of his life filled with repentance and prayer, flashed through his mind. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to face his fate.

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Not on my watch, lads. Not on my watch.

End

Title: In the Widening Gyre
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: slash (but very subtle)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes, please
Disclaimer: Mine? Hah!
Warnings: death story, ghost story, horror story. Also some fancy footwork around salvation theology, if anybody cares.
Notes: Many thanks to