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discoveredinaljAnd To You Good Wassail, Too (1/2)
"Bloody hell, Bodie, look at the queue, we'll never get in," Doyle groaned, coming out of the tube station. "Good thing we left the car at your flat, the car park must be full to overflowing with holiday shoppers."
"Don't you have a single drop of Christmas spirit, Raymond?" Bodie waved a hand at the beautifully decorated store. "This is a tradition—people come from every country in the world to see Harrods in December."
The iconic store did look festive. There were dozens of holly wreaths, fairy lights outlining every arch and doorway, and wonderful depictions of happy families opening their splendid Christmas gifts—all available at Harrods—visible in the large plate glass windows. A queue of eager children and their parents stretched down Brompton Road all the way to the corner: the true believers on their way to see their patron saint, Nicholas himself.
"I'd rather not. What do we need with over-priced merchandise and pea-green carry bags?" Doyle rolled his eyes when Bodie grinned, pleased that he'd managed to get Doyle this far.
A busker to the left of the underground entrance sang a half-way decent rendition of Silent Night and Bodie threw him a fifty pence piece, humming along. He started across the zebra crossing, knowing that for all his complaining, Doyle would follow him.
"Waste all your pay cheque on that lot," Doyle commented. "And I've no need to visit Father Christmas. I was three the last time I sat on his knee, and he never brought me a lorry all the same."
"Already a cynic by the age of three?" Bodie glanced over his shoulder. Doyle had his ratty tartan scarf wrapped twice around his neck, despite the mild winter weather. "I still remember when I was five, mum took me to have a picture taken with Father Christmas. I was dressed in short pants and a blazer, my school uniform."
"She didn't take you here!"
"Of course not, in Liverpool. To the church basement. It was all fixed up with a little tree and coloured baubles." Bodie laughed, remembering the shock of looking up at the figure dressed in red and white. "Recognised my uncle, my mum's brother, straight away. Knew then and there that Father Christmas wasn't real."
"What'd you ask for?" Doyle had a surprisingly soft, wistful look on his face.
"What I always did, a gun like John Wayne had."
"Six shooter?"
"No, one of them American Army machine guns.Battle for Iwo Jima." Bodie stopped on the corner to wait for a crowd of tourists, all holding London A-Z maps and arguing over their destination, to pass by.
"Yeah, I've seen it. Good film." Doyle grinned, and Bodie let himself fall into that smile, just a little bit.
He turned and nearly ran into a shopper loaded with bags all emblazoned with the green Harrods logo. "Excuse me, ma'am!" He almost wished he had a hat to tip to her, like an old fashioned gent. Nothing could spoil his mood on a day like this.
"Bodie," Doyle said into his ear. "We're never even going to get near the entrance at this rate. Tell me again why your nan really needs something from Harrods?"
"Because she lives in Little-Wesley-on-Mersey…"
"As opposed to Big-Wesley-on-Mersey." Doyle came back right on cue, with a gleam in his green eyes.
"There's only the little one, don't know why," Bodie answered, elbowing him in the ribs. "She's never been south of Liverpool in her entire seventy-nine years."
"And she brought you up," Doyle added, because he'd heard the story before. "After your mum died when you were eight."
"And she thinks Harrods is special." Bodie resorted to shoving his way through a knot of people on the street and finally saw his destination. The Hans Crescent entrance into Harrods. The small road was bustling, but the doors to the department store weren't choked with people like the main entrance. "See, we can go through the men's department without any trouble. Get her a bottle of scent, a tin of tea and biscuits. She likes chocolate digestives the best."
"Like her grandson," Doyle quipped.
Bodie nodded at the Harrods doorman in his green coat and let Doyle go into the store first. "Since we've come into this department, maybe I could get someone else a pressie."
"Yourself?" Doyle scooped up a blue and gold old-boys school tie. "Just the thing for the next time we're at Eton?" He held it under Bodie's chin.
"Perish the thought, old son." Bodie patted him on the cheek, lingering just a fraction too long so that he could run his thumb over the damaged place, just as he'd done the night before when they'd curled into one another, celebrating surviving another one of Cowley's ops.
"Oh, you'd rather a brand new jumper to wear whilst bowling a wicket, or whatever you cricketers do." Doyle waved a hand at a neat pile of cream coloured jumpers with pale blue and red stripes at the V neck.
They reminded Bodie of the current Doctor Who, the blond haired one who dressed in cricket togs. Not that he'd ever give Doyle the satisfaction of admitting that he still liked to watch Doctor Who.
"Come on, then," Bodie urged. "You didn't want to go shopping, now I can't get you out of the men's department?"
"May I help you, gentlemen?" A slender man with a prominent nose and a receding hairline came up behind them with the air of someone hoping for a large sale.
He wasn't going to get one out of the two of them, Bodie laughed to himself. He was just about to say no thanks when Doyle pointed back the way they had come.
"Those shirts with…" he started.
Bodie was never sure which happened first. Did he hear the hollow whump —like a basketball hitting a backboard—or see the plate glass window bow in as if it was made of rubber? Whichever, the concussive force of an explosion right outside the store created a sonic boom of solid noise that pushed in on his eardrums. The ground shook as if there were elemental forces at work. There was a violent whoosh as flames blossomed incandescent yellow and orange when the windows shattered, sending the shoppers nearest the Hans Crescent entrance to the floor, screaming in fear.
"Bloody hell!" Doyle shouted, grabbing Bodie's arm. "That was a…"
"Bomb." Bodie took in the blast site in an instant, his CI5 training shoving aside the happy shopper mentality.
Doyle nodded without speaking and ran off in the direction of the small group crouched on the floor next to men's tailoring. "I'll get them out of here."
"That was most likely a car bomb, mate. What kind of emergency evacuation training have you had?" Bodie looked straight into the Harrods employee's eyes, and got absolutely nothing back. It was as if the man's entire brain had fled, leaving behind an empty shell.
"Bugger," Bodie snarled, glancing at the man's name badge before pushing him toward the interior of the store. "Wesley James, spread the word through the other departments—there's been a bomb and the store needs to be evacuated."
"Evac…?" Wesley gasped, trembling.
"Bodie!" Doyle herded his group of white faced shoppers forward. "Looks like an inferno out there. Two cars are on fire, from what I can see through the windows."
"You think it was IRA?" Bodie asked, taking Wesley's arm to lead him out of the men's department. "Wouldn't be the first time they've set off a bomb in central London."
Doyle shook his head grimly, obviously not ready to talk about the significance of the blast yet. Once they entered the cosmetics department, the atmosphere was amazingly different. It was as if no one else was aware of what had happened moments before. Cashiers stood calmly behind displays of mascara, lipstick and powder, encouraging shoppers to buy merchandise that cost more than they might have spent at any other store in the city.
Bodie swore under his breath, shoving the unresisting Wesley aside. "There's been an explosion outside the store! Didn't you hear it?" he announced irritably.
"Sir!" A young woman with the long Hapsburg jaw frowned in disapproval. "It's quite inappropriate to suggest such…." Her customer, an older woman wearing a Harrods print scarf over her elaborately curled hair stared at Bodie in shock.
"The street is on fire!" one of Doyle's little band of followers sobbed, clutching her child. A shrill wail went up from several other Harrods patrons as the news spread out from cosmetics to nearby halls.
"You're serious, aren't you?" the Hapsburg descendent whispered, grabbing a telephone.
Bodie gave silent thanks that someone in the store had some sense. Agitated patrons were all talking at once, their voices rising in volume, but no one moved.
"Never more, darling," Doyle said insolently. "Who's security in this place?"
Two men in full livery arrived at that moment, galvanizing the shoppers now pressed around Bodie and Doyle. A single scream started them rushing for the nearest exit just as a voice came over a hidden tannoy. "There's been an incident on the Hans Crescent side of the store. The public is asked to remain calm. Please walk to the nearest exit and assemble in Brompton Road…"
"Out this way, please!" a security guard called, pointing to the main entrances. "It's imperative that we clear the store!"
The announcement, and the green uniformed guards, somehow made it more real. Customers began to break down, some crying in fear, only a very few dashing frantically to the exits, pushing against the more sensible citizens in front of them. Overall, there was a sense of brittle wariness, the British stiff upper lip reasserting itself. Bodie had a sudden flash of the old WWII phrase his Nan still favoured, "Keep calm and carry on."
A gaggle of ladies pushed past him, their voices high pitched and full of alarm.
"Tread carefully!" Security guards reminded, spreading through the crowded corridor to get as many customers out in the shortest possible time
Bodie held back, glancing around the area for anything suspicious. He didn't expect to see some mad bomber lurking behind the Max Factor counter, but stranger things had happened. There was no way to get out of the store through the front doors, unless he wanted to run the risk of being crushed to the floor as the hundreds of shoppers converged on the main exits.
"Doyle, the old man hasn't called yet, but I have a feeling he will." Bodie inclined his head at the men's department and the inferno beyond. "Once more into the breach, dear friend?"
"Shakespeare, you are not," Doyle said with a grimace, wiping a shirtsleeve across the sweat on his face. Even this far from the roaring fire, the temperature had increased exponentially and the fiendish crackle of flames was audible. "What a horror show, setting off a bomb at one place sure to be crowded with shoppers in December."
They found a door with fewer people trying to escape and managed to get out of the store, but it was akin to emerging into hell. Traffic had come to a standstill and the street was filled with people as far as the eye could see. Shards of glass covered every single inch of the pavement and two armless manikins leaned crazily from the shattered display windows, mimicking the real tragedies. At the road junction, a policeman lay next to his police dog, both severely injured, man's red blood indistinguishable from canine. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and Doyle coughed.
Bodie elbowed someone in the ribs to give him a few inches of space and caught a glimpse of the bomb site to his right, on Hans Crescent. Flames engulfed two cars, one of them a panda car, and there were several bodies lying near by. The whoop-whoop of sirens brought back memories of the blitz during the war.
The London police had already set up temporary road blocks, but it was impossible to move one way or the other. There were thousands of people packed into a scant two blocks, every one of them scared out of their wits and needing to reconnect with displaced family members. Bodie heard snatches of conversations as he pushed past people.
"What happened?"
"Must be terrorists!"
"Will there be another bomb?"
That, of course, was the main question. Bodie didn't like the idea of more than one bomb, but it was a real concern. Not that he could do anything about it right now. There were so many people crammed onto the pavement that he was pressed up against Doyle from chest to groin. On any other day, he'd have welcomed the full body contact, but this was neither the time or the place.
"Clear the area!" a bobby called through a loud speaker. "Clear the area! The fire brigade must get through!"
Like the Biblical Red Sea, a wall of people backed up, letting two fire engines down the street to the blast zone. But the movement only squeezed those on the pavement nearest to Harrods back against the store wall until there was no way to move left or right. Bodie could hear Doyle cough again, and shoved his arm past the two bodies closest to him, searching for his partner.
One bloody year since Doyle had got out of the hospital after the shooting. One bloody year—to the fucking day. Fear clutched at Bodie's gut and he growled in his throat, ready to go for his gun if someone didn't move in the next second.
Abruptly, the throng in front of him shifted, two barrel-chested men breaking away from the group which released the pent-up energy. People began to move in random directions, obviously disoriented and frightened. Past a couple of heads, Bodie caught sight of a mop of curls and a tartan scarf, and reached out to him. Doyle turned and saw Bodie, his face lighting up with recognition, but there were too many people between them to come together easily.
Taking a step off the kerb, Bodie felt a hand grasp his belt. "Hey, what…?" He jerked free, automatically going for his gun, only stopping when he saw who had attacked him.
"P-please?" A small girl shrank against the stone façade of Harrods, her bottom lip sucked under the upper one. Tear filled blue eyes looked up at him and she lowered the hand that had grabbed at his belt. "I can't find my mother."
"Where was she?" Bodie asked, taking a quick look around. Logically, he realised was that was stupid, since he didn't know what the girl's mother looked like. Doyle came up behind him and butted him with one hip, keeping his hands inside his jacket pockets. Relieved to have his partner at his side once again, Bodie turned back to the child. "What's your name?"
"Charlotte," she replied promptly, knuckling away the tears on her cheeks. "But I'm called Charlie."
"I'm Doyle," Doyle said, freeing one of his hands to shake Charlie's like a gentleman. "But me mates, of which Bodie here might be one, call me Ray."
"Raymond," Bodie corrected, just to be churlish. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fire brigade focusing their hoses on the burning cars. Medics and other emergency personnel risked their lives by moving in close to the fire to tend to the critically injured.
"Are you always called Bodie?" Charlie asked, some of the fear in her hunched posture relaxing with the conversation. "Don't you have a proper name?"
"He's never proper." Doyle winked at Charlie, crouching down to her level.
Bodie judged her to be around twelve. She was wearing an expensive looking puffy green and purple ski jacket, a short black skirt, black leggings, floppy purple suede boots and tiny diamond studs in her earlobes. This was not some ordinary lass, but a girl from a possibly wealthy family. What the hell was she doing alone on Brompton Road?
"We rarely use his real name but if you want to really get up his nose, call him William." Doyle took her hand, gesturing across the street. "Looks like the police want us over there so they can string that yellow tape around everything."
Charlie nodded, craning her neck in an effort to look for her mother in the crowd. Her bottom lip slipped under her upper teeth again and she hiccupped. "But I was supposed to stay right on that corner. We always meet family there after our shopping."
She pointed to the opposite corner of Hans Crescent where a jewellry shop had once done a prosperous business. Now it looked more like a burned out ruin than a jewellry shop. The firemen had just put out the worst of the fire, but the erected barricades kept the public far away from the whole of Hans Crescent.
"Doesn't look like she is there, love," Bodie said, dodging knots of people to follow the two of them over to the far side of Brompton Road. "Why don't you and Doyle keep your eyes peeled while I call our boss? I suspect that he may be interested in what is going on here."
Doyle smiled softly at him over Charlie's fair head. "Tell the old boy we couldn't get his pressie."
Digging his r/t out of his jacket pocket, Bodie grimaced. "You're on your own there, Raymond. I've already got a bottle of Glenfiddich wrapped in gold paper back at my flat."
"Please keep out of the road!" a policewoman shouted at pedestrians walking too slowly. "The ambulance is coming through."
More emergency vehicles threaded through the restless crowd, disgorging medical personnel and the bomb squad dressed in padded protective gear.
"Are they dead?" Charlie asked, the tremble in her voice a prelude to more tears. "The dog over there is all over blood."
"I can't say from over here, but the medic looks to be taking good care of all the injured cops," Doyle said. "What's your mum look like? I'm taller, maybe I can spot her?"
"She's got a red cardigan on…" Charlie started.
Just about to push down on the transmit button on the r/t, Bodie was surprised to hear Cowley's thick Scottish burr erupt from the speaker.
"3.7! Where are you? Get over to Brompton Road There've been reports of an explosion at Harrods, and another bomb threat at Fortnum and Mason!" Cowley announced, barely taking a pause to breathe between each sentence.
"Yeah," Bodie said dryly. "We're on top of the situation, sir." He beckoned Doyle and Charlie into the minimal protection of a gap between two buildings so that they were out of the way of the bustling populace jostling for a space on the pavement.
"Well, report in, then!"
"Saw the bomb go off." Bodie shaded his eyes, watching a heartbreaking scene on the corner. He could just make out one of the metropolitan cops bend down to identify the corpse under a blanket and then rear up in horror. The man turned away, pushing his colleagues back, obviously overcome. Bodie knew the fear, the almighty horror of seeing a partner down on the ground, bleeding out.
"Bodie?" Cowley shouted through the r/t, and from his tone, it wasn't for the first time.
Damn! Bodie had let his emotions run away from him at precisely the wrong time. Not good.
Doyle flashed him a look of annoyance and plucked the r/t out of his hand. "Situation's quite chaotic here, sir," he explained, pressing down on the talk button. "We were already at Harrods when the bomb went off—helped evacuate the store, and are dealing with the displaced citizens just now." He smiled at Charlie and tugged affectionately on her hair.
Bodie glowered at him and tried to get the r/t back but Doyle switched it to his opposite hand.
"Johnny on the spot, you both are!" Cowley's voice crackled through the radio transmitter. "Any word on who set the device?"
"Not at present, sir, but we will coordinate with the police and…" Doyle caught Bodie's eye and waggled a finger at an important looking man with smoothly combed hair and a Burberry overcoat talking to the chief of the fire brigade.
Charlie peered out at the man in question with inquisitive eyes. Bodie clasped her hand, turning her in the other direction just as the medics helped a man with a gushing head wound into an ambulance. No need for the girl to have the same nightmares that occasionally plagued him.
Bodie didn't have to read his partner's mind to know what he was wondering about. He recognised the man immediately. Not his favourite sod by half, but a worthwhile source of information from MI5. "Nigel Waterhouse," he whispered.
Doyle tapped his own nose. "We'll be interfacing with Waterhouse of MI5 next, sir. But—"
"Get cracking, man!" Cowley insisted. "I want the two of you on full duty. An anonymous phone call taking responsibility for the bomb came in not fifteen minutes ago."
Smoke was getting even thicker in the air and the acrid scent wrinkled Bodie's nose. He didn't even want to think what it might be doing to Doyle's damaged lung, or even Charlie's smaller lungs. The crowd shifted and swirled as families found one another and others mourned their wounded friends. This must have been what London was like during the war—the smoke defining exactly where the blast had occurred.
Bodie leaned in to Doyle to speak into the r/t. "Fifteen minutes? That would put the call around the time the bomb went off, just about a quarter before one. Did the caller give a time for the other bomb?"
"Less than an hour," Cowley growled. "I want you two back here now. 6.2 is taking a team to Fortnum and Mason as we speak."
"Bloody hell!" Doyle exclaimed, swinging his arm wide in surprise and nearly smacking Bodie in the chest with the r/t. "They hit two major shops on the busiest shopping day of the year."
"Observant, 4.5," Cowley said dryly.
"Sir." Bodie grabbed the transmitter away from his partner before he brained poor Charlie, too. "We have a bit of a…"
"No time for delays, man!" Cowley continued bombastically. "Staff have already begun evacuating Fortnum and Mason, so we have a chance to save some lives."
"I'll just wait here for my mother," Charlie said quietly, fiddling with the zipper of her ski jacket. She shivered with a dispirited shrug, scanning the mass of people for a familiar face.
"We'll take care of you, love," Doyle said and coughed into his fist.
"Who was that?" Cowley demanded.
"What we've been trying to tell you." Bodie thumbed the speaker button in consternation. The old man would go on and on. "Like Doctor Who, we've found ourselves a small companion, Charlotte…" He realised she'd never told them her surname.
Two ambulances screamed down Brompton, transporting the first of the wounded to hospital.
"Mills," Charlie said helpfully. "My dad's called Robert and mother is Felicity."
"Repeat that?" Cowley said more quietly. "It's difficult to hear over all those sirens."
"A young lady, approximately…" Bodie winked at her, earning a little grin. "Twenty, would you say, Doyle?"
"I'm twelve!" Charlie said loudly into the r/t. "Charlotte Mills."
Doyle turned his body so that he was barricading their little sanctuary from a large group rushing past, all speaking German.
"Where's your father now, Charlotte Mills?" Cowley's voice crackled and popped over the increasingly bad reception from the transmitter.
Bodie wondered if the confluence of emergency personnel, with all their police radios, was causing the interference. The r/t was top of the line and usually didn't malfunction.
"At a conference, in Spain."
"Would your father be Sir Robert Mills, the financier?"
"Yes! Can you call him? There's no phone box here," Charlie said breathlessly, that very young belief that adults can solve everything coming to the forefront. "My mother's gone missing."
Doyle glanced at Bodie over Charlie's head, his green eyes wide with surprise. "Do you think the bomb could have been a diversion to grab…?" he whispered.
Bodie shook his head, completely on Doyle's wave length. He didn't want to entertain the possibility that some person would cause such damage to so many in order to kidnap the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Britain. He only hoped Mrs Mills was simply separated from her daughter in the crowd.
"Where are the three of you?" Cowley asked.
"Across the street from Harrods, sir," Bodie answered, watching three policemen set up a portable screen around the still smoldering panda on the corner of Hans Crescent. "Brompton Road is packed with people, and cordoned off. No way to get out of here unless we walk for quite a distance."
"Then get walking!" Cowley shouted. "I'm sending Susan in my car to fetch Charlotte—rendezvous at Knightsbridge and Trevor, perhaps?"
"On our way, sir!" Bodie clicked off thankfully and gazed out at the thick cluster of humanity crammed into such a small area. Police were threading through the crowd taking names and addresses of the displaced. Nigel Waterhouse was now conferring with a pompous looking gent sporting a larger than necessary mustache.
"Did he memorise a bloody London A to Z?" Doyle groused.
"We have to walk?" Charlie quavered, sucking on her bottom lip.
"Just like Barbara Woodhouse," Bodie said, going for cheerful and not sure he'd succeeded from the expressions on the other two. "Walkies, Charlie!" He grabbed the little girl's hand. "You, Goldilocks," he said to his partner, "need to parlez with Waterhouse and then catch up with us on Knightsbridge."
"And ta, to you, too," Doyle said with a sneer, but he stuffed his scarf more firmly into the front of his jacket. "Think I have legs like a rabbit, do you?"
"I think you have some…" Bodie clamped his mouth shut on what he was about to say, glancing down at the very interested blue eyes staring up at him. "Long legs that can walk faster than hers." He wasn't keen on leaving Doyle alone. What if there were more bombs at Harrods? The damage had been substantial, but a delayed explosion, set to go off when there were masses of people in the street, could be cataclysmic. Useless to dwell on the unknown, imagining dire consequences had no purpose. "I'll wait there. We can catch a bus back to my flat, grab the Capri."
"Then fetch us a cup of tea until I get there, will you?" Doyle asked. "And something to eat."
"Peckish, old son? Look for me in the closest pub on Trevor, with a pint in my fist." Bodie tugged Charlie's hand, setting off down Brompton to where it joined with Knightsbridge. "You peckish, Charlie? I could eat about six mince pies."
"Rather have a packet of chocolate biscuits," Charlie said forlornly, trotting beside him. "D'you think my mother is de… hurt? She was to be right near where the car exploded…"
"A woman married to a sensible man like Sir Robert Mills, who wears a smart red cardigan on a day such as this?" Bodie kept up the patter to distract the both of them. He didn't even look back to watch Doyle disappear into the sooty smoke enveloping the length of Harrods. "She'd have found a safe haven, just as you did, and waited out the danger. Just unfortunate that you two were separated. But my boss, Mr Cowley will get the two of you reunited, or Bob's not your uncle."
Charlie giggled. "Bob's my dad! You're daft."
"Me? Perish the thought. Now what were you doing shopping alone?" He glanced across the road before stepping off the kerb to cross what was usually a busy street. This close to the bomb site, there were no cars being let through and the crossing was empty.
"My first time." Charlie shrugged, slowing to examine a Christmas display in the window of a bookshop.
A well stuffed Father Christmas doll was handing out brightly wrapped gifts to a cluster of doll children. One boy doll with dark yarn for hair wore short pants, a blue blazer and a red and blue striped tie. The jolly chap in red was holding out book on guns tied with a red bow. Gawking at the oddly reminiscent scene, Bodie almost got whiplash when Charlie pulled him forward along the pavement.
"I had a ten pound note," she said. "Mother gave me one hour to go into Harrods to find a gift for her, then we were going to have tea."
A special rite of passage, first time shopping alone, destroyed by damn terrorists. Bodie pressed his lips together, the anger in his belly increasing. Not to mention his own gift buying plans gone. He'd never have time to buy his nan a pressie at this rate.
"You tell Mr Cowley that I want to know the moment your mum arrives to get you, right?" Bodie said, weird half memories of the last time he'd seen his mother, when he was younger than Charlie, and flashes of her funeral slamming into him. He wouldn't wish that kind of pain on another child, ever.
Not that he hadn't had a wonderful childhood. Eileen Bodie had loved her grandson dearly. She had ensured that he had good clothes and was well educated, but still, he'd mourned his mother Sheila every day of his life.
"Ray's not coming yet," Charlie said when they turned onto Knightsbridge. "Where is he?'
"Doyle's got to talk to every one of the police and that Mr Waterhouse. It'll take a while," Bodie said, chastising himself for picturing another bomb going off and destroying Harrods completely, along with a certain green eyed golly. "Keep your eye out for a red car, driven by a beautiful blonde with big round glasses like a gigantic fly."
"You're horrible!" Charlie smirked, sucking on her bottom lip. The brisk air had pinked up her cheeks. "Mother has got large round glasses as well, but I think they make her look more like a wise owl. A lovely owl."
Bodie was beginning to want to meet Felicity Mills very much indeed. They had just reached the corner of Trevor Street when a small red car pulled up, driven by the lovely Susan. She parked by the kerb next to a post box.
"Well timed!" Bodie greeted her. "Charlotte Mills, this is Miss Susan Webber, or Agent 7.4 to those on less friendly terms."
"You do go on." Susan rolled her eyes, climbing out of the car so that Bodie got a nice look at her long, elegant legs when her deep blue coat gaped open. "Lovely to meet you Charlotte. Mr Cowley told me to tell you that there is already a phone number for displaced families to call, and we should have your mum sorted out in a tick."
"Charlie, you go back to headquarters with Susan, and I'll call you soon." Bodie placed a kiss on her smooth forehead. "Unfortunately, I've got work to do."
"Can't I stay with you?" Sudden tears welled up in Charlie's blue eyes and she shuddered. "I've just got to know you…!"
"Hey!" Bodie felt mortified shunting the child onto yet another unknown adult like this. He knew the feeling all too well. "Just ask the Cow—er, Mr Cowley…" As he expected, the irreverent nickname earned a quavery smile from the girl. "And he'll supply you with all the chocolate biscuits you like. Tell him to get Cadbury, the best kind with the orange crème in between the wafers."
"I do like those…" Charlie said doubtfully.
"I know a shop where we can stop." Susan winked. "Because right now, I'd love some Cadbury's chocolate, too. What do you say?"
"You'll call?" Charlie asked as she got in the car. "I want to know that Ray's all right."
Ah, puppy love, Bodie thought with a smile. "I will, love, never you fear," he promised. Thing was, he wanted to know Ray was all right, too. In his mind's eye, he could still see Doyle silhouetted against the pyre in Harrods' windows.
Continued in part two
Title: And To You Good Wassail, Too
Author: Dawnwind
Bodie/Doyle Slash
Archive to proslib/circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: I didn't make any money on the lads, I just had fun.
In 1983, I lived in London. December 18th was my parent's wedding anniversary, so on the 17th, we went to Harrods to do some Christmas shopping. And got closer to a bomb than I ever want to be in my entire life. None of us were hurt, but the IRA set off a car bomb outside the side entrance of Harrods. I decided to write a story about it--this is fiction, based on a real event, and some of what happens to Bodie and Doyle happened to me--but only a very little (I did see the bomb explode just as Bodie does). The story wanders into complete fiction very quickly. However, my parents and I did find a displaced little girl and took her home with us until she could be reunited with her family later on that afternoon.
"Bloody hell, Bodie, look at the queue, we'll never get in," Doyle groaned, coming out of the tube station. "Good thing we left the car at your flat, the car park must be full to overflowing with holiday shoppers."
"Don't you have a single drop of Christmas spirit, Raymond?" Bodie waved a hand at the beautifully decorated store. "This is a tradition—people come from every country in the world to see Harrods in December."
The iconic store did look festive. There were dozens of holly wreaths, fairy lights outlining every arch and doorway, and wonderful depictions of happy families opening their splendid Christmas gifts—all available at Harrods—visible in the large plate glass windows. A queue of eager children and their parents stretched down Brompton Road all the way to the corner: the true believers on their way to see their patron saint, Nicholas himself.
"I'd rather not. What do we need with over-priced merchandise and pea-green carry bags?" Doyle rolled his eyes when Bodie grinned, pleased that he'd managed to get Doyle this far.
A busker to the left of the underground entrance sang a half-way decent rendition of Silent Night and Bodie threw him a fifty pence piece, humming along. He started across the zebra crossing, knowing that for all his complaining, Doyle would follow him.
"Waste all your pay cheque on that lot," Doyle commented. "And I've no need to visit Father Christmas. I was three the last time I sat on his knee, and he never brought me a lorry all the same."
"Already a cynic by the age of three?" Bodie glanced over his shoulder. Doyle had his ratty tartan scarf wrapped twice around his neck, despite the mild winter weather. "I still remember when I was five, mum took me to have a picture taken with Father Christmas. I was dressed in short pants and a blazer, my school uniform."
"She didn't take you here!"
"Of course not, in Liverpool. To the church basement. It was all fixed up with a little tree and coloured baubles." Bodie laughed, remembering the shock of looking up at the figure dressed in red and white. "Recognised my uncle, my mum's brother, straight away. Knew then and there that Father Christmas wasn't real."
"What'd you ask for?" Doyle had a surprisingly soft, wistful look on his face.
"What I always did, a gun like John Wayne had."
"Six shooter?"
"No, one of them American Army machine guns.Battle for Iwo Jima." Bodie stopped on the corner to wait for a crowd of tourists, all holding London A-Z maps and arguing over their destination, to pass by.
"Yeah, I've seen it. Good film." Doyle grinned, and Bodie let himself fall into that smile, just a little bit.
He turned and nearly ran into a shopper loaded with bags all emblazoned with the green Harrods logo. "Excuse me, ma'am!" He almost wished he had a hat to tip to her, like an old fashioned gent. Nothing could spoil his mood on a day like this.
"Bodie," Doyle said into his ear. "We're never even going to get near the entrance at this rate. Tell me again why your nan really needs something from Harrods?"
"Because she lives in Little-Wesley-on-Mersey…"
"As opposed to Big-Wesley-on-Mersey." Doyle came back right on cue, with a gleam in his green eyes.
"There's only the little one, don't know why," Bodie answered, elbowing him in the ribs. "She's never been south of Liverpool in her entire seventy-nine years."
"And she brought you up," Doyle added, because he'd heard the story before. "After your mum died when you were eight."
"And she thinks Harrods is special." Bodie resorted to shoving his way through a knot of people on the street and finally saw his destination. The Hans Crescent entrance into Harrods. The small road was bustling, but the doors to the department store weren't choked with people like the main entrance. "See, we can go through the men's department without any trouble. Get her a bottle of scent, a tin of tea and biscuits. She likes chocolate digestives the best."
"Like her grandson," Doyle quipped.
Bodie nodded at the Harrods doorman in his green coat and let Doyle go into the store first. "Since we've come into this department, maybe I could get someone else a pressie."
"Yourself?" Doyle scooped up a blue and gold old-boys school tie. "Just the thing for the next time we're at Eton?" He held it under Bodie's chin.
"Perish the thought, old son." Bodie patted him on the cheek, lingering just a fraction too long so that he could run his thumb over the damaged place, just as he'd done the night before when they'd curled into one another, celebrating surviving another one of Cowley's ops.
"Oh, you'd rather a brand new jumper to wear whilst bowling a wicket, or whatever you cricketers do." Doyle waved a hand at a neat pile of cream coloured jumpers with pale blue and red stripes at the V neck.
They reminded Bodie of the current Doctor Who, the blond haired one who dressed in cricket togs. Not that he'd ever give Doyle the satisfaction of admitting that he still liked to watch Doctor Who.
"Come on, then," Bodie urged. "You didn't want to go shopping, now I can't get you out of the men's department?"
"May I help you, gentlemen?" A slender man with a prominent nose and a receding hairline came up behind them with the air of someone hoping for a large sale.
He wasn't going to get one out of the two of them, Bodie laughed to himself. He was just about to say no thanks when Doyle pointed back the way they had come.
"Those shirts with…" he started.
Bodie was never sure which happened first. Did he hear the hollow whump —like a basketball hitting a backboard—or see the plate glass window bow in as if it was made of rubber? Whichever, the concussive force of an explosion right outside the store created a sonic boom of solid noise that pushed in on his eardrums. The ground shook as if there were elemental forces at work. There was a violent whoosh as flames blossomed incandescent yellow and orange when the windows shattered, sending the shoppers nearest the Hans Crescent entrance to the floor, screaming in fear.
"Bloody hell!" Doyle shouted, grabbing Bodie's arm. "That was a…"
"Bomb." Bodie took in the blast site in an instant, his CI5 training shoving aside the happy shopper mentality.
Doyle nodded without speaking and ran off in the direction of the small group crouched on the floor next to men's tailoring. "I'll get them out of here."
"That was most likely a car bomb, mate. What kind of emergency evacuation training have you had?" Bodie looked straight into the Harrods employee's eyes, and got absolutely nothing back. It was as if the man's entire brain had fled, leaving behind an empty shell.
"Bugger," Bodie snarled, glancing at the man's name badge before pushing him toward the interior of the store. "Wesley James, spread the word through the other departments—there's been a bomb and the store needs to be evacuated."
"Evac…?" Wesley gasped, trembling.
"Bodie!" Doyle herded his group of white faced shoppers forward. "Looks like an inferno out there. Two cars are on fire, from what I can see through the windows."
"You think it was IRA?" Bodie asked, taking Wesley's arm to lead him out of the men's department. "Wouldn't be the first time they've set off a bomb in central London."
Doyle shook his head grimly, obviously not ready to talk about the significance of the blast yet. Once they entered the cosmetics department, the atmosphere was amazingly different. It was as if no one else was aware of what had happened moments before. Cashiers stood calmly behind displays of mascara, lipstick and powder, encouraging shoppers to buy merchandise that cost more than they might have spent at any other store in the city.
Bodie swore under his breath, shoving the unresisting Wesley aside. "There's been an explosion outside the store! Didn't you hear it?" he announced irritably.
"Sir!" A young woman with the long Hapsburg jaw frowned in disapproval. "It's quite inappropriate to suggest such…." Her customer, an older woman wearing a Harrods print scarf over her elaborately curled hair stared at Bodie in shock.
"The street is on fire!" one of Doyle's little band of followers sobbed, clutching her child. A shrill wail went up from several other Harrods patrons as the news spread out from cosmetics to nearby halls.
"You're serious, aren't you?" the Hapsburg descendent whispered, grabbing a telephone.
Bodie gave silent thanks that someone in the store had some sense. Agitated patrons were all talking at once, their voices rising in volume, but no one moved.
"Never more, darling," Doyle said insolently. "Who's security in this place?"
Two men in full livery arrived at that moment, galvanizing the shoppers now pressed around Bodie and Doyle. A single scream started them rushing for the nearest exit just as a voice came over a hidden tannoy. "There's been an incident on the Hans Crescent side of the store. The public is asked to remain calm. Please walk to the nearest exit and assemble in Brompton Road…"
"Out this way, please!" a security guard called, pointing to the main entrances. "It's imperative that we clear the store!"
The announcement, and the green uniformed guards, somehow made it more real. Customers began to break down, some crying in fear, only a very few dashing frantically to the exits, pushing against the more sensible citizens in front of them. Overall, there was a sense of brittle wariness, the British stiff upper lip reasserting itself. Bodie had a sudden flash of the old WWII phrase his Nan still favoured, "Keep calm and carry on."
A gaggle of ladies pushed past him, their voices high pitched and full of alarm.
"Tread carefully!" Security guards reminded, spreading through the crowded corridor to get as many customers out in the shortest possible time
Bodie held back, glancing around the area for anything suspicious. He didn't expect to see some mad bomber lurking behind the Max Factor counter, but stranger things had happened. There was no way to get out of the store through the front doors, unless he wanted to run the risk of being crushed to the floor as the hundreds of shoppers converged on the main exits.
"Doyle, the old man hasn't called yet, but I have a feeling he will." Bodie inclined his head at the men's department and the inferno beyond. "Once more into the breach, dear friend?"
"Shakespeare, you are not," Doyle said with a grimace, wiping a shirtsleeve across the sweat on his face. Even this far from the roaring fire, the temperature had increased exponentially and the fiendish crackle of flames was audible. "What a horror show, setting off a bomb at one place sure to be crowded with shoppers in December."
They found a door with fewer people trying to escape and managed to get out of the store, but it was akin to emerging into hell. Traffic had come to a standstill and the street was filled with people as far as the eye could see. Shards of glass covered every single inch of the pavement and two armless manikins leaned crazily from the shattered display windows, mimicking the real tragedies. At the road junction, a policeman lay next to his police dog, both severely injured, man's red blood indistinguishable from canine. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and Doyle coughed.
Bodie elbowed someone in the ribs to give him a few inches of space and caught a glimpse of the bomb site to his right, on Hans Crescent. Flames engulfed two cars, one of them a panda car, and there were several bodies lying near by. The whoop-whoop of sirens brought back memories of the blitz during the war.
The London police had already set up temporary road blocks, but it was impossible to move one way or the other. There were thousands of people packed into a scant two blocks, every one of them scared out of their wits and needing to reconnect with displaced family members. Bodie heard snatches of conversations as he pushed past people.
"What happened?"
"Must be terrorists!"
"Will there be another bomb?"
That, of course, was the main question. Bodie didn't like the idea of more than one bomb, but it was a real concern. Not that he could do anything about it right now. There were so many people crammed onto the pavement that he was pressed up against Doyle from chest to groin. On any other day, he'd have welcomed the full body contact, but this was neither the time or the place.
"Clear the area!" a bobby called through a loud speaker. "Clear the area! The fire brigade must get through!"
Like the Biblical Red Sea, a wall of people backed up, letting two fire engines down the street to the blast zone. But the movement only squeezed those on the pavement nearest to Harrods back against the store wall until there was no way to move left or right. Bodie could hear Doyle cough again, and shoved his arm past the two bodies closest to him, searching for his partner.
One bloody year since Doyle had got out of the hospital after the shooting. One bloody year—to the fucking day. Fear clutched at Bodie's gut and he growled in his throat, ready to go for his gun if someone didn't move in the next second.
Abruptly, the throng in front of him shifted, two barrel-chested men breaking away from the group which released the pent-up energy. People began to move in random directions, obviously disoriented and frightened. Past a couple of heads, Bodie caught sight of a mop of curls and a tartan scarf, and reached out to him. Doyle turned and saw Bodie, his face lighting up with recognition, but there were too many people between them to come together easily.
Taking a step off the kerb, Bodie felt a hand grasp his belt. "Hey, what…?" He jerked free, automatically going for his gun, only stopping when he saw who had attacked him.
"P-please?" A small girl shrank against the stone façade of Harrods, her bottom lip sucked under the upper one. Tear filled blue eyes looked up at him and she lowered the hand that had grabbed at his belt. "I can't find my mother."
"Where was she?" Bodie asked, taking a quick look around. Logically, he realised was that was stupid, since he didn't know what the girl's mother looked like. Doyle came up behind him and butted him with one hip, keeping his hands inside his jacket pockets. Relieved to have his partner at his side once again, Bodie turned back to the child. "What's your name?"
"Charlotte," she replied promptly, knuckling away the tears on her cheeks. "But I'm called Charlie."
"I'm Doyle," Doyle said, freeing one of his hands to shake Charlie's like a gentleman. "But me mates, of which Bodie here might be one, call me Ray."
"Raymond," Bodie corrected, just to be churlish. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fire brigade focusing their hoses on the burning cars. Medics and other emergency personnel risked their lives by moving in close to the fire to tend to the critically injured.
"Are you always called Bodie?" Charlie asked, some of the fear in her hunched posture relaxing with the conversation. "Don't you have a proper name?"
"He's never proper." Doyle winked at Charlie, crouching down to her level.
Bodie judged her to be around twelve. She was wearing an expensive looking puffy green and purple ski jacket, a short black skirt, black leggings, floppy purple suede boots and tiny diamond studs in her earlobes. This was not some ordinary lass, but a girl from a possibly wealthy family. What the hell was she doing alone on Brompton Road?
"We rarely use his real name but if you want to really get up his nose, call him William." Doyle took her hand, gesturing across the street. "Looks like the police want us over there so they can string that yellow tape around everything."
Charlie nodded, craning her neck in an effort to look for her mother in the crowd. Her bottom lip slipped under her upper teeth again and she hiccupped. "But I was supposed to stay right on that corner. We always meet family there after our shopping."
She pointed to the opposite corner of Hans Crescent where a jewellry shop had once done a prosperous business. Now it looked more like a burned out ruin than a jewellry shop. The firemen had just put out the worst of the fire, but the erected barricades kept the public far away from the whole of Hans Crescent.
"Doesn't look like she is there, love," Bodie said, dodging knots of people to follow the two of them over to the far side of Brompton Road. "Why don't you and Doyle keep your eyes peeled while I call our boss? I suspect that he may be interested in what is going on here."
Doyle smiled softly at him over Charlie's fair head. "Tell the old boy we couldn't get his pressie."
Digging his r/t out of his jacket pocket, Bodie grimaced. "You're on your own there, Raymond. I've already got a bottle of Glenfiddich wrapped in gold paper back at my flat."
"Please keep out of the road!" a policewoman shouted at pedestrians walking too slowly. "The ambulance is coming through."
More emergency vehicles threaded through the restless crowd, disgorging medical personnel and the bomb squad dressed in padded protective gear.
"Are they dead?" Charlie asked, the tremble in her voice a prelude to more tears. "The dog over there is all over blood."
"I can't say from over here, but the medic looks to be taking good care of all the injured cops," Doyle said. "What's your mum look like? I'm taller, maybe I can spot her?"
"She's got a red cardigan on…" Charlie started.
Just about to push down on the transmit button on the r/t, Bodie was surprised to hear Cowley's thick Scottish burr erupt from the speaker.
"3.7! Where are you? Get over to Brompton Road There've been reports of an explosion at Harrods, and another bomb threat at Fortnum and Mason!" Cowley announced, barely taking a pause to breathe between each sentence.
"Yeah," Bodie said dryly. "We're on top of the situation, sir." He beckoned Doyle and Charlie into the minimal protection of a gap between two buildings so that they were out of the way of the bustling populace jostling for a space on the pavement.
"Well, report in, then!"
"Saw the bomb go off." Bodie shaded his eyes, watching a heartbreaking scene on the corner. He could just make out one of the metropolitan cops bend down to identify the corpse under a blanket and then rear up in horror. The man turned away, pushing his colleagues back, obviously overcome. Bodie knew the fear, the almighty horror of seeing a partner down on the ground, bleeding out.
"Bodie?" Cowley shouted through the r/t, and from his tone, it wasn't for the first time.
Damn! Bodie had let his emotions run away from him at precisely the wrong time. Not good.
Doyle flashed him a look of annoyance and plucked the r/t out of his hand. "Situation's quite chaotic here, sir," he explained, pressing down on the talk button. "We were already at Harrods when the bomb went off—helped evacuate the store, and are dealing with the displaced citizens just now." He smiled at Charlie and tugged affectionately on her hair.
Bodie glowered at him and tried to get the r/t back but Doyle switched it to his opposite hand.
"Johnny on the spot, you both are!" Cowley's voice crackled through the radio transmitter. "Any word on who set the device?"
"Not at present, sir, but we will coordinate with the police and…" Doyle caught Bodie's eye and waggled a finger at an important looking man with smoothly combed hair and a Burberry overcoat talking to the chief of the fire brigade.
Charlie peered out at the man in question with inquisitive eyes. Bodie clasped her hand, turning her in the other direction just as the medics helped a man with a gushing head wound into an ambulance. No need for the girl to have the same nightmares that occasionally plagued him.
Bodie didn't have to read his partner's mind to know what he was wondering about. He recognised the man immediately. Not his favourite sod by half, but a worthwhile source of information from MI5. "Nigel Waterhouse," he whispered.
Doyle tapped his own nose. "We'll be interfacing with Waterhouse of MI5 next, sir. But—"
"Get cracking, man!" Cowley insisted. "I want the two of you on full duty. An anonymous phone call taking responsibility for the bomb came in not fifteen minutes ago."
Smoke was getting even thicker in the air and the acrid scent wrinkled Bodie's nose. He didn't even want to think what it might be doing to Doyle's damaged lung, or even Charlie's smaller lungs. The crowd shifted and swirled as families found one another and others mourned their wounded friends. This must have been what London was like during the war—the smoke defining exactly where the blast had occurred.
Bodie leaned in to Doyle to speak into the r/t. "Fifteen minutes? That would put the call around the time the bomb went off, just about a quarter before one. Did the caller give a time for the other bomb?"
"Less than an hour," Cowley growled. "I want you two back here now. 6.2 is taking a team to Fortnum and Mason as we speak."
"Bloody hell!" Doyle exclaimed, swinging his arm wide in surprise and nearly smacking Bodie in the chest with the r/t. "They hit two major shops on the busiest shopping day of the year."
"Observant, 4.5," Cowley said dryly.
"Sir." Bodie grabbed the transmitter away from his partner before he brained poor Charlie, too. "We have a bit of a…"
"No time for delays, man!" Cowley continued bombastically. "Staff have already begun evacuating Fortnum and Mason, so we have a chance to save some lives."
"I'll just wait here for my mother," Charlie said quietly, fiddling with the zipper of her ski jacket. She shivered with a dispirited shrug, scanning the mass of people for a familiar face.
"We'll take care of you, love," Doyle said and coughed into his fist.
"Who was that?" Cowley demanded.
"What we've been trying to tell you." Bodie thumbed the speaker button in consternation. The old man would go on and on. "Like Doctor Who, we've found ourselves a small companion, Charlotte…" He realised she'd never told them her surname.
Two ambulances screamed down Brompton, transporting the first of the wounded to hospital.
"Mills," Charlie said helpfully. "My dad's called Robert and mother is Felicity."
"Repeat that?" Cowley said more quietly. "It's difficult to hear over all those sirens."
"A young lady, approximately…" Bodie winked at her, earning a little grin. "Twenty, would you say, Doyle?"
"I'm twelve!" Charlie said loudly into the r/t. "Charlotte Mills."
Doyle turned his body so that he was barricading their little sanctuary from a large group rushing past, all speaking German.
"Where's your father now, Charlotte Mills?" Cowley's voice crackled and popped over the increasingly bad reception from the transmitter.
Bodie wondered if the confluence of emergency personnel, with all their police radios, was causing the interference. The r/t was top of the line and usually didn't malfunction.
"At a conference, in Spain."
"Would your father be Sir Robert Mills, the financier?"
"Yes! Can you call him? There's no phone box here," Charlie said breathlessly, that very young belief that adults can solve everything coming to the forefront. "My mother's gone missing."
Doyle glanced at Bodie over Charlie's head, his green eyes wide with surprise. "Do you think the bomb could have been a diversion to grab…?" he whispered.
Bodie shook his head, completely on Doyle's wave length. He didn't want to entertain the possibility that some person would cause such damage to so many in order to kidnap the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Britain. He only hoped Mrs Mills was simply separated from her daughter in the crowd.
"Where are the three of you?" Cowley asked.
"Across the street from Harrods, sir," Bodie answered, watching three policemen set up a portable screen around the still smoldering panda on the corner of Hans Crescent. "Brompton Road is packed with people, and cordoned off. No way to get out of here unless we walk for quite a distance."
"Then get walking!" Cowley shouted. "I'm sending Susan in my car to fetch Charlotte—rendezvous at Knightsbridge and Trevor, perhaps?"
"On our way, sir!" Bodie clicked off thankfully and gazed out at the thick cluster of humanity crammed into such a small area. Police were threading through the crowd taking names and addresses of the displaced. Nigel Waterhouse was now conferring with a pompous looking gent sporting a larger than necessary mustache.
"Did he memorise a bloody London A to Z?" Doyle groused.
"We have to walk?" Charlie quavered, sucking on her bottom lip.
"Just like Barbara Woodhouse," Bodie said, going for cheerful and not sure he'd succeeded from the expressions on the other two. "Walkies, Charlie!" He grabbed the little girl's hand. "You, Goldilocks," he said to his partner, "need to parlez with Waterhouse and then catch up with us on Knightsbridge."
"And ta, to you, too," Doyle said with a sneer, but he stuffed his scarf more firmly into the front of his jacket. "Think I have legs like a rabbit, do you?"
"I think you have some…" Bodie clamped his mouth shut on what he was about to say, glancing down at the very interested blue eyes staring up at him. "Long legs that can walk faster than hers." He wasn't keen on leaving Doyle alone. What if there were more bombs at Harrods? The damage had been substantial, but a delayed explosion, set to go off when there were masses of people in the street, could be cataclysmic. Useless to dwell on the unknown, imagining dire consequences had no purpose. "I'll wait there. We can catch a bus back to my flat, grab the Capri."
"Then fetch us a cup of tea until I get there, will you?" Doyle asked. "And something to eat."
"Peckish, old son? Look for me in the closest pub on Trevor, with a pint in my fist." Bodie tugged Charlie's hand, setting off down Brompton to where it joined with Knightsbridge. "You peckish, Charlie? I could eat about six mince pies."
"Rather have a packet of chocolate biscuits," Charlie said forlornly, trotting beside him. "D'you think my mother is de… hurt? She was to be right near where the car exploded…"
"A woman married to a sensible man like Sir Robert Mills, who wears a smart red cardigan on a day such as this?" Bodie kept up the patter to distract the both of them. He didn't even look back to watch Doyle disappear into the sooty smoke enveloping the length of Harrods. "She'd have found a safe haven, just as you did, and waited out the danger. Just unfortunate that you two were separated. But my boss, Mr Cowley will get the two of you reunited, or Bob's not your uncle."
Charlie giggled. "Bob's my dad! You're daft."
"Me? Perish the thought. Now what were you doing shopping alone?" He glanced across the road before stepping off the kerb to cross what was usually a busy street. This close to the bomb site, there were no cars being let through and the crossing was empty.
"My first time." Charlie shrugged, slowing to examine a Christmas display in the window of a bookshop.
A well stuffed Father Christmas doll was handing out brightly wrapped gifts to a cluster of doll children. One boy doll with dark yarn for hair wore short pants, a blue blazer and a red and blue striped tie. The jolly chap in red was holding out book on guns tied with a red bow. Gawking at the oddly reminiscent scene, Bodie almost got whiplash when Charlie pulled him forward along the pavement.
"I had a ten pound note," she said. "Mother gave me one hour to go into Harrods to find a gift for her, then we were going to have tea."
A special rite of passage, first time shopping alone, destroyed by damn terrorists. Bodie pressed his lips together, the anger in his belly increasing. Not to mention his own gift buying plans gone. He'd never have time to buy his nan a pressie at this rate.
"You tell Mr Cowley that I want to know the moment your mum arrives to get you, right?" Bodie said, weird half memories of the last time he'd seen his mother, when he was younger than Charlie, and flashes of her funeral slamming into him. He wouldn't wish that kind of pain on another child, ever.
Not that he hadn't had a wonderful childhood. Eileen Bodie had loved her grandson dearly. She had ensured that he had good clothes and was well educated, but still, he'd mourned his mother Sheila every day of his life.
"Ray's not coming yet," Charlie said when they turned onto Knightsbridge. "Where is he?'
"Doyle's got to talk to every one of the police and that Mr Waterhouse. It'll take a while," Bodie said, chastising himself for picturing another bomb going off and destroying Harrods completely, along with a certain green eyed golly. "Keep your eye out for a red car, driven by a beautiful blonde with big round glasses like a gigantic fly."
"You're horrible!" Charlie smirked, sucking on her bottom lip. The brisk air had pinked up her cheeks. "Mother has got large round glasses as well, but I think they make her look more like a wise owl. A lovely owl."
Bodie was beginning to want to meet Felicity Mills very much indeed. They had just reached the corner of Trevor Street when a small red car pulled up, driven by the lovely Susan. She parked by the kerb next to a post box.
"Well timed!" Bodie greeted her. "Charlotte Mills, this is Miss Susan Webber, or Agent 7.4 to those on less friendly terms."
"You do go on." Susan rolled her eyes, climbing out of the car so that Bodie got a nice look at her long, elegant legs when her deep blue coat gaped open. "Lovely to meet you Charlotte. Mr Cowley told me to tell you that there is already a phone number for displaced families to call, and we should have your mum sorted out in a tick."
"Charlie, you go back to headquarters with Susan, and I'll call you soon." Bodie placed a kiss on her smooth forehead. "Unfortunately, I've got work to do."
"Can't I stay with you?" Sudden tears welled up in Charlie's blue eyes and she shuddered. "I've just got to know you…!"
"Hey!" Bodie felt mortified shunting the child onto yet another unknown adult like this. He knew the feeling all too well. "Just ask the Cow—er, Mr Cowley…" As he expected, the irreverent nickname earned a quavery smile from the girl. "And he'll supply you with all the chocolate biscuits you like. Tell him to get Cadbury, the best kind with the orange crème in between the wafers."
"I do like those…" Charlie said doubtfully.
"I know a shop where we can stop." Susan winked. "Because right now, I'd love some Cadbury's chocolate, too. What do you say?"
"You'll call?" Charlie asked as she got in the car. "I want to know that Ray's all right."
Ah, puppy love, Bodie thought with a smile. "I will, love, never you fear," he promised. Thing was, he wanted to know Ray was all right, too. In his mind's eye, he could still see Doyle silhouetted against the pyre in Harrods' windows.
Continued in part two
Title: And To You Good Wassail, Too
Author: Dawnwind
Bodie/Doyle Slash
Archive to proslib/circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: I didn't make any money on the lads, I just had fun.
In 1983, I lived in London. December 18th was my parent's wedding anniversary, so on the 17th, we went to Harrods to do some Christmas shopping. And got closer to a bomb than I ever want to be in my entire life. None of us were hurt, but the IRA set off a car bomb outside the side entrance of Harrods. I decided to write a story about it--this is fiction, based on a real event, and some of what happens to Bodie and Doyle happened to me--but only a very little (I did see the bomb explode just as Bodie does). The story wanders into complete fiction very quickly. However, my parents and I did find a displaced little girl and took her home with us until she could be reunited with her family later on that afternoon.
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Date: 2010-12-18 09:20 am (UTC)One mod-ly request, and it's really our one rule at this comm - could you please edit to put the story information under a cut and at the end of the post, as we describe on the User Info page! We like to be fair to both people who want the info, and those who don't, and this way everyone knows where it is. Thank you!
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Date: 2010-12-18 04:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-18 05:13 pm (UTC)