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discoveredinaljFor this challenge, I have shamelessly ripped off one of my favourite authors, who is probably - and justifiably - rolling in his grave.
A Study in Roses and Lavender
by Verlaine
In the year 19- -, I returned to London from Africa where I had been serving in an "unofficial" capacity in Angola. The fighting along the border with the Congo was fierce, and during one of the many skirmishes with the rebels I took a bullet in the leg. When Krivas, our commanding officer, ordered the wounded to be abandoned during the retreat, I found myself trapped behind enemy lines, with very little hope of escape. If it had not been for Marty Martell throwing me into the back of a jeep and making his way across the river in the dead of night, I would probably have spent the rest of a very short life rotting in a Congo prison.
Back in London, I quickly found myself at a loose end. I had considered myself well-paid in Angola, but my "unofficial" activities had not provided me with a pension, and what had seemed a fantastic sum of money in the wilds of Africa turned out to be a much more modest amount when compared to the expenses of living in a large English city. Though my leg healed eventually, I suffered from recurring bouts of fever and was left unfit to return to a life in uniform even had I wished to resume it. In short, I was too ill to work, healthy enough to be bored, and rapidly running short of ready cash. In desperation, I turned to poker in an attempt to supplement my income.
One evening, after nearly an entire day spent at the card table, I stopped in a small out-of-the-way pub for pint. The barmaid was attractive enough, but sported a large diamond ring which discouraged me from any serious attempt to make her acquaintance. I had resigned myself to another quiet night alone, when suddenly a familiar voice called out to me.
"Bodie? Bodie, is that you?" A tall dark-haired man rose from a near-by table and came over to greet me, hand outstretched.
"Murphy. Thought I'd seen the last of you after that escapade in Jordan." I shook his hand cordially and invited him to join me.
Murphy and I had shared one or two adventures before he decided to take the Queen's shilling. Though trust was a commodity in short supply among those who followed our profession, I'd liked and respected him, and was eager to hear news of some of our mutual acquaintances. Warmed by several whiskies, I found myself telling Murphy of my difficulties in finding a way to earn a crust here in England.
"You know, I might be able to help you," he said thoughtfully. "I've left the army, you know. I'm in CI5 now."
"Cowley's mob?" I said, feeling more than a trace of unease. George Cowley had a reputation as a man who accomplished his objectives by any means necessary. An admirable trait in the bush, perhaps, but one that might prove dangerous to me in England, if Cowley had any reason to look into my recent activities.
"Criminal intelligence. We go after the terrorists and the gangsters that ordinary coppers can't match. It's tough, plenty of action — something you might be interested in."
I laughed. "I hardly think Cowley will want someone like me cluttering up the place. He'd have a damn hard job of vetting me, that's for certain."
"Cowley makes up his own mind. Half the Whitehall mandarins quake in their boots at the very sight of him. If he thinks you'll do, he'll take you, and the paper-pushers can say what they like." He lifted his glass. "What have you got to lose?"
Considering some of the things I'd done in Angola, my freedom might be the least of what I could lose. Still, I've never been one to turn from a challenge. We shook hands on it, and the following morning, Murphy collected me at my flat and we crossed the river into the city.
CI5 was housed in a nondescript Georgian building just out of the Whitehall district. I could have passed it a dozen times without ever giving it a second glance, or having any idea that one of the most feared and whispered-about government agencies was housed there.
Murphy presented his identification to the security guard, and after getting a visitor's card made up for me, escorted me through some of the public areas.
"Most of the place is off-limits," he told me almost apologetically. "I can take you to the gym, though. You can get an idea of the kind of blokes you'd be working with."
The gym was a cavernous room in the basement, set up partly for exercising, partly as a dojo, and partly as what appeared to be a training area for urban combat. The room was empty except for a small group of men who appeared to be my own age, sparring in a maze of barrels, tyres and concrete blocks.
My eye was caught by one in particular, a whippet-lean fellow with a mop of wild auburn curls, who seemed to be the focus of the mêlée going on. Cat-quick and ruthless, he was giving an excellent account of himself against men who both outweighed and outreached him. I had enough hand-to-hand experience to recognize that no concessions were being made here: anyone who was not in superb fighting form would be out in seconds, though I doubted Cowley would allow his men to do each other permanent harm.
Suddenly a whistle shrilled, and the fight was over. The group gathered around a big blond bruiser, who gestured at each of them in turn as he spoke. From the looks on most of their faces, he was pointing out their deficiencies in combat. I noted that the auburn-haired fellow had a small, satisfied smile on his face, though he was careful not to let it show in front of the others.
When the group broke up, Murphy waved the auburn-haired fellow over, and he trotted across the floor, wiping his face with the towel he'd slung around his shoulders.
"Hey, Murphy, what brings you down here? And who's the clothes-horse?"
I couldn't help bristling, and was annoyed when he noticed it. Some might count decent suits a luxury, but I knew all too well how often the first look was one's only chance to be judged.
Murphy only laughed. "A potential recruit, if you don't put him off. Raymond Doyle, this is Bodie."
He looked me up and down with cool, enigmatic green eyes.
"You have been in Angola, I perceive," he said.
"Telling tales out of school, Murph?" I tried to make my voice light, as if it made no difference, but on the inside I was furious. I had no wish to have my past exposed to a total stranger, especially one with a close connection to George Cowley.
Murphy knew me well enough to read at least part of what I felt, and held up his hands. "Not me, mate. Didn't say a word about you, did I, Doyle?"
Doyle shook his head with a slight smile.
"Then how did you know? Who's been checking up on me?" I looked around for cover, with the sinking feeling this whole meeting had been arranged as a trap for me. Even my Browning had been taken from me by the security guard. I resolved that Cowley would have small comfort from whatever his plans were for me.
"Calm down, Mr. Bodie. It's all a matter of simple observation and deduction." He looked me up and down again, and then steepled his hands under his chin. "You're an Englishman — Black Irish with that colouring, though your accent is definitely dockside Liverpool. Your natural skin tone is quite pale, as I saw when the edge of your cuff rode up as we shook hands. Yet your face and hands are well tanned, far more so than would be accounted for by a fortnight by the sea, or even in Spain or Greece. You have the bearing of a military man, and you've been wounded some time recently, and are still recovering. Your suit is of the best quality and cut, yet slightly loose, indicating that you have lost weight, perhaps a little over a stone. However, you have made no effort to replace it, or even have it altered by a tailor. That indicates to me that you are no longer in sufficient funds to make such purchases easily. Therefore, you are not a member of a pensionable service.
"So, where would a young military Englishman who is not in our armed services be seeing action in a tropical area this year?" Doyle spread his hands out. "The most reasonable deduction is Angola."
"Regular little copper, aren't you?" I sneered.
"Detective constable," he said, pride warring in his voice with something that sounded like regret. "Spent my time in the drugs squad while you were off playing mercenary in the jungle. You learn to be observant there."
"Not much time for parlor tricks out in the real world." I gestured towards the combat area. "Want a demonstration?"
I wouldn't have faulted him for refusing; he'd just been through a strenuous session, and I could see by the way he favoured his right side that he'd taken at least one heavy punch. To my surprise, he grinned widely at me, showing a slightly chipped tooth. There was a hot light of battle in his eyes that made me suddenly wonder if I had been overconfident.
"Let's be having you, sunshine," he said.
And that was the beginning of my partnership with Raymond Doyle.
Title: A Study in Roses and Lavender
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit:
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes:
A Study in Roses and Lavender
by Verlaine
In the year 19- -, I returned to London from Africa where I had been serving in an "unofficial" capacity in Angola. The fighting along the border with the Congo was fierce, and during one of the many skirmishes with the rebels I took a bullet in the leg. When Krivas, our commanding officer, ordered the wounded to be abandoned during the retreat, I found myself trapped behind enemy lines, with very little hope of escape. If it had not been for Marty Martell throwing me into the back of a jeep and making his way across the river in the dead of night, I would probably have spent the rest of a very short life rotting in a Congo prison.
Back in London, I quickly found myself at a loose end. I had considered myself well-paid in Angola, but my "unofficial" activities had not provided me with a pension, and what had seemed a fantastic sum of money in the wilds of Africa turned out to be a much more modest amount when compared to the expenses of living in a large English city. Though my leg healed eventually, I suffered from recurring bouts of fever and was left unfit to return to a life in uniform even had I wished to resume it. In short, I was too ill to work, healthy enough to be bored, and rapidly running short of ready cash. In desperation, I turned to poker in an attempt to supplement my income.
One evening, after nearly an entire day spent at the card table, I stopped in a small out-of-the-way pub for pint. The barmaid was attractive enough, but sported a large diamond ring which discouraged me from any serious attempt to make her acquaintance. I had resigned myself to another quiet night alone, when suddenly a familiar voice called out to me.
"Bodie? Bodie, is that you?" A tall dark-haired man rose from a near-by table and came over to greet me, hand outstretched.
"Murphy. Thought I'd seen the last of you after that escapade in Jordan." I shook his hand cordially and invited him to join me.
Murphy and I had shared one or two adventures before he decided to take the Queen's shilling. Though trust was a commodity in short supply among those who followed our profession, I'd liked and respected him, and was eager to hear news of some of our mutual acquaintances. Warmed by several whiskies, I found myself telling Murphy of my difficulties in finding a way to earn a crust here in England.
"You know, I might be able to help you," he said thoughtfully. "I've left the army, you know. I'm in CI5 now."
"Cowley's mob?" I said, feeling more than a trace of unease. George Cowley had a reputation as a man who accomplished his objectives by any means necessary. An admirable trait in the bush, perhaps, but one that might prove dangerous to me in England, if Cowley had any reason to look into my recent activities.
"Criminal intelligence. We go after the terrorists and the gangsters that ordinary coppers can't match. It's tough, plenty of action — something you might be interested in."
I laughed. "I hardly think Cowley will want someone like me cluttering up the place. He'd have a damn hard job of vetting me, that's for certain."
"Cowley makes up his own mind. Half the Whitehall mandarins quake in their boots at the very sight of him. If he thinks you'll do, he'll take you, and the paper-pushers can say what they like." He lifted his glass. "What have you got to lose?"
Considering some of the things I'd done in Angola, my freedom might be the least of what I could lose. Still, I've never been one to turn from a challenge. We shook hands on it, and the following morning, Murphy collected me at my flat and we crossed the river into the city.
CI5 was housed in a nondescript Georgian building just out of the Whitehall district. I could have passed it a dozen times without ever giving it a second glance, or having any idea that one of the most feared and whispered-about government agencies was housed there.
Murphy presented his identification to the security guard, and after getting a visitor's card made up for me, escorted me through some of the public areas.
"Most of the place is off-limits," he told me almost apologetically. "I can take you to the gym, though. You can get an idea of the kind of blokes you'd be working with."
The gym was a cavernous room in the basement, set up partly for exercising, partly as a dojo, and partly as what appeared to be a training area for urban combat. The room was empty except for a small group of men who appeared to be my own age, sparring in a maze of barrels, tyres and concrete blocks.
My eye was caught by one in particular, a whippet-lean fellow with a mop of wild auburn curls, who seemed to be the focus of the mêlée going on. Cat-quick and ruthless, he was giving an excellent account of himself against men who both outweighed and outreached him. I had enough hand-to-hand experience to recognize that no concessions were being made here: anyone who was not in superb fighting form would be out in seconds, though I doubted Cowley would allow his men to do each other permanent harm.
Suddenly a whistle shrilled, and the fight was over. The group gathered around a big blond bruiser, who gestured at each of them in turn as he spoke. From the looks on most of their faces, he was pointing out their deficiencies in combat. I noted that the auburn-haired fellow had a small, satisfied smile on his face, though he was careful not to let it show in front of the others.
When the group broke up, Murphy waved the auburn-haired fellow over, and he trotted across the floor, wiping his face with the towel he'd slung around his shoulders.
"Hey, Murphy, what brings you down here? And who's the clothes-horse?"
I couldn't help bristling, and was annoyed when he noticed it. Some might count decent suits a luxury, but I knew all too well how often the first look was one's only chance to be judged.
Murphy only laughed. "A potential recruit, if you don't put him off. Raymond Doyle, this is Bodie."
He looked me up and down with cool, enigmatic green eyes.
"You have been in Angola, I perceive," he said.
"Telling tales out of school, Murph?" I tried to make my voice light, as if it made no difference, but on the inside I was furious. I had no wish to have my past exposed to a total stranger, especially one with a close connection to George Cowley.
Murphy knew me well enough to read at least part of what I felt, and held up his hands. "Not me, mate. Didn't say a word about you, did I, Doyle?"
Doyle shook his head with a slight smile.
"Then how did you know? Who's been checking up on me?" I looked around for cover, with the sinking feeling this whole meeting had been arranged as a trap for me. Even my Browning had been taken from me by the security guard. I resolved that Cowley would have small comfort from whatever his plans were for me.
"Calm down, Mr. Bodie. It's all a matter of simple observation and deduction." He looked me up and down again, and then steepled his hands under his chin. "You're an Englishman — Black Irish with that colouring, though your accent is definitely dockside Liverpool. Your natural skin tone is quite pale, as I saw when the edge of your cuff rode up as we shook hands. Yet your face and hands are well tanned, far more so than would be accounted for by a fortnight by the sea, or even in Spain or Greece. You have the bearing of a military man, and you've been wounded some time recently, and are still recovering. Your suit is of the best quality and cut, yet slightly loose, indicating that you have lost weight, perhaps a little over a stone. However, you have made no effort to replace it, or even have it altered by a tailor. That indicates to me that you are no longer in sufficient funds to make such purchases easily. Therefore, you are not a member of a pensionable service.
"So, where would a young military Englishman who is not in our armed services be seeing action in a tropical area this year?" Doyle spread his hands out. "The most reasonable deduction is Angola."
"Regular little copper, aren't you?" I sneered.
"Detective constable," he said, pride warring in his voice with something that sounded like regret. "Spent my time in the drugs squad while you were off playing mercenary in the jungle. You learn to be observant there."
"Not much time for parlor tricks out in the real world." I gestured towards the combat area. "Want a demonstration?"
I wouldn't have faulted him for refusing; he'd just been through a strenuous session, and I could see by the way he favoured his right side that he'd taken at least one heavy punch. To my surprise, he grinned widely at me, showing a slightly chipped tooth. There was a hot light of battle in his eyes that made me suddenly wonder if I had been overconfident.
"Let's be having you, sunshine," he said.
And that was the beginning of my partnership with Raymond Doyle.
Title: A Study in Roses and Lavender
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit:
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes:
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no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 07:28 pm (UTC)Wonderful first encounter and GRRRREAT deduction skills!!
You just have to admire them!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 07:42 pm (UTC)More, more! :D
no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 08:28 pm (UTC)Oh wonderful! You've done it perfectly. And I love the title *g*
no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 12:25 am (UTC)Watson, er Verlaine! This was terrific! And I agree withno subject
Date: 2012-03-01 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 01:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 09:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 09:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 10:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 11:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-01 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-02 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-03 05:43 pm (UTC)(But please could you use a Brit spell checker and change 'parlor' to 'parlour' for the sake of true authenticity?)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-05 07:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:27 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I *am* up for more. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions had me scratching my head.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:29 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I could manage much more. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions was very hard work - my brain doesn't seem to work that way.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:32 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I'm up for more, though. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions had me scratching my head.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:38 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I'm up for more, though. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions had me scratching my head.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:39 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I'm up for more, though, and certainly not something BB size. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions had me scratching my head.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:45 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I'm up for more, though. It's a difficult style to write in consistently - I kept having to go back and *age* the writing style over and over. And just coming up with one convincing paragraph of deductions had me scratching my head.
Oh, and thanks for catching parlour. I'm not sure how that slipped through: my spell-check is Canadian, and we use the Brit spelling for words that end in or/our.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-15 09:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-17 09:06 pm (UTC)