discoveredinalj | Discovered in a Round Robin - a new Prosfic challenge, just for fun!

byslantedlight.livejournal.com posting in

I was sitting here eyeing my last work document for tonight, and feeling Pros-y what with all the fic discussion at

ci5hq, and wanting to write some Pros but knowing I'll not finish something if I start it, and suddenly I thought...

...it was quite good fun when we played Round Robin at

discoveredinalj, all those years ago...

...and then I thought - wonder if anyone would like to play again..? *g*

Anyone? The game is that anyone who wants to helps co-write a Pros story in the comments here, taking turns to jump in and write the next bit each time, taking it in whatever direction we reckon it's going - hopefully paying attention to what's happened in the story before though, so that it eventually makes sense... *g* Write as little as you like - or as much, but probably not thousands of words at a time... *g* If two people write the next part of the story at the same time, we'll take whoever managed to hit Post first. I'll copy the bits to this main post as we go. And... that's all I can think of! Would anyone like to play? And the beauty of a Round Robin is that you don't have to think of yourself as a writer to join in, either, cos you could just add a sentence or two - it'll all mount up... *g*

What to do:
1) Read the story so far!
2) Write the next bit of the story in a new comment
3) That's it! *g*

If you'd like to see how it works, here's one that we played earlier - and here's one we played even before that... *g*

Will someone start us off in a comment? Could be a paragraph, a sentence, a word or two, just something to get a story off the ground...

And we'll end up with a wee new Pros fic for people to read! Go on, you know you want to... *vbg*

ETA - we have the start of a story - yeay!
ETA - and now we've broken lj's character limit for a post, and so this is Part One and the story continues at Part Two!

The Story So Far - Part One
Things were still slow at HQ. Several agents had been packed off to Macklin's tender clutches on an unexpected - and unwelcome - refresher course. Bodie was escorting an African politician and his wives back to Heathrow. His scurrilous comments about the amount of luggage and the number of cars needed to transport the entire ensemble had unfortunately been overheard by Cowley, resulting in a short, pithy lecture and ensuring radio silence.

Doyle and Murphy were in the VIP lounge arguing over the tea kitty. Doyle was called away to speak to one of his edgier grasses on the telephone. He swore half-heartedly and dug Murphy in the ribs.

“Stop moaning, Murph, I’ll catch up when I get back. I’m off to see Swinson – he’s heard a rumour about an arms dump. Tell Bodie, will you?” With that he left the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with Anson, and was gone.

He’d been missing now for 14 hours. Everyone had been called back from Macklin, and everyone was out on the streets chasing up information.

12 hours later, with Bodie getting increasingly short-tempered, there was still no news. Doyle’s car was down at the docks, and all Control knew was that he’d been checking out a warehouse on the edge of the water. On investigation, it was dark and silent. Swinson, when questioned by a ferocious Bodie, denied all knowledge of even the phone call.

Baffled and frustrated, all his fellow agents could do was cast around in ever-widening circles and wait.

o0o

In the meantime Doyle had little better idea of where he was being held himself; it was dark, dripping with moisture and echoing to the sound of distant traffic.

He shifted on the slime coated pebbles comprising the floor and wished he’d had the foresight to stow a lighter in his jeans. His hands bound behind him by rope or cord which would surely yield to its flame.

As it was, all he had was whatever cutting surface he could find with his fingers in the dank gloom. Raking through the smooth wet pebbles, frantically searching for some rough edged bit of concrete or rusted metal to saw against his bonds.

Cold already and dizzy from the blow to his head, which had delivered him into the hands of his invisible captors, he knew time was not on his side.

Worse still, he wasn't on his own side. He edged his way over the ground, too dazed to try standing, and tried to tell himself that he'd find what he needed. Something to cut his way free, and a memory, any memory. It would come to him - it had to come back to him. He knew his name, after all. Doyle. Duncan Doyle. He knew that he wasn't surprised to find himself aching and tied up in the dark - and he knew that something bad would happen if he couldn't get himself free.

He pushed himself further across the pebbles and they vanished abruptly beneath him, so that he fell, arse-first half-twisted so that he landed awkwardly on one shoulder and his head bashed against solid rock, his entire body jarred. He heard himself whimper, let himself go limp with the shocking pain of it, tried not to give in to the waves of nausea that shook him. it hadn't been far, he-was-alright-he-was-alright-he-was-alright...

If only he knew where he was, and why he was here, and fuck-fuck-fuck, who the fuck he was...

o0o

In the meantime Bodie had nothing, no hint, no lead, no hope.

Just a scribbled message by the ‘phone: ‘Swinson’ and something underneath in Doyle’s illiterate scrawl which could have been anything from ‘ducks and drakes’ to ‘broken skates’.

Bodie fumed with impotent rage, a heaving swell of impending tempest which emptied any room he entered and even gave George Cowley pause.

A Bodie this implacable was a force of nature; unstoppable, untameable, and hell set on vengeance.

Trouble was, he had nothing to wreak vengeance on. He'd exhausted what he knew of Doyle's network of low-lifes and contacts - he'd tracked down half a dozen of them before the rest vanished, no doubt having heard he was coming. The pool halls and pits of pubs and nightclubs were full of blank faces, no one that he recognised, no one who could tell him anything. One lead, all he needed was one lead...

"Bodie!"

A door behind him slammed, and Bodie turned, caught storming down the corridor with nowhere to go. He reined his temper with an effort.

"Sir?"

"They've made contact - here." He held out a scrap of paper, an address scribbled across it. Down by the river, Bodie noted, even as he was snatching it from Cowley's hand without a word, heading for his motor, not heeding Cowley's roar behind him.

"Anson! Go with him!"

Bodie’s long legs ate up the ground, Anson hardly able to keep up. Bodie barely broke stride to pull open the car door and fit himself behind the wheel.

Anson had peeled off to head for the passenger side, hand on the handle, when Bodie took off nearly taking Anson’s arm with him.

The Controller, watching from his office, saw Anson turn and shrug at him, lost for a course of action.

Cowley yanked open the window to bellow ‘’Get after him, man!’’

Anson nodded, already running for the nearest available motor, Doyle’s, as it turned out. Recovered, dusted, searched and stubbornly mute as to its usual driver’s whereabouts.

Anson was no slouch on the road, but Bodie was the wind itself. Long gone, but destination known. Anson applied himself to getting there before Bodie did anything they’d all regret.

o0o

Doyle's fall was the best luck he'd had in - oh, minutes, he thought, needing to jolly himself along. There was a concrete edge to the pebbles he'd been lying on, and he'd fallen on sand - sand scattered with rocks, mind, but sand. He could smell water when he concentrated - not the sea, but the sludgy muck of the Thames, and over the hollow dripping he could hear it lapping against something. He'd visited some of the decrepit old boathouses that had somehow lasted in odd corners by the river, built into warehouses that had survived hundreds of years and then the Blitz as well, and he was sure that was where he must be. There couldn't be more than half a dozen of them, that narrowed it down...

He sawed the ropes around his wrist against the chipped concrete, hands slipping now and then against the slime of the pebbles beside it, until he wasn't sure what was filth and what was blood on his hands, but he could feel the rope giving, and just a little longer...

There! The rope came apart at last, and he managed to bring his hands around in front of him, arms aching, tucking them into his armpits against the sharp pain his skinned flesh, huddling into himself for a moment, just breathing.

He couldn't hang around though, he had to get moving, get out of there. He ignored where to. Daylight would help, he'd get himself out into the real world, and he'd remember, he'd know who he was, and what the hell he was doing in a dank warehouse by the river, and... He started picking at the rope around his feet.

Doyle got unsteadily to his feet. Pins and needles stabbed at his soles, but he was determined to get out of his dank prison. The door was locked--naturally, but when he searched around the stone walls, he discovered what had to be an outlet to the river. The conduit was narrow and stank to high heaven. He inhaled. No time like the present!

Wriggling frantically, Doyle wedged himself up and through the opening. For long moments, he was afraid his shoulders wouldn't pass, and then--thank God--he was through. His shoulders were his widest part, his hips slid through with no difficulty. The tunnel angled down abruptly and then he was falling fast, slipping on greenish sludge and splashing suddenly into the cold, dark water of the Thames.

Gasping, Doyle tried to rise to the surface but his foot had caught on something sharp!

Don't panic. Don't panic. Chest beginning to ache, Doyle twisted over and down. His fingers were still half-numb from the ropes, but he found his ankle, his foot, then his trainer. Then the edges of something horribly slimy but knife-edged, a jagged dagger of metal wedged firmly into the sole of his shoe.

Fine, then - he didn't need it. He pried with his other foot, kicked, kicked again --

Freedom!

His lungs were burning now, but he was rising, he had to be, only hold on a little longer, little longer, he would make it, he would not take in the river he would find the

Air! Doyle whooped in a deep breath, and another. Jesus, but mucky Thames air had never smelled so sweet.

Doyle’s clothes dragged heavily at him and his injuries clawed weakeningly at his resolve as he swam blindly in disorientated confusion. The dangerous flow of the tidal river tugged irresistibly, threatening to drag him under, and he knew the polluted waters, poisoned by centuries of industry, had a lethal reputation beyond drowning.

It struck him as funny, as he fought to stay alive, that he knew all this and yet still had no idea who he was, or why he was in this ancient river, or where the hell he should go if he got out.

‘Arms dump’ suddenly flashed through his mind, followed by ‘Traitor’s Gate’; The Tower? How the hell did that figure in anything? And where the hell was Bodie?

The thought filled him with cold shock, who was Bodie?

An image tried to form with the name, his mind scrabbling after it, even as it faded from view.

Even as the barge bore down on him and voices shouted at him to grab on and hold on or be dragged under, even as hands and hooks grappled to keep him afloat and pull him to safety with a bruising disregard for the frailty of human flesh.

"You alright, mate?" one of the men asked, steadying him as he stood on the rusted but solid deck of the barge.

"Too much to drink, was it?" another asked, older this one, a knowing look in his eye. Maybe he thought Doyle had jumped.

"Something like that," Doyle began, breaking off when his teeth started chattering so badly he was in danger of becoming unintelligible.

The older man tipped his head towards the cabin of the barge. "Get him some dry clothes, Dav, and a cuppa." He looked Doyle up and down. "We don't stop 'til Mucking landfill - want us to call you a lift?"

The river police Doyle thought, and shook his head. He didn't trust the police, though he had no idea why. Bent, the lot of 'em. ...a good copper.... "Nah," he managed, pulled a name from the vague map that was still in his head. "Tilbury... I can call someone..."

"You sure? Alright then." He gestured Doyle after Dav. "Get changed then, get that cuppa." He raised his voice, "Make us one as well, Dav!" and then he turned away, busying himself with a pile of ropes on the barge, Doyle apparently dismissed from his mind. Blokes threw themselves in the river every day, maybe.

The clothes he was given were old, and too big for him, but they were warm and dry, and Doyle stripped off his own without any qualms, pulled on jeans, t-shirt and a jumper that was thick despite the holes that peppered it. He stood barefoot as they drifted down the river, his trainers set beside a heater in the cabin, drinking his tea, and waiting for more random words to float through his mind. ...arms... traitor... Bodie...

Arms... traitor... Bodie... Bodie... Brodie... Brodie?... Jean... prime... Scottish? Why be thinking of Scottishness at a time like this? Scottishness... Scots accent... a man's Scots accent... cow... a cow? A Scots cow? CowLEY? Bodie and Cowley? Now that sounded about right, but who the hell were they?

o0o

As Doyle tried to sift the fragmentary shards of his memory into a coherent whole, Anson pulled into the derelict boatyard Cowley’s message had indicated.

Bodie’s car had been secured and abandoned in haste, Bodie himself had to be somewhere near.

"Bodie!" Anson shouted, rewarded only with a mocking silence, aware of a frisson of what he assumed Doyle must feel, yelling those two syllables in a howl of desperation whenever his headstrong partner took it into his skull to get himself into trouble.

Except this time it was Doyle in trouble and Bodie desperately trying to save him.

This was definitely one of those times Anson was glad he worked alone, despite Cowley's usual Bisto Kids approach to the squad. He'd seen other partnerships torn apart by bullets and explosions and even an unlucky blow to the head, and the aftermath was never pretty. He'd never seen a partnership survive when one of the partners went missing for as long as Doyle had been missing either, and he was already wary of the look in Bodie's eyes.

There was no sign of his eyes now though - not any part of him, despite the car. The boatyard was still and empty, the shore of the river reaching back to more civilised stretches of London, the various buildings all apparently secured with padlocks. Damn it all... He patted irritably at the pockets of his denim jacket, found his cigarettes with relief, and set off towards the nearest locked door.

o0o

The Dunking Gate pub had seen far, far better but Bodie wasn't there to critique the decor. He peered into the gloom, wrinkling his nose at the combined smells of wet dog, wet sailor, urine, bad tobacco and spilt lager. Doyle had been off to see Swinson? The little git with the squint in his left eye?

"What'll you have?" the publican called out.

"Guinness," Bodie replied, still searching the room. Ah, there over by the darts board. Leopold Swinson himself. Grabbing the glass of Irish beer, Bodie headed across the room, his fury mounting.

Swinson didn't see him coming, taking his turn to shoot, squinting at the board. He needed thirty three to clear, and his mate was on seven.

"You'll never do it," Bodie said, leaning in until he was right by Swinson's ear.

Swinson, just about to throw his arrow, twitched, and the shot not only went wide it missed the board altogether. "Oi - what you want to... oh."

Bodie shook his head. "Oh Leo - Leo, Leo, Leo."

"Look, I told you before... What d'you want now?"

"Yes, you did, didn't you - told me you didn't know nothing, and you especially didn't know nothing about calling Ray Doyle four days ago, but you know what?"

"What?" Swinson backed away towards the board, on the pretext of fetching his dart, no doubt with an eye on the door to the gents, just a few feet away.

Bodie stepped casually between Swinson and the door. "Don't know nothing's a double negative, isn't it? Which means..." He reached out, grabbed Swinson by the arm, and hauled him out through the door himself, much to the amusement of the blokes he'd been playing with. "...we're going to have to have another chat."

The door led through not to the gents itself but to a corridor, all peeling green paint and bare echoing floor, and through to another door, and the back yard of the pub, piled high with empty kegs and bottle bins. Bodie hurled Swinson casually against one, and it rattled alarmingly. He didn't wait for him to catch his balance, but crowded in, nice and tight, letting his jacket fall open so that Swinson could see his gun.

"You told me you hadn't seen Doyle for months. You told me you hadn't called him. And you know what happened next?" He kept his voice low, so that Swinson almost had to strain to hear him. "I'm sent to an empty boat yard that just happens to be right across from your scummy little local. Now. Where. Is. Ray. Doyle?"

Bodie let himself feel a tiny bit of triumph when Swinson's face fell, his surrender apparent. Swinson put up both of his hands to keep Bodie as far as he could. He licked his lips, glanced at Bodie's gun once, twice, then nodded. "Right. Okay. But you have to protect me. Promise me you'll protect me."

"Now why should I waste a moment of my time, of my large and powerful organisation's time, protecting the likes of you." Bodie lifted a corner of his lip, sneering.

"You want Doyle or not?" Swinson whined, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

Bodie pushed an arm across Swinson's throat. "So you admit your part of this, you pathetic bastard!" Fury coursed through him. He would kill this worthless shit himself once Doyle was safe.

"I - can't - breath!"

Bodie let off a half inch. "Talk fast or I might lose my patience."

"Protection?" Swinson's nose started to drip.

Disgusted, Bodie nodded curtly. "Where is Doyle?"

Swinson nodded in return. "Don't know the where but the who is Haydon."

Bodie stared at Swinson. "Haydon? He's in for life!"

"Not a 'he'. It's the girl, Jill, and she's a bad one."

Bodie's hands fell to his sides. Jill Haydon? It didn't make sense. She was in prison.

Wasn't she?

"What about my protection?" Swinson whined.

Bodie was tempted to put a bullet in his head just to shut him up.

o0o

“Where...” Doyle looked around trying to figure out where he was. He felt nauseous and his head hurt. What had the barge man called this place - "Mucking" - he laughed; the sound a bit manic. "Fuckin’ Mucking." His legs felt weak and he dropped to his knees. The earlier memories spun wildly through his aching head. Arms... traitor...Bodie...Scots accent...cow. Cowley? Bodie and Cowley? He closed his eyes. CI-bloody-5. And if it was CI5 that had caught him, he was in a real mess. Time to go to ground.

"Hey, Duncan, you okay?" Dav asked. "You don't look too good mate."

Doyle took the offered hand and let Dav haul him shakily to his cold bare feet.

“The muck in the river will turn those cuts septic if you’re not careful. Look there, you’ve got a gash in your foot too. You'll need a tetanus shot otherwise you’ll turn gangrene.”

Doyle glanced at the angry cut on the side his foot, caused no doubt by the sharp metal that had caught him under the water. He turned his wrists over, wincing as he prodded gently at the grazes.

“Forget it,” Doyle mumbled. “I’ll clean up when I get home.” If only I knew where home was.

But Dav was persistent. ‘Ow bout I get on the radio and have an ambulance meet us when we dock?”

“No,” Doyle answered a little too abruptly, his wounds were already beginning to throb but he couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself. The medics would likely contact the cops and it wouldn’t be long before they put two and two together and contacted CI5. If Dav would just leave him alone, he'd be on his way when they docked.

“Thanks but I’ll be right,” Doyle added remembering his manners, glancing anxiously over his shoulder to satisfy himself that the barge wasn't being followed.

Dav suddenly stiffened and his eyes widened. “A bit odd those cuts, how’d you say you came by 'em? You been tied up or something?”

Why wouldn't Dav just shut up and leave him alone. “Twas caught up in a scrap in the pub, the front bar, there were three of 'em.” Doyle smiled nervously, sensing he was less than convincing.

“Which pub eh? Which front bar?”

“Errr,” Doyle’s mind went blank. He had no idea where he was let alone what pubs were found nearby. Christ, think Doyle, think!

“You’re in trouble aren't you,” Dav challenged. “Trouble with the law I’m tipping.”

Doyle tensed. Until he remembered why he was on the run he couldn’t afford contact with any authorities. The coppers were likely already combing the area, probably had his picture and all.

Dav shouted to his equally filthy work mates who were toiling among the rubbish fore and aft along the barge, “Hey fellas, we caught us an escapee. Duncan here is wanted by the law, aren't you mate?"

Dav reached out, wrapping his gloved hand around Doyle’s upper arm. “You’re not going anywhere buddy, not til you've spoken to the law.”

Doyle easily flicked his arm from Dav’s grasp, shoving him backward but the laborer wasn't easily dissuaded, his formerly friendly face now a mask of determination and anger.

Doyle glanced left then right while fending the man off and saw angry men approaching from both sides so he took the only option he had open to him, he turned and dived gracefully back into the filthy river.

o0o

"What about Jill Haydon?" Bodie growled.

Swinson’s beady rat like eyes darted erratically, unsynchronised by his squint. He shifted with feral evasiveness. "Protection" he whined, sensing a winning hand.

Bodie moved back a pace or two and casually unholstered his gun, turning it in his hands, inspecting it as if he’d just been handed it by a passing stranger.

Swinson shuffled nervously "'Ere, what’s that for?"

"My boss doesn’t like rats" replied Bodie conversationally, bringing the weapon to bear "so I shoot them when I find them.’’

"You can’t" snivelled Swinson unattractively "you’re a copper."

Bodie blew imaginary dust from the barrel of his gun and responded mildly "Doyle’s the copper. Me? I used to run these things. Played both sides of the law, this pays okay, but I could get more as a hit man. Nice unsolved murder could be a very handy calling card."

"What d’you want to know?"

Bodie planted the muzzle of his weapon between Swinson’s sparsely thatched eyebrows "What has Jill Haydon got to do with this?"

o0o

They fished him out of course, and Doyle let them. It was too far to swim even to the nearest bank of this bloody river, and he knew he hadn't been thinking straight when he dived in. Even now his head spun, and he didn't know if it was really the river spidering into his cuts and grazes, fear of CI5 or the shock of the men suddenly turning on him. Bodie - Bodie - Bodie...

The surprise of his dive seemed to have damped the men's excitement somewhat, and brought Doyle's original rescuer back to his side. He sat, curled in on himself, leaning back against the metal of the barge, and let it all go on over him.

"What the hell are you up to now, Morrison?" the man asked, hands on hips, chin jutting aggressively forward. "I've told you before - you don't start..."

"It wasn't me! Ask your own spawn what he's up to!"

"Dav?" the man turned, no less aggressively. "This your doing?"

"He's in trouble with the law - needs taking in. And when we said it, he legged it over the edge. Fucking mad, he is." Dav kicked out at Doyle's leg, but not hard, so that the other man looked down at him. "You ask him - what's he running for?"

"Well?" The man frowned down at him. "I'm not having trouble on my boat. We've got work to do."

"I'm not running," Doyle managed, even though he didn't know whether it was true. He wanted to run when he thought of CI5, he knew that. "I told him what 'appened, he called his mob on me."

"And what was that?"

"Got into a fight in a pub. Three of the bastards held me down and..." He stopped, looked away, as if he didn't want to go on.

"And what? Chucked you in the drink when they were done?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Don't remember that bit. Just remember bein' in the water suddenly. Then you lot came along."

The man sighed heavily, shot another glare in Dav's direction, and then looked around at the other men. "Haven't you got jobs to do?"

They hesitated a moment, then turned away and vanished back along the barge. Dav stayed where he was, defiant. The man extended an arm to Doyle, and after a brief pause he took it, let himself be hauled to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Sorry about Starsky here," the man said. "Likes the wrong end of the stick. Bob McCloud. This is my barge. My run. " He held out a hand again, an apology, and Doyle shook it. "You said Tilsbury - out up town, were you?"

Doyle shrugged again. "Must've been. Don't remember much, to be honest. Thanks."

"Want to try dry clothes again? Surprising what some people throw away. We'll run out eventually, mind."

The excitement over, he was beginning to shiver again. "Cheers..."

"Think you can manage that, Dav?"

Dav didn't say anything, eyes downcast, but he turned obediently away.

"He's not a bad lad. Training him up for the run. His older brother didn't want to know. What d'you do when you're not out swimming?"

Doyle shook his head, felt himself sway again, and put out a hand to catch himself. Bodie... airport... "Airport," he said, trying to clutch hold of the thought, even as it faded from him.

McCloud looked amused. "Gatwick or Heathrow? Concorde pilot, is it?" He turned towards the cabin where Dav had vanished, and gestured Doyle after him. "Come on then - I'd better keep you on the straight and narrow myself."

Closing his eyes for a moment, just a moment, before taking that first step after him, a step on heavy legs, with a body that didn't want to do anything at all, Doyle found himself falling into oblivion, and he let the darkness take him.

o0o

Swinson’s eyes crossed nervously as he focused on the metal barrel at the end of Bodie’s fist.

“H…her old man’s dead,” he blurted out under the threat of a sudden violent death.

Shit! Bodie’s eyes narrowed ignoring the man’s terror. “How? When?”

Swinson screwed his eyes shut, “Found ‘anging in his cell a w…week ago, rumour has it, it weren’t suicide.”

Unconsciously, Bodie, pressed the muzzle harder into the snivelling snitch’s forehead, distracted by thoughts of Jill Haydon and her sick sense of loyalty to her cop killing father. Correction, her dead cop killing father. Christ, where’s Doyle? How could she have orchestrated this from inside Bronzefield, she got fifteen years for god’s sake.

“Don’t sh..oot, please…don’t shoot, I’ll tell you what I know,” Swinson begged through strained vocal cords as he opened his eyes again. “Just put your shooter away, you’re hurting me.”

Bodie jolted, focusing again on the trembling man in front of him, his only link to Doyle. Lowering his weapon, he absently noted the circular indentation left on Swinson's face. “Start at the beginning,” he snarled, satisfied the inducement was no longer required.

“She put a contract out on your partner, wants him dead and wants evidence of it delivered to her before she’ll release the funds"

o0o

Doyle came to lying on some sacking, with more of it over him to fend off the river breezes.

Bob McCloud was crouching over him and the aroma of hot, sweet tea was irresistible. "You might want to rethink that hospital trip" he said, handing the tea to Doyle. "For more reasons than one."

Doyle propped himself up against a bulkhead and took the tea "Can't, I haven't done anything, I'm sure I haven't, but Dav's right, I'm on the dodge."

"And here's me thinking you were part mermaid."

"Merman" corrected Doyle unthinkingly.

"Maid, mate" replied McCloud seriously. "I changed your clothes while you were out, some bastard's had a go at making you a girl. That's not the police, what happened?"

Doyle shook his head "I don't remember, I can't even feel it, they must have shot me full of something."

"Be grateful, mate" replied McCloud "when you do, you'll scream the place down."

"Did they succeed?" asked Doyle, eyes wide, heart in his mouth.

McCloud grinned, getting up to refill the tea mug "Nah, it'll hurt like the devil, but you're still a man."

"A man who can't stand straight, apparently," Doyle said ruefully, ducking his head to take a mouthful of tea, not wanting to meet McCloud's gaze. Undressed as if he was some bloody kid...

McCloud shrugged. "You've been through the works, by the sound of things. Be alright when you get home. What's the address again?"

"Forty-four Crompton Ave," Doyle said without thinking, "SW5." His breath caught. That wasn't his address. But - it was someone's address. Somewhere safe.

"Thought you said Tilsbury?" McCloud looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

"I did. I've got a mate there I can call," he said quickly, hid his face in the mug again. "He'll get me home alright."

"A mate?"

"Yeah, we were at school together. An' his wife can cook - maybe if I 'ave some grub I won't be keeling over every five minutes."

"Might help if you stay on desk this time too," McCloud said, without bite. "Not long to go - should be there in twenty minutes or so, you can get your land legs back."

Doyle nodded as McCloud stood up. "I'll come and see you right for all this..." he began, but McCloud waved him quiet, gave him a wink, and strode off back up the barge. Doyle settled down to try and remember who the hell might live in Crompton Avenue. A girlfriend? There was no spark in him for any woman that he could feel, but maybe she'd vanished into the battered depths of his brain too. Maybe when he got to Crompton Avenue, she'd be there waiting for him. Maybe everything would be alright.

o0o

Bodie leaned into Swinson ''What kind of evidence?''

Swinson's nasty, misaligned, rodent's eyes lit up ''She wants 'im cut.''

Bodie's mind zipped through nightmare images, garnered from years of earning his living with a gun, of mutilated bodies rotting in shallow graves under baking sunlight and grey drizzle. ''How, cut?''

Swinson sneered disparagingly ''So's 'e won't be any use to the ladies, she wants her souvenir before they kill 'im. Wants 'im alive knowing what they've done to 'im, wants 'im to beg to die.''

Bodie's face relaxed to a dangerous calm ''Raymond Doyle's not gonna beg, and Raymond Doyle has mates. Mates who might take exception to his getting hurt, mates who might forget who they work for, if they don't find him in one piece. So you'd better have a name for the bastard who's planning to collect, or I'm gonna make sure today is the last day you spend without pain.''

Swinson gulped ''Dunno his name, but he's off his trolley, you don't want to mess wiv 'im.'' Swinson ventured another look into Bodie's eyes and rapidly changed his mind "You're as crazy as he 'is. His name's Tudore, he's got a boat, if it ain't in the yard, it'll be out on the river. You can't miss it, it's called The Raven.

o0o

Life had conspired against him, Anson decided morosely. Doyle was no picnic to live with, but he could cook and, bribed with sufficient inducement, cash or booze, could be persuaded into the kitchen to come up with something which actually resembled a home cooked meal.

Bodie, on the other hand, would nick your booze, eat your food, and if you weren't on your toes, spend your cash for you on anything that took his fancy.

So who was he stuck with? Mr I-only-snipe-at-me-mates-so-you're-probably-okay Doyle, or Mr come-here-and-say-that Bodie, correction 'just' Bodie. The man too tough for titles or honorifics. Anson took a moment to ponder how Bodie had coped with 'sergeant' while he patted through his clothing looking for something to smoke and coming up empty.

He had come full circle and was back at the cars, with no sign of the errant Sergeant Bodie, and was contemplating the prospect of reporting this to their Glorious Leader, without the benefit of a steadying dose of nicotine, when a hurricane of Bodie shaped proportions came tearing into view yelling ''Doyle, if he's not around here, he's on the river. Get on the blower and whistle up some support, I'm gonna find meself a boat. Well, what are you waiting for? A bloody invitation?'' as he disappeared from view, skipping like a goat over the dereliction surrounding them, homing in on some poor unfortunate stupid enough to have a fast boat on the river when Bodie needed transport.

o0o

Thinking made his brain hurt unlike the rest of his body which felt blissfully numb, even the gash on his foot didn’t hurt as much as it should have, just a dull throb which he put down to the beginnings of an infection. He had been sedated by someone he decided, it was the only explanation for his lack of pain although the frigid river water was probably helping dull the discomfort too.

Concentrating on his predicament, he attempted to make sense of the situation rather than put his mind to the injury he was desperately trying to ignore. Even though he had no idea who lived at Crompton Avenue he continued to have a good feeling about the address. It was safe, somewhere he felt valued, loved even. Someone there was worried about him, he could sense it, but who? A friend, a lover, a wife and kids? Christ, was he a father? The name Bodie kept bouncing around his skull but he couldn’t put a face to the name or recollect if they were best mates or worst enemies. He shivered with frustration and the unfamiliarity of everything.

Reaching up through strands of wet hair, he felt the raised welt on the side of his head, the likely cause of his missing memory. Would he get his old life back, did he even want it back or would he be forced to forge a new one? Looking at his calloused hands, he wondered what he did to make a crust. Not quite labourer’s hands but not those of an office worker either. His thoughts continued to drift and he wondered who he had pissed off so royally? So many damn questions and no bloody answers. McCloud was right though, CI5 wouldn’t have tried to mutilate him. No, whatever this was, it was personal.

He tossed the sacking clear as he glanced up and down the deck to ensure no one was watching. Unable to put the examination off any longer, he anxiously lifted the elastic waist band of the track pants he was wearing and glanced down. Squinting into the darkness he realised he wasn’t wearing underwear but his eyes were adjusting slowly, too slowly so he reached his hand down to his groin, gingerly probing his member, working his fingers along its length, relieved to find no obvious damage but as his examination continued and he reached further around to the underside, his fingers stilled. Hissing at the sharp pain his touch induced, he withdrew his hand and saw blood coating his fingertips.

He groaned. What have I done to deserve this?

It was flakes of dry blood at least, he wasn't still bleeding, or he'd have worse problems than catching something nasty from the river. Still would, maybe, it didn't make sense that he couldn't feel anything. Psychological maybe - or maybe it was that knock on his head.

The barge rocked suddenly, and came disconcertingly to a stop, and he lifted his head, peered over the edge and found that they'd not only come into the shore, but were docking. Dav was tying a rope off efficiently at one end, and other men were doing the same the length of the barge and its trailing possessions. They'd finally arrived.

He collected his own clothes from the cabin, still too wet to think about putting on, and slid his feet into his trainers, in a slightly better state thanks to the heater there, but unpleasantly damp just the same, and went to find McCloud and shake his hand, promising again to make good for the clothes and the trouble, and again McCloud waved him away.

"They'll let you make a call from the office if you tell 'em I sent you in," he said, gesturing to a portakabin in a distant corner of the dock, and Doyle nodded gratefully, knowing he didn't want anything to do with it.

"Thanks again." He turned away, damp bundle tucked under his arm, hands tucked into the soft fabric of the tracksuit's pockets, and set off away from the barge, away from the bloody river, and back out onto the streets. He had no money, no one to call if he found any, and only one thing he could think of to do that might provide some answers.

He had to get himself to SW5.

But how to get there from here ? Wherever 'here' was. No money, looking like a tramp, with no idea where SW5 was… He knew one thing for sure, though, he was far too weak to walk. Thumb a lift? It was years since he’d hitched a lift anywhere and never in London, never this late at night and never looking like this... He'd be lucky if anyone stopped for him but he knew he had to reach Crompton Avenue, no matter what, he had to get there.So he started walking, stumbling...

It wasn't until the car's horn blared that Doyle realised he's fallen onto the tarmac. He blinked, dazed, staring at the underside of the vehicle that had skidded to a stop mere inches from his head. The tyre looked ominous, the black of the tread moving before his eyes, opening into a maw that threatened to consume him.

Doyle let out a scream, lurched up and smacked his head on the motor's front bumper before he fell painfully back with a groan.

Footsteps approached. Someone knelt beside him, touched his arm, stroked his forehead. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he heard a voice say: "Ah, Christ, Doyle! What in bloody hell have you done to yourself?"

o0o

Anson swore again, more virulently, as Doyle passed out. The man looked like about fifty feet of bad tarmac - head bashed, wrists bloody - hell, one trainer was slashed and the dark patch there was too shiny to be just dirt. And he stank, as well. "You've been in the drink, haven't you, poor bastard. Smell worse than a bad cigar, you'll do bugger-all for the upholstery. Up you come, then."

It was too much like hauling a sleeping child, or maybe a corpse, until the motion put some consciousness back in and Doyle moved a bit, putting an arm out as Anson dumped him into the passenger seat. "...wha..."

"Quiet, man, that's the way. We've got to make tracks." Anson clipped him in, shut the door and raced around to the driver's side. The back of his neck was prickling and he was certain it wouldn't be a pleasant surprise he wanted to hang around for.

The engine turned over with a roar and he shoved it into gear, reached for a radio soon as he had a hand free. "3.7, come in 3.7."

"3.7. What?" Bodie's voice was flat. Next to him, Anson felt rather than saw Doyle go still.

"Found him. Banged up but breathing."

An explosive breath over the RT. "Christ." A pause. "He awake?"

Anson glanced over. "More or less. Hang on, Bodie." They'd made some blocks from the waterfront; he pulled in by the curb. "Talk to your partner, Ray," he said, extending the mike.

His bedraggled passenger just looked at him. "Ray?"

Well, shit.

Doyle leaned into the radio and tried tentatively "Hello?"

"Ray, thank Christ, how you holding up, sunshine?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Ray? You okay?|"

"I'm— Yes, I'm okay. Thank you."

"Ray? Who are you talking to? Who am I?"

"I—I'm not sure, I'm sorry. I—who are you?|"

"Give the radio back, Ray. I need to talk to Anson."

Anson had been staring open mouthed at Doyle, he shook himself alert and took the radio "Bodie, what the hell do I do with him?"

"You get him to a doctor, now, fast as you can, I don't care if you have every traffic cop in a ten mile radius on your tail, you don't waste a second. I'm calling Cowley."

Doyle just sat, confused and wary, staring at the mike in Anson's hand like it was going to hurt him. He looked up at Anson. “Name’s Duncan. Duncan Doyle. Don’ know no Ray.”

Anson rolled his eyes and spoke into the mike.

“Bodie, there’s a problem. Doyle doesn’t know who he is.” He held the mike away from his ear as an inventive string of what seemed to be English poured out of the speaker.

“Bodie!” he shouted, looking apologetically at Doyle for scaring him.

“Just get him to hospital –”

Anson swore and tried to grab Doyle as he opened the car door and tried to flee. Fortunately Doyle forget about the seat belt and Anson was able to pin him to the seat.

“Easy. Mate.”

“No hospital.”

“But you’re hurt. Badly if I’m not mistaken.”

“Can’t. They’ll find me there.”

“Who?”

Doyle looked down at his feet and mumbled, “CI5.”

Anson couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. He picked up the mike. “Bodie, you’re not going to believe this.”

"Anson'' warned Bodie tightly ''hospital, now."

"He won't go" protested Anson "he thinks he's some bloke called Duncan Doyle and he's on the run from CI5."

Anson still had tight hold of Doyle, but in the pregnant silence emanating from the other end of the radio Doyle managed to swing the car door open again and was heroically sick, vomiting God knew what into the gutter.

"Bodie" Anson demanded urgently "he's just chucked up half the bloody Thames, I can't drive with him in this state, get yer skates on and give us a hand, I could do with some sodding back up."

"En route" replied Bodie tersely "ETA about five bloody minutes, don't take your eyes off him Anson, he does a runner and I'll give you a whole new orifice to stick your precious coffin nails in."

Anson hauled Doyle back into the car "All right, keep your hair on, he's not going anywhere, not in this state."

"Anson, whatever he thinks his name is, that's still Raymond Doyle. Keep 'em bloody peeled, right?"

"Right" acknowledged Anson, replacing the handset and eyeing his prisoner warily "You gonna behave yourself Doyle?"

Doyle looked at him with dazed eyes and said "I think I had a car like this, maybe. What colour is it?"

Anson gave Doyle a wary look. "What colour is this motor or what colour is yours? Christ, mate, you've taken beating, haven't you? Your brain is sloshing about, it seems."

Doyle shrugged, nodding, then regretted the motion. He burped loudly and held his stomach. "Sorry," he muttered. "Don't feel all that great at the moment." He blinked at Anson. "Do I know you?"

"Yeah," he answered, pulling a smoke from his pocket, lighting it and inhaling deeply.

When Anson exhaled a plume of smoke, Doyle coughed. "Wait... I remember now. An... Andrews?" When Anson opened his mouth, Doyle held up a hand. He scrunched his eyes. "Hang about. An... Anders! That's it. Remember you..." His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped. "You're the bloke who was driving like a lunatic after stealing some expensive bit of furniture from..." he waved a hand haphazardly, "somebody. Block of salt," he whispered.

"Eh?"

Doyle rubbed his head. "Block of salt. No, not block, pillar. He'll turn you into a pillar of salt. He said... Who is he?" Doyle closed his eyes, his face a mask of pain. "Head... hurts..."

Anson stared at Doyle. He was losing it, babbling, making no sense. And he was in pain obviously. He'd best call Bodie and tell him to to move it. He grabbed the mic. Before he could roust Bodie again, the screech of tyres from behind him let him know that the Seventh Calvary was approaching at breakneck speed.

Doyle eyes suddenly flew wide "This is my car, you've stolen my car. You thieving bastard, you're not getting away with it." He hit the button to release his seat belt and launched himself at Anson, limbs flailing in an uncoordinated but determined assault.

Anson fought him off as best he could without inflicting too much damage. Suddenly the passenger door yanked open and Bodie hauled his spitfire partner out onto the pavement "Ray, calm down."

Anson scrambled out of the car and scooted round to help Bodie. Doyle was still held by the scruff of his neck, twisting and struggling against Bodie's implacable bulk.

He lashed out with his feet as soon as Anson was in range, Anson's retaliation was pure CI5 honed instinct, he let fly with a kick to Doyle's groin.

Doyle let out a banshee wail and slumped like a stone, suspended by Bodie's iron grip on his collar.

Bodie dropped beside him, crouching to cradle Doyle's head and protect it from the pavement, the sluggish ooze of blood where Anson had kicked him a damson stain between his partner's legs.

Bodie's voice was a vice as he ordered quietly "Anson, get an ambulance here now."

Anson turned back to the car, sure eyes were watching him and equally sure that the thing most to be feared was crouched behind him with his arms wrapped around Doyle. He called it in, giving the situation in terms short and to the point. It'd be a coin toss, really, as to whether the ambulance or CI5 reached them first - Cowley didn't mess about when it was one of their own.

Scooting back out of the car, Anson checked only a moment on seeing Bodie with his hand down his partner's pants. "Bodie, I did not hit him that hard!"

Blue eyes gone nearly black snapped up to meet Anson's, and he thought he could literally see Bodie hold himself back. "You're right. You didn't. He's been gone after - with a knife."

"What?"

"Old collar of Doyle's, wants revenge, bit like Salome." Bodie's eyes were feral. "Only it's not the big head she wants chopped."

o0o

Swinson leaned into the 'phone's handset, cradling it to his ear, eyes darting erratically about the pub, wary of eavesdroppers "That's right, you'll 'ave to tell 'er, no way I can get word to 'er, CI5 knows about Tudore, they're after 'im, an' the boat. If Tudore's got 'im he needs to get rid of 'im quick. If 'e ain't, then he needs to get rid of 'imself quick. Take 'imself off to Spain or someplace else they can't get their mits on 'im".

Swinson listened attentively as the voice on the other end spoke to him.

"No, I don't know where 'e is Mr Coo- I mean Smith. If Tudore's lost 'im, he could be anywhere. 'E's not gonna fall for that twentieth century Guy Fawkes thing again and by now that stuff I stuck 'im wiv's gonna be wearing off. He's gonna be a mess, but that mate of 'is didn't look like 'e was messin'. I'm gonna lose meself for a bit, there's no amount of money worth what that mate of 'is 'll do to me, if'n 'e finds 'im in the state I fink he's in."

o0o

Doyle woke to lights just a bit too bright, heels clacking across hard floors, and the only slightly muted sound of crashing bedpans and running water in some other room. Other than that everything around him was quiet, and still, and comfortable and white.

He was in bloody hospital after all.

He tried not to change the rhythm of his breathing, let his eyes close again, fought against sleep. How had the bastards got him here? He remembered being caught on the road, that bloke Anders who'd nicked his car - he remembered his car, thank god for that, his life was coming back to him. He remembered... He remembered Anders suddenly letting loose on him, then someone yanking him from behind, and then pain... No pain now, he was pleasantly numb, heavy with relaxation.

They'd drugged him.

Of course they'd drugged him, he was in hospital. Think, Doyle... Trouble was, he didn't much want to think, he wanted to sleep...

No. If he was in hospital, it was because CI5 must have put him here. Guarded? He cracked open his eyes again. He wasn't on a ward, he was in a private room - had to be CI5 then. There was no sign of anyone in the room with him, though he couldn't see the corner by the door without turning his head. He moved carefully, eyes closed again, just asleep... but when he risked it, there was no one on that side of him either, he was properly alone. Must think he was too weak - or too drugged, or too stupid - to get away then.

He was hooked up to a drip, plastic snaking down into a catheter taped to the back of his hand, god knew what dripping into him. Lots of lovely relaxation, he presumed. He pulled the tape off, slid the needle out and jammed his thumb over the spot while he woke himself up properly. There might be a bloke outside, he'd have to deal with that. They'd not left him any clothes either, he was in a hospital gown and nothing else, and there was no sign of what he'd been wearing. Another reason they thought he was safe left alone.

Listening sharply for a change in the background noise, he sat up and swung his legs to the floor, steadying himself for a moment. There was a jug of water on the bedside cabinet, and he poured himself a glass, drank thirstily, looking around. Nothing he could do damage with. There was a door to a private bathroom though, and after a moment he stood, took a few careful steps towards it. He felt solid enough - maybe he was nearly due for his next dose of whatever it was, he was tired, but he could shake the heaviness off, move as easily as he always did.

The bathroom was simple - a nylon-curtained shower in one corner, a big white basin and a black-seated toilet. It would do. He reached for the emergency cord, tied it carefully up out of the way, and turned back to the room, to the other door, the one that led out.

Sure enough, when he opened it cautiously, peering through the gap, a man in a suit turned his head, peered back at him with raised eyebrows, slumped uncomfortably in a plastic chair. "Alright, Doyle?"

Doyle took a breath. "Yeah... look, the thing is I've remembered something. I want to check it - you got a minute?"

The man looked amused. "Not exactly the rush hour out here." He got up, stretched. "If McCabe knew what he was missing with that broken arm, he'd be gutted." He followed Doyle into the room easily enough - almost too easily. And who the hell was McCabe supposed to be? No one he knew, no matter what CI5 might think. The reason they were after him, maybe.

"Look, I think..." he broke off, glanced quickly at the door, and then over to the window at the other side of the room. "I don't like this..." He tipped his head, gestured further into the room, into the depths of the bathroom, and the man followed him again.

"What the hell is this, Doyle? You paranoid or..."

"Bug..." Doyle said, leaning down towards the sink, looking closely at the shining silver of the taps.

"You're having me on - in tha-"

Doyle dispatched him with a quick shove onto the the hard ceramic, his head thunking firmly against it, falling awkwardly to the floor. Doyle took enough of his weight to make sure he didn't make any more noise, and then started efficiently stripping him and getting dressed himself. He fitted the holster across his back, then undid it and tightened the straps, frowning, until it sat properly. The man's gun was a Smith and Wesson, not as tidy as his own Browning, and he'd never liked the grip, though... the name slid away from him, leaving a tail of familiarity and discomfort. Who? Someone said he'd get used to them if he tried them long enough instead of... He stilled, one shoe on, the other dangling from his hand, wanting to chase the thought, but it was gone.

Didn't matter. He shoved the other shoe on, just slightly too tight, then glanced back into the room and down to the man again. He grimaced, then pulled him across the smooth floor, bent down and heaved him up, tucking him into the bed and pulling the blankets around his head as best he could. It was harder than he remembered, and his muscles shook a little afterwards, so that he had to take a breather for a few precious minutes, but as soon as he could, he moved back to the door, listening carefully, and then stepped out and away down the corridor, nodding casually to the nurse in the lift when she held it for him, brain rushing away as they descended the few floors down. And then the main entrance was in front of him, and he held the door open to let in a tearful couple carrying a small child, and then the pre-dawn air hit him, and he was away.

He could feel a wallet in his pocket, and he slid it out, glanced at the cash inside. Plenty. There were taxis in a line on the other side of the road, a couple of drivers standing together, smoking desultorily. One of them threw his fag to the gutter as Doyle approached, sliding behind the driver's seat, and turning his head towards the back of the cab. "Where to guv'nor?"

"Forty four Crompton Avenue," he said, letting himself sit back against the cold vinyl. "SW5."

Story continued in this post...

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Aw, can't! Deadline tonight! :-((((( But will read with pleasure *g* (I feel so mean to reply just to say I can't, but they sent me a job this afternoon and it's due first thing tomorrow, so ... :-( )

Edited Date: 2015-07-28 07:56 pm (UTC)

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Discovered in a Round Robin - a new Prosfic challenge, just for fun!

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