![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
byslantedlight.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljToday's offering makes me happy for many reasons - the first is that the author very, very kindly swapped her posting-day with me, because what with one thing and another my part-written story remains part written and I'm still at work... Fflambeau originally wrote this for 5th January, the day before Twelfth Night, so it's much earlier than she expected to see it posted - a thousand thanks to her!
The biggest reason I'm happy about posting this though, is purely and simply because I rather think you're going to like it... So without further ado - Fflambeau's first offering for Pros, and how lucky are we that she chose to post it to Discovered in the Holly and the Ivy? *vbg*
A Winter's Tale
by Fflambeau
It was still dark as the beige Granada pulled quietly into the car park beside the picturesque country inn. Cowley climbed out, retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, and looked up at the bulk of the Elizabethan building with its thatched roof, black against the dark sky. He did not linger; Oxfordshire had escaped the worst of the New Year snow, but the pre-dawn air was bitter. Walking stiffly back out to the road, he gave a brief nod of satisfaction at the illuminated pub sign – the Queen’s Head - and strode smartly up the two steps and through the front door.
At the reception desk, he pinged the bell and waited with obvious impatience, hefting the brief case, until a yawning boy appeared. “Good morning. My name’s Cowley. I believe you have two guests who should be waiting for me.”
“Oh – oh yes. In the lounge bar, sir. To your right.”
Doyle and Murphy exchanged a wry look as they heard their boss’s voice outside the door. Doyle frowned, and indicated their well-filled breakfast plates. “Better shove the rest of this down your throat pronto – the Cow calls.” He had issues with the man which he knew he couldn’t voice explicitly without endangering his position.
They rose as Cowley entered. “Sit down, gentlemen, and finish your breakfast. We have a few minutes. And I think I’ll have some of that coffee – it smells rather good.” He seated himself at the table.
Doyle lifted the coffee pot, poured, and pushed his own unused cup towards Cowley. “Any word from Bodie, sir? I still don’t understand why you didn’t send back-up with him.”
“Bodie is a more than competent agent. This is a straightforward pick-up job, and Bodie will let us know as soon as Cuthbert’s contact arrives. No point in all three of you camping out on this chilly morning.” The fact that he was punishing Bodie for his latest peccadillo involving a whoopee cushion, which had caught the Home Secretary’s private secretary, rather than Anson, its intended victim, was no one’s business but his own.
Finishing his coffee, Cowley opened the brief case and took out some documents. “There has been no change to my original information. As I told you, Sir Adrian’s son, James, has been in contact with certain German individuals in whom our security services have a keen interest. Och, he’s only a laddie, a poor fool rebelling against his father, but it’s time to bring him in, with the contact he’s meeting today. Sir Adrian, of course, is abroad at present. While the cat’s away, the mice will play, or so I’m told. As soon as you hear from Bodie, move in and pick them both up. Do it quietly and without setting the whole countryside in a turmoil. There should be no need to shoot anyone, Doyle,” he added, “and please make sure you pass that message on to your partner.”
He unrolled a set of architectural plans and anchored them to the table with the cruet set and sauce bottles. “I’m not expecting any trouble, but you’d better familiarise yourselves with the layout. Now, I have phone calls to make. Let me know when you hear from Bodie.”
He nodded to them and left the room. They heard him in the hall, arranging to be supplied with a private room and a telephone.
Doyle studied the blueprints in silence for a few minutes and then looked up at Murphy. “Is there something I’m missing? If it’s so straightforward, what’s Cowley doing here? Bit odd, don’t you think?”
“Ours not to wonder why,” Murphy misquoted. “I’m counting my blessings – I had a good night’s sleep and I’m enjoying my breakfast while Bodie’s been freezing his tits off for the last two hours.”
They shared a grin, and Doyle shrugged; then they turned once more to their interrupted breakfast.
Suddenly a loud burst of static erupted from the RT in Doyle’s pocket. He pulled it out, waiting for a voice, but the transmitter remained silent. “Bodie! Sat on your RT, did you? What’s going on? We in business already?”
The silence was unbroken.
Murphy glanced at him and pulled out his own RT, but his call to Bodie also went unanswered.
Doyle abruptly pushed his chair back. The fine cord of intuition which linked the partners, which had kept them alive when the odds were stacked against them, was vibrating. “I don’t like this. Let’s get moving.” He pulled his coat off the back of his chair and checked his spare clips.
“Better tell Cowley,” Murphy advised.
“No. He’ll just think Bodie was pratting about and tell us to wait for a message, but something’s wrong. I’m not waiting. I’ll carry the can if I’m wrong.”
Murphy raised his eyebrows but collected his own coat and followed Doyle out of the room.
The gold Capri sat demurely beside Cowley’s Granada. Its engine caught first time, and the sleek car nosed quietly out of the car park. Once on the narrow country road, Doyle drove as fast as he dared, mindful that the patches of snow might be concealing black ice, and within ten minutes they were within sight of the splendid gates of Sir Adrian Cuthbert’s ancestral home.
They drove along beside the high estate wall until Doyle spotted a gateway on the opposite side. Turning the Capri into the field behind the gate, he parked close by a large bush, causing Murphy to curse him as wet snow fell from its branches when he opened his door. They made their way back to the road through tussocks of rough grass rising from the iron-hard ground.
“We’ll go over the wall here,” Doyle announced, looking up at the black outline of a tree which overhung the stones of the high wall.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! I’m already soaked from that bloody bush! Can’t we just do this the easy way and use the gates like proper little gentlemen?” Murphy enquired.
Doyle ignored him and pulled himself up into the tree, snow cascading all round him, followed by the disgruntled Murphy, and the two dropped gently into the undergrowth behind the wall. They made their way through a frozen landscape of ornamental shrubs, their silhouettes half-visible as the sky turned from black to granite, until they could see the mass of the long Georgian house. Light spilled from several windows on the ground floor. Doyle stopped Murphy with a hand on his arm. “Give it a few minutes. Let’s see if anything moves.” Murphy nodded, and they waited, motionless in the icy stillness of the silent garden.
Suddenly the front door opened. A figure emerged cautiously, an AK-47 cradled against its chest, and looked around before vanishing inside.
“Bloody hell! That’s definitely not Jimmy, and if it’s the contact, why is he armed?” Doyle whispered. “No wonder we haven’t heard from Bodie! We need to find out what the hell’s going on. Front or back?”
“I’ll take the rear. Keep in touch.” Murphy slipped away, thankful for the landscaped vegetation surrounding the house, which cloaked his passage.
Doyle wasn’t so fortunate. A wide lawn stretched between him and the house; once he left the shelter of the bushes he’d be a sitting duck for a marksman with a night sight. Gauging the shortest distance between cover and house, he moved into position. One intent look at the house – nothing untoward – and he was running.
Crouched panting below a dark window, he cautiously raised his head to peer over the sill into blackness. Moving along, bent almost double, he approached the next window from which warm light spilled in a narrow beam. He raised himself again, slowly. The curtains had been carelessly closed and the gap afforded him a view of the centre of the room. Bodie was tied to a chair, blood coursing down his cheek. As Doyle watched, a fist crashed into Bodie’s stomach, forcing his body forward as far as his bonds allowed. Doyle counted two other figures in the room – perhaps more outside his field of vision.
Backing off, he pressed the send button on his RT. “Four-five. Bodie’s been taken. In the room to the right of the front door. At least two, possibly more. I’m going in through the window.”
“Wilco. Nothing moving round here. Give me a minute to break in and I’ll be outside the door.”
“Let me know as soon as you’re in the house. I’ll hold off till then.” His instinct was to crash through the window to the rescue, but his training restrained him. Seething with fury and compassion, he waited, RT held close.
Murphy’s voice spoke quietly in his ear. “I’m at the door. On three!”
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
“I’ll wait for the ambulance.” Doyle stared Cowley down, feet planted firmly in the slushy gravel of the drive. The grey house loomed behind, its flat stone front softened by a mantle of ivy. Several shattered ground-floor windows bore witness to the violence, the lethal activity, the gun-shots, which had reverberated through its tastefully-decorated rooms so recently. The house seemed to wear an expression of affronted embarrassment at its unaccustomedly louche appearance.
“Oh very well. Have it your own way. I suppose you both need a wee break. A pity my informant was less than accurate in his information. But I expect to see you, and Master Bodie, in my office on Tuesday morning at eight a.m.” He hesitated for a moment before adding: “Yes, you did well. Tell Bodie I said so.” With that, Cowley swung on his heels and climbed into the Granada which had brought him post-haste to the handsome house, home of Sir Adrian Cuthbert, that minor government minister at present celebrating Christmas in warmer climes, an hour earlier. The car pulled away, spewing dirty snow at Doyle’s boots as it turned sharply, following in the wake of the police cars.
Doyle stepped smartly back and stared after it for a moment, his fists clenched. Turning on his heel, he headed towards the house, gravel crunching under his feet. He felt angry and frustrated – once again, Cowley had not trusted them with the whole story. If he had let them know just how involved the minister’s feckless son was with that German terrorist group, they would have been prepared for more trouble than they had been allowed to expect. And Bodie wouldn’t have been captured so easily, taken such a beating.
He sighed, puffing out a long breath. It had happened before, often enough. So what was different this time? They’d each suffered at the hands of criminals, been wounded, threatened with death – and survived to tell the tale. It was the nature of the job which they had signed up for, knowingly and willingly. But one day, one of them would be hit too hard too many times, would stop a mortal bullet; Doyle was finding those thoughts more intrusive, harder to ignore.
As he reached the front door, it swung open and Murphy emerged. He gave Doyle a knowing look. “He’s in the kitchen. Moaning about his wrists and stuffing his face. Doesn’t look too badly hurt to me, but you better get him away from that biscuit barrel or there’ll be questions asked in the House!”
“Thanks, Murph. I’ll sort him out. Oh – and that sounds like the ambulance in the distance. They’ll get him checked over. Police have carted our surviving villains off. You might as well get back to the pub with the Cow – we’ll finish up here. Take the car - I’ll get a lift in the ambulance with Bodie.” Doyle gave Murphy the car keys and a friendly thump on the shoulder and stepped past him into the hall, his heels clacking on the marble tiles. He ignored the two bodies which had been dragged out of the way and covered with a large tablecloth.
Finding his way to the kitchen at the back of the house, he stopped at the door to stare thoughtfully at Bodie, slumped uncomfortably in a chair at the large central table, his cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s with what Doyle soon identified as chocolate digestive biscuits, rather a favourite of Bodie’s. “You gannet! Is there ever a time when you don’t feel peckish? Maybe it’s a pity I untied you – we’re going to have to claim that Dieter had a passion for choccy biccies or Cowley’ll make you pay for the whole lot.”
Bodie gave him a soulful look and spoke through his mouthful. “Don’t be so cruel, Ray! Don’t I deserve a little simple pleasure after what I’ve been through? Look at my wrists – cut to buggery! Won’t be able to do up my cuffs for weeks! And it’s going to play havoc with my violin practice.”
“That the worst, is it? You still moving with your usual balletic grace, are you?” He spoke lightly, but the blood-smeared tea towel in the sink and the oozing cut across Bodie”s forehead told their silent story.
Bodie pulled an oafish expression. “Balletic? Wot’s that, then? You bin readin’ grown-up books again? Stick to ‘Janet and John’ till you’re a big boy!”
Doyle punched his arm lightly, then turned away suddenly. “D’you hear anything?”
“Not a sausage. But then, I haven’t got your bat-ears, my little flittermouse.” Bodie shoved another biscuit into his mouth and chewed carefully, tenderly massaging his bruised jaw.
“Just after Cowley left I heard an ambulance siren. I assumed it was heading this way, but it hasn’t arrived. Odd.” He turned back, eyebrows lifted, and the two men exchanged a hard stare. “Stay here. I’ll just nip upstairs and have a look round. Oh – and take this. Got half a clip left.”
He handed his Walther to Bodie before striding quickly out of the room, making his way to the main staircase and nimbly running up the first flight. A long window afforded a clear view of the driveway with the avenue of poplars leading back to the ornate gates and the country road beyond. Just inside the gates an ambulance stood, slewed across the drive, ominously still and silent. Doyle scanned the grounds, but nothing moved.
He ran downstairs and returned to the kitchen. “We might have a problem. The ambulance is at the end of the drive, but whoever was on board seems to have wandered off to admire the beauties of nature.” His voice hardened and his fist hit the wooden table. “This op’s been a cock-up from the start. Cowley sends you to stake the place out on your own because it’s just young Jimmy meeting his contact for a chin-wag, and we arrive to find half the Fuchs-Richter gang in residence! Do we know for sure how many of them were here?”
Bodie rested his head in his palm. “Calm down and let’s think it through. I’d just found meself a rather prickly vantage spot under a holly bush and was settling down to wait for dawn when I was accosted by an ugly gentleman with a large gun and very poor English. Think it must have been his friend who hit me. Next thing I knew I was tied to a very hard chair in a spiffing dining room with three heavies inviting me to tell them my life story, and Jimmy having kittens in the corner. Don’t think he’d expected to actually see any violence - turned him a bit green round the gills. So how many did the local plods haul off to the nick when you and Murph had finished with them?”
“Two, including our host’s son. And two waiting to be collected by the mortuary. Okay so far. Any chance there might have been one or two extras expected?”
“We better assume it’s possible. Need to check over that ambulance and contact Cowley – got your RT? Mine ended up under a jack boot. Nasty way to go.”
“Dunno where mine is. Fell out of m’pocket, I think, when I got stuck in. We need to move – too vulnerable here and we’ve been here too long. On your feet, soldier.”
Bodie pulled himself up with a muffled groan.
“Oh fuck – you’re not too chipper, are you? What’s the damage?”
Bodie leaned heavily on the table. Fighting a wave of nausea, he struggled to sound his usual ebullient self. “Well, I’m not gonna equal my record for the hundred yards. Think I’ve got the odd cracked rib and a few bruises in awkward places, but I’ll live – and my hands are working.”
“Come on then.” Doyle slipped an arm round Bodie’s waist and took half his weight as they moved towards the kitchen door. “Sorry there’s no time for a medical check-up and a few aspirins – we’ll get a pretty nurse to see to all that later. Do we try to secure the house or get the hell out?”
“Since this dump must have at least ten bedrooms and fuck knows how many entrances, and we don’t know how many we’re up against, I think we’d be better off outside. Could do with a telephone, though.”
As he spoke, a bell rang sharply.
“That must be the front door. Think they’re expecting the butler to answer it?”
“Could be more lurking round the back,” Bodie reminded him.
“Good thinking, Moriarty!” Doyle swung Bodie round and headed for a small door next to the Welsh dresser. “Glad I had a look at the blueprints when Cowley gave us that final briefing this morning.” He swung the door open and found a light switch. “Think you can manage these stairs?” He closed the door quietly behind them. “Shame there’s no bolt on this side.”
Bodie snorted, and awkwardly, his hand on Doyle’s shoulder, descended the steep, narrow steps to what was clearly the wine cellar – and a well-stocked one, at that. “Oh Ray – have we got time for a quick snifter? Cuthbert wouldn’t miss a bottle, would he? Just for medicinal purposes!”
“Come on, you idiot!” Doyle pulled Bodie between the racks towards another door. “Damn! It’s locked. And we’re not going to break through this easily.”
Bodie leaned against the wall by the door, stifling another groan, every abused muscle screaming for relief. Something sharp dug into his back and he turned carefully to investigate. After a moment he whistled gleefully, a smug smile on his face, and waved a large key at his partner. “What’s happened to your famed cop’s eagle eye?” He gestured at the hook on the wall. “Very sensible. Someone wanted to be sure the key wouldn’t get lost.”
“Yeah, I’d have needed x-ray eyes, wouldn’t I, to see through your great bulk!” Doyle took the key from him with a look, and quickly unlocked the door, shoving it open with some effort. It opened into a small white-painted walled area, below the level of the ground floor, with a short flight of stone steps leading up to the garden at the side of the house. “Stay here, you, while I have a quick butcher’s.”
He ascended the steps cautiously, keeping his head down as he peered round the wall towards the front of the house, and then towards the back. The sky was elephant grey, shrouding the sun which by now had risen but was nowhere in evidence. “All quiet.”
“Ray – they’re in the kitchen. I can hear boots stomping on that nice clean floor. Two pairs, I think. The char lady is going to be very unhappy.”
“And so will we be, if you don’t shut up and get going!” Doyle ran back down the steps and helped Bodie up the short flight, grimacing at the difficulty with which he was now moving. But a few stumbling steps across the gravelled path which surrounded the house, and they vanished into thick wet shrubbery.
Doyle found himself taking most of Bodie’s weight as they pushed their way forward. Bodie looked on the verge of collapse and Doyle began to consider his options.
Emerging suddenly from the bushes onto a snow-dappled lawn, immaculately mown despite the winter season, Doyle caught his foot in something and fell headlong, dragging Bodie down with him. Their heads cracked sharply together. “Oh fuck. Sorry, mate. Bloody croquet hoop. Didn’t see it.” His mouth tightened as he noticed that Bodie’s cut was bleeding again. Probably needed stitching, if and when they could get to a doctor.
“How the other half live!” Bodie muttered. “Shall we have a quick game, Sir Ray? Oh dear – we’ve forgotten the mallets.”
“I’ll croquet you with a mallet in a minute! Up you get.” He glanced around. “Unfortunately we’ve got no cover till we get to the drive – and then it’s only those poplars. No undergrowth. Not far, though. Be okay as long as Fritz and friend stay in the house, but not so good if they realise we’ve done a bunk.”
“Ray – think you better leave me here and fetch the cavalry. I’ll only hold you back if you have to run for it.” Bodie spoke slowly. He looked exhausted, sweat running down his face despite the cold air.
“Not on your nelly! We’ll make it together or not at all. If I hadn’t used all my spare clips we could have played hide and seek and picked the buggers off, but as it is the ambulance is our best bet. It’ll have a radio.”
He practically carried Bodie across the lawn and forward towards the line of trees on their left, standing sentry duty along each side of the wide avenue which led to the gates. Glancing back, he was relieved to see no movement around the house. Only another fifty yards and with a little luck they’d have wheels.
At that moment Bodie collapsed. Doyle caught him before his head took another impact, and, hoisting him again, half-dragged him towards the nearest poplar. Its tall spire had few low branches, but it had clearly stood there for many decades, and its trunk was reassuringly wide. Hastily checking Bodie’s pulse and then turning him into the recovery position, Doyle took one quick glance back at the house, still silent in the distance, and then towards the abandoned vehicle, equally quiet. He looked down at Bodie for one moment, retrieved his gun, and briefly, gently, touched Bodie’s dishevelled hair. “Hang on, sunshine. Shan’t be long.”
Then, at a flat-out run, he took off towards the ambulance, not caring who or what might now see him.
Distant shouts told him his luck had finally run out.
Panting, Doyle reached the ambulance and pulled the back doors open. He was unsurprised to see two men, trussed like turkeys in yards of white bandaging. They lay on the ambulance floor, one ominously still, the other squirming vigorously, his furious vocal articulation muffled by a gag which had presumably once been a triangular bandage. Doyle climbed into the vehicle, avoiding the hobbled feet kicking out at him. “OK – pack it in. I’m one of the good guys. Soon have you free.” Pulling out his army knife, he sawed through the gag and bandages wrapping the arms.
Urgent speech poured from the freed mouth.
“Just shut it! We haven’t much time and I need to know where the keys are. Here’s the knife. Sort yourself out.”
The man ignored him, turning towards his silent comrade. “Mike! For god’s sake, wake up!”
Doyle grabbed him away. “Listen! The bad guys are coming! I need to get this bus moving now or we’ll all be playing harps! Have you got the keys?”
“No. Those bastards must have taken them. But we’ve got to see to Mike.”
“OK. You do that. Just keep your head down.”
Doyle leapt down, ran round to the driver’s side, scrambled in and forced the plastic cover from the steering wheel column. He bared the power wires with his teeth and twisted them together. Cautiously, he touched the starter wires together and rolled his eyes skywards as the engine caught. Thank you, whoever’s up there! Shoving the cables well out of the way – he could really do without a hefty shock at this moment – he pushed the gear lever into second. The engine roared, and Doyle swung the vehicle in its tightest turning circle, without regard for the exquisitely-kept grass verges.
Suddenly a window behind him slid aside and an aggrieved voice accosted him. “Bloody ‘ell! What you doing? If that lot ‘aven’t killed Mike, then you will, rate you’re going! And you’ve made an effing mess of the dash!”
“Just get your effing head down, Charlie, unless you want to be the prize in a coconut shy. They’ve seen us!”
Doyle powered the ambulance down the drive towards the tree where Bodie lay concealed. In the distance, two figures ran towards the vehicle, and a couple of bullets whined past. Passing the tree, he swung the vehicle round on two and a half wheels, silently thanking some long-dead benefactor for his forethought in creating such a splendidly-wide avenue, and braked violently, ignoring the yelp of surprise from the back. Scrambling out, he raced to the still figure, knelt, grabbed it round its middle, and got his shoulder under Bodie. God knows what I’m doing to his broken ribs, he thought. Glad he’s unconscious. Staggering upright, and desperately aware of the bullets fired haphazardly by the running men, he reached the rear doors, dragged them open with one hand, and laid Bodie inside. “Look after him! He’s taken a hell of a beating!”
Back in the driver’s seat, he gunned the engine and roared down the drive. He checked the rear-view mirror, but both men had disappeared from view. A nasty thought crossed his mind, and, sure enough, just as he reached the big iron gates he saw a black car pulling out from a side-turning. Leading to the stables, he thought inconsequentially, remembering the plans he’d seen earlier.
Then the gates leapt at him. He spun the wheel right, towards the village inn where he and Murphy had spent last night and had rendezvoused with Cowley early that morning. The tyres shrieked on the tarmac as he fought to keep the heavy vehicle out of the ditch. The B road was narrow and twisting, but he kept the accelerator floored despite the patches of slippery brown slush, and turned on the headlights. Spotting the switches for blue light and siren, he flicked them on. Just have to hope that everyone keeps out of my way, he thought grimly. An oncoming car had him swerving to the left, churning gravel. He caught a glimpse of a horrified face, mouth hanging open. Made his day, he thought with wicked satisfaction. Where the fuck is the radio?
There was no time to search; the black car was closing and its passenger was leaning out at a dangerous angle, stringy blond hair whipping wildly round his head, pumping shots towards the ambulance. As the road straightened out approaching the village, Doyle see-sawed the wheel, flinging the vehicle from side to side, so that its tyres clipped each bank in turn and the suspension groaned under the strain.
Suddenly a familiar voice sounded behind him. “Having fun, Goldilocks? Not sure this jalopy was built for Formula One, but we seem to have four wheels still. Got a plan?”
A bullet clipped the wing mirror, but a sudden surge of happiness engulfed Doyle. “I’m having a ball. Best thing since the dodge’ems. Recovered from your nap?”
“I’ve had a shot of pain-killer! Give me that gun! Let’s see if I can pot a few ducks.”
“No, hang on till we get to the village. There’s a sharp bend just after the pub. Might be our best chance. Hold tight!” He passed the Walther back to Bodie. “Not sure how many rounds are left – four if you’re lucky.”
The village sign flashed into view. Swerving round a coach parked outside the Queen’s Head, the ambulance scattered a party of tourists. The black car, following close behind, sent them running back again in a flustered, squawking flock.
Oh fuck! Cowley’ll have our guts for garters, Doyle had just time to think before he roared past the village duck pond and the sharp left-hand bend was upon him. Braking hard and flinging the engine down two gears, he let the vehicle slide to the right towards the off-side verge and the village green beyond the pond. As they slowed, he heard the crash of broken glass, the harsh bark of the Walther and Bodie’s triumphant shout.
“Got him! Both front tyres! Oh – and look at that!”
Doyle looked. The momentum of the black Merc, its wheels slewed in an extreme left lock and both tyres blown, carried it inexorably towards the pond. Crashing through the white ornamental fence, it plunged through the fringe of bulrushes. Murky water fountained skywards, and a gaggle of real geese, protesting loudly, scattered in all directions. The car’s nose sank into the mud, a geyser of steam gushing from its bonnet.
Doyle climbed down from the driving seat and strolled back to lean against the side of the ambulance. Bodie joined him, moving carefully, gun held conspicuously. They watched with interest as both front doors were forced open with difficulty; two figures clambered out into the shallow water and sank into the deeper mud of the pond.
“Don’t listen, Ray,” said Bodie virtuously. “They’re using some very naughty German words.”
A Granada pulled up behind them; Cowley and Murphy emerged. “Six geese a-laying… Two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree,” Murphy hummed sotto voce.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
The cottage hospital was bright with Christmas decorations. Cheerful voices sounded in the distance, but the treatment room, where Bodie reclined on a bed, his ribs strapped up, head stitched and bandaged, giving him a piratical air, was theirs alone. “All over,” he said comfortably. “Mike’s in recovery, Charlie-boy is getting plastered in the pub with Murphy, and all the baddies are accounted for. I’m warm at last, and we’ve got a week off!” He rubbed his hands gleefully.
But Doyle was not so easily placated. “I know you think the sun shines out of his arse, but I’m pissed off with Cowley. He didn’t give us the whole story – again! He got his facts wrong. He put you in danger. And he had the nerve to give me hell for leaving the pub without telling him!”
“Come on, Ray, knock it off! We missed Christmas, yet again, with that surveillance job up north, but now we’ve got a whole week to celebrate. Let’s enjoy it.” He struggled to sit up on the narrow bed.
Doyle was by his side in an instant, arm round his shoulders, supporting him and pushing a pillow behind his back. Their heads were very close together.
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my skin, yet again,” Bodie said softly. They looked into each other’s eyes and neither was able to draw back.
Doyle leaned in just a little further and their lips touched for one sparkling instant. “Any time, sunshine.” He sat back in his chair, face flushing, and hastened to defuse the tension with a flurry of words. “Yeah – let’s get back to London and really celebrate. Have our own Christmas. Turkey, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, Brussels sprouts…”
“Oh no, Ray! Not sprouts! I hate sprouts. ‘Orrible things!” Bodie shuddered theatrically.
“You haven’t had my Brussel sprouts, with sweet chestnuts and crispy bacon. I’ll teach you to love them,” Doyle assured him.
Bodie gifted him with a beautiful smile. “If anyone can, it’ll be you. Think you must have a talent for making people love ... things. Yeah – Christmas on Twelfth Night! Sounds good to me, as long as it’s just the two of us.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking of inviting Cowley. Mind you, I still want to know why he turned up this morning. Must have known more than he was letting on.”
“He certainly did. Didn’t you read the sign in the public bar? That pub has the finest collection of pure malt whiskies south of the border. Bet you he’s still there now, having his own celebration!”
Doyle snorted, and exploded into laughter.
“Don’t make me laugh, you swine! Bloody painful!” Bodie clutched his ribs, but the mirth was infectious, and they were laughing together as Bodie reached for Doyle’s hand.
FINIS
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Title: A Winter's Tale
Author: Fflambeau
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: I'll find out and let you know!
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle, and the CI5-universe don't belong to any of us, they're just borrowed for the joy of it.
The biggest reason I'm happy about posting this though, is purely and simply because I rather think you're going to like it... So without further ado - Fflambeau's first offering for Pros, and how lucky are we that she chose to post it to Discovered in the Holly and the Ivy? *vbg*
A Winter's Tale
by Fflambeau
It was still dark as the beige Granada pulled quietly into the car park beside the picturesque country inn. Cowley climbed out, retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, and looked up at the bulk of the Elizabethan building with its thatched roof, black against the dark sky. He did not linger; Oxfordshire had escaped the worst of the New Year snow, but the pre-dawn air was bitter. Walking stiffly back out to the road, he gave a brief nod of satisfaction at the illuminated pub sign – the Queen’s Head - and strode smartly up the two steps and through the front door.
At the reception desk, he pinged the bell and waited with obvious impatience, hefting the brief case, until a yawning boy appeared. “Good morning. My name’s Cowley. I believe you have two guests who should be waiting for me.”
“Oh – oh yes. In the lounge bar, sir. To your right.”
Doyle and Murphy exchanged a wry look as they heard their boss’s voice outside the door. Doyle frowned, and indicated their well-filled breakfast plates. “Better shove the rest of this down your throat pronto – the Cow calls.” He had issues with the man which he knew he couldn’t voice explicitly without endangering his position.
They rose as Cowley entered. “Sit down, gentlemen, and finish your breakfast. We have a few minutes. And I think I’ll have some of that coffee – it smells rather good.” He seated himself at the table.
Doyle lifted the coffee pot, poured, and pushed his own unused cup towards Cowley. “Any word from Bodie, sir? I still don’t understand why you didn’t send back-up with him.”
“Bodie is a more than competent agent. This is a straightforward pick-up job, and Bodie will let us know as soon as Cuthbert’s contact arrives. No point in all three of you camping out on this chilly morning.” The fact that he was punishing Bodie for his latest peccadillo involving a whoopee cushion, which had caught the Home Secretary’s private secretary, rather than Anson, its intended victim, was no one’s business but his own.
Finishing his coffee, Cowley opened the brief case and took out some documents. “There has been no change to my original information. As I told you, Sir Adrian’s son, James, has been in contact with certain German individuals in whom our security services have a keen interest. Och, he’s only a laddie, a poor fool rebelling against his father, but it’s time to bring him in, with the contact he’s meeting today. Sir Adrian, of course, is abroad at present. While the cat’s away, the mice will play, or so I’m told. As soon as you hear from Bodie, move in and pick them both up. Do it quietly and without setting the whole countryside in a turmoil. There should be no need to shoot anyone, Doyle,” he added, “and please make sure you pass that message on to your partner.”
He unrolled a set of architectural plans and anchored them to the table with the cruet set and sauce bottles. “I’m not expecting any trouble, but you’d better familiarise yourselves with the layout. Now, I have phone calls to make. Let me know when you hear from Bodie.”
He nodded to them and left the room. They heard him in the hall, arranging to be supplied with a private room and a telephone.
Doyle studied the blueprints in silence for a few minutes and then looked up at Murphy. “Is there something I’m missing? If it’s so straightforward, what’s Cowley doing here? Bit odd, don’t you think?”
“Ours not to wonder why,” Murphy misquoted. “I’m counting my blessings – I had a good night’s sleep and I’m enjoying my breakfast while Bodie’s been freezing his tits off for the last two hours.”
They shared a grin, and Doyle shrugged; then they turned once more to their interrupted breakfast.
Suddenly a loud burst of static erupted from the RT in Doyle’s pocket. He pulled it out, waiting for a voice, but the transmitter remained silent. “Bodie! Sat on your RT, did you? What’s going on? We in business already?”
The silence was unbroken.
Murphy glanced at him and pulled out his own RT, but his call to Bodie also went unanswered.
Doyle abruptly pushed his chair back. The fine cord of intuition which linked the partners, which had kept them alive when the odds were stacked against them, was vibrating. “I don’t like this. Let’s get moving.” He pulled his coat off the back of his chair and checked his spare clips.
“Better tell Cowley,” Murphy advised.
“No. He’ll just think Bodie was pratting about and tell us to wait for a message, but something’s wrong. I’m not waiting. I’ll carry the can if I’m wrong.”
Murphy raised his eyebrows but collected his own coat and followed Doyle out of the room.
The gold Capri sat demurely beside Cowley’s Granada. Its engine caught first time, and the sleek car nosed quietly out of the car park. Once on the narrow country road, Doyle drove as fast as he dared, mindful that the patches of snow might be concealing black ice, and within ten minutes they were within sight of the splendid gates of Sir Adrian Cuthbert’s ancestral home.
They drove along beside the high estate wall until Doyle spotted a gateway on the opposite side. Turning the Capri into the field behind the gate, he parked close by a large bush, causing Murphy to curse him as wet snow fell from its branches when he opened his door. They made their way back to the road through tussocks of rough grass rising from the iron-hard ground.
“We’ll go over the wall here,” Doyle announced, looking up at the black outline of a tree which overhung the stones of the high wall.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! I’m already soaked from that bloody bush! Can’t we just do this the easy way and use the gates like proper little gentlemen?” Murphy enquired.
Doyle ignored him and pulled himself up into the tree, snow cascading all round him, followed by the disgruntled Murphy, and the two dropped gently into the undergrowth behind the wall. They made their way through a frozen landscape of ornamental shrubs, their silhouettes half-visible as the sky turned from black to granite, until they could see the mass of the long Georgian house. Light spilled from several windows on the ground floor. Doyle stopped Murphy with a hand on his arm. “Give it a few minutes. Let’s see if anything moves.” Murphy nodded, and they waited, motionless in the icy stillness of the silent garden.
Suddenly the front door opened. A figure emerged cautiously, an AK-47 cradled against its chest, and looked around before vanishing inside.
“Bloody hell! That’s definitely not Jimmy, and if it’s the contact, why is he armed?” Doyle whispered. “No wonder we haven’t heard from Bodie! We need to find out what the hell’s going on. Front or back?”
“I’ll take the rear. Keep in touch.” Murphy slipped away, thankful for the landscaped vegetation surrounding the house, which cloaked his passage.
Doyle wasn’t so fortunate. A wide lawn stretched between him and the house; once he left the shelter of the bushes he’d be a sitting duck for a marksman with a night sight. Gauging the shortest distance between cover and house, he moved into position. One intent look at the house – nothing untoward – and he was running.
Crouched panting below a dark window, he cautiously raised his head to peer over the sill into blackness. Moving along, bent almost double, he approached the next window from which warm light spilled in a narrow beam. He raised himself again, slowly. The curtains had been carelessly closed and the gap afforded him a view of the centre of the room. Bodie was tied to a chair, blood coursing down his cheek. As Doyle watched, a fist crashed into Bodie’s stomach, forcing his body forward as far as his bonds allowed. Doyle counted two other figures in the room – perhaps more outside his field of vision.
Backing off, he pressed the send button on his RT. “Four-five. Bodie’s been taken. In the room to the right of the front door. At least two, possibly more. I’m going in through the window.”
“Wilco. Nothing moving round here. Give me a minute to break in and I’ll be outside the door.”
“Let me know as soon as you’re in the house. I’ll hold off till then.” His instinct was to crash through the window to the rescue, but his training restrained him. Seething with fury and compassion, he waited, RT held close.
Murphy’s voice spoke quietly in his ear. “I’m at the door. On three!”
“I’ll wait for the ambulance.” Doyle stared Cowley down, feet planted firmly in the slushy gravel of the drive. The grey house loomed behind, its flat stone front softened by a mantle of ivy. Several shattered ground-floor windows bore witness to the violence, the lethal activity, the gun-shots, which had reverberated through its tastefully-decorated rooms so recently. The house seemed to wear an expression of affronted embarrassment at its unaccustomedly louche appearance.
“Oh very well. Have it your own way. I suppose you both need a wee break. A pity my informant was less than accurate in his information. But I expect to see you, and Master Bodie, in my office on Tuesday morning at eight a.m.” He hesitated for a moment before adding: “Yes, you did well. Tell Bodie I said so.” With that, Cowley swung on his heels and climbed into the Granada which had brought him post-haste to the handsome house, home of Sir Adrian Cuthbert, that minor government minister at present celebrating Christmas in warmer climes, an hour earlier. The car pulled away, spewing dirty snow at Doyle’s boots as it turned sharply, following in the wake of the police cars.
Doyle stepped smartly back and stared after it for a moment, his fists clenched. Turning on his heel, he headed towards the house, gravel crunching under his feet. He felt angry and frustrated – once again, Cowley had not trusted them with the whole story. If he had let them know just how involved the minister’s feckless son was with that German terrorist group, they would have been prepared for more trouble than they had been allowed to expect. And Bodie wouldn’t have been captured so easily, taken such a beating.
He sighed, puffing out a long breath. It had happened before, often enough. So what was different this time? They’d each suffered at the hands of criminals, been wounded, threatened with death – and survived to tell the tale. It was the nature of the job which they had signed up for, knowingly and willingly. But one day, one of them would be hit too hard too many times, would stop a mortal bullet; Doyle was finding those thoughts more intrusive, harder to ignore.
As he reached the front door, it swung open and Murphy emerged. He gave Doyle a knowing look. “He’s in the kitchen. Moaning about his wrists and stuffing his face. Doesn’t look too badly hurt to me, but you better get him away from that biscuit barrel or there’ll be questions asked in the House!”
“Thanks, Murph. I’ll sort him out. Oh – and that sounds like the ambulance in the distance. They’ll get him checked over. Police have carted our surviving villains off. You might as well get back to the pub with the Cow – we’ll finish up here. Take the car - I’ll get a lift in the ambulance with Bodie.” Doyle gave Murphy the car keys and a friendly thump on the shoulder and stepped past him into the hall, his heels clacking on the marble tiles. He ignored the two bodies which had been dragged out of the way and covered with a large tablecloth.
Finding his way to the kitchen at the back of the house, he stopped at the door to stare thoughtfully at Bodie, slumped uncomfortably in a chair at the large central table, his cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s with what Doyle soon identified as chocolate digestive biscuits, rather a favourite of Bodie’s. “You gannet! Is there ever a time when you don’t feel peckish? Maybe it’s a pity I untied you – we’re going to have to claim that Dieter had a passion for choccy biccies or Cowley’ll make you pay for the whole lot.”
Bodie gave him a soulful look and spoke through his mouthful. “Don’t be so cruel, Ray! Don’t I deserve a little simple pleasure after what I’ve been through? Look at my wrists – cut to buggery! Won’t be able to do up my cuffs for weeks! And it’s going to play havoc with my violin practice.”
“That the worst, is it? You still moving with your usual balletic grace, are you?” He spoke lightly, but the blood-smeared tea towel in the sink and the oozing cut across Bodie”s forehead told their silent story.
Bodie pulled an oafish expression. “Balletic? Wot’s that, then? You bin readin’ grown-up books again? Stick to ‘Janet and John’ till you’re a big boy!”
Doyle punched his arm lightly, then turned away suddenly. “D’you hear anything?”
“Not a sausage. But then, I haven’t got your bat-ears, my little flittermouse.” Bodie shoved another biscuit into his mouth and chewed carefully, tenderly massaging his bruised jaw.
“Just after Cowley left I heard an ambulance siren. I assumed it was heading this way, but it hasn’t arrived. Odd.” He turned back, eyebrows lifted, and the two men exchanged a hard stare. “Stay here. I’ll just nip upstairs and have a look round. Oh – and take this. Got half a clip left.”
He handed his Walther to Bodie before striding quickly out of the room, making his way to the main staircase and nimbly running up the first flight. A long window afforded a clear view of the driveway with the avenue of poplars leading back to the ornate gates and the country road beyond. Just inside the gates an ambulance stood, slewed across the drive, ominously still and silent. Doyle scanned the grounds, but nothing moved.
He ran downstairs and returned to the kitchen. “We might have a problem. The ambulance is at the end of the drive, but whoever was on board seems to have wandered off to admire the beauties of nature.” His voice hardened and his fist hit the wooden table. “This op’s been a cock-up from the start. Cowley sends you to stake the place out on your own because it’s just young Jimmy meeting his contact for a chin-wag, and we arrive to find half the Fuchs-Richter gang in residence! Do we know for sure how many of them were here?”
Bodie rested his head in his palm. “Calm down and let’s think it through. I’d just found meself a rather prickly vantage spot under a holly bush and was settling down to wait for dawn when I was accosted by an ugly gentleman with a large gun and very poor English. Think it must have been his friend who hit me. Next thing I knew I was tied to a very hard chair in a spiffing dining room with three heavies inviting me to tell them my life story, and Jimmy having kittens in the corner. Don’t think he’d expected to actually see any violence - turned him a bit green round the gills. So how many did the local plods haul off to the nick when you and Murph had finished with them?”
“Two, including our host’s son. And two waiting to be collected by the mortuary. Okay so far. Any chance there might have been one or two extras expected?”
“We better assume it’s possible. Need to check over that ambulance and contact Cowley – got your RT? Mine ended up under a jack boot. Nasty way to go.”
“Dunno where mine is. Fell out of m’pocket, I think, when I got stuck in. We need to move – too vulnerable here and we’ve been here too long. On your feet, soldier.”
Bodie pulled himself up with a muffled groan.
“Oh fuck – you’re not too chipper, are you? What’s the damage?”
Bodie leaned heavily on the table. Fighting a wave of nausea, he struggled to sound his usual ebullient self. “Well, I’m not gonna equal my record for the hundred yards. Think I’ve got the odd cracked rib and a few bruises in awkward places, but I’ll live – and my hands are working.”
“Come on then.” Doyle slipped an arm round Bodie’s waist and took half his weight as they moved towards the kitchen door. “Sorry there’s no time for a medical check-up and a few aspirins – we’ll get a pretty nurse to see to all that later. Do we try to secure the house or get the hell out?”
“Since this dump must have at least ten bedrooms and fuck knows how many entrances, and we don’t know how many we’re up against, I think we’d be better off outside. Could do with a telephone, though.”
As he spoke, a bell rang sharply.
“That must be the front door. Think they’re expecting the butler to answer it?”
“Could be more lurking round the back,” Bodie reminded him.
“Good thinking, Moriarty!” Doyle swung Bodie round and headed for a small door next to the Welsh dresser. “Glad I had a look at the blueprints when Cowley gave us that final briefing this morning.” He swung the door open and found a light switch. “Think you can manage these stairs?” He closed the door quietly behind them. “Shame there’s no bolt on this side.”
Bodie snorted, and awkwardly, his hand on Doyle’s shoulder, descended the steep, narrow steps to what was clearly the wine cellar – and a well-stocked one, at that. “Oh Ray – have we got time for a quick snifter? Cuthbert wouldn’t miss a bottle, would he? Just for medicinal purposes!”
“Come on, you idiot!” Doyle pulled Bodie between the racks towards another door. “Damn! It’s locked. And we’re not going to break through this easily.”
Bodie leaned against the wall by the door, stifling another groan, every abused muscle screaming for relief. Something sharp dug into his back and he turned carefully to investigate. After a moment he whistled gleefully, a smug smile on his face, and waved a large key at his partner. “What’s happened to your famed cop’s eagle eye?” He gestured at the hook on the wall. “Very sensible. Someone wanted to be sure the key wouldn’t get lost.”
“Yeah, I’d have needed x-ray eyes, wouldn’t I, to see through your great bulk!” Doyle took the key from him with a look, and quickly unlocked the door, shoving it open with some effort. It opened into a small white-painted walled area, below the level of the ground floor, with a short flight of stone steps leading up to the garden at the side of the house. “Stay here, you, while I have a quick butcher’s.”
He ascended the steps cautiously, keeping his head down as he peered round the wall towards the front of the house, and then towards the back. The sky was elephant grey, shrouding the sun which by now had risen but was nowhere in evidence. “All quiet.”
“Ray – they’re in the kitchen. I can hear boots stomping on that nice clean floor. Two pairs, I think. The char lady is going to be very unhappy.”
“And so will we be, if you don’t shut up and get going!” Doyle ran back down the steps and helped Bodie up the short flight, grimacing at the difficulty with which he was now moving. But a few stumbling steps across the gravelled path which surrounded the house, and they vanished into thick wet shrubbery.
Doyle found himself taking most of Bodie’s weight as they pushed their way forward. Bodie looked on the verge of collapse and Doyle began to consider his options.
Emerging suddenly from the bushes onto a snow-dappled lawn, immaculately mown despite the winter season, Doyle caught his foot in something and fell headlong, dragging Bodie down with him. Their heads cracked sharply together. “Oh fuck. Sorry, mate. Bloody croquet hoop. Didn’t see it.” His mouth tightened as he noticed that Bodie’s cut was bleeding again. Probably needed stitching, if and when they could get to a doctor.
“How the other half live!” Bodie muttered. “Shall we have a quick game, Sir Ray? Oh dear – we’ve forgotten the mallets.”
“I’ll croquet you with a mallet in a minute! Up you get.” He glanced around. “Unfortunately we’ve got no cover till we get to the drive – and then it’s only those poplars. No undergrowth. Not far, though. Be okay as long as Fritz and friend stay in the house, but not so good if they realise we’ve done a bunk.”
“Ray – think you better leave me here and fetch the cavalry. I’ll only hold you back if you have to run for it.” Bodie spoke slowly. He looked exhausted, sweat running down his face despite the cold air.
“Not on your nelly! We’ll make it together or not at all. If I hadn’t used all my spare clips we could have played hide and seek and picked the buggers off, but as it is the ambulance is our best bet. It’ll have a radio.”
He practically carried Bodie across the lawn and forward towards the line of trees on their left, standing sentry duty along each side of the wide avenue which led to the gates. Glancing back, he was relieved to see no movement around the house. Only another fifty yards and with a little luck they’d have wheels.
At that moment Bodie collapsed. Doyle caught him before his head took another impact, and, hoisting him again, half-dragged him towards the nearest poplar. Its tall spire had few low branches, but it had clearly stood there for many decades, and its trunk was reassuringly wide. Hastily checking Bodie’s pulse and then turning him into the recovery position, Doyle took one quick glance back at the house, still silent in the distance, and then towards the abandoned vehicle, equally quiet. He looked down at Bodie for one moment, retrieved his gun, and briefly, gently, touched Bodie’s dishevelled hair. “Hang on, sunshine. Shan’t be long.”
Then, at a flat-out run, he took off towards the ambulance, not caring who or what might now see him.
Distant shouts told him his luck had finally run out.
Panting, Doyle reached the ambulance and pulled the back doors open. He was unsurprised to see two men, trussed like turkeys in yards of white bandaging. They lay on the ambulance floor, one ominously still, the other squirming vigorously, his furious vocal articulation muffled by a gag which had presumably once been a triangular bandage. Doyle climbed into the vehicle, avoiding the hobbled feet kicking out at him. “OK – pack it in. I’m one of the good guys. Soon have you free.” Pulling out his army knife, he sawed through the gag and bandages wrapping the arms.
Urgent speech poured from the freed mouth.
“Just shut it! We haven’t much time and I need to know where the keys are. Here’s the knife. Sort yourself out.”
The man ignored him, turning towards his silent comrade. “Mike! For god’s sake, wake up!”
Doyle grabbed him away. “Listen! The bad guys are coming! I need to get this bus moving now or we’ll all be playing harps! Have you got the keys?”
“No. Those bastards must have taken them. But we’ve got to see to Mike.”
“OK. You do that. Just keep your head down.”
Doyle leapt down, ran round to the driver’s side, scrambled in and forced the plastic cover from the steering wheel column. He bared the power wires with his teeth and twisted them together. Cautiously, he touched the starter wires together and rolled his eyes skywards as the engine caught. Thank you, whoever’s up there! Shoving the cables well out of the way – he could really do without a hefty shock at this moment – he pushed the gear lever into second. The engine roared, and Doyle swung the vehicle in its tightest turning circle, without regard for the exquisitely-kept grass verges.
Suddenly a window behind him slid aside and an aggrieved voice accosted him. “Bloody ‘ell! What you doing? If that lot ‘aven’t killed Mike, then you will, rate you’re going! And you’ve made an effing mess of the dash!”
“Just get your effing head down, Charlie, unless you want to be the prize in a coconut shy. They’ve seen us!”
Doyle powered the ambulance down the drive towards the tree where Bodie lay concealed. In the distance, two figures ran towards the vehicle, and a couple of bullets whined past. Passing the tree, he swung the vehicle round on two and a half wheels, silently thanking some long-dead benefactor for his forethought in creating such a splendidly-wide avenue, and braked violently, ignoring the yelp of surprise from the back. Scrambling out, he raced to the still figure, knelt, grabbed it round its middle, and got his shoulder under Bodie. God knows what I’m doing to his broken ribs, he thought. Glad he’s unconscious. Staggering upright, and desperately aware of the bullets fired haphazardly by the running men, he reached the rear doors, dragged them open with one hand, and laid Bodie inside. “Look after him! He’s taken a hell of a beating!”
Back in the driver’s seat, he gunned the engine and roared down the drive. He checked the rear-view mirror, but both men had disappeared from view. A nasty thought crossed his mind, and, sure enough, just as he reached the big iron gates he saw a black car pulling out from a side-turning. Leading to the stables, he thought inconsequentially, remembering the plans he’d seen earlier.
Then the gates leapt at him. He spun the wheel right, towards the village inn where he and Murphy had spent last night and had rendezvoused with Cowley early that morning. The tyres shrieked on the tarmac as he fought to keep the heavy vehicle out of the ditch. The B road was narrow and twisting, but he kept the accelerator floored despite the patches of slippery brown slush, and turned on the headlights. Spotting the switches for blue light and siren, he flicked them on. Just have to hope that everyone keeps out of my way, he thought grimly. An oncoming car had him swerving to the left, churning gravel. He caught a glimpse of a horrified face, mouth hanging open. Made his day, he thought with wicked satisfaction. Where the fuck is the radio?
There was no time to search; the black car was closing and its passenger was leaning out at a dangerous angle, stringy blond hair whipping wildly round his head, pumping shots towards the ambulance. As the road straightened out approaching the village, Doyle see-sawed the wheel, flinging the vehicle from side to side, so that its tyres clipped each bank in turn and the suspension groaned under the strain.
Suddenly a familiar voice sounded behind him. “Having fun, Goldilocks? Not sure this jalopy was built for Formula One, but we seem to have four wheels still. Got a plan?”
A bullet clipped the wing mirror, but a sudden surge of happiness engulfed Doyle. “I’m having a ball. Best thing since the dodge’ems. Recovered from your nap?”
“I’ve had a shot of pain-killer! Give me that gun! Let’s see if I can pot a few ducks.”
“No, hang on till we get to the village. There’s a sharp bend just after the pub. Might be our best chance. Hold tight!” He passed the Walther back to Bodie. “Not sure how many rounds are left – four if you’re lucky.”
The village sign flashed into view. Swerving round a coach parked outside the Queen’s Head, the ambulance scattered a party of tourists. The black car, following close behind, sent them running back again in a flustered, squawking flock.
Oh fuck! Cowley’ll have our guts for garters, Doyle had just time to think before he roared past the village duck pond and the sharp left-hand bend was upon him. Braking hard and flinging the engine down two gears, he let the vehicle slide to the right towards the off-side verge and the village green beyond the pond. As they slowed, he heard the crash of broken glass, the harsh bark of the Walther and Bodie’s triumphant shout.
“Got him! Both front tyres! Oh – and look at that!”
Doyle looked. The momentum of the black Merc, its wheels slewed in an extreme left lock and both tyres blown, carried it inexorably towards the pond. Crashing through the white ornamental fence, it plunged through the fringe of bulrushes. Murky water fountained skywards, and a gaggle of real geese, protesting loudly, scattered in all directions. The car’s nose sank into the mud, a geyser of steam gushing from its bonnet.
Doyle climbed down from the driving seat and strolled back to lean against the side of the ambulance. Bodie joined him, moving carefully, gun held conspicuously. They watched with interest as both front doors were forced open with difficulty; two figures clambered out into the shallow water and sank into the deeper mud of the pond.
“Don’t listen, Ray,” said Bodie virtuously. “They’re using some very naughty German words.”
A Granada pulled up behind them; Cowley and Murphy emerged. “Six geese a-laying… Two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree,” Murphy hummed sotto voce.
The cottage hospital was bright with Christmas decorations. Cheerful voices sounded in the distance, but the treatment room, where Bodie reclined on a bed, his ribs strapped up, head stitched and bandaged, giving him a piratical air, was theirs alone. “All over,” he said comfortably. “Mike’s in recovery, Charlie-boy is getting plastered in the pub with Murphy, and all the baddies are accounted for. I’m warm at last, and we’ve got a week off!” He rubbed his hands gleefully.
But Doyle was not so easily placated. “I know you think the sun shines out of his arse, but I’m pissed off with Cowley. He didn’t give us the whole story – again! He got his facts wrong. He put you in danger. And he had the nerve to give me hell for leaving the pub without telling him!”
“Come on, Ray, knock it off! We missed Christmas, yet again, with that surveillance job up north, but now we’ve got a whole week to celebrate. Let’s enjoy it.” He struggled to sit up on the narrow bed.
Doyle was by his side in an instant, arm round his shoulders, supporting him and pushing a pillow behind his back. Their heads were very close together.
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my skin, yet again,” Bodie said softly. They looked into each other’s eyes and neither was able to draw back.
Doyle leaned in just a little further and their lips touched for one sparkling instant. “Any time, sunshine.” He sat back in his chair, face flushing, and hastened to defuse the tension with a flurry of words. “Yeah – let’s get back to London and really celebrate. Have our own Christmas. Turkey, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, Brussels sprouts…”
“Oh no, Ray! Not sprouts! I hate sprouts. ‘Orrible things!” Bodie shuddered theatrically.
“You haven’t had my Brussel sprouts, with sweet chestnuts and crispy bacon. I’ll teach you to love them,” Doyle assured him.
Bodie gifted him with a beautiful smile. “If anyone can, it’ll be you. Think you must have a talent for making people love ... things. Yeah – Christmas on Twelfth Night! Sounds good to me, as long as it’s just the two of us.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking of inviting Cowley. Mind you, I still want to know why he turned up this morning. Must have known more than he was letting on.”
“He certainly did. Didn’t you read the sign in the public bar? That pub has the finest collection of pure malt whiskies south of the border. Bet you he’s still there now, having his own celebration!”
Doyle snorted, and exploded into laughter.
“Don’t make me laugh, you swine! Bloody painful!” Bodie clutched his ribs, but the mirth was infectious, and they were laughing together as Bodie reached for Doyle’s hand.
FINIS
Title: A Winter's Tale
Author: Fflambeau
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: I'll find out and let you know!
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle, and the CI5-universe don't belong to any of us, they're just borrowed for the joy of it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 12:06 am (UTC)(And yay for coming to
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 08:40 am (UTC)fflambeau
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 11:21 am (UTC)fflambeau
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 08:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 06:06 am (UTC)What a thrill-ride of a story! The comedic edge to the all the action made it hugely entertaining and the Olympic standard banter was the icing on the cake. Well done! :D
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 08:44 am (UTC)fflambeau
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 01:36 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 02:01 pm (UTC)fflambeau
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 05:30 pm (UTC)Welcome to Pro's writing - I hope we'll see more!
no subject
Date: 2015-12-23 06:43 pm (UTC)fflambeau
no subject
Date: 2015-12-22 08:34 pm (UTC)That was fabulous, thank you.
And well done you... not only riding to the rescue, but your first fic online? Blimey - you don't do things by half, do you? *g* I really enjoyed it, especially the bad guys sinking gracefully into the pond. *g*
no subject
Date: 2015-12-23 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-24 09:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-26 08:24 am (UTC)fflambeau