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discoveredinaljBack to Part One
Bodie awoke, feeling strangely rested, just after noon, slid quietly out of bed and stretched. Doyle was still asleep, turned to one side and tucked neatly into himself and the pillows, so that all Bodie could see was a stretch of broad shoulders, strangely graceful neck and dark brown, riotous curls. The Skin was folded into a neat bundle and placed on the bedside table beside his mobile, both in easy reach. If Doyle was smart, he'd have tricked out his phone to act as a taser since he couldn’t carry a gun, but you never knew with coppers - he'd met too many who said they didn't need a weapon to do their job and Doyle had that bleeding heart feel about him. At least the Skin was bulletproof.
He took a shower - didn't bother shaving, all the better to play the part of bitter, twisted, and dissolute - and then wandered out to find breakfast, leaving Doyle behind him with one last look. Not as if he'd take a mecha out to eat, was it?
Outside the air was fresh but misty, and they were close enough to the shore that he could hear seagulls - somewhere by West Hill he thought, and turned instinctively in the other direction, away from the water and up towards New City. He was damp within five minutes but far enough away from town that the first cafe he passed had tables free, so he ducked inside, ordered tea and a full English, and settled down with his mobile to check the news.
Storm Alert for tomorrow, just in time for the Mullah's visit - at least he wasn't on security for that - yet another football scandal, and the government was going to crack down on piracy out of the Bristol Towers. He'd believe that when he could fly from Birmingham down the Channel to Bath without having to shoot holes in one of the buggers...
And there it was - the Minister's latest soiree, front and centre in the Society pages. There were pictures, and Bodie found he was stretching and scanning the faces not just for anyone of dubious background but also for Doyle. There were glimpses, none of them catching him fully, none of them centred on him of course, but in one he was the obvious focus of Newbolt's attention as the Minister strode across the dance floor. At least he was doing his job, then.
Right - enough of bloody Doyle. The waiter brought his food over, and he caught his eye, smiled thanks at him automatically and then had to pretend not to see the wink that came his way. He'd had a brief gossip with Sarah last night, and a lead on where Krivas was likely to be hiring, though not what for, and he needed to concentrate if he was going to convince the bastard that he'd forgotten about Xina, would rather hire on with him than kill him.
Now Xina - Xina'd been beautiful, the kind of beauty that shone through some women from inside. Too beautiful - too trusting, and she’d refused to carry the knife he’d tried to press on her.
He shoved his plate aside suddenly, half-eaten, and stood, restless. It was overly-warm inside, and stuffy... He scanned his phone to pay before he left - the bank balance Cowley'd given him as cover wouldn't stand the fine of a walk-out - and managed a tight smile at the waiter. Bloody Cowley... Bloody Krivas, and Cowley needed to know his plans so he couldn’t just shoot him to pieces. Bloody Cowley.
It was better being outside, and since he couldn't speed his demons away in the flyer, he took the Tube up to Barnet and booked a session with Sensai. Let it all wash over him, all the muck, concentrate...
First Sensai, then Krivas.
o0o
"What do you say, Ray?"
Doyle wanted to close his eyes, wanted to pretend that he wasn't there, the Minister holding him roughly, one hand tangled through his hair, the other sharp-nailed, scratching up and down his back, lower, lower... But Newbolt didn't like that, he liked his partner to watch, to acknowledge everything that was happening, to acknowledge and obey and so Doyle did.
"I say please," Doyle said, and zoned out, operating on automatic. He listened for indiscretions, he watched for weaknesses, and he kept himself far, far away. It was, after all, his job.
So far Newbolt had let nothing slip, nothing more than a sly intelligence that made sure he took care of any overly-scandalous detail as it came up, that made sure Doyle was never in the room when he spoke to anyone else - at least not yet. He'd managed to keep Newbolt intrigued, managed to give him something new and slightly different every time they'd met - even, on the fourth luxurious occasion, to the point of walking away from him.
Of course he was paying for that today – “No one likes a rogue Mecha, Ray...” but it had ensured that there would be a today. The Minister, apparently, enjoyed things that were unpredictable - an edge of danger, of risk - and increasingly, of violence. Nothing too extreme so far, though it turned out he did bruise under the Skin, but it could have been enough to get Newbolt noticed by the wrong people, by people who expected a return for what they discreetly offered a government official.
“Please teach me how to be a good Mecha, sir,” Newbolt corrected him, reaching for the riding crop that lay, starkly straight and dark against the soft, pale cloth of the bedspread. “Turn around and bend over.”
Doyle obeyed, gritting his teeth, and waited for the first blow to fall. The crop was drawn down his back, but this time it touched lightly here and then there, almost a caress, and then between his thighs, up and down, and… It was pushed into him, not far and not painfully, but to the accompaniment of Newbolt’s heavier breathing, and then pulled, slowly, out again. A pause.
Newbolt’s phone rang, suddenly loud and shrill in the thick air of the room, last week’s number-one ringtone hit, and Newbolt groaned, dropped the crop so that it slid to lie against Doyle’s knee, and stepped away from him. Doyle didn’t move, didn’t draw attention to himself, listened to the cryptic staccato of the conversation.
“Yes? - Bloody Renton, he should know - Of course we do - No - Fine - Fine - Twenty minutes. Ah, Ray…”
Doyle turned to sit, leaning back on his hands, and looked up, an obedient mecha.
“The House has been called in, we’re going to have to postpone - such a shame, we can’t have you running around taunting me now, can we?”
“As if I’d do any such thing, to a…” Power, it was all about Newbolt’s power. “…to a government Minister. I wouldn’t dare…” But his eyes challenged, his body beckoned. He reclined a little further, safe now. It would take nearly all of that twenty minutes to reach Newminster. “I don’t have another free booking until…”
“Cancel anything you have on tomorrow after eight, I’ll have you then. Double fee for the inconvenience.”
“Booking period?”
Newbolt paused in the act of straightening the hood of his coat, slightly dishevelled but not so old that it didn’t make him attractive, dark hair ruffled, eyes still hazed with lust and flashing at the interruption to his plans. “Oh, I think this time I’ll take the full night – it’s a terrible thing to delay discipline you know, makes it so much harder to…” he reached into his trousers and took hold of his cock, “enforce things. Suck me.”
It didn’t take long - barely one of the twenty minutes – and then Newbolt wiped his cock around Doyle’s face, patted him on the head, and left.
Doyle was dressed in seconds and checking his mobile as he walked as quickly as he dared through the hotel in Newbolt’s wake. It took a state emergency for the House to start a session at this time of night, and there’d been nothing cooking, nothing that might… He flashed through result after result - sure enough, all was quiet in the world of politics. Newbolt was still standing by the kerb when Doyle swung out through the revolving doors, so that he slid sideways to the dubious shelter of a potted tree strung around with coloured fairy lights, stilled, waited. The streets were still busy in this fashionable part of town, and even Newbolt couldn’t control traffic. If he was lucky there’d be a taxi turn up straight after Newbolt’s car, and…
He wasn’t lucky, it was a flyer that swept past the other traffic to the side of the road, that slid open and took Newbolt within, and there was nothing he could do as it rose to hover for a moment, then turned abruptly and disappeared southwards.
Fuck.
He all but stamped his foot, struck backwards with a clenched fist to hit the brickwork of the hotel, the pain and sting satisfying, the punishment he deserved for being sloppy. He should have expected a flyer, should have known, should have had a contingency plan… He took a deep breath, reached up to rub hands over his face, to wake himself up a bit, remembered where he’d been barely five minutes before, and grimaced at that too. At least he had a name – he’d call it in to Cowley, find himself a room with a strong, hot shower and then see what he could look up for himself before Bodie showed up for the night.
Bodie.
o0o
The days slid past more slowly than Bodie would have liked, a tromp-plod of time spent looking up old contacts, drinking watered down pints and eating food he wouldn’t have fed to his cat. There were reasons, he remembered, why he’d been glad to get out of his old game and into the regular army, and those reasons were still grubbing about in the underworld, imagining that their tiny minds could get one over on this government, or that gang boss, or the other undercover copper, and boring him bloody silly in the process.
The only thing that kept him going was that he was getting gradually closer to Krivas, to the point that last night they’d been in the same pub, had crashed gazes before Bodie turned with a disdainfully lifted eyebrow, and left for the peace - if not quiet - of his hotel room with Doyle. He’d managed not to kill him yet - Krivas or Doyle, he thought with a wry twist of his lips - but it was a close-run thing, and tonight was surely the night. No one else was active down south right now, so unless it was someone knew and unknown, it had to be Krivas mucking about with the Southern Confederacies. Like him, too, to blackmail someone else into the dirty work.
He checked his watch yet again - hurry up and wait, this time for Harrison to turn up at his doorstep – took another calming mouthful of tea, and stared through the telly projecting on the wall opposite. Some mumbo jumbo about how mechas worked, but even that was better than the inane babble of The Culture Club quiz show on the other side. Who cared about Bollywood and Presley and Elyas Peel, they were long gone… Just like Krivas would be from The Sailors Arms if Harrison didn’t get a move on…
Could Krivas be blackmailing the Minister? Doyle didn’t seem to have turned up anything yet, other than an increasingly sour face when they met to de-Skin him, and a tendency to ask too many questions. Newbolt was sly enough, and too clever so far to speak out even in front of a mecha. There’d been no privacy switch turned, no indiscretions in the heat of – hah – passion, and no chance for Doyle to do more than follow him further than the bathroom. So he said.
The door buzzed behind him at last, and he grabbed his leather from the end of his bed, double-checked the tasers in his boots and sleeves, and took a swig from the glass he’d left out ready, splashing a little on his shirt, through his hair.
“Jackie!” he shouted jovially, stepping out to join him and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Thought you’d never get here! What kept you – that luscious girl you told me about?”
Harrison shrugged away from him. “You started early, didn’t you? Krivas isn’t gonna take you on if you’re trolleyed, man.”
“You let me worry about Krivas,” Bodie said expansively, pushing Harrison in the direction of the foyer. “Krivas an’ me are old old pals… He knows me…”
“He runs a tight outfit.”
“I know. Worked with him before – haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? We were in the Islands once, and this…”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me… Told every bugger who’d listen, didn’t you. Left here. Left here!”
Bodie turned left, leered happily after the two girls he’d almost walked into when they rounded the corner, and let Harrison pull him into the pub. It was loud – England was thrashing Canada in the World Cup again – and there was a strong smell of aftershave and sweat and spilled beer, but the match had brought them all together, the room full of roaring approval.
“Get ‘em in!” Harrison ordered, leaving him with a slap on his back, and Bodie turned to the bar, glad enough of one more moment to gather himself before facing Krivas. He could feel him, somewhere in the corner nearest the door, his gaze burning darkness between Bodie’s shoulderblades. I’m going to nail you, he thought, after all these years you’re finally going to get what you deserve…
He bought an extra drink, a large brandy double, and when he got to the table he passed Harrison his pint and then ignored him, sitting down next to Krivas, sliding the brandy across to him, then gazing around the place as if picking up where they’d left off just the day before.
“Not your sort of place, this.”
Krivas looked amused, shrugged. “It’s convenient. The bar is good.”
“Not bad,” Bodie agreed, looking approvingly at his own pint. “Better than the piss they’re serving down the Lasersight these days.”
“New hands on the till. They’ll learn. I hear you’re looking for work.”
Bodie nodded easily. “The Glory Boys pay more reliably, but they’ve not got a clue how to keep a man interested.”
“I hear you were kicked out.”
Krivas was watching him, face sly and pleased. Bodie said nothing for a moment, then he shrugged. “Like I said, they’re a bit boring. Can’t let a bloke alone even in his spare time.”
“Missing the Game.” Krivas looked smug, “I always said you’d miss the Game, no matter what you said about that little slut.”
Be the surface of the lake, the ripples caused by a thrown pebble are no more than ripples…
“You should have left her alone.”
“Share and share alike, remember?”
The ripples pass away and even before they are gone the pebble is subsumed by the mud of the lake floor, harmless…
Bodie shrugged again, then turned and met his gaze. “All in the past now, isn’t it. I hear you’ve got something a bit more interesting than birds and bars going on.”
“Maybe. You know I had you checked out when I saw you the other day.”
He let his face tighten slightly, reached for his pint again as if to cover discomfort. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. You’ve picked up some useful contacts since I saw you last.”
“One or two.”
“But you’ve alienated half of them with your foolish behaviour.”
“What a man does…”
“Yes, yes, and with who - or should I say what? - is his own affair. The Bodie I knew seven years ago would have made sure he…maximised such contacts.”
Bodie allowed himself a small smile - keep going, Krivas, keep going. “I might have done…”
“Good. I’m looking for an in with the Russian Consortium - someone deep inside, someone who can tell us about their American connections and…”
Fuck.
Russia wasn’t “south”. America wasn’t “south”.
It wasn’t Krivas.
Fuck.
o0o
They met, as arranged, at San Miguel’s, a shadowed and cheap restaurant which let rooms upstairs by the hour. Doyle confirmed his debit on demand and gestured Bodie ahead of him, not wanting him to see that he was moving carefully, that it had been anything other than an ordinary night as a love mecha. Newbolt had cancelled their eight o'clock appointment, and it had been nearly thirty six hours before he'd received a new D and D from him, but he'd taken up where he left off, every single inch of it.
"News?" Bodie asked, as soon as the door was closed behind them and they'd checked their scanners for surveillance.
Doyle shook his head tiredly. "Renton came up blank - probably wasn't his real name to start with. Newbolt's been out of town for the weekend, I've been kicking my heels at his hang outs, but..."
"He didn't take you with him?" Bodie lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "Fed up with you already, is he?"
Doyle felt his own flesh, tired and aching under the Skin, felt the sting where he'd been overstretched, pounded into, and the slight headache from Newbolt's unrestrained cuffing when he'd forgotten to untie the man's shoes before taking them off. "No," he said, "He isn't tired of me."
There must have been something of it in his voice despite everything, because Bodie looked at him oddly for a moment.
"Just get me out of this bloody thing, eh?" He moved to the window - the room only just large enough that he had to take a single step away from the bed - and turned down the real time daylight that was showing. It had been a long night, was well past ten now, and all he wanted was to sleep.
"Get your kit off, then," Bodie said from behind him, and even his voice didn't sound as harshly sardonic as usual.
Doyle shrugged out of the leather jacket and the tight-fitting black jumpsuit he'd donned for the Minister. "You find out anything new about Krivas?"
"He's got a deal going on with Veshenkin, but he's looking north - reckons he's had enough of the tropics."
"So you've lost your lead?" Doyle breathed in as Bodie's fingers slid down his back, they felt slow, comfortable.
"Nah, Krivas knows the business, he's still our best source. Told him I wasn't interested in regenerating the wastelands, I was looking to go south again - we'll see."
They pottered about their respective business, Bodie spending time on his mobile, tapping away to someone - if it was a girl, Cowley'd kill him. Doyle showered, cleaned the suit as he'd been shown, and collapsed into bed, not bothering to try and talk any more, to ask about anything else, not even feeling the lift of the bedsprings as Bodie got up and took his own turn in the bathroom.
When he woke again the room was still dark, and Bodie lay sleeping on his stomach beside him, face turned away. Nearly a week of this, and he still didn't know any more about him... his mind ran in strange, half-awake circles, thinking restlessly of what he did know, unaccountably wondering about the rest. It didn't matter - Cowley trusted him, so he could trust him, he didn't need to know anything else.
But he wanted to.
It was barely three in the afternoon, but no matter how he tried he couldn't get back to sleep. He remembered Newbolt's face, remembered being looked down on, and couldn't imagine how he'd been able to just get on and do the job without punching the man's lights out. He tried to piece together what he'd found out about Bodie from the odd answers he'd been given, but nothing matched, nothing made sense when he gazed through half-open eyes at the man asleep in his bed now. He might as well get up, go for a run...
Just as he thought it, Bodie stirred, then sat up as if he'd been awake for hours, stretched once and strode into the bathroom. He came out and got dressed unhurriedly, but straight away, and with just a glance at Doyle.
Doyle turned onto his back, blinked once, and rolled to his own feet, got himself Skinned up, and pulled on the rest of his clothes. He was only just done when Bodie looked up from the phone he'd been tapping at again, nodded briefly to him, and then left.
Doyle waited only the length of time it took for him to finish dressing, then he dashed out the door and down the stairs, knowing Bodie would have waited for the lift as he did every other time he'd seen him. It was too early for him to be hooking up with his merc mates, surely - midnight owls the lot of them - so where was he off to? What did he do in all the time he was off on his own? Who was he?
Sure enough, he caught sight of Bodie turning the corner at the end of the road, jogged fast enough to catch up and make sure he wouldn't lose him to another turning, and then followed as casually as he could. He half expected Bodie to hire a taxi, or even a flyer and vanish, but they kept walking, through crowded city streets and then out the other side to a more residential area, so that Doyle had to hang further back to avoid being seen.
It didn't look like Bodie's type of place, mind, so maybe he'd already been spotted, and was being taken on a wild goose chase. Houses here were set back from the street, surrounded by elegantly laid out gardens and lawns. There was something peaceful about it all - the comfort of knowing you had money, he assumed, of knowing you could afford a mecha to look after every little thing you might need, to protect you from the real world outside.
Bodie turned left into one of the driveways, and Doyle ducked behind a thick row of magnolia bushes, watched as he paused and looked behind him, looked carefully around to see who was watching. Did he know Doyle was there? Surely not... Whether he did or not, he walked the rest of the way to the front door, rang the bell, and after a brief pause vanished into the house.
Interesting... He hovered casually by the wall of greenery, took out his mobile and looked up the address. It was, as he'd expected, unlisted, nor did it come up in any of the usual news rags and search engines. The street looked quiet, most of the driveways empty of cars, though there was the occasional flyer sitting shining in the fading December daylight. He took a chance, wandered up the driveway of the house next door, and then clambered easily over the double metal fence separating it from Bodie's mate's place. Or...
He paused. Could Bodie live here? Was he simply breaking Cowley's rule to pop home every day? He had his own flyer, obviously wasn't short of a penny or two... Nah, it didn't match up - an ex-merc with a family and kids in a respectable part of New London? There was something going on. Could it be that Krivas was involved, and Bodie was covering for him? Bodie'd known him a long time ago, after all, maybe they'd been closer than he'd let on - maybe he felt he owed him something.
None of which was directly implied by Bodie visiting a house like this.
It was one of the old places, shored up and expensive these days, but the owner had left in some of the original features. The windows were real, and there was a length of guttering that ran along the side of the house, passed a first floor window with a wide sill and what looked like an old fashioned, accessible lock. There were shrubs and bushes all around too - lousy for security, helpful for him. He slipped away from the fence, plant by plant, began sidling around the walls of the house, looking for lit windows.
There were two - and even better one dark window that had been left open, despite the winter chill. He considered. The Rains would start soon - if he wanted to get inside he'd have to do it now, before the owners went around checking.
Bodie was in there somewhere, the man he was supposed to be working alongside.
It turned out to be a kitchen window, and he negotiated an old-fashioned row of storage jars, a toaster and an electric kettle, finally jumped down onto a sleek white floor - retro linoleum, of course. He paused, listened, but there were no sounds beyond the ordinary noises of a house: the hum of electricity, the occasional gurgle of a pipe, a hushed flyer passing by outside. So where was he?
The downstairs - five massive rooms, surely a nightmare to heat - was completely deserted, so he tiptoed carefully upstairs, footsteps muffled by deep, soft carpeting, and paused again.
There were muffled voices, indistinct and irregular, behind the third door from the left; two men, one of them Bodie. The door was slightly ajar, and he stood listening for a moment, then his eyes widened and his breath caught. Carefully, as slowly as he could, he pushed the door until he could see through the gap. Bodie and his mate weren't having a conversation - they were having sex.
He watched because he couldn't not, couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Bodie's buttocks, clenching and releasing as he thrust into the man in front of him, from the way Bodie's hand moved rhythmically around the other man's cock in the mirror behind the bed, the one that Bodie's other hand leant against for support. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Bodie's face, pale and long-lashed, his lips opening on a gasp as he came, as leaned down and kissed the other man's neck until he too...
Doyle took a step back, not worrying that there might be anyone else in the house, not even thinking about being discovered.
Bodie was as straight as he was. Bodie had sex with other men. Bodie, who shared his bed and called him names for bedding Newbolt.
He pursed his lips, clenching his fists against the bright glitter of anger, because there were better ways of dealing with this than bursting in and beating the pulp out of Bodie, and then he went back downstairs and let himself out of the house, into the rain.
o0o
Bodie hummed as he swung through the door of the Hotel Jacques, smiled and scanned his phone past the girl mecha behind the desk. It had turned out to be a productive night, Sarah coming through with a new name, and Cowley had been pleased with his information. Surely it wouldn't be much longer, and he'd be able to get back to something more than all this raking around in the muck. Doyle should be upstairs already, waiting, he could get to bed and maybe get a decent night's kip for a change.
Doyle was indeed there before him, standing in just the Skin on the opposite side of the bed by the window, gazing into the distance as if it was real, as if he could see through the wall to the world outside.
"Alright?" he said as he came in, even feeling at peace with the little policeman tonight. Even if Newbolt wasn't bad on the eye, it couldn't be much fun doing what Doyle was doing, hanging around politicians and sycophantic groupies all evening. He hadn't looked right the other day either, though he seemed to be moving easily enough tonight as he turned around, raised his hands to his hips, and stared straight at Bodie.
He didn't answer though, just turned back pointedly, and waited for Bodie to de-Skin him. Bodie did, watching the area just above his finger as the material split open, revealed Doyle's own flesh. There was a strange frisson, as there always was, to doing this, the electricity of the costume inveigling its way through his own body, a kind of shiver.
"Find out anything interesting?" he asked, because Doyle was unnaturally quiet, even his breath seemed shallow, controlled.
At last Doyle moved, lifted his head and looked at him again. "I found out something very interesting," he said in a low voice, and something about it stopped Bodie, froze his good mood, made him wary. "D'you wanna know what it is?"
"Go on," he said, as casually as he could. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?
Doyle peeled the Skin from his face, wriggled out of it until it hung like a wetsuit around his waist, tilted his head to one side. "I followed you home the other day."
What?
"Who's the other feller? You know, the one you're fucking?"
"You did what?" Doyle had been trailing around after him, instead of getting on with his own job? And he hadn't noticed...
"Cowley's going to love that, you know - we're supposed to be secure, undercover! We're not supposed to have kept any ties to our homes, to where we live!"
"I don't live with Sarah - I haven't seen her for years!" he shouted before he could help himself. "She was a merc just starting out as I was leaving!"
"She?" Doyle raised an eyebrow, stood there as if he was the arbitrator of all that was good and right.
"That's right - she. She prefers it since she got back from the jungle and took up with a bloke who bought her a house. You have a problem with that?"
"I have a problem with..."
"You know your problem?" Bodie cut him off, mid-sentence. "You can't bear to think that maybe, perhaps, someone just doesn't fancy you!" And with that he snatched up his coat and strode out, slamming the door behind him and not caring what the neighbours might think. Jumped up little...
He half expected Doyle to come chasing after him, but of course he was half in, half out of the Skin - too dangerous that, to put it back on and wait until tomorrow night. He slowed down when he realised it, put his head back and breathed in the cold morning air, found he was on his way to Sarah's again and let it happen. She wouldn't mind, it was her day off and Monty was still out of town, so she’d be alone again.
What had Doyle been playing at, anyway? Following him around town as if he was under some kind of suspicion... Could he be? But why would Cowley hire him if... No, it was just the copper's idea of a good time, nosing what he could out of everyone. He didn't stop asking questions, probably thought he was being subtle about it...
"Bodie!"
He pushed past Sarah as she opened the door, dressed in her best twentieth century, jeans and a cropped top, white boots, some blue muck around her eyes. He stormed as far as the end of the corridor, turned around and walked back to face her.
"You look like you could use a drink," was all she said, after staring at him for a moment. "Come and tell Aunt Sally all about it. Or no, let me guess..." She led him back through to the high-ceilinged living room, wandered over to a collection of bottles on a silver tray, poured him a glass of brandy. "...it's your policeman again?"
His policeman!
"The one thing he is not is my policeman..."
"Oh come on, you've done nothing but talk about him every time I've seen you this week. What's he done now?"
He spent a good ten minutes telling her, knowing that she was letting him talk himself out of a rage, not able to help himself anyway. "...so if you think I want to be anywhere near him you can think again!"
"You know, I've heard things about Newbolt," Sarah said at last. "He hung with a pretty edgy S&M crowd for a while, until there was some scandal in the newsrags and he had to leave it alone - at least publically."
He vaguely remembered the stories, sensational and exaggerated he'd presumed at the time, had almost felt some sympathy for the bloke. "You think he's still...?"
Sarah nodded. "I think his tastes moved on, but... put it this way, I wouldn't have him back here for the night."
Through his quietening anger, he thought back again to the look on Doyle's face the other day. "Rough, is he?"
"They say there's a reason he takes home more mechas than real people, and he's no member of the Liberation League..."
Bodie pursed his lips, wandered over and poured himself another brandy. It was still no excuse for...
"So he followed you," Sarah said thoughtfully, "And he must have been inside if he knows that we..." She left off delicately. "And you didn't spot him, did you?"
He didn't deny it - couldn't.
"Sounds like there's more to him than you thought, eh Bodie? Now I wonder why that might bother you..."
"Look, he just likes to think..."
She waved a hand at him. "Save it, dearling. Now, do you want to go upstairs, or not?"
Bodie shook his head. He didn't want sex, even Sarah’s straight-forward kind of relief, couldn't be bothered with any of it right now. But what did he want?
"Tell me more about Newbolt," he said, and settled in to listen.
o0o
Despite having a bed to himself for the day, Doyle didn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, tried to ignore the stinging ache around his wrists and ankles where Newbolt had tightened the restraints bare hours ago, the bruises across his back where the riding crop had fallen hard on the Skin. His mind raced: Bodie, Newbolt, the case… There had to be some way in, some way of breaking through Newbolt’s barriers, or of tracing Renton, or…
But his thoughts kept coming back to Bodie.
Why would he lie about the company he was keeping - just, why bother? No one cared who you slept with as long as you didn't break the law and get some woman pregnant. Bodie should feel safer sleeping with blokes... Who was this Sarah, anyway? Someone who'd been out fighting with him, a mercenary. Well if she was accepting houses from the blokes she slept with, she was mercenary enough.
Right. He threw back the covers, stood up straight and stretched, tried to ignore his pounding head. No point lying around, he'd get himself down to the Registry, look up Sarah's place the old fashioned way, see what he could track down.
He showered first, the warm water a comfort, almost sending him to sleep after all, and then he dressed, tucked the Skin into a jacket pocket, and slid carefully past reception without being seen and into the morning air.
It was a chill morning, though the rainclouds looked high and unlikely to break early, and he'd just caught the late morning rush to work, jostling along with the respectable men and women of town, so that somehow he felt more human. Cowley'd set him up with a Cubicle, as many love mechas rented for their clothes, spare parts and a recharge plug, and he pulled his hood more tightly to him, tapped in the code, and stepped inside. There was just space to change into something fresh from his shelf, something more casual than the clothes he'd been wearing for Newbolt, something else to remind him that he was as orga as anyone else.
Just for today he'd be himself again, just for today and before he had to present himself once more for Newbolt. He'd half a mind to go back to Cowley and tell him what he could do with his Skin - he'd got nothing more from it so far than an unrecognised name, bruises and a strong aversion to Newbolt’s politics.
He wouldn't though, he knew he wouldn't. The idea of being returned to the Met, of watching people like Preston and Montgomery being promoted above him with their corruption and bile... At least those two wouldn't be at it again, for all the dozens of others who would. No, he needed CI5 now as much as he wanted it, and that meant he was going to crack this case if he had to bow and scrape, and blow Newbolt a dozen times a day.
They knew him down at the Registry from days upon plodding days of checking
through the old records and building histories that remained unscanned, usually after he'd pissed off one superior or another, but he slid his ID from its hiding place into his jacket pocket anyway. His gun and taser he left concealed, though he couldn't help sending them a wistful backwards look. It was one thing going undercover with the protection, at least, of the Skin, going out into the world on a job with nothing that would shoot back never felt right.
He stopped for breakfast in a City cafe chain he'd never normally have frequented, all subtle lighting and business suits trying to look efficient and yet coolly relaxed - not the sort of place his own colleagues would hang out. Out of habit - and a kind of relief - he flirted with the girl making the coffee, let her send him her phone number and saved it to his socials, then he went and sat down in a corner beside a real window, alternated checking the news with gazing out at the morning.
The House was sitting today, so Newbolt would be busy there - but one of his Committee meetings had been cancelled, which meant there was probably no getting out of their appointment that night. He toyed with the idea of postponing himself - for maintenance, perhaps - but he'd played that trick before, and it had got him what he wanted then - Newbolt's attention and a kind of devotion.
On a sudden thought, he searched images of Newbolt until he found one where he was in the company of a mecha, zoomed to the mecha's operating licence, and then searched for the model. It was Just Jane, from AutoToys, she was still active, and she had a vacancy that afternoon. He took the debit on demand, repeated the search and found Gigolo Joe and Perfect Pete. The Pete model was defunct, and Joe was booked solid until next Tuesday, so he settled for his date with Jane, drank his coffee and tried to build a plan of attack for the Registry.
o0o
Bodie woke feeling disconcerted. Outside the Rains were falling solidly, drops pattering musically on the roof of Sarah's conservatory, where he'd finally settled down to think about what Sarah had told him of Newbolt. He'd never been implicated in anything, and a man's private life was his own, but there were rumours - declared by his Press Office to be libellous if ever seen in print - and Sarah wasn't the only one who wouldn't let him in her house. Although he wasn't banned from the legal cathouses, those running under the government's radar and who could afford to be choosy wouldn't entertain him, and two had closed down rather than open their doors to him.
And he was seeing Doyle almost every night.
Bodie sat up and rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, then stood and stretched. Doyle could clearly look after himself - though Sarah'd had a point when she said that bothered him. He'd never liked coppers - they'd been at the centre of everything wrong with 'Pool Island - but for all his proud introduction, Doyle didn't come across as an ordinary helmet. What made him different, what was it that kept him on the edge of Bodie's mind, in the back of his thoughts, and somewhere in the night-hardness of his cock, the centre of his dreams?
Because yet again he'd dreamed about Doyle.
Sarah was working an afternoon shift, and long gone, so Bodie got up and rummaged freely in the refrigerator for breakfast, made himself a huge mug of tea, sat down with his mobile and paused. There was a chance that what he was about to do wouldn't work, for all Mike was the best in the business - and he was expensive with it. And yet... he wanted CI5, with its promise of action and making a difference. Of being on the side of the angels. If that meant taking a risk or two, then he wouldn't be the right man for Cowley if he didn't do this.
The call buzzed and clicked for what seemed like forever once he was connected, and twice he could have sworn he heard background voices, perhaps where lines were cutting across other lines, were being diverted and cross-channelled and encrypted again and again and...
"This is The Corporation, how can we help you today?"
"You still owe me a tenner."
"Bodie! Thought you were still abroad..."
"You can get bored even of Rouge City," Bodie said, "We safe?"
"Bo-die..." Mike sounded hurt, Bodie knew he'd be grinning and tapping in to some other app as he spoke.
"You got time for a favour in return for that tenner?"
"I'm ears..."
"I need you to find me a file - Raymond Doyle."
Barely a pause.
"From the Met?"
"Very impressive."
"It's an old name, there's not many."
Still, instantaneous - maybe this would be easier than he'd thought.
"Not the Met these days - CI5."
Mike whistled under his breath. "Now that will cost more than a tenner - it's a cash job, that."
Damn - old technology, and only deliverable on paper and in person. "I'll pay."
"I can't promise anything..."
"When can I collect?"
"Can't promise anything from CI5," Mike repeated, "Their boss doesn't always plug in. He’s a bit cash himself. I'll know in an hour and you can buy me that pint."
There was a tap at his ear, then a rustling, what sounded like a sudden sizzle, and then a low hum. Bodie hung up and did some quick calculations. He'd taken a job flying tonight for one of Krivas' mates - a straightforward trip over to the Continent and back, but it paid well for what it was, and he needed to make the effort to prove himself to one or two new faces in the old crowd. He had time before then to get to Mike's favourite haunt, pick up the papers and go through them, and he'd need that time because they'd neither photograph nor scan - and they'd disintegrate within just a couple of hours of being exposed to daylight.
He necked the rest of his tea, grabbed a couple of sausage rolls from the fridge and nuked them to warmth, then left the house quietly behind him.
o0o
"Well hello, Jane - how's the game?" Doyle took a moment to appreciate Just Jane, silhouetted against the doorway of her cathouse, all sleek black leather, razor cut hair, and as many contrasting curves as a bloke could want.
Jane smiled, reached out a finger and hooked it over the collar of his shirt, drew him into her room, which was dimly shadowed, lit by flickering candles and seductive glowsticks, and scented with something... He couldn't place it, something floral and subtle and expensive. There was music, a lazy wafting of flutes and pan pipes that was mesmerising, almost hypnotic.
Time to keep a careful watch on his credits.
"Is this your first time with... one of us?" she asked coyly, reaching an arm above her and twirling elegantly. She moved her other hand slowly down her own body, then up and across, and Doyle felt his breath hitch despite himself. Something soft, something easy. He'd paid for this, after all... unless of course he claimed it on expenses. How would old Cowley go for that, a love mecha on expenses? He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, managed to keep himself to a wide smile that Jane took as meant for her. She reached out to him, manoeuvred him back to the bed, and ran her hands over his chest, down to his hips, leaned in close enough to kiss, though she didn't. Instead she teased his lips with her own, played warm breath across his cheek and to his ear. He settled down to enjoy the ride - he'd interrogate her afterwards - but to his surprise she came back to his cheek, to the bump and shadow of his implant where the bone had been broken all those years ago.
"Did someone treat you harshly, Ray?" she asked softly, "Someone treat you mean?"
He sighed in vague answer, wanting her to breathe in his ear again, to concentrate on the job in hand.
She licked quickly at his cheek, twitched her head to one side, and when she spoke again her voice was more lowly pitched, and there was a kind of sternness to it. "Do you like that, Ray? Is that what you'd like me to do to you, Ray? Would you...?"
"No," he said quickly, "No, I don't like that." Damn - that was the job in hand, that was what he needed to be concentrating on. "But... what if I did?"
Jane drew back slightly, twitched her head again so that she merely sounded puzzled when she spoke. "Would you like to play domination games or would you like to be seduced?" Another twitch, and her voice sounded younger, much more innocent. "Perhaps you would like to seduce me? I'm Jane - you can name your own game..." She looked at him for a moment and then lowered her eyelashes and waited.
"I want you to..." he thought quickly, "Tell me a story... tell me what you do with other people."
"Ah... the voyeur game. Would you like to go and watch...?"
"No! No, just... tell me stories. Do you go to bed with very powerful people?"
"I go to bed with whoever wants me," Jane said, "That's the name of my game... I have been to bed with... " She paused coyly. "But I can't say who, that would be telling..." She leaned in again, kissed him this time, and she felt soft and warm and all too real for something that wasn't orga.
He pulled away, but didn't object when she knelt on the bed, straddling him. "Have you gone to bed with the Prime Minister?"
"The Prime Minister is married - he's a very good boy."
"What about his Ministers - are they good too? What do they do?"
"Some of them are good," she said, writhing against him so that he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment, "And some of them are very... very..." She slid to the ground again, so that this time she was kneeling between his legs, "...bad." Her hands smoothed their way along his thighs, and she ducked her head a moment, so that he swallowed hard.
"Tell me about a bad one," he said, "Tell me about... a minister who likes to spank you."
"Ah," she said, lifting her head so that her hair fell around her face, dark contrast to the glossy red of her lips. "She puts me in a harness, and then she takes her..."
"A man," he interrupted, desperately trying not to wonder who she meant. "Tell me about a man in the government with silver hair who spanks you hard."
Jane paused, gazing up at him for a moment before she spoke. "I don't know any men like that."
"But a friend told me that you and..." Take a chance or not? "Renton told me that you and Minister Newbolt were... ow!" Jane's grip on his legs strengthened to the point of pain - more bruises, then - her fingernails digging into his skin.
"I don't know any men like that."
"You're hurting me... Did he hurt you, Jane?"
"That's not my game." She stood abruptly, turned away from him with her hands on her hips, for all the world like a real woman who'd been upset.
"But you said we could play..."
She turned back to him, twitched her head again, and said solemnly "We do not play to hurt! Mechas do not play to hurt. Or..." a whisper now, "To be hurt..."
"The Minister wouldn't hurt you..."
"Minister Newbolt is bad trouble. His friends are not welcome here."
"Jane, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to upset you. What about Renton, did he...?"
"His friends are not welcome here." Jane strode to the door, all business now, and opened it. "Your payment will be refunded within the day, if this is not to your satisfaction then you should know that all love mechas are subject to Regular Law and that we have both the rights and responsibilities of that employment. You may contact your ombudsman if..."
"It's alright - I'm not going to complain..." He walked obediently to the door, paused to meet her gaze as she stood there, waited until she lifted her eyes to his. "I'm sorry Jane." He kissed her cheek gently, gave her arm a squeeze, and then stepped out into the street, not sure whether he felt pleased with himself or more confused than ever as the door closed quietly behind him.
Had he achieved anything? He already knew that Newbolt was into pain and humiliation, but... She couldn't look frightened, because she was just a mecha, but for a moment he could have sworn she had.
o0o
Bodie was in the pub on time to receive the first of his tracers, a tiny paper-thin thing that sunk ink into his thumb and then dissolved with the warmth of his skin. The ink gave him coordinates, the coordinates sent him to a supermarket, he bought a bar of chocolate and checked his till receipt, walked obediently to the park and sat in the shade to eat it. In the dim, dappled light he read the combination on the inside of the plastic, then wandered over and retrieved his "left luggage". Under what seemed to be a mountain of dirty shirts and one pair of ridiculously frilly pink knickers, was the envelope containing a copy of Doyle's file. He took himself back to his flat, checked it for bugs and cameras, made himself another cup of tea, and sat down to read.
o0o
Bodie's booking alert had come late, bare minutes before he was due at Newbolt's, but Doyle was glad enough that it had come at all to worry about the timing. The hotel was mid-range, just far enough outside the New City that it was quiet, and apparently catered to an older, more genteel clientele. It didn't seem like Bodie's sort of place at all. He was looked at askance by more than one person - staff and guest both - when he checked in with his operating tag, ignored them with lofty disdain and marched straight-backed upstairs to wait for Bodie and his release from the Skin.
Newbolt had been distracted tonight, had gone through the motions of a domination scenario - scenario, Doyle thought scathingly, there was no scenario in a Minister dominating a mecha - but had fucked him almost automatically, had fallen asleep, in fact, leaving him tied to the rail at the end of the bed, uncomfortably bent. He'd managed to free himself, hadn't dared to leave when he'd been booked until seven, or even to sleep whilst Newbolt was still there, despite his nearly sleepless day.
All he wanted now was Bodie, and then a bed - and unfortunately he needed then in that order.
The one thing - the one thing - that made the night worthwhile, was that just after his arrival Newbolt had forgotten himself long enough to respond to a phone call with the caller's name - and for the second time it was Renton, and for the first time Newbolt had reached across to Doyle's tag and switched him into blind mode.
Doyle paced the room, mostly to stay awake, partly repeating the conversation over and again to himself, trying to filter out anything that might make sense, that might give them something else to go on. He swung around when the door opened, saw to his relief that it was Bodie, made himself stand still and quiet. Bodie paused too, and they looked each other up and down for a moment.
"Thought you might not come," he said eventually, a kind of peace offering.
"Job's a job." Bodie shrugged out of his own jacket, hung it on a hook behind the door, and stepped over to dim the window. "You ready?"
"What do you think?" He waited until Bodie had stepped closer, then turned around, presenting his back. He realised he was holding his breath, let it out when he felt Bodie's firm touch on his neck, the slow slide of Bodie's finger down his back, lower and lower...and stop.
But Bodie didn't move away quickly as he usually did, instead Doyle felt the edge of the Skin pulled slightly, as if Bodie was testing it, and then a hand, warm and heavy, on his shoulder, holding him in place. He turned his head, twisted just far enough to see Bodie looking down at him, at his back, and then that finger was back again, and this time Doyle felt it tracing one of the long bruises Newbolt had lashed onto him, then another that crossed it, then another.
"I've been hearing about your Minister," Bodie said at last. "Bit rough, is he?"
Doyle shrugged, twisted a little further, but Bodie didn't let go. "Job's a job," he said, trying not to close his eyes against the way Bodie was touching him - softly, gently.
"Thought that thing was supposed to stop bullets?"
"So I'm told. Doesn't mean I won't feel it the next day, apparently."
Bodie still hadn't moved away. "Does Cowley know about this?"
"How the hell should I know?" He shrugged more pointedly this time, pulled himself free and turned to face him.
"I mean - do you need to get out? Even Cowley can't expect you to take that kind of beating on a regular basis."
"It's just bruises - it's whether he sticks to mechas for his games that worries me. You 'ave been hearing about Newbolt, 'aven't you. Connection?"
Bodie shook his head. "Not with the case. I asked Sarah."
"Your bit on the side? What would she know?" He winced inwardly - he hadn't meant to attack again, but why the hell Bodie thought he couldn't hack it...
"She's got contacts - it's why I keep in with her. It's why I went to see her in the first place."
"And you trust her?"
Bodie nodded. "She owes me. And - " he interrupted Doyle's sceptical look, "I've worked with her a long time. She's alright."
Doyle looked at him again, straight into dark eyes, for long moments, and eventually he nodded himself. "Yeah, alright..." Bodie hadn't moved, was still standing close, so Doyle finally pushed gently past him, stripping properly as he went. It had felt harder than ever climbing into the Skin after his illicit day of freedom from it.
He showered slowly, half-puzzling over Bodie’s behaviour, half-worrying about it. What was he up to now? Trying to put him off the scent? But his eyes felt gritty after their long night awake, and he let it sink to the back of his mind, washed and dried himself and cleaned the Skin on automatic, emerged back into the room to find Bodie already in bed.
“Nothing new at your end, then?” Bodie asked, even as he jumped up to take his own turn in the bathroom, pissing and cleaning his teeth with the door open.
Doyle signed, rubbed his hands across his face as if that would keep him awake, and sat up slightly. “Actually… Maybe.”
“Maybe?” There was a splashing of water, and Bodie emerged once more, face and shoulders wet, a towel in one hand. He dried himself as Doyle spoke, told him about Newbolt’s phone call, and Doyle watched absently, following the path of water drops that slid over firm muscles, down the smooth plane of Bodie’s chest, and lower, still lower…
“You think he suspects something?” Bodie asked when he’d finished.
“I dunno, he’s kept things pretty close until now, but… it could be just what it seems, a slip-up.”
“He turned you off.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe it’s taken this long for him to get comfortable around you.” Bodie threw his towel behind him into the bathroom, climbed back into bed and waved a hand at the dimmer switch. “I gather he’s got attached to his mechas before.”
Doyle shrugged. “If he hadn’t I don’t supposed Cowley would have sent me in. Mind you, I dunno how long they’ll let it go on.” He told Bodie about Jane.
“The mechas? They’ll take the credits and run, that’s what they do.”
Doyle shook his head thoughtfully. “What do they want credits for?”
“It’s in their programming - they go straight to the corporations, don’t they.”
“Maybe…”
“’course they do. You only got the name again?” Bodie pulled them back to business.
Doyle yawned. “Yeah, everything else was too cryptic. I sent it to Cowley just in case the lab can make anything of it, but… This Renton – he’s not one of your mob, then?”
“Nah,” Bodie began, then shrugged. “Could be - I don’t know everyone in the business, there’s been a lot of new blood since my day. I’ll keep asking around…” He paused, seemed to look at Doyle consideringly, eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“There is someone I’ve not asked yet who might know the name.” He stopped again, looked past Doyle to the simwindow and gazed at the distant twilight mountain range as if it was real.
"Yeah?"
Bodie lay still, pursed his lips.
"Well, when you can be bothered going to ask, you let me know." Unsettled, Doyle let himself be sarcastic, be as sharp and stroppy as he wanted to be, slid down in the bed and shut his eyes at last. He was so tired it almost hurt to have them closed, a dull ache that…
"Thought maybe you should come on this one."
He opened his eyes. At the same time Bodie finally looked back from the window, tipped his head down to look fully at Doyle, and despite his tiredness, Doyle knew his own face was as hard as Bodie's, was as challenging and...
...and then Bodie smiled, a wry twist of his lips that acknowledged everything that had gone between them so far, that offered them a second beginning, another chance. A kind of warmth tapped cautiously, waited to be let in. "We're not coming up with much on our own," he said, "Thought maybe we should try working together. You might pick up something I miss from knowing him too well."
Carefully, feeling himself still guarded, but hopeful at the same time, Doyle nodded. “Yeah, alright,” he said, rode out the jolts and bouncing as Bodie at last settled down into the bed properly, turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes. He lay facing Doyle though, and Doyle studied his cheeks and lips and eyelashes, thought about what they’d do tomorrow, would do on the case, together, until his own eyes closed again and he slid into exhausted, dreamless sleep.
o0o
To Part Three...
Bodie awoke, feeling strangely rested, just after noon, slid quietly out of bed and stretched. Doyle was still asleep, turned to one side and tucked neatly into himself and the pillows, so that all Bodie could see was a stretch of broad shoulders, strangely graceful neck and dark brown, riotous curls. The Skin was folded into a neat bundle and placed on the bedside table beside his mobile, both in easy reach. If Doyle was smart, he'd have tricked out his phone to act as a taser since he couldn’t carry a gun, but you never knew with coppers - he'd met too many who said they didn't need a weapon to do their job and Doyle had that bleeding heart feel about him. At least the Skin was bulletproof.
He took a shower - didn't bother shaving, all the better to play the part of bitter, twisted, and dissolute - and then wandered out to find breakfast, leaving Doyle behind him with one last look. Not as if he'd take a mecha out to eat, was it?
Outside the air was fresh but misty, and they were close enough to the shore that he could hear seagulls - somewhere by West Hill he thought, and turned instinctively in the other direction, away from the water and up towards New City. He was damp within five minutes but far enough away from town that the first cafe he passed had tables free, so he ducked inside, ordered tea and a full English, and settled down with his mobile to check the news.
Storm Alert for tomorrow, just in time for the Mullah's visit - at least he wasn't on security for that - yet another football scandal, and the government was going to crack down on piracy out of the Bristol Towers. He'd believe that when he could fly from Birmingham down the Channel to Bath without having to shoot holes in one of the buggers...
And there it was - the Minister's latest soiree, front and centre in the Society pages. There were pictures, and Bodie found he was stretching and scanning the faces not just for anyone of dubious background but also for Doyle. There were glimpses, none of them catching him fully, none of them centred on him of course, but in one he was the obvious focus of Newbolt's attention as the Minister strode across the dance floor. At least he was doing his job, then.
Right - enough of bloody Doyle. The waiter brought his food over, and he caught his eye, smiled thanks at him automatically and then had to pretend not to see the wink that came his way. He'd had a brief gossip with Sarah last night, and a lead on where Krivas was likely to be hiring, though not what for, and he needed to concentrate if he was going to convince the bastard that he'd forgotten about Xina, would rather hire on with him than kill him.
Now Xina - Xina'd been beautiful, the kind of beauty that shone through some women from inside. Too beautiful - too trusting, and she’d refused to carry the knife he’d tried to press on her.
He shoved his plate aside suddenly, half-eaten, and stood, restless. It was overly-warm inside, and stuffy... He scanned his phone to pay before he left - the bank balance Cowley'd given him as cover wouldn't stand the fine of a walk-out - and managed a tight smile at the waiter. Bloody Cowley... Bloody Krivas, and Cowley needed to know his plans so he couldn’t just shoot him to pieces. Bloody Cowley.
It was better being outside, and since he couldn't speed his demons away in the flyer, he took the Tube up to Barnet and booked a session with Sensai. Let it all wash over him, all the muck, concentrate...
First Sensai, then Krivas.
"What do you say, Ray?"
Doyle wanted to close his eyes, wanted to pretend that he wasn't there, the Minister holding him roughly, one hand tangled through his hair, the other sharp-nailed, scratching up and down his back, lower, lower... But Newbolt didn't like that, he liked his partner to watch, to acknowledge everything that was happening, to acknowledge and obey and so Doyle did.
"I say please," Doyle said, and zoned out, operating on automatic. He listened for indiscretions, he watched for weaknesses, and he kept himself far, far away. It was, after all, his job.
So far Newbolt had let nothing slip, nothing more than a sly intelligence that made sure he took care of any overly-scandalous detail as it came up, that made sure Doyle was never in the room when he spoke to anyone else - at least not yet. He'd managed to keep Newbolt intrigued, managed to give him something new and slightly different every time they'd met - even, on the fourth luxurious occasion, to the point of walking away from him.
Of course he was paying for that today – “No one likes a rogue Mecha, Ray...” but it had ensured that there would be a today. The Minister, apparently, enjoyed things that were unpredictable - an edge of danger, of risk - and increasingly, of violence. Nothing too extreme so far, though it turned out he did bruise under the Skin, but it could have been enough to get Newbolt noticed by the wrong people, by people who expected a return for what they discreetly offered a government official.
“Please teach me how to be a good Mecha, sir,” Newbolt corrected him, reaching for the riding crop that lay, starkly straight and dark against the soft, pale cloth of the bedspread. “Turn around and bend over.”
Doyle obeyed, gritting his teeth, and waited for the first blow to fall. The crop was drawn down his back, but this time it touched lightly here and then there, almost a caress, and then between his thighs, up and down, and… It was pushed into him, not far and not painfully, but to the accompaniment of Newbolt’s heavier breathing, and then pulled, slowly, out again. A pause.
Newbolt’s phone rang, suddenly loud and shrill in the thick air of the room, last week’s number-one ringtone hit, and Newbolt groaned, dropped the crop so that it slid to lie against Doyle’s knee, and stepped away from him. Doyle didn’t move, didn’t draw attention to himself, listened to the cryptic staccato of the conversation.
“Yes? - Bloody Renton, he should know - Of course we do - No - Fine - Fine - Twenty minutes. Ah, Ray…”
Doyle turned to sit, leaning back on his hands, and looked up, an obedient mecha.
“The House has been called in, we’re going to have to postpone - such a shame, we can’t have you running around taunting me now, can we?”
“As if I’d do any such thing, to a…” Power, it was all about Newbolt’s power. “…to a government Minister. I wouldn’t dare…” But his eyes challenged, his body beckoned. He reclined a little further, safe now. It would take nearly all of that twenty minutes to reach Newminster. “I don’t have another free booking until…”
“Cancel anything you have on tomorrow after eight, I’ll have you then. Double fee for the inconvenience.”
“Booking period?”
Newbolt paused in the act of straightening the hood of his coat, slightly dishevelled but not so old that it didn’t make him attractive, dark hair ruffled, eyes still hazed with lust and flashing at the interruption to his plans. “Oh, I think this time I’ll take the full night – it’s a terrible thing to delay discipline you know, makes it so much harder to…” he reached into his trousers and took hold of his cock, “enforce things. Suck me.”
It didn’t take long - barely one of the twenty minutes – and then Newbolt wiped his cock around Doyle’s face, patted him on the head, and left.
Doyle was dressed in seconds and checking his mobile as he walked as quickly as he dared through the hotel in Newbolt’s wake. It took a state emergency for the House to start a session at this time of night, and there’d been nothing cooking, nothing that might… He flashed through result after result - sure enough, all was quiet in the world of politics. Newbolt was still standing by the kerb when Doyle swung out through the revolving doors, so that he slid sideways to the dubious shelter of a potted tree strung around with coloured fairy lights, stilled, waited. The streets were still busy in this fashionable part of town, and even Newbolt couldn’t control traffic. If he was lucky there’d be a taxi turn up straight after Newbolt’s car, and…
He wasn’t lucky, it was a flyer that swept past the other traffic to the side of the road, that slid open and took Newbolt within, and there was nothing he could do as it rose to hover for a moment, then turned abruptly and disappeared southwards.
Fuck.
He all but stamped his foot, struck backwards with a clenched fist to hit the brickwork of the hotel, the pain and sting satisfying, the punishment he deserved for being sloppy. He should have expected a flyer, should have known, should have had a contingency plan… He took a deep breath, reached up to rub hands over his face, to wake himself up a bit, remembered where he’d been barely five minutes before, and grimaced at that too. At least he had a name – he’d call it in to Cowley, find himself a room with a strong, hot shower and then see what he could look up for himself before Bodie showed up for the night.
Bodie.
The days slid past more slowly than Bodie would have liked, a tromp-plod of time spent looking up old contacts, drinking watered down pints and eating food he wouldn’t have fed to his cat. There were reasons, he remembered, why he’d been glad to get out of his old game and into the regular army, and those reasons were still grubbing about in the underworld, imagining that their tiny minds could get one over on this government, or that gang boss, or the other undercover copper, and boring him bloody silly in the process.
The only thing that kept him going was that he was getting gradually closer to Krivas, to the point that last night they’d been in the same pub, had crashed gazes before Bodie turned with a disdainfully lifted eyebrow, and left for the peace - if not quiet - of his hotel room with Doyle. He’d managed not to kill him yet - Krivas or Doyle, he thought with a wry twist of his lips - but it was a close-run thing, and tonight was surely the night. No one else was active down south right now, so unless it was someone knew and unknown, it had to be Krivas mucking about with the Southern Confederacies. Like him, too, to blackmail someone else into the dirty work.
He checked his watch yet again - hurry up and wait, this time for Harrison to turn up at his doorstep – took another calming mouthful of tea, and stared through the telly projecting on the wall opposite. Some mumbo jumbo about how mechas worked, but even that was better than the inane babble of The Culture Club quiz show on the other side. Who cared about Bollywood and Presley and Elyas Peel, they were long gone… Just like Krivas would be from The Sailors Arms if Harrison didn’t get a move on…
Could Krivas be blackmailing the Minister? Doyle didn’t seem to have turned up anything yet, other than an increasingly sour face when they met to de-Skin him, and a tendency to ask too many questions. Newbolt was sly enough, and too clever so far to speak out even in front of a mecha. There’d been no privacy switch turned, no indiscretions in the heat of – hah – passion, and no chance for Doyle to do more than follow him further than the bathroom. So he said.
The door buzzed behind him at last, and he grabbed his leather from the end of his bed, double-checked the tasers in his boots and sleeves, and took a swig from the glass he’d left out ready, splashing a little on his shirt, through his hair.
“Jackie!” he shouted jovially, stepping out to join him and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Thought you’d never get here! What kept you – that luscious girl you told me about?”
Harrison shrugged away from him. “You started early, didn’t you? Krivas isn’t gonna take you on if you’re trolleyed, man.”
“You let me worry about Krivas,” Bodie said expansively, pushing Harrison in the direction of the foyer. “Krivas an’ me are old old pals… He knows me…”
“He runs a tight outfit.”
“I know. Worked with him before – haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? We were in the Islands once, and this…”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me… Told every bugger who’d listen, didn’t you. Left here. Left here!”
Bodie turned left, leered happily after the two girls he’d almost walked into when they rounded the corner, and let Harrison pull him into the pub. It was loud – England was thrashing Canada in the World Cup again – and there was a strong smell of aftershave and sweat and spilled beer, but the match had brought them all together, the room full of roaring approval.
“Get ‘em in!” Harrison ordered, leaving him with a slap on his back, and Bodie turned to the bar, glad enough of one more moment to gather himself before facing Krivas. He could feel him, somewhere in the corner nearest the door, his gaze burning darkness between Bodie’s shoulderblades. I’m going to nail you, he thought, after all these years you’re finally going to get what you deserve…
He bought an extra drink, a large brandy double, and when he got to the table he passed Harrison his pint and then ignored him, sitting down next to Krivas, sliding the brandy across to him, then gazing around the place as if picking up where they’d left off just the day before.
“Not your sort of place, this.”
Krivas looked amused, shrugged. “It’s convenient. The bar is good.”
“Not bad,” Bodie agreed, looking approvingly at his own pint. “Better than the piss they’re serving down the Lasersight these days.”
“New hands on the till. They’ll learn. I hear you’re looking for work.”
Bodie nodded easily. “The Glory Boys pay more reliably, but they’ve not got a clue how to keep a man interested.”
“I hear you were kicked out.”
Krivas was watching him, face sly and pleased. Bodie said nothing for a moment, then he shrugged. “Like I said, they’re a bit boring. Can’t let a bloke alone even in his spare time.”
“Missing the Game.” Krivas looked smug, “I always said you’d miss the Game, no matter what you said about that little slut.”
Be the surface of the lake, the ripples caused by a thrown pebble are no more than ripples…
“You should have left her alone.”
“Share and share alike, remember?”
The ripples pass away and even before they are gone the pebble is subsumed by the mud of the lake floor, harmless…
Bodie shrugged again, then turned and met his gaze. “All in the past now, isn’t it. I hear you’ve got something a bit more interesting than birds and bars going on.”
“Maybe. You know I had you checked out when I saw you the other day.”
He let his face tighten slightly, reached for his pint again as if to cover discomfort. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. You’ve picked up some useful contacts since I saw you last.”
“One or two.”
“But you’ve alienated half of them with your foolish behaviour.”
“What a man does…”
“Yes, yes, and with who - or should I say what? - is his own affair. The Bodie I knew seven years ago would have made sure he…maximised such contacts.”
Bodie allowed himself a small smile - keep going, Krivas, keep going. “I might have done…”
“Good. I’m looking for an in with the Russian Consortium - someone deep inside, someone who can tell us about their American connections and…”
Fuck.
Russia wasn’t “south”. America wasn’t “south”.
It wasn’t Krivas.
Fuck.
They met, as arranged, at San Miguel’s, a shadowed and cheap restaurant which let rooms upstairs by the hour. Doyle confirmed his debit on demand and gestured Bodie ahead of him, not wanting him to see that he was moving carefully, that it had been anything other than an ordinary night as a love mecha. Newbolt had cancelled their eight o'clock appointment, and it had been nearly thirty six hours before he'd received a new D and D from him, but he'd taken up where he left off, every single inch of it.
"News?" Bodie asked, as soon as the door was closed behind them and they'd checked their scanners for surveillance.
Doyle shook his head tiredly. "Renton came up blank - probably wasn't his real name to start with. Newbolt's been out of town for the weekend, I've been kicking my heels at his hang outs, but..."
"He didn't take you with him?" Bodie lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "Fed up with you already, is he?"
Doyle felt his own flesh, tired and aching under the Skin, felt the sting where he'd been overstretched, pounded into, and the slight headache from Newbolt's unrestrained cuffing when he'd forgotten to untie the man's shoes before taking them off. "No," he said, "He isn't tired of me."
There must have been something of it in his voice despite everything, because Bodie looked at him oddly for a moment.
"Just get me out of this bloody thing, eh?" He moved to the window - the room only just large enough that he had to take a single step away from the bed - and turned down the real time daylight that was showing. It had been a long night, was well past ten now, and all he wanted was to sleep.
"Get your kit off, then," Bodie said from behind him, and even his voice didn't sound as harshly sardonic as usual.
Doyle shrugged out of the leather jacket and the tight-fitting black jumpsuit he'd donned for the Minister. "You find out anything new about Krivas?"
"He's got a deal going on with Veshenkin, but he's looking north - reckons he's had enough of the tropics."
"So you've lost your lead?" Doyle breathed in as Bodie's fingers slid down his back, they felt slow, comfortable.
"Nah, Krivas knows the business, he's still our best source. Told him I wasn't interested in regenerating the wastelands, I was looking to go south again - we'll see."
They pottered about their respective business, Bodie spending time on his mobile, tapping away to someone - if it was a girl, Cowley'd kill him. Doyle showered, cleaned the suit as he'd been shown, and collapsed into bed, not bothering to try and talk any more, to ask about anything else, not even feeling the lift of the bedsprings as Bodie got up and took his own turn in the bathroom.
When he woke again the room was still dark, and Bodie lay sleeping on his stomach beside him, face turned away. Nearly a week of this, and he still didn't know any more about him... his mind ran in strange, half-awake circles, thinking restlessly of what he did know, unaccountably wondering about the rest. It didn't matter - Cowley trusted him, so he could trust him, he didn't need to know anything else.
But he wanted to.
It was barely three in the afternoon, but no matter how he tried he couldn't get back to sleep. He remembered Newbolt's face, remembered being looked down on, and couldn't imagine how he'd been able to just get on and do the job without punching the man's lights out. He tried to piece together what he'd found out about Bodie from the odd answers he'd been given, but nothing matched, nothing made sense when he gazed through half-open eyes at the man asleep in his bed now. He might as well get up, go for a run...
Just as he thought it, Bodie stirred, then sat up as if he'd been awake for hours, stretched once and strode into the bathroom. He came out and got dressed unhurriedly, but straight away, and with just a glance at Doyle.
Doyle turned onto his back, blinked once, and rolled to his own feet, got himself Skinned up, and pulled on the rest of his clothes. He was only just done when Bodie looked up from the phone he'd been tapping at again, nodded briefly to him, and then left.
Doyle waited only the length of time it took for him to finish dressing, then he dashed out the door and down the stairs, knowing Bodie would have waited for the lift as he did every other time he'd seen him. It was too early for him to be hooking up with his merc mates, surely - midnight owls the lot of them - so where was he off to? What did he do in all the time he was off on his own? Who was he?
Sure enough, he caught sight of Bodie turning the corner at the end of the road, jogged fast enough to catch up and make sure he wouldn't lose him to another turning, and then followed as casually as he could. He half expected Bodie to hire a taxi, or even a flyer and vanish, but they kept walking, through crowded city streets and then out the other side to a more residential area, so that Doyle had to hang further back to avoid being seen.
It didn't look like Bodie's type of place, mind, so maybe he'd already been spotted, and was being taken on a wild goose chase. Houses here were set back from the street, surrounded by elegantly laid out gardens and lawns. There was something peaceful about it all - the comfort of knowing you had money, he assumed, of knowing you could afford a mecha to look after every little thing you might need, to protect you from the real world outside.
Bodie turned left into one of the driveways, and Doyle ducked behind a thick row of magnolia bushes, watched as he paused and looked behind him, looked carefully around to see who was watching. Did he know Doyle was there? Surely not... Whether he did or not, he walked the rest of the way to the front door, rang the bell, and after a brief pause vanished into the house.
Interesting... He hovered casually by the wall of greenery, took out his mobile and looked up the address. It was, as he'd expected, unlisted, nor did it come up in any of the usual news rags and search engines. The street looked quiet, most of the driveways empty of cars, though there was the occasional flyer sitting shining in the fading December daylight. He took a chance, wandered up the driveway of the house next door, and then clambered easily over the double metal fence separating it from Bodie's mate's place. Or...
He paused. Could Bodie live here? Was he simply breaking Cowley's rule to pop home every day? He had his own flyer, obviously wasn't short of a penny or two... Nah, it didn't match up - an ex-merc with a family and kids in a respectable part of New London? There was something going on. Could it be that Krivas was involved, and Bodie was covering for him? Bodie'd known him a long time ago, after all, maybe they'd been closer than he'd let on - maybe he felt he owed him something.
None of which was directly implied by Bodie visiting a house like this.
It was one of the old places, shored up and expensive these days, but the owner had left in some of the original features. The windows were real, and there was a length of guttering that ran along the side of the house, passed a first floor window with a wide sill and what looked like an old fashioned, accessible lock. There were shrubs and bushes all around too - lousy for security, helpful for him. He slipped away from the fence, plant by plant, began sidling around the walls of the house, looking for lit windows.
There were two - and even better one dark window that had been left open, despite the winter chill. He considered. The Rains would start soon - if he wanted to get inside he'd have to do it now, before the owners went around checking.
Bodie was in there somewhere, the man he was supposed to be working alongside.
It turned out to be a kitchen window, and he negotiated an old-fashioned row of storage jars, a toaster and an electric kettle, finally jumped down onto a sleek white floor - retro linoleum, of course. He paused, listened, but there were no sounds beyond the ordinary noises of a house: the hum of electricity, the occasional gurgle of a pipe, a hushed flyer passing by outside. So where was he?
The downstairs - five massive rooms, surely a nightmare to heat - was completely deserted, so he tiptoed carefully upstairs, footsteps muffled by deep, soft carpeting, and paused again.
There were muffled voices, indistinct and irregular, behind the third door from the left; two men, one of them Bodie. The door was slightly ajar, and he stood listening for a moment, then his eyes widened and his breath caught. Carefully, as slowly as he could, he pushed the door until he could see through the gap. Bodie and his mate weren't having a conversation - they were having sex.
He watched because he couldn't not, couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Bodie's buttocks, clenching and releasing as he thrust into the man in front of him, from the way Bodie's hand moved rhythmically around the other man's cock in the mirror behind the bed, the one that Bodie's other hand leant against for support. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Bodie's face, pale and long-lashed, his lips opening on a gasp as he came, as leaned down and kissed the other man's neck until he too...
Doyle took a step back, not worrying that there might be anyone else in the house, not even thinking about being discovered.
Bodie was as straight as he was. Bodie had sex with other men. Bodie, who shared his bed and called him names for bedding Newbolt.
He pursed his lips, clenching his fists against the bright glitter of anger, because there were better ways of dealing with this than bursting in and beating the pulp out of Bodie, and then he went back downstairs and let himself out of the house, into the rain.
Bodie hummed as he swung through the door of the Hotel Jacques, smiled and scanned his phone past the girl mecha behind the desk. It had turned out to be a productive night, Sarah coming through with a new name, and Cowley had been pleased with his information. Surely it wouldn't be much longer, and he'd be able to get back to something more than all this raking around in the muck. Doyle should be upstairs already, waiting, he could get to bed and maybe get a decent night's kip for a change.
Doyle was indeed there before him, standing in just the Skin on the opposite side of the bed by the window, gazing into the distance as if it was real, as if he could see through the wall to the world outside.
"Alright?" he said as he came in, even feeling at peace with the little policeman tonight. Even if Newbolt wasn't bad on the eye, it couldn't be much fun doing what Doyle was doing, hanging around politicians and sycophantic groupies all evening. He hadn't looked right the other day either, though he seemed to be moving easily enough tonight as he turned around, raised his hands to his hips, and stared straight at Bodie.
He didn't answer though, just turned back pointedly, and waited for Bodie to de-Skin him. Bodie did, watching the area just above his finger as the material split open, revealed Doyle's own flesh. There was a strange frisson, as there always was, to doing this, the electricity of the costume inveigling its way through his own body, a kind of shiver.
"Find out anything interesting?" he asked, because Doyle was unnaturally quiet, even his breath seemed shallow, controlled.
At last Doyle moved, lifted his head and looked at him again. "I found out something very interesting," he said in a low voice, and something about it stopped Bodie, froze his good mood, made him wary. "D'you wanna know what it is?"
"Go on," he said, as casually as he could. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?
Doyle peeled the Skin from his face, wriggled out of it until it hung like a wetsuit around his waist, tilted his head to one side. "I followed you home the other day."
What?
"Who's the other feller? You know, the one you're fucking?"
"You did what?" Doyle had been trailing around after him, instead of getting on with his own job? And he hadn't noticed...
"Cowley's going to love that, you know - we're supposed to be secure, undercover! We're not supposed to have kept any ties to our homes, to where we live!"
"I don't live with Sarah - I haven't seen her for years!" he shouted before he could help himself. "She was a merc just starting out as I was leaving!"
"She?" Doyle raised an eyebrow, stood there as if he was the arbitrator of all that was good and right.
"That's right - she. She prefers it since she got back from the jungle and took up with a bloke who bought her a house. You have a problem with that?"
"I have a problem with..."
"You know your problem?" Bodie cut him off, mid-sentence. "You can't bear to think that maybe, perhaps, someone just doesn't fancy you!" And with that he snatched up his coat and strode out, slamming the door behind him and not caring what the neighbours might think. Jumped up little...
He half expected Doyle to come chasing after him, but of course he was half in, half out of the Skin - too dangerous that, to put it back on and wait until tomorrow night. He slowed down when he realised it, put his head back and breathed in the cold morning air, found he was on his way to Sarah's again and let it happen. She wouldn't mind, it was her day off and Monty was still out of town, so she’d be alone again.
What had Doyle been playing at, anyway? Following him around town as if he was under some kind of suspicion... Could he be? But why would Cowley hire him if... No, it was just the copper's idea of a good time, nosing what he could out of everyone. He didn't stop asking questions, probably thought he was being subtle about it...
"Bodie!"
He pushed past Sarah as she opened the door, dressed in her best twentieth century, jeans and a cropped top, white boots, some blue muck around her eyes. He stormed as far as the end of the corridor, turned around and walked back to face her.
"You look like you could use a drink," was all she said, after staring at him for a moment. "Come and tell Aunt Sally all about it. Or no, let me guess..." She led him back through to the high-ceilinged living room, wandered over to a collection of bottles on a silver tray, poured him a glass of brandy. "...it's your policeman again?"
His policeman!
"The one thing he is not is my policeman..."
"Oh come on, you've done nothing but talk about him every time I've seen you this week. What's he done now?"
He spent a good ten minutes telling her, knowing that she was letting him talk himself out of a rage, not able to help himself anyway. "...so if you think I want to be anywhere near him you can think again!"
"You know, I've heard things about Newbolt," Sarah said at last. "He hung with a pretty edgy S&M crowd for a while, until there was some scandal in the newsrags and he had to leave it alone - at least publically."
He vaguely remembered the stories, sensational and exaggerated he'd presumed at the time, had almost felt some sympathy for the bloke. "You think he's still...?"
Sarah nodded. "I think his tastes moved on, but... put it this way, I wouldn't have him back here for the night."
Through his quietening anger, he thought back again to the look on Doyle's face the other day. "Rough, is he?"
"They say there's a reason he takes home more mechas than real people, and he's no member of the Liberation League..."
Bodie pursed his lips, wandered over and poured himself another brandy. It was still no excuse for...
"So he followed you," Sarah said thoughtfully, "And he must have been inside if he knows that we..." She left off delicately. "And you didn't spot him, did you?"
He didn't deny it - couldn't.
"Sounds like there's more to him than you thought, eh Bodie? Now I wonder why that might bother you..."
"Look, he just likes to think..."
She waved a hand at him. "Save it, dearling. Now, do you want to go upstairs, or not?"
Bodie shook his head. He didn't want sex, even Sarah’s straight-forward kind of relief, couldn't be bothered with any of it right now. But what did he want?
"Tell me more about Newbolt," he said, and settled in to listen.
Despite having a bed to himself for the day, Doyle didn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, tried to ignore the stinging ache around his wrists and ankles where Newbolt had tightened the restraints bare hours ago, the bruises across his back where the riding crop had fallen hard on the Skin. His mind raced: Bodie, Newbolt, the case… There had to be some way in, some way of breaking through Newbolt’s barriers, or of tracing Renton, or…
But his thoughts kept coming back to Bodie.
Why would he lie about the company he was keeping - just, why bother? No one cared who you slept with as long as you didn't break the law and get some woman pregnant. Bodie should feel safer sleeping with blokes... Who was this Sarah, anyway? Someone who'd been out fighting with him, a mercenary. Well if she was accepting houses from the blokes she slept with, she was mercenary enough.
Right. He threw back the covers, stood up straight and stretched, tried to ignore his pounding head. No point lying around, he'd get himself down to the Registry, look up Sarah's place the old fashioned way, see what he could track down.
He showered first, the warm water a comfort, almost sending him to sleep after all, and then he dressed, tucked the Skin into a jacket pocket, and slid carefully past reception without being seen and into the morning air.
It was a chill morning, though the rainclouds looked high and unlikely to break early, and he'd just caught the late morning rush to work, jostling along with the respectable men and women of town, so that somehow he felt more human. Cowley'd set him up with a Cubicle, as many love mechas rented for their clothes, spare parts and a recharge plug, and he pulled his hood more tightly to him, tapped in the code, and stepped inside. There was just space to change into something fresh from his shelf, something more casual than the clothes he'd been wearing for Newbolt, something else to remind him that he was as orga as anyone else.
Just for today he'd be himself again, just for today and before he had to present himself once more for Newbolt. He'd half a mind to go back to Cowley and tell him what he could do with his Skin - he'd got nothing more from it so far than an unrecognised name, bruises and a strong aversion to Newbolt’s politics.
He wouldn't though, he knew he wouldn't. The idea of being returned to the Met, of watching people like Preston and Montgomery being promoted above him with their corruption and bile... At least those two wouldn't be at it again, for all the dozens of others who would. No, he needed CI5 now as much as he wanted it, and that meant he was going to crack this case if he had to bow and scrape, and blow Newbolt a dozen times a day.
They knew him down at the Registry from days upon plodding days of checking
through the old records and building histories that remained unscanned, usually after he'd pissed off one superior or another, but he slid his ID from its hiding place into his jacket pocket anyway. His gun and taser he left concealed, though he couldn't help sending them a wistful backwards look. It was one thing going undercover with the protection, at least, of the Skin, going out into the world on a job with nothing that would shoot back never felt right.
He stopped for breakfast in a City cafe chain he'd never normally have frequented, all subtle lighting and business suits trying to look efficient and yet coolly relaxed - not the sort of place his own colleagues would hang out. Out of habit - and a kind of relief - he flirted with the girl making the coffee, let her send him her phone number and saved it to his socials, then he went and sat down in a corner beside a real window, alternated checking the news with gazing out at the morning.
The House was sitting today, so Newbolt would be busy there - but one of his Committee meetings had been cancelled, which meant there was probably no getting out of their appointment that night. He toyed with the idea of postponing himself - for maintenance, perhaps - but he'd played that trick before, and it had got him what he wanted then - Newbolt's attention and a kind of devotion.
On a sudden thought, he searched images of Newbolt until he found one where he was in the company of a mecha, zoomed to the mecha's operating licence, and then searched for the model. It was Just Jane, from AutoToys, she was still active, and she had a vacancy that afternoon. He took the debit on demand, repeated the search and found Gigolo Joe and Perfect Pete. The Pete model was defunct, and Joe was booked solid until next Tuesday, so he settled for his date with Jane, drank his coffee and tried to build a plan of attack for the Registry.
Bodie woke feeling disconcerted. Outside the Rains were falling solidly, drops pattering musically on the roof of Sarah's conservatory, where he'd finally settled down to think about what Sarah had told him of Newbolt. He'd never been implicated in anything, and a man's private life was his own, but there were rumours - declared by his Press Office to be libellous if ever seen in print - and Sarah wasn't the only one who wouldn't let him in her house. Although he wasn't banned from the legal cathouses, those running under the government's radar and who could afford to be choosy wouldn't entertain him, and two had closed down rather than open their doors to him.
And he was seeing Doyle almost every night.
Bodie sat up and rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, then stood and stretched. Doyle could clearly look after himself - though Sarah'd had a point when she said that bothered him. He'd never liked coppers - they'd been at the centre of everything wrong with 'Pool Island - but for all his proud introduction, Doyle didn't come across as an ordinary helmet. What made him different, what was it that kept him on the edge of Bodie's mind, in the back of his thoughts, and somewhere in the night-hardness of his cock, the centre of his dreams?
Because yet again he'd dreamed about Doyle.
Sarah was working an afternoon shift, and long gone, so Bodie got up and rummaged freely in the refrigerator for breakfast, made himself a huge mug of tea, sat down with his mobile and paused. There was a chance that what he was about to do wouldn't work, for all Mike was the best in the business - and he was expensive with it. And yet... he wanted CI5, with its promise of action and making a difference. Of being on the side of the angels. If that meant taking a risk or two, then he wouldn't be the right man for Cowley if he didn't do this.
The call buzzed and clicked for what seemed like forever once he was connected, and twice he could have sworn he heard background voices, perhaps where lines were cutting across other lines, were being diverted and cross-channelled and encrypted again and again and...
"This is The Corporation, how can we help you today?"
"You still owe me a tenner."
"Bodie! Thought you were still abroad..."
"You can get bored even of Rouge City," Bodie said, "We safe?"
"Bo-die..." Mike sounded hurt, Bodie knew he'd be grinning and tapping in to some other app as he spoke.
"You got time for a favour in return for that tenner?"
"I'm ears..."
"I need you to find me a file - Raymond Doyle."
Barely a pause.
"From the Met?"
"Very impressive."
"It's an old name, there's not many."
Still, instantaneous - maybe this would be easier than he'd thought.
"Not the Met these days - CI5."
Mike whistled under his breath. "Now that will cost more than a tenner - it's a cash job, that."
Damn - old technology, and only deliverable on paper and in person. "I'll pay."
"I can't promise anything..."
"When can I collect?"
"Can't promise anything from CI5," Mike repeated, "Their boss doesn't always plug in. He’s a bit cash himself. I'll know in an hour and you can buy me that pint."
There was a tap at his ear, then a rustling, what sounded like a sudden sizzle, and then a low hum. Bodie hung up and did some quick calculations. He'd taken a job flying tonight for one of Krivas' mates - a straightforward trip over to the Continent and back, but it paid well for what it was, and he needed to make the effort to prove himself to one or two new faces in the old crowd. He had time before then to get to Mike's favourite haunt, pick up the papers and go through them, and he'd need that time because they'd neither photograph nor scan - and they'd disintegrate within just a couple of hours of being exposed to daylight.
He necked the rest of his tea, grabbed a couple of sausage rolls from the fridge and nuked them to warmth, then left the house quietly behind him.
"Well hello, Jane - how's the game?" Doyle took a moment to appreciate Just Jane, silhouetted against the doorway of her cathouse, all sleek black leather, razor cut hair, and as many contrasting curves as a bloke could want. Jane smiled, reached out a finger and hooked it over the collar of his shirt, drew him into her room, which was dimly shadowed, lit by flickering candles and seductive glowsticks, and scented with something... He couldn't place it, something floral and subtle and expensive. There was music, a lazy wafting of flutes and pan pipes that was mesmerising, almost hypnotic.
Time to keep a careful watch on his credits.
"Is this your first time with... one of us?" she asked coyly, reaching an arm above her and twirling elegantly. She moved her other hand slowly down her own body, then up and across, and Doyle felt his breath hitch despite himself. Something soft, something easy. He'd paid for this, after all... unless of course he claimed it on expenses. How would old Cowley go for that, a love mecha on expenses? He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, managed to keep himself to a wide smile that Jane took as meant for her. She reached out to him, manoeuvred him back to the bed, and ran her hands over his chest, down to his hips, leaned in close enough to kiss, though she didn't. Instead she teased his lips with her own, played warm breath across his cheek and to his ear. He settled down to enjoy the ride - he'd interrogate her afterwards - but to his surprise she came back to his cheek, to the bump and shadow of his implant where the bone had been broken all those years ago.
"Did someone treat you harshly, Ray?" she asked softly, "Someone treat you mean?"
He sighed in vague answer, wanting her to breathe in his ear again, to concentrate on the job in hand.
She licked quickly at his cheek, twitched her head to one side, and when she spoke again her voice was more lowly pitched, and there was a kind of sternness to it. "Do you like that, Ray? Is that what you'd like me to do to you, Ray? Would you...?"
"No," he said quickly, "No, I don't like that." Damn - that was the job in hand, that was what he needed to be concentrating on. "But... what if I did?"
Jane drew back slightly, twitched her head again so that she merely sounded puzzled when she spoke. "Would you like to play domination games or would you like to be seduced?" Another twitch, and her voice sounded younger, much more innocent. "Perhaps you would like to seduce me? I'm Jane - you can name your own game..." She looked at him for a moment and then lowered her eyelashes and waited.
"I want you to..." he thought quickly, "Tell me a story... tell me what you do with other people."
"Ah... the voyeur game. Would you like to go and watch...?"
"No! No, just... tell me stories. Do you go to bed with very powerful people?"
"I go to bed with whoever wants me," Jane said, "That's the name of my game... I have been to bed with... " She paused coyly. "But I can't say who, that would be telling..." She leaned in again, kissed him this time, and she felt soft and warm and all too real for something that wasn't orga.
He pulled away, but didn't object when she knelt on the bed, straddling him. "Have you gone to bed with the Prime Minister?"
"The Prime Minister is married - he's a very good boy."
"What about his Ministers - are they good too? What do they do?"
"Some of them are good," she said, writhing against him so that he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment, "And some of them are very... very..." She slid to the ground again, so that this time she was kneeling between his legs, "...bad." Her hands smoothed their way along his thighs, and she ducked her head a moment, so that he swallowed hard.
"Tell me about a bad one," he said, "Tell me about... a minister who likes to spank you."
"Ah," she said, lifting her head so that her hair fell around her face, dark contrast to the glossy red of her lips. "She puts me in a harness, and then she takes her..."
"A man," he interrupted, desperately trying not to wonder who she meant. "Tell me about a man in the government with silver hair who spanks you hard."
Jane paused, gazing up at him for a moment before she spoke. "I don't know any men like that."
"But a friend told me that you and..." Take a chance or not? "Renton told me that you and Minister Newbolt were... ow!" Jane's grip on his legs strengthened to the point of pain - more bruises, then - her fingernails digging into his skin.
"I don't know any men like that."
"You're hurting me... Did he hurt you, Jane?"
"That's not my game." She stood abruptly, turned away from him with her hands on her hips, for all the world like a real woman who'd been upset.
"But you said we could play..."
She turned back to him, twitched her head again, and said solemnly "We do not play to hurt! Mechas do not play to hurt. Or..." a whisper now, "To be hurt..."
"The Minister wouldn't hurt you..."
"Minister Newbolt is bad trouble. His friends are not welcome here."
"Jane, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to upset you. What about Renton, did he...?"
"His friends are not welcome here." Jane strode to the door, all business now, and opened it. "Your payment will be refunded within the day, if this is not to your satisfaction then you should know that all love mechas are subject to Regular Law and that we have both the rights and responsibilities of that employment. You may contact your ombudsman if..."
"It's alright - I'm not going to complain..." He walked obediently to the door, paused to meet her gaze as she stood there, waited until she lifted her eyes to his. "I'm sorry Jane." He kissed her cheek gently, gave her arm a squeeze, and then stepped out into the street, not sure whether he felt pleased with himself or more confused than ever as the door closed quietly behind him.
Had he achieved anything? He already knew that Newbolt was into pain and humiliation, but... She couldn't look frightened, because she was just a mecha, but for a moment he could have sworn she had.
Bodie was in the pub on time to receive the first of his tracers, a tiny paper-thin thing that sunk ink into his thumb and then dissolved with the warmth of his skin. The ink gave him coordinates, the coordinates sent him to a supermarket, he bought a bar of chocolate and checked his till receipt, walked obediently to the park and sat in the shade to eat it. In the dim, dappled light he read the combination on the inside of the plastic, then wandered over and retrieved his "left luggage". Under what seemed to be a mountain of dirty shirts and one pair of ridiculously frilly pink knickers, was the envelope containing a copy of Doyle's file. He took himself back to his flat, checked it for bugs and cameras, made himself another cup of tea, and sat down to read.
Bodie's booking alert had come late, bare minutes before he was due at Newbolt's, but Doyle was glad enough that it had come at all to worry about the timing. The hotel was mid-range, just far enough outside the New City that it was quiet, and apparently catered to an older, more genteel clientele. It didn't seem like Bodie's sort of place at all. He was looked at askance by more than one person - staff and guest both - when he checked in with his operating tag, ignored them with lofty disdain and marched straight-backed upstairs to wait for Bodie and his release from the Skin.
Newbolt had been distracted tonight, had gone through the motions of a domination scenario - scenario, Doyle thought scathingly, there was no scenario in a Minister dominating a mecha - but had fucked him almost automatically, had fallen asleep, in fact, leaving him tied to the rail at the end of the bed, uncomfortably bent. He'd managed to free himself, hadn't dared to leave when he'd been booked until seven, or even to sleep whilst Newbolt was still there, despite his nearly sleepless day.
All he wanted now was Bodie, and then a bed - and unfortunately he needed then in that order.
The one thing - the one thing - that made the night worthwhile, was that just after his arrival Newbolt had forgotten himself long enough to respond to a phone call with the caller's name - and for the second time it was Renton, and for the first time Newbolt had reached across to Doyle's tag and switched him into blind mode.
Doyle paced the room, mostly to stay awake, partly repeating the conversation over and again to himself, trying to filter out anything that might make sense, that might give them something else to go on. He swung around when the door opened, saw to his relief that it was Bodie, made himself stand still and quiet. Bodie paused too, and they looked each other up and down for a moment.
"Thought you might not come," he said eventually, a kind of peace offering.
"Job's a job." Bodie shrugged out of his own jacket, hung it on a hook behind the door, and stepped over to dim the window. "You ready?"
"What do you think?" He waited until Bodie had stepped closer, then turned around, presenting his back. He realised he was holding his breath, let it out when he felt Bodie's firm touch on his neck, the slow slide of Bodie's finger down his back, lower and lower...and stop.
But Bodie didn't move away quickly as he usually did, instead Doyle felt the edge of the Skin pulled slightly, as if Bodie was testing it, and then a hand, warm and heavy, on his shoulder, holding him in place. He turned his head, twisted just far enough to see Bodie looking down at him, at his back, and then that finger was back again, and this time Doyle felt it tracing one of the long bruises Newbolt had lashed onto him, then another that crossed it, then another.
"I've been hearing about your Minister," Bodie said at last. "Bit rough, is he?"
Doyle shrugged, twisted a little further, but Bodie didn't let go. "Job's a job," he said, trying not to close his eyes against the way Bodie was touching him - softly, gently.
"Thought that thing was supposed to stop bullets?"
"So I'm told. Doesn't mean I won't feel it the next day, apparently."
Bodie still hadn't moved away. "Does Cowley know about this?"
"How the hell should I know?" He shrugged more pointedly this time, pulled himself free and turned to face him.
"I mean - do you need to get out? Even Cowley can't expect you to take that kind of beating on a regular basis."
"It's just bruises - it's whether he sticks to mechas for his games that worries me. You 'ave been hearing about Newbolt, 'aven't you. Connection?"
Bodie shook his head. "Not with the case. I asked Sarah."
"Your bit on the side? What would she know?" He winced inwardly - he hadn't meant to attack again, but why the hell Bodie thought he couldn't hack it...
"She's got contacts - it's why I keep in with her. It's why I went to see her in the first place."
"And you trust her?"
Bodie nodded. "She owes me. And - " he interrupted Doyle's sceptical look, "I've worked with her a long time. She's alright."
Doyle looked at him again, straight into dark eyes, for long moments, and eventually he nodded himself. "Yeah, alright..." Bodie hadn't moved, was still standing close, so Doyle finally pushed gently past him, stripping properly as he went. It had felt harder than ever climbing into the Skin after his illicit day of freedom from it.
He showered slowly, half-puzzling over Bodie’s behaviour, half-worrying about it. What was he up to now? Trying to put him off the scent? But his eyes felt gritty after their long night awake, and he let it sink to the back of his mind, washed and dried himself and cleaned the Skin on automatic, emerged back into the room to find Bodie already in bed.
“Nothing new at your end, then?” Bodie asked, even as he jumped up to take his own turn in the bathroom, pissing and cleaning his teeth with the door open.
Doyle signed, rubbed his hands across his face as if that would keep him awake, and sat up slightly. “Actually… Maybe.”
“Maybe?” There was a splashing of water, and Bodie emerged once more, face and shoulders wet, a towel in one hand. He dried himself as Doyle spoke, told him about Newbolt’s phone call, and Doyle watched absently, following the path of water drops that slid over firm muscles, down the smooth plane of Bodie’s chest, and lower, still lower…
“You think he suspects something?” Bodie asked when he’d finished.
“I dunno, he’s kept things pretty close until now, but… it could be just what it seems, a slip-up.”
“He turned you off.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe it’s taken this long for him to get comfortable around you.” Bodie threw his towel behind him into the bathroom, climbed back into bed and waved a hand at the dimmer switch. “I gather he’s got attached to his mechas before.”
Doyle shrugged. “If he hadn’t I don’t supposed Cowley would have sent me in. Mind you, I dunno how long they’ll let it go on.” He told Bodie about Jane.
“The mechas? They’ll take the credits and run, that’s what they do.”
Doyle shook his head thoughtfully. “What do they want credits for?”
“It’s in their programming - they go straight to the corporations, don’t they.”
“Maybe…”
“’course they do. You only got the name again?” Bodie pulled them back to business.
Doyle yawned. “Yeah, everything else was too cryptic. I sent it to Cowley just in case the lab can make anything of it, but… This Renton – he’s not one of your mob, then?”
“Nah,” Bodie began, then shrugged. “Could be - I don’t know everyone in the business, there’s been a lot of new blood since my day. I’ll keep asking around…” He paused, seemed to look at Doyle consideringly, eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“There is someone I’ve not asked yet who might know the name.” He stopped again, looked past Doyle to the simwindow and gazed at the distant twilight mountain range as if it was real.
"Yeah?"
Bodie lay still, pursed his lips.
"Well, when you can be bothered going to ask, you let me know." Unsettled, Doyle let himself be sarcastic, be as sharp and stroppy as he wanted to be, slid down in the bed and shut his eyes at last. He was so tired it almost hurt to have them closed, a dull ache that…
"Thought maybe you should come on this one."
He opened his eyes. At the same time Bodie finally looked back from the window, tipped his head down to look fully at Doyle, and despite his tiredness, Doyle knew his own face was as hard as Bodie's, was as challenging and...
...and then Bodie smiled, a wry twist of his lips that acknowledged everything that had gone between them so far, that offered them a second beginning, another chance. A kind of warmth tapped cautiously, waited to be let in. "We're not coming up with much on our own," he said, "Thought maybe we should try working together. You might pick up something I miss from knowing him too well."
Carefully, feeling himself still guarded, but hopeful at the same time, Doyle nodded. “Yeah, alright,” he said, rode out the jolts and bouncing as Bodie at last settled down into the bed properly, turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes. He lay facing Doyle though, and Doyle studied his cheeks and lips and eyelashes, thought about what they’d do tomorrow, would do on the case, together, until his own eyes closed again and he slid into exhausted, dreamless sleep.
To Part Three...
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Date: 2017-01-03 04:55 am (UTC)Am on the edge of my seat to see where this goes next. ;-)