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The Extreme Part of Time
by Felicity M. Parkinson
The trees grew tall on either side of the pathway, their verdant canopies forming an arch that let in shafts of sunlight through the foliage. Between the trunks, bushes of laurel, holly and hawthorn screened the adjacent countryside, here on the edge of the estate, a stream marking pace with the track on one side, forming a break between the fields and the trees. Straight as a die, the gravel arrowed well into the distance to where a laurel and a holly bush, spreading vigorously, created a bend before, in the distance, the path straightened out once more.
The tranquillity of the scene was ruptured as agents 4.5 and 3.7 pounded along the trackway, racing after the fleeing man. The job had at first all gone like a dream. How could anyone have known, only an hour ago, that the operation would end with a criminal running away from the scene and Bodie and Doyle racing after him.
***
They waited in Doyle’s Escort, tucked out of sight down a lane off the roadway, ready and alert. Acting on a tip-off from one of Stuart’s informants, CI5 knew that some of Callaway’s gang would be making a hand-over on a quiet country road. Nothing suspicious to any passer-by – a van parked in a layby, driver having a drink from his Thermos. But the informant had said that it was an armaments hand-over, presumably transferring from one van to another. Agents were in place, anticipating the moment.
Bodie sat there, aware of Doyle’s profile at the edge of his vision on his right. There was nothing for them to do but wait for Cowley’s signal. Bodie let his thoughts wander, all the while keeping an ear on the chatter from the radio. Agents getting into position, waiting for the hand-over to begin. His mind drifted back to the previous year’s Christmas at CI5. A boozy party for those not on duty or stand-by and he and Doyle had eventually left in a pleasantly mellow state to go back to where Bodie’s current flat was situated. It felt good to be walking through the empty streets, Doyle at his side. No need to say much, they knew that about each other. They didn’t have to, could understand each other with the minimum of actual talk, more a silent communication, as if each of them knew what the other was thinking without putting it into words. It was a situation Bodie had never encountered , not that he minded. Perhaps this was what happened with a partner, and one who could cover your back with such intuition was a definite bonus.
He was not quite certain how it had happened but once inside his flat, he had taken several steps only to find himself on the living room carpet, Doyle pinning him down, unbuttoning and unzipping Bodie’s trousers, pushing his briefs out of the way, baring him to the air, loosening his own clothing to reveal his readiness.
Bodie was hard, ready for it. He had no objections. He’d had sex with men often enough in the past, knew he enjoyed most of what was on offer. And depending on what Doyle had in mind, this could be a fantasy come true. He’d fancied the golly for most the time they’d been partnered, the way Doyle moved his body, the look in his eyes as he worked with Bodie. Sometimes Bodie kidded himself that Doyle was flirting with him – those looks, the way he posed, hand on hip – but he couldn’t be certain. He never quite knew what was going on inside Doyle’s head and so he made no moves that might shake the working relationship they had.
He lay there on his back, watching Doyle’s face. Doyle, too, was hard, and given their state, Bodie doubted whether either of them would be capable of much – just enough, perhaps, to round off the evening in a release of pleasure.
Doyle stared down at him for a moment longer, then lowered himself fully onto the solid body beneath his and said softly, “Let’s do it, shall we?” Lifting up again a little, he took Bodie’s prick in a firm grasp, then slid his hand up and down the shaft before letting go to slip his fingers round his partner’s balls, causing Bodie to buck and gasp, letting go again to grip his own hardness and Bodie’s together and meld them into one.
“C’mon,” Bodie urged. “More.” It was his fantasy. He slid his hands over Doyle’s bared rump, holding him firmly in place as Doyle began to thrust, slowly at first, then building to a rhythm that held them together. “Yeah,” Bodie grated – at this rate it would take little to finish him – “get to it, Doyle. You can do it,” as his partner pushed harder against him. He felt the thrusts increasing in pace, Doyle sighing and gasping as he made contact, flesh against hard flesh.
It did not take much, just a hiss as Doyle suddenly jerked, holding Bodie close against their bared skin.
And Bodie came, sighing in contentment, and lay there as the feeling gradually faded, leaving him relaxed and complete, Doyle still collapsed on top of him. Bodie wondered if he’d fallen asleep and let him lie, happy that they had – bonded - in this way. Yes, that was the word for it – an intimate way. Eventually he, too, drifted off into sleep.
In the light of the morning, he found himself still on his back on the carpet but now covered with a blanket. Doyle wasn’t around. He seemed to have let himself out of the flat and gone.
***
Now Bodie flicked another look at the man in the driving seat. The odd thing had been that they hadn’t mentioned the occasion since. There had been no sense of guilt, embarrassment or regret. At least not on Bodie’s part. He would have welcomed more. And Doyle didn’t seem to have been fazed by his actions. Just – nothing. Their partnership hadn’t changed, or if it had, they seemed even more in tune with each other, but beyond that, there was a silence which Bodie was somehow loath to penetrate.
Suddenly Cowley’s voice came over the radio. “Transfer occurring. All agents take control.”
3.7 and 4.5 left the car and raced to assist in the bust, taking the firearms and grenades into their possession and rounding up the gang members, frisking them and removing their weapons.
Cowley surveyed the scene with satisfaction. “Well, well. Callaway himself. Take them all back to HQ for questioning.”
But even as he spoke, the gang leader kicked out with his boot at Wilson, the luckless agent who had frisked him, connecting with a kneecap and downing the man, using the confusion to make a dash for his freedom along a country lane.
“Don’t lose Callaway,” Cowley roared out to the squad. If the gang leader escaped, they could lose information vital to the prevention of further criminal dealings of this particular nest of vipers. “Doyle! Bodie! I want him back here - alive!”
Doyle holstered his Browning and raced off after the man, following him down the lane. Bodie thrust his prisoner at Turner for the agent to deal with and took off after his partner. The lane ended almost immediately in a pathway alongside the high brick wall of some country estate.
They could still see Callaway clearly, the path now running between the stands of trees and bushes. No need to draw their guns – the arms dealer had been checked over for weaponry and his revolver removed, along with a stiletto knife. All that was necessary was to catch up with him, and they were gaining on him in spite of his head start.
Callaway reached the slight kink in the track where the bushes spread their foliage and disappeared round them. The CI5 agents ran towards the place, expecting to see the fugitive where the path resumed its arrow-straight line. But Callaway did not reappear.
Doyle slowed down, drawing his Browning Hi-Power. “He must’ve gone into the bushes,” he said quietly to Bodie as his partner came to a halt, likewise drawing his automatic.
They walked cautiously towards the bend in the track, Doyle taking the lead, scanning for any sign of the man, listening for a tell-tale rustle amongst the leaves.
“He’s got to be here somewhere,” Doyle said. “I’m going in through that lot.”
Bodie glanced at the other side of the path. There was no sign that the arms dealer had forded the stream and taken off across a field. They would have spotted him immediately. “Okay. I’ll follow you. Just mind the prickles, eh?”
Doyle nodded and pushed his way through the bushes, the foliage enveloping him like a cloak, and disappeared from sight. Bodie hesitated a moment longer, scanning up and down the path in case Callaway should seize this moment to reappear while the two CI5 agents were searching for him but nobody appeared from out of the bushes and Bodie plunged after his partner into the depths of the thicket.
Doyle emerged onto the edge of a grassy area, more like a garden than a field, surrounded by trees along its boundary. The estate wall seemed to have ended somewhere back alongside the path, or taken a different direction. Of Callaway there was no sign. Not waiting for Bodie, he looked around and could see on the far side of the space a group of four women standing together, obviously chatting to one another. Casting another look round for the missing arms dealer, he holstered his gun, stepped out into the garden and walked towards them. If nothing else, he reasoned, they might’ve seen Callaway in the distance.
The women turned towards him as he came nearer and he realised they were wearing old-fashioned ornate gowns with skirts down to the ground, together with head-dresses. He wondered fleetingly if they were attending a wedding reception at the manor house – it might account for the fancy clothing. They smiled as he approached.
“Did you see a man running out of the trees?” He waved his hand in the direction he had come. “From over there,” and broke off, staring at his arm. The sleeve wasn’t that of the leather jacket he’d been wearing and it ended over a ruffled shirt cuff. Confused, he looked down at himself to see that his jacket had become a green velvet short coat on top of an undershirt shirt with its ruffle. His jeans and Kickers had gone. Instead he was wearing grey hose and boots. His r/t had vanished, as had his gun and shoulder holster, but he sported a dagger at his hip. He blinked and stared again.
One of the women said, “Our lady help my lord …”
“A man,” Doyle tried again, ignoring the impossible. “Did he come out of the trees back there.”
The young woman turned to her companions. “Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.” The four of them smiled distantly at him and moved away, drifting along a path that disappeared behind some shrubs.
They were no help at all, Doyle felt. Nothing the woman had said made any sense to him. Nor could he explain his bizarre clothing. Glancing round, he looked for his partner in the hope of bringing some meaning to this crazy situation. Callaway could have gone in any direction and Cowley would have their hides if they returned without the man.
Bodie, he thought, but 3.7 was nowhere to be seen.
Bodie thrust his way through the greenery and came out in front of a large open gateway in the estate’s wall. Even from there he could see that beyond it the area was thronged with people who on closer observation were wearing some sort of bygone costume. He’d occasionally come across this before. People who spent their spare time dressing up in old costumes and pretending to be soldiers. At least, the men did. What was the organisation’s name? Yes, Sealed Knot. That was it. Spent their weekends being Roundheads and Cavaliers, if he remembered correctly. Why anyone should want to play at soldiers from past English history was beyond him. He didn’t see the point. There was enough strife in the world without dredging up the past. However, each to his own. Where the women fitted into the equation other than as camp followers, he hadn’t a clue.
There were enough people around, he thought irritably, not relishing the prospect of having to find a needle named Callaway in this haystack of humanity. Nor could he see any sign of Doyle in the throng. With a sigh, he slid his Browning back into its holster and spoke into his r/t.
“3.7 to 4.5. Where the hell are you, Doyle?” The transmitter crackled but there was no answer from his partner. With a shrug, he stuck the device back in his jacket pocket and walked into the crowd, scanning the area for either the missing arms dealer or his currently invisible partner. Food stalls, stalls selling all sorts of leatherwork and pottery bowls and cups. Pens of sheep and cattle were set out on either side of a central walkway, and beyond them were entertainers of all sorts. People were shouting out, advertising what they had for sale. It was noisy, and busy with men and women moving to and fro from one stall to another, examining the wares, or stopping to chat with others on their way. Bodie moved closer to that part of the area. A juggler in a multi-coloured costume deftly tossed flaming torches through the air. Further on, a contortionist was fascinating onlookers with his sinuous movements as he supplely bent himself backwards down to the ground before flipping himself over to stand upright, then cartwheeling around the circle of bystanders.
Bodie tried his r/t again. “4.5? Fuck it, Doyle, will you answer the damned thing.” No one glanced in his direction or eyed him oddly, even though his clothes made it obvious he was not a part of whatever was going on. In desperation he stopped one woman by a stall selling pies. “Have you seen a man, about my height, curly hair? Clothes like mine?” It sounded as daft as he felt.
The woman looked at him blankly and went back to her food concerns.
Doyle, he thought irritably, where have you got to?
Doyle watched the women go. He had no idea what to do next, other than to find Bodie. Callaway could wait. He walked back across the grass to where he believed he had entered the garden but nothing seemed quite as it had been. The trees and shrubs stretched away in solid thickness, not at all what he remembered having pushed through. The situation was hopeless. He could wander about till he came across a building, or a signpost that might give him a direction, but that could take time. It made more sense to go after the women and ask them for help, however odd they seemed.
With no obvious strategy to follow, Bodie walked further into where more entertainments were taking place. A crowd had gathered about a slightly raised platform, and he could hear voices, someone speaking to another person. He moved nearer, looking to find out what was going on. In an open area, a man was addressing a group of women, holding a sheet of what looked like paper from which he was reading aloud. Bodie stopped, staring. The speaker had his back turned to the onlookers where Bodie was standing but there was no mistaking that lithe shape and curly hair. It was Doyle, though what he was doing wearing some sort of poncy Robin Hood outfit, Bodie couldn’t imagine, but he admired the way the clothing moulded itself to Doyle’s form. He moved closer. That was Doyle’s voice all right, he’d recognise it anywhere.
“‘Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright …’”
Glancing up, Bodie could now see the women more clearly. No doubt about it, they were definitely young men in drag, not really even trying to pass for females beyond the clothes and headgear. It was all definitely odd.
“‘As doth thy face through tears of mine give light …’”
The speech seemed to have come to an end, for the ‘women’ turned and moved off the platform to disappear behind a stall. Doyle, too, stepped down and walked towards a nearby painted canvas tent. Bodie backed out of the crowd and ran to intercept him.
“Doyle,” Bodie called out but his partner did not turn round. “Wait, will you?” He put on a burst of speed, catching up with 4.5 as he reached the tent. Bodie grabbed his shoulder, spun him round ready to give him hell for not replying to the r/t, and stared, silenced. The man looked like Doyle, he moved with Doyle’s easy grace, he even sounded like Doyle. But he wasn’t Bodie’s partner. This was a stranger.
Doyle walked along the path with flower beds and lawns to either side. Lying on a low wall was a piece of paper with writing on it. He picked it up and read:
“‘Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep;
‘No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
‘So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
‘Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
‘And they thy glory through my grief will show …’”
Grief was the right word for it. Whatever nightmare this was, he was in it and on his own. Wherever Bodie was, it wasn’t here. And now he felt the beginnings of cold fear. The words seemed to sum up his feelings all too clearly. “Oh god, Bodie,” he said aloud, “where are you?”
“Sorry, mate, thought you were someone else.” Bodie’s hand dropped from the man’s shoulder. It was an incredible likeness but – it wasn’t Doyle. The man didn’t even seem to be aware of him but turned back to the tent flap and disappeared into the interior, pulling the flap to behind him, leaving Bodie perplexed. At this moment he couldn’t care where Callaway was but his partner was another matter entirely.
“… god, Bodie, where are you?” He heard the words as if they came from right next to him. Not from the tent into which the other man had vanished, nor from the r/t still in his jacket pocket. He looked around but there was no one, certainly no sign of his partner.
“Doyle?” he said aloud, relieved but puzzled. “At last I can hear you. Why didn’t you answer your r/t earlier? Where are you?” Nothing made much sense but at least they were in contact and hearing 4.5’s voice mattered more than anything to him.
“In a big garden,” Doyle’s voice said in his ear. “Wherever this is, I’ve got to find a way out of here. Where’re you?”
“Dunno,” said Bodie to the air, speaking as though his partner was standing next to him. “Saw someone who looked just like you but it wasn’t you at all. No idea where I am. Seems to be some sort of event. But there’s no garden here. Just lots of people in costume.” He moved away from the tent. “Can you still hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“I can see the estate wall and the gateway where I came in,” Bodie continued. “Can you see it too?”
Whatever was happening, Doyle felt comforted, knowing that somehow his partner was nearby. They had more of a chance now that they could communicate. How they could, he had no idea. It didn’t matter. They just needed to get out of wherever they were. “There’s no wall or gateway here,” he said in reply to Bodie’s question. “There were the trees and then a grassed bit.” He thought for a moment. “I tried earlier but couldn’t see where I’d entered. I’ll go back to there and have another look. Maybe I missed it first time round. Keep talking. That way I’ll know we’re still able to communicate.”
Bodie walked back in the direction of the gateway which he could see in the distance. He ignored the juggler and the stalls with their goods on offer. “Doyle,” he said, “what’s happening? Can you see the bushes? Stop when you get to them. Don’t go through them yet.” He mentally crossed his fingers. “And say something!”
“Did you see four women together?” came the disembodied voice.
“A lot more than that, sunshine,” Bodie replied, “and yeah, I did see some ‘women’, only they weren’t.” Not that that mattered, it was just another quirk of this place. “Where’re you now?” He had reached the wall with the greenery beyond it. There was the holly and the other bush he remembered he had pushed through. “Doyle?”
Doyle retraced his steps along the path to the grassed area where he had encountered the women. On the far side were the trees and bushes. He looked closely. There was definitely a holly bush visible now. Had it been there earlier? He couldn’t remember seeing it when he’d looked before. And Bodie was asking him something. “I’m by the bushes. The holly is here and the other one. I think I came in that way.”
“I can see them too,” his partner’s voice said. “Okay, professor. Ideas?”
“Go back through them?” Doyle suggested. “You’re not here, wherever ‘here’ is.”
“And you’re not here.” Bodie stepped through the gateway and stared at the greenery. “I’m beside the holly, so let’s go through exactly where we came in. But at the same time. And exactly on the same side of the bush,” he added as an afterthought. It was crazy but worth the try.
“On my word, then. When I say ‘go’, we go.”
“Ray?” There was an odd tone to Bodie’s voice. “I …”
“What?”
“Nothing. It can wait. I’ll tell you some other time.”
“Come on, Bodie, let’s do it.” A pause. “Go.” And Doyle plunged through the foliage.
Bodie pushed past the holly bush where he had lost his partner, and life had suddenly felt so much emptier, and emerged onto the trackway. Doyle was standing there, just as he had been before things had happened, tension radiating from him. But 3.7’s world was no longer bleak. Bodie moved the few paces that separated them and gripped Doyle’s shoulder briefly, as much for his own reassurance as for Doyle’s. “You okay, mate?”
Doyle glanced at him but said nothing. Then he looked down, pulled the r/t from his jeans back pocket, replaced it. No longer the odd garb but jeans, and his Kickers. He slid his hand under his leather jacket and removed the Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster, hefted it, then slid it back into place. He looked over at Bodie. “We’ll have to go back and tell Cowley we lost Callaway.”
Bodie nodded. He’d rather face the wrath of the head of CI5 than search for the missing gang leader, wherever Callaway was now … He slanted a look at Doyle, could see the strain in his partner’s eyes, and suspected that he himself looked equally haunted. Whatever had gone on, they both needed to talk it over, come to terms with it. But not here, not this moment. He automatically scanned the distant view of the path again before turning to head back towards the country road, Doyle keeping pace beside him.
They walked back in silence.
As Bodie had expected, the operation was more or less over by the time they got back to the road. The gang members had been loaded into a van and were being driven off to Headquarters, and only a couple of agents were left at the scene. Cowley, apparently, hadn’t waited for their return. No-one reacted as though their reappearance had been delayed in any way.
“You lost him?” Anson raised his eyebrows at their return without Callaway. “Outran you, did he? You two need a refresher course with Macklin. Losing your edge, eh?”
“Fuck off,” Doyle snarled. “Has Cowley gone back to HQ?”
“Yeah.” Anson remained unmoved by Doyle’s outburst of temper. “We haven’t a body to collect along that path, have we?”
“Before it frightens the public,” Lewis added.
“No.” Bodie was tense. “No body. We’re going back to HQ.”
They returned to the Escort tucked away in the side road, and got in. Doyle looked at his car key, then at his partner. “Cowley will want to know what happened.”
“What’s there to tell?” Bodie countered. “We lost him. Nothing more to be said.”
“But where did he go?” Doyle thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “He wasn’t there on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t have disappeared that easily.”
Bodie glanced at him. “Why not? There were plenty of trees and bushes around. He didn’t go down the path or across the fields on the other side – we know that. So he must’ve vanished in between us getting to the spot and going through to find him.”
“Think the Cow’ll be satisfied with that?” Doyle replied. “He’ll want to know down to the last second why we didn’t spot him anywhere. And I haven’t an answer, Bodie.”
“Then tell me what went on.”
“No. Can’t. Not this moment. I don’t understand what happened.”
Bodie shrugged. “Then let’s get going. Too bad if Cowley doesn’t like what he hears – won’t be the first time.” He looked down at the key in Doyle’s hand. “Stick it in, Doyle. No point in sitting here all day.”
Not long back at CI5 HQ, they were summoned to Cowley’s office.
“You’d think he’d’ve given us time to write our report,” Doyle complained. “He’d get a better idea of what went on if he read the facts before questioning us.”
“You know the Old Man. Wants first impressions – thinks he’ll have a better understanding that way. And less chance,” Bodie added with a grin, “of any creative explanations. He’s no fool.”
They entered the office on Cowley’s brisk “Come in” and waited.
“Sit down, will you. This may need some clarification. Anson radioed that you returned without Callaway.”
“Couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” muttered Bodie to his partner.
“Did you have something to say, Bodie?” Cowley asked.
“No, sir.”
Doyle grimaced. “We lost him, sir.”
“How? Dead? Missing? Still at large?”
“We don’t know, sir.” Doyle again.
Bodie kept quiet.
“CI5 doesn’t pay agents to mislay criminals. It should have been a straightforward arrest.” Cowley removed his glasses and laid them on his desk. “So he’s still out there and you have no idea where?”
“No, sir,” said Doyle. “We tried to find him. He didn’t escape anywhere along the path. And we searched through the bushes. No sign of him even on the far side of them.”
“There were a lot of people around on the estate side,” Bodie said suddenly. “Seemed to be having one of those fancy dress events. Teachers and librarians dressing up as soldiers from the past and pretending to fight battles. That sort of thing.”
“Ah.” Cowley eyed him. “I believe they use the term re-enactors.”
“That’ll be it, sir,” Bodie said easily. “They were all wearing strange costumes. Looked a bit like people in a play. But I walked through them. Didn’t spot Callaway anywhere.” Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Doyle turning slightly in his seat to stare at him. He’d need to ask later what had surprised him.
Cowley was watching him intently and Bodie wondered if his boss could be psychic. He hoped not.
“I see,” Cowley continued. “But you could have missed him.”
“I could have, sir,” Bodie admitted.
The CI5 controller suddenly replaced his glasses, picked up his pen and made some notes on the paper in front of him. “No point in labouring the obvious. We lost Callaway and that’s that for now.” He looked over at both of them. “I may need further details after I’ve seen your report. And I want it today, before you leave HQ. Then you’re off-duty till tomorrow morning.”
They nodded in acknowledgement, stood up and walked out of the office, Doyle carefully closing the door behind them.
Further down the corridor and away from anyone, Doyle said, “He let us off lightly.”
“So far,” Bodie agreed. “C’mon, I want to get out of here. Let’s get that report written and then we talk – my place. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer this time, Doyle.”
Doyle glanced round at him and scowled. “I’m goin’ back to my flat. I want a shower and clean clothes. Could do with a beer as well. I don’t live in your pocket, Bodie.”
“You can get those at mine. Half your stuff is in my cupboard. I want to know what happened. You were wound up when we got back on the path. Why? What was going on?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Stop stalling, Doyle. Something really got to you back there. Even just now Cowley thought there was something fishy and unless both of us stick to what we put in the report – you heard the man. He may want ‘further details’. You bet he will and he’ll go on probing till he gets an answer that satisfies him. So we need our stories to match, whatever else went on.”
Doyle shrugged with ill grace. “It makes sense, I suppose. Okay, your place is closer.”
Bodie closed the front door to his flat, went into the kitchen and fetched two cans of beer, one of which he handed to Doyle. “You are allowed to sit down, you know.”
Doyle ignored him and stayed leaning against the sitting room door frame.
“Okay. Tell me your version. Callaway disappeared. I couldn’t see him either. So what?”
Having opened the beer and taken a swig, Doyle asked, “Was any of it true?”
“What?”
“What you said in Cowley’s office. Or did you make all that up just to get him off your back?”
“It’s whatever went on with you we’re talking about,” Bodie countered. “We’ll get to my version in a minute.”
“I told you. I was in some sort of garden and the women I asked if they’d seen Callaway muttered some gibberish and walked away.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah. Except …” Doyle stopped for a moment, took another mouthful of his beer. “It’s daft. I was wearing different clothes. Some sort of costume. My r/t wasn’t there; neither was my gun. And I didn’t imagine any of it.”
With a frown, Bodie asked, “Were they really women?”
“Of course they were women.”
“I meant, they weren’t men in drag, were they?”
Doyle raised both eyebrows. “No.”
Bodie finished his beer and put the can down on a bookshelf. “What I told Cowley was true. There were lots of people around, all wearing some sort of fancy dress. And there were four females standing on some sort of stage. But they were definitely young men dressed up to look like women. A bit like a play. I said so to the Cow. There was a man talking to them.” He fell silent.
“I didn’t see any of that,” Doyle said quietly.
With a deep breath, Bodie continued, “The man had his back to me. I thought – I thought he was you. When he left the stage I followed him, caught up with him just before he disappeared into a canvas tent. The sort you where you can walk in, like a fortune teller’s.”
“Didn’t know you went in for consulting Mystic Meg,” put in Doyle.
Bodie ignored the comment. “But it wasn’t you at all. That’s when I started hearing you speaking to me.” He looked puzzled. “How could you be talking to me if you didn’t have your r/t? You sure it wasn’t switched on and in your pocket?”
“Pocket?” Doyle echoed. “What pocket? I didn’t have any and I’d’ve known if I had my r/t. I tell you, Bodie, it had gone and I still don’t understand how it was there when I got back on the path.”
Bodie looked at him oddly. “I wasn’t bothered by any of it. At least,” he hesitated, “not till I realised that the man was a stranger. I just thought – well, you heard what I said to Cowley.” He raised his hands in a gesture of almost helplessness and incomprehension before letting them fall back to his sides. After a pause he took a deep breath and added, “You ever get scared in this job?”
“Yeah.” Doyle leaned more heavily against the door jamb and looked over at his partner. “You?”
“Yeah,” Bodie said slowly. “More than I like to admit, and more often too. I can’t explain what happened, either. I don’t think I want to know now.”
Doyle put down his empty beer can. “I was shit-scared, not just because I couldn’t explain the clothes or the r/t and gun, but because … I thought I’d lost you. You’d disappeared. The idea of not finding you … It made me realise … About me. About us.”
Bodie stayed silent.
Doyle stared at him. “You know,” he went on after a moment, “we’ve never talked about what happened last Christmas. After the party.”
Bodie didn’t pretend to misunderstand, even though he wasn’t sure what that had to do with their current situation. But if Doyle now felt like talking about it … “No, but you didn’t seem to want to mention it.”
“I thought maybe you didn’t. I didn’t exactly give you any choice in what went on.”
“If I hadn’t liked it, Doyle, I’d’ve stopped you. I wasn’t an unwilling partner, you know. I enjoyed it. Would’ve liked more if you’d wanted it.” He watched Doyle’s face. “I don’t mean as a fuck when there’s no one else available. I wanted more than that.”
“And now?” Doyle’s expression gave nothing away.
“Now? I still want more.” There. His cards were on the table. “But what do you want?”
Doyle closed his eyes for a moment. “D’you think we can hack it? I don’t know, Bodie. There’s a good chance I’ll mess it up. Yeah, I want you, have done for a long time, but I could burn us out so easily. I don’t think I can take this one step at a time.”
“It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it.” Bodie’s grinned wryly. “You want the works, don’t you? The moon and the stars. Wining, dining, red roses …”
“Christ, Bodie, be serious, will you?” Doyle gave a snarl. “You know what I mean.”
“I have a say in this, too, you know,” Bodie told him. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to kiss his partner. Kiss? Kissing was a vulnerability. Too much? Too soon?
Even as he thought this, Doyle straightened up from leaning against the door frame and came forward to hold him, closing the remaining space between them and pressing his lips firmly against Bodie’s with no hesitation.
Bodie kissed him back. “Mm,” he murmured, drawing away to take a breath before sliding his hands over Doyle’s rump to bring their bodies together, feeling the hardness of the prick constrained by the denim of Doyle’s jeans meeting his own equally hard shaft. “Okay,” he managed. “Better do something about this. D’you think we can make it to the bed?”
“It’s that or carpet burns.” Doyle released his grip on his partner. “But I’m not sure …”
“Then let’s get there.” Bodie pushed him in the direction of the bedroom and they moved, collapsing on the bed together, holding each other close, yet trying to release themselves enough from their restricting clothing to find completion. It didn’t take long. They were far too wound up and on edge to stop. Even as Doyle took Bodie’s bared prick in his hand, it was too much and Bodie spurted and came.
He lay there, catching his breath, his arm over his eyes. “Fuck,” he said eventually, “haven’t been that quick off the mark since I was a kid getting his end away. Not one of my better efforts. Sorry.” He felt Doyle giving him a wipe and a consolatory pat before he was tucked back into his clothing. He lifted his arm away from his face, peered across the bed, then reached over to his partner. “Here, let me …”
Doyle stilled his hand and grimaced. “Not sure I’ll make it.” With infinite care he undid his jeans, slowly peeled down the zip, inch by inch.
Bodie slid a hand onto Doyle’s hip to hold him still and with his other hand gradually released him from the tight denim and underwear to take hold of the hard shaft. But a few strokes were enough, Doyle unable to control his body any longer. He clutched at Bodie, muttering, “Told you … couldn’t last. Right pair … we are.”
Bodie sniggered, used the bedspread to wipe both Doyle and his hand before he carefully slipped Doyle’s prick back into his jeans, making no attempt to refasten the zip, and moved to pull him down into a loose embrace. Unlike that occasion at Christmas, he had no intention of falling asleep, to find on waking that Doyle had gone back to his own place. “Doesn’t matter, sunshine. We’ll have time later to do things better. I’m not a one-shot man; don’t suppose you are either. We’ll make a go of this.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” It was uttered with renewed confidence. “You’ll see.”
Whatever had happened on that countryside path, only good had come of it. Definitely for him. And, it seemed, for Doyle as well. He was grateful for that - it had brought them closer together in a dynamism he’d longed for and never expected to have.
Here’s to last Christmas, he toasted silently. And to Callaway, wherever he is. It felt good to lie there for a short while, holding Doyle. But he really wasn’t sleepy and more prosaic matters were beginning to make themselves felt.
“Hey,” he said now to the man resting next to him. “You hungry? Not sure there’s anything in the fridge, ’cause I wasn’t expecting company. It’ll have to be fish and chips from down the road if we want something to eat tonight. Or there’s the Indian, and the local does a decent steak pie.”
Doyle pushed himself up on an elbow and eyed him. “You and your stomach.” But he was smiling.
The tension had gone, Bodie realised. No doubt it would resurface at some point, Doyle being Doyle, and given the job they did, but for now, all was well with their world. And he’d do his damnedest to keep it that way.
Title: The Extreme Part of Time
Author: Felicity M. Parkinson
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes please
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse do not belong to me, I am just borrowing them for fun.
Notes: Originally written for WriteTime 2022, the story prompts being Point of View, or, ‘Breadcrumbing’ (how you lead the reader through the story to discover more about its characters and events as they move through the plot), and, Disguise, or, Inspired by Poetry. Expanded and revised for ‘Discovered in the Tinsel and Glitter’, Discovered in a LiveJournal (DIALJ), November 2024.
Acknowledgements to a 1975 BBC Play of the Month for inspiration, and to Mr Shakespeare for the quotations.
f_m_parkinson, but she will reply to your comments, so please do leave feedback here for her!The trees grew tall on either side of the pathway, their verdant canopies forming an arch that let in shafts of sunlight through the foliage. Between the trunks, bushes of laurel, holly and hawthorn screened the adjacent countryside, here on the edge of the estate, a stream marking pace with the track on one side, forming a break between the fields and the trees. Straight as a die, the gravel arrowed well into the distance to where a laurel and a holly bush, spreading vigorously, created a bend before, in the distance, the path straightened out once more.
The tranquillity of the scene was ruptured as agents 4.5 and 3.7 pounded along the trackway, racing after the fleeing man. The job had at first all gone like a dream. How could anyone have known, only an hour ago, that the operation would end with a criminal running away from the scene and Bodie and Doyle racing after him.
They waited in Doyle’s Escort, tucked out of sight down a lane off the roadway, ready and alert. Acting on a tip-off from one of Stuart’s informants, CI5 knew that some of Callaway’s gang would be making a hand-over on a quiet country road. Nothing suspicious to any passer-by – a van parked in a layby, driver having a drink from his Thermos. But the informant had said that it was an armaments hand-over, presumably transferring from one van to another. Agents were in place, anticipating the moment.
Bodie sat there, aware of Doyle’s profile at the edge of his vision on his right. There was nothing for them to do but wait for Cowley’s signal. Bodie let his thoughts wander, all the while keeping an ear on the chatter from the radio. Agents getting into position, waiting for the hand-over to begin. His mind drifted back to the previous year’s Christmas at CI5. A boozy party for those not on duty or stand-by and he and Doyle had eventually left in a pleasantly mellow state to go back to where Bodie’s current flat was situated. It felt good to be walking through the empty streets, Doyle at his side. No need to say much, they knew that about each other. They didn’t have to, could understand each other with the minimum of actual talk, more a silent communication, as if each of them knew what the other was thinking without putting it into words. It was a situation Bodie had never encountered , not that he minded. Perhaps this was what happened with a partner, and one who could cover your back with such intuition was a definite bonus.
He was not quite certain how it had happened but once inside his flat, he had taken several steps only to find himself on the living room carpet, Doyle pinning him down, unbuttoning and unzipping Bodie’s trousers, pushing his briefs out of the way, baring him to the air, loosening his own clothing to reveal his readiness.
Bodie was hard, ready for it. He had no objections. He’d had sex with men often enough in the past, knew he enjoyed most of what was on offer. And depending on what Doyle had in mind, this could be a fantasy come true. He’d fancied the golly for most the time they’d been partnered, the way Doyle moved his body, the look in his eyes as he worked with Bodie. Sometimes Bodie kidded himself that Doyle was flirting with him – those looks, the way he posed, hand on hip – but he couldn’t be certain. He never quite knew what was going on inside Doyle’s head and so he made no moves that might shake the working relationship they had.
He lay there on his back, watching Doyle’s face. Doyle, too, was hard, and given their state, Bodie doubted whether either of them would be capable of much – just enough, perhaps, to round off the evening in a release of pleasure.
Doyle stared down at him for a moment longer, then lowered himself fully onto the solid body beneath his and said softly, “Let’s do it, shall we?” Lifting up again a little, he took Bodie’s prick in a firm grasp, then slid his hand up and down the shaft before letting go to slip his fingers round his partner’s balls, causing Bodie to buck and gasp, letting go again to grip his own hardness and Bodie’s together and meld them into one.
“C’mon,” Bodie urged. “More.” It was his fantasy. He slid his hands over Doyle’s bared rump, holding him firmly in place as Doyle began to thrust, slowly at first, then building to a rhythm that held them together. “Yeah,” Bodie grated – at this rate it would take little to finish him – “get to it, Doyle. You can do it,” as his partner pushed harder against him. He felt the thrusts increasing in pace, Doyle sighing and gasping as he made contact, flesh against hard flesh.
It did not take much, just a hiss as Doyle suddenly jerked, holding Bodie close against their bared skin.
And Bodie came, sighing in contentment, and lay there as the feeling gradually faded, leaving him relaxed and complete, Doyle still collapsed on top of him. Bodie wondered if he’d fallen asleep and let him lie, happy that they had – bonded - in this way. Yes, that was the word for it – an intimate way. Eventually he, too, drifted off into sleep.
In the light of the morning, he found himself still on his back on the carpet but now covered with a blanket. Doyle wasn’t around. He seemed to have let himself out of the flat and gone.
Now Bodie flicked another look at the man in the driving seat. The odd thing had been that they hadn’t mentioned the occasion since. There had been no sense of guilt, embarrassment or regret. At least not on Bodie’s part. He would have welcomed more. And Doyle didn’t seem to have been fazed by his actions. Just – nothing. Their partnership hadn’t changed, or if it had, they seemed even more in tune with each other, but beyond that, there was a silence which Bodie was somehow loath to penetrate.
Suddenly Cowley’s voice came over the radio. “Transfer occurring. All agents take control.”
3.7 and 4.5 left the car and raced to assist in the bust, taking the firearms and grenades into their possession and rounding up the gang members, frisking them and removing their weapons.
Cowley surveyed the scene with satisfaction. “Well, well. Callaway himself. Take them all back to HQ for questioning.”
But even as he spoke, the gang leader kicked out with his boot at Wilson, the luckless agent who had frisked him, connecting with a kneecap and downing the man, using the confusion to make a dash for his freedom along a country lane.
“Don’t lose Callaway,” Cowley roared out to the squad. If the gang leader escaped, they could lose information vital to the prevention of further criminal dealings of this particular nest of vipers. “Doyle! Bodie! I want him back here - alive!”
Doyle holstered his Browning and raced off after the man, following him down the lane. Bodie thrust his prisoner at Turner for the agent to deal with and took off after his partner. The lane ended almost immediately in a pathway alongside the high brick wall of some country estate.
They could still see Callaway clearly, the path now running between the stands of trees and bushes. No need to draw their guns – the arms dealer had been checked over for weaponry and his revolver removed, along with a stiletto knife. All that was necessary was to catch up with him, and they were gaining on him in spite of his head start.
Callaway reached the slight kink in the track where the bushes spread their foliage and disappeared round them. The CI5 agents ran towards the place, expecting to see the fugitive where the path resumed its arrow-straight line. But Callaway did not reappear.
Doyle slowed down, drawing his Browning Hi-Power. “He must’ve gone into the bushes,” he said quietly to Bodie as his partner came to a halt, likewise drawing his automatic.
They walked cautiously towards the bend in the track, Doyle taking the lead, scanning for any sign of the man, listening for a tell-tale rustle amongst the leaves.
“He’s got to be here somewhere,” Doyle said. “I’m going in through that lot.”
Bodie glanced at the other side of the path. There was no sign that the arms dealer had forded the stream and taken off across a field. They would have spotted him immediately. “Okay. I’ll follow you. Just mind the prickles, eh?”
Doyle nodded and pushed his way through the bushes, the foliage enveloping him like a cloak, and disappeared from sight. Bodie hesitated a moment longer, scanning up and down the path in case Callaway should seize this moment to reappear while the two CI5 agents were searching for him but nobody appeared from out of the bushes and Bodie plunged after his partner into the depths of the thicket.
Doyle emerged onto the edge of a grassy area, more like a garden than a field, surrounded by trees along its boundary. The estate wall seemed to have ended somewhere back alongside the path, or taken a different direction. Of Callaway there was no sign. Not waiting for Bodie, he looked around and could see on the far side of the space a group of four women standing together, obviously chatting to one another. Casting another look round for the missing arms dealer, he holstered his gun, stepped out into the garden and walked towards them. If nothing else, he reasoned, they might’ve seen Callaway in the distance.
The women turned towards him as he came nearer and he realised they were wearing old-fashioned ornate gowns with skirts down to the ground, together with head-dresses. He wondered fleetingly if they were attending a wedding reception at the manor house – it might account for the fancy clothing. They smiled as he approached.
“Did you see a man running out of the trees?” He waved his hand in the direction he had come. “From over there,” and broke off, staring at his arm. The sleeve wasn’t that of the leather jacket he’d been wearing and it ended over a ruffled shirt cuff. Confused, he looked down at himself to see that his jacket had become a green velvet short coat on top of an undershirt shirt with its ruffle. His jeans and Kickers had gone. Instead he was wearing grey hose and boots. His r/t had vanished, as had his gun and shoulder holster, but he sported a dagger at his hip. He blinked and stared again.
One of the women said, “Our lady help my lord …”
“A man,” Doyle tried again, ignoring the impossible. “Did he come out of the trees back there.”
The young woman turned to her companions. “Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.” The four of them smiled distantly at him and moved away, drifting along a path that disappeared behind some shrubs.
They were no help at all, Doyle felt. Nothing the woman had said made any sense to him. Nor could he explain his bizarre clothing. Glancing round, he looked for his partner in the hope of bringing some meaning to this crazy situation. Callaway could have gone in any direction and Cowley would have their hides if they returned without the man.
Bodie, he thought, but 3.7 was nowhere to be seen.
Bodie thrust his way through the greenery and came out in front of a large open gateway in the estate’s wall. Even from there he could see that beyond it the area was thronged with people who on closer observation were wearing some sort of bygone costume. He’d occasionally come across this before. People who spent their spare time dressing up in old costumes and pretending to be soldiers. At least, the men did. What was the organisation’s name? Yes, Sealed Knot. That was it. Spent their weekends being Roundheads and Cavaliers, if he remembered correctly. Why anyone should want to play at soldiers from past English history was beyond him. He didn’t see the point. There was enough strife in the world without dredging up the past. However, each to his own. Where the women fitted into the equation other than as camp followers, he hadn’t a clue.
There were enough people around, he thought irritably, not relishing the prospect of having to find a needle named Callaway in this haystack of humanity. Nor could he see any sign of Doyle in the throng. With a sigh, he slid his Browning back into its holster and spoke into his r/t.
“3.7 to 4.5. Where the hell are you, Doyle?” The transmitter crackled but there was no answer from his partner. With a shrug, he stuck the device back in his jacket pocket and walked into the crowd, scanning the area for either the missing arms dealer or his currently invisible partner. Food stalls, stalls selling all sorts of leatherwork and pottery bowls and cups. Pens of sheep and cattle were set out on either side of a central walkway, and beyond them were entertainers of all sorts. People were shouting out, advertising what they had for sale. It was noisy, and busy with men and women moving to and fro from one stall to another, examining the wares, or stopping to chat with others on their way. Bodie moved closer to that part of the area. A juggler in a multi-coloured costume deftly tossed flaming torches through the air. Further on, a contortionist was fascinating onlookers with his sinuous movements as he supplely bent himself backwards down to the ground before flipping himself over to stand upright, then cartwheeling around the circle of bystanders.
Bodie tried his r/t again. “4.5? Fuck it, Doyle, will you answer the damned thing.” No one glanced in his direction or eyed him oddly, even though his clothes made it obvious he was not a part of whatever was going on. In desperation he stopped one woman by a stall selling pies. “Have you seen a man, about my height, curly hair? Clothes like mine?” It sounded as daft as he felt.
The woman looked at him blankly and went back to her food concerns.
Doyle, he thought irritably, where have you got to?
Doyle watched the women go. He had no idea what to do next, other than to find Bodie. Callaway could wait. He walked back across the grass to where he believed he had entered the garden but nothing seemed quite as it had been. The trees and shrubs stretched away in solid thickness, not at all what he remembered having pushed through. The situation was hopeless. He could wander about till he came across a building, or a signpost that might give him a direction, but that could take time. It made more sense to go after the women and ask them for help, however odd they seemed.
With no obvious strategy to follow, Bodie walked further into where more entertainments were taking place. A crowd had gathered about a slightly raised platform, and he could hear voices, someone speaking to another person. He moved nearer, looking to find out what was going on. In an open area, a man was addressing a group of women, holding a sheet of what looked like paper from which he was reading aloud. Bodie stopped, staring. The speaker had his back turned to the onlookers where Bodie was standing but there was no mistaking that lithe shape and curly hair. It was Doyle, though what he was doing wearing some sort of poncy Robin Hood outfit, Bodie couldn’t imagine, but he admired the way the clothing moulded itself to Doyle’s form. He moved closer. That was Doyle’s voice all right, he’d recognise it anywhere.
“‘Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright …’”
Glancing up, Bodie could now see the women more clearly. No doubt about it, they were definitely young men in drag, not really even trying to pass for females beyond the clothes and headgear. It was all definitely odd.
“‘As doth thy face through tears of mine give light …’”
The speech seemed to have come to an end, for the ‘women’ turned and moved off the platform to disappear behind a stall. Doyle, too, stepped down and walked towards a nearby painted canvas tent. Bodie backed out of the crowd and ran to intercept him.
“Doyle,” Bodie called out but his partner did not turn round. “Wait, will you?” He put on a burst of speed, catching up with 4.5 as he reached the tent. Bodie grabbed his shoulder, spun him round ready to give him hell for not replying to the r/t, and stared, silenced. The man looked like Doyle, he moved with Doyle’s easy grace, he even sounded like Doyle. But he wasn’t Bodie’s partner. This was a stranger.
Doyle walked along the path with flower beds and lawns to either side. Lying on a low wall was a piece of paper with writing on it. He picked it up and read:
‘No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
‘So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
‘Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
‘And they thy glory through my grief will show …’”
Grief was the right word for it. Whatever nightmare this was, he was in it and on his own. Wherever Bodie was, it wasn’t here. And now he felt the beginnings of cold fear. The words seemed to sum up his feelings all too clearly. “Oh god, Bodie,” he said aloud, “where are you?”
“Sorry, mate, thought you were someone else.” Bodie’s hand dropped from the man’s shoulder. It was an incredible likeness but – it wasn’t Doyle. The man didn’t even seem to be aware of him but turned back to the tent flap and disappeared into the interior, pulling the flap to behind him, leaving Bodie perplexed. At this moment he couldn’t care where Callaway was but his partner was another matter entirely.
“… god, Bodie, where are you?” He heard the words as if they came from right next to him. Not from the tent into which the other man had vanished, nor from the r/t still in his jacket pocket. He looked around but there was no one, certainly no sign of his partner.
“Doyle?” he said aloud, relieved but puzzled. “At last I can hear you. Why didn’t you answer your r/t earlier? Where are you?” Nothing made much sense but at least they were in contact and hearing 4.5’s voice mattered more than anything to him.
“In a big garden,” Doyle’s voice said in his ear. “Wherever this is, I’ve got to find a way out of here. Where’re you?”
“Dunno,” said Bodie to the air, speaking as though his partner was standing next to him. “Saw someone who looked just like you but it wasn’t you at all. No idea where I am. Seems to be some sort of event. But there’s no garden here. Just lots of people in costume.” He moved away from the tent. “Can you still hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“I can see the estate wall and the gateway where I came in,” Bodie continued. “Can you see it too?”
Whatever was happening, Doyle felt comforted, knowing that somehow his partner was nearby. They had more of a chance now that they could communicate. How they could, he had no idea. It didn’t matter. They just needed to get out of wherever they were. “There’s no wall or gateway here,” he said in reply to Bodie’s question. “There were the trees and then a grassed bit.” He thought for a moment. “I tried earlier but couldn’t see where I’d entered. I’ll go back to there and have another look. Maybe I missed it first time round. Keep talking. That way I’ll know we’re still able to communicate.”
Bodie walked back in the direction of the gateway which he could see in the distance. He ignored the juggler and the stalls with their goods on offer. “Doyle,” he said, “what’s happening? Can you see the bushes? Stop when you get to them. Don’t go through them yet.” He mentally crossed his fingers. “And say something!”
“Did you see four women together?” came the disembodied voice.
“A lot more than that, sunshine,” Bodie replied, “and yeah, I did see some ‘women’, only they weren’t.” Not that that mattered, it was just another quirk of this place. “Where’re you now?” He had reached the wall with the greenery beyond it. There was the holly and the other bush he remembered he had pushed through. “Doyle?”
Doyle retraced his steps along the path to the grassed area where he had encountered the women. On the far side were the trees and bushes. He looked closely. There was definitely a holly bush visible now. Had it been there earlier? He couldn’t remember seeing it when he’d looked before. And Bodie was asking him something. “I’m by the bushes. The holly is here and the other one. I think I came in that way.”
“I can see them too,” his partner’s voice said. “Okay, professor. Ideas?”
“Go back through them?” Doyle suggested. “You’re not here, wherever ‘here’ is.”
“And you’re not here.” Bodie stepped through the gateway and stared at the greenery. “I’m beside the holly, so let’s go through exactly where we came in. But at the same time. And exactly on the same side of the bush,” he added as an afterthought. It was crazy but worth the try.
“On my word, then. When I say ‘go’, we go.”
“Ray?” There was an odd tone to Bodie’s voice. “I …”
“What?”
“Nothing. It can wait. I’ll tell you some other time.”
“Come on, Bodie, let’s do it.” A pause. “Go.” And Doyle plunged through the foliage.
Bodie pushed past the holly bush where he had lost his partner, and life had suddenly felt so much emptier, and emerged onto the trackway. Doyle was standing there, just as he had been before things had happened, tension radiating from him. But 3.7’s world was no longer bleak. Bodie moved the few paces that separated them and gripped Doyle’s shoulder briefly, as much for his own reassurance as for Doyle’s. “You okay, mate?”
Doyle glanced at him but said nothing. Then he looked down, pulled the r/t from his jeans back pocket, replaced it. No longer the odd garb but jeans, and his Kickers. He slid his hand under his leather jacket and removed the Browning Hi-Power from his shoulder holster, hefted it, then slid it back into place. He looked over at Bodie. “We’ll have to go back and tell Cowley we lost Callaway.”
Bodie nodded. He’d rather face the wrath of the head of CI5 than search for the missing gang leader, wherever Callaway was now … He slanted a look at Doyle, could see the strain in his partner’s eyes, and suspected that he himself looked equally haunted. Whatever had gone on, they both needed to talk it over, come to terms with it. But not here, not this moment. He automatically scanned the distant view of the path again before turning to head back towards the country road, Doyle keeping pace beside him.
They walked back in silence.
As Bodie had expected, the operation was more or less over by the time they got back to the road. The gang members had been loaded into a van and were being driven off to Headquarters, and only a couple of agents were left at the scene. Cowley, apparently, hadn’t waited for their return. No-one reacted as though their reappearance had been delayed in any way.
“You lost him?” Anson raised his eyebrows at their return without Callaway. “Outran you, did he? You two need a refresher course with Macklin. Losing your edge, eh?”
“Fuck off,” Doyle snarled. “Has Cowley gone back to HQ?”
“Yeah.” Anson remained unmoved by Doyle’s outburst of temper. “We haven’t a body to collect along that path, have we?”
“Before it frightens the public,” Lewis added.
“No.” Bodie was tense. “No body. We’re going back to HQ.”
They returned to the Escort tucked away in the side road, and got in. Doyle looked at his car key, then at his partner. “Cowley will want to know what happened.”
“What’s there to tell?” Bodie countered. “We lost him. Nothing more to be said.”
“But where did he go?” Doyle thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “He wasn’t there on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t have disappeared that easily.”
Bodie glanced at him. “Why not? There were plenty of trees and bushes around. He didn’t go down the path or across the fields on the other side – we know that. So he must’ve vanished in between us getting to the spot and going through to find him.”
“Think the Cow’ll be satisfied with that?” Doyle replied. “He’ll want to know down to the last second why we didn’t spot him anywhere. And I haven’t an answer, Bodie.”
“Then tell me what went on.”
“No. Can’t. Not this moment. I don’t understand what happened.”
Bodie shrugged. “Then let’s get going. Too bad if Cowley doesn’t like what he hears – won’t be the first time.” He looked down at the key in Doyle’s hand. “Stick it in, Doyle. No point in sitting here all day.”
Not long back at CI5 HQ, they were summoned to Cowley’s office.
“You’d think he’d’ve given us time to write our report,” Doyle complained. “He’d get a better idea of what went on if he read the facts before questioning us.”
“You know the Old Man. Wants first impressions – thinks he’ll have a better understanding that way. And less chance,” Bodie added with a grin, “of any creative explanations. He’s no fool.”
They entered the office on Cowley’s brisk “Come in” and waited.
“Sit down, will you. This may need some clarification. Anson radioed that you returned without Callaway.”
“Couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” muttered Bodie to his partner.
“Did you have something to say, Bodie?” Cowley asked.
“No, sir.”
Doyle grimaced. “We lost him, sir.”
“How? Dead? Missing? Still at large?”
“We don’t know, sir.” Doyle again.
Bodie kept quiet.
“CI5 doesn’t pay agents to mislay criminals. It should have been a straightforward arrest.” Cowley removed his glasses and laid them on his desk. “So he’s still out there and you have no idea where?”
“No, sir,” said Doyle. “We tried to find him. He didn’t escape anywhere along the path. And we searched through the bushes. No sign of him even on the far side of them.”
“There were a lot of people around on the estate side,” Bodie said suddenly. “Seemed to be having one of those fancy dress events. Teachers and librarians dressing up as soldiers from the past and pretending to fight battles. That sort of thing.”
“Ah.” Cowley eyed him. “I believe they use the term re-enactors.”
“That’ll be it, sir,” Bodie said easily. “They were all wearing strange costumes. Looked a bit like people in a play. But I walked through them. Didn’t spot Callaway anywhere.” Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Doyle turning slightly in his seat to stare at him. He’d need to ask later what had surprised him.
Cowley was watching him intently and Bodie wondered if his boss could be psychic. He hoped not.
“I see,” Cowley continued. “But you could have missed him.”
“I could have, sir,” Bodie admitted.
The CI5 controller suddenly replaced his glasses, picked up his pen and made some notes on the paper in front of him. “No point in labouring the obvious. We lost Callaway and that’s that for now.” He looked over at both of them. “I may need further details after I’ve seen your report. And I want it today, before you leave HQ. Then you’re off-duty till tomorrow morning.”
They nodded in acknowledgement, stood up and walked out of the office, Doyle carefully closing the door behind them.
Further down the corridor and away from anyone, Doyle said, “He let us off lightly.”
“So far,” Bodie agreed. “C’mon, I want to get out of here. Let’s get that report written and then we talk – my place. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer this time, Doyle.”
Doyle glanced round at him and scowled. “I’m goin’ back to my flat. I want a shower and clean clothes. Could do with a beer as well. I don’t live in your pocket, Bodie.”
“You can get those at mine. Half your stuff is in my cupboard. I want to know what happened. You were wound up when we got back on the path. Why? What was going on?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Stop stalling, Doyle. Something really got to you back there. Even just now Cowley thought there was something fishy and unless both of us stick to what we put in the report – you heard the man. He may want ‘further details’. You bet he will and he’ll go on probing till he gets an answer that satisfies him. So we need our stories to match, whatever else went on.”
Doyle shrugged with ill grace. “It makes sense, I suppose. Okay, your place is closer.”
Bodie closed the front door to his flat, went into the kitchen and fetched two cans of beer, one of which he handed to Doyle. “You are allowed to sit down, you know.”
Doyle ignored him and stayed leaning against the sitting room door frame.
“Okay. Tell me your version. Callaway disappeared. I couldn’t see him either. So what?”
Having opened the beer and taken a swig, Doyle asked, “Was any of it true?”
“What?”
“What you said in Cowley’s office. Or did you make all that up just to get him off your back?”
“It’s whatever went on with you we’re talking about,” Bodie countered. “We’ll get to my version in a minute.”
“I told you. I was in some sort of garden and the women I asked if they’d seen Callaway muttered some gibberish and walked away.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah. Except …” Doyle stopped for a moment, took another mouthful of his beer. “It’s daft. I was wearing different clothes. Some sort of costume. My r/t wasn’t there; neither was my gun. And I didn’t imagine any of it.”
With a frown, Bodie asked, “Were they really women?”
“Of course they were women.”
“I meant, they weren’t men in drag, were they?”
Doyle raised both eyebrows. “No.”
Bodie finished his beer and put the can down on a bookshelf. “What I told Cowley was true. There were lots of people around, all wearing some sort of fancy dress. And there were four females standing on some sort of stage. But they were definitely young men dressed up to look like women. A bit like a play. I said so to the Cow. There was a man talking to them.” He fell silent.
“I didn’t see any of that,” Doyle said quietly.
With a deep breath, Bodie continued, “The man had his back to me. I thought – I thought he was you. When he left the stage I followed him, caught up with him just before he disappeared into a canvas tent. The sort you where you can walk in, like a fortune teller’s.”
“Didn’t know you went in for consulting Mystic Meg,” put in Doyle.
Bodie ignored the comment. “But it wasn’t you at all. That’s when I started hearing you speaking to me.” He looked puzzled. “How could you be talking to me if you didn’t have your r/t? You sure it wasn’t switched on and in your pocket?”
“Pocket?” Doyle echoed. “What pocket? I didn’t have any and I’d’ve known if I had my r/t. I tell you, Bodie, it had gone and I still don’t understand how it was there when I got back on the path.”
Bodie looked at him oddly. “I wasn’t bothered by any of it. At least,” he hesitated, “not till I realised that the man was a stranger. I just thought – well, you heard what I said to Cowley.” He raised his hands in a gesture of almost helplessness and incomprehension before letting them fall back to his sides. After a pause he took a deep breath and added, “You ever get scared in this job?”
“Yeah.” Doyle leaned more heavily against the door jamb and looked over at his partner. “You?”
“Yeah,” Bodie said slowly. “More than I like to admit, and more often too. I can’t explain what happened, either. I don’t think I want to know now.”
Doyle put down his empty beer can. “I was shit-scared, not just because I couldn’t explain the clothes or the r/t and gun, but because … I thought I’d lost you. You’d disappeared. The idea of not finding you … It made me realise … About me. About us.”
Bodie stayed silent.
Doyle stared at him. “You know,” he went on after a moment, “we’ve never talked about what happened last Christmas. After the party.”
Bodie didn’t pretend to misunderstand, even though he wasn’t sure what that had to do with their current situation. But if Doyle now felt like talking about it … “No, but you didn’t seem to want to mention it.”
“I thought maybe you didn’t. I didn’t exactly give you any choice in what went on.”
“If I hadn’t liked it, Doyle, I’d’ve stopped you. I wasn’t an unwilling partner, you know. I enjoyed it. Would’ve liked more if you’d wanted it.” He watched Doyle’s face. “I don’t mean as a fuck when there’s no one else available. I wanted more than that.”
“And now?” Doyle’s expression gave nothing away.
“Now? I still want more.” There. His cards were on the table. “But what do you want?”
Doyle closed his eyes for a moment. “D’you think we can hack it? I don’t know, Bodie. There’s a good chance I’ll mess it up. Yeah, I want you, have done for a long time, but I could burn us out so easily. I don’t think I can take this one step at a time.”
“It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it.” Bodie’s grinned wryly. “You want the works, don’t you? The moon and the stars. Wining, dining, red roses …”
“Christ, Bodie, be serious, will you?” Doyle gave a snarl. “You know what I mean.”
“I have a say in this, too, you know,” Bodie told him. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to kiss his partner. Kiss? Kissing was a vulnerability. Too much? Too soon?
Even as he thought this, Doyle straightened up from leaning against the door frame and came forward to hold him, closing the remaining space between them and pressing his lips firmly against Bodie’s with no hesitation.
Bodie kissed him back. “Mm,” he murmured, drawing away to take a breath before sliding his hands over Doyle’s rump to bring their bodies together, feeling the hardness of the prick constrained by the denim of Doyle’s jeans meeting his own equally hard shaft. “Okay,” he managed. “Better do something about this. D’you think we can make it to the bed?”
“It’s that or carpet burns.” Doyle released his grip on his partner. “But I’m not sure …”
“Then let’s get there.” Bodie pushed him in the direction of the bedroom and they moved, collapsing on the bed together, holding each other close, yet trying to release themselves enough from their restricting clothing to find completion. It didn’t take long. They were far too wound up and on edge to stop. Even as Doyle took Bodie’s bared prick in his hand, it was too much and Bodie spurted and came.
He lay there, catching his breath, his arm over his eyes. “Fuck,” he said eventually, “haven’t been that quick off the mark since I was a kid getting his end away. Not one of my better efforts. Sorry.” He felt Doyle giving him a wipe and a consolatory pat before he was tucked back into his clothing. He lifted his arm away from his face, peered across the bed, then reached over to his partner. “Here, let me …”
Doyle stilled his hand and grimaced. “Not sure I’ll make it.” With infinite care he undid his jeans, slowly peeled down the zip, inch by inch.
Bodie slid a hand onto Doyle’s hip to hold him still and with his other hand gradually released him from the tight denim and underwear to take hold of the hard shaft. But a few strokes were enough, Doyle unable to control his body any longer. He clutched at Bodie, muttering, “Told you … couldn’t last. Right pair … we are.”
Bodie sniggered, used the bedspread to wipe both Doyle and his hand before he carefully slipped Doyle’s prick back into his jeans, making no attempt to refasten the zip, and moved to pull him down into a loose embrace. Unlike that occasion at Christmas, he had no intention of falling asleep, to find on waking that Doyle had gone back to his own place. “Doesn’t matter, sunshine. We’ll have time later to do things better. I’m not a one-shot man; don’t suppose you are either. We’ll make a go of this.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” It was uttered with renewed confidence. “You’ll see.”
Whatever had happened on that countryside path, only good had come of it. Definitely for him. And, it seemed, for Doyle as well. He was grateful for that - it had brought them closer together in a dynamism he’d longed for and never expected to have.
Here’s to last Christmas, he toasted silently. And to Callaway, wherever he is. It felt good to lie there for a short while, holding Doyle. But he really wasn’t sleepy and more prosaic matters were beginning to make themselves felt.
“Hey,” he said now to the man resting next to him. “You hungry? Not sure there’s anything in the fridge, ’cause I wasn’t expecting company. It’ll have to be fish and chips from down the road if we want something to eat tonight. Or there’s the Indian, and the local does a decent steak pie.”
Doyle pushed himself up on an elbow and eyed him. “You and your stomach.” But he was smiling.
The tension had gone, Bodie realised. No doubt it would resurface at some point, Doyle being Doyle, and given the job they did, but for now, all was well with their world. And he’d do his damnedest to keep it that way.
Title: The Extreme Part of Time
Author: Felicity M. Parkinson
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes please
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse do not belong to me, I am just borrowing them for fun.
Notes: Originally written for WriteTime 2022, the story prompts being Point of View, or, ‘Breadcrumbing’ (how you lead the reader through the story to discover more about its characters and events as they move through the plot), and, Disguise, or, Inspired by Poetry. Expanded and revised for ‘Discovered in the Tinsel and Glitter’, Discovered in a LiveJournal (DIALJ), November 2024.
Acknowledgements to a 1975 BBC Play of the Month for inspiration, and to Mr Shakespeare for the quotations.
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Date: 2024-12-13 11:36 am (UTC)That was compelling reading! It did remind me of those one-shot TV plays, too.
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Date: 2024-12-13 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-13 12:13 pm (UTC)Thankyou.
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Date: 2024-12-13 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-13 05:09 pm (UTC)Thank you for this great story! I really enjoyed it. 😀 Happy holidays!
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Date: 2024-12-13 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-13 07:44 pm (UTC)A very intriguing story with a satisfactory ending. Great! :-)
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Date: 2024-12-13 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-13 07:51 pm (UTC)Oh that was brilliant! Thank you. A lovely read with my morning coffee. But--my mind goes--what happens next? Do they go back looking for the fugitive? Maybe hand in hand going through the brush so they don't lose each other?
See what you've done?? I'll be musing all day!
Thank you again. I enjoyed that.🤩
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Date: 2024-12-13 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-14 07:57 am (UTC)Wow, that was amazing. Thank you!!!
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Date: 2024-12-14 08:04 am (UTC)I'm glad that the story worked for you and that you enjoyed it.
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Date: 2024-12-14 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-12-14 11:43 pm (UTC)Very pleased you liked it and that it intrigued you. That was the idea behind writing it.
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Date: 2024-12-15 10:40 pm (UTC)Great story! I quite enjoyed it. Thank you!
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Date: 2024-12-16 06:39 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it. That makes my efforts worthwhile.
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Date: 2024-12-31 06:58 am (UTC)What a wonderfully intriguing adventure! I loved the way you blended the Lads' world (and voices) as we know them, with something otherworldly. Pure magic!
Thank you for sharing and Happy New Year!
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Date: 2024-12-31 05:07 pm (UTC)Delighted that this story worked for you. It was certainly interesting to write, combining the different worlds (or whatever they were). Thank you for the compliments, and a Happy New Year to you.