I don't seem to be able to write anything but drabbles in Pros yet, but I'm trying!

The titles are lyrics from three well-known Clash songs: London Calling, Guns of Brixton, and Rock the Casbah.




London Calling

When the phone rang, he knew.

He tried to will it to stillness. Picked up, unable to bear either sound or silence.

"Bodie."

"Guilty. All counts." Cowley's voice was blank, stripped.

He'd known, he'd expected it, but still Bodie felt reality slide.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. He forced himself to breathe, and wondered why.

"Damn."

"Aye, damn. Of all my men—better all round if he'd died when he took those bullets."

"Same result in the end, sir."

"How's that?"

"Told him once: corruption's where the worms are. This way just takes a bit longer."


*****


Shot Down on the Pavement

The bastards shoved her out the door and left her to die on the stoop.

I could have told her: people like us are pawns, and when the hard men don't need you any more, you're expendable. I could have spit on her and walked away, let her bleed out like a dog.

Ray wouldn't like that. Even if he never lives to find out.

Her hand's cold. I can feel the nicks and calluses left by her tools. Pulse even weaker than his was.

I can't hold Doyle's hand. I'll hold hers. He'll understand.


******


That Crazy Casbah Sound

It was the sixth bomb that finally broke Doyle's nerve. They'd spent the morning scrambling around London, always behind, always arriving too late for all but the body count. Now he leaned against the Capri, grey, trembling, thousand yard stare fixed on the blood running along the gutter. Bodie, who'd seen worse, though not often, stepped in front of him, grabbing his hair, forcing his head down into the curve of Bodie's neck.

"I can hear it dripping," Doyle mumbled.

Bodie turned, pushing Doyle's head closer until one ear rested directly against his carotid.

"Hear this."