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But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

-- Bill Joel

February 22.
Tuesday, 12.05 pm

Bodie glanced at his watch as the nurse came in to do her quarterly obs. Five minutes late this time -- she must be a bit busy. She glanced up once at Bodie as she began her work but they'd long since exhausted their supply of small talk and didn't make any further effort. Instead, Bodie settled back in his chair -- the one he'd nicked from the rest room down the corridor -- and stuck his feet up on the coffee table in front of him (also nicked -- or rather borrowed). He put his elbow on the arm rest and gazed out the window to watch faint flecks of snow drift into the compound.

Less than twenty four hours ago, such a sight would have sent him spiralling into a black depression. Now, he could only imagine Doyle's incredible journey.

Never over the last five years had he ever had cause to question Doyle's courage -- but now, he could only be awed by it. It was the kind of story that earned bravery medals and newspaper reports. Already, the CO of the camp had been in to pay his respects -- even though Doyle hadn't actually woken since last night.

Cowley had been in too, just after breakfast. He'd had a few words with the doctor then shuffled off back to work with instructions of how Doyle was to be moved to a London hospital that afternoon. Bodie was to stay with Doyle.

Yeah, well, sometimes even Bodie got good orders to follow.

It had only taken him an hour to get to sleep last. An hour during which his mind had only slowly drifted down from the peak at which it had been resting for the hours before that. But there had been this blind comforting presence in a room a stone's throw away and apparently, that had been all his subconscious had required to give him the first decent sleep since that awful night when Doyle had walked out on him.

But right now, he didn't care about any of that. It was over. The nightmare was over and Doyle was alive -- pretty much in one piece -- and would get better. One day, some time in the future, Bodie would hear that wicked laugh again, would see those eyes flash with one of his moods. It would happen.

Knowing he was grinning like an idiot, Bodie turned his gaze back to the bed as the nurse finished up. Doyle's face looked a little healthier in the daylight streaming through the window and Bodie gazed at him knowing for certain that he had never seen anything more exquisitely beautiful in all his life. The auburn locks were clean and laid out on the pillow, a softer down that the one wrapped in linen. The straight nose was a little red along the ridge, probably from windburn. The full lips were still cracked from exposure, but already looking better than last night. Bodie wished he could kiss them better. The nurse left the room and closed the door quietly behind her but even so, the noise brought some life to Doyle. His eyelids flickered briefly, stilled -- then opened. Bodie was close enough to see the gaze was much clearer now.

He resisted the temptation -- as he had since he'd first come into this room - to grab Doyle up in a hug. No need for such things. Not now.

"Mornin'"

Doyle blinked and turned his head. He stared for a moment before making any response. "Morning."

Bodie got up. He reached under the bed and pulled the lever to raise the angle a little. Doyle watched him the whole time. Feeling no pain at all, Bodie grinned, "I'm Bodie."

"I figured you had to be." His eyes left Bodie for a moment, looking for something.

"Water?"

"Thanks." Bodie lifted the glass and put the straw up so Doyle could drink.

"Thanks. Much better." Again the eyes were on Bodie, cool, serious and patient -- so he pulled up a nearby stool and sat down. "How do you feel now?"

"You came last night, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"Cowley got you here. You're my... partner?"

"Right again."

"You're not bothered that I don't remember you?"

Bodie shrugged and ventured a smile, "Won't say I'm not a little wounded. We are talking five years here."

Five years and one evening in particular. Was it possible that not only had Doyle been brought back to him -- but that he would be mercifully unmindful of the events that had driven him away in the first place? Would Bodie get a second chance? An opportunity to undo the mistake he'd made? Two miracles for the price of one? Living without Doyle's love was a lot easier than living without him at all.

"I don't understand," Doyle said into the silence.

"What?"

"If we were together five years, why don't I remember you? When I saw you last night, I swear it was for the first time -- but I remembered Cowley, the moment I saw him. I knew exactly who he was, could even remember getting told off by him a couple of times."

"Was I in any of those scenes?" Bodie asked gently.

"Should you be?"

"Well, we usually got told off at the same time."

"But not always?"

"No."

Doyle swallowed again and Bodie helped him to some more water. He sat back and allowed his gaze to drift to the bandaged hands.

"Frostbite." Bodie glanced up to find Doyle's green gaze on him again. In a way, it was a little unsettling -- there was no sign of recognition there at all. Where Bodie was ready to slip back into their old patterns of speech and communication, Doyle had nothing. Bodie was a complete stranger to him. He'd have to tread carefully for a while. At least until Doyle began to remember more.

"Is it bad? The frostbite?"

Doyle frowned, "They say I won't lose any fingers or toes, so I guess I've been lucky on more than one score."

"You and me both, sunshine," Bodie murmured before he could stop himself -- but Doyle only smiled -- then raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"I remember... sunshine. Somebody calling me sunshine. Would that be you?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Bodie grinned again.

Perhaps this wouldn't take so long after all. In perhaps only a few weeks, Doyle would put all the pieces back together again and then there would only be the weeks of physical rehab before Doyle could be back on the job and life could start again. Except -- Doyle would put all the pieces back together. Every single one. God, what idiot makes an assumption that mistakes can be undone! Of course Doyle would remember -- and things would never go back to the way they'd been. Yes, Doyle was alive -- and that was more important than anything in the world -- but Bodie staying around here was only going to hasten that one memory's return. He came quickly to his feet.

"What's wrong?" Doyle was frowning at him, those steady green eyes holding him in his place for a moment. For three weeks, he thought he'd never see those eyes again -- and now he was getting ready to walk away by choice. Was he really that stupid? No! He couldn't take back what had happened, but he sure as hell could make certain he didn't compound the error. He'd already made the mistake once, of putting his own needs ahead of Doyle's. He wasn't about to do it a second time. And when Doyle did remember, there would be a replay of the rejection, the tearing up of his heart. He didn't need to go through a repeat performance to know it hurt too much. This whole thing: it had hurt too much.

"Nothing's wrong." Bodie hid his thoughts and smiled genuinely, and at that face, it wasn't difficult. "I just have to go to the little boy's room. Back soon."

Bodie reached the corridor and stopped, twisting the thing around inside once more, just to make sure it was the right decision. He had to be certain because half of him wanted to go straight back in and be with Doyle -- regardless of how painful the consequences might be. No. There was only one thing he could do, decently and with any honour he might have left. What he'd meant to do from the beginning. Resign.

5.40 pm

Doyle closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of this new hospital, the third in as many days. For all that he remembered hating hospitals, this one didn't sound too bad. Lots of squeaky rubber shoes on vinyl, laughter echoing down the corridor, metal trays and trolleys and children playing outside below his room. At least this place felt alive. Stanfield had been positively maudlin -- especially with all the damned senior officers in the place trouping in to salute his courage.

Beyond the walls he could hear sounds from London, a rumble lying beneath everything else, a permanent counterpoint to life in general -- and his in particular. Oh, yes, he remembered London.

He'd asked them to move his bed close to the window and now he opened his eyes and gazed out at the darkness. The nights were still so long, even though March was only a week away. From here, he could see the dome of Saint Paul's lit with a yellow glow, other points sparkling behind it. To the left, the famous gold statue above the Old Bailey; Justice, her eyes blinded, her hands meting out fairly to all.

Almost obscured at this angle was Tower Bridge, lit like a Christmas Tree, the Tower itself a white block beside it.

All familiar, just as it should be.

So why were there still those tendrils of fear wrapped around his gut? Why could he not shake off the feeling that one of the things he was forgetting was so important, that his life depended on remembering it?

He'd asked Cowley, of course. The Old Man had turned up minutes after he'd settled in here. He'd asked Doyle a few questions, testing his mental agility against yesterday, probed to see if any more memories had surfaced and had prepared to go. That's when Doyle had asked if he'd been involved with any important cases over the last couple of months. Anything that might give him this feeling. The answer had been a disappointing no.

Then Cowley had gone and Susan and Jax had turned up with flowers and fruit and a card signed by the whole squad. Doyle had looked at the names, only remembering a few - though some of the others pricked in the background, comforting him that he would certainly remember soon.

It had been Susan who had told him of the memorial service held in his memory, of who had turned up, what people had said.

It was a little weird, but Doyle felt a little comforted after they'd gone. Not too sure why.

And then an hour ago: Murphy.

For the first minute or so, Doyle had struggled with a name, knowing the long lean face and pale blue eyes were familiar -- but then the man had smiled and almost immediately, Doyle had picked it all up. Still a few gaps -- but it was mostly there.

Murphy had shown him the newspaper. Page 4. A picture only of Russell -- not Doyle -- and his account of how his skiing companion, an unnamed CI5 agent, had saved his life. Truth was, seeing it all in print like that made it seem so much more heroic that it had felt at the time. At the time, it was just bloody hard, day in day out. Every minute not knowing if they would live or die. Heroics just hadn't come into it.

"Would've been front page," Murphy had said, "but the Old Man squashed it -- as well as refusing to let them print your name. When they give you a medal, mate, it will all be behind closed doors."

"Knowing Cowley, I'd be lucky to get that much."

Murphy laughed, "I can see your memory's not in too bad nick. How's the frostbite?"

"Better than it could have been. Sam made me buy quality gear before he'd let me anywhere near the snow -- so in my mind, he's the real hero."

Murphy came around the bed and peered closely at the traction equipment, "And this?"

"Simple bad luck," Doyle replied with a grin. "As they were taking me off the chopper at Glasgow, one of the porters slipped on the ice and I fell, wrenching my knee. It'll be up like that for another day, I'm told. If I was in any condition to be walking, I'd be doing it on crutches."

Murphy laughed, "Considering you could have broken every bone in your body, I think I'd call it good luck. You know most broken bones in this country result from skiing accidents. That's why I never go. Don't like danger, myself."

"So why are you still in CI5?"

As Murphy chuckled and turned to spy the view, Doyle experienced a vague frisson of fear, of déjà vu. Where had he heard those words before and why would they bother him since they'd obviously been said to a fellow agent?

"Murphy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know... Bodie?"

"Sure. As long as you have."

The other man had turned now and was facing him with a languid expression that didn't appear to be quite as honest as it should be.

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Dunno. I assume back at Central. Why?"

Doyle frowned, "Well, Cowley said we were partners -- but I don't remember him at all. He came to Stanfield last night, was there in the morning when I woke up, said he was going for a pee -- and never came back. Nobody has said a word about him since and I can't help wondering if something has happened and there's a conspiracy of silence because I'm sick. If something's happened to him, I'd rather like to know. I mean, it's pretty safe. I don't remember anything about him so if he's been killed or something, you won't spark off a relapse."

Murphy was watching him with a rigid expression, eyes bright and wide and hiding a whole host of things. Eventually, he swallowed and nodded, "Nobody's hiding anything from you, Ray. Bodie is alive and well, I promise you."

Yes, Doyle could believe that, read it from Murphy's eyes. "And?"

"And I don't know any more than that."

Which was a lie.

"But," Murphy put his hand up, reading Doyle's expression, "I heard him in Cowley's office this afternoon. They were having in argument."

"What about?"

"I don't know. I just heard the shouting."

And Murphy wouldn't say more, no matter how Doyle prodded him. Eventually, Murphy, promising to bring Kathy with him tomorrow, had left him alone to gaze out the window at the wonderfully familiar sight of London.

It would be at least a week before the doctors would let him get up and walk - and until then, painkillers would be his staple diet. Then would be a long stretch of rehab, then retraining and retesting as Cowley determined if he was fit enough - physically and mentally -- to rejoin the squad.

Four or five weeks. Perhaps a little longer. But what would be waiting for him? A partner he didn't remember?

And what would happen if he never remembered? Where would he go home to then?

6.00 pm

Cowley arrived back in his office and would have happily slammed the door behind him if Kate Ross hadn't been waiting for him. Astute woman that she was, she instantly read the anger on his face and refrained from commenting on it immediately. That gave Cowley the moment he needed to get his ire under control so she wouldn't be unfairly inflicted with it.

He got behind his desk and sank into his chair. He removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on.

"And when was the last time you had a holiday?"

Kate Ross's voice spread across his mood like honey onto fresh bread. The woman had little extraverted personality, but she could be as cunning as a fox when she wanted and as smooth as any politician. She knew people. That was, after all, her job.

Cowley treated the question as rhetorical. He sat back, laced his fingers together and said, "Your report on Doyle?"

She smiled and shook her head, accepting the evasion, "Preliminary only at this stage of course. I will need to spend some time with him to help him over the psychological effects of his ordeal -- plus there's a bit of testing and observation to be done with his memory. However, considering everything he's been through, he's remarkably fit."

"Remarkable? How?"

Kate shrugged, "It's really only at times like this that you, George, begin to see just how tough these men of yours are. Not just physically. If I hadn't already marked him as such prior to this, after the last three weeks, I would immediately point Doyle out as perhaps the strongest character on your squad."

Cowley couldn't avoid wincing and glanced away. The drinks cabinet sang to him from the corner and he hesitated only a moment before getting up and heading in that direction. He was always very careful about drinking in front of Kate; she had a habit of watching everybody she was around -- and didn't spare him simply because he was the boss.

She continued talking, "You have seen him since he transferred to London. What do you think?"

"Och, I agree with you wholeheartedly."

"Then what's the matter?"

Cowley poured out two slim measures of Laphroig and turned to face her squarely. "The matter is his other half, Master Bodie -- the man who is in competition for Doyle's title as the toughest man on the squad."

Kate rolled her eyes, took the glass from him and touched the liquid to her lips. "Well, what has he done now?"

"Resigned."

"What?" Whisky forgotten, Kate now sat forward as Cowley regained his seat. "Whatever for? I would have thought he'd be well on the way to recovery now that Doyle is back. What did he say?"

Cowley shrugged, "That he was tired of the job and didn't want to do it any more."

"Rubbish!"

"That's what I said."

"But he did try to resign before Doyle came back, didn't he?"

With a big sigh, Cowley nodded, "And it wasn't the first time he's tried that on me. I've been in this job long enough not to take everything that young man says too seriously."

"So what did you do?"

"I suspended him. Told him to go back to the hospital and help Doyle regain his memory and once he was back on his feet, we'd sit down and have a wee chat about Bodie's future with this organisation."

Kate's eyes sparkled with anticipation, "And?"

"As I discovered, that was about the worst thing I could have said - though I'm damned if I know why. Och, Bodie's been a minefield for months now. I've lost count of the times I've told him to go see you. Somehow in the back of my mind, I thought Doyle would sort him out -- but then, Doyle disappeared, didn't he? And the problems we had with Bodie suddenly became so much more serious."

"Yes, I know."

"You do?" Cowley glanced up, more than a little surprised. Did Kate Ross have sources he was unaware of?

The good doctor probably read his thoughts but instead of answering directly, sat back and steepled her fingers together. "When you put those two together at the start, you knew what was going to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"They balance each other out. It was always there, in their personalities. We all saw it, we all knew that it would be a good and productive teaming. I'll grant you, it has probably developed beyond what any of us could have imagined and I suspect that might have something to do with Bodie's problem now."

"I'm sorry, Kate," Cowley shook his head, "you'll have to explain it more than that."

"Bodie has always had a problem confronting how he feels about things. He admits it openly -- when he doesn't feel threatened. That's why he ran away from home, why he left Africa, why he left the SAS. Each progressive step has marked a change in his attitude -- not just towards something new -- but away from something he didn't like."

"Are you telling me he runs away?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"And another way?"

Kate Ross smiled in her own special way, "He believes the actual solution to most difficult emotional situations is to physically remove himself from the action. To not be there any more. To pack up and start again elsewhere, where those problems do not exist, where he no longer has to feel the way he does."

"Is that what he's doing now?"

She shrugged, "I don't know. Perhaps. It could be any one of a dozen different reasons -- but the point is, his resignation is proof that he considers this a problem of serious proportions and that he can see no other way out. Neither you nor I believe he really wants out of CI5 -- but he's willing to sacrifice the squad to solve this problem."

"Then I was right and this is serious." Cowley nodded and emptied his glass. "I'm a little comforted to know that all that anger I saw from him this afternoon wasn't entirely meant for me alone."

A small laughed escaped Kate. "So? What happens now?"

"What would you suggest -- since nothing I say appears to be having any affect. I do want those men back, I promise you. As much for their sake as the squad's."

Kate remembered her glass and this time, took a good swallow. She placed the unfinished whisky onto the desk before her and folded her arms. "I'll work with Doyle as discussed. I'll reserve my complete judgement until I've spent more than an hour with him, but at this stage, I think the key is getting Doyle up and well -- with his memory intact."

"Will that help Bodie?"

"Absolutely. If Bodie is trying to avoid Doyle for some reason, he won't be able to once Doyle is up and moving around. That's where we concentrate our efforts. In the meantime, I'd keep an eye on Bodie if I were you. Suspended or not, he could get himself into a lot of trouble."

Yes, Cowley remembered. All too well. "Aye. Well, let me know how Doyle is going and I'll worry about Bodie."

***

March 2.
Wednesday, 3 pm

By this time, he should have developed some kind of aversion to the bitter cold of the outdoors -- at least, that's what Kate Ross had told him -- but all the same, Doyle could only stand sitting inside the hospital for a few hours at a time before he badgered and cajoled either a nurse or one of his visitors to wheel him outside to breathe in the not so fresh London air.

And he would have still another week at least where he had to depend on those around him to do the simplest of things. Feeding himself was impossible, walking was unthinkable -- and as for the really personal things? Well, nurses just didn't get paid enough, and that's all there was to it.

But he was healing. Slowly, but surely. Of course, the doctors marvelled at his rate of recovery, but when you're stuck inside a cold room with painted concrete walls and everything you do has to be done by somebody else, the rate of recovery, no matter how fast, was always going to be too slow for him. They'd promised they'd try taking the bandages off his hands this afternoon and he couldn't help it, he kept glancing at Kate Ross, wishing she would finish with her damned questions and let him get on with it.

Of course, she sensed his impatience. "Whether it's done now or in an hour, Doyle, won't make any difference. It's not as if my questions aren't equally important."

They sat on the roof of the hospital, in a small sheltered alcove right next to the helipad. The doctor had about three coats on, a big scarf and a thick woolly hat pulled down almost to her eyes. The nurses had also rugged Doyle up and the truth was, he was glad; it was damned chilly out here today. Almost as cold as...

"As what?"

He looked up blinking. "Pardon?"

Her voice dropped, "Today is as cold as?"

He knew she was here to help him, with Cowley's blessing, but sometimes, her probing questions left him more unsettled than otherwise. It was hard to see how it could do him any good, prattling on about the days spent trudging through the snow, dragging Russell behind him, not knowing whether he'd live or die.

With a sigh, he looked away, his gaze ranging across the grey bleak London skyline. "I think I've had enough."

Not one to push too hard, Kate nodded and rubbed her hands together for circulation. "We can start again tomorrow."

"No. I mean, I think I've had enough permanently."

He got no response and turned to look at her. She didn't appear hurt, merely speculative. That made him even more uncomfortable, forcing him to elaborate. "Am I gonna be a basket case if I don't talk about it any more? Christ, this is worse than any damned de-briefing I've had before."

"Do you think you remember the whole ordeal?"

"I remember about as much as I care to. It was terrifying, harsh and life-threatening every moment -- but I survived. I can live with that, if you'll let me."

The faint suggestion of a smile played about her eyes and she nodded. "Very well -- but only on the condition that we do a follow-up in say three weeks, once you're back home -- and if you have any problems, or nightmares, you promise to give me a call. Deal?"

"Deal."

She got up and took the handles of his wheelchair. With practice, she pushed him towards the doors and inside away from the cold. The lift opened quickly and soon he was back in his room, with her taking the blankets from him. He stayed in his chair, his mind on bandages. However, before she could go, he stopped her.

"Would you answer a question for me?"

"If I can."

She faced him with confidence, folding her hands together on her lap.

"Where's Bodie?"

Her eyebrows rose, "Why do you ask?"

Doyle kept his patience in check, "Because -- as I have been told -- he is supposed to be my partner. I haven't seen him since Stanfield, more than a week ago. Cowley hasn't said Bodie is on assignment or anything. I was just curious. I would have thought partners would support each other at a time like this."

"They do, yes."

"Then why isn't he here?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't asked him."

"Then," Doyle gritted his teeth against his irritation, "could you please ask him?"

As though satisfied she'd got that exact reaction, Kate nodded and moved a little closer. "Do you remember anything more of him?"

"No -- what bearing does that have?"

"None. Just curious."

She would have gone on but at that moment, a doctor and nurse entered with a tray of things and Doyle left her to attend to removal of his dressings. It didn't matter; she wasn't going to help -- he could see that much. Perhaps it was just this hospital, or maybe his ordeal or something -- but there were days, like this one, where it was easy to believe there was some kind of conspiracy going on regarding Bodie.

Like?

Like they'd never been partners in the first place and that the whole thing was designed as some kind of memory test for him? See if he'd keep working to get all his missing memories back? Perhaps it was standard procedure or something...

But the truth was, Bodie bothered him and he knew it.

Ignoring the pain, Doyle laid his other hand out and let the nurse gently remove the dressing.

Bodie bothered him because of his absence -- and because of the presence he'd sensed in those few short minutes they'd been together. If it was a conspiracy, then Bodie was an actor of awesome ability. It would be hard to feign the recognition he'd seen in those blue eyes. Bodie had been happy to see him returned alive.

No, happy wasn't a good way to put it. Relieved? Delighted? No. There didn't appear to be a word that perfectly described it -- but whatever it was, he'd seen it clearly in Bodie's eyes.

And how had this partner then, the one that been so glad to have him back alive - how had he dealt with the supposed death of one so close to him? Was that why he didn't come back?

"There you go, Mr Doyle," The doctor stepped back and nodded happily. "Now you'll have to be careful and not go rummaging around in anything that could give you an infection, but I should think your hands will work as planned from now on. The skin will still be a trifle raw for a while, but you were terribly lucky; the frostbite was so mild."

Doyle lifted his hands and flexed his fingers gingerly, unable to avoid smiling. "And what about my feet?"

"Another few days and we'll take a look." The doctor beamed and ushered the nurse out of the room.

Alone, Doyle was left to stare out of the window at heavy black clouds congealing in the west. More snow.

Sam had rung again that morning. He was up and around now -- but then he'd had three weeks more of medical treatment than Ray had had. He was planning on coming down to London in the next week or so. It would be good to see him. Russell was still on the serious list. He would survive but it would be a long time -- if ever -- before he would go skiing again.

Yes, there were a few wayward flakes drifting down across the glass now. They landed on the window sill and instantly melted. But a few more and they would stick like glue and within an hour, a faint rug of white would layer the ledge, giving the impression that there were no cracks in the concrete, that it didn't desperately need another coat of paint. That's why people loved snow so much -- especially in the cities; it hid so many things without any effort at all. While it lasted, the dirt and decay beneath simply didn't exist.

"Jesus you must be getting bored by now."

Doyle turned to find Murphy standing in the doorway with a grin, a plastic carry bag in his hand. "You don't wanna know."

Murphy made his way to the window, depositing the bag on Doyle's lap on his way. "Thought you might like a few more books. Kathy picked them out so don't blame me if you don't like them. Hey, no bandages on your hands! They don't look too bad either. You'll be on your feet in no time."

Doyle smiled and shook his head. Just about everything Murphy did came out in the same laconic style of one so laid back he was almost horizontal. To see Murphy seriously upset by something was a genuine rarity -- to be witness to him losing his temper was impossible. Understood to never have happened. Not once.

Except...

Except... Birthday. Stripper. Handcuffs and a guy in leather...

Doyle frowned, grasping at the frail details as they straggled before him, squeezing the life out of them by trying too hard.

"Hey, Ray, you alright?"

Murphy had knelt in front of him, his brows drawn together with unveiled concern.

"Yeah," Doyle breathed evenly, as Kate Ross had told him, tried to relax and let the memory take him. "Just something I remembered. Did you have a birthday with a stripper?"

Murphy's face was a picture. First surprise, then horror which evened out to a resigned smile. "Yeah, that's right. A couple of weeks before you went north." He stood and pulled up a chair, sitting -- or rather, lounging in it, prepared to wait, to answer, to talk.

Doyle stared down at his healing hands and brought forth the image he'd seen, described it to Murphy. "But there was no real stripper, just this guy -- I think I knew him. Kathy was there, and Jax and Anson, Taggart. Lucas and McCabe. Fields and Susan. Cowley wasn't. Oh, everybody."

"Everybody?"

The sudden stillness in Murphy's question brought Doyle's gaze up. Murphy, Kathy and many others from the squad had made the last week bearable by dropping in all through the day. Some for an hour or so, others for just a few minutes. The variety, the relaxed company had been a balm to his impatience. He would have gone around the twist by now if it hadn't been for these people he remembered as being his friends.

But he had just about had enough of the Bodie mystery.

"What the hell is going on, Murph?" The words came out with such force, the other man appeared startled for a moment. "Am I exhibiting symptoms of being brain dead? Have I gone from being one of the best on the squad to being the thickest rookie? Do the injuries on my hands and feet mean I can't think for myself? Come on, tell me!"

Rather typically, Murphy just raised his eyebrows and picked the real question out of the multitude, "What do you want to know?"

"Where the hell is Bodie?" Doyle almost yelled this -- but remembered at the last that he was in a hospital. "Why won't anybody tell me why he isn't here, why he hasn't appeared since I turned up in one piece and why is everybody always asking me if I remember anything about him? Hell, I remembered you once I'd got a good look at you. Every time I see you I remember more and more. Soon it'll all come back -- but with Bodie it's still a blank. How the hell am I supposed to remember, to get my head back in one piece if he won't come near me? What's wrong with him? Does he want me to remain ignorant? Damn it, Murphy, I want an answer!"

Murphy, not entirely insensitive to Doyle's mood, raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Look, Ray, we all want you to get better as soon as possible. We want you up and around and back on active duty."

"But?" Doyle snapped, unrepentant.

"But Bodie was, well,... he had a few problems when we heard you'd been killed."

"So? I'm not dead. What's his excuse now?" Doyle would have gone on - but another thought intruded, an alternative explanation. "Before I went to Scotland - did I do something wrong? To Bodie, I mean? Did I fail him or something? Endanger his life? So that he's glad I'm alive but is still angry or something?"

Murphy pressed his lips together but said nothing.

"Jesus, Murph, I'm guessing here. I don't remember the man, don't know him from a bar of soap. I don't know how his mind works. You tell me. Is it possible?"

Still Murphy said nothing, merely getting to his feet and facing the window. With a sigh, the wind left Doyle and he sat back in his wheelchair. "Please, Murphy, I really need to know the truth."

"I can't tell it to you, Ray. But I will try and do something about it for you." He turned, a resigned smile lifting his grey eyes. "I'll find Bodie and see if I can get him in here for a visit. I won't promise -- I'll just try."

Doyle let out a big breath of relief. "Thanks, Murph."

***

March 3.
Thursday, 9.15 am

Of course, he wasn't going to make it easy, was he? Murphy had spent more than an hour waiting outside Bodie's flat in the cold and dark last night before he'd chucked it in and gone home to Kathy. A few phone calls received no response and he'd given it up as a bad idea.

And this morning, after another phone call, he'd gone to the flat again, to find it empty. Being on suspension, Bodie no longer had the silver Capri so Murphy couldn't even put out a call on it. He was about to head in to work when a thought struck him. He pulled out his R/T.

"Central, 6/2."

"Go ahead, 6/2."

"Is 3/7 still on suspension?"

"Affirmative."

"Has he notified you of any change of location?"

"Negative."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"3/7 phoned this morning to say he was going out for 2 hours and would be back at his flat for the rest of the day."

Murphy had to smile -- suspended or not, Bodie was scrupulous about following procedure. He knew as well as any of them that if something big blew up around them, he'd be back on duty and in the thick of it and they'd worry about his active status after the clean-up. It was a good sign; about the only one Murphy had seen so far.

"Any idea where 3/7 was heading?"

"Negative, 6/2. I'm not his bloody nursemaid."

"Thanks, Central," Murphy chuckled. "6/2 out." It seemed Bodie was getting up a few more noses than usual.

Trotting back to his car, Murphy paused with his hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting down the street to where the bare trunks of a dozen oak trees hedged the road. There was a park down there, where Bodie and Doyle would go running more often than not.

Taking a chance, Murphy headed towards the trees. The grass was flattened by last night's snowfall, and patches of greeny-grey still survived the morning. The sun had barely risen let alone melted any of it. Still, it wasn't icy for a change and he could walk the dirt path without trouble.

He followed it down the slope towards the river. A pedestrian bridge crossed over and into the woods opposite. He was just coming out into the open field beyond when he saw a lone figure running towards him. Dressed in jogging gear, puffing out great wads of steam with every stride, Bodie didn't notice Murphy at first. Then, while still twenty feet away, he came to a sudden halt, alarm all over his face.

"What's wrong? Is Doyle okay?"

If Murphy had been given to extravagant displays of emotion, he would have rolled his eyes heavenward, heaved out a big sigh, folded his arms and shaken his head. As it was, he contented himself with a brief grunt. It appeared enough to quell Bodie's immediate worry. He came closer, his face now perfectly schooled.

Murphy fell in beside him as they walked back towards the bridge. Small fingers of sunlight were now clawing their way through the barren branches above, making the first efforts to dry the damp path.

"Surprised to see you're still here."

Bodie glanced aside at him with half a frown, "Why, where else would I be?"

"Dunno. You were the one who resigned, mate."

"Yeah, well, Cowley wouldn't let me. I did think about just taking off but I knew he'd have a tail on me and I figured it would be easier to stick around till he got sick of me. No sense in goin' to all the trouble of losing the tail and going underground when I can get what I want through peaceful means."

Murphy chuckled at this convoluted logic.

"How's Kathy?"

"Fine." Murphy allowed the silence to develop, knowing the question had to be asked and being determined to actually make Bodie ask it. It didn't take as long as he'd expected.

"How's Doyle?"

"Confused."

Bodie stopped at that and fixed Murphy with one of his most piercing stares. If he hadn't already been so angry, Murphy might just have felt a little intimidated by it. As it was, he met it squarely. Bodie didn't flinch as Murphy continued. "He thinks he's done something to offend you and that's why you walked out on him at Stanfield, why you haven't been back since. He thinks there's a conspiracy of silence about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing." Bodie's gaze didn't budge. It was only the anger in Murphy's stomach that kept him where he was. "You have to go and see him."

"No." Instantly, Bodie was striding away. Murphy caught up but refrained from reaching out to stop the other man. He wasn't that stupid.

"You must. I don't give a damn if you tell him a pile of lies, Bodie -- but you have to tell him something. Think up a reason why you haven't been back. You have to do it in person because he won't believe anyone else."

"No." Bodie had reached the bridge by now as Murphy hurried along behind him.

"Bodie, I'm warning you," Murphy came to a halt as Bodie stopped and turned, his gaze thunderous.

"Or you'll what?"

They'd talked about this last night, Murphy and Kathy, about how he should approach Bodie. She had volunteered to do it -- but Murphy had come, fearing a violent reaction. Not that Bodie would ever hurt Kathy.

"Well?"

Now that the moment had come, Murphy found the anger cooling to ice. "I know what you're thinking. If you stay clear of him, he'll forget that anything ever happened between you. You can make it all go away. Well, mate it doesn't work like that. If he doesn't get his memory back, he'll never regain his place on the squad."

Bodie lifted his chin at that but remained defiantly silent.

"Don't you understand, Bodie? He's confused. He doesn't remember anything about you and yet all he can do is blame himself for your not being there to help him through this. Jesus, he may have lost some of his memory but he's still the same person. He chewed me out yesterday because I wouldn't tell him anything."

Bodie turned away at this, placing his hands on the bridge rail. After a moment, he replied, "I've hurt him enough. Going back will only make it worse."

"For you or him?"

The words were out before Murphy could stop them -- and then Bodie was bearing down on him so fast he had to back away.

"You really think I could be that selfish? Of course I bloody want to help him, like a partner is supposed to!" Bodie demanded, his voice rough like sandpaper. Abruptly he came to a halt, hauling air into his lungs and breathing it out in clouds. "Sure, you know all about what happened between him and me but I'm sorry, Murph, you don't know shit about anything else. You don't know how well we know each other, how we can predict almost to the letter, whatever way the other will react to something. I've almost lived with him in my pocket for five damned years, Murph! Do you think I've learned nothing in that time? If he ever finds out the truth, about that night, about his running away, about the lives he endangered along with it and the hurt he caused as a result, how the bloody hell do you think he's going to react, eh?"

Bodie paused to catch a breath, dropping his voice to a menacing growl, "I'll give you a hint -- he sure as hell won't be blaming me!"

"C'mon, Bodie, it won't be that bad."

"You have no idea the depths Doyle's guilt can sink to. He nearly chucked it all in over that damned Coogan affair -- even after it was proved he didn't kill the man. What you and I can brush off without turning a hair, sinks claws into Doyle which draw blood every time he breathes. Christ, Murph, a man died on that mountain. If Doyle hadn't gone north, he might still be alive."

"But that's not his fault."

"Of course not. But Doyle will think it is. Trust me, Murph. I know him better than he does himself. He's better off not knowing."

All the anger had died from Bodie's eyes now and he turned once more to resume his path. Murphy followed a little behind, holding onto the silence for his own peace of mind more than anything else.

There was little doubt that Bodie's assessment of Doyle had to be accurate. Bodie would never stoop so low as to lie about something like that -- but all the same, the whole thing had the imperious taste of a rationalisation to it. Of course, confronting it was impossible -- not if he expected to keep his front teeth. All the same, he couldn't just leave it like this.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

Taking a deep breath, Murphy came to a halt on the path by the river, where a few trees stood alone. "You will go to the hospital and see Doyle."

As though not sure he'd heard right, Bodie continued a few steps longer before turning slowly to face him. Murphy continued before interruption could turn his course. "You will go, some time before he gets out next week so he doesn't have to come looking for you. You have that much time to think up some reason, some excuse to give him that will suit both our purposes. You go and see him, spend no less than an hour with him and then you can leave and never go back."

Bodie stared at him, understanding completely. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll tell him the truth. The whole truth."

His breath little more than a whisper, Bodie replied, "You don't know the whole truth."

"I know enough to damn you. It's your choice."

Bodie nodded slowly, his gaze reappraising and caustic at the same time. He drew himself up and stuck out his chin. "Yeah. Funny, that's exactly what I thought it was. Strange how choice means something different to you, isn't it?"

With that he turned and walked away.

"Bodie, I'm serious!"

"Go to hell, Murphy!"

***

March 13.
Sunday, 2.30 pm

Doyle sucked in another breath and held it. Trying not to bite his lip against the pain, he shifted his right foot and gingerly transferred his balance, putting real weight on it. His foot felt like it was on fire.

The physiotherapist beside him held out his hands, ready to catch Doyle if he fell but determination kept him from reaching out. Slowly he took the weight, shifted the crutch under his arm and put his left foot out.

His hands felt a lot better and taking weight on them wasn't as difficult as it had been over the last week, but still walking wasn't pleasant. They'd not wanted him to try too much yet, but if he didn't get up and move around soon, he was sure he'd start to look like the place. While his memory still sported huge gaps, he could remember enough to know he'd never liked hospitals -- so now was not the time to change.

He took another step and this time couldn't suppress a groan at the pain.

"Come on, Mr Doyle. That's enough for now. You can try again later this evening if you like."

"No," Doyle grunted, taking another step, his eyes fixed on his bandaged feet. "I'll keep going." He just wanted to get as far as the door. Then he'd happily sink into his wheelchair. The door or nothing.

Another step and another. Odd, but after a while, the pain didn't get any worse. It simply hovered around the level of excruciating without giving any hint as to when it might drop down to merely unbearable.

The physio fussed like an old woman but Doyle didn't look up. It took all his effort to concentrate on moving each foot, to lean his weight gently, to spare his hands as much as possible -- and still manage to make himself breathe at the same time. Just another two steps and he'd be there.

He stopped when a pair of boots barred his way. Frowning, ready to growl, he looked up--

Into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

Bodie was watching him and from the look on his face, had been doing so for at least a couple of minutes. For a second, Doyle didn't know what to say. This was just about the last person he'd expected to see. Taking his silence for hesitation, Bodie raised an eyebrow and said, "That must hurt."

Involuntarily, Doyle half-laughed, "No kidding."

Saying nothing more, Bodie cast a quick glance around the room to land back on Doyle. There was an awkwardness in his gestures overlaid with a kind of easy charm that seemed to be habitual. Together the impressions only served to confuse Doyle more and he frowned before he could stop himself.

Fortunately, Bodie took it as a sign of fatigue. He slipped into the room and grabbed the wheelchair, bringing it up behind Doyle so he could sit. Ignoring the physio completely, Bodie then took the crutches and helped him get comfortable. The crutches were put beside the bed, the physio dismissed and Doyle was wheeled to the window and a glass of water placed in his hand before he had a chance to object to any of it. Then Bodie was glancing through his things sitting on the table, idly picking up books to feign an interest in the author -- and unconsciously giving Doyle the chance to study him.

Bodie was a big man without being beefy. A few inches taller than Doyle, no more, and where Doyle was fine, Bodie was solid -- though there was nothing spare on his frame. Broad shoulders were covered by a black leather jacket, underneath, a thick black polo-neck. His trousers were also black leather; for a motorbike, though he carried no helmet. With those startling blue eyes, ringed by thick lashes, the perfect nose above a sensuous mouth, Bodie was a man who would be noticed in any crowd. Handsome in a kind of exotic and self-assured way, he bore himself in a manner that demonstrated his awareness of it. An attitude bordering on arrogance which for a moment, tempted Doyle to prejudgement. But this wasn't just any man -- this was somebody with whom he had worked for over five years. Perhaps that arrogance had a cause, or perhaps it was just for show. Either way, in the end, Doyle found it more intriguing than anything else. Intriguing enough to want to find out how he had put up with it for five years.

Doyle took a mouth of water, swallowed and said quietly and evenly, "How long?"

"Eh?"

"How long do you think you have to stay before you can safely get out of here without seeming rude?"

Bodie paused at that but didn't turn around. "Another forty-seven minutes by my calculation. Do you have a different figure?"

Despite himself, Doyle smiled. He let it go for a moment then added, "You can make it five if you answer one question."

"Oh?" Bodie's glance flickered over him without stopping. "What question is that?"

"Why do you want to get out of here in the first place?"

"I hate hospitals."

"Not good enough."

"I've always hated hospitals."

"Still not good enough."

"I answered the question."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"The truth."

"Damn it, Bodie!" Doyle's voice rose and he struggled to keep hold of his temper. He drained his glass of water before looking up at the other man again -- just in time to catch a fleeting look of something he couldn't name. Abruptly, Bodie turned to the window, leaving his back to Doyle.

What was wrong with the man? Why couldn't he just talk? Answer a few simple questions? Why all this bloody evasion and why had it taken so long to get him here in the first place?

But yelling at him wasn't going to do any good. He would have to try much craftier tactics than that.

Taking a deep breath, he put the glass down and rested his aching hands on his lap. "I take it you saw Murphy?"

"Yeah."

"He must be either one threatening bloke or a really good mate."

"Yeah?"

"To have forced you into coming here."

Bodie said nothing, simply keeping his gaze on the window. Obviously, Doyle was going to have to try harder. "He doesn't strike me as the threatening type, so I guess he must fall into the good mate category. Don't envy him though. Getting caught between you and me can't be much fun."

Bodie froze, didn't even so much as take a breath. Fully aware of the effect his words were having, Doyle continued, "I mean, I've been nagging him for more than a week about what's been keeping you away and why and he so obviously knows more than he's telling, but can I get him to say a word about it?"

The smallest, almost imperceptible shift of the shoulders, the tiniest relaxation.

"But I figure he must have arrested you and dragged you here 'cause I don't think you would've come under any other circumstances."

Nothing. No movement at all.

Very well, time to go in for the kill.

"I'm sorry."

He said the words softly and gently, sending them out towards Bodie with both genuine regret and sincere fury. Like a true marksman, they hit their mark with deadly accuracy. Bodie started, whirled around and opened his mouth to reply, his eyes wide with instant denial but Doyle didn't give him a chance.

"I'm sorry for whatever it was that I did. I know I can't remember it but it must have been pretty bad for us to be best mates one minute and then for things to get so bad you have to be blackmailed into coming to see me for five minutes. So, I'm sorry and if you'll tell me what I did wrong, I'll do my best to make sure it never happens again. Why did you resign from CI5?"

Bodie looked like a man caught between shifting realities without having any idea which one he'd started in. He stumbled for a moment, like a first-time skater on ice, then quickly pulled himself together. He lifted his chin, put on his best expression and shook his head, "I've been suspended." He tried hard but in the end, the façade couldn't be maintained. With a sigh, he sank down onto the nearest chair, folding his hands in front of him. "I want to say this just once, and then hear no more about it, okay?"

"Don't expect me to be making any promises, Bodie. You don't deserve them yet."

Bodie didn't argue. When he spoke, his voice contained a month of stress, anguish and force but at no time rose above a whisper, "Doyle, I want you to understand and believe this: you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. You've done nothing wrong. I'm glad you're alive and in one piece and I apologize for not coming in to see you sooner and for not being here to help you get better. All I can say is, I have my reasons."

"But you won't tell me what they are?"

Bodie looked up at that, meeting Doyle's gaze with unfathomable blue. From nowhere, Doyle clipped an image of looking into those eyes some other time but the circumstances eluded him. "No, I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

Bodie pursed his lips but kept his gaze steady, "You might remember one day, you might not -- but the truth is, we can't work together any more. That's why I resigned. I won't change my mind. I just don't want you feeling guilty about it when it's not your fault, okay?"

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for it, am I?"

"Yeah."

Doyle snorted and looked away. He knew those eyes were hiding a thousand things but he just couldn't look at them any more. This was ridiculous. He was never going to get anywhere unless Bodie helped him remember, helped him fill in the bigger gaps. His wounds would heal soon, he was going home in two days -- but he'd end up useless to the squad because he couldn't remember what he was doing this time last year.

Well, best mates or not, he was not about to let this arrogant, pig-headed man to ruin the rest of his life. Not if he had the power to force him to change his mind.

"So we can't work together any more, eh?"

The reply was gravel, both full of regret and determination at the same time. "No, we can't."

"In that case, it can't do any harm for you to help me remember, can it?"

Bodie's head dropped.

"Well? I mean," Doyle continued mercilessly, "if we're sunk as partners anyway and you have no intention of returning to the squad, what does it matter if I remember whatever it is that you're hiding? So, following your logic, if you just help me remember the rest, I can get better quicker and the Old Man will let you go all the sooner."

"No." Bodie darted to his feet, his fists clenching tight, his head shaking from side to side. "I'm not coming back here."

"Yes you are. Tomorrow morning. 11am. We can sit on the roof and talk."

"No." He moved to walk out but Doyle caught his wrist, ignoring the pain in his hand.

"Yes, Bodie -- because if you don't, I'll discharge myself from here tomorrow and turn up at your place. I'll camp on your front step until you agree to help me. And if you think I'm making an idle threat, then you're going to be surprised tomorrow afternoon."

"Jesus, Doyle!" Bodie didn't make too great an effort to get his wrist back. "It doesn't matter! It means nothing. It's not worth remembering!"

"I damned well hope it is if it's enough to split us up. Tomorrow, Bodie, 11 am."

With a hiss, Bodie snatched his hand back and stormed out, leaving Doyle in a room suddenly empty of an otherwise overpowering presence.

Despite his anger, that impression was the one that stayed with him the longest.

***

March 14.
Monday, 10.05 am

He slept off and on, dozing and then waking. His neck developed an ache from sitting in the wheelchair and he kept forcing himself to his feet to keep the circulation going in his legs. Then he would sit again and sleep.

Things would come to him in his dreams. No way to tell which was imagination and which was memory. Sometimes the image would vanish the moment he woke up, at others, it would linger, often disturbing him deeply.

It had been the same since they'd found him on the mountain. There were moments even now, when he drifted on that precipice between slumber and awareness, when his body floated weightless, unattached to the world, and he would think he was still up there, buried in the white blanket of promised eternity. He'd lived a whole life on that mountain; each day lasting a year on its own; each hour ticking away with a lazy stubbornness, empty of rescue, devoid of hope. The outside world and in fact, life itself had finally crystallised into black and white, the clean lines of day and night providing the delimiter.

Only now could he remember those days, those freezing nights as he tried to keep himself and Russell warm, tried to eke out the meagre food, tried to stop the hut from getting snowed in. But he only remembered it in parts, in a single dimension, as though he were wearing only one shoe or looking at the story through a telescope. He knew the rest was there, somewhere, buried underneath the concussion -- but reaching it, touching it, seeing it was beyond him.

He dozed again, setting his mind to warmer climates, deliberately allowing his subconscious to pull forth whatever memory it chose. Good memories, anything, it didn't matter which.

A spring day, warmish with a sun drifting in and out of hazy clouds. He had some time off work, a few hours, couldn't work out why exactly. Didn't matter. Went home, grabbed the laundry bag, then back out again. Put the laundry in, felt the sun on his face, nice and warm after a cold winter. Down the shops, bought some cheese, some olives, a paper and a couple of pints of milk. Then back home for a cuppa and a read. Didn't get to read the papers at his own leisure too often. Back up the lift, open the door, go inside...

"What are you doing here?"

Jesus, she's got a gun!

Too late. Falling slowly. Pain filled him, seeped red out of his body onto the floor, carpet soft beneath his cheek, hard to breathe, so hard, sharp, go shallow, still hard, can't move, she's still there, gun ready, back of the head, love, back of the head, that's where it belongs, gun shifts and fires again, don't feel it, already dying, already dying, already...

Doyle woke with a start, sucking in air with a dagger of half-asleep panic. Totally disoriented, he struggled to escape the chair but his legs couldn't manage and he began to fall --

Strong hands caught him, lifted and steadied him. His legs straightened and he looked up, his heart still thumping, head still not clear.

"It's okay, Ray, you're okay. You were only dreaming." The voice steady and warm, confident and assured, hands firm on his arms, supporting. "Listen to me, Ray, you're fine. Nothing to worry about." Totally devoid of doubt. Doyle latched onto it and forced his breathing to slow a little. After a moment, he nodded and Bodie helped him back into the wheelchair.

Doyle swallowed, better now but still unable to shake the images still hurtling around in his head. He put a hand to his eyes and pressed, trying to drive them away, suppressing the nausea threatening his stomach. It was no good, the dream wouldn't budge. So it had to be a memory. But, Christ, what a memory!

Again his breathing shortened and he felt dizziness fringe his vision.

Hands reached out and grabbed his wrists, "Doyle? Look at me. Look at me!"

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on those close before him. That blue again, framed with long black lashes on a face serious and determined.

"Now breathe steady and even. Come on, do it. In. Out. In, out. That's it. Concentrate on the sound of my voice. That's it, steady and slow, just concentrate. You'll feel better in a minute."

He listened, obeyed, keeping his gaze on Bodie, not daring to shift for one second, not even to blink. Eventually, the grip on his wrists loosened as Bodie relaxed a little, sinking down onto his haunches. Not letting go, he kept his voice level, "What was the dream?"

Doyle opened his mouth but had to force the words to come out, "Did I get shot?"

Both Bodie's eyebrows rose at that, "You've been shot a couple of times. Once in the leg..."

"In the chest, and the back, by a Chinese woman?" Doyle frowned, still ghosting the memory, haunted by it, afraid Bodie would let his hands go. He needed some earthly contact, some proof of life physically touching him. "She tried to kill me! And I... I..."

"Her name was May Li."

Yes. That was it. "Where is she now?"

"Dead," Bodie replied quietly.

"Did you kill her?"

"No. Fields shot her. I held her hand while she died."

"You held her hand?"

"Yeah."

Doyle searched that face for the arrogance he'd seen yesterday -- but there wasn't a trace of it. Nor pride, nor selfishness. "Did I know that?"

Bodie shook his head slowly, "No. I never told you."

And the tremors died away. Blinking, Doyle let out a slow breath, feeling his body once more under his control, the images for the moment, put to one side.

Sensing the worst was past, Bodie let him go and got to his feet. Doyle looked up and noticed the same black leather gear of the day before. He met Bodie's gaze with faint surprise, "So you came?"

"Evidently."

"Bike?"

"Yeah. Don't get a squad car when you're on suspension."

"Must be cold."

"You get used to it. You feel okay? Want me to get a doctor?"

Doyle shook his head, running his fingers through his hair, "Nah, I'm fine now."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Bodie nodded, taking a step back with a vague speculative gleam in his eyes. "Really okay or just saying it?"

"Is there something wrong with your hearing?"

"Nah," he replied offhand, "Just thought you might like to bust out of here for a few hours but I'm not letting you on the bike if you're gonna go all crazy on me."

Doyle almost leaped out of his chair, "No, I'm really fine, I promise!"

Bodie kept up the sceptic's façade for a moment longer, then allowed something of a grin to creep across his face. With a nod, he strode to the door and picked up a bag he must have left there before. He dumped it on the floor at Doyle's feet.

"I stopped by your place and picked up your bike gear. Can you manage on your own while I keep watch?"

Doyle just nodded furiously and as Bodie left the room, he hauled the things out of the bag. Black and red, these were, well-oiled and worn but top quality. He had a bit of trouble with the zippers between his fingers but not so much that he couldn't manage. Ten minutes later, Bodie reappeared with a questioning glance that quickly turned into a genuine smile -- almost instantly suppressed. Doyle would have questioned the change but he just wanted to get the hell out!

He could walk with the boots on -- but only for about a dozen steps. In the end, they rugged him up with a blanket as though they were heading for the roof, then took the lift down. With an arm under his shoulders, Bodie helped him outside and onto a big sleek motorbike parked illegally outside the front entrance. Amazingly, there was no ticket attached yet.

Bodie dashed back inside and reappeared moments later with two helmets. He handed one to Doyle, put his own on then climbed on and kicked the engine into life. The first acceleration was gentle and demure, allowing for the hospital carpark and sick people close by and everything, but then they were out the front gate and on a stretch of straight road almost empty of traffic -- and Bodie opened the throttle.

Doyle roared and held on to the bar behind him, revelling in the power of the machine, the bleak sun above and the sheer freedom of being outdoors and alive.

***

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

Bill Joel

March 14.
Monday, 1.40 pm

Amnesia or no, Doyle wasn't sure he was ever likely to remember a time when he'd felt so warm and comfortable and entirely contented. He sat outside at a picnic table in the garden of a pub. Before him, lined with leafless willows and elms, stretched a canal with a couple of colourful barges tied up a few yards away. Behind him, frequently stoked against the winter's day, sat a pot-bellied boiler of Victorian vintage. The publican had told them he'd rescued it from a condemned factory because he knew it would work wonders in the garden in winter.

It was perfect for Doyle for whom the cold was something he still had difficulty dealing with -- but who simply couldn't face sitting inside anywhere right now. Nobody had said anything, but after the first pint, the publican's wife had brought out a blanket and left it sitting on the table. Bodie had pointedly shown no interest in it so Doyle took it, to make her feel better.

He worked his way slowly through the second pint -- but only because Bodie had warned him there would be no third. Instead, he folded his arms on the table, pulled the blanket further around his shoulders and watched the reflection of intermittent clouds on the icy canal water. Not a single duck to be seen anywhere. They wouldn't be back at least for another couple of weeks. Pity, it would have made the scene completely perfect.

The landlady returned once more, this time carrying a plate of toasted sandwiches and another pint for Bodie. She gave them both a smile and retreated indoors where it was warmer. Here, away from the city, the cold had a real individual bite to it. Still, bad as it was, it was never so cold as...

"Here, you better eat something or the beer and the drugs will knock you out." Bodie pushed the plate across the table at him. He was already munching on a sandwich of his own though the beer remained untouched.

Doyle wasn't really hungry but he knew he had to eat something after the alcohol. He bit into a ham and cheese and found it unbelievably tasty. He'd finished it before he realized it, reaching immediately for a second. By the end of that, his appetite had dulled a little and he turned to watch Bodie consume his share with relish -- and not the kind found in a jar. Relaxed and not wanting to argue, Doyle chose his moment carefully, "So, what changed your mind about coming back?"

Bodie's head-shake was distracted; his attention on his food. "Decided you were right."

"That if we're not going to work together any more it doesn't matter if I remember?"

"It doesn't matter."

"So?"

"So I couldn't have you haunting my doorstep until I gave in. I have neighbours to think about."

The shadow of a smile crossed Doyle's face, "And you're not going to let me off the hook and tell me anyway?"

"No -- and don't ask me again." Bodie kept his voice free of anger. "Now give me a break and drop it and be happy I'm here at all. If it had been anybody else, I'd have been long gone by now."

Doyle tore his gaze away and sipped carefully of his beer. The action distracted the smile warming his face. So they hadn't been lying. He and Bodie had been best mates.

He was important to Bodie after all.

Warmer on the inside too now, Doyle broached a different but no less difficult topic. "When I was shot?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me what happened."

Bodie frowned, "Your doctor said I should't tell you things you don't already remember."

"Yeah, but this is different." Damned right it was. How was he going to deal with every painful memory if he had a panic attack with each one? "I need to know. This morning was..."

"Yeah," Bodie nodded, the frown fading a little. He pursed his lips and sat back on his seat, stretching his long legs out before him under the table, missing Doyle's by inches. "But that came on you while you were asleep. You weren't prepared for it and all you had was a dream of getting shot with no context to place it in. That's enough to scare anybody."

As Doyle watched, the play of expressions over Bodie's face was almost an entertainment in itself. He had a million fine variations of movement between the faint lift of a single eyebrow to a declaration of complete disgust. Laughter was not something he appeared to indulge in often. The short cropped raven hair acted like a frame to this interplay of visual languages; the amazingly blue eyes, the directing force behind them. If Bodie had been an actor, Doyle was certain he would have gone to see every film he made. Taking a breath, he said, "Tell me. Give me the context. When did it happen?"

"Summer last year."

"Go on."

Bodie settled with a nod, "You remember May Li shooting you. Do you remember anything after that?"

"No."

There was no response for a second but the subtle shift in Bodie's expression didn't require memory to interpret. "Funny, we never really talked about that day, either. Well, after she shot you, she left via the window and set off the alarms. Central called me and I drove straight to your place. I didn't have a key so I had to go up the fire escape. Some old bag yelled out that I was a robber but I didn't stop until I got to your floor. I could see you from the window, lying in a pool of blood." Bodie paused long enough to take a swift, large mouthful of beer. When he continued, there was absolutely nothing different in the way he told his story. Nothing at all. "I tried to stop the bleeding, called an ambulance and went with you to the hospital."

"Did you hold my hand?"

Bodie blinked, "What do you mean?"

"Like I said. You held May Li's hand after she almost killed me."

"Jesus, Doyle, don't make me regret telling you that."

"Sorry," Doyle backed down warily. They settled into silence and though he was turned to face the canal, Doyle found his gaze returning to Bodie's face, now in profile to him. That face and its expressions weren't familiar to him -- but yet on some level they were.

He hadn't pushed Bodie for an answer because he just knew it would be one push too far. But how could he know if he had no memory? It seemed his subconscious was working for him, handing him meanings behind words and gestures, pauses and inflections. It was strange, like suddenly being able to speak a foreign language without every having learned it. The exercise was intoxicating, heady and powerful and yet frightening at the same time.

An edge of familiarity then, something not wholly unexperienced. Something he could safely tell himself he could count on. What else?

"Did we do this a lot then?"

Bodie glanced sideways at him, "I'm not supposed to tell you."

Doyle couldn't control the temper that rose instantly, "Christ, Bodie it's just a simple damned question! It already feels familiar, I just wanted confirmation. Bloody hell, why do you have to make it so hard?"

Bodie's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his lips drawn together in a thin, intractable line -- but he gave nothing away. Not a hint, a glimmer, a suggestion. Nothing. The man was a stone wall without a single crack. How the hell had they managed to become friends when Bodie would give absolutely nothing of himself away? Had he been hurt before? Badly? If he --

Yes, he had! Bad. Twice... but...

No. No details yet -- but he knew, for sure. Something of Bodie was seeping through his memory.

But the man himself faced Doyle now, his gaze dark and thunderous and Doyle wondered whether he should be afraid. He felt like he should.

"I'm not the one making it hard, Doyle. I told you I didn't want to do this. I resigned my job so I wouldn't have to but, I'm here because you asked -- so don't go complaining when I can't give you answers. I warned you yesterday I wouldn't. Jesus!"

Bodie stood up and paced his way to the edge of the canal, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets. Without turning he added, "You wanted to know about when you got shot and whether I held your damned hand in the ambulance. I leave the story wide open for you to ask a hundred questions I'd be happy to answer and yet you don't." He paused, not losing the bitterness in his voice, "You nearly died on the operating table. It took you six months to get back on the active list and up until a few weeks ago, when you took a dive off a mountain, you still used to scratch the scars on your chest whenever something was bothering you. You never noticed; I always had to remind you to stop."

"Bodie, I..." Doyle came to his feet but Bodie held up his hand.

"You were always self-absorbed, Doyle. You've changed from the man I knew, before you went away, but even back then you weren't this bad." Now he turned slowly, his big shoulders hunched down, as though he were protecting himself, "You wanna know how I got that bike gear of yours? Why I happened to have the keys to your flat? Because it was my job to go through your things. Always the job of the surviving partner to take care of the affairs of the deceased."

Doyle stared. The words were full of reproach but there was nothing vulnerable in Bodie's face, no display of hurt, no invitation for Doyle to ask further, to seek out the wound and deal with it.

This was insane! One minute it was obvious he held some importance in Bodie's life, the next, it appeared he wasn't worth a damn. Which was it -- and which should Doyle address? With careful movements, he walked around the table and approached Bodie slowly, his feet dictating the pace. But he didn't get too close; the guardedness in Bodie's eyes warned him not to.

Yes, he'd been right to be afraid.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" Bodie snapped back. "For nearly getting yourself killed again? Or failing to?"

"You think I had a death wish?" Doyle's temper began to rise again.

"Sure, you were busily telling May Li to finish you off with a shot to the back of the head!"

"But I never said..."

"And it took you two days to decide whether you were gonna live or die. You're getting slower, Doyle, this time it took you three weeks!"

Without thinking, Doyle swung at Bodie but the other man caught his hand easily, holding it in a vise-grip. They glared at each other for several long moments, then Bodie broke it by pushing Doyle's hand away and stalking off. Pulling in lungs full of air, Doyle watched him, the black jacket, the impenetrable hunch to the shoulders, the outcast look, the loner, the dark and mysterious past...

Death wish?

"Bodie!" The other man ignored him so Doyle took off after him, ignoring his feet as best he could. "Bodie! Wait! It wasn't me with the death wish, it was you. And the bike and some girl and Cowley holding a gun to your head and..." Doyle stumbled, no longer seeing where he was going, the memory now flashing back to him so fast it took his breath away. "And he was going to kill you... 'cause you were going to kill someone, some bikie and Cowley had this gun and... it was my fault. My fault 'cause I didn't listen, didn't try to help... my fault..." He came to a stop, blinded by horror. Bodie had tried just as hard that time to keep him locked out and as a result, he'd nearly been killed by their own boss.

"Wasn't your fault, Doyle," Bodie responded crisply. "You were always one for the big guilt trip."

Doyle pulled in his focus, felt his breathing steady and looked up at Bodie standing a few feet away from him, gaze wary, still angry, still forbidding. And yet, Doyle had glimpsed inside, just for a moment -- if only through memory.

He answered his own question. "You don't want me to remember, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Liar."

Bodie lifted his chin at that, a dozen pale infinitesimal shifts of the eyebrows and mouth as unreadable thoughts scattered across the silence. Then, voice level, lighter than before, betraying nothing at all, "Seems you haven't changed so much after all. You better get back to the fire before you freeze to death." With that, Bodie brushed past him, heading indoors.

"Where're you goin?"

"Loo and to order some coffee. Fire, Doyle, now!"

Inside was dark and took Bodie's eyes a few moments to adjust. There were a few locals sitting around the fire, watching him as he walked in and ordered coffee. Then he saw the sign for the toilet and ducked through the door, locking it behind him. Only then did he sink back against the wall, willing calm into himself, desperately, urgently, violently. Calm, for Christ's sake, calm!

God he looked so thin and pale and sick and fragile and yet the spirit inside was just as strong, unbroken by his ordeal. And hurting so bad. Needing Bodie's help, desperately. Even without his memory, even thrashing about in the pits of confusion, Doyle was a formidable adversary. The same one Bodie had learned how to face five years ago. Same principle as martial arts: never take the blow head on, always deflect the force one way or the other.

Years of training and years of memory gave him the upper hand -- just -- but even so, he had nearly blown it. Nearly given in, nearly allowed Doyle to see beyond the barricades.

Because the old Doyle would have wanted to, would have done all he could to get Bodie to open up and talk about those three weeks, tried every trick in the book to soothe whatever pain Bodie was hiding. Ray Doyle the friend would have done that, without even thinking about it.

And Bodie missed that friend. Needed him and had the sense to know it.

Pulling himself together, he turned on the tap and stuck his hands under the cold water. Then he dried them vigorously on the towel and went back into the pub. He paused at the door for a second to check where Doyle was. Seated on his chair by the boiler once more, two cups of coffee on the table before him, blanket around his shoulders. His hair was long now and well due for a cut. It was the only thing about him that still had any colour. Even his eyes, usually so green, appeared as subdued as the forest opposite the canal. Would he too, blossom in spring?

Doyle chose that moment to put his head back and look up at the sky and the simple abandonment of the action sent a surge of regret and longing through Bodie; but it wasn't strong enough to turn him from his path -- merely to keep him to it. It was the only thing he had left to fight with.

He would make Doyle hate him if it was the last thing he did.

***

March 15.
Tuesday, 2.10 am

London sounded like the beach on a gentle day. In the middle of the night, the traffic moved evenly and quietly and at this remove, Doyle found it difficult to distinguish between the soft sounds.

He lay on his side in bed, his pillows folded up, his head resting. He had slept for a few hours after Bodie had brought him back. Then nurses had brought his tea and he'd slept again -- but for the last two hours, slumber had eluded him completely and instead, he watched the faint stars through the window, listened to London at night and let the whole of his life wash over him like silk sheets on a bed, caressing and touching but not allowing him to really feel.

Every hour that went by allowed him to remember more; not just of Bodie but of his childhood, time in the Met, girls he had taken to bed, pets he'd had, fights he'd won and lost, cases he'd twisted his guts over, friends found and lost.

A life. Not complete yet, but getting closer. Even now, an image would come to him, fresh and familiar, travel a distance -- then stop completely and he had no way of making it move again. So he would go on to the next one.

So much coming back to him now and yet still, so little of the one person it seemed it all hinged on. A few snapshots here and there; the two of them perched on a window sill on a bleak London night, trying to imitate burglars; speeding along a river chasing somebody in a boat; crouched down in a disused railway carriage as gunfire spitted all around. Good sharp memories, but no context, no idea where they fitted in. Any one of them could be the one Bodie was hiding.

Yes, Bodie did hide things; he remembered that much. Bodie didn't talk about his past, about his feelings. He didn't let people in. Faint memories -- and present experience matched on that score. But all the same, none of it answered the larger questions: why couldn't they work together any more -- and why was Bodie helping him if he didn't care?

Perhaps he should just let it go. His memory was reconstructing itself at a nice pace. In a few weeks he'd be able to get back to work without a problem. If Bodie was so determined to leave, perhaps Doyle should just let him. Give him his freedom, let him remain as isolated and as solitary as he appeared to desire. Why should it matter to Doyle if Bodie wanted out?

Not really a good question to play with idly because Doyle couldn't find an answer why. All he knew was that it did matter. A lot. Bodie mattered a lot.

And every day he mattered more.

Every day Doyle felt a greater desire to get behind that barrier, not just to find whatever it was Bodie was hiding, but to see the man lurking in the shadows -- because he was certain that man was there and he was the one Doyle knew. That was his missing partner. Until he found that man, Doyle wasn't prepared to let Bodie out of his sight, let alone out of his life.

And stranger and more subtle yet were his own reactions to Bodie. The instant and easy instinct to stand up against any attempt the other man made to bulldoze him, the quick anger and determination he produced almost every time Bodie stonewalled him. Doyle hadn't been like that with any of the others who had traipsed in here, welcoming him back to life. More often than not, he found himself not only listening to what Bodie said, but what he didn't say; allowing his senses and his subconscious to feed him information that his memory lacked -- and he did it all with a kind of hunger that stunned him.

But of all of that, every surprise buried inside that enigma, the oddest and the most disturbing were the reactions he couldn't name, could barely even describe or notice at the time. Only afterwards could he see what he'd done, how he'd felt. Yes, feeling most of all. His contradictory feelings were the most disturbing of all.

An abrupt restlessness seized his body and with a rustle of linen, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Central heating kept the room warm so he was comfortable padding over to the window in only his pjs. There he paused, placing his hands flat on the glass, his forehead pressed to the cold surface. A dull black sea faced him, landmarked by dots of light marking out streets and buildings, character shapes of the city. From here he couldn't see each of the streets individually but he could see the personality of the place as a whole, gain an impression of its size, its flavour, its mysteries.

He imagined Bodie in that city, probably asleep by now. Awake, riding that bike, slicing through the traffic with the ease and grace of a tiger, his face cool in concentration, completely attuned to his environment, perfectly suited to the life he had chosen. A tough, hardened warrior who had drawn his first blood in the wilds of Africa, then brought his skills back to his own country, developing them further to the point of perfection. He was the best at what he did. But if he left CI5, would he be able to translate those skills back to a place like Africa? Or would Bodie, after tasting a life filled with goals he could believe in, suddenly hate the emptiness of a mercenary's day?

Doyle closed his eyes and breathed deep and slow. He could ask himself the same questions a dozen times and still get no more answers. Until he found a way to cut through Bodie's armour, he would... be... no...

He clutched the window as dizziness assailed him. He forced himself to breathe, understanding now what was happening to him. But that was all the control he could muster as the violence of the images burst upon him with the force of an avenging angel. Gasping, he sank to the floor, blinded.

Bodie. Jesus Bodie! Why did you have to go and do a dumb thing...

Blood. Ambulance. Some guys in a gasworks. A knife. Deadly. Wanted Bodie dead. Stabbed in the back. Left to bleed to death.

Ambulance. Bodie. Blood, pale, blue eyes pale, pain in those eyes, pain and anger, hatred for those who had done this to him, Doyle following the trolley, taking Bodie's hand, telling him off...

Bodie you idiot, you could've got yourself killed, have to be more careful, don't you know I...

And the doctors taking Bodie away, tearing them apart, leaving Doyle alone with the agony while Bodie fought for his life without his partner to help him.

And no partner to help him when he got caught by those German terrorists and wrapped in a pile of explosives so that when they went off there would be nothing left of Bodie not even a memory a smile a laugh a friendship nothing at all nothing for anyone to even bury just the idea that he had run off to take the danger away rather than risk Doyle--

He opened his eyes, breathing sharp, his arms wrapped around himself, cheeks damp from tears he'd not realized he'd shed. Bodie had survived that day. Doyle had run after him, hauled him to the ground even as Bodie had struggled to get away. Doyle had caught him and pulled the explosives off just in time to save both their lives.

Absently Doyle reached up to the side of his face, fingering the dented cheekbone.

Bodie had been prepared to sacrifice his own life. Had tried to do just that to spare Doyle. He had ignored Doyle's calls to stop. He had nearly died trying to save Doyle's life.

Slowly now, he got to his feet, not needing to steady himself against the wall. Tomorrow he would get out of hospital and back home and tomorrow he would do something about getting to the heart of the Bodie mystery. He owed it to himself to find out the last of what was missing.

But more than that, he owed it to Bodie to kill off whatever it was he was afraid of.

***

March 16.
Wednesday, 2.45 pm

Paperwork. For some reason nobody ever seemed able to understand, the world revolved around paperwork. Bodie had to stand by and watch Doyle, who still found it hard to hold a pen in his hand, sign one paper after another, fill in details here and there and generally waste a whole pile of time before the jailers would let him out of hospital.

But then finally he was free and Bodie pushed the wheelchair for the last time. He had a car today too, his usual silver Capri -- but only because he'd volunteered to pick up Doyle; Cowley was still not talking to him and was unlikely to ever forgive him for resigning.

The day was as grey as an accountant but Doyle didn't let that put him off. Rather predicably, he was grinning like a schoolboy as they drove through the wet streets and over the river. His mood was infectious though Bodie made a bigger effort to hide his feelings than he usually did. He knew more than Doyle, just how dangerous this next twelve hours was.

Dangerous? Any more than the last few days? Are there degrees of danger? Risks he was willing to take and those he was not? Every moment he spent with Doyle chanced the return of a memory he would have given almost anything to take back. A big risk indeed. But worse still was the other, more insidious risk that within each of those precious moments spent with his partner, Bodie might betray himself with a look, a word, a gesture. Moments when, for several heartbeats, he could not take his eyes from those of forest green, when he watched those lips in speech, remembering how they had felt to kiss, when his hands ached to reach out and hold the other man, ease his confusion and pain, assure him that everything would work out, that his whole world had not been destroyed by a single misguided action on Bodie's part.

Sometimes the effort of keeping himself in check, of constantly analysing everything he said and did beforehand caused his temper to fray. His nights were spent sleeping in snatches of a couple of hours at a time, the rest bound up in endless thoughts of a man who had come to mean everything to him and who he would lose forever in a matter of days. A few weeks like this and he would start showing the strain. But it was likely Doyle would remember before then and banish him anyway.

It was an odd kind of risk that had so much certainty attached to it. He imagined it would have felt the same to the criminal with the rope about his neck. For every second he was alive, he understood the danger he was in -- yet for every one of those seconds he knew the end was close by. It was only a matter of when.

He'd not had a lot of time to plan for what he would do when that day came. For a start, he'd have to do something about looking for another job -- not a task he'd honestly envisaged ever doing again. Not that he really needed to work; his Swiss bank and a few other investments would look after him for the rest of his life if he wanted. But he would never choose that path; after so many years being active every day, a lazy life would be the end of him. He was too young to retire.

But what else he'd do with himself was another matter.

"Hey," Doyle interrupted his daydream. "Better stop off and get some milk and stuff."

"Nah, we're nearly there. I can pop out later and get whatever you need." Bodie replied convincingly. Doyle was about to object when Bodie pulled the car to the side of the street and turned off the engine. Then he turned in his seat and watched Doyle until he met the gaze. The green eyes were wary; excitement tainted with trepidation, but even now, with no memory and no experience to back him up, he still trusted Bodie completely. The realization kept Bodie's next words in his throat a moment longer than he intended. Then he said, "Okay, sunshine, out you get and see if you can tell me which door is yours."

Doyle barely blinked for a moment then nodded abruptly. A second later he was out in the street, coat pulled tight around him, head tilted back to look up at the series of Victorian red-brick buildings. Nice block this one, a place Bodie wouldn't mind living in himself.

"That one?" Doyle was pointing and Bodie joined him on the footpath.

"You sure?"

With a frown, Doyle nodded, "Yeah, but don't ask me how."

"Congratulations," Bodie grinned. He got the bags from the car and followed Doyle to the front door. Then they were inside and away from the grey and the cold and climbing stairs slowly, giving the injured feet a chance. Doyle reached the door of his flat, stuck the key in -- but paused before going further. Bodie said nothing; he had a pretty good idea about the hesitation.

"Bodie?"

"Right here."

"What if I don't remember?"

"Why don't you go in and see first, worry about not remembering then."

Doyle shook his head, a short sharp movement. Bodie couldn't see his face but he could guess the expression. For a moment, he indulged in a small fantasy of putting the bags down, wrapping his arms around Doyle and promising that no matter what happened, Bodie would never leave him.

Of course, he did absolutely nothing of the kind. Instead, he put on his best voice, the one this new Doyle responded to most effectively, "Something you always used to tell me -- thinking about it mate, that's worse than doin' it. Just go in."

As though he'd pressed exactly the right button, Doyle turned the key and pushed the door open, striding inside as quickly as his healing feet could manage. Bodie waited a moment before following. He dropped the bags by the door, kicked it closed, then paused a moment for himself.

He stayed in the hallway, the kitchen and lounge visible from where he stood. Doyle was in there, moving around, looking at things in detail. Bodie allowed his eyes to half close, to blur the edges of his sight, blend the image of Doyle against this background, put him back in the place where he belonged. This was Ray's home. Here he was surrounded by the things he loved; from the framed photos on the mantle, the DaVinci cartoon on the wall, to the African harvest mask standing on its own in the corner. Bodie had given that to him just this last Christmas. He'd had it imported especially, it had cost a small fortune but he'd gone to the effort because he knew Doyle would love it.

And he had loved it. Bodie remembered how the green eyes had lit up and how he'd recalled that image so many times over the ensuing months before he realized how his feelings for Doyle had changed. But understanding had brought fear, and fear had brought determination -- and determination had brought about catastrophe.

Doyle had come to a halt in the centre of the room, his shoulders stiff with tension. Slowly, he turned and faced Bodie, his eyes dark, the anticipation gone completely, replaced with something else. "Bodie?"

"What?"

"Was I... ever a coward?"

Bodie's jaw dropped, his response automatic, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Confusion flooded Doyle's face and he turned quickly to hide it. "Forget it. Not very cold in here. I hope I haven't had the heating on in here since I went away. I'll be payin' the bill off till next Christmas. The bedroom's down here isn't it?"

As he vanished down the corridor, Bodie leaned back against the door jamb and folded his arms. This was getting ridiculous! How many subtle warnings would his subconscious give him before he took notice and cleared off! Here he was, stuck in Doyle's flat, trapped between a desperate need clawing him in two different directions: to make Doyle hate him -- and to help him in any way possible. He should just get the hell out now, while he still had some self-respect left.

"Well, the good news is that it does look vaguely familiar." Doyle reentered the lounge and made for the kitchen. Bodie didn't move from his spot. Instead, he watched Doyle move around, without minding for his feet too much, watched him brush the hair out of his eyes, watched the expression on that too-vulnerable face dusted with puzzlement and faint recognition as he examined bits of the kitchen, labels and other things he should know. When he spoke again, his voice was light but etched with that same something half-buried. Not once did he look at Bodie. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

Bodie lifted a shoulder idly, "Still keep thinkin' I'm seeing a ghost."

"Oh yeah?" Dry, disbelieving.

"You were dead for three weeks, remember?"

"No, I don't. How did you find out?"

"Cowley."

"What happened? He go to your place and tell you?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Why?"

"I'd like to know -- and don't give me any of that rubbish about my memory. I wasn't there so I can't have forgotten."

Bodie's gaze drifted unconsciously to the floor. "No, you weren't," he murmured without thinking.

"What?"

He looked up to find Doyle standing with a hand on either side of the kitchen doorway. Warning bells thudded in his deaf ears. "Nothing."

But Doyle wasn't prepared to let it drop, "Nothing like hell, Bodie. Tell me what happened. What time of day was it? How much did he tell you? How long had I been missing by that point? When did you decide to hold a memorial service? Why didn't you get around to going through my stuff? How did you feel when you thought I was dead?"

Jesus Christ! Bodie couldn't move, couldn't even blink. All of his muscles were suddenly set in concrete. The quickfire questions caught him off guard, fencing him in to a point where he had nowhere to go, slicing straight to the heart of his private pain. And there was that something else in Doyle's gaze that held him even more than the questions. Snared completely by those eyes, Bodie's mind stopped producing reason and simply allowed his body to react. His pulse doubled, his palms got damp and something inside warned him that now would be a perfect time to run away. The urge to simply take Doyle in his arms and kiss him was almost overpowering. Sensing he was onto something, Doyle stepped closer until he was only a foot away from Bodie, eye to eye. "Tell me what happened. I want to know how you found out your partner of five years was dead in a skiing accident."

He was so close, so near, Bodie could inhale the scent of his shampoo, see the fine lines about his eyes, the pulse at his throat. The gaze still held him, unblinking. Was this how rabbits got caught on the road at night? Watching the delicate features with deliberate care, noting tiny defects, the tilt of the eyebrows, the precise shape of the mouth, the dent in the cheekbone. Before him stood the enticing form that haunted his dreams, waking him hard and frustrated. Everything he'd ever wanted was there, a few inches away. But he could say nothing; his silence a condemnation for his own heart, his own fear and his own, only solution.

Doyle's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as though he were deliberately tempting Bodie to do something. "I need to know what happened, Bodie."

The demand in that voice and face was not something Bodie could deny at that moment. He had just enough will to force a response, "When?" Almost no voice. More an expression of breath.

"The night you found out I was dead. Tell me about it."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't remember too much about it. Ask Cowley." Hard swallow, tear the gaze away. Do it! That's better. Bodie finally detached himself from the wall and forced himself to wander about the room, loosening up his body before making his exit, suppressing the memories, the pain -- always the pain. Have to get rid of the pain. Too unbearable otherwise. Love and pain, too mixed together. Afraid Doyle would still be standing there watching him, he took his time. When he finally turned back he was surprised to find a smile on Doyle's face -- which was quickly dropped. He had to get out of here. Quickly. He was riding too close to the edge, too near to that spot where he would happily throw everything away and drown himself in that agony, tell Doyle the damned truth and be done with it, anything -- just to be allowed some closeness of some kind with him -- even if it was anger. Anything was better than this. Yes, he had to get away. Irritated more at himself than anything else, Bodie strode forward. "Look, I have to get moving. Got some stuff to do. There's food in the fridge for a couple of days. I'll stop by on Friday and get you some things if you like. I'll leave you to settle in."

"You're not staying?" Doyle asked this like a five-year-old whose favourite toy had just inexplicably broken.

"What for? I just picked you up from the hospital. Jesus, Doyle, you're not a child. Even you need to learn to be alone -- and I think tonight is a perfect opportunity. I'm not your bloody keeper." Harsh voice, harsh words, soft underbelly. If Doyle had said please, Bodie would have melted like butter before a blowtorch.

Again that same confusion in Doyle's eyes -- and more than a little anger. However, before he had an opportunity to express it, the door buzzer filled the silence. He turned swiftly and pressed it. "Yes?"

"Doyle? I take it you're back in one piece? May I come up?"

"Certainly, sir." Doyle kept his voice even but pressed the buzzer with all the anger he would have used against Bodie.

Bodie remained in the lounge, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to take the first opportunity to flee. Then Cowley was at the door and Doyle was letting him in. Both came into the lounge, Cowley favouring Bodie with the barest flicker of interest, in the same manner as one would notice a bug seconds before one stepped on it.

"Are you all settled in?" Cowley was saying, keeping a genial smile on his face.

"Er, yes thank you, sir," Doyle replied. "Some things are still a little strange but I'm getting there."

"Aye well, I just wanted to welcome you back. I'd like to see you in my office Monday next week. We need to review your progress. In the meantime, I want you to get some rest and do all you can to recover your memory. I sincerely hope Bodie has been doing his best to help."

Before Bodie could utter a word, unconsciously Doyle stepped between them, his hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans in a gesture of old. "Bodie's been doing an excellent job, sir."

Bodie nearly groaned. First at the instinctive protective gesture of Doyle's, then at the underlying warning in his voice -- and lastly, at the faintly pleased smile on Cowley's face as he recognized the gestures himself. No, it wouldn't be long before Doyle was back to normal, all his old memories faithfully restored.

"Well, I have a meeting to attend. I just wanted to drop by." Cowley was already heading for the door. "Bodie? A word."

Cowley was outside and Bodie following behind when Doyle caught his sleeve, forcing him to stop. He met Bodie's gaze with solid determination. "You go and do whatever stuff you need to get done and then you come back here for tea. I'll cook something -- but you make sure you come back."

For a moment, Bodie wondered how quickly Doyle would change the ultimatum if Bodie simply leaned forward and kissed him. Sometimes, it seemed like the best way to put them both out of their misery. Just get the truth out in the open, get the yelling and screaming, the anger and betrayal all out in the open -- and then they could go their separate ways and leave all this agony and waiting behind.

But then, there would be no more stolen moments and Bodie needed to store as many of them as possible away for later, when he no longer had Doyle in his life. So he gave a muted, deliberately irritated grunt in response, twisted out of Doyle's grip and headed out of the flat in pursuit of Cowley.

The Old Man was waiting in the street, breathing clouds of steam into the cold afternoon. Already it was beginning to get dark.

"How is he doing?" Cowley asked without waiting.

Bodie shrugged, "Not bad, considering."

"And will his memory return? In full?"

"I should think so."

"And then?"

Bodie glanced away, pulling the car keys from his pocket, "Then he'll be raring to get back to work."

"The question was not directed at Doyle, 3/7. At this moment, my interest is in what you plan to do."

Bodie kept his reaction in check. He shot a glance at Cowley but didn't say anything immediately. Cowley took his silence as an invitation.

"I have to say I'm disappointed in you, Bodie. I don't know why, but I expected better."

"Sir..."

"Don't interrupt me, Bodie. I'd have thought five years would have left me with some influence over your attitude and at least the semblance of loyalty but I see I was misguided in my appraisal." Cowley paused and turned to signal to his driver to bring his car around. "I'm glad you've finally had the sense to help Doyle out. Doctor Ross has assured me that the amnesia requires your kind of input to be reversed. What I want to know however, is what you intend to do afterwards."

Bodie lifted his chin, a frail protection against the quiet, purposeful attack. But his reply required no consideration, "You already know what my plans are, sir." With that, he turned and headed for his car, gratified to discover that Cowley didn't call him back. He wasn't entirely sure what he would have done if he had.

For the first hour, Doyle deliberately concentrated on practical things. First, he had a shower and changed into some old familiar clothes, things he could definitely recognize. Then he fingered through the record collection and put on something he knew he could hum. A Mozart sonata. Then he turned on all the lights, turned the music up and proceeded to sort out the kitchen. In the back of his mind a meal began to form, ready for when Bodie returned. He was half-way through preparing it when the door buzzer squawked again.

Wondering if Bodie had suddenly had a change of heart, Doyle pressed the button. "Yeah?"

"Ray? It's Sam. Can I come up?"

"Sure!"

Sam Cocrane was exactly what everyone imagined a mountain man to be. Rugged, good looking, steely grey-blue eyes and unheavy square chin. Longish straight brown hair and a fan of fine tan lines around his eyes gave him that ageless look. Even the sling and cast on his arm only added to the picture. He got through the door and instantly gave Doyle a big hug, slapping his back a few times with a hearty laugh that would have echoed around the glens. Doyle was delighted to see him.

"God, you look well!"

"Yeah, well I only spent the one night on that mountain. You don't look so bad -- but you're too thin. Haven't they been feeding you?"

Sam followed him into the kitchen as Doyle pulled them out a couple of beers from the fridge. "No stopping them. I'm told it'll be a few months before I'm back up to strength. Something about prolonged trauma and dropping of metabolic rate. Can't say I paid too much attention."

"Well you should," Sam shook his head. "That's the kind of thing that keeps you alive."

"Not likely to give it another try in a hurry, am I?"

Sam sipped his beer as Doyle picked up his knife again and began chopping. "Any nightmares?"

Doyle shrugged. "You?"

"No more than you'd expect. They'll wear off."

"I've heard Russell is doing better now they moved him closer to home."

"Yeah, but it'll be a while before he's up and walking around. You were damned lucky you didn't lose a few toes at least." Sam raised his eyebrows in a softly mocking gesture, "You know you've been nominated for one of the Chief Constable's bravery awards?"

"Christ," Doyle laughed, "that's all I need!"

"But you deserve it."

Doyle glanced sideways at him, "Would you take it?"

"I didn't save a man's life."

Doyle grunted and shook his head. He still didn't remember enough of his ordeal to say one way or the other. But Russell, whose injuries had nearly killed him but who was now well on the road to recovery, remembered everything and had told the story far and wide of how Doyle had brought him home to safety. But a bravery award? "Can you stay for tea?"

"Afraid not," Sam stepped forward and peered closely at what Doyle was preparing. "I have a train to catch so I can only stay a few minutes. How many are you cooking for?"

"Just me and Bodie. He eats like a horse."

Sam chuckled and leaned back against the bench. "I should get around to meeting this legendary partner of yours one day. You've told me so much about him."

"Have I?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and for a moment, Doyle forgot his cooking. He turned and faced the other man squarely, "When I went up to Aviemore, did I talk about Bodie at all?"

Pursing his lips, Sam shook his head slowly. "No. Truth is, you didn't say much at all."

"Was that normal for me?"

"No -- but I've seen you in one of your moods before. I didn't try and get anything out of you. You would have just snarled and told me to mind my own business."

Doyle couldn't help smiling at that and Sam grinned back. Idly, Doyle turned back to his cooking but didn't actually do anything for a moment. There were too many things rattling around in his head and none of them made any sense. His most recent encounter with Bodie had left him raw and unsettled and he had to find some equilibrium before the man returned. He had to get a handle on this.

"Look, Ray, if you want to talk, go ahead." Sam said into the silence. "I don't know if I can help, but I'll try."

Talk? About Bodie? Put all this confusion into words? Wonderful idea -- but completely impossible. At least, in the way Sam would understand. Doyle carefully picked up a carrot and ran the peeler down the side. "Can I ask you something without getting a whole pile of questions in return?"

"Sure."

"Before the avalanche," Doyle began quietly, his heart suddenly pounding with a rush of adrenalin, "did I go... I mean, was I... straight?"

"What?" Sam's frown was in his voice as much as his face. Doyle couldn't look at him.

"You know, straight; as in did I only sleep with women?"

"Ah, sure -- at least, as far as I know." Sam took a quick mouthful of beer and shook his head, "But you're not going to tell my why you asked, are you? Or even if it has something to do with the mood you were in when you went to Aviemore?"

Swallowing, Doyle dropped his head and shook it. Senseless, all of it. Finally, he came up with an apologetic smile. "Look, forget it will you? It was just a thought."

Sam looked dubious but didn't pursue it. He finished his beer and looked at his watch. "Well, I gotta go or I'll miss my train. I'll call you next week."

Doyle saw him out, wishing his friend could stay a little longer. Then, his mind still not on what he was doing, he busied himself in the kitchen again until his feet began to give him trouble. Then he opened a bottle of red wine and sat down in front of the fire, lit a match to the kindling and settled back as the dark evening drew in. But though his body was stilled, his mind raced like the wind, roaring through empty caverns creating vacuums and howling at the silence.

There was no doubt about it; he was attracted to Bodie.

Sipping his wine slowly, he allowed himself to absorb and accept the realization, let it filter through his fractured knowledge of himself and his past. The effort caused him no pain and only a little discomfort. Perhaps he still had too much to learn of his other life, perhaps when he remembered, he would like the idea so much less.

But he did accept it, letting it sit inside him with peace. Doing so made other things fall into place. So many things.

The music came to an end but now he was content to sit in silence.

He was attracted to Bodie. Strongly. This afternoon, while pushing him for answers, Doyle had deliberately moved closer, disguising it in his concern for the other man's feelings on a delicate subject. But the moment he got so close, other things had clouded his vision, other sensations in his body that his mind had conveniently ignored till then -- and he'd been assailed by one single overpowering thought and that was just how extraordinarily, breathtakingly beautiful Bodie was. With his proud chin, sensuous and expressive mouth and those blue, blue eyes which bored into him like twin daggers, seeking out his soul.

Then other thoughts crowding on top; how it would feel to touch him, to be with him, to kiss him, to feel those arms around him, to make love to him. To touch that face and somehow find a way to make Bodie smile again.

Awareness of it all made him dizzy with trepidation. He was now walking in unfamiliar territory and it was scary -- but he'd been doing that since he got off the mountain.

But this?

He brought his glass to his mouth but now didn't drink any. Instead, an idea struck him with more force than mere alcohol could muster.

Is that what happened?

Was that what Bodie was hiding?

Had Doyle felt this before going to Scotland? Had he told Bodie -- or made a pass at him? Something that had forced Bodie to decide they couldn't work together any more?

Sweet Jesus!

It fitted with the facts. Bodie was happy to be around him but not willing to give anything of himself back to their long friendship. Bodie refused to talk about whatever problem they'd had -- while maintaining that it wasn't important -- even though it was splitting them up. And today, as Doyle had approached him, Bodie had responded as though he were afraid of Doyle being that close to him, physically.

Yes, it had to be that! It was the only thing that made sense; not only of the past, but of the present, of Doyle's feelings now, of why he'd been so obsessed with solving this mystery, why Bodie had become and remained so important to him. Bodie had been right all along. The answer: in the end, it did neither of them any good to have Doyle know it.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. When the first crack of thunder smacked against the windows, he didn't get up to pull the curtains closed. He didn't even notice when the rain began to fall.

***

March 17.
Thursday, 1.40 am

Bodie came down the stairs at Central one at a time, his steps heavy with exhaustion, his mind clogged with names, dates and places firmly fixed in the past. Eight hours of it, non-stop and all with very little to show for it.

Murphy had called him the moment he'd got home, asking for a favour. The case he was working on needed somebody with Bodie's experience to do some file searching. Considering the problems he'd caused Murphy lately, Bodie didn't feel in a position to turn him down.

They'd kept it quiet from Cowley of course. Bodie didn't want another lecture or another frown of disappointment stabbed in his direction. It was hard enough having to endure Doyle's censure let alone Cowley's. You'd think the two of them felt they owned him the way they pulled at him from every direction. It was unlikely either of them thought for one minute that Bodie was only twenty-four hours away from leaving for good. That hangman's noose was getting pretty tight now.

Bodie didn't bother handing the car back to the pool. He still had one more item of CI5 business to take care of: Doyle.

He'd tried three times to ring and let him know that dinner was off. No answer each time. Now, that didn't necessarily mean something was wrong, but Bodie was getting so used to worrying about Doyle that he didn't give it a second thought this time. Instead, he dashed through the rain to the Capri, slipping inside liberally sprinkled and damp. The downpour was already hours old. By dawn there would be nothing left of the snow which had all but covered London for the last two months.

He pulled out of the carpark, glad for once that it was so late; there would be little traffic slowing him down. He could stop by Doyle's, check there were no lights on then get home and get some rest. He had some arrangements to make, a few things to take care of and then he would be free.

Free.

It had always been the most important thing in the world to him. His ability to pull up his roots and shift realities had always surprised and pleased him. Such a tough and hardened skill, carrying with it a philosophy that had developed from within, principals becoming more clear as the reality of his actions began to repeat themselves. He was free because he could walk away. He could always walk away. No scene, no matter how heavy, how dangerous or how desperate could keep him in a place once he'd decided to go. Never had, and now he knew, it never would.

For the truth was, if he'd ever met anybody who could keep him in a place, it was Ray Doyle. But that keeping had made Bodie vulnerable, had kept him trapped until he was too easy to wound, to scar and mark for life.

No one, no matter how bad, needed to experience what he'd been through over the last six weeks. He was starting to suspect that if he ever looked close enough, his soul would resemble a piece of Venetian glass after a rather sour argument with a meat grinder. And the worst part about it all was that it was his own fault. From beginning to end. Nobody to blame but himself.

Rain slated sideways across the road, forcing the lorry he was following to slow right down. Bodie didn't mind. He was on mechanical now. No rush. Everything would get done in its proper order, in its right way.

It wasn't as if he'd not known what he was doing. If anything, that had only made it worse. He'd known what love did to him, how those in love tore each other apart, how love gave one person the ultimate power over another.

And Ray had hurt Bodie. More sharply and more deeply than he'd ever been hurt before. All of it unwittingly, too, to add bitter irony to the rest. Doyle would have had no idea of the bonfire he was adding to that morning he'd packed to go north. No idea that his leaving was the worst possible thing he could ever have done to Bodie.

But it was all too late now. The damage was done. Bodie knew now that the moment he left, he would begin to recover -- but not until then. The wounds would never heal over, never close up while he was here, in London, near his tormentor. No. He would make Doyle hate him and then leave, allowing his own heart to hate in return. Only that way could he harden himself enough to live again. He knew it would work; he'd done it all his life, starting with his mother. Not once had he ever been tempted to go back and find her. And she had never looked for him. Hatred was the miracle worker. Designer hatred, made to order, would bring him back to the man he'd been before CI5, before Doyle; hard, talented and invulnerable. And never again would he let himself fall in love.

He turned over Chelsea bridge then left along the river until he got to Doyle's street. He pulled up opposite the flat and leaned across the car to get a good look at the windows. There were lights on everywhere -- but no sign of movement.

A faint flutter of warning pricked at the back of Bodie's mind. Doyle had always been a bit of a conservationist and leaving a flat full of lights on all night could only mean one thing; trouble.

Crisp and objective now, Bodie pulled the collar of his jacket up about his neck and climbed out of the car. He dashed across the street and pulled out his keys. Without pausing, he let himself into the building then paused in the hall, listening. After another moment, he climbed the stairs and paused again before Doyle's door. Nothing. Not a single sound.

He ignored the second flutter of warning in his gut and rapped the door hard with his knuckles. The noise echoed in the stairwell and he glanced around once before knocking again. From beyond the door, the faintest rustle of movement suggested he knock once more. Then footsteps clearly from beyond the timber and he stepped back a little.

The door was wrenched open and Bodie couldn't help frowning. Doyle stood before him, fully dressed, hair wild, eyes red and puffy from sleep, shadows beneath -- and surprise followed by horror plastered across the face before it was clumsily hidden beneath surliness. "Bodie! What are you doing here?"

For a second, he didn't quite know what to say. Then, gathering himself, he replied, "You didn't answer your phone. It's procedure to check."

"I'm not on call so you can forget procedure. Goodnight."

Bodie put his hand out, stopping the door, "Are you alright?"

Doyle paused, his gaze first on Bodie, searching and raw -- then dropping to the floor. "Fine. I'm fine, Bodie, just go away and leave me alone."

"You don't look fine."

At this, Doyle looked up, his face suddenly flushed with anger. "Look, Bodie, I said I'm fine. I don't know why you're even asking since you don't really give a damn. Why don't you just go home -- or better still, get the hell out of London like you're always threatening to do. Either way, get away from my door and leave me the hell alone!" With that, he stepped back and slammed the door in Bodie's face.

Bodie was turned and down the stairs before he could get a hold of his fury. He was back in the car and pulling away from the kerb before he could see straight. He was over the bridge before the flutter of warning in his guts turned into a flood. Without pausing he did a sharp u-turn and headed back over the river. This time he parked a little distance from Doyle's place but in a position from where he could see something of the room beyond the curtains. The lights were still on.

Half afraid to stay and watch, Bodie settled down to wait. It didn't take anywhere near as long as he'd expected. After ten minutes, he caught the sight of a shadow moving near the window, to be replaced by Doyle, obviously pacing up and down, oblivious to everything else. Another ten minutes and the pacing stopped. Then nothing.

Bodie waited, not realizing he was holding his breath until his chest began to complain. Then a flicker from below the window and he realized Doyle was coming out the door. He had a parka on and the hood pulled over his head. He turned into the street and began walking quickly. Bodie waited until he'd reached the end and turned the corner before taking off after him. He approached the corner carefully, with lights off -- in time to see Doyle flag down a taxi and climb in.

He followed, keeping his distance. He was probably being too cautious -- Doyle in this frame of mind was unlikely to be paying too much attention -- but he didn't want to risk it.

The journey lasted another ten minutes and then Doyle was out, paying the driver and running towards the door of a house. There he stood in the rain, belting the knocker so loud Bodie could hear it from the Capri across the road. Then lights came on in the house, one then two and suddenly the front door was wrenched open.

Bodie went cold.

Doyle was welcomed with an embrace, taken inside -- by his friend from Murphy's birthday party, Jeff.

The door was closed and lights downstairs switched off while Bodie sat in his car, stunned and immobile.

He had no idea how long it took him to move again and when he finally looked at his watch, he realized without surprise, than an hour had gone by. He glanced across to the house again to find more lights on. Then another car was coming up the street. It stopped outside the door and Doyle came out, giving his friend another hug before getting into the taxi. Under cover of the rain, Bodie drove off after it.

He didn't pay too much attention to where they were heading until the streets began to look oddly familiar. He watched the taxi take one more turn then stop before his own flat. This time he drove on a little further and watched Doyle through the mirror.

Dismissing the taxi, Doyle climbed the stairs to Bodie's door and pressed the buzzer. Again and again he pressed it, getting wetter each moment. Bodie should have got out of his car. Should have moved, done something, anything; but all he could see in his mind was the face of Jeff and sheer blinding jealousy swarmed up and consumed every drop of sense in his body.

Doyle had lied about that man -- and now he had gone to him in the middle of the night.

Eventually Doyle turned away and walked down the street, away from Bodie. It wasn't until he turned into the park that Bodie could bring himself to move. Now he left his car and followed on foot, ignoring the rain as it pelted down on his head. All he knew was he had to keep Doyle within his sights.

The path was awash with water but Doyle paid no attention. Fortunately there were lights on in the park, lining the pathways. It made tracking Doyle easier and stopped Bodie from slipping and tripping in the mud.

Doyle wandered aimlessly, heading for the small wood by the river, where the path led to the bridge. Bodie hurried a little to catch up. If he lost Doyle in the wood, he'd never find him again in this weather.

But suddenly there was no need to worry. Just as he got to the line of the trees, some inner sense must have warned him -- or perhaps he'd been paying attention after all. Doyle stopped and turned around, seeing Bodie instantly.

For a long minute, they simply stood there watching each other. Then, inexorably, Bodie found his feet taking him closer, until he stopped within talking distance of Doyle.

In the light of the park lamp, he could see Doyle's face dripping with water. The hood had come down and the curly hair was drenched. Doyle's face was pale but his eyes were bright, as though he were on some drug -- but even so, there was no light of accusation in those eyes, no hint that memory was driving this sudden madness.

"Come back to my flat before you get pneumonia." Was all Bodie could think of to say. Jealousy and anger and fear and frustration and betrayal and love were all tangled together inside him, making mincemeat of any reasonable thought. All he knew was Doyle was in danger -- and that allowed him to operate on instinct.

"You liar!" Doyle roared. Bodie stepped back at the rage suddenly directed towards him -- but Doyle wasn't letting him go. He strode forward, his gaze a beacon in the night. "You damned liar! You said it didn't matter if I didn't remember! You said it wasn't what was making you leave." He paused hauling air into his lungs with difficulty, "You said I did nothing wrong. Liar! You know I did something wrong -- why couldn't you just tell me? I would have understood. I wouldn't have blamed you. Why did you have to let me work it out on my own?"

"Work it out?" Bodie almost laughed. "Well, Jesus, Ray, maybe I thought you might be a bit upset. Perhaps I was just trying to save you a bit of pain and agony. And maybe I was trying to help by not telling you anything you didn't already remember -- you know? Like the doctor told me?"

Doyle's eyes flared at that and he stormed forward, hi