Chapter 1
It was a gloomy afternoon and Bodie & Doyle were finishing a search of the outbuildings for any signs of life. Finding nothing, Bodie was all for going home. He was tired, wet, cold and miserable. However, Doyle – also tired, wet, cold and miserable – insisted on a scout round the final building way across the yard. Bodie made a crack about Diligent Doyle to which Doyle had snapped that Bodie could always wait in the car if he couldn't be bothered. Rather than getting in a row, Bodie sighed theatrically and trotted off behind his diligent partner. A quick search around the ground floor revealed that it had been used as a squat. There were syringes on the floor and graffiti on the walls. The old furniture the squatters had brought in from somewhere gave it an almost homely feel. The rat that skittered across the floor dispelled any further rosy feelings. "Nothing," said Bodie in a told-you-so tone of voice. "We haven't checked upstairs," Doyle replied. Bodie threw himself into one of the old armchairs and put his feet up on the coffee table with finality. It was clear that Doyle was on his own on this one. Bodie had indulged him as far as he was going to.
As Bodie heard his partner patter upstairs, he cast about for something to occupy himself with while Doyle wore himself out on ghost trails. His eye rested on two lovely sights – one, a picture of a naked girl taped to the far wall, and the other the remains of a whisky bottle. As Bodie heard Doyle fall over something upstairs (a smirk from Bodie), he prised himself from the armchair and went over to investigate the bottle. The smell of the contents showed that it was still good. He took a swig. The bitterness shot fire down his throat. He coughed it up immediately. "God strewth," he choked to himself, "what was that?" He made a mental note not to drink from an unknown bottle again – or not for a while anyway. He threw the bottle against the furthest wall where it made a satisfying smash. A few moments later he heard an exchange of gunfire overhead. He immediately reached for his gun. The weapon felt heavy and clumsy in his hand. He never made it to the door.
Doyle was kicking about upstairs. He'd seen footprints in the dust but couldn't judge whether they were from yesterday or a few moments ago. He kept going methodically. Bodie would have to wait. Then suddenly there was a shot from somewhere. Doyle felt an agony in his left arm. He cried out and crashed against the wall but remained conscious. He saw a figure run across his sight. He followed it with his gun and crept round the corner where the gunman had fled. "Hold it!" Doyle yelled. The sniper whirled round to fire again, but Doyle was quicker and felled the man where he stood. The question now was – were there others? Doyle knew that Bodie would be close behind once he'd heard the shots. At least there were two of them on the job now that Bodie had been roused from his inertia.
That was at least Doyle's logical assumption. And one should never assume.
Doyle managed to finish searching the upper floor despite his injury and was now sure that the gunman had been alone. But Doyle also felt that he himself was alone. He hadn't heard Bodie around. Doyle's flesh wound was bleeding freely and his arm felt on fire. He made it down to the ground floor, holstering his gun so he could use his free hand to staunch the bleeding. Still no sign of his idle partner. He called out. Nothing. He was getting anxious now and very light-headed. He entered the 'living room' where he'd last seen Bodie. In a moment, Bodie was on him. He grabbed Doyle round the throat and was squeezing the life out of him. Doyle tried to choke a response but nothing would come out. He tried to prise the fingers away but they were like bonds of iron. Bodie's eyes were manic and bulging. He slurred oaths and obscenities as he crushed the life out of his friend and partner. Doyle struggled and tried to knee Bodie in the groin, but his body was too close. He was flattened against the wall. Stamping on Bodie's foot yielded no result. Doyle had no choice left but to reach for his gun before life dissolved altogether.
Doyle's lasting image was Bodie's flushed face, sweat pouring from him, and the demonic hatred in his eyes. Doyle's fingers felt for the trigger as he drew the gun from its holster.
To be continued in Chapter 2 …
