Bodie was finishing the last of the coffee. It was already cold from the flask. The stakeout on the villa was a washout. Bodie had radioed in that the men they were watching had just driven off. Base said that a tail would be put on the car once it got to Burchester – the only route they judged the driver could take. The weather was, in any case, closing in. Snow hadn't been forecast, nor the Siberian wind which accompanied it. Even if Bodie hadn't seen the car leave, visibility was making the stakeout an increasing nonsense. It was the early hours of the morning and Base said that a car would be sent to pick him up. The dilapidated barn – a shed more like – was leaking from every pore and the wind was sending blades of ice through his clothing. He wasn't dressed for the Arctic. This weather hadn't been expected.
Half an hour later, after packing up, Bodie radioed in again asking for progress on his driver. The duty officer said that they'd contacted the night man and he should be on his way. They'd check. Bodie radioing in and Base rechecking became a game of cat and mouse. The cat was developing hypothermia and there was still no sign of the mouse. Bodie was becoming more than concerned. There was no way off this barn. If he tried for the house, he'd be eaten alive by the guard dogs he knew still to be there. It was too far for the main road and who'd be up and about at this hour anyway to hitch a lift with? The only thing was to wait, or to die waiting.
Concern turned to real fear when the battery of his R/T began to fade. Now he was really alone. He kept walking about and climbing up and down the barn steps to the loft and back just to keep his spirits up and his circulation going. It was becoming increasingly difficult to believe that CI5 hadn't forgotten him completely. Fortunately the duty officer had the foresight, after some time it had to be said, to abandon the night man and try Bodie's far more reliable partner. Doyle had had a romantic dinner followed by a very romantic night and was in a deep and satisfying sleep when the phone went. Rolling over his latest girlfriend he answered it. The worried tone of the duty officer woke Doyle immediately as the situation was explained to him. They apologised for having to call him. Doyle was already out of bed when he put the phone down.
His girlfriend, however, had other ideas. She pleaded for him to come back to bed; nothing could be that urgent that he had to leap up in the middle of the night. Doyle ignored her and looked out of the window. His heart leapt when he realised that Bodie was in the middle of a blizzard, and it would be much worse out in the countryside. He dressed warmly but his girl, Debbie, wouldn't let up. She had now got it in her head that it could only be an old flame who had clicked her fingers to get Doyle running so quickly. His protestation that he had a friend stuck in a snowdrift melted no ice with her. She followed him to the spare bedroom where he bundled up shoes, socks and a spare coat. He was trying to close off her nagging so he could concentrate on his packing. It was vital that he remember everything. In the kitchen he made some sweet tea and put some soup on to warm. Debbie trailed him, the duvet wrapped loosely round her as she walked and stumbled over the bedding. Debbie's hounding was getting to him. Doyle finally snapped. He switched off the soup and his hand was as quick as a whip as he grasped her by the throat. She clawed at his hands. Her eyes bulged in terror. The duvet slipped from her body. He was unaware of her nakedness. "Don't say another word," he snarled, "and don't be here when I get back." She was now gurgling as the oxygen was cut off. As quickly he let her go. She sank, sobbing and gasping, to the floor. Doyle realised that he had come very, very close to killing her. He leaned over the sink, trembling and gasping for air – just like his girlfriend on the floor. In his police career he'd come across two or three (he couldn't remember now in his confusion just how many) men – and they were all men – who'd sat there in the interview room in tears saying that they'd got into a row with their wife or girlfriend and that they didn't know how it happened, but the next thing they were aware of was a body at their feet. Doyle had sympathised with them even then, but now he felt it for himself. How close he'd come to having to phone the police to say that he'd just killed someone. He stumbled to the bathroom, not realising that Debbie had headed there too. She was sensibly quiet and ignored him. As she was taking items from the cabinet, he pushed past her and was quickly on his knees vomiting in the toilet. His thoughts though were with Bodie and the time he was wasting on this 'domestic'. He had to pull himself together for Bodie's sake.
Finally, having checked and rechecked his kitbag, he went into the bedroom where Debbie was putting on her coat. He threw a five pound note on the bed and told her to get a taxi. She screamed that she wasn't his whore, but took the money anyway. He spat back a hot retort and slammed out. In the car he took several deep breaths to stop his trembling and was glad of the silence. Cold sweat made his clothes stick to his back and he had a pounding headache. He had thought he'd got a handle on his rages by now. He was disappointed and angry as much with himself as with Debbie. But there wasn't time now for introspection. He had to think of Bodie.
He reviewed again what he'd packed, including a shovel, and felt that he'd got everything. He spoke again to the duty officer and was informed that Bodie hadn't been replying for the past hour. It could be that his battery was draining in the cold. Doyle sincerely hoped so. He instructed Base to send a message by Morse. "Morse?" squealed the duty officer. "Yeah. If you can't remember it, look it up in the emergency log," Doyle replied angrily. "A pulse signal is more likely to get through than a voice." The duty officer didn't argue with that; just did as he was told. He'd need to keep the message short though as his Morse was very rusty.
The journey seemed to last forever. It didn't help that Doyle got stuck behind a snow plough. At least it avoided him getting stuck in a drift, but God the ploughs did travel slowly. He kept Base informed. Finally, and finally, he turned off what passed for a main road in these parts. He didn't get very far down the side road before the snow became too bad. However, Doyle could vaguely see the barn from where he was. It took longer than he anticipated to reach there. His legs felt like lead, his head pounding. He'd tried to reach Bodie on the R/T himself but with no reply. His heart was thudding in his chest by the time he reached the barn, and it wasn't just physical exertion. He called out Bodie's name, with no result. Entering the shed he saw Bodie slumped on the steps and ran to him. He shook his shoulder and called his name. Bodie opened his eyes slowly. "Help arriving," he slurred. "Bodie, it's Doyle. Wake up." He shook again. Bodie's eyes came into focus. He stared at Doyle for a while and then simply wrapped his arms around him. "It's ok, Bodie. I'm here. It's ok." Doyle allowed himself to be held until Bodie relaxed.
While on the stairs, Doyle heard Morse stuttering on the R/T. "Help arriving," it said. That's where he got that from then, Doyle thought. Bodie eventually gathered himself and apologised for his reception. Doyle told him it was ok and got out the tea. He needed to help Bodie drink it as his hands were too numb and clumsy despite gloves, and his jaw too solid to open far. Doyle also helped Bodie off with his jacket, with many protestations. Doyle said he had a warm, dry coat for him, and proceeded to take off his own coat and Bodie had the added bonus of his friend's body warmth in it to help him thaw out. Doyle next helped Bodie off with his sodden shoes and socks. He gave him dry replacements and a towel to dry himself while he went off to collect the bits and pieces of the abbo. Bodie asked him if he'd remembered to bring the kitchen sink!
Doyle looked at Bodie's report sheet. He'd started asking for help over three hours ago. His handwriting becoming more illegible as each half hour had passed and no help coming. Doyle felt a blaze of anger. Bodie had almost become a casualty, not from his own carelessness or sheer bad luck, but simply because someone (and he'd love to know who) couldn't be bothered to get out of bed.
Bodie looked a lot better after getting into dry clothing and hot liquid down his throat. He asked whose stroke of brilliance it was to send a message in Morse. Doyle shrugged. Bodie knew then where the idea had come from. He said that it had saved his life; given him some-thing to hold on to knowing that he wasn't forgotten. It took a while to walk Bodie down the lane and he needed all Doyle's help to drag him that last leg. Doyle radioed in the good news that Bodie had been collected and was suffering from hyperthermia but not critical, as far as was known. He couldn't keep the joy out of his voice, and the duty man was equally relieved. Bodie felt embarrassed that he was the cause of all this rejoicing. A hero returned from the front – or the dead.
It was a challenge to turn round and get back on the main road, but once heading in the right direction it didn't take Doyle too long to get back to HQ on the cleared roads. Doyle was silent on the journey and he let Bodie sleep in the heat of the car. Even though it was the early hours, Cowley had been informed of the night man's dereliction and had come into the office to monitor events. As Bodie was getting checked by CI5's doctor, Doyle thundered into Cowley's office without knocking. He had Bodie's report sheet in his hand. "Doyle," started Cowley before his agent could draw breath, "for once I can understand your anger, and for once I totally agree with it. Don't you think that I'm angry, too?" Doyle was stopped in his tracks. Confusion at this unexpected turn of events clashed with his rage. "I'm furious, Doyle, that someone can lie on his bed while a colleague freezes to death on watch." Cowley was indeed winding himself up to an anger which Doyle had rarely seen in him. "It's not because it's Bodie, it's because it's any operative. An operative who'd been left to die. It's unforgiveable. Anger is even greater when it's impotent, Doyle. The best – indeed the only thing I can do, and have done – is to sack the man outright and throw him out of his digs. Dragging him through the courts is out of the question." Doyle's confusion turned to shame that he hadn't taken anyone else's feelings into account; that others could be angry on Bodie's account, too. Doyle wasn't the only one to care.
Doyle sat down slowly and tried to sort out his feelings. One thing he was clear on – he was sure he was going to be sick again. Not wanting to embarrass himself, he left the office and came back a few minutes later looking grey. Cowley pushed a cup of hot sweet tea in his hand and some aspirin. Doyle smiled uncertainly. "That's what I've been feeding Bodie," he said. He didn't even seem to mind that Cowley could see him shaking. "How is Bodie?" Doyle said that Bodie hadn't said much but seemed lucid. At that moment, Bodie himself came in. He looked in a better state than Doyle. Bodie sensed an atmosphere and guessed, wrongly in this case, that operative and boss had had a row. His partner looked ghostly. It was one of the symptoms after one of Doyle's storms. Cowley asked the question again. Bodie said he felt drained and had to confess that he'd been very frightened. Doyle had rarely heard Bodie confess to such a thing, and never in front of the boss. Doyle's anger resurfaced against this anonymous night man. He asked again for a name. Cowley said that he'd lost one man, he didn't want to lose another. Doyle looked more bewildered than ever. "If I gave you a name, Doyle, what would you do with it?" "Take the man apart," was the predictable answer. "Exactly. And what good would it do anyone to have you languishing in jail on a charge of murder, attempted murder or, at the least, GBH?" "It would make me feel better," he replied. "Let it go, Ray," Bodie said unexpectedly, sitting down next to him. "What's past is past; what's happened has happened." Turning to Cowley, Bodie added, "Doyle's one-man cavalry arrived in the nick of time." Bodie tried to make light of it, but Doyle wasn't easily or readily led away from his rages. "It's very big of you, Bodie. But I can't forgive as easily." "You're going to have to," was Cowley's firm and final word. His men knew when they were dismissed and the pair got up. Before they left however Cowley said that he didn't want to see either of them till the end of the week. That gave them four days rest.
Doyle told Bodie that he was staying with him, at least for a few days. Bodie didn't argue. He had a huge reluctance at the moment to be alone. On the way, Doyle did some shopping to ensure that his guest wouldn't go hungry, and filled out Bodie's prescription. Bodie had a decision to make on arrival in the flat – porridge or the remains of a stew Doyle had made the night before. Though it was early morning, Bodie opted for the stew. He was a fan of Doyle's home cooking. Bodie had padded off to the bathroom for a shower as his friend fussed in the kitchen, however he was quick to return. "Have you had a row?" he asked. Doyle immediately became defensive. The barrier behind his eyes was almost physical. "Why?" he asked cautiously. Bodie smiled and nodded to the back of the flat. Doyle, intrigued, followed him through. In the bathroom one word was written in lipstick across the cabinet mirror – 'bastard'. "It didn't seem to be your colour of lipstick, old man," joked Bodie with a wide grin, "and I'd be wondering about your bloody hand." Doyle smeared the message with loo paper and stalked out. It seemed that he didn't want to talk about it, but Bodie would wheedle it out of him sooner or later. He felt a lot better after a shower and a change into dry clothes. He wandered into the spare room and saw that Doyle had made up the bed and put biscuits, water and the medicine on the bedside table. He was touched by his partner's concern.
Bodie then drifted into the kitchen and sat down to a plate of delicious-smelling stew. He noticed that Doyle had put a dressing on his hand, but Bodie didn't draw attention to it. Doyle got him some tea and, looking at his guest tucking in with gusto, placed the pan on the table so he could help himself to the rest of it. They grinned at each other. "Rest, Bodie," was Doyle's only remark as he slurped down a bowl of porridge. Bodie was happy to comply after he'd had his fill.
Once he was satisfied that Bodie was asleep, Doyle went for a jog despite the weather. He was too keyed up to stay still for long. His anger drove him further than he'd intended and he was soaked and exhausted by the time he got back nearly an hour later. On entering the bathroom, he saw again the message, blurred though it was, on the mirror. He got some solution and scrubbed it off. His irritation was rising but he was too tired now to go out again. After a shower and a change, he wandered into the spare room. His friend seemed restless in his sleep. As he was debating whether to wake Bodie up from unpleasant dreams he heard him murmur. It took a while to understand the words – "Help arriving," he kept repeating. This didn't improve Doyle's temper as he reviewed the events of the night. He got a chair from the kitchen and a book from his shelves. The first one he picked was a horror story. He didn't think that would do, so opted for Dickens which an old girlfriend – he couldn't remember who – had given him to improve his education. He sat uncomfortably by Bodie's bed and, with some reluctance (he didn't like touching blokes – girls were very different!) took his hand. Bodie clutched it like a drowning man. Doyle had to prise his fingers apart slightly to gain some semblance of circulation as the nails dug painfully into his scratches. He began reading. It seemed to him then that it didn't matter what he read, he just felt that Bodie should hear a human voice in his dreams so that he didn't feel alone again. After a while Bodie's restlessness lessened, his murmuring ceased and his grasp on Doyle's hand eased. And after a further while, Doyle slipped into a doze himself, twisting awkwardly across the bedside table. Bodie eventually woke to find Dickens on his belly and Doyle looking exceedingly uncomfortable half on and half off the kitchen chair. He smiled and felt safe.
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