Usual Disclaimer
I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.
STATE OF GRACE
Doyle wasn't usually late. Bodie checked his watch again. He'd hooted twice and there was still no sign of his partner.
Sighing heavily, and getting annoyed, he was about to get out of the car and lean on the doorbell, when Doyle appeared, chipper and smiling as he threw himself into the passenger seat.
Bodie looked at his friend.
"You have been shagging," was his comment. "It's written all over your face. Who is she? Do I know her? How long have you known her?"
Doyle feigning hurt and surprise stared at Bodie.
"Actually I haven't," he answered. "Not that it's anything to do with you anyway, but I've joined a book group and we had a meeting at my place last night. Very interestin' before you ask."
Bodie snorted.
"Book group! I wasn't born yesterday mate. I know that look. What's her name?"
Doyle sighed theatrically.
"Miss Spencer, age 73, Mrs Morton about 55, Susan Symons a secretary with ICI, James Rogers a teacher, Ruby and Grant from Brixton and Grace Walker. Happy now?"
"Sounds riveting," Bodie answered caustically. He drove on in silence.
The morning passed uneventfully. Both men spent some time at the shooting range, and the gym. They escorted George Cowley to a lunch at the Russian Embassy, and then drove him out to Heathrow to meet an American diplomat.
Shortly before five in the afternoon, they were back in central London, lounging around in the restroom. Bodie sat reading a newspaper. Doyle, as usual was sprawled on the sofa, reading.
"What sort of books?" asked Bodie.
Doyle looked up from his reading.
"Novels. We're looking at Agatha Christie's stuff. Why?"
"Just wondered"
The book club didn't last long. Doyle had to miss too many meetings, and Mrs Morton began to annoy him with her comments about his clothes, his hair and the fact he wouldn't talk about his job. On the other hand Doyle knew all about her varicose veins, her selfish sister Joan, Mr Morton's piles, and Alice Morton who, at thirty one 'should be married and giving me grandchildren by now'. Privately Doyle thought Alice Morton could get away with justifiable homicide were she to go down that route.
Bodie was just relieved – the book club simply wasn't Doyle.
Some weeks later, Bodie was again waiting on his partner. The two hoots had been ignored, and the leaning on the bell hadn't worked. Fumbling around in his pocket Bodie found the key to Doyle's flat, and let himself in. Immediately he realised it was a Bad Idea.
Doyle, it seemed, was noisily 'entertaining' himself, and on a work day too. Just in time, Bodie rushed into the kitchen and managed to shut the door, to drown out the sound of his partner's climax.
Shortly afterwards, Doyle, completely naked, strode into his kitchen and stopped dead.
"Er . . . did you knock?" he asked pointedly.
Bodie shook his head.
"I hooted and rang the bell too. You were obviously otherwise engaged, or just ignored me. Not really time for you to play five knuckle shuffle is it? You do know we're due at Gatwick in an hour don't you?"
"Fuck," replied Doyle slowly. "Forgot. Busy." he added.
Bodie filled the kettle.
"Go and shower, I'll make the tea. Wash those important little places," he called out sarcastically.
He found some mugs and began making the tea. He heard the door open and called over his shoulder.
"You've run out of sugar Doyle. You know I like three spoons in mine."
"It's bad for you," said an unfamiliar voice.
Bodie wheeled round.
Standing before him was a young woman clad in Doyle's best white shirt and little else. She was tall, with long dark hair, eyes so blue they were almost violet, and framed with thick dark lashes. She stood casually, leaning against the kitchen table. Her legs were long and her toenails were painted a pale mauve.
"Did you make one for me?" she asked, gesturing towards the mugs.
Bodie, for once in his life was stuck for words. He pushed a mug towards the woman and found another for himself.
"I'm Grace Walker, a friend of Ray's," she said. She grinned at Bodie. "Perhaps you ought to sit down. You look awfully shocked." Her voice was low and velvety.
Bodie sat down and switched on his most dazzling smile.
"I am sorry; forgetting my manners. I'm Bodie, Ray's colleague. I'm sorry for barging in, but we have an early meeting . . . "
Grace laughed gaily.
"So you're Bodie are you? I've heard all about you. Don't worry about barging in - I guess you gathered we were almost finished!" She sipped her tea. Bodie blushed!
Doyle entered the room and grabbed a mug, drinking the tea quickly. He had pulled a comb through his hair and with the back of his hand wiped away a smear of toothpaste from his mouth. He was wearing jeans but no shirt or socks.
"Give us a couple of minutes and I'll be ready mate. Sorry about this – overslept." He chortled softly as he left the room. Bodie heard drawers slam and muttered curses. Doyle returned and stood in the doorway, pulling a white tee shirt over his head. He grabbed a pair of red Kickers from the hallway and thrust his feet into them. Lastly, he pulled a cream jacket from the hallstand and stood ready at last.
Bodie stood up and put his mug in the sink. Doyle slipped an arm around Grace's waist and pulled her close, fastening his mouth on hers. She slipped one hand under his tee shirt while the other worked through his curls.
Bodie looked pointedly at his watch. The couple broke away, and giggling like teenagers bade each other goodbye.
As soon as the two were in the car, Bodie started.
"Is that Grace from the book club? Fuck me mate, she's gorgeous. You kept that quiet. How long . . . why didn't you tell me?"
Doyle sat there amused at his friend's outburst.
"Dunno how it happened. I quit the club; I hardly ever made the meetings anyway, with work an' all that. Then I found I'd picked up Grace's copy of 'Death on the Nile'. I phoned her up for her address, she suggested we meet for a drink and it went on from there. We've been together for about three weeks."
Bodie chuckled. Doyle continued.
"I didn't say anything, 'cos it's early days, and Grace is . . . different to the others. She makes me laugh, she's clever, and understands when the job comes first. It's a relief to find someone like that."
"Ah, but does she actually know what you do for a living?" asked Bodie. "That's what usually ends it. The hours, the missed dates, the secrecy."
Doyle shook his head.
"I've told her a bit . . . her dad works for the Met . . . he's quite high up . . . something to do with the anti-terrorism squad, so she knows it's not a normal nine to five job."
Bodie screwed up his face, trying to drag a memory to the fore.
"Walker! Her dad is Graham Walker. Ex SAS. Now head of the Yard's Anti Terrorism Unit. You move in exalted circles my son."
Bodie drove into the multi storey car park at Gatwick Airport, and the two agents got out. They made their way to the security office where they went through the weekly immigration and VIP reports. Such information would be thoroughly checked out and any concerns immediately flagged up to George Cowley.
An hour and half later, the agents finished and made their way to the car park. Retrieving the car, Doyle manoeuvred the vehicle out of the car park and headed for the M25.
The journey back to London was uneventful, and somewhat quiet. Doyle, one eye on the road, couldn't stop the thoughts running through his head. He wasn't usually reticent about his love life. Lord knows, he and Bodie had shared enough ribald stories over time. This time though, things were different.
Ever since he broke off with Anne Holly, he'd refused to let himself get close to another woman. He smiled ruefully to himself – he'd followed Bodie's rule of 'love 'em well and leave 'em smiling', and hadn't done too badly at it. The women he bedded hadn't complained, but he felt he was getting inured to any real feelings. He knew he wasn't the sort of man who could continue to sleep around indefinitely, and not form some sort of commitment or involvement. Grace was waking things in him he'd buried for a long time.
Bodie was also thinking. His own circumstances were changing and he knew he was at a crossroads himself. It was something he didn't want to discuss with anyone yet, not at least until he'd come to terms with things himself.
Following his meeting with Cora at the Sweeps Festival the previous year, he'd found himself looking forward to the times when they met and spent time together. Most women he met were too vapid and shallow and he realised he was beginning to find the endless quest for sexual satisfaction disappointing.
He'd begun comparing them to Cora, who offered him something so deep it was almost intangible. With her, sex had moved to another plane, and he wasn't sure where. When she was away, he found only release with his girlfriends – no deep or passionate feelings – and was beginning to find his sex life faintly boring. With a start he realised he had actually muttered the words aloud.
"Eh, who's boring? Me?" Doyle was only half listening as he drove, stop/start around the South Circular.
"No, I was just thinking," replied Bodie quickly.
"Bloody traffic. We'll be lucky to get back before six at this rate," said Doyle.
"Mmm – you're right," said Bodie, and shut his mouth abruptly in case another stray thought betrayed him.
They eventually got back at six thirty. Both were subdued, the usual banter missing. Doyle yawned theatrically.
"I'd best be getting home. I'm knackered and that drive didn't help. See you tomorrow mate."
The days rolled by with the usual round of bad guys being dealt with. Bodie and Doyle spent time guarding a number of foreign dignitaries, working with the Drug Squad to clean up a small part of the heroin trade and following a wealthy young man called Tyler, whose champagne life style was fuelled by his smuggling activities.
However, they saw little of each other away from work. Whereas they'd often go for a drink together, double date or have a meal, these activities seemed to fall by the wayside. Even when they did, it was usually hurried with both men quiet and thoughtful.
One morning, Bodie, having pulled the short straw, drove round to pick up Doyle. Remembering the situation last time, he parked the car and rang the bell smartly. Ray opened the door and ushered Grace before him. She was wearing yet another of Doyle's shirts, but this time teamed with jeans and a sweater draped over her shoulders. She was carrying a briefcase. She kissed Bodie on the nose and ran down the steps.
Bodie watched her as she got into a small blue sports car and pulled away.
They left the flat and drove to CI5 HQ. The briefing was short and sweet. England still smelt faintly of roses and lavender! The agents dispersed, some to the gym, others to their desks and the more unfortunate to a session with Macklin. Bodie and Doyle went through some surveillance photos from an overnight stakeout.
"Danny Jones again. Handing out National Front leaflets in Hounslow," said Bodie. "Get the locals onto it."
Doyle sniggered.
"And here's Raoul Garcia leaving Hetty's fun palace. Bet she'll have photos. Better let the embassy know."
They worked on, checking the photographs, making notes and annotating reports.
"She's becoming a fixture with you isn't she?" said Bodie.
Doyle looked up.
"Who? Grace? Yeah, she is."
He carried on working.
"Is this another Anne Holly, Doyle?" Bodie was abrupt.
Doyle stopped what he was doing and looked at his friend.
"No Bodie, it's not another Anne. It's turned out much better than that!"
Suddenly, he put down his pen and thumped Bodie on the arm.
"C'mon. It's nearly one and we need a break. And then you can ask everything that you've been bottling up and I'll tell you the truth!"
Together they walked to the Star and Stag. They sat in a booth and waited while Mo, the landlady brought them a huge plate of sandwiches. They sipped their drinks and stared at each other.
"Well?" this from Doyle.
Bodie looked up.
"You seem very happy with her," he said slowly. "I just wondered if you're OK."
Doyle grinned at his partner.
"I'm fine Bodie. I can 'ave girlfriends without the drama y'know."
"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Bodie.
"There's not much to tell really. We met at that book club thing. I see her sometimes, when she's free. I'm not looking to settle down, and neither is she, but if, if I was, Grace would be what I'm looking for." He looked towards his partner and noted Bodie's almost wistful expression.
"Oh," he said thoughtfully, "confession time. Must be our age."
Doyle snorted.
"Nah. The job we do, never knowin' if we're gonna make old bones . . . no one likes to think of their own mortality . . . yet we do almost every fuckin' day," he said morosely. He closed his eyes.
"I do sometimes wonder about settling down though. Having kids . . . a wife. I know I'm gettin' out when I'm forty, always assuming I'll last that long."
Bodie sat quietly, ruminating.
"D'you remember Cora?"
Doyle smiled and nodded in assent. Who could forget the serene Irish woman they'd met at the Sweeps Festival.
"I've been seeing her on and off since last year."
Doyle stared at his friend.
"Really! And you say I'm close mouthed!"
"It's a bit more actually," said Bodie hesitantly, "You've sort of cleared things for me. If I was going to settle down, it would be with Cora!"
Doyle stared hard at his friend before collapsing into laughter.
"Bloody 'ell Bodie. Listen to the pair of us, we sound like a couple of kids. 'If I was going to settle down'."he mimicked. "The blokes back at the office will piss themselves laughing. Cowley'll send us to Macklin for a fortnight. Toughen us up."
Bodie smiled ruefully.
"They will," he said, "but d'you know Doyle, I don't fuckin' care."
Doyle finished his sandwich.
"Cora is the only woman I can see actually lasting the distance with you mate. She knows you better than you know yourself."
Lunch over, the two men left the pub. They were both more relaxed with each other.
Doyle commented.
"I didn't wanna keep you in the dark mate," he said, as they walked back. "Trouble is, blokes like us aren't expected to have soft centres. Makes us less edgy. Cowley'll make sure we don't let the side down."
Bodie nodded in agreement.
"True, but there's nothing in the small print that says 'no women'. Anyway I reckon Cowley will be more sympathetic than you think. After all he gave up everything for CI5, and I sometimes wonder how lonely he gets with just a glass of whisky for company."
They continued walking, chatting and laughing the banter beginning to flow again.
"Cora's in town next week. D'you fancy double dating?"
Doyle narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah, if Grace is free. I'm seeing her tonight. We're having a quiet night in. Grace in her usual state."
Bodie lifted an eyebrow. Doyle skipped ahead, laughing.
"In bed, reading, glass of wine, wearing one of me shirts as a nightie."
"State of Grace," muttered Bodie. And then burst out laughing himself.