Disclaimer: Doyle, Bodie, Cowley and the characters/concepts of the Professionals do not belong to me. I am just borrowing them.
Rating: PG
Summary: Doyle has a brief encounter…
Note: Contains spoilers for, and references to, the episode "The Female Factor."
Brief Encounters
By NorthernStar
5 March 1979
It was hard to believe a whole year had passed. The last time Doyle had been here, he'd been on crutches and in quite a bit of pain. Bodie had been at his side, unable to conceal from Ray his concern for his friend. The drink he had taken Doyle for afterwards had been much needed and welcome.
If he had asked, Bodie probably would have accompanied him again, but this was something he needed to do alone.
Alone…
There was a figure standing at the grave. A skinny girl with her blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail. She was staring at the headstone of Ann Seaford's grave. As he came closer, Doyle started in recognition.
Sara…
Ann's daughter…
She looked younger than the last time he'd seen her, probably from the lack of make up on her pretty face. She was thinner too, but drug rehab did that to you, assuming she'd stuck with it. The last he'd heard from Cowley was that her adoptive parents had taken her back and put her into therapy.
Doyle had been pleased to hear that. Hoped she'd make something of her life. After all, Ann had died trying to save her; trying to reach Doyle to save her. If he hadn't moved house…
The girl looked up as he approached. Her eyes were deeply shadowed and he could see she had been crying. She had Ann's eyes, he noticed.
The polite thing would be to leave, grant her privacy in her grief. But he found he couldn't. His feet refused to obey him and he found himself moving forward instead. Kneeling, he laid the flowers he carried down at the headstone. A memory of Ann's smiling face flicked in his minds eye and for a brief moment, he paused to remember her. When he looked up, the girl had turned to go, frightened away by his presence.
He stood up. "Sara, isn't it?"
She turned, frowning. "How did you..?" She trailed off and Doyle saw the uncertain recognition in her face. He wondered if she remembered him. Knew he was the man who'd saved her life that day or if the cocktail of drugs and withdrawal she'd been under had wiped the memory from her mind.
"I'm Ray. Ray Doyle."
She glanced at the flowers he had placed at the grave. "You knew…Ann?"
He nodded. "She was a good friend."
A flash of anger lit her eyes. "She was a prostitute!"
"Doesn't make a difference, love." He said, "A friend's a friend."
"What do you know?" Her voice was bitter.
"Lot more 'n you. Never met her, did you?"
Her lip trembled just a little and she turned to go.
Angry at his own cruelty, he took her arm to stop her. He could feel the bones in her wrist. "I'm sorry."
She was looking at his hand, not shaking him off.
"Look, do you want a coffee?" He asked. "Place across the street should be open now." He could see her wavering. "Beats standin' around in the cold."
***
The greasy spoon opposite the graveyard was just opening when they got there. It was too early for cooked food so Doyle ordered a couple of teas and sat down at one of the back tables. The girl accepted the little plastic cup of tea gratefully and began to sip. He watched her as he added sugar to his cup and stirred. She didn't have the telltale snuffle of an addict and the brief glimpse of her arm had shown no needle marks. If she had been in rehab, it looked like it had worked. She seemed uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
"Did you sleep with her?" She asked suddenly. The question was probably reflex, to divert his attention away from her. It worked.
"Ann?"
"Yeah."
"Look, Sara…"
"Did you?"
He swallowed a burning mouthful of tea. "no."
She looked at him. "Why not? I'd sleep with you."
Doyle remembered the files on Sir Charles Milvern and what the girl had done with him for her next fix. His stomach turned. She looked away, hunching into her chair, reacting to the flicker of disgust he'd been unable to hide that crossed his face.
He took another gulp of tea; half wishing he'd never suggested this in the first place. The other, more sensible, more compassionate half of him knew that this was as much for himself as it was for her. That part of him rarely got much of an airing in his line of work, and it felt good to let it have full reign. And this…it was worthwhile. Ann's friendship had been worthwhile.
"Do you think it's true what they say?" Sara asked after a moment, staring into her cup. "About genetics?"
"No."
"Mum said it is." She propped her head on her hand. "Like mother, like daughter, she said."
"She's wrong, Sara."
"Yeah…" She pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Wasn't my real mum anyway."
Doyle didn't answer. 'Real' was such a subjective term. Somewhere out there was his 'real' father, but since the feckless bastard have never so much as set eyes of Ray, he wasn't even real to him in the same sense as Doyle's milkman. He had no face to put to the name. How real was that?
"What was she like?"
He didn't need to ask who 'she' was. "Nice. Kind."
"How did you meet?"
"Sara…"
"Please..?"
He sat back. He'd known it would come to this. When he'd caught her arm, when he'd spoke her name, he'd known she would ask this. Didn't make it any easier though…
****
4 September 1974
"Here."
The soft voice dragged him to full consciousness. Pain immediately lanced down his side and he winced as something touched his face and pressed down. His bleeding flesh burned in agonised protest and he cried out.
"Shh… It's OK…" He opened his eyes to see a woman kneeling over him. She was a little older than he was, with a neat bob of blonde hair and a face plastered in far too much make up.
"They worked you over pretty good." She said. Her voice was low and attractive.
"Tell me…somethin' I…don't know." He choked out.
The touch was gone in an instant. "If you don't want my help…"
Ray forced himself to sit, unable to hold in the cry of pain as he did so. "No…sorry."
The woman carefully helped him to straighten into a more comfortable position. Her ease and gentleness surprised him. No doubt she was one of the prostitutes he'd been sent to interview. "You're in the wrong type of work, love." He said, "shoulda been a nurse."
She laughed at that. "Long hours, shitty pay."
"Better than selling yerself."
More laughter, only this time it was laced with a touch of bitterness. "What would you know?"
Ray allowed himself to smile at that. "What's your name?"
"Ann." She plucked a curl out of the drying blood on his forehead. "Ann Seaford."
***
5 March 1979
Sara was quiet. Doyle wondered what she'd expected him to say. Something deep and meaningful probably, something to make her believe Ann was a saint so she could believe the same thing about herself. This was your natural mother. What might have been etc, etc.
And perversely, that was what he was trying to say. It was truth in its own way. That day when he'd been cornered by Keller and Gates, two of the worst pimps in the Home Counties, and beaten to within an inch of his life, Ann had been the saint who crossed the road to the other side; an angel as much in deed, as in beauty. The injuries he'd got for asking questions and upsetting the Keller's precious girls had put him in the hospital and off the case, something he bitterly regretted. But Ann's ministrations in those first waking moments had gone a long way to improving his understanding of prostitutes - of people – and that had immeasurable value in his line of work. She had knowingly risked Keller's vicious disapproval to help him, both in tending his wounds, and afterwards, in the search for the missing girl that had led him foul of Keller in the first place.
It wasn't what she did that was remarkable, although it was. Nor was it her quiet defiance of the law when she thought it wrong, something he respected her for. It was the lasting effect of all that that she had left on him. That everything he did, everyone he saved as part of CI5 was down, in an infinitesimally small but still significant part, to Ann.
But how did he explain that?
Sighing, he nursed his drink while the girl studied him. "Then what happened?" She asked.
***
4 September 1974
When Ray was able to stand, Ann helped him into her flat. It was a tastefully decorated riverside apartment; the large patio window looked out onto the most beautiful views in London. Maybe her line of work wasn't all that bad after all if she could afford such luxury.
She settled in on the sofa and tucked a cushion under his head. "Why did Keller do this?"
For a moment, a very brief half second, he considered not telling her. But she'd stuck her neck out to help him and he wasn't about to lie to her, she deserved better. "I'm a copper."
She sighed. "Great… You could have told me."
"I just did."
Angry, and probably more than a little scared, she got up and disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back she was carrying a bowl of water, a wad of cotton wool and a bottle of antiseptic. She pulled off a chuck of cotton wool, dipped it in the water and began dabbing at his cuts.
"Do you know what Keller will do if he finds you here?"
Ray gingerly touched his cheek, wincing at the tenderness. "Got a pretty good idea."
Ann pulled off more wool and continued dabbing. "I should throw you out."
"But you're not." It wasn't a question. "Are you?"
She paused for a moment. "Keller must really hate you. He's usually a bit more respectful of coppers." A neutral topic and he smiled in understanding. "Couple of twenties usually does it."
"I don't take brides."
"An honest copper?"
"Yeah, I know. Pigs'll fly, but I don't have wings."
"Keller's not the best enemy to have."
"I wasn't after Keller." He flinched as she touched a tender spot on her cheek.
"That's a first."
Doyle paused, and decided to push his advantage. "I'm looking for a girl."
She made a derisive sound. "You're in the right place."
"I mean a girl, girl. A fourteen year old girl." The dabbing suddenly turned vicious and he caught her wrist. "Her parents are worried sick."
There was something odd in her eyes and he fumbled in his pockets for the missing flyer he had. "That's her."
Ann stared at the small grainy picture of a blonde haired girl. "What's her name?"
"Jasmine Tyler." He plucked the flyer from her hands. She almost seemed reluctant to give it back. "Ran away from home. You know where most of 'em end up."
"Keller won't like you talking to his girls."
Ray rubbed his tender ribs. "Thanks. I had noticed."
She was silent a moment. "He won't expect you back." She said. "Most people don't hang around after a warning from him."
"I'm not most people."
She smiled at that. It was a lovely smile, under all that make up. "No. I don't think you are."
****
5 March 1979
"Did you find her?"
Doyle took a swallow of tea. It burned all the way down. He could see it all again, in his mind's eye. The girl's broken body amid the rubbish. The acrid smell of blood tainted with the unmistakable odour of sex…
"Yeah…" He looked away. "What was left of her…"
****
12 September 1974
Doyle knew he shouldn't be drinking. It was bloody stupid, getting drunk because the job had turned to shit in a matter of hours. He knew plenty of coppers who did, who got to like it far too much. He'd watched them drink and drink and try not to remember. Stupid really, you could no more out run your own memories than you could your shadow. It didn't make the job any easier, not in the long run. The guilt got to you in the end, drunk or sober.
But he had no reason to feel guilty did he? He'd done his best to find the girl. And he had. Wasn't his fault she was dead…
Yeah, right…
"Got a light?" The voice came from mere inches away from his ear, breathy and warm
He turned. "Don't smoke."
It was Ann. "You don't know what you're missing." She looked at the scotch in his hand. "I'll have a white wine."
He smiled despite himself, and ordered what she asked.
"Day off?"
"Sort of." He looked at her. "Could say the same thing to you."
"Late booking."
He glanced at his watch. "Very late."
"Nurses have terrible hours too, sweetie. So they'll be no reforming me tonight."
"Wouldn't dare." He swallowed his drink. "'Sides, thinking of jacking all this in. Might see me leaning on the next lamppost to yours come the end of the month."
She cast an appreciative gaze over him. "With a body like that, you'll have plenty of custom." She said. "And I have never used a lamppost. It's common."
"Lamppost. Flat. Same difference, innit?"
She ignored the jibe and sipped the wine, savouring the taste. "I was looking for you." She murmured after a long moment.
"Yeah, well you found me."
"I heard about the girl." Ann's voice was soft. "I'm sorry…I know that probably doesn't mean much."
"You're right it doesn't."
"I didn't come here to act as your punching bag."
"What role was it then?"
"I thought you could use a friend."
"Got plenty, thanks." He couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Don't need your sort of friendship, do I?"
She leant forward. "Don't you?" And her lips touched his.
He pulled back. "Try someone else, darling."
Undeterred, she kissed him again. For a moment, he let her. Then he pushed back. "I'm involved."
"Then why isn't she here?"
Good question. Things with Yvonne were complicated, had been from the start. She didn't understand his job and didn't care too.
Ann caressed his cheek. It would be so easy to give in to need. Yvonne would never know, and god help him, he needed this, needed contact with another, needed to feel alive in a way he hadn't felt since he'd seen the shattered corpse of that poor child.
"I love her…" he whispered, almost desperately. He knew he couldn't stop himself and if nothing was to happen, it would be at Ann's doing, not his.
"I'm not offering that." She told him. "Just me. No strings, no ties, just me."
Abruptly he stood. "I know." He was so close to giving in. "I…know."
Understanding filled her eyes and she backed off. "But?"
He began to breathe again, unable to express his gratitude. "Thanks but no thanks."
5 March 1979
The noisy arrival of a horde of builders quashed the story and they lapsed into silence. As they sipped their cooling teas, Ray used the time to study the girl in front of him. Out of the bitter cold morning air, her skin had flushed with colour and lightened the dreadful hollowness to her eyes.
"What?" She demanded, when his staring became too noticeable.
"You look like her." He told her softly.
She didn't reply to that.
He sighed. "Another one?" He indicated her empty cup.
She nodded, a little distractedly and he went to get a couple of refills. When he returned, putting a steaming cup in front of her, she smiled. He watched her put several heaped spoonfuls into the cup and stir.
"Dentist'll love you."
She bit her lip for a moment, and then answered. "Sugar…helps. With withdrawal and stuff…"
It was probably the most honest and trusting thing he'd ever heard anyone say. He was momentarily speechless. What the hell, deep and meaningful after all…
"Was it tough?" He found himself asking.
"Hurt." She sniffed back automatic tears. "But I'm not going back."
He didn't answer. She sounded sincere, but he'd worked too long on the Drug Squad to ever believe an addict. Maybe she guessed his thoughts, because she buried her face in her cup, draining down the hot tea.
She put the empty cup down. "Are you still a copper?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Yeah." He smiled, "sort of…"
Cups now empty and the morning started, there didn't seem to be much else to do. Sara looked lost and he guessed she was thinking of heading back to the graveyard, with its cold stone memory and very little else.
"Look, I have a couple of hours…" he heard himself offering. "If you want to… talk about Ann."
The hope on her face was terrible to see.
***
Their walk took them along the river. The Themes, dirty and ill treated for the better part of 900 years, could be quite beautiful in the morning sunshine. Doyle had always felt a great affinity with the docks, with its mosaic of life and grime. Something he guessed was left over from the days as a beat bobby, pounding the streets in pairs. London had taken more than its fair share of knocks over the centuries, but it still thrived; still beat with a heart all its own. He loved it, in all its gaudy, showy ugly beautiful glory. A melting pot of cultures, wide and embracing; he hoped that would never change.
Sara pulled her thin jacket closer about her skinny body, oblivious to the vicious splendour of the city around her. "How well did you know her?"
Doyle paused, propped his arms on the rail and watched the Woolwich ferry chuff across the mucky water. "Well enough."
"Did she talk about me?"
"No."
Silence and he almost caught himself regretting his brutal honesty. But he wasn't going to lie to her.
She sat down on the dirty street, back propped against the railings. He knelt down, and this time he didn't see a shadow of Ann, he didn't see the girl who'd done the things in the Milvern report. Instead he saw her, barely an adult, barely in control. What had driven her to seek out Ann's grave? To have a conversation with a stranger who might expect God-knows-what in return?
"Where do you live?"
She smiled, "there's a hostel at Wood Green. I'm staying there."
Doyle recognised it and felt a little better. It was a good place, experienced in dealing with ex-addicts. At least she stood something of a chance there…
"What about your mum?"
"Had enough." Her smile disappeared. "That's what she said. Had enough. My mother's daughter. She should've known better, she said."
"Chucked you out?"
"Yeah."
Bitch, he was thinking, but he didn't say it aloud.
"Am I?" She asked suddenly.
"What?"
"My mother's daughter? Am I Ann?"
How easy a lie would be… "I don't know, Sara. I don't know you; your mother didn't know Ann." He gave in to the impulse to sit beside her. "No-one can say."
A tear trickled down her cheek. The first he'd seen. "I don't even know what she looked like…"
Doyle glanced out at the river, remembering the sight of Ann's naked body lying cold in the mud. He'd known it was her even before Bodie hopped down onto the silt and run over to lift her face up for him to see. "I can help you with that…" He heard himself say.
***
14 December 1974
Doyle entered the smoky bar, eyes scanning the gloom for the familiar dark blonde head of his informant. He saw Ann at the back, near the bar and purposely didn't look her way. He went to the bar and ordered a beer. The barmen served him a tasteless Yank lager, but he forced himself to drink it for appearances sake. After about fifteen minutes, long enough to allay the suspicions of anyone watching, Ann came to the bar beside Doyle to order more white wine.
While she waited for the barman to find the exact bottle she'd asked for, Doyle could ask her what he needed to know without anyone knowing. "Where is she?"
He felt something nudge against his arm and he surreptitiously took the offering. He unfolded the paper and read the brief message.
"You've got to get her out of there!" Ann whispered and he could hear the anxiety in her voice.
"I will. You're sure it's her?"
"Does it matter if its not? You know what those bastards'll do to her!"
Undeterred he demanded. "Carly Newel! Is it her?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
She almost whirred in anger. Almost, she wasn't that stupid to draw attention to herself. He repeated the question. "Are you sure?"
She sighed. "Not 100%. But enough. Now for God's sake, Ray, help her!"
"I need a way in."
Horrified she did look at him. Then away
before anyone would notice. "You know I
can't. Keller already gave me a warning
over you. If he found out I'm still
helping you…"
"He won't."
"You can't promise that."
No he couldn't. But he could fight dirty. "You know what those bastards will do to her." He quoted back to her.
She shot him a look of pure venom. "Bastard!"
"I just need a name."
"I can't."
"A name, Ann!"
Ann snatched her glass of wine up from the bar and turned to go. Before she stalked away, he heard her murmur. "David Collins."
***
17 December 1974
They were too late. By minutes, according to the post mortem; a little sooner and they would have rescued her alive. Not that they would have been sure of saving her even if she had been breathing when they raided the ugly unsuspicious-looking suburban house. She was flying high as a kite with all the drugs in her system, but at least she would have had a chance. A slim chance, maybe, but a chance none the less.
For Doyle it seemed like all he ever did in CID was turn up dead kids, and write report after report of police incompetence. He had enough of the constant under funding of the force, the resources stretched to the limit and all the new recruits, the young coppers without compassion nor commitment. He hated the bloody red tape that seemed to do nothing but hinder the police and protect the very criminals it should be putting away. There had to be something better than this.
Carly Newel had been the seventeen year old daughter of one of London's more notorious drug barons. She had been snatched by a rival gangster and used as means to grab territory from her father. For the Met, it had been a race against time to prevent an all out gang war. For Doyle, it had been more personal. For him it was a race against time to save an innocent teen. And with Ann's information, they had almost succeeded…
Almost…
One more dead kid on the list.
But the Met was happy. As a result of the girl's death, they now had one of the most powerful criminals in London in custody. And Doyle…
Doyle had to tell another mother her child was never coming home. One of these days he was going to quit the force. Or go mad or both…
"Ray?"
He looked up from his desk and the foot long report he was in the process of writing. "Yeah?"
His older colleague leaned forward. Cook, a good man, made working for the Met just that bit more bearable. "Uniform's just picked up a Tom. Beaten. She's asking for you." And he held out a piece of paper with scrawny writing on.
Doyle took the address. "Who is it?"
"Said her name's Ann."
***
An ambulance marked the spot in Greenwich Park where uniform had found Ann. Doyle got out of his car and crossed the grassy fields, oblivious to the beauty around him. When he reached the knot of people gawking at the scene, he wasn't too gentle in pushing them aside. If they wanted drama, they should be home watching Coronation Street.
Ann looked up at his approach and he could see that, although her face was unmarked, her whole body was too rigid to be held naturally. Whoever had done this - Keller probably, given that her looks were not marred - had given her body a vicious beating.
"Ann?"
Her eyes were afraid, but free of tears. "I'm not going to hospital."
Doyle looked up at the paramedic, who shrugged. "Can't force her."
"Anythin' broken?"
The paramedic shook his head. "I doubt it. Mainly bruises. Ought to check though."
Ann looked directly at Ray. "I'm not going."
"She ought not to be alone. 'Case of complications."
Doyle sighed. "I'll take her home."
The paramedic didn't look happy but he pulled a clipboard out of the ambulance all the same. "She needs to sign this."
Ann obediently signed the waiver and the man seemed satisfied. As the ambulance drove off, Ann stood up. He could see vivid red lines circling her neck.
"Who did this?"
"Keller."
The name came as no surprise, but the sudden pang of guilt he felt did. Keller had found out who gave the police the information on the Newel girl. Having a girl with loose lips was bad for business. It had been Ray who'd pushed her into giving Collins' name. And Ann had paid the price.
"You could press charges." But he knew what her response would be.
She laughed bitterly and he nodded his understanding. She wasn't about to risk another beating.
"I'll take you home."
She looked away. "Keller will be there."
Doyle paused. "My home." Yvonne was at work, she'd never know. Besides, he owed her…
***
The simple flats in Lower Mall where Doyle lived were a far cry from the splendour of Ann's riverside apartment, but she sat on the sofa looking around in interest. He watched her through the kitchen door as he made them both tea, amused at this reversal of fates. Last time it had been him injured on the sofa, nosing around without being consciously aware of doing so. She was probably wondering about the lack of Christmas decorations and the woefully small amount of cards he'd received.
He put the teapot he'd dug out of the cupboard onto a tray and added cups and the sugar bowl before carrying out to Ann. He put the tray down on the coffee table and proceeded to 'play mum' as his Gran used to call it. In fact, if she could see him now, doubtless she'd be very proud.
"Sugar?"
"One please."
He dunked a heaped spoonful in her cup and stirred, guessing she could use the extra energy. He held out the tea.
"Thanks." She said quietly, taking the cup.
They drank in silence for a while. Doyle watching her for signs of pain, but the paramedic had obviously given her something because she seemed to be comfortable.
When he couldn't hold his tongue any longer, he began. "Y'know there are places you could go…"
She gave him a look. "Women's refuges?"
"Yeah."
"And do what?"
"Be safe for a start."
"I'm safe where I am."
"Yeah, bet you felt real safe when Keller was layin' into you."
"That was me."
"Oh, yeah? How'd'you figure that one?"
"I was careless. I shouldn't have given you Collins' name. It's bad for business."
The remark stung and he almost winced. "We wouldn't have found her if-"
She whirled on him. "She's dead anyway so what does it matter!"
Doyle slammed his teacup down and scooped up the tray. He stalked into the kitchen, anger broiling. Dumping the stuff in the sink, he turned the tap on and watched the cold water gush down on the crockery. He leaned heavily on the sink and closed his eyes. He was so bloody tired of this…
"I'm sorry."
Her voice came from the kitchen doorway and he turned his head to look at her. "Don't be."
"I wanted to save her too." And he knew that. "Wasn't your fault I wanted to help." She smiled. "I've got a weakness…young girls."
"Because you were one yourself?" The question was awkwardly phrased, but she knew what he meant.
The smile faded. "Something like that…"
They lapsed into silence. The water continued to gush, filling the emptiness between them.
"What would you do?" He asked suddenly.
She looked blank. "Do?"
"If you could stop…being a hooker?"
She smiled. "God knows. It's all I've ever done."
"Average of 3 a week-"
"I know the maths."
He looked surprised.
"One of those clinic workers told me that. It's all numbers, Ray. Numbers don't mean anything." She gave a chuckle. "How many woman have you slept with? Ever done that sum?"
He had an ugly feeling she had a point. But that was different. Quite a few ships in the night, yes, but a hell of lot of honest tries at relationships too. Was it his fault they didn't work out?
"That's different."
"Is it? Sex is sex."
"Unusual view for a woman."
"Chauvinist!"
Their laughter felt good and Ray pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge. He held it up.
"You treasure!"
Smiling, he brought the bottle and two glasses into the living room and settled on the sofa. Ann accepted the drink and settled back on the chair to sip it. She winced as her back touched the cushions.
"You OK?"
"Little sore."
He put down his glass. "Let's take a look."
"Window shopping?"
"Nah, morbid curiosity." He tugged her shirt off her shoulder, leaving just enough to be decent. Ugly red welts circled her neck and large vivid bruises covered her shoulder, and probably continued down onto her breast. "Bastard…" He hissed.
Embarrassed, she covered herself up again. "Its only surface." She said. "Keller knows better than to damage the goods."
He got up and went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with something wrapped in a tea towel. "Frozen peas." He explained, and pressed it against her neck. She flinched at the cold.
"So…" She said, filling up the silence that lapsed again. "What would you do? If you weren't a copper…?"
Ray swallowed the entire glassful and refilled. "God knows…" He started on his next glass. "Paint probably." He considered it. "Yeah, get meself a studio on the river and do watercolours."
She laughed and he looked indignant, waving with his hand. "I did that you know!"
Ann looked where he was pointing, to the oil painting on the wall. Vaguely impressionist, it depicted a woman kneeling on the floor. She looked sad. It wasn't all that bad as paintings go. She got up to squint at the signature on the bottom. Up close, it appeared to be a stylised 'Ray' but that could be anyone. How many Ray's were there in the world? Millions, probably. "It's good." She said, more for want of anything else to say.
"Used to be an art student."
"Do you still paint?"
Yes he did. When the ugliness of the world really got to him and he needed to make something beautiful. "Yeah." He said simply. Then he swallowed more wine. "Helps me relax."
She stared hard at the sad woman in the picture, purposely not looking at him. "I could do with relaxing."
Ray drank more wine. Then he got up.
When she turned he was pulling his easel out of the cupboard…
***
5 March 1979
Sara sat on his sofa and shivered. Doyle whacked the heating up to maximum the moment he got in, but she still looked cold. He hadn't told her what they were doing here at his house, for fear he wouldn't be able to find what he was looking for. Part and parcel of being in CI5 was the constant moving. Houses, flats, studios and on one dreadful occasion, a bedsit… Agents had to be constantly on the move. It made them harder to find. And it made their neighbours and families safer.
He was afraid what he was looking for had been lost in the upheaval.
Minutes turned to hours, and he heard Sara flicking through the TV channels in the living room. The flat now felt like an oven. He really should turn the heating down. Or off. But the girl seemed happy enough. Certainly she was in no hurry to get back to the chilly Wood Green hostel.
Doyle spent the time poking his way through the many boxes of junk he carted from one home to another without ever unpacking. Boxes full of old letters, posters, vinyl LP's he hadn't seen for years. He even found the pink elephant underwear an old girlfriend had brought him. The elephant whose trunk was his…
His hand brushed the unmistakable roughness of oil painted canvas. Pulling away the sheets with covered it, he broke into a grin. He hadn't seen it in years, and if he did say so himself, it was a bloody good likeness.
Ann's lovely face stared back at him, whole and beautiful and alive, lying on his old sofa in nothing but a smile.
Picking it up, he carried it into the living room. He found Sara lopped in front of the tele, jacket strewn on the floor, with a packet of McVities in her hand. Kids…
She frowned at him. "What's that?"
Doyle propped up the painting so she could see. Her eyes widened, "is that her?"
"Yeah."
"Though you said you didn't sleep with her?"
Doyle had the grace to laugh. "Nudity has nothing to do with sex. It was…art." And given that her mother had been covered in bruises at the time, which he hadn't painted, he had used artistic licence.
She stared harder, concentrating on her face now that the initial shock of seeing a nude portrait had worn off. "She's pretty."
"Yeah."
"Does look like me."
"A bit."
Her fingers reached out to touch Ann's face, traced the curve of her cheek. Tears stood out in her eyes.
"You can keep it."
She snatched her hand back, jumping as if she'd forgotten he was in the room.
"You can keep the painting." He repeated.
A smile crooked up on her face. "Really?"
"Yeah."
Sara stared at the picture and tears coursed down her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered. And he knew she didn't just mean for the painting.
***
Half an hour later, Doyle stood at the window of his flat, watching the girl walk away. The painting looked awkward under her arm but she'd refused his offer of paying for a cab. He hadn't thought of that cold December day for such a long time, all but forgotten the painting he'd done of Ann. The laughs they'd had…
And now it was gone.
He felt a dull ache. It was grief at it's lose, he told himself. Wasn't anything else…
"Goodbye, Ann…" He murmured.
~~End~~