Whether as a result of the potion or not, Cowley spent a second restless night, overcome this time, not by fading, harmless spooks, but by an endless stream of too vivid visions of naked bodies and alluring, sinewy limbs: long tanned legs, broad creamy chest and shoulders and, just in-between, the very centre of his worst temptation. He woke up moist and sticky. It was not just sweat.

He felt sick. It was the cusp of dawn and the loud warbling of mating birds outside kept him awake and tense. He didn't want to get up so early. He didn't want to get up at all. The day ahead would be long and fraught with pitfalls. He wondered if he would be able to get out of his bed on his own anyway. The idea of calling Bodie for help was abhorrent to him. And yet he would have to get up and walk to the bathroom, to wash himself. He felt dirty.

It was quite dim. The room was still lit by moonlight. Through the window he had a view on the flock of hills far away, their bulky rumps raising high over the loch. He caught sight of the curious shape of a ruined chapel, a black figure sharply outlined against the deep dark blue of the sky. It reminded him it was Sunday today. Either in London or in Scotland, he always tried to attend the Sunday service, every time it was possible. Praying used to give him peace and comfort. This time, it didn't seem to work. He wasn't fit to it: too strung up, disquiet, unclean. It was as if the rise of carnal passion had erected a wall, high and broad, disjointing his earthly being from the upper part of his... No, he wouldn't think about his soul at that moment.

Whatever; he needed to get clean; physically at least. And he had that old walking stick at hand, close to the bed post. He rose up and sat for a while, propped up by cushions against the bed-head.

A first tentative move told him his "bad" knee was functioning again. He'd had to avoid using his opposite foot but it seemed he could make, even so cautiously, the few steps he had to walk to get to the bathroom.

And then, he was under the hot spray of the shower at last, sitting on a stool that wasn't meant for that purpose and washing off from his skin all remnants of the night's abuses.

"What are you doing in here? Why didn't you call for me? You're hurting yourself again."

"Am I allowed to be left alone for ten minutes? Go back to bed!"

"You should be in your bed, Angus said..."

"Leave Angus out of this; he's not my doctor, nor is he yours."

"I have to take care of you while you're ill, I have."

"Fine, if you want to make you useful, go and fetch me a dressing gown; the one in the bathroom is damp." He anticipated Bodie's question: "There must be another one in the bedroom cupboard."

A suggestion he had reason to regret when he got back to his bedroom and saw the sheets had been changed. No way the lad could have not noticed...He froze, shrinking inside, his guts in knots. Shame, there was no other word: pure, unmitigated shame. This last blow was the shock he needed to recover, if not his dignity, at least his sanity. All his previous obsession with the young man's sinful appeal, seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving him cold and dry, back to his old self.

He suffered Bodie's attentions with an equal impassiveness, inward and outward. Yes, it was odd to see the other man kneeling in front of him to put a new bandage on his ankle while spreading a thick layer of the herb balm, but there was no longer the tease of that tingling in his groin, or the forewarning shivers along his spine. He felt safe now, in spite of the closeness of those keen eyes, straying from their task at floor level to focus on a higher spot, which was not his knee. He didn't want to see what was lurking behind those smiling eyes, not even to know whether the desire that had burned him had ever been shared, if only for the briefest moment, at some point during the whole drama. All of it had been a bad dream, and it was over. His concern ought to be for the future, the recovery of Bodie's lost memory, first and foremost.

He had some time to ponder the situation. Bodie had fixed breakfast, copious and fattening, as he liked it, then had left for a short call to the farm, just to have his own wound dressed and to take more specific medication from Angus. He was back for lunch. If he had had any words with the old man about the soon-to-come psychotherapy sessions, he didn't tell.

Cowley cut short a joyful babbling about cat-chasing dogs, an irate Martha and a stolen sausage.

"When are you starting your work with Angus?"

A cloud swept over the boyish face. "Not decided yet."

"How come? We talked of Monday; it's tomorrow."

"Seems Angus hasn't made his mind about exactly which programme he wants to use on me, yet."

"Curious; I've never found him uncertain or insecure about a decision he had to take before."

"He said you needed me to help you until you're able to walk safely."

Ahno!"Nonsense. I can move well enough with the stick. And what could I do that would be so hazardous in this place, anyway?"

"A lot of things, actually. Besides the risk of falling, just walking, with or without a stick could be harmful to your knee, or to your ankle."

"Indoors, going from the living room to the kitchen or from the bedroom to the bathroom? That would be quite exerting, indeed!"

"Precisely; Angus knows you well; he told me I had to see that you took a proper rest."

Cowley snapped. "Leave it! Last time I needed a minder, I was still in my nappies."

Bodie laughed gaily. "Oooh! I can see you as a baby, and not in nappies, no: just out of your bath, all wet and naked, scrambling on all fours, or sprawled on a fur carpet, with your pretty plump and pinkie wee buttocks. What a picture!" He stopped, looking warily at his host. "Sorry, it was a joke; I didn't mean any offence." As Cowley wasn't replying, he hastily added: "Eh! Watch out; I don't know what to do in a case of apoplexy."

As a matter of fact, Cowley was unable to utter a word. Red in the face and turning to purple, he was visibly in dire danger of suffocation. "You've seen me wet and naked", he said at last when he had recovered his voice, speaking in a low, grim tone, "though not down to my buttocks and I'm quite aware the picture wasn't pretty."

Bodie seemed disconcerted. "What d'you mean? You don't look so bad, for a man your age."

Cowley exploded: "A man my age! What age do you think I am?"

"Don't know, fifty something?"

"I'm forty eight!"

Bodie had the good grace to show some embarrassment. "Well, fifty's not so far from the mark; I didn't say you looked old...Actually I think you're in a fairly good physical condition."

"For a man my age?"

"For somebody who hasn't undertaken any serious drill for a long time."

"Not for so long, but I'm not fit; thank you for reminding me of it."

"Ah, I see you're fishing for compliments: you won't get any from me. I simply reckon you seem to have had more muscle than you have now. I guess your bad knee is hampering you?"

"You guess right. And it's getting worse; I could end up a cripple some day."

"How dramatic! You'll have the appropriate surgery some day and you'll be fine, that's all."

Cowley didn't want to discuss his medical condition with the lad. How had he been led to get this far? "Whatever," he stated sternly; "I'm not crippled yet; I can manage on my own. Don't bother."

"It's no bother; I rather like being with you."

Cowley gasped. Once again he wondered how the quarrel had so quickly turned into a friendly chat. It wasn't easy to keep up grudges with Bodie!

Who was eyeing him, fetchingly, under his long shadowy lashes. No, it wasn't easy to stay cold and dry in front of the mischievous, manipulative little rascal.

Bodie was scanning him through and through. "You're not slack, just a tad out of shape." He winked. "We'll remedy it soon. What about that fishing party?"

The fishing party was scheduled for the next week-end. The weather forecast was as favourable as could be within the uncertainties of a Scottish spring: the mildest that had been recorded for some twenty years, if Bart's memory was to be trusted. Hopefully Cowley's ankle would be healed then.

Meanwhile the much bored and still baulking "patient" would have to get used to being taken care of by his "minder". Who seemed to enjoy the situation immensely. As disgruntled as he felt, Cowley was obliged to admit, though grudgingly, that Bodie was pretty good company for a disabled room-mate: even-tempered, helpful without being intrusive, cheerful and often amusingly witty, he almost managed to make him forget his predicament. The bouts of mindless lust hadn't come back (dreams didn't count, at least night-dreams, and day-dreams were easier to fight). He soon assumed he had overcome the temptation.

Time had passed fast. Eventually, on Wednesday, after two days of "Cowley-sitting", Bodie had undergone his first psychotherapy session with Angus; then a second and a third the two next days. With no apparent result. Angus had alternated free talking and attempts at hypnosis. "Attempt" was the right word, for very little had been achieved. The young man had appeared more agreeable to submit himself to hypnosis than expected but had been unable to let his mind-control loosen its grip.

"It's not unwillingness from him," explained Angus, "it's not even anything he's aware of: he was quite honestly trying to cooperate but it seems as if a force stronger than his clear consciousness prevents him from opening and disclosing his inner self. That was precisely what I feared and why I prescribed the potion, to help him release his deepest emotions. It didn't work."

"Don'tfeeltoobad," Cowley muttered to himself, voicelessly but bitterly, "itworkedwithme,beyondallexpectation."

Angus' thoughts had followed the same path. "However, the complex has proven to be effective: you told me your sleep was seriously disturbed; so I infer your basic emotional balance has been somehow upset."

"Thank you so much, cousin! You didn't warn me you needed me as a lab-rat."

"I must admit I was quite pleased to have you as a foil, if I dare say, in order to appraise the amplitude of the patient's reactions. Sure it's not methodologically legitimate to compare two different subjects with quite different backgrounds and conditions but, pragmatically... I deemed you to be a fair compass for emotional stability."

You'venoideahowfarfromthetruthyouareuponthis,man."And what about this wonderful soothing and equilibrating effect, so often alleged?"

"I told you it was the second phase of the process; it may be more or less delayed. And sometimes it requires a complement: another herb complex..."

"Ah, that's new! We really were your lab rats, I see."

"Not at all, what are you thinking, George? In accordance with the congruent deontology, the experimental protocol I followed..."

"Enough with thetechnical jargon, Angus!" Cowley growled, "Translate your spiel into English or, much better, give me your conclusions about Bodie's case. In a few words."

Angus knew when the play was over with Cowley. "In a few words, I'm pretty certain the lad was affected by the active components of the concoction as you were and, maybe, more than you, but his emotional defence system, which is deeper and stronger than I surmised, kicked in at once and forbade him to react or, even, to feel anything." He paused, expressively, between every syllable: "In fewer words: The. Man. Inside. Doesn't. Want. To. Recover. His. Memory."

This wasn't news to Cowley. "And that's all you've found throughout three two-hours sessions?" he taunted, his tone acerbic.

"Do you know more?"

"At least I know as much. I asked him that same question twice, and twice he answered along the lines of 'I'm not sure'".

"So he's got some awareness of it; that's good." Angus replied serenely. The scientist in him was immune to criticism from laymen. "I did find out a few points of interest by using the method of free association."

"Which are?"

"It's too early to assert anything with any degree of confidence but I can reasonably assume the father figure, either by its absence or, oppositely, by its omnipresence, is central in the subject's psychology, as is the problematic of authority and trust therein."

Cowley's reputation for fast thinking wasn't ill-founded. "I see you coming! Sorry, cousin, I have no vocation for surrogate fatherhood whatsoever."

"You want the end, you need the means. Seriously, George, what exactly do you think you have been doing in this affair from the start?"

"First and foremost, trying to mend MI6's blunders by helping a brain-damaged chap to recover; certainly not fostering a kid: that's a responsibility I always refused to take when I could; I'm not starting now."

"You may not have a choice."

"What?"

"It could be the lad is already viewing you as a father figure, if not as a surrogate father as you said yourself."

"But I don't see him as a son!" It was maddening. And no way he would tell Angus the real reasons why he couldn't possibly look at Bodie with a genuine fatherly gaze.

"Do you want to achieve anything? From all I found out that I can understand, the only path to Bodie's true self is through trust and love. Preferably from an older man, endowed with authority and power. Don't cringe. I'm not asking you to adopt him for good: You've just to behave in such a manner he would believe in you, in your unfaltering support and understanding. Angus winked: "You've not to be sincere, just convincing."

Cowley's voice sounded resigned and sad somehow. "Sometimes Angus, your cynicism is too much, even for me."

"Ta, ta, cousin; tell me about that fishing party."

"I feel I'm turning into a rabbit," Bodie complained when Cowley served him a consistent portion of mixed salad with his mushroom omelette.

"Did I protest when you inflicted me all those fried sausages, fried eggs and fried bacon? Not to mention your baked beans on toast and greasy roasties?"

"Yes, you did."

Cowley shrugged, Gallic style, and ostentatiously lifted his gaze to the ceiling. He had absolutely no pretence in the realm of fine cooking but was able to fix a decent meal when there was no other way to get it.

"Be happy I was willing to prepare your dinner while you were gallivanting about..."

"Gallivanting? I was in the shed, repairing the heater. And yesterday I fixed the boat engine. That's man's work and I need my sustenance. Your salad is not man's food."

"Sorry I offended your manliness. Mine is quite happy with omelette and salad." He couldn't help himself from glancing at the very manly figure in front of him.

"Sure: you were at complete rest for five days. I worked hard."

"Congratulations! You won the "Most helpful boy-scout of the month" award, no contest; I remind you I didn't command you to do anything. I'm perfectly content with the fireplace."

"The heater was nothing but the boat must be available if we want to go angling on the loch."

"So you changed your mind about fly-fishing?"

Bodie considered him for a moment, thoughtfully, his handsome face wearing an expression of worry mixed with exasperation.

"Fly-fishing? I suggest sky-diving! Come on, man: you still can hardly walk! Don't deny it; I observed you while you were shuttling between the kitchen and the dining table. I didn't know it was possible for a man to limp on both legs..."

A greatly exaggerated assessment, thought Cowley, as he walked down the path leading to the loch. The pretext for this evening stroll was to make some slight adaptations to the two brand new fishing rods, in keeping with the larger boat's built-in props. But the other reason, which neither of them had voiced, was to test Cowley's physical abilities. Which were not so diminished after all. His long rest had been quite beneficial: the pain in his knee had become almost negligible, rather lesser than usual actually, and he was now able to use his left foot, providing he didn't put too much weight on it.

He had chosen the shorter and steeper way. Bodie was following him, carrying the rods in their sheath and muttering between his teeth. "Damned old fool; you'll break your neck this time!"

"I'll show you what a grey-headed veteran like me can do while limping both legs!"

"Childish; at least let me go first, so you could hold on to me if you slip again."

"Not a bad idea; then I wouldn't feel your reproaching glare on the back of my neck."

"Wrong. I was looking at the bald spot at the top of your head. And you're not grey-haired!"

Cowley almost missed a step. That wasn't fair. He loathed any hint at his thinning hair. For a man whose only concern about his looks had been to see that he would always be neat and dressed properly in all circumstances, he was oddly sensitive to the subject. He had never thought of himself as handsome, had never been called so. The only compliments he had ever been awarded in that area had been for his shining, wavy hair (and still, the colour wasn't everybody's taste).

"Eh? Willing to shift from butler to hairdresser, now?

Always perceptive, Bodie had jumped by his side, grasping his elbow with his free hand to steady him lest he slid. "You want? I rather like your hair; it's got a nice shade, something uncommon, between sandy and ginger."

"With a bald spot."

"Oh, it's not big."

"Yet," completed Cowley gloomily.

"Don't be so self-conscious! You're not as bad-looking as you think."

"But I don't! What are you insinuating, young impertinent," he said lightly. He was lying. While his appearance was very seldom at the centre of his thoughts, there were times, and this was one of them, when he would be painfully aware of his deficiencies: with his shortish stature, his too narrow chest and shoulders and his wiry limbs, he could never pose as a model of male beauty. And this was especially flagrant in front of someone like Bodie. Though, as the lad had noticed earlier, he used to have more muscle and more bodily strength. And in his best days he would still be able to overpower younger men in several martial arts.

"Sorry for the phrasing; what I was meaning was you're rather a good-looking bloke on the whole, and not only 'for your age'".

"Thanks for the reassurance, sonny." Cowley's words were more sincere than their sarcastic tone would imply.

They were walking quietly together now, Bodie's arm around his waist, holding him firmly. To prevent him from stumbling or for any other reason he didn't want to dig up.

Waves of memories flowed over him, of people who had walked this path by his side in the past, of Doug and his pals, of Franny, brisk and lively as a lark, of his own few friends: of one of them, he had thought to be as close as his own skin, who had held him in the same way, though tighter, the week before they enlisted. Franny was now a strident and nosy hag; Doug and so many others never came back home; his mate had returned during a leave to marry a heavily pregnant eighteen year old lassie Cowley had never heard of, only to leave her a distressed and needy widow soon after. He had repressed his feeling of betrayal and helped. He still saw her son from time to time. But how he missed Doug...

Bodie's amused voice broke into his reverie. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"They're not worth more; just an old git's memories; people who were older than you are before you were born."

"And so what? That doesn't make you so old."

"Sometimes I feel I'm thousand years old."

"Me too. Either that or just feeling like a new-born. When I wake up in the morning, wondering who I am and what I'll be in a year, or in a month. Doesn't mean anything. And no, you don't look old. What's the matter with you today, fishing for compliments like that?" He stopped. "Speaking of fishing, we've arrived."

They were in front of the boat-house. They got in to check the boat's fitments and props, which were found to be perfectly fitting for the new rods. Something Cowley had always known.

"Standard equipment." Bodie considered him quizzically. "You could simply have told me you wanted to go walk the dog." He smiled: "I was wrong; you're sound and fit for duty."

"Another compliment? You spoil me."

They sat on a tree trunk at the fringe of the small sandy beach, far enough from the silt-reeking pier. The dusk was slowly setting down on the loch, veiling all things in drapes of blue mist. Bodie's arm weighed pleasantly on his shoulders. Cowley forgot whoever had crossed his path thirty years ago. He was here, and now, and with Bodie.