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Spring The Bisto Kids. He had heard it from the first lecture Cowley had directed at them as new recruits. Bodie hadn't asked anyone, of course, but Cowley's continued, deliberate use of the phrase had him periodically speculating just who exactly the Bisto Kids were. Everyone else seemed to get the significance of the reference, but it left Bodie dry. In context, it could have meant anything from a children's telly program, to Siamese twins, to yet another version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid— even the code name of a terrorist group. It conjured up some strange images in his mind. He had gone so far as to look the name up in a dictionary, but there was nothing. The encyclopaedia also had no mention of them, under any spelling. So Bodie had forgotten about it. For a while. Now, training over and several months into the partnership with Raymond Doyle, Cowley was saying it again. To him. "Well, Bodie, how are the Bisto Kids coming along? Problems?" "Fine, sir," he responded without missing a beat. Cowley looked at him thoughtfully, and nodded, but there was a look in his eye that piqued Bodie's attention. Cowley knew. How, Bodie wasn't sure, but he was positive that Cowley knew he had no idea who the Bisto Brats were. Or what they were. Damn. He hated feeling the fool. If he didn't know what it meant, how was he supposed to do it? Finished for the day, he strode out of the building, slid into his car, and peeled away from the curb. Halfway down the block he passed Doyle, unlocking the door of the Triumph TR7, and they exchanged an affable wave, then his partner was gone, disappearing inside the car and into the distance. If Cowley knew, maybe Doyle did, too. Why didn't I ask that first day? ‘Excuse me, sir, but who the bloody hell are the Bisto Kids? Been out of the country and not kept up on the news.' He had a nagging suspicion that's what was missing from his partnership with Ray Doyle. Something wasn't clicking for them. Doyle always looked faintly disappointed, as though there was something else that Bodie should be doing. It wasn't overt, just a way that Doyle had of staring off into space for a moment, as if he were regretting something, and then going on with whatever was at hand. Doyle was distant, though civil enough, but he was also wary, almost expecting Bodie to suddenly turn on him. Trusted him with the job, but nothing more. Well, maybe Doyle had his reasons, but Bodie had never given him any indication that the ex-mercenary was going to snap and loose a hail of gunfire into a crowd of shoppers. Nah, that wasn't fair, either. Doyle and he were damned good at their job. They were just different. No harm in that. Bodie had carefully noted that the partnerships Cowley had created were diverse in personality and background, and they were no exception. Bodie had been a mercenary and in the army, while Doyle had been a copper. Two different roads. Two different life experiences. Nitro and glycerine. Chalk and cheese. It gave them a wide range of knowledge that doubled their effectiveness. The differences weren't the problem. Their work together was excellent; Cowley was already referring to them as his best team. But they were strangers. At the end of the day, the end of the assignment, they went their own ways without a backward glance. He to pick up his laundry and buy some food and dish soap. Doyle to wherever it was that he went to. Strangers. Bodie prowled the grocers, the dish soap under his arm and a wire basket filled with veggies and canned food dragging from one hand. Cooking was a chore, but shopping was worse. It seemed a waste of time to remember to buy toilet paper after you had spent the day in a life and death battle to stop a wacked-out terrorist from bombing a department store. Bodie found himself stopped in the middle of an aisle, staring blankly at a shelf of goods, and wondering what else he was supposed to pick up. Forgot what it was. Important, too. He had been going over his list when Cowley had stopped him and thrown him off-stride with that casual remark. Now it escaped him. Bread? Butter? Light bulbs? He still stood, rooted to the spot, unable to pull his eyes away from that one particular shelf. He blinked, and focussed, alerted by his reaction, but it still took him a moment to register why he was staring, transfixed, at the carefully lined boxes. Bloody hell. His hand reached for the gravy mix. There on the Bisto box. Two damn children. It couldn't be that simple. The Bisto Kids. In living colour. He plucked the box from the shelf, knocking over a few in his haste. He studied it thoroughly, turning it around, waiting for the grand revelation of what it all meant. Nothing. Just two silly looking kids. Bodie frowned, squinting, trying to get the image that Cowley had been after. Certainly not the happy-go-lucky damn perkiness of the two children pictured on the box. He dropped the gravy mix into his basket, grabbed a quart of milk, and paid for his things. When he finally made it back to his flat, the landlady was in the hallway. Bodie passed some pleasantries, then asked her if she had heard of the Bisto Kids. She was surprised. Everyone knew the Bisto Kids, it seemed. There were advertisements. The telly ran Bisto commercials—had for years. Which was fine, providing you had actually been in the country all those years. Bodie hadn't. And there had been no telly in the poor excuse that was his home before he had run away. The telly in his flat was usually off, unless a game was on, and the ads were for the bog and a beer. Culturally deprived, I am. Staring now at the plump woman at the door of her flat, the telly blaring in the background, he screwed up his courage and asked, "So, Mrs. O'Laird, if someone referred to two adults as the Bisto Kids, what would they be saying about them?" "Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Probably that they are in each other's pockets. You know, always there for the other one. Always together like two peas in a pod. Full of life and energy." Always there. Always together. Partners. In each other's pockets. Cowley had used the phrase once, and Bodie had raised an eyebrow at it, trying to put together a reasonable meaning. He thanked his landlady and headed up to his flat. Doyle had been a partner before, but the whole concept had been new to Bodie. He found off-duty that he related to Cowley easier than to this scrawny, temperamental agent who had been given to him as a partner. Cowley was the boss, the man in charge. Bodie could joke with him, challenge him, have a drink with him, all because the line was very clear where Bodie stood and to whom he was responsible. Doyle, Bodie had noticed with great interest, did not get on well with George Cowley. He tended to be sullen in the older man's presence. Cowley was a military man, not a copper. Doyle, according to his file—which Bodie had also read with great interest—did not get along well with most of his superiors. He was a good worker, brilliant, and had an uncanny sixth sense of where a criminal was at, they all agreed, but Doyle was simply too touchy. Too prone to explosions. Little regard for proper decorum or proper order. Unpredictable. Or sometimes too predictable. Just as Cowley and the CI5 mentality were familiar to Bodie, the daily grind was familiar to Doyle, the shifts, lunches out, surveillance, the paperwork. Bodie's past in the mercs and in the Paras and SAS had not prepared him for his actual duties in CI5, other than presenting him as a tactician and a weapon for Cowley's use. But being a weapon, a tool, was the exception to the daily routine, it seemed. Mind you, the whole idea of grabbing food when he was hungry was fine with Bodie, and the novelty of it being hot and purchased, far different from the cold rations dug out of a backpack, had not yet worn off. Chatting in the car, passing the time, or just sitting quietly had its moments. Bodie found himself going back to telling tales of his past, while Doyle sat, stone-faced, staring out the window, nodding, making the appropriate comments, but not offering stories in exchange. It seemed the more lewd Bodie got, trying to get a rise out of the man, the more it irritated his partner. Women, Bodie discovered, could be discussed, as long as it was nothing serious. But women were never to be put down or joked about, whether they were bag ladies, hookers, drug addicts, or just an easy lay. It angered something deep in Doyle, some copper thing, Bodie decided. Came from defending them from their pimps and pushers. Bleeding heart. Or maybe just too many battles lost. Too many dead bodies the copper hadn't been able to save. There was a sadness in Doyle's eyes that began to make sense. "It's the little things that add up in a partnership," Cowley had said, as Bodie turned to leave that night. "You would do well to learn from Doyle." Bodie shrugged, still not sure what the old man had meant. The Bisto Kids, eh? Always together. Well, with the long hours we work, it's a good enough description. He pushed the box to the back of his kitchen shelf and closed the cupboard doors.
As the weeks went by, Bodie started noticing things, the little things that Doyle did without even being aware that he did them: the cups of coffee, the blank sheets of paper that appeared when Bodie crumpled up his last one, the towel Bodie would find in his hand after a workout. None of it was done looking for a thanks, or expecting anything in return—it was just done because his partner happened to need those things and Doyle did them without a second thought. At first, Bodie had been intimidated by it, thinking Doyle was putting him down by making a show of having to help his dim-witted partner. But Doyle hadn't been making a show of it at all, that's what irked Bodie now. Doyle didn't seem to notice himself doing these things, and Bodie was becoming well aware that he was not reciprocating. He couldn't seem to get the hang of it. Came from too many years of taking care of himself, watching out for himself. It was hard to learn to extend that to Doyle, as well. Cowley stopped him from leaving the briefing room one day, Doyle trailing on down the hall alone. "How is the partnership coming, Bodie?" "I don't know, sir. You have our track record." "Oh, I can read the reports. I can watch you two go about your assignments, but it's the little things that count, Bodie." The little things. Yeah, I know. "Yes, sir. Maybe you should ask Doyle, sir," he responded. "Doyle's not the problem here, Bodie." "Well, then what do you want from me, sir?" "That's something you'll have to discover for yourself, lad." Cowley gestured to the door, and Bodie rejoined his partner, still puzzling over the chief's words. Doyle was in a good mood, finishing off a report and leaving the typewriter clear for Bodie. "It's all yours, mate. Don't hurt yourself." He scrawled his name on the bottom of the report with a grand flourish, and sauntered from the room, back a moment later to grab a file and throw himself on a battered armchair, dutifully reading the assigned background material of a new case. Bodie flipped open his notebook and tried to organize the terse sentences in his head before committing himself by typing them. Reports were a pain in the arse, but there was no way around the necessary paperwork. The room gradually filled as others drifted in. A big case had broken two days before, and the A Squad was taking a well-deserved breather, tidying the final reports and catching up on new developments on other cases. Bodie acknowledged each as they came in, then turned back to the typewriter, aware of the steady drift of agents to the far end of the narrow room. Whatever ‘it' is, I don't have the knack of it yet, obviously, he thought, watching Doyle from the corner of his eye as he laughed with some of the other agents. His partner was as relaxed as Bodie had ever seen him, perched on the arm of a couch, almost choking when he tried to drain his mug when Anson told his punch line. Wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve, Doyle kicked softly at Anson, groaning at the joke, whatever comment Ray made lost as Jax, Murphy, and Fisher all spoke their disgust at the same time. Doyle pulled himself to his feet and sauntered off to the kitchen area of the rest room. "Tea, Bodie?" he called out as he headed to the pot. "That's what it's called," Bodie responded, adding immediately, "Sure, why not? Got to finish this off before I can get anything more substantial." Doyle deposited the steaming mug beside the typewriter, fixed the way Bodie liked it, he noticed, then went back to the other conversation, still chuckling over something that was being discussed. Staring at his scribbled notes from an interview that morning, Bodie listened to the tales passed around and waited for a chance to contribute, to fit in with a story of his own. It would give him an excuse to leave the report and join them. But his stories didn't fit with theirs. There were no other mercenaries, by any name, in the bunch. Doyle was talking about a classmate in art school who had a talent for painting works of art only when drunk on vodka—it had to be vodka, nothing else. Anson then jumped in and related that his mother had only ever done housework when completely inebriated. Their flat was always spotless. Susan had gone out with a bloke who was only good in bed when he was half pissed. So what do I add? The drinking story that came to mind stalled on his tongue. I was once so drunk I couldn't stand up when we were attacked in East Africa. I killed thirty men with a machine gun while puking up my guts. Passed out afterwards and woke up a hero. He stuck yet another set of sheets and carbon paper into the typewriter and began the second page of his report, pounding the keys, stopping only to turn a page in the notebook and sip down his tea. Doyle was just so bloody efficient, any little thing that needed to be done was done before Bodie could think of it. That scruffy ragamuffin of a partner of his was observant. What did you do for the man who had already beat you to the task? Give him some fashion pointers, maybe, Bodie mused. He shrugged to himself and ignored them all. One day it would happen. They would connect. It wasn't anything Bodie could bully his way into. Doyle was not the type to be bullied, by anyone. Neither could he be bought nor connived nor shammed. He had to be won over, but Bodie had no idea where to start.
Summer Doyle sat in icy silence, staring out the side window, an angry depression hovering around his tight-lipped features. One white-knuckled fist grasped the door handle, the other periodically slammed against his thigh. Bloody fool, Bodie thought, sliding the car in gear as they prepared to return to CI5 and make their reports to Cowley. It wasn't Doyle's fault the mayor was assassinated, along with his wife and daughter, yet he acted as though he were personally responsible for fucking up the raid on the summer cottage—even though it had been over before they arrived on the scene. Because Doyle's contacts had discovered where the family was held, he felt he should have been able to save them. Well, he couldn't. Not this time. Bodie sighed and before he realized it, rested his hand on his partner's right forearm for a moment, squeezed it reassuringly, then returned his hand to the steering wheel. His actions surprised him, and he tensed, waiting for Doyle's acidic response. Doyle closed his eyes and nodded slightly. He rolled down the window, letting the cooler breeze calm him, stretched, and began talking about the case that needed to be written up, visibly under control. The depression was still there, but not nearly to the same extent it had been. Ray had even come up with a weak smile. Was that it? The hand on the arm? The miracle cure? Bodie almost laughed out loud. So physical contact would keep the little bugger in line? Easy enough. He could do that. Bodie spent the next few weeks experimenting, finding one excuse or another to work in some contact each shift. A playful slap on the bum, an elbow casually resting on Doyle's shoulder, a pat on the back. Doyle said nothing about it, almost didn't appear to notice it, but Bodie knew. He could see the difference. And something else changed; Doyle was laughing with him now, a deep chortling laugh that bubbled out of the man in unabashed, hedonistic mirth. Bodie found himself having fun. Silly antics were best, sprung on Ray when he wasn't prepared. Cowley was as good a target as any, his partner taking schoolboy delight in coming up with heinous pranks that they would never put into motion, but the planning whiled away the hours on surveillance. Granted, the arguments between them had also became more dramatic, more explosive. Doyle would detonate, raging at him, and Bodie would respond with equal force, giving back the anger word for word, strike for strike, knowing it was all born of frustration, steam escaping from the pressure cooker they lived in. Then it would be over, the air clearing as they stood panting at each other, trying to get back the control they needed to keep going. It was becoming safer to lash out at each other, when both knew what was really happening, than take it out where an innocent party might get in the way. They were working it out, Bodie decided, clinking Ray's glass of ale in the pub after a shift ended. They had gone fishing the previous weekend, during a rare three days off. Cowley had approved the time, and had even suggested the location. What did they call it now? Bonding time, or something equally ridiculous. It was just two mates off fishing, shooting the breeze, but it had been okay. Relaxing being there, not having to worry about who was stalking you, or who was around the next corner. Yeah, it was okay now.
Autumn The battle this time had been long and fierce, the bodies littered around them ample proof of that. Both had had close calls, too close, but they had lived. Alone, once the dust had settled around them and no one else was moving, Bodie had turned to Doyle in jubilant relief. He had meant to do an imitation of the Fonz, hoping to bring a smile to Ray's strained, pinched face. Instead, he was standing in a filthy, rubbish-strewn back lane, his arms wrapped around his partner, holding him. What's this? Beneath his hands, he could feel Ray's quicksilver strength almost recharging by the contact. Bodie found he couldn't breathe, out of his depth in this, not sure how it had happened. He had simply wanted to imitate that American telly bloke who had made Doyle laugh the previous week, spreading his arms for Fonzie's "Aye", thumbs up. Doyle had stared at him blankly, obviously not recognizing the stance, but instead seeing something else, something Bodie hadn't known his partner needed. Doyle had walked into his arms, his eyes closing as he rested his head on the wide shoulder. Trembling—fatigue and adrenalin, Bodie guessed—gradually faded until, almost a full minute later, Doyle lifted his head, gave a big sigh, and backed away from a speechless Bodie. "Thanks, mate. Needed that. Want to get a beer before we go to HQ? Don't know about you, but I could use a quick stop." Doyle was calmly walking towards the panda car as it careened around the corner, the last question tossed over his shoulder. Bodie stood, hands on hips, and shook his head after his skinny partner. Doyle still rarely, if ever, touched him, yet just now his partner had seemed so matter-of-fact about it, taking a breather and unwinding during the brief contact. This wasn't a casual pat on the back. This had been a full, one-hundred-percent hug that had brought some life back into the old sod, renewed his energy to keep going. "Bodie? Do you want a beer?" Doyle repeated, his voice registering his impatience. "You're buying?" Bodie asked, rolling over one of the terrorists they'd captured, and pulling the gun from the dead man's grip. "First round. You've got the second," Doyle called back, adding a machine gun to the pile of weapons they were collecting. "And if we're lucky," he added with a chip-toothed grin, "the Cow will provide the third when he gets our report." So, you're not invincible, mate, Bodie thought, moving along beside Doyle, suddenly smiling with the sense of power he felt.
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