Professionals
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- 8 -
Cowley was already at the bar when Bodie and Doyle arrived at the pub. Doyle was apprehensive about seeing Cowley, knowing that he knew about his and Bodie’s deception, but Cowley grinned at them and greeted them both cordially as they approached the bar.
“You’re a pair of dark horses.” he told them, as he ordered their drinks. After a couple of scotches he was in mellow mood, “You could have taken a load off my mind if you’d told me you were seeing him.” he looked at Bodie reproachfully.
“I’m sorry.” said Doyle, “It was my idea. When I first got in touch with Bodie, I wasn’t… ready… to handle anything else… especially anything to do with CI5.”
Cowley eyed him thoughtfully, before nodding. Then, turning to Bodie. “You could have told me in confidence.” he said, his tone moderately chastising.
“No. I couldn’t.” Bodie said quietly. They both knew that, if Doyle had found out, the trust between him and Bodie would have been damaged.
Cowley eyed Bodie for a moment before giving a brief nod of acknowledgement.
“So,” he turned to Doyle, “now that Bodie is back on the squad, are you going to try it?”
Doyle sighed, his expression clouding. “I’m still not sure of my feelings… but, I think I’d like to at least give it a go. If it doesn’t work out, well… “ he shrugged, “…I guess I’ll have to re-think my career options.”
“That’s fair enough.” said Cowley.
“But I’m not fit enough yet.” Doyle continued, “I’ve been training with Bodie, and I’m way behind.”
“Well, as soon as you feel ready.” said Cowley.
Doyle nodded.
The conversation moved on, the three of them enjoying each other’s company after so long apart. Later, while in the middle of a sentence, Cowley glanced across at Bodie and saw him rubbing his index finger up and down his left temple, a frown creasing his brow.
Recognizing the subconscious gesture from Bodie’s time in the hospital, Cowley said. “Do you have a headache, Bodie?”
Doyle, who had been listening to what Cowley had been saying, turned to look at Bodie, who was looking sheepish not realizing he’d given himself away, and not a little pale.
“A bit of one.” Bodie admitted reluctantly.
Cowley tutted. “How long has it been since you last had one?”
“A couple of months,” replied Bodie, “and that was the first one in ages.”
“You’d better go home and get some rest.” said Cowley.
“I’m alright.” protested Bodie.
“What are you talking about?” asked Doyle, looking puzzled.
Cowley turned to look at him.
“While Bodie was in the hospital, he had a series of severe migraines and dizzy spells as a result of his head injury.” he explained, “I thought they’d subsided.” he said, worriedly, and Bodie knew he was questioning Bodie’s fitness to return to duty.
“They have.” he cut in, hastily, “I only get the odd one now, and they’re nowhere near as bad as they used to be.”
“It’s probably drinking spirits after all that exercise earlier.” said Doyle, “And you know gin always used to give you a headache.” he nodded to the gin and orange in Bodie’s hand.
“There, you see? It’s nothing to worry about.” Bodie told Cowley, although, in truth, he was beginning to feel a little nauseous and, as he moved his eyes, he could see little stars exploding in his peripheral vision.
Cowley looked doubtful. “Go home and rest.” he told him, “That’s an order.” he added, as Bodie began to protest.
Bodie sighed. “Yes, sir.” he said, glumly.
They finished their drinks, thanked Cowley for the invite, and bid him goodnight.
As they reached his car, Bodie said, “Will you drive?” holding out the keys.
Doyle looked at him.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. It was rare for Bodie to surrender his car keys.
Bodie nodded. “Like you said, I should have left the gin alone. I haven’t drunk much since the accident, only the occasional beer. You were probably right about me drinking shorts after all that physical exercise this morning. I’ll be alright. I just feel a bit… muzzy.”
Doyle took the keys and unlocked the car. Bodie got in the passenger seat and Doyle started the car and backed off the car park.
Bodie lay his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t speak on the drive back to his flat.
Doyle parked the car, got out, and went round to the passenger side to help Bodie out. He then unlocked the door to Bodie’s flat, standing aside to let Bodie enter before following him inside and closing the door. Bodie stumbled on the stairs and Doyle grabbed his arm to steady him.
“I’m alright.” muttered Bodie.
Once inside the flat, Bodie made unsteadily for the bathroom where Doyle could hear him throwing up.
He came out, several minutes later, holding a wet flannel to the back of his neck.
“Shouldn’t you see a doctor?” Doyle asked, worriedly.
Bodie shook his head. “No. I’ll be alright. I just need to lie down and rest… try to get some sleep.”
Doyle nodded. “Can I get you anything? Some water? Aspirin?”
“A glass of water would be good.” said Bodie, going into the bedroom.
“Coming up.”
Doyle went into the kitchen, found a glass and filled it. When he went into the bedroom, Bodie had undressed, and climbed beneath the duvet, and was lying with his palms cupped over his eyes.
“I’ll put it here.” said Doyle, standing the glass on a cupboard by the side of the bed.
“Thanks.” muttered Bodie.
“Shall I stay a while?”
“You don’t need to. I’ll be O.K. when I’ve slept it off.” said Bodie.
“I’ll stay anyway.” said Doyle.
Bodie sighed. “I would have to get a headache tonight, of all nights.” he groaned, “Now, Cowley’s wondering if I’m fit for duty.”
“Are you?” asked Doyle.
“Yes.” said Bodie, “I told you, I rarely get them now.”
“But, what if you got one while you were on a job?” asked Doyle.
“They don’t come on that fast. I can feel one starting a good hour beforehand. It won’t be a problem, trust me. Anyway, I probably won’t have another for months, if at all, and even then, it probably won’t be too bad. Like you said, I should have laid off the gin. It does tend to give me a headache, and, after all that exertion this morning…”
Doyle looked doubtful, but refrained from further comment.
“I’ll be outside. If you need anything, just call.”
Bodie nodded, his eyes closed.
Doyle left the room and quietly closed the door. He turned on the T.V. and sat down to watch, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was only nine pm. Bodie must feel really ill to go to bed at this hour. He was very much a night owl.
He could hear Bodie tossing and turning and giving the odd groan, but, later, he grew quiet, and when Doyle checked on him at 11.00pm he was asleep, a frown creasing his brow. Satisfied he would sleep through, Doyle crept out and called a cab to take him home.
Bodie slept right through the night, and, except for sore eyes, he felt much better the next morning.
He phoned Doyle after breakfast.
“What time did you leave? I didn't hear you go.” he asked.
“About eleven thirty.” Doyle told him, “You were fast asleep by then. Are you O.K. this morning?”
“Fine.” said Bodie, “I’m just sorry I ruined our night out.”
“You didn’t.” said Doyle.
It’s not often the old man volunteers to foot the bill. It really peeves me that we missed out on a few more free drinks.” Bodie continued.
Doyle laughed.
“I just hope I can convince him that I’m fit for duty.” Bodie added, solemnly.
Cowley reluctantly allowed Bodie to rejoin the squad, but gave instructions to everyone to watch him carefully and report back if he had any problems.
Bodie felt a bit like he was living in a goldfish bowl, with everyone watching him, afraid to even sneeze lest his colleagues reported him. But, after a month of active duty, Cowley seemed satisfied as to his fitness.
Four weeks after that, Doyle took his physical, and passed, and was reassigned to the squad as Bodie’s partner.
Cowley was worried how Doyle would handle things, but he seemed well adjusted, and Bodie too seemed to be holding up well physically. Bodie made sure that no-one knew when his leg played him up, which it did if they had to do much running up stairs or any kind of climbing, which, as the “mountaineer” of the organisation, he was called upon to do when entrances into buildings were required from awkward places. He didn’t even confide in Doyle, but he could sometimes see it in Bodie's face although he passed no comment.
* * *
Things passed uneventfully for several months.
One afternoon, they found themselves, along with two other agents, holed up in a disused warehouse, trying to corner two terrorists who had attempted to kidnap a senior M.P.
The warehouse was like a maze and it was taking some time to search it. They had worked their way through three of the four floors and so far had found no trace of the terrorists, although they knew they were still in the building somewhere.
As they moved onto the fourth floor, noises indicated that at least one of them had gone up onto the roof.
Bodie and Doyle elected to go up to the roof, while the other two agents stayed to corner anyone left on the fourth floor, or who might try to escape from the roof.
Ascending to the roof, Bodie and Doyle hid behind chimney pots and ventilation outlets as they tried to track down their quarry.
A flash of sunlight on metal drew Bodie’s attention. He signalled to Doyle and began to move around behind the pillar where he had seen the flash come from.
Doyle nodded and moved off in the other direction.
When Bodie reached the spot, the man was no longer there. Cautiously, he peered around the pillar, looking for a telltale sign. He saw Doyle’s head pop out from behind a ventilation outlet and then duck back quickly. Bodie followed his gaze and began to work towards the chimney pot he’d been looking at, knowing that Doyle had seen something.
He reached the large, square, chimney pot and began to edge around it. His sharp ears heard the faint scuff of a shoe against the brickwork and knew that his quarry was on the other side of the chimney.
Gun drawn, he edged his way around it.
Doyle ducked out and saw Bodie edging towards the man, who was at right angles to him, looking the other way. He moved round, ready to cover Bodie. At the last second, he saw the flash of sunlight on steel and saw that a second man was now on the other side of the chimney, his knife poised ready to pounce on Bodie.
“Look out!” Doyle yelled. Taking up position, he fired a shot at the nearest man, hitting him in the shoulder and sending him sprawling to the ground.
Too late, Bodie realised that the other man was on the other side of the chimney, behind him. Before he could react, the blade flashed, striking Bodie in the back, at the base of his rib cage.
Despite the pain, Bodie somehow managed to grab his assailant’s jacket collar and, holding onto him with one hand, slammed his Browning into his abdomen and pulled the trigger. The man was propelled backwards to sprawl on his back on the ground, dead.
Bodie dropped the gun and fell to his knees, one hand propped against the chimney wall, the other bracing himself off the floor, his face contorted with pain.
Doyle raced over and got his handcuffs on the man he’d shot before hurrying around the corner to find Bodie, who had now slumped to the floor.
“Bodie?” Doyle got down by him, “Bodie?”
Bodie looked drunk as he reached a hand up, to catch Doyle’s arm, but misjudged it completely, his arm flailing around and his eyes rolling as he gasped, “R-ray…”
Doyle rolled him onto his side, pulling up his jacket and sweater to examine the wound. He grimaced when he saw blood pumping furiously from the wound. Jesus, it was a bad one.
Doyle took off his own windcheater and, folding it up, pressed it to the wound, just as the other two men, alerted by the gunshot, appeared, cautiously, on the roof. Doyle saw them and yelled, “Get an ambulance – quick!” Then, turning to Bodie, he said, “Hang in there.”
“I-is… it… bad…” slurred Bodie.
“Can’t tell.” Doyle lied, still keeping the jacket pressed down hard over the wound, “Just lie still and breathe easy.”
“Feels… weird…” muttered Bodie, sounding distant. He’d been stabbed a couple of times before, but it hadn’t felt like this. The wound felt like it was on fire, and he felt as if his insides were falling out. He was dizzy and disorientated and couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
“Hey, you’ve been through worse.” Doyle tried to sound cheerful but, in reality, he was worried, “Where’s that ambulance?” he yelled to the other two men.
“On its way.” said Alan Jones, moving to Doyle’s side, “I’ve radioed in to HQ too, to tell them what’s happened. They’re sending back-up.”
Danny Walters, the fourth CI5 man, crouched down by Doyle’s side and raised a questioning eyebrow as he nodded towards Bodie. Doyle shook his head, grimly, still applying pressure to the wound as Bodie lay groaning and muttering incoherently.
A few minutes later, that seemed like hours to Doyle, an ambulance arrived. Jones had gone downstairs, ready to show them where to go, and they hurried upstairs carrying a stretcher and medical bags.
Bodie was going into shock now, and Doyle was trying frantically to keep him awake, afraid that if he lost consciousness he would never wake up.
“Come on, Bodie, remember how hard you worked to get back on the squad? You can’t quit now. What would Paul Walker say?”
A faint smile touched the corners of Bodie’s mouth, but he made no response, his eyes fluttering open and closed as Doyle’s words pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness with ever increasing difficulty.
“Come on, Bodie, stay with it.” Doyle said, urgently, “We need you. Don’t let go.”
Just then, the paramedics appeared and began to administer emergency first aid, to try and stabilise Bodie’s condition, before loading him onto a stretcher.
Doyle kept his jacket pressed on the wound while they carried the stretcher downstairs to the ambulance. There, one of the paramedics took over.
“I’m going with him.” Doyle said to Walters and Jones, “Can you take care of things here?” The men nodded and Doyle climbed into the back of the ambulance. A moment later, it sped off, sirens wailing.
“What do you think?” Jones asked Walters as they watched it out of sight.
Walters grimaced. “I dunno. It didn’t look good.”
In the ambulance, Doyle sat watching Bodie anxiously as the paramedic fixed an oxygen mask over his face and hooked it up to a portable oxygen cylinder, in an attempt to aid his laboured breathing. He was still conscious, barely, but unresponsive to anything Doyle or the paramedic said to him.
Doyle reached out to take hold of hand. “Hang in there, Bodie. You’re gonna be O.K.” he told him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. Bodie gave no response.
At the hospital, Bodie was whisked away for emergency treatment, and Doyle was directed to a nearby waiting area.
It was only when he’d sat down and had time to collect his thoughts, and saw the blood all over his hands and clothes, that the reality of the situation hit him. Bodie could die!
For a moment, all the hatred he’d felt for CI5, after Julia’s murder, flooded back into his mind. Bodie had almost died, once, already, doing the damned job. It just wasn’t fair that this should happen to him now.
Hunching over, he put his elbows on his knees and dropped his forehead into his hands, his fingers curling around tufts of his hair, shaking his head in denial. Bodie couldn’t die! He mustn’t die! Not after he’d fought so hard to recover from the terrible injuries he’d suffered in the car crash.
He was still sitting like that when Cowley arrived, his face grim after hearing the news.
He paused a few feet away, eyeing Doyle anxiously, wondering what effect this would have on him.
“Doyle?” he said presently.
Doyle lifted his head to look at him, his eyes full of anguish.
“Any news?” asked Cowley.
Doyle shook his head. “Not yet.”
Cowley eyed Doyle’s bloodstained hands, shirt and jeans. “How bad was it?” he asked, moving to sit down next to him.
Doyle gave a tremulous sigh. “Bad.” He shook his head, “It was just under the ribs, here” he indicated the spot with his hand, “and it was long, and deep.” He paused, remembering, before saying, “I held my jacket on it, but he was bleeding like a pig. I kept trying to talk to him, to keep him conscious, but he was going into shock and was very disorientated by the time the paramedics arrived.” He shook his head, “It’s so unfair this should happen.” he burst out, “After all he’s been through.”
“Aye ‘tis that, lad.” muttered Cowley. He eyed Doyle, “And you? Are you alright?” he asked, worriedly, knowing that Doyle was bound to be having negative thoughts about what had happened.
“I’m alright.” muttered Doyle, his gaze fixed on the floor between his feet.
They sat, waiting, saying little, Doyle tense, tapping his heel on the floor, Cowley, outwardly calm, his demeanour belying his inner turmoil.
Some time later, they were approached by the surgeon who had operated on Bodie.
“Robin Marriott.” he introduced himself.
“George Cowley.” said Cowley, shaking his hand, “Ray Doyle.” he indicated Doyle who held out his hand and then, seeing how bloodstained it was, withdrew it again.
“Sorry.” he muttered.
Robin Marriott waved away his apology.
“How’s Bodie?” asked Cowley.
“We’ve just sent him down to recovery.” Marriott told them, “He’s very lucky. It was a nasty wound. The blade was deflected upwards, by a rib, and so missed his kidneys, but it severed an artery, damaged muscle tissue and punctured a lung, as well as fracturing the rib. We’ve repaired all the damage and given him a blood transfusion. He’d lost a considerable amount of blood from the severed artery.”
“Most of it on me.” said Doyle, eying his bloodstained clothes.
Robin Marriott nodded. “If you hadn’t applied pressure to the wound, he would have bled to death.” he told him, “He’ll be weak, and in some pain, for several days, but he should make a full recovery, although it’ll take some time for the muscle tissue to heal. He’ll have to take it easy for a while.”
Cowley nodded. “May we see him?”
“We’re moving him onto the ward in half an hour or so. You can see him then.”
“Fine.” said Cowley.
Robin Marriott bid them farewell and left.
Cowley and Doyle sat back down.
Doyle let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.” he croaked.
“Aye.” said Cowley, with feeling.
A few minutes later, a nurse came along, carrying a clear plastic packet containing Doyle’s bloodstained windcheater.
“Does this belong to you?” she asked, eyeing Doyle appreciatively.
“Yes.” said Doyle, taking the packet from her, “Thank you.”
She smiled, suggestively, but Doyle, his attention on the packet, didn’t notice.
Disappointed at his lack of response, the nurse departed.
Doyle sat holding the packet, shaking his head. “I might as well bin this.” he said.
Cowley looked at the jacket. It had been slate grey in colour, but there were only one or two grey spots left now, the majority of the fabric stained reddish black with Bodie’s blood.
“Aye.” he nodded.
Doyle got up and walked down the corridor to a nearby flip-top bin and shoved the packet inside. Then, looking at his hands, said, “I might go and try to clean up a bit.”
Cowley nodded, and Doyle went in search of a washroom.
He couldn’t do much about his clothes, but he washed his hands, arms and face, and cleaned blood spottles off his trainers before returning to the waiting area.
A short time later a nurse appeared, to tell them that Bodie had now been transferred to the ward and that they could see him for a few moments. They followed her down several corridors and into the main ward.
Bodie’s bed was the last in the row and the curtain had been pulled, between it and the adjoining bed, to give him some privacy while he recovered from the surgery.
“He’s still pretty groggy.” the nurse told them, before going about her duties.
Cowley and Doyle approached the bed. Bodie was only semi-conscious, still drowsy from the anaesthetic, shrouded in a cellular blanket.
“Bodie?” Cowley spoke softly.
Bodie struggled to open his eyes, licking his lips. He blinked several times, trying to focus.
“Wh-where… am… I…?” he whispered.
“You’re in the hospital.” Doyle told him.
Bodie closed his eyes again. After a few seconds he opened them again and whispered. “Hospital?”
“Yeah, you were stabbed, remember?”
Bodie tried to nod, his eyelids drooping once more.
“You’re going to be fine. There’s no lasting damage.” Cowley told him, “But you’re going to have to rest up for a while.”
Bodie raised his eyebrows in response, too tired to speak.
“Listen, you get some sleep.” said Doyle, “We’ll see you tomorrow. O.K?”
“Mmm...” Bodie mumbled, drifting off once more.
Cowley and Doyle left, and Cowley drove Doyle home where he put his bloodstained clothes in to soak before taking a shower. Then, he fixed himself some pasta for dinner.
While it was cooking Doyle opened a can of beer and stood in front of the cooker as he drank it, absently watching the pasta simmering, his mind on the afternoon’s events.
It was the first time he’d had to shoot anyone since going back to the job, and it had left him feeling pretty jittery.
He closed his eyes as he pictured the ghastly wound in Bodie’s side, feeling nauseous at the memory of it. Bodie was very lucky to still be alive.
Deliberately forcing the images from his mind, he dished up the pasta.
After he’d eaten, he sat down in front of the T.V. to relax, but, try as he might, he couldn’t push the day's events from his mind, becoming more and more agitated as visions flashed past his eyes; of the terrorist he’d shot howling with pain as Doyle had handcuffed his hands behind him, of Bodie writhing on the ground with blood pumping from the wound in his side, of the other dead terrorist with half his guts blown away.
​
Suddenly, he broke out in a cold sweat and had to dash to the bathroom where he was violently sick.
He splashed his face with cold water and dabbed it with a towel.
As he went back into the lounge, he was shaking so much had had to sit down, and, for a moment, thought he was going to pass out.
What was wrong with him? he wondered anxiously. He’d been in situations like this dozens of times before and he’d never felt like this. Had he lost his nerve, as he’d been afraid, before he came back to work, that he might? Was it because Bodie had come so close to dying? Was it because he’d shot that terrorist? The man hadn’t died, but when he’d fired at him it hadn’t been with a conscious intention to only wound him and he found that thought repulsive. He knew it was an inevitable part of his job, but he didn’t want to kill any more people. He’d seen, and done, enough killing.
He held his head in his hands, groaning in confusion. He’d thought he’d come to terms with all these doubts but now, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but he’d reacted instinctively to try and protect Bodie, the same instinct that had driven him to seek revenge for Julia’s death, and he wondered, now, if, Heaven forbid, Bodie had died, he would have done the same thing again? Bodie had killed his attacker, but, if he hadn’t, would Doyle himself have gone in search of him, for revenge? He didn’t want to believe it, but the thought refused to leave his mind, and before long he was questioning everything he thought he’d sorted out in his head while under Al Parker’s care.
He sat for some time, struggling with his feelings, before jumping up and crossing to pick up the telephone index book. Finding the number he wanted, he picked up the telephone and, with a trembling hand, began to dial, raking a hand nervously through his hair as he listened to the ring tone. Eventually, a voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Al?” said Doyle, in a shaky voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Ray Doyle.” said Doyle, sitting down on the arm of the armchair.
“Ray! Hello.” Al Parker replied in a cheery voice, but frowning, puzzledly, as he glanced at his watch, wondering why Doyle was calling him at eight o’clock in the evening. When he’d signed his release form at the end of his treatment, he had told Doyle to call him if he had any problems that he needed to talk through, but it had been several months and he was surprised to hear from him now, after so long.
“I...er…” Doyle sighed, not sure how to begin, feeling awkward for ringing, but desperate to talk to someone, to try and unravel his muddled emotions.
“Ray? Is something wrong?”
“I… yes… no… I…” He sighed again, “I’m sorry to disturb you so late…” he began again, “but… I need to talk to someone…”
Al Parker could hear the anguish in his voice and frowned.
“Sure.” he said, calmly, “What’s the problem?”
​
Doyle told him all about the attempted kidnap and the chase that had ended up in the disused warehouse. He told him of how he’d shot one of the terrorists, but that the other had stabbed Bodie before he’d had time to react.
“There was so much blood…” Doyle muttered, feeing sick once more as he remembered. He told of how he’d held his jacket over the wound and tried to keep him conscious by talking to him, afraid that if he passed out he would never wake up.
“Is he alright?” asked Parker.
“He will be, in time.” said Doyle, “Luckily, it didn’t damage any major organs, but it severed an artery, damaged muscle tissue and punctured a lung.” He sighed, Al Parker temporarily forgotten as he thought about Bodie’s injuries and how long it was going to take him to recover. Parker waited patiently for him to continue.
“It wasn’t until after I got home,” Doyle continued presently, “that I got to thinking… what if Bodie had… died…? What would I have done? I don’t want to kill any more people… but… when I… shot that guy… I wasn’t thinking ‘only wound him’. I didn’t care… if he lived, or died… I just wanted to protect Bodie… and… I hate… that I could do that… so easily… with no… conscience… and I wondered… if Bodie had… died… and hadn’t killed the man who stabbed him… would I have gone after him… for revenge, like I did before? I don’t want to believe… that I’d do that again… but… it’s like… my instincts rule my actions. If I… lost someone else… I don’t know if I could stop myself… from crossing the line… between justice and revenge… I’m not even sure I know where that line is any more…” He broke off on a choked sob, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks, while, at the other end of the phone, Al Parker frowned at Doyle’s disjointed ramblings.
“It scares me…” Doyle was saying, “what I’m capable of…” He paused, briefly, “Not… crossing that line… is the one thing that separates me from them…” he continued presently, referring to the criminals they hunted, “At least… I thought so… Now… I’m not sure any more.” He drew in a trembling breath, “Does having the law on my side… make it any more right… for me to kill… in cold blood… than it does for them? Am I kidding myself, in thinking I‘m working for justice… when really… inside… I’m just the same as them… a cold blooded killer…” He shook his head, “I just don’t know any more…” His voice had been rising towards hysteria during the last few sentences and, as he broke off speaking, he was sobbing, audibly, down the phone, his free hand covering his eyes.
“I’m so confused…” he choked, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing… or why… who I am… what I am…”
“Calm down, Ray.” said Parker, worriedly, “Your reaction is understandable given all that you’ve been through. You reacted instinctively because that’s the way you’ve been trained, to protect your life, and those of your colleagues, over those of the criminals. There’s nothing wrong with that. Why should you risk your lives for those who choose to live outside the law? You did the right thing. You have nothing to question yourself for. And as for the revenge aspect… Bodie’s going to be alright, so it’s irrelevant.”
“This time.” croaked Doyle, “But, what about in the future?”
“Forget the future.” said Parker, “None of us can predict that. Just deal with each day as it comes, and don’t worry about things that might, or might not, happen in the future.”
“I can’t…” croaked Doyle, “I’m… afraid… of what I might do… if I lost anyone else…”
“I can understand your fears,” said Parker, “but, the fact that you’re even questioning yourself suggests that you would know where the line was, if the situation arose, and wouldn’t cross it.”
“I knew where it was before…” croaked Doyle. “It didn’t stop me then.”
Parker sighed. “They were… unusual circumstances. You were ill.”
“Crazy, more like.” croaked Doyle, “That’s my point. What if I… lose it… again?” He shook his head, not wanting to think about what he might do in that situation.
“You weren’t crazy, Ray, you were ill.” said Parker, firmly, “You stored up all the grief and anger you felt over losing your partner, and Marianne. You didn’t know it, but it had been eating away at you for years, like a cancer, until, after Julia’s death, you couldn’t handle it any longer. But that’s all gone now. You’re not the same person any more. You know how to handle things now.”
Doyle didn’t answer, wiping tears off his face with the back of his hand.
“Don’t you?” prompted Parker.
“I’m not sure.” sniffed Doyle.
“Come on, Ray, you know better than that.” said Parker, firmly, “We’ve worked through this.” He sighed, “You had a scare today and it’s unsettled you, that’s all. You’ve nothing to question yourself for. What you’re feeling is perfectly normal.”
“Normal?” Doyle cut in, his voice breaking, “I’m sitting here… crying down the phone… to a shrink! I threw up tonight just thinking about what happened this afternoon… and I’m shaking like a leaf. That’s normal?”
“What happened today has given you a nasty shock.” Parker told him, “What you’re feeling is a perfectly normal reaction to shock.”
“Not for me.” Doyle cut in, “I’ve been in similar situations dozens of times. They’re a regular occurrence in our line of work. But, I haven’t felt like this since… since I was a rookie cop…” he said, sounding anguished.
“And you probably won’t again.” said Parker, “This is the first time you’ve been in a life threatening situation since you went back to work, and it’s brought all your worries and insecurities to the forefront, but, believe me, you have nothing to worry about. From the sound of it, you handled everything fine.”
“You don’t think I’m… cracking up?” Doyle ventured, presently, “’cause that’s how it feels.”
“No. I don’t.” Parker said, firmly, “Now, I suggest you have a good stiff drink, and then get yourself a good night’s sleep and forget it. You’re doing fine. I’d be the first to tell you if you weren’t. It’s O.K. to get upset sometimes, Ray. You’re not a robot. Part of your problem was that you weren’t able to express your emotions - your grief, and anger - and that’s what made you ill. Don’t beat yourself up over this. You’re doing O.K.”
Doyle sighed. “I’ll try.”
“Good.” said Parker.
“Thanks, Al.”
“No problem. Any time you need to talk, you have my number.”
“Yeah, thanks. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Doyle hung up. He sat there for several minutes, thinking about what Parker had said. Then, wiping the tears off his face with the back of his hand, he crossed to the drinks cabinet where, taking Parker’s advice, he poured himself a large scotch, which he downed in two gulps. Then he went to bed and tried to clear his head.
​
* * *
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