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The sound of gunfire echoing around the empty warehouse was deafening. Doyle, Bodie and four other CI5 agents were in a face off with a gang of drug runners. Two had already been shot, but three others were still trying to shoot their way out.

 

Doyle had made his way onto a mezzanine walkway that ran around the inside walls of the building, one floor up, hoping to get off a shot at one of the men who he knew was on this level. Taking cover behind a ventilation pipe, he peeked out, looking for a sign of him.  His quarry got off a shot which alerted Doyle to his position behind a similar ventilation pipe on the opposite side of the warehouse, some distance to the left of Doyle’s current position.  He’d lost track of where Bodie was, but two of the other agents were down on the ground level and two were up one level above him.

 

He crept carefully along the mezzanine, keeping low and hiding behind anything he could find.  He paused behind a steel support beam and popped his head out to look around.  At last he could see his quarry, almost in the corner, half hidden behind a metal cage, looking down towards the other end of the building where his CI5 co-operatives were still firing at the other runners.

 

Adjusting his position he took aim, ready to fire as soon as he had a clear shot.  A few moments later, the man moved and Doyle had his chance.  At that very moment the man turned his head and saw him, and twisted round to aim at him.  It was now or never, him or Doyle.  But just as Doyle squeezed the trigger, Bodie suddenly leaned out from a staircase further around the mezzanine level, intending to fire at the same man, right in Doyle’s line of fire.  There was no time to shout a warning and Doyle watched as his bullet hit Bodie square in the back.

 

With a yell, Bodie toppled over the stair railing and fell to the ground below. Doyle, watching in horror, suddenly felt a sharp pain as the bullet the other man had fired, in the same instant as Doyle, hit him in his upper arm, just below his shoulder, before he too was propelled over the railing to land heavily on a metal table below the mezzanine, hitting his head and knocking him unconscious.

 

He didn’t know how long he was out for but when he regained his senses the shooting had stopped, and one of his cooperatives was calling his name and shaking his shoulder.

 

Groggily, he scrambled into a sitting position, holding a hand to his head.  When he removed it he saw blood on his fingers from a cut sustained from the metal edge of the table.

 

“You O.K?” Willis, the agent, asked.

 

“Yeah.” Doyle ground out.

 

He looked dazedly around him and saw that a third gang member had been shot and the remaining two were being handcuffed by one of the agents.   Then, he spotted the other two agents kneeling on the ground alongside Bodie’s motionless form and one of them was performing CPR on him, while the other held his wrist checking for a pulse.

 

His throbbing head and shoulder forgotten, Doyle pushed Willis’ hand off him, scrambled off the table and staggered across to them.

 

“Bodie!” he gasped.

 

Burns, the agent checking for a pulse looked up at him.  “Jones has called for back-up and an ambulance. Should be here any second.”  he told him. “Are you O.K?” he added, noting the blood seeping through the frayed sleeve of Doyle’s fawn coloured jacket and the trickle of blood on his forehead.

 

Doyle shook his head, not in answer to the question but at the realization that he had shot his partner and best friend.

 

“Is he…?” he whispered.

 

“No pulse.” Burns said, grimly,  still holding onto Bodie’s wrist while Ackerman, the other agent, continued with CPR.

 

Oh, God, I’ve killed him. Doyle suddenly couldn’t breathe.

 

Turning, he staggered away towards the entrance, unable to face looking at him.

 

The two agents looked puzzled but were too absorbed with tending to Bodie to give much thought to Doyle’s actions.

 

Doyle fairly ran out of the building and back to where he’d left his car.  Jumping in he started the engine and drove away at speed, not caring where he went just as long as it was anywhere but here.

 

His breath came in wheezing gasps and tears misted his eyes as he drove.     Already in a fragile emotional state after being dumped by Ann Holly - the woman he had planned to marry - only three weeks previously, after discovering he and CI5 had been investigating her and her father behind her back, this was just too much for him to deal with.

 

Eventually he came to the railway station and abruptly stopped the car.  Jumping out he hurried across to the entrance.

 

Inside, he stared blankly at the departure boards before going to the ticket office and purchasing a ticket for the next train to Liverpool, which was due to depart in twenty minutes time.

 

Taking the ticket he headed for the platform, not really aware of his actions just needing to get away. Realizing he was getting some strange looks from people, he headed to the men’s room where he cleaned the blood off his face and took off his jacket to examine the wound to his shoulder.  The bullet had only grazed him and the bleeding was already slowing.  He turned his jacket inside out, revealing its dark grey lining, and draped it across his shoulders to make the bloodstain on his shirt sleeve less obvious, hoping that some random person didn’t point out that the jacket was inside out, or try to rearrange it for him.

 

He got onto the train, which fortunately was fairly quiet, and found an almost empty carriage where he huddled himself into a seat in the corner, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep to discourage anyone from engaging him in conversation.

 

He wondered, vaguely, why he had selected Liverpool as his destination, over one of several others due to depart at a similar time, before suddenly realizing it was Bodie’s home town. The thought choked him, and he was once again consumed by what he’d done; Killed his partner and best friend. 

 

On arrival in Liverpool a couple of hours later, he had no idea what to do. He stood outside the station, looking around him in confusion.  He’d never been here before and so had no idea where anything was.

 

His survival instinct kicked in and he realized that he would first have to get some money, and then find somewhere to spend the night.  Luckily, he had his bank card in his wallet, so after asking some passing locals where there was a branch of his bank, he headed off to find an ATM machine.

 

Half an hour later, armed with some cash, he found a reasonably priced hotel and booked a room for the night. There was a restaurant next door but Doyle had no interest in eating.  He retired to his room and just lay on top of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind full of what he’d done.

 

Even though it had been purely accidental, and one could perhaps even have blamed Bodie to a degree, for suddenly popping out without checking the coast was clear first, Doyle felt like a murderer.  He kept replaying the image of him falling over the stair railing over and over in his mind, the echo of the fatal shot reverberating in his brain. He screwed his eyes shut against the tears that welled up in him, but they escaped anyway to slide silently down onto the pillow.

 

He’d never wished more that Ann was still here than he did at this moment. Not that she would have understood.   He remembered how she had reacted the first time she’d seen him, when Bodie had shot that drug smuggler outside her apartment.  As a pacifist, she had been appalled, and fairly hostile towards him initially, before they’d fallen in love.  If they’d still been together now, and she’d heard what he’d done, she would have dumped him for certain.   As she had said, their relationship would never have worked long term, they were just too different and wanted different things, but God how he missed her. He would have given anything to have her arms around him right now.

 

Gradually, his thoughts turned to the future.  What was he going to do?  He couldn’t stay here indefinitely, but nor could he go back to London. He couldn’t face dealing with what he’d done, of having to go to Bodie’s funeral, having to face Cowley and everyone else on the squad and have them judge him as a murderer.  He wondered vaguely if he was the first ever CI5 agent to kill one of their own.  Cowley would no doubt dismiss him from the squad so he would be out of work and homeless too, since his apartment came with the job.  Maybe he should stay here in Liverpool after all, try and get a job somewhere and make a fresh start.

 

With all these thoughts going around in his head, he wasn’t aware of falling asleep until the sun played on his face the next morning.

 

He woke with a start, squinting in the bright light, trying to remember where he was and why he was here, his heart sinking when his senses cleared and the events of the previous day pushed their way into his mind.

 

He rose and washed, realizing he would need to get a new jacket and shirt in order to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

 

Heading out of the hotel he wandered into what he hoped was the city centre, where he purchased a windcheater and two shirts from a local budget department store, and then picked up a razor, shaving foam and some antiseptic ointment, to apply to the wound in his shoulder, from a nearby pharmacy.  He made another trip to the bank to get some more cash before heading back to his hotel, where he paid for another night’s stay.

 

Heading up to his room, he washed and shaved and then treated the wound in his left shoulder with the antiseptic ointment before changing into one of his new shirts. The wound wasn’t too deep, but would be susceptible to infection if left untreated. His arm however, was stiff and painful from the residual damage to the surrounding tissue, and he had trouble getting it into his shirt when he’d finished his ministrations.

 

Even though he had no appetite, his stomach was protesting at not having had any food in twenty-four hours so he headed to the restaurant next door for something to eat.  He ate the food mechanically, not really tasting it, his mind occupied with the previous day’s events. Afterwards, he wandered aimlessly around the city, finally ending up at the Pier Head.

 

He stood, staring out across the river, wondering how often Bodie might have done the same thing.  Bodie had never told him much about his childhood apart from him having been born in this city. On a whim, Doyle decided to take a trip on the Mersey ferry, the icy wind that blew across the water and into his face at least reminding him that he was alive as he stood on the deck and studied the city’s skyline from the middle of the river.

 

Later, he made his way slowly back to his hotel and up to his room.  There was a small tv set on top of the dresser in the room but he didn’t put it on.  He merely lay on the bed, as he had the previous night, his mind consumed by his actions at the warehouse.

 

He could imagine Bodie telling him ‘Don’t brood on it, it was just one of those things.’  He’d always been more philosophical about death than Doyle, presumably from his chequered past in the army and as a mercenary overseas, but the guilt he felt was overwhelming.   Had it just been an accident, a case of bad timing? Or was he below par because of what had happened with Ann playing on his mind?  Perhaps he hadn’t been paying the attention he should have during the shootout, and missed a cue, or a signal from Bodie.  Whatever the reason, his actions had not only caused the death of another operative, but his own partner, and friend, and he didn’t know how to begin to deal with that.

 

The next morning brought no relief from his feelings of guilt and hopelessness.  He had no idea what to do with himself without work to occupy his mind.

 

He ate breakfast at the restaurant next door before heading to the bank to get some more cash, maligning the £50 limit on daily withdrawals.   Then he once again wandered aimlessly around the city, looking in shop windows but not registering much of what he saw.  He came across the bus stop for the open-topped bus tour of the city and spontaneously decided to take it, noting many places associated with The Beatles and wondering if Bodie, a fan of his Liverpudlian compatriots, had ever taken this tour, or visited any of the various places they passed.

 

It was mid afternoon when he returned to his hotel where he paid for another night’s stay.

 

He trudged up the stairs to his room, his mind vaguely working through options of what to do next.  He couldn’t just idle around indefinitely. He would run out of money before too long if he didn’t get some work, but what kind of work could he do? Especially here, in an unfamiliar city where he knew no-one. Any prospective employers would likely ask for references from his previous employment, which, under the Official Secrets Act, he was forbidden to disclose, making securing any employment a little awkward. But he couldn’t face going back to London. As far as he was concerned, his life there was finished now.  He supposed he could rejoin the police force up here if all else failed, although going back to that life didn’t appeal to him any more.

 

He was sitting on the bed, pondering the future, when there was a knock at the door.  He jumped, startled, wondering what anyone would come to his door for. He’d paid for the room so there was no need for the staff to speak to him, and he didn’t know anyone else in the city.

 

Reluctantly he got up and cautiously opened the door, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw George Cowley standing there.

 

“Hello, Doyle.” Cowley smiled benevolently.

 

Doyle gasped, and backed away from the door, his mind working on a way to flee but the only way out was through the doorway that Cowley was standing in.

 

“May I come in?” Cowley enquired, coming in anyway.

 

“H-how… What…?” Doyle gasped, wondering how Cowley had managed to find him.  So blinded was he, by grief, he hadn’t given any thought to the fact that his hasty and somewhat careless departure would be easily traced and it wouldn’t take CI5 long to find him with the resources available to it.

 

Cowley smiled and turned to close the door.

 

“It wasn’t too hard to track you down.  We found your car abandoned at the railway station and CCTV helped us out with what train you caught, and your bank transactions narrowed down your location.” He tutted, in mock reproachment, saying “Very shoddy work in covering your tracks. I would’ve expected better from you.” before the benevolent smile returned.  “I’ve had people combing the city for a sign of you.”

 

Doyle stared at him, reminding Cowley of a rabbit caught in the headlights.

 

“I’m sorry…” he said, presently.

 

Cowley nodded.

 

“Why are you here, Doyle?” he asked, presently, even though he’d already worked out the reason.

 

“I…” Doyle began, not knowing what to say.  He wrapped his arms around himself and began to pace the room.  “After I... I couldn’t… I had to… I just… He shook his head. “I… didn’t mean to do it… It was an accident…”

 

“I know.” Cowley nodded, still with that benevolent smile on his face.

 

“I didn’t mean to kill him… “Doyle continued, seeming not to have heard Cowley’s words.  “He popped out into my line of fire just as I pulled the trigger…  There was nothing I could do…” Doyle shook his head, looking anguished.

 

“But you didn’t kill him, Doyle.”

 

Doyle looked at him, not understanding what he was saying.

 

“What…?

 

“Bodie’s not dead.”

 

“But... I saw him… on the ground… there was no pulse… he was dead… “

 

“Aye.  He was technically dead, but when the ambulance crew arrived, they got his heart going again.”

 

Doyle just stared at him.

 

“At the hospital they managed to get the bullet out of him.  He lost a fair amount of blood, and suffered a broken arm and dislocated shoulder from the fall, but he’s alive, and on the way to recovery, although it will take several weeks before he’ll be fit enough to start training.”

 

“Alive?”  gasped Doyle.

 

Cowley nodded.

 

Doyle sank down onto the edge of the bed as relief washed over him, causing his legs to give way, and dropped his face into his hands.

 

“It wasn’t too difficult to work out why you ran.” Cowley continued. “Ballistics confirmed the bullet was from your gun.

 

“I didn’t mean to do it.”  muttered Doyle.

 

“Of course you didn’t.  It was an accident, pure and simple.”

 

“But was it...?  Am I losing my touch...? Did I miss something I should have seen...?” Doyle shook his head to himself, his mind once again returning to Ann Holly and wondering if their break up had perhaps dulled his senses in some way. “I have been… distracted… this last few weeks…”

 

“From the reports filed by everyone involved, you acted exactly how you normally would.  Such shootouts are unpredictable and, as human beings, we are all imperfect. It was just an unlucky accident.”

 

“I couldn’t deal with killing my own partner. I just had to get away...”

 

Cowley nodded. “I understand.” He understood only too well that feeling of losing a partner and friend. To believe it had happened by your own hand would indeed be devastating, and despite Doyle's outwardly tough exterior Cowley knew he was a sensitive soul who would struggle with the ramifications of such a thing.

 

“He’s definitely alive?” Doyle asked now, looking up at him as though he wasn’t sure he was telling him the truth.

 

“He is, and he wants to see you.”

 

“Oh, God, what am I going to say to him?”  Doyle raked his hands through his tousled curls, looked anguished at the thought of having to face him.

 

“Whatever you would normally say to him. He doesn’t blame you.”

 

“He’ll rip my head off.” said Doyle.

 

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” smiled Cowley. It was certainly better than the alternative for sure.

 

Doyle thought for a moment, before nodding, a half-smile coming to his face.  Yes. Bodie yelling at him was a price worth paying if it meant he was still alive.

 

“Let’s get back to London then, shall we?”

 

Doyle nodded. “Alright.  I just have to stop off somewhere first if that’s O.K?”

 

Cowley looked puzzled but nodded.

 

Doyle gathered up his few belongings and they headed out to Cowley’s car.

 

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