ci5hq | The Reading Room -- Fic: Fly On The Wall by Lezlie Conch

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Fly on the Wall
by Lezlie Conch

http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/5/flyon.html
Originally in the circuit zine, Up Against the Wall, 1980s. Currently in Pros Theme Zine II

I will probably go on for far too long because I love this story. I like everything about it. It unfolds nicely, giving us bits and pieces as we go. Great pacing, I think.

It starts with a group of agents on a stakeout, trying to catch a man Cowley wants. Apparently, the mark likes men so Doyle's sent out on the street to drawn him in.

First, we're shown Bodie, Anson and McCabe shut up in a room watching the street. Then we discover why gradually, from Bodie's POV, with his obvious sarky tone:

The focus of all this attention was standing in the wash of yellow streetlight, leaning against a red brick wall, negligently displaying what was up for grabs--for the right price. The faded, contour hugging jeans left no doubt as to what was on offer.

A natural.

Doyle was a natural all right, but not the way McCabe meant. Doyle would have been equally convincing as an Albanian sheep- herder or a Catholic seminary student. He was good at his job, a concept too complicated for their fellow agents.

Tasteless jokes and anonymously captioned photos on the ops board would be the inevitable result. Life would be so much easier if Doyle was a cack-handed as McCabe who couldn't go under the covers of his own bed without looking conspicuous.

The boys are delightful. They banter, jab and snap at each other, all in good humour. When it's time to turn over the watch, the new guy comes in and Bodie ponders him:

Murphy was an unknown quantity, too new for Bodie to know if the middle-class affectations were real--in which case he could continue ignoring him with a clear conscience--or if they merely masked the mild psychosis that guaranteed social success with CI5.

Something about the idea that a 'mild psychosis" guarantees social success in CI5 makes me giggle. I'm already sucked into the story, loving the easy way she handles each character.

Instead of heading out for the night after McCabe's turn at pretending to be Doyle's trick is played out, the lads share a bottle. That leads to boasting, then to "the bet". Boys will be boys, and they expect that they're irresistible to one and all. McCabe puffs out enough so that Murphy tosses out a wager: McCabe will bed whomever Murphy names. The lads all toss lots of cash onto the table and Murphy sets the rules:

McCabe tucked the comb back in his pocket. "I accept the challenge. So who's the lucky girl?"

Murphy paused theatrically. "The lucky person is Ray Doyle."

Bodie's head whipped around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. McCabe was sputtering his indignation, Anson was laughing his head off, but Murphy was ignoring both of them.

Bodie found himself the recipient of a cool, blue appraisal. What was Murphy expecting him to do? Rush to protect Doyle's honor? As if Ray Doyle needed help cutting anybody off at the knees an inch at a time--from the neck down.

But Murphy was still looking at him, as if waiting for something. Finally, Bodie just shrugged and chuckled at McCabe's furious blustering.

The banter in this piece is priceless. The author has a gift for glib, and every phrase is what I'd expect from each man:

Bodie rolled his eyes. "Doyle saying no doesn't worry me. Who Cowley will lumber me with when Doyle gets suspended for putting McCabe's dick in a pencil sharpener does."

Really fun stuff. I can clearly picture the lads sitting around a ratty table, a pile of 20 quid bills in front of them, empty glasses at their elbows. Such good writing. I'm tickled silly.

So now the set up is on. And to keep McCabe honest, it's decided that he'll have a wire on so that he doesn't tip Doyle off to the bet. Lucas is summoned to bring gear:

The three of them drifted back to the table. The room stayed quiet until Lucas' aggrieved arrival.

Anson quickly explained the situation. Since it had everything necessary for ghoulish bystanders--a reckless wager, a large sum of money, and best of all, complete humiliation for some unfortunate soul--his cooperation was easily gained.

"It's a no lose situation," Lucas said gleefully and tossed a twenty onto Murphy's pile.

So before Doyle calls it a night, he has time to "service" one last customer: McCabe.

"Testing...testing. One two, unbuckle my shoe. Three four, on the floor. Five six, suck my dick. Seven eight...seven eight...seven...oh fuck it." McCabe abandoned his future as a starving poet. "Doyle is looking particularly trashy this evening. Lucky for him he could wear his regular clothes on the job."

Laughter surrounded Bodie, but he kept an almost straight face. After all, the tart in question was his partner.

I swear, this writer has the best lines. I can't help but laugh through the entire story. Bodie's keeping his cool, even as he's irritated that the boys think Doyle's really up for a bit of man on man lovin'. Turns out that McCabe is woefully awful at picking up Doyle. He returns shame-faced at his failure:

Lucas waved a dismissive hand. "You froze. Stood there like a shop dummy, then just blurted it out. Christ, Cowley would do smoother than that, and the last time he chatted up anybody was VE Day."

So the bet is put on hold while the shift changes. Bodie gets waylaid by Cowley and taken to Paris for two days. When he gets back on the op, he's shocked at his discovery:

"Get out of the way, Bodie, you're spoiling my aim." Bodie identified the speaker as Donaldson--what was he doing here? He stepped aside as a second dart flew dangerously close and bumped into Miller and Lake who were squeezed into a corner playing Mastermind around Murphy's little camp table. Donaldson brushed past him, yanked two darts from the board and several from the wall, stalked across the room and thrust them, point first, at Stuart.

Around the table, Anson, McCabe, and Jax hunched over a poker game, oblivious to the polka music screeching from a portable radio buried under the mound of crushed takeaway containers and empty beer bottles that littered the rickety coffee table and the floor around it. A bouquet of half-dead flowers topped the pile like a centerpiece from a Hammer horror.

"Bodie!" Anson waved him in. "Help yourself to some nosh. Stevens and Pruitt went for more beer."

Whilst Bodie was gone, the entire squad, it seems, is now in on the even bigger bet, which has grown to almost 300 quid. The first person to bed Doyle wins the money.

And the bet's expanded to "yes" and "no". Will he or wont he bed a bloke? Doyle's been woed while Bodie was away. He's been given flowers and candy, but so far, he's resisted. Bodie is furious! LOL! And there's a secondary list of who's betting a sum regarding who Doyle will kill first as well:

"They're in on the 'who will Doyle kill' pool. This is where most of the action is. The winners will split the proceeds with the victim."

"I can't lose," McCabe informed him smugly. "If I get Doyle to say yes, I get 88 quid. But if he attacks me, I'll still get 65 quid. Not bad, eh?"

Things are quiet back at CI5 HQ, which gave everybody a chance to be in on the big bet. And Bodie wonders when Doyle will blame it all on him, and kill him for sure. He muscles the binoculars off one of the boys:

What a difference two days made.

The care-free siren was gone, replaced by a wary, cornered panther with--Bodie zoomed in--a definite facial tic. Doyle's shirt, usually open to the navel, was done up to the last button, and while the jeans were still tight, the goodies were now discreetly covered by shirt tails.

Murphy is sent back to the stake out yet again, with his tail between his legs after Doyle almost beans him with the bottle of cologne Murph tried to give him as a gift. He's all smug smiles until he sees that Bodie's returned. He high tails it to the other side of the room before Bodie rips him a new one. We realise that of all the attempts, Murphy's are true. He does want Doyle, not the money.

The guys figure that they've all had a try at Doyle's virtue and have failed, except for one person: Bodie:

McCabe nudged Anson, looked significantly in Bodie's direction, then waggled his eyebrows. Anson, ever quick on the uptake, blinked in confusion until McCabe pointed at Bodie, then out the window. The light switching on in Anson's brain was almost visible, but then it was a dim bulb.

The mysterious message limped around the room. Anson kicked Jax under the table, Jax threw beer nuts at Stuart's head, and Stuart hissed at Lake who proved to be the weak link.

"I was just scratching it!" Lake exclaimed defensively as he extracted the finger from his nose.

Bodie found himself the center of attention. Although he had adjusted early in life to the fact that he was indeed the center of the universe, it wasn't often the lesser beings realized their subservient status.

Bodie's honestly worried about the reception he'll get from Doyle because Bodie didn't do what good partners do: he didn't let Doyle in on the bet, but left him with the lechers for two whole days while he went on an easy op and drank wine in Paris with Cowley:

This was ridiculous. He had survived--barely--Doyle's diatribes before. What made the impending one so daunting was the fact that he deserved it. Partners in CI5 protected each other from danger and other CI5 agents.

He had chosen to say goodbye to Monica before jetting off to Paris instead of sneaking back and letting Doyle in on the joke. He had let his partner down. The least he could do was be a man about it.

So Bodie braves up and goes out to meet his partner. But Doyle is a smart fellow, as we all know. Amazingly perceptive:

"You bastard." Doyle's breathy whisper blew across his lips.

A trap! His (Bodie's) heart hammered.

"Stuart writes poetry, Bodie. Very bad poetry." Doyle grabbed a fistful of cowl neck and twisted. "He rhymed Ray and lay."

"Ray, I've b--" The grip tightened.

"Masters was considerate enough to bring me a book. 'Hot Boy Holes for Sale'. Ever read it?"

"R--" His vision started to blur.

"Where was my partner during all of this?"

"Par--" To hell with being a man about it. "Hospital. Just got out." He was starting to black out. "Can't breathe." He sucked in a huge breath when the relentless grip eased.

"You'll need a hospital when I'm done with you." Doyle shoved him away. "We've spent enough time on this street. Let's go."

So the story progresses wonderfully. The writing is excellent, witty, hot and smutty, and so much fun that I'll leave you all to read on your own because I'd just post the entire thing right here. Here's a taste:

There was no other word for it. He was being kissed by a man. Panic gripped him, or was that Doyle's hand?

I can't help myself. I have to share these lines:

Fucking was like flying, he finally decided. Once you were in the air, it didn't matter if you were in a helicopter or a plane. The approach angles and the instrument panels were different, but everything was controlled by the stick.

And Bodie was a frequent flyer.

I laughed as hard the third time I read this story as the first. The ending is amazingly well done, very cute, and Bodie is so funny. He's very much in character through the entire thing. This Doyle was one of the best I've read. Definitely like I'd picture him if he were undercover and then sussed out what was going on. I think all of the men are written very well, and I could easily hear every exchange. I give this story a big A plus. I can't think of a thing I didn't like about it. One of my very favourites and well worth multiple readings to bring a huge smile to your face.

Okay, I do have one thing. I admit, it could have used a Brit beta. I'm still learning in Pros, but even I saw the glaring American spellings. I often wonder why something that simple isn't fixed in a Pros story. I don't think being published back in the 80s is a very good excuse to not edit. I can't tell you how many zines I have that didn't bother fixing the spelling to British. To me, it's a simple detail that should be taken care of by any editor who's putting out a zine in whatever country/universe the story is placed in. There might be a valid reason not to use the proper spellings for any show or movie. I see it a lot in Sentinel, with the British and Australia writers who use their local language. But that being said, this is a great story. (I almost changed the spellings in the quotes I used when I spell-checked, but I resisted.*g*)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

constant-muse.livejournal.com

Hello and thanks for such a great, detailed rec.

It was great to read another amusing fic. I'm glad you quoted that line about Bodie, she has great fun with his sense of superiority, although I don't think he's exactly in character but exaggerated for humorous effect.

I love obbos and operations and other agents, so the ingredients were there. Also a bit of depth with the sub-plot of a posh, gay Murphy.

Hence I really enjoyed this up to a point, about half way through, when Bodie returned from Paris. At that point it became overdone, made me feel quite queazy. There were too many agents, too much mess, too much fondling or whatever of Doyle - it just left a bad taste. I really felt sorry for Doyle, out there on the street looking so put upon, no longer able to do the undercover job he was there to do, even if he was characteristically angry inside and rightly took it out on Bodie.

I really couldn't believe the other agents would do that to him, or that Bodie would leave him undefended, or that they would all seemingly forget the purpose of the obbo.

Have to admit I read this very quickly, so this is just my impression. Closer reading might change my view. Clever ending, too, I agree.

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The Reading Room -- Fic: Fly On The Wall by Lezlie Conch

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