"All of my sins are attempts to fill the voids
All of my voids they are filled with sin"

My Little Empire - Manic Street Preachers

***********

It was a week when the past crept into the present like a cat burglar, silent and unwelcome. Not unexpected, if Frank Burnside thought about it, but still leaving him wishing he'd been able to take out a little emotional insurance in the intervening years.

The first was easiest to deal with. That tart, Victoria and her age old scam. The most humiliating moment of his career he'd called it. A lie, of course, but it'd been what Kerry Holmes had wanted to hear. And in his experience people trusted you more if they thought they had some personal insight into your character. The lie and that nice little bit of 'lost time' in Victoria's room had done wonders for his reputation with both sexes in Sun Hill CID. But it was over now, memories buried in a mix of grudging respect and amusement.

And now? He glanced up at the TV again. Well this was a different matter, something older, more deeply buried.

He stretched, slowly, forcing his muscles to relax. Feeling his age for the first time, the passing of an era enough to remind him of his own mortality.

The evening had started normally enough. He'd left the office at six, paperwork completed on time; well that made a change, Scott Henderson getting his finger out for once. Then home. Forty minutes on a choked South Circular, frozen meal in the microwave; as routine as the office. Just another of the rigidly defined compartments of his life.

Another Friday night spent alone, nothing but the TV and a glass of Scotch for company. Even with cable, Friday night telly was rubbish; chat shows, inane quizzes and more gardening advice than anyone would reasonably want in one lifetime. He watched them all with half an eye, their blandness smoothing over his hectic week.

Nine o'clock, and a second, and third Scotch, came and went before he switched over to BBC1. Then, Peter Sissions, bizarrely cast as his own personal Mnemosyne, calmly shattered his day.

"Lord Cowley, former head of CI5 died today at his Kensington home. George Cowley, an ex-army major, formed CI5 in..."

He let the newsreader's voice trail away, though his mind picked out words and phrases without conscious effort - 'A-Squad', 'terrorism', 'Bodie'.

He'd somehow expected the old bastard would find a way to live forever. Cowley had been a block of Scottish granite built solidly into the fabric of the British security services. He'd survived changes in government, in policy, even in the world order after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Somehow Burnside had thought him immortal.

George Cowley. An old, old friend. Was friend the right word? Frank considered it. Cowley had guided his career for years. His career and more. All the good times, and the bad, found their way back to George Cowley. Friend? He'd never been sure. Still couldn't be.

He looked up from his glass; the fading afterimage of Cowley's picture now overlaid with Suzanne Charlton's weather report. Piercing grey eyes suddenly unfocussed, clouded with unexpected emotion.

He pondered on the report. It'd been short, considering the Commander's role in the Cold War. But that was just like the man. Small, understated, aggressive only when he had to be; when it served a purpose.

'Survived by a niece.' That was what Sissions had said. Yeah, and all his CI5 'children', men and women whose lives he'd shaped or shattered. At least by all those who'd lived through that baptism of fire, bombs and automatic weapons.

They'd all loved him in their own way and hated him in equal measure.

For nearly two years he'd been one of Cowley's children, one of the first of that exclusive club. Plucked from a promising career in the force by a Controller who was looking for people with certain skills, certain connections in the underworld. And he had plenty of those, half of his mates had found their way into gangs by then. Three months of training in the fledgling CI5, nineteen of operational excitement had been his reward. And then, well everything had changed. Cowley was responsible for that too.

He lifted the glass of Glenfiddich in a simple toast to the old man. Unsure as to whether it was sorrow he was feeling.

***

He'd always thought of himself as a 'mans man' funny how that'd turned out to be true - though not in the way anyone, including himself, would have suspected.

Right from the start he and Ray Doyle had clicked. They had the same sort of background. Rough upbringings on the fringes of urban council estates, a little trouble with the law early on, helped out of gang life by understanding relations - an uncle in Ray's case, paternal grandfather in his. Back then the line between copper and villain had been thin, it was just a matter of chance, and interfering relatives, which side you ended up on. To the amazement of his family he'd ended up, on the side of law and order, at the Metropolitan Police Training School in Hendon.

Hendon trained them in technique, procedure and discipline in just the same way as borstal and slags like the Krays trained their boys. Ten weeks, that was all you got back then, ten weeks of basic then you were in at the deep end. Puppy walked, true, but responsible for the law all the same. Those were the days when the public still looked up to the bobby on the beat, respected the uniform, however young the wearer looked.

He and Ray had met in the meal queue, caught up in a litany of mutual complaints that the food was probably better 'inside'. He'd been a cocky kid back then, Jack the Lad on his own manor, used to being the centre of attention. But now, for the first time, he had competition. Ray Doyle was something else; smart, quick, and outgoing enough to make Frank feel like the new kid in town. And handsome too, back before the attack. A few drinks, a practical joke or three and they'd got on like a house on fire.

They were teamed together from the beginning. Frank's practicality balancing Ray's instinct. Ray's explosive temper moderated by the calm good humour of his friend. There were rumours about Ray, even from the first day, rumours Frank chose to ignore, that Ray had slashed someone in anger. And that the 'someone' had been a jealous boyfriend. Frank thought it was all pretty unlikely. The Met would never have taken him if he was really a poof. The law had only just changed to make it legal and any copper with those tendencies would still be open to blackmail. Besides Ray dated girls like it was going out of fashion, another area where Frank struggled to compete.

Two months passed in no time. Friendships formed that would last a lifetime, enemies were made too. Relationships which would influence the Met. for years to come.

Late on in the training they covered sex crimes. It was harrowing and disturbing for all concerned and the tutors promised, with their usual sick sense of humour, some respite on the last day. But it was a lie. The last day was just as bad as the previous one, for all sorts of reasons.

Pornography. There'd been jokes since the timetable went up. Some wag had even put boxes of tissues on all the seats before they started. But, for the most part it hadn't been what they'd expected. Of course there'd been the usual straight stuff with its preposterous plots, and huge breasts. Most of it was legal, and not really offensive to anyone but the most rabid of campaigners. It had been the other material which had shocked the trainees. None of them had really been prepared for the S&M, bestiality and child porn that they were shown. Ribald, crude jokes gave way to expressions of disgust. The uncomfortable shifting in their seats not due to any arousal only the urgent need to be somewhere else.

Frank had thought himself immune to all of it, able to record, analyse, with an objective eye. Looking back he realised how naïve he'd been and how arrogant. The early material had shocked and sickened him, though his natural bravado made him cover it up. But it was the scenes from the gay movies that finally got to him.

They'd been nothing special. Just a short illustration of what was, and wasn't legal. But it'd been enough. Arousal hit him as hard as a double Scotch on an empty stomach. He needed to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Fate dealt him Ray Doyle sitting less than two feet away.

Ray was calm, collected, sketching one of the 'actors' on his pad. He caught Frank's eye, deliberately, took in the flushed cheeks, the notepad clutched in a death grip in his lap, and smiled, just a small smile conveying total understanding. He looked away, outlining a slim hip in hard black biro.

And afterwards? Well afterwards, the class resorted to the standard police method of dealing with difficult situations. They went out and got seriously pissed.

Eleven o'clock found a group of Hendon's 'most promising' trainees in one of the second storey bedrooms, sprawled on the floor, passing a bottle of cheap scotch between them.

It was Tommy 'Bomber' Harris who started it. Voicing opinions that'd been on all their minds for hours, lighting the tension with crude jokes, gallows humour. Finally he'd staggered to his feet, slurring drunkenly.

"Them blokes weren't anything special. I'm bigger than any of them. 'Ere I'll show you"

Oblivious to the ribaldry around him Harris unzipped his jeans and…exposed himself to comment.

"Need a magnifying glass to see that, mate. What you need is one of these." George Layton, tall, black and decidedly unashamed of his attributes, made to show them exactly what he had in his strides.

The evening was turning rapidly into a crude game of 'you show me yours'. Frank flashed again to the scene from that last movie, college boys playing the same game, slim, hard bodies sheened with sweat. Hot, flushed, mind unable to separate the real from the fantasy for a moment, he felt the arousal start as a low burn, a tingle of excitement in his stomach. He didn't want this, not here, not now, but his body, egged on by his subconscious, had other ideas.

There was a moments panic, deep breaths which didn't help at all. Deep breaths which just seemed to make the situation worse. So, pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he made an excuse and left.

"If all you can do is show each other your dicks I'm off to bed. Rather not have to look at any of you ugly buggers anyway."

It was as much bravado as his earlier coolness in the video room and didn't go unnoticed by his closest friend.

He hadn't gone back to his room and he'd taken the bottle with him, hoping the alcohol would blunt the images that were still swimming like mermen through his brain; strange and alluring. Instead, he sat on the terrace outside the accommodation block, stonework cold against his back, lit a fag and took a shaky drag at it. The rhythmic inhale-exhale of the smoke did nothing to calm his nerves.

Gradually, through half closed eyes, he registered the presence of another man.

"Anything left in that bottle?" Doyle slid down the wall beside him, a brief touch of warmth in the chill night.

"Yeah, just came out to have a smoke." Somehow he felt he had to justify being here, rather than tucked up in bed.

Doyle brushed his hand as he took the bottle. It could have been accidental. But then again.

"Really got to you today didn't it?" "What?" In his slight alcoholic haze the warmth of Ray's arm against his seemed far more important than the question.

"All those naked bodies." There was a hint of humour in Ray's voice. "The blokes I mean." He took the cigarette from his friend's fingers; put it to his own lips in a move that was almost a caress.

"I'm not a bloody nance!"

He'd lost it completely then. Struggling to his feet, swaying in the booze induced head rush, he hit out. Seconds later he had Ray pinned to the wall, fist in the slimmer man's face, angry and threatening. It never occurred to him at the time how easy it'd been to get Ray against the wall; though later it was almost all he could remember. He'd expected, wanted even, a fight, some way to clear his head, to lose it all in mindless violence. He wasn't prepared for the kiss, Ray's mouth on his, as forceful as the punch he'd been expecting. And there, just for one second of madness, he'd returned it, aroused beyond comprehension.

It was like vertigo washing over him, but worse, much worse. He was dizzy, head pounding , his mouth dry. His body wanted it, wanted to give in to those hot, passionate kisses. But his mind, the prejudices of his class and gender, fought him every step of the way. Mind finally overriding body; he walked away.

The next morning it was like it never happened. Ray didn't mention it and, caught up in conflicting emotions, neither did Frank. Not that he didn't think about it, especially after dark in the privacy of his room.

They stayed friends, but it was a changed friendship because of the secret between them and once they were assigned to different stations contact dwindled away from occasional meetings to nothing in a matter of months.

Over the next few years Frank Burnside had learned a lot about life. Well, more specifically, sex, drugs and rock 'n roll and more besides. Tart's who'd do it for nothing just to avoid another arrest, the regular resale of drugs evidence, the persuasive techniques used on suspects and more besides. Two years in the Met. took more of his innocence than the streets had managed in the previous twenty. The carefree lad changed became cynical and hard; the job demanded nothing less.

Then when he thought he'd forgotten the events of Hendon there'd been a restructuring of the Met. He'd been posted to Stepney Green in the East End and back to Ray Doyle. This time it was different. He'd seen a bit of life by then, learned to appreciate comfort, relief from the stresses of the job from whatever quarter it was offered. And Ray offered.

It hadn't been a grand passion for Ray. But for Frank, well that was a different matter. It'd been the first time he'd let anyone inside his carefully built defences, the first time he'd cared or wanted someone to care about him in years. And he'd ended up getting burned. And even now, more than twenty five years later he could only hate. Hate Bodie for taking Ray away from him and Cowley for encouraging it.

It'd been a complicated business. They'd been close, managed to keep it secret, amazing that, and of course they hadn't really managed as well as they thought. For Frank it was a revelation, a whirling storm of green eyed passion, a drive to pleasure which sex with women didn't come close to. However enthusiastic women were they couldn't match the skills of someone who knew just what it felt like.

It lasted more than a year. It was more than simple friendship, though both of them shied away from talking of anything deeper. There wasn't a way in those days.

August the seventeenth a date etched into his brain like an acid burn. The hottest summer in years. Hot in more ways than one. Industrial action, social unrest and political bickering stretched the police to their limits in London. He should have been there, would have been if his grandfather hadn't died suddenly in his sleep. Eighty four, a good innings considering. So, instead of being on the front line against the National Front that afternoon, Frank had been ten miles away at Hither Green Cemetery in Catford.

Ray should have had someone he trusted to watch his back not timid Barry Hudson. But it could have been worse, maybe it was. Hudson had died of his injuries. Ray just had his jaw, cheekbone and four ribs broken. Just! As if that temporary destruction of body and confidence hadn't been enough.

Frank didn't see him until three days later. By that time the doctors had given up trying to repair the smashed bone in his face and replaced it with a curve of plastic. Ray had been all too aware of that flaw, Frank too aware of his failure to be there for his lover. Between the guilt and the pain they met, rowed and finally parted. It came down to pride and stubbornness on both sides. Each caught up in their own fear of mortality they were unable to let the other help them heal.

It was then George Cowley approached him. Cowley became his anchor offering a military stability, a way of dealing with the fear through training. He'd taken the job without question, going undercover almost immediately after training.

Spring of the following year found Frank in Birmingham in Midland's gang who were using boxing and dog fighting as a means of siphoning money into Middle Eastern terrorism.

Later Cowley had head-hunted Ray too. But he hadn't known, not until that day at the reservoir, not until it was too late.

*******

Present

Typical copper, he went through the crowd at the funeral service from back to front looking for faces he knew; detailing lives, loves and crimes with a objective eye. On the left the ministers, civil servants, those who'd come out of respect, or to gloat that they'd outlived their tormentor. On the right, in a parody of a wedding ceremony, the 'groom's family'. CI5 agents past and present. Even after all these years he recognised Anson, balding now but with the tell tale cigar sticking out of his top pocket. Betty and Jax, finally, now the disapproval of mixed marriages was a thing of the past, able to acknowledge their relationship. Chris Murphy, head of his own security firm, tall, slim frame encased in a very fashionable Paul Smith suit. He was conscious of gaps too; death and madness had claimed far too many of Cowley's children in the intervening years.

The scan up the aisle had taken minutes or no time at all, depending on where you were, or weren't, trying to get to. Instinctively he'd known where they were and shunned it. The unpalatable truth too much to face at such an emotional gathering. Finally, eyes slipping over the bowed red head of Cowley's niece, he let his steel grey gaze touch them.

Truth be told, he hadn't known what to expect. A glance in the mirror that morning had shocked him. How long had he been completely grey? For a moment his own face had been that of a stranger, an older relative. He was scared to look at 'them' now unsure he could face the changes of age and stress.

He started with the easier challenge, Bodie, Cowley's successor, the current Head of CI5. The years had been kind. Frank scowled. Apart from a slight thickening round the waistline Bodie barely showed his fifty years. Everything about him radiated confidence. The man had a natural arrogance that chancers like Rod Skase wouldn't manage to learn in a month of Sundays.

Frank looked away. Focussed on the coffin on its oak stand, the simple arrangement of flowers over the heart of the body beneath. He stayed there for a while, half listening to the sermon, the witterings of officialdom. Finally, the last hymn, a last chance, he looked back.

Ray Doyle. He swallowed. Even greying, bowed in grief, Ray looked good. Charcoal grey suit, like the cinders in Burnside's heart, long soft curls clasped at his neck in a silver clip. He was more famous than his partner now. A celebrity photographer, the darling of the chattering classes. But Frank had no eyes for what Ray Doyle was now, only what he had been back in those hot seventies summers.

Even now, in the liberal 90's a funeral was the only place men of their generation could touch in public, a comforting hand on the shoulder, a brief hug was all that was permitted. As he watched, defying tradition Bodie's square fingered hand covered his partner's on the back of the pew. Frank caught a glimpse of a heavy gold ring on Bodie's hand, a symbol of their commitment to each other.

As the hymn swelled to its final verse he closed his eyes against their closeness, lost for a brief moment in memories.

The last time he'd seen Ray had been at the reservoir. After they'd got that nutter Nesbitt. And it'd been like he didn't exist. Ray's eyes had passed over him, no more important than the R/T or the gun he was holding. Less important in fact. There was barely an acknowledgement that they'd even met before. Ray only had eyes for his new partner, Bodie.

Ironically, they'd got their man while he lost his. He'd watched them, heads together, drying each other off, touching, warm in their private world, oblivious, in love maybe even then.

The water set like ice around his heart.

Cowley caught his eye. Understanding? He couldn't be sure until the older man spoke.

"Leave them laddie. You'd better get me back to the office. The Minister will be waiting."

Later, after the case was tied up, reports written, he'd been called into the Controller's office. Betty had brought tea without being asked, always a bad sign, or at least that's how the office gossip went.

"Sit down, lad, don't wear the carpet out."

"Sir?"

"I don't think CI5 is the best place for you right now." He paused steely blue eyes softened in sympathy. "I've been reviewing your file. I know you and Doyle were 'close' in the past."

And they thought they'd been so careful. Should have known you couldn't get anything past George Cowley.

"I'm sorry Burnside, I don't want him to have any distractions, any 'conflicts of interest' as the politicians say. They're going to be my best team. They have an understanding already." Cowley had paused here, unsure as to whether the younger man was really taking this all in. This sort of thing was never easy but George Cowley was a practical man at heart. For all his personal understanding of the situation he had to put the squad first, the country depended on it. He carried on, made the best offer he could in the circumstances.

"I need something else from you, a different assignment, if you like. I need contacts in the services, especially in the police force." He paused again. Frank nodded, bitter understanding already etched on his face.

And that had been that. Posted back to the Met., Cowley's man on the inside. It'd got him where he was today, DCI in Serious Crimes, able to work in his own idiosyncratic way without interference, as long as it got results. For most of those years CI5 had got copies of every useful file, tapes of vital interviews, even first crack at certain suspects. He'd been loyal to his past and to his 'family'.

But, for all those years there'd been a hole in his life like an open grave. "It was better to have loved and lost…" Bollocks! Nothing should ever hurt like this.

He took out a creased picture, Ray Doyle and him at some summer training course, shirt sleeves, arms round each other, grinning at the camera like loonies. He remembered the radio being on - The Ballad of John and Yoko, the beginning of the end for the Beatles.

As the coffin was lifted for its final journey he turned away, face hard with grief, tiredness, what could have, should have, been.

Then he did something he should have done years ago. Stepping up to the graveside, he crumpled the photo, dropped it into the open void and walked away.