Bodie & Doyle
Due South
PUBLISHED FEB. 2002
A Long Way Home
by Morgan Dawn & Justine Bennett
A Vecchio/Fraser zine
"The man stretched his stiffening legs and walked four or five steps. The small barred window leaked sunlight into the isolation cell. He had been sitting, gazing stolidly for the past two hours, waiting or some inner prompting or divine guidance. None came. "Damn you, Bodie," he said. He spoke mainly for the benefit of his own ears, since there was no one to hear him. Even if there had been, the phrase had been uttered so many times before, with so many different inflections, that it would have warranted no reply. It had become his silent prayer and his waking curse. Reaching a decision, he bent down to retrieve the razor and began wielding it with careful precision. He had to hurry if he wanted to finish before the screws arrived."
"Doyle slapped the roof of Bodie's Capri. His gaze moved between the road and the open forest and Bodie, and back again. It centered straight on Bodie's eyes, swooping in for the coup de grace. "So you think I can't match you in the field. How much do you wanna bet?"
Bodie did not want to bet anything. He wanted to be as far away from Doyle, this village, this question as possible. But five years of studying Doyle told him that he'd have to play this one through or he'd never have any peace. "One month's salary."
Doyle grimaced. "No way. I'm not letting you off that easy. Cash means nothing to you. When I win, I want it to hurt. No, I'd take the three wishes from you Bodie."
"Eh?" Bodie was afraid to ask. "Three wishes?"
"Or three favours. However you want to say it. When I win, I want you to do me three favours. Over the next year." Doyle smiled then, a wide, disarming smile that offered little warmth."
Africa, 1968
Bodie woke, feeling his body jerk. Tense, he listened for sounds. All he heard was the African brush murmuring in the morning breeze. Fuck these dreams. They were getting worse. Uganda, Paraguay, Chile, Laos, Indonesia. Places he’d never been. London too. A place he never wanted to see again. Blurred spaces and blurred faces. His head hurt. He swallowed. He had had too much to drink the night before, and the last hand-to-hand had been particularly vicious. Still, it had been worth it. The poor bloke had given him Krivas’ location before passing out. Reflexively, he checked for his knife under the sleeping pad. He always slept with it handy.
Soon, his mind chittered. He had been tracking Krivas for months now. He was broke and tired, and had caught only restless snatches of sleep for too long.
Whatever this last dream was, he couldn’t remember too clearly. But it had been nasty.
Original Art by Lorraine Brevig . Please do not distribute without the artist's permission.
"The needle was clean—he made sure by dipping it into the rubbing alcohol kept under the sink. He paused to look over the rest of the "fixings"—carefully handling the spoon, sterno can and rubber hose. And the heroin, spilling whitely against the darkened room. He had pulled the curtains close to the window—not out of shame—it wasn’t shame or fear or loathing that brought him to grip the needle in his right hand and shake the alcohol free. He was here because he wanted to be.
Hutch laid the needle on the paper cloth and lit the sterno can. The flame sizzled and he tried to remember exactly how hot and how long it would take to melt the heroin to the proper consistency. How did the other neophytes learn to do it right? Lucky he was a cop and the information and opportunity had always been staring him in the face. He’d never wanted—needed—to act on the urging before. But after his first taste of the drug, when the pain had finally turned into a smooth glide of pleasure, he knew that the desire to feel the needle would always be with him. Like most things in life, it was just a matter of time."
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