London Fog
By Swellison

William Andrew Philip Bodie tapped his fingers impatiently on the Capri's steering wheel. "This is barmy," he informed his partner, who was scrunched lazily down in the passenger seat.

"Yeah, yeah," Raymond Doyle grumbled from the other seat of the unlit car. "'Ve heard it before--several times."

"C'mon, Doyle, even you've got to admit that conducting surveillance under these conditions," he removed his right hand from the wheel and jabbed it towards the windscreen, indicating the heavily fogbound night, "is useless, not to mention, ridiculous!"

"Oh, I dunno about that," Doyle played devil's advocate. "Look at it from Dawkins' point of view. 'S a perfect night for a meeting; the fog practically guarantees that no one is going to see his customers entering or leaving, even if he is under surveillance. He can negotiate his arms deal in peace, his clients keep their anonymity--and acquire a huge cache of weapons to further their cause."

"See you're trying out your double-think again. Want to impress the Cow, dh?" Bodie nudged his partner's arm. "Yes, it's a nice set-up from Dawkins' viewpoint. Trouble is, we're the surveillance that he's trying to avoid, and according to your theory, he's done it. Jax said that Dawkins was alone when he and Baine handed over to us at eight tonight. The fog didn't start moving in until ten or so. We didn't see anyone entering Dawkins' place beforehand, and we sure as hell haven't seen anyone in this pea soup. So for all we know, they're inside, conducting their nefarious business right now, and there isn't a bloody thing we can do about it."

"Fog works both ways, dunnit? If we can't see the, they can't see us, either. Fancy a bit of B&E?"

"Better give up on your double-think, Ray, it's rotting your brain. First, we have no idea how many men Dawkins has with him, if any. Second, there's no fog inside the building. What d'you think we can learn, anyway? We'd never get close enough to overhear their conversation."

"We might overhear enough to tell if Dawkins' clients are Arabs or Irish or whatever.... Then we'd have some idea of what quarter to expect trouble from."

"Too risky. Can't see Reynolds giving us the go-ahead on that." Bodie sighed. "Face it, the only reason we're stuck here until eight bloody a.m. is because our acting controller doesn't have the guts to countermand the Old Man's original surveillance schedule. Now, if the Cow had left me in command while he's off in bonny Scotland, I'd--"

"You'd stick to Cowley's schedule, too, and you know it, Bodie. Otherwise, you'd have to explain to the Cow why you cancelled an important stakeout for 'a wee bit 'o fog,'" Doyle mimicked their absent boss's accent perfectly.

"You're right," Bodie grinned, "but at least I wouldn't be one of the poor sods stuck on obbo in the fog, would I?"

"Got a point," Doyle admitted, trying to stretch his jean-clad legs in the confining front seat. He grinned as Bodie's stomach rumbled in agreement. "Got the hungries, too, I hear."

"Must be time for a midnight snack." Bodie used the penlight for a quick peek at his wristwatch. "Eleven forty-four, close enough." Bodie swiveled around, reaching between them toward the rearseat. He felt around for the hamper that Doyle had picked up at headquarters, and placed it on the gap between the bucket seats. Opening the lid, he quickly flashed the penlight on the basket's contents. "No crisps," he said, disappointed. "Eh! There's only two sandwiches in here. This your idea of a hearty meal, Doyle?"

"S'pposed to be a snack, not a meal, you berk. So stop complaining and eat your sarnie."

Bodie pulled out a plastic-wrapped bundle and examined it under the small torch. "Cheese and pickle on wheat."

"Mine!" said Doyle, taking the sandwich from his partner. "Rosemary saved that special for me."

"Reduced to chatting up CI5's tea ladies, are you?" Bodie teased as he sniffed at the other wrapped sandwich. "Liver sausage? I hate liver sausage, Doyle!"

"Do not," Doyle retorted promptly. "I saw you at that high society do with Caroline, scoffin' down all the liver sausage in sight."

"Paté de foie gras is not liver sausage," Bodie lectured. "Paté is made with goose liver, which is totally different from whatever it is that ends up in liver sausage."

"You really don't like it, do you?" Doyle turned, trying to get a better look at Bodie's face in the darkened car. "Have to make a note in my journal, this is a red letter day. November 8, no, almost the 9^th, 1978: Bodie refuses to eat! Said 'I hate liver sausage,' quote, unquote."

"That's fine for the future," Bodie said sarcastically, "but I'm hungry now." His stomach rumbled again in emphasis. "So give over the cheese sarnie and let me eat in peace."

"Huh-uh, mate. I hate liver sausage, too." Doyle rapidly unwrapped his sandwich and took a healthy bite out of it.

Bodie glared at his partner as Doyle munched contentedly. He zipped up his quilted olive green parka and unlocked the driver's side door.

"Eh, where're you off to?" Doyle asked, after swallowing another bite.

"To get some food. There's a pub round here that's open late." Bodie silently eased himself out of the car.

Doyle watched his partner's form grow less and less distinct with every step further into the fog. By the time he was twenty-five feet from the car, Bodie had disappeared entirely from view.

Doyle restlessly ran a hand through his curly hair and stared through the windscreen, vainly trying to see the building they were supposedly keeping under surveillance. Several minutes passed and he glanced at his watch. Midnight. The bewitching hour. Twelve o'clock and all's well. He reached for the Capri's radio set and spoke into the receiver. "Four-five to Base."

"Base here, 4.5," Turner's voice answered promptly.

"Twelve o'clock check in. All quiet on the western front."

"What kind of remark is that, Doyle?" Turner chuckled, pleased at his literary wit.

C'n certainly tell when the Old Man's out of town--even Base thinks it has a sense of humour. "Oh, very erudite, Turner," Doyle retorted, then got down to business. "No activity--that we know about--since we've been here. Dawkins is supposedly still inside, though. Can't tell for certain, too foggy by half."

"A real peasouper, isn't it? Surprised 3.7 hasn't mentioned a bit of B&E to relieve the boredom."

"The topic was discussed," Doyle said, seeing no need to correct Turner's assumption that Bodie had been the instigator of the idea, "and was vetoed. Four-five out."

"Base out."

Doyle replaced the receiver and focused his attention on the weather again. What was it Carl Sandburg wrote? 'The fog moves in on little cat feet...' Not this one, though. Fog came in like huge, thick blocks of pre-fab concrete. ...What was that? His thoughts had been interrupted by a sudden noise. He listened closely; the indecipherable sound was repeated a few seconds later.

A scream? Doyle instinctively sought to categorize the noise. Have to be very loud to penetrate through the car windows. And Bodie's the only person I know of out in this muck.

Almost before he realised it, Doyle was outside the car. He slammed the passenger door shut and strained to see or hear anything else in the heavy mists. Taking a few steps forward, he stopped and called, "Bodie? Bodie!"

No answer. Doyle waited a few seconds and repeated his call with the same result. He concentrated, trying to pin down the scream's probable origin based on what he'd heard in the car. Around the corner, he decided and headed determinedly in that direction, engulfed by fog.

Striding rapidly through the mist, Doyle noted that the fog had thickened considerably in the scant half hour since Bodie had left in search of a pub. Doyle could barely see five feet in front of him and the thick, cloying fog had an almost sinister feel to it. Shivering, he wrapped his plaid wool jacket closer, wishing for once that he had dressed as warmly as Bodie. Doggedly, he kept moving and gradually became aware that the fog had thinned.

The CI5 man stopped walking and took in his surroundings. Twenty feet or so ahead of him, he actually saw a light piercing the fog and it beckoned him. As he approached, he saw a familiar figure standing under the streetlight and quickened his pace.

"Bodie! Why didn't--" His question broke off as he got a good look at the man. Almost ignoring the total change in attire, Doyle's gaze was stuck on the man's thick black moustache. He had never seen Bodie with anything more than a three-day growth of beard stubble. Belatedly, he noticed the out-of-date clothing: a long, dark grey wool coat, with the knot of a blue tie and white shirt collar visible under the outerwear.

What the hell?

Distractedly, Ray ran a hand through his brownish hair and froze when he encountered unexpectedly straight, slightly wavy hair. Snatching his hand down, he took in the brown coat sleeve and glimmer of a gold cufflink. Amazed, he stared down at his altered garments: brown evening coat with a black velvet lapel, snowy white formal shirt with a scarlet ascot around his neck, borwn pants and well-fitting black leather shoes. What the hell is going on here?

A cough brought his attention back to his companion. "Do you require assistance, sir?" It certainly sounded like Bodie's voice, but the tone was that of a polite stranger, and neither face nor eyes showed the slightest recognition. At Doyle's continued silence, he added assuringly, "My name's Godley, George Godley. I'm with Scotland Yard, sir."

Bodie, a Yardman? Must be dreaming. "I, uh, seem to have lost my bearings," Doyle said, trying to keep his voice normal.

"Easy enough to do in this fog. You're in Whitechapel, sir. Actually, Spitalfields."

"Oh, yes, of course," Doyle said abstractedly, finally noticing that they stood under a gaslit streetlight, like something out of the last century.

"Are you waiting for someone, sir?"

Nice polite way to ask what I'm doing loitering on the street after midnight. "Yes," Doyle answered, deeming it a much simpler explanation that the truth. 'Sides, it's even true. 'M waiting for Bodie to come back, thump me awake and give me hell for falling asleep on a stakeout.

"A lady friend, perhaps?" Godley asked delicately.

"No, a mate of mine. My car--er, carriage is just around the corner," Doyle answered, motioning vaguely behind him.

"This mate of yours," Godley's eyes and voice seemed to chill, "wouldn't be a doctor, would he?"

"A military man," Doyle said. "Officer and a gentleman, he is. Or do sergeants count as officers?"

"I like to think they do, sir," Detective Sergeant Godley of Scotland Yard answered, humour lightening his voice. "I'm waiting for someone, too," he added conversationally. "My guv'nor, Inspector Abberline. Only I don't think he's going to show and I've got to get back to work."

"What's he look like, your guv'nor? If I see him, I can pass on your message."

"About my height, blond, somewhat curly hair, blue eyes and a hawkish nose," Godley described his boss. "He has a certain air about him. You'll know him if you see him. Now, I've got to get back to the station house." He hesitated, then added, "Would you like to come with me? It's not wise to be roaming the streets alone at night, sir."

That's Bodie, always worrying about me, even in my dreams. "Won't be alone for long," Doyle answered, following his instinct to stay put, dream or no dream. "Besides, I can take care of myself," he softened the words, adding, "George."

Blue eyes looked him up and down, and Godley nodded. "I think you're right, sir." The Yardman stepped away from the gaslit corner and slipped into the fog.

Ray Doyle watched as his almost-familiar companion was swallowed by the thick mists. Now what? He peered into the fog, which seemed quite dense everywhere except in the small patch illuminated by the gas streetlamp. He debated heading back to the car--But isn't this a dream?--and decided against it for now.

"Honestly, you come up with the strangest ideas!" A voice accused him from out of the fog, and a tall man wearing an Inverness coat and deerstalker came into view.

Doyle took a quick glance at the man's face. "Inspector Abberline?"

"Certainly not!" Indignant blue eyes glowered at him. "Do I look like a man from the Yard?"

"Cheer up, Holmes." A middle-aged man clad in a light grey coat emerged from the fog. "He could've mistaken you for Inspector Lestrade. And you do bear a resemblence to Abberline; you both have prominent no--er, foreheads."

"You have a wicked tongue about you, Watson," the first man rebuked. "Fortunately, it rarely shows up in your prose."

Doyle glanced back and forth at the two newcomers. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!" Now I know I'm dreaming.

"See? He does recognize us," Holmes told his silver-haired sidekick.

The older man studied Doyle. "Hmmmm... I don't believe we've met, sir. Dr. John H. Watson, at your service." He inclined his head slightly, but did not extend a hand.

"Raymond Doyle, Esquire."

"And he, of course, is Sherlock Holmes," Dr. Watson finished the introductions. "Now, tell me, sir, what's a member of the landed gentry doing out and about at this time of night?"

Well, it worked the first time. "I'm waiting for someone."

Holmes and Watson exchanged a look. "A lady acquaintance, is it?" the doctor enquired indulgently, while Doyle thought he heard Holmes add softly, "Does she have a friend?"

"An old mate of mine," Doyle clarified. "Be just like him to show up with a couple of girls, though. Probably what's detaining him."

"Well," Dr. Watson cleared his throat, "we must get back to our investigation, Mr. Doyle. Good night." He grabbed his partner's arm and walked away from the streetlamp. "Come on, Holmes, the game is afoot."

"That's my line," Doyle heard Holmes say plaintively as the doctor and detective disappeared into the fog.

Doyle found himself alone again, illuminated by the antique streetlamp. Well, well, well. So I dreamed Holmes and Watson in reverse. Bodie'd get a kick out of that, seein' as he's always calling me 'Sherlock Doyle'. He suddenly picked up the sound of footsteps and gradually discerned a tall figure in a dark brown overcoat with caped sleeves.

"Back again, Mr. Holmes?"

"Very amusing, George. And where'd you acquire that accen--? Oh," the man took a closer look at Doyle. "Sorry, sir, I thought you were someone else."

"My mistake, as well," Doyle apologized, then asked, "Are you Inspector Abberline, then?"

"Yes," the newcomer answered, cautiously, "and you are--?"

"Ray Doyle, Inspector. I, er, bumped into your man Godley earlier tonight. Said to tell you he couldn't wait any longer and he's back at the station house, working."

"That sounds like George." Abberline allowed a grin to light his weary face. "Guess I should join him." He started to walk away, then turned back. "You know, Mr. Doyle, you shouldn't be out alone this time of night around here. It's not safe these days."

I don't look that helpless in this get-up, do I? Doyle gave his stock-in-trade answer. "I'm waiting for a friend, a mate of mine. He should be here shortly."

"Then I'll leave you to wait in peace. Good night, sir," and Abberline strolled into the murky mists.

"Good night, Inspector." Doyle's voice acquired an echo in the fog. When do I wake up?

"Pardon me, sair," a Scottish voice addressed him from close range. Doyle gaped as the man stepped into the lit street corner. It was Cowley-- a much younger version, at least ten years Doyle's junior, with an abundance of strawberry blond hair. This dream just gets curiouser and curiouser, Doyle thought, and then, dazedly, He called me 'sir'! The Cow called me 'sir'!

The young Scotsman was speaking again. "Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I seem to have lost my way. Can you direct me to 165 Eaton Place? I have urgent business to conduct there on the morrow, sir. An interview with the mistress of the house."

"I'm not familiar with that particular address, lad," Doyle struggled to reply properly. "We're in Spitalfields, now, if that's any help."

"Spitalfields, is it? Well, that's something," the Scot said deferentially. "Much obliged, sir. Thank you for your time."

Doyle watched, bemused, as the young man walked away and was slowly enveloped by the fog. Faintly, he heard the Scotsman mutter, "Englishmen. Not an ounce of commonsense in the lot of them."

Doyle was still gazing in the direction the boy had taken when another man materialized out of the fog. "George?"

"Do I look like the Cow, mate?" an aggrieved voice asked as Bodie stepped toward him. "Since when've you been on a first-name basis with the Old Man, anyway?"

"Bodie?" Doyle was strangely hesitant.

"Who else, you twit? Where have you been, eh? Been looking for you for close to an hour, now. C'mon, let's get back to the car."

Doyle stood rooted to the spot, the fluorescent streeetlight clearly revealing his jeans and red-white-and-black plaid jacket. But I didn't wake up yet!

Impatiently, Bodie tugged at his partner's sleeve. When that produced no result, he slid his fingers down Doyle's arm and took a firm hold on his partner's hand.

"Crikey, Ray, you're ice cold! How long 'ave you been out here?"

"Not sure," Doyle answered slowly. "Heard a scream... thought it was you...went to investigate... Couldn't see anything...the fog..."

"A scream? I didn't hear anything. Got a bit dicey when I snuck into Dawkins' place, I'll admit, but--"

That brought Doyle around. "You broke into Dawkins' office?"

"Had to, didn't I? Was looking for you. I came back to the car and you'd done a bunk. Well, it was your idea in the first place," Bodie added defensively. He tugged on Doyle's hand. "C'mon, let's get you back to the car and warm you up some. We can argue about it later." He stepped away from the light and Doyle reluctantly followed.

"They were Irish, by the way," Bodie said easily as he led his oddly resistant partner into the fog. "Dawkins' customers--the IRA. Got close enough to hear their accents like you said, Sherlock," he ignored Doyle's flinch at the nickname, "and I heard a lot more, to boot. Know where the weapons stash is, too. Voices travel farther in the dark than Dawkins and his customers realise. Won't Reynolds be pleased?" Bodie continued talking, quietly droning on about the case as he led Doyle through the mist.

"Ah, here we are," he ended as the fog yielded the outlines of his silver Capri. A few more steps and he unlocked the passenger door, bundling Doyle inside. Quickly, he crossed to the driver's side and let himself in. He started the car and cranked the heat on full, then twisted in his seat and reached for a package in the rear.

"Don't have a blanket," he said as he extracted a Styrofoam cup of still-warm tea from the carrier bag. "Hold this," he instructed, then waited until Doyle gripped the cup before removing its lid. He delved into his parka's right side pocket and brought out a silver flask, uncapping it and tipping a liberal amount into the cup. "Now drink it, Ray," he ordered. "For medicinal purposes."

Doyle glanced from the cup to Bodie, then slowly sipped the doctored tea.

"That's better," Bodie approved. "When I first saw you, you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Maybe I had, Doyle conceded privately, taking a larger swallow.

"Mind you, it'd be the night for it," Bodie continued, swigging from his flask. "Ghosts, that is. November 9, 1888--ninety years ago--the night that Mary Jane Kelly was killed... the fifth and final victim of Jack the Ripper."

Doyle almost choked on his drink. "How... how'd you know that?"

"The Ten Bells--the pub I went to. It's full of Jack the Ripper memorabilia, newspaper articles, old-time surgeon's kit, you name it. They were awhile fixing my order, so I started reading some of the stuff. Interview with an Inspector Abberline, the man in charge of the case, front page editorials, banner headlines--the works. Close as I can figure, the last murder happened a block and a half from where we are now, damn near where I found you..." Bodie took another gulp of Scotch.

No! It was all a dream. Doyle downed more of his potent tea. Wasn't it?

 

The End

 

Ghosts in order of (dis) appearance:

* Sgt. George Godley (Lewis Collins) from Jack the Ripper

* Sherlock Holmes (Michael Caine) and Dr. John Watson (Ben Kingsley) from Without a Clue

*Inspector Fred Abberline (Michael Caine) from Jack the Ripper

* Mr. Angus Hudson (Gordon Jackson) from Upstairs, Downstairs (pre-series)