Holding Back the Flood: Lacey McBain

I’d almost forgotten what a beautiful piece of writing this is - vintage Bodie and Doyle: two very close tough guys (and I love the way she shows their closeness):

Of course, Doyle can see he's also scanning the crowd, checking the exits, watching for anything that might go wrong. Be wrong. Doyle takes some degree of comfort in knowing Bodie's got his back even if he doesn't know he's doing it. It's so natural now. For both of them.

Everything so easy when they're in synch, and hell when they aren't.


.....two tough guys with guns, near-death experiences and yet........it’s so much more.

There is almost a filmic quality to the narrative (yes, I said ‘filmic’, a new acquisition to my vocabulary which I plan to use at every opportunity.....) so, as with all my favourite Pros writing, I feel that I’m *there* bang in the middle with my heroes, either as part of the story or clicking away, like a camera,

And so we begin with what is almost a seduction:

Doyle leans easily against the oak bar in the pub. Its varnished surface is smooth under his hands as he slides them absently in opposite directions along the curved edge, waiting for the barmaid to notice him. It doesn't take long until her blue eyes are even with his, and although her smile's tired, it's still a little more sweet than the one she tossed at the bloke ahead of him……. Doyle leans closer, using his body to extend the invitation in his eyes. He smiles at the girl, who can't be more than twenty-one, aware that Bodie's eyes are watching him from across the pub. Doyle twitches his hips as if to say "she's as good as mine, mate”

..... I say 'almost' a seduction because it's me, the reader, who is being seduced, seduced into a false sense of security, into assuming that it's a day like any other day in the lives of two of ci5's finest, when in reality they've had one call too many:

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cushions. The gun's an ominous weight in his hand, and he can almost smell the mix of powder and oil. He hasn't had a chance to clean it yet. He should do it now, but tomorrow'll be soon enough. Still, the scent catches at his nose, and suddenly he's back on a concrete rooftop, wind raw against his skin and Bodie nowhere to be seen. His heart pounds in his ears as he strains to get his bearings. Where's Bodie gone to? The men already on stakeout?...........

And the significance of this 'one call too many'? Doyle projects his fears and feelings onto the experiences of his colleagues and so finally, through the eyes of others (he can't face it any other way), allows himself to imagine the unimaginable i.e. the loss of Bodie. I love the way the writer manages to convey Doyle's despair and grief at the thought of such a loss......there's just something about the indirectness of this approach - Doyle suffering almost by proxy and his avoidance of the real issues because anything is preferable to facing them - which seems to make it even more moving and sad than if he'd allowed himself to deal with it head-on.

Doyle wonders, did they look at each other? Did they know? What would their eyes say in that final moment of knowing? What would his?.......
Doyle thinks of McGarrity, pushed to the edge of the roof. They beat him, deep bruising on his face and arms, beat him in sight of his partner. Ferris trying anything to get free, get to the man who'd been his second half for nearly six years. The broken hand, the bloody wrists tell that story clearly enough. But Doyle wonders if there was more to it, more beneath the surface that can never be told......Did they say good-bye? Thank you. I forgive you. I lo--.

And the spareness or economy of the language - never does the writer allow herself to go down the slippery slope of slush or schmaltz, always keeping them firmly grounded as two tough men who just happen to be falling headlong into love:

Without much trouble, they're naked and warm in Bodie's bed, lights out and moonlight streaming through the blinds. There's no room for shyness. Doyle knows Bodie's body like he knows his own, has traced its lines a thousand times in his dreams, and when Bodie slides into the warm space between his thighs, nothing has ever felt more right. The last piece of a puzzle slipping into place.

Neither of them speaks, but there's no need. They know what they feel,
have always known even without saying it, and the fact it's been said, formed into words and made irrefutably real, only means they have something else to carry with them onto the next rooftop, the next stakeout, the next time when everything goes wrong.....

There are none of their usual jokes, but Doyle knows this first time is something separate from the men who fire insults as easily as they fire their guns. The room is made entirely of sensation--the cool cotton against his back...

Go on, treat yourself and read this short but memorable piece of writing at:

http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/14/holdingback.html
http://hatstand.slashcity.net/lacey/holding.html