CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was nearly one in the morning, and they were just finishing up the Chinese. They'd thought about opening the second bottle of white burgundy, except they were afraid they'd go to sleep. Harry took one last bite and pushed away from the table.
Ruth was swirling the last of her burgundy in her glass, watching the play of light from the candles on the wine. "I've missed the Grid, Harry. Being useful. I remember during the EERIE exercise, I said something to Tom about how pointless it was being an analyst with nothing to analyze." Ruth took a sip. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised, and tried to smile. "So, tell me, what's going on? What's happened with Cotterdam?"
They both knew how much Ruth would miss her job. Harry wanted to say it would be over soon, and that she could come back, that her desk would always be waiting for her. But he couldn't. They both knew he couldn't. They had committed to the truth with each other, whenever possible, and the truth was that neither of them knew what would happen. It was senseless to try to predict.
Harry reached over to curl his fingers with hers, and gave her a satisfied smile. "Well, Oliver Mace seems to be in a great deal of trouble. We think there'll be an announcement tomorrow. The PM is distancing himself from the whole affair, and we expect the Defence Secretary to resign." He squeezed her hand. "Oh, and they found the seven, Ruth, in Egypt. A lot the worse for wear, but alive. They're being brought back to England to be interrogated properly."
Ruth smiled and sat back in her chair, exhaling. "Well, then."
Harry looked at her with profound love in his eyes. "Yes, well, then. You're a very brave and principled woman." He took a deep breath and smiled softly at her. "I'm proud to know you, Ruth."
Ruth simply smiled back at him, sadly. If this had to happen, it was gratifying that some real good had come of it. Exile in exchange for human dignity and respect. This couldn't happen again anytime soon, too many eyes on the prison system now. The human rights activists would be rabidly aware, and that was also a good thing.
"How long do you think, Harry?" It was the question she'd told herself not to ask, but it just slipped out. She knew the only possible answer was speculation, but she needed to hear it from him.
Harry pursed his lips and shook his head, "Christ, I don't know. You can't imagine how much time I've spent thinking about that very question today." He shrugged his shoulders, "Months, probably. Three, maybe more. You have to really die, Ruth. The world needs to move on from this and think of other things before we can bring you back." Harry knew he was being overly optimistic, but he couldn't help it. Her eyes were so large, so beautiful.
Harry took another sip of wine before he continued. "We need to find someone who will talk about Fox, someone who will come forward and say that Fox never existed. That someone may be Mace, if he's desperate enough. Or, if God forbid, someone from MI5 really was at that meeting, we need to find out who it was."
Looking across the table at her, Harry saw how strong Ruth was, and yet how scared. He couldn't stay so far away from her any longer, so he stood and went to her, pulling her into his arms. He spoke firmly, wanting to convince her. "We've kept everything we need to clear you, Ruth. We have the proof that the photo was doctored, the gun you used to intimidate the witness. We have Zaf and Adam who will testify on your behalf." He held her tightly. "We will clear you. You'll have your life back."
Ruth wanted so much to believe him. To feel there really was a future. Three months in Paris, probably more. She could endure that, as long as she knew she could come back to England. Her beloved England. In this moment, it was more precious to her than she could have imagined. And her beloved Harry. She would come back to him as well.
Ruth gathered her courage. She pulled away from him, and said firmly. "You have my papers? I need to make it real for myself, Harry."
Harry sighed, and walked over to his coat, reaching inside the large breast pocket. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Ruth. She took it gingerly, as if it was fragile, as if it truly held a life inside it. "You know, Harry, I think I would like another glass of wine, if you don't mind." She moved over to the table and put the envelope in front of her.
Glad to have something to do with his hands, Harry proceeded to uncork the bottle and pour another glass for Ruth, before pouring half a glass for himself. He watched her, silently, as she spread the contents of the envelope out on the table.
The cash she moved aside, but Harry knew it was quite enough to take good care of her until she received her first pay. Ruth looked at the passport for a long time, and he could see her trying to blend the name with the photo, willing them to become one in her mind. She set it aside and looked at a photo of an apartment building on what looked to be a lovely, quiet street. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and she gazed at Harry from under her lashes. "Rue du Banquier, Harry?"
He nodded, smiling back at her. "Street of the Banker, yes. A coincidence, really. It was available, it was a short Metro ride from your work, and ..." Harry reached out and took her hand across the table, " ... and it was safe."
Ruth picked up a small brochure for a bookseller, l'Alcove. Now the corners of her mouth moved further north, as she broke into the first real smile Harry had seen tonight. A beautiful smile that made her eyes dance, and Harry's heart clenched as he imprinted it on his memory. Ruth shook her head. "I assume this is my place of work? And that its name would be another coincidence?"
Harry smiled too, a real smile. "Inexplicably, yes. The woman who owns the bookshop is someone I met when I was in Paris." Ruth looked up at him, and then took a sip of wine. She kept her eyes on him over the rim of the glass. Harry understood the question as if she had spoken it. "No, not that kind of met, Ruth." She smiled her thank you for the clarification, and Harry went on. "She had fallen in with a very unsavoury group of people, and I managed to save her from prison. She's always been grateful for that kindness."
Ruth looked back at the brochure. "Just down from Victor Hugo's house. Lovely area. And a bookseller's. That's good, Harry." She stared at the paper in her hand for a long time. When she looked back up at him, there were tears in her eyes. Harry knew by the slight quiver of the paper that her hands were shaking. "So, I'm the shopgirl at last."
He could see that she was about to break down, so Harry went quickly to her. He lifted her to her feet and put his arms around her tightly. She started to shudder on his chest and he kissed her head, holding her, speaking softly, soothingly, "Shhhh, Ruth, I know." He could hear her now, her heart broken, and a part of his broke right along with it. "Oh, my Ruth, I'm so sorry, so sorry ... shhhh, now, it will get easier."
"How will I do this, Harry? I never thought my life was much to speak of, but now it's so precious to me, every part of it. And now there's you. I love you so much, Harry, so completely, and I have to go and not look back? How will I bear it?" Her voice was muffled, broken. He could feel the warmth of her tears spreading from his shirt to the skin underneath.
In truth, Harry was in danger of going off the precipice with her. He was so tired, so stripped of courage that he nearly said, Don't go, stay here, I'll bring you food, and films, and we'll make love every night. His jaw was so set, his eyes clenched so tightly, that he thought he would explode with wanting to say it, but he pulled himself back and let her cry. In the days to come, in the throes of missing her, he would wish this moment differently, but for now, he stayed strong.
Harry was silent for the long minutes that it took for her to calm. He knew this part of the process intimately. He felt her let go of one thing and embrace another. Felt her reject the denial, the bargaining, that came with the inevitable choice. This is the only way, my dear Ruth. We've explored it all. He felt her go still, only a sporadic hiccough, a sniffle, and finally quiet. Through it all, he held her, stroking her hair, infusing her with the enormous love he felt.
And finally, Ruth spoke. "I'm okay now, Harry. I've been holding that back all night. It had to come." She wanted to wipe her face without him seeing her, and reached for a napkin from the table, her head still on his chest. She took two deep breaths, and he felt the tenseness in her body go slack. She reached her arms up around him, and turned to face him. "I don't even want to consider how I look right now, but I want to see your eyes. " She reached a hand up, and let her fingers trail across his mouth. "And your lips." Ruth kissed him, softly, "oh, I will miss these lips."
Harry was still afraid to speak, afraid of what he would say. Ruth, as always, heard it, without the benefit of speech. She didn't want to lose this night, to spend it in tears. And she felt the catharsis of the last few minutes had helped to heal her somewhat. She had grieved for the loss just enough that she felt there was room to breathe now.
Ruth looked at Harry's shirt and touched the cotton, wet with her tears. She thought again about having it, so she looked up at Harry and asked, "Can I take this with me?" To his puzzled look, she said, "Your shirt."
He sensed a difference in her, an easiness that had been missing all night. She had passed a checkpoint of sorts, one he knew well. Acceptance. Not full acceptance, but she was on the path there. He smiled at her. "Well it's certain that you look better in it than I do. But why on Earth would you want my shirt?"
Ruth held his eyes with her own. "To remember you by." Harry's eyes went soft. "My name and now the shirt off my back." He kissed her lightly. "It's yours." Then Harry remembered something, and he looked slightly abashed. "I stole a picture from your house, Ruth. Unbridled kleptomania."
Ruth laughed. "Which one?"
Harry stood up and went to his coat. He reached in the pocket and took out the small frame, grimacing a bit. "Never managed to get this out of my pocket after I unashamedly nicked it."
He handed it to her, and she smiled. "Ah, yes. Holiday last year, just a quick week-end to visit a friend up North." She looked at him with bright eyes. "I love the snow. So clean and fresh." To his look, she said, "Yes, girl friend. Not even a very close one. I really just wanted to see the snow."
Harry looked back at the photo. "You look happy."
"I was happy." Ruth looked at him. "And I loved you even then, by the way. I missed your scowling face. Couldn't wait to get back."
Harry turned to her and pressed his cheek to hers. "Scowling and pacing. However did you manage to fall in love with me?"
"I have no idea, Harry." She kissed him, tasting the sweetness of the wine. Then she pulled away, asking, "Have you a pen?" Harry frowned, but produced one from his coat pocket.
Ruth gently pried the prongs from the frame, and removed the photo. On the back she wrote, simply, "H. I love you. R." She kissed it, put it back in the frame, and handed it to him. "A fair trade, Harry. This for your shirt."
He smiled, and said, "Yes, a fair trade, but I get to see it on you now." He unbuttoned it and slipped it over his arms. He handed it to her as he walked over to get a t-shirt from his bag. When he came back to her, she was just pulling it over her shoulders. He stopped, looking closely at her, and held the shirt back.
Harry frowned. "What's this?" Just above her heart, at the top of her breast, was a bruise, an ugly blotch of purple and red, almost a rectangle, about five centimetres by three. He hadn't seen it earlier in the dim light, but now he looked at it in the bright moonlight, and touched it gently with his fingertips. "Does it hurt?"
Ruth shook her head, and put her hand over his. "No." To his question, she shrugged, and said, "I guess I got a little carried away with the gun last night." She smiled, slightly embarrassed, "You've seen my shooting scores, Harry. Not the best gun handler in the Services."
She looked down at it, removing Harry's hand. "I don't mind it so much, but I just know I'll have to look at this as it goes through all the stages, you know?" Ruth closed her eyes, remembering. "God, Harry, she was so scared. She thought she was going to die. I never thought I would cause another human being to feel that way. Not intentionally. " Ruth put her finger on it again, tracing it. "I suppose until it goes away, I'll have to look at it and remember the horrible thing I did to that woman." She met Harry's eyes again. "Maybe it's my penance."
Harry leant down and kissed the purple mark. His voice was muffled against her skin. "You shouldn't have to do penance for something that came so completely from love, Ruth." He looked up at her. "It's not right."
He picked up the pen from the table. "I want you to remember this instead," he said gently. She felt the pen tip as it tickled its way across her skin. Ruth said, laughing softly, "Harry, what are you doing?" She tried to look, but his head was in the way, so she had to wait until he was finished.
He pulled away. When she looked down, it was no longer the imprint of a gun. It was now a heart. Harry had transformed something ugly into something beautiful, and Ruth kissed him, knowing that she now had a new memory. "Thank you, Harry. Yes. I'll remember this instead."
The night was moving away from them, and both of them knew it. They wanted to stop time, but there was a faint light in the sky, and it was no longer the moon.
They lay in bed again. Not to make love, although each would have put aside their weariness to do so. They wanted more to have each other's company, to talk, to memorise each other, as if months of conversation needed to fit into this one night.
Ruth was lying with her head on his chest. She loved the sound of his voice, and it had such depth when she lay like this. "Did you ever see 'The Red Shoes,' Harry?"
A low chuckle rumbled through him. "I've heard of it. Classic, yes? I seem to recall it's a female film, Ruth."
Ruth smiled up at him, "Ah, yes, like 'Gold Rush' is for men? How is it I've seen that one a hundred times?"
"You're a more well-rounded person than I am. We already know that. Go on. 'The Red Shoes?'"
"I can't tell you how many times I've seen it. It's about a dancer. She has to choose between love and her dancing, because she's told that she can't do both well." Ruth turned on to her stomach to look at Harry. "She's told that if she diverts her passion into the love of a man, she won't have what's necessary to be a great dancer."
Harry was silent, waiting for the correlation that he knew must follow. Ruth trailed her fingers across his chest absentmindedly. "I wanted to say thank you for what you said about being able to love me and be Section Head. And do both well." Ruth kissed the soft skin of his chest. "I used to watch that film to convince myself that you could never love me, Harry."
He pulled her gently up to him. "I think I've always loved you, Ruth." Harry brushed her lips with his own. "And I don't think it's affected the way I do my job." He frowned slightly, "This week I would have to call an exception. But this has been an exceptional week."
Harry turned sharply to face her, on one elbow, head resting in his hand. "I need to talk to you about this, and you haven't let me yet, Ruth. Will you let me now?" Suddenly, Ruth's heart was hammering. She knew what it was. And no, she couldn't.
Ruth sat up, moving cross-legged on the bed next to him. "I know what you want to say, Harry. And I need you not to say it. Not yet." She laid her hand on his chest. Harry sat up too, and faced her. He wanted to understand. She looked like a trapped animal, so he spoke gently. "Can you tell me why, Ruth?"
"Because it can all change, Harry. Things change." Ruth spoke softly, "I can't bear the thought of you making a ... a ... promise to me that you might not be able to keep."
Harry shook his head, frowning. "Why wouldn't I be able to keep it, Ruth?"
"Well, for one, you might get shot. And for another, you might ... find that ... well ... that it was a mistake to ask too soon." She took his hands in hers. "Harry, how long have we been together, not wishing we were together, but actually together?"
Harry raised his eyebrows, thinking, and she continued, "I'll save you the trouble. Fifteen days. Monday night I showed up on your doorstep, five days to Henley-on-Thames, then the four days at Havensworth, week-end in Bath, Monday was the tube station, and today is Wednesday." She looked at the sky as it lightened. "Well, Thursday. Fifteen days, Harry."
Ruth's eyes were seeking his, earnestly. "What did you say about how long I'd be gone, Harry? Three months? I think we both know it's likely to be more. How many days in three months? Ninety. I know my Maths, Harry. Fifteen into ninety? How can we measure these fifteen days against all that time apart? And what if it's longer? What if it's a year?"
Harry was speechless. How was that possible? A lifetime had passed since she stood shivering on his doorstep. Fifteen days. His silence told Ruth that she had made her point.
Her voice was softer now, the barrage of questions over. "I've told myself I'll never doubt you, Harry, or doubt our love." She put her hand on his cheek, and gazed at him with soft eyes. "This isn't doubt. This is being realistic. I don't want you to make a promise from this moment that you will have to keep when you are in another moment. One far in the distance. Where we can't see."
Now Ruth kissed him. "Make it to me then. Ask me when this is all over. When I'm back in your bed at your house. When I'm Ruth again."
Harry felt the prick of tears at the back of his eyes as he felt her moving, inexorably, away from him. She was telling him she had made peace with what she had to do. She was drifting toward Sophie Persan. She had moved into the twilight between reality and legend, and was telling him she couldn't make a promise from where she was now. Harry didn't want to understand, but he did. He had spent his life unable to keep promises to people for that very reason.
Harry took her in his arms, and spoke fervently in her ear, "It will be the same question, Ruth." She held him tightly and whispered back to him, "I want it to be, Harry."
She found his lips with her own, and kissed him. They both knew what time it was. 4:45. Zaf would be here at six to fetch Ruth to take her and wait by the docks. Harry would have to be back on the Grid to receive the phone call they both knew was coming. But they kissed as if they had all the time in the world, because each was afraid it would be their last for a very long time.
And they did make love, tenderly, passionately, for the same reason. And this time, it was Harry's tears that fell, and Ruth who comforted him. He buried his head into her neck and spoke "I love you" into the tiny silver charms, hoping it would echo there forever. And Ruth spoke "I love you" to him, half in her own voice and half in Sophie's. And then, finally, they had to rise and meet the day.
Zaf knocked softly, and waited in the hall. He couldn't imagine the pain they were feeling as they finally said goodbye. He had never seen either of them look this way, but he marvelled at the fact that, at the last, they managed to gaze at each other with only the purest of love in their eyes. No recriminations, no regrets, simply love.
Ruth walked one way with a tear-stained shirt in her bag, and Harry walked the other, holding a picture frame in his pocket. It would have to do for now. That, and their love.
Birdsong, Ruth thought. Bloody birdsong. Gulls whipped around the docks, looking for breakfast, and behind them, in the trees, more birds. She heard the water lapping softly against the cement break, and brought her coat more firmly around her neck. It was cold and wet, and the wall she leant against was hard. She was turned away from Zaf, and all she could think about was Harry.
Zaf's mobile rung, and he opened it. "Yes? Right. Thanks."
Ruth thought for a moment of asking if it was someone from the Grid, or more to the point, Harry. She wanted to hear his voice again, she told herself, just once more. But she knew that once would become another and another, and she decided not to torture herself. Rip off the plaster, faster is better. She felt the tears coming again, and forced them back. A Parisian apartment was the perfect place to have the cry of a lifetime.
"You awake?" Zaf asked her. They had been sitting here for over an hour, waiting for the call that would tell them when the boat would be arriving. Zaf had just hung up with his contact. He'd booked her passage, but the boat was an unreliable sort, obviously. Just can't get good help smuggling suspected murderers out of the country nowadays, Ruth thought miserably.
She'd been so brave saying goodbye to Harry, and now she wanted only to be back in his arms. But she was grateful to Zaf, and glad he was here with her. And something else, too. Zaf knew. It wasn't a secret with him, and that made him more precious to her, made it more real somehow.
"Didn't sleep," she answered. Yes, and haven't much for four days now. She thought after the cry, she might sleep for a month.
"No, neither did I." Sweet Zaf, up all night arranging for her escape.
Ruth smiled at him, sadly. "I'll have to remind myself of why exactly I did this for the rest of my life."
Zaf was having trouble expressing how much he had been touched by Ruth and Harry. A selfless love, one that always thought more for the other person. A love that took two people he thought he knew so well into places they had never been, simply because it was asked of them. And as he sat next to Ruth on this cold, grey morning, he was filled with respect for her. He reached over to squeeze her hand, to try to impart some strength. "You know why," Zaf said softly.
Ruth nodded. She did know why. So that Harry could stay and fight. But this waiting was agony. She was in between Ruth and Sophie, and felt a need to come down on one side or the other. "How much longer?"
Zaf looked at his watch. "A few hours now."
"And then?"
"Then it's up to you."
"Yeah." Ruth folded her hands into her coat. Ros' coat, actually. When she got back, she would return it to her, along with a few choice words. When she got back. And when would that be? Ruth knew the hardest part of all this was that she had to leave everyone behind. The tears were threatening again, but she felt she needed to say this to Zaf, who had been very good to her.
She turned to him. "If we ever bump into each other again, either here or abroad," Ruth looked at his eyes, but he wouldn't meet hers. Zaf shook his head, and looked forward.
"I know what you're trying to say." He was telling her he wouldn't be able to acknowledge her, but she was still Ruth now, and today, he could still look at her, recognize her. She wanted him to do it now.
"But if we do," she said, insistent.
Now he looked at her, and Ruth felt the warm relief that came with it. "I'll smile," Zaf said.
"Promise."
Zaf could see how important this was to her. "Course." And now he gave her a smile, as he leant closer. "I smile at every pretty woman I pass."
Ruth smiled back, and relaxed again. "Thank you, Zaf." She looked out at the grey of the sky where it met the water. "You've been a ... a ... good friend through all this."
Zaf looked back at her. "I can honestly say it's been a privilege." He looked down at his hands, not quite sure what he wanted to say. "You and Harry." It was the first time he'd spoken it. "Well, it's something I've never seen, Ruth." He smiled again at her. "I can't believe you'll be kept apart for long." He looked out at the water too, suddenly embarrassed that he'd said it.
Ruth put a hand on his arm and squeezed, gently. She felt so much better, and she leant in to him and whispered, "I can't either." She looked affectionately at him, and, unbidden came the thought, Keep yourself safe, Zaf, until we meet again.
"Yes."
Harry knew it was coming. He could even imagine the words before he heard them. So, he wondered, why did the words feel as if a flat of bricks had just landed on his stomach?
"Mr. Pearce? We need to you to come to the Morgue, Sir. We believe Ruth Evershed's body has just been found." The man's voice paused, not hearing any reply from Mr. Pearce. "Uh, Sir, she was drowned in the Thames. We need you to identify the body."
"Thank you." Harry thought, in this situation, those two words must be the most incongruous in the English language.
He put the phone over his heart. As if the simple act of severing the connection would make it true. He had left her little more than two hours ago, warm and alive, and that was the picture he brought to his mind as the echo of the man's words died in his ear. He'd kissed her countless times before he could open the door to Zaf and what lay beyond.
But it had all been set in motion now, and there was no turning back. Harry felt as if he, himself, was being swept along in that cold water.
Adam had been watching Harry, along with everyone else on the Grid. They had never seen him look so tired, so empty, as if he sleepwalked. Everyone knew it was to do with Ruth, but of those watching, only Adam and Malcolm knew the full story. As he saw Harry pick up the phone, Adam was putting his coat on, knowing what came next in the script. He walked to Harry's door, and waited.
"They've found her." If Adam didn't know better, he would think that Harry was grieving for Ruth herself. But he knew that the police had found the woman that matched Ruth's description, the one with no home, who in despair or by accident, had thrown herself into the frigid waters sometime last night. The one whose story would never be known. The one who would lie in a grave with Ruth's name on it, and would receive the prayers sent up for Ruth.
"Where?" Adam asked, wanting to be sure everything was going to plan. Harry didn't answer until they were in the car. And then Harry asked Adam where Ruth was waiting, on which of the many docks that could lead her to France.
Adam shook his head. "I can't tell you, Harry. She told me not to."
To which Harry replied, unsmiling, "Are you fond of working for MI5, Adam? Got a call from Six, they want you back."
As they stepped into the sterile room at the Morgue, Harry was assaulted by the pungent smell of formaldehyde. Too many times he had done this, performed this ritual. The last acknowledgment of a human being, saying, "Yes, that's him." Confirming, distilling, recognizing a whole life with those three simple words.
"Dragged from the Thames this morning."
And this woman, whom he did not know. This stranger, who was making it possible for his Ruth to be safe to travel later on a boat to France, to find her way to a new life without the dogs nipping at her heels. Harry was grateful to this woman, but more than that, he was excessively grateful that she was not, in fact, Ruth.
"Yes, that's Ruth."
Just saying the words turned his stomach. It wrenched at him more than he thought possible. He could still feel Ruth's hands on him, her lips on his lips, warm, soft, yielding. And those lips belonging to the woman on the steel table, blue, cold, hard. Harry felt his hurried croissant returning to the surface, and he stopped, gagging, leaning his hand there on the cold steel next to her still head. He found his control by telling himself, over and over, She's alive, and now, she's free.
And once it was over, and Adam walked beside him, Harry felt he had done everything he could. He asked the question again of Adam, and knew this time, he would get an answer.
"So, where is she?"
~~~~~
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Finally, Ruth thought, it ends. And she was ready for it to end. It felt as if she had been leaving Harry for years, for decades, for centuries, and she was so tired, so completely drained of all emotion now that she just wanted it to be over. She would be brave. She would be Sophie Persan. She would work in a Parisian bookseller's, and she would no longer be a spook.
The boat was here, and Ruth was ready to step on it. She wondered, in a removed, detached way, if she would still be in England when she stepped across that threshold. English waters, certainly, but would she leave England in that moment, or at some unmarked line rippling in the water of the channel? And then Ruth wondered if she actually was going mad, because in her exhaustion, she wasn't sure she cared anymore. She had cared so much and for so long, but every path had led her to this cold, grey dock.
"I told Adam not to tell you." Ruth had asked him not to come, and this was why. My love, can't you see how hard this is? She tilted her head at him in warning.
Harry stopped for a moment, away from her, and Ruth saw, too, how tired he was. Four nights up, with snippets of sleep, only half hour last night for him, and none for her. And she knew that under it all, she was glad to see him, so very glad. One more time, to hear his voice, see his eyes, feel his touch. Of course he felt the same, and of course he would get the information out of Adam. "I told him I'd give him the sack if he didn't."
Ruth laughed. Still after all this, where they were in this moment, the surreal nature of what she was about to do. He could still make her laugh, and it felt good to laugh.
Harry walked toward her, his Ruth, his love. He hadn't meant to come, really. He'd wanted to honour her wishes, to let her leave in peace. He was simply going to stay in the car. Perhaps watch as the boat pulled out. But somehow, he had gotten out of the car, and somehow his feet had led him here. He wanted to fold her in his arms, but he promised himself he wouldn't touch her unless she moved to touch him.
"I don't know what I'll do without you, Ruth. What are you ... ?" He was about to say something terrible, something that came from deep inside his pain, something he should never say to her, What are you going to do without me? And there it was, another warning in the tilt of her head. She was saying it as clearly as if she were speaking, We weren't going to do this. This is why I didn't want you to come.
Harry stopped, appalled with himself that he was making this harder for her. He hadn't wanted to do that. And suddenly he noticed that she stood in the cold with no scarf, something Ruth almost never did. And there, on her lovely neck, was the necklace. He looked at it, and she smiled at him. I take you with me, Harry, she said with her eyes, that's how I do without you.
Harry loved her in this moment almost more than he could bear. But still, he wouldn't touch her. He kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, clutching, to keep himself from it. "You take good care, yes?"
She nodded, grateful. "Yes." And then that smile, radiant and sad at the same time, her hair blowing in the wind. Just that smile and it was suddenly warmer. "And you," she said, reaching out to touch his arm, "Don't get shot."
Harry laughed softly. "I won't."
Ruth was doing everything she could to keep this light. The tears were so close, she felt like spun sugar, or glass, as if she might break into thousands of tiny pieces if she said anything remotely meaningful. Harry was holding her with his eyes. It was the same look, and she knew he was going to ask her again.
Ruth searched for something, anything, to say to stop him, and she suddenly realised that she hadn't arranged for Phoebe and Fidget. "Uh, can you feed my cats?" And then she couldn't hold back, remembering the other morning, when he had said she could bring them over. "Actually, take them to your house. You can adopt them."
Harry laughed, remembering, too. "Of course."
And now, here they were. After the years of falling in love silently, the time of true longing for each other, the realisation of the last fifteen days, and the intimacy of the last few hours, it came down to this.
"Goodbye, Harry."
"Goodbye, Ruth."
He meant to let her go. He meant to stand and watch the boat pull away, and know that he would find a way to her, once some time had passed. He didn't mean to say another word after goodbye. But he spoke, almost without conscious thought.
"There's something I have to tell you. I should have told you years ago."
He spoke the words as if they were memorised. The same words he had said to her so many times. He knew he was being ridiculous, that he was pushing her beyond where she wanted to go, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. She had been right last night when she said everything changes. What if he never had another chance to ask her? I love you, Ruth. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Marry me.
"Harry, please don't."
"But if I don't tell you now, I never will." My dream, Ruth. It never ends. So much of it has already come true. Let me hear you say yes, before you go.
From the distance, a voice called out, telling her she must get on board. "I'm coming!" Her eyes were pleading with him. Not pleading because she wanted him to stop, pleading because she was afraid he would continue. If he finally asked, the way she was feeling now, she would say yes, and she would never leave him.
"Please don't say anything. Just leave it as something that was never said." Her hand found its way up to his face, and even in the cold, Harry could feel the warmth of her. And now that she had touched him, he had permission, and Harry could reach his arms around her, as he'd been aching to do. She was looking into his eyes in the way he'd seen so often, with a full and honest heart, and with the deepest love imaginable. "Something wonderful, that was never said."
For a moment she simply looked at him, with a soft, sweet smile, and Harry thought she would let go and walk onto the boat, leaving him to know that in the last hours they had touched each other in every way possible. He wanted so much to feel her lips on his, to taste her one last time, but he was keeping his promise. And then, thank God, she moved toward him, and she kissed him after all.
She moved her lips away from his, but left her hands warm on his cheeks. "Let me go, Harry." She kissed him one last time, and she was gone. Harry stood, rooted to the spot, unable even to turn and look at her. All he could feel was the cold that was now where she had been. Finally, he could turn, as he heard the engines start up. She was moving into the cabin now, and looking back at him through the window.
Harry watched her get smaller out on the water. Still in the window, still looking at him. He thought he would feel devastated, empty, lost, but it wasn't nearly what he thought. She was still here, inside him, and he could call upon her whenever he wanted. She would always be here, until he could touch her, until he heard her laugh, until he kissed the charms at her neck.
He didn't know it now, but in eighty-three days, he would do all of those things.
Ruth closed her eyes, and she was surprised to find that behind them it was warm, and gold. Candlelight and smooth skin. And Harry. Always Harry. So this is how it worked, she thought. She would always have him here, whenever she wanted to remember. And right now, in this moment, she trusted that they would be together, they would find each other again, somewhere in the future.
She hadn't wanted him to come, but now she was glad he had after all. He still wanted to ask her, and she sent a message to him, now growing smaller on the dock, that she hoped every day he would think of asking her again. And one day, finally, she would say yes.
Although they didn't know it, they spoke the words to each other at exactly the same time.
Softly, so no one would be able to hear. Ruth's was drowned out by the engines, Harry's by the wind. But as they watched each other shrink across the cold, grey water, they spoke the secret aloud.
"I love you, Harry."
"I love you, Ruth."
~~~~~
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