CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-EIGHT
The next trial was starting. Finn Lambert began another rant, and immediately, Harry's mobile rang.
"Home Secretary." Harry turned away from Tariq and Ruth. He was afraid he knew what this call was going to tell him, and his fears were confirmed by Nicholas Blake. "I'm calling as a courtesy. To inform you that I have personally ordered CO19 to storm the bunker."
Harry frowned and shook his head. "You're signing the death warrant of everyone in there." After hearing Blake say that he had no choice, Harry rang Lucas, who told him that although he'd managed to get Robinov to make contact with Lambert, the gambit hadn't worked.
One by one, Harry's options disappeared, and he began to realise that his last chance to stop this was Jo. Ruth had explained the situation to her in detail, and together she and Jo had tried to strategise what Ros might be doing to help them. Depending on where she was, Ros would know that the lift was the key. Either she would be trying to enable the lift herself, or she would be working at trying to turn one of Lambert's people and convincing them to push the button.
Jo had promised not to take her eyes off the red indicator on the lift, but short of that, there was nothing she could do. As she watched CO19 begin to secure the upstairs and lay charges, she opened her mobile and called the Grid. Harry pressed the speaker phone so that Tariq and Ruth could also hear Jo's voice. "Harry, it's over, they're preparing to move in."
Now Harry was completely out of options. Oh, Ros. Why can I never save you? He began to feel despair creep in, but with the unerring instinct to protect those it was possible to protect, Harry said, "Jo. Get out of there. Now. There's nothing more you can do."
Jo was about to do as he said, when she saw the red indicator light on the lift change to green. "Wait." To her astonishment, the lift door opened, and it simply stood waiting for her to step in. She began to walk toward it as she spoke to Harry. "Something's happening to the lift. The lift's working."
Harry leant down closer to the phone, and without thinking it through fully, he gave her an order. "This is our chance. Jo, go in there. Tell them what we know. Try to turn Lambert's group against him before he blows the whole place up and everyone with it."
Without hesitation, Jo said, "I'm moving in." She walked toward the lift, but not before leaning down to rid herself of her mobile and her sidearm. She knew how many guns they must be holding in the bunker, and her training had taught her that being completely unarmed would give her a greater chance of survival.
Harry heard Jo's immediate assent, her lack of questioning of his order, and something began in the pit of his stomach. In fact, he almost called her back, nearly told her to step down and let CO19 take the lift, but before he could say anything, he heard the silence on the other end of the phone as Jo switched it off.
Harry looked to his left, and Ruth's eyes were on him, probing, asking the clear question, Do you know what you've done? Sent Jo in with no back up, with only her wits? Ruth could still hear Jo's voice in her head, and what she'd said before they'd rung off not a quarter hour ago. "It's so good to have you back on the Grid, Ruth. It feels safer, somehow." Before saying goodbye, Ruth said, "We still have to have that talk. Perhaps this week?" And Jo had said, "Yes, I'd like that."
Now Ruth looked at Harry, but she couldn't think of what to say. It felt incomprehensible to her that a day that started with banter about muffins could end with the death of either Ros or Jo, or both. It just didn't seem possible.
Even as Harry broke her gaze and began a slow walk toward his office, Ruth told herself that it wasn't possible.
Before the lift door opened, Jo took a deep breath. In the few seconds it had taken her to complete her descent into the bunker, she had run through every scenario her mind could conjure. As the door opened, she was surprised to find that she'd been quite accurate.
She walked into chaos, and she very quickly had six guns levelled at her. By pure instinct, her arms went over her head in a show of submission. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm unarmed! I'm unarmed!" Jo clasped her hands behind her head, and began to speak what she'd hurriedly rehearsed in the lift. "Finn's been working with Robinov from the start. All the money, all the planning came from him."
As she spoke, Jo looked around, taking in her surroundings. Ros was there, and alive, thank God. She was crouched and ready to jump if she needed to, right next to Nina Gevitsky, who held a gun by her side. Lambert also held a gun, and it was now pointed at Jo. Another man, a young man with curly brown hair who Jo had seen identified as Rudy Korn, was allowing his gun to drop as he listened to what Jo was saying. His face registered the shock of what she'd just told them, as he turned to Lambert. "Tell me that's not true. Finn!"
Lambert kept his eyes trained on Jo, still pointing the gun, but he spoke to Rudy, behind him. "We had to fund this somehow. We made it here. We made it in here, didn't we?"
Rudy exploded in anger. "How could you? He's worse than they are. Robinov?"
Now Lambert turned, and allowed the gun to drop to his side. "We are using him. To do what we want. We can still do this." Jo watched as Ros stood slowly from her crouch, her hands bound, with a look of pure determination on her face.
Rudy backed away from Lambert, shaking his head. "No, we can't. No. That's it, we're done. It's over." Lambert watched him, at first with a look of deep sadness, but it was quickly overtaken by his anger. He pointed the gun at Rudy and pulled the trigger. Rudy dropped to the floor, and immediately, a woman shot Lambert in the arm, and ran to Rudy's side.
Jo saw her chance, and she moved in to secure Lambert. From behind, she locked her arm around his neck. She could immobilise the gun he held in one hand, but in the other, to her horror, she saw the trigger for the explosives. If he managed to get his finger to the red button, the entire bunker, and probably most of the estate, would go up in an instant. Looking across the room, Jo could see that Ros now had Nina's gun pointing at Lambert.
Ros was looking at Lambert's hand, the one holding the trigger, but then her eyes moved slightly to her left, and she and Jo gazed at each other. A split second was all that separated them from a blinding flash of light and nothingness, and both of them knew it. The assessment of years of training told each all they needed to know - Lambert had to die, but it had to be fast, and he must be held still so that there was no chance of the button being accidentally pushed. There was only one way the situation could be played out successfully. Jo knew it, and so did Ros.
The room quieted, and time seemed to slow. With only her eyes, Jo gave Ros permission, and then she gave her forgiveness. In truth, Jo felt relieved. She wasn't putting the gun to her own head, as she'd thought about doing, but the result would be the same. Actually, it was so much better, because she was saving lives. Her parents would be proud, and the service would honour her. And wherever he was, she would finally find Zaf. She'd never been more certain of it than she was as she watched the shaking of Ros' hand, saw the doubt on her face, and answered the question she saw in her eyes.
Jo nodded to Ros. Not a resigned nod, nor a sad one. A resolved nod. A gift from one friend to another, with the acknowledgement that Ros would have to live out her days knowing that she'd killed Jo, whilst Jo was being given the gift of oblivion and the peace that would come with it. In that split second, Jo wanted Ros to know that it was alright.
And, on some level, as she pulled the trigger, Ros did know. She'd listened as Jo had poured out her demons, and Ros thought Jo was right in thinking they would never really go away. Some officers could face them down day by day, but Jo hadn't been able to.
Ros watched Lambert fall, and then saw Jo look down as the blood began to inch its way down her chest, spreading, blossoming in a riot of colour just before she, too, went to the floor. And as she watched, Ros thought she understood. Jo had looked confused for a moment, as if she couldn't believe it was really happening, but then, there had been a look of reconciliation as she fell, a draining away of emotion, and life, as she slid to the ground.
Ros knew that this moment would never leave her memory. As her knees buckled, Ros, who never cried, felt the warmth of a single tear as it coursed down her cheek.
"Thank you."
Oh, those words again. How many times had he thanked someone for terrible, unthinkable news. This time it was Ros he was saying the ridiculous words to, her voice shaking uncharacteristically, uncontrollably, as she related Jo's sacrifice and her own horror at what she'd just done. Harry told Ros that she'd had no choice, and Ros had tried unsuccessfully to convey what Jo seemed to be saying in the last seconds of her life.
But in the end, all Harry could say was, "Thank you." He let the phone fall from his ear, and cradled it in his hand on his desk. Not Jo. Over and over, the words echoed in his head. Not Jo. Harry thought if he could put himself where she was, right now, he would do it. If she could be here, still alive, her delicate features in the sad smile she'd worn so often lately, sitting at her desk on the Grid - if he only had the power, he would. Not Jo.
"Harry?"
Ruth's voice seemed to be far away, but he turned, and there she was, standing beside his desk. She'd been watching him through the glass, and she'd seen him take the call. On some level, she knew, but as soon as she saw his eyes, Ruth was certain. He wasn't able to speak right away, so they simply stared at each other – Harry and Ruth, again sharing the inexpressible pain of a fallen colleague.
Finally, Harry spoke, his voice a monotone, seemingly devoid of feeling, but Ruth knew that it was precisely because he was feeling too much that he sounded the way he did. "We've lost Jo," was all he said.
"How?" Ruth asked, but it emerged from her throat less like a word, and more like the sound of a desperate exhale of breath. Ruth felt the tears coming, a flood of them, and she wanted Harry to stand, to walk to her and take her in his arms. She wanted the familiar feel of him, the comfort she knew it would give her to bury her face in his shoulder, to feel his hands on her back, to hear him whisper into her hair that it would be alright. She knew it would give her the understanding that not everyone was dead, although it felt that way.
But he sat, stone-like, behind his desk. Not because he didn't want to go to Ruth, in fact, he imagined himself doing it. Taking her into his arms and gathering strength from her, the strength he would need to face the regret, the second thoughts, and the visions of Jo's face that he knew would haunt him in the coming days and weeks and months. What stopped him was the feeling that he didn't deserve the comfort Ruth would bring. Harry thought he needed to feel this way. Not having Ruth's arms around him was his penance for being the one who sent young and bright people to their deaths.
Both knew that Jo was the reason they had found each other again so quickly. As if she had taken each by the hand and said softly, "You love each other, don't you?" Jo had been a loyal colleague, of course, but she'd been more than that. She'd stood as a testament that softness could go hand-in-hand with the skills necessary to do the job, that an innate sweetness didn't have to disappear under the ice required by the challenges of being an officer. Jo had embodied all that. But she hadn't survived.
"She saved them all," Harry said, his voice flat. He was speaking so softly that Ruth had trouble making out the words, but she did hear him say, "Ros had to do it. I told her she had no choice..."
And then, Ruth could bear to hear no more. She shook her head slightly, and began to back away. "No..." she said, almost to herself, in disbelief. Not Jo. Harry was looking at her, and she nodded to him, as if to say, Yes, I understand, but still, she was saying "No..." as she turned to walk out of his office.
She meant to get her purse and coat and go to the tube, to hold out until she could step through the front door to her house and collapse into the tears that were coming. But she only made it a few feet before they came flooding out. Leaning against the wall outside Harry's office, Ruth realised that she couldn't leave him. There was a wall between them, but they still touched. It was as they had always been on the Grid, separate, but together.
Harry heard Ruth sobbing and envied her emotion. He wished he could do the same, to let go into the unfathomable sadness he felt. Not Jo. But he knew that those in shock and horror around him needed him to remain at the centre, strong and unchangeable. So he sat behind his desk, listening to Ruth cry, and he compartmentalised. In his mind, he placed Jo gently with Adam, and Zaf, and Ben, and Fiona, and Danny. He tried to let her go, and he wished her well. He hoped her journey had a measure of peace to it. And he began to think of how he would tell her parents.
On the other side of the wall, Ruth held her face in her hands as the tears ran through her fingers and fell to the floor. She realised now that her two years away hadn't so much dulled her edge, as it had allowed her to forget what really happened in the world. And through her pain, Ruth felt the beginnings of an unnamed anger forming.
She knew it wasn't fair to be angry with Harry, but it started as a tiny ball in her chest and began to grow. Her silent question to him – Do you know what you've done? – had gone unanswered, but now, through her tears, her mind screamed out Why Jo?, and the reply was that Harry had calculated one life against many. He had ordered her into that lift like a lamb to the slaughter, with no defences, no chance, and little hope. Jo had saved them all, but she couldn't save herself, and as the steel began to form around Ruth's heart, she feared that Harry Pearce might be a cold bastard after all.
Ruth's tears slowed and stopped, overtaken by the hard edge of her anger. She pushed herself away from the wall and stood straight, breathing deeply. It was Monday, the first day of her new job with MI5, and all she wanted to do was to run away. She shook her head, thinking, It's too much, too soon. She remembered Harry telling her that people would understand. She began to rationalise that this world had gone on without her for two years, and it could go on a bit longer whilst she took the time to think.
Ruth knew she was being a coward, but it was all she felt capable of – and really, what good had she been? She'd allowed herself to feel pride in her analysis of the situation, she'd felt the warmth of Harry's praise, and she'd begun to think foolishly that she had answers to the impossible questions this job posed. Now, as she stared at the wall in front of her, Ruth knew there were no answers. There hadn't been two years ago, and there weren't now.
All it took was one step to the side, and Ruth was back in Harry's doorway. He was still staring straight ahead, his face an unreadable mask. Ruth had the sound of the residual tears in her voice, and her eyes were red-rimmed, but she pulled herself up to her full height and said, "I'm going."
Harry turned and looked at her and his heart filled so completely that it broke down the barriers he'd spent the last few minutes erecting. Now he stood, not knowing what he was going to do, but feeling a need to move closer to her. Ruth put her hand up, meaning to hold him where he was, but she stood rooted in the doorway, unable to move. When he finally reached her, Ruth's hand fell ineffectually to her side, and suddenly she was in his arms.
Ruth sighed and the tears began again, coming from deep within her. They were tears for Jo, certainly, but also for Adam and Zaf, who had died while she was gone. This was what she'd wanted to do as she'd stood stroking Danny's head - to fall into Harry's arms, for them to comfort each other in their shared pain. Now Harry's voice was soft in her ear, his hand stroking her hair, his own chest shuddering as hers was. If someone had come around the corner they might have seen them, but their place in the doorway was all but hidden from the Grid. They stood that way for a long time, until Ruth's tears stopped, and Harry's breathing slowed. It was the first time they'd truly allowed themselves to grieve together.
But as Ruth came slowly back to herself, she realised that it didn't change how she was feeling. Pulling away slightly, she ran her fingers absent-mindedly down the fabric of Harry's tie, but her voice was firm. "I have to go."
"Let me come with you." He said it without thinking.
Ruth looked up sharply. Her eyes were still slightly blurred with tears, but she could see that it was what he wanted. For a moment, she thought of saying, Yes, let's just leave. But then she thought of Ros, probably on her way back to the Grid, of Jo's family, needing to be notified, of reports to be filed, phone calls to be made, of Jo's body ...
"You can't," Ruth said, with a finality that felt to Harry as if she had physically pushed him away. In fact, she did step back and fold her arms in front of her. It was a challenge of sorts, born of the anger that was beginning to return to her eyes, but they both knew it was an empty challenge. Ruth understood the duties that lay in front of him, and she wanted him to fulfil them, to honour Jo. It was their ever-present impossible situation, and both knew it.
Harry's eyes grew soft, and he whispered, "When you say you have to go ..."
She finished his question, "... What do I mean?" She shook her head, and looked down at the floor. "I'm not sure. Perhaps it was too soon."
"You're angry with me again," he said. It was a statement of fact, and was as clear to him as it had been after George was killed. "I sent Jo in there..." His voice held the guilt he felt.
"Yes, without backup..." Now Ruth looked up, her eyes clearing, colder, but she couldn't go further. She had no wish to hurt Harry, and she could see that her words had cut him deeply. Shaking her head, she softened, and said, "I don't pretend to know how I would make the decisions you have to make, Harry. But this one ... this one ... " Ruth felt the tears starting again, and the desire to escape became overwhelming.
Again, she said, "I have to go." She began to back up into the hallway.
Harry wanted to ask where, and for how long, but he held his tongue. Ruth couldn't bear the pain in his eyes, not on top of everything else, so she stepped back toward him and took his hand in hers. "I feel like a coward, Harry, but I just don't have the strength to do this right now, not after ... George, and everything that's happened ..." She stroked his hand, keeping her eyes down, and suddenly it came to her. "I've ... I've been thinking quite a lot of Isabelle."
Ruth looked up at him, her eyes turning just slightly brighter. "I think I'd like to go to Paris. Just for a couple of days, perhaps a week." Now her mind was working, thinking it through. "The girls, will you...?"
Harry nodded, "Of course."
Before she knew what she was doing, Ruth brought Harry's hand to her lips and kissed it, gently. "I'm sorry, Harry. I thought I was stronger."
As she let him go and started back into the hall, Harry said, "Ruth?"
She turned. "Yes?"
"You will come back, won't you?"
He saw the tears spring to her eyes again, as she smiled sadly.
"Yes," Ruth said softly, and then she was gone.
~~~~~
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-NINE
Ruth was utterly at a loss as to what she hoped to accomplish in Paris, but she was being drawn there to Isabelle, and she chose not to fight it. Ruth's confusion existed on so many levels that she was having a hard time even categorising it. Just two days ago, she'd felt ready to start back on the Grid, and had spent her first day feeling good about her contribution to the team and about how quickly she'd meshed back into the work. But when Harry said, "We've lost Jo," Ruth felt herself falling down the rabbit hole again, unsure, lost, and compelled to escape.
As she'd cried outside Harry's office, Ruth realised that she still had a crushing sense of grief about Adam and Zaf, and an equally oppressive sense of guilt about George, Nico and Christina. It became apparent to her that she hadn't worked through those feelings properly, and Jo's death had brought them all to the surface again.
When Ruth arrived home, she poured herself an uncommonly large whisky, a brand she'd stocked two years ago for Harry. She sat on the couch and let the rich, amber liquid burn down her throat as she listened to Haydn's 88th Symphony. After the first whisky, she poured a second, and transitioned to Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings, which usually helped her make sense of the world, but tonight, the music seemed only to make her sad.
Ruth sat looking at the empty fireplace, and hoped that Harry would leave her alone for the night, although she knew that if he called, she wouldn't be able to resist answering. She found herself watching her mobile as it sat on the table in front of her – wanting keenly to have the comfort of his voice, but hoping she could find some resolution without him. Unfortunately, the whisky hadn't helped her find resolve, it had simply numbed and confused her more.
Ruth loved Harry so deeply, but somehow, her anger about George, which she thought she'd put behind her, had been rekindled by Jo's death. And at the centre of that anger was Harry, making the decisions that put the people she loved in harm's way. Under the influence of the whisky and Tchaikovsky's strings, she found herself on both sides of the argument, defending and attacking, until she felt drained and exhausted.
Harry didn't call, and at nearly two in the morning, after a haphazard dinner of tomatoes, cheese and toast, and a tearful end to the Serenade, Ruth finally walked silently up her stairs to bed. She fell asleep feeling both grateful and wretched that she hadn't heard from him. The only thing Ruth knew for certain was that Harry couldn't win with her right now, and she loved him enough to be glad for him that he'd stayed away.
Ruth woke early with a throbbing head, and made her train and hotel reservations before she could change her mind. She had decided to surprise Isabelle toward the end of her day at l'Alcove, so her plan was to take the early afternoon train. She'd made a reservation for three nights at the Hotel Caron, just a short way from the Place des Vosges. At first, she'd thought of going to the Hotel Britannique, but she lost her nerve just before reserving, and decided to stay somewhere with fewer memories.
Ruth allowed herself the indulgence of calling l'Alcove to be certain Isabelle would be there when she arrived – and she was fully planning to hang up as soon as she heard her voice. But when Isabelle answered, Ruth's heart leapt. She found tears coming to her eyes, and suddenly the idea of a surprise felt adolescent and unnecessary. Ruth answered Isabelle with a voice full of emotion. "It's me. Sophie."
The flood of joy on the other end of the line was as satisfying as it could possibly be, "Sophie! Where are you?"
"I'm in London," Ruth answered.
"Are you alright? You're safe? I received your note. I've thought of you so often!"
"Yes," Ruth said, laughing with the delight of hearing her friend's voice again. "Everything is fine." But Isabelle heard the subtleties in the voice on the other end of the line. Everything clearly wasn't fine, and in her usual way of understanding, Isabelle grew quieter.
"You're so close, my dear. Might I see you sometime soon? Shall I come to London?"
Even with her aching head, Ruth felt some of the weight of yesterday begin to fall away. This is the right thing to do. "I'm coming on the afternoon train to see you, Isabelle. I'll come directly to l'Alcove."
"Oh, that's wonderful! Will you stay the night? Isabelle asked.
"I'm planning to stay at the Caron."
"Would you like to stay with me, my dear Sophie?" To the pause on the other end of the line, Isabelle said, more softly, "Only if you wish it."
Ruth didn't know what she wished, but she felt so unsure of her state of mind that she wanted to hold open the possibility of being entirely on her own, should she need the solitude. "Thank you, Isabelle. That's a lovely offer. Do you mind if we talk about it when I get there?"
"No, not at all ... " Isabelle started to say Sophie again, but she stopped herself, and then said, gently, "May I know your real name now, my dear? Are you able to tell me?"
Ruth smiled. She felt something akin to a chill go down her back as she said what she'd longed to say so many times to Isabelle. "Ruth. My name is Ruth."
"Ruth." Isabelle paused for a moment, and then said, "It's a lovely name. It suits you beautifully. I'll have the kettle on, my dear Ruth."
"A bientôt, ma chère Isabelle."
Ruth sat for a long time after she clicked off her mobile. Ruth. My name is Ruth. Such simple words, but she let them wash over her, and felt the peace that came with telling the truth again.
Harry could have kicked himself. He hadn't kept a key to Ruth's house, and now he was wishing strongly that he had. He'd given the only key to Ruth on purpose, as a matter of honour, out of respect for her privacy. Of course he knew every possible way to break into a house, and he'd had to find his way into Ruth's one day last year, when he'd left her key behind. But things were as different now as they could be, and Harry felt it would be wrong to force the lock, even to feed the girls, as she'd requested.
The need to call Ruth for the key was warring with his promise to himself that he would let her go to Paris without contacting her. Harry felt he understood Ruth, and he thought that the more he grasped at her, the longer it would take for her to find her way back to him. But he didn't see how it could be helped. Right now, he was wishing he'd thought of it before she'd left the Grid yesterday, but he allowed that he hadn't been thinking very clearly at that point in time.
Harry looked out to the Grid, to Jo's empty desk. Soon after Ruth left, he'd spoken with Mrs Portman - unlike most MI5 parents, she knew what her daughter did for a living. Jo had warned her mother when there was fear that the Thames Barrier would be blown, and after the crisis was averted they'd had to go through the process of having Mrs Portman vetted and arranging for her to sign the OSA.
So Harry's call to Jo's mother was a less confusing call than most, but no easier. Harry waited patiently as she railed at the Services, and cried, and told him how their hopes and dreams were tied up in their little girl, how she was really going to be a journalist, and how that was all over now. Primarily, Harry just listened, but in the end, he told Jo's mother that her daughter's sacrifice had saved dozens of lives. Mrs Portman's anger had subsided somewhat, and then she'd murmured those unthinkable words, "Thank you."
First thing in the morning, Harry had gotten a call from Sir Robin Ashenden asking about the officer who had laid down her life for them. Not only had Jo saved his estate, but Sir Robin had been the one on trial when she'd come into the room from the lift, and he knew that Lambert was moments from pulling the trigger of the gun he had at his head. Ashenden told Harry that he wanted to do something to show his appreciation, and Harry had made a suggestion he thought Jo would like.
Harry didn't know the particulars of what Sir Robin had decided to do, but before the day was out, plans were being drawn up for a number of new and badly-needed buildings to house the abused women who made their way to the Rape Crisis Centres across the UK. The donor was listed as anonymous, but from that day forward each of the dormitories was affectionately known as "Jo's House."
Harry wanted so much to talk to someone about Jo. He'd thought of Ros, but understandably, Ros was taking a couple of days off from the Grid. If Harry had guilt about Jo's death, and he did, he tried to imagine how Ros was feeling. He'd thought of calling and going over to talk to her, but he remembered the night he'd done the same after Adam had died. Ros had said, "Go home, Harry. We're not doing each other any good." He had no reason to believe this day would be any different. Ros had her own way of dealing with grief, and Harry decided to leave her in peace.
Harry thought of talking to Malcolm, but then he quickly decided against it. He would certainly call Malcolm to let him know, but he wouldn't expect to be able to lean on him. This was precisely why Malcolm had left the Service - Jo's death would be hard enough for him to take, without Harry looking for some kind of comfort, or worse yet, absolution, from his old friend.
Really, the only person Harry wanted to talk to was Ruth. He remembered the discussion they'd had just the other day over breakfast, and he realised that he was missing being able to talk to his friend. He knew that Ruth would have a unique perspective, and he wished he could know what it would have been, under different circumstances. If Jo hadn't been Ruth's friend, if it hadn't been so soon after George's death, if Ruth weren't holding Harry responsible for sending Jo into an impossible situation - Harry thought there were too many ifs for anything remotely neutral to come of a discussion with Ruth, but still, he longed for it.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry loosened his tie a bit. He had no meetings today, except for one with the Home Secretary late in the afternoon to discuss the technical aspects of Lambert's unbreakable grip on the internet during the trials yesterday. Harry had spent part of the morning listening to Tariq's explanation of what had happened, and the headache it had given him was still evident, despite taking three paracetemol over two hours ago.
He'd thought fleetingly of asking Tariq to accompany him for his meeting with Blake, but then thought better of it. Not because he had any worries about how Tariq would acquit himself – in fact, Harry was increasingly impressed with the young man's skills – but because he thought two non-computer minds might find it easier to discuss possible solutions, should it happen again. Tariq had made it clear that there was really nothing technical that MI5 could have done to loosen Lambert's stranglehold on the web, and Harry could relay that message to the Home Secretary just as easily, if not easier, than Tariq.
Harry leant forward and looked again at his mobile. He had to call Ruth, and soon – in fact, he was afraid he may have already missed her. He hoped it would be a case of her telling him she would leave a key under the mat, but in his heart, he knew there was little chance of that.
Spies didn't leave keys under their mats, or in faux rocks in the garden, or in the mailbox. Nothing was ever that simple – or that easy – with spooks.
Ruth was doing relatively well until she pulled the carry-all down from the top shelf where she'd quickly stashed it to unpack later. She hadn't felt able to open it at the safe house either – and now, as she felt the weight of it, Ruth thought the best thing she could do was to throw it straight away into the rubbish. But in the end, she couldn't bear to part with Harry's shirt, or his soap. Before she could stop herself, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding the bag gently in her hands.
She ran her fingers across the well-worn leather of the straps and tried to trace the journey it had taken with her. She'd packed it first for Bath, and she remembered Harry carrying it to the car when they'd left the Windsor Guest House. Just days later, Zaf had brought it to the safe house, before she'd left for Paris. She'd unpacked it in her Paris flat, and then Adam had thrown into it what he could find, before he'd rescued her from the Redbacks in the forest. It had stayed with her during the time on Cyprus, packed for an emergency, until the day she'd left the island. Ruth closed her eyes, holding the handle, and she could still see George carrying it into the Paphos Airport.
She opened her eyes and sighed deeply. Zaf, Adam, and George. Of all those who had touched this simple, utilitarian thing, so many were dead. But not Harry, and not me. Somehow, we've been spared.
Gently, Ruth pulled on the zip and was overwhelmed by the competing odours – the unpleasant mildew of Nico's swim trunks, and the musky scent of Harry's sandalwood soap. The red trunks had been wrapped tightly in the blue towel that Nico had worn round his shoulders as they fled Cyprus, and except for a brief moment when Jo had gone through the bag, they hadn't seen the light of day since.
Jo. She too, had touched it. Dead. All dead. Reverently, Ruth laid her hands on the outside of the carry-all, and she closed her eyes again, remembering a study of "chi," and the Chinese belief that a natural energy flows through all things, remaining in objects after they're touched. Zaf, Adam, George and Jo. They were all here.
Ruth felt the tears starting, and refused to give in to them. She stood quickly and took the carry-all to the washing machine. Holding it by its corners, she emptied the bag's contents onto the floor, shaking it until everything lay in a pile at her feet. Harry's white shirt had an arm across George's sage green one in a kind of chilling embrace, and she quickly moved them into the washer, along with her own clothes and Nico's towel. She had enough presence of mind to hold out the red swim trunks, washing them quickly in the sink by hand and hanging them over the edge to dry. She was so tired that it hadn't occurred to her that George's shirt and Nico's swim trunks had no place in her life now.
Cradling Harry's soap in her cupped hands, Ruth leant down and breathed in deeply. The scent would always be Harry to her. She set the soap gently on the worktop, and turned to take the carry-all outside to air on the porch. But as she did, something clattered out of a pocket and on to the floor. The keys to the car, the one she'd driven like a madwoman in order to escape Mani's men. The one she assumed still sat at Paphos Airport in the car park, unless Christina had somehow retrieved it.
For a moment, she held the keys in her hands, and named them all. The car key, the key to the mountain house, the key that opened the back shed that held her gardening tools but was never locked. The key to her desk drawer where she'd kept her financial papers, the key to the side door of the Polis Chrysochous Hospital & Rural Health Centre that she'd always meant to return.
Ruth moved the keys from one hand to the other, listening to the metallic sound they made. It was another life, and another place. How important these had been to her, and how irrelevant the passage of time had rendered them. She thought of the one key that mattered to her now. The key to her London house ... the only key she had.
Until just this moment, she hadn't thought how Harry would get in to care for the girls. Ruth sighed and grimaced, and went to find her phone. Confused and sleep deprived, with an aching head – and it looked as if she might be seeing Harry today after all.
Suddenly, Harry saw the light glow from his mobile, just before he heard it ring. In wonder, he smiled, as he read the name on the screen. Ruth.
"Ruth, I was just about to ring you." He spoke warmly, and with gratitude that he hadn't been forced to make the first move after saying goodbye yesterday.
"About the key?" she said. "I wondered if you'd kept a spare, but then, I thought you might not have..." Her voice trailed off, and Harry could hear that she was distracted. In fact, Ruth realised that she'd called him without thinking through what she was going to say, or even how to solve the problem that had just presented itself.
"I didn't," Harry said. "I didn't think I should." There was so much more beneath that statement, but Harry decided to leave it at that. "Shall I come and pick it up?" He looked quickly at his watch. It was only 10:30 in the morning. "You're taking the train?"
"No," Ruth said quickly, answering his first question. The last thing she wanted was to have Harry at her house right now. She was feeling much more fragile than she'd been the last time he'd sat in her kitchen, eating breakfast. Today, every time she thought of Jo, Ruth felt a sharp pain, and she knew she would end up in his arms if he were here.
Precisely because she needed badly to have him hold her, Ruth had to put some distance between them. It wouldn't solve anything if she went back to her old pattern of seeking comfort from Harry. She was too confused, too angry, too grief-stricken, to make any sense of her love for him right now.
Understandably, Harry misunderstood why she'd said no. "You're not taking the train?"
Ruth sounded slightly impatient, because she knew she wasn't making herself clear. "Yes, I'm taking the afternoon train - No, I don't want you to come and pick up the key. I'll bring it to you." Ruth was beginning to feel sorry that she'd had so much whisky last night, and she wondered idly how Harry managed to drink the stuff. "I'll meet you in front of Thames House? I don't want to come up, Harry. What's your schedule today?"
"Only a late afternoon meeting at Whitehall. Until then, I'm here."
"I'll ring you when I'm there? Do you mind coming down to get it?" Ruth thought she'd be safe on the busy pavement in front of the building.
"No, I don't mind. I'll wait for your call." Harry heard the cold, clipped tone of her voice as she said a quick thank you and then rang off.
She's still angry, he thought, and he sighed as he clicked off his mobile.
Harry leant back in his chair again, and he had to admit he wondered if it would ever end. People would keep dying, and as long as he sat behind this desk, their deaths could be perceived to be his fault. Harry had spent quite a while thinking it through this morning, and he realised that if he had to make the decision to send Jo in again, he would do the same thing. He wasn't certain that Ruth understood that -he couldn't do this job if he continually second-guessed himself. If he hadn't ordered Jo into that lift, it's likely that there would be many more funerals being planned today.
It was one of the reasons Harry had found it easier to live his life alone - the only voice he had to listen to was that of his own conscience. As he tapped his pen on the side of his desk, Harry realised that he had almost done something different, just by virtue of the fact that Ruth was beside him. Her presence had altered how he saw himself, made him wonder if he'd made the right decision, because he'd worried that she would judge him. And Harry knew that was a slippery slope, especially when life-and-death decisions had to be made so quickly.
But Christ, I love her, he thought. Harry wanted to be worthy of her good opinion, but he also had to listen to his own mind. He needed to talk about this with Ruth, to be sure she understood. And, not for the first time, Harry weighed the idea that it might not be possible for him to have both Ruth, his love, and Ruth, his analyst. Perhaps she did need to be elsewhere in the Services – not back to GCHQ, but perhaps at Six, or even the Home Office, where they wouldn't be watching each other's every move.
But in the same way he was loathe to deprive himself of Ruth's love, Harry didn't want the Grid to be without her skills. She was the best he'd ever seen. And did he have the right to keep her from work at which she excelled, and so clearly loved?
Harry needed to talk to Ruth. Badly. He could wait, he supposed, until she came back from Paris. But he didn't want to wait.
Ruth paused in the garden near Lambeth Palace and looked across the river. She had stood outside Thames House for just a moment and had suddenly panicked. All she'd had to do was open her mobile and call Harry - he would emerge from the white stone doorway and stride toward her with his head at a slight tilt, and a half-smile on his face. She would hold out the key and he would take it, then Ruth would say goodbye, pick up her carry-all and catch a taxi to St. Pancras. She would be much too early, but that would be alright. She could read her book and wait the three-and-a-half hours for her train. But she couldn't seem to call him, and that had Ruth in a state of puzzled incredulity.
She'd sat now on a bench in the garden for nearly half an hour trying to sort out what had her so afraid, and the only thing that came to her mind was that she wasn't ready to see Harry of the Grid - the Harry who had said I won't tell you to Mani, the one who had sent Zaf to Tehran, the one who had tasked Adam with disposing of the bomb. And she definitely didn't want to see the Harry who had ordered Jo to die. In Ruth's current state of mental exhaustion and confusion, she wanted to give her key to Henry James Pearce instead. Ruth was grateful that she wasn't too far from sanity to know that sounded vaguely insane.
So Ruth understood that she would either have to call him and ask him to miraculously transform into Will Arden – the one who lay sprawled on the grass with her in Bath, the one who sat across from her at dinner, and who wore the terrycloth robe on the balcony in Calais – or she would have to go away for just a bit and find out just exactly where she'd left her reason.
Ruth opted for the latter, and so she started walking toward the Eye, not because it was a destination, but because, even in her panic, she could easily keep it in her sights and know where she was. And when she saw a clipper on the river that was disgorging passengers and taking on new ones, Ruth ran for the ramp, handing over her money and walking aboard just in time. She did have three-and-a-half hours, after all.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, Ruth had the most remarkable double-deja vu – of leaving Harry on her way to Paris, and then leaving him in Dover on her way to Calais. Another boat, another trip across the water, another time of watching the place where Harry was, as it got smaller and more distant.
Only this time, as her panic subsided, Ruth felt so silly and untethered that she almost had to laugh. As the buildings of London glided by, she rested her elbows on the railing and wondered when she had completely lost her mind. She hoped she could blame it on her grief about Jo, last night's whisky and her lack of sleep, but she was afraid she was merely rationalising.
The simple act of exchanging a key with the man she had known and loved for nearly six years was beyond her – she hadn't been capable of seeing him in his work clothes, was that it? And now Ruth did laugh, to the considerable consternation of the young couple standing next to her on the rail. They shared a look and then moved discreetly away. Ruth couldn't say she blamed them.
When the clipper reached the end of the line in Greenwich, Ruth was forced to disembark. She was waiting in line for the return trip when her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and saw that it was Harry, so she stepped out of line, and answered.
"Hello." Harry sounded unsure, which actually helped Ruth's confidence a bit. "Where are you, Ruth?"
She thought about lying to him, but the question caught her off guard, so she simply told the truth. "I'm in Greenwich, at the end of the clipper line. Then she said, embarrassed, "Don't ask..."
Surprisingly, Harry said, "That's good. Can you stay there? I'll meet you." Then he said, softly, "There's a bench, actually..."
Ruth smiled. "I know where it is." The bench across from Greenwich was a favourite meeting place for some officers at MI5, as it was very secluded. One could sit on that bench for an hour at a time and not see another living soul, so it was perfect for a meeting with an asset.
"I need to talk to you, Ruth. About Jo, but also about something else."
Ruth thought that a statement like that would make her nervous, but gradually, she felt the panic subside in her chest. On the other end of the phone, she could hear the voice of the man she loved beyond all others. And this time, it was Henry James Pearce's voice. But Ruth still felt strangely detached, and she was still angry. Harry wanted to talk to her about Jo, and she thought that was a good idea. Perhaps he could explain to her why her friend, a young, dedicated and passionate officer, was now dead.
Ruth assumed the "something else" was about their relationship. She'd asked Harry to give her time, and he'd been patient. The truth was that Ruth was going to Paris to think and to make decisions. She wanted those decisions to be informed. So even though she felt slightly scattered, she wanted to hear what he had to say. "Alright," Ruth said, finally.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Harry said, and he rang off.
~~~~~
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TEN
Harry stood for just a moment, looking at Ruth in silhouette. She sat motionless, and he found himself remembering the bench on the Embankment, the one in Henley-on-Thames, and also the one on the Passarelle des Arts in Paris right after he'd proposed. He allowed himself a sad smile, wondering what kind of memory this bench would offer in days to come.
He still had no clear idea of what he would say to Ruth, but he knew he wanted to talk about Jo, and he hoped to get a sense of Ruth's desire to be on the Grid. She might very well tell him she didn't feel up to the work anymore, and then at least he could allow his restless mind some peace.
Harry walked forward, and he could hear his own footsteps echoing on the cement surface, so he knew that Ruth must be hearing his approach, but she didn't turn. She sat stone-still, facing forward. Even when he sat down quietly next to her, she kept her eyes on the water. He stayed silent until she looked at him and said, "Hello, Harry." He thought she sounded cold and heartsick, and Harry wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms - but he could feel the fragility of the wall she'd built around herself, and he loved her too much to step through it.
She looked down at her coat pocket and reached inside, and then put her hand out. In it was the house key he'd so recently given her, except that now it was on a ring with a small photo frame that held pictures of Phoebe and Fidget. He reached over and took it, and their hands touched. He lingered there for just a moment, and was reminded of the bus, but this time, she pulled away quickly. Harry looked at the photos and smiled. He shook his head in wonder and said softly, "I miss those girls."
Finally, Ruth turned and looked at him. "Thank you," she said, without an abundance of warmth, but with genuine gratitude. "You can take them to your house, if you'd like. I'm not certain how long I'll be." Harry could see that her eyes were red, and that the soft skin below them was just a shade darker than usual. She looked pale, and tired, and the frown between her brows told him that she had a headache. Ruth saw him peering at her, and became self-conscious, so she turned back toward the water.
She spoke almost absent-mindedly. "I don't know what I expect to find in Paris, but I feel I need to get away from here for a while." Harry wanted to know everything she was feeling, so he thought he'd simply let her talk for as long as she wanted. To make it easier, he did as she did, and looked out at the water. Finally, Ruth said, "I can't make sense of Jo's death, Harry. Not that any death makes sense, but especially hers. She was so young, such a good person. We were becoming true friends." Ruth released a ragged sigh.
"Ashenden called me this morning," Harry said simply. "He wanted to do something to show his appreciation to Jo's family. He was thinking about some sort of memorial to the Services, but I don't think Jo would have liked that." Harry's voice grew softer, as Ruth turned to listen. "So I told him she'd always cared deeply about women who'd been assaulted ..." Harry turned to Ruth, knowing that he didn't need to be cautious when he spoke with her, so he said the word, with all the emotion he was feeling, "... women who'd been raped."
"And what did Sir Robin say?"
"He said he understood, and that he would find out where the greatest need was, and fill it." Harry shrugged slightly, and gave Ruth a half-smile. "I'd like to think he's a changed man, and that Jo was a part of that, but time will tell."
Ruth's face softened as she looked at him. "That was a good choice, Harry. I think that's what Jo would have wanted." Turning back to the water, Ruth said, "She never really got over it, you know? What happened with the Redbacks. We talked a bit about it, because she knew they'd almost taken me, too. But I should have made the time to have a proper talk. We planned to ... but ... I never ..."
Even in profile, Harry could see that Ruth's eyes were glistening. He wanted to reach out to her, but he kept his hands folded in his lap. "She cared so much for you, Ruth. I never got the feeling that she wanted more than you gave to her." He paused for a moment, and then went on. "Adam said she was like a broken bird. Even Jo had described herself that way to him. Perhaps she's found some peace, now."
Ruth kept her eyes forward, and Harry realised that what he'd just said may have sounded like some sort of rationalisation for his having sent her into such a dangerous situation. And as Ruth didn't answer, he sighed and looked back out at the water. "At least that's what I tell myself."
Her anger was still under the surface, but Ruth felt Harry's pain, and couldn't let it just hang there between them. "We both have regrets, Harry. I suppose it's easier to think she's in a better place. I like to think that, too. I think she was so torn about it, but underneath it all, she did love the work." After a moment, Ruth said, "She convinced me to come back."
Harry looked back at Ruth. He wished he knew what to say to comfort her, but all he could do was acknowledge how she was feeling. "I know."
"She really believed in it. What we're doing." Ruth surprised herself with the 'we'. I must not be gone yet, she thought, and then she continued, "More than any of us."
"More than you?" Harry asked softly. He'd seen the passion in Ruth's eyes all day yesterday, before things had gone so horribly wrong. After Mickelson had been killed, Ruth had been shocked, but it seemed only to increase her desire to take Lambert down. And now Harry needed to know if that passion was still there.
Ruth turned and looked at Harry, hoping to see if his question was genuine. She wasn't sure she believed in any of it now, and she wanted to see the conviction that kept Harry coming back to the Grid day after day. But as she looked at him, she felt nothing, so she turned away again.
"Was she the only reason you returned?" Ruth looked back sharply at Harry. She should have known what he was asking, but she was lost in trying to understand why it seemed impossible for her feel anything at the moment. Her return to the Grid had meant so many things just twenty-four hours ago – she'd come back not just because of her love of the work, but also in an attempt to reclaim herself, the Ruth she'd known before her exile. Yesterday, she'd found that Ruth, but now, she felt she'd lost her again.
"What do you mean?" It was an honest question, but as soon as she saw Harry's eyes, she knew he was asking if she'd come back for him. She couldn't answer that question yet, because she didn't know. She knew she still loved him, but the dilemma of separating her love for Harry and her work on the Grid was the primary reason she was going to Paris.
She was just realising all of this and thinking it through, when Harry gave up on the answer to his question. He sighed, and looked back out at the water. "You know what I mean."
After nearly a full minute of silence, Ruth said, "Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?" Harry could hear that she'd steeled herself again, and he felt the exhaustion under her words. He was prepared to leave it at this if that was what she wanted. He could simply tell her to have a good trip, and to call him when she got back - but he wanted so much to talk to her about where they stood.
As he'd driven here to meet her, Harry had wondered what on earth she was doing at the end of the clipper line. He'd not wanted to ask, because, first of all, she'd said not to, but also, there were too many other questions that were more important. But now, he wondered again, and the answer that came to him was that consciously or subconsciously, Ruth wanted to talk. That there was something they needed to say to each other before she left.
The "something" he wanted to talk to her about was where they were headed, but Harry opted for the safe answer to her question. "I asked you here today because I needed to talk about Jo to someone."
"B-But there was something else too." There it was, the question he'd hoped she would ask. She did want to talk about more than keys, and the girls, and the loss of a friend. So Harry opened the door, and invited her into the conversation he wanted so much to have.
"There'll always be something else, Ruth."
For a moment longer, they gazed at the grey-blue of the water without talking, and then Ruth turned to him again. She knew there were so many questions he wanted to ask, and the restraint he was showing was an act of love. He was clearly grieving over Jo, just as she was, and it opened her heart to him. Their hands were only inches apart on the bench, and, on an impulse, she reached over and put her hand over his.
Speaking softly, Ruth said, "Harry, I don't know what I want. I thought I did, but I may have expected too much of myself to jump back in so quickly. Losing Jo seems to have brought up everyone else I've lost. They're all standing around me, demanding that I face them. I can't do that here. I need to get away from the Grid, from London, from ..."
"... From me." He said it evenly, and without blame. Harry turned his hand over and let his fingers wrap around hers lightly.
Ruth allowed a sad smile to curl the corners of her lips. He understood. He always understood. "Yes, away from you. You confuse me."
"I love you, Ruth." He hadn't meant to say it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. And suddenly, Harry realised that those simple words were what he had come to this bench to say. He still had so many questions, but they all felt like they existed on the surface of what was most important. He loved her, and before she left again he'd needed to tell her.
Ruth's eyes softened, and he saw them begin to shine with the tears that collected there. From the moment she'd set foot back in England, they'd shared the understanding of the love that still existed between them, but they hadn't said it. They'd seen it in each other's eyes as Mani had taunted them, and every day since. They'd held each other, and the love they felt had passed between them as a tangible thing, but it hadn't been spoken.
On an exhale that was a combination of deep feeling, relief, and confusion, Ruth said gently, "I know. I love you, too, Harry. I've never stopped ..."
Harry moved his hand from Ruth's and rested it tenderly on her cheek. She laid her hand over his, and they began to move closer, but Ruth blinked, and pulled back, saying, "No. This is what I can't do." She took his hand and moved it back down to the bench between them, and folded her hands in her lap. "It's too easy to push it all aside and forget for awhile. I've done that too much, Harry. You make me forget ... but it doesn't go away ..."
"How can I help you? What can I do?" Harry was serious, but his eyes sparkled with the relief of the words he'd just spoken and the joy of hearing Ruth say them back. That, and the fact that he was suddenly aware of the constant absurdity of their situation. Two people who love each other. Why is this always so hard?
Ruth let a wry laugh escape. "I don't even know what I'm going to do for myself," she said, sighing. "I'm just following my instincts, and they're telling me I need some distance from the work and from you ..." Ruth shook her head, "Can you believe that after all this time away from you, wishing every night that I could be with you, loving you and missing you so terribly ... that what my heart is telling me is to get away from you again?" She turned to him, her eyes wide, "I can't understand it, why should you?"
Harry didn't want to say the words, but he loved her too much not to. They came out softly, and more plaintively than he expected. "Are you better off without me? Because if that's what you want, if that's what would give you peace... I'll ... I'll let go."
She turned quickly to him and said, fervently, "It's not what I want." It was taking all her strength not to move across the inches that separated them and lean into him. It's what they both wanted, but she knew where it would lead. She didn't want to travel that road again until her head was clear, so she stayed where she was and tried again to make sense of what she was feeling.
"Harry, do you remember when you talked about 'pushing the river'?" Harry remembered it well, and nodded. Ruth continued, "Is that what we're doing? Why can't the world just leave us in peace?" She looked back out at the water, and spoke almost to herself, just above a whisper, "Just let us be Henry James Pearce and Ruth Elizabeth Evershed..."
Harry reached out and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. His voice was nearly as soft as hers. "Because those two people are only a part of who we are." He allowed his fingers to move to her neck and touch the lock of hair that rested there. "Was it really enough for you, at the hospital, or the bookshop?"
She turned to him and gave him a sad smile. She wanted to say it was, but instead, she simply shook her head and looked down at her hands. Miserably, she said, "Are we hopeless, Harry?"
"No," he said quickly. Then he smiled, and said, "But we are a challenge, my Ruth." At that she turned to him again, sighing into the endearment that she so loved. And she realised that his fingers were in a very familiar place, and touching a spot on her neck that brought back lovely memories.
Ruth looked at Harry from under her lashes and asked, "Do you still have it? It wasn't with my things. Was it lost?"
Harry smiled at her. "I have it. And your ring, my love." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Whenever you want them."
Ruth smiled back and said, "Not yet. Perhaps when I come back. It's enough to know you have them, and they're safe."
For a long moment they gazed at each other, lost in the memories that came with those two simple pieces of jewellery. In fact, Ruth was so drawn to his eyes that she very nearly moved toward Harry for the kiss that she could see he wanted so much. She wanted it too, and it was for that reason that she took his hand again, and set it down gently on the bench between them. Firmly and clearly, she said, "Not yet, Harry."
Harry felt a door close, and he released the breath that he'd been holding for the last few minutes. Not yet. But she had said she loved him, although he'd already known it. And he had said what he needed to say to her. Now, he would wait. He knew now that it wasn't an issue of how she felt, it was an issue of whether she could live with how she felt, and Harry was determined he would give her the room to find that out for herself.
He was glad she was going to see Isabelle. She was a woman with a very clear sense of the ways of the world, and she loved Ruth. Whatever Ruth decided, Harry wanted it to be clear. If she came back and said she could no longer work at MI5, he would find a place for her. If, in addition, too much had happened for her to be with Harry, he would hope to be her friend. If even that were impossible, he would try to hold the time they'd had together in his heart, gently, and with peace. But forgetting her was not an option. Ruth was a part of him, and always would be.
Harry looked over to her and could see that she had regained the armour that she'd let down for a short time. He promised himself he would keep his distance and let her leave with it intact.
"May I take you to the station?" Harry asked. He thought he knew the answer, and that Ruth would be stubborn about it, but he had to make the request.
"No, it'll be harder to leave if you do. I'll say goodbye to you here." She stood and picked up the carry-all that sat at her feet.
Harry stood too, and put his hands in his pockets. He felt the key there, the reason for this meeting. But so much more had been accomplished. And here they were again, standing by the water, saying goodbye. He smiled, and said, "Say hello to Isabelle from James, will you?"
Ruth smiled back at him. "I will."
"She made me promise her something, right after you went to Cyprus."
Ruth tilted her head slightly. "What?"
"I'd gone to tell her that you were safe, but that she needed to let you go, so that you could continue to be safe. She told me that she could see I felt that 'hope was lost', but she also said that she could still see us together. You and I."
Ruth exhaled softly, and looked down at her bag, but Harry could see she had a wistful smile on her face as she spoke, "She would say that."
Harry continued, "She said: 'So when this time is over, this time that you think will last forever, and you're back in each other's arms? You will come see me, and you will tell me your names.'" Harry spoke the words in a soft interpretation of Isabelle's accent, and Ruth smiled at the sound of it.
"Actually, I told her my name on the phone this morning," Ruth said. "It felt so good to do that. Shall I tell her yours, too?"
Harry looked deeply into Ruth's eyes, and spoke in a gentle, low voice. "That's not part of the promise. We need to be, as she says, 'back in each other's arms.'" Harry smiled, and said, "I have the feeling Isabelle is firm on the particulars of her promises."
Ruth gazed back at Harry, and a wave of love moved through her exhaustion and her anger, and instantly dissolved her armour. She dropped her carry-all and closed the short distance between them, and suddenly, her lips were on his.
Harry's lips - soft, yielding, full, and just as she remembered them. Just as she had imagined, night after night on Cyprus, and behind them was the passion of a year's separation. His arms were now tightly around her, his breath ragged, and a sound escaped from his throat, a cry of sorts, but one that melded into a sigh. He couldn't speak, but she heard his voice in her head, saying, softly, Ruth, my Ruth.
Harry had just been wondering if he would ever have Ruth in his arms again like this, or if he would have to make do with only memories of the soft feel of her cheek against his, and the warmth of her mouth. He was remembering Isabelle's words, this time that you think will last forever, and he was trying to imagine how he would live if that were true. And then, as if he'd dreamed it into reality, Ruth was here, as close as she could possibly be. Harry closed his eyes and could again see the gold light on her skin as she lay in the sheets in Bath, and he could hear her laugh, looking out at the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
They'd last kissed in Dover, in a goodbye. And although this was also meant to be goodbye, Harry and Ruth knew that it was a hello, a rescuing of something they'd feared was lost, a new discovery that when something is deep and genuine, and meant to be, it never really dies.
Ruth knew there were still so many questions to be answered - she had decisions to make, but a possibility opened up for her that they could answer the questions whilst still loving each other. Harry felt the shift in her, and a sort of tranquillity entered his heart, a sense that there were things to work out, but that none of them were a match for them when they stood together.
Ruth pulled away first, reluctantly, but Harry could see that her eyes were no longer tired, and the troubled frown had disappeared. He had no words to describe how he was feeling, so he stayed silent, but she could see the light film of tears in his eyes, and she smiled. She kissed him once more, lightly, and said, "I won't be long, I think. Just a few days." Ruth ran a finger tenderly across his lips, and said softly, "I love you, Harry."
Harry didn't know whether to trust his voice, but it emerged strong and clear. "And I love you, my Ruth."
Ruth stepped back, picked up her carry-all, and began to walk away.
Suddenly, Harry called out, "Ruth!"
She turned, and raised her eyebrows in a question.
"Tell Isabelle hello ... from Harry," he said, smiling.
Ruth waved slightly, saying, "I will!" It might have only been the wind, but Harry thought he heard her laugh as she rounded the corner.
~~~~~
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