CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
Ruth leant her head against the cold car window and watched the rain. The sun was just making its descent, and it seemed fitting that everything was grey, chilled, and wet. She still felt the tears coming. They would rise and fill her eyes and then trace silently down her cheeks, until she brought her hand up again to wipe them away.
It wasn't lost on her that she had sat in just this way, not too long ago, with George driving the truck through the mountains of Cyprus. She had watched the rain then, too, as she'd cried about Harry. Ruth was now overwhelmed with the feeling that this would never be over, that she would spend her life leant against cold, wet windows with her tears mirroring the rain, crying over Harry Pearce. It filled her with a weariness that was beyond description.
She was glad that it was Ros who was driving her to the safe house, because Ros afforded her the quiet she craved. There were two people Ruth had to tell of George's death. One was Nico, and the other was Christina. How she would get through those conversations, in fact, how she would even begin them, was a mystery to Ruth. There was nothing she wanted more right now than to find a bottle of whatever gave Harry such welcome oblivion, crawl with it into a soft, warm bed, and pull the covers over her head.
It had only been this morning that she'd stood on the porch preparing the fish salad for their day at the beach. The thought brought a fresh wave of tears, and Ruth hardly acknowledged them. Finally, she simply put her sleeve up to her face, and allowed the moisture to collect there. This morning. Nico playing in the pool, and friendly, playful banter with George about the wine. A sunny day, full of promise.
This is all your fault, Harry. Mani's words wouldn't stop echoing in her ears. Ruth thought she would never be able to remember George's death without hearing those words following closely behind. It might as well have been Ruth saying them, rather than Amish Mani. It was what she had thought then, and it was what she was thinking now.
On some level, Ruth knew she was being terribly unfair. Harry hadn't pulled the trigger. Harry hadn't even given the order to do it. That was Mani. But none of this would have happened if it weren't for Harry. He was the common denominator in the whole bloody mess, so she blamed him. Along with herself, of course. Always herself. She would forever blame her need to have someone love her, no matter the cost. She had used George, pure and simple, and now he was dead. Perhaps, after all, she had pulled the trigger.
And what was worse, she still loved Harry with every shattered bit of the heart that beat in her aching chest. Well, I'll have to live with that, she thought, as another tear fell and spread into the cotton of her sleeve. But I can't be with him. Not anymore.
Loving Harry had somehow transformed in the last few hours into a further betrayal of George, a multiplying of her mistakes. She had not only brought George and Nico here to England where this tragedy had been played out, but she was still deeply in love with the man who was the cause of it. Ruth thought the only penance she could pay was to deny herself the pleasure of enjoying that love.
Those few moments in Harry's arms had confirmed one thing beyond a doubt. She could have stayed there forever, if her thoughts hadn't intruded. If the picture of George falling to his knees and then face down on the grass hadn't suddenly come to her mind - if she hadn't heard Nico's voice saying, "I want to go home" - if she hadn't seen Christina's face before her, stricken, questioning, accusing. Ruth would still be there, warm and safe in Harry's arms. It was the only place she truly wanted to be.
But it had felt so wrong for her to be with Harry, when her selfishness had changed the lives of others forever. So she'd pulled herself away from the only comfort she thought she would ever find, from her always-beloved Harry, and she'd stood alone, as she felt she must do from this day forward.
Looking out at rain-drenched London, Ruth wondered, if Harry's only sin had been the silence of the last year, the abandonment, could she have lived with that? Ruth closed her eyes and tried to imagine it, and her answer was Yes. If she put George and Nico and Christina aside, she might have forgiven him for leaving her to a new life on Cyprus. Now that she was here, back in his world, now that she'd read his eyes, she was beginning to understand why he might have done it.
In fact, what had happened today may have been exactly why Harry had chosen silence, because he'd always felt he put her in danger just by loving her. What she'd seen whilst they sat across from each other in that horrible room was how much Harry still cared for her. Had things been different, she might have listened to his reasons for letting her go, and she might have accepted that those reasons grew from love.
But now, it was too late. And on that thought, Ruth dissolved entirely into tears. She moved her head from the car window and leant forward, convulsing, into her hands. Ros turned to look at her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Ruth?" she said, gently, "Shall I pull over? Do you need some time?"
"No," Ruth said, her voice barely recognisable, "There's nothing you can do."
Ros sighed at the absolute despair she saw as Ruth choked the words out, her eyes filling yet again. "There's nothing anyone can do."
Harry turned and thanked Lucas for the ride, and nearly sleepwalked up the steps to his front door. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, a quick meal, a check on Scarlet and the cats, and then he would go back to the Grid for the day's final meeting in a couple of hours. He was utterly exhausted, but the team had so many questions, and after the energy they'd put forth and the great success of their efforts, they deserved to know what it had all been for.
Secretly, Harry hoped there would be a chance that he could see Ruth again tonight, but he understood that it was only a sliver of hope. He'd seen the look in her eyes as she'd walked away. Harry knew that if there was to be any road back to Ruth, it would be a very long one. He'd thought of nothing else in the car on the way home, and had promised himself that when he did see her, he would first ask what she wanted. And then he would do everything in his power to make that happen.
If she wanted to leave London, as he suspected she might, even if she wanted to disappear again, he would arrange it. He owed her that much, at least. He thought she might want to go back with Nico to live with her husband's family. Her husband. Ruth was now a widow. Harry thought again about the opportunities he'd had to marry her whilst she lived in Paris. And now, for the life of him, he couldn't recall what was so bloody important that he hadn't done it. It seemed that no matter how hard Harry tried to avoid it, life was shaping up to be a long series of regrets.
But he hoped with every fibre of his being that she would want to stay in London. That she would come back to work. When he'd spoken in German to Ruth, he'd recognised the same spark in her eyes that he'd seen so often. It was the look he'd seen after her confrontation of Angela Wells. Actually, it was the same look she'd worn during her first week on the Grid. He'd asked her then, incredulously, if she'd hacked into the French Security Services, and she'd looked back at him and said, "They do it to us, and we do it to them." It was the game she loved, the challenge, the pure logic of solutions that were evident to no one but Ruth.
Before the tragedy of this day became unbearable for her, whilst there was only the potential of terror, he'd seen that spark there. And he'd known that it was what had been missing in Ruth's life with George. Harry knew her so well, and if that longing for her former life was still there, if she still wanted it, he would find a way to clear her and get her back on the Grid. Or if that was too close to him, then with Six, or GCHQ, or wherever she wanted to be.
Harry would talk to Nicholas Blake and call in his laundry list of recent favours and grievances. The Opera with Blake's sister, for a start. And to finish, the alacrity with which the Home Secretary had assumed Harry was a traitor. Clearing Ruth was a simple matter of the destruction of a few bits of paper and the typing of a few characters on a computer. It was owed to Harry, and he would do whatever he needed to get it.
Harry took the key from his front door and walked into the hall. Scarlet, Fidget and Phoebe ran immediately to him, and the sudden assault on his nose reminded him that he'd shut off all their ways to the outside when he'd last been here two days ago. Harry sighed, remembering why. On the sofa was his carry-all, packed and ready to go. He'd been expecting to leave the Grid early, come home, and fly to Ruth. To sweep her off her feet and act the hero. He was almost tired enough to laugh at his own hubris, but not quite. Actually, the whole idea of it was near to breaking his heart.
Harry stooped down painfully to touch each one of the animals in turn. "Yes, I know, it was very bad of me to leave you girls alone like that...again..." he said softly. Fidget and Phoebe arched their backs and rubbed frantically back and forth against his legs, whilst Scarlet simply licked his hand and whimpered a bit. "I know ... and you must be hungry, and thirsty." Harry understood, as he felt the same. Four lost souls in need, he thought, standing to go to the kitchen.
The food and water bowls were empty, so he filled them, and watched for a moment as all three ate ravenously. He walked to the door leading out to the garden, and opened it wide to air out the room, before setting about cleaning up the inevitable mess. They seemed to have found a designated area near the pantry, so the task was soon finished.
Harry had pulled five bottles of water from the case outside the door at the warehouse, and had slowly finished them all on the way home, so his thirst had subsided, but now he was feeling a strange combination of hunger and nausea. He took a piece of bread from the breadbox and some slices of cheese from the refrigerator and, folding them together, began to nibble on them aimlessly. He wandered to the sofa and fell heavily into it so that he could sit whilst he ate.
His carry-all was next to him, and his arm went across it. And then he couldn't help opening it, pulling the zip quickly and reaching for the small heart-shaped box that he knew was just inside. Finishing the last of his makeshift sandwich, Harry ran his fingers across the already-filthy cotton of his shirt, and opened the box gently, reverently. Ruth's necklace and ring were there, as they had been since the day he'd retrieved them from her flat in Paris. As he was packing this bag two days ago, he'd dreamt he would soon be kissing the charms against her neck as he had on that nearly perfect day in Bath.
But now, Harry held the necklace up and studied it as he'd done so many times. The tiny H and R caught the light, reflecting it. Closing his eyes, Harry leant back on the sofa and released a long, ragged sigh. She'd been in his arms for only a few moments at the warehouse, but in that time it was as if every moment they'd ever shared together had been condensed, and played in fast forward through his head. The warmth of those memories seemed to have wrapped Harry and Ruth safely inside, and he could only think, She's home.
He was so tired now that he was afraid he would fall asleep on the sofa. He thought he should open his eyes, stand up, and take the carry-all to the bedroom and unpack it. But before he could move, a paralysing, overwhelming feeling of loneliness suddenly infused him. And brought on by his weariness, his despair, and how much he simply missed her, the tears began to slip from his closed eyes.
How long had he and his Ruth been fighting the tide? From the first day, it seemed. But Harry had never doubted that the prize would be worth the struggle. Now she was in London, physically near to him, but in every other way, she was further away from him than ever before.
And now, on top of everything else, George was standing between them, and Harry couldn't even challenge him for Ruth's love. Should he try, he would be literally confronting a ghost, a man Harry was afraid would grow in strength and stature with every passing day. George would be locked in Ruth's memory as the victim of a string of events that Harry put in motion. She must blame him, and indeed, after she'd pulled away from his embrace today, he'd seen it in her eyes.
As Harry held Ruth's necklace and cried, the three words she'd spoken to him were playing in an endless loop in his head. Not I love you, which is what he longed to hear her say. Instead, the three words he heard now were You heartless bastard.
As Malcolm saw the pool car drive up, he gave the driver his call sign, and received a nod. He opened the door at the curb and turned to Nico. "Back or front?" Nico took one look at the driver, who was a stranger to him, and he said softly, "Back," and then added, shyly, "With you."
Another new pull at his heart took Malcolm by surprise. He saw Nico for exactly what he was: scared, alone, a smart, intuitive boy with a sinking suspicion that something had gone terribly wrong in his life, something irrevocable. Malcolm suddenly realised that Nico had stopped asking about his father.
They drove directly to a new safe house that had been arranged by Jo, this time not a duplex in a high-rise, and not a family home with a yard. This was different from the other two places Nico had been taken, and Jo had chosen it precisely for that reason. A homey, two-storey building with flats.
Ros and Ruth pulled up to the safe house at virtually the same time as Nico and Malcolm. Nico sat forward, peering into the back seat of Ros' car, and Malcolm saw a moment of fear cross his face as he saw that his father wasn't with them. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, as he realised finally that George must be dead. Malcolm exhaled softly, and laid his hand protectively on Nico's shoulder. The boy looked up at him, and Malcolm opened the car door.
"Come on. Let's go inside," Malcolm said gently, pursing his lips. It's not my place to tell him, Malcolm thought, Not that I'd know the first thing to say.
Nico got out of the car as Ruth did, and he could see by her red-rimmed eyes and her flushed cheeks that she'd been crying, and probably had been for a long time. She put her arms out as he walked toward her, and he allowed her to hold him. He put his arms around her waist, and although he thought he already knew the answer, he asked the question. "Where's my dad?"
From the moment Nico had seen the gun at the safe house, he'd known, really. One minute his dad had been there, playing ball with him, and the next, he had disappeared from the house. Nico had asked Tarun where his father had gone, and had gotten only silence. Then he'd asked Malcolm, and the answer hadn't seemed quite right. When Malcolm had told him to close his eyes and describe his dog, Nico had seen the gun that was pointed at him, and he'd known.
He'd felt it, deep inside him. Nico couldn't put it into words, but wherever his dad had gone, he didn't think he was coming back.
Nico pulled away from Ruth and looked up into her eyes. The tears were rolling down her cheeks now, and Nico felt his own beginning to well up. He frowned, and asked again, and this time his fear was tinged with anger. He didn't think he was going to like what he was about to hear. "Where is he?"
Ruth put her hand on his cheek, gently, and said, "He's ... he's ... Oh, Nico, I'm so sorry." She tilted her head, and said, softly, "He's ... gone." And finally, she had to simply say it. "He ... died."
Ruth and Nico were still standing between the cars. Ruth had imagined them being inside when she gave this news to Nico, that it would be more controlled, more planned, but she hadn't bargained on the straightforward manner he would use to ask her where his father was. Of course it was his first question. It was the only question that mattered to him.
Malcolm stood on the other side of his car, and Ros was leant on the front of hers, turned away, trying to give them some privacy. Nico's arms were still around Ruth's waist, and she pulled him closer as he began to shudder. His voice was muffled, but now the anger was beginning to overtake the fear. "He didn't just die, they shot him, didn't they? The man who was going to shoot me?" He was crying now, and Ruth held him tightly.
"Yes," she said.
"Why?" Now the words lost their anger, and it was a little boy's voice, pleading for explanations, looking for answers where there were none. And then he said the words Ruth had been dreading. "Why did you bring us here?"
And as she heard those words, Ruth knew she'd been right. The steel of Mani's knife would have been far less painful.
"Gently!" Jo said, as the men lifted George's body from its resting place in the basement of the safe house. The blood had pooled around his head, and for a moment when Jo had first seen him, she'd been reminded of the video of Harry. Except the blood around George's head was his own, and George was dead.
Jo had asked to be with Ruth at the safe house, and at first, Ros had said yes. But Harry made it clear that retrieving George's body was critically important, so Jo was tapped to supervise the detail that was tasked to do it. Lucas was debriefing Libby McCall and managing the team at the warehouse, and Ros and Malcolm were with Ruth and her step-son. The whole team seemed to have come together to offer whatever comfort and support they could. And although Jo knew there wasn't really much to be done to make this easier on Ruth, all she could think to do to help was to ensure that George's body was handled with care and respect.
Jo thought that Ruth had probably already told the boy that George was dead. She tried to imagine how difficult it must have been for Ruth to put aside her own grief about her husband's death and tell a ten-year-old boy that he would never see his father again. As she gave the directions to take the body upstairs, Jo felt a tug at her heart.
She'd been surprised at the intensity of what she'd felt when Ruth had first come on the Grid. It had been as if there were a sort of telepathic language between the two women, both of whom had known the type of fear that Yalta and the Redbacks were capable of inflicting. Jo had been a true victim of it, Ruth a psychological one, but both types of fear were devastating. It had made them both strong, but strong in the way that the heavy furrows of scars can cover the tender skin below.
In those few moments of greeting, and in the spontaneous hug they'd shared, Jo had found she wanted to talk to Ruth about her experience, in a way she hadn't wanted to talk to anyone else. Of course, Ros had been through the same, or worse, but Ros didn't talk about things. Ros processed by steamrolling, silently, with a strength that Jo hadn't been able to find in herself.
But when Jo had looked at Ruth, she'd felt a sudden kinship, a sisterhood of sorts, and it had given her comfort. So in support, she was here, with George. Ruth's husband.
Jo looked at him, and before she could suppress it, the thought entered her head that, physically at least, he seemed utterly the opposite of Harry. Even after she learned that Ruth had died, Jo had always thought of Ruth and Harry together. That moment she'd seen in the hallway between them, when they were so clearly in love, had never quite left her memory.
Jo had joked about Zaf's book on Harry and Ruth's relationship, but she'd never forgotten that she was the one who had placed the tracker in Ruth's pocket. With that one innocent act, she'd set in motion a whole series of events that she'd believed had led to Ruth's death. And no one on the Grid could ignore the devastation Harry had been unable to hide in those last desperate days before, during, and right after Ruth's funeral.
But then, within a short time, Harry had seemed to find a sense of balance, a way of living with the loss of Ruth, and Jo thought he'd moved on. There were times when he seemed positively euphoric, on the Harry scale, and she'd wondered if he'd found a love to replace Ruth. But now, Jo finally understood.
Ruth had been alive, and Harry had known it. Jo smiled, thinking of Harry and Ruth sneaking around, finding ways to be together through insurmountable odds. But as she watched George's body being zipped into the black plastic body bag, she realised that somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong between Harry and Ruth.
Sometime in the ensuing years, they'd separated, grown apart, and Ruth had met and married George Constantinou. Jo found herself wanting to know the story, not out of any sense of wishing to pry, but because she somehow loved the idea of Harry and Ruth together. They'd always been of like mind, but the thought that they could truly love each other, and had done, even through Ruth's exile, gave Jo a sense of contentment that she couldn't quite pin down.
Jo looked up and into the eyes of the assisting officer, who had asked her a question, and she answered him. "Yes, the Morgue. Processed, and then held for transport, likely out of the country." She touched the black bag at the foot of the trolley. "Don't know about official ID. Tell them we'll sort that soon." Someone would have to identify the body before papers could be signed. It would have to be Ruth, or whatever family might come from Cyprus to take him home. One step at a time, Jo thought, sadly.
As they wheeled the trolley out, another officer walked up to Jo, and handed her a small carry-all. "This is all we found. The rest of the house is clean."
"Thanks," Jo said, "I'll just close things up." The officer left, and Jo sat down, wearily. She wanted to determine if this was George's bag or Ruth's, so she unzipped it and looked inside.
On the top was a pair of swim trunks, still slightly damp, that were obviously the boy's. They were wrapped in a towel, also damp. She set them aside. Then there was a small bundle that appeared to be made up of a man's dress shirt wrapped around some very fragrant shaving soap.
Jo took it out and was immediately reminded of Harry. From the times he'd leant over her at her desk or passed her in the hallway, she remembered the faint scent of what was now strongly assailing her senses as she drew the soap closer. And the shirt was English, soft and wrinkled from many washings. Jo would wager quite a lot that it was Harry's.
So Ruth had never forgotten him. Married, living far away, but even in her haste to escape the danger she'd described to them in the debrief, she'd been unwilling to leave this behind.
Jo sighed and stared out of the window into the grey rain. And all she could think was, What I wouldn't give to have a love like that.
Harry looked at himself in the mirror, and a small revelation came to him. He thought he looked vaguely like his own father had, the last time he'd visited. Old, tired, and worn out, with a sadness around the eyes that spoke of bitter disappointments. For a moment, standing still and looking into his own eyes, Harry felt a desire to ask his father if his life had contained the same missed opportunities, the same losses. How lonely he must have been after Mum died, Harry thought.
Shaking off the emotion that was dangerously close to the surface, Harry straightened his tie. He'd debated whether this meeting required coat and tie, and had decided he needed to project the image of a man who'd not been broken by recent events, although he had serious doubts about how intact he actually was. He'd chosen the red tie, bold, and bright. It also happened to be a favourite of Ruth's, and that choice was not made unconsciously.
One last brush through his hair, and he walked into the bedroom. He glanced at the heart-shaped box, back in its proper place at Ruth's side of the bed, and he went downstairs. Picking up his coat and keys, he bent down to rub Scarlet behind the ears. She was clearly not pleased that he was on his way out again, and he could practically read her thoughts from her face – How long this time?
Harry chuckled wearily, and spoke softly to her, "Not long, girl. No kidnappings or interrogations on the schedule." Then he added, sighing, "Please, God, only a couple of hours. Then I'll come home, and you can all sleep with me upstairs, if you'd like." Scarlet did like that prospect, and showed it with a vigorous wag of her tail. He gave her one last pat on the head, and let himself out of the house.
As he pulled out of the driveway, Harry called Ros. She picked up on the first ring, and he asked her, in as casual a tone as he could muster, how Ruth was doing.
"As well as can be expected," Ros said. "Malcolm is with her now, and we have surveillance in place. Clarke is going to stay the night there, just as a precaution. I'm on my way to meet Sarah Caulfield."
"That's good." Harry thought Amanda Clarke was an excellent choice, a strong female officer with a first-rate level head. And although he'd hoped for more details from Ros about Ruth's state of mind, Harry didn't show it. The name Caulfield, however, was somewhere in his memory, but he was having difficulty accessing it. "Who's Sarah Caulfield?"
Ros smiled. "Our new CIA liaison. Actually, she's in the process of replacing Libby McCall." Pausing, Ros formulated her words carefully. "There were certain ... erm ... promises made. In exchange for the information we needed to find out where you were."
Pausing, Harry allowed himself a small smile as well. "Promises it's likely I'd rather know nothing about?"
"I'd say that's a fair bet. In the same vein as my not needing to know where you actually hid the uranium."
Harry chuckled. "Yes, well, I suppose we should sit down and have a drink one of these days and give up our secrets." Harry's voice suddenly took on a decidedly exhausted tone. "But not tonight."
Ros took a breath, and said, quietly. "You okay, Harry?"
Sighing, Harry said, "Not entirely, but sufficiently. I suppose I like to know how things will turn out, and on this one, I'll admit I'm utterly at a loss."
"Meeting's not for an hour, Harry." Ros let the statement hang between them for a moment, and then said, "Walworth, Trafalgar." And then she simply rang off.
Harry took a deep breath. Ros had just given him the location of Ruth's safe house.
~~~~~
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
Ruth couldn't seem to sit still. Although she was completely bereft of energy, she found herself moving from table to chair and then to sofa, and finally, just giving up and pacing. Nico was down the hall, and Amanda Clarke sat outside his door, listening for any sounds. Ruth had sat on his bed stroking his hair until he'd stopped crying and had drifted off to sleep, exhausted.
Nico was still angry with her, but she was the only person he knew in London, aside from Emily, his mother. Once he'd calmed a bit, Ruth had asked him if he wanted to see her. Ruth didn't know where Emily lived, but she'd told him she would find her, if Nico wanted it. He had vehemently said, "No!" and Ruth had let it drop. In truth, his Aunt Christina was the only person Nico really wanted to see, and Ruth hadn't yet gotten up the nerve to call her.
And that was the reason for Ruth's pacing. She was trying to steel herself for the phone call she knew she had to make to Cyprus. When Jo had come by a bit earlier to bring her the carry-all from the safe house, she'd asked Ruth if there was anything she could do. Jo was very good at the "I'm sorry to inform you" calls, as she had a natural softness, a genuine compassion in her manner. For a fleeting moment, Ruth thought of asking her to make this call, but she knew that was only cowardice speaking. It would be wrong for anyone but Ruth to give this news to Christina.
So, with a promise that she would come to see Ruth tomorrow, Jo had gone back to the Grid for a meeting. Ruth had been very glad to see her, but she hadn't been up to conversation, or even basic politeness. Jo had said that it didn't matter, but Ruth had hugged her again, and had shown her to the door.
Going to the kitchen, Ruth filled and switched on the kettle. She braced herself for the wave of sentimentality that never failed to take hold of her at the memory of sweet tea. But this time, when the tea was ready, she stubbornly refused to sweeten it, and simply swirled some milk into the mug.
Her anger was serving nicely at keeping the memory of Harry at bay, so Ruth was holding tightly to it. She felt that once she made the call to Christina, she would simply fall into bed, as she longed for sleep. But no matter how hard she tried, Ruth couldn't seem to pick up the phone. Looking for any distraction, she'd passed by the carry-all, with the thought of opening it, no less than twenty times in her travels round the room. But she knew that it was the item within that she longed for, and she knew even better where it would take her mind and her heart. Finally, Ruth had to put the bag on the floor behind a chair, hidden from sight.
She walked down the hall and told Amanda that the kettle was ready if she wanted a cup of tea. Amanda looked gratefully at her, and whispered, "Would you mind?" Ruth smiled and shook her head, and took her place in the chair outside Nico's room. She sat and sipped her tea, glad for another reason to put off the inevitable for even a few minutes.
Ruth was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't hear the soft knock at the front door, and Amanda's surprised exclamation of, "Oh, Sir, please, come in."
When Ruth looked up, Harry was standing in the entrance to the hall, not five feet away from her.
Ruth's gasp was audible, and before she could prevent it, the mug had slipped from her fingers and had fallen to the carpet, causing a large dark starburst of black tea and milk around her feet. Ruth stood quickly, looking down, and without thinking, said angrily, "Cripes!" between her teeth.
Harry moved toward her, hoping to help, saying, "I'm sorry, oh, Christ, Ruth..." and she put her finger to her lips urgently. "Shhhhhh ... Nico! He's finally asleep." She took firm hold of Harry's arm and led him out into the lounge, and for a moment they stood, both clearly nervous, distressed, and exhausted.
Amanda stepped from the kitchen and felt the tension immediately. Ruth looked at Amanda, a bit lost, and finally said, "I spilled some tea in the hall. I'm so sorry, but could you ... "
"Absolutely. Of course," Amanda nodded as she spoke, grateful for the diversion. She got a towel from the kitchen and disappeared through the doorway toward the hall.
Suddenly Ruth realised that her hand was still on Harry's arm, and she pulled it away sharply, as if she were in danger of being burned by the very touch of him.
And she was in danger. There was a perceptible tingle in her fingers where they had just rested on his coat. Ruth thought she'd felt the heat of his body through three layers of material, although she knew that was impossible in the time she'd had her hand there. Her heart was pounding, and she was infuriated by the fact that she felt the tears threatening again. The last thing she wanted to do was cry, because she knew he would reach out to comfort her, and she couldn't bear it.
Even now, as she looked up at him, his eyes were soft, compassionate, open, and she felt herself falling. George had been dead for less than five hours, and she was falling into Harry's eyes again. The look he wore suddenly took her back to the hallway at Havensworth, but this time she had no stomach for pretending. She sighed heavily and whispered, so they wouldn't be heard, "I can't fight you tonight, Harry. I haven't the strength."
Softly, he said, "I don't want to fight. I only wanted to see if there was anything you needed."
She turned away from him, "Oh, God, please don't be kind, and tender and ... and, helpful!" Ruth walked to the wall and put her back to it. It was as far away as she could get from him.
Harry was unable to think of what to say, so he didn't answer. He simply stood, vaguely clenching and unclenching his fists, his mouth slightly open. Finally, he began to turn, saying quietly, almost to himself, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come ..."
Ruth shuddered slightly as he started to walk away, and she already felt the loss of him. She knew how it would feel when he'd gone and she was left here alone, wondering if she should have said or done something different. She knew she would miss him, that she would wish he would come back, so that she could touch him again. In the midst of her anger, the layers of emotions nearly crushed her as she saw his back retreating and the silence lengthened.
And in this moment, she remembered something that she hadn't thought about in a long while. Harry was the man she loved, the man she'd hoped to spend the rest of her life with, but beyond that, he'd been something else to her. He'd been her best friend, the person she'd most wanted to talk with about things that pleased or troubled her. For over six years, she'd found herself seeking his opinion on every subject under the sun. Harry had helped her to interpret her world in a new way. Until his silence had begun a year ago, he'd been the best friend imaginable.
And she thought about the call she had to make, and how she was dreading it. Without anger, Ruth said, "I have to call George's sister, Christina. I have to tell her ... that ... " The tears started to fall, and Ruth had no power to stop them. "I don't know how to do it ..."
Harry turned back. He was aching to go to her, to try to ease her pain, but he knew he should ask her permission first. "Can I come over there?" He reached his hand out slightly to her.
She shook her head and put her hand out as if he were already there, and she was keeping him at arm's length. "No. Please."
He pulled his hand back. "Do you want me to go?"
Ruth felt a massive weariness descend on her. It felt as if the push and pull of this love was going to kill her. Yes, she wanted him to go - nearly as much as she wanted him to stay. She wanted to hit him, to beat her fists against his chest, as desperately as she wanted to be held again, safe in his arms. And although she was exhausted and torn, Ruth knew that there were things that had to be said. If she didn't say them now, and firmly, these questions would never stop, and the opposing forces inside her would go on torturing her.
Ruth needed to think for a moment, so she said, quietly, "Not yet."
Harry stood absolutely still, barely breathing. He saw that Ruth's brow was furrowed, her lovely face so familiar, yet also so distant. He felt somehow that this moment could define who they were to be together from this day forward, and he wanted so desperately not to do or say the wrong thing. The sliver of hope began to grow in tiny increments with every moment that passed. He tried to push it down, fearing disappointment, but it wouldn't be suppressed.
Ruth looked up at him, and her tears had stopped. She spoke now almost through clenched teeth. "I'm so angry with you, Harry."
Harry controlled the emotion he was feeling, and said simply, "I know."
"There are some things I need to say to you." Instead of softening, her voice was taking on a harder edge. Harry felt a heat begin at the back of his neck under the velvet collar of his coat. He wished he could take the coat off, but was literally afraid to move for fear of breaking the moment. And another worry had begun in Harry's mind, a very practical one. The last thirty-six hours had taken their toll on his body, and they were beginning to collect dangerously in his head. Harry was actually feeling as if he might need to sit down.
Ruth had determined what she wanted to say. This has to end. "I'm not skilled enough at hiding my feelings from you, but I don't want you to think for a minute that things can go back to the way they were."
Harry's heart fell so quickly that he thought it must have made a sound. He wanted to respond, but he stood, silently, listening. There was a curious greyness around Ruth, a perimeter past which Harry couldn't quite see, except for a bright star or two. In his peripheral vision, he checked behind him, and, indeed, there was a chair there. He put a hand back and rested it there, just in case.
Ruth was drawing strength from her own words. It was as if she was closing doors on the rooms of her heart, shutting them away so that she wouldn't have to cope with them. And with each closing, it seemed as if her life was getting simpler, more manageable. She knew she was hurting Harry, and although it wasn't intentional, in her anger, it wasn't entirely unwelcome either.
"I think it's broken, Harry. Beyond repair, really." She felt another door slam shut. Ruth couldn't look at his face, so she studied her hands. She still had her back to the wall, and she was glad, because she suspected it was holding her upright. "I don't know what I'm going to do, but, yes, I do think you should go."
And that did it. Harry's legs felt as if they were made of building blocks that weren't quite squared, and he toppled roughly into the chair behind him with a sigh. Startled, her eyes met his, and she looked for a moment as if she might come across the room to him, but he put his hand up and shook his head slightly. "It's okay. I'm a bit ... tired."
"Do you want water ... or ... or tea?" Ruth realised she had just told him to go, and now she was offering beverages. She thought she really needed to practice making sense if she was going to do this with any semblance of dignity.
"No, thanks. I just need a minute." Harry looked at her, and searched her beautiful face. He was wondering if the hurt of hearing her say they were broken beyond repair was any greater than all the hurts that had come before. The night he'd thought she might be dead, or worse, at Juliet's hands. The day he'd ignored her letter from Cyprus, the one that pleaded with him to answer. Or the thousands of moments since, when he'd missed her so deeply that he'd thought he might not survive it.
Harry took a deep breath and felt his head clear. He placed his palm on the arm of the chair and pushed himself to a standing position, gaining his bearings.
"Harry ..." she said, looking worried, "Are you alright?"
"People keep asking me that," he said, smiling sadly. "Nothing wrong that a good night's sleep won't cure." Harry wanted it to sound offhand, but the voice inside his head was telling him, Everything's wrong, and sleep won't cure it, my Ruth. Suddenly, Harry thought of Phoebe and Fidget, curled on the bed, and he started to ask her, What about the girls? but he stopped himself. As he stared at her, he remembered that she'd just asked him to leave, and he nodded, saying, "I'll go."
And then he couldn't stop himself. Before he turned, his voice soft, Harry said, "I'm glad you're home, Ruth."
She looked back at him, and her eyes showed what the word meant to her. Home. Yes, London was her home. She felt it. But more than that, what she'd said to Harry long ago was still true. He was her home, and he always would be.
Ruth couldn't conceal what she was feeling, and as Harry saw it, he thought again that there might be a way back. His eyes blurred slightly, and he turned, not wanting her to see. Without looking at her again, he stepped out into the corridor.
Ruth watched as he closed the door behind him.
Malcolm arrived first on the Grid, and stepped through the doors. The sparse night crew was there, but they were spread throughout the offices and desks on the floor, so it seemed almost empty. For a moment he stood just inside, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. When he'd gone the opposite way through the doors earlier, he'd been almost entirely convinced it was the last time he would see this place.
Somehow, he'd managed to get Nico out of the safe house, and keep himself alive as well. It was the best of all possible outcomes, made all the more satisfying due to its statistical unlikelihood. The probability that one or the other of them would be killed had been very high, and Malcolm allowed a wry smile to curl his lips upward. Probabilities are not certainties. He was understandably pleased that his life, and Nico's, had fallen within the plus-or-minus factor of one-hundred percent.
But Malcolm's heart ached for the boy - for the loss of his father. Malcolm had never been a particularly easy crier, in fact, sentimentality often tended to send him in the other direction, into a sort of protective cynicism, or a black humour that he kept largely to himself. But as he'd watched Nico walk into Ruth's arms, and had heard his sobs, Malcolm had felt his throat constricting. Later, as the driver had brought him back to the Grid, Malcolm had held his hand to his cheek and peered out the window, aware that uncharacteristic tears were just an ounce of self-control away.
It was over now, and although hindsight could be constructive, Malcolm had no wish to wonder what would have happened if things had been different. Nico was safe in his bed, George's body was on its way to the morgue, and Malcolm was here, back to his job at MI5, and back to normal. Malcolm walked to his desk and sat down. As he booted up his computer, he watched the light come to the screen. Yes, normal, except for one little wrinkle.
Malcolm didn't make promises lightly. And he never made them unless there was a strong possibility that he would be able to keep them. In the heat of the moment, he'd made a promise. To God, to Sarah, and most of all, to himself. He'd been under duress, but he clearly remembered every part of the promise.
If I live through this, then I will find Sarah. I'll beg her to take me back, and we'll move to the sea, to Liverpool.
Malcolm entered his password, and then went straight to the "Sarah searches." It was the only personal folder that was on his work computer, and after pulling a memory stick from his briefcase, he copied the folder to it and deleted it from the hard drive.
I'll purchase a house on the water, with a spacious balcony and two chairs, side by side.
Working from the memory stick now, he clicked through the searches, but instead of his usual glancing to be sure there were no changes, Malcolm began a document outlining the name of the school where she worked and its address, her home address and phone number, her car licence plate, and anything else that he thought would come in handy. Then he removed the memory stick and placed it back into his briefcase.
We'll make our way, one by one, through every book we've ever wished to read, and in between, we'll talk.
Malcolm kept his files in immaculate order, so there wasn't much to be done, really. After the removal of Martin Wingate's email and the organisation of a few miscellaneous folders, the computer was ready to accept whomever might take his place. Malcolm leant back in his chair and surveyed his desktop. He thought they would get on just fine without him, and he could leave with a clear conscience. It crossed his mind that Ros and Lucas might get some young buck in, fresh from computer school, who could work twice as fast and three times as well.
I'll marry her, if she'll have me. And if her dream is different from mine, I'll follow her, wherever she wants to go.
Malcolm had to admit that the hardest part of leaving was Harry. They'd been side-by-side for so long, Harry might think he couldn't do without him, but Malcolm knew better. For years, Malcolm had watched "indispensible" people either walk away, be forced away, or be carried away from a life with MI5. And he'd watched the waters settle calmly into the hole that was created by their absence, until one would hardly know they'd been there.
Malcolm had no reason to believe it would be any different in his case. Harry would have an instance or two of missing him, and then the waters would settle. There was a bitter sweetness to that fact. As Malcolm looked around him, he thought he might find himself missing this place very much indeed. For all the frustrations, the loss, the fears, and the feelings of being ineffectual, Malcolm knew that this work did make a difference, and that for many years, he'd been surrounded by very good people.
And although Malcolm knew that he and Harry would always have a friendship that stood outside of MI5, he would miss working for, and with, Harry Pearce.
The doors opened, and Malcolm looked up to see Ros coming in, with Lucas not far behind. She was laughing about her meeting with Sarah Caulfield, "... And then she called us bastards. The girl has a bit of a mouth on her, hasn't she?"
Lucas grimaced, but he was smiling, too. "I think we can safely say I didn't start off on the right foot there. I'll have to think of some way to get back in her good graces."
Ros looked back at him. "Charm worked well."
Jo was next, and she stepped up behind Ros. "George Constantinou's body is now safely at the morgue. We'll need someone to provide ID."
Ros sighed. "I'd like to prevent Ruth from having to do it, if possible. Next of kin is an ex-wife in London, or a sister on Cyprus."
Jo nodded, "Yes, his sister, Christina. Ruth was going to call her tonight."
"Well, he's not going anywhere. We'll see how it plays out."
The doors opened again, and Harry walked onto the Grid. Ros thought he looked as exhausted and spent as she'd ever seen him, but she was very glad to be seeing him at all. He took the few steps to her, and said, "Pull the team together. Out here is fine. Five minutes."
Ruth picked up the phone again, but this time, she dialled. She looked at her watch. Eight-thirty here, six-thirty there. The phone rang three times, and a child's voice answered in Greek. Ruth responded, also in Greek, "Galen, it's Ruth. Is your mother there? I need to speak with her."
She could hear her voice shaking, but by now, it almost didn't matter. The discomfort of worrying about the call had surpassed whatever Ruth might think would happen. No matter what Christina said to her, it couldn't be worse than what she'd already told herself, ad infinitum.
Galen dropped the receiver loudly on the side table, and Ruth could imagine the scene as clearly as if she were there at the vineyard house. "Mana!" he yelled. To a muffled noise in the background, Galen shouted again. "EÃnai Ruth!"
A few moments passed, and then Ruth heard the receiver being picked up. Christina sounded relieved. "Ruth! We looked for you at the beach, and couldn't find you. Panos went up to the house and there was no one there, but it was wide open!" She laughed, "God, we thought you'd been taken by the gypsies! Are you home?"
Ruth paused, but then said, "No, Christina, I'm in London."
"London? What in hell are you ..." Christina stopped, and Ruth could almost hear the myriad scenarios running through her head. Christina's voice changed, went lower, and became measured, worried. "Are George and Nico with you? Ruth, tell me, are you alright?"
Ruth took a deep breath. "You need to sit down, Christina. I have ... "
"What's happened?" Now Christina sounded frightened. "Ruth, dear, what's going on? Is it Nico? What?"
"Not Nico. George." Ruth's voice faltered, but she managed to continue. "Christina, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry. It's my fault, all my fault." Finally, it simply had to be said. But now Ruth was crying, and the words were choked, broken, "George has died. He's dead, Christina."
A wail went up on the other end of the phone, and after a time of listening to Christina try to express what she'd heard, Panos came on the line. "We're coming there on the next flight, Ruth. Tell me where you are. And tell me exactly what has happened."
For a time, Harry sat in his office, staring out of the glass at the muted activity of the Grid beyond. He'd reached his limit of processing new information, and he recognised that he needed one healthy measure of single malt, and close on its heels, approximately a week's worth of sleep. But both would wait until he'd finished talking to the team.
Harry was thinking of the call that Ruth had said she needed to make, to tell her sister-in-law that George was dead. If Ruth had asked Harry to stay, he would still be there, offering whatever comfort or support to her that he could. As it was, all that was in his power to do was to close his eyes and try to imagine it going as well as possible. He'd certainly made enough of those calls to know that Ruth must be in terrible pain right now.
He stood, holding on to his desk for support. Harry knew this long day – these long days – were nearly over. Taking a deep breath, he straightened, and walked out to Ros' desk. They'd been watching him and waiting, and now Malcolm, Lucas and Jo made their way over to him.
Harry put his hands in his pockets, and took a breath. He wasn't certain what he wanted to say, but he started with what he felt was the most important. "I want you all to know how very proud and ... grateful ... I am for the work you did in my absence." He looked at each one of them in turn. "You most certainly saved my life. And Ruth's."
Harry wondered, as he gazed from one to the other, how much they all knew now about his relationship with Ruth. He saw something new in their eyes, something he hoped wasn't pity, but was more like empathy for the situation in which he found himself. Ros already knew, of course, as did Malcolm, and Harry felt no reluctance about the inclusion of Jo and Lucas.
It might have been that he was simply too tired to care, but he thought his wish to be a bit more open had more to do with the shared experience of today. He was grateful, intensely so, that Ruth's life had been saved, and only he and Ruth knew how close Mani's knife was to her throat when Lucas had burst in. They had all worked together as a true team, and Harry felt honoured to be a part of it. He was certain that the sentimentality of what he was feeling now had everything to do with his weakened state, but tonight he felt as if somehow he were standing amongst family. In the best sense of the word.
Ros asked, "How was Ruth when you left her?"
"She's ... distraught, confused, devastated, as I'm sure you and Malcolm saw her to be." Harry looked down and spoke softly, "She's very angry with me." He paused for just a moment, and then continued, "But she's reaching a level of acceptance, I think ... she's strong..." Harry's voice trailed off, and they waited in silence for him to finish his thought. After a moment, he said, "She was preparing herself to call her husband's sister, and of course, she's just told the boy that his father is dead."
They were all aware that Harry was close to collapse, but they could see how important it was for him to talk about this. Jo asked the question she'd wanted to ask Ruth. "Is she going home?"
Harry was standing very still, and he kept his eyes firmly on Jo's, but in truth, he was back with Ruth, less than an hour ago, as he'd told her he was glad she was here. As he answered Jo, Harry felt the warmth of Ruth's reaction to that one simple word. Leaving no room for discussion, Harry said, "She is home."
Lucas was remembering his first disoriented days back on the Grid, and wondered how Ruth would cope. "What will she do now?" he asked Harry.
"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. He wondered what Ruth would want to say if she were standing here with them, and he tried somehow to speak for her. "Ruth is only alive now because of the work you did here. I think when the grief is less raw ... she will remember that."
He couldn't think of anything else to say, and as his emotions were moving precariously close to the surface, Harry turned toward his office. No one needed to be told that the meeting was over.
After Harry had gone into his office, Lucas continued telling Ros about his debrief with Libby McCall, and she filled in the gaps for him of her meeting with Sarah. Jo began completing her paperwork for the Morgue.
Malcolm stood for a time, unnoticed by the others, with his mind far away. He thought it was time. It was really long past time for him to go. He looked around him at the young people who had such passion for what they were doing, and he was grateful to them, but his connection to the work seemed to fade even as he stood and watched.
He looked to where Tom once sat, then Danny, Zoe, and Ruth. To Zaf's desk, and Adam's, and finally, standing before him was Colin, his friend. His best friend, he had called him, and that he was. All gone, and if not entirely forgotten, at least they had been relegated to an honoured place in the past. He would be gone soon as well, and all he really hoped was to be thought of kindly.
Malcolm turned and followed Harry down the hall and into his office. Harry turned, slightly surprised, but was glad to see him. Malcolm repeated what Harry had just said. "Ruth's angry with you." It was a statement and a question at the same time.
Harry nodded, remembering. I'm so angry with you, Harry. Harry gave Malcolm the same answer he'd given her. "I know."
Malcolm wanted Harry to know that he'd made the correct decision with regard to the uranium. "You were right, though."
Harry was sceptical, but he appreciated Malcolm saying it. "Perhaps." With more conviction, Harry looked back at his old friend. "You saved the boy, though, Malcolm."
Malcolm knew it was true, and he thought it a perfect note on which to leave. So he took a deep breath and simply said it. "Harry, I want to retire."
"What?" Harry, turned. He knew he was having some difficulty tracking thoughts, but he was certain Malcolm had just said he wanted to retire.
His voice soft, Malcolm said, "I'm too old for this. I'm dog-tired, really." Malcolm spoke without guile or hidden meaning, and Harry could see that he was completely serious about what he was saying.
But hard as he tried, Harry couldn't imagine the Grid without Malcolm. "You can't retire." And suddenly, Harry remembered that just two days ago he, himself, was planning to leave the Grid for good. For Ruth. Harry tried to imagine what Malcolm's reason would be, so he asked him, "What ... what will you do?"
Malcolm laughed and shrugged. "I don't know. Read books somewhere near the sea. I'm ready, Harry. Please don't try and stop me. I want to go now, otherwise I'll change my mind."
Harry felt his weariness begin to overtake him again, as he sat down behind his desk. And now, Harry remembered his talk with Malcolm on the way to Liverpool, and most especially, he recalled the look on Malcolm's face when he'd talked about his Sarah. I walked out of her door all those years ago, and told her that I would always love her but that one day I would no longer love my job. That someday I would be back. She said she might not be there. I said I hoped she would be.
And Harry knew that Malcolm would find his way. He had a vision of him now, as he'd seen him when they'd visited Tom and Christine. Staring out at the sea with a book in his hands, filled with the contentment of a job well done, and fully deserving of the rest that comes with it.
"You've given such service." It was a statement, a fact, pure and simple, and Harry expressed it that way.
Malcolm gave a slight nod as acknowledgment. "Serving my country. In spite of everything that goes with it." If there were two people who knew what everything that goes with it entailed, it was Harry and Malcolm. Harry could only imagine what it had been like for Malcolm to experience the possibility of watching a boy like Nico die in front of him.
He'd saved a young life today, and for that, if for nothing else, Malcolm deserved his own life in return. Harry knew he could make this easy or difficult for Malcolm, and he made a decision to release him as gracefully as he possibly could. In any case, they were friends, and always would be. Harry had no doubt that there would be many more drives to Liverpool, and, wherever Malcolm decided to settle, perhaps Harry would occasionally join him for a visit and a good read by the sea.
Harry looked up at Malcolm, and nodded to him with a smile. Now that he was more used to the idea, Harry was actually rather enjoying the vision of Malcolm off the Grid. In truth, Harry was happy for him.
"Then go home, Malcolm. Go home and rest." He reached his hand out, and Malcolm shook it, gratefully. The two men allowed a moment of recognition to pass between them, of the friendship that existed beyond the work and beyond this building, and then Malcolm turned to go.
He'd gotten as far as the door when Harry called out his name. "Malcolm?"
Malcolm turned back, afraid that Harry was going to try to change his mind. Instead, without looking at him, Harry asked, softly, "Did you have a poem planned for my memorial service? I bet you did."
A smile passed quickly over Malcolm's lips, his eyes sparkling. Of course I did, you old dog. I've had it chosen for years, ready to pull out every time you've played the hero and gone foolishly where you shouldn't. But if you think I'll get maudlin now, you've another thought coming.
As he began to walk away, Malcolm said, still just on the verge of a smile, "But I'll never ... ever ... tell you what it was."
"Hmmm," Harry said, with a smile of his own. He was turning, finally, to say thank you to Malcolm, but when he looked in the doorway, his friend was gone.
Suddenly, Harry couldn't bear to think what that empty doorway signified, so he turned back toward the glass, and looked out at the Grid. Everything seemed normal. The night shift was moving quietly from task to task, Ros and Lucas were talking, and Jo was typing at her computer.
And now, Harry thought he deserved that drink. He poured one, walked to the window and took a welcome swallow. When he finished this drink, he would get in his car and go home. Home to the girls and to his empty bed. Back to the house that Ruth had called their home.
She was in London, right now, and he hoped, at peace. He wished for her sake that she was dreaming, and that the forgetfulness of sleep was giving her distance from this terrible day. Perhaps in the recesses of her memory, where there was no anger, she was dreaming of a time when she was happy with him, and the possibilities had been endless. Perhaps of a time on a grassy hill in Bath.
Through the glass, Harry watched as Malcolm finished up the last of his tasks at his desk. Malcolm made the final click of his mouse and waited until the screen on his computer went dark, and then he stood and stared at the blank screen for just a moment. Harry saw an enigmatic smile transform Malcolm's face, and he realised that his friend was content with his decision.
And Harry thought, That's all we can really ask for, isn't it? Peace with our decisions? Harry hoped, so fervently, that Ruth would find a way back to him. But in the end, Harry knew it was up to him to find his own peace.
~~~~~
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ONE
Christina and Panos arrived in London the next day on the earliest flight. They were understandably full of questions, but they received only the most cursory bits of information about George's death. They were told that he had died in an "unfortunate accident," and although Panos berated anyone and everyone he could find, they'd gotten nothing more than that.
At the end of two days, Christina and Panos would take George's body back to his beloved Polis, and be folded into the warmth of a large and sorrowful family. They buried George in the small Constantinou cemetery to the north of the vineyard, and then were slowly pulled back into the relentless needs of the wine and the grapes.
During the two days Panos and Christina spent in London, Ruth had only one quick phone call and one very short meeting with them. The phone call was to tell them how to arrange the retrieval of George's body from the Cypriot Embassy in London. The meeting, also at the Embassy, was where Ruth released Nico into the custody of his aunt and uncle.
Jo counselled Ruth to have no contact with Christina and Panos, and to let others handle the arrangements, but Ruth refused. At the very least, she felt she owed them a share of her grief. In the phone call, Christina begged Ruth to tell her what had happened to her brother, but all Ruth would say, all she could say, was that it was a terrible accident.
Once Christina realised she would get no more information, she refused any further conversation with Ruth. But there was still the matter of Nico. Ruth had no legal right to the boy, and in any case, he was still in a sort of shock and wanted badly to see his beloved Aunt Christina. Ruth wanted Nico to pass from her love to Christina's without strangers between, so on the day they arrived in London, she chose to take him to the Embassy herself, with Jo along as support.
Stepping into the wood-panelled room, Ruth swallowed hard. Panos and Christina stood opposite her, their arms locked in a united front, dressed darkly in intentional mourning, their faces grim. Their censure was so palpable that she had to work at keeping focused on them rather than letting her gaze drift anywhere else in the room. But she accepted the blame she saw in their eyes. Somehow, she needed the closure, and indeed, she seemed to need the final wave of guilt and grief they offered.
Ruth looked across at Christina's eyes, hoping to see some remnant of their time together, but there was nothing there. The warm friend of the vineyard was gone - as if that friend was also locked into the simple wooden casket that waited in another room. The Christina that stood in front of Ruth had red-rimmed eyes and a mouth as firm as steel, and appeared to be holding back an anger of monumental proportions. Christina's look was so clear in its accusation that no words were necessary.
Christina put out a hand silently, and beckoned Nico to come to her. Nico looked up at Ruth, and with tears in her eyes and her breath halting, Ruth opened her arms to him. He kept his eyes on her, and Ruth could see in them the loss of the life that George, Ruth and Nico had begun together. As he put his arms around her, Ruth thought that perhaps Nico had loved her just a bit, and another small crack made its way across her heart.
Ruth held Nico for just a moment longer than she intended, and she was immediately sorry, because she thought sadly that her last memory of Nico would be of him pulling away from her. He stepped back and looked at Ruth once more, then he walked to Christina, who put a protective arm around his shoulder.
Christina said only four words, her voice filled with contempt. "Now, leave us alone." Nico allowed himself one tiny wave and a tilt of his head, and then George's family was gone. The family that Ruth had learnt to think of as "her family" disappeared through the doorway, and Ruth simply stood looking at the empty place where they had been.
Jo spoke beside her, gently. "You handled that well, Ruth."
Ruth sighed and turned to her, "Thank you for being here. I'm not certain I could have gotten through this without you."
Jo said, "I've been honoured to do it, Ruth."
In silence, they walked back through the large black lacquered door to the street, but this time only two of them got into the car, as opposed to the three who had arrived in it. Jo asked the driver to take them back to the safe house, and as they pulled away, she asked Ruth, "Are you okay?"
Ruth turned and nodded, and even managed a weak smile. "I knew it would be hard, but it was inevitable." She looked out the window, and said, "I'm glad I did it, that I didn't leave it to someone else." She turned back to Jo and saw her look of concern. Reaching out to pat Jo's hand, Ruth said, "Really, I'm fine."
Ruth turned back to the window just as Jo's mobile rang.
Jo opened it, saying, "Yes?" She listened for a moment, her eyes focused straight ahead. "Yes, of course, I'll let you know."
Jo closed her phone and then paused for a moment before turning to Ruth. "Harry wants to talk to you. He was wondering if you'd be willing to meet him."
Ruth's heart jumped, and she marvelled again at the power Harry had over her. She hadn't spoken to him since the night she'd watched him walk out the door of the safe house. The ache of wanting him had become a sort of background noise in her life, except for a sharp pain now and then. Her anger with him was also a constant, and through the warring emotions, Ruth had been rather proud of her ability to get through the last two days without indulging her urge to see him again.
"What does he want to talk to me about?" Ruth knew she didn't really need to ask, and Jo's smile showed that she shared Ruth's understanding of that fact.
Ruth's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, as if she were going to say something, but then she stopped herself. Jo saw her discomfort, and finally broke the silence. "Ruth. About you and Harry? I think I know. You don't have to say anything now, although I'd be glad to listen if you want to tell me about it sometime."
Ruth sighed, and looked down at her hands. She'd kept the secret for so long, and now there didn't even seem to be a secret to keep anymore. But she was just vulnerable enough to know that her love for Harry was probably written clearly on her face. "Is it that obvious?"
Jo wanted to say that someone would have to be blind not to see it, but she decided to be a bit more tactful. "Perhaps not to everyone." Jo smiled, "I needed to find out whose carry-all it was at the safe house, so I looked inside."
For a moment, Ruth frowned, thinking, and then she said, softly, "Ah," which was quickly followed by a self-conscious smile, and a slight colouring of her cheeks. "I couldn't seem to let it go."
Jo said, "And that day in the hall? On the Grid? I really guessed then."
Suddenly, Jo's face turned serious. Ever since Jo had first seen Ruth, she'd known she would have to tell her, and now seemed to be the time. "I was the one who put the tracker in your coat pocket. I'm so sorry, Ruth. It was only meant to relieve some of the horrible depression of those days at work, but Ros saw you go to Maudsley's, and then ... "
Ruth squeezed Jo's hand to stop her, and said, shaking her head, "I knew. Harry told me. I've never blamed you for that, Jo. Never. That was a time that ... things spun out of control. It wasn't just one thing, it was as if the whole world was conspiring to ..."
"To separate you and Harry?" Jo said it so simply, and with such conviction, that Ruth heard the truth of it clearly, perhaps for the first time.
"Yes," Ruth said, and then laughed softly. "I suppose that sounds like a sort of delusion of grandeur, doesn't it? That the spinning world would stop its important business just to muck up one silly little romance?"
Jo smiled, "I would feel the same way, Ruth. And it's not silly. Now it all makes sense to me. Harry's moods, the whispered secrets, his meetings with Adam and Malcolm. Even Zaf." Jo's eyes clouded suddenly, and she looked out the car window. She spoke softly, as if she were far away. "I cared for him, you know?"
Ruth narrowed her eyes slightly, not wanting to assume anything. "Zaf? We all cared for him, Jo."
Jo turned. "No, I think I loved him. And I think he may have ... We were just on the verge ..." Jo's eyes filled now, and Ruth saw a pain there that she couldn't begin to describe.
Ruth put her hand on Jo's shoulder. "Oh, God, Jo. I'm so sorry." Ruth was suddenly filled with gratitude that Harry was alive, no matter what their relationship turned out to be. And again, she could see Zaf, sitting on the dock next to her, on that last grey day in London. I smile at every pretty woman I pass.
Regaining composure, Jo took a deep breath. "It's alright, really. It's slow going, but I'm getting through it." Her eyes took on an intensity as she looked at Ruth. "I can't change the fact that Zaf's gone, Ruth, but I do hate to see anyone turn their back on love that's offered."
Ruth's eyes widened for a moment, and then she looked away, and out her own window. "It's very complicated, Jo."
Jo smiled sadly. "Isn't it always? Just see him. What could it hurt?"
Ruth kept her eyes on the view outside, remembering how she'd felt two nights ago. It can hurt quite a lot, actually. But she also remembered how she'd worn her anger as a shield, and with the memory of having just said goodbye to Nico, and the look in Christina's eyes, Ruth thought her pain and anger were close enough to the surface to protect her. And, God help me, I do want to see him.
She turned to Jo and nodded. "Tell him yes." Then she added quickly, "But somewhere public, not inside."
Jo nodded, understanding. "The Millennium Bridge? Is that public enough for you?"
Ruth nodded. "Yes. When?"
Jo raised her eyebrows. "Now? He said as soon as possible."
Ruth took a deep breath. It has to happen sometime. Now is as good a time as any.
"Yes. Now."
Harry had waited as long as he possibly could. He didn't want to count the number of times he'd opened his mobile to call Jo, or how many times he'd wanted to find some pretence to bring her into his office. He'd longed to ask how Ruth was feeling, and to know what had happened with George's family.
But he hadn't called, and he hadn't asked. Harry had controlled his urges, reined in his questions, and poured his frustrations into his diary. Under normal circumstances, Harry would have felt justified in grilling his officers for detailed information regarding the aftermath of an operation, but he was determined not to use his position to pry into Ruth's life. He felt he'd already invaded her privacy enough as it was.
So he'd spent his time doing his job, as always. Harry got through the debrief with Dolby about Sarkiisian, Mani, and the uranium. He also tied up the loose ends regarding Connie and Qualtrough. So much had happened in such a short time, and none of the paperwork had been completed. Harry felt he'd spent the last few days wracking his brain for memories, reliving the horror, betrayal and heartbreak of the recent weeks in gruesome detail.
And against all odds, Harry had slept. He'd thought that he would be too anxious, too agitated about Ruth's return to sleep properly, but he'd underestimated his level of fatigue. For the last two nights, Harry had put his head on his pillow and surrendered himself to vivid dreams, full of sights and sounds that alternately soothed and confused him. Some were abstract renderings of Mani, Qualtrough and Sarkiisian- but there were a few dreams that were blessedly filled with the peace and comfort of Ruth's touch, her voice, and her loving presence.
Now Harry felt he had some decisions to make, and he'd managed to talk himself into believing that he needed to see Ruth in order to find out her plans. Of course, he knew that he could ask Jo to get the information he needed, but he set that thought aside because it would require telling Jo too much about his relationship with Ruth, breaking the confidentiality, the secret, they had established so long ago.
And Harry knew, on some level, that these thoughts were all part of an elaborate excuse. The unvarnished truth was that he longed for Ruth, for the sound and sight of her. It was a dull pain that never left him.
So, finally, he had called Jo. And now, Harry sat in his office on the Grid, waiting for an answer. Should Ruth say yes to a meeting, Harry had rehearsed what he would ask her. First, he would ask about her plans for the future, which would determine the rest of the questions. If she was going back to Cyprus or on to somewhere else, he would simply arrange whatever she wanted, and say goodbye with what he hoped would look something like dignity.
But if Ruth wanted to stay in London, there was the question of her house, which he hadn't yet sold and wanted to give back to her. There was also the question of the cats. He would, of course, send them to her, although he'd developed a grudgingly deep affection for the two maddening girls. Beyond domestic issues, there was the question of Ruth being cleared of guilt in Maudsley's death. And finally, the question of whether she had a desire to return to work at MI5.
Harry had promised himself he wouldn't ask Ruth about whatever feelings she still had, or didn't have, for him. In fact, he'd seen that she still loved him, but the more he contemplated it, the more he feared that too much had happened for their love to be salvaged. Ruth had said it was broken, and Harry was afraid that might be true.
Harry thought the best he could hope for was a friendship, and he loved Ruth so completely that he would count his blessings and accept whatever she might be willing to offer. These were all very rational thoughts, very mature and logical. Now, sitting at his desk, Harry put his head in his hands, aware that he had no idea if these thoughts had any basis in reality. He wouldn't really know how little of her he could accept, until he saw her again.
The ring of Harry's mobile startled him. With his elbows still leant on his desk, he looked at the screen. Jo Portman. His heart sped up, and he took a deep breath.
"Jo," he said, managing to keep his voice steady.
"She said yes. Millennium Bridge, north side, in half an hour? We're on our way now."
"Thank you, Jo." It wasn't just a thank you for the information, and Jo heard the depth of what he was feeling.
Harry closed his mobile and leant back in his chair, trying to calm his nerves. Every rational thought he'd had for the last few days had just disappeared with three words. She said yes. Suddenly he was as nervous as he'd been when he'd first asked her to dinner. As nervous as he'd felt when they'd driven to Bath, and as he'd been at Dover, waiting for her to arrive on the ferry.
Harry walked quickly out of his office, forgetting his coat. He stepped out of Thames House and felt the sun on his face, and he realised he wouldn't need it. It was a beautiful day. After three deep breaths, he turned toward the Millennium Bridge.
Ruth and Jo arrived first at the Bridge and stood looking out at the water. Ruth squinted against the sun reflecting off the river, and watched the crowds of people enjoying the warmth of the day after nearly a week of gloomy rain.
Jo could almost feel Ruth preparing herself to see Harry again. It was as if she was putting on armour, her frown deepening with every passing moment. She wanted to talk to Ruth, to ask her how she was feeling, but Ruth seemed to need privacy, so Jo stayed silent.
Finally, Ruth turned, and said "I don't know how long we'll be. I'm not sure what he wants to say to me."
Jo smiled. "That's alright. I'll wait here for you." Jo looked up at the sun, which brought on a bigger smile. "I've pulled worse duties, believe me."
Ruth smiled back at her, and then, over Jo's shoulder, she caught sight of Harry in the distance, walking toward them. Her smile faded, and as her heart began to race she forced herself to remember Nico at the Embassy, and the look in Christina's eyes. Jo saw the change in Ruth, and turned to where her eyes were focused. She saw Harry too, and when she turned back, Jo saw the complex blend of love, fear and anger that ran across Ruth's face.
Jo put a hand on her arm, gently. "Just listen to what he has to say."
"Yes. Yes, I'll do that." In Ruth's clipped tone, Jo could hear that the tug of war had been won by anger. She squeezed Ruth's arm once, and then stepped aside, leaving her alone at the rail.
Harry walked up to Ruth, and after two days of planning, he was tongue-tied. She didn't turn to look at him, although he stood only a few feet from her. "Hello," he said, somewhat hoarsely, and cleared his throat.
Finally, she turned. Ruth thought he looked nervous, and that fact threatened her self-control more than anything he could have said. She steeled herself further. "Hello." Her voice came out with an icy tone that gave her courage. But she was feeling decidedly more warmth than ice as she looked at him.
Since she'd been back in London, Ruth had only seen Harry in a broken, exhausted state, first in the warehouse, and then, still going on no sleep, at the safe house. Of course she had loved him then, but now he looked rested, his eyes bright, and she felt herself being pulled, magnetically attracted to him, and nearly unable to fight it. This was her compelling Harry, dressed in crisp, white shirt, and wearing the lovely silver-grey tie she had run through her fingers more than once.
Ruth longed to touch him, to rest her hand on his cheek, to lean up and kiss him. Every resolution she'd made was quickly vanishing. She turned back to face the river, to prevent him from looking too closely at her eyes and seeing her feelings laid out there.
In silence, Ruth tried to understand what was going on inside her. One part of her asked, What would happen if I simply let go and loved him? And the answer that came was inextricably wrapped up in the death of an innocent man, and her respect for his memory. It seemed every time Ruth imagined herself happy with Harry, George's face came into view, or worse, that horrible vision of him falling to his knees on the grass.
As Ruth looked out at the water, she began to understand. It had to do with her own idea of herself. She didn't want to think of herself as the type of person who could watch a man die - be the cause of it - and then move blithely on to happiness. And ironically, the pain of that understanding gave Ruth the edge she needed now, standing with Harry.
Ruth was determined to deny herself the happiness that might be offered, and the injustice of the position she was in brought her anger to the surface in a way nothing else could. As she stood with her hands gripping the rail, she felt it well up inside her, giving her strength.
Harry swallowed, and adjusted his tie slightly. After one quick glance, Ruth hadn't met his eyes again, and he could feel her putting distance between them. Perhaps if they weren't simply standing here, it would be easier. He tilted his head toward the Bridge. "Would you like to walk?"
Ruth welcomed the idea of movement, so she nodded to him, "Yes."
They walked up the incline in silence. Ruth could feel that Harry was struggling with how to begin. Finally, she simply asked him. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about, Harry?"
Harry began with what he'd rehearsed in his head, but it sounded stilted to him now, "I wanted to be certain that you were alright, that you had everything you needed ..." He was clearly grasping for words, and Ruth was determined not to help him.
She turned to look at him, her tone slightly sardonic, "Well, I don't suppose alright is the word I'd use to describe my current state of mind."
Harry shrugged apologetically, "No, not alright, of course not, I simply wanted to be certain you were getting on ... and that ... the boy ... your ... " Harry couldn't think how to ask Ruth what her plans were regarding the boy. And on top of it all, in his nervousness, Harry had suddenly forgotten his name.
Ruth pursed her lips. She was remembering what Harry had said to Mani. I won't tell you. And if I won't tell you now, killing the child is totally pointless. What would you have then? A dead child and no uranium. Yes, this was helping, Ruth thought, as she felt the distance increase further between her heart and Harry's.
"Nico," Ruth said flatly.
"Yes," Harry said, remembering now. Nico.
"His aunt came to take him home."
"But you're the... " Harry started to say, the boy's stepmother, but Ruth interrupted him.
"No, I'm not. I'm not anything, Harry." For a moment, Ruth wondered why Harry didn't already know these things, and then she realised that he must not have looked at the paperwork from the debrief she had done with Jo. If he had, he would know that she and George weren't married, and that she had no legal right to Nico. It was beginning to dawn on Ruth that perhaps Harry hadn't cared enough to look. His next question confirmed it.
Clearly confused, Harry said, "George was your husband."
And suddenly, Ruth thought, What have I been worried about? If he hasn't even checked to be sure George and I were married, how much could he actually care? My Harry wouldn't have been able to stop himself. No worry about keeping your heart protected, Ruth. Gratefully, she felt the armour fold around her, shielding her, and she was safe.
Now Ruth didn't need to force the coldness, as it came naturally. "We were never formally married. There was no ceremony. We talked about it, laughed about who we wouldn't invite."
Harry nearly stopped in his tracks. Not her husband? Not Ruth Constantinou. Not married. Still his Ruth, still married only to him. Harry felt an elation rise up in his chest that threatened to show itself in a smile, although he realised how very inappropriate that would be. We were never formally married.
In that one simple statement, Harry felt some hope return. She hadn't given that part of herself to George.
Harry was surprised that he was managing to keep his voice even. "Couldn't you go back?" What he really wanted to ask was if she wanted to go back.
With sarcasm dripping from her voice, Ruth asked, "What kind of a welcome party do you think they'll throw for me?" Ruth kept her eyes forward, and they walked in silence for a moment. Harry could hear that Ruth was still very angry with him, but her next statement was even worse. "You would have let him die." The accusation was made coldly, as a statement of fact, and she might as well have added what Harry heard in his head, You heartless bastard.
Harry looked away. He'd known this would come up with Ruth. Even when he'd challenged Mani about the boy, Harry had known that it would be the decision he would carry forever, no matter the outcome. How could he explain to Ruth that he'd seen not only Nico, but so many other children that would die?
Harry had thought that someday he would hear Ruth say those words, You would have let him die. But he'd thought it would be later, during a long discussion, at a time when he could defend himself in a relatively rational manner. Not here, not now, in their first real meeting since that terrible day.
Hoping she would let it go until later, Harry said, "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Ruth."
Ruth barely let him finish saying the words before she cut him off. "What are you asking for then?" The discussion had suddenly become too painful for her, especially hot on the heels of the goodbye she had just said to Nico. Harry was offering no explanations, no sharing of her grief, and he hadn't even taken the time to find out that she and George weren't married, for God's sake. Ruth allowed herself the pettiness of thinking that he must have been too busy with his all-important job. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever will.
Harry knew that this was going very badly, but he couldn't seem to put the train back on the rails. He took a breath, and said, as calmly as he could, "I came to tell you that..." He thought frantically, What was it I wanted to say? That I want to help her. That I will do anything for her. She's not going back to Cyprus, so that means she's staying here. Harry finally managed to finish the sentence, "I will sort something out for you."
Ruth's sarcastic tone was back. "Sort something out?"
First things, first. Harry had to get her name cleared. "With regard to your ... status in this country."
Her words clipped, Ruth said, "You have a knighthood, Harry and ... er ... I'm dead. There's our status."
All Harry could think of was to continue with what he'd practiced in his head, step by step. First, clear her name, then a job. He spoke faster, wanting to be sure he said it all, "I want to make it better. And if you need work ... "
"Oh, God." Ruth actually laughed, but not a laugh with any mirth in it. She managed to fill her exclamation with ridicule, as if what Harry was saying was absurd, and that's what she was feeling. He'd dropped her on an island, left her completely alone, and he didn't think she knew how to get a bloody job for herself? Ruth turned away from him, and as she did, she suddenly felt him grab hold of her arm, not roughly, but firmly.
Harry pulled her round so that she was facing him. He knew he'd said the wrong thing. Now, all he could do was to try to salvage this conversation, to calm her down so that she could hear what he really wanted to say. And what he wanted most to express to her was that he loved her, more dearly than ever, and would do whatever she wanted him to, if she would only tell him.
But they stood in the middle of a bridge that was filled with people. Harry spoke passionately, but almost in a whisper, "Ruth, I'm trying! I'm trying. With all my limitations, which you know better than anybody."
He could see almost immediately that she wasn't having any of it. Her words were cold, and full of frustration. "Yes. Yes, well, you know, thanks for that. Thanks for trying." And with that, she turned on her heel and continued walking. For a moment, Harry thought of going after her, but he knew Ruth well enough to know that this was not the time or the place. He could only hope that there would be another time, and another place, when he could express himself more clearly, and she would listen.
Harry watched Ruth, her pace quick and her coat flapping in the wind off the water. The ache in his heart had subsided for just a bit as they'd walked together, but now it was beginning again, in earnest. He watched her, as he had watched her step onto the boat after she'd kissed him goodbye on her way to Paris, and then again, in Dover.
Harry released a heavy sigh as his shoulders dropped in resignation. He stood for just a little longer, gazing at the lovely figure as it grew smaller in the distance. Hers was a stride that was sure, confident, and very much Ruth. He loved watching her walk.
But Harry wished he wasn't always watching Ruth walk away.
~~~~~
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