"Hello?" she answers the phone somewhat groggily.
"Good evening, Ms," an unknown male voice replies. "I'm sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but I have a customer here who's had one too many and I'm trying to get him home. Could he be your husband by any chance? Your phone number's the first one on his speed dial."
"Husband?" she asks in surprise and almost tells the man that she's not married before her brain comes fully awake and she asks instead, "What does he look like?"
"About five ten, middle aged, balding, brown eyes and hair, dressed in a nice suit and tie," the man replies and then adds as an afterthought, "His name's Geoffrey... Barber, Baker, something like that. He has no ID on him, you see. No car keys either. Just cash and his phone."
One of Harry's legends she remembers as she suppresses the urge to ask the man why he didn't share this information first. "Butler. Yes, he's mine," she murmurs before she quickly realises what she's said and adds hurriedly, "I mean, I-"
"Well, would you like to come get him then, Ms?" the man interrupts. "It's past closing time see... Or I could put him in a cab?"
"A cab, please," she replies. She loves Harry dearly, but she's not up to driving through London to rescue him at close to one in the morning because he's decided to drown his sorrows tonight, even if she does feel somewhat guilty about that, knowing that one of his current sorrows is her refusal of his ill timed proposal. So instead she gives the barman her address and hangs up, getting out of bed, pulling on a loose fitting, warm jumper over her camisole, and slipping into her warm sheepskin slippers. She moves towards her bedroom door, pausing on the way to glance at herself in her full length mirror and deciding that she looks presentable enough in her black and white chequered pyjama bottoms and thick blue sweater. Then she quickly nips to the loo before she goes downstairs to make some tea and wait for Harry to arrive.
A good half hour later, she hears the light hoot of a car's horn, so she switches off the TV and peers through the window. A taxi's pulled up outside her home, and she watches as the driver gets out and makes his way to the back door of his cab before she releases the curtain and goes to the door. As she opens it, she sees the cabbie hauling a barely conscious Harry up the path to her house. "Evening, love," he pants. "Where do you want him?"
"On the settee will be fine, thanks," she murmurs and steps aside as the man drags Harry though the door, across the living room, and plonks him down on the sofa. Harry mumbles something incoherent before he lies down, struggling to lift his legs onto the sofa, and closes his eyes, falling asleep immediately. Meanwhile, the cabbie turns round and strides back to the door. "Thank you very much," Ruth smiles. "What do I owe you?"
"Forty two quid eighty, love," he replies as he stretches his back a little.
"Right," she murmurs, reaching into her purse and pulling out a fifty pound note. "Here," she says, handing it to him. "Keep the change."
"Thanks, love," he smiles and lifts his hand to touch his forehead in a rather old fashioned gesture of farewell for his age that makes her smile before he turns to leave, murmuring goodnight.
"Goodnight," she replies, closing and locking the door behind him before she puts her purse away and turns to look at Harry. He's snoring lightly as he lies along her sofa, his head bent awkwardly forward, chin pressed to his chest, one of his legs dangling off the settee, his other stretched out along it. "Oh, Harry," she sighs as she moves closer, stopping by his feet to pull off his shoes. As she undoes his laces and removes his shoes, she's surprised at how large his feet are and finds herself blushing furiously as she remembers what people say about the size of a man's feet before she swiftly pushes the thought aside and lifts both his legs onto the sofa, something that's not as easy as it looks. Then she picks up a cushion from the arm chair and lifts his head, placing the cushion carefully under it before she lowers it once more and steps back to look at him. He looks a little more comfortable now, she thinks, and he's lying on his side as close to the recovery position as she can get him, which eases her mind a little. Still, she needs to be sure that he'll be okay, so she leans over him and checks his pulse and breathing, making sure that neither is irregular or weak. Satisfied, she straightens up again, and noticing that his tie is still dangling loosely round his neck, she pulls it free, sliding it out from his collar and rolling it up before setting it aside on the coffee table.
"What on earth were you thinking, you stupid man?" she asks softly as she watches him for several moments. Then she sighs, picking up her mug and going to the kitchen where she gets a glass of water for him and a bucket from the broom cupboard and brings them back into the room. She sets the water on the coffee table and the bucket on the floor near his head before she crouches down beside him and runs her fingers gently through his hair. "Bucket's right here if you need it," she murmurs though she's sure he can't hear her. His face looks a little pale, but his breathing's still steady, and when she checks his pulse again, it's normal, which reassures her. She lets her eyes roam over his face lovingly, ignoring the strong smell of whisky that emanates from him as she drinks him in. She's never been this close to him before; not since that time on the docks when she'd kissed him goodbye all those years ago. But it hadn't been goodbye in the end, and despite what had happened when she'd returned, she's still grateful that she's back here with him, even if they've still not worked things out between them; she'd missed him so much while she'd been away. He's a bit like a bad penny, she thinks with a fond smile, he always turns up again, and she loves that about him. She hopes that she'll never be truly rid of him, no matter how exasperating he might be at times and how strained their relationship. "I do love you so very much, Harry Pearce," she whispers and presses her lips softly against his forehead. "Even when you do really stupid things, like propose out of the blue at a funeral, or get utterly wasted like this." She sighs and straightens up, grabbing the throw from the arm chair to her left and covering him before sliding her fingers through his thinning hair once more and murmuring, "Sweet dreams, Harry." Then she turns, and leaving the lamp in the corner of the room on in case he wakes up, she goes back upstairs.
She gets into bed, but she can't sleep, worried as she is about Harry, and after a few minutes of tossing and turning, she decides that she should stay with him, just in case he gets worse in the night and he needs to go into hospital. She remembers reading somewhere that alcohol continues to be absorbed from the stomach and intestines even after someone's stopped drinking and can rapidly lead to severe alcohol poisoning. She gets up and is about to go back downstairs when she hears Harry being sick. She winces in sympathy as she listens, feeling sorry for him though at the same time thinking that it serves him right; he really shouldn't have drunk quite so much alcohol tonight. She pulls her sweater and slippers back on and steps out of her room, stopping in front of the airing cupboard on the landing and pulling out two blankets before making her way downstairs to check on Harry.
He's sitting on the sofa, the bucket she'd put by his side cradled in his arms, his head hanging down over it, and he looks so very vulnerable that it makes her heart ache. "Harry?" she whispers softly as she enters the room.
He looks up, blinking at her in confusion as he asks incredulously, "Ruth?"
"Yes," she smiles as she walks towards him, realising that he's somewhat disoriented. "Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?"
He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't get a chance to, leaning over the bucket instead as he's sick again. "Oh, Harry," she sighs as she steps closer, dropping the blankets on the arm chair before taking a seat beside him and running a comforting hand across his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck and running her fingers through the curls at the nape of it. "How much did you have to drink?"
"I don't know," he murmurs quietly as he sets down the bucket between his legs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. She continues to rub his neck for several moments before reaching forward to pick up the glass from the table.
"Here, Harry," she says, rubbing his arm with her other hand to get his attention. "You need to get some fluids in you. We don't want you to get dehydrated."
He lifts his head and looks at her for several moments, his normally keen, intelligent eyes looking dull and bloodshot as he takes the glass she holds out to him, taking several greedy gulps of water. She watches him, puzzling over what it is about him being in such a state that she actually finds attractive and rather endearing. She's not usually this tolerant of men who choose to drink to the point of intoxication; in fact, she usually feels nothing but contempt for them. So what is it about Harry in this state that makes her want to take care of him instead of giving him a lecture and sending him on his way? Before she can find an answer to this question, Harry's drained the glass and he's looking at her again. She smiles and takes the glass from his hand as he murmurs his thanks before he turns away and, moving the bucket over, carefully attempts to stand, almost toppling forward.
"Sit down, Harry," she tells him, pulling him back onto the sofa. "If you pass out, you'll hurt yourself and there's no way I'll be able to get you back on the sofa. You're too heavy for me to lift."
"Ruth," he sighs, "I need to use the bathroom."
"Oh," she says, feeling her face heat up with embarrassment. Then she clears her throat and asks quietly, "Do you need to pee, Harry, or..." He turns to stare at her in disbelief, so she quickly adds, "because, if you do, you could... just use the bucket." She looks away quickly and gets up, saying, "I'll go make some tea," as she swiftly leaves the room.
As she's making the tea, she hears a few crashing noises coming from the other room mingled with quite a bit of colourful swearing and surmises that Harry's stubbornly attempting to reach the bathroom, so she shakes her head in quiet exasperation. She just hopes he's not trying to carry the bucket with him as she doesn't have much hope of him managing to get it there without spilling its contents all over the floor.
When it's ready, she takes the tea and a jug of water through to the sitting room where she finds Harry lying down on the sofa again, his right arm draped across his face, covering his eyes. As her eyes glide over him, she notices two things - that he's removed his jacket and that his trousers are undone. She freezes for a moment and her eyes dart back up to his face, but he doesn't stir so she assumes he's asleep, making her almost sigh with relief; this is embarrassing enough as it is without him being conscious. She swallows and looks down once more, but to her immense relief and, if she's honest, slight disappointment, she can only see a small triangle of the front of his maroon underwear and nothing more. The colour surprises her and she finds herself staring at his groin for longer than she should before she realises what she's doing and quickly looks up at this face, relieved to find him still sleeping. She hadn't really considered what colour underwear Harry might wear, but if she'd been asked, she'd have guessed something conservative, traditional, white, black or grey.
The man is just full of surprises, she thinks with a smile as she sets down the tray she's carrying on the coffee table and reaches for the bucket, carrying it carefully to the bathroom and emptying it in the toilet, glad to see that Harry must have given up the attempt to reach the loo and followed her advise. Poor man. He must have drunk close to a full bottle of whisky to get himself into this state. She rinses out the bucket with Dettol and takes it back to the sitting room, setting it on the floor beside him once more before picking up his jacket, folding it carefully, and draping it over the back of the sofa.
He doesn't look very comfortable lying like this and she wonders if she should offer him the spare bed upstairs, but then she quickly dismisses the idea, remembering that the poor man couldn't even make it to the bathroom. He's lying on his back and she wonders if she should rouse him and get him to lie on his side again, just in case, and after a brief internal debate, she decides that she'd rather be on the safe side, so she whispers his name as she runs her fingers through his hair again. "Harry? Wake up, Harry." He moans, so she reaches over and starts to pull his right shoulder towards her as she murmurs, "Come on, Harry. You need to roll onto your side." She tugs more firmly as he begins to stir, grabbing hold of a fistful of his shirt where it covers his shoulder and the belt loop near his right hip as she wills her eyes not to stray to his crotch again where his trousers are still gaping open. "Come on, Harry. That's it," she says instead, focusing her attention on his face, and with a little more encouragement, she succeeds in getting him to roll over onto his side. Then she grabs a couple of cushions, pushing them behind his back so that he can't roll back again, and bends his right knee, letting it rest in front of his left leg before she reaches for one of the blankets that she brought downstairs and carefully spreads it over him, tucking it between him and the back of the sofa so it doesn't slip off him in the night. She smooths it down, tucking it under his chin and running her fingers through his hair again before checking his breathing and pulse once more. Then she presses her lips softly against his forehead and pulls back, taking a seat in the arm chair and covering herself with the other blanket, before she picks up her book and tea and begins to read, feeling too wide awake to attempt to sleep right now, something she's not really looking forward to doing anyway as she'll have to do it in this arm chair.
She only manages to get through a couple of pages before her attention is drawn to Harry by a sound he makes, and as she raises her eyes to him again, she realises that he's actually crying. His body's shaking from his efforts to suppress his sobs so that he doesn't give himself away, but it's an utterly futile attempt. She stares at him in surprise for a few moments, her shock at seeing him break down like this rendering her both speechless and unable to move for several seconds. She's never seen him shed more than a couple of tears before and even then he's always blamed it on the wind or having something in his eye.
"Harry?" she whispers softly when she's recovered the use of her tongue as she gets up, setting aside her blanket, book and tea. "Harry? What is it? What's wrong?" She moves closer to him, watching as he lifts his hands to cover his face and struggles to turn onto his other side so that he's facing the back of the sofa. Clearly he doesn't want her to see him like this, but it goes against every one of her instincts to leave anyone alone when he's clearly so upset, especially someone as precious to her as Harry. So she pulls the cushions away from his back and waits until he's managed to turn around before she moves close, kneeling on the floor beside him and gently placing her hand against his back. He stiffens for a moment, but as she begins to slide her hand in circles across his back and shoulders, he relaxes somewhat though his chest continues to heave with his sobs and his body to shake uncontrollably. After several minutes, her knees get tired, so she sits down on the floor, pulling the blanket from the armchair around her, and continuing to run her hand up and down his back as she leans sideways against the sofa, her shoulder pressing lightly against his waist, and she begins to hum Greensleeves, an old folk song her mother used to sing to her when she was a child to help her go to sleep.
Initially, it's barely audible over Harry's sobs, but soon he begins to quieten as she suspects he strains to hear her quiet humming. When he's calmed completely, she pulls herself up and murmurs, "I'll go make us some tea, Harry." Then she places the box of tissues on the coffee table and the rubbish bin next to it on the floor before she leaves the room with their mugs, his still full and hers almost empty.
By the time she comes back, he's sitting up again, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed. "Here you go," she smiles as she sets down his mug on the tray on the coffee table. "Sweet chamomile tea to help settle your stomach."
"Why am I here, Ruth?" he asks abruptly as he opens his eyes, which are red rimmed and puffy from crying, to look at her.
"Well," she replies carefully, "the barman, from whichever bar you were in, called me. Apparently I'm the first person on your speed dial, and I told him to send you here in a cab."
He sighs and hangs his head for a moment before leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Ruth," he mumbles.
"It's okay, Harry," she replies. "Now drink your tea. It'll do you good. You need to get some fluids in you, or tomorrow morning, you're going to have the hangover from hell."
He reaches his hand forward and she notices that it's trembling, and apparently he does too because he pulls it back and rubs his face with it in frustration. "It's okay, Harry," she reassures him.
"It's not bloody okay, Ruth," he snaps suddenly, dropping his hands and lifting his eyes to glare at her. "Nothing is bloody okay any more. Perhaps it's never been okay; I've just been too stupid to notice, or too much of a coward to admit it."
"Harry," she begins in a soothing voice, "you're-"
"Don't tell me that I'm drunk or emotional again," he fumes as he sits back and continues to glare at her for several seconds before he demands, "Do you know what I did today, Ruth? Do you? I buried one of the finest, the brightest, the most talented officers I've ever worked with. Then I proposed and was rejected by the woman I have loved for so long that I can no longer remember a time when she wasn't the first person I thought of every morning and the last every night, and after that, I learnt of the betrayal of a man I respected and worked with closely for years. I learnt that he was the reason why my officer is dead, so I went to his home and watched him drink the poison that I gave him and die before my eyes, clutching at my shoes..." She watches him, her eyes filling with tears as she understands the enormity of what has happened to him today and feels her heart break for him. God, she'd been so selfish, so cruel in rejecting him like that. He'd taken her completely by surprise and she'd reacted with anger, without thinking it through properly. The least she could have done was explain herself to him, or even better, ask for some time to think about it. "So don't sit there and tell me that I'm overreacting, or I'm emotional and upset. I should bloody well hope I'm upset. Otherwise I should have been sent permanently to TRING long ago."
"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispers, lowering her gaze to the mug cradled in her hands for a moment before looking at him once more. His jaw is set and he's breathing heavily from the effort of holding onto his temper or his tears, she's not sure which. "Would you like me to leave?" she asks uncertainly, not quite knowing what to do right now.
He stares at her for several moments before he shrugs his shoulders and says in a defeated voice, "What the hell does it matter what I want, Ruth? It never seems to make any difference whatsoever to what actually happens..." He looks away for several moments before turning back to look at her and confessing, "Did you know that, when I was a boy, I wanted to work with horses? Become a jockey, a horse trainer, or a vet, anything really that would allow me to work with them. But that wasn't an acceptable career path for the son of a London banker. So I went to Oxford and read history instead, rebelling at every opportunity I got. Then Mum died..." He looks away, but not before she sees the raw emotion in his eyes and it makes her realise that he's probably never allowed himself to grieve properly for his mother and that perhaps he even feels responsible for her death in some way, and she suddenly understands him so much better than she's ever done before. He's silent for several moments before dropping his gaze to his hands and murmuring quietly, "And since then, everything I touch seems to fall apart, everyone I care about dies. Bill, Ben, Archie and Amanda, my little, god-daughter Lucy, Jo, Danny, Colin, Zaf, Adam and Fiona, and now, Ros...
"And do you know what the worst part of it is? It's that becoming a spy was never my ambition. It just happened and I went along with it. The story of my life really..." He shrugs and looks back up at her before adding, "Even you, Ruth... You were thrown into my path and I fell in love with you so gradually that I don't even remember the moment when it happened. But I didn't do anything about it until Juliet told me not to let the opportunity pass me by... So I didn't; I asked you out... But then you left; I lost you and I thought, 'Well, that's that then... Bloody typical'... But I loved you, so even that wasn't enough. So look what happened! You were brought back to watch your family be destroyed, your heart broken, your friends killed, and still you didn't seem to realise that it was all because of me, that it's all my fault. You seemed to care about me still, and it gave me hope that one day maybe we might..." He shakes his head sadly and looks down at his hands for several moments before he lifts his eyes to hers once more and says with feeling, "But the one time in my life when I reached for something I wanted, something I long for, when I reached for you, Ruth..." He stops speaking as tears begin to leak from behind his eyelids again and he shakes his head and brushes them away with his hand, lowering his gaze to his lap. "But after all, why should you be any different from anyone else?" he sighs in defeat. "They've all left me; why wouldn't you?"
"Harry," she whispers, her heart breaking. She's never seen him like this, so defeated, hopeless and helpless, and it scares her. What if she's finally broken him? How many rejections can a man take, after all? "I-"
"Go, Ruth," he interrupts. "Just go. Please." His voice breaks on the last word, and after a momentary hesitation, she quietly gets up and leaves the room, knowing that he won't be ready to listen to her until he's sober and feeling scared that, if she doesn't go, he might attempt to leave her house and she knows he's not well enough to do that now. She goes into the kitchen and sits down at the table, staring blankly into space, thinking, as tears quietly slide down her cheeks. She knows it's the alcohol talking, but it's pretty obvious that, though Harry wouldn't normally allow himself to dwell on such thoughts, they must cross his mind from time to time. And if she thinks about it, it makes sense that he would feel guilty and blame himself, just like she does, especially as he's been doing this for so much longer and has lost so many more people as a result. Poor Harry, she thinks as she recalls his words, his anguished sobs, his haunted eyes. She wonders if he's every cried like he did tonight, for twenty minutes straight. Somehow, she doubts it, and if he has, she's sure it hasn't happened very often. Poor man; poor, poor man.