A/N: This story provides an alternative ending to "The Virus" (Eps. 6.1 and 6.2), and whilst these episodes took place over a brief period of time, I have stretched that time, to enable certain events to occur.
It had been just over eight months now, and she felt stronger than she had in some time …... since she'd made the decision that she had to be the one to leave. She lived in a lovely city – Livorno – which to her felt small and safe and sequestered, after the rambling density and constant clamouring of London. She now thought of Livorno as her home. She had her own flat – in the older part of the city – and her own job – in one of the many contemporary art galleries which had sprung up in this port town. For the first time in just over eight months, she could walk the streets without worrying about the possibility that someone may emerge from the shadows, recognise her, and take her back to London, where she'd stand trial for a murder she didn't commit, but for which she will most likely be convicted.
She no longer cried herself to sleep, missing home, her friends, and the people she had worked with every day. Even her longing for one particular person had been pushed to the back of her mind, where images of her old life – her life before Cotterdam – now lay forgotten and unseen, under dust covers. Whenever she had indulged herself by thinking of him, she'd reminded herself that he had never been more than a dream – an aspiration of love in a world where loving another was dangerous, and for them, it had turned deadly. She had instructed herself that the madness which had overtaken her - the heat, the day-dreaming, the stirring - could not have been love, had never been love. It had been nothing more than a longing for something which was always going to be just beyond her reach - something someone like her would never have, could never have. She had heard this so often (inside her head, where most of her lengthy conversations took place) that she believed it. How could she possibly cry for something that had never been, and could never be?
Had anyone asked her, Ruth would have described herself as happy. She was happy. At least, she believed she was …... that was, until she turned on the TV in her bedsit, while she sat under the window which overlooked the very blue ocean, and saw a news report of a bomb exploding on a train on the outskirts of Tehran.
She had only just arrived home from her shift at the gallery, and over a cup of tea, she found herself staring at the screen, knowing that her former employers were somehow involved. A bomb on a train. In Iran. The newsreader talked of internal unrest, of sects and plots on the government from forces of dissent within the country. Ruth believed none of it. The whole thing smacked of secret service, and some instinct deep within told her that MI-5 were involved.
She'd gone to work the next day, and then the one after, her mind only partly on the job – her job being to collate stock, and update the gallery's website. Then on the Tuesday after work, as she prepared a pasta salad for her dinner, she listened to the TV, which was permanently tuned to BBC News.
"The death toll from the mysterious airborne virus has risen to 10, and health authorities have warned that should anyone suspect they have been exposed to the virus, they should immediately report their concerns to medical authorities."
`Mysterious airborne virus' …... What is happening in London?
"The Minister of Health has reported that there is no reason for panic. Exposure to the virus is only likely when direct contact is made with a person, or persons, who are symptomatic. Should contact occur, they should report to St Edwin's Hospital. Estimates place the number of infections in excess of 120."
Harry.
For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to think of him, to roll his name around inside her head, and then out of her mouth as a word spoken aloud into the air. Her mind ran away from her, seeing him sick and lying in hospital, a casualty of the virus. She saw him pale and sweating, his life force draining from him with every cough. She saw him dying alone, within a quarantined ward of a nameless hospital, his family and loved ones unable to be with him ….. with her unable to be with him.
Her fear for his safety gave her an idea.
On each of her two days off, she visited an internet café in the centre of the city. She had used it before, when she'd wished her internet activity to remain anonymous. She had even dated Sergio, the man who managed the café. He became her friend before they had a chance to become lovers, and so he allowed her to use a computer terminal for as long as she wished.
On the first day, she used some of her old back door tactics to look into the train bombing, and then she investigated the haemorrhagic virus which was killing British citizens. It was clear to her that the train bombing and the virus were linked, but if she could discover that in less than an hour, then Malcolm and Zaf and the others already knew.
On her second day, she visited the internet café in the morning, and managed to enter the MI-5 system, where she could only stay for a few minutes at a time, to avoid her access being discovered. What she found had her logging off, and then logging into another British system, equally as sensitive as MI-5, and possibly much more dangerous. She remained within that system longer than she'd planned, and what she found there confirmed her suspicions. She logged off the terminal, and then left the café through the back door, at the end of the corridor which ran past Sergio's office. Once outside, in a lane in which there were no CCTV cameras, she headed towards the busiest part of the city, where she could lose herself in the lunchtime crowd. Whilst browsing in a shop – one of those touristy places where visitors from other parts of the world purchased memorabilia – she bought four postcards, her reasons for buying them not altogether clear, even to her.
2 days later - Thames House, London:
"It was only for a few minutes, Malcolm," Jo said, her voice hushed, so no-one could overhear. "No more than three or four. That can only be one person."
"Have you traced the source?"
"It came from an internet café in Livorno, Italy. They didn't even try to hide themselves. It was as though they were happy enough for us to know."
Malcolm looked up into the young woman's eyes. "Spit it out, Jo."
"It has to be her, doesn't it? It has to be Ruth. We need to tell Harry."
"Leave it with me."
Malcolm then turned from her, and back to his monitor. Jo recognised dismissal when she saw it.
Soon after his brief conversation with Jo, Malcolm left Thames House. He needed thinking time. He needed to work out what to do, whom to tell. What he found when he arrived home took the decision out of his hands. He had left for work early that morning, before the morning post had arrived, and so when he opened his front door, he stepped over the usual pile of bills and advertising material. He bent to pick them up, when something stood out – a white envelope, with an Italian stamp.
He left the rest of the mail on the hall stand, and carried the Italian letter into the kitchen. His mother would have long ago retired to bed. Predictably, there was a plate of hot food in the warmer, but he'd leave that for the time being. He sat at the kitchen table, and turned the letter over in his hands. It was addressed to him. He recognised her writing. Of course, he could destroy it …... leave it unopened, and burn it in the sink, scattering the ashes in the soil under his roses. He wouldn't, of course. It was unlikely the letter was for him, and so was not his to destroy.
And he was right. He carefully opened the envelope, and inside was another, slightly smaller envelope, which was sealed, and addressed to Harry. She was being careful. How very like her to protect the man she loved in this way. He lifted the sealed enveloped from the larger one, and turning that over, he noticed that she had written her address on the back, along with her name – Daniela Moreno. That was a new identity, one he had not known about.
It was just after 10 pm when he rang Harry. Thirty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
Malcolm made them a pot of tea, while Harry retired to the den next to the kitchen, Ruth's letter in his hand. The small room next to the kitchen was Malcolm's – his personal sanctuary within the safety of his own home. His mother never entered, and he never invited her.
Malcolm dawdled over the tea-making, giving Harry time in which to read the letter from Ruth. When he entered the den, a tray between his hands, Harry was sitting back in his armchair, turning over a postcard between his fingers. Malcolm had poured them each a cup, and offered Harry a biscuit before his section head spoke.
"She's asked me to ring her," Harry said at last, looking up into the eyes of his host. Harry smiled, but it wasn't a terribly happy smile. "After all this time, she wants me to contact her. Malcolm …... I don't know if I can. I'd only just …..."
"What, Harry?"
"I'd only just …... closed all the doors to …... that, and now ….. this."
Malcolm sipped his tea, staring at the floor, noticing a speck of fluff on the dark carpet. He resisted the urge to get up from his chair, and remove it.
"Closed doors can always be opened," he said, hoping he didn't sound as pompous to Harry as he sounded inside his own head.
"Yes ... well ….. that goes without saying," Harry replied with barely suppressed irritation.
"I can always …..."
"What?"
"I can always put together a safe phone for you to use …... just in case."
"Just in case what, Malcolm?"
"Just in case your private phone calls are being monitored."
"I doubt anyone is still listening in. My private phone calls are …... few, and rather uninteresting to anyone other than me ….. and even then …..."
As was usual, the words Harry didn't say echoed louder between those four walls than the words he did.
Malcolm had already stood up, and unlocked a drawer in his desk, from which he retrieved a mobile phone. "Here's one I prepared earlier," he said wryly, handing the phone to Harry. "I have the number of this phone recorded, but it's best for everyone if I don't have Ruth's phone number."
Harry took the phone, turning it over in his hand, while he thought about it.
"Alright. I'll ring her …... in the morning. It's already too late to be ringing her tonight."
It was just after 6 the next morning that Harry dialled Ruth's number. As he waited for her to answer, he felt his heart pounding against his ribs. He was all at once nervous, elated, and terrified by the prospect of speaking to her. He had pushed her away – a distant memory of love not quite grasped, lost in the flurry of the attack on MI-5. He had believed himself, while not quite whole, to be well on the way to being mended. He had thought that he still functioned well …... or well enough. As he anxiously waited for her to pick up at her end, he knew he'd been kidding himself. He was still as broken as he'd been the day she'd left, the day she'd given up her life to save his own.
"Hello?"
Her voice – questioning, wary, frightened – brought it all tumbling back to him. With that one word, the wall he'd erected around himself, brick by loosened brick, crumbled and fell. That one word had wormed its way beneath his skin, to where the truth silently lay. The truth was he still loved her, and had missed her with every breath he'd taken since he'd watched her disappear from sight down the Thames.
"Daniela," he replied. "It's me."
"I know. I …... I hoped it would be you."