A/N – I have no idea where this came from – just a little idea that I had, which trickled on into something much bigger than the drabble it was intended to be. Anyway, around two years after Ruth's faked death, Harry goes to an old friend's funeral and has a drink with his ex-wife. As this is primarily a character piece on Harry, I tried to keep everything as canon as I could. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.
–Silver
ps - reposted with corrections. Thank you NatesDate... I always was terrible at keeping my timelines in order! =)
.
Intricacies of Life
.
Harry drove north along the coast, trying to keep his mind off of what might be happening at work, without him. Disaster, chaos, utter mayhem, under the command of a wrathful Ros Myers. It was silly of him to worry, he knew. Ros was a more than capable Section Chief and the rest of the team knew what they were doing. The Security Service had muddled along for years before he had joined, Harry reminded himself. The security of the nation did not rest on his shoulders alone. The world would not end simply because the great Sir Harry Pearce decided to take a personal day.
Truth be told, the only reason he had taken the time off was because he absolutely had to. His reason, the funeral of an old friend – a friend from before he was Sir Harry Pearce, defender of the realm. Harry had met John when he was a young man, at University in Oxford. They had gone on to attend Sandhurst at the same time. He had even been best man at Harry and Jane's wedding. They had kept touch, over the years, though sporadically. A call here, a letter on his birthday, a card at Christmas; neither had been much for writing, but they made the effort.
Learning of his death had been unsettling. Mortality checks came often, on the Grid, but this was a mortality check of a more personal nature. John had been only a year or two older than Harry and he had died of a heart attack, alone in his house, glass of whiskey in hand. If fate sent clearer warnings, Harry was yet to hear of them.
Pulling off the main road and into a small town, Harry wound his way down to where the church sat, nestled. The village, where John had spent his last twenty years, was not what Harry had expected. John had liked fast cars and rock climbing, adrenaline sports and chasing women. The village seemed uncharacteristically tranquil. The houses were small and squat, some with thatched roofs and most with fenced gardens. Everything was neat and quiet, idyllic even.
Harry found the churchyard and parked down the street, stepping out the car and gazing around himself for a few long moments before locking it and walking up towards the church. He was not looking forwards to the service – and not, primarily, because it would mean facing the reality of John's demise. Over the last few years, they had only seen one another twice, when John was in London, on business. While news of his death had saddened Harry and made him feel very old, it had not stung as much as he had expected. Perhaps it was perspective, he thought, seeing Adam die so young and so violently. Or, perhaps, he was simply getting used to losing those around him. Whatever the reason, Harry doubted tears would come today. His stomach was filled with foreboding for another reason.
John had been godfather to his two children, which meant they and their mother would almost definitely be attending his funeral. Harry had not seen Catherine for nearly a year. He had not seen Graham for nearly five. And Jane...
The last time he and Jane had been in a room, without lawyers and security present, had been upwards of ten years ago. It had been a bitter argument, about Graham's latest drug-related conviction. Harry had demanded that she not bail him out. Let him learn a lesson, he had told her. He's your son, Jane had snapped back, you can't just lock us all away and pretend we don't exist – no matter how convenient that would be!
Harry knew he had been a shitty husband and an even worse father, but his ex-wife's words had still burned. They had not spoken since, except on the phone and through their solicitors. Harry was not looking forwards to seeing her today. The funeral would leave her emotional and when Jane was emotional, he usually bore the brunt of it. She was married now, however, with two stepchildren and a house in Hertfordshire. They had a Labrador, Harry remembered Catherine telling him, dimly. She was settled. Perhaps it would dull her rage towards him, somewhat. He could but hope.
Heaving a sigh, he made his way through the great double gates and on, into the churchyard.
The service was pleasant, quiet and understated in a way that John had never been, in life. It was presided over by a vicar so ancient that Harry half expected him to topple over at any minute and follow John into the grave. There were speeches and kind words and John's children each took the stand in the pulpit and said a few words. From the distance in their eyes, Harry expected they had not seen their father in near as long as he had. Still, it was something that they were prepared to give speeches. Harry doubted his own children would do him the honour.
Catherine had not come, but Harry saw that Graham was there, looking gaunter and more pallid than ever. He had taken a seat beside his mother, as far away from the pew where Harry was sitting as it was humanely possible to get. Harry felt the young man look over at him, once or twice, but did not try and initiate eye contact. This was not about them. This was about John. He would keep his head down and be gone as soon as it was appropriate. It was clear that he had no friends left here. Even John's ex-wife and children looked at him like he was a stranger.
When the vicar finished, a hymn played and the family trailed outside to the gravesite. Harry remained in the foyer of the church, admiring the stained glass window and hoping against hope that nobody would recognise him.
Too late, he noticed Jane and Graham making their way towards him.
A flutter of anxiety built up in his stomach and he turned on the spot, to face them. The boy – or man, really, now – was taller than his mother by half a head. Harry wondered whether they would be of a height, if he stepped closer. Probably, he thought. Graham was very thin, however. The suit he was wearing for the occasion was hanging off him like a scarecrow's garb. Whatever the history between them, they were still father and son and seeing Graham so malnourished sent a strange twist of hurt through Harry's stomach. This was not the boy he remembered, who played soldiers in the garden, who backed him up against Jane when they came back soaking wet and covered in mud. This young man was a stranger to him. A stranger with his eyes.
Jane turned and murmured something to their son as they drew nearer, which Harry assumed must have been about him. As soon as her lips moved, Graham shook his head vigorously and then, throwing one last dark look at Harry, peeled off in the other direction, towards the exit. Harry saw Jane sigh.
No hope of truce, then, thought Harry as he watched him go. Some part of him wanted to pick up his feet and run after Graham, to catch the boy and shake him about the shoulders and scream at him for wasting his life – while simultaneously begging for another chance. The other part of him whispered that the very idea was folly. Let him walk away, Harry told himself. It's too old to offer advice on his life, now, and Catherine says he's been sober and clean for more than six months. He is doing fine, now, and will be better off if you just leave him be. If you offer anything, now, you will only end up disappointing him again.
With that bitter thought, he let his eyes follow Graham out the front door of the church. They did not move from the heavy oak doors until he heard a cough at his left shoulder and turned back around to find Jane standing there. Much to Harry's surprise, there was no hostility in her eyes.
"How did you find it?" she asked in greeting, motioning towards the church hall. Her tone was one of mild sarcasm. She hated funerals, Harry knew. She was only here for John's ex and his children. "The service," she clarified, when he did not immediately reply.
"Very..." Harry trailed off then forced himself to fill in the gap with what she was expecting to hear. "It was fitting."
"Fitting," Jane nodded to herself and looked down at the floor, smothering a strange half-smile. "How very you, Harry."
She had aged, over the last ten years, but Harry was surprised at how few lines adorned her face. She was still a beautiful woman. They had both been beautiful, once, he reminded himself. Time had been rather harsher on him than her, however. Tall and slender, Jane still moved with relative grace. She dressed a little more moderately, now, though maybe that was because they were at a funeral. Her hair was dyed blonde, Harry noted, picking out the roots. She probably started dying it the moment she found her first grey.
As his eyes trailed over her, he wondered if Jane was appraising him, so. If she was, he thought, he would be coming rather worse off. He was more battered, wrinkled, scarred and tired-looking than Jane probably would have expected. Rather uncharacteristically, however, she did not mention it. The old Jane would have, Harry thought, trying to read the emotion behind her eyes. What was her game, today? They had not talked in ten years. Was she really going to lay down the white flag over John's death? Harry had not known his old friend had meant so much to her.
Jane fiddled with the hem of her skirt, arranging it against her leg more demurely.
Harry shifted on the spot.
"Catherine didn't come, then?" he commented, softly.
Jane shook her head. "She's in Israel, with her fiancée."
"I know," Harry told her, a tad quickly. He wanted her to know that he and Catherine were still in contact. Somehow, it felt important. "She rung to tell me about the engagement last month."
For a moment, a strange look of sympathy crossed Jane's face, and then she cleared her throat and set her jaw again.
"Are you going to the wake?" she asked, and Harry was glad that she did not continue to talk about their children. He did not think he could take talking about Graham, right now, not after the boy had so blatantly repudiated him.
He shook his head, in response to his ex wife's question.
"I have to head back down to London, I'm afraid."
"Work?" Jane asked, her expression knowing.
"Work," Harry confirmed.
They stood in silence for a while, and then she sighed and asked something which caught Harry completely by surprise.
"Would you like to get a drink, first?"
He had to blink twice to make sure he had heard her. A drink? Would he like to get a drink? The idea itself was confusing. They had not had a quiet drink together since the early years of their marriage, when things had been less icy and there had been less ammunition to throw at each other, should it descend into an argument. Harry let his eyes trail over Jane's face, shoulder-length blonde hair and dark grey eyes. She had not changed so much that he could not read her expressions and the only expression he found there, now, was sincerity. Still, he hesitated before replying.
"If you're too busy, its fine," Jane interjected quickly. "I can go myself, sit in the corner with a gin in my hand and reminisce about the better days."
The idea made Harry smile, just a little and the strangeness of the situation compounded. He and Jane having a civil conversation. She had asked him for a drink and made a joke. Things had not been this amiable between them for nearly twenty years.
"I just thought you might like the company," she explained, then nodded and made as if to step away. "It's okay, though. It was good to see you, Harry."
"Jane, I would."
Both of them startled at his reply. Perhaps she had expected him to say no, Harry thought, as Jane watched him, wordlessly. Perhaps that was why she asked. They stood for another moment and he considered finishing off his comment with 'but I'd really better go', and let her off the hook. For some reason, however, he held his tongue. Truthfully, it had been a long time since he had experienced human contact on any level, besides his life on the Grid. Jane and he might not be on the best terms, now, but they had been together, once upon a time. A drink would be nice, for old times' sake.
"I'd like a drink," he told her, feeling slightly embarrassed by her scrutiny, despite them having seen everything each other had to offer – a thousand times over.
Jane nodded.
"Okay. Um," she looked about herself, as if searching for one then and there.
"Pub?" Harry offered, to help her out.
She shook her head. "There's a nice bar restaurant at my hotel. It's not too far."
A hotel was good, thought Harry, plenty of exits to escape through, should this become violent.
"Okay," he nodded, "I'll buy, then."
That broke her surprised expression and brought a tiny smile to her lips. "Of course you will, Harry. You might have been a philandering liar, but you were ever the gentleman. It's probably why I stuck with you so long."
He had absolutely nothing to say to that, so the pair of them headed out, through the church doors, into the early evening sun.
The bar of the hotel turned out to be relatively pleasant – much more so than Harry had been expecting.
"It's cheap and anonymous," Jane had told him, as they entered through the front doors. "I thought you would approve."
Despite the bite intended in her statement, he found he did approve. They had driven there separately, to avoid one having to drive the other back to the churchyard, should this descend into the mud-slinging that usually followed their 'conversations'. Harry had surprised himself on the way by not trying to talk his way out of the drink. When he had climbed into the car, at the church, he had thought he would get cold feet, halfway there. He had not, however. In fact, the prospect of a drink was getting more alluring by the minute.
And Jane did not seem quite as angry as she usually was. Or maybe, thought Harry, she was not angry all the time anymore. Ten years had passed, after all. She had changed, her life had changed. Plus, she was no longer married to him – a lying philanderer.
Harry sighed and leant forwards against the table.
They had chosen a seat at the far end of the bar restaurant, near the window, with their backs to the wall. Another thing Jane thought he would approve of, no doubt. She had held her tongue as they had sat down at it, however, and of that Harry was glad. Things felt surprisingly relaxed between them, but there was always the threat of what this could turn into, and he did not feel like he was ready for a fight, today. This was his day off from fighting, after all. He was here to lay a friend to rest.
"I think John would have approved," Jane pronounced, into the silence between them.
Harry looked over. She was swirling her gin and tonic in one hand, poking at the floating lime.
"He appreciated a good drink," she continued.
"And another good drink..." Harry nodded.
"...some marijuana and a good woman."
Very true, Harry thought, but didn't we all? They had been young and strong and beautiful, and thought themselves invincible because of it. They had smoked and fucked and drank like the kings in the poetry they read, in class. And then, one by one, life had caught hold of them and they had been forced to grow up. His and Jane's growing up had taken place on front of an altar – a make-do wedding, done in haste, to hide the swelling of her belly. He had been so scared she would run if she knew what he really was, what he really did, what man she had chosen to father her children.
"I think John would have approved," Harry nodded, looking down at the whiskey in his hand. "He hated churches, you know, and speeches."
A faint smile crossed Jane's lips. "Do you remember the time he tried to run for captain, of the college debating society? We went along and supported him, from the chairs. That terrible speech..."
Harry could not help but smile, too. "Yes, I think he lasted ten minutes, before we were all thrown out for being ridiculous."
Jane nodded, nostalgic smile widening.
"Yes, that's exactly what the Chair said." Lifting her chin, she summoned the same voice she had used as a twenty-something, to impersonate their Greek classics professor. "Leave this house of honour, you ridiculous children!"
Harry chuckled. "He always spoke as if he might be stuck in one of his epic poems."
"Well, we're all stuck in a story, Harry," Jane said, her voice slightly sad. "Just one we never get to read, ourselves."
A moment passed and Harry remembered that, while he had abandoned the literature they had studied at University, Jane had gone on to teach it. Perhaps life was a story, to her, he thought. Perhaps she still managed to see the imagery and tragic beauty, despite all the pain. He had never been able to see beyond the pain. So, he had immersed himself in it. Breaking away from philosophy, he turned the conversation back to John.
"There were four of us that night, weren't there?" he frowned, trying to remember. Faces he had though he would never forget were now as distant as the horizon. Frowning, he summoned his twenty year old face from amongst them and Jane's. "It was you, me, John and that girl he was dating... the tall one. What was her name?"
"Gabby? Angelique?" Jane frowned. "No..."
"Anna," Harry said, suddenly remembering.
"Anna, yes!" his ex laughed, her voice low and rich. It was the first genuine mirth Harry had heard, from her, in years. "God, I remember Anna."
Harry remembered Anna too. Tall, leggy blonde, almost as beautiful as his Jane had been.
He faltered, for a second, pulling himself back from his thoughts, and a strange rush of sadness flushed through him. She had not been 'his' Jane in years. He had destroyed what little there had been left of them, after general incompatibility had done its work. They had been so young when they married, he thought, they had hardly stood a chance. Twenty three and blindly naive of the world around them. They had wanted it to work and tried, so madly, for those first few years. And then he had gone abroad, spent more time away, and they had drifted apart – helped along the way by his sad parade of failings and affairs.
"Yes," he murmured, a tide of guilt washing through him, followed by a strange mix of want and shame. He was really very lonely. "We were all so young, weren't we?"
Jane nodded, eyes distant.
For a while, both of them just sat and sipped at their drinks. Outside the hotel window, the sun strayed behind the clouds and rain began to patter softly against the glass. Harry had heard, on the radio, that there was going to be a storm later tonight, due to the hot weather, but having seen the sun he had not paid the report any mind. He was reconsidering that, now, watching the dark anvil-shaped clouds gather in the distance. They were in a flat, up here, in the north of the country. You could see the storms brewing long before they hit.
There was some part of him – probably the part that had drawn him to literature and poetry, in his younger years – that made places like this call out to him. This was the land he was protecting. This was the land his father had come from and his father before him. Harry had been born, a squalling babe, not thirty miles from this place he now sat. It had been years since he had been back here.
Whiskey finished, he lay the glass down and turned to Jane, steering the conversation away from their past and onto less emotionally-charged topics.
"So, what are you doing with yourself, now?" he asked her softly. "Still working at the school?"
She had been an English teacher at the local Grammar when they had been married. Once she had moved out of London, she had taken up a similar post. He had not heard anything from Catherine to tell him that she had otherwise moved on.
"Well, I'm working at a different place, now," Jane answered. "When I married Robert, I moved through to Marlow, so the commute became completely unbearable." She swallowed down the last mouthful of her fin. "Anyway, the place I'm at now is lovely, not a thirty minute drive from my house and its high up in the league tables. I'm Head of the English department," she told him, with a hint of pride.
She was not his Jane anymore, but Harry felt just a little proud for her too. They were both Head of Sections, now, he thought with a smile. Still, he doubted she worked sixteen hour days and sometimes slept in her office.
"What about you?" she asked, turning the subject away from herself in a way she was so good at.
"Still at Thames House," he told her, eyes travelling over her face as she absorbed the information. She had filed for divorce the day he decided to take the position he now held. It had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Still, there was no anger in her eyes as she nodded, to his reply. Seemingly, she did not begrudge him, which was strange, thought Harry. Usually, Jane was the first to begrudge.
"Still saving the world?" she asked, giving a little smile.
Though it was wry, it was a commendable effort. Harry met it with a similar smile and a shrug. "As best as I can."
"And I hear you're nobility, now."
Harry said nothing. The slight stirring of anxiety, which he had felt upon meeting her at the church, crawled back into his belly. It could only have been Catherine who told her, he thought to himself. Graham did not know and he could think of nobody else who they shared contact with. While Harry did not begrudge his daughter talking with her mother, he had secretly hoped she might hold that particular detail back. A knighthood might be useful, when he was throwing his weight around at work, but it was almost embarrassing in civilian life.
"Not really," he answered, diplomatically.
"Sir Harry," Jane murmured, watching him thoughtfully over the rim of her glass. "I like it. It suits you."
Harry gave a grunt and wrinkled his nose in her direction. Jane laughed. It was strange, he thought as he turned his eyes down to look at the whiskey tumbler in his palm, like the last twenty years of animosity had never happened. Apart from a few kinks in the conversation – when they strayed too close to their marriage, or Graham, as topics – things felt surprisingly easy. Then again, he reminded himself, they had been friends before they were lovers. They had known each other for three years, in fact, before she had pulled him into bed one dark, rainy night. She had always seen him this way, she had admitted, as they had entwined themselves inexpertly around one another. He had not, but he had lied at the time and said he had.
Perhaps that one lie set the foundations of their entire relationship, Harry would never know.
"Another drink?" he asked the woman across from him – this woman who was almost-Jane and, yet, an almost-stranger.
She nodded.
"Yes please."
They ordered another drink and Jane paid this time – insisting that if she did not, the barkeep might get the wrong impression as to them. They had laughed at themselves, all over again, and enjoyed the ease of each other's company. At one point, Harry asked her why they had not been able to talk for so long. Jane had quietened then, for a little, and a hint of animosity had returned to her gaze.
"You hurt me," she had eventually replied, with startling simplicity. "I had to heal."
It made sense, probably, Harry thought to himself. He knew what he had done to her was vile and unforgivable. He had been an ass, an arrogant ass, who had placed his own needs above those of his young wife and family. He had never been good with women, he mused. Good at getting them into bed, yes – he had charisma and natural self-assurance – but he had never been good at knowing what was going on in their heads. He still had no idea why she had chosen now, the day of a friend's funeral of all times, to forgive him. Perhaps there was something about funerals which allowed renewal? He had no idea. Jane's true intentions were too veiled.
Some spook you are, Harry Pearce, he told himself, taking another sip of whiskey.
Conversation turned slowly over the weather and the economy, then down the route of national security until Harry was forced to stop Jane and tell her that her version of the official secrets act was out of date and, if they were to continue this conversation, she would have to accompany him to Thames House and sign another.
She politely declined his offer.
They ordered another drink, then another.
At one point, Harry dimly thought that he shouldn't be drinking anymore. He had to drive back for work, tomorrow. But they were in a hotel and it no longer seemed so very important. If he hadn't sobered up by this evening, then he would simply get a room for the night. This was a day off, after all, and Harry could not imagine anything John would more appreciate than him getting drunk at his funeral.
"So, Harry," Jane cleared her throat and took another sip of what must have been her sixth or seventh gin. "The question I have been dying to ask; is there a Lady Pearce in your life?"
Though the mood in the room had been jovial and her question well intentioned, the words still had the effect of rendering Harry stone cold sober.
Was there a Lady Pearce? No, he thought, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. The only woman he had ever wanted to give his name, after Jane, was probably on the other side of the world by now – well, unofficially, that was. Officially, she was six feet under. He had seen her gravestone. He had visited it, twice, to convince those who were watching them that she had really died. That she had really died for me, he added bitterly, in his head.
He missed her so dreadfully, even almost two years on from the Cotterdam incident. To make matters worse, work was riddled with reminders of her and she had the habit of coming back to him when he least expected it. One minute he would be doing paperwork at his desk. The next, he would be thinking that he had to ask Ruth how to interpret some part of the report, and then it would all come spilling back. God, he missed her. He missed her in more ways than he cared to admit. He missed having her around the office, catching her eye across the Grid and smiling as he arrived in the morning. He missed her input at briefings. She had been more intelligent than the rest of his staff and him put together. He missed passing her in the halls, the way she would glance up at him and then quickly away. He missed her eyes, her voice, and the delicate scent of her. He missed the brief taste she had given him of her lips.
They would have worked, he told himself, feeling suddenly wretched. They would have been so good.
Harry did not realise his face had fallen until Jane's expression changed, in response.
"Harry?"
He jerked his gaze back up to hers.
"Sorry, what?" he blustered, pretending he had been drifting off in more pleasant thoughts. He forced a smile. "I'm getting old, Jane. Some days I'm sure I'm only half here. What did you say?"
Jane had never been stupid, however – not by any stretch of the imagination – and she had known Harry as well as anyone who had lived with him for seven years could know him.
"I asked if you were married," she told him, with a shrewd expression, "and you came over all strange."
It would be worse if he denied it, thought Harry, with a sigh of resignation. Jane had realised there was something afoot and, now, she would dig and dig until she had uncovered the truth. She would have made a good little spook, he thought, bitterly.
"It's nothing, Jane," he told her, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. "There was something, but it didn't last. It was complicated."
"It always is with you, isn't it?"
"It was complicated and now it's over, that's all there is to it," he repeated, with dogged impassivity.
"Cheat on her too, did you?"
The comment was snide and a flash of anger rushed suddenly through him, in response, liquid and hot. Raising his eyes to Jane's, he murmured in a low voice. "No."
"Oh god," Jane gave an expression of mock horror, "did the great Pearce charm fail? Did she run off with another man? Damn, Harry, that would certainly explain why you look like a kicked puppy. You always did have a massive ego."
Harry watched her face, eyes flashing across from him. She was baiting, just teasing, he realised. The jibe at his fidelity had been real enough, but she had only said it because she was drunk. She did not really want to fight.
And, as suddenly as it had flashed up, the anger began to drain away from him. Jane was just teasing. She had no idea how close to the bone she had hit, with her remarks. She had no idea that every time Ruth came to mind, he felt like he was being scratched a little deeper inside. She did not know and the pain was not her fault, Harry reminded himself. It was not fair of him to lash out without explanation. So, he told her.
"She didn't leave me, Jane, she died."
His ex-wife's expression changed instantly. The first expression which flitted across her face was complete shock, the second was horror. Then, shame filtered in, accompanied by pity and embarrassment.
"Oh God, Harry, I'm sorry!"
He shook his head. Though telling her about Ruth had been his idea, he suddenly realised he did not want the pity that came along with it.
Half of what was pleasant about the discussion they had been having was that Jane had no idea of the things he had been through, over the last ten years. She did not know the people he had lost, those he had sent to die to save more lives. She did not know the terrible choices he had faced or the slow and strange way he had fallen in love with a woman, only to have ripped from his arms. His employees knew and, because of it, they walked more tentatively around him. But Jane had bulldozed around, being herself, not sugar-coating or simpering. That had been why he had enjoyed their conversation so, Harry realised. They had been so candid. And now he had ruined it.
Overcome with a sudden urge to tell her the truth, Harry muttered, "she's not really dead."
Jane frowned, utterly perplexed, now.
"Pardon?"
Harry elaborated. "We worked together. She had to convince some people she was, in order to save us." To save me, he added, inside his head, but kept it far from his lips. "What she did was incredibly brave and saved a lot of lives, including my own. She had to go away, so that they wouldn't find her. So, she's not dead, but she had to leave everything she was and knew behind. And I'll never see her again."
Why he was telling her all of this, Harry was not entirely sure. He had drunk too much whiskey, he reasoned, and the grief had been inside him for so long. It needed to go somewhere. Jane was as good a person as any, he supposed, to break down to. She had signed the official secrets act. She had known him the longest. They had lived a life together, once. She had taken him inside her, grown his children in her belly, and then raised them all by herself. She knew him and, despite their arguments, he trusted her. She might hurt him a little, but she would never seriously damage him. They had shared too much.
"What was her name?" Jane asked, quietly, after they had sat for a moment in silence.
Harry considered lying, but decided there was no point.
"Ruth."
"Pretty," Jane said, slowly.
She sounded like she was pondering this new, strange development over in her head – deciding whether or not to use it against him. She had every right to, Harry thought. In fact, he did not know why he was handing her more ammunition. But she knew him, he told himself again, she knew him and he needed to talk to somebody. If he didn't, his head might explode. Now that he had started thinking about Ruth and Cotterdam and all his missed chances, he could not force it all away again. It was spinning over and over in his head – Ruth standing on the wharf, then on that barge, moving away from him, her kiss, her goodbye, everything.
"It means friend, you know," Harry's ex- told him, after a minute, or so. "Ruth. In Hebrew."
How appropriate. They had been friends more than they had been lovers. They had never had the time...
Harry nodded, rather than say anything in reply to Jane's statement, keeping his eyes rooted on the half-empty glass in his hand and his hand grasped tightly around it. Around them, a terribly long silence passed, with only the rain against the window to fill their ears. Slowly, over the last half an hour, it had grown harder until it was almost beating the glass. The black clouds of the horizon had drawn so near they were almost overhead. The sunlit day had gone and it was evening, cold and dark. And so lonely.
"Are you okay?" Jane asked him, eventually. She seemed to have decided not to hurt him with this new information. While there was still an edge to her voice – how could there not be, while she was discussing her ex-husband's new lover? – her tone was almost comforting. "Harry?"
Harry shook his head.
"Not really. Not yet." Not ever, maybe. He felt ruined.
Warm fingers found his across the table and Harry took them, instinctively. They sat, him holding onto her, not daring to look up and meet her eyes because that would mean admitting that they were creating a moment, here. It would mean admitting that he was sharing emotion with her, for the first time in years, and that she was not pushing him away. That was what they usually did. They fought like cat and dog. They scratched until they found weakness then bit at the wound. They did not comfort – or at least they hadn't since they had been twenty-somethings, love-drunk in each others' arms. That seemed like another lifetime, now.
"Oh Harry," she murmured his name and her hand squeezed his a little tighter.
"I'm fine."
"You're always fine," she pointed out, a little gentler than usual. "I just want to know you'll be okay."
"I'm always okay," he tried to turn humour on the situation, but she just frowned infinitesimally, grey eyes growing sad.
"Liar."
And philanderer. And cheat. And bad luck to know. Somehow, he managed to hurt everyone who he had ever he cared about. Everything he touched turned to dust and died, leaving him alone. He was always alone, in the end.
"J, lets leave it, shall we?" he asked, softly. It was two steps short of falling to the ground and begging, from a man such as him and Jane knew it.
Nodding, she gave his fingers one last squeeze and leant back in her chair.
"Another drink?"
Harry nodded.
Losing himself in alcohol would not help. Usually, Jane would be the first to point that out, but tonight she seemed to want to lose herself too. They ordered another drink and sat at the bar to drink it, both too drunk to stumble back towards their table. He stopped drinking after one more tumbler, though, and settled into a glass of iced water. Jane did the same, with orange juice.
The alcohol took a long time to fade, however, and as she rose to visit the ladies room, Jane knocked over her glass with clumsy hands, causing it to shatter across the floor. After that, the barkeep took Harry quietly to the side and asked if he would take her back to her room to avoid making a scene. Harry acquiesced, trying to hide the fact that he was as drunk – if not more – than his companion. Shamefacedly, the pair made their way out and down the hall, tumbling shakily into the elevator and leaning against the walls as it ascended to the second floor.
"Thank god for this contraption," Jane announced, as they spilled out into her corridor. Harry silently agreed as he followed on, two paces behind, ready to steady her if she showed any more drunken unbalance. Funnily enough, however, her steps had grown more sure as soon as they had left the barkeep's line of sight. Harry briefly wondered whether it had all been a ploy, to get them upstairs, then vetoed the idea. Stop being an ass, he told himself, and get her to her room so that you can leave.
Where to, he was not sure, but this was a hotel. There should be a room available, somewhere. And even if there were not, he could always sleep the whiskey off in the car.
Classy, as ever, he thought to himself.
"Right! Here we are," Jane reached over and deftly unlocked the door with her keycard. There was not a trace of drunken clumsiness, now. In fact, she was as graceful as ever as she sauntered into the room, leaving the door open behind her, Harry standing in its frame. "Come in, won't you, I'll just be a second." And, with that, she disappeared into the bathroom.
Unable to leave without saying goodbye – it would be unbearably rude – and not quite sure if it was proper to enter, Harry faltered there for a while, until he heard the toilet flush and the sound of water running as Jane freshened up. Deciding he would look like more of an idiot if he was still standing in the doorway, he decided to step inside. (She had asked, after all). Closing the door behind him, he loitered as close to it as possible.
Jane emerged from the bathroom without her cardigan or scarf. The bare skin on her shoulders was sparkled with one or two water droplets and she looked like she had washed her face free of makeup. The result showed her age a little clearer than Harry had seen, earlier, but not unpleasantly so. Her skin was thinner, a little paler than it had been when she was twenty, but she was still a good looking woman. She always would be, he mused, as she stepped closer. And she had taken off her shoes. And tights. And pants?
Don't be an ass, Harry.
"I should go," he told her, nodding to the door behind him.
"I know."
She regarded him for a few seconds, then stepped closer, lifting one hand out and placing it against his chest. Her fingerpads massaged him gently through the thin material of his shout. His coat was out in the car. His jacket was loose around his shoulders. Shouldn't have gotten into this situation, he told himself as he felt his heart beat a little faster.
"You won't go, though," she told him, softly.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because you're a sucker for a cheap hotel room and a casual shag."
Indignant anger flared up in his chest and he glared down at her, as severely as he could manage.
Jane just laughed.
She had known him too long to be intimidated by such a look – as well as it would have sent more dangerous men scuttling into the shadows. Harry's team may have run a mile if he had looked at them like that, but Jane was fearless by habituation. Over the years, she had seen him in all the compromising positions that it was possible to see a person. Though he had never been as emotionally open with her as he should have been, she had plenty of ammunition to bring to mind when he tried to intimidate her with a glare. She had seen him naked and trapped against a shower wall, at twenty, looking a little scared a lot excited. She had seen him holding his firstborn child at twenty three, looking a little excited and a lot scared. She had seen him begging her to forgive him, admitting to his latest indiscretion, flinching as her hand connected with his face. She might not have shared his innermost thoughts – he had never been great at sharing emotions – but she had been there, with him, for years. She had lived with him, loved him (foolishly), and learned him well. So, she was not scared of him.
"What are you playing at?" he growled at her.
Jane ignored the question and let her hand slide down the front of him, pausing as she traced the dip into his belly button.
Harry flinched away from her, moving one hand down to still hers. It came to rest against his hip, thumb tracing circles.
"Jane!"
"Harry?"
"You're married!"
Her fingers stopped for a moment and she raised her eyes to his.
"Not anymore, actually."
Giving a small shake of his head, to try and keep track of it all, Harry frowned.
"I'm sorry, since when?" If she wasn't, why hadn't she mentioned it, downstairs?
"Since three days ago," Jane admitted, and she avoided his eyes a little as she did. Clearly, the subject was still a little tender. "I got the papers through this morning. They're signed and waiting to post."
Harry's frown intensified. "But Catherine said you and Robert seemed completely happy. She said-,"
"-Don't be an idiot, Harry. I don't share every trouble that myself and Robert have with my daughter!" Jane snapped, then shut her mouth quickly, retraced her steps, apologised, and said in a calmer tone, "Cat doesn't know, yet. She seemed so happy, with her engagement, and I didn't want to ruin it with my troubles. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her. I'd like to find the right time."
Well, that explained some of this, thought Harry, watching Jane's face shift under the fluorescent lighting. Her invitation to come for a drink, her comforting words at learning of Ruth's death, her clumsiness at the bar, it had all been a long game for a cheap shot at her newly divorced husband. Getting at one ex by sleeping with another. God, had this been her ploy all along, Harry wondered – then added, in a little voice, did he care if it was? He knew he should tell himself to stop being an ass again, for that, but he was too pissed off. Instead, he pushed Jane's hand away and ran one palm over his face, rubbing half-drunk eyes.
"What happened?" he asked, the question coming out as half-groan.
"The cheating and lying got too much. The papers were filed. The rest is history."
"Sounds familiar," Harry said, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. He was ashamed of how he had hurt her. It had not been fair, because she had been a good wife, in many ways. For fate to compound such unfairness by giving her a second husband who had cheated on her was completely perplexing. Karma surely did not exist, though Harry, with a sigh. "I'm sorry to hear it," he told his ex-, and meant it. She deserved better.
"It's all rather my own fault, really," Jane pointed out. "I have terrible taste in men. Good taste in lovers, though. Robert could fuck almost as well as you can."
Harry frowned at her for a long moment then he turned and headed towards the door.
"I'm going to go. We're not doing each other any good."
"Harry, please!" Jane reached out and took his arm, pulling him back towards her.
They were still a little drunk and the movement caused the world to spin a little around him. She pulled again, a little harder. He gave her a nudge back, which only succeeded in making her grip him tighter.
"Jane, we're drunk," he hissed at her, "and this is a very stupid idea."
"It's not."
"Give me three good reasons and I won't say another word."
She paused, then formulated, on the spot; "I'm lonely, you're lonely, and we're both hurting."
That caught him off guard. He had not expected her to include his needs in her reasons.
They stood and stared at one another for a few seconds. Each moment that passed, Jane's eyes became a little less sure of themselves, her body a little tighter as she fought the self-conscious need to step away from him. Harry stared back, mercilessly silent. Eventually, she cursed softly and let go of his arm.
"Damn it, Harry, I don't want to be alone tonight and I trust you." She gritted her teeth as she said that last part. "With this, anyway, I trust you. We were awful at being husband and wife, but we were great lovers and I really need to forget about everything for a few hours."
A few hours would be generous, Harry thought to himself, generous by a long shot. He shifted on the spot, watching her watch him. Suddenly, this didn't seem like such a terrible idea. She was a good looking woman and they had done this often enough before, in their younger years, to know that they were compatible. Tasting the specific desire again was odd, a bit like re-visiting an old film, which had once been his favourite; familiar, yet full of details he had not noticed the first time around and details he had forgotten, too – like the way she bit the inside of her lip when she wanted him.
She had always been blunt, about expressing her desire, and it was somewhat refreshing. Especially when all of his lovers, since, had played coy. Harry felt a little bit harder than he had been, just moments before. His heart quickened within his chest. His skin prickled slightly with anticipation. Still, it was the sex he wanted, not the woman, and it felt wrong to imply otherwise. She wanted comfort and he had none to offer, no sweet words for her. Jane was not the woman he wanted and he had already caused her enough pain. He should go.
"I can't," he told her, as gently as he could. "It's not right and when you sober up, you'll see that."
"After all we've been through, surely we can use each other a little?"
She stepped forwards as her hands reached around her back, pulling the zipper down on her dress. In one smooth movement, it slid from her sides and fell to her feet. She kicked it away. Naked.
Harry swallowed.
"I don't want you to hold me while I cry, Harry," Jane told him, softly. "I'm done with crying. I just don't want to feel alone, tonight. Come on," she coaxed, "we were always good at this. Please."
She was admittedly a little less stunning than she used to be. Faint stretch marks adorned her belly, but she was a little leaner, now, a little more muscled around the sides. She was a little less buxom in the chest, too, yet Harry still found himself more erect on her account. He wanted her. They had worked very well together, in the past. He already knew what sounds she would make against his skin, as he took her, and somehow that made this feel so much safer than an encounter with a stranger. Jane had been right, he thought. They had been through a lot. She trusted him with this and, as it turned out, he trusted her. Maybe it was not such a terrible idea after all.
God, he was so lonely...
Stepping forwards, Jane turned 'maybe' into conviction by curling her fingertips down beneath his waistband.
"Please," she whispered, tugging him closer, sliding herself up against him and tilting her head back, kissing the line of his jaw. "For old times' sake, Harry."
And with that he was sold, though tried desperately to look otherwise.
What she had said directly mirrored how he was feeling. He had no need of comfort, because he had done all of his crying already. He just wanted some company – not to feel so desperately alone, for a while. So, he nodded to Jane and welcomed her to come closer. He did not push her away as she slid her head into the crook of his neck and kissed his skin. He did not protest as she unhooked his belt, then his tie, and said nothing to rebuke her murmured encouragements, letting her guide his hands to her sides. Half closing his eyes, he allowed sensation to take over, and tentatively explored her.
It was all a little strange, he thought, as he ran his hands down her back, thumbing the small indentations at the base of her spine. They were replaying movements they had made hundreds of times before, yet it all felt completely new. He could sense the desperation rising in her, however, and decided not to linger on the thought for too long. Finally finding control of himself, he tightened his grip, pulling her flush against him. As he did so, he tensed a little, half expecting to get slapped for his efforts. No attack came, however. Jane just gave a relieved sigh and unbuttoned half of his shirt, before sliding it and his jacket off.
"Bloody hell, Harry," she whispered, as her fingers played across his skin.
His scars. Of course.
Harry winced. It had not occurred to him, to warn her, and he felt strangely embarrassed at the scrutiny. Shifting, he pulled her closer, pressing her hips to his, trying to distract her by glancing fingers down the side of her soft breast.
"They're all healed, I'm-,"
"-fine, I know," she murmured, but pulled her head back and met his eyes anyway. "You're always fine." Her fingers moved to lie over the puckered skin where Tom Quinn had shot him in the shoulder. "God, what did they do to you, Harry? You were such a pretty boy."
If she wanted a pretty boy, Harry thought, she was definitely with the wrong man. He had not been physically pretty in a long time. Inside, he had been ugly for even longer. Scars ran deeper internally and Harry knew there was nothing on earth that could change that. The scars were the reason this would never be more than a one-night affair, a casual shag in a cheap hotel room. Jane had been hurt by him before and she knew the drill. She did not want something as broken as him in her life. She was too whole, for him; she needed something more like her, to warm her heart. She did not want him as a long-term lover, or even as a friend, but he would do to warm her bed for the night. His heart still beat, after all. And she trusted him, with her body if not her heart.
He kicked off his shoes at her command, then his boxers and socks. Naked as the day he was born, he stood with his back to the door of the hotel room. Jane had one hand against his side, holding herself close. The other hand she had between them, doing something that felt incredibly good. Almost too good, in fact. It had been a very long time since he had felt another person touch him that way. Gently pushing her back, he motioned towards the bed and they breathlessly made their way across to it, sprawling atop the sheets. A voice at the back of his mind is still telling Harry that this is not one of his best ideas, but it falls silent almost instantly as familiar hands coax him up and over her.
"I'm not your wife anymore, Harry," she told him, quietly, pressing a kiss against the side of his neck. "Give me what you gave to your other girls. Make me forget it all."
Harry doubted anything in the world could make her forget it all. But he tried his best anyway.
Afterwards, they lay on their backs, chests rising and falling to the sound of their quickened breaths. A film of sweat covered his chest and belly – a mix of sweat and sex on hers. The last few minutes of their coupling had been frantic and almost crude. Fingers grasping limbs, legs bracing against each other, they had treated each other like only familiar lovers could. After she has shuddered, quick and quietly, against him, Harry had not been long in finishing himself. Despite Jane's whispered permission of 'It's okay, just go, I'll take care of it', he had pulled out of her and spilled himself between his hand and her navel instead. There was not a chance in hell he was going to risk getting her pregnant – not at their age and in their situation. Quite apart from anything else, their pre-existing children would never have forgiven them.
Flopping back on the bed, beside her, Harry wondered if he should say something. None of the things he thought of came out as anything short of trite, however. Besides which, as the adrenaline and hormones faded away, the embarrassment was slipping back in. As gloriously selfish as using one another had been, Harry knew he shouldn't have agreed to it. They were supposed to be enemies, after all. They had not talked in ten years and had not been friends for nearly twenty. He should probably have showed more bloody control.
Still, he felt a hell of a lot better, for what they had done. His body was relaxed, his muscles almost numb with release. He felt like he might sleep for twenty-four hours. And, as one of Jane's hands found his – slim fingers wrapping around his thumb, squeezing gently – the unease and embarrassment began to fade away again. Okay, so it might not have been the best decision he had ever made, but he had made far worse. He was almost positive she wasn't going to use it against him.
Harry closed his eyes and leant back against their white, hotel pillows.
The pair lay in silence for another minute or so, and then Jane squeezed his hand and spoke, quietly.
"Thank you," she whispered, through the darkened room.
Harry got the impression it was not the most mind-blowing experience of her life, but she had been appreciative enough, in her moment of climax, not to bruise his ego too badly. She had even whimpered his name. So, he just squeezed her hand back and told her she was welcome.
"More than welcome," he added, turning his head against the pillow to face her. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. That was good." She shot him a tiny smile, genuine fondness shining in her eyes. "Been a while, has it?"
Harry made a non-committal noise at the back of his throat. He hadn't had sex in over two and a half years, in truth, but Jane probably wouldn't have believed him even if he had cared to share that fact. So, he kept it to himself, concentrating instead on the thumping of his heart within his chest. It was almost painful it was beating so fast. His upper back was a bit sore, too, from where her fingernails had scratched it. They had been as compatible as they had been as twenty year olds, he thought with a yawn, and not lacking for enthusiasm. He would be paying for it with stiff joints, come morning.
Beside him, Jane gave a very long sigh and began to stroke the end of his thumb with hers. It was semblant of what they had done in their youth, afterwards. She had used to trace him with her fingertips and whisper to him quietly. Time had changed that, of course, as it had changed so many other things. Harry's body was probably more associated with all the women he had cheated with, rather than any love of theirs, and Jane now seemed to prefer post-coital silence to gentle chatter.
They lay in silence, then, bodies cooling to the room temperature. Eventually, Jane began to shiver, so he reached down and snagged a blanket, drawing it up and over her. At that point, he quietly asked if she wanted him to leave, now, but Jane did not reply with words. Instead, she rolled closer and lay her head against his shoulder, fingers finding his, once more, beneath the sheets. It seemed he had a place to rest for the night, then. Harry stretched and let himself relax back, into hers.
"I lied to you, earlier," she told him quietly, after a minute or two had passed in companionable silence.
Harry turned his face towards her, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, I suppose it isn't what you spooks would call a lie." Jane was not watching him, directly. Her eyes were focussed on the ceiling, above them, though turned so that she could read his expression too. Her expression was impassive, as if she were far removed from the situation. "I let you believe that Robert had cheated on me," she told him, "and that it was the reason we were getting divorced. I knew that's what you would assume because you see me as the victim. I wasn't, though, not this time. Robert was the one who filed."
Harry watched her, not quite sure what to say.
The fact that Jane had been the cheat came as a surprise to him, especially after her experiences with him, in the past. The fact that Robert had been the one to file for divorce an even greater one. When he had heard Catherine talk about the man, it had sounded like he was madly in love with Jane, that their marriage had been a happy one. Then again, maybe that was just Catherine's perspective, comparing it to his own marriage to her mother.
"An affair?" he asked, eventually, when he saw that Jane wanted his reaction to her news.
She nodded against his side. "With my boss." A tiny, wry smile crept upon her lips. "God, Harry, the irony of it all..."
Irony indeed. It had been his affair with Juliet, his then-boss, which had sparked the beginning of the end for them. She had caught him out, during a long-distance phone call. Defensive by nature, Harry had denied it until he couldn't any longer, then told lie after lie, to cover up how long it had been going on. Jane, of course, had been distraught and enraged. It was a torrid, dirty chapter of their time together and, personally, Harry would have been glad to make it to the end of his days without discussing it again.
"So, Robert caught you?" he asked, after a minute or so of silent contemplation on the similarity of their situations – the now-obvious reason why Jane had decided to talk to him again.
"In the act, so to speak. He came home early from a conference and me and Jack were upstairs... God, Harry, I don't even know why I did it," she admitted. "It was so stupid. For three rounds with a guy I didn't much care about, I'm going to pay with my husband, my step-children, even my goddamned dog!"
"Robert worked abroad a lot, Catherine said," Harry spoke up, timidly trying to supply her an excuse. "That must have been lonely."
Jane just sighed and shuffled deeper into her pillows, pulling the sheets up to her chin. Her breasts and belly were warm, pressed up against his side. It was nice, thought Harry, to be able to feel a physical, human presence beside him. He had slept alone for so many years, now, that he was used to it. Still, some nights he wished desperately that he had someone to lie against – especially the nights when he was wrenched from sleep by an emergency, at work. It sounded silly, but it would have been nice if there was someone to miss him, when he had to leave.
Ruth would have been the best of both worlds, he mused silently. She would have been someone to wake beside and someone to come with him, to face the chaos. It would have worked. It would have been so good.
Giving his head a little shake, Harry tried to banish Ruth from his thoughts. It was pointless dwelling on her. She was gone, now, probably half way around the world, living under a different name and a hot sun. She had told him, once, on their only date, that she wished she lived somewhere warmer. She loved London, in many ways, but it was permanently grey. And on the days it wasn't grey, she had said with sparkling eyes, I'm always at bloody work. He had apologised profusely and sworn he didn't do it on purpose. She had laughed.
God, he missed her.
So much.
Jane slipped her hand over, rubbing the palm of it gently across his belly. The movement surprised him, because it was something she had used to do a long time ago, back when their lovemaking had been lovemaking and not a casual shag here and there – or the venting of pent up frustrations of the day. It was a comforting motion.
"You were in love with this Ruth, weren't you?" she asked, perceptively.
"That's really none of your business," he replied, as cool as he could manage. They were, after all, naked pushed up against one another. It was not the best method of keeping secrets.
Jane held her silence, for a moment, then rubbed her hand across him one last time and tucked her head up against his shoulder.
"Okay, don't tell me then," she kissed his skin softly, "but you've not changed as much as you think you have, Harry. You might have grown into your ego and been cut up with a few more scars, but you still like your belly rubbed and you still have the same tell when you're lying."
Ah. The tell. Harry was endlessly glad his enemies did not know the truth – that all they had to do, to know whether he was lying, was ask his ex-wife. It would have been embarrassing, a spook of his stature ousted by a civilian, if it had not been such a well-earned talent. It came from years of practice, he assumed, years of observation and careful questioning. In another life, Harry had often thought, Jane would have made an excellent spy. She was observant. It had taken her only a month or two to learn the way his eyes changed when he was hiding something from her. It had taken a little longer to be able to differentiate outright lies from omissions of truth, but she had soon perfected the art. In truth, their marriage had survived its latter years not from his ability to keep his indiscretions from her, but because Jane had given up caring.
Looking down at the woman beside him, Harry felt a strange mix of emotion. He cared for her, in the way that two people who were irrecoverably bound cared for one another. They had lived a life together for many years, they had brought children into the world together. The care came with anger and resentment and more than its fair share of shame, but it was tender nonetheless. He did not love her, however. There was physical compatibility, but only baseline attraction, and no chemistry. Not anymore. What had happened between them, tonight, had been pure biology – nothing more.
He wondered what it would have been like with Ruth.
He could imagine that now, he reasoned. After all, he no longer had to face her in the morning, remembering all the situations he had dreamt, the night before. God, that part of their working relationship had been awful, Harry cringed. There had been some days when he wondered why he was not permanently hard, from the things he had imagined. And how she had never read it, in his eyes, was quite beyond him. At the time, it had felt like it was written across his forehead in indelible ink. His nights were spent in agony over Ruth and his days were spent in embarrassment over his nights.
Attraction was funny thing, he pondered, laying back in the hotel bed. Logically, he knew that Ruth was not as conventionally beautiful as many of the women he had chased, over the years, but at the same time he could not remember anyone he had felt more beautiful, nor anyone he had wanted more. She had been infinitely perfect, in his eyes, perhaps because of her imperfections. There was more, too. She was smart – smarter than anyone else he had ever met – and funny, too, in a gentle way which warmed him through. Despite what she said, she was a little naive, but only a little and she more than made up for it with her enthusiasm to learn. And those eyes, oh those eyes... he could have fallen in love with her because of those eyes, alone.
"I loved her," he whispered aloud, to the night. And it was true. He had realised as they were standing, inches away on that wharf, listening the sound of the barge that would bear her away from him. He had wanted to tell her. She hadn't wanted to hear. Too little too late, the story of his life. "Still love her, I suppose."
Beside him, Jane rubbed her palm across his skin again, bringing back ingrained feelings of safety and comfort. Harry could feel her forehead furrow, briefly, and then her lips moved against his skin.
"I know," she murmured and kissed his shoulder again. "I know, darling."
They lay together for a while longer.
Harry was the first to fall asleep.
When he woke in the morning, the rain had stopped battering against the windows and the sun was peeking in through the cracks in the blinds. The bed, beside him, was conspicuously absent and Jane's things were missing from about the room. He wandered to the bathroom, showered and returned, dressing himself in day-old clothes that she had folded on top of the hotel desk for him. A small note had been placed on top of them, scrawled on the complimentary hotel paper.
'You still snore like a dog, Harry. Thanks for last night. J x'.
She did not ask for discretion, because she knew he would give it t her. She did not offer a goodbye, because they knew they would have to face one another, sooner or later. They had a family and responsibilities to consider. Perhaps, then, this was a truce, thought Harry, pulling on his jacket and retrieving his car keys from the floor where they had fallen. Whatever it was, it left him feeling a little less morose than he had been, yesterday.
Pausing at reception, he learned that the room had been left for him to pay. So very Jane, he had thought, with a wry smile. The room was still in her name and it would serve her right if he said she would settle up when she returned from breakfast, but Harry paid it anyway. It was the very least he owed her.
The drive back south to London was less fraught with tension than the journey up. Harry called in and checked with Ros that everything was running smoothly. It all appeared to be. Lucas had remembered no more of what he had been questioned about, regarding Sugarhorse. Damned protocol was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth, Harry thought, as he drove through the city to the familiar underground car park, just down the road from Thames House. Still, he had best work a little harder on that front. The Sugarhorse leak had to be high up within MI5 and a leak at that level could have serious implications. It could compromise current and past operations. Briefly, he pondered on whether to bring the other members of his team into it, and then decided against the matter. The spy-catcher would bring him information, soon. He would determine where to go from there.
Heaving a sigh, he pulled into the lot, parked and walked back up the street towards the great stone MI5 headquarters. Swiping his identity card through the scanner, at security, he entered at the front of the building then made his way up to Section D headquarters by the stairways. He removed his black tie and replaced it with a blue one before stepping onto the Grid. The less questions as to the funeral the better. Harry was in no mood for chat – or for sympathy.
The security pods whooshed as he entered. Harry's shoes clapped heavily on the hard floor. The Grid was busy enough, but nothing untoward seemed to have happened. Malcolm, Jo and Lucas were haring around, trying to fix something and Ros was regarding something on her computer screen with an expression of calm malevolence. Harry nodded to her as he passed, on his way to his office. Once more behind his desk, the world felt almost normal again. The strangeness of the funeral and his night spent with Jane, was all drifting away. Half a dozen messages sat blinking on his phone, ready to read. As if he did not have enough on his plate, with Sugarhorse.
Harry heaved a sigh, at the thought.
If Ruth was here, she would know what to do about Sugarhorse. She would know who to tell and who to keep out of it. Harry had trusted her implicitly and felt her loss more acutely than the loss any of his other staff, even on strictly professional terms. But Ruth wasn't here, he reminded himself, a little harshly. She was not here and neither was Adam. Jo was overwhelmed by what had happened at the hands of Boscard and Ros was grieving. Lucas was barely clinging to his sanity and Connie James... well, Connie was Connie. They had worked together for many years, before, but Harry trusted her just about as far as he could throw her. She had been out of the game for too long and she had known the other officers who had formed Sugarhorse. No matter how thin the connection, it was a connection, and Harry had to account for it.
No, he was going to have to fix this mess on his own.
Rubbing at his temples, he ran through the first of his messages – a security bulletin from the Director General. Oddly enough, it was not good news. Over the next few months, he had two peace deals to oversee and protect, three visiting foreign dignitaries, a host of new personnel to interview (interrogate) and chose from, the bloody Bendorf group meeting on his soil and, of course, (though it wasn't on the list) the Sugarhorse leak. It wasn't going to be a fun few months. Still, the message was the incentive he needed to get his ass in gear.
Glancing across the Grid, he allowed himself a few sad seconds of watching the empty spot where Ruth's desk had sat, then he turned his attention to the rest of his unread messages and logged on to his computer system. This was where he was supposed to be, he told himself, this was what he was supposed to be doing. Within these walls he was not a man in a permanent state of confusion over the intricacies of life, he was Harry Pearce, steadfast defender of the real. There was no complication, here. In the outside world, he might be screwing his ex-wife and spending sleepless nights pining after his officially dead analyst, but in here everything made sense.
Setting his jaw, Harry began to work.
It was a sorry state of affairs, but here was the only place he really functioned.