Dear Ruth,
Dearest Ruth,
I know that this is far too sombre way to start a letter to you, the first in so many years, but I need you to know the facts. If you are reading this, I am dead.
I have never forgotten you, even if time has cast 'us' aside and moved on to more present couples, who have far more common sense than us and not quite as much propriety to ignore what is in front of their noses, as we did. By writing this, I don't know what I am aiming to achieve. For once in my life, I am acting on impulse. No thinking things through. Not even once.
I think, Ruth, that I need you to know that nobody has compared to you. I have kept all the pictures, all the old archive footage of you and once every week, I look at it. The truth is I don't ever want to forget. Whatever horrors we may be privy to, those memories prove that happiness can be found in the strangest of places.
There is a photo album. A week after you disappeared, died, left I went to your house. I found the album, empty, in your book shelf. There was something oddly enchanting about it – solitude, untouched amongst all those well-thumbed books.
Now I look back on it, it was probably a waste of my time. The old you died the day that you sailed away on the boat, a new woman. The photos are of a stranger. It will be altogether too easy to piece together where you are with Malcolm's help but I am afraid, even now, of hurting you by dragging up the past. I do not think you will ever get to read this.
The cats are fine. They miss you Ruth. So do I.
Love, always
Harry x
The letter was inside the book, a huge leather bound weight that lay on her lap. They had been under his bed; such a silly place for a spy to hide something some personal. As she'd emptied her father's home of his belongings, she had fallen across it. The envelope had been unmarked and Catherine had read the entire letter before the first words had sunk in, with her mind so clouded by the tears that now obscured her vision. She shouldn't have read it. He didn't even want the intended recipient to read it.
Ruth ... the name seemed familiar.
She opened the book; it was again unmarked. There were photos, three to every page, each one with a handwritten caption beneath it. Catherine swallowed hard at the well-known handwriting.
The first page however was filled with just one picture. It was clearly of an office party: there were six people in it. The caption was entitled Harry, Ruth, Malcolm, Colin, Zoe, Tom. They all laughed at an unseen person, looking so carefree that it took at least two minutes for her to regain her composure.
The next three were childhood photos. None of them contained her father and she flicked through the remainder of the album, pausing when a photo caught her eye, and her breath.
Her father and a woman (Ruth, she presumed) were in each other's arms. They were standing in front of a breath-taking view: the mountains were topped with a layer of snow and the breath from each of them mingled in the frigid air. So completely relaxed, they seemed to be used to each other's closeness.
The Terry mission – 12/05/2005
A small smile graced her face as she looked at her dad's happy face. She took out the picture from its confines and placed it on the 'keep' pile.
There was something in that photo; not everything seemed like lies.
...
Evelyn Cann was reading the newspaper when she came across it.
The article was hidden amongst the adverts and it first caught her eye because of the title:
Dear Ruth.
There were many Ruths in the world but something about this (the way it was written?, she wasn't sure) made her stop.
Almost afraid of looking at the small box again, she instead examined the adverts around it. One was for a photographer and the example photo that was shown looked suspiciously familiar. It was clearly of an office party: there were six laughing people in it.
A lump formed in her throat.
A number was at the bottom of the advert.
Turning her eyes back onto the article, she began to read.
Dearest Ruth,
I know that this is far too sombre way to start a letter to you, the first in so many years, but I need you to know the facts. If you are reading this, I am dead.
She stopped reading there. The tears didn't come as she'd expected them to; instead a red cloud of rage consumed her and she tore the page from the paper. Evelyn clawed at it, once, twice, innumerable rips until only half words were visible. Then she let the paper fall around her, watching as it fell to the floor. Some caught on the bed and despite herself, she looked at it.
That picture. Half of his face, half of hers.
They were in pieces, just like Ruth.
I wrote this at 2am when I was sleeping round my Nana's last weekend ... I fell asleep on the laptop! :)
Hope it was worth it. If it was ... the review button is below ;D