He escaped the lynch days. He survives. …...
They let him live, but not from pity
Or human sufferance. He scratches life
From earth, no worse a mortal man than the rest.
From "After the Deluge" by Wole Soyinka
(A/N: This poem is actually about corrupt officials in Nigeria, but I am `borrowing' some of Soyinka's words, as they also fit Harry, post 9.8)
The hardest thing about breaking into Harry's house had been climbing the garden wall at the back. She'd never been active or athletic, and she was not one to run when a stroll would suffice. Games such as tennis and netball had bewildered her with their myriad of complex rules and (as she saw it) peculiar objectives, and she'd never quite understood the attraction of gymnastics or callisthenics, although many of the popular girls at school had thrown themselves around in pursuit of the perfect dive or twist or twirl or …... whatever. All she'd needed was something to help her get her closer to the top of the wall, and a neighbour's wheelie bin had provided her with the height and the stability. The rest she had managed with a bit of grunt, some daring, and massive doses of stupidity, given the circumstances. Breaking in through his back door was easy, but perhaps, after all, unwise.
Once inside, she is no longer sure why she is there, or whether she should just turn around and leave.
Aside from a light over the cooker, the house is in darkness. The house smells of him, and she stops for a moment to savour it …... his cologne and his shaving soap dominate, then there's the rich aroma of coffee, a tinge of whiskey, the dampness from his coat from him being caught in a shower of rain, and then blending with all is the whiff of maleness which belongs to him and no other, his signature smell. Together, these smells are Harry. She has never smelled him sweaty after he'd been working in the garden, she'd not been close to him after he'd taken a shower, and she'd never buried her face in his skin after he'd made love. Nor can she see that ever changing.
She knows he has a dog, but there are no paws on floorboards or barking in the dark. Harry is not home, although he should be. They'd both been suspended almost two weeks ago, and contact between them is forbidden, which rules out phone calls, and visits, even meetings in parks. She is here because she needs to talk to him. Their last conversation rattles around in her head, a haunting of words better left unsaid. She wishes she could turn back the clock so that her words to Harry, "At that moment, when you decided to make that deal, it was unfair of you to love me", could be erased from history. Her words were cruel and abrasive, throwing his love for her back in his face. Harry's face had been stern and stoic, even accepting, but his eyes had told her how much she had hurt him. No amount of apologising would likely help. The damage had been done. Still, she felt the need to try.
She wanders down the hallway towards the front door, and sees that his keys are missing, and the only coat hanging on the coat hooks is his lightweight trench coat. She suspects he is out, but he can't be far away. Internal Affairs have people watching him, and he is meant to be staying close to home. Climbing the back wall and entering the house through the back door is the only way she could see him without being seen. Had lights been on in the kitchen or living room, she would have knocked. She knows she is justifying her method of entry after the fact. She will have to create a good story for him, if she doesn't want him to kick her out into the cold. She wouldn't blame him if he did.
It occurs to her that he may be upstairs, perhaps even asleep, so she quietly mounts the stairs, and finds her way along the upstairs hallway in the dark. There is no sign of him in his office, the spare room, or bathroom, which leaves only his bedroom at the end of the hallway. Being up here like this, without his knowledge or permission, is not part of her plan. Her plan had him either in the kitchen making a cup of tea, or in his sitting room drinking. The latter seemed the most likely scenario. She would have comforted him, taken way his booze, and then apologised, although not necessarily in that order. She's here now, her hand on the doorknob to his bedroom, and she only has two choices available to her – retreat and leave, or continue into the room. She has not come this far for nothing, so she opens the door and looks inside.
Harry's bedroom is dark, with only the bare minimum of light finding its way between the curtains from a streetlight outside the neighbour's house. The bed is made and empty. She steps inside the room, recognising she has passed the half-way point, and from here there will be no going back, no returning to the kitchen and leaving the way she had come. She is in Harry's bedroom, now standing next to Harry's bed – without Harry in it, but that is only a minor distinction, since she has broken into his home, his sanctuary, his own personal space, all so she can offer him an apology. Even to her ears, her reasons and rationalising of her actions sounds absurd.
She is here, in his bedroom, because she misses him, and wants to see him, hear his voice, and perhaps feel the touch of his skin on her own. More would be nice, but that is not something she expects. She is here because she misses him. He has been her anchor, her strength and stability for so long. He is a hard habit to break.
Ruth is tired. It is late at night, and she walked the last mile and a half to Harry's house, and then climbed the wall at the back. The adrenalin in her system is starting to leave, and she is fading by the minute. The last bus has left, and she is stuck here, in his bedroom, with him elsewhere. This leaves her no alternative. She removes her shoes and socks and her jeans, and then her windcheater and her long-sleeved t-shirt, leaving her dressed only in her black lace knickers and camisole. She carries her clothes and shoes to the far side of the bed (assuming he sleeps on the side closest the door), drops them in a heap on the floor, lifts the duvet and slides under it, keeping to the far side of the bed …... just in case he comes home later. Despite her circumstances, she is asleep within minutes.
Ruth wakes suddenly, not sure what it is has shocked her from sleep. She tries to breathe evenly, as she adjusts to her new environment. She suddenly remembers she is in Harry's room, in his bed, and by the movement of the mattress under her body, he seems to be in his bed beside her. The room is dark, the only light coming from the small gap where the curtains don't quite meet. Very slowly, Ruth turns her head towards where she felt the movement, and she sees Harry lying on his side facing her, his eyes closed, his mouth set in a firm line. He appears to be asleep, as he breathes slowly and deeply. This may be her only chance to be this close to him while he sleeps. His body generates a warmth, a heat, which embraces her like a blanket, and his Harry smell fills her nostrils, a delicious olfactory cocktail. He feels safe and familiar. She longs to reach out and touch him, to slide her finger along his jaw, or to press her lips to his, to run her fingers through his hair, or to lie against him, her chest pressed against his.
Ruth, recognising that even her thoughts are running away from her, turns away from him, slips out of bed, grabs her pile of clothes and her shoes, and begins to creep past the foot of the bed on her way to the door. She'd forgotten about the creaky floorboard, and steps on it. The noise it makes echoes inside the room, the silence of the night giving it a voice. She is about to continue towards the door when a deep and familiar voice stops her.
"You're not leaving without saying goodbye, are you, Ruth?"
"Christ, I thought you were asleep."
"I was, but I was woken by someone in my bed – uninvited, but quite welcome, all the same – and then this same person jumped on the loose floorboard -"
"I didn't jump, I crept."
"Come back to bed, Ruth," he said. "I miss you already."
Ruth stands at the foot of the bed, watching him, trying to determine if he's serious, or pulling her leg. She'd expected him to be angry, but she's sure he's not. "Do you mean that?"
"It's God-knows-what o'clock, neither of us have a job to go to tomorrow, the men in shiny suits will be back on duty in a few hours, so …... yes, I mean it. It's not every night I come home from walking my dog to find a delightful woman in my bed."
His words have embarrassed her, and she is sure that he is having a lend of her. Watching him, saying nothing, she sees him pull himself to a sitting position, his back resting against his pillow. "I imagine you came here for a reason, Ruth. You could hardly have mistaken my bed for your own."
Harry's voice is soft and deep, and …... and exceedingly sexy when he's half-asleep and teasing her. She wishes she'd known that earlier, before she'd turned down his second dinner invitation …... before she'd gone into exile …... before she'd punished him for letting George die …... before...
She turns and puts her pile of clothes on the floor beside her side of the bed. My side of the bed! What next? Whose turn is it to turn out the light, make the breakfast, walk the dog?
"Are you sure about this?" she asks.
"Never more certain about anything. I've missed you."
"I've missed you too, Harry."
He lifts the duvet on her side of the bed, and she crawls in, turning so that the bottom half of her body is under the duvet, and her head is on the pillow. When she's stopped wriggling, and appears comfortable, Harry carefully drops the duvet, so that she is covered to her neck. He, on the other hand, is sitting, the duvet pulled up to his waist, a t-shirt covering his chest. In the almost-dark, his eyes shine brightly, watching her every move.
"I'm glad you decided to pop in," he says at last.
"I arrived earlier, but you were out."
"Now, I don't remember letting you in, Ruth …..."
"I …... I picked the back door lock. Harry, your front door security may be state-of-the-art, but any regular thug could wander through your back door blindfolded. Had you been home, I would have knocked."
"I'm glad to hear that, Ruth. How did you manage the garden wall? It's high, and you're …... well …... height-challenged."
"I used your neighbour's wheelie bin."
"Mmm." He thinks for a moment, and that moment becomes a minute, and then another minute. "I suppose you have a reason for being here – in my house, and now in my bed."
"I needed to see you – to talk to you – and then – well – I got tired, so I decided to go to bed."
"There's a spare room, you know."
"I didn't think of that, and I was sure you were out for the night."
"Where would I go, Ruth? You're my closest friend, and we're not meant to be in contact, and yet here we are, in bed together."
"You have lots of friends, Harry. I thought you might be visiting your daughter."
"She's in …... er …... I think it's Croatia, although that might be next month. She's making a film about the aftermath of war through the eyes of children."
"You must be proud of her."
"I am, Ruth, I am."
They sit side-by-side in silence, each with plenty to say to the other, but neither sure where to begin.
"Would you rather I slept in the spare room?" Ruth says at last.
"No, I wouldn't. Besides, the bed in that room is not made."
"So, why did you suggest …...?"
"Ruth -" he interrupts her tirade about the spare room. He is tired, and he wants answers, but only if they're brief. "Why are you here?"
She lifts her body so that she is sitting up – like he is – and her eyes are almost level with is own. She has no idea where to begin. I'm sorry for what I said after Lucas took Albany, is barely adequate. "I had something I needed to say to you, Harry."
"Can it wait until morning?"
"I suppose so. What do I do about your minders?"
"Perhaps we can work that out when the time comes."
"What do we do now?"
"Well, Ruth, it's getting on for one o'clock, and sensible people are sleeping. I thought we might try that. You can't go home yet. It's too far to walk, and the buses don't start until five-thirty at the earliest. I suggest you stay here …... with me."
Ruth had hoped he would say that, and yet she'd dreaded him suggesting it. What if she sleeps in his bed with him all night, and nothing happens? What if she sleeps in his bed with him all night and `something' happens?
"Come on, Ruth, it's not a complex question. I've asked you to stay here, and as I see it, there is no answer other than yes."
"Okay," she says, turning to face him.
Harry smiles at her in the dark. She knows that because she sees his teeth gleaming in the partial light through the gap in the curtains. They both slither down until the duvet covers them to their shoulders.
"Goodnight, Ruth," he says.
"Goodnight, Harry," she replies.
It is still dark when Ruth wakes. Something in the bed has changed, and she is suddenly aware of why she has woken. Harry has moved closer to her and his arm is slung over her so that his hand rests on her stomach, just beneath the hem of her camisole, his fingers on her bare flesh. It could have been worse, she thinks. As she comes fully awake, she can feel the heat from his body and his breath on the back of her neck. He is lying on his side, and is very, very close to her. Just a slight movement of his hips and he'd be flush against her back. Ruth can barely breathe, and she certainly can't move, not if she wishes this closeness to continue... and she does wish it to continue. This is something about which she has fantasised for some time now, and if his glances towards her while they're at work are anything to go by, Harry wants this also, although she's sure he would rather be wide awake for maximum enjoyment.
Realising that the tension in her body is keeping her awake, Ruth allows her shoulders and neck to relax, and finds that as she does, her back rests closer to her bed companion. His chin is now against her shoulder, his exhaled breath hot against her exposed skin, his chest is flush against her back, and his knees are bent and resting against her calves. They are sleeping – or one of them is – in the spoon position. Whenever Ruth has fantasised about them lying in bed together, this is how she pictures them – his front against her back. She drifts back into sleep with a smile on her face, knowing the man she loves is holding her close, doing what he does best - protecting.
When next Ruth wakes, it is because her bed companion is moving. His lips are against her neck, and his hand – the one which had been resting on her stomach – is pressing against her, drawing her closer to his body. She can hear the slightest of moans from his lips. Yes, but is he awake?
