"I'm sorry, Harry," Towers said, and Harry had to struggle to repress a sigh. If he never heard the words I'm sorry Harry ever again, it would be too soon. Everyone seemed to be apologizing to him lately, which was odd, considering he was the one who'd killed a civilian and ruined his own career, with absolutely no assistance from any of this sudden bevy of apologetic well-wishers. He kept his mouth shut, however, and tried to assume an expression of, if not gratitude, at least mild appreciation. "If I had things my way," Towers continued, "we'd be pinning a medal on your chest instead of putting you out to pasture, as it were."

That's a lovely image, Harry thought wryly.

"I appreciate that, sir," he said instead.

"Where will you go?" Towers asked, leaning back in his chair, his vast paunch rising above the desk like a beaching whale.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. "My father left me a small cottage in Suffolk, on the coast. I'm afraid I haven't looked after it like I should, and the place is in need of some repair. I suppose I'll start there, and once I've got the cottage fixed up, I'll decide what to do next."

"I have to admit, Harry, I'm feeling a bit envious," Towers said in a good-natured tone of voice that nonetheless made Harry grind his teeth in frustration. Envious? Of course, who wouldn't be envious; he'd killed a man, ignited a media firestorm, been forced into early retirement, and now he was running off to Suffolk with his tail between his legs before the mob showed up at his doorstep with pitchforks and torches. Life was just a dream for Harry, at the moment.

"Well," Towers said, rising to his feet with a groan that signaled the meeting was at its end, "I hope to see you again sometime, Harry." The Superintendent extended his hand, and Harry took it. They shook briefly, neither quite willing to look the other in the eye. What more was there to say? Harry's time in London was done, and the brass were ready to be rid of him. Might as well beat a hasty retreat, and hope everyone forgot his name.

He gave Towers a final nod, turned on his heel, and left the precinct for the last time. He felt the eyes of his fellow officers on him as he went, but no one said a word to him, and thus in silence he departed.


Harry woke just as the sun was rising, the same way he always did. Of course, there was no need for an early start now; he was a free man, utterly unfettered, able to spend every minute of every day doing exactly as he pleased. His pension was not insignificant, and neither was the sum he'd received when he sold his house in London. He already owned the Suffolk cottage outright, and all together he was in a position to do quite well for himself, to spend the rest of his life as a man of leisure.

He absolutely hated it.

On this, his first morning in the cottage, he found himself going through the motions of his usual routine. He rose and made the bed, tucking in the corners neatly like the soldier he had been; he showered and shaved, and then dressed in his trousers and a crisp, freshly ironed white shirt. He was just knotting his favorite navy tie when it occurred to him that he absolutely nowhere to go.

With a sigh that was equal parts relief and despair he set about removing the tie, stowing it away in a drawer before releasing the first two buttons of his shirt and rolling back his sleeves.

What to do now?

The house really was in quite a state; when he arrived yesterday afternoon Harry had been embarrassed to see the evidence of his neglect. The front door, which had once been a bright, cheery green, was now faded and peeling. The gate in the little white fence that surrounded the front garden was hanging at an awkward angle on its hinges, and several of the fence boards were warped and broken. A thick layer of dust coated everything in sight, a few of the shutters were missing, one window was broken, and the back garden didn't resemble a garden so much as it did an Amazonian jungle.

His first order of business had been the window. He boarded it up with some supplies he found in the shed after wading through the detritus of the back garden. Next he'd taken stock of the furniture; most of what remained in the house was broken, rotted, or just too old to be of any use. His own things were in storage at the moment; he wanted to get the cottage cleaned up before moving anything in. The bed in the upstairs room had been sufficient, and so he'd dropped his one suitcase in there, and spent several tedious hours making that space, if not clean, at least livable. By the time that was finished, however, the sun had gone down, and he realized he hadn't touched the kitchen. Not trusting any of the appliances on hand, including the ancient kettle, Harry had then walked into the village, and eaten a quiet, lonely supper at the pub before returning to his dusty, desolate cottage.

Today was a new day, so Harry squared his shoulders and headed down the stairs, making a list of all the things he needed to do in his head as he went. The inside of the house would be the first order of business; he needed to hire some removal men, to cart off the furniture, and then the whole place needed scrubbing, top to bottom. What little cleaning supplies he'd brought with him had been used up in yesterday's attack on the bedroom, and so it seemed another trip to the village was in order.

Breakfast first though, he decided, staring glumly around the grimy kitchen. Hadn't he seen a nice little café yesterday, on his way to the pub? A cup of tea and a bit of bacon would be most welcome.

That's good, he thought, pleased that he'd come up with a plan. Breakfast, then to the shops for supplies, then back here to tackle the kitchen.

Thus satisfied with his arrangements, Harry made his way out the door, stopping for a moment to lock it behind him out of sheer force of habit, rather than any real need. The cottage had been unlocked when he arrived, but he had found no evidence of intruders inside. Apparently, this little village was much safer than his London neighborhood. Once a copper, always a copper, though.

He made his way down the front walk, sighing in a self-deprecating way when he encountered the broken gate again.

It was a beautiful summer day, as warm as it ever got in this part of the world, the sun shining and the sky for once a clear, cheerful blue. From somewhere off behind him he could hear the distant crash of the waves against the cliffs. He supposed that if one had to be forced to leave one's entire life behind, there were worse places than Suffolk to seek refuge.

"Oh, bugger it!" he heard a woman exclaim exasperatedly from somewhere across the lane. He walked over to investigate, shading his eyes with a hand, searching for the source of the shout, and found himself quite suddenly confronted by one rather shapely bum, sticking out of the hedge in front of the cottage just opposite his own.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, chiding himself for staring at said bum.

"Oh damn!" the woman cried, scrambling out of the hedge and furiously wiping the leaves from her skirt, blushing.

She made a quite sight, the mystery woman in the hedge. Though she had succeeded in dispensing with most of the foliage on her skirt, Harry couldn't help but notice that there was mud on the fabric around her knees and an errant leaf stuck in her soft brown hair. She had luminous grey eyes and a warm, open sort of face that he instantly liked. All in all she was quite pretty, if a bit flustered.

"All right?" he asked her again; she was just staring at him with a slightly bewildered expression on her face, as if she couldn't quite fathom where he had come from or what he was doing there. At his question she sighed and ran her fingers through her hair; in the process she discovered the leaf and threw it away, swearing under her breath and blushing that little bit more. Harry Pearce was not the sort of man who referred to women as "adorable", but he felt he might need to make an exception, in this case.

"It's just my cat," the woman explained, dropping her gaze from his face to the toes of her scuffed black leather boots in a bashful sort of way. "He's run off again. I don't usually let him out, because he kills the birds."

"Cats will do that," Harry said, immediately kicking himself for how patronizing it sounded.

She jerked her eyes back up to his face, and there was something indignant about her expression that seemed quite out of place, given the circumstances.

"I planted those shrubs," she raised one hand and pointed off toward her garden, on the other side of the hedge, "specifically for the birds. What sort of person would I be if I lured them here with flowers only to set my cat loose on them?" She was huffing a bit, and Harry felt overcome by the need to redeem himself. All thoughts of breakfast and housework were forgotten as he got down to the very serious business of improving her impression of him.

"Why don't I help you look for him?" Harry asked. He would have offered anyway, even if she hadn't been a very pretty woman; spending a few more minutes in her company was just an added bonus.

He could tell from her face that she wanted to say no, so he decided to take matters into his own hands, and approached the hedge.

"What's his name? The cat, I mean," he added inanely. Well done, Harry, he thought.

"Fidget," she answered immediately, with a tone that seemed to indicate that she both knew just how ridiculous it sounded, and at the same time seemed to dare him to say something about it. He prudently declined the challenge, and instead focused his attention on the hedge, bending over to inspect it more closely. He thought he caught a glimpse of a long grey tail swishing away from him, heading for the shrubs she'd pointed out to him a moment before.

"I think he's going towards those shrubs," Harry told her; he couldn't quite bring himself to say the name "Fidget" aloud.

"Oh no," she groaned, twisting her hands together. Harry contemplated the hedge; now that he was up close to it he could see it wasn't as solid as it had originally appeared. Perhaps he could just sort of barrel his way through it? It seemed the quickest way to get to the renegade feline, and if possible he wanted to prevent any sort of bird-related atrocities.

"Right then," he said, and with that he set off into the hedge.

With no small amount of swearing and more than a few cuts and scrapes he emerged out the other side, more or less physically intact, though the state of his dignity was debatable. His neighbor was watching him with one hand covering her mouth, and he wasn't sure if it was amusement or concern he saw in her shining grey eyes.

The cat had made an appearance, however, stalking round one of the shrubs, his yellow eyes focused with laser-like intensity on a swallow and his tail swishing dangerously.

Now or never, Pearce, Harry told himself.

Moving as quietly as he could Harry approached the wayward animal, bent slightly at the waist with his hands out in front of him. The cat, a common grey tom with a chunk missing from his left ear, spared him a single disdainful glance before returning his attention to the bird, having apparently decided that Harry posed no threat to him.

Just as the cat shifted his weight forward, clearly ready to pounce, Harry took a deep breath and lunged for him.

This was perhaps not the wisest course of action.

His feet flew out from under him in the damp grass and he slid forward, startling both bird and cat in equal measure. The bird took wing, the cat yowled, and from somewhere behind him he heard the woman shout, "Be careful!"

Bit late for that, he thought ruefully. His ankle twinged something awful and he didn't even want to think about the state of his shirt and trousers. He lay on his stomach in the grass, leg bent at a funny angle and his head partially under the lowest branches of the shrub. I think I'll just stay here for a while, he thought.

After a moment, though, Harry felt something warm and soft rub up against his side, and he rallied, turning quickly to snatch up the cat, which he managed successfully on the first try. Fidget didn't seem to mind; he was purring and nuzzling his face against Harry's neck quite contentedly. Harry tried to sit up, but then his head encountered the shrub again and he collapsed back against the grass with a groan.

The gentle swishing sound of the woman's skirt alerted him to her approach and so, trying valiantly to pretend that he hadn't just made an absolute arse of himself, he wriggled around until he was clear of the shrub and could sit up unencumbered, cat in hand.

"Oh, Fidget!" the woman cried delightedly, scooping him out of Harry's arms and cuddling the little animal close.

Harry tried not to grumble as he pulled himself onto his feet, placing his weight gingerly on his ankle. It didn't appear to be broken, just a bit bruised. His ego was in a similar condition.

The woman was smiling at him, and suddenly all his little aches and pains were forgotten. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and her eyes sparkled at him charmingly.

"Thank you," she said.

"Think nothing of it," Harry replied, brushing bits of grass and dirt from his trousers absently.

With the retrieval of the cat he no longer had any excuse to be standing here in her garden, but he found he did not want to leave. It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful woman was smiling at him, and this was perhaps the closest to happy that Harry Pearce had been in years.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," she said.

"Harry Pearce," he answered, extending his hand before he remembered that she was clutching a cat.

She just kept on smiling, juggling Fidget around a bit until she was able to reach out and take his hand in hers.

"I'm Ruth," she told him.

Her hand was small and warm and Harry quite liked the way it felt, wrapped inside his own.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ruth," he answered, holding his grip a moment longer than was strictly necessary. He couldn't say why, but he was most reluctant to let her go.

She just stood there, looking at him, and Harry got the feeling that there was a lot more to Ruth than met the eye. She wore a long, flowy skirt and a soft chambray button-down shirt, a single pearl on a silver chain around her neck. The overall effect was sort of bohemian and lovely, and there was something warm and knowing in her gaze that made Harry feel instantly at ease with her.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly with a slight shake of her head, as though rousing herself out of some deep thought. "I have to go to work."

"Of course," Harry replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Ruth looked at him again for a long moment, and smiled slightly before saying gently, "'Bye, then."

It was at that point Harry realized he was still standing in her garden, and making something of a nuisance of himself.

"Good bye, Ruth," he said, and headed off towards her front walk, not wanting to repeat his trip through the hedge.

All in all, he felt the day was off to a fine start.