Ipswich, UK – mid September, 2016:

Ruth had decided to process one more order before she broke for lunch, and she had just opened the order page on her desktop, when through the open door, she heard a voice she'd come to accept she'd never hear again.

"I wonder can you help me with something."

He spoke quietly – to Gabby, who was on the shop floor, assisting customers, and hopefully selling the occasional book or two – but to Ruth's ears, she heard him shouting, calling for help, close to tears. Come on! he'd called …... impatient, terrified. That was the last time she'd heard his voice. Until now.

"It's a personal request," he went on, and Ruth sat still, in her chair, her eyes on her monitor, seeing nothing. "I've been told this woman works here."

Ruth listened for a moment while Gabby hesitated. "Yes ….. that's Ruth," she said. "She's -"

And that is when Ruth suddenly stood up, sending her chair rolling backwards across the office floor. She wanted to run to the door and fling it open, but she walked quietly through the doorway, and into the shop, and there he was, standing at the counter, showing Gabby a small photograph …... a photograph of her.

They stood for a long moment, he with the photograph still between his fingers, she with her hand resting on the corner of the counter, and their eyes held – hazel with grey-blue.

"I'll just see to this other …... thing," Gabby said, and quickly disappeared to the back of the shop, somewhere behind the rows and rows of antiquarian books.

They barely noticed her leave. All they could see was each other. They could have been the only two people left on earth.

"I'm about to take lunch," Ruth said, and then remembering who it was she was talking to, "Harry. I just have one more order to process, and then ….. if you'd like …... we can have lunch together. I always eat at Marcel's. You'll see it – it's just down the -"

"I saw it," he says, his voice quiet, low, his eyes never leaving hers. "I walked past it on my way here, and I thought …... maybe …. we could …..."

"Yes, we can. If you'd like that."

He nodded and then smiled. "I would …... like that."

"I'll be no more than fifteen minutes." What was she saying? Fifteen minutes? She'd process this order at lightning speed. She'd take no more than five.

And somehow, Ruth was back in her office, while the bell dinged as Harry closed the shop door behind him. She hoped he was as good as his word. She hadn't any of his contact details. For him to have walked into her life again, and then maybe walk right out again would be nothing short of a tragedy, and she'd already suffered enough of those. They both had.

Ruth saw him straight away. He had chosen a table at the back, the one which overlooked the back garden …... her favourite table. How did he know that? He stood as she approached, pulled out her chair, and then waited while she sat. Always the gentleman …... just one of the many things about him which she'd missed.

Missed was altogether the wrong word. Yearned for, wept over, longed for …... She'd believed that she'd successfully moved on with her life. After all, almost five years was a long time in anyone's reckoning. One sentence spoken by him had been all it took, and she was back there, where they'd last seen one another, with her offering him a life after MI-5 …... and then it had all been taken from them. It was as though someone had thrown a live grenade into their lives. She had ended up in hospital, and the next morning early, the CIA had taken Harry from his home, and within two hours he was on a private flight to the US …... to serve time for the death of Jim Coaver …... and she'd heard nothing more from him …... until now.

After two months, she'd returned to work at Whitehall, but it was never the same. Her regular visits to Section D, with Erin Watts as section head (she'd almost hyperventilated the first time she'd seen Erin sitting in Harry's office ... in Harry's chair) were painful, only reminding her of what she'd lost. Ruth only remained in the job for another two very difficult years. And then she'd begun searching for Harry, and what she found had her cooling her heels, and determining to create a new life for herself. She chose Ipswich, but only because a good friend from university had thought of her when planning to turn a run down book shop into a sourcing centre for antiquarian and out of print books, both through a shop front, and online. It was her new life – hardly the new life she'd imagined for she and Harry – but it was better than being reminded daily that Harry was somewhere in the US, and that he'd moved on. So …... what was he doing here, four years and almost eleven months after he'd been extradited to serve time for Jim Coaver's death?

"It's good to see you, Harry," she said, wanting to say more, but not knowing where to begin. There were a myriad beginning points, all of them leading to the same questions.

Why are you here?

Do you still care for me?

For a man who had suffered detention in the US, he looked rather well, but then …... he'd had someone save him. She'd heard about it, which is why she had backed off, and left him to his new life. He appeared thinner, and there were a few more lines, but when he smiled, she saw the old Harry, and her stomach tipped in the same way it always had. How was it possible for things to not have changed in that time? By anyone's estimation, five years is a long time.

"I looked everywhere for you," he said, "and then – out of the blue – I ran into Calum Reed. Even Malcolm had no idea where you'd gone."

"I wanted to hide," she said, looking up at him over the menu. "Calum was the only one I told. I'll have the crab sandwich. If you like seafood, it's very good."

"I've already ordered the minestrone, and a coffee for myself, and a pot of tea for you." He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "What were you hiding from, Ruth?"

She took a while to answer. No-one had ever asked her that question. "From everything. From the Service, from London, from us …... what we never made it to having …... from my …... hopes and dreams." Her last words were almost whispered. After all, it no longer mattered, did it? She had little idea why she was there, with him. It was the very slowest form of torture.

She just needed to know that he was well, and …... happy. Sitting across from her, gazing at her like perhaps he shouldn't be, he looked happy.

"Are you ….. happy?" she asked, not really wanting to hear his answer.

He still watched her across the table, his hands still clasped. Ruth noticed his knuckles whitening, like he wasn't quite as relaxed as he appeared.

"I am now," he said quietly, watching her closely, unclasping his hands, and leaning just a little bit closer towards her.

"I eventually lost contact with Calum," Ruth said, looking away from Harry, having forgotten how intense his stare could be, and how uncomfortable she felt under his gaze. "How did he find you?"

"I ran into him. Literally. I was in London only last week, and I was heading off to meet my daughter, and there he was, walking down the street towards me. He saw me before I saw him. What are the chances of that happening? He's left the service. Did you know?"

Ruth shook her head, already amazed at the intersection of events which had led to she and Harry being in that café …... together.

"Last I knew he'd gone to the Middle East with Six. I think he'd had his heart broken, so he thought he'd – I don't know – throw his life away. I'm glad he made it home."

"He's working with a private firm. He says it's much safer, but also a bit boring. He has a lady in his life now."

Harry smiled at her, and she smiled back, warmed by the news about Calum. She was beginning to feel less tense, more relaxed, allowing the next group of words to leave her mouth.

"Back when I was about to leave the Home Office, I got Calum to do a search …... to find you. I had to know. I …... needed to know …... what had happened to you. I …... he found that you had been released from …."

"I was lucky …. relatively speaking. It was one of those initiatives of the Obama administration, an attempt to win the hearts and minds of the British, by releasing British prisoners from detention. In reality, it was only a token act, but I can't complain. I …... was luckier than most. I had …... support when I got out of detention."

Support is one word for it.

"Calum told me ….. Harry …... that you'd married your support worker. He said you'd settled down with her. That was the last I heard, and that's when I …... stopped trying to find you."

She looked up to see Harry's face …... impassive, unchanged. Had she said the wrong thing? Maybe the information was wrong. Perhaps Harry wanted to keep his marriage a secret. Perhaps something had happened …... after all, here he was, on his own, with no wedding ring on his finger.

It was at that moment that their lunch order arrived, and for the next half hour, they ate, and exchanged observations about the food, Ipswich, Ruth's job, the book shop …... all less likely to touch the sensitive emotional triggers which were just beneath the surface for them both.

"I have to get back soon," Ruth said, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"We need to talk, Ruth. I didn't come looking for you just for a catch up. This was not a social call. There is a lot I haven't told you …... that I need to tell you. Calum told me that …... you're still single. Is that true?"

Why does that even matter? If he is unavailable to her, why does he even care?

"That's true. I work, I go home. I eat, sleep, read, shop, go to the theatre, walk. That's …... that's my life."

"Can we meet later? After work? Ruth …... I really need to talk to you. Not here, not at a restaurant."

Suddenly, the fact of his marriage – or not – seemed irrelevant. They needed to talk, even if it was simply to draw a line under what could have been …... what should have been, had disaster not so cruelly ripped them apart. Ruth grabbed her bag from where it sat, on the floor beside her feet. She put it on her lap, and dug around in it until she'd found her house keys. No matter what had happened to each of them in the intervening years, she still trusted Harry more than she trusted anyone alive.

Handing her house keys to him, she arranged to meet him at her place after work. She hoped she wasn't opening herself to further heartache.

"I should be home by six," she said, standing. "Here's the address, as well as my phone number, should you change your mind."

"I won't," he said quietly, as she scribbled her details on a piece of note paper. "I'll be there. Is it alright if I let myself in? It will only be so I can get out of the cold."

"Of course. That's why I've given you my keys. Turn on the heater when you get there. I hate getting home to a cold flat."

She quickly left the cafe without looking back. She didn't have his phone number. Stupid ….. she should have asked. She was only just back in the book shop, settled at her desk, when her mobile phone rang.

"Ruth speaking."

"Now you have my number," he said, his voice edging on laughter. "Just in case you change your mind, and want to tell me to get lost."

"I won't," she said. "I won't change my mind …... Harry," and then she quickly hung up.

It was then that Ruth remembered something. When she moved from London to Ipswich, she left her old life, and all reminders of her old life behind. She sold all her furniture, and gave the bulk of her clothing and jewellery to charity shops. She needed to begin her life over. In her flat in Ipswich, Harry would find very little of a personal nature …... except for one thing. A photograph. Back when Colin Wells was still alive – it would have been his last Christmas - 2005 – he had taken photographs during the Grid Christmas party. One evening late, she had rifled the drawers of Colin's desk, and stolen the one photograph she'd wanted to keep for herself . Harry and she had been deep in conversation, and he'd been regaling her with stories of what the service had been like when he was young. One such story had them both laughing, so that when Colin had called out, Give me a smile, guys, Harry had smiled right at the camera, while she had smiled up at Harry. That photograph reminded her of the time when she and Harry were just beginning to acknowledge that they had feelings for one another.

What would Harry think when he sees that photograph, within it's magnetic frame, the only photograph on her fridge door, the only photograph on open display in her house?

She was about to find out.