She sees him everywhere.
At the park, at restaurants…
Outside her mother's house…
This is stupid. He's dead. Long gone.
'He raped you, and you shot him.' The words still ring in her ears, weeks after they were spoken. I killed him… the thought is alien, confused. She doesn't remember that. Why would she forget? If she were to kill him again, right now, she would savour it, draw it out…
Not forget it. Never forget it.
She's angry, now- angry at Ros, for lying; angry at herself, for letting the worm of doubt enter her. That's how it started with Connie. Betrayal starts with a doubt, she reminds herself with a shudder. And there's no way I'll ever be anything like Connie. Never!
Looking in the mirror, she must admit that this is not true. Her dank blonde hair hangs limply around her worn face, and dark rings encircle her eyes. Her eyes… They are hard, almost defensive. She hates them… almost as much as she hates Connie. She turns away with a repressed grimace.
No, she must trust Ros. Always…
She stepped out of her sparsely decorated bathroom, into her just as basic bedroom. A clock hangs over her double bed, and a bedside table stands next to it. The room is empty, apart from that. Padding over to the large window that adorns her North facing wall, she glances up at her clock.
It's three am.
Lucas
'At three am, when you're lying awake at night, thinking about it- who do you blame?'
Lucas North buried his face into a pillow, trying desperately to stem the flow of relentless worries and doubts worming their way into his ravaged soul. It doesn't work, of course. It never does.
'Who do you blame?'
'I blame Harry.'
And now, mixed with the doubt and the worry is guilt. How could he blame Harry? The only man in Britain- in the world- who would not sell all of his secrets or betray his country just for the promise of a pot of gold at the end of the long, treacherous rainbow.
He remembers the safe house, with Connie- he is filled with a sudden surge of hatred, now, too- and mixed in the strange cocktail of emotions churning inside him is also, now, pity; pity for Connie. Because she was promised a rainbow, with several pots of gold at the end…
And she couldn't even make it over the bridge with the troll underneath.
There was no rainbow, was there? There was a slope, sure- and you made the decision whether to go up… or down. But there was no pot of gold waiting for anyone at the end. No matter what they sold you, no matter how many magical, fail-proof spells they concocted, someone would always be there. Waiting, just waiting to put things right. To pull the safety net from under the slowly falling traitors.
He likes to think that he is that person.
And now, pride overwhelms him, too.
Pride… Anger… Worry… Guilt… Pity…
It's more than any man could ever bare.
And once again, Lucas North pushed his face into the haven that was his bed and prayed, yet again, for sleep to overcome him.
Jo
As she pads over to the window, she casts her mind back. She pushes through the strong barriers she has had to set up to protect herself from the minefield that is her memory, wincing as it falls apart so eagerly. As she reaches the window, the surpressed memories cry for attention.
Ben, throat cut, lying in a pool of his own blood…
Two men, diving on to an armed and dangerous terrorist, moments before their deaths. Men who had had wives and families and children…
His face…
As she glances down, looking through the spotless glass onto the dark streets of the city below, she gasps.
She falls to the ground.
He is stood two floors down on the icy roads, staring up at her.
The man who raped her is very much alive…