I'm so sorry, I really have made a mess of uploading this. I noticed half of chapter 3 was missing, but in uploading a full version and having to re-arrange everything, I then 'lost' chapter 1. I hope the story is up in full again now, and I really do apologize to anyone who's got as confused as I was.
THE DIARY
Chapter 1
I flinch as I open the door to the roof of Thames House. Down below on the street it might be a sunny day, but up here the wind's bloody freezing, and I don't have a coat. I almost go back down, but then I think about the muttered comments and sideways glances that await me and seek out a sunny corner behind the metal box housing the generator instead. It also has the advantage of making me invisible from the stairs. Comes in useful, sometimes, being so skinny.
The coffee I bought from the machine on the way up is, as ever, virtually undrinkable, but I haven't wanted to go to the bar for a decent one. Everyone in the building knows by now exactly how Jo died. I know nobody will actually dare to say anything to me, but the looks are enough. I don't expect people to understand why I acted as I did. I barely understand it myself. I think Harry does, but Harry has Ruth at his elbow and she's already stuck a label on me – cold, heartless, immoral. I'm not convinced by her periodic displays of concern, all that 'Ros, are you all right?' business. That's for Harry's benefit. Anyway, Ruth's never been in the field, and her idea of a moral dilemma is whether or not to put down a sick cat. To her, everything's black and white. She's never had to cope with the moral schizophrenia field officers have to deal with every day, and on top of that she keeps chattering on to me about Jo. Maybe she thinks constantly talking about her will make things easier to bear. As if. She always mothered Jo, and however much she keeps telling me it wasn't my fault, I know perfectly well she blames me for her death. Well, that's something I can do on my own. I don't need Ruth Evershed's help.
I sit down with my back against the metal casing. It strikes cold, and I shiver, but there's some weak warmth from the sunlight. Anyway, I don't care about being cold right now. I just need a little bit of respite from the eyes – just for a while.
And I'm so bloody tired. I haven't slept the night through since Jo. Most nights I lie awake, and when I do get to sleep, I dream about her, keep seeing her face and hearing the gun. Over and over again, like a tape on a continuous loop. Half the time, I actually try to keep myself awake because I so dread going through it all again. I often spend most of the night pacing the flat. And drinking, sometimes – yes, me, Ros Myers, who rarely has more than a glass of wine, hitting the bottle. Pathetic.
I think Harry suspects something. This morning he phoned me at half past six. I didn't answer – well, I couldn't. I was crying my bloody eyes out at the time. Something else I never do. Or never did. Once. I phoned him back later, when I'd pulled myself together. He had a good excuse for ringing, but I think he called because he's worried that I'm not coping. I told him I'm fine and to stop fussing me like an old mother hen, but I don't think he's convinced. Harry saw me after Hampstead. I don't remember much about how I got back to the Grid; a lot of it is a blank. I can tell you exactly what Jo was wearing when I shot her, and I could describe every detail of the expression on her face as she fell, but after that all I have is partial flashes. I can vaguely recall Harry being in the panic room, and I can remember him helping me to the car, because I was incredibly cold, and he wrapped his coat round me on the way. I have no memory of Lucas being there at all. The Thames House doctor tells me I was catatonic with shock and couldn't stand unaided. Apparently Harry carried me in his arms from the garage to medical. I doubt if my claiming I'm 'fine' is going to make him forget all that.
Wearily, I sip the coffee. It's warm, but that's about all. Still, the warmth is welcome, because sun or not, I'm getting really cold now; my hands are freezing. I ought to go down soon, but not yet. Just a little longer. I can't go AWOL too long anyway – that just starts the fussing up again. I make sure I'm properly dressed and made-up every day when I come to work so that Harry doesn't get the impression I'm letting myself go. Cover up the bags and the bleary eyes, that kind of thing. The last thing I want is for him to send me to Tring and the shrinks. It's bad enough having to go to the in-house psychologist here, but at least with him I can go on working. And I suppose he's all right. I just can't talk to him. He doesn't understand. I don't think anyone can, except Harry.
I'm trembling by the time I finish the coffee. I try to tell myself it's just because I'm so cold, but I don't think that's the only reason. In the car park this morning a motorbike backfired and startled me. I suppose I had a panic attack or something like it. I was shaking so badly that my teeth were chattering and I couldn't get my breath at all for a few minutes. To make things worse, Tariq cycled in while I was still trying to get myself back in hand. When he asked if anything was the matter I snapped his head off, but I could see he didn't believe my assurances. I think he's still too frightened of me to have run with tales to Harry, but I'm not sure.
I get up and check carefully that's there's nobody else around before I return to the stairwell. There's a radiator on the first landing, so I sit on the step alongside it for a few minutes to warm myself before I return to the Grid. In all truth I don't think Harry needs reports about me, from Tariq or from anyone else. He knows I'm not handling this very well. It's only a matter of time before he faces me with it.
I hear voices and laughter drifting up the stairs and scramble hastily to my feet. I don't need a couple of gossipy junior officers finding their section chief hiding from the world on a grubby staircase. Fortunately the voices go down instead of up, and I sink back down again. I suppose it shows what a state I've got myself into that I almost wish Harry would face me with it. Yes, I'm terrified that he'll put me on enforced leave or send me to Tring. I don't know what I'll do if I can't work. I am my job; I'll be nothing without it. At the same time, if I'm honest, I want to talk to him. Ever since I pulled that bloody trigger I've felt so alone – except when he's around. It makes me want to howl every time I see him looking at me with that worried expression on his face. Every time he asks me if I'm all right. Of course I tell him yes; what else can I do? I know he's still got doubts about Lucas, and he needs me to be strong and reliable. It's not fair for me to burden him, but God, I wish I could.
I get to my feet again. Time to get back, Myers, before he sends out a search party. I've had my break, and the longer I sit up here, skulking away from everyone, the harder it is to go and face them down again. And the Ice Maiden (yes, of course I know what they call me, it's my bloody job to know) doesn't run away. So I brush the dirt off my clothes and head back downstairs towards the Grid.