Having written three stories set firmly after 10.6 I felt like a change. This is the story of episode 1.1 but as it might have appeared to characters off the Grid. Most of them we did see, sometimes fleetingly. They are people who, for the most part, would never know the full story and therefore interpret it very differently. In some instances I've used parts of the script that were altered or never seen on screen but have made up my own back stories etc. I've also adopted a variety of different formats to tell their individual tales.
I know that in the early episodes the Counter Terrorism Department was designated Section B not D but I've stuck to D. As it would be impossible to make sense of this story without reference to the Grid scenes I've usually opted to hold it together through Harry's Operational Notes - the type he might make to keep track of this operation when he has a number of others on the go at the same time. I've also included what might be his private thoughts. Thanks to Antonia Caenis for giving me the dates from Harry's Diary. However the timing in the Diary covers 2-5May while the script timing covers 2-6th May therefore for the final chapters I've opted for the script times. The Harry here is the younger brasher version not the ground down character of the later series.
Explanation over, the first chapter features three of our main spooks and starts as all spooks stories should with a red flash.
"Oh Shag."
Dragged out of his early morning slumber Harry Pearce was swearing aloud. A call at this hour of the morning was never good news. When the text that danced before his sleep deprived eyes included the word 'Ireland' it was positively evil, especially given Harry's past history with that troubled province. Years in the Service meant that Harry was normally able to spring out of bed and into action at the first ring of trouble. Depressingly it was about the only bedroom action he ever experienced these days, or rather nights. Not for the first time he wondered whether to be relieved or regretful that, despite the size of his bed - king sized equipped with high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and duck down duvet - he usually slept alone. Occasionally he thought some casual company would be nice, more than nice in fact. This morning he felt particular sorrowful at the absence of a feminine body in his bed, having been the subject of some not very subtle blandishments from an attractive blonde he'd met at the utterly boring reception he'd been forced to attend the previous evening. While, with the arrival of the dawn, he couldn't be bothered to dredge his memory for her name - murmured seductively into his ear while his immediate attention had been distracted by her more obvious assets - as he recalled she'd been rather more decorative than the self important politicians milling around trying to impress, and was offering an infinitely more enticing nibble than anything the canapés could provide. A few years previously he undoubtedly would have flirted in kind, supplying her with drink, gradually charming her to the point of proposition with the full intention, if successful, of heading for the bland anonymity of a hotel room complete with a legend for the register and a supply of safety first condoms in his wallet for more intimate protection. Unfortunately though the blonde had been introduced to him under his own name, and bringing an unknown woman back to share his comfortably furnished minimalist bedroom was a security breach that Harry the risk taker wasn't prepared to contemplate despite the rising pressure within his trousers. As Head of Section D Harry was forced to set a reluctant example in respect of permission to socialise forms, something that had rarely bothered his head, or any other part of his anatomy, prior to his elevation into the crimsoned majesty of the goldfish bowl office: a metaphor in architectural form for the removal of his jealously cherished privacy, personal and professional. Of course he had occasionally obeyed the red taped protocol in earlier times, notably when, as a junior case officer, he'd embarked on his disaster of a marriage, but since then, whenever the hormones moved him to enjoy a one night stand with a female not in the employ of the service, he'd relied on using a false id for his cover, less bother and less embarrassing, but possessed of a certain illicit piquancy to spice up the fun.
Forcing himself upright Harry recalled that just before he'd departed from the Grid last night, cursing as he deplored the necessity of preparing for his dubious revels, Tom Quinn had presented him with a copy of said form relating to his latest squeeze. Harry, having glanced through it before marking it for action, could only hope that Ellie Simm would prove less of a liability than Tom's previous girlfriend. The instant that that brainless trollop had passed the vetting procedure and become the recipient of the happy news that Tom was a spy she'd proceeded to make with the mouth to all and sundry, endangering Tom's life, let alone his career. Well Harry and the heavy mob had sorted that one out and Miss Loose Talk, having been offered a sudden financially advantageous promotion, was now sojourning physically in one of the less hospitable quarters of the globe and, unbeknownst to her, was also was featuring on a potential security risk watch list. Tom himself had recovered swiftly from his devastation. In all probability at this moment the lucky bastard was also dragging himself out of bed, after enjoying a night of passion with her replacement. Envying Tom, and with his mind straying back to the rejected possibilities of, for once, using his bed for more than sleeping, Harry threw the duvet aside, heaved himself off his mattress and headed towards the shower. Looking down at himself he sighed, shuddering in anticipation as he reached the inescapable conclusion that he'd better make it a cold one.
Her red phone buzzed like an irritating insect. Tossing and turning in surroundings that were just as minimal, but much less luxurious, than those inhabited by her boss Zoe Reynolds was almost instantly awake. So unfortunately was her landlord who took the opportunity to try, yet again, to obtain entry to her room. Privacy for him seemed a non- existent concept, in as far as Zoe was concerned anyway. The morning ritual of rattling her door handle finally ceased when he realised that once more he was being denied entry, via, had he but known, the basic but effective protection afforded by the barrier of a wooden chair firmly jammed under the internal door handle. With his latest efforts at establishing a not so beautiful friendship successfully repulsed, as she stared gloomily around the sparse, utilitarian furniture, whose appearance was not enhanced by the dim dawn light filtering through the small rain stained window, Zoe yet again cursed her impulsiveness in storming out of her previous flat share.
When her ex-flatmate's boyfriend had tried to come onto her for the umpteenth time it had seemed a sensible idea to warn her not overly discriminating friend about the unfaithful propensities of love rat she was dating. End result: one massive row with disbelieving flatmate who, of course, had accepted as gospel the rat's version of events reversing the blame. So now Zoe found herself immured in a tatty overpriced room - whose cell like properties were distinctly out of kilter with the theories the great Virginia Woof had espoused when hymning the advantages of 'A Room of One's Own' - with another rampant male trying to get into her knickers. Even worse, her prospects for an alternative residence were strictly limited given the price of London accommodation versus the need to maintain professional secrecy. Her previous flatmate's unquestioning dimness having, prior to the bust up, allowed her to simply accept Zoe's cover story that she was a Health and Safety on call operative whose job obliged her to attend accidents at a moment's notice.
Groaning Zoe poised herself to make a sprint into the bathroom, hopefully avoiding the resident letch, before returning to throw on her clothes and escape into the relative safety of her workplace.
Elsewhere in London the early morning summer light was beginning to filter its rays through the long green drapes drawn across the windows of a spacious, almost semi-circular, bedroom, whose overall decor married the comfortably practical with the vaguely Bohemian. Placed centrally against the back wall of the room stood a double bed, decorated with matching basket weave head and foot boards, overlaid with rumpled bed linen. The latter an indication that the two recumbent bodies housed underneath the sheets and the patchwork quilt, the latter composed a simple design of odd material squares, had not retired the previous night to merely enjoy some quiet slumber. In fact, despite the early hour, Tom Quinn was already awake when his phone signalled its unwelcome alert. At the precise moment it began vibrating his six foot plus naked length was stretched out - weight considerately supported by his elbows - as he hovered above the warm and receptive body of a similarly unclothed Ellie, mentally and physically preparing to reprise the more intimate parts of the previous night's activity.
The unwelcome, appallingly timed, interruption forced him to abandon his original wake-up call plans in favour of twisting around to read the phone screen. The need to conceal the pixelated display, which was buzzing him as Tom while, from the regions somewhere below his groin, the woman he'd been about to make love too was being addressing him as Matthew, merely reinforced his relief that yesterday evening he'd finally taken the serious step of submitting Ellie's name for vetting. Tom aka Matthew – or should that have been the other way around - might be an efficient spy, nearing the top of his game, but the strain of identity concealment was beginning to take its toll. The sooner he could stop living the lie forced upon him by security related circumstances the better.
Remembering his previous relationship debacle he was expecting some close questioning from Harry, but then he was beginning to get some increasingly uncomfortable interrogation from Ellie. This morning as he hastily dressed she was asking, not unreasonably, with just a hint of suspicion in her voice, what computer system went wrong at six thirty in the morning. He was sorely tempted to say 'An Irish one', but that was a little too close to the truth as texted. Fortuitously Ellie's attention was distracted by her lively eight year old Maisie bounding, without warning, through the red painted bedroom door making Tom/Matthew thankful that he'd managed to pull on his trousers and was in the mid process of zipping them up before she burst in. Getting naked with Ellie was one thing, walking around tackle out in front of her young daughter was quite another. While Maisie seemed to have gladly accepted him as an increasingly regular fixture in her home Tom could just imagine the capital that the prurient minded would make of that one. Sadly having to think the worst was an occupational hazard in some jobs, especially his own.
Grabbing his car keys and phone as he bade the two women in his life goodbye Matthew departed, transforming back into Tom Quinn: his latest mission, to discover whatever ominous events were underlying Jed's red flash.
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