Late August 2011:
Harry stands at the edge of a grassy verge overlooking the sea. Behind him, a group of teenagers burst into laughter, a cacophony of youth, their exuberance leaving him feeling older and wearier than his fifty-seven years. Only minutes earlier he'd walked past them on his way to the beach. He'd counted four boys and four girls, their bodies draped like artists' models over chairs arranged haphazardly around a large round wooden table. Not one of the eight had noticed him. After all, he is just another middle-aged man, and so to the optimistic eyes of youth he is invisible. He stands for a long moment gazing across the water, pondering Ruth's whereabouts. He'd hoped he'd find her here, but given it is his fourth day on the island, she appears to be elsewhere.
Immediately after he'd told her about Sasha Gavrik being his son, she had turned from him, barely able to hide her confusion and hurt. His motive in disclosing one of his more shameful personal secrets had been to hopefully gain her trust. He hadn't meant to hurt her. The following day she'd announced she was taking leave.
"For how long?" he'd asked.
"For as long as it takes," had been her obscure reply.
"Towers wants to speak with you … about a job."
She'd nodded, turning from him, and then she'd stopped, half way to the door of his office. "As .. enticing as that sounds, I haven't taken leave since I returned to London from Cyprus, and … HR informed me I have quite a lot owing."
"Of course," he'd replied quietly. It was clear to him that she needed some time alone, some time away from the Grid, and from him. He could hardly blame her. They'd been so uncomfortable around one another, and so for her to take a couple of weeks leave might be a good thing. She would return refreshed, and he'd have time to think of some other way to approach her, something which wouldn't have her turning away from him, her face a portrait of hurt and rejection.
That had been almost eight weeks earlier, and she still hadn't returned, so Harry is searching for her, and where better to begin than in Cyprus?
Despite wearing sun glasses, Harry squints, the reflected light from the water like so many lasers, aimed directly at his eyes. He unconsciously hitches up his trousers, the unfamiliar softness of the light fabric against his thighs like wearing no trousers at all. He lifts one hand to his throat, the sun kissing skin which hasn't seen daylight for months. He smiles. Just knowing that Ruth may have stood on this very spot, her beautiful eyes trained on the same body of water is almost enough to bring him comfort, although not nearly as much comfort as her being with him at that moment.
He is overcome by a paralysis familiar to him during his infrequent attempts at taking a break from work. Should he take a walk along the beach, or head back the way he'd come? Exercise in the Cyprian sun, or indulge in another coffee under the shade of a wide umbrella? Neither option feels quite right, but after a minute or so, he decides that a walk would be better for him than sitting down, since most of his days at work are spent with his backside planted firmly in a chair. He briefly contemplates the wisdom of walking in the sun without a hat to protect his face and scalp, when he is stopped by a youthful voice from behind his shoulder.
"Uncle Harry?"
The voice is male. He has no nephews, so who …? The voice possesses a familiar underlying tone, and he spins around on the spot, to lift his eyes to those of a young man of around six feet in height. The spiky blond hair above the clear blue eyes takes him back … oh, around four or five years. Is it? Could it be? It is.
"Wes Carter," Harry says, taking a small step closer to the almost-grown-up Wes, his hand outstretched in greeting, as the young man nods. "It's good to see you," he continues, shaking Wes's hand.
"You too, Uncle Harry." Wes grins down at Harry, his eyes dancing.
Wes is tall and handsome, his blue eyes direct and clear, the pudginess of childhood having given way to an angular bone structure, and a long-limbed body. How old would he be now? Thirteen? Fourteen? Harry does a rapid calculation in his head. "You're fourteen?" he asks.
"Fifteen actually. I turned fifteen in January."
"Jesus," Harry exclaims, "what are they feeding you? Miracle Gro?"
Wes smiles widely, eyeing Harry for a long moment. "What are you doing in Cyprus, Uncle Harry?"
"Please .. call me Harry," Harry says quickly, "after all, you're almost a man."
"Tell that to my Nan and Pop. They still think I'm nine." Harry knows he is staring at Wes. The lad's resemblance to Adam is startling, and even a little unsettling. Despite the joy of seeing Wes again, Harry experiences a moment of deep sadness. He has missed Adam, but he has never allowed himself to grieve the deaths of Wes's parents. "And I know I look like my dad," Wes continues, as if able to read Harry's mind. "Everyone says so. I rather like it that I do."
Harry nods. "And so you should." Harry's own son resembles him also, which only elicits irritation in Graham. Last time he saw his son, he had dyed his hair black, and grown a beard in an attempt to change his appearance. Despite his attempt to disguise his parentage, Graham Pearce still looks like his father.
"Wes? Are you coming with us?" Another teenage boy, a little shorter and stockier than Wes, and with dark hair and sad brown eyes, hovers some distance from them, while Wes's other companions begin to amble away, chatting amongst themselves.
"I'll catch up with you later. This is my Uncle Harry." Wes adds, grinning at the other boy. "I haven't seen him in – like – forever."
"You don't have to keep me company," Harry says quietly, once the dark-eyed boy has caught up with the others. "I'm used to my own company."
Wes grins and nods, "No probs. That lot are prone to talking shite, and I'd rather like a walk along the beach. I haven't kept up my training schedule."
Wes begins to walk away along the sand, and so Harry quickly catches up, finding it hard to believe that on this far flung island in the Mediterranean, tucked between Turkey and Lebanon, he has stumbled upon the orphaned son of two of his former operatives. The chances of that happening must be millions to one.
"You're still playing rugby?"
"Yeah, but I've had a few injuries and my Nan and Pop want me to pack it in." Wes is silent for a while before he continues. "What do you think, Uncle Harry? Do you think I should put my rugby playing days behind me?"
"Harry … please, Wes, call me Harry. Uncle Harry makes me sound like one of those men who carries boiled lollies in their pockets."
Wes stops, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling … so much like Adam's. "We had one of those at school when I was about eleven. His name was Mr Murdoch. We'd call him Mr Murder, because we were sure he was planning to seduce us and then murder us, before burying our bodies under the cricket pitch."
"He was a games teacher?"
"No. Geography. He was rubbish at it. He couldn't tell north from south. In the end, he was given an early retirement."
Harry has so many questions for Wes, and he has no idea how to broach most of them. Do you miss your dad? Is your life a good one? Are you happy? What are you doing in the very same town Ruth Evershed had lived for almost two years? Were he being truthful, the last question is the one he most wants answered.
Only then does Harry remember the question Wes has asked him. "And about rugby," he says quietly, "If you still enjoy playing rugby, then keep playing. You're only young for a very short time."
Wes's laugh comes out as a snort. "That's what everyone says. I think it's probably bollocks. I intend to be young forever."
Harry is somewhat shocked by the lad's open and outgoing nature. As a child, he had been quiet and shy, and wary around his father's boss. This young man is more like Adam had been, and Harry can't help feeling bad that he'd allowed Wes to grow up without maintaining regular contact with the lad. It's just that as the years had passed, Harry's life had become busier than ever, with little time for a personal life.
They continue to chat quietly, mostly about Wes's life at school, until they reach a long wooden bench beneath a group of lean Cyprus trees, angled towards the sea, as though a relentless wind has tried to blow them over. Without speaking, they both sit down, turning so that they can still see the beach. Harry wishes he'd thought to bring a drink.
"I'll buy you a beer when we get back," Wes says cheekily, noticing Harry take out a clean handkerchief to wipe his brow.
"You will not," Harry replies quickly, "although I'd accept a squash or a lemonade."
They sit in silence for several minutes, both watching the ocean as the tide goes out, the water's edge being very gradually pulled out to sea. Harry is about to say something, when Wes speaks, his voice deep and quiet.
"I know what my mum and dad did for a living," he says, and Harry turns to look at him, to see that Wes's eyes are burning into his own. "I know they were spies, and that they served their country, and ultimately sacrificed their lives."
Harry doesn't know what to say. Not long after Adam had died, he had had a long conversation with Wes's grandparents, and both had sworn to never tell Wes what his parents did, or how they had died. "How did you find out?" Harry asks.
Wes grins, and then drops his eyes. "One afternoon when my Nan and Pop were out I pretended to be sick. I broke into Pop's desk where he keeps private documents and stuff. It was all there … the insurance policies which pay for my keep and my education, along with the name of my parents' employer," he says quietly.
"How long have you known?"
"A couple of years." He shifts restlessly on the bench. "At first I was really angry. I didn't talk to Nan and Pop for a month. I stayed at school on my weekends, shut in my room sulking." Wes again drops his eyes. "And I cried an awful lot."
"I'm so sorry, Wes."
"It's not your fault."
"I suspect it is. I was their boss, after all. The buck had to stop somewhere."
"I've thought a lot about this. I knew you were their boss, and I knew that meant you gave the orders, but they chose that life. They brought me into the world, but they went out each day, taking massive risks." While he's been speaking, Wes has been gazing out to sea. "If anyone at all is to blame, then it's them. I just wished they'd been accountants … or teachers. Christ, I'd rather be living in some crummy council house, attending a local school, if it meant having my parents alive and with me." Wes turns to Harry, holding his eyes. "You've got kids. What do they think of what you do for a living?"
Harry sighs heavily. As much as he doesn't wish to answer Wes's question, he knows he must. "Not much. My job took me away from them for most of their childhoods. My son has never forgiven me for that."
"Yeah, well, your son needs to grow up."
Harry has to agree with Wes. He imagines that with early orphanhood comes wisdom. They sit in silence for another few minutes, each lost inside their own thoughts. Harry is glad to be spending time with Wes, but he can't help the guilt which grips his throat. "Wes ..." he says carefully.
"I remember that day," Wes says, as if Harry hadn't spoken. "I remember the day you came to tell me my dad was dead. I knew as soon as I saw you what you were about to say." This time it is Wes who sighs, his chest rising and then falling with his breath. "I wanted you to go away, but I also wanted you to give me a hug. When you put your arms around me, it was like you were telling me I wasn't alone in the world."
"I'm sorry I haven't … kept in touch."
"I know why you stopped coming." Again, Wes turns his head to catch Harry's eye. "It hurts for you to see me … doesn't it?"
Harry is embarrassed to find tears springing to his own eyes. When one tear escapes, rolling down his cheek, he turns away, gazing down the beach, to the market in the distance. "Yes," he says quietly.
"So much sadness," Wes says at last. "There seems to be sadness everywhere I look. That's why I try to remain cheerful. I don't want you to be sad … Harry. There's no point in that."
Such wisdom from one so young. Harry quickly pulls himself together, before again turning towards Wes. "Where are you staying?" he asks. "Are your grandparents with you?"
"Nan and Pop no longer fly. Pop can't on account of his dicky heart, and Nan has to stay with him. She's quite a lot younger than he is, so it's hard for her." He looks into Harry's eyes, and a slow smile changes his expression from serious to playful. "I have this mate I met online. He's a gamer, like me, and then my school was twinned with his school in Nicosia, so we were able to write to one another -"
"Write? You mean, letters?"
"Text messages, Harry, or Facebook. Mostly we Skype, or just talk over Steam while we're gaming." Harry shakes his head. The world has become so very small. When had that happened? "I'm staying with him and his family. He's - like - my best mate, and he lives in Polis, Cyprus. He was the one who asked me was I joining the others."
Harry tries to remember the days when he had `mates', people with whom he spent time away from work. Since Bill Crombie there hasn't really been anyone … aside from Ruth, and she's always been a little out of his reach, more a longed-for companion than a mate.
"So," Wes continues, watching Harry closely, "I'm guessing you're here to meet Ruth."
Harry is so shocked by his statement that he is stuck for something to say. "Ruth Evershed?" he asks.
"How many Ruths do you know? Of course Ruth Evershed."
"She's here? In Polis?" Harry can feel the blood rushing to his head, his pulse thundering. He hopes he's not headed for a heart attack. What an irony that would be.
"Not today, no. Last week she flew to Athens to see a friend from the time she was living here." Harry wonders if the friend is male or female. "Apparently this woman is a cousin of George's .. you know, the guy she was living with."
Of course he remembers George. With that one sentence spoken by Wes, Harry is once again in that room with Ruth, both with their hands tied behind their backs, watching the images of George and his son kicking a ball around in the back garden of a safe house. Safe house! It was hardly safe, not for George or his son. Harry swallows the nausea which threatens to surface as he relives that awful moment. There is something worming its way to the surface, something he should have noticed earlier. "How come you met Ruth?" he says carefully.
"She's my friend's former step-mother."
"Your friend – your online mate is -"
"Nick Kyriakou," Wes says with a smile. "Like me, he's also an orphan, so we have that in common. What are the chances?"
Harry breathes out heavily. The orphaned son of Adam and Fiona Carter is here in Polis, staying with Nico Kyriakou, who is the step son of the woman he loves. It is almost too much to take in, but take it in he must … and soon. "So ..." he begins carefully, "is Ruth returning to Polis?"
"You must know that her leave is almost over, so she's returning on Sunday, and I think she's planning to fly back to London soon after that."
Sunday. It's only three days until Sunday. Seventy-two hours. Three sleeps. For the first time in hours, Harry allows his face to relax in a smile.
A/N: I have quite deliberately made Wes older than in canon. I'm not sure a 13-yr-old would be as confident as the Wes I have written, so in this he is 2 years older.