He was relieved to see that their bench by the river was vacant, and considered this to be good sign, of what he had little idea, but it stirred an optimism in him that he had not felt in a very long time. 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours to be exact. With that he quickly sat down at one end of what he still thought of as Our Bench, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his coat, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, shoulders hunched against the cold, and let his mind wander where it will while his eyes settled on the light which danced across the ripples on the surface of the river. He didn't really expect her to join him, although inside his head he had concocted that scenario so many times he was sure that it could happen – perhaps in an alternate universe, perhaps some time in the future – long after he is gone.
As of this moment it had been 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours since she had died in his arms. For 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours he had managed little more than to go through the motions of being Harry Pearce, head of MI-5, solver of problems of national importance, keeper of secrets, possessor of the mind of a king, and the heart of a lion. In truth, he knew that his heart had gone to the grave with Ruth, the same heart that had only just come alive with her touch, her smile just for him, and her promise of a life after MI-5. Each night as he lay alone in his cavernous bed, willing sleep or death to take him, he felt what was left of his heart breaking just that little bit more. Most nights, the nights when he was sober enough to remember climbing the stairs to bed, he cried into his pillow like a child, the pillow next to his own, the pillow on which Ruth's head had never had the chance to rest. He missed her more than he'd thought possible, and the pain didn't ease as time passed. If anything, like an approaching thunderstorm, it became heavier and darker with each day. He had been living his life waiting for the pain to go away, because once his pain eased he could again think about living. Even a fool knew that wouldn't happen any time soon, if ever.
Harry was not sure how much more of this existence of his he could tolerate. It was little more than muscle memory that got him through each day. He had lost count of the bottles of whiskey he had consumed in that time, although he was sure his liver could tell him were a common language to be found to suit them both. That's four glasses over your limit, says his liver. Shutup, replies Harry. Who's in charge here? His team had little idea how profoundly Ruth's death had affected him, and how it still affected him, draining away what little life force he had left once her body had been airlifted from that windy cliff-top, the place where Ruth had died, and Harry's heart had begun to disintegrate, cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom. For that first 3 months after he lost her forever, all of Dimitri, Erin and Calum, and especially the Home Secretary were careful, even solicitous around him, so much so that he was relieved when Erin and Dimitri suddenly married one weekend, taking everyone by surprise as well as drawing the attention away from him.
"We saw what happened with you and Ruth," Dimitri had said somewhat tactlessly, "so we figured we'd fast-track the nuptials, just in case."
Harry had smiled from his cheeks down, clenching his fists by his sides in case his right fist suddenly and accidentally caught Dimitri's left cheekbone. In contrast, he had kissed Erin's cheek while he murmured his congratulations.
"It should have been you and Ruth doing this," Erin had whispered, to which Harry had nodded. He was not sure he could have answered her, even had he had the words. Their obvious happiness overwhelmed him with sadness and regret, guilt and pain, as unshed tears welled at the back of his throat. Twice Ruth had sacrificed herself to protect him, and twice she had left him for good; the second time had been final. It bloody served him right.
Harry felt rather than saw someone sit down beside him, at the other end of the bench. He swallowed his outrage that someone – a stranger – had entered this sacred space, the place he and Ruth had shared. The woman coughed, then coughed some more, like she had something caught in her throat. The words of William Butler Yeats suddenly entered his head:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly for you tread on my dreams.
This bench was Harry's private temple to Ruth. He wished he could quote the words of Yeats to all who ventured here.
The stranger then surprised him by speaking.
"Harry Pearce, I presume." Her voice was low and husky, the voice of a mature woman, her accent different from his own.
Harry glanced at her, taking in her short, spiky dark hair, her black trousers and boots, and her red coat. She looked like a Cossack. Bloody Russians! A black leather bag was slung over one shoulder; big enough for a laptop...or a gun, but too small for an automatic weapon. Once a spook, always a spook. She was looking right at him, in much the same way Ruth had when she required a straight answer from him. He silently regretted all the times he had avoided giving her a straight answer. Being a spook was a hard habit to break.
"You fit the description given me," the woman continued, "and you're sitting on the right bench."
Despite his desire to tell the woman to bugger off and leave him to his pondering, Harry's interest had been piqued by her comment about the bench. So few people knew about this bench. Ruth did, of course, but she was beyond telling anyone. Malcolm had also, but he'd resigned from MI-5 years ago. Harry still missed Malcolm. The Home Secretary possibly did also, but Harry doubted that this small piece of information, so precious to he and Ruth, would remain a significant part of the Home Secretary's conscious memories, especially after 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours. Harry stared back at the woman, noting that she was around his own age, but had looked after herself better than he had managed for himself.
"I come with some information for you. I can guarantee you'll want to hear this."
God, not another bloody spook! It was her accent that had irritated him. Antipodean. Possibly Australian or New Zealand. Too flat to be South African. At least she wasn't Russian, so that was a relief!
"So thrill me," Harry replied in his best sarcastic tone. "I doubt there's anything you can tell me that I don't already know." This had better be good, and if she ended up shooting him, here on this bench, the bench on which he and Ruth had sat so many times over the years, then well and good. So long as she aimed for his brain and not his stomach. If she aimed for his heart she'd miss it because it was no longer there.
They stared at one another for a few more seconds before the woman again spoke. She was cool alright. Harry began to forgive her her accent.
"My name is Justine Granger," she said, handing Harry a business card, which he took but didn't look at. "I'm a private investigator. Most of my work is in getting people in touch with those they've been separated from...relinquishing mothers, children adopted at birth, that sort of thing."
"I wasn't adopted," Harry interrupted. The woman continued as though he'd not spoken.
"Someone has sent me to find you, to speak to you. She said you'd be – er – blunt. Maybe even rude." She smiled kindly at him before continuing. "This is someone you believed to be dead. She – has instructed me to give you this." The woman began to scrabble in her bag in search of something.
Harry stopped breathing, as time stood still. This is someone you believed to be dead. He couldn't see, and all he could hear was the thumping of his almost-dead heart against his ribs.
Ruth. Please let it be Ruth.
