A/N: I have had this story festering away inside my head for some time, but after re-reading kalabangsilver's "Ghosts of Millenium Bridge", I went back to read Chapter 6 of HR always live on's "How To Carry On?" This story is inspired by the two works I mention here, but it is my own take on it. ….. and my own outcome. To me, the outcome is a joyous one, and I hope you enjoy reading it.
And my thanks go to the two writers mentioned above for their inspiration.
He is not awake, but nor is he asleep. He's floating in some netherworld which is between waking and sleeping, but nor is it dreaming.
He has consciousness, but he cannot see himself.
He's felt this way before …... when he was thirteen, and was knocked out for a while when Ben's boot had connected with his head during a game of rugby on the common with some other boys, and again when he was emerging into consciousness after Tom Quinn shot him. He tries to list the other times, but his mind can't find them, no matter how hard he dredges within his memories. He knows there have been other times …... many other times.
Strangely, he feels wonderful. There is no pain, and he's sure there must be pain somewhere in his body. There usually is.
His body. It is light, floating, and is that water beneath him, or is it a cloud of billowing air? He must be underwater.
He can now hear the sounds of people speaking …... soon …... conscious …... brain damage …... bullets. The words drift towards him in a hazy, lazy staccato, as though spoken by someone with a speech impediment. It is when he hears words spoken in a different voice that he tries pulling himself together, to listen more carefully.
"Will he die?" are the words he hears, and they are spoken by his daughter. But ….. isn't she overseas? Somewhere. He can't quite grasp where. All he knows is that she is afraid, and for her to be here – wherever `here' is – things must be serious.
He drifts downwards again …... to the depths, where he has no body, no pain, no life as such. He only has a vague consciousness. He tries to put together his memories of having heard voices, but they have faded. There is nothing. Only darkness.
And something else.
Something.
A presence.
A very real presence.
"Harry …...?"
He knows that voice. He finds he can sit up in bed. Miraculously, he is free of the tubes in his arm, his nose, and down into his throat. There are no people in the room with him. They must have left in a hurry, or he has been drifting in the dark place for long enough for them to have left. He looks around. It is a private hospital room. Just himself, a bed, some machines, which beep regularly, and two chairs beside his bed. The door is closed, and he cannot see out.
He looks behind him to the man on the bed, and sees himself, attached to the machines. His eyes are closed, his chest is bare – but for bandages which cross it. His face is so pale he could be dead ... but for the gentle lifting of his chest.
"Harry?"
There it is again. It's her voice. But it can't be. It's been six months, and as much as he has longed for her return during those long and painful months, she has not come back to him, and nor has he left his body to join her …... wherever she is.
He has tried often enough. First there were the long nights at home in the days and weeks after she died. Most nights he'd drunk himself into a stupor, hoping that he might tumble down the stairs on his way to bed, cut his head open, and bleed to death before he was found.
He hadn't wanted to live, but nor had he wanted to die. He had people who still cared about him, and to deliberately leave them would be cowardly ….. wouldn't it?
"Harry. Look at me."
He looks to the source of the voice, and sees …... a blurred shape.
"Ruth?"
It can't be. Can it?
"Ruth? Am I dead?"
Then she sees her. The blurred shape becomes less blurred, and eventually it becomes Ruth. She is wearing a blue dress with a dark jacket; both look familiar to him. She moves closer, stopping just short of his bed, all the while watching him, a small smile softening her features.
"Ruth?" He feels tears forming at the back of his throat. "Are you real?"
"Define real."
He almost laughs with joy. This really is Ruth.
"Can I touch you?" he asks, wanting to reach out to her, but using all the self control he has to keep his hands to himself.
"Not yet."
To say she looks just as she did in life is not quite true. She looks happier, at peace, and even more beautiful than she had in life. To Harry she appears ageless, almost as though the life she had lived until her death had taken nothing from her. What he sees is the Ruth he loved and still loves - the woman who remains after the pain from her life has lifted. Nor is she doubtful of her feelings for him. It is as though her eyes speak to him, and every sentence ends with `I love you'.
"Will I die?" he asks. After all, his body on the bed is still alive, so she must be here for a reason.
"Only if you choose to do so."
"Is that how it works?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it is just people's time."
He has to ask. He has to know.
"Was it your time …... when you died?"
"I suppose it must have been. Had it not been, I would have recovered."
Harry can't help himself. There is something deep in his throat which seeks a voice. The tears fall freely, and he begins to sob. He has not cried like this since the day she died, and he'd held her in his arms. He cries out his pain, and the guilt he has held deep inside his chest. He no longer has to go to sleep thinking – as he has every night since Ruth had died - `it should have been me'.
Ruth takes another step closer. Harry's tears stop, and he wipes his eyes with his fingers. He has cried real tears, and yet behind him on the bed …...
"Harry …..." He loves the way she says his name. The word rolls fluidly from her tongue, as freely as it had in life. "Harry, you stepped into the line of a bullet. Two bullets …. which were meant for Dimitri. I know what you were doing, Harry. You don't have to do that. I don't want you sacrificing yourself. The surgeon removed one of the bullets, but the other is lodged in your chest. It can be removed, but to remove it may be life-threatening, so they have decided to leave it there." Ruth looks down at her hands, where she holds the fingers of one hand with her other. Harry notices that her fingers are still. She no longer wrings them with barely suppressed anxiety. His Ruth is calm. She is at peace. "Your children were here. Both of them. They want to see you recover. Whether you do is now up to you."
"Ruth …..." He says her name and leaves it hovering between them. He watches her carefully, and when she looks up, her eyes meet his. If only he could see those eyes every morning for the rest of his life. "Will you stay with me …... if I stay here?"
"I'm always with you, Harry, but mostly you have no awareness of my presence. I was with you in those first days after I left. I was with you while you drank yourself to sleep. I knew what you were thinking. I was there to help you stay. You had to stay here, Harry. You were needed."
"Were. You said were."
"Yes." Ruth smiles. It is her wide, full-face smile, the one which he loves so much, but saw so rarely after her return from exile.
"What does that mean, Ruth? Does it mean what I think it means? You can read my mind, can't you?"
"Not your mind, no."
"Then what?"
"I can read what you give me to read, Harry. I've always been able to read your heart. You gave me your heart rather a long time ago."
He feels the tears pricking, and he blinks rapidly to diffuse them, but he has to swallow several times.
"It's alright to cry, Harry. That's your heart trying to talk to me."
This time he allows the tears to flow, and they are tears of joy. He holds her eyes with his own, and as his tears flow, her image again becomes blurred. He takes a deep breath to compose himself.
"Please don't go, Ruth. I couldn't bear it were you to leave me again."
"I won't. As I said, I can be with you during the dark times."
"But I won't know you're there."
"You'll know I'm there, Harry, because I've told you I will be. You won't be able to see me or hear me."
"Like I can now."
She nods.
"Can I touch you?"
She shakes her head, and he is sure her face displays sadness. "You'll only be able to touch me when you're …..."
"Dead."
"I prefer to say when you're here where I am …... in the same state as me."
"State? You mean …... without a physical body."
"I prefer to call it not in a state of density. In the state you're in, Harry, you're awfully dense." Ruth glances at his body on the bed. "That's why your body hurts, especially when you take a couple of bullets on behalf of a colleague."
"Dimitri is young. He has a life ahead of him. I …... I'm in pain, Ruth, and I'm not talking about my back or knees …... or my chest."
"I know. But …..." Ruth smiles at him, and she seems to step from one foot to the other, as though she is nervous. "I don't know how to say this …..."
"Then just say it."
"This happens rarely, but it does happen. Sometimes …... one half of a couple dies, and the one who is left behind finds life unbearable. Sometimes …... that person is given a choice."
"But …... were we a couple?"
"Harry, we were more a couple than most couples I know, and we were together for almost a decade. We just didn't -"
"Consummate it."
Ruth smiles widely, and Harry thinks she has never looked more beautiful. "I was going to say formalise."
"Consummating is a kind of formalising."
"If you say so," she says, still smiling.
"Ruth …... are you saying that I have a choice? Now?"
She nods, smiling.
"Are you saying that we can be together …... where it is less dense?" He smiles at his choice of words. Her words.
"You can. I need to say something, Harry. I should have said this to you before I died."
"I know you love me, Ruth. I've tried telling myself you didn't, but I now know how much you did."
"Do," she corrects him. "And I've read your heart …... every day since I left, so I know that my love for you is returned in equal measure."
He nods, smiling, happy. He is so happy, happier than he's ever been.
"I have to go now, Harry. You have to make your decision, but I'll be here when you do. Whatever you decide, I'll be here to see you."
Then she is gone. Instantly. He sinks back into the dark place, the place at the bottom of the world. He knows what he must do.
28 hours later:
"Dad? Dad? Wake up."
It is his son's voice, and he tries to speak. He can't open his eyes, but he'll keep trying. He lifts the finger on the hand closest to the edge of the bed.
"He's moving. Graham, look. His finger moved. Dad, please wake up. I need to tell you I love you."
Harry taps his finger twice on the bedclothes.
"He's replying." Graham's voice – deeper than he'd remembered. "I need to tell you …... I'm sorry ….. for everything."
Catherine and Graham watch closely as Harry's eyelids flutter. He is trying to open his eyes, but it is such hard work.
"Do you think he's trying to communicate using Morse Code?" Graham says.
"Hardly. I think he's trying to open his eyes. Dad, don't struggle if it's too hard. We'll come back tomorrow. It's pretty late here."
Harry relaxes, and allows himself to sink deeper …... to the place where he feels closer to Ruth.
15½ hours later:
Catherine has rushed into the hospital alone. The words from the doctor, `Your father is awake,' had sent her hurtling out of her flat and to her car.
Inside Harry's hospital room, she sees a couple of his spook buddies – both around her own age - one a tall, dark-haired man, the other a rather showy woman with long dark hair. They look up as she enters the room, and then make their excuses to leave. They both turn back to her father.
"I'll do what you said, Harry," says the man, and then he leaves, smiling at Catherine as he passes her.
The woman leans down and places a quick peck on her father's cheek, and then she follows the man through the door.
Catherine lifts her eyebrows. Harry slowly shakes his head and smiles.
"Nothing going on," he manages to say, his voice hoarse from the tube which had been keeping him breathing. "Only ever Ruth."
Catherine grabs her father's hand, and squeezes.
"All I can say is that I'm relieved you didn't decide to join her," she says, and then noticing the shock on Harry's face, she shakes he head. "Sorry, Dad. I know how much you must miss Ruth."
"Every day," is all he can manage for now.
As much as Harry is pleased to see his daughter – and his son, when twenty minutes later Graham joins them – there is a large part of him that is disappointed that he is still here. He knows that his recovery will be long …... and probably painful. He feels a lump of grief building in his chest. He misses Ruth so much …... so very much.
His children are talking to him. Their voices mingle, one with the other, when Harry feels a sharp pain in his chest, like a knife has been plunged into him. He feels his body spasm, and then he sinks to the dark place, where there is no pain. Once there, he finds he can breathe easily, even though he can hear other voices – shouting words like, `He's arrested!' And then the words fade as he sinks deeper.
He sits up, as he had two days earlier. Ruth is there, in the corner of the room, and she is smiling. Her smile is so wide. He hopes his smile matches hers.
Quickly, Ruth moves to his side. Before he has even had a chance to ask, her hand takes his. She feels warm. She feels alive. She is here. She has come for him. He feels such joy, such bliss as he has never experienced before.
"I said I would," she says, as she helps him off the bed.
"We won't have need for conversation, will we?"
"Oh, I don't know. I like using words. I've missed our discussions."
"You've missed me?" he asks, incredulous.
"Yes, of course. Listening to your heart is one thing, but talking is fun, too."
She is looking over his shoulder, and he follows her gaze, to see medical staff working on his body, trying to bring him back. He wants to tell them not to bother, but he knows they'd not hear him.
"Can we?" he asks Ruth, indicating his children, who are standing together outside his hospital room, their faces white with shock.
"Of course."
Harry drops Ruth's hand, and walks ahead of her through the doorway, and into the corridor. They stand less than a yard from Catherine and Graham, watching them. Harry looks at Ruth, and she nods. He steps close to his two adult children, and kisses each on the cheek, and then he wills his heart to give his love to them both. Then he and Ruth walk away, her hand again seeking the warmth of his. A little way down the corridor, Harry stops and turns to watch these two fine young people.
"Did you feel something?" Graham asks, his eyes filling with tears.
Catherine nods. "I felt him kiss my cheek."
Graham looks into his sister's eyes and nods.
"And Ruth is with him," Catherine adds.
Graham nods again.
Harry then turns back to Ruth, squeezing her hand.
"You're such a softie, Harry Pearce."
"No, Ruth. I'm less dense."
"Here's hoping."
"Tell me, Ruth." They are still walking hand-in-hand through the hospital corridors, and they see other `less dense' people, like themselves …... some are alone, while some are walking in couples, as they are. "Where's the light at the end of the tunnel we hear so much about?"
"It's in your heart, Harry."
"That's an obscure answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Harry stops, and turns Ruth to face him. "Where do I go to get some decent clothes?"
"You'll find them eventually …... or they'll find you. Besides, I've been enjoying looking at your legs …... and other things."
"Other things?" Harry reaches down his body with his hand, and grasps his tackle. Not only is it all present and accounted for, but it is also well covered.
"Not that. I'm talking about where the hospital gown doesn't meet over your bum. It wasn't for nothing I let you walk out of your hospital room ahead of me."
He smiles widely, enjoying this rather forward Ruth. "Which brings me to another question," he says.
They have resumed walking through the hospital.
"I think I can guess what you're about to ask. As less dense beings, can we have sex?"
Harry nods. They are waiting for a lift to arrive. He is not sure why they are relying on lifts. Can't they just ….. fly …... or something?
"You know, Harry, that day I died, I was planning to invite you back to mine for dinner, and …..."
"Sex?"
"I planned to ask you to stay over, so yes, sex was definitely on the after dinner menu."
Harry smiles at her, and again he squeezes her hand. "You've tried it?"
"Tried it?"
"Sex …... while you've been here."
"No, of course not."
"I just thought you might …..."
"Might what, Harry?"
"I thought you might have run into George."
There it is. The elephant in the corridor.
"I have seen him – briefly. He's with his wife. She died two years before I met him." She notes Harry's sigh of relief. "Besides …... I've been waiting for you."
Ruth reaches up with a hand to Harry's face, and glides her fingertips from his cheek, down over his chin to his neck, and then to his throat, where she very lightly circles his skin with her thumb. She feels him shudder beneath her fingers.
"How did that feel?" she asks.
"Wonderful."
"We're more sensitive now we're less dense, so ….."
"Sex will be …... rather good?"
"Spectacular, I'd say."
"I'm rather relieved ….. and surprised. I hadn't expected …..."
"After death is a lot like life …... minus the fear of dying."
Harry smiles. He is aware he is smiling a lot. Doors open, and they step into the lift. "Do others …... you know …... like us …... do they have sex?"
"Some do, but it's usually only those who either had a very rich and healthy sex life while they lived, or like us, who never got around to it, and …..."
"Should have."
"Yes, Harry. We should have. And I'm sorry we didn't."
Harry nods. "Me too."
"Harry …... you didn't know any of this, and yet you still decided to come with me?"
"I would have come with you no matter what, Ruth. I can't bear being parted from you."
"And your children?"
"They no longer have need of me."
Harry reaches down and gently places his lips on Ruth's. It is a kiss of love, as they wind their arms around each other. When the kiss ends, they look up to find that the lift has come to a halt.
"We're here," Ruth says quietly, her breath warming his cheek.
"Where?"
"You'll see."
When the lift doors open, Harry sees before him a vast garden. There are many people strolling across the grass, amongst the wild flowers, around a large pond, sitting under trees, and beside shrubs. Turning around, Harry can no longer see the lift.
"You have to know which lifts to take," Ruth explains. "Some people take a while to figure it out."
They look into one another's eyes, and step into the garden. Harry glances down to see he is wearing shoes …... and his favourite faded blue jeans, paired with a long sleeved dark blue shirt. He has no need for a coat or a jacket. He knows he will never again feel cold, frightened, or alone. He sighs. Who knew Heaven to be on the roof of St Thomas's Hospital?