A/N: This story, briefly featuring Jane Townsend, is set a few months (weeks?) after the ending of "When Women Talk". It provides yet another alternative ending to 10.6. It's not really a Jane story, although she makes a brief appearance.
He has been told that Ruth's body is on a gurney in the room beyond that door. "It is you who must identify her, Harry," the Home Secretary had said, his voice quiet and measured out of respect to a marriage which had ended with a bullet to Ruth's chest.
"Why can't you do it?" Harry had said into the phone, not wanting to be disturbed from his racking grief, the hollow place he has found where the pain of Ruth's passing barely touches him, where his memory of her is of her lively and warm and loving him. He doesn't want to feel anything. Were he to, he would surely break apart.
"They've asked for a family member, and as her husband, you're about as close as it gets."
Harry had wondered about the mysterious `they'. They say; they want; they have asked; they are pleased, displeased, disappointed. Well, they can fuck right off.
He doesn't know how long he has to wait before he can identify Ruth's body, so he sits and waits, emptying his mind, hoping to find a place inside it where the memories don't gnaw at him like so many rats, their sharp teeth bringing maximum pain. He'd only just hung up from talking to Towers when his front doorbell had rung. He hadn't felt up to having visitors, but the ringing had been persistent, and he thought he heard a female voice calling his name.
"Catherine gave me a key, just in case you wouldn't let me in," his visitor had said, standing in the doorway to his living room, having let herself in. For once her expression is serious, with no sign of a twinkle or a raised eyebrow, her hands held unmoving by her side. "You look awful, Harry." He'd looked away from her then, embarrassed to be seen unshaven and unkempt.
"I don't remember inviting you into my house."
"Well, someone needs to check on you ….. to ensure you haven't ….."
"Taken my life? I couldn't possibly do that. It would be disrespectful to her memory."
"She was my friend, too, Harry. I'm going to miss her dreadfully."
Harry had sighed then, his body heavy with loss. "Well, don't stand in the doorway. You may as well come in."
She had quietly entered the room, sitting primly on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, keeping her distance from him, while trying to find the right words to say to this man whose moods had always bewildered and frustrated her. Why couldn't he just …. deal with things quickly …. like everyone else? "Catherine was the one to tell me. Phillip and I are …. distraught. Catherine said you sounded …. beside yourself."
"I didn't know who else to ring. I just needed to ….. talk to someone."
"You could have called me. I could have come here to be with you. I'm not completely useless."
Harry had smiled then. The thought of his first wife offering him comfort during his time of grief over the death of his second wife had him experiencing amusement rather than irritation. "You are possibly the last person I expected to be visiting me."
"I do have a heart, you know."
Harry had smiled again, wondering whether two genuine smiles less than 20 hours after the death of his beloved Ruth was de rigueur. He knew Ruth herself would not mind. She would want him to pull himself together and live. They had even talked about it – the possibility of one of them being left alone after the sudden death of the other. "In the unlikely event of me dying before you, Harry, I want you to put on a brave face and carry on. I want you to live, love, and always remember me with fondness."
It had only been a month or so ago that they had had this conversation, and his reply had been, "I'm not sure I'd be able to do that, Ruth. I think to lose you might be the one thing which would unravel me completely." And true to his prediction, it appears to be that way.
"I have to go to the hospital," he says, trying to remain calm in the presence of Jane. She was seeing him at his worst – again – not that he'd wanted to impress her, certainly not any time during the last 20 years. "They need me to identify her body."
"You haven't done that yet?"
"I …. I just couldn't. When they took her to the hospital, I came back here."
"And wallowed. You wallow very successfully, Harry. You always did."
Harry suppressed the words, `Fuck off, Jane', just in time for her to offer to accompany him to the hospital.
So here he sits, on a molded plastic chair designed for people half his size, outside the room where Ruth's body lies. On the chair-but-one from him primly sits his first wife, her clothing understated, just like her expression. "Do you want me to accompany you into the room?" she asks at last.
"Thank you, no. I need to …... be alone with her …. one last time."
"She was a wonderful woman, Harry. I just wish you'd had more time together. She made you a nicer person …. and for the first time since they were born, you became a real father to your children."
He knows Jane had meant that as a compliment, and he smiles again, not looking at her. Three smiles in one morning; he suspects that's around three too many. Still, he's almost certain Ruth would approve.
"Sir Harry?"
Harry looks up to see the mortuary assistant. He's sure this man is the very same one who had showed him the fake Ruth's body just before she'd had to go into exile. That was over five years ago, so he could be mistaken. The man leads him into the room – all pale grey walls with chrome fittings, the sheet over Ruth's still body pure white and crisp.
"Are you ready?" the man says, and Harry nods, stepping closer so that had he wanted to he could reach out and touch the body beneath the sheet.
While the mortuary assistant raises the sheet from Ruth's head, Harry's eyes are taking in the shape of her body beneath the sheet. Something is not quite right. Ruth's body is voluptuous. He should know. He had worshipped her body with every part of his, but especially with his eyes and his hands. He hasn't yet touched this body, but his eyes tell him that the shape of this body is not quite the same shape as Ruth's. Then very slowly he allows his eyes to travel towards her head, where he sees a brunette, with a rounded face, small nose, and …...
It's not Ruth.
Harry quickly breathes in. Does this mean what he thinks it means? And what had been Towers' words to him? "Harry, you have to be the one to identify Ruth's body. You have to. I know it's just procedure, but it has to be you." Harry hadn't wanted to, but here he is, and suddenly he knows why.
A sob escapes him, and he covers his mouth with his hand, hoping that he won't break down completely. Perhaps the mortuary assistant believes him to be grief stricken. Only he knows how much he is holding in – a volcano of joy, relief and gratitude.
"Yes, that's my wife," he says, his voice almost failing on the word `wife'. "That's Ruth Evershed."
Seeing that Harry wishes no further time with the body, the mortuary assistant covers the face of the dead woman, as Harry turns to leave the room. Throughout the years Dion Walters has seen a lot of odd reactions to death. He knows that Sir Harry Pearce is a spy, and they are a breed all on their own. Cold bastards, the lot of them. He didn't even kiss her goodbye.
By the time Harry again reaches Jane's side, he has managed to adopt an aura of calm.
"I need to make a phone call. You can leave me here. I don't require a ….."
"An ex-wife?"
"I can't do anything about the ex-wife part. I'll be fine now, thank you. I just had to see her."
"You didn't stay with her long."
"I couldn't bear to …... see her like that."
While he'd been speaking Jane had risen from her chair, her body movements deliberate and elegant despite her pale grey clothing and her minimal makeup. She had gone to Harry's house wearing only small silver earrings and no other jewellery. Jane had felt half naked as she'd left her house. "If you're sure there's nothing else ….." she says.
Harry appears to have been looking through her, something Jane remembers from old. She'd hated how he'd simply switch off and take himself away from her while still standing in her presence. When they'd been together he'd been such a remote man, and yet Ruth had managed to ignite a spark of something in Harry which had made him so much more human and approachable. For her children's sake, Jane's last thought before she leaves Harry in the corridor of the hospital is that she hopes the new Harry - Ruth's Harry – has not gone to the grave with her.
"Anything you need, Harry, anything …... Phillip and I are only a phone call away."
Harry turns towards her and nods, but Jane knows that he is not really there. He is shutting himself off again, covering himself with layer upon layer of protection. She can't really blame him. She has no idea how she would react were Phillip to die suddenly. Well, that is an exaggeration and a lie. She does know. After a suitable time of mourning Phillip – perhaps three to six months – she'd go on a cruise with her best friend Helene, who has been happily single for the past three years. Together they would let their hair (and anything else, even their reputations) down, and they'd each find a new partner, so that life would again be worth living. With that thought still fresh Jane marches down the corridor and away from Harry. She has done her bit. She has no reason to be experiencing guilt because her partner is alive and well, and Harry's is not. As she walks she thinks of what Harry has lost. Ruth was a uniquely kind and giving woman, and Jane will miss her always.
"Harry, I've been waiting for your call. In ninety minutes a car will be waiting for you at your house. Pack yourself enough clothes for at least a week, maybe more. You'll be driven to another location …. in the country."
"I need more information than that." Harry's excitement at the probablility of Ruth being alive is being dampened by Towers' words and also by his attitude. "Can you tell me where?"
"No. Not on this line. You have to trust me, Harry. This has been done with your best interests in mind."
"What about the …... man who shot my wife?"
"I'll call you this evening, but on another line. Goodbye."
When he arrived home from the hospital Harry had showered and then changed into more comfortable clothes for the journey to who-knows-where– slacks, an open necked shirt, the fabric soft against his skin, and a leather jacket. He leans back against the leather upholstery in the rear seat of the government car. For the first time in almost 24 hours he sleeps without waking, his sleep deep and dreamless, only stirring when the car comes to a halt. He looks out his window to see a cottage – a rambling structure which it was clear had been added to over time. The original Tudor-style home sits sedate and dignified amid the more modern additions. He has no idea where he is. He looks into the driver's rear view mirror to see a pair of brown eyes watching him.
"We're here, Sir Harry. My instructions are to wait for you. You are to enter the house via the front door, and take the first door on your left. Inside that room you will find the man who …... shot your wife."
"What if he shoots me too?" Harry's mind is still addled from his long sleep, and he's not sure what Thomas is actually telling him. Is he to have a chat with this man? Is he expected to kill him?
"The man is unarmed."
"He is expecting me?"
"He is expecting someone, but he won't know it's you …. not until he sees you."
Curiouser and curiouser. Thomas is already at his door, opening it for Harry to pull himself together and step out of the relative safety of the car. He nods towards Thomas and then strides to the front door. All is quiet in the house as he opens the front door and then quietly closes it behind him. The interior is dark, the wood panelled walls decorated with photographs of seascapes. Harry hesitates before the door indicated by Thomas, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He knows who it is inside the room behind the door. He wants this man dead, but to kill him would only complicate his already complicated life. Plus, the very last thing he needs right now is to spend what remaining years he has in gaol.
In one swift move Harry opens the door and steps into a room which could be a library or an office. The first thing he sees is a large oak desk, beside which is a large globe of the world nestled in its oak frame. Feeling a presence in the room, he turns towards the window, where Ruth's killer stands, one eyebrow lifted, his face the impassive expression of a lifetime spy.
"Harry ….. you are the last person I expected to have visit me."
"This is not exactly a visit. I am not here for your benefit."
"Perhaps you are here to offer your …... forgiveness?"
Harry is still several yards away from Ruth's killer. He would like to stand close to him – nose to nose – but the man has the height advantage. He stands statue still and smiles. "I am not here for forgiveness either way. I am here to take one last look at the man who killed my wife in cold blood. I feel sorry for you."
"But Harry ….. now we are even …... on the same footing, you and I. We are both widowers, each with a son."
"Don't compare my son to your own. Sasha is a cold-blooded spy, just like you and me. My son has a heart …. and a conscience. Besides, you killed not only my wife but your own. That does not make us equal."
"You always were deluded, Harry. A conscience cannot keep you warm at night. Why are you here?"
"To let you go …... Ilya. I once felt guilty about what I had done to your wife all those years ago. Now …. I am glad. I am glad that you now know the truth about Elena. She used you, just as she used me. My wife would never have done that. She died with her dignity still intact. She was a heroine." Harry again sighs heavily. He wants to stuff his hands into his pockets, but Gavrik would interpret that as him relaxing. He cannot let his guard down around Ilya Gavrik. "I need you to know that I don't hate you. I know you want me to, but I don't. I know you killed Ruth to hurt me. Yes, I am hurt, but only because our marriage has been cut short. You are pathetic and washed up …... and now I'm leaving."
"Harry …..." Ilya's voice is quiet, laced with the slightest hint of menace. Harry turns to face him. "I will never kill you or have you killed; I need you to know that. I want you to suffer being alive while the person you love most in the world has gone. It is the very worst form of torture. I want you to feel as I feel."
"I will never feel as you feel, Ilya. We are very different people."
Harry quickly turns and strides to the door. He leaves the room, closing the door behind him without glancing back at the man who shot Ruth. In the hallway outside the door Vic Griffiths, an operative from Six who has spent much of his career in Moscow, stands armed with an automatic weapon. He nods as Harry walks past him and through the front door. In the driveway Thomas opens the back door of the car for Harry, but it is not until they are both safely inside with the doors closed that either of them speak.
"Was the visit worth it, Sir Harry?"
"I believe it was. Now, Thomas, please take me to my wife."
Thomas catches Harry's eye in the rear view mirror and smiles.
A/N: I have deliberately kept the details of why/how/when/where of Ruth being shot out of this story. As a reader, you can fill in these details any way you wish.