Chapter 1
She sat alone at a table meant for two, staring at the cup in her hand. How easy it would be, she mused, to let it slip from her fingers and watch it fall to the floor with an ear-splitting crash. It was made of sturdy white porcelain, the type that would break into chunks large enough to repair with glue and a little patience. Once, in her previous life, there had been a teacup belonging to her Grandmother, fluted in design, covered with Lily of the Valley, a memento safely preserved on a shelf. She had knocked it off while cleaning and watched in horror as it smashed to the ground, splintering into a thousand pieces. As the tiny shards pricked her fingers, she had wept at her own stupidity and the realization that she could never repair something so fragile.
She returned to contemplating the coffee. It looked promising; dark, with a sharp aroma that tickled the back of her nose. If she closed her eyes, she could be there again, but no matter how she tried, she could not shut out the hissing of the coffee machines, the low voices of the patrons and the rain pattering against the window. She took a sip of the coffee and gave a quiet sigh. It was bitter and lacked body, the flavour falling flat on her tongue, the taste serving only to remind her she was no longer in Cyprus.
Ruth looked around the cafe, observing the small tables sprinkled about haphazardly accompanied by mismatched chairs, a nice change from one of those pervasive chain shops, for which she was thankful. She covertly studied the clientele, not out of a sense of idle curiosity but more from a ropey sinew of apprehension that now sat permanently between her ribs, always ready to become a twisted knot in her stomach. The sensation was not new; she had lived with it for years. Paranoia was an old friend. Had it not served her well in Cyprus? It could very well save her again. Her eyes set upon a middle age man, tapping away at a laptop. He could be working for Mace. She quickly replaced that thought; it was outdated. No, he could be working for Mani. She shook her head dismissively. Mani was dead. But then again, dead was a relative term in this business.
It was this low-level apprehension, the constant wariness that informed her decision to choose a table obscured in the shadows, yet close enough to the window to see anyone who approached the door. Through the glass, she watched as pedestrians scurried in the rain, wrestling with the flimsy fabric of their umbrellas in a vain attempt to stop the thin ribs of steel from bending backwards. She smiled at their struggle. If only it were that easy to stop one's life from turning inside out.
She pulled her grey trench closer around her for it had not occurred to her to remove it; that would mean she felt safe; but all she had felt since her return to London was a bone-aching chill. How quickly she had become accustomed to the sun, warm temperatures making exile slightly more bearable. The promise of the sun had been one reason she had chosen the Mediterranean, that, and the fact there were no memories associated with Greece, only heroes and myths. She had thought of herself as a hero, in her own tale of sacrifice, destined to sail the seas on an odyssey. Like wanderers before her, she had found herself washed ashore on an island; an island as divided as she, and like the ancients, she had also discovered that she could not outrun monsters.
Her thoughts returned to the present as she glimpsed a cropped blonde head, weaving its way towards her through a crowd of students.
"I'm so glad you came," Jo said, as she drew beside the table, placing a hand on Ruth's shoulder.
Ruth wanted to pull her friend into a warm embrace, to feel something pulsing and alive under her fingertips. There had been a time when she had jokingly rebuffed the effusive natures of George and Nico, laughingly dodged their kisses, ducked out of hugs, but now she would have given anything to touch them, to hold them one more time. Ruth covered Jo's hand with her own. She was grateful for the gesture, no matter how small.
"It never crossed my mind not to come."
A faint hint of cigarette smoke drifted in the air as Jo sat down. It reminded Ruth of George; how he would sneak in a cigarette during an after-work drink with his fellow doctors, thinking he could hide the telltale scent of the illicit smoke by chewing gum. You can't get the smell out, she would tell him, it clings to you. She would chastise him; that he of all people should know the dangers of smoking. He would laugh as she struggled to evade his kiss, the taste of tobacco on his lips, brushing them across her cheek to whisper in her ear that it would take more than a cigarette for her to get rid of him. With a great effort, she pulled her thoughts away from George and back to the woman sitting in front of her. She wanted to tell Jo she was too young and beautiful to ruin her life by smoking, but what right did she have to give anyone advice? It could very well be the smoke from the charred ruins of her life that hung in the air. Instead, she smiled at her friend. "You look good. Your hair, it's..."
"Short?" Jo grinned as she flicked a packet of sugar with her fingers and then poured it into her coffee. "Makes it easier to handle those middle of the night red flashes."
It was the way that Jo's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, that made Ruth realize there was something else that hung in the air about her friend. Haunted, that was it, yet still so beautiful. Ruth's hand reached up to touch her own hair, which she knew to be a sorry sight.
"You look good too," Jo said earnestly.
"You don't have to say that. I haven't slept in days, I don't have any decent clothes and I haven't stopped-" The sentence remained unfinished. She had promised herself she would not burden Jo with her sorrows, in fact, she had come today with the intent of forgetting them. She looked down at her coffee cup and traced her finger along the smooth curve of its handle. "I haven't been able to find a decent cup of coffee since I've been back. All the time I was away, I complained I could never get a decent cup of tea. Funny lot, aren't we? Always wanting what we can't have." She gave Jo a tremulous smile.
Jo reached across the table and took Ruth's hand. "It's alright; you don't have to hide it from me."
Ruth shifted her gaze to the window. "I had to tell Nico about his father." Her tone was flat. "He blames me, as he should."
"It wasn't your fault. You had no idea what was going on. You came back because you were trying to protect them. It was the right thing to do," Jo assured her.
"He wouldn't let me hug him or kiss him goodbye." Ruth took a long, shuddering breath.
Jo gave Ruth's hand a gentle squeeze. "He's just a child. He doesn't understand, maybe in time."
"I always thought of him as a gift," she turned back to look at her friend. "There was never any time to think about that sort of thing when you're buffeted from one threat to the next. He was like this unfolding riddle. One moment he would know everything about the world and the next, I would have to check under his bed for monsters. I tried to cherish him, even when ...when...I remember we gave him this Ethniki jersey and he wore it for a week, wouldn't take it off, it had this big chocolate stain on the front..." She smiled, quelling the tears that were starting to brim in her eyes. "It was naive of me wasn't it, to think I could leave the service behind and have a normal life. You say I brought them here to safety when the truth is I brought them back into danger."
Jo tilted her head in a compassionate gesture. "Do you really believe that? Do you really believe we can never leave?"
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure out how I slipped up, how were they able to find me? Why would Mani, after all those years, use me against Harry, when nothing ..." Once again, she left the sentence unfinished. That was a wound of a different nature.
Tactfully, Jo manoeuvred the conversation away from that sore point. "What will you do?"
"I could always go back to GCHQ."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Come back to us. We can look after you."
Ruth tensed, pulling her hand away. When she had agreed to meet, she had anticipated the conversation would turn to the Service but she found herself affronted, disappointed that this time was not just for the two of them. She was still resentful that their last encounter had not been a reunion but a discussion of how Ruth could placate Harry so he could be in the right frame of mind to make decisions regarding national security. Part of her had bristled at the notion, the scenario opening up an old wound from her younger self; a remembrance of having been called before the headmistress to make amends with a girl in her form who had tormented her mercilessly. Of course, Harry was not a bully, but he could not possibly be suffering in the same way as she. The rational, adult side of her brain knew it was far better to douse her anger by offering an olive branch, but a bitter taste remained. She suspected that once again Jo had come at his bidding. "Did Harry send you?"
"He asked me to speak to you, but I wanted to see you anyway. I would have asked you to come back of my own accord."
Ruth looked down at her hands, her fingers now occupied in folding and unfolding a stiff paper napkin. "Why didn't he come?" she asked, not raising her eyes, wondering if Jo could hear the meaning beneath the words. If Harry wanted her back, he should be the one to ask.
"Far be it for me to know what goes on inside Harry's head, but I think he might be afraid of you."
"Afraid? Of me?" the words escaped Ruth with a huff of disbelief.
"Maybe he's afraid he would muck it up; that whatever he does, it will be wrong." Ruth lifted her head and looked at Jo, silently acknowledging the certainty of that statement. Jo shrugged her shoulders and lowered her hands to her coffee cup, mirroring Ruth's fiddling fingers. "Maybe he asked me to talk to you because I understand. Because of what I've been through..." It was Jo's turn to leave the sentence unfinished.
Ruth gently placed her fingers on top of Jo's hand. "What is it? What happened?"
"Ros once told me that this job is harder on us than it is on the men and that's why we have to be tougher than they are to do it." Jo met Ruth's eyes with a startling directness.
Ruth stilled her fingers, her breathing suspended while her imagination tripped over itself envisioning scenarios that would lead to such advice. She took a deep breath. "Can you tell me?"
Jo shook her head. "Not now. Not today."
Ruth bowed her head, secretly relieved, certain that she was in no state of mind to learn that Jo was not as she remembered, perfect and whole. There would be time for them to unburden their souls. Ruth traced her thumb over the back of Jo's hand and massaged gentle circles; she could not help but be curious about those who were missing. "Can you tell me what happened to Adam and Zaf?"
"You know I can't tell you that," Jo whispered. Ruth nodded in understanding; she was still a civilian. "Come back. Come back for me, Ruth, and we can help each other." Jo's voice swung between a plea and a promise.
"I'm not like you. I'm not one of the strong ones. I have nothing left," Ruth whispered back, her voice matching Jo's hushed intensity.
Jo placed her elbow on the table and leaned in closer. "That's not true. You have a different kind of strength. You are full of kindness and compassion. I'm afraid of losing that; I don't like what I'm becoming. I've shut part off myself off and I'm afraid I'll never get it back.
Ruth bit her lip and turned away, her head wobbled, along with her resolve, she was finding it harder to say no than she had anticipated. "I'll think about it."
Jo sensed an opening and pressed her advantage. "Why did you join Five?"
"I was dying a death of a thousand paper cuts at GCHQ. I wanted to be a real spy." Ruth smiled as she remembered the eagerness of her younger self.
"And when you found out spying wasn't as glamorous as you thought it would be why did you stay?" Jo coaxed.
Ruth had to stop herself from saying "Harry", the ease that it would have fallen from her lips a testament to the comfort she felt with Jo, but there were reasons far less trite and self-serving. "I like to think I made a difference. That perhaps some piece of information I discovered saved lives."
"You know it did. We save lives. What we do is important. It's a chance to be part of something that's bigger than both of us. I know it's incredibly selfish of me to ask-"
"It's not selfish at all, Jo."
They sat in silence for a moment and Ruth found her thoughts wandering back over operations successful and otherwise. She finally broke the silence. "What happened to the girl? The one you came to see me about? The one that was going to be sacrificed to that Russian oligarch?"
A mask descended on Jo's face, hardening her features, faint lines tightening around her mouth. "Some people don't want to be saved." There it was on the table, did Ruth want to be saved?
Ruth looked down at her coffee, now grown cold. Next time she would order tea. Her eyes fell on Jo's cup. There was a delicate smear of pink lipstick lining the rim. Ruth examined her own cup, devoid of any trace of her existence. She was a ghost, she needed to live; she needed something worth living for. There was fearful symmetry in returning to the Grid, compelling and daunting at the same time. If she returned, surrounded by people who knew her, knew the old her, there was the possibility that she could find herself again. She lifted her eyes and looked at Jo with a soft smile.
"That's a yes then?" Jo let out a sigh as if she had been holding her breath, her smile breaking out like the sun. A warm flush spread through Ruth at the thought that she had been the one to bring that smile to Jo's face.
They stayed at the table and held hands as the world moved on around them. The rain outside continued, oblivious to the cracks of the human heart. Ruth savoured the moment of peace she had found, feeling that there might be a small ember of hope left inside her; content to know that Jo would be there to help her.
