Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC - I make no money from this so please don't sue me.
A/N: This is set post 6.10. I have made a deliberate decision not to include any dialogue or reveal precisely what the occasion is. Any mistakes are entirely of my making as this is unbeta-ed.
Black Ties
Harry owns two black ties. One is worn less frequently these days; he has no taste for opera and avoids any formal event that involves politicians. He doesn't want to be lectured about the failings of the Service. He doesn't want to justify his decisions to people who are more interested in producing sound bites for the media and pontificating about the loss of innocent lives. Harry knows about the loss of innocent lives.
He picks up the other black tie and tries not to think about how many times he has worn it. There have been too many funerals, too many memorial services. He carefully rolls it up and places it in the pocket of his jacket. There is the sound of a car engine outside; it is time to go.
The rain slows their progress. There is a bus in front of them and his mind wanders back to a wet evening and a brief encounter. He used to dislike that film but now it is a secret addiction, to be watched on Saturday afternoons or late at night with a glass of single malt. Now he understands it. Wanting what you can't have and then having what you want taken away. He understands it all too well.
There is a pile of folders on his desk. Personnel folders of prospective team members. He knows there will be good candidates: Counter Terrorism Command staff, Immigration Officers, others from GCHQ or MI6, but the prospect of wading through the files depresses him. He will do it though – he needs more staff.
At 1.45 p.m. he retrieves the tie from his jacket pocket and puts it on. He waits on the Grid for Malcolm and Adam. He begins to pace but Connie stops him, ostensibly to check his appearance. She never could tolerate his pacing. As her fingers smooth over his tie, he looks from her to Ben and then back again. Old and young; experienced and untutored; cynic and optimist. What he is, she once was; what she is, he will become.
They were going to walk but the rain is heavier now. They are grateful that Harry's seniority grants him the privilege of a car and a driver. The journey is silent; three men lost in their own thoughts, their own grief. There is a long queue of traffic at Parliament Square. Harry nods, almost imperceptibly, at the questioning pair of eyes in the rear view mirror. The siren penetrates the hushed interior of the car and the traffic parts for them.
Random images register with Harry as they accelerate round the square: a red traffic light, a tourist clinging tightly to a yellow umbrella, a taxi neatly overtaking a blue van. There is no squealing of tyres as they stop outside the Foreign Office; no need to rush from the car. This will be quiet and dignified.
There are faces he recognises; friends and colleagues, past and present. He exchanges polite handshakes with them. There is no family, though. They have no desire to spend time with people they hold responsible for the death of their loved one. It is a view Harry can understand. He settles himself at the end of a pew and studies the order of service. He will give the first reading. He hopes he has chosen wisely. He takes a breath. He is ready.
‡‡‡
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides,
that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you reach the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
Kahlil Gibran – from 'The Prophet'
Thank you for reading.