Late November 2011:

"An American?" Harry's voice, as well as his face, adequately conveys his disgust.

"Her husband is English."

"Well, that's alright, then, isn't it? That makes her one of us, I suppose. And Liberty - what kind of name is that?"

Erin knows that the questions will only stop once he has vented his anger, and Harry carries a lot of anger, not that she'd dare mention it. Let Liberty Harrison be the one to deal with it. After all, that's her job. "Given she's American, I thought you'd manage to figure that out on your own."

Harry watches her closely, and Erin can almost read the retorts as they pass through his mind, only to be thrown away by his more rational self. Most grieving people she has known, including herself, have been paralysed by their grief. Not Harry. He's like touchpaper, looking for a light. She watches as his breathing steadies, and his chest no long heaves. Erin has no idea what she'd do were Harry to break down in her presence, which is why the section has been granted the services of Dr Liberty Harrison.

"When can we expect the honour of her presence?" Harry asks at last, his voice calm.

"In around two hours. She first wants to speak to the team as a whole."

Erin waits and watches while the muscles in Harry's jaw work, his eyes flashing as he keeps a lid on his anger. "Very well," he says at last. "I suppose I have little choice in the matter."

Erin nods. "This is not being done just for your benefit, Harry," she says carefully. "The memo stated that we all, especially those of us who were there .. at the scene ... require professional intervention ... someone to talk to."

Harry nods in a way which Erin knows is a sign that she is dismissed. She turns to leave his office, aware that the man in teetering on a knife edge of grief and guilt. She has seen it before, and so recognises the signs.


"Please call me Libby."

Harry nods. It's his turn to be Liberated - Dimitri's term for a private session with the newly appointed section psychologist. It's just him and the psych in the meeting room. She doesn't waste time. Her session with the whole team had lasted no more than twenty minutes.

"What do you want with me?" Harry asks, working hard to keep the edge from his voice.

"I'm interviewing each member of your team on their own," Dr Liberty Harrison says. "I've already spoken to Erin, Dimitri and Calum. They speak very highly of you."

"But ..."

"Pardon?"

"You begin by praising my role as leader of my team. There has to be a `but'."

Libby glances down at her notes, running her finger down the page. "You've just turned fifty-eight, and a little over a month ago a woman you held in high regard - and were close to - died tragically, and yet here you are, heading up a team perfectly capable of operating without you while you take compassionate leave." Dr Liberty Harrison then lifts her eyes, and stares unblinking and unsmiling at Harry.

Harry stares at the woman, and for a moment he wonders how old she is. She appears no older than his daughter, so how can she possibly understand why it is he must work? Ruth wouldn't want him to be wallowing away on his own at home. She'd want him to work. She'd expect him to work. Just stay on that wall, Harry, she'd say, and with that thought, he hears Ruth's voice in his head, saying: Don't be sad, Harry. There's nothing to be sad about. "But there is," he says, having not intended to say the words aloud. Against his will, he feels tears building behind his eyes.

"What were you thinking about .. just then?" Libby Harrison asks, leaning forward in her chair.

She is about to speak again when Harry quickly gets to his feet. "I can't do this," he says curtly, and just as quickly leaves the room. It is only when he is again inside the sanctuary of his office, the door closed behind him, that he is aware of tears rolling down his cheeks. He stands just inside the door, taking deep breaths to calm himself. It's alright, Harry. Things will work out, Ruth says inside his head. Harry closes his eyes, and for a moment he can see her, standing beside the Thames estuary, the wind whipping her hair so that she has to pull it from her face. She lifts her eyes to his, and she is smiling.

He can't do this. He can no longer pretend that he is well enough to be back at work. He may never be whole again. Taking a deep breath, he strides to his desk, lifts the receiver of his desk phone, and dials Erin's desk.

"Yes," she answers, her voice clipped, business-like.

"I'm going home," he says quietly, "and I don't know when I'll be back. I can't ... talk about what happened to some stranger who has in all probability once been a cheer leader, and a homecoming queen, whatever the hell either of those two things are."

"It's alright, Harry. Take all the time you need."

Erin is still on the line, waiting for him to say something else. "I might never come back," he says.

"That's fine. I'll ... come and see you ... at home."

"Right," he says, and then hangs up.


Harry stands in his front hallway, his eyes on the dark cavern that is his house. He has never in his life felt so alone. He has lived through so many deaths, many of them much loved colleagues, but this time it is different. Six weeks ago Ruth had died, and he still doesn't know what to do, how to be, what to say to people who mean well when they say to him: I'm sorry about Ruth. You must miss her. Of course he misses her. He will miss her forever, and he doesn't know if he can bear that degree of pain, that continual level of missing. He takes a step back until his back hits the wall, and then he feels his legs give way beneath him, before he slides down the wall until he is sitting, staring at the wall opposite. The house is in darkness. He sighs heavily, allowing his head to drop back against the cold hardness of the wall. Then for the first time since the evening of the day Ruth had died, Harry cries real tears, the sounds of his hacking sobs echoing down the hallway and into the rooms beyond.


Harry is awake before sunrise, having slept heavily, his first proper sleep since she'd died. Oddly, he feels much better, although once he allows the memory of the past six weeks to seep into his conscious mind, he again feels the tightness of grief in his chest. He takes a series of deep breaths, forcing himself to think about the day ahead, and how he plans to fill it, so that by the time he hears the front doorbell, he has showered, shaved, and eaten two slices of toast, washed down by a mug of strong coffee.

"Don't think I'm checking on you," Erin says, once she is seated opposite Harry at his kitchen table, each with a mug of coffee, "but after yesterday, I needed to know you're all right."

All right? How can I be all right? I will never again be all right. Harry stares across the table at Erin. He can't possibly answer her.

Erin breaks eye contact, glancing around the room, and she thinks it is unusually tidy for a man, especially a man who is grieving. "I need you to know that the Grid will run as usual, and you should not concern yourself about coming back to work .. at least, not until you're ready."

"I can't be away for long, Erin. I need to work."

"I know, but you also need to ..." She stops before saying the word `grieve'. Harry doesn't appreciate platitudes, at least, not when they're directed at him. He would rather honesty from her, or for her to leave him be. She is surprised by how fresh he appears – tidy, clean shaven – although his eyes are dull, and he moves as if operating on auto pilot. "I need you to know that I have some idea of what you're going through."

His eyes flash briefly as he gives her a sharp look. "How is it possible for you to know how I feel?"

"I didn't say I know how you feel, because I don't, but I do know how long the hours and the days are, and will continue to be for some time. I know how endless the night can be when you've … lost .. someone you love."

Erin's words shock him. She has put her finger on the very thing he dreads about being away from the familiarity of work – the endless hours of waiting until night comes, so that he can retire to bed, only to lie awake for hour upon hour, waiting for morning, when hopefully the events of last month will be erased. Is this what his life will be from now on? Endless days followed by even longer nights? "I .." Harry stumbles, not knowing how to answer her. He leaves his question unspoken.

"Rosie's father. I lost him when she was fourteen months old."

"How?"

"He was a horticulturist and a tree surgeon, and a good one. He'd travel all over the country. His area of expertise was woodland trees, especially in the north of the country. He'd spent a week in Cumbria, on a contract with a local council, and he wanted to get back home to Rosie and me. I suggested he wait until Saturday morning to drive home, but he headed home straight after work on the Friday. Just south of Warrington, he fell asleep at the wheel, driving into the back of a lorry." Erin takes a deep breath, the memory of her partner's death still stinging. "He died instantly." She glances up at Harry to see him frowning. "You never get over it," she says quietly. "His death is always there, right beside all the precious memories I have of him. The sad thing is that Rosie has no memory of him. To her, her dad is just a man in a photograph, and until she started school, she believed everyone's dad was a man in a photograph."

Harry's eyebrows draw closer together. "But, Erin, none of this is in -"

"- my personnel file?" Harry nods. "I had all mention of him removed. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Now, I wonder why I did that. I suppose I didn't want anyone's pity, and nor did I want it to be real." She lifts her eyes to his. "Now I know," she says quietly, "that there is nothing in the world more real that birth … or death."

Harry hesitates before asking the question which has been on his lips. "Did you .. see his body?"

"Yes, I did. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, but I had to see … to make sure it was him. They'd covered the part of his head that was missing, and what I could see was horribly ..." and there she stopped speaking, deciding to say no more. Erin sits back, watching Harry closely, noting that her story has affected him. "I didn't tell you this to get your sympathy, or to empathise with you, Harry."

"Then why did you tell me?"

"I need you to know that life goes on, and we keep going, even when we don't want to. In a way, Matthew is always with me .. with Rosie and me. It's as though he is always in the next room, about to join us. No matter where we are, he will always be with us." Erin sips her coffee before continuing. "It gets better, but it never completely goes away."

Harry breaks eye contact with her, his eyes on his coffee cup. Her story of the loss of Rosie's father explains a lot about her - her apparent coldness, her attention to detail, her reluctance to engage socially with the rest of the team. Not everything she is is down to her personal ambitions.

"You know ..." Erin continues, "Dimitri reminds me a little of Matt. He's tall and strong and dependable, and he's quiet. Matt was a man of few words. He only ever spoke when he had something to say."

"You and Dimitri?"

"We're friends, Harry. We're close, and he's kind, but friends is all we'll ever be. No-one can take Matt's place."

Harry nods. He knows that feeling well. Ruth was gone for over two years, and then she'd turned away from him on her return, but no-one had been able to step into her shoes, and as he sees it, no-one ever will. "Treasure your memories of her, Harry, and … try to focus your attention on her life, rather than her death." Again she waits as if deciding whether to say more. "If you ever need someone to talk to ... a professional .."

"Not another bloody psychologist!"

"After Matt died, I struggled. There were days when I didn't want to be here, but I had to be ... for Rosie. My section head at the time gave me the name of a former service psychologist who was older ... he's around your age. Yesterday, after you left the Grid, I rang this man. He still works part time. His name is Ken Henry. He's English," she adds, smiling up at him. "If you like, I can give you his number ..."

Harry wants to reject Erin's idea, but he can hardly reject something he hasn't yet tried. "Very well," he says.

After Erin leaves, Harry occupies his hands in tidying the kitchen, while allowing his mind to wander through the last few days of Ruth's life. On the evening before he was scheduled to be handed over to the Americans, Ruth had turned up on his doorstep, a bottle of wine in her hand. They had shared that bottle, and another he'd been saving for a special occasion. Who knew when he'd be returning, or even if. He'd decided that the little time of freedom he had left he'd rather be spending with her, than regretting their long past of unspoken desires and misunderstandings. They'd ended the evening in the kitchen, with him washing the dishes, and Ruth drying. "You don't have to do that," he'd said. "You're my guest."

"I want to. I like how this feels .. being this close to you."

He'd interpreted that as an invitation, so he'd leaned down to place his lips on hers. He'd expected reluctance on her part, but Ruth had dropped the tea towel on the floor, turning towards him to slide her arms around him as she returned the kiss with enthusiasm. They had kissed again and again, the dishes forgotten, until it had been he who had pulled away, his hands grasping her hips, pushing her from him, drawing air deeply into his lungs in an attempt to calm himself. He'd noted the hurt in her eyes, but this was not the time to be taking things further. He'd said as much to her, and she'd argued with him.

"So when will be the time, Harry?"

He'd sighed heavily. "I suspect the right time was around a month ago .. or a year, or perhaps five years ago. We've wasted every good opportunity presented to us."

"Then nor should we waste this one."

Put like that, he was unable to argue further. He'd grasped her hand and led her upstairs to his bedroom, where he'd quietly closed the door behind them. That night they'd made a memory which for him would forever be tinged with sadness – their first and last time.

"I love you," he'd murmured as they lay together afterwards, their naked skin slick with their combined sweat.

"I know you do," Ruth had replied. He'd smiled into the dark, knowing that what she'd meant was, `I love you, too.'

Next morning by the Thames he had kissed her briefly, not wanting to draw out their farewell. As he'd walked away, the sounds of her sobbing had reached his ears, hurting him more than he was prepared to admit. At the time, he'd believed that their one night together would provide comfort during his time of incarceration, not knowing that within forty-eight hours he would be free, and she would be dead.

On his first day of compassionate leave Harry drives to Suffolk to inspect the cottage which Ruth had planned to buy. He quickly decides against buying the cottage Ruth had chosen for them both, since without her shining presence, the house would be little more than an empty shell, a continuing reminder of what he'd lost.

On the long drive back to London he is formulating an alternate plan when his phone rings. It is Towers, so he ignores the call. The last thing he needs is a conversation with the man. For the first time since Ruth had returned from Cyprus, Harry fully understands the guilt Ruth had carried with her after George had died. It is a soul destroying, crippling, gnawing, gut-wrenching feeling, and he believes he deserves every ache, every pain, and every `what if?' that plagues him in the moments he spends alone. As he sees it he has no other option than to get out of London, and far away from Thames House - just for a while, until he gets his head straight.