She sits there, in the chair he has fallen asleep in so many lonely nights.
And she smiles.
"You're not real," he whispers.
"I know."
And the world is spinning slowly as he tries to understand all he sees before him.
"Am I drunk?" he asks, still not daring to look away, to glance at the glass and the bottle.
"No. Not yet."
"Am I dreaming you?"
"No, Harry, you're awake."
"Can I touch you, Ruth?"
She doesn't answer this time but shakes her head sadly.
He moves finally, slowly edging forward towards the chair, his eyes never leaving her. One hand reaches around for the stool he knows is nearby and drags it close. He lowers himself down before her, gazing, soaking in every detail until the tears begin to blur his view.
"Don't cry, Harry."
"I've missed you so much," he whispers, "it's so hard without you."
"I know," she reassures.
"It's not fair. You didn't deserve this, Ruth," he manages eventually, "you deserved a life. I should have let you go. If I'd not involved you, you would have been safe... alive."
For the first time his eyes drift away as he roughly wipes away the tears that are threatening to fall.
"I would always have been involved, Harry…with you."
"No," he snaps suddenly, "I could have stopped you. If I could do it again it'd be different. I'd keep you away."
She is smiling at him.
"You can't always save the world, you know."
"I only wanted to save the girl."
"You need to let it go, Harry. Let me go."
He shakes his head.
"I can't."
"You can."
"I don't want to," he admits. "Stay here with me."
This time it's her turn to shake her head.
"I'm not real Harry."
"But I can see you. It's so good to see you, Ruth."
"I can't stay," she says softly.
"Please," he begs.
"Harry, try not to drink so much."
A tree branch cracks violently against the window, his head spins to the noise. When he looks back the chair is empty.
"Ruth…?"
She is gone.
"Ruth!" he calls desperately. "Ruth!"
He falls into the chair seeking something, some sense of her, some essence, something he can cling to in this hollow, empty life that is left to him, bereft once more without her. There is nothing.
A rage rises violently within him and he flings the side lamp across the room. The bottle of malt is kicked viciously and smashes against the fireplace. The coffee table is upturned, it's contents shattering on the wooden floorboards beneath.
And then as the tornado of fury within him wanes he falls back into the chair and lets go. Through the tears and the wracking sobs he watches the last of the whiskey drip from the broken bottle.
"I won't drink tonight, Ruth," he declares through quivering lips and then he buries his head in his hands, lost once more.
He wakes, in the chair, the weak winter sun on his face trying to breathe life into him as it did every morning. His eyes are sore, his head as thick as if he had indulged in the glories of the glass. He wonders if he did dream her after all.
Standing slowly he switches off the lamp beside him and picks up his keys from the coffee table. He looks at the bottle of malt nearby and picks it up. He shakes his head.
"Okay, Ruth, I'll try," he replaces it and looks around the room, sighing.
"Come back tonight. Be in my dreams again."
The branch of the tree taps against the window and disturbs his reverie. He glances at his watch and turns upstairs for a shower.
As he drives through the city a text message demands his attention. Stopping at the next lights he picks it up the phone and reads.
The horns blare behind and headlights flash impatiently but the range rover still doesn't move. A cab driver leaves his vehicle and marches to the window hammering against the glass. The sharply dressed man inside seems oblivious.
"Leave your bloody phone alone and get moving!" He batters the window again as the lights return to green once more.
"For christ's sake!"
Harry is still looking at the phone in his hands. The caller ID alone has his attention.
Ruth.
But the message...
I think we need to talk. Call me.