I had not intended to write this story in first person, to make a change from my previous one, but I found myself shifting to that perspective again and again, so I took that as a sign that is how I should write the story and went back and edited the first chapter and will continue like that. Thanks for reviews and hope you will stay on this journey although I'm not sure where it will go, except that it will not stay within the lines of either of the two series.

Chapter 2

The day was uneventful. She spent it in her office. Much of the office was open landscape and even if she a few others had rooms of their own, there were huge glass windows, so even from the outside it was easy to view what was going on everywhere, even if I could not hear everything that was said. I have found however, that sometimes when you do not hear what people say, it is easier to read their body language because you are not distracted by what comes out of the mouth. The mouth is a better liar than the body. By the end of the day, I had a fairly good idea of which of her visitors she liked, and which ones she did not like. However, I had not picked up that she felt threatened by anyone that she met. I did pick up that her personal assistant, Chantal, deeply disliked the Home Secretary for some reason and it was beyond me how you can work as assistant to someone you do not like, when you have to work so close together. My own job was different, it was all about keeping some distance – I did not have to like her, only protect her.

In the evening, when her day at the office was over but her working day far from, I sat in the passenger seat beside the chauffeur, Terry, as he drove her back to her flat. Ms. Dawes was on the phone and I acquainted myself with Terry and talked about their driving routines. It disturbed me when I found out that he practically always drove the same way back and forth between her home and the office. The predictability would make her an easier target and was something I wanted to change, immediately.

"Cross the river and take the South Circ", I instructed Terry.

Ms. Dawes had just gotten off the phone and exhaled an annoyed sigh.

"Terry has been driving me for three years, I think he can be trusted to determine the fastest route."

"I've made a dynamic risk assessment and given the current threat level I'm recommending a diversion, even though it may not be the fastest route."

"And how much longer will that take?"

"Can't say for certain Ma'am."

"In that case we'll just take the usual route, please Terry."

"Take the South Circ, if you don't mind", I insisted firmly. This I directed to Terry who wriggled a bit in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable being in the midst of a verbal cockfight between us. Then I half turned to Ms. Dawes in the backseat;

"My job is to keep you safe Ma'am. I won't tell you how to do yours."

"No, but you're happy making it harder", she retorted dryly, before she bent over the papers in her lap again and I realised that keeping this strong-willed woman safe would be a challenge. Obviously, she had not ended up where she was by meekly following what others told her to do. She was not my first difficult client, but I was starting to get a feeling that she might be very difficult.

As we finally reached the building where Ms. Dawes' flat was located, the back-up team parked their car across the street and I followed her inside, briefly greeting the police officer that was stationed by the front door as a permanent feature.

When we entered the flat, I asked her to hold on by the door meanwhile I secured the flat. Even in the darkness, before I turned on the light, I could feel irritation oozing out of her. If this was not routine to her, I wondered what kind of job my predecessor had done because she ought to be familiar with this, but maybe the threat level to her had been judged as lower before and this had not been done. Still, she was the Home Secretary and the lack of security awareness amazed me.

I walked from room to room in the spacious and elegant flat, carefully checking all possible hiding places; behind doors, in closets, behind curtains. As it was my first time here and I needed to familiarise myself with the surroundings, a thorough check required some time. She quickly lost her patience and disobeyed my request, walked into the living room and unloaded her briefcase on the table with another heavy sigh.

"May I ask what you're doing?"

"My job, Ma'am?"

I thought that was pretty obvious.

"What's behind this door?"

"My study. Don't..."

I opened the door and was taken by surprise. Pleasant surprise. The rest of the flat was beautiful but impersonal. It could almost have been a hotel suite instead of someone's home, with the very few personal items that were to be seen. This room, which she called her studio, was very different. It was cluttered with diverse things and framed photographs, not orderly and sterile like the rest. I got the feeling that by opening that door, I had entered not only the room but a part of her where she normally did not let anyone in randomly. That this was the only room in the flat that truly reflected her. The feeling was reinforced by her reaction to me entering.

"Seriously, I'm expecting a colleague and I need you to fuck off. No offense."

I raised my eyebrows, questioning why she so obviously did not want me in there, but answered with my politest voice;

"None taken."

She did not piss me off. Instead she had made me curious of what it was about herself that she was so eager to keep hidden, and why.

"You do realise a possible intruder could hide here just as well as anywhere else?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Nothing has happened up to now, has it?"

Now, that annoyed me, that she did not seem to take the increased threat level seriously at all. It made my job difficult. Maybe it was because she pressed that button and triggered something in me, rather than the need to thoroughly scan the room which in all honesty seemed empty, that I turned my back on her and walked into the room instead of closing the door.

"I have to check here too, or I can't be responsible for your safety."

I heard a frustrated sigh behind me and wondered how many times a day she let those out, it seemed like she had much to ventilate - or was it only I who triggered that from her?

I liked the room, liked it a lot. Compared to the rest of the flat, it felt like a home. The colour palette was different to the other rooms, warmer, less sober. The furniture was more personal; not all perfect designer pieces, some time-worn like they were long time favourites, like the armchair in a corner where I thought she probably had been sitting reading many times judging by the state of the upholstery and a cosy blanket was crumpled up on it. The decorations were also different, some seemed to be made by children and I wondered who they were to her, and there were plenty of photos of what I presumed to be her family. They seemed to be a large family and they did not look one bit posh, rather the contrary. I remembered what my google search had said, that she had worked herself up from the bottom. I wondered what and where that bottom had been. Lastly, I noticed a West Ham t-shirt thrown over the back of a chair. Another unexpected finding and I could not resist commenting.

"Fotboll fan, are you?"

She followed my gaze.

"Oh, that. It's just something I put on when I slee..."

She interrupted herself, shook her head, seemingly thinking that she was giving out unnecessary information and she closed her mouth and backed out of the room, leaving me to myself to finish. I did quite soon, there was no other reason to linger than that I liked to be in there - and that was of course not a valid reason at all. Before I left I thought that it even smelled nicer in her, a trace of perfume I had not noticed anywhere else in the flat. If she wore it on her skin, I had not been close enough to smell it.

I moved on to the last remaining room, her home office it seemed. Here there were no family photos, but one with her, the PM and another minister. I picked it up and had a closer look. They were shaking hands, looking happy - but once again I noted that her smile did not reach all the way to her eyes on that photo. I wondered if it ever did.

Suddenly she was behind me;

"That was us plotting to build the Death Star."

There was not a flicker of a smile but apparently, she had a sense of humour – anyone making references to Star Wars must have - and I had to pretend to clear my throat, not to snort out a laughter.

"Seriously, how long is this going to take?" she asked.

"I'm done soon, Ma'am", I reassured her.

"Just get on with it", her voice now tired.

She sat down by her desk and started reading some papers, but after a minute leaned back in the chair, fixed her eyes on me and to my surprise resumed conversation.

"I've just been reading an incident report."

"Ma'am?"

"PC Knowles said your name is James, right?"

"Yes?"

"The police officer that prevented the 1st October rail attack, was that you? It says in here it was a Charles James."

"That would be me."

There was a brief silence before she spoke again.

"It's been a long an trying day. I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot."

My impression up to then had been that she was the type that never apologised for anything. It seemed like I had been wrong. It is always nice when you are wrong in a positive way.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

I heard that my own tone of voice did not sound very forgiving. I do not know why because I did not want it to come across that way. She got up on her feet and reached out her hand to me. She had kicked off her high heels, and without those extra inches she was really a tiny person standing next to me.

"All is forgiven?"

For the first time a slight insecurity in her voice.

"If you wish."

"No really, I've been a total cow."

I had to bite my tongue not to say 'Yes, you have' and I think it was understanding that, that put a wide grin on her face. I found myself responding with one too.

"All is forgiven."

My job was done, yet I found myself strangely unwilling to leave her, but the doorbell rang, and I went to open. The, compared to me, short and dark-haired man on the other side seemed slightly surprised seeing me. He was apparently the colleague she had been expecting and he introduced himself as Rob McDonald. I instantly got the feeling that he wished to be more than a mere colleague to the Home Secretary and that he also wished for me to be gone. He happily dangled a bag containing a wine bottle in front of her nose, saying;

"I brought this for later."

"Oh, okay", she said but sighed in the way I already found characteristic to her, and this time I liked it. She did not seem very enthusiastic at the thought of sharing a bottle of wine with him.

However, there was no reason for me not to fulfill McDonald's wish to be alone with her, so I nodded good night.

"Are you really sure I will be safe, PS James?" she asked with a mocking smile at the corner of her mouth. I do not know why the question felt like an intimate joke between us, one which excluded him.

"Quite sure Ma'am. I think you will be able to sleep safe, even alone."

Maybe there was a pink tone to her cheeks when she answered; "I will", and I for some reason I felt certain that she answered both to that the would sleep safe – and alone. It made me feel an unmotivated satisfaction as I closed the door behind me and left them to it - whatever that was.

I waved to the night team, as I passed by their car and jumped into that of the day time back-up team and we drove off, and I went home to my own empty flat where the silence seemed to echo between the walls. I found it hard to fall asleep, tossed and turned for long and just as I finally was about to doze off, in my head I heard replayed her surprisingly witty words when I had stared at her photo, 'It was us plotting to build the Death Star' and I fell asleep snorting out a laugh.