Ten weeks later - February 2012:
When Erin had handed him Ken Henry's business card, Harry had slid it into his wallet, behind a few other business cards, with the intention of ignoring it. With help from his daughter, he had found a rental property on the coast near Felixstowe – a remote cottage which overlooks the sea – and since moving there, well away from the clamour and painful memories of London and his everyday life, strange things had begun happening, things which could not be explained, and which he felt unable to share with friends or family. He doubted a former intelligence service psych could help, and he wasn't about to change the habits of a lifetime. He had always dealt with his own grief, stuffing it down into his body, so that whenever it began creeping into his throat, he'd use his time honoured method of silencing the voices which haunted him, telling him he was the one whose fault it was such horrors had befallen so many. His solution to the knot of pain in his throat and chest has always been alcohol, copious amounts of it. While staring through the living room window at a grey sea, Harry at last admitted to himself that he needed help, and Ken Henry was probably a healthier option than the contents of a bottle of fine single malt. While whiskey never asked questions, and never judged him, it also never offered rational solutions, resulting in Harry conceding that perhaps he'd benefit from speaking to someone who had a history of listening to people like him, spies who had lost just one person too many. Hopefully the man wouldn't be shocked or surprised by anything he had to say.
Ken Henry lives in an old Georgian home on the northern outskirts/ of Colchester, just off the A12. Of similar age to Harry, he is tall and slim, with grey hair cut close to his scalp, and as he opens his front door, Harry takes note of the man's faded denim jeans and shirt, along with the navy jumper draped around his shoulders. On his first visit to speak with Ken Henry, Harry is relieved to look up into grey eyes which are kind, and perhaps wise, before he is led down a long hallway to a conservatory which overlooks the back garden, a vast, grassed area surrounded by shrubs and trees. Winter has stripped the leaves from the trees, and on this grey day, they resemble a quiet community of scarecrows, silently waiting for spring.
Ken Henry shows Harry to a comfortable chair, before taking the other chair, across from a low table on which is placed a pen and a pad of paper. "In case I need to take notes," Ken Henry says, noting the direction of Harry's glance.
"I need to tell you that I'm not here to emote," Harry says, once he's comfortably sitting in his chair. He has been trained to hide his emotions, and so he is not about to change the default behaviour of a lifetime.
"And given the nature of your training, I don't expect you to." Harry notes that the other man has laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and they deepen whenever he smiles, which is often. Ken Henry's voice is deep and calm, and easy on the ears. "Most people in your position - having lost someone they care about - just want to be able to make sense of their loss."
"What if, no matter which way you look at it, it still doesn't make sense?"
"Most deaths don't make sense, especially when the person who has died is still young. Erin Watts told me your ... friend was in her early forties."
"Forty-one."
"That's too young by far. My wife was forty-eight, and that was far too young."
"Your wife?" Harry hadn't expected this.
"I'm a widower," he says, while watching Harry closely. "She died ten years ago. My particular … area of interest is grief. My clients range from children who have lost a parent or sibling, to adults who have lost children, partners, or their life savings. I also see relinquishing mothers whose children were adopted decades ago. There is no end to the events which can trigger grief."
"But .." Harry stumbles over his words, "I was told you'd once worked within the intelligence service."
"I did, yes, and I left when my wife first fell ill. I have to say that there is more unexpressed grief within the intelligence service than in the population at large. Many intelligence agents operate on little more than grief and adrenalin. It's hardly a healthy occupation." He points towards the kitchen. "Would you like a coffee? Tea?"
"No, thank you. I'd rather like to ..."
".. get on with this?" Ken grins widely, and Harry wonders does the man have a touch of the sadist about him.
"I suppose so. I'd quite like this to be over."
"So tell me why you're here," Ken Henry had begun, leaning back in his chair, one long leg folded over the other.
Harry had expected that question, and he'd planned to reply with: because everyone in my life thinks I need to be here, but he'd been distracted by the laughter lines at the corner of the man's eyes, and he'd wondered what there was to laugh about after a loved one had died. So he begins telling the story of Ruth, from the time he'd met her to the time of her death. Strangely, once he'd related the story of how Ruth had died, Harry had felt much lighter. "Does it get any easier?" he asks at last. "I mean .. the missing her."
"No, it doesn't," Henry had replied. "It's not time which heals wounds, Harry, but rather the opportunity time affords us to adjust to them. I miss Helen every day, but I'm better at living without her than I was a year ago, or even a week ago. It doesn't mean that I miss her any less, or that I love her any less. There are still nights when I climb into bed, and turn to tell her something, then remember she's no longer with me. Some habits take longer to break." It had been then that Harry had decided that he liked Ken Henry, and that what he had to say made sense. "When a person loses someone they love dearly, they often believe that were they to stop grieving for their loved one they will somehow stop loving them, and so they interpret that as a betrayal. They hang onto the pain for far longer than is healthy because they are afraid of betraying their loved one. But the opposite is true. After the pain eases, the love remains. To me, that is the most miraculous thing of all."
That had been almost a month ago. Harry had woken on the morning of his second appointment with tears in his eyes, having dreamed of Ruth. She had been sitting on his bed, watching him as he slept. She'd talked to him in a soothing voice, but the words she'd spoken had been similar to every time he'd dreamed of her – strange words which didn't quite add up. You know I'm not really here, Harry, don't you? she'd said that morning, the morning of his second psych appointment. They need you to believe I'm gone.
He'd sat up in bed, but there had been no-one there. "Who are they?" he'd asked aloud, looking around the darkened room and seeing nothing out of place. He'd thought he could smell her perfume, but Ken Henry had already warned him of the effects of him wishing for Ruth to still be alive. "We can create images and smells and sounds in our imagination, just as a composer hears the music before it is written down. The imagination is a wonderful thing, but it can also trick us into believing that what our senses tell us is true."
Harry had got out of bed, dressed in warm trousers, walking boots and a thick jacket, walking along the sea front until he could walk no more. Then he had stood looking out to the grey sea, before he'd leaned his head back and shouted - screamed, really - until he was hoarse. Then his body slumped and he'd cried real tears, the first he'd shed since the evening of the day he'd left the Grid.
By the time he reached his cottage he had worked up an appetite, so he'd cooked a fry up fit for a man half his age. He'd known how easy it would be to lose perspective. It was only in those dark days immediately following Ruth's death that he had briefly considered taking his own life. He had not wanted to live in a world without Ruth, so rather than act in a way from which there was no returning, he had turned to the bottle. He had continued drinking heavily until the evening he recognised he was at a critical point in his life. Looking in the mirror above the dresser in his bedroom at his reddened eyes and blotchy skin, he admitted to himself that he really didn't want to destroy himself with alcohol, or lack of interest in living. He did have more life to live. He had his children, a few friends who seemed to value his company, and perhaps one day there would be a grandchild or two.
So, when next he visits Ken Henry, he begins by recounting his strange dreams of Ruth.
"It's odd," he says, suddenly reminded of how Ruth used to say those same two words when perplexed by some conundrum or other. "It's as though she's with me in person, while at the same time she's telling me that she's not really dead."
Harry looks up at Ken Henry, who appears deep in thought. Harry is relieved that this man does not peel off answers like he's quoting from a text book, but considers everything Harry says as though hearing it for the first time. "Did you see Ruth's body … after her death?"
"I was with her as she died. I kissed her .. after she stopped breathing."
"Are you sure she wasn't breathing? When someone is unconscious, their breathing slows, and if the ambient temperature is low enough, then a person can survive even longer without the brain being damaged." Ken hesitates before he continues. "Did you see her body … in the morgue, or in the casket prior to burial?"
Harry shakes his head, a horrifying, but joyful possibility emerging, something which he can barely consider, let alone believe. "I didn't wish to see her … cold and dead."
"But you say you saw her when she first died."
"Yes, but she was still warm."
"And you didn't accompany her body to the hospital?"
"No. I wasn't exactly thinking straight. I thought I might go there later, but when I got home, I collapsed on my bed and stayed there." Harry leans forward in his chair. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Ken smiles, and shakes his head ever so slightly. "I'm not saying anything, Harry. I'm just determining the time line of events. You were not present when end of life was declared -"
"Erin – my colleague – said she was dead, so … it appeared she was, so I took her word for it."
Harry flops back in his chair. He can't believe this. He cannot allow a flickering light of hope to fool him in this way. Harry knows more than most how false optimism can be a far darker place than the bottomless pit of deep, unending grief; the cycle of loss, grief, and recovery can exhaust even the most resilient of people. He is well aware that the very thing they are skirting around is just a long shot, and nothing more.
"I must ask you to not get your hopes up." Ken is leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, his expression neutral. "But I have to also say that I have had several situations with intelligence personnel in which what I am witnessing here actually happened … which isn't to say that your Ruth is alive."
Seeing Harry's expression change from hope to shock, to grief, and then back to shock, Ken stands. "This calls for a change of venue," he says. "I think we should move to the kitchen where I have a pot of coffee brewing .. for emergencies such as this."
Harry hopes Ken hasn't noticed his look of distaste. In Harry's universe the only drink to be had in `emergencies' is whiskey, and it needs to be imbibed in abundant quantities.
Harry and Ken sit on tall stools at the breakfast counter in Ken's kitchen, jarringly modern amid the wooden beams and high ceilings of the Georgian home. Watching Harry closely, Ken recognises the inner battle going on in his client – between hope and despair – and he has no wish to exacerbate an already delicate situation.
"What do you suggest I do now?" Harry asks quietly, briefly lifting his eyes to Ken before dropping them back to the black coffee in front of him.
Ken Henry is fascinated by Harry's eyes, which can flip from icy cold to hyper alert, and then to warm, and eventually to deep sadness, all in the space of a few seconds. "Given you're on extended leave," he says, "you don't currently have access to the investigative resources of the security service."
"Ruth was always my go-to person," Harry says morosely.
"Do you know anyone at all who can … safely, that is … investigate the circumstances surrounding Ruth's death? The first port of call needs to be the hospital records on the day of her death. Perhaps -"
"I have someone who might be willing to do that," Harry says, suddenly brightening. "I can't think why I didn't consider him earlier."
"Can this man be trusted?" Ken asks quietly.
"If I can't trust him, I can't trust anyone."