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Explanatory note: Stormont is Northern Ireland's parliament building. Established in 1922; dissolved after five decades in 1972 and re-established in 2007.

Chapter Two: The Wall

"We were on a hamster wheel to hell, and completely out of control."

(David Ervine, Progressive Unionist leader and ex-UVF paramilitary)

Car engines echoed down the empty side street; headlamps flooding the narrow lane with a sudden burst of light that made Lucas wince. With one hand shielding his eyes he ducked through a painted wooden doorway in the wall, finding himself in someone's backyard; clearing the way for the two blacked out transit vans that now crawled cautiously towards him. Back in darkness, he dropped his hand and pulled up the hood of the black jacket he wore over black overalls. Two feet to his left, Nathan Fraser tucked a handgun discreetly into the lining of his coat before pressing his back flat against the wall. The two of them gave each other a nod, a silent affirmation that all was as it should be. To his right, footsteps sounded softly on the wet paving stones that lined the yard. He turned to find Beth Bailey at his shoulder, her blue eyes transparent in the weak moonlight. Her blond hair had been scraped back into a ponytail and hidden under a black cap, causing her to blend in with the fast falling night.

"This is them," she said, needlessly. "Are you ready?"

He could hear the undertone of worry in her voice, but chose to ignore it. The night was too perfect for that.

"Would it make a difference if I wasn't?"

But he was ready. The corner of his mouth twisted upwards into a half-smile; his eye trained on the open doorway of the yard that was soon obscured by the first of the transit vans coming to a halt right in front of it. Slowly, Lucas zipped up his jacket and drew a deep breath to steady his quickening heartbeat. Making as if to scratch his right ear, he activated the tiny earpiece and soaked up the familiar, strangely comforting, hum as the device went live and found its frequency before fading into silence. He smiled fully as he whispered: "Alpha One."

"I hear you, Alpha One," Ros' voice sounded in his ear. "Start leading them into the mosque now … and good luck, Alpha One."

He thought that he would be nervous after so long an absence. In the last year he had been out in the field maybe twice; three times counting a certain confrontation. But otherwise, he had been rendered out of action since his past had been dragged from the shadows. Now, he was back. The engines of the transit vans cut out, the headlamps shutting off simultaneously before the driver realised and flicked them back on again a moment later. The van doors slid open; followed swiftly by the sound of several voices and footsteps landing heavily on the tarmac.

A thrill of nervous excitement coursed through him, making the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Now he was back; now he was part of the team again. He glanced to both sides of him, gesturing for Nathan and Beth to form up. As one, the three of them stepped through the narrow doorway, out into the side street still damp from recent rains and full of far right fanatics just waiting to be lured into a trap of MI5's making.

It began as a civil rights movement. They weren't Republicans; they weren't IRA. They were just Catholic people living in Northern Ireland who wanted a fair shot at the job market; decent housing, a vote and an inside toilet. It wasn't much to ask, given that their Protestant neighbours had all those things and more. Their demonstrations were peaceful; marches through town and one that wound through picturesque country roads. Massive and passive, they assembled across a tiny province to demand what everyone else in Britain already had. No one said anything about a united Ireland. No one said anything about the IRA, who were considered dead and buried in the late Sixties. Nothing, that was, until fire brand Protestants and a reactionary Protestant Stormont Government branded the Civil Rights Association as IRA controlled and incited Crown Loyalists to burn row after row of Catholic homes. As the flames engulfed Bombay Street, the thick palls of choking smoke and the cries of children fleeing in terror stirred the slumbering Irish Republican Army. An eighteen year old Catholic man was shot dead as he walked home from the Protestant owned bar he worked in – the first murder of an innocent civilian. When the flames of Bombay Street were finally doused, graffiti soon appeared on the charred shells of family homes: IRA = I Ran Away. The criticism stung; the sleeping beast of the IRA finally woke up; torn between peaceful protest and armed resistance two factions formed and the Provisional IRA was born. The genie had exploded the bottle in what would prove to be the first of countless devastating detonations.

Now, where Bombay Street once stood is a fifty foot high, razor wire topped peace wall. Fifteen years into a peace process, the wall still stands. Bigger, stronger, more heavily fortified and covered in a patchwork of graffiti pleading for peace; put there by people from all over the world. The Dalai Lama and American Presidents had even left messages there, but they all fell on deaf ears.

Harry felt like he had to step out of his own skin to look at it objectively. To forget that he is a "Brit" and set aside that he is an ex-soldier and MI5. To go right back to the start of the current crop of violence and he cannot help but conclude that it all could have been avoided with clear, rational thinking and cool headed negotiation. Usually, when he spent too long trying to make sense of Northern Ireland, he wanted to go there and bang his head repeatedly against that bastard peace wall. Or, better still, go there and bang the heads of all the politicians and all the paramilitaries off that bastard peace wall. There, problem solved! When his thoughts grew slightly murderous, he usually knew it was time to stop thinking about Northern Ireland.

Luckily for him, Ruth was at his study door wearing nothing but a silk robe tied at the waist and not much else. Even better, she was leaning against his study door and looking at him with one elbow braced against the filing cabinet and her hair tied in a loose ponytail. A few stray locks hung loose about her face, framing her high cheekbones; wide, blue eyes trained on him and a smile just playing at her lips.

"That was Ros on the phone," she said, killing Harry's newly regenerated happiness before it could take flight.

"Oh," was all he could enthuse in response and sought sanctuary by letting his gaze drift down the front of the loose robe.

"Yeah, the op's going really well and Lucas is on top form," she explained. "They lured Britain First into the Mosque by scaling the walls with grappling hooks. But, Beth and Nathan had already led the worshipers to safety and CO19 were waiting inside. Good news, huh?"

"Oh, yes. That's magnificent," he replied, addressing the exposed portion of her left breast. His favourite birthmark was just visible beneath the fold of the fabric.

"One more thing," she said, closing the space between them and sitting on his knee. "Someone phoned in a message for you at Thames House. Ros didn't say what it was."

Harry didn't care, either. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed his favourite birthmark. Ruth steadied herself by hugging his neck, one hand across the back of his shoulders.

"The man's name was Sean Mallon, though. Ring any bells?"

For a moment, Harry's heart stopped beating altogether. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze as he looked directly up at her.

"Sean Mallon," he repeated. "Are you sure?"

Ruth nodded, not noticing the sudden and adverse change in him. "Positive."

"But he wouldn't say what he wanted?"

"Just that he needed to speak with you," she replied, with a shake of her head. "According to Ros, anyway. It was she who took the message."

That night came back to him once more. The single gunshot in the isolated town, the frozen blood in a trail that led nowhere. Paul Kendall missing, never to be seen again. Sean Mallon walking away, tucking the handgun discreetly into the waistband of his jeans. Even the woman in the blue coat who walked beside him. It all came back to Harry in a rush; moments relived after years of being buried deep in his memory. Like shrapnel, it worked its way to the surface of his skin, breaking through the final barrier with pain and with blood.

"He must have heard about the talks," Harry said, trying to sound dismissive. "That's all it'll be. On Monday, before we leave for Heathrow, I want you to get his file and bring it with us. The same for Kyle McCracken and there's another for Paul Kendall, I want that too."

Ruth frowned, tightening her hold on him. "Okay," she said, softly. "Remind me on the day and it'll be done."

He could have cursed Towers for not giving them more time to prepare. Just about every politician in that place had a cemetery load of skeletons stuffed in their closets, with links to some very shady groups. But for now, he had to focus on the key players.

"Now all we need to worry about is Nathan's phone records," said Ruth. "You saw the printouts of the call logs, didn't you?"

Harry sighed and shut his eyes, as if that would block out the knowledge of what their newest recruit was doing. "Yes, I did," he conceded. "But I want to hear his explanation before taking any further action."

Section D's newest recruit had made a series of calls from his desk phone to an address in South Wales. No more than a minute in length, all ending with him hanging up moments after the calls are answered. On the surface it looked undeniably bizarre. But then, so did a lot of what MI5 did.

"Tom Quinn recommended Nathan Fraser to us," Harry reminded her. "Said he'd be an asset to the service and so far, he has been. These are just unexplained phone calls. If there is more to it, then at least we've caught him early and not after a lifetime's seemingly impeccable service."

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Harry and Ruth lapsed into a companionable silence; still entwined in Harry's office chair with their heads and noses touching, she simply held on to him. Sensing the change for the darker in his mood. They stayed that way until the sound of car horn from outside startled them both. Together, they whipped round towards the window that faced the road outside; Ruth almost falling to the floor. But Harry managed to grab her. After a moment's panic, they both laughed as they got back into position.

"Not that we're paranoid, or anything!" Ruth joked, but her laughter was forced.

To be certain, Harry reached around Ruth and flicked on the OC monitor behind her. She shifted so they could both see it, but all the CCTV cameras showed was their desolate garden in night-vision. Neither of them had attempted to do much with it: Ruth didn't know how and Harry thought life was too short. Ruth stretched one arm out and pressed the arrow key, changing cameras. The side path of the house was also desolate. Fidget II skulked under a bush, near an abandoned hosepipe and upturned watering can. A pair of wellington's sat by the kitchen door and there was little else to see.

"Try the front," said Harry.

Ruth pressed the arrow key again, showing their front lawn that they paid someone else to mow. But just as the image changed, a fleeting movement caught both their eyes. Quickly, Ruth pressed the back key, changing to the side path once more, bringing the intruder into view. Tall, stocky, dressed all in black with a balaclava covering his face, it caused Ruth's heart to jump into her throat. The eyes the balaclava were stretched and distorted, like some Halloween mask. For one moment, he looked directly into the camera.

"Get in the bedroom and stay there," Harry instructed.

"I'm coming with you!" she hissed back, now on her feet.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Harry collected his handgun and made sure it was loaded. "You're almost naked, Ruth," he pointed out. "Just do as I say and call the police!"

Ruth slipped soundlessly from the tiny study while Harry continued to watch the man circle their home. On screen, he almost tripped over the watering can and he just about heard the faint clatter of aluminium on concrete; then Scarlett the dog started yapping like a frenzied beast from her kennel. He eased off the safety catch as he slowly descended the stairs and entered the kitchen without turning the lights on. All the while, Harry held his breath; the dog carried on barking, with their neighbour's dog joining in to make a cacophonous chorus that would wake the dead. The trip lights outside had already have been activated and any rational burglar would have been scared off then. But Harry could never afford to be complacent about that. But soon he heard the unmistakable sound of footfalls sprinting down the driveway outside, receding into the night before Harry could even slide back the bolts from his kitchen door.

High on adrenaline, the three of them jumped from the top of the Mosque's perimeter wall. Behind them, the noise of the arrests still rang out; voices raised in anger and resounding down the echoing streets; police sirens wailing and the rhythmic click of steel handcuffs falling into place as struggling suspects were finally subdued. Beth, Lucas and Nathan landed in a jumble on the pavement outside, laughter and groans of sudden pain lost in the melee of the night.

"Hey, you're hurt," said Beth as she held her hand out to Nathan. "There's blood all over your top."

They had lost the black overalls and were now in their civilian clothing. Bright red spots of blood showed on Nathan's white t-shirt, still damp and still rather eye-catching. He zipped up his hoodie to cover it.

"One of the bastards hit me, so I had to hit him back," he replied, breathlessly.

"Nice work back there," said Lucas, still catching his own breath. "What do you say we carry this discussion on down The George?"

Beth pulled back her sleeve and tilted her wrist towards the nearest lamppost. "Still only ten. Plenty of time for a drink or ten."

"Exactly," Lucas concurred.

However, Nathan was hesitant. "Sorry guys-"

"Ah, come on!" Lucas and Bath chorused. "It's only the one!"

They were both looking at him, scandalised. "Yeah, and the other nine!" he laughed. "Look, I promised I'd be back by eight."

"Do you still live with your parents then?" asked Beth, incredulously.

"Of course not!" he retorted.

"Well then," Lucas chimed in. "You're coming down the pub. Even Ros is meeting us there."

Before Nathan could answer, another voice took them all by surprise.

"Actually, she's meeting you here."

They all squinted through the darkness, to where the woman herself was leaning out of the driver's window of a parked car. She flicked on the internal light to reveal herself, grinning and glaring at the three of them in a manner that suggested no compromises. "Get in," she drawled, lazily. "All of you."

Outnumbered and outgunned, Nathan felt his arm being metaphorically twisted a little further up his back. What would the harm in one be, anyway?

Once the car was left at Thames House, they set off on foot towards the pub, chatting excitedly about the op before electing Ros to procure the first round. A special treat for directing them so superbly. Before they went inside, however, Ros managed to get Lucas on his own in the porch that led to the main bar. She could see that it was packed inside, like a typical Saturday night. But the sound of the music was muffled and they were sheltered from the drizzling rain that had just begun to fall outside.

"Are you okay?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

They were huddled in a far corner so as not to obstruct the two doors that led into the public bar and lounge bar, respectively. Lucas looked back at her, meeting her gaze easily.

"It was fine," he promised her. "I am fine. I've never felt better."

She suppressed a sigh of relief and tried to think of something to say that wasn't utterly patronising or condescending. This last year had been hell for them both, but more so for him. He had been treated like a criminal, distrusted and disgraced; all the while fighting constantly to prove his worth. Tonight, he had achieved that. Ros knew it and soon the whole of Section D would too, soon.

"That really is just as well," she eventually replied. "Because you're back on the team, for good."

For a moment, it was thought he hadn't heard her. But then his face lit up in a bright and easy smile, one that made his eyes shine as he embraced her. They snatched a last minute kiss before ducking inside to celebrate their success against the far right with the others.

Ruth, now fully dressed, padded softly across the front lawn. Periodically, she was bathed in the blue flashing glow of the police cars outside their house. Still shaken and trembling, she came to a rest beside Harry, who was still talking to the policemen who'd arrived at their home. Their uninvited guest had triggered an alarm at Thames House, which in turn alerted the local Police. So two lots of policemen turned up after Ruth also called them. One of the Policemen was already returning to his car and driving away by the time Ruth got there.

"Good evening, Madam," the young officer greeted her with a nod.

"Hello there," she replied, linking her arm through Harry's.

Harry turned to her and tried to smile reassuringly. "There's nothing here," he said. "It was probably just a burglar who got scared off by the dogs."

"You've searched everywhere, haven't you?" she asked, turning to the Officer.

"We have," he replied. "Your neighbour sounded her car horn to try and scare him off. That would have been enough to set his nerves on edge."

Ruth remembered them both being startled by the car horn, and breathed a sigh of relief. "We must remember to thank them," she said, looking back to Harry.

"I've already checked under the car, there's nothing there," Harry said to the officer. "I'll check again before we use it, just to be sure. But it's all clear here, as far as I'm concerned."

If this was just a common attempted burglary why would he check under the car? Ruth's brow knotted into a frown as she turned back towards the black BMW she and Harry now shared. But it was late; past midnight by the time the policemen left. All she wanted to do was have her much delayed bath and try to get some sleep.

The noise inside the George had reached inhuman levels, but the Spooks barely noticed. They shared several bottles of wine between them, followed by a few rounds of beers and augmented their alcohol unit consumption with tequila slammers at the bar. It was only the vibrations inside her jacket pocket that alerted Ros to her mobile ringing. Hazily, she climbed to her feet and nearly stumbled over several by-standers as she made to answer it. Instinctively, Lucas followed her outside, where she took the call in the driveway.

"Hello!" she bellowed into the phone as though she were still shouting over the music. Lucas had to suppress a snort of laughter.

"Wha-?"

As the conversation continued, her face contorted as she tried to keep her concentration up. "Just switch it off!" she snapped. Then fell silent again as the other person tried to explain something Lucas couldn't even guess at. "Oh, shit!"

"What is it?" he tried to ask, but Ros merely waved him away.

When she did hang up, she looked at him and groaned heavily.

"My bloody burglar alarm's been going off for the last hour," she explained. "I have to go switch the bastard thing off. Bloody policeman can't get in there, can they?"

Lucas, like the rest of them, was already spinning like a child's top. He was discreetly holding on to a low wall to keep himself upright, as it was. "Think I'll come with you, actually," he said. "I think I just hit my peak."

"Is that what they call paralytic these days?" she grinned, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in close. "Come on then, I'll call the taxi and you get our coats."

By the time Nathan reached home, it was nearing two am. Beth Bailey had provided some much needed support as he hoisted himself out of the back of their shared taxi and managed to half-drag, half-walk him up the garden path. In truth, they were keeping each other upright. When she reached the door, she rang the bell and kept it pressed down for several long moments. She didn't let go until an upstairs light came on and a furious voice bellowed out: "All-fucking-right!"

Nathan, slouched against the wall of the porch let his head roll to the side. "I don't think he's too happy, do you?"

Beth laughed, before turning and stumbling back down the garden path and into the taxi. "See ya!" she called back.

The front door opened, but only by an inch. Through that narrow aperture, Olly looked daggers at him. But Nathan had already set his mind to trying to walk through it anyway. He hit the door, making the chain snap and Olly jump back. A dull pain registered where Nathan's head smacked off the edge of the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" Olly asked, his voice a low South Yorkshire drawl. "I was worried sick about you!"

Speaking of which, Nathan had to launch himself off the doorstep and towards the nearby privet hedge before he threw up everywhere. Olly merely watched and heaved a heavy sigh of indignation. But, once he deemed it safe, he helped Nathan back inside, letting him lean against his shoulder. Once steered into the living room, he was lowered onto his back on the sofa, while Olly went through to the kitchen and returned with a washing up bowl in his hands.

"I suppose those computers you fix decided to hit back tonight before dragging you down the pub?" he asked, rolling his dark eyes. "I don't know what's going on with you, Nathe. But something is. I never see you anymore; you're always so late. Something's changed, and I don't know what it is."

The room was dark, but nicely furnished. Their pet cat was curled up on a dining room chair, where Nathan could see the table was still set for two; only his place remained, untouched wine glass included. The candle in the middle had been lit, burned down low and extinguished in the long hours between his leaving and his return. Slowly, he rolled over to face Olly and proffered slurred apologies. The sadness in the other man's eyes was unmistakable; this new job had been a gift and an opportunity of a lifetime. But now, Nathan could see the cost. Even in this state, he could see what the lies and the subterfuge was doing. He brought one hand up to Olly's face, but succeeded only in drawing attention to his bruised knuckles so pulled away again.

"I still love you, if that means anything," he said, willing his head to stop spinning.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. Blue on black, before falling away to nothing.

"Whatever."

With that, Olly got up and returned to their bed, leaving Nathan there on the sofa. He returned not long after, but only to dump a blanket and pillow on to him. But Nathan no longer even had the energy to arrange his bedding. He let himself fall fast under the pull of unconsciousness. Deep, fast and out like a light. A heavy sleep punctuated by dreams that formed a pallid masquerade in his head. His father was there, furious and raging at him; his mother crying in the kitchen, the sound of her sobbing carried into the living room. His sister, Jasmine, wedging herself between he and his father, forming a human shield as she pleaded with them both to stop and just talk. Just talk it out. The scene shifts and resolves, to Tom Quinn who had a habit of just letting himself into whatever house Nathan was living in at the time. Tom laughs and quotes Philip Larkin to him: "they fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do."

He awakens late the next day; long past two in the afternoon. An early autumn sunshine, still retaining the heat of an Indian Summer is splashed around the living room and he's been sick in the night. Nathan winces, his head pounding and his brain feeling like it's been replaced with a concrete breeze block. He turns to where a glass of water has been left on the side table, with a plain white envelope propped against it; it was addressed to him. Nathan frowns as he takes it, opening it up to find a letter of few words inside: "I'm sorry. I just can't do this anymore." Oliver's signature scrawled underneath that solitary sentence.

With a groan and a heave of the stomach, Nathan collapsed back against the sofa.

Thank you again for reading; if you have a moment, reviews would be welcome.