Missing scenes from the "gardening leave" period between 9:8 and 10:1. Inspired by the fact that Ruth thinks she and Harry have had worse nights out together than a black tie do shared with Harry's former Russian rival, and his incredibly glamorous very disloyal wife.

In 10:1 Harry mentions that Max Witt tried to contact him at home ...

All the usual disclaimers apply. This chapter is rated M for very strong language and a little bit at the end.

We've Had Worse

As soon as Ruth has gone, Harry makes two mugs of coffee: black-no-sugar and white-with-one. He carries them carefully back outside and across the street. One of the men in the grey Toyota smiles and waves.

'Hi, guys. Thought you might like these.'

'Thanks, Sir Harry!'

'Listen, I'm taking Ruth out for dinner tonight, and thought we might as well all do our bit for the environment.'

'Sorry?'

'You're going to have to follow us, so you may as well just give us a lift.'

'Oh, right. Yeah!'

The two junior officers glance at each other briefly, and then nod in enthusiastic agreement. The gossip has been spreading like wildfire at Thames House. Since he preferred the life of one of his team members to a comparatively useless state secret, Harry Pearce has become something of a folk-hero amongst the lower echelons. As well as regarding him as a living espionage legend, they think he's the best boss ever, and all the staff assigned to watch over him during his suspension have been happily applying an extremely flexible interpretation of their orders.

'We ought to leave just after seven. The restaurant is in Clapham but we're picking Ruth up first.'

'Okey-dokey. See you later, Sir Harry.'

'If either of you need a pee in the meantime, you've got the spare key, haven't you?'

'Yes, sir. Do you want one of us to take Scarlet for a walk?'

'If you don't mind. I've got some things I need to do.'

Ruth goes home, lies on her bed for an hour, smiling at the ceiling, and then proceeds to wax, pluck or shave all the pertinent bits, have a long shower, wash her hair carefully and get liberal with a bottle of vanilla body lotion.

Harry sits down at his laptop and begins to type a list from memory of top ten operational Evershed moments. He has thought of something to say to the tribunal.

For the first time since his suspension, he hasn't checked the news all day.

The restaurant is as legitimately informal Italian as it gets in London. They drink Montepulciano d'Abruzzo and eat grilled lamb and salad. Harry is amused to see Ruth with her elbows on the table, happily gnawing away at the bones, and dunking bread in her wine.

'It's regarded as good manners if you're in the Med,' she says with a grin at his expression. 'One set of cutlery that you keep through all the courses, take your time, use your hands if you want, discuss everything at the top of your voice.'

'Sounds like a meeting of the JIC.'

'No siestas after those, though.'

'Now there's a thought ...'

They talk about the likely outcome of the tribunal. The whole point of the deal brokered with the Chinese is to maintain the myth that Albany is a credible deterrent. Ruth thinks it would be very hard to keep leaks out of the press if a senior MI5 employee goes on trial for treason. Harry's new man-of-the-people status means that someone is bound to talk. The tribunal has no punitive power beyond immediate dismissal, so she reckons that is the worst case scenario.

'Reduced pension because of finishing early, and no references, but I'd take that to be honest,' Harry admits.

'Would you look for another job?'

'I'm not sure. I'm obviously not completely ready for retirement or three weeks of leave would have been more fun. I'd need a decent distraction at any rate.'

'There's lots of consultancy work. Oil companies and the like. You could be a freelancer.'

'Bit boring.'

'Better than gardening, though.'

They both smile at the joke. It's more comfortable than white burgundy and thermobaric bombs, but both of them are wondering how they'd be able to see each other if she stays and he goes.

Something odd is happening. They've decided to walk down the road to a pub with a well-known single malt collection but the junior officers (Andy and Steve) are approaching them with serious faces and purposeful strides.

'Sorry, Sir Harry, but we're going to have to get you home.'

'What's going on?'

'Have you seen the news today?'

'No. Why?'

'The riots have spread. This side of the river, Brixton, Peckham, Lewisham and Croydon have all gone off, and we think it might happen here.'

Harry scowls. He was undercover during the Brixton riots of the eighties, and he knows that current levels of tension and resentment in London are minor in comparison. 'Oh, for goodness sake! It can't be that bad.'

'It doesn't sound good. The police are really stretched, and the rioters keep moving on too quickly to control.'

'Then you'd better stick around and see if you can help. At least try and set up an observation point.'

'We can't do that, sir; we're supposed to be keeping tabs on you.'

'Don't be bloody ridiculous. If I can get through the City with an FSB kill squad on my tail, I'm perfectly capable of seeing Ruth home safely without the help a couple of babysitters.'

'It's not that. We're supposed to be making sure you don't do anything ... unusual.'

'I'm hardly going to arrange a rendezvous with the Chinese while I'm on the first dinner date I've had for three fucking years!'

Ruth tries to ease the tension. 'Are we calling this a date?'

It doesn't work. 'Yes, we bloody are. And now it's a date that's gone tits-up because Yogi and Booboo here think I'm Beijing's version of Kim Philby.'

Andy and Steve start to protest. Ruth glances up the street, seeing that the number of people milling around is increasing, and smoke is drifting towards them from some unknown source. 'Listen, you two. Get to work observing this lot. Find the CCTV blind spots and try to film as much as possible. Keep a low profile, or they'll mug you for the camera. Contact Section B right now. Tell them I've taken responsibility for Sir Harry, and undertaken that any inappropriate activity on his part will be deemed entirely my fault. Okay?'

Their faces absurdly grateful, the two men nod. Harry opens his mouth to protest and then quickly shuts it again when Ruth glares at him.

'Come on. There are usually taxis near the station,' she tells him firmly.

Which turns out to be a big mistake. A hundred yards further down the road, three anonymous males, their faces wrapped in bandanas and eyes shadowed by baseball caps, are mounting a coordinated attack on a mobile phone shop with a metal scaffolding pole. They work silently and quickly, smashing a hole through the window before using the pole to lever a flap of shattered glass free as a makeshift doorway.

'What in God's name are you doing?' Harry shouts. 'I thought this was supposed to be a protest?'

'Fuck off, ya posh cunt!' one of the looters shouts back before turning towards them and stepping forwards menacingly. 'I said fuck off, Granddad.'

Ruth tugs Harry's arm anxiously. 'Harry! You're supposed to be taking me home.'

A crowd is gathering. Drunk. High. Simply excited. Setting fire to anything handy, from a bus shelter to a pile of recycling waiting for collection. Some enter the shop, some move a few doors down and start kicking in more windows. Alarms are blaring but there are no police in sight.

In this environment, Harry is furiously impotent, yet loathe to admit it. Ruth takes his hand and starts to tug him backwards, away from the masked man who is still staring at them intently.

'Don't you dare get me into trouble again,' she scolds. 'You promised to listen to me next time there was a crisis.'

'I wasn't expecting it to be so soon,' Harry snaps. 'Granddad my arse.'

'Harry, I don't like this. Please let's go.'

He turns his head and looks down at her beside him, clutching his hand, face tight as she tries to hide her fear. Even more people are arriving. Rioters. Looters. Whatever they should be called. Black, white, old, young, all caught up in the atmosphere.

'I'm so sorry. We were having such a nice time.'

She squeezes his hand and leans against him for a moment. 'If this is as bad as it ever gets, I could cope pretty well. Come on.'

They begin to move carefully along the middle of the road. Ironically, the pavement is the most dangerous place to be. Then someone throws a beer bottle and it smashes only a couple of yards from Harry's feet. A flurry of other objects follow: more bottles, stones, broken bricks and, bizarrely, several shoes.

He wraps his arm around Ruth's shoulders and they start to run, heading for a scruffy-looking pub, where several curious faces are peering out of the doorway. They dive inside and turn to listen to the dull pounding of hundreds of feet, racing up the road outside.

'Shut the fucking door!' a heavyset man in a black t-shirt shouts. He barges past them and rapidly locks everyone in.

'Is that a good idea?' Harry enquires. 'Is there another way out?'

'Fire exit at the back through the yard,' the landlord replies. 'If I were you, I'd buy a drink and keep your mouth shut.'

'Double scotch and a dark rum and coke,' Ruth says promptly. 'Thanks for letting us in.'

'No problem, love. Just keep your fingers crossed that bunch of twats don't come knocking.'

The Scotch is a cheap blend, and the news on the telly is infuriatingly behind the action. No sooner have the BBC found someone to report from an area than trouble strikes somewhere else. Harry seethes in silence. Ruth gets out her phone and finds a Twitter list owned by a journalist.

Neither of them speak until she leans close and breathes in an undertone: 'There's a shop on fire only four doors down. Really blazing, apparently. We ought to see about clearing the building.'

The landlord is standing behind the bar, arms folded in a classic "we shall not be moved" stance. Harry sighs deeply, and prepares himself for the inevitable battle of wills.

'Can you go out the back and recce the way out?' she continues. 'Make sure things are quieter on the side streets?'

'I should talk to him,' Harry murmurs, nodding in the direction of the bar.

'I think I'd better do that. You didn't make the best first impression, and he's ever so alpha-male.'

'So?'

'So are you. You'll just end up having an argument and wasting time.'

'I hardly think I'd be useless—'

'—I didn't say that! Would you rather I went outside on my own?'

She has a point. It does nothing to improve Harry's mood. The evening seems to have crumbled into a series of situations designed to make him feel stupid. Things had been going so well, and now they're stuck in a dodgy boozer on the verge of an argument. He finishes his drink, feels the burn of the alcohol in his throat, and begins to make his way to the back of the pub.

Ruth carries their empty glasses to the bar, receiving a nod of thanks from the landlord. She beckons him to her and leans forward, talking in an urgent undertone.

'My name is Janet Grey, and I work really closely with the police. I need to show you something, is it possible to go upstairs for a moment?'

He steps back and frowns at her as she does her best to smile appealingly. Then he lifts a flap of the bar up to let her through. 'Jim,' he grunts.

Directly behind the bar, one arm of a narrow staircase goes down to the beer cellar whilst another takes them to the first floor.

'Is there a window looking over the front?' Ruth asks.

'Here.'

She opens the catch and shoves the window open. It's white PVC with a restrictive hinge that only gives six inches but the effect is instantaneous. The acrid scent of burning man-made material makes them both pull their faces back and grimace. It's just possible to see the glow of flames if they look as far to the right as possible.

'The shop is on fire, and it could spread very easily across the shared roof timbers,' Ruth explains. 'You really need to get your essentials together while my friend and I evacuate the building.'

'I don't want to leave!'

'That's fair enough, I suppose, although I disagree with you. But you have to get your customers out. Imagine the trouble you'd be in if any of them got hurt.'

Jim pushes the window shut with an impatient bang and rubs his eyes. 'Yeah, all right. But shouldn't I do it?'

'We've got experience of this sort of thing. Why don't you grab a bag and then you can check the building with us?'

'Right. See you in a bit.'

'Don't worry so much about clothes. But don't forget your birth certificate if you've got it, banking details, passport, driving licence, insurance documents.'

'Yeah, thanks.'

By the time she is back downstairs, Harry has returned. He hurries to meet her and they step close to each other, hesitate for a moment and then step back again.

'Coast is clear,' he tells her quietly. 'Do you want to make the announcement or shall I?'

Ruth grins at his provision of choice. 'You're louder than me. You do it.'

He takes a deep breath, turns towards the group surrounding the flat-screen TV and clears his throat. 'Ladies and gentlemen ...'

Less than five minutes later, they are outside in the darkness. Jim is locking up before taking himself off to a friend's house. The other pub-goers have all dispersed.

'Shall we make another attempt to get home?' Harry suggests.

'We should do. Bit of a shame to cut the evening short, though.'

'Bit of a shame to waste my lack of minders,' he agrees. 'Are you all right?'

'I'm fine.' She peers up at the slight frown this overused phrase has caused and moves closer, rubbing his upper arm with a reassuring hand. 'I really am fine.'

Harry's eyes soften. His head drops forward until his cheek is level with hers, a whisper away from touching. 'Good. That's good. Come home with me now?'

She looks down but leans into his shadow anyway. 'You know earlier? What you said? Bone deep ...?'

His hands rest on her hips, face turned into hers, lips now brushing skin. The words come from him as though forced from a cavern beneath a mountain into the warm evening air. 'Soul deep, Ruth. And absolutely irrevocable.'

With a jingle of keys, Jim emerges from the gate of the pub's back yard and regards the couple waiting there. They seem oblivious to his presence. They are not quite kissing each other but something about the way they stand makes him start to blush. 'Get a room,' he advises gruffly.

'We're working on it,' Ruth mutters.

'Know any good taxi numbers?' Harry adds, not even trying to look up.

Surprisingly, the landlord tucks a business card into the breast pocket of Harry's jacket, stepping away quickly as if he might get contaminated by love otherwise. 'Yeah. Tell them Jim gave you the number.'

'You're a prince among men.'

'Just don't shag against my wall. There's a camera up there that will catch the lot if you do.'

At this, Harry, who has been vaguely and outlandishly thinking of something along those lines, flicks his fellow man a deeply grateful look. He removes one hand from Ruth and uses it to find his mobile phone.

'Bye, then,' Jim says and marches off into the night.

In the cab, they sit close together and have a remarkably straightforward whispered conversation. How long can she stay? They'll check that his surveillance has been re-established at five in the morning. Do they need to stop and pick up some condoms? No. Ruth is on the pill and both of them are subject to regular STI checks to make sure they're neither ill nor vulnerable to blackmail. They both find conversation so much easier when they have something they need to organise, even if it's a hastily planned night of nooky.

Listening to the driver communicating with his control and other drivers, weaving through London, avoiding any areas of actual or potential trouble, both of them realise that the police have missed a trick. It would be far better to have someone sitting in the cab office, using the news radioed in to direct people on the ground, than anything managed thus far.

'I'll speak to the Met in the morning,' Ruth says quietly. 'I've still got a few black cab contacts.'

As they reach the house, Harry is instantly aware that someone has visited. The lavender bush by the front door is wafting scent in a way that suggests a body has recently brushed past it. There is something minutely different about the doormat.

The last thing he wants to do is spend the next hour with Ruth debugging his home. He's relieved to find that the dried oak leaf he pushed under the door on his way out is exactly where he left it. So relieved, in fact, that when he sees the Slate & Sons receipt on his hallway floor, he simply pulls Ruth into his arms, and pushes thoughts of Max Witt out of his head.

He kisses her carefully, trying to make it last, trying to imprint himself on her. This is what we feel like; this is what I want to give you. But her reciprocation is so enthralling that he can't keep it together. He can't form a strategy, and find the distancing skill he's been able to apply with others, and is almost flummoxed to find that they are on the verge of collapsing on the hard hall floor, shaky hands in each other's underwear, breathing heavy and nasal so their mouths don't have to part. For the very first time, he thinks that she might love him as much as he loves her.

There is at least carpet on the sitting room floor. He comes almost immediately, Ruth does not. She sheds tears as she lies beneath him; the mortification is slaying until he tries to pull away and she stops him with a whine.

'So good. So close. Try and stay?'

More fumbling. Shirt-tails and rucked-up skirt in the way of his hand. He is so sensitive that when her orgasm comes, the sensations hover between ecstasy and pain.

They clamber tiredly up the stairs, undress perfunctorily and settle against each other in bed. Her head rests on his chest and his fingers drag across the smooth skin of her back. He cannot speak. No wonder she was afraid of this. He had forgotten that the feelings only grow after being fed. He hasn't felt anything even approaching this for over twenty years. Since Elena for crying out loud.

W. Slate & Sons. Max Witt. Berlin. Elena Gavrik. Sasha. Of course something would happen tonight. There are other things he should tell Ruth, and one day soon he will. She asked him to rely on her. He hopes that when the time comes she will realise he is placing more reliance in her than he has ever risked with anyone before.

End