A/N: This chapter is for Marty Swale, who requested a flashback.
12 January 1985
Harry didn't actually smoke cigarettes. He never had done, but he had found that when on operation it was often rather useful to keep a pack in his jacket pocket; a cigarette provided a convenient excuse, should he need to leave a crowded place in a hurry without raising questions about his departure, and it also provided a convenient conversation starter, should he need to find a quick way to bond with a mark. Cigarettes worked much like a good glass of beer, he'd found; men were more likely to talk to him, to trust him, to bring him into their confidences, if they held one in their hand.
Shaw's pub did not prohibit smoking indoors; in fact, they all but encouraged it, as he'd discovered to his dismay on his first foray into the dining room. A thick cloud seemed to blanket everything in sight, distorting his vision and overwhelming his olfactory senses unpleasantly. Still, though, Harry had made his excuses to the grizzled old dockworker who'd been talking his ear off for the last half an hour, and made his way outside. It was not a particularly pleasant night to be standing around on the pavement, especially when Harry knew that there was a nice warm bed waiting for him upstairs, but having established the pretense he felt he had no choice but to follow through. He lit the cigarette and let it dangle uselessly from his fingertips, stamping his feet to ward off the chill.
So far he'd been in Galway for just under a week, and he had very few leads. The customers in the pub were more than happy to talk, so long as Harry was buying the drinks, but very little of what they said was of any use to him. The old man he'd been chatting to earlier in the evening had gone on at length about the myriad clever smuggling methods he'd encountered over the years, and as fascinating as it was to listen to the tales of drugs secreted away inside books and Glenlivet bottles and, in one instance, inside a girl's fake pregnancy belly, Harry was beginning to feel a bit irritated with the whole charade. Everywhere he turned he was greeted by innuendo, by suggestive comments and sly sidelong glances, but no one had been willing to expose any real details.
His best lead, at present, was a man called Connor Kelly. Kelly had moved to Galway from Belfast some three years prior, bringing with him his wife and three grown sons. Though Kelly and his boys had many friends among those who frequented Shaw's pub – Shaw included – they had their fair share of detractors as well. Since Harry was operating under the guise of writing a novel about the long-running conflict in Ireland his subjects were more than willing to point him towards those locals who were possessed of particularly strong opinions, and Kelly's name kept cropping up, though it was almost always accompanied by a warning to tread lightly. Harry had taken that warning to heart; though he desperately wanted to bring this operation to a conclusion, sooner rather than later, he knew better than to act rashly. The men he'd met were a prickly sort, and if they were wary of Kelly, it stood to reason that Harry ought to be as well. He'd be of no use to the Prime Minister if he found himself decorating the bottom of Eglinton canal.
As Harry stood shivering in the cold outside the pub, he thought about Kelly, and how best to approach him. It would need to be done carefully; a man like that, a hard man, one who spent his days toiling away at backbreaking labor and his nights brawling and boozing in a seedy pub, was not the sort who would be impressed by a famous English novelist. No, Harry didn't think Kelly would take too kindly to the suggestion of an interview; one of his more helpful sources had pointed Kelly out to him a few nights before, gesturing discretely towards a tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar and laughing with Shaw. The man was burly, broad-shouldered and he did not look altogether friendly; though they were too far apart for Harry to make out what Kelly had been saying, Harry liked the look of the man not one bit. Of course, Harry was also not very kindly disposed to Shaw at present; his host had been rather short with him, and never missed an opportunity to obliquely suggest that Harry might be happier in other, more friendly accommodations. Whether this had more to do with Harry's English accent or his bourgeoning friendship with the man's stepdaughter, Harry hadn't a clue.
Oh, Ruth, Harry thought, feeling rather tempted to take a drag from the half-burned cigarette in his hand. It seemed the thing to do, given how despondent his circumstances had become. Alone in a strange city, in a place where his very voice made him a target for barbed comments and pointing fingers, miles and miles away from his wife and his children, floundering along with nothing but his own morose thoughts for company, Harry had begun to feel rather melancholy indeed. In the years since Bill Crombie's death, Harry had felt his soul slowly blackening like the smoke-tainted walls of Shaw's pub, had felt the heavy weight of his own dark deeds dragging him further and further away from the parts of his life that had once brought him joy. His smiles were infrequent, now, where before his old friend had been able to goad him into mirth no matter how dire their circumstances. He still dreamed about Bill sometimes, Bill the way he had been before, when they were young and happy and as yet unbowed by death and violence, and Bill the way he had been at the end, burned and blackened and tortured beyond all recognition. Sometimes Harry thought he would never be free of that image, those smoldering remains that had once been his best friend. He'd all but given up hope of ever feeling anything other than crushing sadness, and then she had come stumbling into his life.
Though for the most part Harry had kept his promise to himself and avoided spending more than a moment or two alone with Ruth, he could not help but feel drawn to her somehow. There was a sorrow in her eyes, a darkness that called to him, that seemed to whisper here is one who has felt pain, here is one who understands you. They had spoken quietly of books – she was nearly finished with Ulysses, though she confessed that her work at the pub was cutting into her reading time, and she had been somewhat delayed. They had talked of music – she had a bewildering fondness for Wham! that Harry had teased her for delightedly. They had not spoken of her family, or his, or of the demons that seemed to dance just on the edges of their consciousness. More than once Harry had returned to the pub late at night, and found her sitting quietly at the desk in the foyer, well away from the bustle and the noise of the dining room, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes downcast, and he had wondered what could weigh so heavy on a heart so young.
Through the haze of his recollections a single sound emerged, wafting towards him over the sound of traffic and the burbling of the water in the canal; Ruth's voice, drifting across the frigid January air, as if his thoughts of her had conjured her on the spot. He could not make out what she was saying, but her tone left no doubt that, whatever was happening, she was not pleased. Without a second thought Harry pitched his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe before going in search of her.
The sound of her voice beckoned him on; he made his way around the edge of the building, toward the carpark tucked away behind it, and there he found Ruth, surrounded by a gaggle of drunken young men. It was a Saturday evening, and Harry supposed the lads had nothing better to do than drink too much and bother pretty girls. Ruth had apparently been in the process of carrying the rubbish out to the dumpster at the back of the carpark when she had been waylaid by the group of hooligans; the bag she'd been carrying had burst, and the rubbish littered the ground at her feet. She was red-faced and berating them in a language Harry could not immediately place; it took him a moment, but then he realized she was speaking Irish, though it was less clear whether or not the boys understood her.
One of them was taunting her; he'd taken something from her, and was holding it aloft, hooting with laughter each time she made a lunge for it. The young man was nearly a foot taller than she was, and it was no difficult thing for him to keep the object out of her reach. His mates egged him on, laughing and kicking at the rubbish, and in their midst Ruth looked to be on the edge of tears. The sight of her so desperate and distressed tore at Harry's heartstrings, and loosed a quiet rage within him.
The boys had formed a little semi-circle around Ruth, their backs to Harry, and none of them heard him approach on silent feet. Even Ruth did not see him, until he kicked the instigator smartly in the back of the knee and sent him sprawling to the pavement. The laughter died away, and the young man cried out in pain; as he had been distracted by whatever he held in his hands he had not thrown his arms out to catch himself, and his chin had cracked sharply on the ground when he fell. His mates fell back, rather than moving in on Harry; it was clear that the young man on the ground was the ringleader, and without him there to goad them into action, they were hesitant to engage, particularly given the ferocity of Harry's attack. The young man tried to stand and Harry kicked him in the ribs once more for good measure, using the opportunity to retrieve the stolen object from his grip. It was Ulysses; no doubt one of the boys had snatched it from Ruth's apron-pocket while she had been occupied with the rubbish.
"Leave. Now," Harry said in his most dangerous voice. The boys did not protest; they helped their fallen comrade to his feet, blood streaming from his chin, and the lot of them departed, casting murderous glances at him as they went. That surprised Harry, in truth; he had anticipated a brawl, and was, somewhat foolishly, rather disappointed that he had been denied. Not that fighting outside of pubs was a favorite pastime of his; he just felt so bloody useless, trapped in this godforsaken place, and he would have appreciated the chance to vent some of his frustration. At the very least, it would have helped to warm him up.
Through all of this Ruth had stared in silent, wide-eyed horror; he turned to her, once he was sure that the boys were not about to come tearing around the corner with knives in their hands, and held out her book.
"Are you all right?" he asked her gently as she snatched it from his grip, carefully wiping away the dirt and refuse that had gathered on it during its brief sojourn on the ground.
She nodded, still looking rather rattled. "Thank you," she said.
"Who were those boys?" Harry asked. Ruth had started gathering up the scattered rubbish, trying dispiritedly to gather it all into the ruined bag. Though he was freezing, and rather tired, Harry bent to help her.
"Ryan Kelly and his goons," Ruth told him, venom in her voice. "Bastard thinks he can do whatever he likes, just because everyone's afraid of his father."
Of course he's Kelly's son, Harry thought.
"He's a cowardly little shit," he said, trying to reassure her. He meant it, too; Ryan Kelly looked to be of an age with Ruth, which meant that he was much too old to be playing stupid games like the one Harry had broken up moments before. The boy hadn't even tried to defend himself; he'd probably piss his pants, if he ever got into a real fight, Harry thought. That was something Harry would quite like to see, actually. In fact, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to track Ryan Kelly down, and kick him again.
"I hate him," Ruth said, her voice cracking just a little. "I hate him, and I hate this stupid pub, and I hate this stupid city." She took a deep breath, as if to calm herself, but it had the opposite effect; she promptly burst into tears, ducking her head and cradling her book to her chest.
Without another thought Harry ceased his attempts to tidy the mess at their feet and drew her into his arms; she sagged against him, her arms tucked between them as she refused to release her hold on the book, her head coming to rest just beneath his chin. For several long moments they stood thus in the chill January air, Harry running his hands soothingly up and down her back, trying to keep her warm, trying to calm her, trying to let her know that she was safe here, with him. After a time her sobs trailed off and she ceased her trembling but Harry was loath to let her go, and she made no move to disentangle herself from him. She was soft and warm, sheltered within the protective circle of his arms, and the earthy scent of her hair enchanted him, left him wishing he could take her inside, lead her up the stairs, and lose himself inside her. Watch yourself, he thought grimly. You've a wife at home, and she's just a girl.
With that in mind he gently eased himself away from her, clasping her arms and searching her face. She looked haggard, but still she managed to offer him a watery smile.
"Were you speaking Irish, before?" he asked her as she took a step back from him and safely stowed her book in her apron once more.
Ruth blushed and ducked her head, focusing her attentions on the rubbish and refusing to meet his gaze.
"I was born in An Spidéal," she confessed, as if this ought to mean something to Harry. "My father always spoke Irish at home. He taught me."
This was only the second time Ruth had mentioned her father, who had died when she was young, and for the second time Harry was struck by how devastated she still seemed by his loss. It was clear that whatever sort of man he had been, he had left quite an impression on his daughter, and she missed him terribly.
"It's a beautiful language," Harry said. He just wanted to say something, anything to keep her in this moment with him, to spend just a little more time in her company. It was a beautiful language, to his mind; at least it was beautiful when the lilting cadences were dripping like honey from her lips. She could say whatever she liked to him, in whatever language she fancied, so long as she used that warm, gentle voice he had grown to love so well.
Their moment of peace was shattered then by a sharp bark of "Ruth!" from the doorway behind them.
It was Shaw, his head poking around the doorframe, his expression thunderous. "What the hell are you playing at, girl? You're needed inside!"
"Coming!" Ruth called back.
Shaw grunted something unintelligible and disappeared into the pub, leaving a blushing, somewhat flustered Ruth fidgeting on the pavement.
"I've got to go," she said, though there was no need for further clarification. Harry briefly entertained the notion of going inside and giving Shaw a good kick, too, but he refrained, reminding himself for the thousandth time that he was on a mission here, a mission that had nothing to do with pretty Irish girls.
"Of course. Have a good night, Ruth," he told her.
"And you, James," she answered. As he watched she gathered up the remains of the rubbish and made her way out into the night. Harry tucked his hands into his pockets and retreated into the pub, his thoughts consumed by her, and by the memory of how she'd felt, wrapped in his arms.
