Mildly M rated...
I spend Sunday as I have planned, catching up on Autumnal jobs in the garden – pruning back the spent raspberry canes along the back fence, preparing the Spring flower beds for their long winter sleep by mulching them deeply with grass clippings to insulate the dormant bulbs beneath, and everywhere, raking bright piles of leaves. They are too damp to burn properly, so I heap them into the old incinerator and leave them to dry into the brown crispness which makes the best sort of blaze, clear and hot and almost smokeless. I will burn them on Guy Fawkes Night, in a few weeks' time, I think, if I'm not at work. Guy Fawkes Night is a favoured time for those with an axe to grind against Her Majesty's government to attempt the grand symbolic gesture. Bomb threats, nearly always; a sniper stalking an unpopular, pro-Gulf war MP, the IRA rearing its ugly head – we have dealt with it all on Guy Fawkes Night. It must be something to do with the spirit of rebellion which the night celebrates, or perhaps it's just that the fireworks and bonfires provide good cover for those with nefarious purposes.
I try not to think too much about it, or indeed about anything, most particularly not Ruth. I work until the light begins to fade from the sky and Mother calls to me from the back door to come inside, the cold isn't good for my asthma, as if I'm still five, and not closer to fifty-five. I know she means well, though. I am beginning to feel the day's work in my back and my joints, and I can smell the enticing aroma of roast beef wafting into the chilly evening air. I tidy everything away into the shed, lock it carefully (it wouldn't do to leave a shed with sharp tools and dangerous chemicals unlocked) and head inside, pausing at the back step to ease out of my old green wellies and hang my old Barbour jacket and tweed cap on the peg inside the glassed-in porch. Sighing with relief to be inside, where it's warm, I tell Mother that I'm going to have a shower before dinner, and head upstairs.
Standing under the hot, streaming water, I can no longer shut out thoughts of Ruth, of us together, of her body arching over me, such a look of wild abandon on her face as … that hasn't happened in a very, very long time, I think, as guilty and yet exhilarated as any teenager – one of the drawbacks of living with my mother is that I never feel free to do what any other man would do without a second's thought. I always have the sense, at the back of my mind, that Mother will somehow know what I've been up to. Of course, this sort of thing has never been an issue, until now. Fortunately, we each have our own bathrooms, our own suites of rooms to use, in this rambling old house on the Heath. It makes it bearable. Much as I love my mother, and I know she depends on me, I am glad for the odd hours I often work; being on the Grid increases my sense of independence. It's why I take most of my meals there – certainly it's not because of the food, which is mediocre at best. Stepping out of the shower (I hear Mother's voice calling me again to dinner from downstairs), I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I rarely, if ever, consult it, but some morbid impulse of curiosity makes me look now. I wipe the foggy condensate off with a corner of my towel and peer cautiously at my reflection.
Peering back at me, I see a middle aged man, looking taller now that I am standing up properly and not stooping, but even at my full six feet, I'm hardly a physically impressive sight. I don't have the lithe grace of Adam, nor Tom's formidable build; instead, I look like what I am, a desk spook. If I'm being fair to myself, my shoulders are square-set, and my work in the garden maintains my muscle tone. I don't carry extra weight, actually I'm quite lean, if one discounts the wretched little potbelly of middle age. At least it's not like Harry's much more substantial spare tyre, I think unkindly. My skin is too pale from underexposure to the sun, but then I have Celtic colouring anyway – fair skin, blue eyes, rather curiously set, and reddish hair. Too little hair, now, and that's turning grey at a disheartening rate. I don't know how to assess the face that looks back at me. Mother says I have a good face, but whether she means aesthetically or morally, I have never ascertained. Perhaps she means both.
I look at my hands next, and feel happier. My hands are useful. I have my father's hands, long fingered, strong yet dextrous, ideal for the delicate manual work of a technical officer. I can't help but shake my head in amazement as I recall some of the new uses they were put to last night…Ruth tracing the outline of my hand as it rested against her belly, afterwards, like a child tracing her own hand on paper, then interlacing her fingers with mine, as she falls asleep. I again feel my fingers splayed on her hips as she rises above me, holding on to her for dear life as she drives us both towards oblivion; or the new motor skills she teaches me, later, as she explains the finer points of both general female anatomy, and her own particular pleasures. Consistency and continuity, it would seem, is key…
I can do that, I think. Consistency, reliability, loyalty, total devotion… yes, I can do those. But these qualities, apparently, are no match for the sheer power of her attraction to Harry, no matter how impossible or ill-advised it might seem. The air between them resonates with a low thrum like the humming of high-voltage power lines whenever they are together. The way they are around each other…last night was nothing like that, I have to concede, although it was shattering enough, in its own way. Reluctantly, I think back to the moment that it all changed, when I realised the strength of the hold Harry has on her. Waking up, to see her holding her phone, her thumb moving over the keypad, tapping out a message to him. As I had heaved upright in bed, I had seen that much, before she closed the phone and buried it on her side of the bed as she reached across to hand me the champagne.
Finally, I drop the towel, take a couple of steps back, and consider everything Ruth saw. Having been subjected to the sight of countless sets of other people's privates, whether I want to see them or not (and the answer is overwhelmingly Not) in the course of my work, I decide that mine are perfectly…acceptable, if unremarkable. Harry is probably much more impressive in that department, but then, he's more impressive and accomplished than me in just about every way possible. Except one, I remind myself, and the reflection in the mirror smiles. "Malcolm! Dinner! Now, dear!" I hastily resume my towel at the sound of her voice from the kitchen. Next, I pad into my dressing room to pull on some clothes, before descending the stairs, as staid and sensible as ever, to join Mother at table.
A/N: We return to the comparative safety of the Grid, next...no showers there! ;) Thanks, as always to everyone who is sticking with the story, and continuing to read and review. I realise this is not the usual Spooks fic, which is what makes writing it fun!
