Saturday 23rd June - 2007 - midday:
Ruth had woken to the sound of a dog barking, and had opened her eyes, wondering had she already moved to Cyprus. Her bedroom was warm, and the sun's rays winked through a gap in her curtains. Then she'd remembered - waking at midnight, annoyed that Harry had left without saying goodnight, but pleased that he'd thought to cover her with a blanket. She'd wandered into the kitchen to find it tidy, far tidier than she ever left it, the dishes done, and put away. Then the note propped against the mug on the table caught her eye, and she'd read it, the `love Harry x' at the end bringing a smile to her lips, along with an instant surge of warmth. She'd been tempted to ring him then, but not knowing how long it had been since he'd left, that wouldn't have been fair. He said he'd call her today, and knowing Harry, he will.
She'd spent the morning doing a load of washing, and then sorting through her possessions, deciding what to keep, and what could be donated to Oxfam. By lunchtime, a pile of clothes and books cover the floor in one corner of her bedroom. She'll deal with their disposal another day. For now, she wants to think about Harry, and where they appear to be headed, and how she really feels about that.
He is a continual source of surprise. The man who had intrigued her, but left her wary when first she'd joined the section had proven over and over that there was another side to Harry Pearce. He'd already demonstrated his loyalty and his moral strength; Harry never backed down from a challenge, and there were times when he wore his heart on his sleeve. That he'd remained true to her throughout her time away had surprised her. She'd half expected him to have moved on, or at least gone off her; after all, it could be said that trouble follows her, and the very last thing Harry needs is more trouble. It is as though Harry can see right inside her to the person she really is, just as she has grown to care for the man beneath the suit, the man who is just a man, and not a section head. When he'd arrived at her door the evening before, no-one was happier than Ruth that his face, his expression on seeing her again had reflected her own joy at being reunited with him.
Where do they go from here? Ruth would like to think that they are wading in the shallow waters of a burgeoning relationship. It's clear that Harry is already in love with her, and when she is lying in bed alone, emptying her mind of all the many complications in her life, both real and imagined, the truth which remains is that she also loves him. The realisation, and then acknowledgement of that particular truth is at once both exciting and terrifying. A proper relationship! Ruth has never had one of those. She's had crushes and obsessions and short-term passions, but nothing has lasted more than a few weeks, other than Tim Winchester, who had occupied her mind for months, and her bed for almost six weeks. That was before he'd returned to his long-time girlfriend, and last she'd heard, he'd married her.
No one man had kept her interested for years, as had Harry. He is more than a passing fancy, and so much more than a deep crush. He is her love, and she has remained true to him, just as he has to her, so she'd best not mess it up by giving in to jealousy or paralysing fear.
Saturday 23rd June - 2007 - 2.09 pm:
"Is this about Mace?" Harry asks, lifting his eyes from the grey water which flows beneath the bridge to the face of his companion. Roger Brook is one of the few members of the JIC to have joined him in opposing Oliver Mace's proposal supporting the torture of terror suspects, but even the most open and honest of men can be bought. Roger is a section head at Six - a minor player, but significant enough to be on the Committee.
"Not this time," Roger says, before he begins coughing. Roger is a smoker, and on arriving at their meeting place, he'd moaned about having a bad cold. Tucking a handkerchief back in his jacket pocket, Roger turns to Harry.
Harry stares at the man. As JIC members go, Roger is one of the more trustworthy ones. When he speaks, it is usually the truth ... or something approaching the truth. "You mentioned something about my new analyst," Harry says, needing to hurry the meeting along. He still hasn't called Ruth, and being a man of his word - at least with her - he needs to call her, and soon.
"Not her specifically, Harry," Roger says, before turning away and covering his mouth while he has a coughing fit. Harry is not good with the unwell. He's terrible when he is sick, but when others are ill, he can't help but think of coffins and hearses. When Roger calms he turns back to Harry. "Sorry. I should have stayed in bed, but I thought this important enough to meet you and tell you face to face. The young woman working in your section is not the only one being trained to spy on various sections ... the ones with a questionable history - like yours and mine."
"By `spying' you mean exchanging pillow talk with the section head," Harry offers.
"Not necessarily. Few of us are gullible enough to fall for that any more. You have to get with the program, Harry. Guns and sex are old school. The future is digital. This new breed of analysts come packing superior hacking skills."
"Such as?"
"Three months ago my section was two analysts down. One had resigned, while another was about to take maternity leave. GCHQ sent me a sharp young man dressed in a suit, and he seemed honest and efficient - just what I needed. One day I left my office door closed, but unlocked, and he entered my office, loaded malware on to my system - it takes less than two minutes to download - and from there he was able to read all my files remotely. The particular malware used can act as a conduit to remotely add all kinds of files to my system. Fortunately my tech team were on the ball, and they run malware checks daily. Les Gadd in the basement wasn't so lucky. He had images of child porn remotely loaded to his computer. Fortunately for him, and his reputation, he discovered it almost immediately, and reported it. He faced suspension, but there were witnesses to his temporary analyst entering his office when it was unattended."
Harry listens, and nods his understanding. "I know there are forces out there who want me gone," Harry muses.
"And me," Roger says, before turning away from Harry and holding his handkerchief to his mouth to stifle a sneeze. "We hold unpopular views," he says at last, tucking his handkerchief into his trouser pocket.
"Mmm. Having a conscience, and opposing the views of the baying mob has become unpopular," Harry adds. "I suppose the lesson here is to increase security around our offices."
Roger nods. "Nothing less than fingerprint or iris recognition on the door locks."
Harry turns up his lips in disgust. "Is my section expected to fork out that kind of money just to keep one person out of my office?"
"If it means your reputation, and ultimately your job, then I'd say yes." This time Roger turns away from Harry while again he sneezes, before taking a cigarette packet from his other jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette, and lighting it. He inhales, and then lifts his face as he exhales slowly, so that the breeze takes the smoke over his shoulder and away from Harry. "I'm sure this bloody cold is a result of my attempting to give up these things," Roger says, lifting his cigarette and gazing at it lovingly.
Harry stares at the man. He's sure he has a death wish. "Thanks for the information," he says, reaching out to shake Roger's hand. "I'll keep my office door locked," and he nods curtly to Roger, and turns towards Thames House. Once he is out of Roger's earshot, Harry takes out his phone and presses Ruth's number. He is pleased when she answers after only one ring.
Saturday 23rd June - 2007 - 6.20 pm:
"I can't remember the last time I ate here," Ruth says, gazing around the room. "And the decor has improved since 2002."
They are sitting at a table in the pub two blocks from Ruth's house. Given the night is cool and calm, they had decided to walk there. When he'd called her after meeting Roger Brook he'd promised her their second dinner.
"I'm sorry it's not somewhere more..." Harry struggles to find the right adjective.
"It's just right, Harry. This place is perfect. It's ... homey and .."
"Unpretentious," he finishes for her, and he's happy when she smiles at him from across the table.
They have finished their meal, and are sitting over a bottle of merlot. They are in no hurry, and Harry silently prays that his phone doesn't ring. When the pub begins to become noisy with patrons who are clearly hell bent on getting drunk, they quickly leave. As they step onto the pavement, Harry is thrilled when Ruth grasps his hand in hers.
"Next time I'll take you somewhere more salubrious," he says, after they pass a group of young women who are staggering towards the pub on spiky heels specifically designed to ruin spines and reputations.
"I'm happy with somewhere casual, Harry."
He looks at her quizzically. She's an odd woman. Most women he has known have encouraged him to spend money on them, but not Ruth.
"I'd be happy sitting at my kitchen table, sharing fish and chips and a bottle of wine," she says.
"I suppose it's closer to the bedroom," Harry says, immediately regretting his choice of words. "I meant, for when we get tired," he adds quickly.
Ruth squeezes his hand. "Of course you did," she says quietly.
They are sitting side by side on the sofa in Ruth's living room, and neither have yet to say anything about Harry staying the night. Ruth would like the topic to be raised by anyone but her.
"When are you planning to return to work?" Harry asks at last. When conversation becomes strained, work is always a safe subject.
Ruth turns her mug of coffee between her hands. Returning to work is a subject she's yet to give much thought. "I suppose I should soon," she says at last, noticing that Harry has finished his coffee, and has placed his empty mug on the coffee table. "I'm still getting used to being back home." She turns to look at him to find he is watching her closely, his expression one of open longing.
"I'd like you back at work as soon as you feel able, if only so I can get shot of Ava."
"Is that the only reason you want me back?"
"You know it's not."
Ruth leans forward to place her mug on the coffee table, and when she sits back, Harry has moved closer to her, so that their thighs are touching. It's hardly a subtle move on his part, but she's enjoying the warmth of his body close to her.
"Ruth," he says, and she turns towards him to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. "Would you like me to stay the night?"
Harry's question, spoken quietly and hopefully, breaks the ice. Ruth lets out an embarrassed little laugh. "I thought you'd never ask," she says. "I was afraid you'd gone off the idea."
"I'm a man, Ruth," he says. "We never go off the idea."
She stands quickly, and before one of them changes their mind, she grasps his hand in hers, and leads him from the room, up the stairs, and to the corridor outside her bedroom. "This is my room," she says unnecessarily, indicating the open doorway, through which can be seen a bed, with books piled on the bedside table.
"Are you having a clean out?" he asks, indicating the clothes and books piled in the far corner of the room.
Ruth nods, wishing she'd stored them in another room. She turns towards Harry, who leans close to her, his hands moving up and down her arms, sending a frisson of pleasure through her whole body. She doesn't want to be the one to initiate sex this time. She'd rather it were Harry's idea. Perhaps he needs something more from her. "It's alright, Harry," she says. "I want this."
"As much as I do?" He gazes down at her, his smile softening his face.
Ruth reaches up to cup his face before placing her lips on his. "Possibly more," she says, once the kiss ends.
They stand close, both gazing into the bedroom. It is an odd moment which fortunately doesn't last long. Harry grasps one of her hands and leads her through the doorway. "I don't know about you, Ruth, but I'm not getting any younger, and if we don't start soon, I might not be capable."
They are standing beside the bed, still holding hands, and Ruth looks up at Harry and frowns. "That's an odd thing to say," she says.
"Why? Stress and old age render many men impotent."
"Are you stressed?" she asks.
"I am a little, yes. We haven't done this in ten months, and we need to get it right."
"But .." Ruth is having difficulty following his thread, "didn't we do it ... well last time?"
"We did it remarkably well, Ruth. I'd go as far to say that together we were magnificent."
"And you're a long way from old age."
"Nice of you to say so," he murmurs, smiling.
"I wasn't trying to compliment you. I mean it. You're still quite .. young, really."
They could stand here all night discussing his age, but that's not why they're in her bedroom, standing beside her bed. Ruth drops Harry's hand, toes off her shoes, and crawls across the bed to lie on the far side. She then reaches her hand towards him. "Care to join me?" she says.
Harry takes the hint, removing his shoes and socks, and then lying beside her, facing her. He reaches over and with one gentle, exploratory kiss, the ice is broken. Fingers find buttons and zippers, while lips and tongues seek skin. Within the chaos of clothes floating to the floor, they roll together, his belly pressed against her abdomen, her breasts finding his hands (or is it the other way around?) They kiss for a long time, passion rising, hands sliding across expanses of bare skin.
When he at last slides inside her, he groans, and she whispers, "mm, nice," into his ear.
It had taken them years to find their way to one another the first time, and ten months to come together again. "I'm never leaving you again," she breathes before she closes her eyes, losing herself in the rhythm of their lovemaking.
He hears her, but he is inside her, riding the wave. In such moments anything at all is possible, and words spoken, even in passion, will only get in the way.