"Your faith in me brings me to tears,
Even after all these years.
And it pains me so much to tell,
That you don't know me that well.
And though my love is rare,
Though my love is true.
I'm like a bird,
I'll only fly away.
I don't know where my soul is,
I don't know where my home is."
-Nelly Furtado, I'm Like a Bird
(It might help, as this chapter follows immediately from the last, that a re-read of Chapter Nine might be in order. Just a suggestion.)
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Angela, 10 November, 2005. 8:30 pm:
The home, from the instant she had entered, bore the scent of her, enveloping her in an unwelcome embrace, each inhale a physical assault, plying long ago buried and painful memories from the shadows to dance and prick, painful entertainment, torturous as she sat absently picking the frayed upholstery of an overused, second hand lounge chair. Her lungs and head swam with the scent of Ruth, though she had excused herself to prepare a pot of tea, and she smirked at this observance of custom, that deeply instinctual need to be gracious, even to one who was an intruder, uninvited and disturbing.
Her eyes fell upon the porcelain bird figurine again, and she thought how appropriate of Peter, to take, as he had always taken from her, even something as simple as a suggestion, and gift it to another as his own. The room presently illuminated with Ruth's return, the object became one of many such trinkets, previously hidden, though its significance to Ruth was highlighted by proximity to their framed photograph, whether an unconscious bit of interior design, or deliberate on Ruth's part she couldn't fathom. A bird with a broken wing, she had said at the time, and he had neither agreed, nor denied it, but gathered the image to his heart, to set along side her, this delicate figurine symbolizing only a fraction of his heart's devotion and need.
The dried flower...Or, was it several now that she could better see in the light? Yes, a dandelion, the characteristic dome singularly visible in the darkened room earlier, it's golden, buttery hue now faded, hard and browning at the edges. A flower to wish upon, the underside of your chin glowing with sunlit dust, its seeds cast on the wind with a soft puff through your lips. How very optimistic, she thought. She could now see it joined in sentry by the darkened blue attached to a stem of Forget Me Nots. The tiny buds, four in total, pressed flat, brought to mind the small bouquet Ruth had held graveside, the vision of it shimmering like water as she pulled from it one stem, and then the tumbling cascade as the remainder fell end over end to land on top of his casket. Even in death, you required his devotion, Ruth.
They could have found common ground in this, the symbolism and medicinal attributes of flowers. They could have found companionship in Botany, Horticulture, in the language of Nature and Science, coexisting, grown from the same multifaceted seed. They had spoken of a shared love for gardens, each having studied as children with their respective fathers, hers focusing on the theological, and Ruth's the medicinal. The symmetry did not escape her then, or now. Her father was a man of canon rules and theological belief, and Ruth's, one of science; that they would be in conflict seemed fated somehow, the mirrored images of Science versus The Divine.
Botany, the subject and consequence, became the cornerstone of every conversation their limited interactions encouraged. As she thinks on it presently, she rather regrets never exploring Ruth's mind further on such matters as the lethal aspects of botanical combinations for, without doubt, she could have enumerated in detail, plucking the information held within her intricate mind as easily as plucking out a weed defiling an English flowerbed. That information would have proven quite useful on numerous recent occasions. No one ever would suspect the lonesome woman next door tending an overgrown garden of premeditated murder. They are simply not commonly regarded as homicidal, if considered at all.
Yes, they could have grown and nurtured together; Created, side by side, all manner of fecundity, beauty. They could have shared something more than him, the seed of their origin, and she reverently gives silent thanks that amongst the dried and browning mementos, there is not a stem of honeysuckle, that totem symbolizing a love that will never be forgotten, a first love, an old flame, for whether given or received, she would feel the betrayal keen in her heart even now.
She had entered previously several weeks past, installing the requested surveillance, an undetected spider weaving a fibrous web throughout the home, picking through the mementos, thumbing the pictures capturing moments in time, some she was aware of, numerous those that preceded her. She feels, rather than sees, the camera hidden in the room, rising and walking past as she begins to peruse the knickknacks placed about, the tiny windows into the mind of the woman presently occupied in the adjacent kitchen.
A preadolescent Ruth, smiling, the color of her eyes staggering even then, brandishing the brace of plaster covering her broken arm with pride, the other encased within the larger hand of her father's, the haphazard sprinkling of freckles decorating the bridge of her upturned nose, belying the intellect held within, the formidable opponent she was to become hidden within the deceptive and guileless attributes given to childhood, to innocence. How many agents had been saved or lost at the hands of this gifted man when this photograph was taken, she wonders, curious if he had been the one to set Ruth's arm, place the brace? Had he been delayed by those asked to make the greatest sacrifice, broken and bleeding upon an unsterilized table in the bowels of an abandoned flat, or had he rushed to her side, whispering words of comfort as he made to hurt her again to heal her?
She knew the story, had been told by Elizabeth during one of the gatherings Ruth thought to decline; The broken arm the result of a fall from a tree limb, crashing to the ground, both she and the severed tree limb, embellished by Peter, who, whilst in familial company, even in Ruth's suddenly customary and notable absences, could not contain his affection for her, betrayed with every word spoken, his enduring love, alighting his eyes. She, not for the first time in their shared history, sought the solace found in the lies one weaves for oneself, in resentment, in the ever present burn that hatred stokes.
It was the few, select photographs of Peter and Ruth that gave her pause presently, as they had when first come across at his. Fully illuminated, the streetlamp's yellowish hue having crept back outside, they provided a story, one of mutual affection turning, subversively gradual in degree, into hesitation, discomfort, their eyes betraying the truth.
She yearned to gather them all, line them up side by side, memorize the progression of destruction present in the dulling of their smiles, a photographic slideshow of forced companionship. Instead, she moved from one to the next, the screeching of a tea kettle from beyond the only sound accompanying her meditative, deliberate progression. It seemed apt, felt right, that she should hear nothing but clamorous screaming, and thus continued, unabated, the trail of smudged blood from worrying her crescents earlier the only visible evidence of her careful progression. Well, that, and the camera, and on the heels of this thought she paused, her hand held still above the next photograph in succession, making an internal note to shave a few minutes here and there before presenting the catalogue for use.
Her fingers moved across the glassy surfaces of each, caressing his frozen, smiling face, her thumb deliberately placed on top of Ruth's face, hiding her from view, as though this simple placement of digits would result in her sudden, untimely disappearance. It was easier, this way, to imagine the face held under her thumb as her own, and Peter's genuine smile, a gift offered, and treasured in her heart, hers alone.
She recognized details from a few occasions, family rituals caught in time for which she had been present, the past displayed in the present, the loss of him keen, the scent of him having faded in the year since his death. In the last, they were seated together, side by side, each smiling the obligatory smile inherent to time spent going through the revolutions of family rituals, that smile that never quite reaches their eyes, the ebulliency a fabrication erected as the minutes become tiresome, the family proper becomes that thing you desire to run from, not towards, for comfort. It was the last time they had gathered, she remembered, their discomfort at the other's presence jumping from the frame, as palpable presently as when it was taken, their smiles wooden and forced, and she wondered at why Ruth should chose to display this amongst her mementos, her talismans signifying her history, her life lived.
She had more than a passing acquaintance with smiles of this sort. He had worn it for the better part of three years, give or take, no matter in who's company, friend or foe. It was a smile she herself wore from the moment she heard the gunshot report, watched as the light left his eyes, the blood spilling from his self inflicted wound, staining its vivid passage, his life seeping into the carpet they had both sworn to replace, the reel of Diana accompanying his last moments, carrying him beyond her grasp.
Flowers then, too. Even as she held his lifeless body, cradled his blood soaked, half missing head, gathering the bits of bone and matter, holding them tightly in her grasp as though they could be replaced, reassembled somehow, she could hear her accepting flowers, the gracious thank yous, the crinkling of foil wrapping, what have they done to you. She had cried, wailed as a wounded animal, screamed and railed at the emptiness surrounding her, her knees sunk deep into the offending carpet, blood pooling to stain her clothing, pleading with no one there to wake her up, the nightmare of a life without him, the sheer horror of continuing alone fueling her rage and grief.
She had broken, then, for, surely, it had been then; The gun report ricocheting behind her eyes, joining the overture, the internal crack she was certain was audible as she relinquished her senses, gave over to the soft caress, spiraling downwards as madness dragged her underneath, and held her close. Well and truly dropped her basket, as they say, and to her present shame, she remembers the two days she'd spent with him, still sat in the chair, rigor having come and passed, the foul liquids seeping from him in an ever widening circle beneath, the smell of decomposition ripe, not diminished in the least for having removed the carpet, set out for the dust man.
She'd imagined, distantly then, their neighbors calling the authorities to report strange goings on, what they would say, who would be the first; Yes, you see there was a good deal of screaming, a gunshot, I think, and now there's a carpet that looks soaked in...Um...Well, I can't be sure, you understand, but it looks a good deal like dried blood. I wonder, could you send someone round? She had actually heard them, the calls, the ringing telephones, the whispered accusations; She understood the impossibility of such an occurrence now, but then, her basket's contents given over to senseless abandon, she'd engaged in lengthy conversations with them in the silence of her shuttered, fouled home, her sleep deprived mind conjuring them in the shadows of hollowed out, empty rooms, pointing, pointing, pointing.
She had, shuddering as the memory takes shape, screamed when they came to remove him, struggled against the arms that enveloped her, dragging her from his side, the blanket she had covered him in discarded in favor of a venomous black morgue bag. The sound it made as they enclosed him within, that plasticized crinkling, the finality that lends itself effortlessly to the sound of a zipper as it travels its pedestrian path, unnatural, mechanical, the thunderous silence when ended, and she could feel her head cracking open with the mutinous sounds, spilling her seeds and juice, to join his.
Sleeping, she had screamed into their placid faces, he's just sleeping; A dreamer, he likes his dreams, leave him alone, please, just...God, please don't cover his face, can't breathe, can't breathe, he can't breathe; He's told me so many times, please, please, please.
She turns from the photograph, listing slightly, retracing her steps back to the over worn chair, her knees weak, her body's desire to vomit at the base of her throat, burning and acidic, dropping into it, boneless, with a soft pooft as the insults materialize behind her eyes, the involuntary picture show gaining speed. There, the clandestine alert to the authorities at Thames, some special branch plod hoping for favor at her expense; Now, her decommission, the eyes of those passing judgement frigid in both questions and judgements; Ahhh, yes, the involuntary commitment to TRING, the walls closing in on her, breathing whilst he could not, her hands raking her face and chest, screaming injustices and revenge, drawing blood, hers, theirs, her nails forever crusted with blood, seeing them now, as then, her crescents red, tender and moist.
She had refused to vacate, preferring to surround herself with his things, wandering the halls of his flat, his voice, imagined conversations with him echoing the walls. One week. Or, maybe two, was it? Her clothes soiled, unchanged, hair lank, the film on her teeth thick and uneven. Even now difficult to identify precisely, those moments of her past all merging in a kaleidoscopic picture show then, a single, agonizingly constant rush of faces and sounds.
And Ruth. Mustn't forget Our Ruth. Her face distinguishes itself within memory, crystalizing as it emerges, filling the space behind her eyes. Ruth, her expressionless face and guarded eyes, giving nothing away, indifferent, feigning superficial concern, present for the final act as directed, the muted and sedate walls of TRING breathing around her, green, pale green, pulling the strings, directing from the periphery, blithely ignorant to her pleas, immune to her pain, methodically dismantling her life, erasing her, deftly pulling the wings off a butterfly, watching as they fluttered to the ground, discarded, soiled, utterly useless. Her father had called her Butterfly, and in a curious nod towards symmetry, she had not been surprised to find Ruth's had called her Bird, He called her Bird, or Birdie, after that fall; Because of it really; Funny, yeah, he had added, wearing that smile she had grown to fear. Natural enemies we two, and found herself looking towards the other in the adjacent room, the sounds of her movements floating from without. Fated, she concluded, but only one destined to consume the other.
She had struck out at her, a violent and unpredictable maneuver, the ring on her hand catching and tearing, the trickle of blood livid against her pale, shocked face. How had they failed to remove her jewelry, she still wonders absently? Ruth still bears the remnants of a scar on her face, just to the side of her right eye, a small imperfection, a lighter color than the whole, marring her tranquil face, insignificant when alined with the scar still festering deep within her at the loss of her love, her reason for being, her touchstone, but visible in photographs dated more recent she'd chosen to display, if you knew what you were looking for, as she did.
With a slight nod of her head, the twitch of a bird identifying prey, wiping at the blood, palpating the wound with her fingertips, they had injected her, cruelly forcing her to the ground, holding her there as she continued to claw and bite, the tranquilizer coursing rapidly in her already adrenaline laden state, her movements becoming slow, lethargic, tame, her mouth numb, slurring accusations, You killed him, do you understand? You fucking killed him. The horror marking her face, the impassive facade cracking, for an instant, the poison pill delivered deep into her subconscious, her only solace, her single triumphant moment against an enemy whose weapon was history, and she the acknowledged usurper, her velvety wings soiled and useless.
Her lips twitch, a counterfeit smile, one born of cruelty and recollection, the accusation delivered specifically to target the guilt already present and swimming within her, Peter's words echoing in her head, her father's death, her fault, her fault, that unanticipated confessional between lovers twisted maliciously into a weapon, fortuitous in her possession, a betrayal of her, by him, posthumously. There is no enemy more powerful than the one you create yourself, and no information more damaging than that which you divulge, in confidence, to another.
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Ruth, 10 November, 2005. 9:45 pm:
She's hot, her body covered in a thin layer of sweat, clammy, reaching from the surface of her skin to catch the air around her, causing her to shiver, as if fighting fever, hunched and scrubbing. Leaning back against the wall, she holds the scarf between her hands, kneeling, examining the details, the faded patterns, floral, now soiled with her efforts, lost to the intruder whose uninvited presence met her return earlier.
She bends to her task again, scrubbing the base of the toilet, the mosaic tiles surrounding, the scarf's previously vivid florals, faded still, bright splotches of whitened bleach erasing details as she would erase the memories and details marking her past before this very moment. The MD viewer taunts her from the corner. Resting as it did it gave the impression, viewer's eye facing her as she studiously scrubbed, of watching her, recording every action, every thought; Worse still, knowing every betrayal, both actual and fantasy.
"Insanity."
The word echoes the closely tiled room, reverberating back and forth, despite the evidence contained within the eye that watches her, that knows where her secrets hide, that place she denies where she will find no comfort, the door creaking open to prevent sleep. No, stop. The word continues to float, her subconscious having awoken to clasp it, and she thinks it quite possible that she could lose her mind, could break clean from the Here and Now, the memories of There and Then creeping effortlessly from behind her mind's locked doors, their shadows growing long, engulfing the light of her present everyday.
You killed him, do you understand? Grabbing her toothbrush, she meditates on the sound the brush makes as it flays between the tiles, attacking stains that predate her ownership, perhaps even her birth, the words a double sided blade struck deep into the tender meat of her rapidly beating heart. Not him. No, shut up. I'll not sit and stuff myself full of that responsibility; Not then and not now. Her teeth graze her bottom lip, trapping it between, biting down hard, she remembers and in the memory her resentment towards Angela blooms as a malignant unfolding within her, her chest full, the roughened grout between tiles nicking her, minuscule pinpricks of blood filling the space in the absence of skin.
She hears him, feels him then, as though her unwanted thoughts of him were a siren call he could not ignore; Behind her, his eyes, hot in the places he gazes, breath tinged with whiskey, warm against her neck, stepping from her nightmares and into the room with her, bright and stinking of disinfectant, the eye watching from the corner, bending close to breathe into her ear, But you are so beautiful, our Ruth.
Her body physically jolts, the bright tile surrounding her blinding, lunging for the newly spotless basin, retching uncontrollably, her hands braced against the tank, cleaning fluid stinging her eyes, her knees bruising against the floor's hard, unyielding surface.
Sobbing, now. She's wracked with sobs, drawn from the depths of her, body convulsing with the voracity of exertion, her breath wafting back into her face, tasting of bile and decay, but cool, pleasant, inexplicably pleasant, and she concentrates, squeezing her raw eyes shut, concentrating as the cool, foul air brushes her face and calms her. Forcing him back into the shadows, an unwelcome intruder to her waking hours this specter that haunts her nights.
Beautiful, so beautiful. A hand, gently caressing her cheek, warm against the frigid winds, the grey and mournful skies of Blackpool. Her breathing rapid, his touch wanted, unseemly, his eyes far away, swimming with drink, Not your fault, Ruth. Cancer, it was cancer, love. Her brain screaming you don't know, you couldn't know, merging instinctual alarms, don't touch me, you shouldn't be touching me, please don't do this; Please don't stop.
And now, head lain against the cool tank, she admits his touch had felt good, his words had stirred her, wanting to respond, wanting to feel, to be forgiven, to breathe with him, his lips murmuring softly against hers, the taste of him indistinguishable from her own, I love you, I've loved you from the first, Ruth. My Ruth. His hand tickling her knee, exposed, touched as by flame her mind floating, her thoughts vague but for the touch of his fingers, These knees, these knobby, delicious knees. His lips forming the words, breathing them against her neck, her pulse, her hands in his hair, holding him against her, moving to sit astride him, face him, her body responding fluidly, his eyes hooded, Wrong, this is wrong. Stop. Stop, stop now; Kiss me, kiss me; Know me.
His hands at her waist, lifting her, positioning her as she straddles him, resting around her bum, squeezing her, their clothing suffocating, moving her back and forth, softly, softly, her mind going blank, nothing but feeling, vivid, edging closer, closer. Feeling him harden beneath her, his sighs of pleasure merging with hers, their breathing syncopating, the trail his tongue takes causing her to shiver, grind against him as he thrusts upwards, the ache, lost in the exquisite ache...
Leave with me, whispered quietly, tongue running the length of her bottom lip, tasting her, his words as sweet as his whiskyed breath. Three words. Three simple words, but it had been enough to cut through her subconscious. His eyes, confused, hurt as she lifted herself from him, moved across the shabby, shadowed room, establishing the distance that would mark them from that moment into their future, No, Peter. No.
I love you, Ruth.
No, Peter.
Always have done, Bird. Always will.
Their return home had been a solemn affair, the invisible, unspoken threshold having been crossed hanging in the air between them, following them as an ever devoted shadow thereafter. She absently meditated as the ache evolved from a pleasing, urgent throbbing, to something likened to despair, melancholic, the silence between them extending, blindly, heartbreakingly infinite. Did he touch you? Did he? Tell me, Ruth! Her mother's face, accusing her without words, It wasn't like that, mum...
She had never been able to erase the look of horror, the grimace of disgust which worked its way to the surface, her mother's shuddered Oh, sweet Jesus, and the sting as she had slapped her flat across the face, What have you done? Answer me, echoing the closely tiled room, demanding answers never offered, her memories betraying her past, her truth.
She gathers herself slowly, crawling hands and knees to the wash basin, grasping the edges, pulling herself upright, the cold water against her face bracing, observing her reflection and finding herself momentarily surprised not to find evidence of a slap delivered with force years ago imprinted now against her pale cheek. Her stomach sour, still threatening its remaining contents, she moves to draw a bath, the steaming water scalding, the fog of its heat obscuring her mirrored image, and she watched as her reflection mercifully fades into oblivion before submerging herself into the bath seeking the same merciful grace.
Her mother had been a stranger to her, and in the moments proceeding her choice to leave home, to run, in truth, from the eyes that condemned her even as they sought to love, she'd understood her mother's need for details, the distance of intellectual contemplation, that her desire to interpret as rape, molestation was obscenely preferable to the suggestion that it, she and Peter, were acting on wholly predictable inclinations, twisting the natural into its unnatural opposite, the preferred course.
It wasn't, she freely admits, that they had acted on impulse, that they had always known it would come to that, eventually. It couldn't even be regarded as incestuous, illegal, unnatural in the definitive sense. No, it hadn't been wrong or unnatural, but something beautiful and rare, and she had allowed herself to be told otherwise, made to believe otherwise. She was stained, soiled, her ability to love and her need to be loved betraying her, leaving her marked ever after.
Contorting herself to submerge beneath, her ears comforted by the water's diffusing properties, womblike, He's your brother, a misapprehension so vile, and yet the conclusion consistently drawn by observers, lovers, that it became futile to argue the truth, and neither of them had really bothered over time. It was the idea that they should leave together that had drawn her short, not the roughened hand playing across her skin, the fingers parting her folds, and the voice that whispered so sweet, my Ruth. It was the eyes of others, reflecting the eyes of her mother's, accusing, her subconscious predicting where she had yet to be questioned. And, if they had not lived together, coexisted as a consequence of their parents union, what then, she wondered now, as she had often wondered in unguarded moments, waking from nightmares, her subconscious claiming the playground as she yearned for quiet and sleep. Would it still have required vile suggestions, would the circumstances have been subversive by necessity, unnatural by default?
Unrelated by blood. Resurfacing, she says the words aloud, feels them form and take shape in her mind, worrying her bottom lip as she hears herself speak, her breathing audible in the close, compact room.
They had loved one another, perhaps he more than she, but there had been love, genuine and pure. Rubbing her eyes, the pressure of her fingertips producing blooms of blackened spots, her desire to sob, deep and throbbing at her throat, choking, drowning. She had acted on impulse then, in a shabby B&B on the outskirts of Blackpool, and her guilt, her sin having been found out and assigned her, propelled her further towards impulse, engaging risk as though a harmless toy to be played with, well suited on her own.
Smirking ironically, her eyes filling with unshed tears too long in the making, she wonders what those she associates with now would think to have known her then, and she allows the barest hint of pride to color her cheeks in her achievement, her successful execution of legend. That is what she was then, a legend. It had come to her shortly after joining the grid, the description of how she felt inside in the places that matter, equally hollow, cardboard where there should be flesh, fantasy where there should reside history. There were many boys, some men, but few who were allowed behind the barriers she had erected, and she thinks now it curious that she would behave in a manner clinically conducive to molestation, sexual assault, trespassing frequently beyond the line of advisable conduct.
In her mind, as the years passed, it seemed easier to assign molestation, rape, though the incongruity, the outright lie of it, did little to curb either her self loathing or her need to feel clean. She came to believe it as fact, the circumstances drawn and detailed, and Peter left to bear the weight of it. The tears fall now, as the shame takes shape, spreads its wings within her, the vision of his face, stoic, bearing the weight of unfounded accusations, for her, for love of her.
She believes it possible, has done for some time now, that perhaps she was molested in a manner, the visage of her mother's face floating to replace his behind her closed eyes, the rightful abuser, the one who first planted the seed that grew to become his despair, and her shame. She believes herself marked now, and then, if she were honest, publicly identified as dirty, and the resentment for feeling this way, even now, is a crushing weight to bare, the consequence of acting according to what her body instinctually understood as true. Surely there are various levels of molestation, just as there are various levels of abuse; Emotional, physical, the scars left to fester and stain, visible as a map upon the skin, hinted at by degree in action and affect, otherwise.
She had begun to adopt layers of clothing, voluminous, hiding her body underneath, shed herself of promiscuity, dating selectively, if at all. She ceased all measure of beautification, shunned make up, raking her long hair back from her unadorned face in an unassuming plait, the idea that she was beautiful in anyway becoming something evil and ugly, something to fear, something to avoid as one would seek to avoid contamination. Being touched, her body and soul responding quickly, naturally, as if suffocating, became dirty, and she began to slide within herself, isolation her solution, contamination in companionship her greatest fear. She sees herself in her mind's eye, as she was once; Audacious, he had said, Beautiful.
Shoulders shaking, weeping silently, He was your brother, why didn't you help him, Ruth. The moan escapes her, filling the room, the eye in the corner watching, watching. The mad bitch, demanding answers, as though they were owed to her, sat there in her room, in her home, her very presence neither invited nor desired, an intrusion thought to be friendly. Fucking mad bitch, she is.
But she hadn't helped him, had she? Not then. Not when he really needed it, when he was too deep down the rabbit hole for rescue of any sort. Covering her face with her hands, listening as the bathwater rolls from her upraised forearms, dropping onto the surface of her bath, punctuating the refrain, didn't help him, didn't help him, why didn't you help him?
Rising, the flush of water dropping from her, the air cool, chilling as she steps to the mat, gingerly, her muscles loose, weak, the scent of her perfume filling her nose as she wraps herself in her robe, the sound of the robe's tie tight in the silence, the water draining away a soothing gurgle. A drink. I want a drink, four fingers, and it is then she remembers the night when met by an intruder wearing Gary's aged and unfamiliar, swollen face, and Harry, then Harry; They'd made fast work of her limited spirits, the two of them, only recently. Ironic, that. Neither had the slightest clue the bottle they had polished off between them had originated with Peter; His favorite brand, she had grown accustomed to maintaining a ready supply as the years passed, and he began to pop round unexpectedly, at times drunk, others sober as a judge, begging sanctuary, I can't breathe, Ruth. She's suffocating me, she's killing me, Bird. That bottle had been the last, and she's not surprised to feel a bit of guilt creep up her spine, as though her failure to maintain constant supplies of such on hand was tantamount to forgetting him, of failing to remember the anniversary of his life and death in equal portion, of dismissing him altogether.
She forces herself from thoughts of betrayal as she descends the staircase, MD viewer liberated from its watch in hand, to rummage for something alcoholic, her first love's final bottle consumed, literally, by her subsequent love, and the man she was terrified she had already begun to love. The surreal nature of it all made her dizzy, leaning against the wall she drew deeply, holding her lungs full until spots began to dance before her, slowly exhaling, once, twice, the forced calm numbing her ears, her tongue thick with want of drink, the path he'd walked frequently, and she, infrequent.
Harry. Her desire to call him, hear his voice cascade across the line, is almost primal, the drive to speak to him, his eyes forgiving, his words soft and soothing in her ear. Just the smell of him, that scent she responds to without thinking, unconscious, and she wants nothing more in this moment than to fill herself with him, escape into him, the safety and warmth that had become so unexpectedly familiar and necessary to her.
Stop. Is there no lesson that you will ever heed, daft cow? She clasps the viewer to her chest, opening cupboards, feeling behind stacks of plates and dishes, her fingertips palpating the murky corners for treasure, and, Ahhhh, what's this then, bourbon, is it, asking aloud, her eyes on the ceiling, far away, her mouth dropping open slightly, tongue worrying a molar as she attempts to recollect the ways and means of its presence on her shelf, irrationally awaiting the room to answer.
Doesn't matter, her words slicing the silence, setting aside the viewer, its eye still focused on her. The clink of a glass as she sets it down, the rip and tear of the bottle's seal, the glug, glug glug as she over pours her portion, the tinkle the ice makes as it settles within the liquid folds of piece of mind offered should she consume enough. Not quite gulping, but enough to result in a trickle escaping, her tongue licking at the corner of her mouth, wiping her chin, taking another mouthful deep and full.
It burns, a fire landing in her stomach, warmth emanating out, her already limp limbs loosening further, sliding to the floor, legs outstretched before her, her robe falling away to expose a length of bare thigh, knee, delicious knee, the glass at her lips, eyes closed as she sips.
It had gone horribly wrong, and she can see the room before her now, Gary on one side, Peter near the door. Angry, they were both so angry; The flat was small, too small to contain the potent animosity, the barely concealed eruption only starting between the two. She had been sat, eyes closed, shaking her head as though doing so would alter the scene, adjust it in a way more palatable, manageable as a snow globe she treasured from her father, her breathing shallow, loud, the urge to flee acute.
It was what broke them, she thinks as she pours another measure, her mind becoming slightly, pleasantly numb, needing more, her memories refusing to remained stored, flitting about her in the harsh light of her kitchen, her eyes catching the clock and raising her glass to toast him on the anniversary of his death.
Cheers, love. I had thought to miss you, but...They had come to blows, Peter and Gary, things had been said, hurtful things, accusations designed to destroy, things which couldn't be taken back, fueled by drink, their tongues loose and cutting.
She hears his voice, Stay away from her, whispering, the demand to repeat it issued from Gary forming to join it, the alcohol making her hazy now. She had been struck, first, by the propriety in his tone, then the look marring his face. It was the first time she'd thought to be afraid of him, the knot in her stomach clenching as the fear settled along her spine, the urge to flee manifesting urgent, a throbbing along either side of her head, shut up, shut up, shut up.
He had become something unfamiliar to her, in those moments then, dangerous in the evolution from known to unqualified. She had been afraid of him, for him, both. He'd been jealous, had always been jealous, she admits, determining the paltry attempts at resolving her shame, moving beyond her invisible mark, ill advised on her part, circumstances to lay claim on his. They fell out then, her doing, her choice. Never the same, but for the stain, the mark she bore, would always bare as if her life could be reduced, in theme and content, to a Hawthorne novel, whether she Pearl or Hester she could not decide; Innocent as a babe, though marked with sin, or deliberate in trespass and abomination, her beauty and instincts the very embodiment of sin?
She had mourned him, the loss of him, the first, for a time, though she'd been unable to quantify what it was that required she break with the life she knew, with Gary, his face confused and heartbroken, accepting what he was allowed little control over. Had she loved him? Inhaling deeply, drawing the last of the contents from the glass, the answer forming on her lips, a silent no spoken to herself in judgement. Gary had been, if she were honest, easily discarded. The fear diminished but did not entirely abate, she had established the ritual of interactions with Peter thereafter to fall within the predictable realm of family gatherings. He went on, she went on, and so it was.
She remembers her first introduction to Angela, Christmas holiday, her sharp eyes, hard, scrutinizing her, walking along her skin. Looking towards the MD viewer, mocking her, laughing as she had dared to venture towards another, wanting to be connected after so long adrift, finding him nothing like what she had been warned off. Harry. The urge to call him immediately, regardless the hour, tugs at her, the amount of alcohol consumed in short order a willing, encouraging accomplice. Her rational mind tells her she mustn't, knows that were she to do so, there would be questions demanding answers, there would be little way to avoid telling him of Angela's clandestine visit, her purpose, and the details of what had been divulged, illegally. Another intruder, if he found out, would be the end of her home, her autonomy hard fought and won so long ago. The alternative, I'm so sorry about the hour, Harry. I just needed to hear you breathing, a nightmare, I just need...
No. Unfolding herself from the floor, unsteady as the blood rushes to her head, foggy with exhaustion and drink, she sets the empty glass aside, grabbing the viewer in one alcohol induced movement, graceful and languid, moving into her front room, the couch proving infinitely more inviting than the hard kitchen floor.
Its odd, she thinks, how your body and mind can become attuned to a solitary life, her eyes taking in the room around her, resting, as they often did, on the last photograph of them, the strangers they had become, uncomfortable and distant. Before you become really aware of it, your consciousness has categorized everyday sounds into the innocuous din of existence; the third stair which creaks on its left side closest the wall, the downstairs toilet which runs, periodically, but only in the evening, the soft plunk of mail dropping to the carpeted floor beneath the slot. At times, the silence is so absolute that she can hear Fidget grooming himself, his long periods of lapping at himself audible enough for her to count, one, two, three, and again.
For most of her life she had been comforted by the predictability of her life's silence. The deliberate lack of dramatics, flatmates underfoot, the who used the last of the cream manner of discord inherent to companionships of any kind. Despite the loneliness that marked her self imposed solitude, she had been frequently reminded of her good fortune when observing Danny and Zoe stalking around one another, one having annoyed the other, grateful as Zoe detailed the inappropriate advances of previous flatmates. Or Jo, so new to the grid, straining to keep one foot in the mundane reality that represented her life before, and coming to the painful realization she would have to surrender it, move on, preferably into a MI5 flat, and if Zaf had his way, his MI5 flat, forming a new Zoe and Danny for a new measure of grid.
Initially, it had been a problem that she had her own home. Not a flat set against others much the same in detail and floor plan, but a home, with many rooms throughout, containing an eclectic collection of furnishing, and a stained glass front door which never failed to make her smile, the reason she bought it, if she's honest, the collection of colors, when lit up in the early morning, calming in its simple beauty.
She loved her home in the way people can find themselves charmed beyond reason of inanimate things, that twist that happens within when something becomes irrevocably tied together with reminiscence and memories too sweet to part from. What she understood as that falling away from rationality, and falling willingly into love. She had, quite unexpectedly, formed a relationship of sorts with this pile of bricks, had taken it to her heart, treating it as one would a companion, that interaction which encourages revelations, made her feel safe when emerging from the shadows that marked her silence and solitude. It was, she chuckles depreciatingly, a paltry substitute for a lover, a partner, but she had denied herself that particular luxury for so long now, she hardly knew how to find the path back, couldn't imagine herself worthy of another life, despite the weight, despite the desire still stirring within her. Marked, you are.
She had balked immediately when talk had centered on which MI5 flat she would occupy shortly after she arrived at Thames. Yes, she had been listening, had heard every argument in support offered by Tom, then Malcolm, and then finally, quietly, Harry. She remembers them now, as though yesterday; Its the preferred course, Ruth. Its how things are done here, hearing Tom's voice clear as if he were in the room with her, awaiting tea. Ruth, I can't guarantee your security there, if the distance weren't bad enough...Did you know better than half the locks on your windows are broken, and she was hard pressed to maintain an impassive look, clamping down the smile that was just behind the facade, while she observed Malcolm, his ruffled feathers attributed to either her casual disregard of functioning locks, or her indifference to arguments offered, she still was not able to pinpoint.
You'll be alone. You'll not want to be alone...There will be times, Ruth. Trust me. Harry, his eyes soft, almost pleading, the last to offer argument in the face of her refusals. He had been sat on the edge of her desk, and for a man who was both feared and admired, a man she had been well warned of, she found herself nevertheless staring into his eyes as he spoke, unable to look away, yet curiously unafraid. She sees it clearly in her head, his lips becoming a thin line as she dared to negotiate the ways and means of her living arrangements.
I'll have the locks replaced.
You'll have the windows replaced, and the bolts front and back.
I've a cat door on the back.
Replace the door.
Harry...
You'll replace the door, Ruth.
Fine.
And, Malcolm will install an alarm with motion sensors-
Which will be set off by the cat-
Which will be set to consider the cat, heights and such-
You don't know my cat-
Annoying me just the same, your cat.
They had sat staring at one another, neither willing to give ground, and as she lays herself fully across the cushions, the increase in her pulse syncopates itself with her pulse then, his eyes, even then, difficult to turn from, twinkling, yes, that was it. She can't remember a time when she hadn't noticed, when she hadn't hoped they did so singularly for her.
I can order you into a flat, Ruth. If you force me, but I'm hoping it won't come to that.
Yes, it tends to leave a bad impression.
Yes, smiling slightly, the surprise that she had thought to argue at all, that something so banal to him could be so very invasive to her, coloring his cheeks, and she knew, in that moment of acquiescence he was a man not accustomed to being denied his will, a man sat at the edge of her desk negotiating terms where he'd thought none were necessary, whose countenance suggested that despite himself, he found it curiously enjoyable.
If I even see a cord, or camera Harry-
No cameras, Ruth, lets not get too Orwellian just yet-
I'm serious...
As am I. New security or new flat. Choose. Now, if you would, as I've a number of other things requiring my attention beyond your living arrangements at the moment.
Moments later, Malcolm had appeared with assurances she wouldn't notice a thing, just the barest system he was willing to risk, just a toe into the waters of necessity. Truth told, she didn't notice all that much, the beeping when entering or exiting notwithstanding.
What's its name, he had asked later, as she had broached the threshold of his office to bid him good night. Your cat, he'd offered softly, head turning to look at her from the stacks that littered his usually organized desktop. She had told him, hesitated within the doorframe, sensing there was more, curiously hoping, unsure if she was misreading, drowning in those eyes.
I understand your wanting to stay where you are. Malcolm told me it was quite lovely, your home. I understand, Ruth. But, in our line of work...there are steps that...we have to be more careful. I'm...I'm just reassured that you are better protected...now...than you were before. You and Fidget, that is.
She had remained there, as he spoke, listening to what was not spoken, the pauses between words filled in her mind of their own accord, and she found she'd had some difficulty reconciling that this man, speaking softly, sympathetically, was the same man who was ruthless in decisions, callous in blatant disregard when achieving his goals, the goals required by his position, the caricature provided to her by her numerous colleagues when she had thought to entertain them and listen.
She smiles, her fingers moving over the viewer resting on her stomach, and wonders, not for the first time, if he regards that moment as the first of many such to follow, treasured in her heart, those times where they reached for one another, connecting, and she could be who she really was without facade, without masks, that he had become that place, much like her home, where she could step from the shadows and bask in the sun, unafraid. He was, she thinks, much like her stained glass, his colors kaleidoscopic and changing, calming her, and in her lazy thoughts, she heard herself speak, someone who should be mine.
My father, he left me enough to attend Uni, enough to get started. I loved it the moment I saw it. I think he would have as well. I don't intend to be difficult, Harry, really. I just...I just can't...
Sacrifice it. Yes, as I said, I do understand, Ruth. The look on his face was almost heartbreakingly tender, vulnerable in a way she would not have guessed him capable were she only to believe what she had been told about him. The silence continued, drawn effortlessly between them as they regarded one another, eyes holding the others, the darkened grid a backdrop of sorts to their conspiracy of two.
I'll make you a promise, just between us, yes? As long as your living arrangements are not compromised, I'll leave off. But, understand, the moment, the very instant that happens, you'll need to find alternative arrangements. Do we have a deal?
We have a deal, yes. She had relaxed in the moment she'd said it, sagging against the doorframe, her subsequent deep breath in, exhaled quickly, as one does when a difficult moment has been inexplicably avoided, or resolved. Yes, it was that, but also, more, felt in her bones, the pledge between them the first of many, the catalyst, the seed.
Idly, turning the viewer over in her hands, she realizes that he hadn't required her to leave after Gary. Odd that she had not thought it before now, before a new intruder, treading on the heals of another, quietly picking her way through this very room earlier, had been discovered. Ironic, too, that her would be burglars were people she knew, had known, wanted to forget altogether, and yet they continue to pop up unsolicited within the walls of her MI5 secured home. Yet, still, he had not cashed in his marker, forced her to move, made her hold up her end of the bargain struck years before in the scarlet suffused quiet of his office.
Her mind, pleasantly lethargic, began to hum with life, lining up the reasons, the characteristic puzzling out inherent within her, attempting to pinpoint his motives, his intentions. Perhaps he knew that she infrequently set her alarm, and therefore it wasn't a malfunction of system at work, rather a malfunction of stubborn, careless operator? She could hardly argue the truth of that. Maybe he had bestowed her a pass, because she knew Gary, because there was a history there? Or, perhaps because it was through Gary that he'd acquired the manuscript, and punishing her for something which allowed him a detailed document of festering ills within the services, past and present, wouldn't be, what, just? Maybe he had simply forgotten their deal? But, no, she inwardly chastised, Harry, Grid Harry, forgets nothing, his mind an encyclopedic vault of things no one would desire to know.
Maybe, after seeing it himself, sitting together, preparing a slapdash meal, comfortable within each others company, lazy and opened with drink, the many subsequent deals and agreements between them dating from then and now, maybe he cared too much to hurt her, as requiring her to sacrifice this ridiculous building would cut her deeply. He knew that, hadn't she confessed to as much? The ways and hows paled now, she knew. This would be the straw, if anyone found out, if he found out. However much history she and Angela had, it was another situation compromised, another step closer to being forced to shut the lovely stained glass door behind her permanently, never mind setting the alarm.
Bringing the viewer's eye to her's, she contemplates the contents again, slowly, painstakingly ingesting every word, every name, her heart cracking, as it had earlier, when finding his, as though she had forgotten its presence within, as though she had the power to erase its existence. Hadn't she, then? Sitting up, swinging her legs around, miscalculating and cracking her shin against the table, I could very well, couldn't I?
She sees herself doing it. A simple thing, who would know? Drop the incriminating evidence into the blender, flush it down the toilet, grind it in the garbage disposal, slice it into minuscule pieces and bury it in the back garden, the solutions forming one after the other, her ability to rationalize burning at full steam. My word against hers, she says aloud, standing, her grazed shin throbbing its way to proper bruise. Yes, my word against hers; Some crackpot, batshit, decommissioned ex-agent with a history of erratic behavior and an involuntary stay at TRING versus the denials of a counter-terrorism analyst whose innocuous enough to be referred to, though they'd be surprised to find she knew, the mouse with a conscience.
She could, couldn't she?
Then, why hadn't she? The thought brings her from rounding the corner of her abandoned couch to a full stop. Then why hadn't she? The incriminating microfilm now held tightly in her hand, she brings her fingers to her lips, the nail of her index finger caught between her teeth, But I know the spook inside you is saying what if. What if, Ruth?
Sagging, dropping against the arm of her couch, risking a quick glance over her shoulder to remind herself Angela was not still sat there, Cheshire grin decorating her face; No, gone hours ago, just the voice remains to taunt in your head.
Had she been that easily transparent? Could Angela have known her that well? She had, hadn't she? Tightening her robe tie, the feeling of being invaded somehow, almost an assault, her eyes closing tightly to push the truth of it down deep, secret it into the depths, not now, not now, her sense of self preservation straining to compose an alternative fiction to sell herself.
The effort, well intended, was futile at best, because she knew she had missed her chance, in the minutes after Angela left, why hadn't she thought to destroy it then? Instead, she had spied her scarf, left behind, and acting without reason, on childish impulse, had co-opted it for use on her toilet. Satisfying, yes, but the window to do otherwise had slowly closed as she mounted the stairs, and destroyed the scarf, a scarf, while the evidence that would destroy the careers of so many sat, unadulterated, in the corner bearing witness.
She wants to weep, deep wracking sobs, that she could be identified and categorized so easily, for her failure to act when she could because now, now, as a stifled sob breaks free of her, she can't destroy it, its in her head now, and she's in her head to keep it company, and she can't plead ignorance of what she now knows, remain blind to what she had read with her own eyes; Can't avoid, however much she may desire, questioning if she even knows the man she had thought to have known, if she were capable of loving him despite the monster inside because she had read it, it was his name, his name, Harry...Oh, yes, Cheshire smile gleaming, and God help her, he could have because she can't categorically deny he couldn't, so familiar to her and yet a stranger, believing him now, fully capable, the thought leaving her wretched and tightly wound.
File number 954396G130497. She repeats the sequence aloud, then again, locking it in her mind, knowing that she would need to be careful, leave no trail, understanding the considerable task set before her, the jeopardy she had placed herself in the moment she thought to first place her eye to viewer, the window she had allowed to close, unconsciously determining her path forward.
You brother killed himself because he couldn't prove it. You can, and you want to, I know you do.
Stop it. Stop it. Said aloud now, as she had insisted then, turning to look at the chair, her mind embracing the truth of her words, grasping at the suggestion as one gulps for air. The voice in her head, the dialogue starting, painful realizations, knowing she would investigate, distilling the steps, the course of action even now, not for Peter, not him, for Harry, yet a betrayal of them both, and the realization brings her to her knees, bruised and tender, tremors of pain thrumming through her as they reach the carpeted floor.
Peter. She hadn't helped him before, and she's not motivated to help him now if she's being honest, even posthumously, murdered for knowing too much. She's already reconciled she'll fail him again, her choice made, for Harry, to clear Harry, her traitorous heart yearning to gage the man who, quite likely, had a hand in Peter's death, the loose end that demanded to be tied. Because this investigation, her investigation quite apart from Angela's intentions, would be to clear him, would it not? Wouldn't that be the thought that kept her going, trolling the stacks, dissecting the intelligence hidden, searching for the truth, hoping that he was innocent, hoping he was not that stranger looming in the shadows, his face familiar, his soul blackened with acts unknown, the legion yet to be revealed?
Kneeling on the floor, she had betrayed him already, in the early hours of Peter's mournful anniversary, she'd believed him capable, and in that belief set herself to wash him clean, selfishly, greedily, her desire to believe and her thirst to know warring inside her, the irony of the day an obscene gut punch, her body hunched over, arms around herself.
She'd allowed herself to stretch fully along the floor, sleep taking her quickly, her exhausted limbs mirroring her mental state. She had awoken, her head pounding, a cartoonish expansion of surface, inflating and deflating with her pulse, the soft pawing at her hip an indication that Fidget required feeding drawing her into consciousness, his welcome purr at her throat, vibrating methodically, her admitted alarm of choice.
Her muscles stiff, joints aching, she made her slow progress into the kitchen, setting the kettle, bending to reward Fidget his customary kibble, her desire to believe the previous night was but a nightmare, shattered as she unclasped her hand, seeing the microfilm held within, sighing deeply in frustration, and reconciliation, knowing what she would do, had to do, her clinical reason detailing the path, parting the way.
And her heart, as she stood in the deafening silence of her soiled, tarnished home, cleaved in two, for two, their faces in the distance, beyond her reach, as the water folded above her, and took her down.
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Angela, 11 November, 2005. 6:45 am:
"He's in love with her." Not a question, rather a statement of fact already established, not wanting in evidence or needing additional proof. She did not miss the tone as it traveled the path of connection, that pitch that suggested both wonder and acceptance in equal measure. Given the woman, she was not surprised to find her resentful, even a bit jealous at finding what she had once enjoyed as hers had become another's possession.
"The surveillance strongly suggests as much, though, as of last night, there's no evidence of anything beyond infatuation." She did not add her belief that Ruth would act as predicted, delving the intelligence to clear him, judging it unnecessary, redundant, a fact already anticipated and prepared for by those pulling the strings, both known and unknown to her.
"And you are prepared...You understand, there are others who expect-"
"I understand what they expect. I've been prepared for over a year." The details were mundane to her, dismissible, her portion of the operation nearing completion.
They didn't understand, couldn't, for how could they possibly know the workings of her mind? The years she has spent anticipating this designed end have been tedious to her, trying her patience, another annoying bit of minutia between them, keeping them apart. From the moment she had secured her release from TRING, stepped from the front entrance and felt the breeze on her face, hadn't she known the denouement of her life's worth was close, the details and opportunity not yet manifested, yet known, in her bones, awaiting her while the smell of floral landscapes filled her senses, the blooming butterfly iris to her left, a talisman, a memory, a harbinger knocking softly to be let in.
"We're to meet at eight, sharp. They'll be no turning back, once done." A last escape clause, was it? Or, possibly she was misinterpreting that slight catch in her voice offering a back door? Smiling, even after all these years of duty, of sacrifice, they still had no understanding of her; Failed spectacularly to, despite all the ops, all the dangers and narrow escapes littering her history, failed to see beyond the legend they themselves had constructed for her; Brilliant, legendary, a perfect British spy, the model for others to learn from, eyes rapt and adoring for having not yet sacrificed, for having not yet dared to glimpse behind the curtain, the horrors waiting patiently to greet them.
"Eight, sharp. I understand." And she did, with the entirety of all that she was, had been, thought she would become, she understood, the feeling of calm serenity flowing within her welcome as a lover's kiss, visions of hundreds of feet of adulterated wires appearing briefly in her mind.
Did she truly believe the services had murdered Diana? She couldn't quite say, though she found hard to reconcile the idea that Harry would have suborned any such action. She knew Peter had been an easy puppet, insidiously perfect as a tool to manipulate her, get her on side with those whose motivations were self promoting, destructive to the greater whole. She didn't know the details, didn't want to know the details, in truth. It was enough to be allowed to make good on a vow she had made long ago, while his blood had crusted and dried at her knees, as she fondled the bits of flotsam that had once been his head. I will make them pay, my love. Rocking while knelt before his lifeless body as it sat, cooling, one eye left to stare through her, beyond her, dull with the film of sights unseen to her. And then, then I will follow.
"So, it begins, then,"
So, it ends, she silently agrees, smiling as a single tear escapes, landing on the crescent, the deepest, the most significant, Peter, scaring her upturned palm.
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A/N: Whew, that was a long one. I'll ask your forgiveness for the tone of this chapter, and plead not my fault. I've just watched Series 3 of "Scott & Bailey," and Helen Bartlett simply broke my heart. Brilliant merely scratches the surface as relates Walker's heartbreaking portrayal. As for "Spooks," I've always felt that there was something more behind Ruth's need to be private, that instinct she had that seemed to prevent her from engaging on a personal level with even those presumably close to her. I thought that the Peter conundrum would lend itself perfectly, if drawn in such a way, in providing a situation which could have been viewed as natural, but twisted into something shameful instead. Also, I wanted to provide something more than the trite idea that "something unspoken happened," and illustrate that what Harry was asking her to do was more than simply manipulate Angela, manipulate a goal using a shared history, but demanding that she relive something that was traumatic and life changing, something he couldn't possibly have known. Possibly, I'm not explaining myself well, so I should hope that I managed to do so in this chapter. Feel free to let me know, one way, or the other.