There's No Such Thing As A Happy Ending
This is the alternative or rather additional ending for 'New York, New York' that was requested by some. Be warned, it is definitely in the angst category – so only read with extra-strong Kleenex to hand!! Obviously there is no connection between this fiction & Kudos only to the extent that it their story-line decisions that have driven us all to apply fingers to keyboards!
Ruth seemed to spend most of her time floating in a bubble of happiness. She had returned from the mini-break to Venice in a state of euphoria. A perfect holiday had been crowned by Harry's romantic proposal of marriage and his even more romantic gesture of secretly flying their colleagues out to join their celebration. Life had swiftly returned to a more even keel however on returning to London. Harry's desk was piled up with documents and his email was so log-jammed with messages it had run out of space – Juliet's occupation of his office had evidently not extended to dealing with the more mundane aspects of the job.
Ruth had happily taken all that he had thrown at her (at one point, literally) as he had impatiently dismissed the communiqués from various departments as 'pointless pen-pushing'. She was only too happy to resume her old post on the Grid: a restraining influence on the mercurial Section Head, the calm in the eye of the storm that was Harry Pearce in action. She was likewise happy to receive curt, barked orders, as long as the over-bearing manner did not extend beyond the confines of Thames House. Indeed they had agreed that there would have to be a very defined segregation of conduct between home and office if the arrangement of Ruth and Harry sharing professional as well as domestic space was going to be workable. Adam and Fiona had managed without problems, as did many other couples within the security service, but Harry and Ruth had the added difficulty of being at different levels of seniority. In fact Harry was still waiting to hear whether there would be further repercussions in regard to their relationship from further up the bureaucratic hierarchy. He hoped fervently that it would not lead to demands for Ruth to be transferred. He had missed her presence professionally as well as personally in the last twelve months and he had no wish to lose her again. It was one thing to periodically tease her with the prospect of returning to GCHQ; it was quite another matter altogether to actually have to contemplate it. Harry was always ready for a scrap with the bureaucratic powers that be, but he had played the card of brinkmanship a little too frequently in the recent past and also he had been ordered by Juliet to keep a low profile after his maverick behaviour in running a clandestine rogue operation on US soil. So he was keeping quiet and hoping that their relationship would stay under the radar at least for the time being.
Zaf meanwhile stalked the Grid armed with a tiny digital camera; rather like an obsessive twitcher tracking a rare bird, he hoped to discover the reticent pair in a compromising intimate situation which would provide entertaining evidence for their forthcoming nuptials, but his vigillance was not rewarded. Harry and Ruth not only had an impressive track record of self-control but they were now able to express their feelings of mutual adoration in the privacy of their own domestic environment. This did not of course mean that lingering glances and moments of sexually-charged intensity could not be discovered; but if Zaf was hoping to record a 'broom-cupboard' moment, he was destined to be disappointed and in any case he was being kept far too busy to have time for more than occasional surveillance of his prey.
Since his return Harry had been even more a force to be reckoned with. The presence of Ruth back on the Grid and now also intimately part of his life had only served to invigorate and energise an already driven individual. If his colleagues and staff had hoped for an easier ride now that Harry had secured the 'love of a good woman', then they were sorely disappointed. He was a positive dervish, whipping up passion and commitment to whatever crisis they were tackling. Implacable in the face of negativity and hostile to any attempt to traduce his staff or thwart his proposed course of action. Ruth's respect and admiration for his moral judgement and abilities only increased in the succeeding weeks; although so too did her anxiety as to what consequences for his health such levels of self-induced stress could create:
"Please Harry, will you promise me that you will slow down. Let Adam take more responsibility."
"Oh, I see you've united with Juliet in her campaign to have me put out to pasture."
"Don't be silly Harry, you know I'm a hundred per cent behind you but there is such a thing as a happy medium. You aren't twenty any more."
"Oh my age – we're back to that old chestnut again!"
"I'm not saying you're past it."
"I'm glad to hear it or I would say that the evidence would definitely not support your contention."
Harry cut off any further protestations or lecturing by smothering Ruth in passionate kisses, the weight of his body pressing her down into the sofa:
"I'm not so easily … put off ……. Listen ….. Oh God Harry have you no sense of shame … the curtains aren't … drawn ………….. mmmm ………………."
Adam and Ros relished the buzz that was constantly generated on the Grid but Zaf was less impressed:
"For God's sake, what's driving the man. I thought he would have better things to do with his spare energy than haunt my waking hours. That's the third time this week that he's caught me on the phone."
Adam laughed appreciatively "Yes, I heard him tell you that any more personal calls in work time and you'd be on honey-trap duty, putting your skills to better use – so do you think you're up to it?"
"That's not the point. Just because he's got it into his head to play superman doesn't mean we've all got to dedicate out lives 24/7 to this damn job."
"Come on Zaf, where's your Musketeer spirit: all for one and one for all?"
"Oh God, all we need is more male bonding in the work place" – an acerbic, frowning Ros joined them.
"I was just saying that Harry is working too hard."
"What he means is that Harry is working him too hard."
"Hmm, well in that case there is definitely something to be said for being love's not-so-young dream."
"I heard that." Harry as usual appeared suddenly like an apparition behind them without anyone having detected his approach.
"Harry" responded Ros unfazed "you should be flattered that like Henry V, even in your absence you still command the attention of your cohorts."
"Well if idle gossip can be considered attention then I'll try my best to feel flattered. In the meantime I need you all in the meeting room now."
Zaf rolled his eyes upward in a mock gesture of despair as he hurried after the others who had obediently filed into the narrow room that was dominated by a long wooden table and a large plasma screen fixed to the opposite wall. Harry exuded pent-up energy and focused intelligence as he outlined the urgency of the current situation. Special Branch had received a tip off that a terrorist cell with members of Sudanese extraction were planning an imminent attack on an unspecified military target. Adam looked concerned and frustrated:
"Haven't we any more to go on? It could be any one of several hundred targets? Do we at least know if it's a base or an individual who is under threat?"
"No, there are no details. It was an anonymous tip off."
Zaf interrupted "How do we know it's not a crack-pot or a hoax or even a terrorist cell trying to cause mayhem?"
"We don't" shot back Harry impatiently "but after the 7/7 bombings no one is prepared to take the risk of letting information slide. Better another Forrest Gate than another King's Cross."
"So what are we meant to do? Knock on the door of every Sudanese immigrant?"
Ruth replied on Harry's behalf:"If only it were that simple. A significant number of Sudanese currently in the UK are asylum seekers who have slipped in illegally and are under the radar, many untraceable."
Adam joined in the debate: "So why are we being tasked with looking for the needle in the field full of haystacks? Why can't Special Branch do the legwork?"
Harry smiled ruefully "Because we are better at it than they are and because Juliet's cage has been rattled from on high on this one."
Ruth looked quizzingly at Harry: "I thought Juliet was sitting at the right hand? Who has the clout to rattle her cage?"
Harry smiled back at her naivity: "Ah the mysteries of National Security hegemonies. Personally I've always preferred the 'who you know' rather than 'where you sit' approach to power and influence; but in this case it's the political hierarchy who are bringing pressure to bear. Besides which a potential terrorist threat has been flagged up and irrespective of safeguarding Juliet's peerage aspirations, it is our duty to assess the risk and identify the perpetrators. So ladies and gentlemen to work. Ruth. You contact GCHQ, see if they've picked up any unusual chatter. Adam and Zaf. You trace the known cells that have any links with Sudanese activists, either as members or as indirect contacts. Malcolm. You focus on trying to trace the call that was made, our contact in Special Branch dealing with liaison is Mark Bradley.
Ros looked at Harry questioningly with raised eyebrows: "and what do you want of me, apart from tea and sandwiches of course? Oh dear, I'm sorry – I've left the teabags and pinnie at home – silly little me."
Harry smiled a terse, if exasperated acknowledgement of Ros, he didn't have time or inclination to tip-toe around her feminist sensibilities:
"Well actually you'll have to fetch them because tea lady is precisely what I had in mind – at the Sudanese Embassy." Harry narrowed his eyes and an amused smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he observed Ros rise fleetingly to his bait before she realised the trap he had set for her. He caught Ruth's frown of disapproval. She had experienced and protested at Harry's apparent chauvinism enough times in the past herself not to sympathise with Ros but the blonde would have to learn greater subtlety if she was not going to be regularly hoisted on her own feisty petard by Harry's more agile wit.
The members of the team all busied themselves about their allotted tasks. Harry strode over to Ruth's desk as he was pulling on his overcoat and leant down close to her ear, his low voice rumbling in her head: "I've got to go over and field flying brick bats from Juliet. Meet me at the bench at one and we'll grab lunch somewhere."
Ruth smiled her acknowledgement at Harry whilst keeping her eyes focused on the screen in front of her: "I'll try but I'll have to see how long this takes. You might have to entertain yourself with dancing bread rolls if I don't make headway."
Harry lifted his eyes casually and noticing that everyone on the Grid was absorbed in their work, took the opportunity to kiss Ruth softly on her cheek before he straightened up and walked away towards the pods. Ruth looked up and smiled gently at his retreating figure.
At one pm on the dot Harry sat down on the wooden bench by the side of the Thames that was their favourite spot. It gave a clear vista of the Houses of Parliament and Trafalgar Square beyond. The sun was shining and reflected off the metal surface of the nearby bridge and glinted on the broken surface of the river.
"God's in his heaven, alls right with the world" murmured Harry, mentally adding to himself "except of course for terrorist plans to blow up God knows who, God knows where and according to Juliet it's all my fault!" He looked at his watch – he'd wait until quarter past the hour and then make his way back to Thame's House; he quite favoured a stroll along the river bank – a sandwich and coffee enroute would keep him going until the evening.
"Harry!" Ruth's eager voice caught his attention. He looked up to see her waving to him from the other side as she waited at the traffic lights to cross and he waved back at her. The lights turned red and a bus slowed to a halt. Ruth began to cross over the road when suddenly a car careered past the bus. It was as if Harry was watching a film in slow motion; he could see the disaster unfolding in front of his eyes and yet he couldn't move or speak. It seemed like an eternity, but in fact it was a matter of seconds before he heard a screech of brakes followed by a sickening bang – the car skidded across the road and hit a wall and Harry's life, his hopes, his happiness, collapsed on the tarmac alongside the huddled, motionless form of Ruth.
A nauseating wave of adrenalin hit Harry and he raced across the road towards what he already know, but desperately fought to deny – no one could survive the force of impact of a vehicle travelling at what Harry estimated must have been in excess of seventy miles per hour. Ruth lay lifeless, crumpled on the road, a trickle of blood flowing out of her mouth and down onto the dull surface of the tarmac. Her beautiful eyes were glazed and sightless. Harry picked up her body, cradling it like a fragile bouquet of flowers and began to moan like a beaten animal. A crowd quickly formed and a police car drew up. Harry felt a hand on his shoulder:
"Please sir, we need to check the victim." Harry turned abruptly, his tear-stained face distorted with grief: "Leave me alone, can't you see she's dead?"
"We don't know that sir, we need to check. There's an ambulance on its way."
In the periphery of his conscious brain Harry heard the distance wail of a siren.
"I presume you know the victim sir. Is there anyone we can call to help you?"
"No. Go away."
There was something in the air of authority, even in the midst of shock and obvious despair, that made the policeman hesitate – this was a man who was used to issuing orders rather than taking them. The policeman retired to consult with his colleague and await the imminent arrival of the ambulance. As it drew up Harry stumbled to his feet, lifting the inert body of Ruth with him. He cradled her white, cold cheek next to his and kissed her hair softly and repeatedly.
The ambulance men came across with a stretcher and gently extracted Ruth's body from his arms. "Death was instantaneous" choked Harry "no chance of survival, Oh my God, no hope…" he began to weep uncontrollably and put his hand up to cover his face. The crowd of curious onlookers felt embarrassed in the presence of such raw grief and quickly melted away, leaving a bowed, broken man alone and bereft by the roadside, mocked by the warm glow of the sunshine that only a few minutes before had seemed to hold the promise long summer days of peace and contentment and companionship.
The GeorgeThe subdued, saddened group of colleagues sat huddled together around their traditional table in the far corner of the pub. Malcolm was the first to break the silence: "I'm worried about Harry. He's too controlled, too self-contained. It's not right."
Adam smiled through the pain of his own recollections: "we all have to find ways of dealing with grief. Harry always was focused on work; he's reverted to what he knows best, what keeps him going. He's had to deal with the deaths of friends and colleagues before."
Zaf intervened: "Yes, but this wasn't a friend or colleague. This was Ruth, he loved her, she was his world. I know you had the same with Fiona, but at the time you're denial was understandable, you had to hold it together for Wes, but why is Harry carrying on as if nothing had happened, when we all know what he's suffering? Even at the funeral he was impassive, inscrutable and distant – what's he trying to prove?"
"He's not trying to prove anything it's just his personality and years of training, he has to keep everything controlled and repressed" Ros said philosophically " if that's the way he wants to work his way through it then maybe we should back off and give him some time. Respect his decision that this is his strategy for coping."
Adam pondered aloud: "Malcolm is right in a way though; it's not a strategy, it's denial and I know where that can lead – we need to keep a close eye on him, respect his wishes yes, but watch him. I think he is capable of anything."
Malcolm looked across anxiously at Adam: "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that if I were him I would be trying desperately to keep a lid on nihilism but he has a future devoid of hope and anything can happen if the repression and self-control weakens. We must watch closely for any behaviour that suggests he is going to crack up."
Malcolm whispered quietly " I know he's been visiting the grave every night since the funeral. I follow him. He just sits down by the mound. Not moving, not saying anything, sometimes for over an hour. It's horrible, like one of those Victorian paintings of dogs pining by their master's grave. I want to go up and comfort him in such desolation but I don't want him to think I'm spying on him."
"He needs to get away " pronounced Ros.
Adam turned to her annoyed: "Why? Why does everyone always assume that a change of environment will help? Well let me tell you it doesn't. The grief and loss is inside you. You carry it with you wherever you go, whenever you sleep, whatever you look at. Its better he stays here in a familiar environment amongst those who love him."
At this they all tacitly acknowledged a common bond – they all shared his loss of a unique and treasured colleague and they all loved their stricken, wounded boss.
Harry's HouseHarry drew the curtains slowly and switched on the electric light. His face was pale and drawn. He had scarcely eaten in the past two weeks and already his clothes were hanging loosely from his frame. Despair and loneliness were gnawing away inside him, a constant sense of blind panic threatened to overwhelm him at every moment and he had to fight constantly to hold back a desire to howl and curl into a ball, shutting out the world that had so destroyed his happiness and his future. Day and night he had Ruth's face in front of his eyes and her soft voice murmuring in his ear. The rational side of his mind told him that these torturous feelings were a natural response to grief and shock and that they would become less acute as time passed; but his emotions dismissed such a flawed argument. For if the sense of loss hadn't lessened in the previous year that Ruth had been away from him, how would the situation now be any different? If anything the experience of intimacy and domestic happiness and the knowledge that this time she would never come back to him would surely make the pain only intensify as the realisation of permanence sunk in.
In the hours and days since that stupid, pointless accident Harry had come to realise that not only could he not imagine he would learn to live with the overwhelming feelings of loss and pain and still function in his job, but increasingly, he didn't want to. What was the point? Duty, yes, the same sense of duty that has urged Ruth to surrender her own happiness to preserve his position – but could he see himself day in day out turning up at his office and having the will to make a difference? With Ruth's death he had lost the desire to fight, to impose his own moral code on the world around him. He had deep regard for his colleagues and particularly Adam, but they could manage without him. No one is indispensable.
Harry stood up resolutely and moved over to his desk. Lifting across a sheet of heavy gauge writing paper he smiled briefly as he recalled Ruth informing him that she had re-stocked his stationary, as it was woefully inadequate for a man who liked to describe himself as 'a pen-pusher'. He wrote fluently and unhurriedly , covering the sheet in his swift, characterful script. Placing the finished letter in a matching envelope he left it face up on the leather surface of his desk. He moved back to the sofa and poured himself a large tumbler of whisky from the bottle that stood ready on the side table. He sat forward and emptied the contents of a medicine bottle onto the surface of the table. He picked up a dozen or so of the pills carefully and methodically with the strong yet sensitive fingers that had stroked her cheek with passion and adoration. Swallowing the pills rapidly Harry sat back and glancing fondly at the framed photograph of Ruth that smiled at him from the side table he murmured aloud:
"When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions …
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.."
"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief …
Past hope, past care, past help …
O! here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.."
Harry lay back along the length of the sofa cradling Ruth's scarf that still held the faint aroma of her perfume. He closed his eyes, forcing the tears that had welled up in them to trickle slowly down his cheeks. Drawing the scarf closer, he buried his face in its soft folds and turned into a semi-foetal position as if cuddling a body next to him.
They found Harry's body in the same position when they forced open his front door the next morning. In his heart Adam had known what was going to happen, but had felt powerless to stop it. If he hadn't had Wes, he would have sought the same release after Fiona's death. As he put his shoulder against the heavy wooden door with Zaf, he wished more than anything that it wasn't him who was going to have to confront the death of yet another person he loved dearly and yet by the same token he wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else who had to gently prise the scarf from the cold, stiff hands. Harry looked tranquil, like a baby asleep, except the normally mobile features were expressionless and rigid. Adam gently stroked the side of his dead friend's head and lowering his lips, kissed him on the temple.
Zaf was distraught: "Why did he do this Adam? Why? He knew we needed him. It's the cowards way out. I would never have had Harry down as a coward."
Adam stood up and put his arm around Zaf's shoulders: "He wasn't a coward Zaf, he'd just had enough: 'to cease upon the midnight with no pain' – we're all tempted by it at one time or another."
Malcolm called to Adam in a choked, emotional voice: "There's a letter here Adam, it's addressed to you."
Adam glanced down at the still form on the sofa and grimaced to control his emotions. He crossed over to the desk and opened the letter:
Dear AdamI hope the discovery of my body has not caused you too much distress. I.m sorry to impose this on you, but I didn't trust you not to mount a rescue if I left you any forewarning, although you had probably second-guessed my intentions in any case.
I'm addressing this to you because you more than anyone knows first hand what I have experienced, but what I have to say about what I am about to do is for all those who feel a link with me.
I'm sure several of you (Zaf in particular) will feel betrayed and see my suicide as an act of cowardice and I probably agree with them, but by the same token it's the only course of action left for me to take. I spent years alone, repressing my personal life and living solely for and through my career – until Ruth arrived and absurd though it seemed at the time, I discovered an intensity of love and desire I never thought I had the capacity to feel. Yes we repressed out mutual attraction for the sake of professional propriety, but she was still there, still in some small way a part of my life. Even after the Cotterdam fiasco, a small flame of hope kept me going. There is no flame left to warm myself by.
Having lived with Ruth and loved her, I cannot go back to my old ways – it's no longer enough. I've been through the arguments: duty to country, duty to service, duty to colleagues, duty to Ruth's memory, duty to live life such as it is until its natural conclusion – none of it is enough Adam. I need peace, I need not to hurt anymore, I need oblivion. I know you love and care for me, but I'm sorry, it's not enough to bridge the chasm.
So practicalities. My Will, with named executors, is with my solicitors: Page, Page & Hollingsworth. I had always envisaged a cremation, but being a sentimental old fool I would like to be buried with Ruth if possible. If not, then cremation is fine. I only want you and the others and my children if they chose to come, to attend my funeral. Out of choice I would prefer minimal fuss at my shuffling off this mortal coil but if the Establishment hierarchy want to pay their hypocritical respects then they can do so at a memorial service – leave that to Juliet, she's good at organising empty gestures. Choose what you like for readings, but don't make them too maudlin – I had a good life, a successful career – I like to feel I made a difference and for the past few years I found someone who made me completely fulfilled and indescribably happy – so mine was a life well-lived. This is not a tragedy, just a slightly premature end to a good innings. I would not have chosen to end like this – I had envisaged a long and happy autumn of my days, perhaps even fatherhood again, but we none of us can predict our end and perhaps that is a good thing.
I would like to suggest that you get out of the service Adam and find a healthier career; but knowing that won't happen, I have written to the DG strongly recommending you as my replacement – with your lateral thinking, devious mind and ruthless streak I think you will be a perfect replacement! I have left a bequest for Wes in my Will – only modest, but hopefully it will at least provide choice in his education.
It's ironic that after all the bullets I've stopped and the high risk operations I've survived, that I shall die in my own home – is that me cheating fate or fate cheating me? – I'm not sure but I appreciate the paradox.
Live life to the full, enjoy it as much as I have – grab every opportunity that is afforded to you and live it in all its abundance. I don't regret much other than not forging a better relationship with my children and not acknowledging my feelings for Ruth and acting on them sooner, but I certainly do not regret what I am about to do. Your love and your respect has meant a great deal to me and even as I end my life, I do so knowing I did not exist alone and I will be mourned after my death by dear friends, for which I thank you all.
Harry
PostscriptNew faces soon filled the vacant seats on the Grid. Adam took over control of Section D smoothly and efficiently but the members of the JIC were a little disappointed to discover that he was equally as stubborn, smart and devious as his predecessor. Adam looked to a future for himself and Wes and relished the challenge of his new position but something broke in him on that sunny morning in early May when Harry's coffin was lowered into the ground. He would go forward and make new friends, face new challenges maybe find someone else to share his life but he would never love as intensively and as wholeheartedly as he had done with Fiona and Harry; he would always hold something back, try to protect himself from the complete sadness and desolation he felt at their successive deaths. Malcolm kept a copy of Harry's letter in his desk and read it whenever he felt he wanted to renew the link with his old friend. Harry's picture stood on his desk alongside those of Ruth and Colin. Malcolm was another spook for whom the death toll had become too grievous, he withdrew even further into his shell much to the scorn of the new recruits who dismissed him as a reactionary throwback.
Malcolm's oration at Harry's funeral had been exquisite and delivered with love and sensitivity as the tears flowed silently down his cheeks:
"Remember me in your hearts,In your thoughts, and the memories of the
Times we loved, the times we cried, the
Battle we fought and the times we laughed
For if you always think of me, I will
Have never gone."
Adam had been more popularist in his choice, but having searched through countless anthologies he had failed to find another poem which more accurately summed up his sense of Harry's unique worth and place in their hearts:
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my south, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
"