8 June 1985
Get up, Harry told himself firmly, his left hand pressed hard to the wound on his lower abdomen, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It was late, and there was no one about, and Harry knew the chances of his being discovered before he bled to death on the pavement were slim. He had to get up, and get to help, quickly. The payphone he used was too far away; it would take too long to get there, and he didn't fancy his odds, particularly given the fact that he did not know what had become of Kelly and his goons after they disappeared off into the night laughing amongst themselves. The pain lanced through him, sharp and hot, blood seeping through his shirt to stain his hands despite his best efforts to quell it. You have to get up.
Harry had spent most of his adult life in intense situations, first as a soldier, then as a spy. He was strong, he was tenacious, he was - as his mother had often remarked fondly - stubborn as a mule. He was determined not to die like this, his blood filling up some dingy gutter in Ireland, his life taken by a group of common thugs. There was too much at stake - his pride, his family, his duty - for Harry to give in now. With a nearly superhuman effort he roused himself, unable to contain the groan of pain that escaped him as he laboriously drug himself to his feet. The pain was so great, and his loss of blood so egregious, that his head spun as he righted himself, the world tipping slightly to the left. He nearly collapsed on the spot, but he reached out and caught himself on a nearby storefront, his hand pressed flat against the brick wall as he struggled to pull himself together.
One foot in front of the other, he thought grimly. The hardest part was behind him now, he knew; having succeeded in regaining his footing, he need only walk the short distance to Shaw's. Ruth was there, waiting for him. His Ruth, brilliant and lovely and gentle and kind; he had to reach her. She was waiting for him, and he could not bear the thought of disappointing her, of leaving her all alone to clean up the mess that Harry himself had made. She could help him, could ring for an ambulance, could speak to him in that sweet soft voice he loved so well, keep him awake and conscious and coherent long enough for the medics to arrive. Get to Ruth.
It was a mantra he repeated over and over to himself as he took one painful step, and then another. Get to Ruth. Her face swum across his field of vision, her luminous eyes, her soft lips, the high curve of her cheekbone; he chased after that mirage in the darkness, wanting nothing more than to reach her and the warmth and comfort she promised him, if only he could hold on just a little while longer.
Get to Ruth.
After Sean left, Ruth busied herself with the last of her duties in the pub, carefully wiping down the tables, sweeping the floors, trying not to dwell on the words he'd spoken to her, the ominous warning he'd delivered to her. His motivations for seeking her out, for trying in his own way to prevent disaster, completely eluded her. Though he and Ryan were to her mind as different as it was possible for two brothers to be, he never spoke a disparaging word about his little brother, and they often went out together, to the pub, to parties, drinking and laughing with their friends. Why would he seek to undermine his family's plans, when he had never before made any attempt to distance himself from them? And why was he coming to her? They had never really spoken before all this trouble started, but now he seemed to regard her as an ally after a fashion, trusting her to deliver his tidings without betraying his confidence. The whole situation left her feeling confused and out of sorts, and she rushed through the last of her duties, thinking only of James, of reaching him before some sort of calamity struck, of resting in his bed with her head pillowed on his chest, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace.
It was foolish, she knew, to rely on him so heavily for reassurance when he was destined only to leave her. It was foolish, to give her heart so freely, so completely, to a man who had wed another. Though she guarded her tongue well and never spoke the word love aloud to him, she had shown him in a thousand different ways, every day they were together, just how very much he meant to her, how much she relied on him, how much she desired him, how much she needed him. The love that burned bright between them had changed her, had broken down the walls she used to guard her heart and with those shattered pieces fashioned a sanctuary where they could retreat together, safe from the world. The thought of losing him cut her sharp as a knife, left her nearly breathless with heartache, even now, when she knew that she would see him in a matter of minutes. One day soon he would be gone, and she would be left alone, defenseless, missing half of her fragile heart. It did not bear thinking about, but she knew there was nothing she could do to stop that calamity. She felt as if she were falling through some vast chasm, down and down and down, clinging to James though she knew eventually they would reach the bottom, and their doom.
She was so distracted by her melancholy thoughts that she very nearly missed the sound of someone knocking upon the front door of the pub. Well, perhaps knocking was a generous description; it was in truth one great loud thump. She turned sharply, wondering what new game was afoot now, wondering who had come to disturb her so very late at night, when all the other customers had long since departed. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain as to whether or not she ought to go and see what the noise was about; her thoughts drifted back to Sean, to his warning about being out alone after dark, and to her own rather precarious predicament. As a young woman on her own so very late at night, she knew it might well be folly to answer the door. There was no one around to help her, should she find herself in need of aid. Still, though, her feet carried her towards the door, curiosity winning out against her instinct for self-preservation. Please don't be Ryan, she thought as she approached. Please, please don't be Ryan.
When she reached the door Ruth took a deep breath, steeling herself against the oncoming storm, before unlocking it and gingerly swinging the door open.
The moment the door gave way James very nearly came tumbling through it, ashen-faced and breathing like a bellows, his shirtfront stained a horrible shade of crimson, his face bruised and bloody.
"Bloody hell!" Ruth cried, reaching out to catch him as he all but collapsed in her arms, his blood staining the front of her dress. He let out a groan as they came to a stop leaning against the wall, his forehead resting against her shoulder, his body trembling in her arms.
The sight of him in such pain, such distress, the extent of his injuries not yet evident but certainly grave, tore at Ruth's heart, and she would have wept, had fear not wrapped its cold fingers round her heart in a vice-like grip. She had to get help, and soon, but she could do nothing while her arms were full of him.
"Come on then, love," she told him in a trembling, pleading voice. "Let's sit you down."
He muttered something unintelligible, but though he was weak and weary, he made an effort to move with her, and together they stumbled across the foyer until she was able to guide him into a chair behind the front desk. His head lolled back on his shoulders, his hands pressed hard against his stomach, drawing her attention to his most dire wound. With one hand Ruth reached for the telephone and with the other she cradled his cheek, forcing him to look at her though his warm eyes were unfocused and clouded by a haze of pain.
"Stay with me, James," she begged him as she rang for help.
As quickly as she could explained the situation to the dispatcher, relayed her location and the fact that she believed her charge had been stabbed; James's shirt boasted a ragged tear that looked more the result of a knife than a bullet. Ruth had seen her fair share of minor scrapes and bruises, having spent nearly every day of her life in the pub. David didn't like to involve the authorities, when brawls turned bloody, and she had been forced to play the nurse, while David and his friends drank whiskey and laughed about the fight. She was not a professional, though, and she knew that James's injury was more than she could handle on her own. Once she was assured that help was on the way she hung up the phone, and turned her attentions once more to her lover, her heart pounding erratically in her chest, nearly blinded by terror.
"Who did this to you?" she asked him softly, untying her apron from around her waist and folding it up to use as a makeshift bandage. Carefully she moved his hands, immediately replacing them with the apron, pressing down hard against the flat plane of his stomach. How many times had she lain there beside him, her head resting on his chest, her fingertips dancing across the same skin that was now torn and jagged beneath her touch? His body was as familiar to her as her own, the hardness of his muscle, the softness of his hair, every scar, every freckle writ large across her heart, and now that body she loved so well was failing before her very eyes. For a moment she worried that she had already lost the battle, that he had already slipped away from her, but then he spoke, and she could have wept from sheer relief.
"Connor bloody Kelly," James growled, wincing as she applied more pressure to his wound.
"You certainly know how to make friends, don't you?" she asked wryly, trying to keep him with her, trying to forestall the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
James gave a weak little chuckle at that, a chuckle that faded quickly beneath his grimace of pain.
"It's not the first time I've been stabbed," he told her in a thin voice. "I'll be all right, you'll see."
Even now, when he was covered in blood and dancing on the edge of unconsciousness, his first thought was of her, protecting her, reassuring her, and the tears she had been trying so very hard to hold at bay began to stream down her cheeks.
"Stupid man," she choked out, taking a ragged breath. Beneath her he smiled softly, but he did not speak; his breathing was laboured, and she began to fret anew, wondering what sort of havoc Connor Kelly had wrought, wondering if this was it, the moment she lost him forever, not to his wife as she had feared, but to an altogether more insidious enemy.
Carefully she shifted her position, sitting down on the desk and resting her feet on the edge of the chair, James's body caught between her legs as she leaned forward, mindful to keep a consistent pressure on his wound, trying with all her might to will the blood loss to stop.
"Look at me," she demanded, seeing him beginning to fade.
With some effort he wrenched his eyes open, silently following her commands, trying his best to do as she told him. At this angle she was close enough to reach out and brush her lips across the darkening bruise on his cheek, and so she did, earning herself a soft hum from him in response.
"Talk to me," she instructed him, "Please, James, talk to me."
He was quiet for a moment, and the silence left her utterly terrified. "Please," she breathed.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, his eyes closed, his lips hardly moving as he spoke. "I just needed your help. I wanted to protect you, Ruth, and I failed. I'm so sorry."
His words inspired a fresh wave of tears, and she could not stop herself from leaning over and kissing him once again. "You've nothing to be sorry for," she told him firmly when she pulled away.
"I never should have dragged you into this," he continued, struggling for every word, but continuing on because she had asked it of him. Ruth recognized this, recognized that the only reason he was still speaking was that the request had come from her, that his love for her, his concern for her, pushed him beyond his own physical limits. He had walked, God only knew how far, bleeding and in pain, just to reach her, and now he was fighting with every ounce of strength he possessed to stay with her. In that moment she allowed herself to acknowledge, for perhaps the first time, that he did truly love her, that he had chosen her, not for the sake of her body or what comfort she might give him, but for the sake of the regard he bore her. Always before she had wondered at him, at his motivations, had trusted him in the darkness and doubted him in the daylight, but in that moment, she knew.
"James," she breathed, but then he was speaking again, and she fell silent, hanging on his every word in rapt attention.
"You ought to be happy," he told her. "You ought to be smiling. You ought to be free. Forget me, Ruth. You deserve so much better."
"There is nothing and no one better than you," she answered.
At those words he smiled softly, his full lips parted as if he were about to speak again, but no sound came forth.
"James," she whispered his name, leaning that much closer to him, brushing the tip of her nose against his cheek. "James," she said again, when no answer was forthcoming.
Still he did not speak. She pulled back, her gaze travelling over him frantically, taking in his closed eyes, his heaving chest, the blood that had already soaked through her thin white apron.
"James!" she cried, nearly hysterical now with fear, but beneath her hands her lover remained still and quiet. Oh, God, please no, she pleaded silently, weeping in earnest now.
That was how the medics found her, when finally they arrived, sobbing and cradling James's body, unwilling to part with him. Her fingertips were painted red, her dress wet with blood and sticking to her skin; she knew she must look a fright, but her only concern was for him. They had to pull her away from him; a tall, stern-looking man caught her by the arm and dragged her to the side where she watched in stricken horror as they set about tending to James.
"What happened here then, love?" the tall man asked.
Ruth looked up at him, knowing her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, knowing the picture she presented, a young girl covered in blood and weeping over an Englishman. James had not told her what to do, what he wanted her to say, how he wanted to handle this, but Ruth knew that the time had come to put an end to the madness. Whether James wanted her to or not, she was bound and determined to speak the truth.
"It was Connor Kelly," she said firmly. "Connor Kelly tried to kill him."
And with those words, the die was cast. There was no taking it back, no stopping this flood now that the dam had been breached. It was time for the Kellys to answer for their sins.
